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Author Notes:

A bit of steaminess in this chapter, but nothing too bad. Please enjoy.

Before the war, Brian Li had held a vision of secret agents harvested mainly from the novels he'd borrowed from the local Muggle library, filled with beautiful women, glamorous travels, rich foods, exotic drinks, excitement, intrigue, and danger.

The reality, as he'd come to realize, was very different.

For starters, there was mud. Mud had seldom made an appearance in his favorite books, but he seemed to spend a great deal of his time involved with it, whether that meant crawling through it, falling into it, or having it thrown at him. Quite often, there were other aspects to the mud than simple ordinary dirt, which took on an extra dimension when his heightened senses came into play. Being able to smell dung more clearly, and in smaller amounts, on his person and clothing was far from a blessing in his line of work.

Rich foods, exotic drinks, and glamorous travels had all been conspicuous by their absence, as a few snatched mouthfuls of bread and cheese, a strong mug of tea, and a trudge from one spot to another in the rain or a swift Disapparition to avoid the angry mob were far more likely to occur. As for excitement, intrigue, and danger, they were far more enjoyable when they were safely ensconced on fictional pages than when one was undergoing them in one's own personal and irreplaceable body.

However, in one aspect of secret agent work, the novels matched exactly with Brian's own experience. There had indeed been a beautiful woman involved from almost the very beginning of his mission, and she had, to his surprise, first befriended him, then started to help him with his work, and now was doing as much of it as he did or more. Not to mention that her feelings, if he were reading her right, had long since moved beyond the bounds of friendship. He knew his own had.

Though this is one time I'm just as glad we don't live in a novel. He spared a moment from his careful observation of the werewolf camp in the small, sheltered valley below them to glance over at Corona Gamp, busily murmuring notes to her Dicta-Quill as she gazed through a pair of Omnioculars. Whenever an agent in a novel falls in love with a beautiful woman, she's inevitably working for the other side. Which means she's just setting him up to betray him and break his heart.

I don't think I have to worry about that with Corona.

Of its own accord, his hand dropped back to an inner pocket of his robes, where a small box had been lingering for several weeks. Every time he thought the moment might be right, something came along to spoil it, and had since the middle of June. It was now nearly the end of July, and if he didn't get the chance to ask his question soon…

Then I'll live with that, rather than rush it and frighten her into saying no. Firmly, he drew his mind back to the task at hand. We need to concentrate on what we're doing to win the war first, and our personal lives second.

No matter how frustrating I find that.

He returned his attention to the werewolf camp, to one werewolf in particular whose strutting walk and well-fed look made Brian suspect the other might be a Death Eater, or at least trusted by them. Giving the most dominant lycanthrope at any given location access to extra food, which he (as usually it was) could keep for himself or dole out to those who pleased him, was one of the Death Eaters' best tactics for controlling the smaller settlements.

Until we arrive. Brian checked his wand and his piece, sensing rather than seeing Corona do the same. At which point, their tactics are no longer valid.

It's difficult for even the most threatening male to keep his control over his pack when he's swathed from head to toe in a cocoon of his own hair, or shrunken into a smelly, screaming baby.

With a mental chuckle, he began the slow process of climbing down from his treetop perch without betraying his position.

The sooner he and Corona toppled the vest-pocket tyrant below them, the sooner they had a chance of finding a quiet moment in which a man could with decency ask his lady to marry him.


"So this is being seventeen?" Harry stretched his hands above his head, brushing his fingertips against the cave ceiling. "Funny. Doesn't feel much different from being sixteen."

"That's what I said yesterday," remarked Neville through a mouthful of toothpaste at the sink in the corner. "Ron?"

Getting no answer, he turned to look, as did Harry. Ron was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at something small in the palm of his hand.

"Ron?" said Harry after a moment of silence.

"What?" Ron jumped and looked up, shoving whatever had so fascinated him into his pocket. "Oh. Right. Er, many happy returns, Harry."

"Thanks." Harry frowned. "You all right? You've been quiet lately."

"Who, me? I'm fine. Just…thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," said Harry, dodging the expected, half-hearted punch as a matter of habit. "Anybody notice what didn't happen last night?"

Neville rinsed his mouth and spat. "We never went upstairs," he said, motioning two levels above his head to indicate the place he meant. "Wouldn't you think they'd want to celebrate this birthday most of all? Your coming of age—and mine, but I'm not the one who's supposed to be doing the vanquishing here. That's all you."

"Rub it in, why don't you." Harry made a face. "But you're right about one thing. I'd have thought we'd barely get a chance to fall asleep before we'd be there. Wonder why we didn't?"

"Maybe because they have guests?" Ron leaned against the wall. "And we're not allowed to see them until Halloween, but try keeping Hermione from going to look for them if we're there. Or your parents, any of them."

"That makes sense." Harry grumbled under his breath. "Mind you, that's not to say I like it."

"Sounds like most of this war." Neville rinsed the sink out and stepped aside for Ron to have a turn. "All the more reason to get it over with as fast as ever we can. The more we play around with those Manor Den plans, the more I want to get my hand in there."

"We'll work on making the current tenants an offer they can't refuse." Harry snickered. "There's a stone house north of here that ought to suit them if they're looking to relocate. Stark rugged cliffs, ocean views from every window, and the neighbors aren't noisy at all…"

Ron nearly choked on his toothpaste.


Sirius waited outside the entrance to the boys' dormitories, trying not to look as though he were lurking. The box in his back pocket felt larger than it ought to be, but he knew that was a figment of his imagination.

Even Moony wouldn't have messed with something like this.

I don't think.

Finally he heard the trio he wanted, chuckling together, something about a house from the fragments he could catch. He set it aside to ask later and hailed his godson as he stepped through the arched doorway, Ron and Neville a step or two behind him.

"Oi! Birthday boy!"

"That's birthday man to you," Harry returned readily, and Sirius grinned and strode over to pull his godson into a roughly returned hug. They weren't much different in height any longer, he realized with a pang, nodding to Ron and Neville as they went on their way. He'd known that for a while, but it held a new weight today.

"So I suppose you know what you ought to be getting," he said when they let each other go. "Small and round and goes tick-tick-tick-tick…"

Harry screwed up his face as though wearing a monocle. "Ve have vays of making you tock," he growled in an atrociously bad accent.

"Sense of humor bred pretty damn true," Sirius muttered, and pulled the box out of his pocket. "Many happy returns, Greeneyes. This's from all of us who've been lucky enough to have you as a kid."

"All?" Harry accepted the box carefully, his eyes widening. "You mean—"

"Go on and open it," Sirius urged, waving a hand.

After an instant's hesitation, Harry did just this.

The gold watch which lay on the box's padded interior was engraved at each of the cardinal points with an image of a Snitch, the wings extending around the watch's rim in both directions. As Harry picked it up, the golden hand whirred twice about the face and came to rest on "Time to eat", and the interior dial under the words spun until it stopped on "breakfast". Harry laughed, then turned the watch over, looking at the words engraved on the back.

Sirius had no need to see what was written there. He'd read it first after rescuing this very object from its current owner, who had been enthusiastically chewing on it (he thought one or two of the teethmarks might still be there).

To James, from Lily,
on our anniversary.
For whatever time we have.

"He lost the one his parents gave him when they had to scramble out of a safehouse," he said quietly, watching Harry's eyes travel across the lines of text. "One of those three times they defied His Evil Darkness. Lily gave him this to remind him that no matter what happened, she didn't regret marrying him, didn't regret you, didn't regret a single damn thing." His throat tried to close, but he fought it back open. "So, now it's yours."

Harry turned the watch back over, stroked his finger across its face, and slid it carefully into a pocket of his jeans, all without looking up.

A moment later, Sirius found himself being hugged again, even tighter than before.

"Hey, now, kiddo," he murmured when the slight, distinctive shaking of the frame in his arms registered to him. "Take it easy or you'll set me off too."

"Sorry." Harry seemed to be torn between laughing and crying. "It's just…"

"Yeah. It sure is." Sirius held his godson tight, letting his mind range with wonder from the sweet little boy he'd been to the strong and able man he'd become. And if a tear or two fell onto his shoulders or into Harry's hair, that was nobody's business but their own.

I hope you two can see him today, wherever you are, he thought towards James and Lily as he remembered them best, from his last visit to their cottage a few days before Halloween, James turning his face funny colors to make Harry laugh, Lily trying to scold him and failing because she was laughing too hard herself. I hope you see how well he's turned out. He is, and he has, everything I think you would've wanted for him.

Now here's hoping he can stay alive to enjoy it.


Severus withdrew his stirring stick delicately from the potion in his cauldron, careful not to jostle it or even to breathe on it.

Trust Lucius to find something this motion-sensitive in its early stages. But that should change, in just a few seconds—

With a suddenness he never tired of seeing, the potion flashed over from a clear, brilliant ivory to midnight blue.

"There," Severus said aloud, letting out his breath. "That will hold."

And will require at least two days of simmering before its next ingredient is added.

Going to his window, he undid the charms he'd laid on it to make sure he wasn't disturbed, then opened it, both to air out the workroom and to signal to anyone who might be watching that he could now be approached in safety.

One anyone in particular.

It continued to baffle him why Lucius Malfoy's owl-girl should have taken so strong a liking to him, unless more of her human mind remained than she displayed in her everyday behavior and she recalled him dimly as someone her Pride had taught her that she ought to be able to trust. More baffling still was the liking he was beginning to find in himself for her. She was curious, a bit heedless, and seemingly as innocent as the creature whose form she could take on.

But she does not need to be told anything twice, especially not "Leave that alone". She sees magic innately and avoids things which are dangerous. And since as far as I can tell, she has no more memory than an owl for spoken words, she is a safe listening ear for certain of my troubles.

Still, I am careful not to voice all that I feel to her. She may yet repeat some of my talk to Lucius, and he to the Dark Lord.

A flutter of white wings in his window brought a brief smile to his face, though it was gone by the time the human girl in her gray robes and black cloak dropped to her feet inside the room. "Good morning!" she chirped, then sniffed the air. "New potion?"

"Yes, one your…" Finding his tongue uneasy with the word 'master', Severus tapped his ring finger.

"Ahh." Starwing smiled, caressing her red-stoned ring. "Him. He gave you?"

"Yes, he gave me the instructions and asked me to prepare it. It is for his work." Severus nodded towards the wooden chair in a corner of his workroom. "If you wish to sit down, please do."

"Thank you." Starwing bobbed a curtsey and untied her cloak, seating herself on the chair and pulling her sewing kit and a spool of black ribbon from her pocket. "Stitch, stitch, stitch," she chanted under her breath as she threaded her needle and stuck it through the cloth to hold it, then snipped off a length of ribbon and began to sew it to the cloak. "Stitch, stitch, stitch…" Her needle came back through the fabric a bit too fast, and she squeaked. "Ouch!"

"Hold still," said Severus swiftly, scooping up the healing potion he kept on the countertop and a square of clean cloth, then crossing the room to her side. He was just in time, as the fingertip with the bright bead of blood now adorning it was about to enter Starwing's mouth. "No, give me your hand—" He glowered down her offended pout. "Stop that. Do you want to make yourself ill?"

"No." Starwing hissed at the touch of the healing potion on her lacerated finger. "Ouch."

"Yes, it stings, but only for a moment. And now…" Severus whisked the cloth away, rather like a Muggle conjurer, he thought with an internal smile.

"Ooh." Starwing held up her finger, admiring its pristine skin. "Thank you," she said, smiling across at him. Then her eyes dropped to his left arm, with which he was steadying himself on the seat of her chair. "Ouch," she said softly, lowering the finger to touch the inside of his forearm, then meeting his eyes again.

"Yes," Severus agreed, despite the small voice at the back of his mind asking him what, exactly, he thought he was doing. "Ouch."

The sadness in the owl-girl's eyes deepened, until Severus could have sworn her look was one of sympathy. "Make it better?" she suggested, pointing to the cloth he still held in his other hand.

Severus surprised himself with a laugh, brief and humorless but still a laugh. "I hardly think that would work. Not when even my most powerful—" He cut off his words, appalled by what he'd been about to admit.

Starwing continued her stitchery for a moment or two, then looked up at him again. Her recently healed finger traced firmly across her mouth.

"You will not speak?" Severus raised his eyebrows. "Not even if your master orders you to tell him what I have said?"

"Pfft." Starwing waved this possibility away airily. "He never asks."

"Somehow, I can believe that of him," Severus murmured. "He has been more mindful of late than he once was, less likely to do exactly what pleases him without thought for the consequences, and yet I find I can believe that he allows you to go where you like when he has no need of you, and never asks you where you have been or what you have done, so long as no one has harmed you or threatened you…"

Tucking the cloth into his pocket, he got to his feet. "I experimented upon the Dark Mark, long ago, when I was…uncertain about which side of the war I truly wished to join," he said, watching Starwing's needle flash back and forth through cloth and ribbon, up, down, up. "I thought, in my youth and pride, that surely I could remove it if only I studied enough about similar markings throughout history." His mouth twisted to one side in memory. "I was wrong. The Dark Lord has added a portion to the spell that he, and only he, can alter or remove."

He pulled back his sleeve to expose the marking, which Starwing studied with interest. "You see the serpent," he said, tracing its curve in the air above his skin with a finger. "If anyone tries to interfere with the spell, that serpent awakens and becomes real. It begins to tear free of the flesh around it." The searing pain of that memory set his teeth on edge even now. "I was able to channel my panic long enough to use a diagnostic spell, to discover how the snake could be controlled. The answer was even understandable, and quite simple. I would either stop meddling with the Mark, at which it would become dormant again, or I would need to convince the snake that it should obey me." His smile held nothing of joy or amusement. "In its own language."

Starwing pursed her lips, then produced two hissing words in quite a creditable imitation of Lord Voldemort speaking Parseltongue. "That?" she asked, beaming.

"Yes. Precisely." Severus returned his sleeve to its usual position. "But I do not have that gift. No one living does, except the Dark Lord himself, and Harry Potter. Neither of whom I think would be interested in convincing the serpent with which I was, quite willingly, branded all those years ago that it should not bite me, and inject me with a venom which would—not kill me, no. That would be far too easy." Needing the emotional release of movement, he strode to the far wall, then back again. "No, the venom of the Mark's serpent is instead a sort of Portkey. One which works from inside the body—which cannot be pleasant, I would think—and which transports its victim to the feet of the Dark Lord, wherever he may be."

"Oh." Starwing smoothed a wrinkle out of her ribbon. "Why?"

"For punishment, I would assume. Or humiliation, which can be a punishment far worse than pain or payment in goods or gold." Severus began to tidy away the ingredients he had used in his brewing so far today. "Or perhaps the Dark Lord meant it also as a precaution, in case one of his Marked ones should stray. Unless magic more powerful than his intervenes, he literally cannot be stopped from summoning them. They will come when he calls, whether they will or not."

"Okay." Starwing nodded wisely. "Thank you."

"You are welcome." Severus sighed. "For whatever small portion of the story you may have understood. Why I tell you these things…"

Because you listen, his mind finished, as the owl-girl smiled and lowered her eyes to her sewing again. Because you give at least the impression that you care. Because I must tell someone these things, or I will lose all control, and all chance at making a difference for the side of the war I truly do believe in.

Even if you are, in yourself, a symbol of one of the other side's purest triumphs.

He continued to rerack his bottles, in time with Starwing's quiet humming from the other side of the room.


Peter Pettigrew stopped with his hand halfway to his doorknob. He had soundproofed the door to all other ears, but to his, it might as well not be present, and he could hear with utmost clarity the sound of not one, but two, women laughing.

I know Evanie talks with the house-elves sometimes, but how—

Cutting off his wondering before it could waste more time, he transformed into Wormtail the rat and vanished into, apparently, solid wall.

Appearances are so deceiving. He grinned to himself, rat-style, as he scurried along the narrow tunnel he'd hollowed out, then laid an illusion over, within a few days of his and Evanie's arrival in these rooms. Even should one or several of his fellow Death Eaters decide to block the door and lay Anti-Apparition on the room, either to frighten him or in a serious attempt to hurt him, they would be unlikely to check for truly tiny entrances and exits.

Despite the fact that all of them know what I can do. Had he still been human, he would have cast his eyes up to heaven. How they ever got as far as they did the last time, as they are this time, with as stupid as they are—but I know how. A tiny sigh escaped him. They're ruthless fanatics, fighting against people who have standards, and a few of them are very intelligent indeed. Psychopathic, but intelligent. They do most of the directing, and the rest just follow along. And if I had one of the smart ones trying to trap me—

Then, Peter concluded, stopping a few feet short of the rat-sized entrance to his rooms, he might well be in deep and certain trouble.

Which is why I make sure to keep a low profile. The less they think of me, the better.

But the order of the day now was not thinking, but listening. Crouching low and swiveling his ears forward, Peter concentrated.

"So you are married," said Evanie, laughing through her words. "I thought that looked like a wedding ring! But it's so plain. Just gold, without a stone or anything."

"We wanted them to match what the picture shows," said a strange woman's voice, though its cheerful liveliness struck very distant chords in Peter's ear. He might, he thought, have heard it a long time ago—

But why do I feel like it was mine, somehow?

Baffled, he shook off the thoughts and kept listening. The stranger was still speaking. "To make sure everyone knew who we were. Everyone who needs to know, that is. You wouldn't know, but that's because you don't walk around the house, and because we didn't want to frighten you. But your husband's come home early—no, he isn't there," she added as, Peter was sure, Evanie looked around at the door. "He came in a different way, and he'll tell you who I am, but please don't be frightened when he does? I said I wanted to be your friend, and I do. Even if I am a little unusual."

"And I want you as a friend, Amanda," Evanie began, "but—"

"No buts." Peter heard the squeak of a chair as Amanda rose to her feet. "Now, do like I asked you, please?"

"All right," said Evanie slowly, and began to count. "One, two, three, four, five—and she's gone," she finished, sounding equal parts dejected and baffled. "Peter, are you really there?"

Peter hurried out of the other end of his tunnel and retransformed, startling a gasp from Evanie. "Goodness! So you heard—I hope it's not going to cause any trouble, but she just appeared one day, and she seemed lonely too—and don't you dare get that look on your face," she added in a sharper tone. "Just because I occasionally wish I could see a few other people does not mean you can get rid of me."

"What I wish I could do is get you to safety." Peter glanced around the room, noting the open window, the two teacups on the table, the few lingering strands of hair on the back of the chair which was usually his. "You and the baby. Once she's born, will you at least consider it? We're already in contact with the other side, and I could slip you out through that weak spot I found in the wards." He saw the indecision on Evanie's face and decided to apply a little gentle pressure. "I'd be less likely to lose my focus and get into trouble if I knew you two were safe."

Evanie glared at him. "That's playing dirty."

"It's also the truth."

"Which is the only reason I haven't smacked you for it." Evanie heaved a sigh. "All right. I'll consider it—consider it," she repeated, raising a finger. "But only once Annette is born, and only if you promise me you'll come for us as soon as the war is over."

"If I can, love." Peter slid his arm around his wife and held her close, breathing her scent in, praying he could be strong enough to trade the daily comfort of having her nearby for the daily relief of knowing she, and their child, were safe, no matter what happened to him. "If I can. Now, your friend?"

"How did I know you were going to get back to that." Evanie chuckled dryly. "Her name is Amanda. She's really quite pretty, red hair and green eyes, but her skin isn't that milky fair you so often see with redheads, she's got a bit more color than that…"

"Hang on." Peter freed his wand hand, drew his wand, and concentrated on a memory, then sketched a picture frame in the air and thought hard about a nonverbal spell James had taught the other Marauders a few months after they'd left Hogwarts. Evanie made a gratifying sound of wonder as a rush of color filled the frame, steadying down into the face of the young woman called Amanda from the library wall mural. "Is this her?"

"However did you—yes, it is." Evanie's tone changed markedly between the two halves of her sentence. "Peter, what is that? I mean, where it is truly, where you saw it?"

"It's a painting, down in the library, a mural. It was covered with wall paint and dirt, I had to clean it off. And if Lucius is to be believed…" Peter flicked his wrist, vanishing the small picture. "It shows his ancestors, who lived somewhere round about a thousand years ago."

"A thousand years?" Evanie's hands closed tightly around his arm as she looked up at him wide-eyed. "Peter, have I been having tea with a ghost?"

"Not a true ghost, no. You'd be able to tell. They can't eat or drink, for one thing. Completely insubstantial. And they have no color in their bodies—they're silver, all over. Whereas your visitor…" Peter rubbed one silver finger along the back of the chair, then held out the few shed hairs for Evanie to see. "Clearly has color, and substance, to her."

"Yes, she does." Evanie gathered the red hairs between her own fingers, rolling them into a loose ball. "So what is she, then?"

"I don't know." Despite himself, Peter chuckled. "Perhaps I can find a way to ask Lucius. There might be an answer in one of those old books he's so fascinated with these days. She mentioned a husband? Does he have a name?"

"He does." Evanie frowned. "It sounded a bit like David, but not quite…"

"Dafydd." Peter nodded. "That fits too. So the second son of the Beauvois, and his wife, are coming and going as they please in Malfoy Manor. And she sounds like a bit of a seer, if she knew I was there while I was still inside the wall."

"She is." Evanie sat down in her chair once more and absently began to stack the teacups and plates onto the tray they'd arrived on. "Sometimes, just for fun, she'll tell me things, little things that are going to happen in a moment, like a magpie is going to fly past the window, or the house-elves are going to give us strawberry preserves for the scones today, and she's never once been wrong."

"Well, all right then." Peter ran his flesh hand across the chair, fancying he could still feel the guest's faint warmth there, then sat down. "I don't suppose I could get some tea as well?"

"Not if you don't ask for it, you can't." Evanie sighed exaggeratedly. "The nerve of some people! Coming home at half past four and wanting tea!"

Peter laughed, and stored the moment away in his memories to revisit when times were bad. He had no doubt that would come soon enough.

7 August, 1997, at 4:30 in the afternoon…


Ron muffled a yawn behind one hand as he approached the curtained-off alcove where he, Neville, and Harry slept in the boys' side of Sanctuary. His strategy session with some of the older DA members and Red Shepherds, regarding a Death Eater hideout they thought they'd spotted along the eastern coast, had run longer than anyone had anticipated, but the ideas had been flowing well, so he'd ignored the house-elf messenger he was sure had been sent with a nagging note from his mother around half past nine, telling him it was time for bed.

Probably should read that at some point. He fingered the still-tied scroll in his pocket. But later. Right now, it is half past eleven, and I'm about ready to fall over and sleep for twelve hours straight…

He came around the last pillar of rock and stopped short.

Ginny looked up from her book and put her finger to her lips, beckoning him closer.

Ron glanced around, making sure there were no lurking brothers ready to play a trick on him, then started forward again, feeling a slight pop pass over his body at the third step.

"Zoned Silencer," Ginny said softly. "We wouldn't have heard each other from where you were at all. Ron, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question." Ron checked his watch again. Its hands spun to the same conclusion as before. "It's late, Gin, you ought to be in bed—"

"What's today?" Ginny interrupted, her voice a bit too casual for the flush Ron could see beginning to paint her cheeks.

"It's a Sunday." Ron tried to cudgel his tired brain into working. "Second Sunday in August. The tenth, it's the tenth—hey, your birthday's tomorrow. Many happy returns. A little early, but still counts."

"Yes, it does." Ginny smiled, with more of Lynx visible in the expression than usual. "And what happens on my birthday, Ron? What am I allowed to do?"

"What are you allowed—" Ron began, hoping the act of repeating the question would give him time to come up with the answer.

In the middle of speaking, he glanced up at the curtain hiding the beds, and suddenly everything fell into place.

"Oh," he said, before simple shock robbed him of all other speech.

"Yes. Exactly oh." Ginny glanced at her own wristwatch. "In twenty-seven more minutes, I'll be sixteen. Which means even Mum can no longer say I'm too young to—"

"Please," Ron managed to croak, raising a hand against the flood of truly appalling images. "I don't need details." After a few deep breaths, and under protest, his brain began to work again, though he still had to shy away from exactly what was going to be happening in that same twenty-seven minutes. "Suppose you'd rather I be somewhere else, then?"

"If you don't mind," said Ginny coldly, then softened. "I'm sorry, Ron, I thought you'd been told. We sent a house-elf with a note—"

Ron grinned sheepishly and dug the scroll out of his pocket. "You mean this?"

"You didn't even read it?" Ginny glared at him.

"I thought it was from Mum!" Ron unrolled the scroll and glanced down it, noting with a small smile that it had already been heat-spelled for him. "New room for the night for me and Neville, huh? Permanent, or are you two moving into, er…"

"Married quarters?" Ginny finished when he faltered. "I don't know yet. We'll talk about it. Later."

"Yes. About that. About later." Ron seized his courage in both hands, reminding himself he was a Gryffindor. "Ginny, will you do one thing for me?"

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Depends on the thing."

"Little thing." Ron indicated its size with two fingers. "Just—wait. A bit longer than midnight. Tiny bit. Say, fifteen minutes?"

"Why?" The word could have been one of Fred and George's ice sculptures from the Hufflepuff Halloween Extravaganza.

"Because if your watch is fast, and you're not quite sixteen when it, y'know, happens, when you and Harry…" Ron shook his head, moving swiftly past these troubled waters. "Whatever. You know, you just know, that Mum is going to find some way that's my fault. So if you could just wait that extra fifteen minutes, so there's no possible chance that it wasn't your birthday yet…"

Tapping her fingernails together, Ginny considered this. "Five minutes," she counter-offered.

"Ten," Ron said immediately.

"Done." Ginny swiped two fingers across her cheek, Ron mirrored her movement, and they shook on it. Then, realizing what they'd done without thinking, they both started to smile.

"They really have changed us," said Ginny, casting a glance over her shoulder at the curtain behind which Harry lay sleeping, a glance that shot heat through her entire face. "For better or for worse."

"Better." Ron squeezed his sister's hand gently and let it go. "Most of the time, anyway."

"Yeah." Ginny started to pick up her book, then paused. "Ron?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you went out to the orchard that day."

"Me too." Ron got to his feet and turned to walk away, ordering himself not to look back.

He was two steps out when the idea struck him.

The orchard. That's it.

Setting worry about Ginny aside for the moment, he pulled the scroll from his pocket again. Ideas often settled down for him while he was sleeping, so the sooner he found where he was bedding down tonight and let what Hermione called his subconscious mind sort out this latest brainstorm, the better.

There's no hurry, anyway. I've got more than a month to think about it…


Harry blinked awake and squinted at the clock, which sensed his eyes on it and obligingly brightened to allow itself to be read.

Eleven past midnight. Wonder what woke me? Can't have been a bad dream, I don't remember anything, and the room hasn't got any fear-scent in it, actually smells quite nice in here—

He turned over and discovered the source of the enticing aroma.

"Good morning, Harry," said the person sharing his bed with him, smiling smugly.

"Mmm." Harry tried to wrap his brain around the circumstances behind Ginny being in his bed, Ginny looking at him just that way, Ginny starting to snuggle up to him—

His hand brushed against her, and he froze.

"You're…not wearing anything," he got out after a long moment.

"Aren't I? That's funny." Ginny glanced down at her slender body under the bedcovers. "And here I was just thinking you were overdressed. It's my birthday, Harry. I'm sixteen. And do you know what that means?"

Harry's mind, groggy as it was, finally connected the last dot, and he started to smile in his turn. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked, starting to pull off his pajama top.

"Words are so overrated." Ginny twined her fingers through his pendant chain, the touch of her skin against his sending little shocks of heat through his body. "Why don't I show you, instead. Pants, off, now."

"Working on it." Harry yanked the top over his head and tossed it into a corner of the room. "You could always help me, if you're so impatient."

"Maybe I will." Ginny's fingers slid down to his hips, then inward, but Harry had been waiting for that move and captured her hands before she could touch the part of his anatomy at which she'd been aiming.

"None of that, now," he said, giving her as stern a look as he could manage on short notice. "Absolutely no tickling."

"Aww." Ginny pouted. "But you're so funny when you squeak."

"Maybe later." Harry started to wiggle out of the pajama bottoms. "After you have your wicked way with me."

"What makes you think my way is wicked?" Ginny batted her eyelashes. "Why can't my way be amazing and wonderful instead?"

"Good question." The pajama bottoms came free of Harry's legs, and he shoved them to the edge of the bed with a foot. "Let's find out."

Two pendant chains tangled as lips met in a hungry kiss.


Much later, Ginny woke slowly, parting the snarled mess of her hair to glance around. Harry was still asleep beside her, his arm curved across her protectively, lovingly, she thought, and let all the new meanings that word had taken on warm her inside yet again, but something in the room had definitely changed—

She sighed as she caught sight of the difference. "You," she said, trying her best to generate an angry glare, though that was hard with the taste of Harry's kisses still on her lips and her blood still humming from what they'd discovered about one another. "I knew you'd do anything to tease me on my wedding night, but I didn't think even you could manage to come back from the dead!"

"Didn't think I'd be keeping an eye on you, ickle Gin-Gin?" George Weasley shook his slightly glowing head. "I'm disappointed. I thought you knew me better than that. Tell Harry he'd better treat you right, or I'll find a way to haunt him. And tell everyone else I love them and not to do anything crazy." His face went still for a moment. "Not that it'll likely help, but who knows? It might."

"I will," Ginny whispered, feeling herself begin to slide back into sleep. "And I love you too."

"I know, Gin." George blew her a kiss just before her eyes closed. "I know."


"Harry," a voice whispered, drawing him out of sleep. He opened one eye almost reluctantly—it was so comfortable to lie here with Ginny warm and limp beside him, her breathing soft against his shoulder—

Both eyes shot wide open of their own accord. James and Lily Potter were standing beside his bed, their forms misty and translucent, both smiling down at him with the same intense love he knew he'd felt at the Department of Mysteries.

Only this time I don't have to lose it.

"How—" he began.

"You'll have to work it out, but it shouldn't be too hard," James cut him off. "We can't stay long, but you opened the door, so we figured we might as well walk through it." He swayed a bit in place, soothing the dark-skinned little boy who slept in the backpack he was wearing. "Give you our love, and our blessing, even if it is a trifle late."

"Take good care of Ginny, and your Pride," Lily added, her eyes sparkling. "All of them."

"Don't ever give up," James took over again. "Not even when things seem impossible. Remember answers sometimes come from the last place you'd think to look."

"And tell Sirius, we can, we do, and you are." Lily went to one knee beside the bed. "Everything we ever wanted for you, and so much more, Harry. So much more than we could ever have dreamed."

"Am I dreaming this?" Harry reached out, but stopped short of trying to touch his mother's hand. "Will I wake up and you'll be gone?"

"This time." James swayed in place again. "But we'll see each other again. This is only your second turn, and you're due three. Don't forget to call us, though. We can't come unless you do."

"Stop confusing him." Lily shook her head. "Honestly. You'll know what to do when you get there, Harry," she said with a smile. "Don't worry too much."

"I try not to." Harry managed a smile. "Hurts my head."

"Attaboy." James grinned. "Take care, now, Harry. We'll be back."

"We love you," Lily whispered, standing up. "So very much."

"Love you too," breathed Harry as his eyelids dropped shut once more.

Lying in the space between the sleeping Potters on the mattress, their two sets of pendants glowed ever so slightly, illuminating the two pieces of the dull black stone in their gold-wire cages.

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Author Notes:

See Chapter 27 for a description of Dumbledore's wedding present if you're wondering where that came from.

Well, I've had that in mind for quite a while. Hope it came out as well as I wanted it to. Now I must go to bed…good grief, apparently writing the stuff I was first dreaming up back in 2006 and 2007 means I'm also writing at the same hours I was back then. Leave me lots of nice reviews for the morning!