THE TASK

As it turned out, Demelza was not vengeful, wrathful or anything resembling volcanic with rage. Harry was (apparently) prone to jumping to conclusions, which seemed to fit, Hermione thought, though she couldn't entirely explain why.

Demelza was, however, a little wan and tired looking, and Hermione immediately felt bad for having kept her waiting. The healer stood as they came in from the hall, where they had apparated in. She offered Hermione a soft smile, and at Harry's pleading glance, extended it to him too.

"What kept you?" she asked with evident curiosity.

"It was my fault," Hermione rushed in, needing to explain, wanting to assuage. "I kept him talking, when he came to pick me up... I ask too many questions," she admitted with a roll of her eyes.

Demelza laughed. "You always did, you know."

"So people keep telling me."

"You ready to start?" Demelza asked her, to the point as always.

Hermione nodded.

"I've got something new for you to try today," the healer told her leading her over to what Demelza called her 'workroom'. "I think it's time. Harry," she added, turning her attention to her husband, "I'll need you for this session."

Harry, who'd been inching his way towards a jar of biscuits on the kitchen table, jerked around guiltily at her words and made to follow them down to the workroom.

Demelza's workroom was simple, whitewashed and workmanlike. It was sparsely furnished with rough furniture, clearly handmade (and, as Demelza had admitted to Hermione in one of their sessions, had actually been made by Harry over the years) but very comfortable.

In the middle of the room was a table. On it, along with a number of small vials, sat the pensieve - the one she'd seen during her first visit and hadn't seen since. All her sessions with Demelza to date had been concerned with seeking memories through meditative magic and legilimency. This was something entirely different, she could tell.

A rivet of excitement went through her, a rush of something like exhilaration, and she fought the urge to ask yet more questions.

Before they began, Demelza had her run through their usual exercises, starting with breathing and stretching, and closing their eyes and allowing their minds to clear. Hermione wasn't sure why, but Demelza religiously joined her, breath for breath, in these exercises. Whatever the reason, Hermione appreciated the company.

When they'd finished, she was surprised to see that Harry had taken off his glasses and joined in unquestioningly. His face looked strangely naked without his glasses. There was a wonderful sense of stillness in the air which spun beautifully into the white light spilling from the deep-set windows.

Demelza made her way to the table and to prepare for their session. She poked at the strange substance which sat in the basin of the pensieve before turning to beckon Hermione and Harry over to the table. They moved toward the table, though Harry hung back slightly, allowing Demelza to work with Hermione without distraction.

Demelza picked up a vial from the table, squinting lightly as she read the label. Hermione could see now that it was filled with that same mysterious substance which was in the pensieve. Demelza had abandoned the first vial and picked up a second, and was frowning and muttering to herself.

Hermione took the opportunity to examine the pensieve. She'd been powerfully curious about it since that first glimpse. The polished red stone gleamed in the light, illuminating the finely wrought runes which had been painstakingly carved around the edge of the basin. Once upon a time, Hermione had known the meaning of those runes.

Demelza turned to her, having finally reached some sort of unspoken conclusion. "You ready to do this?"

Hermione nodded.

"Okay, good. So I'm assuming you remember the pensieve," she said, running her hand along the carved edge of the basin. "Well, these vials contain memories – Harry's, specifically. We're going to use the pensieve to view these memories," she told Hermione, meeting her eye with a steady look, as she picked up the chosen vial. She opened it and, with great care, began to pour the vague, unformed substance into the pensieve. "I'll be coming with you this time. I want to monitor your reactions, and I need to be sure we're not moving too fast."

Hermione wanted to assure the other woman that they absolutely weren't moving too fast, that she wanted to remember all of it, right now. But they'd already had that discussion, numerous times, and Hermione knew better than to waste her breath.

"You should take your time with it, explore the memory," Demelza continued. "See if it triggers anything for you. We can talk about it when we get out, if you've any questions, any fresh memories, that sort of thing. That's why I asked Harry to be here for this session, you know. Seeing as they're his memories, he'll be able to give you a context that I can't."

"Okay," Hermione affirmed, wondering how exactly she'd be using the pensieve to view the memory.

"Right, well – do you need a moment to clear your mind?" the healer asked. "That was rather a lot of information I just threw at you." Then added, more to herself than anyone else, "Upon reflection, I probably should have explained first and then done the meditations."

"No, I'm fine."

"You're sure? It's not strictly necessary, but I think in your case we really can't be too careful. The scope of what we're trying to do here..." Demelza trailed off. "Six years is a long time, Hermione."

"I know," she nodded soberly, meeting the other woman's gaze. She knew all too well how long those six years had been.

"Of course you do – sorry."

Hermione shook her head, dismissing the apology.

"So how exactly do I view the memories?" she asked, unable to hold back the question. "How does it work?"

"I'll show you," Demelza replied. "You have to trust me, okay?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes widening as she watched Demelza lower her face towards the penseive until her forehead rested into the basin and the memory it held. And then, she vanished. Hermione swung round to find Harry, glasses back on his face, regarding her amusedly, though without any hint of mockery. But then, Harry wasn't really the mocking type.

"What the fuck Harry?" she asked.

"Just do as she did," he assured her with a nod. "The pensieve will take you to the memory. Go on," he nudged. "Demelza's waiting for you."

She met his eyes once more and then took a breath she refused to admit to needing before mimicking Demelza's movements and lowered her head towards the pensieve. She felt a moment of puzzlement – she'd expected it to feel wet – and then suddenly there was an abrupt jerk and, in a moment which felt like falling, she landed in the memory.

An image swam briefly before her eyes before clearing and she realised that she was standing in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, eerily dark and shadowed, lit with flickering torches and bathed in the chill of the damp September air. The doors swung open and a veritable giant of a man strode into the hall, trailed by a group of whispering students who were dwarfed entirely against the sheer size of the man. He approached a witch – a slightly younger Professor McGonagall - standing tall and alert on the other side of the vast hall.

"The firs'- years, Professor McGonagall," said the giant man as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she replied, her expression remaining stern, unlike when Hermione had met her at Hogwarts. "I will take them from here."

She turned without another word and led the first years across the hall to a door which opened onto a chamber. As the children filed along behind her, with low murmurs and unsubtle whispers, Hermione finally caught sight of Demelza, who was watching her eagerly, and made her way towards her.

"Come on." Demelza grabbed Hermione's elbow, pulling her along after the group and into the chamber, which appeared rather modest after the vastness of the Entrance Hall.

Professor McGonagall was speaking, though if she'd seen them entering the room, she made no indication of it. Hermione said as much to Demelza.

"Well, no, she wouldn't," Demelza replied. "The nature of the memories is that they are just that; they're shadows, impressions of the past. We can observe them, hear them, but we can't interact with them, can't influence them in any way."

Hermione nodded and turned her attention back to Professor McGonagall.

".., a great honour. I hope you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours," she paused a moment, apparently letting her words sink in a moment."The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Hermione watched as she threw a hawk-eye over the crowd of first years. It was strangely silent.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," she told them. "Please wait quietly."

It wasn't a request.

As Professor McGonagall swept from the room, what followed was not a flurry of voices as Hermione had expected but a nervous, expectant silence, punctuated by the occasional murmur as someone voiced a guess as to what the Sorting Ceremony was. Standing next her, Demelza nudged her with a bony elbow and bent her head to mutter a swift aside into her ear.

"Look over there." She indicated with a nod of her head. "It's you."

Hermione whipped her head around, feeling an odd curdle in her gut as she caught sight of her own bushy head – she certainly remembered the unruly tangle of it well enough, if not much else - and grimaced as she realised she could hear her own voice anxiously listing all the spells she'd learned so far, and wondering if she'd be called on to use one.

"And over there," Demelza added, nodding again. "It's Harry. And that's Ron standing beside him."

"Ron Weasley?" Hermione asked, remembering the name being mentioned by both Demelza and Harry.

Demelza nodded, and Hermione examined the small skinny form of Harry, with his dark thatch of hair, and Ron, taller and with a shock of red hair and freckles, as they muttered nervously to each other. Her gaze fell on Neville, standing somewhere in between her younger incarnation and Harry and Ron, as he tugged on his robes anxiously.

Hermione pushed the recesses of her mind, searching, scouring for memories, anything, but came up (frustratingly) with nothing. She pulled in another breath, keenly aware of Demelza's shrewd eye, trying to soothe the simmering disquietude racing through her veins like adrenaline.

And then the strange nervous solemnity of the room was broken by a shriek from one of the students, and Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she watched as a number of ghosts came floating through the walls, watched the ripple of alarm pulse through the crowd.

And the ghosts were talking. They seemed to be debating a matter with some amount of animation, which ought to have been something of a contradiction, but strangely wasn't. And then, they broke off as they noticed the group of students

"I say, what are you all doing here?" asked a ghost who appeared to be wearing a ruff and tights.

"First years," chimed in a fat little monk of a ghost. "About to be sorted, I suppose?" He paused as a few people nodded. "Hope to see you all in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know."

"Move along now. The Sorting Ceremony is about to start."

The sharp voice of Professor McGonagall skewered its way across the room, and Hermione saw more than one student jump as they realised the witch had returned unnoticed. The ghosts, taking their cue from Professor McGonagall, meandered slowly through the opposite wall in chattering drifts, and then they were gone.

"Now, form a line," the professor instructed, "and follow me."

There was momentary confusion, and no small amount of pushing, as the students fell hurriedly into a line. She led them from the chamber, and Hermione watched as they followed obediently, like a troupe of little ducks.

She and Demelza trailed after them at a slightly more leisurely pace.

"So," Demelza asked, "all okay?"

"Fine so far," Hermione told her. "A bit frustrating, maybe. I don't remember any of this."

"Yet."

Hermione shrugged.

They were silent for a few moments as they followed the others into the Great Hall, but as she passed through the doors and saw what she must have seen all those years ago, she let out a breathy gasp. It was one thing, she supposed, to see it filled with summer light and empty of movement and life, but it was quite another to see it filled with students, lit with hundreds of glittering floating candles, and bedecked in the Hogwarts colours.

There was a thrumming in her ears and she could feel anticipation building in her gut, something familiar and yet not. She could see countless pairs of eyes staring at the assembled group, which had come to a stop in front of the dais where the teachers sat. Without even really noticing what she did, Hermione pushed forward to better see the tattered hat and the four legged stool on which it sat.

There was an expectant silence, one which was in danger of running on just a trifle too long, and then Hermione started slightly as the hat began to sing. Nobody else, except for a few of the first year students seemed even remotely perturbed by this, and she wondered when she'd stop being blind-sided by the unexpected, seemingly whimsical nature of magic.

As it finished up the song, the assorted students and teachers burst into applause, and she watched in amusement as it made an affected little bow to each of the tables, before finally falling still again.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unfurling a scroll of parchment and announced, "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted."

And then:

"Abbot, Hannah!"

A small blonde girl, her hair in pigtails stepped forward, stumbling a little on her nerves, and picked up the hat and sat down on the stool. It fell far over her eyes. There was silence for a moment, a waiting sort of quiet, before the hat opened its brim and shouted, "Hufflepuff!"

With a look of great relief, the girl pulled the hat from her head, set it back on the stool and made her way to a table on the right which clapped and cheered at her approach, and Hermione saw her smile shyly at her new housemates.

Hermione watched as girl after boy, after girl and boy again were called forward, and then felt a strange pulse of remembrance as she heard her own name called.

"Hermione Granger!"

She watched as her eleven-year-old self rushed forward in her eagerness and tugging the hat onto her head firmly. A momentary pause, and though she knew the outcome, Hermione still found herself biting her lip in sympathy with her younger self. She felt as though she could almost remember... the ghost of a voice, disembodied and reedy, the words vague and scarcely there. But finally-

"Gryffindor!"

She sighed with strange relief and watched as the younger Hermione ran to the Gryffindor table, who welcomed her with shouts and cries of welcome, slipping in amongst them as though she had always been there.

There wasn't much of a wait between her name and any other she recognised, which surprised her somewhat, though she wasn't sure why. First she watched as Neville Longbottom sat for minutes on the stool as the crowd of students grew restless, until finally the hat proclaimed him as a Gryffindor.

Not too long after came a young Draco Malfoy, swaggering up to the stool with an arrogance that Hermione found devastatingly funny. The hat had scarcely touched his head before it loudly crowed his Slytherin status. As he joined the Slytherin table, she could hear the hisses and jeers of other students and frowned, and looked around to seek out the owners of the voices.

Her gaze fell on a two boys, identical twins undoubtedly, with a familiar shock of bright red hair, and she scowled before her eyes automatically sought out Ron Weasley, where he stood by Harry at the front of the hall. He looked over in the direction of the twins at the Gryffindor table, catching their eye for the briefest of moments, and it was all the confirmation Hermione needed.

They were the Weasley twins. That seemed to ring right and familiar inside her, and for some reason she associated them, without really knowing why, with sweets and laughter and (0ddly) loud bangs.

Then it was Harry's turn.

"Potter, Harry!"

The hall became alive with whispers and murmurs, and Hermione could see the students peering eagerly as the small, dark haired form of Harry shuffled to the stool. He kept his eyes lowered as he placed the hat onto his head, though at the last second, he looked up.

Over a minute of ponderous silence, and still people hissed and muttered and twisted in their seats trying to get a good look in. Hermione even saw the teachers attempting a better look, which seemed patently ridiculous to Hermione, regardless of what he'd done as a baby. He was just a boy.

"Gryffindor!"

She heard the explosive cheers from the Gryffindor table, watching closely as he slowly walked towards his new housemates, relief written plainly on his face. He was terribly thin, she noted absently. He had that skinny, stretched look about him – the look of someone who has recently experienced a growth-spurt – only he was rather small and wiry regardless, with a wide, hungry look in his eye.

She watched, sometime later, as Ron Weasley was sorted into Gryffindor, joining Harry at the table and saw her younger self lean across the table to address a remark to them both, and suppressed something of a laugh as young Hermione pulled away again abruptly before sticking her nose in the air with what was surely an aggrieved sniff.

As Blaise Zabini was sorted into Slytherin, Hermione felt the quality of the memory begin to falter and looked down to see Demelza gripping her arm.

"Time to go," she told her, somewhat unnecessarily.

Hermione nodded, and watched as Demelza pulled out her wand and waved in a sweeping motion, tightening her grip on Hermione's arm, as the two of them began to rise from the memory...

With a gasp, as though emerging from underwater, Hermione fell face first from the Pensieve and onto the floor. Demelza followed and landed with an aplomb that Hermione envied.

Awaiting them was Harry, who stood with a crooked smile, arms crossed against his chest.

"So, how'd it go?"

"Rather well, I thought," said Demelza, coming over to offer Hermione a hand up off the floor. "But the real question is how do you think it went?"

Hermione straightened, brushing off her jeans.

"Aside from the fact that I just viewed one of your memories you mean?" she asked, addressing her comment to Harry.

He gave something of a nonchalant shrug.

"Consider yourself one of the privileged few," he suggested.

"Helpful," Demelza supplied.

"Honestly, I thought it was amazing," Hermione told them. "Surreal. But good." She paused, then added, "Can I view them again? As in more than once?"

Harry and Demelza shared a glance before turning to look at Hermione.

"Would that be okay?" she asked hurriedly. "Or is that too much to ask? I mean, Harry, can you even remember them if they're stored in the pensieve?"

She felt slightly horrified as she asked the question. It had never occurred to her before in all her fascination with the pensieve.

"No, it's not like that at all," Harry assured her. "It doesn't affect my ability to recall it. It's more that the memory is less vivid. Of course, I'm not so sure I'm the right person to explain it," he hinted, nudging Demelza with his shoulder.

"It's like what I said before, when we were in the memory," Demelza explained, taking her cue from Harry. "It's an echo of what has already occurred. It can't be changed. The memory exists in Harry; he is the source of the one we just viewed. The act of him sharing the memory with us, of consciously taking out that particular strand of memory does not mean that the memory no longer exists in his head. Sharing a memory and removing a memory are two very different things."

"Did you remember anything?" Harry asked, an eager glint in his eye.

Hermione's mouth twisted as she attempted to formulate a reply and she shrugged lightly before replying.

"Not really. I saw the Weasley twins. I knew them – they were familiar, as though I already half knew them." She paused, thinking of something which had suddenly occurred to her. "And... something..." she struggled with the words, grasping the ragged fragment of memory – the merest wisp. "A joke shop?"

"Yes!" Harry burst out as soon as the words left her mouth, earning him a disapproving glare from Demelza.

"Yes?" Hermione probed.

"The twins," Harry began, glancing at Demelza before continuing. "They own a joke shop. A very successful one, at that. Two now, actually. Though when you knew them, they had only the one."

Hermione nodded. This made sense. It more than made sense, she thought. It seemed fitting in that inexplicable way she was only just getting used to. The more she thought of it, the more it began to take shape in her mind.

She could see the shop front now, garish and busy and eye-popping, and she could see the twins, older than they'd appeared in the memory she'd just viewed, dressed in identical, lurid suits, wearing identical, mischievous grins. And more, she could see the shelves of neon coloured potions and concoctions, brightly wrapped boxes of magical fireworks, of Ton-Tongue Toffee. She could see the pastel coloured puffballs, and was surprised when her mind produced yet another name – Arnold the Pygmy Puff. Another pet, she guessed. She wondered who it had belonged to. Perhaps it had been hers.

When she finally emerged from her thoughts, it was with the sudden awareness that Demelza was watching her closely and Harry appeared to have left the room.

"Welcome back," Demelza greeted her, a light smile curving the corners of her mouth.

"Was I gone for long?" Hermione asked, rather bewildered.

"Not too long. Five minutes, maybe?"

"Oh. How very odd."

"Not that odd, actually," Demelza remarked idly. "What did you recall?"

"The twins. Their shop – Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes," she broke off to chuckle at the name, so ridiculous on her tongue. "I could see it, and them, in my mind. And... Arnold the Pygmy Puff?" she asked perplexedly.

Demelza laughed before standing up and going over to the door. She pulled it open and called out, "Harry! She remembered something!"

"What was it?" came his responding yell.

"Arnold the Pygmy Puff."

Hermione could hear Harry's shout of laughter and, as Demelza returned to her seat, still chuckling, Harry himself appeared at the door.

"You're joking," he said, as he flopped down into his chair once more.

Hermione shook her head and Harry started laughing again.

"Anyone going to explain the joke?" she asked.

"Harry can do it," Demelza replied, waving her hand lazily in Harry's general direction.

"Fine," Harry replied, having calmed his laughter to the occasional chortle. "Arnold the Pygmy Puff – honestly Hermione, what is it with you and the animals? – was the pet of Ginny Weasley – Ron and the twins' younger sister. And my ex, actually. She pestered Molly Weasley for one.

"And he was awful. He chirped and whistled, and god, just kept at it all the time," he went on, rolling his eyes. "In the middle of the night even. And if you said anything to Ginny, she'd just shrug and say she thought it was cute. For the record, it was emphatically not cute."

"Oh." Hermione looked on as Demelza cackled and Harry shook his head at the memory of Arnold.

"Harry," Demelza began, hiccupping slightly over his name. "You should dig out some of your old photo albums. There's bound to be a picture of Arnold in there somewhere."

"My dear wife," Harry replied, looking outraged. "What on earth makes you think I would have hung onto a picture of that little cretin?"

"Be a love anyway," Demelza pressed on, in honeyed tones which left absolutely no room for argument. "Take a look while I show Hermione the other memories."

Harry said nothing, choosing instead to meet her eyes for a long moment before shrugging and standing up with a rangy stretch.

"Shall I pop the kettle on while I'm up?"

"Oh, will you?"

He bowed his head and dropped a kiss onto her hair by way of a response before leaving and shutting the door behind him soundlessly.

"Well?" Demelza prompted, sitting forward in her chair with sudden energy.

Hermione stood. "After you," she said, gesturing towards the table where the pensieve stood.

Once again the scene quavered and shifted blearily before coming sharply into focus.

The Entrance Hall again.

This time she was standing behind Harry, Demelza at her side. The hall looked resplendent in Christmas finery, and the crowds which swelled around them were adorned in robes of lush fabrics and vivid colours. Harry, standing nervously in front of them, was wearing bottle green robes. Ron, beside him, looked positively pained in rather ragged-looking maroon robes, which clashed alarmingly with his hair.

Hermione leaned in to Demelza."So what's the memory?" she asked in a low voice, forgetting momentarily that she couldn't be heard by anyone other than the woman next to her.

"The Yule Ball," she replied crisply. "Took place in your fourth year at Hogwarts. It was rather a grand affair, as I'm sure you can see."

Hermione nodded faintly, before turning her attention back to the scene in front of her. She watched as other students entered; Neville, escorting a girl with characteristic Weasley red hair – and Hermione realised she was looking at a young Ginny Weasley; a strikingly beautiful young woman on the arm of a handsome (but dazed-looking) young man; Draco, wearing ridiculous black velvet robes, with Pansy on his arm, wearing a frilly abomination that Hermione knew was decidedly not to Pansy's taste.

And then she was peering around, seeking out faces she thought she knew, seeking her own face perhaps. She caught a glimpse of Professor McGonagall speaking to a dark haired wizard with a hooked nose – and a name came to her unbidden: Professor Snape. Potions, she recalled suddenly before tucking it away for later.

She was still contentedly people watching, chuckling at Harry's awkward attempts at conversation with his date – a pretty girl with incredibly long black hair and dark eyes, and dressed in vivid pink, when Demelza elbowed her in the side.

"Look."

Hermione obliged but didn't spot anything or anyone particularly noteworthy and wondered why the other woman had spoken at all. She watched as a group of students came in through the heavy oak front doors, led by a professor with an ugly little goatee and an oily expression on his face. And just behind him, she saw... herself. She looked nothing like the wide eyed girl she'd seen in the previous memory. Her hair was straight and shiny, pulled away from her face in a pretty knot, and she was wearing diaphanous robes in a delicate blue.

It was strange, seeing herself like this.

It was stranger still seeing the way the way those who recognised her reacted to her appearance. It was clearly her moment. One, Hermione suspected, meant a great deal to her younger self, and that made her strangely emotional.

It wasn't that she was no longer insecure about her looks. She doubted that kind of insecurity ever left a person. It was more that her insecurities were so much greater now, more complex, so tied up in the secret she'd carried inside her head for so long, unsure if it was even real. And those insecurities were hard to let go of too.

And then she heard Professor McGonagall call out, "Champions over here, please!"

Her head spun around, looking around for the so-called champions, and was surprised when she saw Harry and his vividly-robed date step forward, along with the beautiful blonde girl with the dazed young man at her side. They were followed by a handsome youth with a pretty dark haired girl as his date and then by the awkward, dark haired young man accompanying her younger self.

She felt her lips twist in wry amusement.

This was definitely her moment.

She watched as Harry's jaw dropped and recognition dawned on his face. Hermione stifled a chuckle, but when she heard Demelza doing the same thing she dropped all pretences and laughed outright. Demelza met her eye and joined in shamelessly.

"He really was the most unobservant little fool," Hermione said fondly, and without thinking.

"What do you mean?" Demelza asked.

"Well, like the time he..." Hermione replied, though her ready words fell away as she searched for the memory, for the moment – it was there, just there for god's sake – but the more she tried the more it felt like she was coming up against a relentless white void. She shook her head. "I don't know what I meant," she said on a sigh. "I'm sorry."

Demelza said nothing, as if she understood too well the futility of words, and instead took her hand, squeezing it gently in a gesture which had passed between them many times in the course of their sessions.

"Come on," she prompted, inclining her head toward the door to the Great Hall. "They've all gone in now. They'll probably be sitting down to eat at this rate."

The Hall looked magnificent. Garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossed the vast ceiling, this time inky black and quilted with stars, and the walls of the Hall had been charmed to a silvery frost, which glimmered in the candlelight.

And it turned out that Demelza was right. The students had been seated at the many round tables which had replaced the four long house tables and the sounds of chattering voices filled the air. Some of them were browsing menus and speaking to their plates, and Hermione let out a delighted little chuckle at the sight of dishes appearing from nowhere onto the plates.

They wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, simply listening to the drifts and snippets of conversation which fell from nearby tables as they passed.

"-you'll find you're wrong there actually. I mean how could you possibly think that the Cannons are going to fare well against Puddlemere? The Cannons have an abysmal record"-

"But Puddlemere aren't exactly doing well, are they? When was their last win, even? Three losses, at least, and a string of Snitch catches but not enough points scored to break even?"

"-and apparently it happened in the Library, but honestly, what's romantic about that?"

"Oh, well obviously she'd think it was romantic – she's such a swot"-

"-some stupid egg thing but what's the point in that?"

"Well obviously it's a clue. I heard Cedric Diggory had his in the Library the other day. He refused to open it and wouldn't even say why"-

And then she drifted towards the top table, where she and Harry had been seated along with their dates. She could see Ron with his date, who appeared to be the twin of Harry's date, oddly enough, as well as Ginny sitting with Neville and the Weasley twins. She caught sight of other faces, further flickers of recognition, though her mind refused to offer up any other names. Ron, she noticed, was shooting black looks at the top table and steadfastly ignoring his poor date.

Harry's date wasn't faring much better. He wasn't exactly ignoring her, but he was looking about him with an avidly curious expression, which she had come to know so well. She watched in amusement as the girl narrowed her eyes as he absent-mindedly answered her question. Her younger self was seated further along the table, and she was surprised by the earnest conversation taking place between her and her date.

"-and of course ve harvest the inverberry plants ourselves in the summer months. The days, you know, Herm-own-ninny, they are so long because ve are so far north at home – at my family's home – and ve stay till midnight sometimes in the groves. My mother, she is the potioneer in our house and vhen the harvest is completed she vill lock herself avay"-

"Why would she do that? Is she terribly secretive?"

"No, it is just that she likes to have seclusion vhile she brews and the Stasis Solution is very temperamental, as I am sure you know."

"Yes, I've read that. I'd so like to try it but it's NEWT level here and I don't think my parents would appreciate my blowing up the back bedroom."

"His name is Viktor Krum," said Demelza, at her side, watching the exchange with great amusement. "You two are quite the pair."

"We're dreadfully earnest, aren't we?" Hermione replied.

"You're not so different now, you know."

"Oh stop."

Further along the table, Harry was still occupied looking around with undisguised curiosity, while his date scowled her disgust at his lack of attention. Demelza sniggered unashamedly.

"Feeling petty?" Hermione shot a smirk at Demelza.

"You're supposed to be watching the memory, Hermione," Demelza shot back.

"Why is Ron glaring at me?" she asked, indicating her younger incarnation with a nod of her head.

And he was indeed glaring quite ferociously at the younger Hermione, though it turned blacker still as his gaze fell onto Viktor Krum.

"Oh, well you and Ron always did have something of a difficult relationship," Demelza informed her with a chuckle. "Certainly not as clear cut as you and Harry anyway."

Harry, it appeared, had been drawn into reluctant conversation with what had to be another Weasley, though this one wore glasses and a rather smug expression.

"That's Percy Weasley."

"He doesn't much resemble the rest of them, does he?" Hermione observed.

"No, he's cut from something of different cloth than the rest of them."

After some time, Dumbledore stood, signalling the end of the meal, and requested that everyone stand too. Then, with something of a careless wave of his wand, the tables were swept back to the walls, leaving a great expanse of floor. Hermione watched, intrigued, as he conjured a stage along one side of the hall, complete with a full set of instruments – which included, curiously enough, a lute and a set of bagpipes.

A band then appeared to tumultuous applause and wild cheering from the crowd which had gathered at the foot of the stage immediately after their appearance. They were all wildly hairy, and clad in aesthetically tattered robes. They picked up their instruments and an expectant hush fell over the hall.

Hermione saw the younger Hermione and her date stand, along with the other champions and their respective dates, and then let out a little snort of amusement as Harry belatedly realised he was a champion too and had to be tugged to his feet by his date. They made their way into the middle of the hall and the band struck up a melancholic tune.

While it was dazzling to watch the preternaturally beautiful Beauxbatons champion dance, and rather a relief to see she had acquitted herself well on the dancefloor with Viktor Krum, it was something else entirely to watch Harry dance with his date. He held her rigidly, as though she were a snake about to strike, and steadfastly refused to look her in the eye.

It wasn't long, however, before other couples began to join them, swaying slowly in time with the music. As the song ended, Demelza nudged her in the side.

"What?"

"Harry. Look at him," she said with a chuckle. "Fleeing the scene of a crime."

And she wasn't wrong. Harry, looking grimly determined, was fighting his way off the dancefloor, against the flood of people making their way closer to the stage as the band struck up a tune that was faster and evidently very popular. He reached Ron, who was sitting at his table with his date, trailed by his own date – both of whom were wearing matching scowls of disgruntlement.

She sought out her younger self again, and found her in the centre of the dancefloor with her date, clearly enjoying herself. While the music had rather a lot of bagpipe for Hermione's taste, it was evidently not the case for her fifteen-year-old self. She chuckled to herself as she watched Draco throwing himself wildly into dancing with a large group of his fellow Slytherins, displaying a lack of decorum that seemed entirely incompatible with the image he'd painted of his younger self – what precious little she did know.

As the song ended and segued seamlessly into a new one, Hermione watched as Krum bent his head to speak to young Hermione, though with the noise, it was impossible to tell what he was saying. She nodded her head, and then replied, waving her hand a little as she spoke. The she turned and made her way through the crowd towards Harry and Ron.

When Hermione caught up with her younger self, she could tell she'd stumbled into an ugly conversation.

"...he's just trying to get closer to Harry," Ron sneered, "get inside information – or get near enough to jinx him"-

Hermione's stomach lurched at the scorn in Ron's voice.

"For your information," young Hermione replied, in quaking tones, "he hasn't asked me one single thing about Harry, not one"-

"Then he's hoping you'll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you've been putting your heads together during those cosy little library sessions"-

The egg... Something about the word snagged on Hermione's consciousness, and she felt a flicker of resonance inside her.

"I'd never help him work out that egg!" young Hermione retorted. "Never. How could you say something like that – I want Harry to win the Tournament. Harry knows that, don't you, Harry?"

The egg... The Tournament...

'I want Harry to win the Tournament.'

The Triwizard Cup.

And then-

The cup. The dragon. The lake. The maze. Ron's hand in hers, squeezing tightly, and Cedric Diggory's dead body, and the chilling, agonising wailing of Cho Chang. Voldemort. He's back, Hermione, he's really back.

There was a blackness seeping into the edge of her vision, spidery like ink, and she could feel her breath coming in shaking gasps. She was shaking. Hands cold.

And just as she thought she was going to faint, she felt the firm, warm grasp of Demelza's hand, felt the swift tug as she was flung from the memory-

-and emerged with a sob in her throat and tears on her cheeks, falling into a ball on the floor as the abrupt storm of memories ruptured within her.

Oh god Harry, no. Please, no. Not him.

She could see his face, starkly white, his green eyes dark with grief and some aching, unnamed emotion-

She could hear the tumultuous rumbling of hundreds of terrified voices, crying and shrieking and screaming and wailing-

And she could smell the blood... the blood of a battle yet to come, like a desolate premonition of events she knew had already occurred-

And then she could feel-

She could feel warm hands and gentle touches, and the subtle brushing of magic as it settled over her-

"Hermione? Hermione, can you hear me?" And then- "Harry, she's coming to, look"-

She pulled in a breath, realising that this room smelled like sage and lavender and tea, not of blood and chaos, and opened her eyes. Harry and Demelza were both seated at her side, peering down at her anxiously.

"Don't move too much," Demelza instructed her, as she continued to run diagnostic spells, the incantations streaming from her mouth in a low mutter that sounded almost like poetry.

She met Harry's gaze as Demelza worked, realising suddenly that he had her hand grasped in his. He gave it a squeeze and asked her in a low voice if she was alright.

She shrugged faintly by way of a reply. She wasn't sure she trusted herself to speak yet.

"Harry." Demelza spoke, now scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. "I need hot, sweet tea and some chocolate, it's good for the"-

"The shock," Harry finished, getting to his feet. "I know."

Once she'd finished making her notes, Demelza turned her attention to Hermione.

"Well that was unexpected," she said with her usual frankness, casting a shrewd eye over Hermione. "How do you feel?"

Hermione shook her head numbly, "I don't know."

"A totally normal reaction, I assure you," Demelza replied briskly, before adding in a softer tone, "I'll need to ask you about what happened. It must have been quite a significant breakthrough."

Hermione merely nodded. Demelza reached out to grasp her hand.

"The tea will help. Promise."

Once Harry had returned bearing sweet, hot tea and she'd been liberally plied with biscuits and a comfortingly large portion of Honeydukes chocolate, Hermione began to talk.

"What happened when we were in the memory, Hermione?" Demelza asked, before taking a sip of her tea.

Hermione sighed.

"It was fine at the start. I had a couple of flickers – names, here and there – nothing significant. It was Ron, I think, who triggered it. I'm not really sure..." she trailed off, thinking intently, lost in the second-hand memory of a fight she was only just beginning to remember. "We were arguing – over... Viktor, I think."

She met Harry's eyes as she continued. "He was accusing me of helping Viktor with the egg." She sighed again. "That egg. I remember it so well now... Harry, you great fool. I can't believe you left it so close to the task to do anything about it! How could you?"

Harry exploded with laughter.

"You said exactly the same thing to me after the second task"- He broke off as her words registered. "Wait- you- you remember?"

"Yes, well- no. Sort of."

"What was it about the egg that set you off, Hermione?" Demelza asked, a quill poised over a roll of parchment, covered in increasingly messy notes.

"I don't know really," she replied. "Ron was going on about the egg and making those ridiculous accusations – he was rather dramatic wasn't he? – and, I don't know, something about the word struck me. As soon as he said the word, I could see a golden egg – I knew exactly what it was; I could even remember that awful screeching sound it made when it was opened.

"And then I – that is, younger me, began to defend myself. I told him I wanted Harry to win the Tournament and then it just... suddenly – god, it was like a train hitting me. Suddenly it was all there – like reliving it all again," she finished with a shudder.

"What exactly do you remember now?" Demelza prompted, looking up from her parchment with an intense look in her eyes.

"Oh. Well... hmmm..." Hermione paused, trying to gather her thoughts. "Well, the Triwizard Tournament was... fourth year? Isn't that right?" At Harry's nod, she continued. "I can remember... the cup – no, it wasn't a cup, was it? – the goblet. The Goblet of Fire!" she cried, the memory calcifying in her mind as she spoke. "I remember your name coming out of the Goblet, Harry... everyone was so... shocked – angry, even."

She looked to Harry for reassurance, and he reached across to squeeze her hand before nodding.

"You had no choice, you said... A binding magical contract..." she breathed, as she struggled to keep the memories at bay, each one tugging fiercely at her consciousness. "And after that... After that..." She frowned. "It's a bit... patchy after that. I don't know... what happens after that."

"Can you remember anything else?" Demelza asked, having charmed her quill to take notes now. Her fingers were heavily splattered with ink.

"Yes, actually. I remembered all of the Tasks... and," she paused, "something of the aftermath, I think..."

She fought the shudder that swept over her as she thought of the moment she'd learned that Voldemort had returned and everything, everything, would change and there was no going back.

"There were dragons..." she continued. "The Hungarian Horntail and the Swedish Shortsnout? Do I have that right?"

Harry nodded eagerly, while Demelza smiled her encouragement.

"I was so scared for you Harry!" she admonished, feeling much more like herself the more she spoke. "Bloody dragons! What were they thinking? And you – only fourteen! Oh, but you flew so well. You know, I think if I hadn't been so terrified, I'd have enjoyed watching you," she added.

"You helped, you know," Harry told her. "I'd never have been able to summon my Firebolt if you hadn't trained me. Accio. Do you remember?"

She had a sudden flash of herself standing with Harry in a classroom, surrounded by floating objects, and nodded slowly.

"I.. Yes. I do..." she nodded.

"I'd never have survived the Tournament without you."

"You don't know that," she protested but Harry cut her off.

"Actually I do. I've had a long time to think about it – how much you did for us, for me, the sacrifices you made... Without you, I'd never have survived."

The words were stark with honesty, and Hermione felt her vision splinter with the threat of tears.

"Thank you," she managed.

"How are you feeling, Hermione?" Demelza asked, a thread of concern in her voice. "You okay to keep going?"

Hermione nodded before taking a deep breath, suppressing the tears she knew were a foregone conclusion.

"I can't recall the Second Task, terribly well, actually," she told Demelza. "That's where the memories are fuzziest and least coherent. I mean, I can remember Harry coming to me for help with weeks to go before the task... I can remember wanting to strangle him. How could he have been so bloody foolish?"

She trailed off, lost in thought, and missed Harry's shamefaced grimace.

"But it's the oddest thing..." she went on. "I don't remember much of the task at all. Was I in the water?" she asked abruptly, as another memory began to make itself known. "I have the strangest memory of being in the lake... and Viktor had turned himself into a shark - a half shark," she finished with a hiccup of laughter.

"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that," Harry chuckled, then added to Demelza, "Remind me to send him a picture later."

"Oh! Are you friends?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"Of a sort," Harry shrugged good-naturedly. "He's a good skin – and an even better Quidditch player. But to answer your question, Hermione, yes – you were in the lake. They used you as... bait, I suppose – it all seems a bit extreme in retrospect – and had you placed under some charm and taken to be guarded by the merpeople in the great lake. We – the champions, I mean – had to retrieve our chosen captive within an hour, and a complete pain in the arse."

"Oh yes..." Hermione murmured, as the eerie poem the egg had produced came back to her. "Was I your captive?" she asked curiously.

"Viktor's actually. I had to rescue Ron. Fleur had to get her sister, Gabrielle, and Cedric had to save his girlfriend Cho."

Cedric.

He's dead! Dead!? But how?

Cedric Diggory – dead!

No! No! Cedric!

Echoes of that night whispered frantically in her ears. The chaos, the screams shredding the night sky, cerulean blue, and the sly creep of panic which masked itself as a chill in the air, the slow, aching thump of her own heavy heart. She could almost touch it, such was the rawness of this particular shard of memory.

The Third Task.

She was brought back to the present abruptly by Harry calling her name.

"You still with us, Hermione?"

She took a shuddering breath, feeling suddenly drained.

"Yeah."

"We can stop if you want."

This from Demelza.

"No. I need to do this."

She was being stubborn, she knew, but she didn't care.

"If you're sure..."

"I am," she replied in a tone that brooked no further argument.

"Well then," Demelza said, with the air of someone taking up the reins, "let's pick up with what you remember about the Third Task. Anything of the run up to the task? Any of the prep work you saw before the other tasks?"

"Something of it... Impedimenta... I remember teaching it to Harry. And Point Me, a stupidly easy spell – I'm amazed you didn't know it, Harry," she added as an aside. "I can remember making lists in the library – so many lists – of different spells for us to try. And worrying – an awful lot.

"I feel like I did a lot of worrying about you," she told Harry with frown, feeling terribly sad about this, though she couldn't precisely say why.

"You did," Harry confirmed. "Something my younger self was not always capable of appreciating – but I absolutely did after the Triwizard Tournament, I can promise you that."

"I should hope so," said Hermione with a sniff. "Dragons. Merpeople. Being held hostage!"- ("Ah, now that wasn't strictly my doing, was it?") –"And then a bloody maze which held a murderous dark wizard hell-bent on killing you! I'm surprised I haven't turned grey from the stress."

"And that's not even getting into what happened after that," Harry chuckled.

"Harry!" Demelza scowled her disapproval.

"Sorry," he winced. "But Hermione knows what I mean, don't you Hermione?" Harry turned his eyes to Hermione, gazing at her imploringly. "I mean," he went on turning his attention back to his wife, "she's not entirely ignorant of what happened. She knows there was a war."

"Honestly, Harry, you have all the tact of a bull in a china shop," Demelza told him, with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "So you remember the maze?" she asked Hermione. "And the..." –she cleared her throat lightly – "...aftermath..."

"I do," Hermione replied with unusual certainty. "This, of all of the memories is clearest. It's the most... visceral, though that may not be the most appropriate word for it."

"Can you tell me about it?" Demelza asked, quill at the ready once more.

"It was warm – the evening of the Third Task. I remember that. It was warm and still bright when we were heading down to the Quidditch pitch – me and Ron and Ginny and Neville... and maybe it was because it was so warm - it had been such a beautiful day – maybe that was why I wasn't as nervous as I had been before the previous tasks.

"We'd worked so hard. I was so... so proud of Harry – and of Ron too. I'd pushed them, and they never complained, never hesitated. I'd actually been looking forward to seeing him compete in this one. But, in the end it was difficult to see much of the task clearly, what with everyone being stuck inside that maze.

"You could always tell when something was happening because of the light from the spellwork. It would raise up against the sky, almost like fireworks. Which looked pretty, but not terribly interesting to watch. And then, once Fleur and Viktor were out of the running, it was just a waiting game.

"And then... he came back. Harry. Flung from nowhere and god, poor Cedric Diggory, and that blasted cup – and then... chaos. Complete and utter chaos," she finished tiredly, feeling hollow, her soul rattling about inside her like a copper penny. "Ron was with me, I remember that. He was nearly grey with fear, though he never said a word.

"After that... it gets fuzzy again. Harder." She paused, trying to grasp what little was there at the very horizon of her memory. "The hospital wing, I think. Dumbledore was there. And... Snuffles?" She laughed absently, as the name came to her. "Sirius was there. It's hard to remember what was said. It feels very distant. And then... well, that's it. I can't remember any more," she concluded with a shrug, exhaustion creeping into every bone.

There was silence for a moment, Demelza watching her closely, a little line puckering her brow, and Harry regarding her with an intense gaze, though his expression was difficult for her to decipher.

She was so tired.

"Well done, Hermione."

This from Demelza. Hermione met her gaze frankly.

"I mean it," Demelza assured her. "That was an unprecedented response to the memories – I could never have anticipated it. Never. And I know how tired you must be. Unlocking one memory can be hard, as you know all too well, but to unlock a sustained period of time like you just did... that's incredible. And I made you go through it all again - I'm sorry.

"But," she went on with a sigh, "it had to be done. I need to record all of it, you know. And I needed to gauge your reaction. Talking about it helps the mind to accept, to adapt. How are you feeling now?"

"Exhausted," Hermione admitted with a breathless laugh.

She wondered if it was the tiredness keeping the tears and the panic away.

"Well, I think you've earned a rest – a holiday, actually, if I'm being honest, but I obviously can't quite manage that just now," Demelza told her with a chuckle, "so I'm going to give you a small vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Take it before you get into bed. A night of uninterrupted sleep to give your mind time to rest and to heal. Promise me you'll take it easy this evening? Nothing strenuous – no work, none – and early to bed. And take the potion."

"As the good doctor orders," Hermione replied, with an ironic salute.

Demelza laughed, not unfamiliar with muggle idioms, while Harry gave a snort of amusement as he made his way to Hermione's side.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice gruff as he pulled her against his side.

"Ask me tomorrow," she murmured, suppressing a yawn.

"You were... so brave today," he told her. "I never doubted that you'd find your way back to us. I know how hard you're fighting. You've always been a fighter."

She nodded, pulling away from him as Demelza approached with the Dreamless Sleep Potion she'd summoned from the cupboard, pressing it into her hand with another firm order to take the potion.

She assured her that she would, that she was going straight home to bed.

And for once-

For once, that was exactly what she did.

She needed it. She needed it so badly she could hardly see. Her mind was swirling, overflowing with flashes of memory, new and old, fragment and scrap and turmoil.

And when she finally made it home, she fell back onto her bed, utterly spent, eyes falling heavily. Just as she was about to drift off, she remembered the potion and pulled it from her pocket, tugging it open and downing it without even a thought.

Her last thought before sweet, black oblivion took her was of a fleeting gasp of nothing, a mere hiss of words into the unknowing ether of her mind-

Filthy little mudblood.

A/N: My life is insane, I'm sorry. I never have time to write. Here is an enormous chapter to make amends.

Thank you all for reading. I'd love to hear what you think.

Love to you all.

-M