They didn't get a chance to talk to Neville right away. Madam Pomfrey bustled in with a thousand different tests and checks she wanted to do, shooing Harry and Hermione back to their own beds. But finally she was satisfied, and left the hospital wing to inform Professor Dumbledore of Neville's change in status.

Harry and Hermione crept back to their sofa, unsure how much Neville remembered or if he even wanted to talk about it. Harry and Hermione were much more used to this sort of thing—they had a bit of experience when it came to foiling Voldemort's plots—but even Hermione had been quiet the past few days, sometimes looking at Harry curiously or getting lost in her own thoughts. Harry was never sure if she wanted to talk or not—wasn't sure if he would know the right things to say anyway, but she seemed satisfied just holding his hand. And, if he were being honest with himself, nothing had ever felt as natural as holding hers.

Neville looked at them. "What happened?" he asked. And Harry told him the whole thing, up until the point when they went to the hospital wing. Neville's face was a mixture of shock, fear, despair and fury as he listened to the tale.

"So it was really him then?" Neville asked, his voice hoarse, though Harry was not sure if it was from the situation or the fact that he hadn't used it in days. "It was really Barty Crouch Jr.?"

"Yes," Harry replied, and Neville lowered his eyes, twisting his blankets into bunches with his fists.

"Neville? What are you thinking?" Hermione asked anxiously from her perch next to Harry. Neville studiously avoided their faces, his slowly turning red.

"I've thought about it a lot," he said, his voice low. "What I'd do or say if I saw any of them. And then it happened and I was just—useless."

Hermione shook her head furiously. "You weren't useless, Neville, you—"

"All I did was give him my wand," Neville countered, his voice full of self-contempt. "You two were amazing, dueling him and everything, and I just gave him my wand."

Hermione glanced at Harry nervously. They had to do something, had to say something to make him feel better.

"It was a very stressful situation," Hermione pointed out. "No one would expect you to be able to take on a Death Eater like that."

Neville nodded. "No, you're right," he said. "No one would expect it of me."

There was no jealousy in his voice—he'd never been jealous of Harry and had, in fact, always been proud of his friend, which had been a welcome change for Harry—but there was bitterness and self-loathing. Harry watched as Neville sat there, keenly focused on a loose thread in his blanket, and Harry felt his own stomach twist uncomfortably, knowing exactly how helpless Neville felt.

"You did the same thing I did," Harry finally said, and Neville looked up, confusion evident on his face.

"No," Neville said. "You came up with that plan to tell Fred and George, you fought him, you…"

But Harry was shaking his head. "I'm not talking about that," Harry said. "I'm talking about when I saw Sirius in the Shrieking Shack and I thought he was the one who betrayed my parents."

Neville and Hermione were both watching him closely now. Harry was not someone who often talked about his feelings, but this was important.

"I didn't think about magic or the fact that I was 13 and Sirius was a fully grown man," Harry said quietly. "I didn't think about the fact that he had all of our wands. All I wanted… I just wanted to hurt him as much as I could, and I didn't care what it cost, if I got hurt in return. I don't know if it's possible to think rationally when you… when you're put in a situation like this. You did the only thing you could."

Neville was looking at Harry as though seeing him for the first time—as if he couldn't believe that they had had the same gut instincts when put in a similar situation.

"Harry's right," Hermione added. "Honestly, Neville, it was an impossible situation. We're just really glad you're okay."

Harry cleared his throat, looking at his hands. "Besides," he said, "If anyone should be blaming themselves, it's me. I got you into this mess in the first place. If I hadn't tipped off Crouch, none of this would've happened."

Being Harry Potter's friend should come with hazard pay, he thought.

"Harry, we've been through this," Hermione said, a hint of exasperation in her voice, and Harry had to smile at that. She'd been quieter since they woke up, and it had worried him. Hearing her return to normal made him glad.

"You couldn't help being scared for Neville any more than he could help feeling rage at Crouch," Hermione continued. "As you just said, feelings aren't always rational."

Leave it to Hermione to use his own logic against him, he thought, as he looked up at them ruefully. Hermione's eyebrows were raised, as if daring him to disagree with her, but there was plain affection in her expression. Neville, who had always worn his feelings on his sleeve, was looking at Harry fiercely, like he'd never had a friend who was worried for his safety—and then Harry realized he very likely hadn't.

"I don't blame you for any of this," Neville added in a measured, assuring tone. "This might not be the greatest week of my life, but being friends with you two—I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Hermione grinned widely at Neville, and Harry couldn't help but smile, too.

Neville glanced around the room and caught sight of Hermione's pile of notes. "What's that?" he asked.

"Hermione's plan of action for the third task," Harry said. "I've got a lot of spells to learn."

"They're still holding the tournament?" Neville asked incredulously, biting his lip. "Even knowing that… that You-You-Know-Who was involved?"

A dark look crossed Hermione's face—Harry knew precisely how she felt about that—and he shrugged. Voldemort was probably going to be coming after him one way or another, whether there was a tournament or not.

Whatever his friends were going to say, they were stopped by the sound of the door to the hospital wing opening. There, standing in the doorway, was a short, severe woman in green robes with a large, vulture hat sitting atop her head.

"Gran?" Neville whispered incredulously, like he could scarcely believe she was at Hogwarts.

"Well, of course I'm back, Neville," she said, striding toward them with a quickness Harry wouldn't expect from someone her age.

"Back?" Neville parroted, as she approached him, and took his face in her claw-like hands, inspecting him meticulously.

"I came as soon as I heard," she said briskly, turning his head this way and that, and Neville looked surprised at her words. "But you all were asleep still—sleeping draughts—and there's not much use sitting by someone's bedside, is there? My time was better spent making sure Cornelius Fudge does something about this Crouch business. But I told Albus to inform me as soon as you woke, and here I am."

Neville looked at her agape, but his grandmother seemed satisfied with his recovery because she gave him a stern nod and an appraising smile. "You look better. I'm glad to see you're well," she said, as if the matter was settled.

But there were no hugs, no words of love, nothing that Harry thought grandmothers were supposed to be—not that he had any experience in the matter. But Harry could see that Hermione was frowning, too, and she had normal relationships with her family. As far as he knew, they'd never chucked a frying pan at her head, at any rate.

Neville had never painted a particularly warm picture of his Gran, but Harry hadn't been expecting this.

Gran turned her shrewd eye on Harry and Hermione. "I'm Augusta Longbottom," she said. "I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of the both of you."

The way she said it reminded Harry very much of the way Neville always said, "Gran says"—it was as if Neville's was the only opinion Augusta Longbottom needed on the matter.

She held out her hand, and Harry and Hermione shook it.

"He's quite lucky, the two of you saving him like you did," she said, giving Neville another assessing look. "He's a good boy, but I'm afraid he doesn't have his father's talent. But the two of you—dueling a Death Eater twice your age like that. True Gryffindors, I say."

Neville looked miserable, Hermione was staring quite openly, but something in Harry snapped.

"I don't know," he said coldly, sitting up straighter, "I think fighting off the Imperius curse takes a bit of talent."

Neville blushed, but Augusta Longbottom blinked, like she hadn't quite heard Harry.

"It shows real strength of character, doesn't it, Hermione?" Harry asked.

Hermione, having recovered from her shock, shook her head furiously. "Yes, it does," she said. "There aren't a lot of wizards who could have done it."

"Well, yes, of course," Augusta said, looking Neville over once again. Neville always said his family had treated him like half a squib—they hadn't been sure he had enough magic to even get into Hogwarts. Perhaps she'd just blinded herself to who Neville really was?

"We've been lucky to have him too, you know," Harry added. "He believed me about the tournament when almost no one else did—and now we've all seen how that's turned out. And I wouldn't have been able to get past the second task without him."

Augusta smiled proudly. "Well, we Longbottoms have always been made of stronger stuff," she said. "Fortitude and loyalty—that he got from his father."

Neville grinned, blushing furiously, and Harry thought that might be the first compliment his gran had ever given him in his life.

By the time she left, Harry wasn't sure what to make of Augusta Longbottom. She clearly cared for Neville—had brought him his favorite sweets and dutifully informed him how his favorite plants were faring in his absence at home, making it clear that his interests were a priority for her—but there was very little sentimentality in their exchanges. Harry thought it must be a bit like having Professor McGonagall for a grandmother.

And then there'd been Neville's parents. When it had come up that Rita had written about his parents in the Daily Prophet, Neville had gotten upset—and when it became clear that no one at Hogwarts had known about his parents except his friends, Augusta had gotten angry, scolding Neville that he should be proud of his parents and wear it like a badge of honor.

Neville had muttered that he was proud, but it got lost in Augusta's reminiscence of some of her son's greatest exploits, and it became very clear very quickly to both Harry and Hermione where a lot of Neville's confidence issues came from.

When she'd left, she'd taken Neville's wand out of her purse—Dumbledore had given it to her—proudly rhapsodizing about how it had been Frank Longbottom's wand that had taken out Barty Crouch Jr. Harry had frowned, searching his memories—had Neville ever mentioned that his wand had been his dad's? And why would someone from an old wizarding family give a boy someone else's wand when everyone knew the wand chose the wizard?

Augusta Longbottom had droned on about the Longbottom wand getting justice from Crouch, seemingly unaware of the wary eye Neville gave the wand as she set it on his nightstand.

But then she'd patted Neville's hair affectionately and kissed him on the cheek, and Harry came away from the whole thing with only one thought in mind: Families were complicated.

The next day, Dumbledore stopped by the hospital wing and asked Harry to come to his office. When they reached the gargoyle statue, Dumbledore let him inside and told him that he'd instruct the gargoyle to let no one in but him.

Harry ascended the stairs eager to see Sirius. When he arrived in the office, Sirius was pacing in front of the fireplace. He turned as he heard Harry, and a relieved smile took over his face. He looked healthier than he had even a week ago.

"Harry," Sirius said, gripping Harry's arm, and pulling him into a tight hug. Harry felt a bit like he was getting crushed, but it was an altogether pleasant sensation, so he didn't say anything.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, as Sirius pulled back to look at him, ushering him toward the two armchairs by Dumbledore's desk.

"Moony wanted to be here," Sirius said, "but last night—"

"Full moon," Harry said. "I know."

"Dumbledore told me what happened," Sirius said, his voice low. "But, if it's not too hard, I'd like to hear it from you."

And so Harry began to tell him everything. When he got to the part about seeing Crouch's name on the map, he stopped.

"There's one thing I don't get," he said. "Why didn't the real Moody show up on the map?"

"Because the map didn't know about the room Moody was in," Sirius answered.

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If you want to make a map of anywhere plottable in the world, you could just wave your wand, say the right spell, and a map would appear—and it would show everything," Sirius explained. "But that doesn't work for unplottable places like Hogwarts. To make a map of Hogwarts, you actually have to draw it out yourself. It took years of work, but we managed to do it. But the map is still only as good as our knowledge of Hogwarts was. Any room that we didn't know about isn't on there."

"But you knew about Moody's office," Harry pointed out.

"But Moody was hidden in his trunk," Sirius said. "That trunk he has isn't a usual one. It's got a hidden drawer that can act as simply that—a drawer—or extend out to an entire apartment if you need it to be. It's fairly rare to see someone with one—only paranoid people who think they might have to go on the run are usually interested in buying one—but it essentially created a new room within Hogwarts."

"So, since that room wasn't on the map, he didn't show up," Harry said, and Sirius nodded. "Do you think there are other rooms—real rooms—we don't know about?"

"Undoubtedly," Sirius said, leaning back in his chair, a faraway grin on his face. "We did a fair bit of exploring in our day, but I don't think anyone—not even Dumbledore—knows all of Hogwarts' secrets."

That made sense—except for one thing.

"But if the map is based on Hogwarts as you knew it, how does it know where all the people are now?" Harry asked.

Sirius grinned mischievously. "That bit of genius was your dad's," he said. "He linked the map to a revealing charm—had to create a new spell to do it too—and then we had to link the charm to all of the rooms."

"You could create new spells?" Harry asked.

Sirius looked surprised. "Where do you think new spells come from?"

"Well, yes, I know wizards can create new spells in general," Harry said, clarifying, "but you were just kids."

Sirius shrugged. "Your dad came from a long line of inventors and tinkerers," he said. "His dad taught him spell theory from the time he could learn to read. It wasn't that hard to come up with the charm—implementing it was a different story because we needed to be inside each room when we linked it to the map. Spelling the Gryffindor common room was fine, but we had a hell of a time getting up into the girls' dorms, even with your dad's invisibility cloak. And then there were the professors' private spaces. I drew the short stick sneaking into McGonagall's. Thought I had a genius idea, going the night the Scottish national team had their quidditch finals—McGonagall never missed a game—but they played so abysmally, the German seeker ended up catching the snitch only an hour or so in. I barely had time to dive under her bed before she came in. Luckily, she was so smashed, she collapsed right into bed. Didn't even notice my feet were kind of sticking out... Still had a time of it getting out of there though."

He shook his head ruefully, lost in the memory. "Your dad had a good laugh about that one," he said.

Harry had never thought about how the marauders had made the map—he guessed he had assumed that it had just taken a bit of wand-waving. But hearing about how his dad had created spells and studied every inch of Hogwarts, how his grandfather had been an inventor too, made Harry wonder why he had never bothered to ask.

"What is it Harry?" Sirius asked.

"I just realized I don't know a whole lot about my family," he said. "The Dursleys never talked about my parents growing up."

Sirius' nostrils flared, but he leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "I don't know much about your mum's family," he said, "but I did know her pretty well. And after I ran away from home, your dad's parents became mine. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Harry looked up, startled by the revelation that Sirius had run away. "Why did you leave home?" he asked.

Sirius smiled bitterly. "My mum wasn't as warm as yours," he said. "None of my family was, really. But your grandparents—they just accepted this sullen, surly kid as if he were their own, no questions asked."

"What happened to them?" Harry asked. "When did they die?"

"Nothing bad," Sirius said. "They passed a little before your parents got married. They had your dad later in life, so they were already on the older side. And when they went, they went together—peacefully in their sleep."

Harry nodded—his parents had gone together, too, though he couldn't exactly call it peaceful.

Harry cleared his throat, realizing he hadn't finished telling Sirius about Crouch. He continued on with his story, but when he got to the part about knocking Hermione to the ground, Sirius gave a jolt, his face growing paler than Harry had ever seen it.

"You stepped in front of the Killing Curse?" Sirius asked, but it was less of a question and more of a statement. "What were you thinking?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. It had happened in a split second, so it's not like he'd had days to analyze the situation. He'd seen Hermione in trouble and he'd acted.

"What happened to your promise to keep your head down?" Sirius asked, his tone harsher than Harry had ever heard before. Harry looked up, startled. Sirius' lips were set in a grim line, his eyes hard.

"What are you so mad about?" he asked, thoroughly confused. "I thought Hermione was in trouble, and I tried to help her. It's not like I just randomly jumped in front of a Killing Curse. What was I supposed to do, let it hit her?"

Sirius closed his eyes. "You can't just jump in front of a Killing Curse," he said, reaching out and gripping Harry's shoulder. "You don't know what—"

"I think I know better than anyone what that means," Harry retorted, jerking away and standing up. He could feel anger rising up inside him. He's the one who had to hear his mother's screams whenever he saw a dementor—no one else. He looked at the fire, and heard Sirius sigh.

"I know that," Sirius said, and he sounded older than he ever had. He stood up and Harry felt him approach, until they were staring at the fire side by side. They both watched the flames flicker and dance for a while, neither one saying anything.

"I thought Hermione was in trouble—I didn't think about it, I just reacted," Harry finally said.

Sirius nodded. "Have you thought about why that is?" he asked.

Harry frowned. "Because she's my best friend," he said automatically. "Wouldn't you have done the same for my dad?"

"Yes," Sirius answered without any hesitation. "But your dad wasn't just my best friend. He was my brother." He paused a moment. "What's Hermione to you?"

Harry had no idea what having a sister was supposed to feel like. The closest he'd ever been to a brother/sister relationship was Ron and Ginny, and if theirs was any indication—an exasperated, begrudging sort of love where they bickered and mocked each other, and got into petty fights, but were there for each other when it truly counted—then that certainly didn't describe him and Hermione. There was nothing petty or mocking about their relationship.

Harry could feel Sirius' eyes on him, expecting some sort of answer.

"What does it matter?" Harry finally asked. "She's important."

"It matters," Sirius answered quietly, "because if someone is that important to you, you should figure out why. Your mother knew what she was sacrificing herself for."

"Well, so did I," Harry answered, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Hermione had always been there for him—he hadn't always appreciated her, but this year, more than ever, he'd learned how much he'd come to depend on her, how much he needed her in his life.

He didn't want to examine their relationship—he just wanted it to be there the same as it always had been, the one constant he'd had these past four years. And yet, he couldn't help thinking: Was this why Hermione kept looking at him curiously? Did she not understand what he did either?

But she had to understand, he thought. Wasn't that how she was able to fight off the Imperius?

Harry shook his head, trying to shake these thoughts. "I thought you liked Hermione," Harry said.

"I do," Sirius replied, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice. "How could I not? She saved my life and I'll never forget that. And I'll never say you're wrong for wanting to protect her. But your mother died for you, Harry. And she trusted me to make sure you stay safe—and it's a hell of a job I'm doing, getting locked up for 12 years and then letting you throw yourself in front of Killing Curses."

It was just the one Killing Curse, Harry thought irritably, though he didn't think that would be an argument that would sway Sirius.

Harry looked at Sirius then, and saw the haggard lines in his face, the bitterness and recrimination in his eyes.

"Azkaban wasn't your fault," Harry said, "and neither was this. You couldn't have known about Crouch."

Sirius' shoulders tensed. "Crouch never should've gotten in," he said sharply, shaking his head and turning to face Harry. "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that there won't come a time when you won't have to fight Voldemort or his Death Eaters. But you're 14 years old. The adults in your life should be protecting you from this. You should be worried about Transfiguration tests and what girl you want to snog, not Death Eaters."

"I'm not a kid," Harry insisted. "I can handle it."

Sirius smiled sadly, squeezing Harry's shoulder once again. "You can handle it because you've always had to," he said. "Because there was no one you could turn to. But that doesn't mean you should have to handle it."

Harry had never had an adult he could go to with his problems, and this felt like an altogether new experience.

Sirius took Harry's face gently in his hands, forcing Harry to meet his eyes. Harry couldn't help but compare it to how Augusta Longbottom had inspected Neville—but whereas she was proud of Neville for getting in this sort of situation, Sirius was scolding him.

"There's still a few more months until the third task," Sirius said. "Dumbledore's tried to call it off—"

"He has?" Harry asked. Dumbledore hadn't said anything to him.

Sirius nodded. "He and Karkaroff both argued that the tournament should be called off—I imagine Karkaroff is antsy to get out of the country now that Crouch Jr. has been exposed—but the decision lies in the governments' hands, and Fudge convinced the other ministers to move forward. Seems Skeeter's article got to him, and he thinks that if he calls it off it's like he's admitting that Crouch Sr. and his entire department were somehow involved in Crouch Jr.'s dirty dealings. In any case, we don't know what Voldemort has planned—but I need you to promise me that you'll be more careful from now on. No more running in front of Killing Curses, even if it is for Hermione. Find something safer to do with her."

"Like what?" Harry asked grudgingly. All they had been doing that day was visiting the Kitchens—it's not his fault there was a homicidal maniac on the loose.

"I think you two can come up with something," Sirius grinned playfully, before adopting a more serious expression. "But truly, Harry. I made a promise to your mother and your father to keep you safe, and now I need you to make a promise to me."

Harry could see in Sirius' eyes how much time he'd spent beating himself up for not being there for Harry, even if it hadn't been his fault. He could see how desperately Sirius wanted to make up for that. Harry would never apologize for wanting to protect Hermione, but he was beginning to feel guilty for worrying Sirius. It was a foreign feeling for him. Usually, the only people who worried about him were his friends—and they were always a part of whichever impulsive stunt Harry had pulled. Being accountable to someone was strange, but he couldn't say he hated it.

Harry nodded, his throat feeling scratchy. "I promise," he said, and Sirius nodded.

They sat back down, discussing Hermione's plan of attack for the third task—Sirius had some spells of his own to add to her list—and before Harry knew it, Dumbledore had climbed the stairs, quietly making his entrance known with a soft "ahem."

Sirius saw him enter first, and turned, instantly stiffening at whatever he saw in Dumbledore's face.

"What is it?" he asked warily.

"I've just had a Floo call from Amelia Bones," Dumbledore said, and at Harry's confused look, he added, "She's the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and presides over the Wizengamot."

"What did she say?" Sirius asked.

"Alastor Moody has finally woken up," Dumbledore said, "and he's talking."

"Did he see Crouch when he was attacked?" Harry asked eagerly. "Was Voldemort with him?"

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "Voldemort was not with him," he answered calmly, "though according to Alastor Moody, Crouch was not alone. Alastor told Amelia Bones that Crouch attacked him with another wizard's help—Peter Pettigrew."

Sirius looked as dumbfounded as Harry felt. Despite it all, Harry felt hope rising in his chest.

"Did she believe him?" he asked quickly. "Doesn't everyone think Moody's just some nutter now?"

"There are those who do believe that," Dumbledore agreed amiably, a twinkle in his eye. "But remember, Harry, people believe that because they think Moody's seeing dark wizards where none exist. But in this case, we have proof that a dark wizard exists—Barty Crouch Jr. himself. So Amelia was inclined to believe him about a second supposedly deceased wizard."

"What does that mean for Sirius?" Harry asked, barely able to breathe.

"I don't know," Dumbledore said quietly, shaking his head. "I've told her what I know—and I assume she'll want to speak with you and Remus, Hermione and Ron."

"After the debacle with Crouch Jr., Fudge won't want to admit to another mistake," Sirius said darkly, the hopelessness practically radiating off him. Harry watched him silently—it was as if Sirius thought good things couldn't happen to him anymore.

"No, he won't," Dumbledore agreed. "But Amelia is fair. She'll want the truth."

Harry closed his eyes—maybe it really was possible. Maybe Sirius would finally go free and he could have a home—a real home—for the first time ever.

"Can't they just give us Veritaserum?" Harry asked impatiently. Wouldn't that clear all of this up?

"No," Sirius said sharply, as soon as Harry had gotten the words out.

"Wizards have been known to throw off the effects of Veritaserum," Dumbledore explained, "and so it's not used in official proceedings."

Harry blinked. "But I'm 14," he said. "Do they really think I'd be able to throw it off?" That seemed a bit stupid to him.

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "You'd be surprised at what wizards think you're capable of, Harry," he said.

"Besides," Sirius added, "it's not as simple as that. Once you're under the Veritaserum, they can ask you anything they like."

"So?"

"So they might not just ask you about seeing Pettigrew," Sirius explained. "They might ask you about how I escaped—and then you'd be admitting under oath that you and Hermione broke the law."

"But if we broke the law because we were helping an innocent man, what should it matter?" Harry asked.

Sirius laughed, but it was hollow. "Never underestimate the lengths the ministry will go to to protect the ministry, Harry," he said bitterly. "I won't allow you to give them any information they could use against you—or Hermione. My freedom isn't worth that."

Harry wanted to argue, but Sirius looked resolute—and a quick glance at Dumbledore proved he agreed. All right, Harry thought. So they couldn't use Veritaserum. But Amelia Bones was apparently looking for the truth and Harry could give it to her. Sirius might have lost hope, but Harry could have enough for the both of them.

Harry left Dumbledore's office feeling energized—for the first time since that disastrous night last May, there was forward movement on clearing Sirius' name.

He emerged from behind the gargoyle statue and was surprised to see a red-headed figure sitting on the floor beside it. Ron looked up at Harry uncertainly.

"Hey," he said, standing up and brushing off his robes, looking decidedly uncomfortable. They hadn't spoken at all since the night of the Yule Ball. Even when Rita Skeeter wrote about Ron and Hermione's fight, Ron had studiously avoided looking at either of them for weeks.

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment, which Harry recognized as the map. "Here," he said, thrusting it at Harry. "Fred and George let me have it to give back to you. They said they got the cake off of it."

"Thanks," Harry said warily, taking the map from him. What did Ron want?

"Could we—could we talk?" Ron asked hopefully. For a long time Harry had wished for exactly this, but after everything that had happened to him lately, his fight with Ron seemed so far away.

Still, he nodded his agreement, curious what Ron had to say.

Ron grinned. "Great! Maybe we could go for a walk by the lake or something?"

Harry got the impression that Ron just wanted something to do—a reason to not have to look at Harry's face while they talked—but he couldn't help remembering walking around the lake with Hermione, munching on toast together, nor could he forget how happy he'd been that she believed him. It might sound stupid, but he didn't want to sully that memory with any talk with Ron—especially not this talk with Ron.

Besides, he had just promised Sirius that he wouldn't take any risks. And walking with Ron might not be a risk, but he didn't think Sirius would be pleased that he went wandering around the castle grounds when he was supposed to be in the hospital wing.

"I really should be getting back to Madam Pomfrey," Harry said. "We could just walk there."

Ron nodded, and they set off in a silence that stretched out uncomfortably. Harry felt awkward, something he'd never felt with Ron before, but he refused to be the one to break the ice—the ball was still in Ron's court.

"You didn't put your name in the goblet of fire," Ron finally said.

"Caught on, have you?" Harry asked, and even after all of this time, he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Ron's ears turned pink. "I suppose I've always known," he confessed. "I just didn't want to admit it because that would mean—well, it would mean that the person who did was..." He trailed off uncomfortably.

"Voldemort?" Harry supplied, and Ron flinched at the name. "Well, it wasn't exactly a picnic for me either, dealing with that and knowing my best mate didn't believe me."

"I believed you!" Ron insisted, not realizing that that fact made it worse. "I was just…mad and…a bit jealous, I suppose. George thinks I was jealous. And I took it out on you."

Harry was no stranger to jealousy. There were times when he watched Ron having a laugh with his brothers, or saw how Mrs. Weasley doted on all of them, and it made him so envious he couldn't think straight—but he'd never tried to make Ron feel bad about it.

Still, Ron was here, and it's not like he could use a time-turner to erase his past actions. All Ron could do was try to make up for them now.

"So, I know I was a prat back then with the way I acted," Ron continued. "And I was hoping...Can we just go back to the way things were before?"

Harry frowned. He didn't want to go back to the way things were. The way things were meant Ron and Hermione bickering all the time, with Ron sometimes reducing her to tears. The way they were meant Harry having to worry that just living his life and being Harry Potter would somehow set off Ron's jealousy.

It's not that he didn't want to be friends with Ron—but he definitely didn't want to go back to the way they were.

And there was something else bothering him, too. Realizing what it was, Harry blurted, "You haven't even apologized for any of it."

The back of Ron's neck flushed red. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not much of an apology if I have to ask for it, is it?" Harry asked.

Ron sputtered a bit. "Well, I am sorry," he said, looking a bit lost. "I was a git about the tournament, and I should've said something earlier. I know that."

"Why didn't you?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged and became incredibly interested in the paintings they passed as they walked down the corridor. "I don't know," he said. "It was easier to just hang out with Seamus and Dean, I guess. Besides, I figured you didn't really want me around—you didn't have much trouble replacing me."

The end of his explanation was tinged in bitterness, which only fueled Harry's annoyance.

"I'm allowed to have other friends," Harry said quietly. "Especially ones who trust me and stick around."

Ron's entire face turned as red as his hair. "Oh, come on," he said, a bit annoyed. "I know I messed up this time, but you can't pretend like I haven't been a good friend. The chess board, the Forbidden Forest—we've been through a lot together, too."

That was true, Harry thought, remembering the way Ron had stood up to Sirius—"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us, too!"—and Harry began to feel a little guilty. Ron did seem to be trying—he'd clearly taken the first opportunity to come see Harry, considering this was his first trip out of the locked hospital wing. So Ron hadn't had the right words—Harry didn't always know the right words either. Maybe words weren't the way to figure out a way forward—maybe actions were.

Harry sighed. "Look," he said, "I don't want to fight with you anymore."

Ron perked up at that.

"But I don't want things to go back to the way they were either," Harry continued. "Things would have to be different. Neville's going through a lot right now, and I've got to be there for him—"

"Right," Ron said flatly. "Neville."

Harry felt his ire rising, but Ron was smart enough not to say anything else.

"Yes," Harry said testily, as they walked down the stairs. The hospital wing was just a corridor away now. "Neville, who has been there for me all year. You must've read what Crouch did to his parents—now I've got to be there for him. That's sort of how friendship works."

At the mention of Neville's parents, Ron looked remorseful. "So that stuff Rita Skeeter wrote about him was true then?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "But it's not just Neville. Once you apologize to Hermione, and if she accepts it—"

"What am I apologizing to her for?" Ron asked, looking thoroughly confused.

Harry stared back at Ron like he was stupid. "For trying to ruin her night at the Yule Ball?" he said. "Doesn't any of that ring a bell?"

"Oh that," Ron said dismissively. "That's just how Hermione and I are. You know how impossible she can be."

Harry stiffened. Ron was clearly expecting Harry to agree with him the way Harry usually had, but that time was long gone.

"I don't think she's impossible at all," Harry said coldly. "She tried to be nice to you, and you ripped into her, tried to make her feel bad about being a bad friend to me—which is a bit ridiculous seeing as how it was coming from you."

Ron looked taken aback.

"Hermione isn't perfect—none of us are," Harry continued. "But I won't hang around anyone who tries to make her feel bad about herself."

He wasn't sure how Hermione currently felt about Ron—they hadn't discussed him in ages—but he thought he knew her well enough to know she'd accept Ron's apology if he proved that he had changed.

Harry paused as they approached the door to the hospital wing, and he grasped the doorknob in his hand, trying to figure out the right words. He didn't want to hurt Ron, but on the other side of this door were two people he had to put first.

"It's not just about apologizing to me," Harry said. "You've got to figure out a way to make it up to Hermione, too, because I just can't see us hanging out if she doesn't want to be around you. And as for Neville—"

Harry sighed, realizing that the hard look Ron couldn't keep out of his eyes at the sound of Neville's name was his jealousy finding another avenue to explore.

"Hermione and Neville are a package deal for me. And if you can't handle that, then…" Harry shrugged.

Ron stared at him slightly open-mouthed, clearly unsure what to say.

"Thank you for bringing the map back," Harry said quietly, thinking it best to leave Ron to figure out what he wanted. "I'll see you later."