Coven. Ch. 26: Task

"Seven horcruxes," Ginny said, feeling faint.

Harry sighed and sat on the bed, then let himself fall over, head resting on Ginny's lap. She ruffled his impossible hair fondly, and he closed his eyes. She felt like closing her own. Seven! Seven of those foul things that could cling to your soul, and slowly drag you into oblivion, into non-being, into nourishment for Tom's reincarnation.

She still dreamed about the diary. How It coated her mind in slime, leaving no memory untouched, whispering suggestions so softly they merged with her own thoughts, nudging her to do the unspeakable. Until there had been nothing of herself left. Tom had consumed her whole being, chewed her up and spat her out and now he'd try it with someone else.

"Seven," Harry confirmed. "The locket," he listed, "the diary, the ring Dumbledore destroyed, the cup, maybe his snake, Nagini, something of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw's, and Voldemort himself."

Ginny counted with her fingers and then smacked the back of Harry's head. "So six then," she corrected him. "Why are you counting him? How can a person be a horcrux?"

Then she wondered – when the diary had controlled her every move, when Tom's voice had echoed in her head – hadn't it been her body who'd hosted a piece of his soul? Had there been any real difference, between herself and the diary?

Could she be a horcrux?

"Doesn't matter. We'll kill the bloke, too," Ron pointed out, distracting her. "Let's call it seven."

"Fine," Ginny agreed, because it certainly didn't matter. Tom's voice wasn't in her head anymore. "Six horcruxes, but we kill the bastard seven times. Two down, five to go," she proposed.

Ron nodded reluctantly, accepting their agreement with a twist of the mouth that clearly said he still wanted to say seven. Seriously – older brothers. She'd gift a few if she could. Or more like, if anyone would have them.

"So how do we destroy them?" she asked. "These horcruxes?"

Harry frowned. "I don't know," he said. "Dumbledore didn't say. But I destroyed the diary when I stabbed it with a basilisk fang."

Ginny knew Tom's cruelty better than most. She'd been a slave to his plans, a listening ear to his twisted suggestions. She hadn't learned much in her first year, but one lesson had stuck: Tom Riddle was dangerously clever. If he'd hidden bits of his soul, then they'd be hard to find, and harder to destroy.

"So ask. It's not like I carry a basilisk fang in my bag," Ginny said, tempted to smack his head again.

Ron rolled his eyes and just grumbled, "Yes, ma'am."

"I will," Harry promised. "Dumbledore destroyed the ring – he knows how."

She certainly hoped so. If she had to kill Tom five times, then someone better get her a bloody manual. She was about to say so when they heard the door creak. Too late, Ginny realised none of them had thought of casting a muffiato.

"What do you mean," Lavender Brown said, quietly entering the boys' room, "you need to kill You-Know-Who five times?"

Oh, fucking flying fuck.

"No, no, no, no," Garcia said. "No," she added after realising she'd stopped at four.

"Why not?" Hermione snapped. "Isn't this symmetric enough? Do I have to count the tiles again? Or maybe it's not perpendicular to the edge of the goddamned pipe? Or not centred enough? Never mind that the pipe is circular–"

"No, you – Ugh, I swear – you're dumber than walking backwards," Gracia snapped. "If you stick this to the pipe, then it's stuck to a Hogwarts wall, and then other portraits can get into the frame."

"Oh," Hermione said, realising her mistake.

"One portrait we stick on the wall of the bathroom, outside the pipe, allowing Aunt Cassandra to travel through the castle portraits," she repeated very slowly. "The other we set inside the pipe, but not on direct contact with the pipe walls – we let it hover with this handy hover charm – hic tanerbus," she said, casting it. "Then only Aunt Cassandra can get inside this one, 'cause it's her own frame."

Hermione, flushed to the roots of her hair, nodded. After being harassed by Garcia about the ideal placement of the outside portrait, she'd forgot all about the basic idea behind their plan. Though she'd been the one to propose it in the first place.

"Not the brightest witch, are you?" sniffed Aunt Cassandra haughtily from inside her frame. "We'd have had a hard time marrying you off in my day."

"I thought you said only looks mattered," Garcia told her.

"Well, yes – but she doesn't have looks either, does she? Though she has fine breeding hips."

Hermione wondered if she could get away with incendioing this portrait. They had twelve of the things, after all. But then Aunt Cassandra would become even more unbearable; short term gain, long term loss. Not worth it.

"Let's set one within the Chamber downstairs, too," Garcia said. "And we're done with our redecoration."

"Unless Dumbledore notices," Hermione reminded her.

"Yes, when he feels the desperate need to use the girl's loo," she agreed with a roll of her eyes.

"Well, ladies, we're going to need more yarn," Pansy said.

Garcia and Lovegood had copied The Book page by page, every single sentence on a tiny piece of parchment, all floating in a cloud-like swarm. Like insects, only they were twice as annoying. Now came the stringing. There were threads of all lengths and colours crisscrossing the space haphazardly. Pansy had to either bend down or jump a few times to reach the table in the centre. Throughout this process, she hadn't once cursed or made any other unladylike display of frustration, which certainly demonstrated her self-restraint. Aunt Cassandra was a nosy mare to have called her a callous, unmannered cow, and she was going to prove her wrong.

"Yes," the two said in unison.

"More blue," Lovegood said, checking her notes, "for the water-based phrases. Yellow, too – it connects all the words related to energy. That'll help look for continuity," she said, following a thread with her fingers. "Oh, and red for blood, of course."

"Wait, I thought we omitted blood – didn't have enough thread for that one," Garcia said.

"Well, if Pansy is offering more yarn, we can put it back in," said Lovegood. Pansy wasn't sure they'd be able to walk through the word cloud if they tracked blood too, though.

They had annexed the semidome between their allocated workspace and Hermione's potions lab. They were using the additional room for their kneazle cradle, and their own for calculations – the blackboards set on the walls were filled with formulae of complex arithmantical equations. The numbers spilled off the boards and hung in the air, shimmering in the flickering torchlight. They told Pansy exactly nothing.

"Have you reached any conclusions?" she asked doubtfully.

"Not yet," Garcia admitted much too cheerfully. "It can't be that easy."

"That'd take the fun away," Lovegood agreed. "Come here," she said, tugging at Pansy's hand. "I'll show you."

Pansy congratulated herself for having predicted, years before, that investing in smart friends wasn't worth the hassle. She was supervising them because someone had to, but staring at their equations for just five minutes only brought on a monumental headache. She couldn't follow one single, squiggly line. Her only contribution had been to point out that Lovegood wrote her Greek letters much more neatly than Garcia.

"Really?" Lovegood asked, delighted, squeezing Pansy's arm.

She looked, Pansy thought, like a happy cruppy – all big, shiny eyes and a wide smile. If she'd had a forked tail, it'd be wiggling both ends. Pansy didn't give compliments. Ever. She hadn't meant much with her offhand remark; or if she'd meant something, it was to call out Garcia's terrible penmanship. Lovegood's affectionate smile was unsettling. There was something about being stared at with such open affection that made her feel strangely exposed. Perhaps it made her feel every bit the mean person she was.

She couldn't take it for long. The pressure broke her. She shook off Lovegood's touch.

"But your skirt's atrocious," she said. "Orange and green stripes? Lovegood, why do you want to murder my eyes?"

Lovegood just laughed, which wasn't Pansy's preferred reaction. She dealt with antagonism – even if only in jest – better than fondness. Perhaps Lovegood had a masochistic streak or very selective hearing. In any case, Pansy always felt like she'd lost, after speaking to her.

"Such lack of grace," Aunt Cassandra complained in the background, interrupting her thoughts. "Child, we couldn't find you a husband if we gave you away at a sale."

Pansy clicked her tongue, annoyed. Lovegood was odd, but she was a sweet kid, and infinitely better than dealing with an awful old bat. Who was she to call Lovegood graceless? Or ugly? As if the woman were such a beauty – freckled, Circe's sake. Related to Jones, of course, what could one expect? Miss Huffles tried to hide it, but she was flat boring, just like her two-dimensional aunt.

"Shut up, you cheap oil stain. If you can't be nice, you might wake up with a couple of alterations to your portrait. How do you feel about facial hair? Or an eyepatch, huh?"

She cast a silencing charm around their room before Aunt Cassandra could make another cutting remark. She had her own concerns – and Daphne's snide observations – regarding the sensitive topic of husbands. She didn't need any reminders of her awful prospects, thank you very much.

Luna squinted at Aunt Cassandra's painting, her voice drifting by, "I didn't know wrackspurts could infest a painting – It's quite difficult to capture the way their wings curve, you see?" Lovegood pointed to the corner and where, Pansy assumed, the wrackspurts gathered. "I wonder if that's what drove her husband to jump off a bridge."

"Wrackspurts?" Pansy asked her.

"No," Lovegood said, "the unhealthy obsession with marriage."

Indeed, Aunt Cassandra's sole topic of conversation was nitpicking on how dire their marriage prospects were. She'd told Lovegood she was as sharp as a gobstone and a shame to her pretty face. Pansy was a cow. Tracey was a boor. And Jones was letting down the family. She'd deemed Hermione and Garcia unmarriable; Pansy had caught a whiff of blood prejudice there. Aunt Cassandra had sniffed and flounced away to another frame when she'd learnt of their ancestry.

Still, the damned old woman had a point.

"Well, most girls our age should start thinking of it." Pansy sighed. It wasn't like age made anyone prettier.

She wasn't terribly worried yet, though. While her prospects were indeed dire – she was engaged to a murderous madman – she had hope for the future. When their Coven defeated the Dark Lord, she'd have her pick. No one would be able to deny her anything.

"Should we?" Lovegood asked, interrupting an inner monologue that was dangerously bordering megalomania.

The question took Pansy by surprise. Should they? Should we what? She almost asked back. Because, if marriage was the question, then the obvious answer could only be yes. Right? Pansy certainly hadn't been raised to think otherwise.

"Be looking for a husband?" Pansy felt the need to clarify.

"No," Lovegood said, wrinkling her nose as if the very idea of it displeased her. "Definitely not."

Pansy paused, confused. "Well," she said after an instant of bewildered silence. "You are one year younger. You still have time."

Lovegood stared at her again – big, bright, uncomfortable eyes; seeing straight through her into the depth of her soul. Pansy was left with the unfamiliar feeling she had utterly missed the point.

Severus stalked among the tables, his glare drilling into the napes of twitchy students and eliciting satisfying fidgets. He brushed Potter's desk with his cloak and the boy bristled. He glanced at Finnigan's answer sheet and smirked when he looked up, enjoying the way the boy's eyes filled with doubt, and how he erased the correct answer. He walked behind Goldstein and tutted, walked past Brown and snorted, stopped next to Smith and stared.

Ah, exams, the only pleasure in the constant self-flagellation that was his life.

He moved to stand in front of the whole class, appreciating the subtle sound of quills scribbling against parchment; as close to silence as it ever got. Sad, that he couldn't enjoy the same during the practical.

"Miss Davis," he said, surprised when she stood and brought her parchment to him, "how quick."

The girl nodded, aware that answering was always riskier than staying quiet when it came to him. She left the classroom and, in passing, waved at Parkinson, Granger, and at that Hufflepuff cauldron-exploding menace, Garcia.

Odd, Severus thought, that particular combination of girls. Why had Parkinson chosen them? Perhaps it'd been tailored to give herself a better cover? Two Muggle-borns, a Half-blood and a Pure-blood Hufflepuff. Oh, and that oddball Lovegood. They certainly didn't scream Death-Eater.

Severus had been observing them. They moved around in a giggling pack, looking about as threatening as a basket of Pygmy Puffs. Most would laugh in the face of any fool who dared call them murderers.

But he knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

Narcissa's last letter contained a valuable piece of the puzzle that was Pansy Parkinson: the engagement to Rabastan Lestrange. Not only did it explain the man's interest in his student, but it might also explain Parkinson's motives. Like Rodolphus, Rabastan was bringing his wife into the fold.

Severus's brain pricked, the seed of doubt rubbing uncomfortably against his conclusions. Something didn't add up.

Parkinson could trick Granger, every Half-Blood in Slytherin, and her little collection of oddballs. She could infiltrate the Light under her husband's orders. She could have broken Potter's trio and murdered Draco in secret. And, in fact, if she'd indeed done all that for the Dark Lord's cause, he'd be impressed. It would be the most complex and twisted plan he'd seen anyone pull off.

It would also be the most unnecessary.

Why so many faux alliances with undesirable subjects? The Dark Lord had already infiltrated the Ministry, the Aurors and if he counted himself, the Order of the Phoenix. Who cared about a bunch of school children? Couldn't Parkinson have carried out her supposed mission – murder Draco, murder Albus, whatever it was – without shifting her alliances so noticeably?

Severus' dark eyes observed as Granger filled in the margins with unnecessary information. Parkinson glanced at her and yawned openly. Garcia stared off into space then started scribbling Arithmancy formulae onto the desk. What was he missing in this group of misfits?

"Ten points from Hufflepuff for disrespecting school property," he said, snatching Garcia's exam and scourgifying the desk clean. "Out of my classroom."

His students were jumpy after the outburst, even more nervous than before. Severus' eyes locked with Parkinson's for an instant, barely caressing her surface thoughts. Uninterestingly, they mostly revolved around flowers. Granger continued to write furiously, head down. Garcia left the room throwing the remaining girls a genial wave.

How were they connected? What was he missing?

Why murder Draco? Why bother with the Half-Bloods? What did she see in Granger?

He couldn't just sit still and keep repeating the same senseless questions in his mind. He needed answers. And if he wasn't allowed to get them from the Dark Lord himself… then he knew just the man to ask.

"Are you sure we're doing this right?" Tracey asked her, sceptically.

No, Charity wasn't sure. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Did she look like mind magic was her speciality? They needed Hermione for this. Tracey was so impatient, she'd insisted on doing it today, and Charity had agreed to help.

"I'm doing exactly what the book says," said Charity, defensively. "Focus, point your wand, say Legilimens."

"Huh," Tracey said. "It sounds easy enough. Which bit d'you reckon you fucked up?"

"Maybe my focus was a bit off," she answered dryly. It would be hard to get the other two wrong, wouldn't it?

"Let me give it a shot then," Tracey said, shrugging. "You're too nice – I bet you're not trying to peek into my deepest, darkest secrets. Out of respect, or some other huffy-puffy reason."

Charity frowned. Well, no, she hadn't really tried to look at Tracey's secrets. That sounded like an awful thing to do to a friend. Tracey took out her wand and, with an evil glint in her eye, pointed it at her. Charity didn't even think of occluding. She was caught unawares.

"Legilimens!" Tracey said.

It was just like taking a bludger to the head. The impact felt like a blunt, dull blow that travelled from the centre of her forehead to the spot right above the nape of her neck, leaving a searing, hellish pain in its wake.

She screamed.

Tracey screamed.

They both fell to the ground, clutching their heads and whimpering softly.

"Salazar's sticky scrotum Jones," Tracey finally managed. "That was like centaur's kick to the head."

Charity rolled on to her back, colours swimming in front of her eyes, "I think you broke my brain."

"Really," Aunt Cassandra's voice came from the portrait behind them, which hovered in mid-air in the middle of their Common Room, not touching any of the walls, "in my day, young ladies weren't this brutish. Language, Miss Davis."

"FUCK OFF, YOU CUNTING TWAT BRISTLE," Tracey shouted, an arm thrown over her eyes.

Aunt Cassandra swished out of the frame with a gasp, probably back to Myrtle's bathroom. She'd found a willing listener in the ghost, and the two tended to spend hours happily gossiping about the living – occasionally a lost first-year, but mostly the Coven.

"Light hurts. Colours look mushy," Tracey whimpered.

"Your fault," Charity grumbled, struggling to stand.

"Oh, are you practising?" Luna asked cheerfully, stepping into their Common Room, followed by Victoria and, oh joy, Pugsy Parkinson.

"Cool!" Victoria said, hurrying to join them. "I've always wanted to try Legilimency."

"It's not easy," Parkinson warned her, sashaying to the sofa. "I'm a decent Occlumens, I'd say – well, better than Granger, at least. But my Legilimency needs some work," she added with a scowl.

"Fine, Professor Pansy, teach us," Tracey groaned. "Come on. Lesson 1 – Occlumency: How to not make it feel like a herd of centaurs trampled on your head."

Parkinson kicked off her shoes and stretched out her legs, filling the sofa. "First, you should make your mind blank and empty. Picture it," she ordered.

Charity wasn't sure how one was supposed to picture emptiness, but it looked like everyone was trying.

"I imagine our guest room," Parkinson went on with her inherent air of superiority. "It's a small room, hardly any decoration. But there's a door – this is the important bit. Use that door, trap all your memories behind it. I like to imagine that there's a flight of rickety old steps that go down, down, down into the most deeply hidden corners of my mind," she lectured. "Then you fill the empty room with the memories you want to project – less relevant, maybe distracting. Even fake, if you're good enough," she added with a smirk. "I imagine them in the room, barely hidden under the bed, or peeking out a chest of drawers. Something the Legilimens can see, but not displayed in plain sight. It's best to make them do it, harder to tell you're occluding."

Pansy's example left Charity more confused than she'd started. What an absurd idea, trap all your memories in an imaginary basement. How did a brain even have a basement? Or drawers, or under a bed? It made no sense. Charity imagined placing her memories in big, floating bubbles and wasn't sure how to split one from the next. Parkinson, she decided, couldn't teach a seventh-year how to cast lumos if her life depended on it. Pretentious, pompous pug. She must be having them on.

"Empty?" Victoria asked, confused. She and Charity exchanged a dubious glance. Victoria couldn't empty her mind of numbers even in death, most likely. "Well, I'll give it a try," she said with a shrug.

"Let me try again," begged Tracey, eager as always, as she grabbed her wand.

Before Charity could stop the hammer that was Tracey's unsubtle Legilimency from hitting her best friend's head, she'd cast, "Legilimens." There were no screams this time though, only a startled silence. Tracey grimaced as if she'd just tasted something horrible, and then shook her head.

Victoria's face hadn't changed at all. She tilted her head to the side, curious.

"Did it work?" she asked Tracey.

"Bloody fucking hell," said Tracey, lifting her eyes to throw Victoria a strange look. "Your mind's like a goblin bank vault. I can't get in at all."

Charity was surprised to hear it, and her wonderment was shared by none other than Basement-Trap-Your-Memories Parkinson.

"She occluded?" Her pug nose scrunched incredulously. "Really?"

"I don't know," Tracey said. "Slipping in was smoother, but then there were just… numbers. Everywhere." She shook her head again as if trying to get them out of her head through her ears. "Threes and ones and sevens and – and just numbers and numbers and numbers," she exclaimed. "It's crazy inside your head," she said to Victoria, sounding both horrified and fascinated.

"Huh," Victoria said. "I didn't do anything, though."

Charity had to admit that Parkinson's experience, however limited, was better than nothing. Being five instead of two also helped, and they started to show some progress by the end of the session. Neither Occlumency nor Legilimency came easily to Charity, but she thought she was a bit better at the latter.

Luna was, perhaps not unexpectedly, a natural; she could guess people's thoughts at a glance, and her ideas were always hard to follow, like a rabbit darting into the brush. Charity took a peek inside her mind, and she found herself distracted by thoughts of heliopath conspiracies and gum disease, moon frogs, nargles and gulping plimpies and so much yellow. Luna, on the other hand, eased into her mind smooth as butter, to the point she could finish Charity's sentences. Charity didn't even feel more than a slight tingling behind her eyes.

Victoria's mind was, as Tracey had described, a mess. A big fat mess of numbers and ideas and formulae flying from all directions. She didn't need to occlude, Parkinson concluded because no sane person could make sense of her head. Her skills at Legilimency, however, left much to be desired.

Charity wouldn't know about Parkinson's skills first hand, because they certainly didn't practice on each other, but the other girls seemed to think she was second only to Luna. Tracey, on the other hand, sucked. Epically. Mean as it was, it made Charity feel a little bit better about her skills.

"Granger's a good Legilimens," Parkinson told them after their training session. "But Lovegood's better."

"We need to practice on other people," Tracey said. "We can't know how good we truly are, objectively, unless we compare ourselves to an experienced practitioner."

"You," interrupted Hermione, coming out of nowhere and doing a remarkable impression of a moody McGonagall, "need to be studying Astronomy."

And with that, she dragged Victoria and Tracey to the Study Room, lecturing them about exams, responsibilities, and their inability to follow a simple colour-coded schedule.

Tracey was taking a break from revising – Herbology today – and most definitely not skipping said revising. Not at all. And Hermione, were she to suddenly enter the Chamber and find her feasting on sugar quills, would be very mistaken to think so. Sugar quills were an essential part of Tracey's revision routine.

Pansy was lucky enough not to have chosen that elective, and so she had an official break in her schedule. Luna had joined them right after she finished her Transfigurations O.W.L. They'd brought Tracey a very juicy bit of distracting information. Obviously, she had to take time to consider it before returning to her revising. No goofing off here. Not at all.

"Flowers?" said Tracy, incredulous. "Come on Pans, you're having me on. Why the fuck would he send flowers?"

Pansy shrugged, feigning indifference. "Maybe he thinks it's poetic."

"You sure it's him?"

Pansy shrugged again, which Tracey took to mean yes. Luna nodded. Tracey felt her frown deepen. If they were right, this was bang-on creepy. Even creepier than Goyle staring at Daphne, which was ick. What kind of cock juggler sent threatening flowers? That Lestrange tosser must be screwed up in the head.

Pansy had written the flowers and their meanings on a scrap of paper. The bouquet included: Pansy; think of me. Rhododendron; danger. Oleander; caution. Maidenhair, discretion. Who knew the tra-la-la language of flowers could be so ominous.

"Aren't danger and caution the same bloody thing?" she pointed out after re-reading Pansy's poncy flower code.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your fantastic insight, Tracey. But no, you have caution when there is danger," she drawled.

She poked Pansy's cheek with her licked sugar quill, which made Pansy shriek and call her a disgustingly low-bred Quidditch jock. Tracey snorted. She couldn't help but wonder how that twisted-up priss-arse bitch had managed to worm her way into her heart. Still, one had to admit that Pansy's filth was much more amusing when directed at others.

"Why do you need discretion?" she asked, returning her attention to the ominous bouquet.

"I assume he thinks my love for mudbloods and blood-traitors, such as yourself, is not exactly discrete." Pansy sneered. "My father certainly agrees. Though sending his thoughts in a Howler did undermine his argument a bit."

"So the biased inbred is telling you to 'take caution there is danger use discretion and think of me'? Why not just send a note that says that? No, much better to threaten you with bloody blossoms of doom. Your husband-to-be sounds lovely," Tracey teased. "He's got the sort ideals you've always admired."

Tracey liked jokes. She liked nasty jokes even better, and best if they were about Pansy. The highlight, she thought, was that Pansy always responded – a fancy sneer, a blatant insult, or even a hex to the face. You know, fun times. It was like poking a werewolf with a stick.

But this time, her words only provoked a glance. A side-long one that was involuntary, reflexive, swift; a sudden pull between Luna's and Pansy's eyes. And just as quickly as they connected, as soon as their eyes met, it broke.

Huh? What was that?

"Yes," Pansy said, sounding distracted. "Yes, lovely," she repeated with more feeling. "I always thought I needed to die young, you see? While still beautiful."

Tracey snorted. "Beautiful? Aren't you past the date already, then? Because I certainly can't see this beauty you are talking about –" And then she had to dodge the hex she'd been waiting for.

Ron was waiting in front of the staircase to the girls' room, not in the best of moods. He wanted to be in his room, where his best mate was currently worrying over his crazy horcrux-hunting adventure. Exciting, Gryffindor stuff. Also incredibly dangerous and potentially suicidal, which again, Gryffindor!

But what was Ron doing? Waiting for his girlfriend to have the common decency to at least allow him to explain himself. Yes, he could understand that keeping the whole "we gotta kill You-Know-Who several times" thing a secret wasn't exactly encouraging trust in a budding relationship. But what was a bloke supposed to do when Dumbledore asked him to keep a secret? Go tattle to his girlfriend immediately? That didn't sound trustworthy to him.

Yes, that's what he'd tell Lavender. She'd understand, right? It sounded solid to him.

The door to his room opened, and out came Harry, followed by an angry Ginny.

"Merlin so help me, Harry Potter, if you don't drink the whole bottle I will hex you blind," she said, and then thought better of it, "blinder than you already are."

"Yes, yes," Harry placated. "I'll do it, I swear. But just half – we might need some later. I'll wait 'till the last minute. You know, maximise the time."

Ginny looked at him the same way most students did at blast-ended skrewts; like she couldn't trust him no matter which way she approached him. Harry kissed her goodbye and gave Ron a non-reassuring salute. Off he went toward his heroic adventure. Lucky bastard.

"You," said Ginny, pointing at him with a finger so close to his nose Ron had to fall back, "better fix your mess."

Ron frowned. It was his girlfriend, yes, but why was it his mess? Was he the official muffiato caster now? He didn't complain to Ginny though, because she was already fuming and her hexes had gotten creative. She hadn't appreciated Harry going off horcrux hunting on his own, and Ron wouldn't be the one to add to her moodiness.

So there he was, waiting for his girlfriend.

Lavender wasn't the most discreet person in the world. She liked to gossip, and the foundation of gossip was sharing information. Now, Ron didn't think she'd just spread a secret that big – contrary to what Ginny thought, Lavender wasn't an idiot – but he should certainly emphasise the need for secrecy. And if he didn't, Ginny would curse him blind, so end of discussion.

After half an hour of idle waiting, however, it wasn't Lavender who came out of the girl's tower. Hermione walked down the steps.

To call the unexpected meeting awkward would be an understatement. With most students concerned over exams, the Common Room was empty – the napping second-year on the sofa didn't really count. It was just him and her face-to-face for the first time in months, and neither was ready for it.

"Uh, ah – I'm waiting for Lavender," he said. Which, in hindsight, might not be the best thing to say to the girl who'd got mad at you for snogging Lavender in public in the first place.

Hermione's eyes went cold. "Is that so?" she asked. "Haven't seen her."

Ron internally berated himself. That had been a record-breaking idiotic thing to say. Hermione shoved past him, probably off to meet slimy Parkinson and her new friends. Before she left the Common Room, however, he knew he had to say something. If their first interaction in months was this awkward blunder, he'd never forgive himself.

"For the record," he told her, and she turned to look at him, "I don't believe you've joined You-Know-Who."

Hermione looked surprised, like she hadn't at all predicted those words coming from him. "And Harry?" she asked after a heartbeat.

Ron made a face that must have been expressive enough; Hermione seemed to deflate.

"He's not so sure what to think anymore," Ron admitted. "The whole Parkinson thing," he hesitated, "I mean – she's awful."

Her eyes narrowed, and he watched her wand looking for angry canaries. He wanted to be careful. Experience had shown him that insulting a girl's best friend wasn't the best way to start a delicate conversation. Or at least, Lavender didn't seem to appreciate any comments regarding Parvati's pig-like laugh, no matter how hilarious or accurate it was. Calling Parkinson a nasty, cut-throat bitch probably wasn't a good idea. He'd settled for his kindest opinion on her, which was: awful.

Hermione let out a breath and seemed to find something amusing in his words. "Yes," she admitted, "she is."

Huh. Well, at least she knew.

"But she's not a Death Eater," she added, serious again.

"Nah," Ron said, "I didn't think so. I mean, if she is, she's kind of botching it. You can't recover from a blood traitor image." He chuckled. "I should know."

Dumbledore didn't agree with his opinion. Maybe he had more information than Ron to base his statements on, but unless he shared it, Ron would stick to his own. And Pansy Parkinson allowing second-years to call her blood traitor for the sole benefit of snatching Hermione from them didn't quite fit.

Hermione laughed. "Pansy will be so horrified to learn you defended her."

"Well," Ron said, raising his hands, "defend is a bit of a stretch."

"Yes," she said with a sad smile, "it probably is." She hesitated again before confessing, "Lavender's in the library, by the way."

As she turned to leave, Ron thought to himself that, as far as peace offerings went, it could have been a lot worse. He still had all his parts, and nothing was on fire. They hadn't even raised their voices. Success, he thought. Now they only needed to find a way to broach the whole dark arts thing, which he couldn't wrap his head around either.

Well, no, now he needed to find Lavender.

Harry sat in silence, his stillness broken only by the nervous twitching of his fingers around the locket's chain. His mouth felt dry, but instead of fetching a glass of water, he wallowed in the feeling. It felt oddly fitting to share some of their thirst.

"Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey said with a tired frown, "why are you still here?"

"I'll stay only until he wakes," he promised.

Madam Pomfrey's disapproval couldn't weigh any heavier on his mind than the night's happenings no matter how intently she stared. Harry ignored her fussing and set his eyes on Dobby's stirring form. The elf's begging had eased into a soft whimpering that was easier to bear, but he still felt guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said, again, once Madam Pomfrey had moved out of earshot.

He knew he'd made the right call when he'd insisted on taking Dobby to the cave with them. It had to be the right choice because he'd swallowed half the vial of Felix Felicis before leaving, as per Ginny's instructions. Seeing how Dumbledore and Dobby had struggled to share the foul potion, he couldn't even imagine what would have happened if they'd gone alone. Would Dumbledore have… No. No, he couldn't even face the thought.

"He will be fine," Madam Pomfrey said in her last attempt to drive him away.

Harry almost asked why Snape had taken Dumbledore if Madam Pomfrey could heal the potion's effects so easily. He kept mum, though, because he really wanted to stay. He owed Dobby that much.

He waited until after she had finally given up, leaving him alone at Dobby's bedside, to shine a lumos over the locket. Just by the feel of it when he'd grabbed it back in the cave, he'd thought something was off. He'd rushed out, though, dragging Dumbledore and Dobby by himself, and had lacked time to act on that feeling. Now, however, he could tell the locket was smaller than he remembered seeing in the Pensieve. It was also missing the large S engraved on the front.

He fiddled with it until it opened with a loud click. He was surprised to see a folded scrap of parchment, wedged tightly into the place where a portrait should have been. Voldemort wouldn't leave little notes inside his horcruxes, would he? He read it.

"R.A.B.," he whispered to himself.

He resisted the urge to crumple the parchment. He felt his eyes burn with unshed tears; Dobby and Dumbledore had suffered for nothing. He didn't have a horcrux. He felt further from his objective than he'd been hours before. How would they find the real locket now? Had it been destroyed? How would they ever make sure?

He wiped his eyes with an angry rub of his sleeve. He couldn't falter here. He'd share the note with Dumbledore after he recovered. He might know who R.A.B. was. The only thing he could do now was wait, and hope Dobby would recover. Or, there was something else he could do. He'd promised Ginny and Ron he'd fetch them at his return. While he wasn't willing to leave the Hospital Wing, he could let them know he was fine.

"Kreacher," he called.

Kreacher appeared with a muted crack, grumbling softly about unkind masters and lack of respect for his sleeping hours. Harry rolled his eyes and, dropping the locket on Dobby's bedside table, he said, "I need you to –"

Kreacher screeched as if possessed by the Devil, eyes bulging out in Harry's direction. Harry almost fell from his chair at the sudden noise. A lone first-year sleeping four beds to the right woke in a fright and screamed for his mother. Kreacher jumped towards Harry and fisted his jumper. They scuffled, Harry fearing for his eyes as Kreacher scratched at them.

"Thief! Foul, dirty thief steals from my master. Yous must be putting that back! Yes, yous must!" Kreacher screamed and sobbed all at once, like the mad elf he was.

"Mr Potter!" Madam Pomfrey entered the room in her nightgown, banging the door against the wall. "Out! Out now!"

As he rushed out amidst apologies, Harry couldn't stop Kreacher from grabbing the fake locket from the bedside table and disapparating away.

I have to thank my wonderful beta, Shuns, for levelling up the content of this chapter. The last scene would have been a terrible one if not for her, seriously.

The good news is that I'm finally Dr Naidhe, so I'll (hopefully) have a bit more free time to write. The bad news is I need to move to the US, and that's paperwork hell.

Thanks a lot for reading, and for waiting all this time!