Disclaimer etc.: see Prologue.

Wow. It's, erm, been a while.

As always, thanks to my reviewers, and my naggers: ronniemione, OhForTheLoveOfDragons, MaNdErS20100, cmanuk, Kimmilein, ron.w rules, ShatteredTruth, sweetiepie1019, RonWeasleyismiking, ThEnAmEsGiGi, ridiculous 123, scorpiagirl93, rileyonline, weasleyismyprince, James Beston, insert name here, senga37, hogwartsgirl52, magpye, Evelyn Granger, ThruSnape'sEyes, gummyvites, Madame Rose, Dwindlingcandle, Mika2345, xfalloutgirl27x, smore4u1, vampireshavemorefun, Seer of Spots, Elledreamer, ReviewsGalore, TaylorxxSue, mummie and anonymous. And a massive apology for the seven month gap.

Seven months. Holy...

Seriously though? This morning, I realised I hadn't written this for over half a year. I promptly wrote an entire chapter. I'm so sorry.

Here you go. Chapter Twenty: R&R is love, and enjoy!

To Continue

20 - A Shift in Priorities

The day was quiet.

Ron sat apart from Harry and Hermione during Transfiguration, and then subsequently during Potions and Charms. The red-head was quiet and subdued, and it was such a far cry from his normal stubbornly loud self that Harry felt sick. He was tempted to wish that the three of them had never returned to Hogwarts, but he knew that what was done was done. All they could do now was try and reverse the damage, and try to survive the rest of the year.

He snorted softly and threw his quill down on top of his half-complete Potions essay, splashing ink over his own messy handwriting. He swore to himself, and the curse echoed loudly in the Gryffindor common room. It was empty, fortunately – it was eleven at night, and most of the other students were asleep in bed, Ron included. Harry had glanced in on him before he went down to join Hermione, and his best friend's back was stubbornly turned to him. Right now, it was just Harry and Hermione, sitting opposite in each other in armchairs by the fire. Hermione had finished her Potions essay an hour ago, working while Harry perused the thick, black-bound book they had borrowed illicitly from the Restricted section of the library, and then the pair of them had swapped over.

The same book now lay discarded in Hermione's lap as she stared absently into the fire. She didn't even look up at Harry's cursing. She was distracted. Harry knew what by.

"Hermione," he prompted softly, and she looked up at him. He smiled, but it was forced, and she could tell. "Anything?"

There was a sheet of parchment under the book they'd been aiming to scribble pertinent notes on, and Hermione retrieved it. It was blank, and the emptiness of it mocked them. "Nothing," she said heavily. "It's as if this has never happened before."

Harry leaned back in his chair. "Maybe it hasn't," he replied.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the ancient pages of their stolen book. "Then what can we do?" she asked, and there was despair in her voice. "We're just children, Harry, despite everything that we say. Maybe the Ministry's right not to tell us what's going on. Maybe we should just let them deal with this."

"And what if they're so busy running around after themselves and cleaning up Voldemort's mess that Ron just gets pushed to one side?" Harry asked softly. "Despite what anyone might say, the wizarding world has bigger problems to deal with than the impending death of a single teenager, no matter who he's friends with." Harry sighed, and felt abruptly cold. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to dispel the tiredness. "It's up to us, I think. We can't trust anyone else."

Hermione looked up at him. "I hope you're wrong," she said softly.

"So do I," Harry admitted. "But I don't think we can take that chance."

"What do we do then?" Hermione asked.

Harry was silent for a long moment, his arms folded across his chest. "I think we're doing this all wrong," he said finally. "I think that we should stop trying to find a spell to help Ron, and try a different approach."

Hermione's forehead furrowed, and she distractedly shut the book that rested on her lap. She knew what he was saying – he could tell from the suddenly-wary look in her brown eyes. "Harry," she said slowly. "Are you serious?"

"McGonagall can't—or won't!—help us, and these books aren't much use." Harry's eyes burned a brilliant green, ignited by a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. "Maybe we'll have to find our own way."

"Harry, we can't just start making spells," Hermione countered, with a quaver that sounded almost like excitement in her voice. "It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" Harry queried. "I'm the wizard who defeated Voldemort, you're the smartest witch I've ever met. If we can't do it, who can?" He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Hermione, listen. We both know that there is something seriously wrong going on at Hogwarts this year, and it's important that we figured it out and, if necessary, stop it, but we should stop thinking of that as our priority. Phil, Eva, strange patches of darkness in the Forbidden Forest…" He shook his head, and pretended that he didn't notice the pain that flickered in her eyes at his last few words. "We've sidelined our friendships before, and it brought us nothing but trouble. Never again." His lips quirked upwards slightly in imitation of a smile, but his eyes were empty. "We're going to save Ron," he said simply, "and we're going to do it no matter what it takes."

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, and Harry watched her intently.

Finally, she met his gaze. "We could try," she acquiesced.

They were silent again, and it was as if a dam had broken. Energy suffused through Harry's veins, and he wanted to get up and run and jump. It's going to be alright, a voice in his mind whispered. It's going to work out – it actually is.

"It feels wrong to be doing this without Ron," Hermione whispered, and Harry's mind froze.

She was right.

Harry glanced towards the stairs that led to his shared room with his red-headed best friend, and his joyful mood plummeted. "Yeah," he agreed. "I guess it does."

--

Ron turned the silvery cloak over in his hands, and wondered if he was being an idiot. Entirely likely, he mused, and his voice in his head sounded oddly like Hermione. He felt the faintest twinge of regret – he'd seen them in the Common Room when he'd snuck past under the Cloak, hard at work. To save you, the Hermione in his head prompted, but he ignored it.

He was here for a reason, and he wasn't going to mess that up.

He sat on Eva's desk, legs crossed awkwardly (honestly, he had no idea how Hermione could sit like this so often), and tried not to miss his friends. You're an idiot, Ronald, he told himself, but he didn't move from his uncomfortable position. He carefully folded the cloak, doubling it over and over until a dense square of fabric rested in his lap, and then began to watch the door.

Minutes passed, and he regretted the loss of each one. He'd never really thought about time before this year. Before Phil, and before the scar across his chest.

His fingers brushed lightly at the fabric of his shirt.

The door's hinges creaked, and Ron felt a burst of adrenaline thrill through him.

Eva stepped quietly around the half-open door, hair limp and body bent. She looked tired and, despite himself, Ron felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Fiercely, angrily, he quashed that unruly feeling. Her fault, the part of his brain that was still in shock soliloquied. Her fault, her fault, her fault…

He was tempted to smack himself in the head, but he figured that wouldn't quite bring about the air of casual menace that he was going for.

Eva turned, just beginning an exhausted walk down the aisle between the students' desks, and saw him. She froze, but just for a moment. Her head tilted to the side and she resumed her stroll, now with a hint of confidence in her stride. "Mister Weasley," she greeted calmly. "Do you think it is entirely appropriate for you to be in my classroom this late?"

Ron shrugged. "It's just a room," he answered. "It might be yours now, but I've had lessons in it for years." He smiled, and it was more of a baring of teeth than an expression of amusement. "More mine than yours, I think."

She paused, her too-thin arms crossed across her stomach. He could tell she was just itching to go for her wand. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Answers," he answered, and slipped his own wand out of his pocket. It wasn't a threatening gesture—mainly because he wasn't quite stupid enough to try and threaten someone he knew very little about—but rather one of self-defence. If she was going to use magic, he was sure as hell going to be at least vaguely prepared. Preparation is key, he thought absently to himself, and tried not to think about Phil.

"Answers," Eva repeated flatly. "Answers to which questions?"

Ron decided that he didn't much like deliberate evasiveness. "Don't play games with me," he snapped suddenly, muscles cording in his neck. "I'm tired and angry and running short on time." He never intended this meeting to be cathartic for him, but this sudden burst of anger suddenly made the weight on his heart begin to lift. "I want you to tell me what the hell is going on. You know, McGonagall knows, the Ministry knows. We don't know. And we're the ones that this mess seems to be affecting most of all."

"So I'm just going to tell you?"

"So you're just going to tell me."

Eva regarded him thoughtfully, and he fought the urge to shuffle under her piercing gaze. "You are braver than most," she finally said thoughtfully. She didn't seem to expect an answer, and she moved to perch on the edge of the front row of desks. She looked up at him luminously. "Well then. What do you wish to know?"

Ron blinked, momentarily thrown. He hadn't actually expected his posturing to work. "What?" he asked eloquently.

Eva's lips curved upwards in a smile. "What do you wish to know?" she repeated, amusement dancing in her tired eyes. "I will answer, as much as I can. You have suffered too much to not be given some answers, at least. So ask what you will."

Ron straightened, the Invisibility Cloak clenched in his sweaty fingers. This felt slightly surreal. "Who are you?" he began simply.

The woman's smile faded somewhat. "I am Selena Eva," she began, "and I'm not a teacher." Her expression flickered, and she amended that. "At least, that is not my chosen profession." Her head tilted to the side. Ron reflected that she seemed to do that a lot. "I am what you call in this country an Auror."

Ron's forehead furrowed. "You're not from here?"

The amusement returned. "Could you not tell?" Eva asked lightly, the subtle accent in her voice twisting blazingly in the air. "I do not exactly sound like you."

Ron's complexion betrayed him, flushing brightly. He was glad the room was still somewhat dim. "Auror?" he asked, deftly changing the topic. "Why does Hogwarts need an Auror?"

Eva remained with a smile on her lips, but it was stale – a rictus of forced humour. "I believe you know that very well," she answered softly, "seeing as it is you and your friends who have been purposefully put in the middle of all this danger."

"Purposefully?"

She nodded slowly. "The Ministry of Magic is currently engaged in an ongoing project regarding the capture and eradication of all those calling themselves 'Death Eaters' who are still at large," she answered, and there was a clinical note in her voice which made a chill bite up Ron's spine. "So far, the project has been highly successful." Her pale features twisted sharply. "However, several rogue targets have required more… in-depth pursuit."

"In-depth pursuit," Ron repeated flatly. When she said nothing further to elaborate on the subject, he sighed angrily. "Fine. In-dept pursuit. Whatever. That still doesn't explain a whole lot of things."

Her eyes flashed sharply. "For example?"

"Why the hell you bit Harry!"

She looked momentarily confused. "You would rather know about your friend's past injuries than a highly secret government operation?"

Ron waved one hand absently. "I have messed-up priorities."

Eva was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "It was a mistake." Something oddly akin to guilt crossed her not-quite-pretty features. "A lapse."

"A lapse."

"Do not jeer at that which you cannot understand, Weasley," Eva suddenly snapped, her pale knuckles growing even paler as her fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk. "What I am, what I was and what I must endure are ideas far beyond anything in your comprehension, and if you had—"

"Stop whining," Ron abruptly spoke over her. "I get enough of that from Harry. I get it, okay? You're a tortured heroine with a dark past, out to save the world. Wonderful."

"Sarcasm does not become you," Eva answered sharply.

"Don't really care."

"You—" She broke off, and sat, frozen.

Ron frowned. "Eva?"

"He is here," she whispered, and there were so many voices inside hers, overlapping and twisting inside each other. "He is here, and she is ready."

Hermione.

Ron didn't know how he knew, but he did. He shoved himself off the desk, Invisibility Cloak in hand, and ran.

--

Phil had expected the Weasley boy to be in bed. It was late—or early, really: the watch that lay abandoned beside the rucked-up blankets read two in the morning—but there was nobody here. That annoyed him, but only a little. There was time. He could wait.

Can we kill them yet? Alaea's voice was quiet in the back of his mind, but her sing-song insistence was loud and clear. I want to kill them.

"Patience, little sister," he replied, indulgent humour running through his voice. "If Potter is to suffer, the praised Golden Trio must live a little longer." Mockery was loud in his voice, and his face twisted.

But they do not all have to live.

Phil smiled. "Your bloodlust amuses me."

He could feel her influence in his thoughts – cold fingers wrapping around his inhibitions and his morals. Tempting him; drawing him astray from the path they agreed on. Remember, brother; you share it too. You are a part of me. She giggled. If I lust for blood, so do you. Give in.

"Right now," he observed, ignoring her latter words, "it is you who is a part of me."

Semantics.

He laughed quietly. "Maybe," he answered, but he knew that she could tell he was lying. He could feel her anger, and her impulsiveness.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs, and Phil turned to face the door.

If it is that brown-eyed bitch, I want you to kill her.

"Alaea—"

Kill her! The voice was loud in his mind, blasting through his skull with the force of a juggernaut. His will was gone, eroded in a second: his hand moved for his wand, but he wasn't in control of his unruly fingers. Crazed gibbering screamed in the back of his head.

Control yourself! he tried to make his lips say, but suddenly he was the voice in the back of the head and she was the one using his body. Alaea! he called, frozen in shock. Stop this!

"Ron?" his ears heard a voice ask, and his eyes caught sight of bushy hair and soft curves – and a pink mouth, formed in a gape of surprise as she stepped into the room unknowing—

His wand arm rose, and he struggled to pull it down. Not now, Alaea! he bellowed. They cannot suffer if they are dead!

She didn't listen.

"Avada—!"

--