Acquainted with the Night

By Hilarity

Chapter XIX: Of Beginnings

"The Past is such a curious Creature

To look her in the Face"

-Emily Dickinson

Ron and Hermione were in the state of disbelief. A state only furthered by the continuing lack of communication. Dumbledore's consequence for them had only been to lead them back to the hospital wing. Since Madam Pomfrey had finally released them several hours later and made quite certain that they were permanently shooed until Harry had his strength back, neither one had uttered a single word.

What was there to say, really? They still hadn't the faintest idea. Ron felt guilty for having ruined the tracking charm and Hermione felt guilty for following and possibly endangering the entire endeavour. They certainly hadn't helped matters, though they did give their side much to work with. Or, if you were to listen to Severus Snape, much to work against.

"I almost wish," Ron suddenly burst out, "that we had been expelled straight away."

Hermione looked at him in alarm. "What?"

"Because it would be something," he replied, picking at the fraying lace of his trainer. "I'm tired of not knowing anything. We never know anything. We saved them, you know we did."

Silence. Deep down, Hermione almost agreed, loath to take credit. The fact was that neither of them knew what was going on, and it was not a fact that either wanted anything to do with anymore.

"Think he'll hush it up?"

"Who?"

"Dumbledore."

"He doesn't hush things up; he just—"

"Hushes things up! Look, Hermione, we just fought off a bunch of Death Eaters—I think we can handle knowing where Harry's been."

Hermione was wringing her hands. "Yes, but Dumbledore does do things for the best."

"Yeah, well, what makes him so certain, anyway."

They were quiet again for what felt like hours, perhaps longer, and it wasn't until Ron noticed that Hermione was crying that he softened his expression. With effort.

"I hate this."

The empty Gryffindor common room, filled with afternoon sun, seemed as much a prison as ever, but now without any word on Harry's proper condition, or what in the bloody hell was going on at all, it felt even worse.

After ten minutes of watching Hermione silently crying near a window, Ron sat down on the arm of the chair she was in and awkwardly patted her back.

An hour or two passed properly this time. Hermione fell asleep with her head slumped against Ron's ribs, and Ron, whose back end was not enjoying he arm of the chair, didn't dare wake her up. Until, that is, the portrait hole opened and, hat first, Dumbledore slid into the room, his long beard drooping over the edge of the hole.

"Mr Weasley—ah! I dare say I would rather not wake Miss Granger."

"No, it's all right," Ron said hurriedly, shaking Hermione. "Wake up, Hermione! Dumbledore's here!"

"Mmwhat?" Hermione murmured, frowning as she slowly regained awareness. And apparently noticed Dumbledore. "Oh!"

Ron, taking any opportunity to jump off the chair (his bum was now fast asleep as Hermione had been), took a seat in one of the fluffiest armchairs by the fire, Hermione quickly joining him.

"No doubt you are both wondering what has happened to Harry," Dumbledore began, sitting down across from Ron. Both Hermione and Ron had to admit that he looked very out of place.

"Yes, sir," both said quietly.

"I believe I have kept you waiting in undue suspense for long enough." His blue eyes were, both realised, twinkling again.

"Thanks in very large part to your mutual bravery in the face of certain death and utter peril, you have very likely afforded your friend a chance to live for the first time since he disappeared." He held up a hand as Ron began to interject.

"All good stories need an opener," Dumbledore said softly. "But I will get right to the point. Harry, it would seem, has been living the last year since his disappearance as an unassuming Muggle son in an adoptive, American family."

Ron and Hermione stared at one another. "But—how did he get to America?"

"In time, in time, Mr Weasley." Ron was beginning to hate that phrase.

"It seems that the trophy, or rather, that the portkey took him to the very location you were at this evening, and his adoptive parents were already waiting for him. Of course—Mr Weasley, I'll address it all in due fashion—they weren't really Muggles, nor were they interested in his safety. It would appear that the Lestrange couple have been living as Muggles as far from me as possible, keeping Harry obedient under the frequent use of memory charms. He had, until very recently, no idea who he was."

"Bloody—" Ron looked furious.

"Please, Professor, if I may ask a question?" said Hermione.

"I can think of no one better for the job."

"How did you know to look for him? I mean, after all this time, how did you know?"

"Because it would appear that the second we called off our searches, they returned to England with him."

"Not very bright," Ron snorted.

"Perhaps not, but they very nearly succeeded in what they planned to do."

Hermione and Ron fixed Dumbledore with eager stares, though both looked a little pale and Hermione looked near to fainting.

"That is to say, they wanted to turn Harry over to Lord Voldemort."

Hermione gasped. Ron looked angry. "But he's not here! He's not properly alive!"

"That is precisely the reason they wanted to turn Harry over to him. So that he could be restored to his former self and have finally rid himself of the burden that Harry Potter is to him."

Her lip trembling, Hermione sniffed loudly. "Are his memories back?"

"For the most part, yes. He knows who he is, he knows the names of those close to him, he knows everything up until the Triwizard Tournament. After that, he says, he remembers only bits and pieces."

"Is um—is Lucius Malfoy really dead?" Ron asked timidly after a short lull.

"Yes, yes, he is. He and most of the other Death Eaters, unfortunately many of Voldemort's most inner circle, are dead."

"So Harry's in loads less danger now, yeah?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe it is safe to say that you are correct. Voldemort still looms far from here, but there is no one who will come to his immediate aid, risking all. They risked all just two days ago—look where that got them."

Remus Lupin was, as most people knew him, a terribly fortunate man—perhaps not in the traditional sense, perhaps not in the sense that any person other than those closest to him would ever enjoy possessing, but he was fortunate because he was a survivor. A weak man at first sight, no one had quite gone through the mental and physical tortures he had. Which meant that, of course, he survived now.

In fact, he, in a cot near Harry's in the Hogwarts infirmary, was looking much better now that his worst factures had been healed. Sirius had argued with the Mediwizards and Witches to let him return to Hogwarts as soon as he was strong enough. Though no one entirely agreed that he was strong enough at all, they realised there was no immediate threat, and a day later he was moved.

Sirius hadn't left Harry's side since returning from St. Mungo's shortly after visiting (and berating) an unconscious Remus. He was now reading dirty magic jokes out of a book he had procured from a gift shop, and Harry was having a difficult time not giving away what was going on. Pomfrey would not have enjoyed the jokes.

Remus said it hurt to laugh and, propped up against a clutter of pillows Sirius had stolen from every hospital bed, was attempting to ignore him in favour of a less-crude form of reading entertainment—a novel of some sort, though it kept emitting puffs of smoke from the spine.

At about half-one that afternoon, the infirmary doors banged open and four hasty feet stamped wildly down the narrow alley between the ends of the beds on either side of the room.

"HARRY!"

It was Hermione, flanked by Ron. She threw herself at him, jumping over Sirius to do it, and Ron ran around the other side, hovering awkwardly for a moment before joining in on the hugging. It had been a long time since they'd seen their friend, and Hermione, through a flood of tears ("Oh, Harry, we missed you!"), could scarcely believe he was back.

But he was. Harry wasn't quite certain about a lot of things. He knew that Hedwig had found him. He knew that he had been rushed back in the company of the Lestranges. He knew he had forgotten everything (and was still feeling terribly guilty for it). Dumbledore had talked to him about everything since his disappearance, and Harry provided him with small details he could remember of his own. The names of friends, the names of his so-called parents. Dumbledore seemed highly amused at Harry taking on his mother's maiden name, and suitably impressed by the daring of not changing Harry's full name.

Though, he mused, that which is hardest to find is always easiest to locate.

None of that really mattered anymore. With Hermione sitting on his feet at the end of the bed, a scandalized look on her face, and Ron sitting in a chair, whooping and laughing at every joke Sirius read, Pomfrey screaming at them to be quiet, everything in the world suddenly felt right.

A/N: The end is a scary thing, isn't it? It was difficult to come back to this three years later, and I'll admit that I couldn't scrounge up every detail I once had. I was also terribly frustrated with myself, as Chapter 18 was clearly, clearly out of nowhere and not supposed to have been stuck in the story at all. It should have been the final chapter, including everything I have here, but alas.

It's been a wonderful ride, writing this. I only hope you'll forgive the hiatus.

Thank you, a thousand times over, to everyone who ever reviewed or watched this story. I suppose it's fitting that it would end here, before the final book.