Chapter 1. (August 7-8, 1995)

Pffehhh!!

Spitting away a mouthful of grit, Ginny Weasley's arms pushed back from the sooty, debris-strewn floor. Her muscles trembled in momentary exhaustion and doubt, but then her determination rose anew. She staggered to her feet and twisted around to face the brutal mayhem. Wand raised, she scanned the room for someone to attack, or defend... or... or...

Sweet Merlin! It's happening!

A chill descended her spine. In that instant, gazing about the Great Hall, Ginny somehow found herself recognizing every chaotic detail she laid her eyes upon — every fallen stone, every shattered table and scorched chair, every raging, panicked or delirious face...

Ginny knew this moment. It was the cusp of destiny — a moment so thrilling and terrifying, so utterly inconceivable, and yet so strangely inevitable.

This is it! Be strong Weasley!

On all sides, others began gradually sensing something in the air — the palpable sensation of sheer power flooding in around them. The cacophonous din of combat hissed, rasped and clanged to a halt. The shrieks, wails and shouts of a moment ago fell away into an eerie quiet. Hundreds of mesmerized hands lowered in tremulous unison. All eyes — friend and foe — locked upon two figures.

Ginny stood breathlessly. Her hair, still loose and wild from the raging fracas, tumbled across her face, but she simply stared straight through it, mesmerized, clinging to her mantra.

It all comes down to this...

Be strong...

Strong for the light...

Strong for him...

Ginny was right — everything truly did hinge on this final confrontation. But how could a callow teen foresee, with such clarity, a climax that even the most renowned seers had never described? Why did this reality seem to her more like a vivid, horrific memory?

Yet, no matter how familiar it was to her, there was one thing she did not know — exactly how it would all end. Who would be left standing...

A suffocating weight of dread and desperate hope began to settle into her chest as they approached — two ascendant figures advancing like opposing thunderheads, their very presence clearing a wide swath across the battle-scarred floor.

The young man — battered, bloodied, but singularly noble — moved with the calm certitude of predestination; his feet barely brushing the char and detritus as he circled his wary opponent.

The reptile-faced spectre stared in turmoil, caught within the clashing currents of his own rage... and what Ginny knew could be nothing less than fear. Merely glancing at the enemy's repugnant face brought her close to gagging, but she forced herself to study him carefully, to watch his unguarded expressions, finding them to be so transparent that she could almost read his despicable thoughts:

How...?!

The filthy little rat was exterminated! Slaughtered by my own hand!

He's dead! Dead!!

How many times must I...??

Yet for all the ghoulish sorceror's consternation, the moment of doubt passed. Ginny knew that a flame of self-assurance would flare again in his sickly eyes, proclaiming to the assembled masses that there was only ever one conceivable outcome.

However much she longed to act, Ginny found she couldn't. She could only watch the verbal preamble play out, as the two foes tested each others' resolve. She knew it was all meaningless – that declarations might rattle back and forth, but that each taunt and conciliation would be batted aside like a toy dart off rigid shields of opposing conviction.

After several minutes, it became clear that even the combattants knew there could be no compromise, for the futile posturing dwindled to leave the two fighters to trace out their final, calculated steps in seething silence.

Jaw set, and a pure glint in his piercing eyes, Harry Potter twitched his wand, captivating the entire hall's attention. "So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" the young man whispered. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

The expression of inhuman loathing offered almost no response, yet once again, for the barest instant, Voldemort's coal-red flaming eyes flickered. For a miniscule fraction of a second, the monster seemed to consider the boy's words... but the course was set. Carved in immutable stone, the only acceptable reply issued forth like the hiss of a thousand tormented serpents.

"Avada Kedavra! "

"Expelliarmus! "

Red and green spell flares burst across the Hall. The day's first sanguine beam of sunlight sprang through a shattered window, perfectly bisecting the magical arc. At the duel's crackling epicentre, a wall of scintillating white sparks erupted, casting a brilliant glare about the Hall, etching the scene like some masterpiece of ghastly apocalyptic art.

Reptile man quivered in weakness and fear.

The young avenger radiated magnificence, face gazing calmly upon his faltering opponent as a vibrant beam of justice and compassion poured from his wand, thrusting back against the boundary flame.

Good ascends over evil; love prevails over hate...

Or not?!

In an inexplicable flash — appalling, unfathomable — it was over.

Nobody — not even the trembling detestable herp-faced villain — could have foreseen it.

In that instant of infamy, all magic of hope and honour drained away. A fundamental balance shattered; the pulsing white fulcrum between their spells vaporised, and a lurid tongue of bitter death — the vomit of hell — slashed unchecked across the hall...

The bold and selfless young man, the icon of love and sacrifice, crumpled to the floor.

Eyes of deepest emerald gazed eastward one last time as a quivering finger of sunshine touched tenderly upon his beautiful face... before quenching beneath an acrid shroud of dust, smoke and despair.

Harry James Potter... the boy who lived... the last hope of the light... was dead.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

An otherworldly shriek — possibly her own — tore through Ginny's head like an infernal klaxon. She found herself leaping across the Great Hall. In that paralytic moment when every other soul in creation seemed frozen in disbelief, dismay or disarray, one young woman who could lose nothing more, closed meteorically upon the Execrable Filth. Her wand stretched out before her, unleashing a phenomenal blaze of spell-work that nobody could had ever have duplicated, let alone actually taught her.

The vile bane of hope, despoiler of faith and mercy, reeled drunkenly. His shield quivered and melted. His spindly, misbegotten knees buckled in exhaustion and fright. All magic spent, the Elder Wand slid from Voldemort's slack grasp as he turned, cowering cravenly, to beg for mercy — a final plea to forestall the death he dreaded more than anything else, when...

WHAM!!

Jagged sparks slashed across Ginny's vision as some blunt, crude stone impacted the side of her head. An instant of blinding pain gave way to the vague sensation of prickly wetness trailing down her face. A salty metallic taste crept into her nose and mouth.

Ginny had no idea what had just happened. To herself. To Voldemort. To the world.

She knew only that she was... so very very tired.

There is nothing left now.

Please take me away.

She cast off all shackles, renounced everything that she had ever known, and felt herself falling into darkness.

Memories, aspirations and everything corporeal slid away before her.

Please take me away.

There is nothing left.

Nothing left except...

Except for two hands...

Rough, calloused.

Strong as an oaken rail.

Warm upon her icy skin.

One hand tenderly cupped the back of her neck; the other inserted itself gently between her waist and the stone beneath her. With the care of a doting father, the hands half-lifted, half-rolled her torso obliquely onto something firm yet soft. Something that smelled of pollen... a faint residue of applewood smoke... the slightest hint of musk.

Her eyelids fluttered open, admitting a disorienting montage of colour.

Light blue...? Sky?

Green? The soft pear-hues of a springtime's young leaves emblazoning the hedge and hills.

Grey? Sunlit flagstones — rough-hewn, worn smooth.

Red? Woollen fabric of a fine weave — sturdy, yet supple. Like an old tapestry?

Black? WAND!!

Ginny was seized with an instant of blind panic as the stick neared her face... but the one-armed grip tightened, bracing her against a man's chest. A well-muscled forearm and sun-bronzed hand angled the wand carefully toward her temple. For a moment she sought to struggle, but was immediately soothed by a familiar, calming voice, speaking an odd but reassuring word. "Emaculo."

A pulsing heat flashed across her face and scalp; a rapid cleansing tingle followed by a cool spring breeze...

A swell of restorative energy flowed through her body. She twisted her neck and followed the red fabric up the angled curves of a man's chest, to a grey mantle fastened by an intricate brooch — polished silver wings, central badge inset with two fine gems.

Borrowing another burst of strength from her still-woefully-depleted reserves, she craned back another inch to gaze ascendantly into...

Eyes.

Dear Mother Circe — it can't be!

Is it?

From the moment years ago when she had first glimpsed those eyes, she knew with every breath of her soul that she would never, ever, see another pair like them, and yet...?

How is it possible??

IS it possible??

The man was running his wand along her side, concentrating fiercely as he sought to detect internal injuries. He made no move to stop her as she reached her hand, shy yet determinedly, toward his face... toward his carefully cropped hair — straight tresses, once raven black, now blended with the frosts of many autumns.

Patiently, with unwavering focus, the man continued his travails, even as Ginny carefully swept his peppered locks aside to reveal a forehead — one she would have recognized in a heartbeat, except that it was... unscarred. It bore not a single defect. No lightning bolt. Not even the faintest trace.

Baffled, her hand trailed down his cheek — full, chiseled, and coloured of long seasons of wind and sun. And down there, where she would not have expected, she found a strange and ironic token of asymmetry. Just above the masculine grace of his firmly-set jaw was a scar — a single pale slash articulating one cheek.

It isn't...

But how...?

How could it NOT be???

"Harry?" she whispered — softly, beseechingly.

Finished with his ministrations, the man gazed down at her with those extraordinary eyes.

With Harry Potter's eyes.

The eyes were deeply troubled — compassionate yet conflicted — torn between necessity and need.

The man put away his wand. Ginny saw one powerful hand slide beneath her knees, and felt the other arm brace her head and torso with kind firmity. In a burst of dizzying strength and agility, the man surged to his feet. Ginny sensed herself being uplifted and swept away — almost floating — from the sunlit roadway, down a short embankment, and into the shade of a riverside willow.

They paused a moment amidst the placid greenery. When Ginny's eyes adjusted, she found them affixed to the man's gaze.

The man chewed his lower lip; faint worry lines forming on his brow. He opened his mouth and a gentle phrase issued... "Sume fibulam."

In her dazed state, Ginny drank in the words, absorbed their resonance, completely oblivious to the fact that she had no idea what they meant. The only thing that mattered to her was that this truly had to be the voice of Harry Potter.

Almost.

Thinking it over, she realized that the voice was ever so slightly different... almost like she recognized it, not from knowing Harry, but from recalling some dream of Harry... or some dream of someone who reminded her of Harry. Just as the man holding her so painfully resembled Harry, yet was not...

Ginny's injured head began to throb from the circular confusion. A creeping nausea swelled in her, worsened by a growing dread that she was missing something – that she had forgotten some critical task that she had to fulfill.

Why was she suddenly certain that vitally important details or instructions had slipped from her mind? What made her so convinced that she had a message, a warning, she needed to give this man, when she didn't even know who he was?

She forced a breath of air into her lungs and opened her mouth desperately hoping that some vital word or sentence would emit. But when she exhaled, all that emerged was a weak sibilance, unintelligible to either herself or the man.

The creases on his face deepening, the man reached out tentatively to touch her cheek. "Tu sume fibulam? "

Still dizzy and disoriented, Ginny frowned as she forced herself to try to sort out the situation. A face — same as Harry's yet different. A voice — same yet different. Those were not the awkward utterances of the boy she had met years ago on Platform 9¾. Not the troubled but tenacious teen whom she'd so fancied in ways that suddenly now seemed sophomoric and naive.

Finally it occurred to her — the face and voice were exactly how she might have imagined Harry if he had ever been permitted to grow into dignified adulthood. But how could she be seeing this dream-face, hearing this dream-voice of a wonderful grown man who, as a teen, had just been...

murdered...

struck down...

taken from her...

Ginny choked as bitter tears prickled beneath her eyelids.

A hint of urgency crept into the man's troubled expression. "Lanossëa? " The voice had taken on a vaguely plaintive tone. He peered deeply, questioningly into her eyes. "Quaeso, tolle fibulam."

Ginny bit back her anguish and confusion, and tried to process the slow, clear syllables the man had offered. Whoever he was, the man clearly expected a response from her.

Latin. He's speaking Latin.

She nodded slightly to herself — any witch or wizard would know some Latin because it figured so prominently in spellmanship... But 'fibulam' is not... it's not an incantation?

She fought through her daze and tried to recall her Mum's patient linguistics lessons (English, Greek and Latin) from back in those sweet, innocent years before Hogwarts. She squinted for a moment, then raised a tentative, inquiring finger to his brooch. "Take this off?"

He nodded.

With trembling fingers, she tugged at the silver object. Anchored by a long, polished straight-pin, the brooch slid easily to the side and fell, smooth and cool, into her hand. The heavy grey mantle tumbled to the ground behind the man.

Still holding Ginny as if she were but little more than a waif in arms, the man turned. With his leather-bound feet, he kicked at the mantle several times, tugged it into a passable rectangle with his toes, and laid her lightly upon it. Her exhausted limbs settled into the fabric's comforting warmth. Beneath her, soft cushioning grasses and moss swaddled her aching body.

With efficiency that bespoke exigency, the man set to work. Fingers tougher than tree roots (gentler than a masseuse) cradled Ginny's head as he rolled up two loose corners of the mantle to form a makeshift pillow. Raising her head an inch, he sculpted the U-shaped roll to the contours of her head and laid it back down to rest.

She sighed as her scalp gratefully enumerated each of the five strong digits woven into her hair.

But then they were gone. Ginny winced (in sudden dejection, not pain) as the man withdrew and rose to his feet. She watched as he unclasped the belt about his red and grey tunic, and slid free a leather flagon and small pouch. "Victus et aqua," he explained, kneeling down to place the rations at her side.

Although her exhausted mind was beginning to swirl in exhaustion bordering on delirium, Ginny braced herself, clinging to the bewildering moment, determined to capture some shred of clarity from the chaos. Tremulously, she reached to touch the sinews of his arm. "Are you leaving?"

He turned to her with a look of silent contrition that pierced Ginny's heart. Empathy and loneliness pouring freely, she was swept by an overwhelming desire to clasp herself to him and never let go.

But Ginny knew she couldn't. She still had no idea who this man truly was... (Harry! shrilled the desperate voice in her fevered mind one final time before she shunted it aside), and she could read his body language with certainty. The man had urgent business elsewhere; some imminent crisis pulling him inexorably away.

From somewhere inside her, a voice admonished that she must let him go. She must not interfere with things which she did not understand. Sighing, she surrendered to logic. With her final ounce of strength, she fixed his gaze. "Come back to me? Come back when you can?"

Her eyes bored into his, imploring against all hope that he would somehow understand the request and assent.

The man reached toward her, found her right hand, and grasped it tightly. His weathered fingers whispered to her an unspoken, tender, resolute promise. Divine eyes once again graced hers.

Her strength fading fast, Ginny finally let go. She found herself drifting down, soft as a dewdrop, into a verdant boreal pool of sleep. Faintly, as if from a great depth, she heard the sound of a lone horse racing away over the stone road. As darkness engulfed her, she recalled only the sensation of cold silver wings still pressed firmly to her palm.

Was he already too late??

Hearing distant voices raised in outrage, Harry frantically scanned the impregnable palisade. No guards were present to admit him, and the walls were protected by magic stronger than his, but years ago he had discovered a secret weakness within the gate. Hating to trespass, but seeing no other option, Harry pulled out his wand and blasted away the vulnerable cross-bar. Pushing through, he sprinted the narrow wooded path to the longhouse and crossed beneath the lintel into the dark interior.

"Stop! This is madness!" Catching his breath, Harry held aloft the scroll. "I have the treaty! It clearly states..."

He froze. Just now adjusting to the low, smoky light of the chamber, Harry could not help but recognize that there were... twelve intricately carved wands pointed at his chest.

Bitter bile pooled in his throat as his eyes swept the room and confirmed the worst.

Treachery!

Bodies lay strewn about. In this proud court of warriors, only the indomitable sovereign was left standing, yet even she had been overcome — writhing against shackles, her hands were bereft of their mighty staff, renowned all across Britannia for its magical might.

Harry's gaze darted about the room in search for the ornate walnut pole, with its characteristic copper horse-head grip. His eyes fell upon it — there it was... cradled in the puff-pasty hands of the...

"Traitor!!" Furious, Harry pointed his trembling wand at the supercilious villain. Heedless of the hopeless odds, he launched himself across the dusky room.

Stunning spells bursting from Harry's wand felled three wizards adjacent to the foul swine, but the horse-head staff in the scoundrel's hand brushed aside Harry's main thrust with barely a flinch. Out of nowhere, cloying, suffocating restraints flung themselves about his body and Harry lurched to a raging, impotent halt. Struggling mightily to shake off the invisible bonds, he twisted hard, and ripped...

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

The high-pitched, real-world shriek tore Harry from his nightmare and out of bed. Eyes-wide, he raised his arms just in time to cushion what could have been a horrendous collision with his room-mate, Ron Weasley, who had leaped simultaneously from the other side of the small room.

"Noise! Scream?!" Harry blurted. "Who yelled?"

Ron stepped back, extracting his arms from Harry's armpits, shaking his head distractedly. "Dunno. It sounded like..."

WHAM!!

"... Ginny."

Harry stared at his bewildered friend for a split second, then nodded. Violently shredding away the tatters of a tangled bed sheet binding his arms and legs, Harry tore from the bedroom and raced down the steps. Skidding to a halt at girls' chamber door, Harry elbowed his way past a teetering Sirius Black and gaped at the floor.

Hermione knelt on the cold stone, wracked by sobs. Beneath her, in a confused splay of limbs, face resting sidelong in a spreading crimson stain, lay the youngest Weasley — ghostly pale in the light of a flickering hallway lamp.

Harry burst in, ushered Hermione hastily to the side and knelt beside Ginny. As gently as he could in his urgent haste, Harry maneuvered the fallen girl's head and shoulders out of the bloody puddle and into his lap, heedless of the deep red smears across his flannel nightclothes.

Instinctively, he braced her right shoulder into the crook of his elbow and drew his wand. He took a deep breath to will some steadiness into his shaking hand, then concentrated on the spell. "Episkey! "

Ginny jolted at the sudden sensation, but the gash closed and bleeding stopped.

Harry carefully pulled back disheveled red tresses from her pallid face, both soiled from her wound. He pointed his wand again and, with greater confidence, cast a Tergeo spell. The red stains and dirt vanished.

As Harry visually examined her head and face, assessing her secondary wounds, Ginny's eyes opened. After a moment, her diffuse pupils focused on the dimly lit features of Harry's face, then they closed again. "Hey..." Her lips parted slightly. "You came back..."

Focused on trying to remember a passable spell to reduce the deep bruising in the girl's face, Harry nodded distractedly.

Ginny stirred sightly and took a breath. "Please stay this time."

Harry frowned slightly as he registered the unexpected (inexplicable?) request. His best mate's sister had obviously just taken a frightful blow to the head, but he still couldn't quite imagine such a vivacious, independent and headstrong girl seeking his... comfort?

Perplexed, he turned his attention away from Ginny's bruised forehead and met her suddenly lucid gaze.

Ginny reached over to touch his forearm. "Stay please?"

Caught within the irresistible beam of her wide, sincere eyes, he nodded tacitly as he struggled to process the situation. Somehow this strange real-world scene almost seemed to belong within the bizarre, fretful dream he'd just risen from; it was as if he'd woken up too quickly to shake off the residual stupour, and the stubborn dream had followed him down two flights of stairs, into the girls' room, and was now doggedly reasserting itself.

Oblivious to his confusion, Ginny smiled softly at him for a moment, then her eyes drifted to his wand, still poised intently at her side. She reached out slowly with her right index finger and pressed it to the tip, then carefully pronounced the word she remembered from her dream... "Emaculo..." Ginny then carefully steered Harry's wand through a motion identical to a quill writing the Greek letter η.

Harry frowned in confusion. "Emaculo ?"

She nodded and gestured at the swelling on the side of her face.

Baffled, he steadied his hand again, focused the wand, and clearly repeated the simple incantation as he effected the prescribed motion.

Harry gasped as a cool tonic spread through the air, bathing not only Ginny's face and head, but also his own hand and forearm.

Her swelling gone, and colour restored, Ginny's face relaxed and her eyes closed. "Thanks," she murmured.

Still reeling from the powerful cleansing sensation, Harry blinked at Ginny's face, now fully restored to a state of sublime peace. "But what... where...? Uh, who... did you learn that spell from, Ginny?"

A mysterious wistful smile drifted across Ginny's face for a moment. "Dunno," she replied hazily. She then reached her hand around to the small of Harry's back to pull herself more snugly to his chest, and promptly fell into a deep, restful sleep.

"Ugh!" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I feel so useless! I can't believe I just fell to pieces like that! If Harry hadn't come and taken over...?!"

Sirius cuffed her gently on the shoulder. "Pah. If Harry hadn't come to take over, you'd have done fine. All you needed was a few minutes to pull your head together." Throwing an arm around Hermione's shoulders, he ushered her gently over the threshhold and drew the bedroom door shut. "Next time, just take a deep breath and try not to panic. Gingersnap wasn't in dire straits — just a bonk on the head. Besides, she was out cold and feeling no pain — not as if she was about to badger you if you needed to take a moment to flip through an old spell book to find the right way to close a cut. Don't stew over it, Sweets!"

Hermione pulled away from Sirius and turned on him. "That's not the point! What if something really awful was to happen?! What if Ginny or you or Harry or... or Ron... was lying there with seconds to live and I was the only one around who could save any of you?" A lock of Hermione's rumpled hair fell across her face and she whipped it aside. "What do I do then?! What if I just went blank again and started bawling my pathetic little head off??"

"Ssh Granger." Sirius raised a finger to his lips. "It's no fun to get blasted out of bed like that and have to launch straight into coherent action. But if it'd make you feel better, maybe we could start doing practice drills. Back during the First Wizarding War, Order of the Phoenix members like Mad-Eye and them were constantly barging in on us at all the worst hours of night to get people used to being woken up for emergencies."

"Really?" Hermione's cringe evapourated, replaced by curiosity. "Did it work?"

"Hah!" Sirius barked. "Hell no! But it sure made a bloody good excuse to hit the bottle! Gideon, Fabian and I would tie one on nearly every night. Depending on when exactly the gits came to ambush us, we'd either still be sober enough to spray them with shots of Firewhisky, or else we'd be so rat-arsed they could have turned a Swedish Short-Snout loose on us and we wouldn't have budged."

Hermione laughed, relieved by the leavening humour.

Not sharing in the levity, Ron caught Sirius's wrist. "Hey! Why the hell did you shut the door like that?" Ron turned to glare back toward the room they'd emerged from. "We're not going to just leave Ginny in there with... uh, with Harry?"

Sirius grinned. "That's exactly what we're doing. None of us need any more fuss tonight." He paused and pointed toward the stairwell. "You young urchins are headed straight back to bed — especially you, Copper-top. Weasleys need their sleep or else they're bloody insufferable."

Oblivious to the Ron's flushing complexion, Sirius turned and winked at Hermione. "Granger, you're welcome to take the small guest room up on third floor close to the WC — the bed is comfortable and freshly-made." He began to make his way back out toward the front room, adding, "And yes, we are going to leave the two little sweet-dreamers alone in there together to settle peacefully. I'll peek in on them in an hour to make sure all's well, but beyond that we're going to let them be."

"But... but..." Ron wrung his hands. "Harry will catch no end of grief for this! Ginny bites our heads off whenever we try to help her with anything these days. She says she's tired of being babied. And besides, all she had was a bad dream — she doesn't need anybody in there to..."

Sirius shook his head, cutting him off. "No, you missed a few cues, Ron. Most importantly, she asked him to stay. Twice, if I counted right. I don't have a clue what kind of dream could have been bad enough to launch her across the room into a full-on face-plant, but we're all bloody stressed out of our gourds these days. You remember how pale and quiet she got the other night when Tonks came in with the news about Harry's brush with the Dementors? Little Miss Pepper Vinegar may have us believe that she's all ready to tackle the world, but we all know that your sister is just as fussed and rattled by all this idiotic crap as anyone else. If she keeps her fears bottled in all day every day, it's hardly any surprise to see them come screeching out in the occasional nightmare."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, but Ron scowled and looked away.

"Hey listen..." Sirius shrugged in a conciliatory way. "I'm a sorry excuse for a sage, but I do know two things damned well. I know for a fact that when a frightened friend comes asking for help, neither Cub or I would have the heart to tell her 'no '. Secondly, I've also learned that the best way to keep Harry from digging a grave over his own worries is to let him help other people deal with theirs."

Hermione's eyes widened and she nodded. "Good point! I'd never thought of that before!"

Ron, however, whipped about to face Sirius. "No, YOU listen, Sirius. That's all bollocks! Mum is going to go spare when she comes back tomorrow and finds out that Harry and Ginny spent the night together!"

Sirius merely offered his most roguish grin. "What Mummy Molly doesn't know won't hurt her... or hurt us !" He sighed wearily. "Honestly mate, every time we save the poor lady from sweating some harmless little cut-corner or dodgy detail, we're doing her a good turn, a'right? Molly's shattered enough from all the bedlam as it is."

Sirius paused to seek affirmation from Ron, but the youth didn't respond. The man fixed him with an earnest gaze. "Don't worry Ron, I'll make sure Harry is out of there well before breakfast. As long as none of the five of us tells anyone, then nobody will ever know the difference." Sirius smiled and clapped the two teens over the shoulders. "Now you two get to bed!"

Still seemingly conflicted, Ron paused for a moment, but then he nodded reluctantly and followed Hermione up the stairs.

Sirius took a final glance down the hallway toward the bedroom door, smiled quietly to himself, then made his silent way back to the sitting room, to rejoin the company of his Firewhisky bottle.

Harry gazed at the bedroom door as it closed, then listened pensively as his friends' indistinct voices drifted down the hallway.

Huhhh...

How on earth had he gotten himself into this... situation?

It was all a blur. Harry couldn't recall whether, in his mad rush down here, anything conscious or coherent had been crossing his mind. He was quite certain he had operated on pure, blind instinct, but even if he'd been guided by cool-headed logic, he doubted he could ever have predicted this outcome.

Who might possibly have guessed that the only bonafide adult in the house (if Sirius could truly be called an adult) would close the bedroom door... consigning him to spend the rest of the night alone with a sleeping girl?

He took a deep breath and pondered the situation.

Harry didn't kid himself when it came to his godfather — he could smell liquor on the man's breath practically every night, and this evening was no exception. On the other hand, Harry could hear within the man's voice an otherworldly wisdom that couldn't quite be ignored. Like the hands of a stopped clock, Sirius was almost always wrong... except when he was right. Indeed, there were those very special circumstances (which seemingly came about twice in a dog's age) when Harry's godfather was absolutely spot-on.

He knew that Sirius was widely considered to be unreliable (almost to the level of Mundungus Fletcher), but Harry was somehow convinced that the man, as damaged as he was, would grow into key role in the emerging battle against Voldemort. Harry could only imagine that it might be a rather unconventional contribution — something befitting such an unconventional character!

As far as Harry knew, Sirius's greatest service to the order might be something as unusual as motivation or even 'morale'. For all the demoralizing circumstances faced by Order of the Phoenix members, few had weathered such hardship as Sirius, and yet he had somehow risen above it all. With magical society threatening to crumble around them, the old dog's humour held a special value right now. With the Weasley family driven from their healthy, happy household into a hellacious dump that had not seen real habitation since its use as a de facto bunker in the First Wizarding War, Sirius added spice to the drudgery. His lax interpretation of all of the less essential principles of etiquette was humane relief to the younger folk, and even Arthur and Professor Lupin gave in to the occasional furtive smirk in Sirius's presence. His wit and pragmatic irreverence seemed to be chock full of strategies to shepherd edgy people around all of the petty stresses in the day-to-day life of a family under siege. He was clearly appreciated!

Except by Molly.

Harry could tell that Sirius was driving the Weasley matron practically out of her mind. It must surely be galling for Molly to be forced to share domestic oversight with a host whose every instinct undercut her passion for orderly decorum, but Harry was convinced that Sirius was at least partially in the right. Molly seemed to be trying to cling to a pretense of normality as she knew it, but striving for an illusion of sanity in this zoo was surely a recipe for madness.

Yes, this was one of those twice-in-a-dog's-age situations — Sirius was the unlikely voice of reason. And, just a little while ago, this particular voice of reason had, in spite of the horrified tone in Ron's protesting voice, closed the bedroom door and committed Harry to the remainder of a night inside a closed, darkened room with...

Well, with a girl...

In fact, a rather pretty girl...

Pretty... Harry wondered to himself. When had that happened?

Harry gazed down at her in the low light, at the smooth curves of her cheeks, at the fine wavy hair that cascaded across her shoulders.

When, had Ginny ceased to be just 'Ron's little sister' ?

Harry marveled at how greatly her stature had grown from the nervous little mouse that Ron would reliably ignore (except perhaps when he deigned to scoff and roll his eyes at her).

Yes, Ginny had acquired 'stature'. It was not that she was 'tall' per se (she was still attractively petite), but rather that she had learned to carry herself with an easy-going confidence that made her seem more accomplished, more personable... even more mature... than most of the students in Harry's own year at Hogwarts.

Maybe the petals had unfolded on this vibrant bundle of life when Ginny had started smiling and laughing. She had cultivated so many tools to capture attention — a winning sparkle, witty conversation, an easy laugh. And pranks. Yes, in truth she seemed to liven up Grimmauld Place almost as much as Sirius did. The capers she pulled were brilliant; funny and imaginative enough to put even the twins on edge.

Yes, it was abundantly clear to Harry 'how ' Ginny had progressed beyond her old status as the Weasley door-stop. But 'when ' had this happened? At what moment had Harry been so blind as to miss such a glorious transformation?

Perhaps at the Yule Ball...?

That small dagger of regret twisted in Harry's side, but he took another deep breath to suppress the sour memories, and return his focus to his remaining responsibilities.

Responsibilities.

Yes, Harry knew that he had to make sure that this vibrant, winsome, prankish, but currently very comatose, girl was comfortably settled for the night. Then he should try to get himself back to sleep.

Harry took stock of things. The big task was done — Ginny was back on the bed. As soon as Ginny's wounds had been treated, Sirius had entered the bedroom, and had helped Harry lift Ginny back into bed without rousing her. Immediately after that, however, everyone had spirited away, leaving the situation in a bit of disarray.

Harry picked up the sheet, blanket and quilt that had gotten strewn across the floor. After casting quick scourgefy spells on them and checking to ensure that they were no longer bloodied or dusty, he piled them on the end of the bed and began to arrange them over the peaceful girl.

As he was pulling the sheet into place, something sharp scraped his hand.

He carefully withdrew the sheet down to Ginny's waist, scanned the area where his hand had been. In the pale light creeping in from a crack in the curtain, Harry glimpsed a flicker of silver in Ginny's left hand. Drawing closer, he gasped — there was a thin silvery spike poking out from between her clenched fingers. "Oi! Glad she didn't spear herself with that when she fell!"

Staring more closely at it, he saw that the spike was attached to something larger, clasped rigidly in her fist. He carefully reached for her hand to see if he could gently extract it from her grip.

Ginny whimpered and pulled the hand closer to her body.

Harry paused to deliberate for a moment, then reached for her hand again. This time he stroked it softly, tenderly. "Ginny? Please open your hand. I'd like to put this, er, thing on the night stand, okay? Just to keep it safe for you while you sleep."

A frown flickered over Ginny's face, as she semiconsciously processed Harry's request. She nodded slightly. "Uh huh," she mumbled and her grip loosened. "Thanks so much...."

The object, heavier than Harry would have guessed, slipped into his hand.

Suddenly finding himself sincerely moved by this unexpected scenario — a proud, self-reliant girl caught at her most vulnerable, seemingly placing such trust in him — Harry gazed affectionately at his charge. Before he had any notion of what he was doing, he leaned down to place a tiny kiss on her forehead.

Harry could not remember ever having either given or received a kiss. Yet in that moment, despite his lack of experience, the act seemed simple and natural. All of his stilted, awkward experiences with girls, and all of his far more onerous stresses, faded for a while. With a happy sigh, he returned to the final bit of straightening up, pulling the sheet and covers over Ginny, then reaching over toward the night stand to stow the...

The what?

In curiosity, he raised the object in his hand so that it once again caught the faint light from the window. He examined it for a moment, vaguely stirred by the unusual, ornate craftsmanship, intrigued by the clasp's cool weight in his hand. It almost seemed to make him tingle.

Construing the unusual sensation as a figment of exhaustion, Harry placed the brooch on the night stand, and turned one final time to gaze down at his young and pretty friend. He was troubled by the sudden relapse of her old susceptibility to nightmares, but he was once again deeply stirred by her unexpected reliance on him; by her wholehearted (if slightly puzzling) acceptance of a helping hand.

Helping a friend truly felt good!

Harry borrowed an extra pillow and blanket from the boudoir, and settled himself in the comfortable old armchair beside Ginny's bed. Within moments, he was asleep, with a contented smile on his face.

Harry flipped another egg onto the warm platter beside the stove and added two more slices of toast to a growing stack. Glasses of cold pumpkin juice were glistening with condensation, coffee was brewing, and a pile of bangers filled the room with sumptuous aroma.

He gazed at the dining table. The chairs were all still empty but, otherwise, the kitchen was ready for a spirited breakfast. All it needed was a few hungry mouths...

Ah, and here are some now!

A clatter from the front door signaled that Remus Lupin and the two Weasley parents were finally returning from their overnight reconnaisance. Harry smiled as he heard them whispering and tip-toeing their way back toward the kitchen.

"Good morning!" Harry greeted Molly in a low but friendly voice as she emerged through the door.

"Harry!" She stared, wide-eyed. "What are...? I mean, why aren't you in bed?"

"I was awake early this morning..." Harry paused to smile at Arthur and Remus as they entered with comparably surprised expressions. "Since I was up, I figured I might as well come make breakfast." Harry shrugged casually, with no intention of mentioning that Sirius had staggered into the girls' room forty minutes ago to warn him of the adults' imminent return.

"Breakfast??" Molly gazed around in confusion at what seemed to be a very respectable meal. "But Harry, you mustn't feel the need to..."

"It's my pleasure!" Harry whisked three plates off the counter and began setting places at the table. "I knew you'd be out all night, and assumed you'd return hungry and exhausted, so it seemed a natural thing to do. I was a bit leery of the thought of Kreacher's, uhhh... cooking, so I got things started myself."

"Oh." Molly looked a bit lost for a moment, then blinked. "Oh, well, at least wear this so you don't soil your clothes." She plucked an apron from the hook, and handed it to him.

"Thank you son." Arthur proferred a smile that was part weariness, part sympathy for a young man being made to wear a flowery linen, but mostly sincere appreciation for the food. "Ahh, it smells delicious!"

"Glad you think so; I've had some practice in the kitchen." Harry brought over three mugs of coffee. "So, how was your night?"

The suddenly grim expressions gave Harry more of an answer than he'd expected, and it was not one he would have hoped for. Arthur and Lupin fidgeted uncomfortably; Molly's eyes reddened. Her breath hitched and she looked away.

Lupin sighed. "Let's keep this under our hats for now Harry, but Albus's concerns were correct. Twice last night Death Eaters attempted to breach the wards at the Burrow. If we hadn't been there to strengthen the protections, the place would be in flames."

Turning away from Molly as she dabbed an eye, Arthur stared at the wall, clenching his coffee cup. "It appears we'll not be returning home any time soon," he said.

"Sorry to hear that." Harry gave a sympathetic look as he made his way back to the stove. Then he paused, seeming to straighten and stand tall. "But this too shall pass, right. We can't let them beat us down; we'll all find our way home again eventually."

Arthur and Molly glanced at each other in surprise. Watching Harry as he resumed his labours, they found themselves trying to reconcile his pragmatically hopeful words with the edgy, irascible and distinctly damaged youth who had come to roost only two days earlier. Lupin also paused to study Harry, then shook his head absently, pensive lines etching his brow as he silently carved into his breakfast.

Some time later, after the two elder Weasleys had stumbled away to find some sleep in one of Grimmauld Place's many dilapidated guest rooms, Lupin sat nursing his third cup of coffee. He opened his mouth, closed it, stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his mug, then finally resolved to proceed. "Harry, I had a chat yesterday with Nymphadora Tonks..."

"Oh yes?" Harry turned tentatively from the wash basin.

"Tonks has a well-placed friend in the legal division at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement..." Lupin tapped his mug for a moment. "They discussed your case in brief, and her friend is of the opinion that nobody can make the charge stick."

"Ah?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Lupin nodded. "The law offers clear protections for instances of magical self-defence, and we all agree that your story will stand up to basic scrutiny. If there's any question as to your honesty, a competent examiner could simply assess your state of mind when you summoned your Patronus – easily accomplished by casting prior incantatem on your wand. If they extend you that most basic consideration, Tonks' friend believes it would be a farce for them to proceed any further. And even if they conduct a formal hearing, she's certain that the case will be thrown out."

Harry gazed at the doorway, nodding to Hermione. Silent so as to not interrupt the conversation she'd just stepped into, she responded with a worried half-smile and took a seat.

"Thank you for looking into that, Professor." Harry placed a laden plate in front of Hermione and took a seat beside her. "To be honest, though, it doesn't really even seem all that important anymore. Let them decide what they decide. In the worst case, I simply won't go to Hogwarts this year."

Lupin's coffee cup froze, half way to his mouth.

Hermione gaped at Harry. "You can't possibly mean that! You must return to Hogwarts this year! It's... it's..." She trailed off, dumbfounded.

Harry appraised his well-intentioned, open-mouthed friend. He had to admit that her shock was natural – after all, just yesterday morning he'd been ranting about this very topic. Everyone knew how upset he'd been.

However, today was a new day, and his priorities had shifted. It was as if he'd grown six inches over night to find formerly fearsome bullies suddenly looking like puerile, pimply slugs. The dreaded hearing now seemed a foolish distraction, compared to other more pressing crises.

Harry sighed. "I don't know, Hermione. I do admit I'd like to get a proper and normal magical education just like any other Hogwarts student, but let's be realistic. Do you seriously expect the world is suddenly going to let me be just another student? Can either of you truly imagine that I'll ever simply be allowed to go to class, prepare for OWLs and obsess over Quidditch like everyone else?"

Both Hermione and Lupin gave him commiserating looks. Lupin was about to interject, but Harry shook him off.

"Listen, I've confronted near-death every year at Hogwarts, so why should this year be any different? If some idiots in the Ministry want to expel me for saving my soul, then why should I care? They might be motivated by wrong-headed reasons, or maybe by no clear reason at all, but it's honestly occurred to me that it could be a lot healthier for everyone if I didn't return to a school where my very presence likely imperils loads of other students."

"No! Yes! But...!" Hermione burst from her seat. "Harry, you need to keep up your lessons just to... to... to survive! "

Harry looked at her for a moment, then gazed away. "You know, I'm not sure about that. I sometimes wonder if maybe there's another way..." Lost in thought, he rose to return to cooking.

Hermione stared at him, unblinking; barely breathing.

Lupin sighed. Remembering the coffee poised inches from his mouth, he finally took a sip, put the cup wearily, and scratched at his stubbly cheek with an air of self-doubt. "I, er, well... all that aside, Harry don't you at least care about the principle of the thing?"

"Principle?" Harry finished dividing the cooked eggs and rashers among several plates, and started a new batch. "Maybe, but what's principle and what's folly?"

"Err...?" Lupin opened his mouth but got no further.

"To be honest Professor Lupin, the only principle that matters to me right now is the struggle of light versus dark. Where the hell does the 'Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery' fit into that? It's not exactly evil, but if it doesn't permit self defence against evil then it's pretty naffing amoral at best, just like the Minister himself, and half of the quill pushers who'd be judging me. Call me jaded, but I see no principle in fighting a battle with no principle."

An awkward silence began to descend but was broken, mercifully, by raucous laughter as the twins rambled their way down the steps, followed by a rather stoney-faced Ron.

"Shhh!" Lupin frowned as the three Weasley brothers poured into the kitchen. "Please keep it down a bit – Molly and Arthur are trying to get some sleep."

"Keep it down? Us?" Fred stared incredulously. "Could you please tell that to the prat making all the ruckus last night while WE were trying to sleep?"

George laughed. "Yes, did we miss anything interesting?"

"Er, well Ginny had a nightmare." Harry glanced around at the pair, wondering if they had heard any of the hallway argument between Sirius and Ron. With some unease, he noted the morose look on Ron's face, but was relieved to see the twins shrug disinterestedly and crack open a copy of the Daily Prophet to snigger over the morning's stories.

"Nightmare?" Lupin leaned forward in concern. "Poor kid. Is she okay?"

Ron rolled his eyes and was about to comment, but Hermione cut in first. "Yes," she answered firmly, narrowing her eyes at the various Weasleys. "I'm certain Ginny is fine, though she and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could likely all use their rest this morning, so let's all respect Professor Lupin's advice and try to keep our voices down. Understood?"

Ron blinked indignantly and seemed prepared to argue, but a sharp glance from Hermione silenced him. In resignation, he scowled and slumped noisily into the seat beside Lupin.

Suppressing a smirk, Harry brought out servings for the newcomers, stealing furtive glances as the teens settled into their meal with no further mention of the prior night. Eyes smiling in gratitude, he refilled Hermione's glass of pumpkin juice, then he too (finally) pulled up a chair and took his place in front of a well-stocked plate.

The rising sun was just breaking through a row of trees on the far bank of the stream, sending merry beams across to sparkle throughout the glade where Ginny lay. Specks of light danced across her weary face. Her eyelids twitched and, reluctantly, she stirred and stretched.

Gazing from the ceiling of shimmering leaves to a curtain of swaying grasses, it took Ginny a moment to piece together where she was and how she'd gotten here – a string of disorienting half-memories; a ghastly nightmare of utter desolation; a blurred, bittersweet vignette of discovery and abandonment. And through it all, there had been...

Harry?

Or not Harry?

That face, those eyes, that voice, had been the one constant in all of her strange dreams – dying and living; young then mature; helping and healing; bringing sorrow then hope.

Giving a brooch.

And taking it away?

With a start, Ginny's left hand flinched. Empty! The brooch was gone! Lashed with an icy sense of loss, she flailed about blindly, in the vain hope that she could merely reach out and somehow...

Find it??

Ginny blinked in amazement. The instant her fingers grazed the brooch on her night stand, the vision of riverside leaves and grasses vanished. Instead, she was sprawled haphazardly across her bed in the dingy yellowish bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Sunlight was streaming through the narrow Victorian window. Bedclothes were scattered, her hair hung loose about her face and, once again, she was holding the ornate silver brooch.

She began to examine the mysterious object. It was a small but fascinating piece – a smooth oval shield graced by two wings angling to the side in the manner of a sea eagle drying its wings. On the shield, punctuated by two glittering gems (an emerald and a ruby, Ginny supposed), was an inscription:

Magic!

Ginny's hand dropped it as if she'd been scorched. She stared at it.

Was it truly magical? If so, what did it do?

Mysterious magical objects had betrayed her before, and Ginny was not about to fall blindly into another perilous trap. Yet, for some reason, the brooch felt... wholesome. It made her feel more secure, reminding her of the man who had given it to her.

In her dream...

Huhhh??

Ginny winced as a throb of confusion coursed through her battered head. With no clue how an object from a dream could possibly have landed on her night stand, and no energy for sorting the illogical images left over from a very perplexing night, she rubbed her temples for a moment then came to a resolution.

Mysteries would have to wait. Ginny was sore, tired and hungry. For those afflications, the best cure was the simplest one – a good hearty breakfast.

She tugged on her pillow, removed the slip and draped it over the night stand to shroud the contentious brooch. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe, she found slippers and shuffled her way out into the corridor and down the steps to the kitchen. As she went, she smirked to herself at the distinct noise of her siblings attempting (with predictable lack of success) to be quiet.

As Ginny entered the room, Ron shot her a baleful look "Oh look! Her Highness the Drama Queen is finally out of bed."

Ginny ignored him, instead chancing to spy the way Hermione glared at her brother. Lupin, too, leveled him a frown of disapproval, prompting Ron to turn away, a bit reddened.

Okay... Ginny's eyes narrowed. What was that all about?

Even before getting exiled to this dump, Ginny and Ron had quarrelled almost daily this summer. Few people bothered to intercede anymore, probably fearing verbal shrapnel, so Ginny was baffled to suddenly find not one but two people clearly taking her side.

At least Fred and George (barely glancing at her as they engaged in a heated debate over Quidditch squads) were behaving normally, which hopefully meant that she wasn't covered with green spots (or worse). Nonetheless, as Ginny took a vacant seat immediately across from the twins, she made a mental note to pursue some discreet inquiries later.

Ginny had just opened her mouth to start some frivolous chit-chat with Hermione, when a hand swept in front of her, presenting a plate laden with a hearty meal that her Mum would have been proud to serve.

But that was not her Mum's hand.

In the corner of her eye, Ginny glimpsed an unexpected form retreating back toward the wash basin.

Harry? Serving breakfast??

Subtly gesturing with her thumb, Ginny gave Hermione a questioning glance, but the older girl merely shrugged.

Ginny surreptitiously eyed the young man as he busied himself with cleanup. To her estimation, anyone who'd recently seen a friend murdered, witnessed the rebirth of evil incarnate, been attacked by Dementors and gotten charged for unlawful underage use of magic, would have earned the right to hurl an entire set of Black family flatware against the wall, but instead Harry was calmly rinsing one. Cheerily doing chores for a bunch of noisy ingrates. And wearing a flowery apron.

How curious...

More curiosities seemed to be crop up during the meal, but Ginny focused on enjoying the food, never staring at anything odd, and basically pretending that everything around her was normal. She had long honed this act as her way of navigating raucous Weasley family meals, but today her resolve was being tested.

Dealing with a lot of unprovoked jeers from Ron proved fairly easy. For this, Ginny merely engaged Hermione in one of the many perfectly acceptable female conversational topics that made her brother queasy. Making a noise like a wretching Kneazle, he quickly gave up and fled to the other end of the table.

Other distractions, however, proved more... distracting.  

In particular, Ginny found herself repeatedly sidetracked by the twins' needling Harry. The more kindly side of her wished they'd leave the poor boy in peace but, well, the jokes about his domestic skills were unfortunately quite funny (especially given his floral attire, which she was not staring at). Ginny successfully stifled several giggles but, finally, Fred's quip about Harry's 'wifely virtues' caught her at just the wrong point mid-swallow and she nearly sprayed juice all over the table.

Ginny was in good company, though. A quick glance about the room, suggested that a little giggle (or spray) would have gone undetected because everyone else – even Harry himself – was too busy laughing.

Ironically, though, it was that same quick glance when all sense of orderly decorum began to fall apart. It was then that Ginny (not staring) saw Harry stepping back from the dish basin holding a manky old rag (greasy, with bits of egg). That, in itself, was hardly unusual (since he was washing dishes), and it was perfectly normal for her to spot such minor details (she was highly observant), and Ginny (prone to normal Weasley instinct) might have mused to herself that gunky rags can make potent instruments of retaliation, but of course Harry was no Weasley, and Ginny would never incite such a fine fellow to crass prankery and, besides, this all occurred in scant seconds during which there was no opportunity for her to wave to him and point out that Fred (quaking in laughter from his own joke) was a perfect target, so Ginny (a self-professed 'innocent' in the whole affair affair) was actually quite surprised by the subsequent...

SPLAATTTT!

It took two startled seconds for everyone to stop laughing at Fred's humour and begin laughing at the rag, glop and coffee grinds sliding down Fred's revolted face. In those second, Ginny very nearly 'did' stare at Harry. And, on his way over to retrieve his improvised (manky) weapon, Harry did meet her (not-quite-staring) eyes... and he winked.

At Ginny.

So Ginny Weasley, actress extraordinaire, did the perfect thing to disguise the fact that she had almost (not quite) been staring at him. She grinned and winked back... because that would be the perfectly normal response.

Yes, Ginny had acquitted herself quite well throughout an eventful, and tasty, breakfast. However, by the time she left with sated stomach, her curiosity was ravenous.

After pouring a sizable dose of hangover potion down his godfather's throat and getting a good meal into the man, Harry put aside the apron and officially signed off breakfast duties. With Molly still asleep from the night's exertions, there were no other chores assigned, so the Weasley siblings had gone off to play Exploding Snap, and Hermione was likely curled up somewhere with a school book.

Despite his cheerful morning demeanour, the night's interrupted sleep had caught up with Harry and he was no longer feeling sociable. Instead of joining the others, he climbed the steps aimlessly toward the third floor. Seeing a pleasant stream of daylight, he followed it back to the only open door on the level, and thus found himself the library.

Although in desperate need of some basic Scourgefy spells, the library seemed brighter, airier and less musty than most of Grimmauld Place. Near the west-facing windows Harry noticed an ornate wooden chair and an escritoire with several quills and bottles of what might still be viable ink. On the north wall he saw a fireplace flanked by an armchair and ottoman. Not surprisingly, most of the rest of the walls were taken up by book shelves, well appointed with a wide variety of old volumes.

Predating Roman settlements by more than three centuries, the first Ollivander wand-maker arrived in Britain via an early Greek trading expedition around the year 382 B.C. Despite their roots within the rigidly formulaic Messenia wand-making tradition, the early British Ollivanders proved to be clever and pragmatic innovators, establishing a well-deserved reputation for magical excellence by augmenting classical Greek magical techniques with Druidic traditions, such as incorporating spirit animal substances (hair, horn, hoof, etc.) into wand design.

The Ollivanderian rise to prominence in pre-Roman Britain was fueled greatly by an unprecedented (and, indeed, never again replicated) application of Greek wandlore principles toward Druidic staff-making. This bold experiment produced immensely powerful staves that gained immediate favour among the Brythonic elite, thus anchoring Ollivanderian reputation in the Isles.

Ironically, the Ollivander family may arguably be faulted for the decline and gradual extinction of traditional staff-making. The Ollivanders' exhaustive and costly magical curing process largely constrained staff-ownership to the wealthiest and most influential figures. Most aspiring middle-tier Druids and Druidesses sought to bolster their status with Ollivander wands instead of using crude indigenous staves. By the year 100 B.C., it thus appears that only the most remote and primitive communities continued to hand-craft staves using ancient Druidic techniques.

Although most secrets of Ollivanderian staff-making have been lost to the ravages of time, magical historians agree that the staves were crafted exclusively from those hardwoods originally preferred by Druids – primarily oak, beech and walnut. While these pale, unpliable woods have generally proven ill-suited for crafting wands, the Ollivanders apparently developed processes for turning such material into larger instruments of prodigious magic.

Harry's head throbbed mercilessly. Trying to blink away the disorientation, he found one eye encrusted with blood. To buy a moment to clear his head, he heard himself feigning humility. "Please forgive me Legate, but would you repeat that? What must I surely understand?"

"Imbecile!" The wizard stalked across holding cell and spat in Harry's face. "Understand that Roman interests in Britannia require us to confiscate all barbaric instruments of magic! I demanded of the woman that she surrender her staff peaceably. She refused, and thus she has been forcibly detained, to face the magistrate as a common criminal."

Through his one available eye, Harry saw the man scowling at him; waggling a finger. "Publican, if you had been administering this district properly, no such intervention would have been required. In light of your dereliction of duty, you too shall face a tribunal. Consider yourself charged!"

"What do I care for your trumped-up accusations?" Amid searing pain, Harry was surprised to hear his own voice, clear and defiant. "I stand not for myself, but for the integrity of the Pax Romana. The decree signed by Proconsul Paulinus affirmed the sovereignty and self-determination of the queen and her people in the lands north and east of the rivers Ouse. Per standing treaty, Rome guarantees her family and followers the rights of self-armament, as long as those arms are not raised against the Imperial standard."

"Treaty? What treaty?" A lurid smirk crept across the wizard's face.

Harry tried to reach toward an inner fold of his tunic, but was immediately reminded of his dire situation – bound tightly, hand and foot, to a wooden stool. "I speak of the signed treaty I carried from Camboricum!" Harry winced as the magical cords suddenly tightened, biting into his skin, but he pushed the torment from his mind. "What have you done with it?!"

"What have I done with what?"   The man slowly withdrew from his cloak a scroll bearing the Proconsular seal. He held it out for one long second in plain view of Harry's one open eye. "There is no such treaty, nor has there ever been!" he declared in a wicked drawl.

As the scroll caught fire, he grinned ghoulishly and tossed it between Harry's feet, chortling at Harry's desperate attempts to escape flames that licked upwards, blistering his calves.

"You're a traitor, Legate !" Harry clenched his teeth, edging the stool far enough back to spare his flesh. "You will enrage the Britons! You will destroy fourteen years of peace! The blood of Romans and Britons alike will be on your hands!"

The Legate smiled coldly. "No, it is you who are the traitor, Publican Peuerellius. Your ceaseless coddling of these barbarians marks you as an outcast to the Order of Letum, and you will rot in hell for it!"

"Order of Letum?!" Harry recoiled. "I have neither allegiance nor dealings with those vermin! Never, EVER, speak to me of that FOUL..."

Harry voice ruptured into spluttery gasps, his chest and throat spasming violently under a crude silencing spell.

Twitching in agitation, the Legate's left hand clutched the head of the awesome Icenian staff. His lips trembled as he glared hatefully at Harry, seemingly caught in some sort of internal conflict. Then without warning, the man howled wildly, lashing out with his right forearm, clubbing Harry hard across the head, knocking him sideways onto the hard floor, bound stool and all.

Rage unsated, the wizard kicked Harry hard in the ribs twice before stubbing his toe hard against the stool. "Aiiiiee!" the Legate cried out, staggering back, clasping for his foot. Panting and sputtering dark oaths, the wizard finally regained his composure.

"No Publican..." Brushing long hair from his face, the wizard caught his breath and glared down at his prostrate enemy. "You may not be a member of the Order, but your sons are. And how mortified they will be to see you lying in blood, filth and ignominy!"

"I... have... no... sons..." Harry wheezed defiantly.

"Crucio!" A wicked spark shot from the wizard's staff.

Harry's nerves seared like magnesium flares; his every muscle seemed to tear; his...

His...

His cheek felt a cool, gentle radiance spread across it, like a moistened cloth over fever. A sense of calm washed over his injured head, shoulder and chest, spreading down to soothe his blistered legs...

Relieved, he opened his eyes to discover someone gazing down at him – a face caring, yet slightly amused.

"You have no sons, Harry?" Ginny inquired, her innocent concern almost completely disguising an infectious twinkle in her eyes.

"I, uh... wow!" Harry blinked dazedly at his best mate's little sister; her pretty hand resting lightly upon his cheek. "I must have been dreaming again."

"Really? Or maybe there are things in your personal life you're trying to hide?" Ginny's mouth was the picture of propriety, but her eyes could not disguise a sparkle that was getting more impish by the second.

"Put a sock in it." Harry gave an exaggerated huff, then grinned and sat up. "What are you doing up here? Tired of playing Snap?"

"Oh. I, uh..." Suddenly a bit shy, Ginny angled away. "Well, when it seemed you wouldn't be joining us in the den, I went looking for you. I wanted to talk about, uh... well, to see if you could tell me what happened last night."

"Last night?" Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Er, what do you mean, 'what happened?' "

Ginny shrugged. "Just what I said. What happened? What did I do? I don't remember anything beyond a blur of strange dreams and, well, today various people have been behaving rather oddly around me. Ron, Hermione, Professor Lupin... And then there's you, Harry..."

Ginny paused as the hint of a grin crept back to the corner of her mouth. "I admit that we've all grown accustomed to Harry Potter being a bit of an odd duck, but today your odd behavior has been strange even for you."

"What?? You think I'm an odd duck?!" Harry flapped his arms comically. "Well quack quack to you then, Little Miss Normal!"

"Oh yes, I specialize in being normal." Ginny smirked for a moment, then pushed his book to the side and, not-quite-accidentally, elbowed him in the ribs as she took a seat beside him on the ottoman. "Now tell me what happened last night, Ducks."

Harry chuckled for a moment, then grew serious. "Er, well, you had a bad dream."

"Yes, even 'I' managed to figure out that much." Ginny rolled her eyes. "But why are people acting so strangely around me?"

"I guess, perhaps... well probably... because you, uh, did a nasty face-plant on the floor."

Ginny blinked, reflexively touching her temple.

Harry gave a half-nod, then continued. "Hermione was flustered, and Sirius was drunk, so it was kind of left to me to patch you up."

Ginny frowned thoughtfully as she tried to align this with her jumbled mix of dreams and fragmented memories. Unconsciously, she turned toward Harry, her eyes seeming to simultaneously look both at, and through, him. "Thank you," she said. "I guess that would explain the headache and all the hushed sympathy. But, does anyone know what I was doing out of bed? Where was I? I haven't been sleep-walking since, uhh..."

"No, no, it wasn't like that." Harry fixed her with a reassuring look. "You were at the foot of the bed; you and your blankets were all kind of tossed about as if you'd made a startled leap. It must have been a frightful nightmare – we heard your scream and crash all the way from upstairs. It was even loud enough to wake Ron."

"Ugh!" Ginny winced. "A mite embarrassing, yeah?"

"I suppose..." Harry shrugged. "But according to some accounts I, er, have no sons."

Ginny stared at his deadpan face... then burst into laughter. As it subsided, her gaze met his eyes, trailed down his cheek and paused unwittingly on the crooked little smile that had taken shape on his... lips.

Harry's eyes flashed wide; he looked away.

Unconcerned, Ginny continued to examine her friend, still contemplating the strange night, but also puzzled by Harry's alternating levity and discomfort. Finally she resolved to stop gawking at the poor (if quite adorable) fellow, and deal with the other issue that had been nagging her.

"So, my fount of wisdom..." She locked her gaze harmlessly onto a dusty old tapestry. "Can I ask one more question? Have you any idea what's the matter with dear brother Ronald today?"

Harry stiffened. "Er, could you be more specific?"

"Well..." Ginny chewed her lip. "He's just seemed a bit... snarky. All day. Admittedly, we do spar a lot, but it's mostly in jest. Today, though, he's been edgy... wound up. A bit hostile, to be honest."

"Oh." Harry fidgeted a bit. "Yes, well, I'm not precisely sure either, but I assume, for whatever reason, it has something to do with..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Yeah?"

"I assume it's related to..." Harry paused, biting his lower lip.

Ginny nodded avidly.

"Er... because I spent the night with you," Harry mumbled.

Ginny blinked. Twice.

"You – you banged your head really hard." A blush was setting deep into Harry's cheeks, but he steeled himself to continue. "I assume you were really rattled, because when I got there, you latched onto me and sort of, errr, made me promise I wouldn't go anywhere, and so I, uh... well, Sirius helped me get you back to bed then he told me – it was really his idea – he said I should stay to take care of you and that I could come get him if you or I needed anything, and then..."

Even looking pointedly away out the window, Harry could feel the intense pressure of Ginny's wide staring eyes. Summoning courage, he swallowed hard and drove for the finish line.

"Sirius pushed Hermione and Ron out of the room and told them to go to bed. I could hear Ron out in the hall getting a bit shirty about it, but Sirius held firm, and..." Harry shifted uncomfortably. "... well, I tucked you in, grabbed a pillow and blanket... and fell asleep in the armchair. That's all. I truly meant no harm, though I do realise girls prefer privacy, and I'm sure you hardly needed anyone to, uh... uhh..."

Running out of words, Harry finally wilted.

Ginny studied him for five long seconds.

In that eternity, Harry couldn't bring himself to turn around. Looking blankly into the haze above Highgate Hill, he had no idea if she was annoyed, scandalised, or perhaps merely bored. He didn't see the flicker of a smile...

When she stood to leave, he hung his head.

When she leaned close, he braced for consequences, be it anger, or a not-so-playful jab, or a... a...

... an indelible sensation of soft lips pressing his cheek?

Harry Potter had a reputation for swift unerring instinct, but not this time. When he did finally convince his balky muscles to swivel about, Ginny's footsteps were already fading in the distance. Yet, he was at least compensated with a glimpse of lustrous red hair as she disappeared down the steps.

After a long moment gazing down the empty corridor, he finally sighed. Turning back toward the ottoman, he was about to pick up the discarded book, when he paused.

Inhaling slowly, reverently, he noticed a faint fragrance of apple blossoms still lingering in the air.

If today had been a bit more normal, the evening probably would have passed differently... but Ginny had wearied of 'normal'.

An Order of the Phoenix meeting was now entering its second hour in the kitchen, and Ginny knew that Ron, Hermione and the twins were almost certainly still bickering over access to the extendable ears. Under normal circumstances, Ginny assumed she would still be right in the thick of things, squabbling and exploiting feminine wiles to try to glean any clues about what the adults were debating. Harry would normally be in there clamouring too, Ginny told herself, but her dark-haired friend had looked visibly tired and out of place amidst the evening's juvenile shenanigans.

And Ginny had felt tired and out of place.

So, when Harry had politely excused himself, Ginny had quickly realised that he probably had the right idea. If she was tired, bored, and feeling out of place, why not just pack it in?

"Mum would be so proud", Ginny mused to herself with a tired (but still quite wry) smirk.

So now she found herself alone in her quiet bedroom, contemplating the moody flickers of a solitary bedside lamp.

All alone; no regrets.

She couldn't imagine she was missing much. Weeks of attempted spying had been a complete bust – about the only thing she'd been able to learn so far was that Dumbledore never told anybody (including the Order) anything of value, so why should she wait up half the night for the same bootless drivel?

Furthermore, she doubted her presence was missed. When she'd stood up to leave, Ron had scowled, the twins had stayed glued to their silly 'ears', and only Hermione had actually bothered to acknowledge her, offering an understanding smile and a promise to fill her in on any discoveries. Ginny had thanked her politely, and left quietly, without a fuss.

Quiet; no fuss – just what her aching head needed. That, and sleep.

Yawning, she stretched across to extinguish the lamp, accidentally catching the pillow case she had draped over the night stand, and brushing what lay beneath...

Harry is getting into bed now too...

"Wuhh?!" Wide-eyed, Ginny froze, mid-reach. She arched her brow, mystified as to why a random thought about Harry should have suddenly popped into her head.

She had to admit that her former childhood crush had been on her mind a bit today... but that had been strictly an aberration, right? It wasn't as if she cared whether he was getting into bed, brushing his teeth, standing on his head, or whatever it was that Harry Potter typically did at ten minutes to ten on a Tuesday evening.

She shook her head.

In all honesty, she really didn't think about Harry much anymore. The old infatuation had been fading for years. She had interacted so little with him at Hogwarts, and only sparingly in the intervening summers. If the legendary crush had perhaps lingered in the shadows all these years, the Yule Ball had surely put an end to it...

No, not that way!

The Yule Ball was neither regret nor revenge – it had been a celebration! It had brought no crying angst, no bitterness, no burning bridges.

Ginny's memories of the ball didn't dwell on anything that Harry had done. They didn't even remind her of anything Harry had not done. Rather, the Yule Ball had been a rebirth. For once in her life, she had done something strictly for herself! She had attended, not because anybody in her family expected her to; not as a favour to anyone (although Neville had certainly not minded) and, more than anything, she had not been trying to attract the attention of a certain dark-haired boy.

She had simply gone to the ball to have fun!

And she had succeeded. Spot on!

Ginny had derived neither joy nor pain from turning down Harry's (pseudo) invitation, and she was pleased with that. It had been the right thing to do – for Harry, for Neville, and especially for herself. She had set her principles, stood by them, and in doing so...

She had set herself free!

Farewell schoolgirl misery! No more lying alone in the dark, doubting whether she could ever be good enough for a great hero like Harry Potter. Good morning sunshine! Say hello to Ginny Weasley – her own greatest hero!

But any great hero must face the occasional doubts, and this strange strange strange day had raised a few of those.

The lamp still flickering beside her, Ginny hunched over the edge of her bed in a classic Rodin pose, frowning introspectively as she faced those doubts.

What did today mean? Had everything suddenly just changed again? Had she erased her hard-earned gains?

Was she still her own greatest hero?

Was it okay to have shared a casual wink at breakfast? Was she still free as a bird, despite their friendly little chat in the library? Was it normal that images of her old crush had been strewn all through last night's bizarre, vivid dreams? And why the hell had she clung to the poor boy like a bloody damsel in distress??

Bloody? Ginny scowled. Nice choice of invective, Weasley.

Yes, Ginny now knew lots of cringeworthy details. Ever the curious cat, she had proceeded to wheedle a lot of information from a distinctly reluctant Hermione, including plenty of bits that Harry had been too discreet to trouble her with.

Groaning, she imagined lying in a pool of blood; smeared all over Harry as he held her, closing her wounds.

Ick. Wish I'd never asked.

However, Hermione had also conveyed some very useful insight. Without editorializing, the older girl had described how Harry had acted with neither fuss, nor complaint, nor any expectation of reward.

Reflecting on this, Ginny felt mortified yet grateful – a potent and dangerous blend that had haunted her in the past. Luckily, she was far more resilient now than she had been during that terrible summer after her first year... but it did make her question whether she'd truly made as much progress as she'd believed.

Apparently she was not yet as mature as Bill, nor as rugged and independent as Charlie. Apparently being a fourteen year old meant still having to cope with the occasional bout of pathetic fragility. Sighing, she admitted that Ginevra Molly Weasley, hero or not, was still young enough to make an occasional arse of herself.

Yet, despite last night's pathetic showing, she still apparently possessed a girlfriend who was willing to be totally honest with her, as well as a burgeoning acquaintance with a boy who, today, had shown her as much respect and consideration as one might treat... a hero?

"Huh."

When Ginny had set foot on this bleak path a few minutes ago, she had hardly expected to land on a resolution that was... encouraging. In fact, spending a summer in this grotesque stress-warren might actually be worth it, if it meant granting Harry Potter a chance to finally discovered the immense value of her friendship.

She grinned; her moxy near-fully restored... then she remembered the brooch, and her eyes narrowed. "Oho. You wouldn't be monkeying about with us, would you?"

Staring at it for a long moment, she convinced herself that it bore no resemblance to a cursed object, a love charm, or anything problematic like that. Nonetheless, she carefully reached out a finger to touch it, and..."

Harry is almost asleep.

Ginny's eyes flashed wide... but then she rolled them in irritation. "Don't be a ninny. There's no magic making me think about him; I do that well enough without touching some ruddy old hat pin."

Nonetheless, when she reached across one final time for the lamp, she did steer clear of the brooch, then thrust her arms safely beneath her covers where they wouldn't be tempted to reach for it.

Lying alone in the near dark of the bedroom, Ginny's head ached wearily. Her eyelids drooped... but did not stay shut.

In the distance she could hear Ron, Hermione and the twins 'quietly' squabbling about something daft. A clock was ticking. A blue-green blend of distant lamplight from the Islington skyline was creeping through her ragged curtain – casting odd shadows of the sort that sometimes frighten little children, while also illuminating the jumbled pile of clothes she hadn't get gotten around to folding, alighting on school books that she should have started reading...

... flickering softly on the silver brooch.

She glanced at it, unthinking.

She reached for it, clasping it firmly in her hand.

Her muscles relaxed, the distant sounds blended into a rustle that reminded her of a pleasant breeze stirring the branches of trees. She closed her eyelids...

Then they sprang open in panic!

It was bright daylight! The sun had already climbed well above the hedge on the far side of the river!

"It's late! I've overslept!" She leapt to her feet, nearly tripping over the thick grey mantle spread out on the ground beneath her. "Oh Amaethon, master of fate, how could you let me rest so long while he needed me? I must find Harry!"

Without thinking where she could possibly be headed, Ginny began thrashing her way up through the low thickets, making for the road to... to...

Harry??

Ginny skidded to a halt and paused, perplexed. The word 'Harry' suddenly puzzled her. It seemed somehow both familiar and yet quite foreign, as if she'd heard it in a dream.

A dream. Yes, the name brought to mind a bewildering jumble of memories, including the thick, debilitating fugue that had befallen her yesterday. At the worst possible time!

Ginny growled to herself, shaking the cobwebs from her mind, and finding clarity. I must find the good Publican! I must deliver the message!

Harry flipped another egg over to the warm plate on the side of the stove and added two more slices of toast to a deep dish, covering it with a clean cloth to keep it warm. Glasses of cold pumpkin juice were glistening with frosty condensation, an urn of coffee was brewing, and a pile of bangers filled the room with a sumptuous aroma. He gazed about the empty kitchen at all the empty chairs. Yes, the only thing missing from a spirited breakfast were hungry mouths.

Ahh — and here come a few now!

A clatter from the front door signaled that Remus Lupin and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were finally returning. Harry smiled as he heard them whispering and tip-toeing their way back toward the kitchen.

"Good morning!" Harry greeted Molly in a low but friendly voice as she emerged through the door.

"Harry!" She stared, wide-eyed. "What are...? I mean, why aren't you in bed?"

Before replying, Harry smiled and waved as Arthur and Remus entered and added their surprised faces to Molly's. "I was awake early this morning and figured I might as well get up and make breakfast." Harry shrugged casually, with no intention of mentioning that Sirius had staggered into the girls' room forty minutes ago to warn him of the adults' imminent return.

"Breakfast??" Molly gazed around in confusion at the juice, coffee, plates of golden toast, and expertly prepared griddle fare. "But Harry, you mustn't feel you need to..."

"It's my pleasure!" Harry whisked several plates off the counter with surprising cheer and began setting three places at the table. "I knew you'd be out all night, and assumed you'd return exhausted, so why not give you a break? I was a little leery of the thought of Kreacher's, uhhh... cooking? So, I decided to get things started myself." Harry's face slid into a wry grin.

"Thank you son!" Arthur offered Harry a tired smile. "It looks and smells delicious!"

"Glad you think so — I've had some practice in the kitchen." Harry placed mugs of coffee by each of the plates. "So, how was your night?"

A quick glance at the suddenly grim expressions around the table gave Harry an answer more telling than he had expected or even really wanted. Arthur and Lupin were fidgeting uncomfortably; Molly's eyes reddened; she caught her breath and looked away, holding back a round of unshed tears.

Lupin sighed deeply. "Let's keep this under our hats for now Harry, but Albus's concerns were correct. Twice last night Death Eaters attempted to breach the wards at the Burrow. If we hadn't been there to fend them off, they would have broken through."

Arthur exhaled, clenching his coffee cup and staring stonily at the wall. "It appears we're not going to be returning home any time soon," he said expressionlessly as Molly sniffled.

Harry nodded sympathetically. Rising from the table, he turned his focus back to several half-cooked servings of eggs and sausages on the stove. "Yes, but this too shall pass, right?" Harry returned to his labours with a neutral expression. "Everyone always finds their way back home eventually."

Arthur and Molly glanced at each other in surprise; their curious eyes turning to follow Harry about the room, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile this sunny optimist with the edgy, irascible and distinctly damaged youth who had come to roost only two days earlier. Lupin also paused momentarily to study Harry, before shaking his head slightly; several pensive lines etched themselves on his face as he silently carved into his breakfast.

Some time later, after the two elder Weasley's had stumbled away to find some sleep in one of Grimmauld Place's many dilapidated guest rooms, Lupin sat nursing his third cup of coffee. He opened his mouth, closed it, stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his mug, then finally resolved to proceed. "Harry, I had a brief chat yesterday with Nymphadora Tonks..."

Harry turned from the wash basin. "Oh yes?" Harry's tone was tentative; his eyes crinkled slightly.

"She has a well-placed friend in the legal division at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Lupin continued. "Tonks outlined your case in brief, and her friend is of the opinion that they'll never make the charge stick. The law offers clear protections for cases of magical self-defence, and we all agree that your story will stand up to basic scrutiny. If there's any question as to your honesty, a competent examiner could simply assess your state of mind when you summoned your Patronus — easily accomplished by casting prior incantatem on your wand. If they extend you that most basic consideration, Tonks' friend believes it would be a farce for them to proceed any further. And even if they continued with a formal hearing, she's certain that the charges will be thrown out."

Harry gazed at the doorway, smiling to a worn-looking Hermione who was just now quietly making her appearance. She responded with a worried half-smile and took a seat at the table, her gaze flitting rapidly between Harry and Lupin.

"Thank you for looking into that, Professor." Harry placed a fully laden plate in front of Hermione, and took a seat beside her at the table. "Frankly, though, it doesn't even seem all that important anymore. Let them decide what they decide. In the worst case, I simply won't go to Hogwarts this year."

Lupin's coffee cup froze, half way to his mouth. Hermione gaped at Harry. "You can't possibly mean that, Harry! You have to return to Hogwarts this year! It's... it's..." She trailed off, dumbfounded.

Harry gazed thoughtfully at his well-intentioned, open-mouthed friend. He knew her shock was justified; yesterday morning he himself had been just as passionately outraged as she was now. Probably even more so. But in the light of this new day, everything seemed... different... like he was looking at the world through a new pair of lenses. And at this very moment, those lenses made the whole hearing seem completely puerile and asinine.

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry replied. "Of course I'd like to get a proper and normal magical education just like any other Hogwarts student, but let's be realistic. When is the world ever going to let me be just another Hogwarts student? Can any of you truly imagine that I'll ever simply be allowed to go to class, prepare for OWLs and obsess over Quidditch like everyone else. I've confronted near-death every year at Hogwarts, so why should I expect anything different now? If some idiots in the Ministry of Magic want to expel me for saving my soul, then why should I try to stop them? They might be motivated by wrong-headed reasons, or maybe by no clear reason at all, but it's honestly occurred to me that it might be a lot healthier for everyone if I didn't return to a school where my very presence probably imperils loads of other students."

Hermione burst up from her seat. "Yes, but you need to keep up your lessons just to... to... to survive! "

Harry gazed at her thoughtfully with a distant look in his eye. "You know... I'm not sure about that... I sometimes wonder if maybe there's another way..." He gazed toward the old grime-spattered wall for a long moment, then returned his attention to Hermione, giving her a half-smile.

Harry stood up again and returned to the stove. Hermione stared at him, unblinking, unbreathing.

Lupin sighed. His cup eventually found his mouth; he took a sip and placed the coffee wearily back on the table. "I, er, well... all that aside... don't you at least care about the principle of the thing, Harry?" Lupin scratched idly at his stubbly cheek with an air of self-questioning hesitation.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe, but what's principle and what's folly? The only principle that matters to me right is goodness overcoming evil. Where the hell does the 'Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery' fit into that? It's not exactly evil, but it's definitely not goodness either. I'd say it's all just a waste of fine parchment sitting on some brainless quill-pusher's desk. Maybe my civic spirit has gone to rubbish, but as far as I'm concerned there's no principle in fighting something that has no principle."

An awkward silence descended... but was broken, mercifully quickly, by shouts and raucous laughter as they twins rambled their noisy way down the steps, followed by a rather stoney-faced Ron.

"Shhh!" Lupin frowned at the three Weasley brothers as they poured into the kitchen. "Please keep your voices down a bit — Molly and Arthur are trying to get some sleep."

"Keep it down?" Fred asked incredulously. "Could you please tell that to the prat who was making all the racket last night when WE were trying to sleep?"

George laughed. "Yes, did we miss anything exciting?"

"Er, well Ginny had a nightmare." Harry glanced around at the newcomers, wondering just how much any of them had heard. He couldn't help but note, with a bit of discomfort, the very sour look on Ron's face, but relaxed to see the twins offer disinterested shrugs as they cracked open a copy of the Daily Prophet and began sniggering over the morning's latest stories.

Lupin, however, leaned forward with wide eyes. "Oh? Poor kid. Is she okay?"

"Yes," Hermione answered in a surprisingly firm tone, narrowing her eyes at the various Weasleys. "I'm certain she's fine, though she could probably use a little extra sleep this morning as well, so let us all respect Professor Lupin's advice and try to keep our voices down. Understood?"

Ron blinked at his friend in shocked indignation. He opened his mouth in protest, but a sharp glance from Hermione silenced him. In resignation, he scowled and flumped himself noisily into the seat beside Lupin.

With raised eyebrow, Harry continued to assemble breakfast servings, surreptitiously watching the chastened teens settle themselves at the table. A subtle smile of gratitude twinkled about his eyes as he refilled Hermione's glass of pumpkin juice, then he too (finally) pulled up a chair for himself and took his place in front of a well-stocked plate.

The rising sun was just breaking through a row of trees on the far bank of the stream, sending merry beams across to sparkle throughout the copse where Ginny lay. Specks of light danced across her weary face. Her eyelids twitched and, reluctantly, she stirred, and stretched.

Gazing around at the curtain of swaying grasses, and a ceiling of shimmering leaves, it took Ginny a moment to piece together the disorienting half-memories that had brought her to this place — a ghastly nightmare of utter desolation; a blurred, bitter-sweet vignette of discovery and abandonment. And at the beginning, and at the end, there was...

Harry?

Or not Harry?

That face, those eyes, that voice, had been the one constant through all of her strange dreams — dying and living; mature then young; helping and healing; inspiring hope or regret.

Giving a brooch.

Taking it away?

With a start, Ginny's left hand flinched.

Empty! The brooch was gone!

Ginny was instantly swept by a powerful wave of bereavement. With no idea what she had really lost (the brooch? Harry? ) she flailed about blindly, in the vain hope that she could merely reach out her hand and somehow...

Find it??

Ginny blinked in amazement. The leaves and grasses of the riverside glade had vanished. She was sprawled haphazardly across her bed in the dingy yellowish bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Sunlight was streaming through the narrow Victorian window. Bedclothes were strewn about, her hair had fallen chaotically about her face... and her fingers, grasping for the night stand, had settled upon... the ornate silver brooch.

She slowly withdrew her hand and stared at the mysterious object that seemed equally puzzling both within and beyond her dreams.

Crawling over the bed to take a closer look, she turned it over and found that it was a small, but striking piece — a smooth oval shield graced by two wings angled out to the side in the manner of a sea eagle drying its wings. In the centre of the shield, punctuated by two glittering gems (an emerald and a ruby, Ginny supposed), was an inscription:

Magical!

Ginny's hand flinched back as if she'd been scorched.

Was the brooch truly magical? If so, how? What did it do?

Mysterious magical objects had betrayed her before, and Ginny was not about to fall blindly into another perilous trap. Yet, for some reason, the brooch felt... wholesome... It made her feel more secure, reminding her of the man who had given it to her.

In her dream...

Huhhh??

Ginny winced as a throb of disorientation coursed through her battered head. With no clue how an object from a dream could possibly have landed on her night stand, and no energy for sorting the illogical images left over from a most perplexing night, she rubbed her temples for a moment. She then tugged on her pillow, removing the slip and draping it over the night stand to shroud the contentious brooch.

Mysteries would have to wait. Ginny was sore, tired and hungry. For those ailments, the best cure was the most obvious one — a good hearty breakfast.

Wrapping herself in a bathrobe, she found her slippers and shuffled her way out into the corridor and down the steps to the kitchen. As she went, she smiled wryly at the distinct noise of her siblings attempting (with the usual lack of success) to be quiet.

Ron shot Ginny a baleful look as she entered the room "Oh look! Her majesty the Drama Queen is finally out of bed."

Ginny ignored him, her attention instead occupied with noticing a scathing glare that Hermione had just shot her grouchy brother. Lupin too, she observed, had given him a frown of distinct disapproval, prompting Ron to turn his flushed (and perhaps slightly contrite) visage back to the remaining food on his plate.

Okay, what was that all about?

Ginny and Ron had sparred almost daily all summer, even before the horrendous exile to this dump. She knew that few people bothered to intercede anymore, probably in fear of the inevitable verbal shrapnel. Consequently, Ginny was baffled to suddenly find not one but two people blatantly taking her side.

At least Fred and George (barely glancing at her as they engaged in a heated debate over Quidditch teams) were behaving normally, which hopefully meant that she wasn't covered with green spots (or worse). Nonetheless, as Ginny took a vacant seat immediately across from the twins, she made a mental note to pursue some discrete inquiries later.

Ginny had just opened her mouth to start some frivolous chit-chat with Hermione, when a hand swept down in front of her, depositing a plate adorned with a hearty meal that her Mum would have been proud to serve.

But that was not her Mum's hand...

With a surreptitious glance out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw an unexpected form retreating back toward the wash basin.

Harry is serving breakfast??

Subtly gesturing toward Harry with her thumb, Ginny gave Hermione a questioning glance, but the older girl merely shrugged.

Very curious...

Lots and lots of little mysteries seemed to be cropping up this morning, but Ginny was ravenous enough to put them all aside for long enough to devour her exceptionally tasty breakfast under the semblance of normality. Over the years, she had become very practiced at miming nonchalance in the face of the untold chaos that might be occurring around her. This morning, her finely honed acting skills (a great asset in the Weasley household) helped her sustain the illusion of a perfectly pleasant chat with Hermione, despite having to ignore a steady onslaught of seemingly unprovoked sneers and snarls from Ron.

Even Ginny couldn't block out all of the strangeness, however. Occasionally she would get distracted by some of the twins' more egregious jokes about Harry's domestic skills, and a couple of times a little giggle slipped through. But after a while, she found herself much more tempted to 'watch ' rather than laugh, because strangely enough...

Harry was laughing too!

Ginny forced herself not to stare at the buoyant young man in the flowery apron. It was not as if she had never seen the humourous side of Harry before but, well... he had not exactly arrived at Grimmauld Place encased in a barrel of laughs...

Ginny understood full well that Harry had just gone through horrendous stretch. Seeing a friend get murdered, observing the rebirth of evil incarnate, being attacked by Dementors and getting charged for unlawful underage use of magic hardly couldn't inspire much levity. Yet at this very moment, as the dark-haired youth artfully deposited a soggy dish rag onto Fred's head in retaliation for a comment assessing Harry's wifely virtues, it seemed that The Boy Who Lived was doing a brilliant job of coping. In fact, as he stepped directly into Ginny's (not-staring-at-him) line of sight to retrieve the soapy cloth, Harry actually glanced across the table... and winked.

At Ginny.

Ginny Weasley, actress extraordinaire, did exactly what the script called for. She grinned and winked back... because that would be the perfectly normal response.

Yes, Ginny had acquitted herself perfectly normally throughout the entire bizarre, if rather amusing breakfast.

But when she left the table, she was curious as hell!

After pouring a sizable dosage of hangover potion down his godfather's throat and getting a good meal into the man, Harry put aside the apron and officially signed off his voluntary breakfast duty. With Molly still asleep from the night's exertions, there were no other chores assigned, so the Weasley siblings had apparently gone off somewhere to play Exploding Snap, and Hermione was likely curled up somewhere with a school book.

Despite his morning's cheerful demeanour, the night's interrupted sleep had caught up with Harry and he was no longer feeling very sociable. Instead of joining the others, he ascended the staircase to the third floor library. It was the only room on that level with an open door, and the daylight pouring through it beckoned him down the hallway and into the dusty chamber.

Harry gazed around the quiet room which, although in desperate need of some basic Scourgefy spells, was otherwise brighter and in a better state of repair than most of Grimmauld Place. Over by the west-facing windows he noticed an ornate wooden chair and an escritoire with several quills and bottles of what might have been viable ink. On the north wall there was a fireplace flanked by an armchair and ottoman. Not surprisingly, most of the rest of the walls were taken up by book shelves, well appointed with a wide variety of old volumes.

Predating Roman settlements by more than three centuries, the first Ollivander wand-maker arrived in Britain via an early Greek trading expedition around the year 382 B.C. Despite their roots within the rigidly formulaic Messenia wand-making tradition, the early British Ollivanders proved to be clever and pragmatic innovators, establishing a well-deserved reputation for magical excellence by augmenting classical Greek magical techniques with Druidic traditions.

The Ollivanderian rise to prominence in pre-Roman Britain was fueled greatly by an unprecedented (and, indeed, never again replicated) application of Greek wandlore principles toward Druidic staff-making. This bold experiment produced immensely powerful staves that gained immediate favour among the British Druidic elite, thus anchoring Ollivanderian reputation in the Isles.

Ironically, the Ollivander family can probably be blamed for the decline and eventual extinction of traditional staff-making. The Ollivanders' exhaustive and costly magical curing process largely constrained staff-ownership to the wealthiest and most influential figures in British society. Most aspiring middle-tier Druids and Druidesses sought to bolster their status by adopting Ollivander wands instead of crude indigenous staves. By the year 100 B.C., it thus appears that only the most remote and primitive communities continued to hand-craft staves using ancient Druidic techniques.

Although most secrets of Ollivanderian staff-making have been lost to the ravages of time, magical historians agree that the staves were crafted exclusively from those hardwoods originally preferred by Druids — primarily oak, beech and walnut. While such pale, unpliable woods have generally proven ill-suited for crafting wands, the Ollivanders apparently developed processes for turning such material into larger instruments of prodigious magic.

Harry's head was pounding mercilessly. He shook himself, trying to blink away the disorientation, but found one eye fused with encrusted blood. Stalling for time in the hopes of restoring his wits to a viable equilibrium, he heard himself saying, with affected humility, "Please forgive me Legate, but would you repeat that? What must I surely understand?"

"Imbecile!" The wizard stalked across the stone floor of a holding cell and spat in Harry's face. "Understand that Roman interests in Britannia require us to confiscate all barbaric instruments of magic! I demanded of the woman that she surrender her staff peaceably. She refused, and thus she has been forcibly detained, to face the magistrate as a common criminal."

Through his one available eye, Harry saw the man turn to scowl at him. "If you had been administering this district properly, no such intervention would have been required. In light of your dereliction of duty, you too shall face a tribunal. Consider yourself charged, Publican!"

Heedless to the pain searing every inch of his face, Harry growled and assembled a defiant expression. "What do I care for your trumped-up accusations? I stand not for myself, but for the integrity of the Pax Romana. The treaty signed by Proconsul Paulinus affirmed the sovereignty and self-determination of the queen and her people in the lands north and east of the rivers Ouse. The treaty guarantees her family and followers the rights of self-armament, as long as those arms are not raised against the Imperial Standard."

"Treaty? What treaty?" A lurid smirk crept across the wizard's face.

Harry tried to reach toward an inner fold of his tunic, but was immediately and painfully reminded of his dire situation — he was tightly bound, hand and foot, to a wooden stool. "The signed treaty I carried from Camboricum!" Harry winced as the magical cords tightened sharply, biting into his skin, but he pushed the pain out of his mind. "What have you done with it?!"

"What have I done with what?" The man slowly withdrew from his cloak a scroll bearing the Proconsular seal. He held it out, for one long second, within plain view of Harry's one open eye. "There is no such treaty, nor has there ever been!" he declared in a wicked drawl.

A vicious grin alighted upon his face as the scroll burst into flame. He tossed the burning parchment between Harry's feet and chortled callously at the sight of Harry grimacing as the flames licked upwards, scorching his calves.

"You're a traitor, Legate !" Harry clenched his teeth as he twisted away from the flames. "You will enrage the Britons! You will destroy fourteen years of peace! The blood of Romans and Britons alike will be on your hands!"

The Legate smiled coldly. "No, it is you who are the traitor, Publican Peuerellius. Your ceaseless coddling of these barbarians marks you as a traitor to the Order of Letum, and you will rot in hell for it!"

Harry recoiled. "Order of Letum! I have no allegiance or dealings with those vermin! Never, EVER, speak to me of that FOUL..."

Harry voice ruptured into spluttery gasps, his chest and throat spasming violently under a crude silencing spell.

Twitching in agitation, the Legate's left hand fingered the head of the awesome Icenian staff... his lips trembled as he glared hatefully at Harry for a long moment of apparent internal conflict. Without warning, the man screamed in fury, lashing out wildly with his right arm to club Harry hard across the head, knocking him sideways onto the hard floor, bound stool and all.

Rage still unsated, the wizard kicked Harry hard in the ribs twice before stubbing his toe hard against the stool. "Aiiiiee!" the Legate cried out, staggering back, clasping his foot. Panting and sputtering dark oaths, the wizard finally fought his anger into abeyance.

Brushing long hair from his face the wizard caught his breath and stared down at his prostrate enemy. "No Publican..." He leared downward, utter hatred coursing through his veins. "You may not be a member of the Order, but your sons are. And how mortified they will be to see you lying in blood, filth and ignominy!"

"I... have... no... sons..." Harry wheezed defiantly.

A wicked spark shot from the wizard's staff. "Crucio! "

Harry's nerves burst into the torment of ubiquitous flames; his every muscle tore; his...

His...

His cheek felt a cool, gentle radiance spread across it, like the feel of a moistened cloth over fever. A sensation of calm emanated over his head, down his shoulder, chest, arms and legs, soothing his blistered legs...

In precious contentment, he opened his eyelids, to discover someone gazing down at him — a face caring, yet slightly amused.

"You have no sons, Harry?" Ginny inquired innocently, her tone of empathetic concern almost completely disguising an infectious twinkle in her eyes.

"I, uh... wow!" Harry blinked dazedly at his best mate's little sister; her pretty hand resting lightly upon his cheek. "I must have been dreaming again."

"Really? And what would make you say that?" Ginny's mouth was the picture of disciplined solemnity, but her eyes could not disguise a sparkle that grew ever more irrepressibly impish by the moment.

"Look you!" Harry growled at her, then assembled a grin. He stretched his arms and sat up. "What are you doing up here? Tired of playing Snap?"

Ginny gazed out the window thoughtfully for a moment, her countenance growing suddenly subdued. "I wanted to talk to you." She glanced shyly at him, then turned away again. "I was hoping you could tell me what happened last night."

"Last night?" Harry asked, a weight of discomfort settling over him. "Er, what do you mean, 'what happened?' "

Ginny shrugged. "Just what I said. What happened? What did I do? I don't remember anything beyond a blur of strange dreams, and... well, today various people have been behaving rather oddly around me. Ron, Hermione, Professor Lupin... And then there's you, Harry..."

Ginny paused as the hint of a grin crept back around the corner of her mouth. "I admit that we've all grown accustomed to Harry Potter being a bit of an odd duck, but today you've been acting odd in ways that are strange even for you!"

"What?? You think I'm an odd duck?!" Harry flapped his arms comically. "Well quack quack quack to you then, Little Miss Normal!"

Ginny smirked for a moment. "Oh yes, I specialize in being normal," she proclaimed, then pushed his book to the side and, not-quite-accidentally, elbowed him in the ribs as she took a seat beside him on the ottoman. "Now tell me what happened last night, Ducks."

Harry chuckled for a moment at the silly moniker, then grew more serious. "Er, well, you had a bad dream."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yes, well even I managed to figure out that much. But why are people acting strangely around me?"

"I guess, perhaps... well probably... because you, uh... did a nasty face-plant on the floor."

Ginny blinked; one hand rising reflexively to her temple.

Harry glanced at her briefly, then continued. "Hermione was flustered, and Sirius was drunk, so it kind of fell to me to patch you up."

Ginny frowned thoughtfully as she tried to align that information with her jumbled mix of dreams and half-memories. Unconsciously, she turned toward Harry, her eyes peering both at and through him. "Thank you," she said after a while. "I guess that would explain the headache and all the hushed sympathy. But, uh... does anyone know what I was doing out of bed?"

Harry fixed her with a gentle, sympathetic look. "I don't know for sure, but it must have been a frightful nightmare. You screamed and we hear this awful thud. That's what got us to your room in the first place — it was even loud enough to wake Ron..."

"Oi..." Ginny paused for a moment and groaned to herself. "A wee bit embarrassing, yeah?"

"I suppose..." Harry shrugged. "But according to some accounts I, er... have no sons."

Ginny stared at his deadpan face for a long moment... then burst out laughing. She grinned at him, her vivacious gaze alighting on his eyes, trailing down his cheek, then resting unwittingly on the crooked little smile that had begun curling his... lips.

Harry's eyes flashed wide, and he quickly looked away.

Unconcernedly, Ginny continued to examine her friend for a while, still contemplating the strange night, but also vaguely puzzled by Harry's alternating levity and discomfort. Finally she decided to proceed with the other question that had been nagging her.

"So, my fount of wisdom..." Hoping to alleviate his anxiety, Ginny reluctantly coaxed her eyes away from the rather attractive boy at her side. "Would you have any idea what's the problem with dear brother Ronald today?"

"Er, could you be more specific?" Harry stiffened further.

Ginny glanced at Harry then averted her eyes again. "Well, he's just seemed a bit... snarky... all day. I mean, I generally don't expect him to be particularly nice to me, but most of the time he's pulling my leg. Today, though, he seems... edgy... wound up. Actually rather mean, in fact."

"Ah." Harry fidgeted a bit. "Well, to be honest I'm not precisely sure either, but I assume, for whatever reason, it's because..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Yeah?"

"I assume it has something to do with..." Harry paused, chewing his lower lip.

Ginny nodded avidly.

"Er... because I spent the night with you," Harry mumbled.

Ginny blinked. Twice.

"You — you banged your head really hard." A deep blush was settling into Harry's cheeks, but he steeled himself and went on. "I assume you were really rattled, because when I got there, you latched onto me pretty tightly, and you sort of, errr, made me promise I wouldn't go anywhere, and so I, uh... Well, Sirius helped me get you back to bed then, er, he told me — it was his idea, you see... He said I should stay to take care of you and that I should come get him if you or I needed anything, and then..."

Harry paused. Despite looking pointedly out the window, he could somehow feel the pressure of Ginny's wide-eyes staring at him — a nearly overwhelming distraction. Nonetheless, he swallowed deeply and drove for the finish line.

"Sirius pushed Hermione and Ron out of the room and told them to go to bed. I could hear Ron out in the hall getting a bit shirty about it, but after a while everything went quiet, and..." Harry shifted uncomfortably. "So I tucked you in, grabbed a pillow and blanket... and fell asleep in the armchair."

Very slowly Harry exhaled.

Ginny continued to examine Harry for five eternal seconds.

Still focused rigidly on the hazy sky above Highgate Hill, Harry could not have seen the glimmer of a smile edging back across Ginny's face.

But, as she got up to leave, there was no way on Earth he could ever overlook the sensation of her soft lips brushing his cheek.

Nor could he possibly keep his neck from craning about to catch the sight of that gleaming hair trailing behind her as she drifted from the room... a subtle scent of apple blossoms lingering in her wake...

If it had been a normal day, the evening probably would have unfolded differently... but Ginny was taking a break from 'normal'.

An Order of the Phoenix meeting was now entering its second hour in the kitchen, and Ginny knew that Ron, Hermione and the twins were almost certainly still bickering over access to the extendable ears.

Yes, under normal circumstances, Ginny assumed she would still be right in the thick of things, squabbling and applying her feminine wiles for all their worth to be the first to glean any scraps or clues about what the adults were debating. Harry would probably be in there clamouring too, Ginny told herself... yet through all the evening's ridiculous juvenile shenanigans, her dark-haired friend had looked visibly tired and out of place.

And Ginny had felt tired and out of place.

After Harry had politely excused himself, it occurred to Ginny that he had the right idea. If she was tired, bored, and feeling out of place, why shouldn't she just pack it in as well?

Mum would be so proud, Ginny mused to herself with a tired (but still quite wry) smirk...

So now she found herself alone in her quiet bedroom, contemplating the moody light of a solitary bedside lamp.

All alone; no regrets. She couldn't imagine she was missing much. A month's worth of attempted spying had been a complete bust — about the only thing she'd been able to learn so far was that Dumbledore never told anybody (including the Order) anything of value, so why should she wait up to all hours for more of the same vacuous frustration? It wasn't as if her presence was missed — when she'd stood up to leave, Ron had scowled, the twins had remained glued to their silly 'ears', and only Hermione had actually bothered to acknowledge her, offering an understanding smile and a promise to fill Ginny in later on any discoveries. Ginny had thanked her politely, and left without another word.

And now it was time for what her aching head truly longed for — darkness, quiet and sleep.

Stretching across to extinguish the lamp, she accidentally brushed what lay beneath the pillow case she had draped over the night stand...

Harry is getting into bed now too...

Huh?!

Wide-eyed, Ginny stopped in mid-reach. She frowned to herself, mystified as to where that random thought about Harry might have come from.

She had to admit that her former childhood crush had sort of been on her mind a bit today... but that had been strictly an aberration, right? It wasn't as if she cared whether he was getting into bed, brushing his teeth, standing on his head, or whatever it was that Harry Potter typically did at ten minutes to nine on a Tuesday evening.

She shook her head demonstratively. In all honesty she really didn't think about Harry that often anymore. The old infatuation had been fading for years. She had interacted so little with him at Hogwarts, and not much more in the intervening summers. If the legendary crush had perhaps lingered in the shadows all these years, the Yule Ball had surely put an end to it...

No, not that way!

The Yule Ball was not a regret to her — it had been a celebration! It had brought no crying angst, no bitterness, no burning of bridges.

In Ginny's memories, the ball didn't bring to mind anything that Harry had done; it didn't even invoke anything Harry had not done! Rather, the Yule Ball had been a rebirth. For once in her life, she had done something strictly for herself! She had attended, not because anybody in her family expected her to; not as a favour to anyone (although Neville had certainly not minded) and, more than anything, she had not been trying to attract the attention of a certain dark-haired boy.

She had simply gone to the ball to have fun!

And she had succeeded. Royally!

Ginny had derived neither joy nor pain from turning down Harry's (pseudo) invitation, but she had done so. It had been the right thing to do — for Harry, for Neville, and especially for herself. She had set her principles, stood by them, and in doing so...

She had set herself free!

Good night schoolgirl misery! Farewell to lying alone in the dark, doubting whether she could ever be good enough for a great hero like Harry Potter. Good morning sunshine! Say hello to Ginny Weasley — her own greatest hero!

But any great hero must face the occasional trial... and this strange strange strange day certainly qualified as that.

The lamp still flickering beside her, Ginny hunched over the edge of her bed in a classic Rodin pose, frowning introspectively.

What did today mean? Had everything suddenly just changed again? Had she erased her hard-earned gains?

Was she still her own greatest hero?

Was it okay to have shared a casual wink at breakfast? Was she still free as a bird, despite their friendly little chat in the library? Was it normal that images of her old crush had been strewn all throughout her bizarre, vivid dreams last night? And why the hell had she clung to the poor boy like a bloody damsel in distress??

Bloody?

Nice choice of invective, eh Weasley?

Yes, Ginny now knew that she'd bled all over Harry last night. Ever the curious cat, Ginny had cornered a rather reluctant Hermione earlier this evening and quietly wheedled from her all of those cringeworthy details that Harry had been too courteous to embarrass her with. Hermione had told her about the noise and tumult... and the ungodly mess. And without editorializing, the older girl had related how Harry had gone beyond the call of duty to care for her, with neither fuss, nor complaint, nor any expectation of reward.

Did any of that change who Ginny Weasley was?

Ginny nodded with a soft, slightly chastened smile.

Yes, this all seemed to imply that Ginny Weasley, hero or not, was a person who could make a right arse of herself. Yet, it also implied that she could do that without losing the good-will and companionship of a boy who, apparently, could be considered her friend.

A fine and honourable friend at that.

And so damned cute when he's nervous!

Ginny blinked in surprise as, unbidden, she recalled the image of Harry looking so utterly flustered in the library. She glanced momentarily at the night stand to confirm that she wasn't touching the brooch. No, nothing magic in that one — just one of her very own 'silly girl thoughts'.

She huffed in amused indignation. Come on, Harry — all I did was accidentally glance at your lips! It wasn't as if I bit you on the nose!

Nah, we'll save that for next time, right Weasley?

Ginny burst into an inadvertent cackle, stifled almost immediately by her own hand clapping itself over her mouth.

Hush, you daft little ninny! Get to bed before someone hears you, and realizes how TRULY ridiculous you are!

She grinned for a moment of afterglow, then took a deep breath. She glanced toward the brooch again... and remembered that there was still one issue to resolve before the clock turned nine.

She regarded the brooch curiously, skeptically. After a moment, she extended her finger, ever-so-slowly, to touch it.

Harry is almost asleep already...

Ginny's eyes flashed wide... but then she rolled them.

"Dopey mind games," she grumbled aloud, and muttered to herself over the idiotic notion that touching the brooch was making her think about Harry. She could do that perfectly well on her own, thank you very much!

Nonetheless, when she reached across one final time to dim the lamp, she steered well clear of the silvery wings, before crawling safely under her covers.

Lying alone in the near dark of the bedroom, Ginny's head ached with weariness, her eyelids drooped... but did not stay shut.

In the distance she could hear the twins, Ron and Hermione 'quietly' squabbling about something or other. A clock was ticking. A blue-green blend of distant lamplight from the Islington skyline was creeping through through the ragged curtain — casting odd shadows of the sort that sometimes frighten little children, passively illuminating the jumbled pile of clothes she hadn't get gotten around to folding, alighting on school books that she should have started reading...

Flickering softly on the silver brooch...

She glanced at it, unthinking.

She reached for it, and clasped it firmly in her hand.

Her muscles relaxed, the distant sounds blended into a soft melange that reminded her of a pleasant breeze rustling the branches of trees. She closed her eyelids...

Then they sprang open in panic!

It was bright daylight! The sun had already climbed well above the hedge on the far side of the river!

"It's late! I've overslept!" she wailed, leaping to her feet, nearly tripping over the thick grey mantle spread out on the ground beneath her. "Oh Amaethon! How could you let me lie so long while he needed me?! I must find Harry!"

Without thinking where she could possibly be headed, Ginny began thrashing her way up through the low thickets and back to the road.

Harry??

Ginny stopped in perplexity. The name puzzled her — it was a word that now somehow seemed both familiar and yet very foreign.

More than anything, the name brought to mind bewilderment — the thick, debilitating fugue that had befallen her yesterday. At the worst possible time!

Ginny growled to herself. She could not afford such ridiculous confusion! Shaking the cobwebs from her mind, she sternly corrected herself. The good Publican needs me!

And she hadn't a moment to lose!!

A long sleep had cured both exhaustion and delirium, but the woodland princess was in no mood for celebration.

"I failed!! "  Her roar echoed on distant hills as she ran east along the Roman road. "How could I be so weak?!"

Despite breath ragged from exertion and shouting, she was not quite done with either. As the second shout cut across echoes of her first, she pitched all royal etiquette to the wind, yelling, "Melltith o waed budr!"

Yet, the crass raving was far from senseless. At the moment, polite discretion was worth far less than clear headed concentration, and the latter was impossible until she conquered her rage. For this, she knew of few ways better than torrid physical exertion and some low-brow Gaelic obscenities.

Finally, she took a deep breath, and indeed, the red haze did begin to lift from the princess's (and Ginny's) eyes. At last she could condense her energies into steely determination, assess her failure, and find ways to fix it.

Her failure, of course, had been the inability to deliver an message.

The task should have been perfectly straightforward for someone of her very capable means, but something had derailed her, and she was determined to make amends for whatever damage had come of it. Unfortunately, Ginny had almost no idea what that damage might be.

As she ran, she wracked her brain, trying to piece together the princess's fragmented memories of the previous afternoon.

The first troubles had emerged while collecting medicinal herbs by the river. Hearing a sudden loud thrashing of bushes, she had rushed up the bank to discover one of her mother's warriors staggering along the woodland path. Bleeding profusely from a gash on his leg, he'd beckoned to her, falling at her feet as she reached him. With his limited remaining strength, he'd begged her to run to the nearest post house along the Roman road to find a courier to deliver a message to the Publican.

Alarmed by the warrior's severe loss of blood, she had sought to treat his wound but, in desperate agitation, the man had urged her away, swearing that the message was far too crucial to wait!

Seeing no choice, she had accepted the scroll and sped through the woods like the fleetest of deer. Upon reaching the road, she had aimed for a destination less than two leagues west.

Appallingly, she'd fallen short!

She had little sense of what had gone wrong, and the memories shed no light. One moment she had been alert and focused, running nimbly along the road, taking heart at passing a milestone that placed her at less than a league from her destination. Confoundingly, her next clear recollection was waking up by the river, panicked by a certainty that she had failed.

Between those two points, Ginny could draw only on vague, disparate scenes clouding her mind. There had been a crazed, swirling scene of destruction... searing images of a vile reptilian face... reverent recollections some young man with a strange foreign-sounding name... and a glimpse of a mysterious object of power – a weapon referred to as the Elder Wand.

In addition to that tangled weave, somewhere in the midst of her bizarre palsy, she knew that fate had dealt her the strangest twist in a very odd day: the one person who arrived to lift her stricken body from the roadway was none other than the man her message sought – the Publican himself!

No wonder she felt like cursing! Blessed with a perfect chance to salvage the quest and hand him the precious parchment, she had forgotten her task, forgotten the note, and had instead babbled incoherently.

Inexplicably, she had barely even recognised him – gazing in confused reverie, as if he was part of her bizarre dreams, and completely forgetting what he truly was to her...

A family friend.

Yes, as a girl playing at the king's feet, the princess had been fascinated by the Publican – a rare foreigner who visited frequently, charming her and her sister (Princess Heanua) with exquisite gifts and tales of extraordinary sights and kingdoms far away beyond the southern sea. As a maturing young woman, she had grown more reticent around the Publican, speaking little, and instead watching him furtively from dim corners of the long house. She had studied his bearing and manner (foreign, but distinctly charming), and observed how her father, the king, had always treated him with deference, proclaiming him a brilliant negotiator – competent, considerate, and worthy of great trust.

Most recently, she had come to understand and value that trust. Her family owed great gratitude to the Publican, in particular since he had acted with decisive efficiency after King Scavo's death to secure the Proconsul 's recognition of Iceni sovereignty for her mother, the widowed queen.

All of this history made yesterday's insanity unfathomable. To have failed to recognise a proven ally and confidante? To have failed to complete a simple mission? To have lolled about in bewildered fugue?

She could imagine only one plausible explanation: black magic! She must have been overcome by some nefarious dark enchantment – an evil spell afflicting her with a thick cloud of confusion, amnesia, wild infatuation and paralysing grief...

Grief?

Yes, that had been the worst and most confusing part of yesterday's spell – an agonizing, almost paralytic anguish.

But what had she been grieving over?

In the vague shimmer of half-forgotten dreams, Ginny recalled the imagined death of an imaginary youth. She remembered almost nothing of the young man... except for his eerie resemblance to the Publican, and an unusual (if still resonant) name.

Harry.

The name still brought strong unresolved emotions; still be powerful enough to flummox her. Perplexed, Ginny took another deep breath and shook the images from her mind.

It must have been a powerful spell!

She knew that confounding enchantments of such magnitude, while rare, were not unheard of. As part of very rigorous magical instruction, her grandmother (the princess's mentor) had spoken in hushed tones of how some wicked yet formidable Druids and Druidesses (especially among wilder tribes such as Brigantes, Ordovices, Silures, and fearsome Picts of the far north) would invoke such odious dementia in times of warfare, and sometimes even as unethical ploys in diplomacy. Ginny was aware that the spells were very challenging both to cast and to deter, but she had trained at length to detect, and find the strength to resist, such magic.

Yet, she had somehow still failed. As a figure of strength and power; as a perfectionist daughter of an uncompromising mother, there was NO GREATER SHAME than to succumb to some rogue enchantment while on a crucial quest!

On my honour, I will redeem myself!

Or die trying!!

An oath like that was no idle boast. The princess had no doubt that peril lay ahead of her, and she would not shirk from it. Yet at times like this, she made herself hearken back to her dear old grandmother, whose treasured voice echoed once again through her mind...

Only die for your honour when you cannot live for your ideals.

With those sage words, she completed the stormy cycle she'd experienced many times – blind passion moderated by deliberate calculation; her mother's fiery will bending to her grandmother's wisdom; a wild rush into the fray giving way to a cagey hunter's stealth.

Ginny slowed to a walk, disillusioned herself, and slowed her breath.

The frenzied run had already brought her close to her destination, so mad haste was less important now than girding her energy for the challenges ahead. It was also time to think, because she still hadn't answered the one crucial question.

What is the crisis??

Memories of the previous day had produced little more than confusion. She'd learned nothing on the road – it had been quiet this morning; no traffic to suggest recent or ongoing combat or clashes between the tribes. Scanning the landscape offered only ordinary sights, sounds and smells.

Then, in the cultivated calmness of her mind, Ginny remember the silver brooch!

Still clutched firmly in her hand, she raised the winged badge and examined it carefully. The beckoning call it emitted to her was clearly magical. The magic was unlike any she knew from her own people, but since the physical craftsmanship was Roman, perhaps the magic was Roman as well?

Running through her mind, she recalled her grandmother once telling her about a form of Roman magical object called a cupla mysticum – a magical tether used for long-distance communication. Since many Roman leaders and merchants traveled far from home, such cuplae were sometimes exchanged among family members, friends or lovers at times of parting. Supposedly, most cuplae could only convey basic emotions (love, empathy, longing), but her grandmother had believed that well crafted tethers might convey information about the owner's location and situation.

Nodding, it was now clear to her that this brooch was such a cupla. Furthermore, logic suggested to Ginny that the Publican had given it to her as a token of comfort, to reassure her that he truly did plan to return.

The intense foreboding now emanating from the cupla, suggested that the man was very likely being prevented from keeping this promise. The cupla was thus not helping to 'reassure' anyone, but might it instead give the means to 'rescue'? Could the brooch somehow help her to complete her task and hopefully also rescue the Publican?

By the seeds of Amaethon, please let it be so!

Running her fingers along the smooth polished surface, she absorbed the basic sense that the Publican was in mortal danger, but more detail was needed. With concentration, Ginny let the magic flow into her mind, absorbed the bitter music of the brooch, and felt herself imagining...

Yet, more than anything, the brooch was tugging at her, pulling her in a direction that was all too alarmingly familiar. With ever-increasing strength, the cupla was leading her inexorably back toward her own home.

With mounting trepidation, Ginny now understood. The Publican was very likely now swept up in whatever turmoil had struck the village – the same unknown fracas that had driven her to dash out yesterday with the message...

Message?

Unforeseen Roman incursion!
Violates Iceni sovereignty.
Leader brandishes wand?
Request guidance.
Please hasten!

Indeed, why would the Romans attack? The Iceni had maintained honourable and friendly relations with them for nearly all her lifetime. The foreigners from across the water had rarely caused the Iceni any problems, and had often proven helpful, providing tactical support to the Iceni during the occasional hostilities (minor border skirmishes with the Catuvellauni, and the occasional raid by splinter groups of rogue Brigantes) that might disturb the kingdom.

The Romans did not attack allies; that was simply not the way they behaved! Unlike many Brythonic tribes (especially in the unruly north and west), the Romans had a rigid code of conduct that made them very predictable. The foreigners never struck without warning; they were renowned for engaging in extensive and deliberate diplomacy (or at least bloodless intimidation) before launching any form of incursion. If the Romans had felt any legitimate tension with the Iceni, Ginny was certain that the Publican would have promptly informed the queen.

Whatever the crisis, Ginny was convinced that situation must have only worsened in the time since the queen had written the hasty note. If memory of yesterday's wounded warrior was not proof enough, then surely the brooch's urgent pull was confirmation. Yet, for all that warning, Ginny's greatest fear was still the unknown.

Why? What? How?

Who is alive? Who is dead? Mother? Heanua?

To those questions, she needed answers, and the only way to find answers was to follow the brooch into peril. It was time to judge things with her own eyes.

Having crossed the bridge over the Little Ouse, she entered what Roman treaties had long recognised as Iceni territory. She then veered immediately off the road and onto the woodland path that followed the east bank of the river, leading to the small border outpost where her family had long preferred to dwell.

Pausing for a moment to look and listen, she saw placid tendrils of smoke rising from the vicinity of the village. At first blush, this might seem a good omen – preferable to towering pillars of black (devastation) or nothing at all (desolation). However, equipt with the princess's knowledge of the times, Ginny took no comfort, because the Romans rarely signalled their victories with barbaric lust or wanton destruction.

Romans differed greatly from the Brythonic tribes by favouring cold power over heated passion. Romans often let conquered foes keep their homes and lives – this bought gratitude, and gratitude bought peaceful submission, and with peace came power.

Yet make no mistake. Romans were still to be feared... by opposing leaders! From tales of less peaceful regions, Ginny realised that if the Iceni ever raised arms against the Romans, the worst punishments would be levied not on troops or villages, but upon the royalty. Her mother, her sister and she herself (if caught) would suffer the reprisal. And while most Brythonic tribes would offer the mercy of a quick death, the Romans had a penchant for... humiliation.

Fighting back a shiver at the untold risks lying ahead, she decided to be cautious. Disillusionment was useful, but she would need even greater stealth. Approaching within two stadia of the village walls, she abandoned the path, and instead cut through the underbrush, quietly as a lynx.

Avoiding the southerly route to the main gate and long house (her normal destination), she made for the hill above the northwest corner of the village. This brambly route would be less-guarded, and also afforded a better view. In particular, climbing up the tall trees on the hilltop would let her spy directly down into the village.

One of these trees (as she knew from daring childhood exploits) could also provide an unconventional way over the palisade walls. Several long, stout branches arched over the walls, directly over the roof of the stockade. Not only did the stockade have floors similar to what she'd sensed in her vision, it was the strongest and best-fortified enclosure in the village, and thus the most likely place for an enemy to hold important prisoners such as the Publican, as well as her mother and sister... if they were still alive.

Yet, for all those factors conspired to lead Ginny north, there was one force pulling even more. The closer she got to that corner of the village, the more compelling was the brooch's call.

Cresting the hill, she peered through a break in the leaf-cover to glance at the stockade. From this distance, it was tall enough to be seen above the palisade and was easily recognizable as one of only two stone buildings in the village. She couldn't yet see any unusual activity about the building, but this merely suggested that anything of possible interest was likely taking place down at ground level, blocked from view by the tall upright logs of the palisade.

About one hundred feet from the structure, she paused and found the tallest tree in the stand. Stowing the brooch in a secure fold, she quietly scaled the trunk to a height twice the log wall, and gazed down into the village. The central square was a hive of activity, but not the usual, friendly sort that she was accustomed to. Rather, it was swarming with fully armed Roman Legionaries.

However shocking her mother's message had been, was clearly accurate – Romans had come to the village in unprecedented numbers, and were behaving in every way like efficient conquerors. Some of the soldiers were performing what seemed to be harmless camp-breaking activities (gathering materials and supplies; packing them onto ponies and into wagons), but many others were plundering treasures, and shamelessly carting off village food reserves from the granary and cellars.

Pulling her eyes away and taking a deep breath before anger could distract her, Ginny settled on her course of action. She braced herself very carefully in the crook of a large branch, and reached once more into the fold in her shift to touch the brooch.

He is alive. He is close.

The cupla also verified that the Publican remained in great danger. Ginny assessed the stockade, counting four sentries posted outside – one for each of the stout stone walls. That level of security further confirmed that the Romans were holding prisoners.

She then turned her thoughts to the air around her. The late morning warmth would mean no fire in the hearth. Perfect! Like many Celtic buildings, the stockade had a smoke hole on the roof – an excellent way to enter without being detected by guards on the ground.

After another minute of scrutiny, she spied her old route – a solid overhanging branch of a huge beech tree. It was rooted outside the village walls, but spread broadly across the defenses, and gracefully shaded much of the stockade.

Her greatest remaining concern was how to deal with any guards inside the building. A strong armed presence would make it difficult for her to reach the floor and move about the building without raising the alarm. Fortunately, for even that contingency, she now had the makings of a plan.

She clambered down the lookout tree and made her way over to the old beech. It came as no surprise to her that the lowest thirty feet of trunk had been stripped bare of branches. Her people loved trees and rarely cut them down without good reason, but of course they would have anticipated precisely the infiltration she was now about to attempt. No point in making it easy!

Fortunately, unlike the vast majority of prospective interlopers attempting to breach the walls, she had a wand. Quickly conjuring a series of small handholds running up the tree, she ascended with ease and made her way carefully and silently along the large overhanging branch. Once she was positioned above the near side of the stockade roof, she paused to scan the edge of the village square. Since Ginny doubted that this daring feat could be accomplished by stealth alone, she needed to sow a bit of... chaos.

Near the edge of the square, her eyes latched onto a tethering rail to which many of the Roman horses were hitched. Taking her best aim with a Reductor curse, the rail collapsed into a pile of splinters. Several stinging hexes later, and the square erupted into a frenzy of panicked, whinnying horses being chased by angry, confused soldiers.

Far above all of this bedlam, she conjured a rope, lashed it tightly to the branch, and scrambled quickly down to the roof. She ran nimbly over to the smoke hole and peered within. As hoped, the guards inside had grabbed their weapons and were staring distractedly out the south doorway, probably trying to determine whether their camp was under attack.

Ginny examined the three Romans carefully. Two of the men wore conventional Legionary uniforms with standard-issue weaponry – she assessed them as being common, non-magical soldiers. The third, however, had no armor and bore only a dagger on his belt. He also had a cape of fine cloth – among Romans, she recognised that as the mark of either a noble... or a wizard.

Trusting her guess, Ginny took aim at the caped man with a stunning spell, and he collapsed between his two comrades. The two soldiers spun about in alarm... then pitched forward onto their faces, stunned before either could so much as whimper.

Ginny rapelled quickly down through the smoke hole. Once grounded, she paused for a moment to magically bar the entrance and summon the fallen wizard's wand, then dashed from the central hearth toward the cells at the eastern periphery, cancelling her disillusionment charm as she went.

"Emaculo." It was a young woman's voice; a brave yet urgent whisper.

As if rescued from fire by a gentle summer's stream, Harry's cheek suddenly felt cool. A sensation of calm spread outwards, over his head, down his shoulder, chest, arms and legs, soothing his blistered legs...

And he opened his eyes.

"G-Ginny?" It came out as a pathetic croak. He coughed, shook the fog from his head and focused on the face in front of him. "Lanossëa! Please pardon me your majesty – I know not where that name...?"

Ginny?  The princess blinked at the sound of yet another peculiar foreign utterance that had haunted her dreams, but she pushed the mystery from her mind and concentrated on severing the Publican's cords.

He stretched his arms gratefully for a moment, but then directed his attention back onto his rescuer. “You should not have returned here, your majesty."

His admonishment was mild and clearly ambivalent, but she couldn't help rolling her eyes at the typical Roman paternalistic condescension. She glanced up and down his grimy, bloodied face and body. "Can you get up?" she asked, looking for more wounds to heal. To her trained eye, the damage, although extensive, seemed superficial.

He braced both arms against the floor and pushed. A stab of pain tore through his side – apparently a cracked rib that she had missed – but he pushed past the discomfort and reached a stable sitting position. Ginny extended her hands to him; he grasped them and found himself surprised by the strength with which she helped raise him to his feet.

Ginny pressed a wand into his hand. He scrutinised it for a moment, then nodded. A pang of regret over the loss of his own wand (likely confiscated and destroyed) crossed his mind, but was replaced by gratitude to a young woman who was clearly as industrious as he had always remembered her. “Thank you, my princess.� A smile flickered across his features for a moment before the gravity of their situation weighed upon his mood.

“If memory serves me, the queen and your sister are in the west cell block.� Harry gazed thoughtfully through the open cell door. “I will go release them, if you can arrange some sort of escape for us.�

Ginny was about to protest any plan that withdrew her from the action, but Harry raised a finger. "Please understand.� His voice was gentle, yet firm and instructive. "This is not about your safety, my safety or that of your family – the stakes are far too great in this and we must act with wisdom and caution. Nobody is aware that you have returned here. Is that correct?�

She nodded.

“If nobody knows that you're here, then when you escape, nobody will know to come after you.� Harry paused to see that she understood. “You may have given us the glimmer of hope that we may all break away from here, and perhaps even evade pursuit, but our path is fraught with peril. It is absolutely essential that we have, at minimum, one uncaptured person who can find a suitable authority and recount exactly what I am now about to tell you!�

Ginny's eyelids flickered at the earnest and sobering request. Despite a visceral compulsion to personally free the queen's and Heanua's from captivity, she knew his logic was best, so she nodded. “Agreed. So what information would I convey?�

Grasping her shoulders, he fixed his eyes on hers, boring deeply. “Lanossëa, you must be aware that this Roman Century has trespassed into Iceni lands in defiance of established treaty. This incursion is an illegal provocation, and may be part of a plot to destabilise all of Britannia.� His voice dropped to the faintest whisper. “The Proconsul is away, distracted by campaigns in Wales. Someone must get word to him before the whole land explodes into war and turmoil!�

Ginny nodded, wide-eyed. Petty conflicts were not rare in Britannia, but for the entire island to erupt into mass conflict seemed a nearly inconceivable horror.

“If you find your way clear, but cannot free us,� Harry continued, “then please flee from here with all haste and do not return. If you are the one to bear witness to these crimes, you must only communicate with people we can trust without question. Do not take the road to Camulodunum from which these scoundrels came. Instead, you must follow the river upstream to Camboricum. The garrison there is rigorously loyal to the Proconsul and not under the sway of any treachery. Is that clear?�

“Yes.� Ginny met Harry's deep, intense eyes with her steeliest gaze.

After thanking her once again, Harry disillusioned himself. Ginny did the same, and both stealthily exited the cell.

Harry's eyes swept the main central chamber of the stockade, noting with satisfaction the three stunned Romans sprawled on the ground by the south door. A faint noise nearby alerted him to Ginny's mode of escape – a stout hemp rope twitching as she clambered up to a thick blackened beam just to the side of the smoke hole high above.

Mirabile! She's making for the roof!

Nodding to himself, Harry rushed to the western cell block, where he immediately identified the two cells that had been barred. As he opened the first door, he recognised none other than Queen Boadicea of the Iceni – as bruised and bloodied as he himself had been, yet very alert, and defiant as a caged tigress.

As Harry swung open her cell door, the queen whipped around. Despite her bound hands, she was clearly ready to tear any invisible intruder to shreds... with her teeth if need be!

Harry hastily dropped his disillusionment charm, and held out his palms in a universal sign of capitulation. Still glaring in agitation, the queen exhaled and allowed him to slice through her bonds.

Signalling silently to the queen that he was going to open the other cell, Harry crossed to over release the queen's eldest daughter, Heanua. Harry knew her as a tall, willowy blonde, renowned throughout the land as a figure of great beauty. But what he found there, crumpled upon the stone floor, drove a spike of iced rage deep into his soul.

Stooping to lift the girl's nearly-lifeless body, he determined that she was not dead. Her heart was still beating, and breath still rattled through her slackened mouth, but nearly every ounce of spirit within the girl seemed to have been mercilessly crushed in ways that Harry wished he could not imagine.

Anywhere else, under any other circumstances, Harry might have raged or wept, yet reason prevailed. Revenge or healing (or both) might come later but, for now, the sole priority was escape – as quietly and speedily as poss-

“Heu! Ostium nullo introeunte. Aperire!�

Harry loosed an expletive as Roman soldiers outside the stockade tried to break down the barred door. With a hasty spell, he braced the girl's broken bones, conjured a blanket to cover her supine form, and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“Make haste and follow, your majesty!� he called across the corridor and led the queen from the cell block toward the rope Ginny had left dangling from the roof.

Harry had just conjured a makeshift stretcher for the semi-conscious girl, and was preparing to levitate her toward the roof, when he heard the stockade's door splinter. He drew his wand, ready to blast the first person through the entranceway, but instead he heard a frantic cry from outside...

"Ignem! Muros ignibus uri!"

The pungent smell of smoke wafted past, and Harry exhaled in relief as he guessed the source. "Lanossëa, bless you and your penchant for chaos!" The Roman soldiers outside apparently now had concerns more urgent than learning how the stockade door had gotten jammed. With any luck, the distraction would give him time to escort Heanua and the queen at least as far as the rooftop.

Pointing his newly-acquired wand at Heanua, Harry cast a Roman-era levitation spell. “Attollo! �

Heanua's stretcher jostled a few inches off the ground, but faltered. Feeling a sudden strain, Harry carefully withdrew the spell to set her back onto the floor, then paused and stared dubiously at his wand.

“The fault is not in the wand,� Ginny called softly from the roof. “The fault is Heanua herself. Our bodies have been conditioned to resist spells cast by others. The resistance can be overcome, but only with effort. I will lend my power to yours and we will lift her together.�

Harry nodded, and cast his levitation synchronously with Ginny's. Somewhat strenuously, they managed to raise the queen's eldest daughter upwards, through the hole, and into Ginny's waiting arms above.

Harry ushered the queen onto the rope, waiting nervously for two long minutes as she struggled up to the roof. Making another scan of the stockade's interior and seeing no immediate threat of discovery, he finally turned and climbed up to join the others.

Reaching the rooftop, he glanced around, and spotted the second rope hanging down from the beech branch high above. With a deep breath, he scrutinised the three females, trying to evaluate their readiness to undertake a final harrowing scramble to freedom.

Ginny's keen eyes were upon him, as if she was reading his mind. If not for the urgency of the situation, Harry would have grinned, admiring the fierce competence writ upon her face; knowing for certain that at least one person in the party could tackle the trembling high-wire with aplomb.

The queen, however, was a mess, glancing distractedly about at the flames ravishing her village, the ancestral home of her family, the favoured haunt of Icenian royalty for three generations. It was unclear whether she understood that the blaze had been set not by Roman marauders, but rather by her own enterprising daughter, but the woman was bereft, unfocused, and a poor candidate for high acrobatics.

The older daughter, Heanua, was in worse condition yet. Still bound to the brace; she had achieved some marginal consciousness, but remained dazed and mostly unresponsive.

Ginny's eyes met Harry's, and he now guessed that, through the tethering powers of the brooch, she must have fully grasped his concerns. Together, they stood in silent deliberation, negotiating a viable plan.

After a moment, Ginny's eyes flickered along an airborne path over the palisade.

Harry nodded in agreement.

"We must work together." Ginny contemplated her family members, estimating their weight and magical resistance. "Others must not see them, but we ourselves must keep them in sight or else the levitation will fail.�

Harry's eyes swept the surroundings and tapped his head. “Notice-me-not charm.�

Ginny met his eyes squarely and silently assented. “Mother, please join Heanua.� She attempted to catch the queen's attention; gesturing toward the princess's supine sister.

The queen gazed at the inferno for another several seconds. Finally, she wrenched her attention away from decades of obliterated memories, and nodded mutely without meeting Ginny's gaze.

As soon as the queen had knelt at Heanua's side, Harry drew his wand to cast the spell. “Non vigilate!

To Harry's and Ginny's eyes, the spell had no effect – they were fully aware of the presence of the queen and Heanua, and could still see them perfectly. To any other person who might gaze in their direction, however, the queen and her daughter had suddenly become so inconspicuous as to be invisible. The most observant and magically attuned of onlookers might penetrate the simple spell, but there would be little chance of such acuity from the scurrying Romans below, most of whom were still distractedly trying to salvage their wagons and supplies from insidious magical fires.

Harry and Ginny proceeded to train their wands upon the two females, levitating them carefully through the air and past the village wall. As soon as the queen and Heanua were just about to pass out of site beyond the palisade, Harry had an awful thought.

“Jupiter! How are we going to land them blindly beyond the wall? We could kill them if we misjudge the ground!�

With a start, Ginny grasped the dilemma.

Harry stared at the tall and completely opaque wall. “Can you visualise everything over there precisely? The ground; the locations of all trees, rocks and shrubs?�

Ginny frowned in deep thought. She did have a rough recollection of the terrain and vegetation beyond the wall, and knew there might be some bushes with the right density to cushion a twelve foot drop. Unfortunately, the tense, chaotic circumstances (nearly one hundred angry Romans clamouring in confusion below; more than a third of the village now engulfed in raging flames) were fraying her concentration. “It's very risky.� She shook her head. “We should find another way.�

"Right." Harry thought for a moment. “I'll try to hold both of them where they are, if you can climb back over the branch. As soon as you can see the ground on the other side of the wall, cast your spell to lower them to safety, and I'll rush across to join you.�

Ginny pursed her lips. "You believe that you can hold them?"

Harry shrugged. “I have no choice.�

Still maintaining her share of the levitation spell, Ginny paused for a moment to size up the Publican. She knew that levitating one other magical being was difficult enough with the conflicting magical forces, but simultaneously levitating two would be prodigious. She doubted realistically that she herself could hold both her mother and sister aloft for more than a few seconds... but she recognised that the Publican had many more years of magical conditioning. And she had to admit that she had never, not even from her grandmother, felt a healing spell quite as powerful yet gentle as the one he had cast on her yesterday.

With great care, ready to reverse course at the slightest sign of weakness, she withdrew her levitation spell.

Harry's incantation held; the queen and Heanua remained motionless just past the walls. A droplet of sweat formed on the Publican's brow, but he did not falter.

“You are powerful indeed, Publican.� Ginny smiled, betraying carefully hidden admiration, yet as she grabbed the bottom of the rope, she couldn't stop her gruff royal pride from reasserting. “But this is the last time I run away and leave you to do the saving.�

“We must each take our turns. You've saved enough people for one day.� Harry's eyebrow was raised in wry humour, despite increasingly ragged breath. “Now go, and be quick.�

The statement was wasted; the princess was already gone – more quickly and nimbly than he would dare have dreamed.

Less than a minute later, Harry felt a wholly welcome tremble in his wand – a sign that Ginny had taken control of the queen and Heanua, and was guiding them to safety. In relief, Harry lowered his wand and tucked it into his belt. He permitted himself three deep breaths, then scrambled up the rope.

As a greying Roman Publican, the man clearly lacked the agility of a lithe woodland princess, but his years as a hands-on administrator deep in the more rugged imperial provinces had honed his physical strength, and this stroll along a swaying tree branch was not the first delicate balancing act he had ever undertaken. Nonetheless, as a precaution, he conjured a series of ropes hanging from higher branches to serve as handholds to temper the precarious risk.

He had just reached the last of his conjured supports, and was looking ahead in grateful anticipation to grasping the main trunk (now merely eight feet away) when he heard a loathsome voice yell, “Publican!�  

“Maledicit!!�   After completing the levitation, Harry had obviously not remembered to disillusion again and now he'd been spotted... by the treacherous Legate!

As the Legate spat out a killing curse, Harry was still grappling for his wand. As the roiling green hex surged up from the distant village square, Harry knew he had time enough for one spell; something to buy time for the others to escape.

“Dormias! � His stunner flashed across the sky. The two incantations, green and white, crossed in mid flight. Both were perfectly aimed.

Off-balance, with no room to side-step and no time for even the simplest spell, his eyes turned away from imminent doom...

He glanced earthward...

He glimpsed shimmering red hair — his last hope now; his best hope forever...

He leaped!

Sensing the peril with an instant to spare, Ginny raised her wand.

Few people had ever heard of a spell that might safely catch a wizard plummeting from that height. Fewer still could have cast one. Many of the finest wizards and witches would have stood there, aghast, frozen, helpless...

Not Ginny.

Encyclopedic knowledge was irrelevant, because she knew with all her heart that she would never let Harry plunge to his death. She understood equally well that Lanossëa could not let the Publican perish this way.

Ginny was certain that there would be no broken body; no bitter tears spilled upon the forest floor.

What Ginny could not guess was where... or when... would he land?

"... Because if it does, I am the true master of the Elder Wand." The young man's calm declaration whisked aside Ginny's disorientation; rivetting her attention.

Opposite them from across the Great Hall, she could see doubt quiver through the abominable scaly features of their enemy. There was a flicker of pain... but Riddle's response was predestined. He must proceed, and could only hope that dark secrets from the depths of time were still in his favour.

All uncertainty thrust beneath his grisly veneer, Voldemort's voice tore across the Great Hall at Hogwarts, sibilant, like steam on flaming brimstone...

"Avada Kedavra! "

"Expelliarmus! "

The opposing spells clashed in a scintillating plane of white light...

Yet, in an instant, all magic of hope and honour dissipated. A universal truth was proved false; a cherished balance had shattered; the pulsing white fulcrum between the green and red spells vapourised, and a lurid tongue of bitter death – the vomit of hell – slashed unchecked across the Hall...

The bold and selfless young man, the icon of love and sacrifice, began to crumple...

“No.�

Ginny's note of defiance, low yet firm, swept through the chamber like light from a solitary candle.

And everything froze.

No sound. No motion. Obedient to her command, every student, teacher, Order member and Death Eater alike, stood in rapt, statuesque attention. Swirling dust and smoke hung like delicate veils draped across the static, prickling air...

Ginny blinked and stared for a moment... but now was not the time to question how she, seemingly, had managed to stop time.

Instead, she ran to Harry.

She refused to see the terrible contortions of his body, locked on the cusp of tragic demise. She dared not gaze to his face, lest she find pain or defeat. Rather, she gave every devout fraction of herself to his irrepressible eyes.

Frozen but for his gaze, Harry met her with a nearly mystical tenderness; a falling knight glimpsing his grail...

Ginny did not quake in desolation or scream in fury. She didn't sink despairingly to the ground, even though she understood that Harry, and all the light that stood behind him, was a single heartbeat from catastrophe.

This was, after all, only a dream.

Wasn't it?

Even so, as she peered into the deep green, her own eyes began to mist... because this was so much more intense than any dream.

“Why am I here?� she asked quietly. “Why me? This is your story, Harry, isn't it? Your dream? Your future? Your fears?�

She was met with a silence, absolute but for the undulations of her own breath and heartbeat.

“I hope that didn't sound petty, I... I...� Ginny faltered, struggling to express feelings too abstract for words. After a moment, she marshalled her most neutral expression and resolved to try. “What I mean to say is that, of course I will always be here if you want me. You realise that, right? It's just that this is... hard for me to understand. What am I supposed to be doing? Why am I here? I feel as though I'm only now finally beginning to get to know you, and...�

Ginny's breath caught, and she needed several seconds to re-compose herself.

“Harry, I really want   to get to know you, but... it's just that everywhere I go...� Ginny paused in inarticulate confusion. “Everywhen I go?� She shook her head. “Bollocks, I'm making a complete mash of this, but the point is, every dream seems to end like this. Why do you always have to go and d-die?!�

Ginny shuddered. Silent, tremulous sobs were poised to course through her chest when-.

“No.�

The voice was Harry's... but it was thin like a breath of wind. It came not from his rigid mouth, not from his frozen body, nor anywhere within the silent hall at Hogwarts. The voice seemed to come from deep within Ginny's own mind... and yet she was certain she had not imagined it.

Wide-eyed, Ginny stared uncomprehendingly into his eyes. “N-no? You don't have to die?�

There was no response.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, well that's a daft question. We all die someday – I realize that! But, no, it doesn't have to end this way?�

Silence.

Guided by some deeply buried instinct, Ginny lifted her gaze from Harry's eyes and took a tentative step backwards, absorbing the entirety of her friend's face.

Although Ginny's sight was still misted, she could tell that Harry's expression was perfectly placid, oblivious to his precarious stance. Everything about his face could have been ensconced in restful slumber... except for those brilliant eyes, shining at her with care and compassion; following her, curiously, expectantly.

Ginny took two more steps back, and let her gaze drift across his entire form.

Harry was older than she knew him to be. He had gained at least two inches in height since their summer at Grimmauld Place. He was as slender as ever, but he had musculature, strength, and maturity. He was on the verge of true manhood.

Or the brink of death...

Either outcome hung on his next heartbeat. Would he stand or would he fall?

Ginny shook her head softly, releasing two small teardrops that had been clinging to her lashes. “Harry,� she whispered, “I will not let you fall.�

After awakening back in the darkness of Grimmauld Place, Harry lay in bed brooding over his grim yet vaguely hopeful dreams. He pondered the girl who seemed to appear in a lot of them. After a few minutes the dreams began to fade, but his thoughts of the girl did not, and he wondered if he ought to check on her. He was just about to push back his covers, when...

“Harry?�

He blinked. It was a girl's voice, but not the one he'd been thinking of.

“Hermione, is that you?�

The only response was the sound of Ron snorting loudly and thumping about in his bed.

Harry waited a moment, then tried again, this time dropping his voice to a faint whisper. “Hermione, you can come in.�

Hermione's face appeared in the doorway, but she still didn't reply. From the weak flicker of a downstairs lantern, Harry saw her watching Ron, apparently ensuring that Harry's best mate was really asleep. After Ron rolled over and resumed his normal rhythmic rasp, Hermione beckoned quietly.

Harry nodded and rose carefully, following Hermione into the corridor... where Ginny was waiting.

Hermione gave Ginny a quick smile, waved her friends adieu, then tiptoed her way back downstairs.

Ginny, meanwhile, signalled to Harry, and led him up the adjacent staircase to the third floor. Harry followed unquestioningly, as she steered him to the library, back to the same ottoman where they had chatted the previous afternoon. She patted the seat next to her, and he took his place at her side.

The two teens sat in thoughtful silence for a time, gazing out toward the distant street lamps on Highgate Hill.

“Errr...� Harry loosened his throat. “Why did Hermione...?�

Ginny shrugged. “I was going to sneak out of the room to come find you, but she woke up. She said it would be safer if she was the one to knock of your door.�

“Safer?� Harry gave her a puzzled look. “Oh, you mean because of Ron?�

“Uh huh.�

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I can't pretend to know what's bugging him, though I imagine deep down he has good intentions.�

Ginny sighed. “Yes, I'm sure he does, but that's not what I came to talk about.�

Harry nodded again, waiting for her lead.

“Harry, are you dreaming about me?�

Harry's eyes widened. It the past, he'd never have imagined a sharp-witted girl like Ginny might ask something so unguarded without a zinger ready to fly. But this was no longer the past. It seemed the beginning of a future, new and uncertain, and Ginny's question was completely serious, and required a serious reply.

He took a moment to respond, and his words were cautious. “Er, yes, I suppose I am. They're odd dreams, and you're there for a lot of them. At least I think it's you...�

“What am I like?�

Beautiful... smart... powerful...

Harry blinked. Would this new future be one where he could actually tell a girl that?

But not yet. Not to a girl who seemed interested in being his friend. Instead, he scrounged through the partly-fading dreams for something more... appropriate.

"Uhhh.. Well, sometimes you're definitely you, the Ginny that I know, except you're maybe a few years older. Other dreams, have someone who reminds me a lot of you, but she's... different. More hardened, more stoic, but deep down she's no less kind.�

“That figures.� Ginny laughed – a soft puff of breath that stirred the stray lock of hair hanging down her forehead.

Harry glanced at his friend, seeing a distant look in her eyes. Distant, if vaguely amused.

After a moment, Ginny emerged from her reverie and seemed to study him. “Yes, well in my dreams, you're definitely you. In some dreams, you're calmer, more composed... but deep down the real you is no less sweet.�

“I'm flattered... I think.� Harry grinned at her. “But you're serious though? You're dreaming of me too?�

She nodded.

"Er..." Harry chewed his lip for a moment. “I know this is round the twist, but do you reckon we're, uhhh... having the same dreams?�

Ginny shrugged. “I was wondering that too. If so, what could it mean?�

“Yes, I wonder. If Sirius heard about this, he'd take the mickey something fierce and tell us it's all 'teenage hormones'.�

"I'm sure he would." Ginny rolled her eyes. “Which is why we're NOT discussing this with Sirius.�

Harry chuckled for a moment, then fell sober. “Well, if this is truly what hormones do, I reckon I'll take a pass. These dreams are hell!�

Ginny thought for a long time before answering. “Yes, the dreams are definitely harrowing, but don't you think there's also something right about them?�

“Right?� Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Well, maybe so. Even the scary ones seem kind of... I dunno. Useful? After my heart stops bloody thumping, I feel as though I've accomplished something. It's as if, even though we're trapped in this filthy hole iding while the world outside falls apart, the dreams let us escape; fight for justice; feel meaningful. You know, my overall outlook on life may have actually improved a bit since...�

“Oh? You noticed that too?� Ginny winked pertly, then fell solemn again. “Dad once told me that our most complicated dreams help us to sort out problems we didn't realise we had, and find solutions we'd never have guessed.�

“Hmmm.� Harry pursed his lips. “Yes, that could be.�

“If so...� Ginny's voice dropped to a breathy whisper. “If so, you seem to be sorting through some rather heavy stuff, Harry.�

Harry shrugged. “I guess that's life, yeah?�

“Your life, perhaps.� Ginny found his forearm and gave it a squeeze. Then she stifled a yawn. “Well, I suppose I should let you get back to sleep, you reckon?�

Harry nodded passively. He stood up and, without conscious thought, extended his hand to help Ginny to her feet. She did not let go. Instead she led him, hand-in-hand, back down to the second floor landing.

Before they could part, she stopped and reached for his other hand. Pulling him around to face her, she gazed searchingly into his eyes. "You know, almost nobody at Hogwarts has a clue what it's like to be 'Harry Potter'. They see a side of you in the corridors, and they get another angle from the crazy headlines, but everything in between is a complete mystery." She shook her head. "It feels so strange to be given a glimpse."

Harry bobbed his head slightly.

“But why me, Harry?� she whispered. “Why would I be the one to share your dreams?�

“I have no idea.�

Ginny knew his answer was a typical male reflex denial. Yet, as her friend stood gazing blankly past her shoulder, she could somehow tell that there was another response forming; one that was worth standing in the darkness waiting for.

Harry's features did slowly school themselves. His eyes met hers. He took a breath, and the words emerged, slow and halting.

“Ginny, I-I think it's because you... will never let me fall.�

A long restorative sleep had taken away her pain, exhaustion and confusion, but this morning had brought new afflictions — a brief bout of harrowing dismay, followed now by sheer, red-blazing fury!

"I failed!! " the woodland princess roared across the surrounding meadows as she ran eastward along the Roman road. "How could I be so weak?! "

Her breath hitched as the second shout cut rudely across echoes of her first; she had barely enough oxygen to sustain her torrid pace let alone yell like a mad fiend, but even still she was not quite done. "Melltith o waed budr! ” she cursed, wilfully defying any rules of regal decorum.

To be fair, polite discretion mattered little if she couldn't focus on the ominous emergency she was faced with. That wasn't going to happen unless she could conquer her rage, and she knew of few ways to achieve that more effectively than through torrid physical exertion and shouting a few low-brow obscenities. Finally, she took a deep breath, and indeed, the red haze did begin to lift from the princess's (and Ginny's) eyes. At last she could condense her energies into steely determination, acknowledge the failure, and seek a path to redemption!

Her fierce rage had stemmed from her failure yesterday to deliver a message. While unquestionably urgent, the task had been perfectly straightforward and fully within her very capable means. Having failed, it was time to make amends. She knew with all her best instincts that a crisis was unfolding; if her mistake had in any way endangered her people or the Publican, she would not rest until she had repaired the damage to the best of her abilities.

Unfortunately all of Ginny's best instincts had not yet figured out what that crisis really involved.

As she ran, she turned her thoughts back to yesterday afternoon, when things had first started to go wrong. While out collecting medicinal herbs by the river, she had heard a sudden thrashing in the underbrush. Rushing to investigate, she had discovered one of her mother's warriors, bleeding profusely from a gash on his leg, staggering down the bank toward her. With ragged breath, he had fallen at her feet, begging her to run with all possible haste to the nearest post house along the Roman road and commission a courier to deliver a message to the Publican.

Alarmed by the warrior's unstaunched bleeding, she had sought to treat his wound, but in desperate agitation the man had urged her away, swearing with great conviction that the message was far too important to wait!

Not needing to be asked a third time, she had accepted the scroll and sped through the woods like the fleetest of deer. Upon reaching the road, she had aimed for a destination less than two leagues west.

Appallingly, she had somehow fallen short!

She had little sense of what had happened to her, and her memories were not very helpful. One moment she had been alert and focused, running nimbly along the road, taking heart at passing a milestone that placed her at less than a league from her destination. Confoundingly, her next clear recollection was waking up by the river, panicked by her deep conviction about the great debacle underway.

Between those two points, Ginny could draw on little but vague, disparate scenes clouding her mind. There had been a crazed, swirling scene of destruction... searing images of a vile reptilian face... reverent recollections some young man with a strange foreign-sounding name... and a glimpse of a mysterious object of power — a weapon referred to as the Elder Wand...

In addition to that tangled weave, somewhere in the midst of her bizarre palsy, she knew that reality had dealt her the strangest twist of fate in that very peculiar day. For who in all of Britannia should have arrived to lift her stricken body up from the roadway? None other than the very man her message sought — the Publican himself!

No wonder she felt like cursing! Blessed with the perfect chance to salvage the quest and hand him the precious parchment, she had proceeded to... babble incoherently.

Inexplicably, she had barely even recognised him — gazing at him in confused reverie, as if he was part of her bizarre dreams, completely forgetting what he truly was to her...

A family friend.

Yes, as a girl playing at the king's feet, she had been fascinated by the Publican — a rare foreigner who visited frequently, charming her and her sister (Princess Heanua) with exquisite gifts and tales of extraordinary sights and kingdoms far away beyond the southern sea. As a maturing princess, she had grown somewhat reticent around the Publican, speaking little, and instead watching him furtively from dim corners of the long house. She had studied his bearing and manner (foreign, but distinctly charming), and observed how her father, the king, had always treated him with deference, proclaiming him a brilliant negotiator — competent, considerate, and worthy of great trust. Most recently, she had come to prize that very trust, for after the king's recent death, the Publican had moved with decisive efficiency to secure the Proconsul 's recognition of Iceni sovereignty for her mother, the widowed queen.

To have failed to recognise a proven ally and confidante? To have failed to complete a simple mission? To have lolled about in bewildered fugue? She could imagine only one plausible explanation for such idiocy — black magic! She must have been overcome by some nefarious dark enchantment — an evil spell afflicting her with a thick cloud of confusion, amnesia, wild infatuation and paralysing grief...

Grief?

She recalled agonizing, almost paralytic anguish, but what had she been grieving over?

In the vague shimmer of half-forgotten dreams, Ginny recalled the imagined death of the imaginary youth. She remembered almost nothing of the young man... except an eerie resemblance to the Publican, and an unusual (if still resonant) name.

Harry.

Perplexed, Ginny shook her head at the strong unresolved emotions that continued to flummox her. It must have been a powerful spell!

She knew that confounding enchantments of such magnitude, while rare, were not unheard of. As part of very rigorous magical instruction, her grandmother (Ginny's mentor) had spoken to her in hushed tones of how some wicked yet formidable Druids and Druidesses (especially among wilder tribes such as Brigantes, Ordovices, Silures, and fearsome Picts of the far north) would invoke such odious dementia in times of warfare, and sometimes even as unethical ploys in diplomacy. Ginny was aware that the spells were very challenging both to cast and to deter, but she had trained at length to acquire the skills to detect, and the strength to resist, such magic.

That, of course, was no consolation. As a figure of strength and power; as a perfectionist daughter of an uncompromising mother, there was NO GREATER SHAME than to succumb to some rogue enchantment while on a crucial quest!

On my honour, I will redeem myself! Or die trying!!

An oath like that was no idle boast. The princess had no doubt that peril lay ahead of her, and she would not shirk from it. Yet at times like this, she often hearkened back to wisdom her dear old grandmother had once imparted. That treasured voice echoed once again through her mind...

Only die for your honour when you cannot live for your ideals!

With those sage words, her demeanour completed a stormy cycle that she had experienced many times — blind determination moderated by deliberate calculation; her mother's fiery passion bending to her grandmother's wisdom; a wild rush into the fray giving way to a hunter's stealth.

Ginny slowed to a walk, disillusioned herself, and calmed her breathing. She sensed that her frenzied run had already brought her near to her destination, so haste was no longer essential. Instead, the time had come to conserve her energy for the challenges ahead. It was also time to think, because she still hadn't answered the one crucial question.

What is the crisis??

Revisiting memories of the previous day had produced little more than confusion and distraction. Her observations so far this morning contained scant insight. There had been no travelers on the road who might have offered any clues. A scan of the landscape offered only the ordinary sights, sounds and smells.

Then, in the cultivated calmness of her mind, an obvious thought finally occurred to her. The silver brooch!

Still clutched firmly in her hand, she raised the winged badge to her eyes and examined it carefully. The beckoning call it emitted to her was clearly magical. The magic was unlike any she knew from her own people, but since the physical craftsmanship was Roman, perhaps the magic was Roman as well?

Running through her mind, Ginny recalled her grandmother once telling her about a type of Roman magical object called a cupla mysticum — a magical tether used for long-distance communication. Since many Roman leaders and merchants traveled far from home, such cuplae might be exchanged among family members, friends or lovers at times of parting. Supposedly, most cuplae could only convey basic emotions (love, empathy, longing), but some of the better crafted tethers could supposedly reveal information about the owner's location and situation.

What she held in her hand was surely something of the sort. Ginny assumed that the Publican had given it to her as a token of comfort, to reassure her that he truly did plan to return for her. Given the intense foreboding emanating from the cupla, it had obviously failed to 'soothe', but might it instead 'save'? Could the brooch somehow help her to rescue the Publican?

By the seeds of Amaethon, please let it be so!

Running her fingers along the smooth polished surface, she acknowledged the basic sense that the Publican was in mortal danger, but she needed more detail. With concentration, Ginny let the magic flow into her mind, absorbed the bitter music of the brooch, and felt... a cold stone floor; throbbing pain; tight cords...

More than anything, however, the brooch was tugging at her, pulling her in a direction that was all too alarmingly familiar. With ever-increasing strength, the cupla was leading her inexorably back toward her own home.

With mounting trepidation, Ginny now understood. The Publican had very likely been swept up in whatever turmoil had struck the village — the same unknown fracas that had prompted her to run out yesterday to deliver the message...

Message?!

Unforeseen Roman incursion!
Violates Iceni sovereignty.
Leader brandishes wand?
Request guidance.
Please hasten!

Ginny scowled in utter vexation. "Why?! " she hissed aloud. The Iceni had maintained honourable and friendly relations with the Romans for nearly the entirety of her lifetime. The foreigners from across the water had rarely caused the Iceni any problems, and had at times proven very helpful, providing tactical support to the Iceni during the occasional hostilities (minor border skirmishes with the Catuvellauni, and the occasional raid by splinter groups of rogue Brigantes) that might disturb the kingdom.

The Romans had no conceivable motive for attacking an ally; that was not the way they behaved! Unlike many Brythonic tribes (especially in the unruly north and west), the Romans had a rigid code of conduct that made them very predictable. The foreigners never struck without warning; they were renowned for engaging in extensive and deliberate diplomacy (or at least bloodless intimidation) before launching any form of incursion. If the Romans had felt any legitimate tension with the Iceni, Ginny was certain that the Publican would have promptly informed the queen.

Whatever the crisis, Ginny was convinced that situation must have only worsened in the time since the queen had written the hasty note. If memory of yesterday's wounded warrior was not proof enough, then surely the brooch's urgent pull was confirmation. Yet, for all that warning, Ginny's greatest fear was still the unknown.

Why? What? How?

Who is alive? Who is dead? Mother? Heanua?

To those questions, she needed answers, and the only way to find answers was to follow the brooch into peril. It was time to judge the situation with her own eyes.

Having crossed the bridge built across the Little Ouse, she entered what Roman treaties had long recognised as Iceni territory. She then veered immediately off the road and onto the woodland path that followed the east bank of the river, leading to the small border outpost where her family had long preferred to dwell.

Pausing for a moment to look and listen, she saw placid tendrils of fine smoke rising from the vicinity of the village. At first blush, this might seem a good omen — preferable to towering pillars of black (devastation) or nothing at all (desolation), but Ginny quelled any unrealistic hopes. The Romans rarely indulged in a barbaric lust for wanton destruction. They were motivated by power more than hatred, and found it easier to pacify conquered foes who were grateful to find their homes and livelihoods intact. But make no mistake — angry Romans were no less brutal than anyone; especially to opposing leaders! Based on tales from less peaceful regions of Britannia, she knew that if the Iceni ever raised arms against the Romans, the worst punishments would be levied upon the royalty. Her mother, her sister and (if caught) she herself would bear the brunt of any reprisal. And while most Brythonic tribes would offer the mercy of a quick death, the Romans had a penchant for... humiliation.

Ginny fought back a shiver as she began to fully appreciate the risks she was about to confront.

Approaching within about two stadia of the village walls, she decided that she would need to be even stealthier than disillusionment alone could provide. She abandoned the path, cutting carefully through the underbrush, quietly as a lynx. Avoiding the southerly route toward the main gate and long house (her normal destination), she instead made for the hill above the northwest corner of the village. There were logical reasons for her choice. The less-traveled path would also be less-guarded, and may also yield important clues. In particular, climbing up into the tall trees on the hilltop would grant her an unobscured view of the village square.

These trees (as she knew from daring childhood exploits) could also provide an unconventional way over the palisade walls. In particular, clambering across some of the long, stout branches arching over the walls could even lead her to the roof of the stockade — the strongest and best-fortified enclosure in the village, and thus the most likely place for an enemy to hold important prisoners such as the Publican, as well as her mother and sister... if they were still alive.

Yet, astride all of these logical advantages rode the one factor that drew Ginny more strongly than any other. The closer she got to the northwest corner of the village, the stronger she was drawn by the brooch.

Cresting the hill, she peered through a break in the leaf-cover to glance at the stockade. From this distance, it was tall enough to be seen above the palisade and was easily recognizable as one of only two stone buildings in the village. She couldn't yet see any unusual activity about the building, but this merely suggested that anything of possible interest was likely taking place down at ground level, blocked from view by the tall upright logs of the palisade.

About one hundred feet from the structure, she paused and found a suitable climbing tree. Stowing the brooch in a secure fold, she quietly scaled the trunk to a height greater than the log wall, and gazed down into the village. The central square was a hive of activity, but not the usual, friendly sort that she was accustomed to — it was indeed swarming with fully armed Roman Legionaries.

Yes, regardless of how shocking the message had been, the queen was right — Romans had come to the village in unprecedented numbers, and were behaving in every way like efficient conquerors. Some of the soldiers were performing what seemed to be harmless camp-breaking activities (gathering materials and supplies; packing them onto ponies and into wagons), but many others were plundering treasures, and shamelessly carting off and village food reserves from the granary and cellars.

Pulling her eyes away and taking a deep breath before anger could distract her, Ginny settled on her course of action. She braced herself very carefully in the crook of a large branch, and reached once more into the fold in her shift to touch the brooch. It verified that the Publican was still alive, that he remained in great danger, and that he was now very close — almost certainly imprisoned within the stockade.

Ginny assessed the stone building. There were four sentries posted outside, each manning one of the stockade's stout walls. That level of security seemed to confirm that the Romans were holding prisoners inside.

Given the late morning warmth, there was no fire inside the building. Perfect! Like many Celtic buildings, the stockade had a smoke hole on the roof — an excellent way to enter without being detected by guards on the ground.

After another minute of scrutiny, she plotted her route — a solid overhanging branch of a huge beech tree. It was rooted outside the village walls, but spread broadly across the defenses, and gracefully shaded much of the stockade.

Her greatest remaining concern was how to deal with any guards inside the building. A strong armed presence would make it difficult for her to reach the floor and move about the building without raising the alarm. Fortunately, for even that contingency, she now had the makings of a plan.

She clambered down the lookout tree and made her way over to the nearby beech. It came as no surprise to her that the lowest thirty feet of trunk rising up from the base of the tree had been stripped smooth of all branches. Her people loved trees and rarely cut them down without good reason, but of course they would have anticipated precisely the infiltration she was now about to attempt. No point in making it too easy!

Fortunately, unlike the vast majority of prospective interlopers attempting to breach the walls, she had a wand. Quickly conjuring a series of small handholds running up the tree, she ascended with ease and made her way carefully (and very silently) along the large overhanging branch. Once she was positioned above the near side of the stockade roof, she paused to scan the edge of the village square. Since Ginny doubted that this daring feat could be accomplished by stealth alone, she needed to sow a bit of... chaos.

Near the edge of the square, her eyes latched onto a tethering rail to which many of the Roman horses were hitched. Taking her best aim with a Reductor curse, the rail collapsed into a pile of splinters. Several stinging hexes later, and the square erupted into a frenzy of panicked, whinnying horses being chased by angry, confused soldiers.

Far above all of this bedlam, she conjured a rope, lashed it tightly to the branch, and scrambled quickly down to the roof. She ran nimbly over to the smoke hole and peered within. As hoped, the guards inside had grabbed their weapons and were staring distractedly out the south doorway, probably trying to determine whether their camp was under attack.

Ginny examined the three Romans carefully. Two of the men wore conventional Legionary uniforms with standard-issue weaponry — she assessed them as being common, non-magical soldiers. The third, however, had no armor and bore only a dagger on his belt. He also had a cape of fine cloth — among Romans, she recognised that as the mark of either nobility, or of a wizard. Trusting her guess, Ginny took aim at the third with a stunning spell, and he collapsed between his two comrades. The two soldiers spun about in alarm... then pitched forward onto their faces, stunned before either could so much as whimper.

Ginny rapelled quickly down through the smoke hole. Once grounded, she paused for a moment to magically bar the entrance and summon the fallen wizard's wand, then dashed from the central hearth toward the cells at the eastern periphery, cancelling her disillusionment charm as she went.

"Emaculo." It was a young woman's voice; a brave yet urgent whisper.

As if rescued from fire by a gentle summer's stream, Harry's cheek suddenly felt cool. A sensation of calm spread outwards, over his head, down his shoulder, chest, arms and legs, soothing his blistered legs...

And he opened his eyes.

"G-Ginny?" It came out as a pathetic croak. He coughed, shook the fog from his head and focused on the face in front of him. "Lanossëa! Please pardon me your majesty — I know not where that name...?"

Ginny? The princess blinked for a moment at the utterance of yet another peculiar foreign utterance that had haunted her dreams, but she pushed the memory from her mind and concentrated on severing the Publican's cords.

He stretched his arms gratefully for a moment, but then directed his attention back onto his rescuer. “You should not have returned here, your majesty."

His admonishment was mild and clearly ambivalent, but she couldn't help rolling her eyes at the typically-Roman paternalistic condescension. She resolved to ignore him. "Can you get up?" She ran her eyes up and down his grimy, bloodied face and body, looking for more wounds to heal. To her trained eye, the damage, although extensive, seemed superficial.

He braced both arms against the floor and pushed. A stab of pain tore through his side — apparently a broken rib that she had missed — but he pushed past the discomfort and reached a stable sitting position. Ginny extended her hands to him; he grasped them and found himself surprised by the strength with which she helped raise him to his feet.

Ginny pressed a wand into his hand. He scrutinised it for a moment, then nodded. A pang of regret over the loss of his own wand (likely confiscated and destroyed) crossed his mind, but was replaced by gratitude to a young woman who was clearly as industrious as he had always remembered her. "Thank you, my princess." A smile flickered across his features for a moment before the gravity of their situation weighed upon his mood.

"If memory serves me, the queen and your sister are in the west cell block." Harry gazed thoughtfully through the open cell door. "I will go release them, if you can arrange some sort of escape for us."

Ginny was about to protest any plan that withdrew her from the action, but Harry raised a finger. "Please understand." His voice was gentle, yet firm and instructive. "This is not about your safety, my safety or that of your family — the stakes are far too great in this and we must act with wisdom and caution. Nobody is aware that you have returned here. Is that correct?"

She nodded.

"If nobody knows that you're here, then when you escape, nobody will know to come after you." Harry paused to see that she understood. "You may have given us the glimmer of hope that we may all escape from here, and perhaps even evade pursuit, but our path is fraught with peril. It is absolutely essential that we have, at minimum, one uncaptured person who can leave here to recount exactly what I am now about to tell you!"

Ginny's eyelids flickered at the earnest and sobering request. Despite an visceral compulsion to personally secure the queen's and Heanua's release, she acceded to his compelling logic. “And what are you about to tell me?”

Grasping her shoulders, he fixed his eyes upon hers, boring deeply. "Lanossëa, you must be aware that this Roman Century has trespassed into Iceni lands in defiance of established treaty. This incursion is an illegal provocation, and may be part of a plot to destabilise all of Britannia.” His voice dropped to the faintest whisper. “The Proconsul is away, distracted by campaigns in Wales. Someone must get word to him before the whole land explodes into war and turmoil!”

Ginny gasped. Petty conflicts were not rare in Britannia, but any thought of the entire island erupting into mass conflict was nearly inconceivable. She nodded, wide-eyed.

“If you find your way clear, but cannot free us,” Harry continued, “then please flee from here with all haste and do not return. If you are the one to bear witness to these crimes, you must only communicate with people we can trust without question. Do not take the road to Camulodunum from which these scoundrels came. Instead, you must follow the river upstream to Camboricum. The garrison there is rigorously loyal to the Proconsul and not under the sway of any treachery. Is that clear?”

Ginny locked her steeliest gaze upon the Harry's deep, solemn eyes. “Yes.”

After thanking her once again, Harry disillusioned himself. Ginny did the same, and both stealthily exited the cell. Harry's eyes swept the main central chamber of the stockade, noting with satisfaction the three stunned Romans sprawled on the ground by the south door. A faint noise nearby alerted him to Ginny's mode of escape — a stout hemp rope twitching as she clambered up to a thick blackened beam just to the side of the smoke hole high above.

Mirabile! She's making for the roof!

Nodding to himself, Harry rushed to the western cell block, where he immediately identified the two cells that had been barred. As he opened the first door, he recognised none other than Queen Boadicea of the Iceni — as bruised and bloodied as he himself had been, yet very alert, and defiant as a caged tigress.

As Harry swung open her cell door, the queen whipped around. Despite her bound hands, she was undoubtedly ready to tear any invisible intruder to shreds... with her teeth if need be!

Harry hastily dropped his disillusionment charm, and held out his palms in a universal sign of capitulation. Still glaring in agitation, the queen exhaled and allowed him to slice efficiently through her bonds.

Signalling silently to the queen that he was going to open the other cell, Harry crossed to over release the queen's eldest daughter, Heanua. Harry knew her as a tall, willowy blonde, renowned throughout the land as a figure of great beauty. But what he found there, crumpled upon the stone floor, drove a spike of iced fury deep into his soul.

Stooping to lift the girl's nearly-lifeless body, he determined that she was not dead. Her heart was still beating, and breath still rattled through her slackened mouth, but nearly every ounce of spirit within the girl seemed to have been mercilessly crushed in ways that Harry wished that he could not imagine.

If he had been anywhere else, under any other circumstances, Harry might either have broken down and wept, or lashed out and begun demolishing things at random. Yet reason prevailed. There would be time later for healing or revenge (or both), but at this moment their only priority was escape — as quietly and speedily as possible!

As if to taunt his decision, several agitated voices erupted nearby, just outside the main entrance to the stockade — soldiers shouting urgent commands in Latin!

“Jupiter maledicam haec scelerati!” The muttered staccato of Harry's curse faded away as he refocused. With a hasty spell, he braced the girl's broken bones, conjured a blanket to cover her supine form, and hoisted her over his shoulder. “Make haste and follow, your majesty!” he called across the corridor and led the queen from the cell block toward the rope Ginny had left dangling from the roof.

Harry conjured a makeshift stretcher for the semi-conscious girl, and just as he prepared to levitate her toward the roof, he heard the stockade's door rattle. He drew his wand, ready to blast the first person through the entranceway, but instead he heard a frantic cry from outside...

“Ignem! Muros ignibus uri!“

The smell of some prodigious smoky diversion wafted past, and Harry exhaled in relief. "Lanossëa, bless you and your penchant for chaos!" The Roman soldiers outside apparently now had plenty of concerns other than what might be going on inside the stockade, and the reprieve would hopefully give him time to escort at least Heanua and the queen as far as the rooftop.

Pointing his newly-acquired wand at Heanua, Harry cast a Roman-era levitation spell. “Attollo! ”

Heanua's stretcher jostled a few inches off the ground, but faltered. Feeling a sudden strain, Harry carefully withdrew the spell to set her back onto the floor, then paused and stared dubiously at his wand.

“The fault is not in the wand,” Ginny called softly from the roof. “The fault is Heanua herself. Our bodies have been conditioned to resist spells cast by others. The resistance can be overcome, but only with effort. I will lend my power to yours and we will lift her together.”

Harry nodded, and cast his levitation synchronously with Ginny's. Somewhat strenuously, they managed to raise the queen's eldest daughter upwards, through the hole, and into Ginny's waiting arms above.

Harry ushered the queen onto the rope, waited nervously for two long minutes as she struggled up the rope. Making another scan of the stockade's interior and seeing no immediate threat of discovery, he finally turned and climbed up to join the others.

Reaching the rooftop, he glanced around, and spotted the second rope, hanging down from the beech branch high above. With a deep breath, he scrutinised the three females, trying to evaluate their readiness to undertake a final harrowing scramble to freedom.

Ginny's keen eyes were upon him; almost as if she were trying to read his mind. But for the urgency of the situation, Harry might have grinned with admiration at the fierce competence writ upon her face. He could at least be certain that one person in the party could face the trembling high-wire with aplomb.

The queen, however, seemed utterly distracted. Standing on the roof, she gazed down in dismay at the spreading flames ravishing her village, the ancestral home of her family, the favoured haunt of Icenian royalty for three generations. Whether she understood that the blaze had been set not by Roman marauders, but rather by her own enterprising daughter, was unclear, but the woman was unmistakably bereft, unfocused, and a poor candidate for vertiginous acrobatics.

The older daughter, Heanua, was in worse condition yet. Still bound to the brace; she had achieved some marginal consciousness, but was still dazed and mostly unresponsive.

Ginny's eyes met Harry's, and he realised that, through the tethering powers of the brooch, she had fully apprehended his concerns. Together, they stood in silent deliberation, negotiating a viable plan.

After a moment, Ginny's eyes flickered along an airborne path over the palisade.

Harry nodded in agreement.

"We must work together." Ginny contemplated her family members, estimating their weight and magical resistance. "We do not want others to see, but we, ourselves, must not lose sight of them.”

Harry's eyes swept the surroundings and tapped his head. “Notice-me-not charm.”

Ginny met his eyes squarely and silently assented. “Mother, please join Heanua.” She attempted to catch the queen's attention; gesturing toward the princess's supine sister.

The queen gazed at the inferno for another several seconds. Finally, she wrenched her attention away her from decades of obliterated memories, and nodded mutely without meeting Ginny's gaze.

As soon as the queen had knelt at Heanua's side, Harry drew his wand to cast the spell. “Non vigilate!

To Harry's and Ginny's eyes, the spell had no effect — they were fully aware of the presence of the queen and Heanua, and could still see them perfectly. To any other person who might gaze in their direction, however, the queen and her daughter had suddenly become so inconspicuous as to be invisible. The most observant and magically attuned of onlookers might penetrate the simple spell, but there would be little chance of such acuity from the scurrying Romans below, most of whom were still distractedly trying to salvage their wagons and supplies from insidious magical fires.

Harry and Ginny proceeded to train their wands upon the two females, levitating them carefully through the air and past the village wall. As soon as the queen and Heanua were just about to pass out of site beyond the palisade, Harry had an awful thought — he didn't know the layout of the unseen woods beyond! “Jupiter! How are we going to land them blindly? We could kill them if we misjudge the ground!”

With a start, Ginny grasped the dilemma.

Harry stared at the tall and completely opaque wall. “Can you visualise everything over there precisely? The ground; the locations of all trees, rocks and shrubs?”

Ginny frowned in deep thought. She did have a rough recollection of the terrain and vegetation beyond the wall, but had to admit that the tense, chaotic circumstances (nearly one hundred angry Romans clamouring in confusion below; more than a third of the village now engulfed in raging flames) were fraying her nerves. “It's very risky.” She shook her head. “Is there some other way?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Yes. I'll try to hold both of them in their current position. Meanwhile, you must climb back over the branch. As soon as you can see the ground on the other side of the wall, cast your spell to lower them to safety, and I'll rush across to join you.”

Ginny pursed her lips. "You believe that you can hold them?"

Harry shrugged. “I have no choice.”

Still maintaining her share of the levitation spell, Ginny paused for a moment to size up the Publican. She knew that levitating one other magical being was difficult enough with the conflicting magical forces, but simultaneously levitating two would be prodigious. She doubted realistically that she herself could hold both her mother and sister aloft for more than a few seconds... but she recognised that the Publican had many more years of magical conditioning. And she had to admit that she had never, not even from her grandmother, felt a healing spell quite as powerful yet gentle as the one he had cast on her yesterday.

With great care, ready to reverse course at the slightest sign of weakness, she withdrew her levitation spell.

Harry's incantation held; the queen and Heanua remained motionless just past the walls. A droplet of sweat formed on the Publican's brow, but he did not falter.

“You are powerful indeed, Publican.” Ginny smiled, betraying some assiduously hidden admiration, yet as she grabbed the bottom of the rope, she couldn't stop her gruff royal pride from reasserting. “But this is the last time I run away and leave you to do the saving.”

“We must each take our turns. You've saved enough people for one day.” Harry's eyebrow was raised in wry humour, despite the slight quiver in his voice. “Now go, and be quick,” he muttered between increasingly ragged breaths... but the statement was wasted. The princess was already gone — more quickly and nimbly than he would dare have dreamed.

Less than a minute later, Harry felt a wholly welcome tremble in his wand — a sign that Ginny had taken control of the queen and Heanua, and was guiding them to safety. In relief, Harry lowered his wand and tucked it into his belt. He permitted himself three deep breaths, then embarked on his way up the rope.

As a greying Roman Publican, the man clearly lacked the agility of a lithe woodland princess, but his years as a hands-on administrator deep in the more rugged imperial provinces had sustained his physical strengths rather well, and this stroll along a swaying tree branch was not the first delicate balancing act he had ever undertaken. Nonetheless, as a precaution, he conjured a series of ropes hanging from higher branches to afford him some handholds to temper the precarious dangers.

He had just reached the last of his conjured supports, and was looking ahead in grateful anticipation to security of the main trunk (now merely twelve feet away) when he heard an angry shout of recognition.

Maledicit!!

Harry realized immediately that he hadn't thought to disillusion himself, and now he was about to pay for the indiscretion. Without seeing or even hearing it, he felt the killing curse sizzling through the air toward him. Cast from a great distance (nearly two hundred feet), the spell tore through the air, ominously, but just slowly enough for Harry's instincts to guide his hand to one last desperate act...

Whipping around with wand suddenly in his hand, he yelled “Dormias! ” The spell, encased in a sharp white flash burst with lightning speed directly at his assailant... the treacherous Legate!

The two incantations, green and white, crossed in mid flight. Both were perfectly aimed. Off-balance from his wand action, no room to side-step, no time to cast even the simplest spell, Harry stared at the broad putrid green radiance closing in upon him...

In the final instant that remained, Harry glanced earthward... and glimpsed iridescent red hair – his last hope now; his best hope forever...

Then he leaped!

Ginny raised her wand.

Few people had ever heard of a spell that might safely catch a wizard plummeting from that height. Fewer still could have cast one. Many of the finest wizards and witches would have stood there, aghast, frozen, helpless...

Not Ginny.

Encyclopedic knowledge was irrelevant, because she knew with all her heart that she would never let Harry plunge to his death. She understood equally well that Lanossëa could not let the Publican perish this way.

Ginny was certain that there would be no broken body; no bitter tears spilled upon the forest floor.

What Ginny could not guess was where... or when... would he land?

"... Because if it does, I am the true master of the Elder Wand." The young man's calm declaration ushered aside Ginny's disorientation; fixing her attention.

Opposite them, a quiver of doubt ran across the face of the scaly abomination; a flicker of pain... but the response was predestined; he must proceed, and could but only hope that dark secrets from the depths of time were still auspicious.

All uncertainty thrust beneath his grisly veneer, the monster's voice tore across the Great Hall at Hogwarts, sibilant, like steam on flaming brimstone...

"Avada Kedavra! "

"Expelliarmus! "

The opposing spells clashed in a scintillating plane of white light...

Yet, in an instant, all magic of hope and honour dissipated. A universal truth was proved false; a cherished balance had shattered; the pulsing white fulcrum between the green and red spells vapourised, and a lurid tongue of bitter death — the vomit of hell — slashed unchecked across the Hall...

The bold and selfless young man, the icon of love and sacrifice, began to crumple...

“No.” Ginny's note of defiance, soft yet firm, spread through the vast room like the light from a lone candle.

And time froze.

Obedient to her command, all noise and motion ceased. Students, teachers, Order of the Phoenix, and Death Eaters alike, all stood in rapt, statuesque attention. Swirling dust and smoke hung like delicate veils draped across the static, prickling air...

Ginny blinked in surprise, but quickly pushed aside her incredulity and stepped forward toward Harry.

She refused to see the terrible contortions of his body, frozen on the cusp of tragic demise. She dared not gaze upon his face, lest she find pain or defeat. Rather, she gave every devout fraction of herself to Harry's irrepressible eyes.

Frozen but for his gaze, Harry met her with a nearly mystical tenderness; a falling knight glimpsing his grail...

Ginny did not quake in desolation or scream in fury. She did not sink to the ground in despair, even though she understood that Harry, and all the light that stood behind him, was a single heartbeat from death.

This was, after all, only a dream.

Wasn't it?

Regardless, as she peered into those verdant beacons, her eyes began to blur with mist... because this was so much more than any dream...

“Why am I here?” she asked quietly. “Isn't this your story, Harry? Your dream? Your fears?”

She was met with a silence, absolute but for the undulations of her own breath and heartbeat.

“I hope that didn't sound petty, I... I...” Ginny faltered, struggling to express feelings too vague and profound for words. After a moment, she marshaled her most neutral expression and tried anyway. “I mean, of course I will always be here if you want me. You realise that, right? It's just that this is... hard for me to understand... What am I supposed to be doing? Why am I here? I feel as though I'm only now finally beginning to get to know you, and...”

Ginny's breath caught, and she needed a moment to re-compose herself, before continuing.

“Harry, I really want to get to know you, but... it's just that everywhere I go...” Ginny paused in inarticulate confusion. “Everywhen I go?” She shook her head. “Bollocks, I'm making a complete mash of this, but the point is, every time I truly start to get to know you... you always have to d-die.” Ginny shuddered as silent, tremulous sobs coursed through his chest.

“No.”

The voice was Harry's. Although thin like a breath of wind, it came not from his rigid mouth, not from his frozen body, nor anywhere within the silent hall at Hogwarts. The voice came from deep within Ginny's own mind... and yet she was certain she had not imagined it.

Wide-eyed, Ginny stared uncomprehendingly into his eyes. “N-no? You don't have to die?”

There was no response.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, well that's a daft question. We all die someday — I realize that! But does it have to be... this way?”

Silence.

Guided by some deeply buried instinct, Ginny lifted her gaze from Harry's eyes and took a tentative step backwards, absorbing the entirety of her friend's face.

Although Ginny's sight remained misted, she could tell that Harry's expression was perfectly placid, oblivious to his precarious stance. Everything about his face could have been ensconced in restful slumber... except for those brilliant eyes, shining at her with care and compassion; following her, curiously, expectantly.

Ginny took two more steps back, and let her gaze drift across his entire form.

Harry was older than she knew him to be. He had acquired at least two inches in height since their summer at Grimmauld Place. He was as slender as ever, but he had muscular definition, strength, and maturity. He was on the verge of true manhood.

Or the brink of death...

Either outcome hung upon his next heartbeat. Would he stand or would he fall?

Ginny shook her head softly, releasing two small teardrops that had been clinging to her lashes. “Harry,” she whispered, “I will not let you fall.”

Lying awake in darkened room, having woken several minutes ago feeling deeply pensive, Harry had been half-expecting to hear a girl call to him. Yet when one did precisely that, he was thoroughly baffled by the voice he heard.

“Hermione??”

The only response Harry received was the sound of Ron snorting loudly, and thumping about in his bed. He tried again, this time dropping his voice to a whisper. “Hermione, is that you?”

The girl didn't reply. In the faint light seeping in from a lantern downstairs, Harry could see her watching Ron intently, obviously waiting to ensure that Harry's best mate was asleep.

After Ron rolled over and fell back into his normal rhythmic rasping, Hermione beckoned quietly to Harry.

Harry nodded and rose carefully, following Hermione soundlessly into the corridor... where Ginny was waiting for them.

Hermione gave Ginny a quick half-smile, waved her younger friend a silent adieu, and then turned to descend the stairs.

Ginny, in turn, signalled to Harry, and proceeded to lead him up the adjacent staircase to the third floor. Harry followed her unquestioningly, as she steered him back up to the library, to the same ottoman where they had chatted the previous afternoon. She patted the seat next to her, and he took his place at her side.

The two teens sat in thoughtful silence for a time, gazing out toward the distant street lamps on Highgate Hill.

“Errr...” Harry mumbled after a while, “uh, why did Hermione...?”

Ginny looked away. “I was going to sneak out of the room to come find you, but she woke up. She thought it would be... safer... if she was the one to knock of your door.”

“Safer?” Harry gave her a puzzled look. “Oh, you mean because of Ron?”

“Uh huh.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I can't pretend to know what goes inside his head, but I imagine that deep down he has good intentions.”

Ginny sighed. “Yes, I'm sure he does, but that's not what I need to talk to you about.”

Harry nodded again, and waited patiently for her to continue.

“Harry, are you dreaming about me?”

For a moment, Harry could barely believe that the sharp-witted girl at his side would ever ask such an unguarded question without at least one zinger ready to fly. But in the gloom of the nocturnal library, Ginny's tone was of the utmost sobriety and her expression was perfectly earnest.

“Er, yes, I suppose maybe I am,” Harry answered carefully. “Or, at least that's to say that I think it's you...”

“What am I like?”

Beautiful... smart... powerful...

Harry's eyes popped for a moment as the words rattled through his head, daring his tongue to unleash them. Yet, he held his peace, reluctant to risk possible embarrassment. Instead, he scrounged through his memories for a more conservative response. Although many specific details of his most recent dreams had already faded, he found he had held onto some general impressions; enough to sound plausible. “Well, sometimes you're definitely you, except you seem older. In other dreams, though, I see someone who reminds me a lot of you, but she's... different. More hardened, more stoic... but deep down she's no less kind.”

Ginny laughed — a soft puff of breath that stirred the stray lock of hair hanging down her forehead. “That figures.”

Harry chanced a glance at his friend, seeing a distant look in her eyes. Distant, yet vaguely amused.

Ginny emerged from her reverie and gazed analytically at him. “Yes, well in my dreams, you're definitely you. In some dreams, you're calmer, more composed... but deep down the real you is no less sweet.”

“I'm flattered... I think.” Harry grinned at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “But are you serious though? You're dreaming of me too?”

She nodded.

Harry chewed his lip for a moment. “Er, I know this is round the twist, but do you reckon we're, uhhh... having the same dreams?”

Ginny shrugged. “That's what I was wondering too. If so, what could it mean?”

“Yes, I wonder,” Harry mused. “If Sirius heard about this, he'd take the mickey something fierce and tell us it's all 'teenaged hormones'.”

“And this is why,” Ginny replied, “we are NOT discussing this with Sirius!”

Harry chuckled for a moment, then fell sober again. “Well, if this truly is hormones, then I'll take a pass. These dreams are hell!”

Ginny thought for a long time before answering. “Yes, they're definitely harrowing, but don't you think there's something... right about them too?”

“Right?” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I suppose so... After my bloody heart stops pounding, I actually do feel okay. In fact, I've actually been in a fairly good mood since these dreams started.”

“Oh? You noticed that too?” Ginny winked cheekily before turning solemn again. “My Dad once told me that our most complicated dreams help us to get a handle on our problems and work on solutions.”

“Huh...” Harry hummed thoughtfully to himself for a moment. “Yes, that could be.”

“If so, you seem to be...” Ginny began, but then paused for a long moment. When she resumed, her voice had dropped to a low, breathy tone. “You seem to be sorting through some rather heavy stuff, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess that's life, yeah?”

“Your life, perhaps.” Ginny found his forearm and gave it a squeeze, before withdrawing her hand to stifle a yawn. “Well, I suppose I should let you get back to sleep, you reckon?”

Harry nodded passively. He stood up and, without conscious thought, extended his hand to help Ginny to her feet. As she rose, she did not let go; instead she led him along quietly, back down to the second floor landing.

Before they could part company, Ginny stopped and pulled Harry around to face her, reaching for his other hand, gazing searchingly into his eyes. “Harry, I really do think that I'm experiencing your dreams. What's odder still is that I think you already knew that.”

Harry bobbed his head slightly, equivocating.

“Why, Harry?” she whispered. “Why me?”

Harry shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Ginny could tell that he had responded too quickly; too reflexively. She somehow could also tell that, as her friend stood gazing past her shoulder into black nothingness, there was another response forming — one worth waiting for.

Slowly his features schooled themselves and his eyes met hers. His mouth parted, offering words, both subdued and contemplative.

“I think it's because... you'll never let me fall.”

Harry pulled his tunic close against a cold East Anglian rain. Memories of a sparkling spring morning seemed impossibly distant as deep grey billowed down from the north, but he was buoyed to realise that he, Ginny, the Icenian royalty were alive and free. For the moment, they even seemed quite safe.

Nonetheless, every ounce of Harry's body ached from half-healed bruises and fractures, and the strain of an arduous flight through ancient Suffolk wilderness. Encountering yet another coarse thicket, he crouched for a moment, resting his hands on the pair of sturdy (if tired and scraped) Roman knees.

Straightening up, he looked around. From this high hill above their campsite near Great Ouse River, he could make out dim shapes of the surrounding landscape, noting with satisfaction that they had come a good distance.

Rather than make their escape via the meandering rivers, they had gambled on a hard overland march from the Little Ouse. The short cut had served them well. It had seemingly helped them escape unmarked, and he estimated that they were now little more than a league from confluence of the River Cam. At first light tomorrow, they could simply rejoin the waterway and expect fairly easy passage to Camboricum.

Although most Romans preferred to travel by roads and paths, Harry (i.e., the Publican) had learned the benefits of using the native currach – a light hide-sewn boat that drew little water and could easily navigate small streams. With a simple spell, the currach could propel them upstream, and give them long periods of rest – something valuable for all of them; especially the queen's eldest daughter who was desperately ailing.

Harry picked up the two hares he had ambushed earlier in his reconnoitre, placed their still-warm bodies into his pack, and pushed on through the thicket, heedless of thorns that scored several new raw marks across his legs. Within minutes, he had descended through the seclusion enchantments he and Ginny had set around the camp perimeter. He was greeted with the glimmer and welcoming scent of a campfire, and the evening meal that Ginny was preparing.

Rejoining the campsite, he gazed around at the stoic group – Ginny stirring the conjured cauldron, while the queen silently held the sleeping Heanua and stared grimly at the fire. Harry coughed slightly to announce his presence, and smiled. “I haven't seen any sign of people in our vicinity. It would appear I must have truly managed to stun the Legate before he could set anyone on our tail. A lucky strike that was!�

“Whether luck or skill, it was bold and valued.� Ginny gave her co-conspirator a meaningful glance as she added a branch to the fire.

Queen Boadicea nodded. “Both the Publican and my second daughter have proven immensely courageous and resourceful.�

In spite of her glowing words, the queen's tone seemed guarded. “Yes, the Publican risked his life and livelihood for a person to whom he bears no true formal allegiance. And my brave Lanossëa – small in stature, yet towering in heart – acquitted herself with the prowess of an Icenian hero of legend.� She gazed thoughtfully at Ginny. “Your magic, my daughter, has unfolded as a tree of great splendour. I still to this moment cannot grasp how exactly you saved the Publican from his descent. It must have been a spell of great power and sophistication. Most impressive...�

The queen continued to examine her younger daughter analytically for a moment. Ginny did not meet the woman's sharp gaze, but rather averted her eyes and focused on the stew.

It wasn't clear to Ginny if the queen expected an explanation, but none would be forthcoming because, in all honesty, there was nothing to offer. She did recall raising her wand, but the final moments of the incident were gone from her memory. The magic she had unleashed to save the Publican had seemingly dazed her, knocking her off her own feet. Moments later, she had been lifted from the ground by the Publican himself who, while sincerely grateful, was equally hazy about what exactly had happened.

The queen caught a flicker of a glance between Ginny and Harry, then withdrew her scrutiny and stared into the fire. “I shall reward you both handsomely some day.� Her eyes flashed in fire-lit pride… then dimmed. “As long as Amaethon deigns to guide me back to my sovereign station.�

Harry nodded as he conjured bowls and spoons. “Yes, and for that I wish to help. I recommend we hasten together to Camboricum where we can dispatch a petitioner to the Proconsul   to register your grievance. We are sixteen leagues from the garrison and may make most of the journey by water. Aided by magic and a good night's sleep, we should reach it comfortably before tomorrow evening.â€�

Boadicea stiffened. “You may reach it, Publican, but my daughters and I will go no further west. I have permitted you to lead us out of imminent danger, but from here we shall stray no more from the lands of our people.�

“But your presence will make the argument more compelling!� Harry protested. “Faced with the mighty Queen of the Iceni, I am certain the Proconsul will uphold the treaty and order the Legate to stand down.�

The queen's eyes smoldered and her voice rose to brook no dissent. “No, Publican, the throne of the Iceni is not a token to be confiscated or bestowed by any perfumed Roman peacock. I know exactly how to regain control of my people. But for one item, regardless of the will or wiles of your treacherous Legate, I would still at this moment be Queen of the Iceni!�

“My sincerest apologies if I offended you.� Harry bowed his head humbly. “I assume you speak of the Staff of Scavo?�

“Yes.� The word spoken low and dangerously, the Queen returned her gaze to the fire to which it was drawn. Her voice resumed, barely audible. “Were I wielding the staff right now, all of my subjects would follow me through any flame or shadow. I would bring a new dawn of glory.� Her chest swelled... then withered. “But as you see me before you, bare of hands, bereft of majesty, I can lead nobody... except my loyal daughters.�

Harry and Ginny glanced uneasily at each other.

“When we break camp in the beckoning glimmers of tomorrow's twilight, you may return to your garrison in Camboricum as you intend, Publican,� Boadicea declared, “You may pursue those interests that you, in your kind, wise and imminently pragmatic soul, believe are the best service to your empire. Perhaps it shall be that your interests and mine will once again converge – then or in the future. In which case, Publican, I will welcome you with open arms as a cherished friend. But until that time, my daughters and I must make our way back across the lands we have traveled. We timid rabbits have thrown off the hounds, but now we must become three lionesses to stalk the woods, restless until we have devoured our prey...�

Eyes gleaming dangerously in the firelight, the queen clasped her hands, palm over knuckles, as if she was still wielding the copper horse-head grip of her people.

Harry shook his head. “Please reconsider. I suggest you accompany me at least as long as it takes to find wands for you and your eldest daughter. There is a well-respected wand-seller near Camboricum, and I believe he can find you...�

“No, Publican.� The queen's imperious tone closed the debate. She reached to thrust a burning log deeper into the flame. “I have my own means to secure magical objects. I have contacts who have never sullied themselves in dealings with Romans, and never will.�

Harry took a deep, patient breath. “I have one final entreaty, your majesty, and then I will hold my peace.�

“Proceed.�

“I beg you do not drag Heanua along with you on your desperate quests.� Harry gestured toward the frail young woman slumped against the queen. “Her soul is unwell. It matters not to me whether we seek a Briton healer or Roman, but she is in dire need of care.�

“Heanua is the daughter of Queen Boadicea of the Iceni, my dear Publican,� the queen replied coldly. “She is built of stern fibre, and will recover her strength to fight valiantly at her mother's side.�

“At least permit Lanossëa to apply her healing skills to the girl.� Harry eyes swept to Ginny, striving to shroud the dejection in his voice.

Ginny said nothing. Continuing to tend the stew, she sensed that the queen's wounded pride would not brook advice from a daughter.

Boadicea stared hard at Harry for a long moment, then looked away and nodded. “Granted. Lanossëa will tend to her sister as we make our way back east.�

Cradling her eldest daughter in a manner that no longer bore any semblance of motherly nurturing, the queen turned back to face the fire to reclaim her silence.

The Publican and Lanossëa caught each other's eyes – a seasoned man from half a world away; a young woman from a land that welcomed few strangers... In barely more than a day, they had progressed together far beyond the simple acquaintance that once they shared. As the day's final greys turned dark, their hearts lowered into wells of uncertainty and regret.

Pressed against Ginny's heart, in that boreal valley, and in an Islington bedroom of another era, the silver brooch whispered in timeless, enigmatic sorrow.

Harry was not the only one to awaken early the next morning. As he was beginning to warm a pan on the stove in preparation for another round of Grimmauld Place breakfasts, he was surprised to feel a small hand come to rest on his arm, and a cheek press itself into his upper back.

He extinguished the flame on the stove, and turned his focus instead to the soft warmth radiating into him. A surge of emotions streamed through his mind. There was a visceral thrill to know that a beautiful girl had just clasped herself to him and was in no hurry to let go. But that was tempered by the melancholy pouring from her.

“I feel so hollow.� Ginny's whisper drifted up to him. “So drained. Things seem hopeless for them.�

“Them?   Oh, you mean the...?â€� Harry hesitated.

“The princess and the Publican, yes.� Ginny's head nodded slightly against his back.

Harry sighed as a weight of recognition set in and images from last night's dreams began to filter back. It was then that he realized that he was now starting to remember more of the nightly adventures. The images no longer faded into a vague disquiet within minutes of awakening. In fact, the dreams were beginning to feel like an extension of reality – as if they had tangible implications to the waking world.

More immediately important to Harry, though, was the apparent effect the dreams were having on Ginny. Given her obvious sadness, it pained him to wonder if, somehow, he might be peronally responsible for pulling this vivacious girl into a tense, ponderous otherworld?

“Right. The princess and the Publican. Lanossëa and Peuerellius.� Harry frowned as he pieced together the dilemma they faced. “So, I guess you're worried that the queen... or circumstances perhaps, will pull them apart?�

“I can't see how they can avoid it.� Ginny took a step back and gently pulled Harry around to face her. “The Publican must alert his Proconsul ; the princess is bound to follow her queen...�

Harry exhaled wearily.

“And, for the record...� Ginny uncoupled herself from him and began pacing. “This time the dreams do not feel 'right'. I'm not sure why, but I've gotten myself convinced that you and I have a personal stake in this. We can't let the princess and the Publican lose each other. There's no way that the separation will be good for anybody – not for them; not for the queen and Heanua. Who's to say it mightn't even be harmful to us, Harry?�

Harry stared, catching a sharp flash of anger in Ginny's face – the momentary glint of something harder that mere Weasley ire; a flame more resembling a certain woodland princess. Impulsively, he stepped to intercept her stride, taking her slightly by surprise. Reaching for her hand, he held it for a long moment, and watched with relief as her anger fell away; the momentary hard pallour restoring to Ginny's normal healthy tones.

Harry led Ginny to the table, where the two teens faced each other, feeling for all the world like operatives assigned to avert some crisis... except for the strange fact that they were confronted with events that had already taken place – more than nineteen centuries ago.

“I agree with you,� Harry said, pouring tea for Ginny and himself. “I feel that same sort of personal stake in all of this – maybe because I can't imagine why we would both be having these dreams if they weren't somehow important to us.�

Ginny nodded, adding milk to her tea.

“I don't know who's right.� He tapped his warm cup thoughtfully with his finger. “I don't think the Publican should be quite so willing to place such trust in his garrison. I realise that their spell repertoire back then was quite different from ours, but surely there were dark wizards who had nasty tricks like Imperius curses, right? If so, who can anyone really trust?� He blew on his cup, then continued. “At least some of what the queen said sounded logical to me. To truly reclaim her throne, it may well be that she does first need to recover the staff – whether for magical power, credibility, or both.�

“The words that came out of the queen's mouth sounded logical, but...� Ginnys voice faded into pensive silence.

Harry gazed at his friend as she frowned in deliberation. “But...?� he prompted after a while.

“But I think she's losing it, Harry.� Ginny's knuckles were white around her mug. “She's a bit unhinged.�

“Who's a bit unhinged?� Remus Lupin entered the kitchen; a look of concern spreading over his face.

“Oh!� Uncharacteristically rattled, perhaps from weariness and disrupted sleep, Ginny took a second to shift gears. “Oh, we were talking about someone named Queen Boadicea, who apparently was a powerful Druidess and queen in early Roman Britain.�

Smiling surreptitiously at Ginny's mental agility, at her improvising with a near truth, Harry cleared his throat. “Yes, Ginny and I were discussing a historical account that we found up in Sirius's library.�

“That's a relief!� Lupin chuckled. “For a moment I was worried you were referring to your mother.�

“My mother?� Confusion flickered over Ginny's face. “She's not my, uh...�

“Molly?� Harry calmly poured a cup of tea for Remus. “Goodness no, Remus. Ginny and I can see what she's going through, and truly feel for her. I'm sure Mrs. Weasley finds it incredibly stressful to be exiled here in Grimmauld, but she seems to be trying hard to adapt to the situation.�

"Exactly." Ginny nodded, restoring her stage presence. “Professor Lupin, have you ever seen my Mum when she's truly unhinged?� Ginny passed him the cream and sugar. “To be honest, I'd say she's actually taking things surprisingly well so far.�

Lupin smiled. “Okay, point well taken! Anyway, I'm glad, at least, that the two of you are giving her a benefit of the doubt. I have deep affection for Molly, but this is not her ideal environment and it rather shows. She's rather rubbed Sirius the wrong way, and Ron and the twins start glowering at the very mention of her name.�

Harry shrugged. “Yes, well unfortunately it takes some people a long time to realize that the one thing worse than a frayed parent is no parent at all.�

Lupin and Ginny stared at Harry, startled at the neutral, off-handed remark. Harry paid no attention, rising from the table to resume breakfast preparations.

Lupin nodded silently to himself for along moment, his face hinting at sad memories, then he stirred and turned to Ginny. “So.... you're reading about Queen Boadicea?�

“Yes.� Ginny nodded, meeting his gaze. “You've heard of her?�

“Of course.� Lupin leaned forward with an engaged expression. “She was a fascinating and tragic character. It is such a shame that Professor Binns seems incapable of expanding his curriculum; there are so many amazing stories in magical history that students, sadly, may never learn at Hogwarts. It is laudable that you two are taking the initiative to broaden your horizons.�

Harry finished pulling several plates out of the cupboard, then paused his efforts. “Er, I'm sure we're get to this soon enough in our, uh, research, but what sort of tragic end did the queen come to?�

“Ah.� Lupin paused for a moment as he replenished his tea. “She led perhaps the most infamous revolt against the Romans in British history. Her Iceni army and their Trinovante allies sacked several large Roman towns and led to the loss of more than fifty thousand, and perhaps nearing one hundred thousand, Roman citizens.�

Lupin acknowledged Ginny's sharp intake of breath with a sombre nod. “Very grim story indeed! Yet, it's not easy to feel sorry for the Romans. Even their own historians are in general agreement that the rebellion was precipitated by very poor decisions on the part of local Roman administrators.�

“You don't say.� Ginny concealed a scowl behind her teacup.

“Indeed.� Lupin steepled his fingers. “Most Muggle and Magical historic accounts are based on the writings of Tacitus, who recorded that Romans seized Iceni lands without provocation, confiscated great quantities of wealth, captured and flogged the queen and, uh..." Lupin fidgeted. "Well, they supposedly raped her daughters.�

Harry and Ginny exchanged wide-eyed glances. Catching this out of the corner of his eye, Lupin cringed slightly. “Sorry. I firmly believe that history is a very important subject, but it can get rather... ugly at times.�

More puzzled than appalled, both Harry and Ginny frowned. Ginny blew on her tea pensively. “Yes, well the ugly incidents are obviously the ones our society must try hardest to not repeat.�

“Exactly.� Lupin nodded vigourously. “So while the Romans began the episode shamefully, the queen reaped no glory either. She very likely was, as you so eloquently phrased it, rather unhinged by the Roman attack. Her eventual response seemed to be driven much more by wrath than political calculus.�

“Ill-advised,� Harry opined as he flipped several eggs.

Lupin nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Basing a military campaign on rage alone is a very risky proposition – especially against the Romans who were the masters of cold calculation. Unsurprisingly, the Icenian rebellion faltered. After destroying Camulodunum, driving the Romans from Londinium and then sacking the wealthy town of Verulamium, Boadicea's warriors were met with a disciplined, war-hardened Roman force in northern Hertfordshire. Badly outmaneuvered, and with her forces being slaughtered and dispersed, the queen supposedly committed suicide. Her body was recovered by parties sympathetic to her cause, and she was buried in reverence, but the defeat demoralised all British Celts south of the Highlands. The Romans solidified their power, and no more major rebellions would occur in England for hundreds of years.�

“Hmm, well regardless of emotional instability,� Ginny remarked, “it seems strange that the Iceni revolt should have begun in such strength, dominated through several major battles, and then suddenly collapsed in misery.�

“Fascinating observation.� Lupin pursed his lips in thought, nodding absently to Hermione as she entered and took a seat.

“Yes, very interesting to put it that way.� Lupin beamed a professorial smile. “I suspect that part of the difference was a matter of Roman leadership. The initial Iceni strikes exploited the tactical weaknesses of Procurator Decianus, whom Tacitus seemed to regard as criminally incompetent. In the final battle, however, the Iceni faced a Legion of exemplary preparedness, led by Proconsul Paulinus, whom historians view far more favourably.�

“Okay, so you said that Roman leadership was 'part' of the difference.� Harry's voice raised as he clattered about, assembling four plates. “What's the other part?�

“Ah yes.� Lupin scratched the stubbly beginnings of a beard on his chin. “Pure speculation on my part, but I rather believe that the rest of the story had a magical component. I'm guessing that in the early going the Iceni held a singular advantage in the magical prowess of the queen herself, but by the end, the Romans had found some way to neutralize that edge, or reverse it.�

“Interesting.� Ginny stirred her tea absently. “Harry, have any of our History of Magic lectures ever mentioned magical and Muggle forces fighting alongside in the same battles?�

A guilty twinge flickered across Harry's forehead as he reflected on how few of Professor Binns' lectures he'd been awake for. “Er, not that I can remember. Hermione?�

“You remember correctly, Harry.� Hermione's face held the hint of a smirk as she replied. “In all the time I spent in that class, I never heard any discussion of joint magical-Muggle campaigns. I admit that I missed some class time in my second year, but the notes that I borrowed from Parvati were nothing but the usual Goblin Wars drivel.�

Lupin sighed. “Well, in this case, it's actually not Cuthbert's fault. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy actually contains a clause that governments have used to... well, downplay... old records of cooperation between the magical and non-magical communities.

“Downplay?� Harry's eyebrow raised suspiciously.

Hermione gave a cynical shrug. “I think that's Professor Lupin's euphemism for 'suppress'.�

Lupin chuckled. “Well, we would have to wake up earlier than this to pull wool over Miss Granger's eyes. But, from what I can tell, there were numerous instances of collaboration prior to the Statute. Records and accounts of such cooperation still exist, but you won't find them in libraries or book stores. I suspect there are relevant documents in the Ministry of Magic Archives, but they can only be viewed by appointment.�

“Professor...� Ginny peered incisively across the table. “Have you ever wondered what that initial magical advantage might have been, and how it got taken away?�

Lupin regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you open to something even more speculative?�

Ginny and Harry both nodded eagerly.

“Well...� Lupin paused to collect his thoughts. “If you read between the lines of Muggle historical texts, it's easy to convince yourself that Muggle-magical relationships varied a lot over different cultures. The more urbanized societies such as the Greeks and Romans produced a separation between magical and non-magical peoples that seemed to presage what we have today. By contrast, more rural populations – what came to be thought of as barbarians – embraced magic as a part of daily life... and as a part of warfare. While the Romans were busy successfully conquering other urban civilizations around the Mediterranean, their military had little use for wizards, and their leadership may have actively distrusted them. However, as the Romans expanded northwards into the warlike Celtic, Teutonic and Slavic provinces, tacticians confronting barbarians' hexes may have gradually recognized that a magical component to their military would be necessary.�

Harry nodded. “So perhaps Queen Boadicea encountered no worthy magical resistance at the start of the Iceni uprising, but then the desperate Romans finally decided to find her a worthy opponent?�

“Exactly!� Lupin grinned. “That would be my first guess. The other possibility is that something compromised the queen's magical abilities.�

“Those are two very different things.� Ginny's glanced at Harry then back to Lupin. “I wonder how we might find out more about what really happened?�

Lupin sipped his tea contemplatively. “Well, you probably chose a reasonable place to start – leafing through books up in Sirius's library. There are volumes up there that predate the Statute of Secrecy, so you may well find interesting perspectives that you wouldn't get at Hogwarts. Those might keep you occupied for a while longer, but if you really get serious with this project of yours, you would be advised to consider the Ministry's Historical Archives.�

“Right.� Ginny's chin dropped pensively into her hands. “But how would we ever get an appointment there when we're shut in this house under lock and key?�

Hermione coughed slightly. “Er well... Not wanting to disrupt such a delightful educational discussion by reminding everyone of more mundane idiocies, but Harry has a date at the Ministry coming up soon, so...�

“Oh, that's right!� Harry's eyes widened, likely enthused by prospects other than disciplinary hearings. “Ginny, I think your father had offered to take me. I don't know whether I'll have time to do any research myself because of my meeting, but perhaps he could be convinced to sign you into the archives while I'm busy?�

“Yes, good idea! It never hurts to ask, right?� Ginny nodded, with supportive murmurs from Hermione and Lupin.

“Never hurts to ask whut ?� Ron scratched his head, stalking into the room. “Harry mate – be a sport and scrape some bacon and eggs onto a plate, eh?�

Lupin's eyes trailed the tall youth. “The kids are working on a fascinating summer research project.� His proud smile shone on Ginny and Harry. “With a little luck, maybe we can get them access to some old documents in the Ministry of Magic Historical Archives.�

“Uhhhhh... research? Documents?? � Ron stared at the others, trying to guess the punchline to what seemed a very lame joke.

“Yes Ron.� Hermione composed herself patiently. “They are planning to research some documents.�

Ron stared incredulously, opened his mouth to say something, but then gawked at the full plate Harry was placing in front of him. “Well, jolly good. Carry on.� Ron shrugged, and proceeded to fill his face.

Harry ran his hand through his hair, producing a work of disheveled art that made Ginny pause and grin.

Sensing that Ginny had stopped rustling around with books, Harry glanced at her, suspiciously noted her semi-innocent smile, then resumed trying to focus on yet another page of miniscule typeface.

After several minutes, he groaned loudly, and closed the tome -- the third in a sizable stack that Ginny had been piling on the table by his elbow. He rested for a moment, gazing out at the rain dribbling down the window of the Grimmauld Place library, then looked up again, chagrined to see Ginny place two more dusty volumes onto the pile.

“You know, Harry, I've been thinking...� Ginny trailed off.

“Yes?�

Ginny's face wore a look of intense concentration for a moment, then she nodded. “Yes, I was wondering if maybe we should see whether Hermione is interested in helping with some of this research.�

“Oh?� Harry blinked. “Well, I'm sure her smarts would help in sifting through these books, but doesn't she already have a mountain of her own school reading to get through? And besides, what makes you think she'd be interested in something half-cocked like this?�

“Oh.� Ginny smiled. “I just have this hunch.�

“You mean because of the way she chipped in with ideas this morning at breakfast?�

“No.� Ginny's smile became a smirk. “I mean because of the way she's standing out in the hallway, listening in on us...�

Harry burst out laughing and he waved toward the half-closed door. “Hermione, come on in – we're just about to start brainstorming.�

“I, uh...� Hermione's face emerged. “You see, I was just checking the walls for residual dark magic.�

“Oh brilliant, thank you!� Ginny gave her a sprightly grin. “But for better results, you might try using your wand.� She gestured toward Hermione's bare hands.

Red-faced, Hermione unconsciously grappled for the wand in her pocket. “Oh, well, I-I...� she explained.

“No worries if you have other things to do,� Harry cut her off good-naturedly, “but if you're interested, we're doing some preparations for our visit to the Ministry on the twelfth. Mr. Weasley agreed to arrange a pass for Ginny to visit the Archives while I'm in the hearing, but he estimated that she'll likely only be cleared to research for an hour or two, so we're trying to pin down our goals as precisely as possible.�

“Oh?� Hermione's embarrassment evapourated. “So what's your focus, and what sort of questions have you come up with?�

“Well..." Harry spread out a scroll with several outline points scrawled across it. "The main issue is whether magic could have been a key component in Boadicea's downfall, but we haven't narrowed down the more specific questions yet.�

“Yes, that's what we're about to discuss right now as we skim through these books.� Ginny took a seat beside Harry. “For example, I want to know whether the Queen was in possession of the Staff of Scavo during the rebellion and, especially, in the final battle.�

“Staff of Scavo?� Hermione tapped her lips.

Ginny nodded. “Yes, it was a very powerful instrument of magic made for the Iceni by one of the early Ollivanders.�

Hermione's eyes lit up. “Ah! So you're thinking that if the queen didn't have the staff during the final battle, it might explain their unexpectedly devastating defeat!�

Harry smiled at her barely tempered enthusiasm. “Right. And, for curiosity's sake, I'd also wonder what eventually happened to the staff. I'm not sure just how useful that information would be, but as the last and greatest of the Druidic staves, I find it all quite fascinating.�

Hermione took a seat and reached for a spare quill and parchment on the table.

"We're also interested in the opposite hypothesis." Ginny's tapped a dry quill on the desk. "Suppose Boadicea actually was in possession of the staff, but nonetheless still lost. If so, then did some powerful wizard intervene on behalf of the Romans? If so, then who?�

“Yes, exactly – as you were discussing this morning!� Hermione picked up one of the texts from the stack and began scanning the index.

Harry glanced at his scroll, then pushed it away. “Hermione, a little off topic perhaps, but do you know what responsibilities someone with the Roman title Legate would have had?�

Hermione paused to think for a moment. “I think the function of a Legate was similar to that of a modern envoy. Not so much an ambassador as a trouble-shooter, I believe.�

Harry frowned thoughtfully.

“Imperial Rome was really huge and diverse, which made it challenging to govern.� As she spoke, Hermione dashed off a surprisingly apt sketch of Europe and the Mediterranean. “Each province had different issues and concerns, so it wasn't practical to expect everyone to abide by identical policies. The best emperors like Augustus and Trajan achieved a fine balance by letting individual provinces do a lot of local improvising while still working toward the good of the Empire. However, if a province, or its governor, got too out of line, the emperor would have to reign it in. In the early stages, when the emperor was just starting to grow annoyed, I assume a logical step would be to send out a Legate to straighten up the local administration.�

“Ah.� Harry ran a hand through his hair again.

Hermione studied him. “Why do you ask? Do any of these books mention a Legate playing a role in the Iceni affair?�

“No, not the slightest mention at all.� Harry tapped his fingers on the table. “That's what's so interesting...�

“Huh?� Hermione stared. “Sorry, I don't follow. Why would you want to know about a Legate if there's no evidence...?�

“Don't try to figure it out, Hermione.� Ginny winked. “Harry dreams up the strangest questions sometimes.�

“I'm knackered! I'm calling it a night.� Harry stepped away from the chessboard where, despite Fred's many furtive attempts to sneak black pieces back onto the board, George's last hope was being systematically eviscerated by Ron's white forces.

“So soon?!� Ron stared at him in dismay. “I thought you might be keen for another rematch right after I'm done beating Fr-, I mean George.�

“Take mercy, mate.� Harry yawned and rubbed his eyes. “You've already flattened me twice tonight, Ron.�

Fred merely smirked. “Let him be. Early to bed, early to rise, makes us... the best breakfast in all of Islington!�

“Oh, too true!� George's eyes rose from the chess board. “By all means Ron, quit badgering and let little Miss Harry-kins get her beauty sleep!�

“I'm sure I can convince Kreacher to spit in your omelet, George.� Harry's voice filtered back from somewhere down the corridor.

“Gah – you win!� George swatted down his king in disgust. “How's an honest man to concentrate with Harry being such a bother?�

“Next up?� Ron gazed around the room with a wide solicitous grin. “Ginny, are you ready to be slaughtered again?�

“No thank you, Ron,� Ginny replied from her armchair in the corner. “I'm...�

“Tired too!� Fred finished for her. “Hey blokes, have any of you noticed how every time Harry gets tired and leaves, sweet little Gin-Gin always wilts like the fragile flower we all know her to be?�

Several eyebrows raised.

Hermione, however, raised more than eyebrows. Bursting from her chair, she slammed down her book. “Hey blokes!� she mimed acidly. “Have any of you noticed that whenever Harry gets tired and leaves, the idiot quotient in the room suddenly rockets through the roof?!�

The twins burst out laughing, but Hermione cut them down with a scathing glare. “You know, if either of you tried concentrating half as much on chess as you do on nosing about in other peoples' affairs, you might actually win a match sometime during your lifetime?�

Ron snickered... then gulped.

“And as for you, Ronald Bilius Weasley...� Hermione's finger jabbed inches from his nose. “Unless you start treating people around you with a little of the respect you bestow on your precious chess pieces, then I'd recommend you just apprentice yourself to Mundungus Fletcher right now, because that'll be your lot in life!�

Stalking toward the door of the suddenly stone silent drawing room, Hermione paused and caught the incredulous eye of a fellow female. “Say Ginny...� Hermione's voice fell calm again. “Would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea before bed?�

Ginny snickered at the shocked looks plastered across her brothers' faces. With a shrug, she put down her magazine, and followed her friend out the door.

“Is everything okay, Hermione?â€� The twinkle in Ginny's eye competed with a hint of concern. “You got a bit piqued  back there.â€�

Carrying the tea service, Hermione offered a wry smile. “You better than anyone should recognize diversionary tactics.�

Ginny groaned, but then grinned. “Okay, good one.�

“Thank you, but listen, that's unlikely to be the last time someone starts to make awkward insinuations. You might want to take a few more precautions.� Hermione gave Ginny a pointed look as she poured two steaming cups. “I personally believe that you and Harry aren't doing anything improper, and I'm thrilled that the two of you have become so responsible and studious, working on this independent research project and all. But we're trapped inside a house with a bunch of other people right now. Some of them are stressed or hypersensitive, and others are natural troublemakers. That's a volatile combination, and if people notice you spending all this time with Harry, it's a fine invitation for tongues to start wagging.�

Ginny stirred her tea and shrugged.

Hermione took a seat beside her friend and continued. “Ron promised Sirius that he wouldn't tell anybody about you and Harry, uh, spending the night together. He's been sticking to his word so far, but I know your brother well enough to know that if he gets unconfortable enough, he's liable to take action, without necessarily considering the consequences.�

“He has no grounds to get fussed!� Ginny's tone rose in pitch for a moment, then she inhaled deeply and shook her head. “Harry patched up my cuts and bruises, put me to bed, and fell asleep on the armchair. It was completely sweet, honourable, and perfectly harmless.�

“Yes, of course I know that, Ginny.� Hermione reached across the table and patted her friend's hand amicably. “But what if someone gives your mother the wrong idea? She's already on a knife's edge. You don't want anything sweet, honourable and perfectly harmless to send her into a catastrophic meltdown, do you?�

“So, what are you suggesting?� Ginny took a calming drink of tea.

“I'm suggesting that you might want to be prudent about the image that you cultivate. I'm not sure that everyone around here can simply accept the idea of a serious, mature Ginny Weasley, unless they're given a bit more time to adjust.�

“Accept the idea of me being serious?� Ginny arched an eyebrow. “What are you implying, exactly?�

“Come on Ginny, don't try to pretend you've always been like this. Something has changed with you recently, and as far as I can tell – which is not far because you and Harry are being fairly circumspect about it – the two of you are investing a lot of energy into something rather important. It seems important enough that it's made you rethink your priorities, and re-examine your key values.�

“Maybe it has, but who in this gaggle cares the least bit about my own priorities and values? Ooohhh,� Ginny gushed mockingly, “look at little Gingersnap getting all serious about things. Let's see what she's so fussed about so we can take the mickey out of her!�

Hermione shook her head. “I don't know about that Ginny. I think your family may take notice if you start acting differently. Some of the would probably just assume you're dragging Harry off to snog in some broom closet, but others...�

“Hermione!!�

“I'm just saying!� Hermione raised her hands in self-defence. “But don't forget that you once went through a huge, life-changing event, and nobody noticed until it was very nearly too late.�

Ginny scowled.

“I know you've every reason to chafe.� Hermione reached for Ginny's hand. “I realise you've earned the right to be known for who you are, not what you've overcome. I respect that, and I'm sure Harry does too... but some people are slower. Some still see you as the little girl lying pale in the hospital wing. They failed you that time; they're damned if they're going to fail again, and you're damned if you give them reason to fuss.�

“No offense, Hermione, but it seems stupid to hold myself back just because other people are thick.�

“Yes, of course it is, but the best way to deal with a stupid situation is to be very smart.�

Ginny raised a sharp eyebrow. “Be smart by acting stupid?�

Hermione grinned.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I'll be more like the old Ginny – snarky, irascible, lazy, stop reading books, waste my nights playing stupid games, have less 'Harry-time'.� Ginny huffed irritably. “Impossible gits.�

Hermione's eyes shone. “You're very dear for me, Ginny; you're the sister I always wanted. Deep down I'm thrilled to think that you may be heading down some very fulfilling path.� She withdrew her hand and grew serious. “But that's the thing. Whenever I get excited, I also get cautious. If what you're trying to accomplish is really important to you, then my instincts tell me that you need to be cautious too.�

Ginny nodded.

“But, uh, Ginny...?�

“Yes?� Ginny met Hermione's gaze.

Hermione looked away shyly. “One of these days, you are planning to, uh... tell me?�

“Tell you, uh, what?�

“Tell me what you're trying to do.� Hermione shifted uneasily. “I know there's no broom closet involved, but however much Professor Lupin wants to believe that the two of you have become solemn, dedicated historical scholars, I'm not buying it for a moment.�

“How dare you doubt my solemn scholarly dedication?!� Ginny sniffed indignantly. “If you don't apologize right now, I'll prank you from here to Hogwarts!�

“Oh good!� Hermione laughed. “I'm not certain I could tolerate a solemn scholarly Ginny.�

Ginny let a snicker slip, turning back to find Hermione peering inquisitively.

“So...� Hermione gave a hopefule smile. “Are you are going to tell me what's really going on?�

Ginny gave her friend a long scrutinizing look, then nodded.

“Oh?� Hermione waited, wide-eyed.

“I do plan to tell you, Hermione.� Ginny sighed. “But not yet. I don't know – it's just... strange, complicated, vague... I promise I'll tell you when... when I've figured out what there actually is to tell. Is that okay?�

Hermione frowned for a moment, then nodded. The two girls finished their tea in amicable silence, then headed for bed.

Ginny swept her hair back and glanced around to appraise her surroundings – the battle-torn Great Hall at Hogwarts.

Groaning, she straightened up and forced herself to study the scene. She thoroughly hated this nightmare but, right now, it was slightly preferable to rushing straight back to Lanossëa and the Publican .

It wasn't so much that Ginny completely despaired of helping those two powerful, heroic yet imminently fallible characters resolve the quandary of an ancient world and a mad sorceress that seemed determined to drive them apart and plunge their world into hellacious warfare...

No, Ginny still hoped to somehow find a way to resolve the worst of that, but she also had a painful sense that her hope was premature. There was surely  some meaningful way forward for her two ancient forebears, but hours in the library hadn't yet shed the slightest glimmer of insight.

More than anything, she and Harry needed time. And, here at least, in this vision set in some nightmarish stage of the future, they apparently still had time.

Surrounded by chaos, watching as Harry wound down the final, grotesque preamble, Ginny half-raised her hand, seeking the best moment to bring the atrocity to a halt.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Harry was gesturing subtly, yet demonstratively. “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the...�

"Stop!" Ginny's hand shot up.

Struck with an icy revelation, she strode past the suddenly frozen gawkers, making straight for the hideous, gargoylish living statue of Voldemort. Fascinated; sensing none of the nausea she'd previously experienced in his presence, she reached for (but did not quite touch) what the enemy held in his jaundiced hand – a long dark stick with the most elaborate shaping and wand ornamentation that she had... ever seen...

Ever seen before...?
Seen where? When?

Ginny turned to Harry. “You called this the Elder Wand?�

Half-paralysed, Harry twitched, then shook himself free from his own arrested dream. Seeing Ginny in his direct line of sight, he flashed a momentary grin, then processed her question. “I call that... the Elder Wand? Er, yes.� Harry met her gaze. “Elder Wand. I do call it that, don't I?�

Frowning, he stepped closer, staring at Voldemort's hand. “So, uhh, what actually is the Elder Wand? Does the phrase mean anything to you?�

“Well...� Ginny chewed her lip. “I know it mostly from a children's story. It's a wand that supposedly can't be defeated in any duel or combat. I guess I've always assumed it was pure fable.�

“Well this particular wand isn't a fable.� Harry pointed toward Voldemort's hand. “I've seen it before.�

“Yes!� Ginny's eyes went wide. “It's...�

“Dumbledore's wand!� they both cried out together.

Harry ran fingers through his matted, dusty hair. “How did Snake-lips come upon Dumbledore's wand?�

“Not sure I want to know.� Ginny shivered. Suddenly queasy, she found herself no longer able to ignore the grotesque villain in front of her. She broke away and made for the periphery of the Hall, pondering the situation.

“I must admit,� Ginny said as Harry caught up with her, “that I'm very curious about whether... perhaps, that truly is the Elder Wand. Luna's dad believes it's real.�

“Luna?� Harry gave Ginny a quizzical look.

“Oh, I forgot – you've probably never met her.� Ginny slowed to wait for her friend. “She's a Ravenclaw in my year at school – one of my best friends in fact. I'll be sure to introduce you when... if... er...�

An awkward look descended Ginny's face.

“Don't worry about it, Gin'.� Harry smiled reassuringly. “If I'm ever allowed back at Hogwarts, I'd like very much to meet your friends. Let's leave it at that.�

Ginny looked back to smile at him, grateful for his easy forbearance... but the instant before she caught his eye, she spotted something odd in the distance.

Her smile evapourated.

“What is it?� Harry followed her gaze into a distant corner of the Great Hall. But before she could raise a finger to point, he had sighted it too.

“Bloody hell.� Harry scowled. “It couldn't be...�

They were both staring at a pair of eyes.

Every other wizard and witch in the Great Hall was scultped in frozen fear, fascination or horror, riveted on the spot where the duel between Harry and Voldemort had been about to occur. Every feature of every face was completely transfixed by the impending battle... except for one pair of deep grey piercing eyes.

Flaring with fascination and hatred; framed by wild, silver hair and set into a creased and unkempt face, this lone visage was glaring straight back at the two teens.

“Lucius Malfoy is staring at us, Harry,� Ginny whispered uneasily.

“Ginny...� Harry's skin prickled. “Meet the Legate.�

Harry awoke as a cool breeze swept over his face, stealing its way past the fringes of his blanket. He shivered, pulled the fabric closer, then opened his eyes.

Moonlight flickered through the branches above.

He looked around to gauge where, and when, he might be.

What he saw was their camp near the river. The evening storms had blown through, leaving behind crisp, dry air of bracing freshness.

Noticing that the fire had nearly gone out, he threw off the blanket, and rose quietly to a small pile of deadfall that remained from what Lanossëa had collected that evening. He chose several small pieces to lay over the embers and blew on them until they sparked to life.

In the flickering half-light, he reflexively counted the blanketed forms that he knew to be those of the fugitive Iceni royalty.

One was missing.

Harry did not panic. Rather, he added two larger branches to the fire, then sat down pensively on his blanket, closing his eyes in contemplation. After less than a minute, he re-opened them and rose to his feet. Instinctively he followed a deer path leading down to the river. When he had pushed through the final row of streamside branches and felt sandy loam beneath his feet, he stopped and gazed around.

His eyes tracked toward the west; toward the soon-to-be-setting moon, and found what he sought. She was standing on a bluff, perhaps fifty feet upstream. The breeze rippled through her hair; cold moonlight playing off its silken iridescence.

Without conscious thought, he climbed the bluff and quietly approached her.

Without turning to face him, she cocked her head slightly, invitingly.

He slid his hands around her waist and angled his head onto hers. She nestled her body into a place it had long seemed destined to find. Her cheek, cool to the touch, pressed upwards against his chin.

There they remained, locked in timeless comfort for the brief while that yet remained to them, silently sharing the unexpected gift of sublime togetherness.

In a cold night, the princess and the Publican both found a measure of warmth – enough to sustain them through a chilling day to come.

He pulled his tunic close against the cold steady rain that had long since dispelled any memories of what, hours ago, had been a mild spring morning. The residue of partly treated wounds and strain of an arduous flight through the wilderness had saturated every corner of his body. Encountering yet another coarse, brambly thicket, Harry paused for a moment to rest his travel-worn back, crouching to brace his hands on the pair of sturdy (if tired and scraped) Roman knees.

He straightened up and gazed around from his position on the highest hill above their campsite near the banks of the Great Ouse. He nodded in satisfaction, first to reconfirm their apparent seclusion, and then to note their substantial progress. Rather than travel all the way on the meandering rivers, they had gambled on a hard overland march from the Little Ouse, and the short cut had served them well. They were now little more than a league from confluence of the River Cam. At first light tomorrow, they could simply rejoin the waterway and expect fairly easy passage to Camboricum. Furthermore, traveling in a currach was easy work (Harry's magic could propel them upstream with little effort), and would afford long periods of rest — something valuable for all of them; especially the queen's eldest daughter who was desperately ailing.

Harry picked up the two hares he had ambushed earlier in his reconnoitre, placed their still-warm bodies into the small pack he carried, and pushed his way through the thicket, heedless of thorns that scored several new raw marks across his legs. Within minutes, he had crossed the seclusion enchantments he and Ginny had set around the camp perimeter, and was greeted with the glimmer and welcoming scent of a campfire, and the evening meal that Ginny was preparing.

Rejoining the campsite, he gazed around at the stoic group — Ginny stirring the conjured cauldron, while the queen silently held the sleeping Heanua and stared grimly at the fire. Harry coughed slightly to announce his presence, and smiled. “I haven't seen any sign of people in our vicinity. It would appear I must have truly managed to stun the Legate before he could set anyone on our tail. A lucky strike that was!”

“Whether luck or skill, it was very courageous.” Ginny gave her co-conspirator a meaningful glance as she added several branches to the fire.

Queen Boadicea nodded. “Both the Publican and my second daughter have proven immensely courageous and resourceful.”

In spite of the queen's glowing words, her tone seemed rather guarded as she continued. “Yes, the Publican risked his life and livelihood for a person to whom he bears no true formal allegiance. And my brave Lanossëa — small in stature, yet towering in heart — acquitted herself with the prowess of an Icenian hero of legend.” She gazed thoughtfully at Ginny. “Your magic, my daughter, has unfolded as a flower of great splendour. I still to this moment cannot grasp how exactly you saved the Publican from his descent. It must have been a spell of great power and sophistication. Most impressive...”

The queen continued to examine her younger daughter analytically for a moment. Ginny did not meet the woman's sharp gaze, but rather averted her eyes and focused diligently on the stew. It wasn't clear whether the queen had expected an explanation, but none would be forthcoming yet because, in all honesty, Ginny had nothing to offer. Although she recalled raising her wand, the final moments of the incident were gone from her memory. The magic she had unleashed to save the Publican had seemingly dazed her, knocking her off her own feet. Moments later, she had been lifted from the ground by the Publican who, although sincerely grateful, was equally hazy about what exactly had happened.

The queen glanced furtively at the pair, but then withdrew her scrutiny, turning instead back to the fire. “I shall reward you both handsomely some day.” Her eyes flashed in momentary magnificence… then dimmed. “Assuming, of course, that Amaethon may guide me back to my sovereign station.”

Harry nodded as he conjured bowls and spoons. “Yes, and for that I wish to help. I recommend that we make haste together to Camboricum, so that we may dispatch a petitioner to the Proconsul to tender your grievance. We are sixteen leagues from the garrison and may make most of the journey by water. Aided by magic and a good night's sleep, we should reach it comfortably before tomorrow evening.”

Boadicea stiffened. “You may reach it, Publican, but my daughters and I will go no further west. I have permitted you to lead us out of imminent danger, but from here we shall stray no more from the lands of our people.”

“But your presence will make the argument more compelling!” Harry protested. “Faced with the mighty Queen of the Iceni, I am certain the Proconsul will uphold the treaty and order the Legate to stand down before...”

The queen's eyes smoldered and her voice rose to brook no dissent. “No, Publican, the throne of the Iceni is not a token to be confiscated or bestowed by any perfumed Roman peacock. I know exactly how to regain control of my people. But for one item, regardless of the will or wiles of your treacherous Legate, I would still at this moment be Queen of the Iceni!”

“My sincerest apologies if I offended you.” Harry bowed his head humbly. “And what is this object in question? The Staff of Scavo?”

“Yes.” With that one word, spoken quietly and dangerously, the Queen's eyes returned, once again, to the fire to which they seemed irresistibly drawn. Her voice continued in a low murmur. “Were I wielding the staff right now, all of my subjects would follow me through any flame or shadow. I would bring a new dawn of glory.” Her chest swelled with momentary pride. Then she exhaled slowly. “But as you see me before you, bare of hands, bereft of majesty, I can lead nobody... except my loyal daughters.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged an uneasy glance, before returning their attention to the queen.

“When we break camp in the beckoning glimmers of tomorrow's twilight, you may return to your garrison in Camboricum as you intend, Publican,” Boadicea declared, “You may pursue those interests that you, in your kind, wise and imminently pragmatic soul, believe are the best service to your empire. Perhaps it shall be that your interests and mine will once again converge — then or in the future. In which case, Publican, I will welcome you with open arms as a cherished friend. But until then, my daughters and I must make our way back across the lands we have traveled. We timid rabbits have thrown off the hounds, but now we must become three lionesses who shall stalk the woods, not resting until we have devoured our prey...”

The queen, her eyes gleaming dangerously in the flickering firelight, unconsciously clasped her hands, palm over knuckles, as if she was still wielding the copper horse-head grip of her family heritage.

Harry shook his head. “I beg your reconsideration. I suggest you accompany me at least as long as it takes to find wands for you and your eldest daughter. There is a well-respected wand-seller near Camboricum, and I believe he can find you...”

“No, Publican.” Once again, the queen's regal tone closed the debate without even pulling her gaze from the fire. “I have my own means to secure magical objects. I have contacts who have never sullied themselves in dealings with Romans, and never will.”

Harry steeled himself patiently and took a breath. “I have one final entreaty, your majesty, and then I will hold my peace.”

“Proceed.”

Harry gestured gently toward the frail young woman slumped against the queen. “I beg you do not drag Heanua along with you on your desperate quests. Her soul is unwell. It matters not to me whether we seek a Briton healer or Roman, but she is in dire need of care.”

“Heanua is the daughter of Queen Boadicea, my dear Publican,” the queen replied coldly. “She is built of stern fibre, and will recover her strength to fight valiantly at her mother's side.”

“At least permit Lanossëa to apply her healing skills to the girl.” Harry eyes swept over to Ginny, striving to shroud the dejection in his voice.

Ginny said nothing; she continued to tend the stew, resignedly disguising her angst and regret.

Boadicea stared hard at Harry for a long moment, then looked away and nodded. “Granted. Lanossëa will tend to her sister as we make our way back east.”

Cradling her eldest daughter in a manner that no longer bore any semblance of motherly nurturing, the queen turned back to face the fire and reclaim her silence.

The Publican and Lanossëa caught each other's eyes — a seasoned man from half a world away; a young woman from a land that welcomed few strangers... In barely more than a day, they had progressed together far beyond the simple acquaintance that once they shared. In the glimmers of a cold setting sun, their hearts subsided into wells of uncertainty and regret.

Pressed against Ginny's heart, in that boreal valley and in an Islington bedroom of another era, the silver brooch whispered in timeless, enigmatic sorrow.

Harry was not the only one to awaken early the next morning. As he was beginning to warm a pan on the stove in preparation for another round of Grimmauld Place breakfasts, he was surprised to feel a small hand grasp his arm from behind, and a cheek press itself into his upper back.

He extinguished the heat on the stove, and turned his focus instead to the soft warmth radiating into him. Different emotions streamed through his mind. In part, he felt a tantalizing thrill at knowing that a beautiful girl had just clasped herself to him and was in no hurry to release him. Conversely, however, the melancholy emanating from her was almost palpable.

“I feel so hollow.” Ginny's whisper drifted up to him. “So drained... Things seem hopeless for them.”

“Them? Oh, you mean the...” Harry hesitated uncertainly.

“The princess and the Publican, yes.” Ginny's head nodded slightly against his back.

Harry nodded as a weight of recognition set in. All at once, he realized that he was now starting to remember more and more of his peculiar dreams; that the images were no longer fading into a vague emotions within minutes of his awakening. In fact, the dreams were beginning to feel like an extension of reality, with tangible implications to the waking world.

Harry also knew that this largely confirmed his suspicion that these dreams were affecting Ginny as profoundly as him. Reflecting on her current sadness, he couldn't help but worry that, in some way, he might be responsible for pulling the sunny, vivacious girl into a tense, ponderous otherworld...

Now quite vested in getting to the root of his friend's dejection, Harry sighed. “Yes, the princess and the Publican. Lanossëa and Peuerellius.” Unexpectedly, Harry's memory seemed to be filling in more and more details that, only a moment ago, would not have occurred to him. “So, I guess you're worried that they'll be dragged apart?”

“I can't see how they can avoid it.” Ginny took a step back and gently pulled Harry around to face her. “The Publican must alert his Proconsul ; the princess is bound to follow her queen...”

Harry exhaled wearily.

“And, for the record...” Ginny uncoupled herself from him and began pacing. “This time the dreams do not feel 'right'. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I feel as though you and I have a personal stake in what happens to them. There's no way that separation will be good for anybody — not for the princess or the Publican ; not for the queen and Heanua. Who's to say it might not even be harmful for us, Harry?”

Harry stared in surprise at a sharp flash of anger in Ginny's face — the momentary glint of something harder that mere Weasley ire; a flame more in keeping with a certain woodland princess. Harry stepped in to intercept her stride. Catching her slightly off guard, he grasped her hand, and held it for a long moment, and watched with relief as she deflated; the momentary pallour reverting to Ginny's normal healthy tones.

Sighing again, Harry guided Ginny to the table, where the two teens faced each other, feeling for all the world like conspirators attempting to avert some crisis... except for the strange fact that they were agonizing over events that had already taken place — more than nineteen centuries ago.

“I agree with you.” Harry poured tea for Ginny and himself, then met her eyes from across the corner of the table. “I feel that same sort of personal stake in all of this — maybe because I can't imagine why we would both be having these dreams if they weren't somehow important to us.”

Ginny nodded, adding milk to her tea.

“I don't know who's right.” He tapped his warm cup thoughtfully with his finger. “I don't think the Publican should be quite so willing to place such trust in his garrison. I realise that their spell repertoire back then was quite different from ours, but surely there were dark wizards who had nasty tricks like Imperius curses, right? If so, who can anyone really trust?” He blew on his cup, then continued. “At least some of what the queen said sounded logical to me. To truly reclaim her throne, it may well be that she really does first need to recover the staff — whether for magical power, credibility, or both.”

“The words that came out of the queen's mouth sounded logical, but...” Ginnys voice faded into pensive silence.

Harry gazed at his friend as she frowned in deliberation. “But...?” he prompted after a while.

“But I think she's losing it, Harry.” Ginny's knuckles were white around her mug. “She's a bit unhinged.”

“Who's a bit unhinged?” The voice was that of Remus Lupin. Their former professor entered the kitchen with a look of deep concern spreading over his face.

“Oh!” Uncharacteristically rattled, Ginny's weariness from the early hour and disrupted sleep, had thrown her a bit off her game, but she nonetheless shifted gears quickly. “We were talking about someone named Queen Boadicea, who apparently was a powerful Druidess and queen in early Roman Britain.”

Harry smiled surreptitiously as he watched Ginny improvising with a near truth — a masterful strategy. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Ginny and I were discussing a historical account that we found up in Sirius's library.”

“That's a relief!” Lupin chuckled. “For a moment I was afraid you were talking about your mother!”

“My mother?!” Confusion and alarm was momentarily evident on Ginny's face. “What... er, she's not my, uh...”

“Molly?” Harry calmly poured a cup of tea for Remus. “Goodness no, Remus. Ginny and I can see what she's going through, and truly feel for her. I'm sure Mrs. Weasley finds it incredibly stressful to be exiled here in Grimmauld, but she seems to be trying hard to adapt to the situation.”

Ginny exhaled, offering Harry a furtive smile of gratitude as she reassembled her stage presence. “Professor Lupin, have you ever seen my Mum when she's truly unhinged?” Ginny passed him the cream and sugar. “To be honest, I'd say she's actually taking things surprisingly well so far.”

Lupin smiled. “Okay, point well taken! Anyway, I'm glad, at least, that the two of you are giving her a benefit of the doubt. I have deep affection for Molly, but this is not her ideal environment and it really shows. She's rather rubbed Sirius the wrong way, and Ron and the twins start steaming at the very mention of her name.”

Harry shrugged. “Yes, well unfortunately it takes some people a long time to realize that the one thing worse than a frayed parent is no parent at all.”

Lupin and Ginny both startled somewhat at Harry's neutral, off-handed remark, but Harry paid no attention, rising from the table to resume breakfast preparations.

The table fell silent for a long moment. Lupin nodded slowly to himself, his face hinting at sad reminiscences, then he stirred and turned to Ginny. “So.... you're reading about Queen Boadicea?”

“Yes.” Ginny nodded, meeting his gaze. “You've heard of her?”

“Of course.” Lupin leaned forward with an engaged expression. “She was a fascinating and tragic character. It is such a shame that Professor Binns seems incapable of expanding his curriculum; there are so many amazing stories in magical history that students, sadly, may never learn at Hogwarts. It is laudable that you two taking the initiative to broaden your horizons.”

Harry pulled several plates out of the cupboard and paused in his efforts. “Er, I'm sure we're get to this soon enough in our, uh, research, but what sort of tragic end did the queen come to?”

“Ah.” Lupin paused for a moment as he replenished his tea. “She led perhaps the most infamous revolt against the Romans in British history. Her Iceni army and their Trinovante allies sacked several large Roman towns and led to the loss of more than fifty thousand, and perhaps nearing one hundred thousand, Roman citizens.”

Lupin acknowledged Ginny's sharp intake of breath with a sombre nod. “Very grim story indeed! Yet, it's not easy to feel sorry for the Romans. Even their own historians are in general agreement that the rebellion was precipitated by very poor decisions on the part of local Roman administrators.”

“You don't say.” Trying not to grit her teeth, Ginny hid a momentary scowl behind her teacup.

“Indeed.” Not noticing Ginny's quiet pique, Lupin steepled his fingers. “Most Muggle and Magical historic accounts are based on the writings of Tacitus, who recorded that Romans seized Iceni lands without provocation, confiscated great quantities of wealth, captured and flogged the queen and, uh..." Lupin fidgeted a bit. "Well, they supposedly raped her daughters.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged wide-eyed glances. Catching this out of the corner of his eye, Lupin cringed slightly. “Sorry. I firmly believe that history is a very important subject, but it can get rather... ugly at times.”

More puzzled than appalled, both Harry and Ginny shrugged, attempting to suppress their visceral responses.

Settling back again, Ginny blew on her tea pensively. “Yes, well the ugly incidents are obviously the ones our society must try hardest to not repeat.”

“Exactly.” Lupin nodded vigourously. “So while the Romans began the episode shamefully, the queen reaped no glory either. She very likely was, as you so eloquently phrased it, rather unhinged by the Roman attack. Her eventual response seemed to be inspired much more by wrath than political calculus.”

“Ill-advised,” Harry opined as he flipped several eggs.

Lupin nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Basing a military campaign on rage alone is a very risky proposition — especially against the Romans who were the masters of cold calculation. Unsurprisingly, the Icenian rebellion faltered. After destroying Camboricum, driving the Romans from Londinium and then sacking the wealthy town of Verulamium, Boadicea's warriors were met with a disciplined, war-hardened Roman force in northern Hertfordshire. Badly outmaneuvered, and with her forces being slaughtered and dispersed, the queen supposedly committed suicide. Her body was recovered by parties sympathetic to her cause, and she was buried in reverence, but the defeat demoralised all of the English Celts. The Romans solidified their power, and no more major rebellions would occur in England for hundreds of years thereafter.”

“Hmm, well regardless of emotional instability,” Ginny remarked, “it seems strange that the Iceni revolt should have begun in such strength, dominated through several major battles, and then suddenly collapsed into such misery.”

Lupin pursed his lips in thought, nodding absent-mindedly to Hermione as she entered quietly and took a seat.

“A fascinating observation.” Lupin beamed a professorial smile. “Part of the difference was a likely matter of Roman leadership,” he suggested. “The initial Iceni strikes exploited the tactical weaknesses of Procurator Decianus, whom Tacitus seemed to regard as criminally incompetent. In the final battle, however, the Iceni faced a Legion of exemplary preparedness, led by Proconsul Paulinus, whom historians view far more favourably.”

“Okay, so you said that Roman leadership was part of the difference.” Harry's voice raised as he clattered about, assembling four plates. “What's the other part?”

“Ah yes.” Lupin scratched the stubbly beginnings of a beard on his chin. “Pure speculation on my part, but I rather believe that the rest of the story had a magical component. I'm guessing that in the early going, the Iceni held a singular advantage in the magical prowess of the queen herself, but by the end, the Romans had found some way to neutralize that edge, or reverse it.”

“Interesting.” Ginny stirred her tea absently. “Harry, have any of our History of Magic lectures ever mentioned magical and Muggle forces fighting alongside in the same battles?”

A guilty twinge flickered across Harry's forehead as he reflected on all of the time he'd spent sleeping in Professor Binns' class. “Er, not that I can remember. Hermione do you recall anything like that?”

Hermione smiled. “You remember correctly, Harry.” Her face held the faintest hint of a smirk as she replied to her classmate. “In all the time I spent in that class, I never heard of any descriptions of joint magical-Muggle campaigns. I admit that I missed some class time in my second year, but the notes that I borrowed from Parvati were nothing but the usual Goblin Wars drivel.”

Lupin sighed. “Well, in this case, it's actually not Cuthbert's fault. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy actually contains a clause that governments have used to... well, downplay... old records of cooperation between the magical and non-magical communities.

“Downplay?” Harry's eyebrow raised suspiciously.

Hermione gave a cynical shrug. “I think that's Professor Lupin's euphemism for 'suppress', Harry.”

Lupin chuckled. “Well, we would have to wake up earlier than this to pull wool over Miss Granger's eyes, wouldn't you say? Anyway, from what I can tell, there were numerous instances of collaboration prior to the Statute. Records and accounts of such cooperation still exist, but you won't find them in libraries or book stores. There are likely a good number of interesting documents in the Ministry of Magic Archives, but they can only be viewed by appointment.”

“Professor...” Ginny peered incisively across the table. “Have you ever wondered what that initial magical advantage might have been, and how it got taken away?”

Lupin regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you okay with something even more speculative?”

Ginny and Harry both nodded eagerly.

“Well...” Lupin paused to collect his thoughts. “If you read between the lines of Muggle historical texts, it's easy to convince yourself that Muggle-magical relationships varied a lot over different cultures. The more urbanized societies such as the Greeks and Romans produced a separation between magical and non-magical peoples that seemed to presage what we have today. By contrast, the more rural populations — what came to be thought of as barbarians — embraced magic as a part of daily life... and as a part of warfare. While the Romans were busy successfully conquering other urban civilizations around the Mediterranean, their military had little use for wizards, and their leadership may have actively distrusted them. However, as the Romans expanded northwards into the warlike Celtic, Teutonic and Slavic provinces, tacticians confronting barbarians' hexes may have gradually recognized that a magical component to their military would be necessary.”

Harry nodded. “So perhaps Queen Boadicea encountered no worthy magical resistance at the start of the Iceni uprising, but then the desperate Romans finally decided to find her a worthy opponent?”

“Exactly!” Lupin grinned at the astute inference. “That would be my first guess. The other possibility is that something happened to the queen's magical abilities.”

Ginny's piercing glance drifted from their former professor, to Harry, and then back to Lupin. “I wonder how we might find out more about what really happened...?”

Lupin sipped his tea contemplatively. “Well, you probably chose a reasonable place to start — leafing through books up in Sirius's library. There are volumes up there that predate the Statute of Secrecy, so you may well find interesting perspectives that you wouldn't get at Hogwarts. Those might keep you occupied for a while longer, but if you really get serious with this project of yours, you would be advised to consider the Historical Archives at the Ministry.”

“Right.” Ginny's chin dropped pensively into her hands. “But how would we ever get an appointment there when we're shut in this house under lock and key?”

Hermione coughed slightly. “Er well... Not wanting to disrupt such a delightful educational discussion by reminding everyone of more mundane idiocies, but Harry has a date at the Ministry coming up soon...”

“Oh, that's right!” Harry's eyes widened; his enthusiastic tone belying any concern for the disciplinary hearing. “Gin', I think your father had planned to take me. I don't know whether I'll have time to visit the archives myself because of my meeting, but perhaps he could be convinced to sign you into the archives while I'm busy?”

“Yes, good idea! It never hurts to ask, right?” Ginny nodded, with supportive murmurs from Hermione and Lupin.

“Never hurts to ask whut ?” Ron asked as he stalked into the room. “Harry mate — be a sport and scrape some bacon and eggs onto a plate, eh?”

Lupin's eyes trailed the tall youth. “The kids are working on a fascinating summer research project.” He beamed a proud smile toward Ginny and Harry. “With a little luck, maybe we can get them access to some old documents in the Ministry of Magic Historical Archives.”

“Uhhhhh... Research? Documents?? ” Ron's incredulous gaze darted among the other four occupants of the room, trying to guess a punchline to what was obviously a very lame joke.

“Yes Ron.” Hermione composed herself patiently. “They are planning to research some documents.”

Ron blinked several times in rapid succession, opened his mouth to say something, but then stared lustily at the full plate Harry was placing in front of him. “Yeah, well, jolly good then.” Ron shrugged, and proceeded to fill his face.

Harry ran his hand through his hair, producing a work of disheveled art that made Ginny pause and grin.

Aware that Ginny had stopped rustling around with books, Harry glanced at her, raised a suspicious eyebrow at her mirthful expression, then went back to trying to focus on yet another page of miniscule typeface.

After several minutes, he groaned loudly, and pushed away another book -- the third in a sizable stack that Ginny had been piling on the table by his elbow. He rested for a moment, gazing out at the light rain trickling down the window of the Grimmauld Place library, then looked up again, chagrined to see Ginny place two more dusty tomes onto the pile.

“You know, Harry, I've been thinking...” Ginny trailed off.

“Yes?”

Ginny's face wore a look of intense concentration for a moment, then she nodded. “I was wondering if maybe we should see whether Hermione is interested in helping with some of this research.”

“Oh?” A note of surprise was evident in Harry's voice. “Well, maybe three minds would be better than two for trying to sift through all these books, but... she has a mountain of her own school texts to read. And besides, what makes you think she'd been the least bit interested in something half-cocked like this?”

“Oh...” Ginny smiled. “I just have this hunch...”

“You mean because of the way she's been so helpful and supportive recently?”

“No.” Ginny caught Harry's attention with a certain twinkle in her eye. “I mean because of the way she's standing right outside the door, listening in on us from the corridor...”

Harry burst out laughing. He turned to direct his voice out the open doorway. “Hermione, come on in — we're just about to start brainstorming.”

Visibly flustered, Hermione emerged in the library doorway. “I, uh, was just checking the walls for residual dark magic.”

“Oh brilliant, thank you!” Ginny gave her a sprightly grin. “But for better results, you actually might try using your wand for that.” She gestured toward Hermione's bare hands.

Red-faced, Hermione unconsciously grappled for the wand in her pocket. “I, well, you see...” she explained.

“No worries if you have other things to do,” Harry cut her off good-naturedly, “but if you're interested, we're doing some preparations for our visit to the Ministry on the twelfth. Arthur agreed to arrange a pass for Ginny to visit the Archives while I'm in the hearing, but he estimated that she'll likely only be cleared to research for an hour or two, so we're trying to pin down our goals as precisely as possible.”

“Oh?” Hermione quickly banishing her earlier embarrassment. “So what's your focus, and what sort of questions have you come up with?”

“Well..." Harry spread out a scroll with a few outline points scrawled across it. "The main issue is whether magic could have been a key component in Boadicea's downfall, but we haven't narrowed down the more specific questions yet.”

“Yes, that's what we're about to discuss right now as we skim through these books.” Ginny took a seat beside Harry. “For example, I want to know whether the Queen was in possession of the Staff of Scavo during the rebellion and, especially, in the final battle.”

“Staff of Scavo?” Hermione gave her a curious look.

Ginny nodded. “Yes, it was a very powerful instrument of magic made for the Iceni by one of the early Ollivanders.”

Hermione's eyes lit up. “Ah! So you're thinking that if the queen didn't have the staff during the final battle, it might explain their unexpectedly devastating defeat!”

Harry smiled at his friend's enthusiasm. “Right. And, for curiosity's sake, I'd also wonder what eventually happened to the staff. I'm not sure just how useful that information would be, but as the last and greatest of the Druidic staves, I find it all quite fascinating.”

Hermione took a seat and reached for a spare quill and parchment on the table.

"We're also interested in the opposite hypothesis." Ginny's tapped a dry quill on the desk. "Suppose Boadicea actually was in possession of the staff, but nonetheless still lost. If so, then did some powerful wizard intervene on behalf of the Romans? If so, then who?”

“Yes, exactly — as you were discussing this morning!” Hermione picked up one of the texts from the stack and began scanning the index.

Harry glanced at his scroll, then pushed it away. “Hermione, a little off topic perhaps, but do you know what responsibilities someone with the Roman title Legate would have had?”

Hermione paused to think for a moment. “I think the function of a Legate was similar to that of a modern envoy. Not so much an ambassador as a trouble-shooter, I believe.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully.

“Imperial Rome was really huge and diverse, which made it challenging to govern.” As she spoke, Hermione dashed off a surprisingly apt sketch of Europe and the Mediterranean. “Each province had different issues and concerns, so it wasn't practical to expect everyone to rule according to identical policies. The best emperors such as Augustus and Trajan achieved a fine balance by letting individual provinces do a lot of local improvising while still working toward the good of the Empire. However, if a province, or its governor, got too out of line, the emperor would have to reign it in. In the early stages, when the emperor was just starting to grow annoyed, I assume a logical step would be to send out a Legate to straighten up the local administration.”

“Ah.” Harry ran a hand through his hair again.

Hermione studied him. “Why do you ask? Do any of these books mention a Legate playing a role in the Iceni affair?”

“No, not the slightest mention at all.” Harry tapped his fingers on the table. “That's what's so interesting...”

“Huh?” Hermione stared quizzically. “Sorry, am I missing something Harry? Why would you want to know about a Legate if there's no evidence...?”

“Don't worry about it Hermione.” Ginny winked. “Harry dreams up the strangest questions sometimes.”

“I'm knackered! Time for me to call it a night.” Harry stepped away from the chessboard where, despite Fred's many furtive attempts to sneak black pieces back onto the board, George's last hope was being systematically eviscerated by Ron's white pieces.

“So soon?!” Ron stared at him in dismay. “I thought you might be keen for another rematch right after I'm done beating Fr-, I mean George.”

“Have mercy!” Harry yawned and rubbed his eyes. “You've already flattened me twice tonight, Ron.”

Fred merely smirked. “Let him be. Early to bed, early to rise, makes us... the best breakfast in all of Islington!”

George's eyes rose from the chess board. “Oh, too true! By all means Ron, quit badgering and let little Miss Harry-kins get her beauty sleep!”

Harry's voice filtered back from somewhere down the corridor. “I'm sure I can convince Kreacher to spit in your omelet, George.”

“Gah — you win!” George swatted down his black king, groaning in disgust. “How's an honest man to concentrate with Harry distracting me like that?”

“Next up?” Ron gazed around the room with a wide solicitous grin. “Ginny, are you ready to be humiliated again?”

“No thank you, Ron,” Ginny replied from her armchair in the corner. “I'm...”

“Tired too!” Fred finished for her. “Hey mates, have any of you noticed that minutes after Harry gets tired and leaves, sweet little Gin-Gin always wilts like the fragile flower we all know her to be?”

Throughout the room, several eyebrows raised.

Hermione raised more than her eyebrows. Bursting out of her chair, she slammed down her book. “Hey mates!” she exclaimed in acid mimicry. “Have any of you noticed that whenever Harry gets tired and leaves, the idiot quotient in the room suddenly rockets through the roof?!”

The twins burst out laughing, but Hermione silenced them with glacial eyes. “You know, if you two tried concentrating half as much on chess as you do on nosing about in other peoples' business, you might actually win a match sometime during your lifetime?”

Ron snickered, only to find himself confronted with a furious face framed by bushy brown hair.

“And as for you, Ronald Bilius Weasley...” Hermione's finger extended menacingly in the direction of the youngest Weasley brother. “Unless you start treating people around you with a little of the consideration and respect you bestow on your precious chess pieces, then I'd recommend you just apprentice yourself to Mundungus Fletcher right now, because that's about all you'll ever amount to in your life!”

Striding toward the door of the amazingly subdued drawing room, Hermione glanced, mid-step, toward a quiet corner by the fire. “Say Ginny...” Her voice had suddenly reacquired a measure of calm. “Would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea before bed?”

Ginny smirked at the shocked looks plastered across her brothers' faces. With an amused shrug, she put her magazine down, and followed her friend out the door.

“Is everything okay, Hermione?” The twinkle in Ginny's eye was somewhat masked by an expression of concern.

Carrying the tea service, Hermione turned and smiled broadly. “You better than anyone should recognize diversionary tactics.”

Ginny groaned, but then grinned. “Okay, good one.”

“Thank you, but listen, that's unlikely to be the last time someone starts to make awkward insinuations. It might be time to starting watching your step a bit more carefully.” Hermione gave Ginny a pointed look as she poured two steaming cups. “I personally believe that you and Harry aren't doing anything improper, and I'm thrilled that the two of you have become so responsible and studious, working on this independent research project and all. However, we're trapped inside a house with a bunch of other people right now. Some of them are stressed or hypersensitive, while others are natural troublemakers, and that's a volatile combination. You have to admit, Ginny, that if people notice you spending all this time with Harry, it's a fine invitation for tongues to start wagging.”

Ginny stirred her tea and shrugged.

Hermion took a seat beside her friend and continued. “Ron promised Sirius that he wouldn't tell anybody about you and Harry, uh, spending the night together. He's been sticking to his word so far, but I know your brother well enough to guess that if he thinks things might be getting out of hand, he'll go straight to your parents.”

“What do I care if he tells Mum and Dad?” Ginny's tone rose in pitch for a moment, then she inhaled deeply and shook her head. “Harry patched up my cuts and bruises, put me to bed, and fell asleep on the armchair. It was completely sweet, honourable, and perfectly harmless.”

“Yes, of course I know that, Ginny.” Hermione reached across the table and grasped her friend's hand amicably. “But your Mum is on a knife's edge, and you don't want anything sweet, honourable and perfectly harmless to send her into a catastrophic meltdown, do you?”

“So, what are you suggesting?” Ginny took a calming drink of tea.

“I'm suggesting that you might want to be prudent about the image that you cultivate. I'm not sure that everyone around here can simply accept the idea of a serious, mature Ginny Weasley, unless they're given a bit more time to adjust.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow. “Serious? Mature? What do you mean?”

“Come on Ginny, don't try to pretend you've always been like this. Something has changed with you recently, and as far as I can tell — which is not far because you and Harry are being fairly circumspect about it — the two of you are investing a lot of energy into something rather important. It seems important enough that it's made you rethink your priorities, and examine your key values.”

“Maybe it has, but who in this gaggle cares the least bit what I think about my own priorities and values? Ooohhh,” Ginny gushed mockingly, “look at little Gingersnap getting all serious about things. Let's see what she's so fussed about so we can take the mickey out of her!”

Hermione shook her head. “I don't know about that Ginny. You have several family members who might well take notice if they decided that you were behaving differently. At the very least, things could get rather nettlesome for you if someone told your mum they thought you and Harry were going off to snog in a broom clo...”

“Hermione!!”

“I'm just saying!” Hermione raised her hands in self-defence. “But you also need to remember that a few years ago you went through a huge, life-changing event, and nobody noticed until it was very nearly too late... if you know what I mean?”

Ginny scowled.

Hermione shrugged. “Yes, well you might have moved on from that, but not everybody has. Keeping that in mind, some people around you may not respond perfectly rationally if they see sudden changes in the way you act.”

“I mean you no offense at all, Hermione, but this is stupid.”

“Yes, of course it is, but the best way to deal with a stupid situation is to be very smart.”

Ginny smirked. “Be smart by acting stupider?”

Hermione grinned.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I'll try to act more like the old Ginny — snarky, irascible, lazier, less studious, put in late nights playing stupid games, have less... Harry-time.” Ginny huffed grumpily. “Impossible bleeding gits.”

Hermione reached over and clasped Ginny's free hand again, smiling warmly. “You're very dear for me, Ginny; you're the sister I always wanted. Deep down I'm really excited because I'm guessing that you might be starting along some very fulfilling path.” She withdrew her hand and grew serious. “But that's the thing. Whenever I get excited, I also get cautious. If what you're trying to accomplish is really important to you, then my instincts tell me that you need to be cautious too.”

Ginny nodded.

“But, uh, Ginny...?”

Ginny met Hermione's gaze, but Hermione looked away, shyly. Ginny frowned quizzically. “Yes?”

“One of these days, you are planning to, uh... tell me?” Hermione clasped her hands behind her back, gazing at the floor.

“Tell you, uh, what?”

“Tell me what exactly it is that you're trying to accomplish.” Hermione shifted uneasily, still averting her gaze. “I know there's no broom closet involved, but however much Professor Lupin wants to believe that the two of you are becoming solemn, dedicated historical scholars, I'm not buying it for a moment.”

“How dare you doubt my solemn scholarly dedication?!” Ginny inhaled sharply in theatric indignation. “If you don't apologize right now, I'll have to prank you from here to Hogwarts for your impudence!”

“Oh good!” Hermione laughed. “I'm not certain I could tolerate a solemn, dedicated and scholarly Ginny.”

Ginny let a snicker slip, then recomposed her face to see Hermione peering inquisitively at her, with the hint of a plaintive smile on her face. “So, are you are going to tell me what's really going on?”

Ginny gave her friend a long, scrutinizing look, then smiled slightly. “Yes.”

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed and expectant.

“But not yet, Hermione.” Ginny sighed. “I don't know — it's just... strange, complicated, vague... I promise I'll tell you when... when I've figured out what there actually is to tell. Is that okay?”

Hermione frowned for a moment, then nodded. The two girls finished their tea in amicable silence, then headed for bed.

Ginny swept her hair back and glanced rapidly around at her surroundings — the battle-torn Great Hall at Hogwarts.

As much as she despised this scene, at the moment it seemed preferable to facing Lanossëa and the Publican again. Ginny felt that it was too soon to truly help her ancient forebears. With more time and research, Ginny hoped that she and Harry might be able to learn what was really supposed to happen back then. With such hindsight, she hoped that they might even be able coax these powerful, heroic but imminently fallible characters toward some sort of desirable outcome.

Unfortunately, for the time being, Ginny despaired of finding a solution. The princess was about to be torn away from the Publican. Each seemed fated to charge blindly into a different quest of dubious wisdom, with everything being somehow contingent on the disruptive influence of a mysterious villain and a dreadfully powerful sorceress driven to the brink of madness.

On the other hand, here at Hogwarts, the descent into madness was already manifest and very nearly complete. Surrounded by chaos, Ginny watched as Harry wound down the final, grotesque preamble.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Harry gestured subtly, yet demonstratively with his hand. “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the...”

A flash of icy revelation raced through Ginny's veins, and time ceased.

All thoughts drowned out by searing curiosity, Ginny strode toward the hideous, gargoylish living statue of Voldemort, sensing none of the nausea she normally experienced in his presence. Fascinated, she closed in on what the monster held in his jaundiced hand — a long dark stick with the most elaborate shaping and wand ornamentation that she had ever seen...

Ever seen...?

Seen before...?

Seen where? When?

Disregarding the riveting duel that had suddenly frozen in mid-execution, Ginny turned to Harry. “You called this the Elder Wand?”

Harry twitched. The dream he had been confronted with had required him to steel himself for battle with his arch-nemesis. It was a struggle to break himself free of the compulsion, but he was drawn by the music of Ginny's voice, so incongruously comforting within the macabre setting. He shuddered, shook his head, and found himself gazing at the bizarre surroundings — a scene of dynamic chaos all utterly rigid except for the grimy, disheveled (but still beautiful) young woman standing twenty feet in front of him, inspecting his enemy's wand.

“Er, yes.” Harry met her gaze. “Elder Wand. I do call it that, don't I?”

He scratched his head thoughtfully. “So, uhh, what actually is the Elder Wand? Does the term mean anything to you?”

Ginny frowned in consternation. “Well, the only mention that I've ever heard is from a children's story.” She raised a thoughtful finger to her lips. “It's a wand that supposedly can't be defeated in any duel or combat. I guess I've always assumed it was pure fable.”

“Well this particular wand isn't a fable.” Harry pointed toward Voldemort's hand. “I've seen it before.”

“Yes!” Ginny's eyes went wide. “It's...”

“Dumbledore's wand!” they both cried out together.

Harry ran fingers through his matted, dusty hair. “How did Snake-lips come upon Dumbledore's wand?”

Ginny shivered. “I'd really rather not try to guess just yet.”

The more Ginny became aware of Voldemort's presence, the more it became intolerable. She turned from the center of the room, and made her way unthinkingly toward the periphery as she pondered the situation.

“I must admit,” Ginny mused as Harry caught up with her, “that I'm very curious about whether... perhaps, this really is the Elder Wand. Luna's dad believes the wand is real...”

“Luna?” Harry paused near the doorway to the Entrance Hall, giving Ginny a quizzical look.

“Oh, I forgot — you've probably never met her.” Ginny slowed to wait for her friend. “She's a Ravenclaw in my year at school — one of my best friends in fact. I'll be sure to introduce you when... if... er...” An awkward look descended down Ginny's face.

“Don't worry about it, Gin'.” Harry smiled reassuringly. “If I'm ever allowed back at Hogwarts, I'd like very much to meet your friends. Let's just leave it at that.”

Ginny looked back to smile at him, grateful for his unexpectedly easy forbearance... but instead of catching his eye, she spotted something unusual over Harry's shoulder. Her smile evapourated as she stared.

“What is it?” Harry turned to follow her gaze into a distant corner of the Great Hall. But before she could point, he had sighted it too, and inhaled sharply. “No, it couldn't be...”

They were both staring at a pair of eyes.

All of other wizards and witches in the Great Hall were still frozen, watching in fascination, fear or horror, at the spot of the impending duel between Harry and Voldemort. Every feature of every face was completely transfixed by the impending battle... except for one pair of deep grey piercing eyes.

Flaring with fascination and hatred; framed by wild, silver hair and set into a creased and unkempt face, this lone visage had locked onto the two teens.

“Lucius Malfoy is staring at us, Harry,” Ginny whispered uneasily.

“Ginny...” Harry's low voice rasped in trepidation; his skin prickled. “Meet the Legate !”

Harry awoke as a chilling breeze swept over his face, stealing its way around the edges of his blanket. He shivered, pulled the fabric closer, then opened his eyes.

Moonlight flickered through the branches above.

He looked around to gauge where, and when, he might be.

What he saw was their camp near the river. The evening's storm had blown through, leaving behind crisp, dry air of the bracing freshness.

Noticing that the fire had nearly gone out, he threw off his blanket, and rose quietly to the small pile of deadfall that remained from what Lanossëa had collected that evening. He chose a few small pieces to lay over the embers and blew on them until they sparked to life.

In the flickering half-light, he reflexively counted the blanketed forms that he knew to be those of the fugitive Iceni royalty.

One was missing.

Harry did not panic. Rather, he added two larger branches on the flames, then sat down pensively on his blanket, closing his eyes in contemplation. After less than a minute, he re-opened them and rose to his feet. Instinctively he followed a deer path leading down to the river. When he had pushed through the final row of streamside branches and felt the sandy loam beneath his feet, he stopped and gazed around.

His eyes tracked toward the west; toward the soon-to-be-setting moon, and found what he sought. She was standing on a bluff, perhaps fifty feet upstream. The breeze rippled through her hair; cold moonlight playing off its silken iridescence.

Without conscious thought, he climbed the bluff and quietly approached her.

Without turning to face him, she cocked her head slightly, invitingly.

He slid his hands around her waist and angled his head down toward hers. She nestled her body into a place it had long seemed destined to find. Her cheek, cool to the touch, pressed upwards against his equally chilled face.

Together they remained, locked in timeless comfort for the brief while that yet remained to them, silently sharing the unexpected gift of sublime solidarity.

In that cold night, the princess and the Publican both found a measure of warmth — enough to sustain them through the cold day to come.

Around sunrise, Harry resumed his semi-official breakfast role in the Grimmauld Place kitchen. He'd already set out a loaf of bread, and found eggs and rashers from the ice box but, unfortunately, he was missing one useful ingredient. Enthusiasm.

At least there was coffee. He swigged back a half cup, and quietly began the process of assembling a full spread for a household that was already started to take it for granted.

A few minutes later, the coffee began to kick in and his outlook began to improve. He told himself he'd enjoy the task; it wasn't difficult and he was quite good at it. And besides, there was a decent chance Molly would reward the effort with a pass on afternoon house-cleaning.

Making breakfast was also a good way to connect with people, which Harry appreciated after his annual isolation in Little Whinging. Late morning could get a bit wearisome with the entire cantankerous household down here competing for oxygen, but the casual early-bird coffee klatches with Ginny, Hermione and Professor Lupin were becoming a highlight for him.

Above all, Harry looked forward to time spent with Ginny, but he also valued the chance to talk to Lupin, and was getting to know a different side of Hermione, who seemed especially at ease in the small group, showing a warmth and wit that few in the household would have suspected.

Thoughts of the gathering were enough to bring a small smile to his face... but not quite a grin. He took another long pull of coffee, cracked some eggs into a pan whose rashers were beginning to sizzle, and gazed at the two chairs he and Ginny had occupied early yesterday morning.

The chairs were empty.

Harry sighed. He silently berated himself for weakness, but had to admit that he felt a bit off; stalled in some sort of discontent.

He knew the dreams were weighing on him. A while ago, he'd awoken to residual glow left from the riverside image of the Publican and Lanossëa, but that glow snuffed out as soon as he remembered the historical mess they'd soon be ensnared in.

They were like friends to him now; he hated to think that they'd be swept into tragic warfare, yet all that mattered less to him right now than those empty chairs – the girl who was not yet occupying one; not yet chatting with him; not yet lifting his spirits the way nobody else could.

Rationally, Harry knew he ought not weigh her down. He was self-reliant; his own best friend. From an early age, he'd known to never be a burden, and had gotten by without leaning on others, right?

Well, yes and no. Self-reliance had gotten Harry through plenty of danger and hardship before. He'd felt stretched, stricken and sometimes even afraid, but he'd kept his will and wits, and somehow always steered himself clear... until this summer.

Harry was just now learning that self-reliance is only as good as self-awareness... both of which had recently let him down.

The entire stretch since the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been a ghastly ordeal. Yet, through most of it, he'd been largely unaware just how truly awful things were; unaware he was fighting (and mostly losing to) his most insidious foe ever. The foe clouded his mind, strangled his will, and very nearly quenched any chance he had for surviving and prevailing in the battle with darkness.

His foe was despair.

Thinking back, it had been like endlessly circling Dementors, harrying him long before he'd stepped into that underpass, and persisting long after. His desperate gasp of defiance had expelled the real Dementors, but he'd been too weary and weak to beat back the despair. Its wreaking stench had soaked his very soul, following him even here.

By the time he'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, he'd been too fogged to sense the chasm spreading beneath him. He'd reached the very brink.

Then Ginny had 'happened'.

Life had resumed that night he'd lifted her from her bedroom floor. Every moment since then – every chat and laugh; every incidental touch of her hand, had brought healing...

Healing?

Harry stroked his chin.

Was he still healing? Was that why he instinctively still leaned on her? Like a trauma patient taking those first uncertain steps up from a hospital bed?

Was that okay?

Harry sighed. Coming to grips with a valid reason for missing her, he admitted that he did sincerely wish she was seated in that chair right now. Chatting and smiling. Drinking her tea. Glancing over in concern at the breakfast that was-

“Burning!� Harry yanked the pan from the stove. Grumbling, he scraped the charred mess onto an old plate, scowled angrily, and resolved to get his ruddy head together.

With fresh rashers and newly cracked eggs, Harry's breakfast efforts began anew... the same way Ginny had given his near-scorched life another run. Hopefully there'd still be time to still set it right.

Of course, resolving to not burn another pan of food was nothing compared to the greater matters he needed to 'set right'.

How should he prepare for the final showdown?
How much time did he have?
What will be lost? Who must die?

Harry knew none of that, but at least he had just processed a crucial first lesson – the lesson of 'never again'.

Never again anguish endlessly over the past, or there will be no future. Never again forsake the joys of the present, or there would be nothing to fight for.

Harry nodded, pleased with the wise-sounding thought. Pleased enough that he wanted to share it with someone – the one person he felt comfortable telling such things to. Now, if only she-

“Good morning, Harry.�

Harry's heart leapt... and fell. Trying to conceal his disappointment, he manufactured a smile. “G'morning Hermione.�

Hermione examined him carefully. “How are you this morning?�

Her tone had nothing to do with small talk. Harry looked away for a moment, weighing the relative merits of lying.

Lacking the energy to hold a smokescreen over a friend with x-ray vision, he opted for bluntness. “I'm actually feeling rather crappy, thank you. No, I do not feel like talking about it. And, to blatantly change the subject, how would you like your sodding eggs?�

Hermione shot him a look, then softened. Then she burst out laughing.

“What?!� Harry's left eyebrow shot up past his fringe.

“Harry Potter is back.� She wore a distinctly un-Hermione-like smirk. “You should have seen the odd duck we've been stuck with the last few days!�

"Oi!� Harry recoiled theatrically. “Since when does Ms. Granger wound with audacious wit! Bring back the cross old schoolmistress, or I'll bring back the odd duck.�

“Go ahead.� Her eyes twinkled. “He was actually sort of cute.�

“Ack!� This time Harry was jolted by duty. Darting back to the stove, he attacked the pan with a spatula. “Argh. As you distracted me, you're officially getting your eggs scrambled.�

“Suits me.� She gave him a tentative smile. “So... still feeling lousy?�

The corners of Harry's mouth curled a little. “I'm okay. I've had better mornings, but I'll be fine. Thank you for asking.�

“Would it help to know I've never see Ginny so enthused by 'work' as she's been with this project   of yours?â€�

Harry nodded, smiling.

“I'm sure she would love to be down here right now chatting with you about it.� Hermione took a seat. “If she wasn't sleeping in, that is.�

“Oh?� Harry paused for a moment. “Well, I think it's a good thing she's catching up on her rest.� He resumed his labours, hoping that his statement sounded more magnanimous than he felt.

“I agree.� Hermione poured some tea. “That's why I stopped her alarm this morning before it went off.�

“Huh?� Harry blinked. “You what?�

“I unset her alarm.� Hermione sounded slightly defiant. “Ginny's not really a morning person, Harry. The last few days, she's been adjusting her life to spend more time with you, working on your research. I told her last night I thought she ought to scale back some of those changes.�

“I beg your pardon?� Harry's eyebrow spiked.

“Don't be angry, Harry.� Hermione raised her hands defensively. “I'm not certain what you two are really up to, but I strongly suspect it's very important to both of you, and instinct tells me to support it...�

“Which is why you chose to interfere?�

“No, you thick oaf, listen to me!� Hermione's finger waggled. “You've got to be more subtle! For your own good! I've already told Ginny, and now I'm telling you – if you're truly committed to this project then the last thing you want are a bunch of hyperactive Weasleys blundering into it like a flock of well-intentioned wrecking balls!�

“Oh.� He turned away. Scooping eggs and sausage onto plates, he thought for a moment, then chuckled.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. “Did I say something to amuse you?�

“Flock of wrecking balls.� Harry grinned. “Normally I'd be a bit stiff-necked over this, but that's a brilliant image.�

“Not bad, yeah?� She smiled; her tension vanishing. “The one benefit from being mashed in here with these numpties is that they inspire me to new heights of acerbity.�

“Acerbity?� Harry winked as he served her plate. “I have no idea what that means, but I couldn't agree more.�

“Ah!� Lupin walked into the kitchen, smiling. “No better way to start the day than hearing a note of sunny consensus!�

“Erm...� Harry pursed his lips, turning to his former Professor. “Seeing as you're in such a fine mood, is it okay if we don't tell you what we just agreed about?�

Lupin raised an eyebrow then chuckled. “Suit yourself. So, have you made any progress up in the library?�

“A few more potentially relevant questions...� Harry sighed. “But in general, no, we're mostly still grasping at straws.�

“Well, I have no idea whether this has any bearing on your thesis at all, but...� Lupin paused to take a seat. “I ran across some trivia yesterday as I was thumbing my way through a new NEWT-level Defence Against Dark Arts text. It struck me as an interesting coincidence.�

“Oh? Do tell?� Harry brought him a cup of coffee.

“While reading a chapter on the origins of European dark magic, I learned that the first recorded use of the Imperius curse was by Roman wizards during the reign of Emperor Nero.�

“Nero?� Hermione stared. “He was emperor at the time of the Iceni revolt!�

“Yes, exactly.� Harry frowned. “In fact, the Imperius curse crossed my mind just yesterday as a possible sabotage tool. A brilliant coincidence – thank you, Remus!�

“Ooh.� Hermione looked from Harry to Lupin and back again. “Do you think the Imperius curse might have played a role in Queen Boadicea's defeat?�

Harry shook his head thoughtfully. “Maybe not directly, but I'd been wondering if it could have contributed to the political instability that sparked the rebellion in the first place.�

“That was my thought, too.� Lupin nodded. “It occurred to me that those terrible misunderstandings bespoke a level of misgovernance that was rare in the early empire. So, perhaps they weren't accidental?�

“Hmmm...� Harry gazed off distantly for a long moment, neither nodding, nor shaking his head.

“The sections I read were mainly focused on the origins of the modern conflict between dark and light magic. The book claims that social pressures in the emerging empire may have played a key role.� Lupin stirred his coffee. “Do you you recall the basic motivations of light and dark magic?�

“Of course.� Hermione sat up straight, as if reciting. “Light magic is traditionally practised for the greater good of society, while dark magic often arises to intimidate or persecute those that wizards deem to be inferior or threatening, or both.�

“Precisely!� Lupin beamed at her. “So as the Romans grew their empire, their Muggle administration strategically granted their conquered subjects full imperial citizenship, with all its incumbent privileges. To the magical community, this meant that their small, insular population suddenly multiplied dramatically over the course of a few short generations. Some communities were easy to absorb – especially wizards in the Mediterranean region whose practices evolved from the same Greek traditions that the Romans espoused, but others were too different for the Roman magical elite to tolerate. When confronted by northerners like the Druids, the culture shock proved overwhelming.�

Harry and Hermione nodded in grim fascination.

Lupin's face darkened. “The most immediate consequence was the formation of dark cults sworn to protect the magical purity of their own core society. But there was a second, long-term effect that reminds me of the old adage – 'necessity is the mother of invention'.�

“New spells?� Harry inquired.

“Quite so.� Lupin nodded. “The paranoia and hatred festering in these cults spurred dark creativity. Many terrible new hexes and curses were devised between about 50 B.C.E and 150 A.D. I already mentioned the Imperius, but the Cruciatus curse also came from that era; probably a bit earlier during Caligula's reign.�

“Fascinating.� Harry frowned as he reached across to serve Lupin his breakfast. “Did the book provide any descriptions of these cults? Any names?�

Lupin shook his head. “No, sorry. I don't recall reading specific names, but, well...� He paused uneasily. “I suppose that may be something you can find out on your own.�

“Oh? How?� Harry's eyes widened.

Lupin opened his mouth to reply, then froze.

Through the kitchen door, they heard the approaching sounds of the two Weasley parents arguing as made their way downstairs to breakfast.

Hermione's hand fluttered, urging haste.

With a furtive final glance toward the doorway, Lupin leaned close to whisper. “Library upstairs. The upper shelf at the back has dozens of books on dark magic.�

With every hour that the currach traveled down river, Ginny felt the tugging sensation from brooch grow a bit weaker. Hidden within her Icenian shift, the Cupla's song did still convey the ache of parting, but she did her best to push it from her thoughts. Instead, she concentrated on the waters ahead, lest a submerged branch or rock once again jolt the queen from her dark brooding.

The departure from camp that morning had been wordless. Heanua had not spoken to anyone in days. The queen and the Publican felt no desire for further speech. And to Lanossëa, the previous night had conveyed, wordlessly, everything that could be said to the man she loved. The man she had left.

Embittered by fate, and stung by the teeth of a glacial north wind, Ginny cursed silently and soldiered on.

In the early afternoon of that cheerless day, they traversed a wide bend and entered a broad expanse of water that she assumed was the confluence of the Great Ouse and Little Ouse Rivers. From there, a left turn would follow the merged rivers north through wild, unfamiliar lands, eventually finding the sea. Instinctively Ginny steered right, toward Iceni settlements lying up the smaller river to the southeast.

“Stop girl!� The queen's fierce eyes flashed open. “Where do you think you're taking us?�

“Home, mother.� Ginny's reply was factual and undaunted. Out of the accursed wind, she added silently.

“Be not a fool!� The queen pointed imperiously toward the grey north horizon. “Did you not heed my words? I require wands for myself and your sister. A great wand maker dwells in the woods to the west of the river, about eight leagues down stream. Steer us there.�

“But those are Coritani lands, Mother,� Ginny protested. “They are no friends of ours!�

“True.� Boadicea's mouth formed a thin, hard line. “But they despise the Romans even more.�

Without further argument, Ginny turned them back into the wind. After the queen had once again pulled a heavy blanket around herself and huddled into the bottom of the currach, Ginny drew her shawl tight against the growing gale and scanned the broader, calmer waterway. In the weariness of someone who had slept little overnight, she let her mind drift... and opened her eyes to the greyish late-morning haze of Grimmauld place.

“Eleven o'bloody clock?! “ Ginny shook the flimsy timepiece lurking guiltily on her night stand. “I needed to be up hours ago!�

She burst from bed, indiscriminately kicking clutter on the floor. “Less than two days to prepare for the Ministry, and I lie about all bleeding morning like some shiftless piker!�

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Ginny's thundercloud stormed its way into the corridor toward the stairway.

“Har!� Ron barked as she passed him. “The princess better hope there's a pea under her mattress, because there sure as hell won't be any breakfast left this late.�

“Naff off!� She barged past him, wasting barely a glance. For a moment, she considered simply heading straight up to third floor, but a jabbing hunger pang made it clear that she'd not concentrate well without at least an old crust to sustain her.

Hurrying into the kitchen, she did indeed find an old crust. He was sitting at the table, nursing something dark and sludgy.

“G'morning Princess.� Sirius gave her a wink.

“Call me that again and someone will be mopping blood off the ceiling,� Ginny snarled... then instantly regretting it. She turned to apologise, but instead laughed to see the rogue cowering halfway beneath the table.

“Sorry, sorry! Poor turn of phrase!â€� Sirius's wide-eyed, wobbly apology earned another laugh as he dared straighten up again. “Sorry, the word was stuck in my head from badgering my thick godson. Just finished giving him a right talking to – told him he needs to spend more time appreciating what's right and less time stewing over what's wrong. Told the dope that life will only give him one chance to find his true princess.â€�

“You believe that? Don't be ridic...� Ginny's protest stalled as she began to absorb Sirius's words.

Oblivious to the odd look crossing Ginny's face, Sirius burst up energetically. “Harry's gone to the library, but he set aside a full plate for you.� He whisked a loaded plate from the counter, placing a still-hot breakfast by her place at the table. He then proceeded to pour Ginny a glass of pumpkin juice and a cup of tea as she, dumbfoundedly, took the well-appointed seat.

She was just about to set her fork to the food, when she blinked. Staring right back at her were two sunny eggs and a healthy serving of fine rashers, all arranged about the plate like a cheery face. Breakfast with a smile! The improvised art may not have been the precise smile she had most hoped to share her meal with, but she was touched by the gesture.

Typical Harry!

For the remainder of breakfast, the actress within Ginny smiled and laughed at all of the best lines in Sirius's collection of 'silly Buckbeak' stories. Unfortunately, the amusing tales were completely lost on her... because she'd still not recovered from that offhand comment.

Something about a godson and his princess...

Yesterday's pile of assigned readings had been rearranged to make room for yet another volume – a dusty, cracked tome, adorned with strange runes. Innocuous books had been stacked around it to conceal its troubling title. 'A Historie of Magicke Moste Dark'.

With material like that, the day's studies were likely to be disturbing and interesting. Yet, by late morning, the books still lay unopened. For the time being, Harry was using his solitude for another purpose.

He was staring into the blankness of a large, flat sheet of parchment he had found inside the escritoire. Minutes had passed with almost no motion.

Finally, he dipped a quill into one of the wells and tapped away the excess ink. Beginning with slow deliberation, then growing confident, he ran the tip smoothly across the page, creating a dark satisfying stroke.

Other marks followed – smooth curves, neat cross-hatches, sharp angles and intriguing little flecks. Another world began to take shape in front of him.

After a while, Harry placed the quill in its holder and pushed back from the table. He rose from his seat and gazed at what lay before him. A curious frown alighted on his face, almost as if he was not quite certain where the picture had come from.

What lay before him had meticulous, elegant expression. The rendering was perfectly clear, even if only two people in the world would understand what it meant.

“Heavens Harry.� A gentle breath stirred across his cheek. “It's breathtaking! Look how you captured their faces in the moonlight!�

Harry hadn't heard Ginny's approach, yet for some reason he did not startle. Instead, he sighed, turning regretfully to his closest friend. “You weren't supposed to see this yet. I meant it for tomorrow but, well... sorry.�

Puzzled by both the statement and apology, Ginny angled her head; waiting for him to explain.

“I'm sorry Ginny.� Harry looked away. “First I was distracted, then busy, then imprisoned here in Grimmauld...� He paused a long moment, before exhaling. “So, this is the only gift I have for your birthday tomorrow.�

Ginny stared at him wide-eyed. And then suddenly she was no longer staring at him, because she had lunged forward to squeeze every ounce of air from Harry's chest, as only a Weasley can.

“Thank you thank you thank you.� Her whispers were ragged like a scratched phonograph.

“Yh... ...hm?�

Ginny pulled back to let him breathe. She sniffled a little, and dried a corner of her eye with her sleeve. “You know, with all this insanity, I don't think even Mum and Dad remembered my birthday, but I honestly don't care.� She grinned widely. “Because this is the best one ever!�

“Er, you mean tomorrow is... or will be...?� Harry scratched his head.

“No silly.� Ginny touched his cheek. “August eleventh is just another day – maybe a cake and silly song, and maybe not. But August tenth is the day when my best friend ever gave me the best gift ever.�

Harry responded with a goofy smile.

Ginny beamed at him, then angled back toward the escritoire, studying the sketch of the princess and the Publican embracing above the moonlit river. “I do have a question, though?�

Harry nodded.

“Where did you learn to draw like this?�

“Well, you see...� Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I actually, uh, don't have any idea...�

“Hmm... This might be useful.� Hermione traced her finger carefully along a page in one of the older, more decrepit volumes she had removed from the top shelf.

Harry and Ginny put down their own books to listen.

“Let's see now...� She squinted a moment. “This will only be a rough translation because I'm not very good with German.�

Ginny rolled her eyes. Harry smirked.

“Okay, here's the general gist.� Hermione cleared her throat. “'We know from comparing the charters of other distinguished societies, that they share not only the ideals, but most likely the same origins as our own Gesellschaft für Magische Säuberung...'� She paused for a moment to think. “Er, I believe that translates as 'Society for Magical Cleansing'.�

Ginny and Harry nodded.

Hermione's finger traced along the passage as she continued. “'Other societies most closely mirroring our noble objectives include the English 'Order of Death Eaters', the Italian 'Federazione della Purezza', and 'La Flamme Purificatrice' from France. Our scholars have concluded that each of these organizations likely descends from 'The Glorious Order of Letum', a courageous defender of civilized Magical Society, founded more than one thousand six hundred years ago.'�

Hermione paused to glance at the volume's cover. “This book was published in 1645, so this 'Order of Letum' must have originated in Roman times. Does that help you at all?�

“Blimey!� Harry looked at Hermione for an inscrutable moment, then fell silent, gazing into the distance.

Ginny studied Harry for a moment, then turned to Hermione. “So Death Eaters were around in the seventeenth century, and had their origins a lot earlier?�

“It would appear that way.� Hermione nodded.

“Interesting.� Ginny drew a breath through her teeth. “Some filth is ancient filth, yeah? I always thought they were just cronies groveling to Tom Riddle.�

Hermione looked at her curiously. “You use that name for... you know... ?�

“A name is just a name.� Ginny shook her head dismissively. “Dumbledore is forever badgering the Order to get over their silly phobia.�

“Yes, that's true.� Pursing her lips, Hermione gazed at the window. “Speaking of Professor Dumbledore, I'm sure that he or Professor Lupin would know far more than I about how the Death Eaters evolved, but my own guess is that they swelled and dwindled through the years. If Professor Lupin is correct that Dark Magic is strongest when the insular elite feels most threatened, then perhaps the current crop of Death Eaters emerged from the same mid-century tensions that Grindelwald thrived in. Regardless, I suspect they now bear far more allegiance to, er... Riddle, than to any ancient tradition. Harry, what do you think? You've met more of them than we have.�

“Huh? Oh, right.� Harry pulled himself back from deeper ponderings. Frowning, he took a moment to silently replay the conversation. “Uh yeah, I think it's safe to say that most modern Death Eaters are spineless stooges. As far whether Voldemort co-opted an existing group, or merely recycled the name, I don't think it matters much. What most interests me is how much Snake-face knows about the ancient origins.�

“Ancient origins?� Hermione stared at him, beginning to fit tricky puzzle pieces together. “You're curious what Voldemort might know of the Order of Letum? And you also believe the cult may have played some role in the Iceni Rebellion?�

Ginny gave Harry an uncomfortable glance, but Harry nodded, conveying that he would answer.

“Yes, and perhaps.� Harry turned back to Hermione. “I think it's probable the cult was at least peripheral to the rebellion. I'm hazy on the details but I also believe that, around the time of the Rebellion, something else happened. Something with major bearing on Voldemort's future success. Or his failure.�

“Something?� Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Could you be more specific? Any hints or details that might help us narrow down what to search for?�

“Not yet. I think we'll have wait a bit longer to see...�

Harry caught himself, realising it would sound stupid to suggest 'waiting to see'  something that had taken place many centuries ago.

“No, Hermione,� Ginny broke in. “It's difficult to explain, but Harry and I just need more time to think about this.�

Hermione's narrow eyes darted between Ginny and Harry, then she shook her head. “Have you any idea how frustrating the two of you are?�

“Yes, I suppose so.� Harry grinned sheepishly.

“Uh huh.� Ginny offered a small contrite smile. “Sorry.�

If circumspection is a sin, then Harry and Ginny had to do penance.

After supper, Hermione browbeat them into joining in a gobstones tournament that the twins were organising for that evening. It would be 'good cover', Hermione had argued. It should help convince the others that Ginny and Harry were their regular 'normal' selves, and not up to something intensely secretive that others might otherwise feel compelled to poke their noses into.

Hermione's missive was not greeted with enthusiasm. There were still lots of books be to scoured, and they were running out of time to research before the Ministry appointment, but they reluctantly agreed.

As the tournament unfolded, Ginny nonetheless proved to all that she was a tough competitor in the somewhat revolting game. By the time she faced off against Fred in the tourney final, she had not been gobbed a single time.

Harry on the other hand, had required three trips to the loo to wash off the foul liquid, and had been the second player eliminated. While others continued to cheer and jeer for the finalists late into the evening, he found himself sitting quietly in the corner, gazing into the fire... feeling anxious, though he wasn't sure why.

Occasionally, Hermione took her eyes off the inane competition to steal furtive glances at her friend, wondering what exactly Harry was thinking about, sitting quietly by the fire. She also pondered whether his 'thinking' was somehow aimed at resolving how an ancient mystery could relate to Voldemort's supposed advantages for some future conflict?

Over the course of the next while, Hermione noticed Harry silently tuning out the chaotic room; gradually slipping into something like an open-eyed trance. And that was then it suddenly occurred to Hermione...

Dreams!

Hermione recalled how Harry had experienced terrible, disturbing nightmares in the past – some of which would seem eerily similar or relevant to frightening real events that he couldn't have possibly experienced or even known about.

Was Harry having strange dreams again?

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

The one thing that the 'dream' hypothesis did not explain was why Ginny seemed to be so intimately involved in all of his mysterious deliberations. That part did not make sense...

Ginny, meanwhile, was not dreaming. She was seriously wrapped up in her assigned chore of acting unseriously. She had never been a huge fan of gobstones, but things were definitely going her way this evening. Half an hour into a fiercely fought final, Fred was playing with his usual intensity, but she still had the upper hand. If she could just hold him off a while longer, she could probab...

A shiver ran through her. Subconsciously, she slid a hand into her pocket, touched the brooch, and felt a deep, bracing chill.

Ginny glanced quickly about the assembled faces, all bantering, grinning and laughing... except for Hermione. The older girl was frowning and stealing a glance to the far corner of the room, by the fire... toward Harry.

Ginny herself twisted around for a moment to catch a quick glimpse of her best friend. Muscles in Harry's face were tense... and was that a sheen of perspiration on his...?

Splattt!!

“My point!� Fred's fist pumped jubilantly. Ron and George hooted loudly, sniggering at the gob running down their sister's cheek.

Antsy in a way that had nothing to do with the match, Ginny turned back to the gobstones circle. Dabbing the slime from her face with an old kerchief, her mind raced. Then she raised her hand. “Time out, please.�

“Ho ho!� George grinned. “L'il Gin-Gin's feeling the heat!�

“Time out approved.� Fred leaned back, looking quite pleased. “But everyone keep an eye out that she doesn't try to slip old 'Sulphur Spray ' back onto her pile. That stone's illegal.�

Ginny, however, went nowhere near her pile. Instead she shuffled over several paces on knees, angled her head towards Hermione to audibly whisper, “Can you go get some tea on, luv?�

In the buzz that followed, however, nobody but Hermione heard her faint coda. “Take Harry. I'll be quick.�

“Ginny's already ordering tea!� Ron smirked. “She thinks she'll take you down fast, Fred!�

“You bet!� Ginny replied with a wide counterfeit grin... then she proceeded to calculate the least suspicious way to lose quickly.

“Okay Harry.� Hermione brooked no dispute as she handed him a steaming cup. “No more evasion. No excuses. What's the matter?�

“I, uh, don't feel very well.� Harry raised the cup to his lips, absently forgetting to add milk or even blow on it. “Oi!�

“Well thank you for enlightening me.� Hermione rolled her eyes, pouring him a glass of cold water for his burnt mouth. “Care to elaborate a bit?�

“I... uh...� Harry fidgeted, drinking the water.

“Were you having a bad dream?� Hermione's pitch rose slightly.

Harry stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not yet.� He took another drink of water, then cautiously re-attempted the tea.

“Not yet??� Hermione blinked at the odd but earnest answer. “Are you, uhhh, planning to?�

“Planning to have a bad dream?� The corners of Harry's mouth twitched slightly before seriousness reasserted itself. “No Hermione, I'm not planning any of this. But sometimes dreams come... and sometimes I can sort of sense when they're likely to hit.�

“What sort of dream...?� Hermione began asking, before hesitating over how to phrase a rather strange question.

“I don't know – I haven't had it yet.� Harry shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Harry!� Ginny whipped into the kitchen, closing the door. “Are you okay?� Unconsciously taking his hand, she slid into the seat next to him, studying his face.

Harry's gaze flickered from the pretty hand grasping his own, across to several sacrificial gobstone smears trailing down the girl's jumper, to the wide-eyed look of concern etched in her face.

He smiled... for the moment grateful to just live for the moment.

It took several seconds for the warmth of Harry's smile to register with Ginny, but then it did and, hesitantly, a small smile of her own formed to acknowledge a moment of special friendship... then the worry reasserted. She squeezed his hand. “Are you okay, Harry?�

“Right now, I'm more than okay.� Harry looked weary but content. “I'm sitting here with two wonderful friends. No lame jokes or tiresome horseplay. No more bleeding gobstones...�

Hermione laughed. Ginny's eyes darted down to the sticky accretions on her jumper and she groaned, reaching for a napkin.

“Anyway,� Harry continued, “I'm okay for now. I may be run through the ringer a bit tonight, but these are only dreams, right?�

Ginny and Hermione both regarded him skeptically.

“I'll be fine.� His tone was sincere. “If you're up early tomorrow morning, then let's maybe talk it over. With luck, hopefully we'll learn something.�

“I don't know, Harry.� Ginny chewed her lip. “I feel like I should stay with you tonight. I think it could help to...�

“No.� Hermione waved dismissively. “You've made fine progress today to throw jackels off the scent, but there's no way we can discretely arrange for you two to spend another night together, and... well I can't think of anything else we could try, other than maybe asking Sirius for some Dreamless Sleep potion.�

“No Hermione.� Harry shook his head. “The dream has to happen; I'm certain of it. I doubt it'll be pleasant, but I think we'd be far worse off if I tried to avoid it.�

“Very well then.� Hermione frowned. “Ginny, I think we'll just have to trust Harry to get himself through tonight, and we'll be there for him in the morning. Is that okay?�

Ginny pursed her lips silently for a long time, but did not quite disagree.

“A special pleasure to see you again, my dear Publican.� The heavy, balding Roman clapped Harry on the shoulder, oozing a too-wide smile. “Such a fine fortune that, by merest chance, I should be called here to Camboricum on the very same day that you should choose to visit. May I offer you more wine?�

“No thank you, esteemed Procurator.� Harry stepped toward the doorway. “I must not take any more of your valued time. As long as you can assure me that a messenger has been sent to the Proconsul notifying him of this breach of treaty, I shall leave you to your important responsibilities, and return myself to my own.�

“Treaty?� A flicker of vexation crossed the Procurator's face, replaced immediately by his unnervingly effusive grin. “I'm not aware of any treaty with the Iceni, per se, but do rest assured that your message has already been sent. I am most confident that we will be quickly able to resolve this foolish little squabble to your most exacting satisfaction!�

“Now, I bid you, stay!� The man pushed a goblet toward Harry's hand, splashing rich, dark wine. “Tell me some stories of our lands to the east. A merry folk, these barbarous Iceni?�

“They are sober, just and wise.� Harry sidestepped the goblet, moving closer to the door. “Now, if you may excuse my departure, I have need of...�

“You have no needs that I cannot meet, my cherished Peuerellius.� The Procurator clasped Harry's hand. “In fact, for your sole comfort, I have obtained a ravishing young maiden of the Cantii. You must come meet her!� The man's fleshy lips gleamed luridly in the torch light. “You shall swoon under her pleasures! Her skin is white like the virgin Appenine snows of winter; her eyes are the brightest of sapphires, her...�

“No!� Harry tore his hand away. “My sincerest regrets, your honour, but I have urgent responsibilities in the name of Rome and Britannia.�

Harry swept through the door and out into the dusky night... but a final surreptitious glance back through the closing door revealed the Procurator scurrying toward a rear chamber of his quarters.

Anxiety suddenly spiking, Harry disillusioned himself. He turned from the pelagus platea running through the center of town, and instead made for the muddy paths skirting the aft edges of the many military dwellings and pens.

The Publican's quarters in Camboricum were located on the north outskirts of the military district. He spent little time there, preferring to dwell along the Roman roads and the open countryside on the eastern frontier, mostly leaving his official residence in the hands of two trusted servants of Catuvellauni heritage. In his brief conversations with the pair early this afternoon, he had been informed that, several times earlier that day, Roman soldiers had tarried nearby, observing the building... and one had stopped in late afternoon to politely inquire if the master of the residence was expected home soon.

None of that boded well.

Drawing level with an alley with a view to the platea, Harry heard and then briefly saw, two horsemen race past.

That also did not bode well... yet he continued stealthily on his way.

By the northern fringe of the district, the buildings along the platea were quite sparse. Approaching within two hundred feet of his residence, he was able, even by the low light, to see clear across to his property. No lamps were lit within his quarters; nobody appeared to be on the grounds, but... there!   On the street nearby, he spied a slight movement in the darkness.

Edging cautiously closer, he was able to distinguish the shape of a single horse, tied to a post in deep shadow, its breath rising in ghostly puffs through the cold night air. Squinting, he detected a second shape as well – a tall man clad all in black, apparently watching the building, waiting, perfectly motionless.

Unease, even some undefined fear, prickled Harry's skin. Instinct urged him to turn away, but he somehow felt a need, a compulsion, to learn who the dark horseman might be. After all, surely the true reason for this dream was to learn deep secrets hidden far back in time...

Harry's left foot raised and moved toward the mysterious figure, landing silently on the soft ground. His right foot did the same. Step after cautious step, Harry moved toward the man. Approaching close enough to pause and observe more closely, Harry slowed... but could not stop!

Straining to halt his traitorous legs, Harry wrestled hard against his straining foot, forced it to the ground... and snapped a brittle twig!

The tall horseman whipped toward Harry, gazing across in the darkness. He threw back his black hood and stepped out of the shadow. Ice flooded Harry's every vein as the man smiled.

Calm, vaguely amused, the rider's face...

Could not possibly be...!

Had to be...?

... the spitting image of Harry Potter!

The cold dark eyes pierced effortlessly through Harry's disillusionment spell.

“You should not try to hide from us father.� The cold face exuded eerie charm.

Harry was just scrabbling for his wand when he was hit in the back with a stunner. Barely clinging to consciousness, he glimpsed a second face hovering above him, waving a wand to cancel Harry's disillusionment charm. The Latin incantation, “Invenias qui honorem,� echoed hollow in Harry's mind as everything faded.

Harry was numb. Detached. He tried instinctively to touch his face... but discovered that he could find neither a face, nor a hand to touch it with.

Opening non-existent eyes, he gazed around... someplace dim. It was not as dark as the cold Camboricum night. There were torches flickering from oddly carved brackets set about stone walls. A glimmer of twilight was beginning to show in tall Gothic windows.

It took several minutes, but Harry recognized this place... sort of.

In this dream, Harry seemed to floating, disembodied, about a room that resembled the Great Hall at Hogwarts. However, the Hogwarts had never sported gleaming, pitch-black mahogany furniture trimmed in green velvet. It also did not have...

Bloody hell!!

Harry's non-corporeal stomach wrenched as though stricken with a dagger.

Skulls!

The brackets holding the flickering torches were not odd carvings. On closer inspection, each was made from the leering remains of a human head.

Then the distant pulses began.

Th-th-th-th-thud... Th-th-th-th-Thud... Th-th-th-th-THUD... Th-th-th-th-THUD!

The noise steadily grew – a heartbeat drawing inexorably closer and closer... until the sound resolved itself into a procession. Scores on scores of black-cloaked, hooded children and youth marched into the Hall in totalitarian unison, arrayed from smallest to tallest.

The procession fanned out across the Hall into a broad, multi-tiered semi-circle – smaller children forming the inner ring and taller youth spanning the periphery.

Everyone came to a halt. The last students to enter reached their appointed positions, and the entire assembly went stone silent; rigid...

Moments stretching into minutes. Nothing happened. No move nor rustle; not a single cough, murmur or giggle.

Harry was horrified. Disembodied, he had an impotent urge to yell or shout; anything to fill the ghastly vacuum. He wanted to shout, 'Hey! You're children! Move! Run! Laugh and shout! Do something!!'

But he too remained frozen. All was transfixed until...

SSWISSSSSSH!!

The right arm of every child and youth thrust out. Hundreds of black wands extended, like spines of an inverted sea urchin, pointing to the center of the semicircle.

“Good morning children!�

The thin, reedy voice chilled Harry in vapours of despair. Amidst the horrifying children, he had not noticed the emergence of a massive black throne at the far end of the Hall, on the raised dais where the staff table should have been. He had not observed a vile figure seated high above his subjects, in repugnant ostentation.

“GOOD MORNING OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE, � sang the haunting sound of every child's voice raised in flawless, inhuman unanimity.

“On this fine morning, after your night of diligent labours, after your year of dedication, I have gathered you all, my dear students of The Lord Voldemort School of Magical Purity, to induct our esteemed Graduate Class of 1998 in the manner of our forefathers.�

“OH THANK YOU, OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! �

“Yes, children, you are wise to thank me. Yet I also bestow a token of my own gratitude, to each of you, as fellow protectors of the pure.�

“BY YOUR GRACE, LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! �

“Indeed children, I see you have all drawn your wands.�

“FOR SO WE MAY DO YOUR BIDDING, OUR BENEVOLENT LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! �

“Ah, very good.� The repugnant voice was greased with saccharine self-satisfaction. “Then on this fine morning we together shall sanctify our hallowed walls with one more torch, to forever burn that which was once impure.�

The entire assembly fell into deep, expectant silence, before Voldemort once again raised his voice.

“Prefects! Bring forth the impure!�

For the barest moment, Harry glimpsed four stern young men and women. Dressed in black and green silk, they were entering the Hall through a high archway, solemnly levitating the prostrate body of an old woman, clothed only in a ragged white sheet...

With neither wand nor body, unable to even contemplate the obscene atrocity to come, Harry knew only one possible recourse.

“STOP!!!�

The horrific scene extinguished.

Gasping, Harry glanced frantically about his Grimmauld Place bedroom. In near darkness, his anguished eyes somehow found the frightened but resolute face of Ginny Weasley.

He stared blankly, half-paralysed, until the love and concern in her eyes tore away the remnants of his dream wall, and he collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“It's okay Harry.� Her grip tightened gently around him. “The dream is done. You're safe. You're with me.�

“I don't exist, Ginny,� Harry mumbled disconsolately. “I've never existed. I can't save anyone. I'm powerless, because now I'll never even be born...�

“You're right here in my arms.� Ginny tenderly stroked the back of his neck. “You exist, Harry James Potter. You're as good and as strong as ever. The dreams are over, and you're right here, holding me.�

“Bloody hell??� A disheveled masculine form surged from the other bed. “What do you effing think you're doing in my bloody room?!�

Two large feet thumped hard on the wooden floor and the tall frame of Ron Weasley loomed over them, shaking a dangerously sparking wand. “Ginny, you've got two stinking seconds to get your wretched litt...�

“Stupefy!�

Ron crumpled to the floor revealing, to Harry's and Ginny's bewildered eyes, the unusually sober face of Sirius Black.

Sirius's gaze darted from Harry and Ginny locked in their embrace on the bed... to Ron twitching on the floor... and finally over his shoulder to Hermione who had followed him into the room and was standing several paces back wearing a shocked expression.

Sirius exhaled deeply. “Okay kids.� He put away his wand and scratched his head. “Raise your hand, whoever who wants to explain to me what the hell is going on.�

Once again, Harry found himself alone in the Grimmauld Place kitchen shortly after sunrise. Unlike the past several days, however, he was neither looking nor feeling particularly dynamic. He still went about the motions of breakfast preparation, thus ensuring that a household that had quickly begun to take his services for granted would still awaken today to a hearty meal. However, they might have to do without any cheerful whistling or self-effacing smiles... because Harry was lacking a certain spark.

Harry wasn't regretting his commitment to breakfast. Since voluntarily assuming morning meal responsibilities, he had grown very fond of the lively exchanges that only seemed possible while the Grimmauld's most garrulous (and least cerebral) occupants were all still asleep. With most of the day monopolized by talk of house cleaning (Molly's favourite topic), Quidditch, pranks and embarrassing bodily functions (the twins), or how bloody useless everything and everyone else was (Ron), Harry found the early morning hour to be an interesting and refreshing change of pace.

Harry had been most pleasantly surprised by Hermione's company. Her subtle warmth and wit seemed to peak during their little morning discourses, before dropping beneath the austere shell she wore when things got stressful or chaotic. Harry also enjoyed Remus Lupin's friendly demeanour, extensive knowledge and gentle wisdom.

Yes, these little breakfast table perks were reliable and would be coming soon enough, and that was enough to bring a small smile to Harry's face.

But not a grin.

After cracking some eggs into a heated pan in which rashers were just beginning to softly sizzle, Harry took a long pull on the cup of thick, dark coffee that was sustaining him. He gazed at the two chairs he and Ginny had occupied early yesterday morning, and sighed at the sight of how empty they seemed.

Harry silently berated himself for being weak, but the fact of the matter was that his emotions were a muddled mess. With last night's dreams still fresh in his mind, he had awoken to a surge of vicarious hope for the Publican and Lanossëa who somehow seemed to have begun to recognize their feelings for each other. Unfortunately, there was also a sinking regret for the same two characters, whom fate seemed bound to pull apart. There were other, intangible pressures squeezing him in various ways but, above all, he found himself wrestling with a nagging uncertainty about how he was supposed to feel about... how he ought to act around... the girl who was on his mind more than anyone else these days.

As a natural loner, Harry tried not to depend on others, yet he could no longer deny that he was starting to rely on Ginny in ways that he had never before expected of any friend.

Friendship had rarely been a source of unconditional comfort to Harry in the past, but spending time with her during the past few days had transformed him. Her spirit had gotten him back on his feet and helped him conquer his harrowing depression.

More than anything, this new beginning with Ginny was a chance to say 'never again'. Never again squander an entire month anguishing over a horrific past, or his future would be no better. Never again overlook the happiness ready to be discovered in the present.

Ginny's company was so fun and exciting that he'd barely had time to contemplate the feelings that he held for his new best friend, but now the quiet of the early morning kitchen was setting his mind loose to wander.

Harry somehow understood that the sensations Ginny inspired in his chest were unlike anything he'd ever experienced. There was none of the queasy skittishness he vaguely recalled having once felt around Cho Chang. Instead, it all seemed so simple and natural...

Indeed it probably was simple and natural, except when he let himself think about things. Once he started doing that, everything began to look much more ponderously complicated...

In any normal world, there was nothing healthier and more satisfying than enjoying the company of someone who also enjoys your company, right? But the world of Harry Potter was not normal. However much he loved to talk to Ginny Weasley; no matter how he wished he was sitting across from her at this very moment, listening to her calm assurances, Harry could not shake the guilty concern that his friendship might be the worst thing to ever happen to her.

What if it was his fault she had become ensnared in his dreams?

Dreams... Harry's thoughts all seemed to begin and end with them.

Harry Potter was no stranger to dreams. He regarded them both fascination and trepidation. Last year, they had afforded him some unexpected glimpses into Voldemort's machinations. During the nadir of his recent depression, Harry had decided that a careful reading of those dreams might have prevented the horrific tragedy in Little Hangleton. He had now finally resolved not to torment himself any further over past failures, but he wasn't above using them as motivation. Never again would he overlook any potential insight presented in his dreams.

But what did it mean for someone to be sharing those dreams?

Harry was baffled. How should he react to Ginny's no-nonsense embrace of this affliction? Some of these visions had been heinous and demoralizing; how could she still pledge to stand by him in a struggle that could cost them both their lives?!

Harry could accept that she wanted to help. He had been grateful for those other people who courageously stood with him in the past, but nobody had ever come to him under conditions so vague, bewildering and utterly perilous as this!

And yet Harry knew that he couldn't turn Ginny away. On top of that, although he couldn't possibly expect anything beyond what she had already offered freely and determinedly, he knew he wanted something more.

He simply wished she was here; wished she were speaking to him in that lively, melodious voice of hers...

Harry closed his eyes, exhaling slowly and deeply for a moment. He straightened himself, began to tend the eggs, and tried not to spend every minute hoping that he'd hear her voice...

“Good morning, Harry.”

The not-quite-melodious female voice that jolted him out of his thoughts was, once again... only Hermione.

“G'morning!” Harry manufactured a smile that, although undoubtedly not glowing, might hopefully conceal his disappointment.

Hermione examined him carefully. “How are you this morning?”

Harry could tell by her tone that the question had nothing to do with small talk. He stared at her for a moment, weighing the relative merits of lying. Deciding that he didn't have the energy to hold a smokescreen over a friend with x-ray vision, he opted to be blunt. “I'm actually feeling rather crappy, thank you. No, I do not feel like talking about it. And, to blatantly change the subject, how would you like your sodding eggs?”

Hermione fixed him with a glare, but it softened. A moment later, she was laughing.

“What?!” Harry's left eyebrow shot up past his fringe.

“Harry Potter is back.” She wore a distinctly un-Hermione-like smirk. “You should have seen the odd duck we've been stuck with the last few days!”

Harry couldn't help chuckling at her audacity. “Since when does Hermione Granger wound people with insufferable wit?” He sighed tragically. “If you don't bring the old schoolmistress back, then I'll bring back the odd duck.”

“Go ahead.” Hermione's eyes twinkled. “He was actually sort of cute.”

“Ack! Schoolmistress Granger would never have said anything like that!” Harry gazed in mock-horror for a moment, then suddenly recalled his duties, darting back to the stove. He huffed and began to attack the pan with a spatula. “Okay then, because you distracted me, you're officially getting your eggs scrambled.”

“Whatever.” Hermione shrugged. “So then. Still feeling lousy?” She gave him a tentative smile.

The corners of Harry's mouth curled a bit. “I'm okay. I've had better mornings, but I'll be okay, Thank you for asking.”

“Would it help to know that I'm certain Ginny would like to be down here with you.”

Harry paused for a moment in his cooking, then shrugged. “She has the right to sleep in from time to time.” Harry resumed his labours, hoping that his statement sounded more magnanimous than he felt.

“I agree,” Hermione responded, “which is why I stopped her alarm this morning before it went off.”

“Huh?” Harry muttered, turning to his friend with a quizzical expression.

“Ginny's not really a morning person, Harry,” Hermione explained. “The last few days, she's been adjusting a lot of her ways in order to can spend more time with you, working on... this research of yours. I told her last night that I felt she ought to scale back some of those changes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry inquired somewhat darkly.

“Don't be angry, Harry,” Hermione responded quickly. “I'm not quite certain what you two are up to, but I strongly suspect that it's very important to both of you, and my instincts are somehow telling me to support it...”

“Which is why you find it necessary to interfere?” Harry surmised with a raised eyebrow.

“No, you thick oaf, listen to me!” Hermione instructed, brandishing an irritable finger at him. “I've already told Ginny, and now I'm telling you — please try to be more subtle! For your own good! If you're truly committed to this... project... then the last thing you want are a bunch of hyperactive Weasleys blundering into it like a battalion of well-intentioned wrecking balls!”

“Oh,” Harry replied contritely. Silently scooping eggs and bacon onto plates, he thought it over for a few moments, then chuckled.

“Yes...? ” Hermione inquired suspiciously.

“Great metaphor,” he answered, turning toward her with a grin. “Normally I'd be a lot more stiff-necked over this, but you made me laugh.”

Hermione tittered slightly. “Not bad, yeah?” she responded with a genuine smile. “If there's one benefit from being mashed in here with all these numpties, it's that they inspire me to new heights of acerbity.”

“I have no idea what 'acerbity' means,” Harry admitted with a wink as he served her plate, “but I couldn't agree more!”

“Ah!” Lupin proclaimed as he walked into the kitchen. “No better way to start the day than with a note of sunny consensus!”

“Erm,” Harry replied, turning quickly toward his former Professor. “Seeing as you're in such a good mood, is it okay if we don't tell you what we were just agreeing about?”

Lupin raised an eyebrow then chuckled. “Suit yourself,” he answered. “So, have you made any progress up in the library?”

“A few more potentially relevant questions,” Harry responded, “but in general, no, we don't have much more insight than we did before.”

“Well, I have no idea whether this has any bearing on your thesis at all,” Lupin mused, “but I ran across a bit of trivia yesterday as I was thumbing my way through a new NEWT-level Defence Against Dark Arts text. It struck me as an interesting little coincidence...”

“What was it?” Harry asked with interest.

“While reading about the origins of European dark magic, I learned that the first recorded description of the Imperius curse was by Roman wizards during the reign of Emperor Nero.”

“Nero?” Hermione exclaimed. “He was emperor at the time of the Iceni revolt!”

“Yes, exactly,” Harry agreed. “In fact, the Imperius curse crossed my mind just yesterday as a possible sabotage tool. That really is a brilliant little coincidence — thank you, Remus!”

“Do you think the Imperius curse might have played a role in Queen Boadicea's defeat, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head thoughtfully. “Maybe not directly, but I wouldn't be surprised if it may have somehow contributed to the political instability that led to the rebellion in the first place.”

“That was what I was wondering,” Lupin affirmed. “It occurred to me that those terrible misunderstandings bespoke a level of misgovernance that was rare in the early empire. But what if they weren't purely accidental?”

“Hmmm...” Harry mused, gazing off distantly for a long moment, neither nodding, nor shaking his head.

“The chapter I read was mainly focused on the origins of the modern conflict between dark and light magic. The book claims that social pressures in the emerging empire may have played a key role,” Lupin continued. “Do you you recall the basic motivations of light and dark magic?”

Hermione nodded. “Light magic is traditionally practised for the greater good of society, while dark magic often arises in order to intimidate or persecute people that wizards deem to be inferior or threatening, or both.”

“Precisely!” Lupin agreed. “So as the Romans grew their empire, the Muggle administration strategically opted to grant their conquered subjects full imperial citizenship, with all its incumbent privileges. To the magical community, this meant that their small, insular society suddenly multiplied dramatically in population over the course of a few short generations. Some communities were easy to absorb — especially wizards in the Mediterranean region whose practices employed the same Greek traditions that the Romans descended from, but others were too different for the Roman magical elite to tolerate. When confronted by northerners like the Druids, the culture shock proved overwhelming.”

Harry and Hermione both nodded in grim fascination.

“The most immediate consequence,” Lupin resumed, “was the formation of dark cults sworn to protect the magical purity of their own little society. But there was a second, long-term effect that reminds me of the old adage — 'necessity is the mother of invention '.”

“New spells?” Harry inquired.

“Quite so!” Lupin agreed. “The paranoia and hatred festering in these cults toward the barbarians reached a level that spurred great creativity. Many terrible new hexes and curses were devised between about 50 B.C.E and 150 A.D. I already mentioned the Imperius, but the Cruciatus curse also came from that era; probably a bit earlier during Caligula's reign.”

“Fascinating,” Harry muttered; frowning as he reached across to serve Lupin his breakfast. “Did the book provide any descriptions of these cults? Any names?”

Lupin shook his head. “No, sorry, I don't recall reading any specifics like that, but, well...” he mused, then paused for a long moment before adding uneasily, “that's probably something you can find out for yourself.”

“Oh? How?” Harry asked eagerly.

Lupin opened his mouth to speak, then froze.

Through the kitchen door, they heard the approaching sounds of Molly arguing with Arthur about something as the two Weasley parents made their way downstairs to breakfast.

Reflexively, Hermione gestured to Lupin, urging him to answer quickly.

With a furtive final glance toward the doorway, Lupin leaned in close to Harry and Hermione. “Library upstairs,” he whispered. “The upper shelf at the back has dozens of books on dark magic!”

With every hour that the currach traveled down river, the tugging sensation from brooch hidden within Ginny's shift grew a bit weaker... but the ache that she had felt upon parting was still clear within its subtle song. For now, however, she resolved to push the faint beckoning call out of her thoughts. Instead, she fixed her eyes singularly upon the river ahead, lest a submerged branch or rock once again jolt the queen from her dark thoughts.

The departure from camp that morning had been wordless. Heanua had not spoken to anyone in days. The queen and the Publican felt no desire for further speech. And to Lanossëa, the previous night had conveyed, wordlessly, everything that could be said... upon parting from the man she loved.

Stung by the teeth of a glacial north wind, Ginny cursed silently, and propelled them steadily downstream.

In the early afternoon of that cheerless day, after traversing a wide bend, the river opened up into a broad expanse that she assumed was the confluence of the Great and Little Ouse Rivers. From here, the merged rivers would meander their way to the sea, whereas Iceni settlements lay up the smaller river to the southeast. Instinctively Ginny steered right, toward their homeland.

“Stop girl!” the queen shouted, stirring suddenly from her shrouded reverie. “Where do you think you're taking us?”

“Home, mother,” Ginny replied factually. And out of the accursed wind, she added silently.

“Be not a fool!” Boadicea excoriated. “Did you not hear me say that I had need of wands for myself and your sister. A great wand seller dwells in the woods to the west of the river, about eight leagues down stream. Steer us there,” she commanded.

“But those are Coritani lands, Mother,” Ginny protested. “They are no friends of ours!”

“True,” her mother muttered grimly. “But they despise the Romans even more.”

Without further argument, Ginny turned them back onto a downstream course. After the queen had once again pulled a heavy blanket around herself and huddled into the bottom of the currach, Ginny drew her shawl tight against the growing gale and scanned the broader, calmer waterway. In the weariness of someone who had slept little overnight, she let her mind drift... and opened her eyes to the greyish mid-morning haze of Grimmauld place.

“Eleven o'bloody clock?! “ Ginny raged, shaking the flimsy timepiece that had been lurking guilty on her night stand. “I needed to be up hours ago!” she seethed, bursting from bed and indiscriminately kicking objects that cluttered the floor nearby. “Less than two days to prepare for the Ministry, and I lay about all bleeding morning like some shiftless piker!”

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Ginny's thundercloud stormed its way into the corridor and onto the stairway.

“Har!” Ron barked as she passed him. “The princess better hope there's a pea under her mattress, because there sure as hell won't be any breakfast left this late.”

“Naff off!” she declared succinctly, not wasting the barest glance at him. For a moment, she considered simply heading straight up to third floor, but a sharp hunger pang jabbed her midsection, making it obvious that concentration would be futile without at least an old crust to sustain her.

Steering herself into the kitchen, she did indeed find an old crust. He was sitting at the table, nursing something dark and sludgy.

“G'morning Princess,” Sirius proclaimed with a wink.

“Next person to call me that is going to be mopping blood off the ceiling,” Ginny snarled... but she instantly regretting it. With a look of contrition, she turned to apologise, but instead burst out laughing at the sight of the rogue cowering, halfway beneath the table.

“Sorry, sorry — the word was stuck in my head!” Sirius pleaded from his comically timourous crouch. “Just finished badgering my thick godson — gave him a right talking to! Told him he needs to spend more time embracing what's right and less time fixing what's wrong. Reminded the dope that life will only give him this one chance to find his true princess.”

“You believe that? Don't be ridic...” Ginny's protest faltered as her foggy brain began trying to parse Sirius's words.

Oblivious to the strange look crossing Ginny's face, her companion burst up energetically. “Harry's gone to the library, but he set aside a full plate for you,” Sirius announced, whisking the last hot breakfast from the stove to her place at the table. He poured her a glass of pumpkin juice and a cup of tea as Ginny, dumbfoundedly, took the well-appointed seat.

Ginny gazed at her food and blinked. Staring right back at her were two sunny eggs and a healthy serving of fine rashers, all artfully arranged about the plate to depict a cheery face. Breakfast with a smile!

The smile on her plate may not have been the precise smile she had most hoped to share breakfast with, but she appreciated the gesture. Typically thoughtfully Harry!

For the remainder of breakfast, the actress within Ginny smiled and laughed at all of the best lines in Sirius's collection of 'silly Buckbeak' stories. Unfortunately, the amusing tales were completely lost on her... because her mind had still not recovered from that offhand comment.

Something about a godson and his princess...

The stack of books from yesterday had been pushed to the side. A new tome, dusty and cracked, and decorated with mysterious old runes, had been added to the pile, but it lay unopened. Several other innocuous books had been stacked around it to largely conceal the title ('A Historie of Magicke Moste Dark ') from prying eyes, until Harry was ready to start reading it.

Harry was not currently reading. At the moment, all of his attention was absorbed by a large, blank sheet of fine papyrus that he had found inside the escritoire. Minutes went by as he stared, unmoving, into the creamy blankness. Finally, with deliberation — slowly but with surprising confidence — he dipped a quill into one of the wells, tapped the excess ink back into the reservoir and ran the tip smoothly across the page, creating a dark satisfying line.

Other marks followed — smooth curves, neat cross-hatches, sharp angles and intriguing little flecks — as another world began to take shape in front of him.

After an indeterminate time, Harry placed the quill in its holder, pushed back from the escritoire, rose from his seat and stared at what lay before him. A curious frown alighted on his face, almost as if he was not quite certain what he was looking at.

Yet what lay before him had meticulous, elegant expression. The rendering was perfectly clear, even if only two people in the world would understand what it meant...

A gentle breath stirred across Harry's cheek. “Heavens Harry,” Ginny exclaimed softly from her silent stance behind him. “This is breathtaking! Look how you captured their faces in the moonlight!”

In his trancelike focus, Harry hadn't even heard her enter the room... yet he did not startle. “You weren't supposed to see this yet,” he said simply, and turned to face his closest friend.

Ginny angled her head; a puzzled expression on her face as she waited for an explanation.

“I'm sorry Ginny,” Harry told her, looking awkwardly away. “First I was distracted, then busy, then imprisoned here in Grimmauld...” He paused a long moment, before exhaling. “So, this is the only gift I have for your birthday tomorrow...”

Ginny stared at him wide-eyed. And then suddenly she was no longer staring at him, because she had lunged forward and was squeezing every ounce of air from Harry's chest, as only a Weasley can.

“Thank you thank you thank you...” she whispered, her voice ragged like a scratched phonograph.

“Yh... ...hm,” Harry replied wheezily.

Ginny sniffled a little, pulled back and dried her eye with a corner of her sleeve. “You know, with all this insanity, I don't think even Mum and Dad remembered my birthday, but I honestly don't care,” she declared with a grin. “Because this is the best one ever!”

“Er, you mean tomorrow is... or will be...?” Harry stammered.

“No silly,” Ginny chided. “August eleventh is just another day — maybe a cake and silly song, and maybe not. But August tenth is the day when my best friend ever gave me the best present ever.”

Harry responded with a goofy smile.

Ginny returned the grin, then angled back toward the escritoire, studying the sketch of the princess and the Publican embracing above the moonlit river. “I have just one question, though?” she queried.

Harry nodded.

“Where did you learn to draw like this?”

“Well, you see,” Harry began, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “I, uh, don't have any idea...”

“Hmm... This might be useful,” Hermione suggested as she traced her finger carefully along a page in one of the older, more decrepit volumes she had removed from the top shelf.

Harry and Ginny put down their own books to listen.

“Let's see now. This is only a rough translation because I'm not very good with German...” she advised.

Ginny turned to Harry and rolled her eyes. He smirked and winked.

“Okay,” Hermione continued. “The general gist goes like this, 'We know from comparing the charters of other distinguished societies, that they share not only the ideals, but most likely the same origins as our own Gesellschaft für Magische Säuberung...'”

Hermione paused for a moment to think. “Er, I believe that translates as 'Society for Magical Cleansing',“ she explained, before continuing. “'Other societies most closely mirroring our noble objectives include the English 'Order of Death Eaters', the Italian 'Federazione della Purezza', and 'La Flamme Purificatrice' from France. Our scholars have concluded that each of these organizations likely descends from 'The Glorious Order of Letum', a courageous defender of civilized Magical Society, founded more than one thousand six hundred years ago.'”

Hermione paused to glance at the volume's cover. “This book was published in 1645, so this 'Order of Letum' must have originated in Roman times. Does that help you at all?”

“Blimey!” Harry muttered. He looked at Hermione for a moment with an inscrutable expression on his face, then fell silent, gazing off into the distance.

Ginny watched Harry perplexedly for a moment, then refocused, turning to Hermione. “So Death Eaters were around in the seventeenth century, and had their origins a lot earlier?” she asked.

“It would appear that way,” Hermione agreed.

“Interesting,” Ginny replied. “I always thought they were just cronies who followed Tom Riddle.”

Hermione looked at her curiously. “You use that name for... you know... ?”

“A name is just a name,” Ginny replied in a matter-of-fact way. “Dumbledore is constantly badgering the Order to get over their silly phobia.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I suppose you're right,” she agreed. “Now speaking of Professor Dumbledore, I'm sure that he or Professor Lupin would know the answer to your question, but I can only guess. If Professor Lupin is correct that Dark Magic is strongest when the insular elite feels most threatened, I'm guessing that, as an organization, Death Eaters grew and dwindled many times over the centuries. If so, the current crop probably bears far more allegiance to, er... Riddle, than to any ancient tradition. I'd bet that if any living Death Eaters existed before Riddle came along, he probably just co-opted them. If the group was already extinct, then he likely just borrowed the name to lend credibility to his movement. You've met more of them than we have, Harry. What do you think?”

With some effort, Harry summoned his focus from distant ponderings, and processed the various open questions. “Yeah, I think it's safe to say that the Death Eaters are mostly just spineless stooges,” he agreed. “As far whether the modern Death Eaters were co-opted by Voldemort, or if he merely recycled the name, I don't think it matters much. What I'm most interested in is how much Snake-face knows about the organization's heritage.”

Hermione stared at him analytically for a long moment. “The organization's heritage, in terms of a possible involvement in the Iceni Rebellion? Involvement by the Order of Letum, you mean?” she inquired.

Harry and Ginny exchanged glances. Harry nodded to her, silently conveying that he felt it was safe and appropriate to answer.

“Perhaps,” Harry answered, turning back to Hermione. “Or maybe it's something peripheral to the rebellion itself. I'm really hazy on the details, but I'm convinced that something happened around that time that could have some important bearing on Voldemort's future success.”

“Are there any other details you can provide that might narrow that 'something' down, Harry?” Hermione prodded.

“No, we might have to wait until it actually hap...”

Harry paused, suddenly recognizing just how stupid his statement was going to sound, considering that any relevant Roman-era event obviously had actually occurred – many centuries ago.”

“No, Hermione,” Ginny broke in, “it's difficult to explain, but Harry and I are just going to need more time to think about this.”

Hermione gave her two friends a hard look that darted from one of the other several times before she gave up and huffed. “Do you have any idea how frustrating the two of you are?” she scolded.

“Yes, I think so,” Harry answered with a grin.

“Uh huh and, er... sorry,” Ginny added with a small contrite smile.

Of course Harry and Ginny had to do penance for their circumspection. In order to maintain 'appearances', Hermione browbeat them into participating in a gobstones tournament that the twins had decreed for that evening.

As the evening unfolded, Ginny proved to all that she was a tough competitor in the somewhat revolting game. By the time she faced off against Fred in the tourney final, she had not been gobbed upon a single time.

Harry on the other hand, had required three trips to the loo to wash off the foul liquid, and had been the second player eliminated. While others continued to cheer and jeer for the finalists late into the evening, Harry found himself sitting quietly in the corner, gazing into the fire... feeling vaguely anxious, though he didn't quite understand why.

As often as not, Hermione took her eyes off the inane competition to steal furtive glances at her friend, wondering what exactly Harry was thinking about in his quiet fireside solitude. She also continued to ponder whether (or how) such 'thinking' could truly resolve an ancient mystery regarding one of Voldemort's supposed... advantages?

Over the course of twenty minutes, Hermione watched Harry silently tune out the chaotic room, gradually slipping into something like an open-eyed trance. And that was then it suddenly occurred to Hermione...

Dreams!

Hermione recalled how Harry had experienced terrible, disturbing nightmares in the past — some of which would later be shown to bear eerie similarities to frightening real events had had occurred elsewhere in places and times he could not possibly have known about.

Was Harry having strange dreams again?

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. The one thing that the 'dream' hypothesis did not explain was why Ginny seemed to be so intimately involved in all of his mysterious deliberations. That part did not make any sense...

Ginny, meanwhile, was not dreaming. She was taking fairly seriously the assigned chore of acting unseriously. Although she was not a huge fan of gobstones, the game was definitely going her way this evening. Half an hour into a fiercely fought final, Fred was playing with his usual intensity, but Ginny still had the upper hand. If she could just hold him off a while longer, she could probably...

A tiny sudden shiver ran down her neck. Subconsciously, she slid a hand into her pocket, touched the brooch... and felt a deep chill of trepidation.

Ginny looked quickly about the circle, at the various faces, all grinning and laughing... except for Hermione. The older girl was frowning and stealing a glance to the far corner of the room, by the fire... toward Harry.

Ginny herself twisted around for a moment to catch a quick glimpse of her best friend. Muscles in Harry's face were tense... and was that a drop of perspiration on his...?

Splattt!!

“My point!” Fred crowed jubilantly. Ron and George cheered lustily for their brother and snickered at the gob running down their sister's cheek.

Undefined trepidation sinking into her, Ginny turned back to face the gobstones circle, reflexively dabbing the slime from her face with an old kerchief as her mind raced.

“Time out, please,” Ginny called.

“Ho ho!” George chortled. “L'il Gin-Gin's feeling the heat!”

“Time out approved,” Fred agreed, “but everyone keep an eye out so she doesn't try to slip old 'Sulphur Spray ' onto her pile. That stone's illegal!”

Ginny, however, went nowhere near her pile. Instead she shuffled back several paces on knees, angling her head towards Hermione. “Can you go get some tea on, 'Mione?” she whispered, loud enough for the others to hear, before adding in the faintest murmur, “Take Harry. I'll follow soon.”

“Ginny's already ordering tea!” Ron laughed. “She thinks she's going to take you down fast, Fred!”

“You bet!” Ginny replied with a wide counterfeit grin... then she began to carefully calculate the best way to lose as quickly as possible, without raising suspicion.

“Okay Harry,” Hermione admonished sternly as she handed him a steaming cup. “No more evasion and pretense — what's the matter?”

“I don't feel very well,” Harry muttered, absently-minded drinking his tea without adding milk or even blowing on it. “Oi!” he cried, nearly spilling the hot liquid.

“Well thank you for the enlightening detail!” Hermione exclaimed sarcastically as she handed her friend a glass of cold water to soothe his burnt mouth. “Any chance you could elaborate a bit?”

“I... uh...” Harry waffled uncertainly.

“Were you having a bad dream?” Hermione inquired, her voice rising slightly.

Harry stared at her for a long moment. “Not yet,” he replied finally, then took a long drink of water, before re-attempting the tea.

“Not yet...??” Hermione parsed perplexedly. “Are you, uhhh, planning to?”

“Planning to have a bad dream?” Harry responded. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly before seriousness reasserted itself. “No Hermione, I'm not planning any of this. But sometimes dreams come... and sometimes I can sort of sense when they're likely to hit.”

“What sort of dream...?” Hermione began asking, before hesitating over how to phrase a rather strange question.

“I don't know — I haven't had it yet,” Harry answered in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed under her breath as she stole her way into the kitchen. “Are you okay?” she breathed, taking a seat and unthinkingly grabbing his hand.

Harry's gaze flickered from the pretty little hand grasping his own, across to several sacrificial gobs trailing down the girl's jumper, to the wide-eyed look of concern etched into her face.

He smiled... for the moment grateful to just live for the moment...

It took several seconds for the warmth of Harry's smile to register with Ginny, but then it did and, hesitantly, a small smile of her own flickered to acknowledge her special friend... but then the worry returned. “Are you okay, Harry?” she asked again.

“Right now, I'm more than okay,” Harry responded. “I'm sitting here with two wonderful friends,” he beamed. “No lame jokes or tiresome horseplay. No more bleeding gobstones...”

Hermione laughed. Ginny's eyes darted down to the sticky accretions on her jumper and she groaned, reaching for a napkin.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “I'm okay for now. I may be run through the ringer a bit tonight, but these are only dreams, right?”

Ginny and Hermione both regarded him skeptically.

“I'll be fine,” he assured them. “If you're up early tomorrow morning, then maybe we can talk it over. With luck, perhaps can learn something.”

Ginny chewed her lip tensely. “I don't know, Harry,” she said. “I feel like I should stay with you tonight. I think it could help to...”

“No,” Hermione declared, cutting softly but definitively across the younger girl. “You've made fine progress today to throw the plonkers off the scent, but there's no way we can discretely arrange for you two to spend another night together, and... well I can't think of anything else we could do, other than maybe asking Sirius for some Dreamless Sleep potion...”

Harry shook his head. “I really can't explain why,” he said, “but I'm certain that the dream has to happen. I doubt it'll be pleasant, but I think we'd be worse off if I tried to avoid it.”

Hermione nodded stoically. “So, Ginny, I think we'll just have to trust Harry to get himself through tonight, and we'll be there for him in the morning. Is that okay?”

Ginny pursed her lips silently for a long time, but did not quite disagree.

“Sure a special pleasure to see you again, my dear Publican,” the heavy, balding Roman declared jovially. “Such a fine fortune that, by merest chance, I should be called here to Camboricum on the very same day that you should choose to visit,” he oozed with a too-wide smile. “May I offer you more wine?”

“No thank you, esteemed Procurator,” Harry replied in clipped tones. “I must not take any more of your valued time. As long as you can assure me that a messenger has been sent to the Proconsul notifying him of this breach of treaty, I shall leave you to your important responsibilities, and return myself to my own.”

“Treaty?” the Procurator replied. A flicker of vexation was immediately replaced by his unnervingly effusive grin. “I'm not aware of any treaty with the Iceni, per se, but do rest assured that your message has already been sent. I am most confident that we will be quickly able to resolve this foolish little squabble to your most exacting satisfaction!”

The man filled Harry's goblet to the brim from a flagon of rich, dark wine. “Now, I bid you, stay and tell me some stories of our lands to the east. A merry folk, these barbarous Iceni?”

“They are sober, wise and just,” Harry opined neutrally as he rose and began to make his way to the door. “Now, if you may excuse my departure, I have need of...”

“You have no needs that I cannot meet, my cherished Peuerellius,” the Procurator interjected, capturing his hand. “In fact, for your sole comfort, I have obtained a ravishing young maiden of the Cantii. You must come meet her!” he urged, his fleshy lips gleaming luridly in the candle light. “You shall swoon under her pleasures! Her skin is white like the virgin Appenine snows of winter; her eyes are the brightest of sapphires, her...”

“No!” Harry shouted, tearing his hand away. “My sincerest regrets, your honour, but I have urgent responsibilities in the name of Rome and Britannia!”

Harry swept through the door and out into the dusky night... but not before casting a surreptitious glance back through the closing door, catching sight of the Procurator scurrying toward a rear chamber of his quarters.

His anxiety suddenly spiking, Harry quickly disillusioned himself, and turned from the pelagus platea running through the center of town, opting instead for the muddy paths skirting the aft edges of the numerous military dwellings and enclosures.

The Publican's quarters in Camboricum were located on the north outskirts of the military district. He spent little time there, preferring to dwell along the Roman roads and the open countryside on the eastern frontier, mostly leaving his official residence in the hands of two trusted servants of Catuvellauni heritage. In his brief conversations with the pair early this afternoon, he had been informed that, several times earlier that day, Roman soldiers had tarried nearby, observing the building... and one had stopped in late afternoon to politely inquire when the master of the residence was expected home.

None of that boded well.

As Harry drew level with an alley with a view to the platea, he heard and then briefly saw, two horsemen racing past.

That also did not bode well... yet he continued stealthily on his way.

By the northern fringe of the district, the buildings along the platea were quite sparse. Approaching within two hundred feet of his residence, he was able, even by the low light, to see clear across to his property. No lamps were lit within his quarters; nobody appeared to be on the grounds in front, but... there! On the street nearby, he spied a slight movement in the darkness.

Edging cautiously closer, he was able to distinguish the shape of a single horse, tied to a post in deep shadow, its breath rising in small clouds through the cold night air. Squinting, he descried a second shape as well — a tall man clad all in black, apparently watching the building, waiting, perfectly motionless.

Unease, even some undefined fear, prickled Harry's skin. Basic instinct told him to turn away, but he somehow felt a need... a compulsion to learn who the dark horseman might be. After all, surely the true reason for this dream was to learn deep secrets hidden far back in time...

Harry's left foot raised and moved toward the mysterious figure, landing silently on the soft ground. His right foot did the same. Step after cautious step, Harry moved toward the man. Approaching close enough to pause and observe more closely, Harry found... that he could not stop! Straining to halt his traitorous legs, Harry wrestled hard against his straining foot, forced it to the ground... and snapped a brittle twig!

The tall horseman immediately turned toward Harry, gazing across in the darkness. He threw back his black hood and stepped out of the shadow.

Ice flooded Harry's every vein as the man smiled toward him — calm, vaguely amused. The rider's face...

Could not possibly be...!

Had to be...?

... the spitting image of Harry Potter!

A pair of cold dark eyes seemed to pierce effortlessly through Harry's disillusionment spell.

“You should not try to hide from us father,” the smiling face admonished with eerie charm.

Harry was just scrabbling for his wand when he was hit in the back with a stunner. As he struggled valiantly to cling to consciousness, Harry glimpsed a second face hovering above him, waving a wand in his approximate direction to cancel the disillusionment charm. The Latin incantation, “Invenias qui honorem,” echoed hollowly through Harry's troubled soul as his mind was set adrift.

Harry felt completely numb and detached. Experimentally, he tried reaching out with his hand to touch his face... but discovered that he could find neither a face, nor a hand to touch it with...

He opened his non-existent eyes to gaze around someplace... dim. The place was not quite as dark as the cold Camboricum night, however. There were torches flickering from ornately carved brackets set about stone walls. A glimmer of twilight was beginning to show in tall Gothic windows.

It took several minutes, but Harry recognized this place... sort of. In this dream, Harry seemed to floating, disembodied, about a room that resembled the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

However, the Great Hall had never sported gleaming, pitch-black finished mahogany furniture trimmed in green velvet. It also did not have...

Bloody hell!!

Harry's non-corporeal stomach wrenched as if a dagger had been thrust into it.

Skulls!

The brackets holding the flickering torches were not ornate carvings at all — on closer inspection, each bracket was made from the wide-eyed remains of a human head.

Harry's elevated nerves spiked further as he heard noises in the distance.

Th-th-th-th-thud... Th-th-th-th-Thud... Th-th-th-th-THUD... Th-th-th-th-THUD!

The noise steadily grew, as if one's own heartbeat was drawing inexorably drawing closer... until suddenly the noise resolved itself into a procession — dozens upon dozens of children and youth, all clad in pitch black cloaks and hoods, marching into the Hall, arranged in perfect order from smallest to tallest, stepping in totalitarian unison. The procession fanned out across the Hall, shaping a broad, multi-tiered semi-circle — smaller children forming the inner ring and taller youth spanning the periphery.

The procession came to a halt. The last students to enter reached their appointed positions, and the entire assembly fell utterly silent and still...

For moments stretching into minutes, nothing happened. Nobody moved or rustled; not a single cough, whimper or giggle.

The uncanny sight horrified Harry. Impotent in his disembodied state, he longed nothing more than to rage at them. You're children! Move! Fidget! Laugh and shout! Do something!!

But he too remained frozen, transfixed by the unearthly...

SSWISSSSSSH!!

In quintessential instantaneous coordination, the right arm of every child and youth thrust forward, brandishing identical black wands, each pointing directly into the center of the semicircle.

“Good morning children!”

The thin, reedy voice saturated Harry in a chilling vapour of despair. So spellbound had he been by the horrifying children that Harry had not noticed the emergence of a massive black throne at the far end of the Hall, on the raised dais where the staff table should have been... He had not observed the vile figure seated high above his subjects, in repugnant ostentation.

“GOOD MORNING OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! ” sang out the haunting sound of every child's voice raised in flawless, inhuman unanimity.

“On this fine morning, after your night of diligent labours, after your year of dedication, I have gathered you all, my dear students of The Lord Voldemort School of Magical Purity, to induct our esteemed Graduate Class of 1998 in the manner of our forefathers.”

“OH THANK YOU, OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! ”

“Yes, children, you are wise to thank me! Yet I also bestow a token of my own gratitude, to each of you, as fellow protectors of the pure.”

“BY YOUR GRACE, LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! ”

“Indeed children, I see you have all drawn your wands!”

“FOR SO WE MAY DO YOUR BIDDING, OUR BENEVOLENT LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! ”

“Ah, very good,” droned the saccharine tones of distilled iniquity. “Then on this fine morning we together shall sanctify our hallowed walls with one more torch, to forever burn that which was once impure.”

The entire assembly fell into deep, expectant silence, before Voldemort once again raised his voice.

“Prefects! Bring forth the impure!”

For the barest moment, Harry glimpsed four stern young men and women. Dressed in black and green silk, they were entering the Hall through a high archway, solemnly levitating the prostrate body of an old woman, clothed only in a ragged white sheet...

Without wand or body, unable to even contemplate what obscene atrocity might come next, Harry knew only one possible recourse.

“STOP!!!” he bellowed.

The horrific scene extinguished.

Gasping, Harry glanced frantically about his dimly lit Grimmauld Place bedroom. His wide, anguished eyes settled upon the frightened but resolute face of Ginny Weasley.

He stared blankly for a moment, before registering the love and concern in her eyes. The remnants of his dream wall shattered, and he collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“It's okay Harry,” she whispered as her grip tightened gently around him. “The dream is done. You're safe. You're with me.”

“I don't exist, Ginny,” Harry mumbled disconsolately. “I've never existed. I can't save anyone. I'm powerless, because now I'll never even be born...”

“You're right here in my arms,” Ginny persisted, tenderly stroking the back of his neck. “You exist, Harry James Potter! You are as good and as strong as ever. The dreams are over, and you're right here, holding me...”

“Bloody hell?!” erupted a hoarse masculine voice from the other side of the room. “What do you effing think you're doing in my bloody room?!!”

Two large feet thumped hard on the wooden floor and suddenly the tall frame of Ron Weasley loomed over them, shaking a dangerously sparking wand. “Ginny, you've got two stinking seconds to get your wretched litt...”

“Stupefy!”

Ron crumpled to the floor, revealing to Harry's and Ginny's bewildered eyes the unexpectedly sober face of Sirius Black.

Sirius's gaze darted from Harry and Ginny locked in their embrace on the bed... to Ron twitching on the floor... and finally over his shoulder to Hermione who had followed him into the room and was standing several paces back with a shocked expression on her face.

Sirius exhaled deeply. “Okay kids,” he said slowly. “Raise your hand, whoever who wants to explain to me what the hell is going on.”

“Harry had a dream!� Ginny and Hermione both exclaimed at the same time.

“Er yes.� Harry blinked; startled by the stereophony. “I sort of had a bad dream.�

Sirius lit a soft glow at the tip of his wand and glanced at their faces with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, at least you all have your story straight. Er well, apart from Ron, that is..." He frowned at the sprawled form on the floor, whose twitches were now giving way to ordinary snores. "So how did everyone end up here then?"

“It's hard to describe.� Ginny edged back from Harry, bobbing her head equivocally. “I somehow sensed Harry's distress. Given what he did for me a few nights ago, I – I just wanted to help.�

Hermione nodded. “I woke up and saw Ginny's bed empty. I knew she'd been worried about Harry earlier in the evening, so I guessed she might head up here.�

“All right.� Sirius smirked wearily. “That checks out with the ruddy traffic patterns going past my door the past half hour.� He raised his wand to levitate Ron back into bed.

“So..." Harry fidgeted, establishing a bit more space between himself and Ginny. "You, uh, believe us?�.

“Hell no – I just wanted to see how sharp you were.� Sirius's deadpan turned to laughter at their scandalised expressions. “Good try mates. When I was your age, I'd never be caught prowling after two in the morning without a well greased alibi. Yours are decent, though personally I never got much traction with anything so sweet and innocent.�

“Sweet and innocent?? I beg your pardon?!� Hermione was practically hopping in place. “I'll have you know...�

“Easy tiger.� Sirius waggled his finger. “Save your protests for morning or you'll wake Molly. And believe me, you do not want to face her manner of inquisition tonight.�

Hermione sputtered into silence, glared at Sirius, then huffed in capitulation.

With another grin, Sirius tossed a blanket over Ron, then yawned. “Ah well. Obviously I'm more interested in getting back to sleep than interrogating you ruffians, so let's just forget any of this happened. On two conditions.�

“Namely?� Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“If this is all fun and games, then fine. But if you three are up to anything that Albus needs to know about then, as the titular master of this shambolic dump, I expect to be informed too. Understood?�

“Er, okay.� Harry nodded, albeit with a slight hesitation. “And the second condition?�

“For Merlin's sake, don't rouse any more redheads – they're a tetchy lot.â€� Sirius gave a final glance at the snoring Ron. “Now everybody get to their own bloody beds before we all roast in hell.â€�

Sirius left the bedroom and headed back to his quarters without bothering to confirm that his order had been obeyed. Hermione also stepped out of the chamber, but she lingered by the stairwell nearby, uncertain whether Ginny would willingly part from Harry's side.

Ginny was indeed reluctant to leave. Having released Harry from her embrace, she remained sitting on his bed for several minutes, her hand resting lightly on his, gazing out through the bedroom window at the murky night sky.

Harry shifted onto his side and curled his body comfortably against hers and stared diffusely at dimly lit paint-peel patterns on the far wall.

Neither said a word, even though Ginny had a great deal to ask. Indeed she was in the dark in more ways than one – for the first night in a while, she had very little idea what Harry had experienced.

Tonight's first dream she'd known only from a sharp, undefined terror that had jolted her out of bed, sending her racing up the stairs to his side. For Harry's second dream, Ginny had been fully awake, sitting beside him, desperately clutching his rigid sweaty hand, silently pleading for some sort of response...

Only once before in her life could she ever recall having been so frightened. Even now, the thought of it sent a tiny quiver through her shoulders.

“Are you okay?� Harry whispered.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded and smiled reassuringly. “Get some rest,� she said softly. Squeezing his hand, she rose from the bed and made her silent way out of the room.

In truth, Ginny was not 'okay', but she did not want to burden Harry with it right now. After what he has just been through, she sincerely hoped he'd be able to relax, settle comfortably for the rest of the night, and recuperate.

What Ginny did not want to worry him with was a deep trepidation that it was her turn now.   Just like Harry before her, she sensed that the time had come for her to find her own bed, close her eyes, and proceed, with whatever courage she could muster, into a strange dark world of dreams.

On Ginny's way to the stairs, Hermione probably whispered something to her, and Ginny might well even have responded appropriately... but she had no recollection. Ginny didn't even recall settling her head onto the pillow because, by the time she was back in her own bedroom, the strength of the urgent summons had risen to drown out all conscious thought.

For all the urgency of that summons, the vision confronting Ginny was anticlimactic. A dank smoky cave in the northwestern fringe of Norfolk was not really a place she'd imagined herself needing, or wanting, to be.

Under other circumstances, she might have been vaguely curious about the mysterious Druidic rituals unfolding before her but, as it was, she needed every ounce of willpower to keep from bolting into the evening. The brooch was calling her with a clear and urgent message. The Publican was, once again, in dire need of a princess.

However, so was the Queen.

For the sake of Lanossëa's mother, Ginny remained in the cave. She watched and waited. And waited. Through it all, she forced herself to be silent and still, lest she again disturb the eccentric old Druid.

The famous wandmaker, she had discovered, was a rather sensitive crank when it came to his magical medications. Ginny's only offense had been to tremble, barely more than a twitch, when the brooch had first stirred... but even that had been enough to spark the Druid, pinning her with his strange, cloudy blue eyes.

Ginny didn't know whether she'd enraged, frightened, or merely fascinated the old man, but the bizarre experience had spooked her, and she'd done her best to avoid a repeat. Thus, for what felt like hours, she'd made no sound nor motion, avoiding the slightest whimper or fidget. She'd even largely controlled her facial expressions.

Her self-discipline had been successful, so far. But if the effort had to go on much longer she was liable to scream. Or howl. Or kick something, or... worse.

She took a long slow breath. Silently, she found herself making an invocation to one of Lanossëa's favorite deities, and earned a measure of equanimity.

Changing her mindset, she took her eyes off the tedious rituals and instead began to review the princess's memories. She searched for clues as to what importance this odd dream might have to her, to Harry, and to their various struggles but, unfortunately, there was no obvious connection.

The whole excursion into Coritani territory had been contrived to find the Queen a new wand and, ultimately, fate seemed to be sticking to the script. Apart from taking five uneventful minutes to choose one for Heanua, the Druid had consumed the entire late afternoon and evening in seeking a match for the wandless monarch of the Iceni.

After almost deciding on one wand quite some time ago, the ancient sorceror had put it away, lapsed into a long meditative silence, and had then roused himself again into an agitated state of bizarre magical exploration. Oddly, many of the Druid's spells seemed (according to Lanossëa's astute perception) to focus more on raw divination than on Boadicea's magical aura. It was almost as if he was not really seeking what best suited her magic, but rather a wand that might someday serve the Queen in a defining moment of destiny.

Whatever the goal, the Druid had spent much of the evening immersed in strange ceremonies, through which the normally abrasive Queen stood in remarkable forbearance.

Finally now, after a fire dance in which trails of multi-coloured luminescence trailed the hobbling wizard as he thrice circled the Queen carrying different wands, he lurched to a stop. Crouched in front of Boadicea, he extended one wand – a dark, ornate, and unusually long stick – toward her hand.

The Queen eyed the approaching wand. Reaching to accept it, a brilliant flash ripped through the dark cave with a resounding SNAP ... and the smell of ozone filled the air.

Startled, the Queen nearly dropped the wand, but recovered. Holding it aloft, the rod sparked again, then fell silent.

“And so it is.� The old Druid bowed before the Queen. “A wand of untold promise, so late to bloom, has finally chosen its path. I seek no gold, silver, cattle or grain in payment, but offer the wand to you so that it may grow to suit your need, until that need has passed.�

“I do not understand.� The Queen frowned. “You seek no payment for the wand?�

The man shook his head. “I require only that you return it to me once you no longer have need of it.�

The Queen regarded him with raised eyebrow... then nodded. “Once I have regained the staff of my grandfather, I shall indeed return to you this wand. If it has served me well, I shall reward your... kindness.� The Queen spent another searching moment looking at the peculiar wandsmith, then turned away.

“As you will.� The man grinned toothily. “But long before any of that, you must rest, O' Lady of the Iceni. Go forth from this hallowed cave, and please dwell the remainder of this night in the nearby stable. Take comfort in shelter and dry straw before you depart on your perilous ways.�

“Thank you.� The Queen's tone was neutral. She examined the wand one last time and put it safely away. She raised a hand to summon her two daughters, and led the way out toward the night sky.

Ginny held back for a moment, watching as the downcast and barely responsive Heanua made her obedient way from the cavern. Ginny had just turned to follow when a hand – a vice-like grip on her wrist – locked her in place.

"...!!!"   Heart nearly leaping from her chest, her voice failed. Unable to protest or resist, she waited, breathless, as the other two women walked heedlessly out of sight without her.

Standing there with the Druid, the cave fell into complete silence. Finally, the quiet darkness gave way to the Druid's voice. It was oddly changed – almost purring, yet also grandfatherly.

“You are the lioness who speaks with two hearts.�

Two hearts??   For a half-instant, Ginny's mind raced, imagining he'd somehow seen through Lanossëa's facade to perceive Ginny's own thoughts hidden within... Then she locked herself down, recalling a gem of insight imparted to her years ago by her brothers Fred and George.

'Most Divination is Muggle magic,'   they'd told her. 'Seers are frauds. They'll act queer, say something odd, but all the while they're reading your face to see what sticks.'

Ginny knew full well that the twins got better grades in Trelawney's courses than anyone else in her family, and for years she'd rolled her eyes watching them pry secrets from Ron and Percy. Not wishing to be played for a fool, Ginny sighed wearily and cocked a bland eyebrow as the Druid circled her.

The Druid ignored the dispassion. He hummed to himself for a moment. “You speak with two hearts, and yet you also speak to two hearts... And every voice to every heart bids you depart from here with all haste!� His eyes lit up, sparkling, as if he had just solved an abstract riddle.

“Uh? Yes.� Ginny blinked in surprise and unguarded agreement. Whatever disconcerting game the man might be playing, he was perfectly right about one thing - she truly and desperately did wish to get out of this cave, and longed (in all honesty) to escape the whole region.

The old man cackled in amusement and tugged on her arm. “Come thither with me, my two-hearted lioness. I will speed you on your way, but first I must introduce you to your steed!�

The Druid led her out of the cave but, instead of making for the small stable they had passed on their way to the cave, he found path winding up a thorny hillside.

“You have seen death, have you not?� he inquired as they walked.

“Have I what?� Ginny looked at him in confusion.

“Have you laid your eyes upon the dying? Accompanied them unto their moment of release?�

Ginny did not really know how to answer, but the princess's voice rose in certitude from within her. “Yes, I have tended the dying. I am versed in the lore of herbs, and care for the sick. I gave comfort to my grandmother in her final moments and I... I...�

“Do tell me,� the old man urged. “You require not my judgment, but I am a curious old fellow.�

Lanossëa's quiver settled and she sighed. “My father was stricken by a cursed arrow. I was not able to revive him.�

For the briefest moment, Ginny's mind was briefly filled with the image of once-hale man, looking pale and feverish... then the memory quenched.

The Druid nodded thoughtfully as he led the way past a heavy thicket and into a moonlit copse.

Ginny gasped.

Standing tall before her was a beast of monstrous, nightmarish aspect, yet seemingly also very gentle. Horselike, but with an appallingly skeletal head and body, and huge leathery wings folded to its sides, the creature was drinking peacefully from a hillside spring.

The Druid's grip on her arm loosened, and Ginny found herself stepping freely forward. Without fear, she extended one hand toward the exotic being. A reddish eye swiveled toward her, and the beast stirred and cautiously raised its muzzle to sniff her hand.

“This is a thestral." The Druid spoke from the edge of the copse, watching intently. “There is no animal more hallowed to our people, but few are less understood. A distant kin to the flying horse he is, but this creature has, in all its life, only ever sported two tail hairs. And one of these precious hairs, he donated to the wand that just chose your Queen.�

Ginny gently stroked the thestral's cheek for a moment, feeling its cool breath on her hand. She then stepped back, curiously, to examine its remarkably bare skin. No more than a dozen strands clung to the ridge of the animal's neck where a horse's mane would be. From its bony tail, Ginny saw that indeed, there now hung only one solitary hair – long and dark, faintly glistening.

Observing her, the old man nodded to himself in solemn approval. “If a thestral is to surrender even a single hair, it is an extraordinary generosity. For a thestral may live to ages immemorial, never to be slain by the hands of any man or woman... save by a wand possessing one of its own hairs.�

Ginny took a step back from creature, gazing wide-eyed at it, wondering how ancient it might be; what old deeds and centuries it may have borne witness to.

“But we must never speak it!�

Ginny blinked at the Druid's abrupt change in tone; his ominous, sepulchral edict. She looked back to see his stooped form now straightened; his face raised to distant starlight.

"We must never again speak of slaying a thestral.� The Druid shook his head slowly. “Such act would be an abomination, with consequences too horrible to contemplate.�

“I agree.� Ginny nodded, turning again to appreciate the rare, powerful, yet unassuming beast. “The Iceni have a great love of magical beasts. Neither I, nor the Queen, nor any of her subjects would ever endanger such noble a creature.�

As if weighing her sincerity, the beast turned its large head and met her eyes for a long moment. With a silent exhalation, it lowered its front haunches.

The Druid gazed appraisingly at the animal, and then to Ginny. “The thestral deems you worthy. He shall be your steed, my lioness. He will bear you now upon your exigent quest of heart.�

“Now?� Ginny asked.

“Of course. We are all bound to our destiny, and yours lies thither. Your steed awaits, and your patience for lesser matters is very nearly at end.�

“But the Queen...?�

The Druid shook his head. “The Lady of the Iceni requires you not for what she must now do. She will have need of you again some day, but to rejoin her at the moment that is decreed, you must first leave her side.�

Ginny stared at the strange sorcerer's profile, framed against a background of stars. It unnerved her to hear him speak of the future with such assuredness as others might recount the past, but his accuracy in perceiving the present was equally unsettling. It was as though he knew her thoughts and dreams as well as (or better than) she herself did.

And he was right about her impatience. Unless she soon followed the call of the brooch, it would drive her spare.

Ginny placed a hand on the neck the large gentle animal. “Please convey to the Queen my sincere regrets,� she said, slipping one leg over the thestral's back, and tucking her foot into a fold beneath its wing.

The Druid tittered softly in the background.

Resigned to many things unknown – what perils she must race to find tonight, and what fate might some day reunite her with the Queen and Heanua – Ginny settled into a curved span between spurs of large vertebrae, and the thestral rose smoothly to its feet, spreading monumental wings. In the span of several white-knuckle seconds, she found herself aloft; her long hair freed to the crisp night air.

Harry stirred to the sensation of a fresh breeze lightly ruffling his hair. A faint glow of undefined hope was lodged in his chest, and the sensation did not depart even after he had opened his eyes to the dark stone walls.

Looking up to a glimmer of moonlight peering in through a high narrow window, he guessed himself to be in a Camboricum dungeon.

With some effort, he stirred from the dusty floor and sat up. His back ached from the close-range stunning spell, but he seemed to have not suffered greatly in his abduction. No bones were broken, and the bruising was only minor. A cursory scan of his limbs revealed no major wounds.

Harry knew that a harrowing confrontation was in his near future, but he didn't dwell on it. His mind wandering, he spent a moment wondering why his captors had ventured here to this far corner of the empire to seek him out, then shrugged to himself. He was fairly certain that he would not like the answer but, beyond that, speculation seemed pointless.

He next considered what he might do to prepare for the coming ordeal... but he had no idea what to expect. Finally, he decided simply to embrace the vague comfort that persisted in his mind, and hope that peace would bring clarity.

She will find me. And together we will find a way...

He glanced absently at the fine dry silt blanketing the floor. Spotting a small piece of wood that had chipped from the cell's sole wooden bench, he picked it up and lodged it into the curve of his palm with the comfort of a crafted stylus.

Turning his attention to the silt, Harry reached forward with his empty hand and swept carefully across the dirt several times to create a smooth, blank surface. He lowered his stylus to a corner of his medium and, with the Publican's practiced confidence as a skilled draughtsman, he pulled the point across the silt to etch a fluid curve.

Other marks followed as a face of strength and beauty – bold and resolute, yet gracefully compassionate – took shape from moon-cast shadows across the small silt ridges. Pausing in his meditative labour, he gazed for a long moment at his creation, wistfully recalling the person it depicted. He reached his free hand forward, as if to caress the princess's soft hair... then startled.

“How long has he been awake?� The brisk, unpleasant voice echoed from a corridor somewhere above Harry's cell.

“I know not, your honour.�

Harry leaped to his feet, hastily rubbing out the image. He winced in momentary regret, but pushed the sentiment from his mind and brushed the dust from his hand. He listened as several distinct sets of footsteps descended a stone staircase down toward his subground cell.

For a moment, he thought he heard a third, more soft-spoken man, then the gruff second voice raised again, saying, “Yes, it has been ten minutes since I glanced down the spy hole and noted his motions. I came for you immediately, as you requested.�

The first voice grumbled something indistinct as a torch came into view, illuminating three figures as they turned the corner toward the cell. A stocky man in Legionary armor turned a heavy metal bolt in the door, and stepped aside.

“Aperiam,� spoke a voice that sounded, to Harry, rather like a somewhat more mature version of his own. The cell bars flashed in low incandescence for a moment, then swung open of its own accord. Harry lifted his gaze expectantly. No longer empowered by the element of surprise, the first horseman from the Camboricum platea strode into the cell, followed by a second person – a young man, barely more than a boy, with fine, straight brown hair framing a wide forehead and an intelligent, curious expression.

Harry stood in feigned dispassion but, beneath his polished shroud, the faces stirred bile in his soul. Steeling himself, he fixed his eyes on the Publican's eldest son, and nodded in stiff recognition. “Tio. Twelve years it has been. Twelve years, and yet you seem no more than a manlike form of the boy I left behind.�

The tall, raven-haired man with eyes of deep coal grey glanced at Harry. “Well met, father.� Impatient with pleasantries, it was clear he was far more intent on assessing the Publican's physical and mental state.

Harry shrugged and turned his attention to the second of the horsemen. “And little Mus, you have grown tall. Were that my last memories of you had been happier.� Beneath the show of calm dispassion, Harry felt a distant, quiet ache from the Publican's bereft sense of family. Not wanting the weakness to show, he leveled his voice. “So, pray tell what brings you to far flung Britannia? I had never expected to see either of you set foot beyond the tall shadows and fine marble walls of Palatine Hill.�

The one named Tio sneered. “As always, you misjudge us, father. We have traveled far in our young years – searching for the truths that you have always fled. And finally we searched even for you, since our destinies we cannot quite decouple.�

“Truths that I fled?!� Harry's fists clenched as the Publican's emotions smouldered through his facade. “There is no truth in children pledging to murder innocents. I warned you never to seek me without recanting the wicked ways of your filthy cabal. And so here you are before me. Are you prepared to renounce your society of unconscionable lunatics? Recant Tio! Recant Mus! Or forever leave me in peace!�

“Recant? Father, is it truly possible for you to remain so painfully deluded?� Tio's poor attempt to feign bemusement lurched quickly to disdain and annoyance. “My brother and I were misguided once too. Sadly, we led ourselves to believe that you would come back to us and lend your fatherly strength to a just cause. Yet Mother always warned us that you would never cease your treasonous coddling of crass barbarians. Mus and I have long since accepted the truth of her words, but after all this time you still believe it possible that my brother and I would surrender our vows of truth and justice, and accede to your pathetic confusion?�

Harry felt his jaw stiffen as he struggled to contain the Publican's outrage. “Confused to believe it possible that you would rediscover compassion and reason?? No, I never quite dared to believe. And yet, in each passing year I have meditated on you, seeking in my heart some sign that I might return you from your path of ruination, and save you from your heinous, murderous associates. Many times my heart has quailed as I heard of dark crimes mounting in your footsteps, and yet somehow I never truly abandoned hope. �

The Publican's eyes bored deeply into his eldest son, daring the icy soul to betray some tiny vestige of humanity.

Tio responded with a loathsome glare morphing slowly to a smirk. Seconds spanned toward a minute as the pair faced each other, motionless until...

With a lightning flick of his wrist, the young man's wand jabbed Harry's throat. “CRUCIO!�

Every nerve rending in violation; Harry felt his flesh tearing. His sight blurred; he shuddered... then steadied.

Defiance flaring in his soul, his eyes cleared, focusing razor-sharp on Tio. Somehow Harry's inner strength, woven together with the Publican's force of will, was resisting the agony. Droplets of perspiration dotted his forehead, but he remained standing, locking stares with his tormentor.

Tio's brutal visage spasmed in alarm. Shaking in agitation, he redoubled the curse, pouring his every effort into the dreadful spell.

“On your knees, father!� Mus approached with a quivering voice. “On the floor. Beg of our mercy so we may grant it!� His breath rattling, the young man's tremulous hand gestured downward.

Agony dancing on the tip of every nerve, the Publican's feverish mind reached deep within and grasped the memory of a soothing touch; the gentle healing fingers of his princess. Taking the cue, Harry found his own recollection of Ginny's embrace; a sensation of her stroking the back of his neck, like cool raindrops on a sun-scorched heath.

Within one man, two hearts bound to two hearts stood tall... rose even taller as Harry and the Publican reinforced each others' pride and determination to prevail. An aura of compassion and forgiveness, the universal defence against savagery, pushed away the fear and hatred.

“To your knees, father!� Mus pleaded one last time. Finally, quaking in agitation, the younger son kicked out frantically, connecting with the back of his father's knee.

Harry felt himself lurch, about to topple hard down toward the cell floor... yet even still he adjusted, staggered, and regained his footing. His eyes returned, resolute, to the Publican's shaken sons.

Tio lowered his wand. After chewing his lip apprehensively, his face hardened into a sneer as he closed in on the Publican. “Where is your whore, father?� The young man's voice descended to a snakelike hiss. “Take us to your bloody bitch's whelp!�

“My what?!� Harry blinked. Baffled and still recovering from the Cruciatus, he reeled sideways an inch, then hastily caught himself and pulled fully upright again, shaking his head. “What in Jupiter's name are you talking about?�

Mus looked at him, puzzled. “Where is your lover? Mother always said that you left us to be with another woman, so where is the mistress?�

Harry stared. He could feel the Publican practically choking in disgust. “That is a filthy lie! I left your mother because she took from me my two sons, and enslaved them to the path of darkness. Finally I left even my sons for, after all my entreaties, they lost all common decency, and pledged their lives to the vile Order of Letum! �

Tio's eyes flared; he trembled and began to raise his wand again, but Mus grabbed his brother's wrist and the rage subsided into smouldering hatred.

“Tell us where to find the woman and your other son,� Tio repeated dangerously. “Tell us, and we will permit you, our foolish and unrepenting flesh and blood, to live out the last of your pointless days in solitude, far from here.�

“This is madness.� Harry shook his head, letting the Publican's flummoxed indignation surge. “I cannot tell you what cannot be told. There is no other son. There was no other woman. I left your mother not in lust but in sorrow. I sought this distant province to escape the pain of your heinous crimes. I came to grieve and atone for my inability to save you from your wilfull insanity. I never once sought the pain of bringing into the world yet another perfidious son. I answer not because the answer is none!�

Tio glared at him. “You may dare lie to me, father...� He paused; a glint lit in his eyes. “But no man may contradict the Oracle of Delphi!�

“Oracle of Delphi?� Harry frowned.

“Yes father, the Oracle of Delphi.� Tio nodded with an air of superior conviction. “There is no higher source of truth available to any man, and while many years now come between oracular pronouncements, the great honour of such truth was bestowed upon me. For in my long pilgrimage, I was summoned to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, whereupon, after fasting for four days and nights a wondrous voice arose and spoke to me of the greatness rendered upon our family and its line. The Oracle instructed me as follows.�

Two chains of power
Faithless, true;

A clash predestined
Must ensue.

The union of the
Brothers two,

Shall fall unto the
Brother new.

Deadening silence fell as Tio's ominous words faded.

“Harry had a dream!” Ginny and Hermione both exclaimed at the same time.

“Er yes.” Wide-eyed from the startling stereophony, Harry nodded. “I sort of had a bad dream.”

Sirius lit a soft glow at the tip of his wand and glanced around at the teens with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, well at least you all have your story straight. Er well, apart from Ron, that is..." He gazed down at the sprawled teen on the floor, whose twitches were now giving way to ordinary snores. "So how did everyone end up here then?"

Ginny edged back from Harry and shrugged innocently. “I somehow sensed Harry's distress. After what he did for me a few nights ago, I — I just wanted to help.”

Hermione nodded. “I woke up and saw Ginny's bed empty. I knew she'd been worried about Harry earlier in the evening, so I guessed she might head up here.”

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. “All right, that checks out with the ruddy traffic patterns going past my door the past half hour.” He shook his head in exasperation, smirked, then raised his wand to levitate Ron back into bed.

“So..." Harry fidgeted, establishing a bit more space between himself and Ginny. "You, uh, believe us?”.

“Hell no — I just wanted to see how sharp you were!” Sirius burst out laughing for a moment then rubbed his eyes and turned back to the scandalized teens. “Good try mates! When I was your age, I never ever prowled about after two thirty in the morning without a well greased alibi. Yours are okay, though personally I never got much traction with anything so sweet and innocent...”

“I beg your pardon?!” Hermione was practically hopping in place. “I'll have you know...”

“Easy tiger...” Sirius waggled his finger. “Save your protests for morning or you'll wake Molly. And believe me, you do not want to face her brand of inquisition tonight.”

Hermione sputtered into silence, glared at Sirius for a moment, then rolled her eyes in capitulation.

With another grin, Sirius tossed a blanket over Ron, then yawned. “Ah well. Obviously right now I'm more interested in getting back to sleep than interrogating you ruffians, so let's just forget any of this happened... on two conditions...”

“Namely?” Ginny inquired.

“If this is all fun and games, then fine. But if you three are up to anything that Albus needs to know about then, as the titular master of this shambolic dump, I expect to be told about it too. Understood?”

“Er, okay...” Harry nodded, albeit with a slight hesitation. “And the second condition is?”

“For Merlin's sake, don't rouse any other redheads next time!” Sirius gave a final glance at the snoring Ron. “Now everybody get to their own bloody beds before we all roast in hell!”

Sirius left the bedroom and headed back to his quarters without bothering to confirm that his order had been obeyed. Hermione had also stepped out of the chamber, but she lingered by the stairwell nearby, uncertain whether Ginny would willingly part from Harry's side.

Ginny was indeed reluctant to leave. Having released Harry from her embrace, she remained sitting on his bed for several minutes, her hand resting lightly on his, gazing out through the bedroom window at the murky night sky.

Harry shifted onto his side and curled his body comfortably against hers as he stared diffusely at dimly lit paint-peel patterns on the far wall.

Neither said a word.

A detailed conversation would come later — Ginny was certain of that because she had so much to ask. For the first night in a while, she had not directly experienced any of Harry's visions. Tonight's first dream she knew only as a sharp but undefined terror that had jolted her out of bed — an impetus to race up the stairs to his side. For Harry's second dream, Ginny had been fully awake, sitting on Harry's bed, silently pleading with him for some sort of response; desperately clutching his rigid, perspiring hand...

Only once before in her life could she ever recall having been so frightened. Even now, the thought of it sent a tiny quiver through her shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Harry whispered.

Ginny nodded. She took a deep breath, and turned to give him a quick, reassuring smile. “Get some rest,” she said softly, squeezing his hand and rising from the bed to make her silent way out of the room.

In truth, Ginny was not 'okay', but she did not want to worry Harry about it right now. After what he has just been through, she sincerely hoped that he would be able to relax and settle comfortably for the rest of the night to recuperate.

What Ginny did not want to burden Harry with was a deep trepidation that... it was her turn now... Just like Harry before her, she sensed that the time had come for her to find her own bed, close her eyes, and proceed, with whatever courage she could muster, into a world of strange, dark dreams.

On Ginny's way to the stairs, Hermione probably whispered something to her, and Ginny might well even have responded appropriately... but she had no recollection. Ginny didn't even recall laying her head upon the pillow, because by the time she was back in her own bedroom, the strength of the urgent summons had risen to drown out her conscious thoughts.

For all the urgency of her dream-summons, the vision confronting Ginny seemed rather anticlimactic. This dank smoky cave in the northwestern fringe of Norfolk was not at all a place Ginny could imagine herself wanting to be.

Although some part of her was fascinated by the mysterious rituals unfolding before her, it took every ounce of willpower to keep herself from bolting back into the evening... to follow the urgent plea of the brooch... back south, to find the Publican... because once again, the man who reminded her so much of Harry seemed in desperate need a princess.

However, so did the queen. For the sake of the deposed Iceni monarch, Ginny stood her ground. She watched and waited. And waited. Ginny even forced herself to remain perfectly still and silent... lest she disturb the eccentric old Druid and once again incur the unnerving scrutiny by his strange, cloudy blue eyes.

Indeed, the famous wandmaker seemed to be a rather moody and sensitive old crank.

Some time ago, when the brooch had first stung Ginny with its dire knell, she had flinched, clenching her fists to dispel the pain. She had thought she had managed to be discreet in her discomfort, but the Druid had spun immediately to her and glared, his disconcerting eyes briefly flaring with... something...

Ginny was uncertain whether the old man had been enraged, frightened, or deeply fascinated, but whatever the response had meant, she had no desire for a repeat performance. Consequently, she held herself rigid; she locked down even her facial expressions, until he had once again fully immersed himself in his labours.

Despite the fact that no interruptions had occurred since then, those labours were turning out to be long and exhaustive.

Matching a wand to Heanua had proven trivial — the Druid had devoted less than five minutes to finding something suitable for the queen's eldest daughter, but the queen herself had apparently posed to the ancient sorcerer a much greater challenge. After almost deciding on one wand quite some time ago, he had put it away, lapsed into a long meditative silence, and had then roused himself again into an agitated state of bizarre magical exploration. Oddly enough, many of the Druid's actions seemed in Ginny's view (through Lanossëa's astute perception) to focus more on raw divination than on Boadicea's magical aura. It was almost as if he was not trying to find the wand that best suited the queen's magic, but rather to discover an instrument that would someday serve a specialized need that the Queen was destined to encounter.

With every moment that the Druid spent on his strange ceremonies, Ginny grew more impatient (and suspicious). Surprisingly, however, the normally abrasive queen stood in silent forbearance.

Finally, after a fire dance in which trails of multi-coloured luminescence trailed the hobbling wizard as he thrice circled the queen carrying several different wands, he lurched to a stop. Crouched in front of Boadicea, he extended one wand — a dark, unusually long and thick stick — toward her hand.

The queen glanced down at the approaching wand and reached to accept it. The instant the wood touched her fingertips, a brilliant flash ripped through the dark cave, a resounding SNAP sounded... and the smell of ozone filled the air.

Startled, the queen nearly dropped the wand, but quickly solidified her grip and raised it aloft, where the wand continued to spark for a moment before settling again.

“A wand, so late to bloom but with untold promise, has finally chosen to commence its destiny.” The old Druid handed it to the queen. “I seek no gold, silver, cattle or grain for this wand, but offer it to you so that the wand may grow to suit your need, until that need has passed.”

The queen frowned. “I do not understand. You seek no payment for the wand?” She examined first the wand and then the seller skeptically.

The man shook his head. “I require only that you return it to me once you no longer have need of it.”

The queen regarded him with raised eyebrow... then nodded. “Once I have regained the staff of my grandfather, I shall indeed return to you this wand. If it has served me well, I shall reward your... kindness...” The queen couldn't help but stare a moment longer at the peculiar wandsmith, as if still probing for deception.

“As you will.” The man gave her a toothy, unconcerned grin. “But long before any of that, you must rest, O' Lady of the Iceni. Go forth from this hallowed cave, and please dwell the remainder of this night in the nearby stable. Take comfort in shelter and dry straw before you depart on your perilous ways.”

“Thank you,” the queen replied in a simple neutral tone as she examined the wand one last time and put it safely away. The tall woman raised a hand to summon her two daughters as she led the way toward the mouth of the cave.

Ginny held back for a moment, watching as the downcast and barely responsive Heanua began to make her obedient way from the cavern. Ginny then turned to follow... but suddenly a hand — a vice-like grip on her wrist — locked her in place. She nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise over the unexplained interference, yet she found herself saying nothing; she offered no protest as the two women walked heedlessly out of sight without her; she did not confront the mysterious old man who had wilfully separated her from her kin. She merely waited, breathless, standing with him until the cave had fallen into complete silence.

“So...” In the absence of the queen's audience, the Druid's voice had taken on an odd quality - almost a purring tone, yet also vaguely grandfatherly, “You are the lioness who speaks with two hearts.”

Two hearts?

Ginny quelled any outward response to the Druid's bizarre statement, but yet again he had succeeded in jolting her. Could he somehow have seen through Lanossëa, and perceived Ginny's spiritual presence within?

Recalling from the twins (both of whom rarely received grades worse than E in Trelawney's divination courses) that fraudulent seers routinely used strange pronouncements to provoke their subjects into providing useful information about themselves, Ginny stiffened herself further, standing in bland dispassion as the creepy character circled around to get a closer look at her.

“You speak with two hearts, and yet you also speak to two hearts...” The Druid hummed to himself for a moment. “And every voice to every heart bids you depart from here with all haste!” His gnarled hand thrust into the air, excitedly, as if he had just solved an abstract riddle.

“Yes!” Ginny nodded, blinking in surprise. Whatever disconcerting game the man might be playing, he was right about one thing - she certainly felt no further reason to hide the fact that she truly and desperately did want to get out of this cave, and longed (in all honesty) to escape the whole region.

The old man cackled in unexplained amusement and tugged on her arm. “Come thither with me, my two-hearted lioness. I will speed you on your way, but first I must introduce you to your steed!”

The Druid led her out of the cave, but instead of making for the small stable that was visible in the moonlight, he veered onto a path leading up into a thorny ravine. “You have seen death, have you not?” he inquired off-handedly as he led her hurriedly through the night.

“Have I what?” Ginny stared at him in confusion.

“Have you laid your eyes upon the dying? Accompanied them unto the moment of their release?”

Ginny would have had no idea how to answer that, but the princess within her did. “Yes, I gave comfort to my grandmother in her final moments and I... I...”

“Do tell me,” the old man urged. “I am not here to render judgment, but I am a curious old fellow.”

“I was not able to revive my father.” Ginny's mind was briefly filled with the image of strong-looking bearded man, pale and feverish... then the vision vanished as the princess suppressed it.

The Druid nodded thoughtfully as he led her past a heavy thicket and into a moonlit copse.

Ginny gasped.

Standing tall in the moonlight before her was a beast of monstrous, nightmarish aspect, yet somehow also very gentle. Horselike, but with an appallingly skeletal head and body, and huge leathery wings folded to its sides, the creature was drinking peacefully from a hillside spring.

The Druid's grip about her arm loosened, and Ginny found herself stepping freely forward. Without fear, she extended one hand toward the exotic being. A reddish eye swiveled toward her, and the beast stirred and raised its muzzle to cautiously sniff her hand.

From behind her, the Druid spoke in soft reverence. “This is a thestral. There is no animal more hallowed to our people, but few that are less understood. A distant kin to the flying horse he is, but this creature has, in all its life, only ever sported two tail hairs. And one of these precious hairs, he has donated one to the wand that just chose your mother.”

Ginny gently stroked the thestral's cheek for a moment, feeling its cool breath on her hand. She then stepped back, curiously, to examine it's peculiar, nearly-hairless form. No more than a dozen hairs clung to the ridge of the animal's neck where a horse's mane would be. From its bony tail,Ginny confirmed that indeed, there now hung only one solitary hair — long and dark, glistening in the moonlight.

Observing her actions, the old man commented. “If a thestral is to surrender even a single hair, it is a noble act of extraordinary generosity. For a thestral may live to ages immemorial, never to be slain by the hands of any man or woman... save by a wand containing one of its own hairs.”

Ginny took a step back from creature, gazing wide-eyed at it, suddenly wondering how ancient it might be; what old deeds and centuries it may have borne witness to.

“But let us not even speak of slaying a thestral.” Surprised by the Druid's suddenly ominous, sepulchral tones, Ginny glanced back at him to see that his stooped form had straightened, and his eyes glinted in the moonlight. He shook his head slowly. “Such would be an act of abomination, with consequences too horrible to contemplate.”

Ginny shook her head vigorously. “I agree. I am certain that neither my mother nor any of her subjects would ever endanger such noble a creature!”

As if weighing her sincerity, the beast turned its large head and met her eyes for a long moment. With a silent exhalation, it then lowered its front haunches.

The Druid gazed appraisingly at the animal, and then toward Ginny. “The thestral deems you worthy. He shall be your steed, my lioness. He will bear you now upon your exigent quest of heart.”

“Now?” Ginny asked.

“Of course! We are all bound to our destiny, and yours lies thither. Your steed awaits, and your patience for lesser matters is very nearly at end.”

“But mother...?”

The Druid shook his head. “The queen requires you not for what she must do now. She will have need of you again some day, but only if you leave her side will you ever be available to rejoin her at the moment of her greatest need.”

Ginny stared hard at the strange sorcerer who stood unflinching as the moonlight reflected in his inscrutable milky-blue gaze. The way he proclaimed the future with such assuredness unnerved her, but the accuracy in which he perceived the present was equally unsettling. Indeed, he seemed to sense her motivations almost as well as she herself understood them… and she had to admit that he was right — unless she turned soon to obey the brooch, it might tear her mind apart.

She focused again on the large gentle animal, which still knelt to her in obeisance and silently welcomed her approach. “Please convey to the queen my sincere regrets,” Ginny said as she gingerly slipped one leg over the thestral's back, and tucked her foot into a fold beneath its wing.

The Druid merely cackled softly in the background.

Resigning herself to the many things unknown, both what lay ahead of her tonight and what was in store for her mother and sister, Ginny finished mounting the animal. As she settled herself into a curved span between the spurs of its large vertebrae, the thestral rose gently to its feet and spread its monumental wings. In the span of several white-knuckle seconds, Ginny found herself aloft — the moonlight and crisp night breeze in her long, flowing hair.

Harry stirred to the sensation of cool air settling across his collar and lightly ruffling his hair. A faint glow of undefined hope had lodged itself in his chest, and the sensation did not depart even after he had opened his eyes to the hard grey stone walls, and a glimmer of moonlight peering in through the heavy iron bars high above him, in what he guessed to be a Camboricum dungeon.

With some effort, he stirred himself from the dusty floor and attained a sitting position. Although his back ached from the close-range stunning spell, it did not seem to him that he had suffered greatly in his abduction. No bones were broken, and the bruising was only minor. A cursory scan of his limbs revealed no major wounds.

Harry knew that a harrowing confrontation was in his near future, but he pushed the unpleasantness of that fact into the back of his mind for the time being, and instead turned to a brief consideration of his captors' possible motives. After several minutes of thought, he decided that he had no idea why they had come here to this far corner of the empire to seek him out. He was fairly certain that he would not like their reason, but beyond that speculation seemed pointless.

Unable to think of any important preparations to make before the coming ordeal, Harry decided to relax. He let his mind drift... to a vague comfort that persisted in his mind.

She will come to help. She always does...

Without conscious thought, he gazed vacantly at the fine dry silt blanketing the earthen floor. His eyes fell upon a small shard of wood that had chipped from the cell's sole wooden bench. He picked up the shard, and lodged it into the curve of his hand with the comfort of a crafted stylus.

Turning his attention back to the silty floor, Harry reached forward with his empty hand and swept carefully across the dirt several times to create a smooth, blank surface. Extending his stylus, he lowered it to a corner of his medium and, with the Publican's practiced confidence as a skilled draughtsman, he pulled the point across the silt to etch a fluid curve.

Other marks followed as a face of strength and beauty — bold and resolute, yet gracefully compassionate — took shape from moon-cast shadows across the small silt ridges. Pausing in his labour of meditation, he stared down upon his creation for a long moment, recalling wistfully the person it depicted. He reached his free hand forward, as if to caress the princess's soft hair...

A brisk, unpleasant voice sounded from a corridor somewhere above Harry's cell. “How long has he been awake?”

“I know not, your honour.”

Harry leaped to his feet. Extending a foot toward the silt, he hastily rubbed out the image. He winced in momentary regret, but pushed the sentiment from his mind and whisked the residual dirt from his hand. He listened carefully as several distinct sets of footsteps descended a stone staircase down into the underground chamber where he had found himself. For a moment, he thought he heard a third, more soft-spoken man, then the louder second (rather gruff) voice raised again. “It has been fifteen minutes since I glanced down the spy hole and noted his motions. I came for you immediately, as you requested.”

The first voice grumbled something indistinct under his breath as a torch came into view, illuminating three figures as they turned the corner toward the cell. A stocky man in Legionary armor turned a heavy metal bolt in the door, and stepped aside.

“Aperiam,” spoke a voice that sounded, to Harry, rather like a somewhat more mature version of his own. The cell door flashed in low incandescence for a moment, then swung open of its own accord. Harry lifted his gaze expectantly. No longer empowered by the element of surprise, the first horseman from earlier in the evening strode into the cell, followed by a second person — a young man, barely more than a boy, with fine, straight brown hair framing a wide forehead and an intelligent, curious expression.

Harry stood in outward dispassion, examining faces that, beneath his polished shroud, stirred intense bile in his soul. Steeling his nerves, he fixed his eyes upon... the Publican's eldest son. “Twelve years it has been, Tio. Twelve years, and yet you seem no more than a manlike form of the boy I left behind.”

The tall, raven-haired man with eyes of deep coal grey gazed at Harry. “Well met, father.” His bland response seemed to convey his limited patience for pleasantries; his focus instead on a silent appraisal of the Publican.

Harry shrugged and turned his attention to the second of the horsemen. “And little Mus, you have grown tall. Were that my last memories of you had been happier.” Beneath the show of calm dispassion, Harry felt a distant, quiet ache from the Publican's bereft sense of family. Not wanting the weakness to show, however, he leveled his voice. “So, pray tell what brings you to far flung Britannia? I had never expected to see either of you set foot beyond the tall shadows and fine marble walls of Palatine Hill.”

The one named Tio sneered. “You misjudge us, as always father. We have traveled far in our young years — searching for the truths that you have always fled. And finally we searched even for you, since our destinies we cannot quite uncouple.”

Harry clenched his fists as the Publican's scorching emotions began to churn to the surface. “Truths that I fled?! There is no truth in children pledging to murder innocents! I warned you never to seek me without recanting the wicked ways of your vile cabal! And so here you are before me. Are you prepared to renounce your society of unconscionable lunatics?! Recant Tio! Recant Mus! Or forever leave me in peace!”

“Recant? Father, is it truly possible for you to remain so painfully misguided?” In the course of his statement, Tio's expression flickered unstably from feigned bemusement to cold disdain and onward to loathing. “My brother and I were misguided once too. Sadly, we led ourselves to believe that you would come back to us and lend your fatherly strength to a just cause. Yet Mother always warned us that you would never cease your pathetic coddling of crass, treacherous barbarians. Mus and I have long since accepted the truth of her words, but after all this time you still believe it possible that my brother and I would surrender our vows of truth and justice for our people, and accede to your pathetic delusion?”

Harry felt his jaw stiffen as he struggled to contain the Publican's outrage. “Misguided to believe it possible that you would rediscover compassion and reason?? No, I never quite dared to believe. And yet, in each passing year I have meditated upon you, seeking in my heart some sign that I might return you from your path of ruination, and save you from your heinous, murderous associates. Many times my heart has quailed as I heard of dark crimes mounting in your footsteps, and yet somehow I never truly abandoned hope. ”

The Publican's eyes bored deeply into his eldest son, daring the icy soul before him to betray some tiny vestige of humanity.

Tio met his father's glare with frigid abhorrence. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he stared long and icily into Harry's unblinking eyes. Seconds spanned toward a minute as the pair faced each other, unyielding, until... with a lightning flick of his wrist, the young man's wand was jabbed straight at Harry throat.

“Crucio! ” Tio hissed through suddenly gritted teeth.

Harry's nerve endings roiled in utter violation; his flesh had the sensation of being shredded from his body; he quivered... and yet, a flare of defiance in his soul, coupled with the Publican's inner strength, he defied the torture! Droplets of perspiration sprang to his forehead... but Harry remained standing, glaring into the brutal face before him.

“On your knees, father!” Mus approached his brother and father with a quiver of agitation in his voice. “Down on the floor! Beg of our mercy so we may grant it!” His breath rattling, the young man extended his hand, gesturing tremulously downward.

Within the Publican's feverish mind came the memory of a soothing touch; the gentle healing fingers of his princess. Harry reached into his mind and grasped the recollection of Ginny's embrace; a sensation of her stroking the back of his neck, like cool raindrops on a sun-scorched heath.

Within one man, two hearts bound to two hearts stood tall... rose even taller as Harry and the Publican girded the elder man's pride and stolid heart; giving him the strength to resist; willing him to project thoughts, as pure as Harry could fathom, of compassion and forgiveness — the greatest defences against such savagery.

“To your knees, father!” Mus pleaded one last time. Finally, quaking in unarticulated emotion, the younger son kicked out frantically, connecting with the back of his father's knee.

Harry felt himself lurch, about to topple hard down toward the cell floor... yet somehow he compensated, staggered, and regained his footing; his eyes returning to his shaken sons with a defiant glare.

Tio finally lowered his wand. Chewing his lip apprehensively for a moment, his face slowly morphed into a hard sneer as he closed in on the Publican. “Where is your whore, father?” The young man's voice descended to a snakelike hiss. “Where is your bloody bitch's whelp!!”

Harry blinked. “My what?! What in Jupiter's name are you talking about?” Momentary distracted by the baffling statement (and still recovering from his agony) he reeled and lurched sideways, then caught himself and braced himself fully straight again.

Mus approached him more diplomatically. “Where is your lover? Mother always said that you left us to be with another woman, so where is the mistress?”

Harry stared. He could feel the Publican practically choking in a mixture of disbelief and disgust, before finally finding his voice. “That is a filthy lie! I left your mother because she took from me my two sons, and sold them into virtual slavery in the service of darkness. Finally I left my sons too, for after all my entreaties they came to the junction and chose not a path of decency, but rather pledged themselves to the most repugnant Order of Letum! ”

Tio's eyes flared; he trembled and began to raise his wand again, but Mus grabbed his wrist and the rage subsided into smouldering hatred.

“Tell us where to find the woman and your other son,” Tio repeated with simmering vitriol. “Tell us, and we will permit you, our foolish and unrepenting flesh and blood, to live out the remainder of your pointless days in solitude, far from here.”

“My other son??" Harry blinked in uncomprehending consternation. "I cannot tell you what cannot be told. There is no other son. There was no other woman. I left your mother not in lust but in sorrow. I sought out this distant province to escape the harrowing pain of your constant heinous crimes; to grieve and atone for my inability to save you from your wilfull insanity. I never once sought the pain of bringing into the world yet another perfidious son. I answer not because the answer is none!”

Tio glared at him. “You may dare lie to me, father...” He paused, and a dangerous glint lit in his eyes. “But no man may contradict the Oracle of Delphi!”

“Oracle of Delphi?” Harry frowned in confusion.

Tio nodded, projecting an air of superior conviction. “Yes father, the Oracle of Delphi! There is no higher source of truth available to any man, and while many years now come between oracular pronouncements, the great honour of such truth was bestowed upon me. For in my long pilgrimage, I was summoned to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, whereupon, after fasting for four days and nights a wondrous voice arose and spoke to me of the greatness rendered upon our family and its line. The Oracle instructed me as follows.”

Two chains of power
Faithless, true;

A clash predestined
Must ensue.

The union of the
Brothers two,

Shall fall unto the
Brother new.

Deadening silence fell as Tio's ominous words faded.

Back to index

Chapter 7: Hope

Author's Notes:

It's fascinating how a few small points in a plot map can suddenly expand into a full blown chapter! I admit that it's taking me forever to get to the Ministry of Magic, but hopefully you'll find the plot and character development in this chapter to be worthwhile!

It also took me longer than usual to write the thing because life has been outrageously busy. That may continue for a while, but this story has momentum right now, so it will remain a high priority.

Chapter 7. Hope (August 11, 1995)