CHAPTER ONE:

Third Person P.O.V.:

On the twenty-fourth of June in 1996, a small group of masked Death Eaters, led by Fenrir Greyback, rained terror upon the habitants of Diagon Alley after storming through Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron.

When they arrived, they made for Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. In the midst of the chaos, tables and chairs were overturned as Death Eaters set their sights on the fleeing customers that were trying to scramble away, fearing for their lives.

It was reported in The Daily Prophet that the Death Eaters ransacked the establishment, pushing over many of the storage shelves, before coming face to face with Florean Fortescue himself. In an unmerciful act, the Death Eaters aimed a Killing Curse at the shop owner, murdering him in cold-blood before fleeing the scene.

Their next stop was Ollivander's, and they thoroughly shocked the old man who owned the shop. They threatened him with death, among other horrible things, so Ollivander went with them quietly as their hostage. After acquiring stacks of wands to arm their fast growing colony of followers, the Death Eaters returned to Malfoy Manor, locking Ollivander away in the cellar, before setting off once again.

After depositing their victim, leaving him in the ruthless hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eaters Apparated to Muggle London, this time, heading for the Millennium Bridge. They spiralled around the long structure, creating a twisting and buckling movement on the bridge walkway, and proceeded to fire seven, according to Muggle witnesses, blasts onto the bridge.

With the cables snapping, the bridge undulated and twisted intensely, pulling free of its piers, until it ultimately split in half and crashed violently into the Thames below, killing many Muggles who hadn't been able to get to safety on time.

It was a massacre of unjustified death and the streets were painted with blood, yet the Death Eaters hadn't blinked an eye to the damage they had caused. In fact, the twenty-fourth of June of 1996 was considered a good day to be a Death Eater... well, not for one boy in particular -

Charlie Hawthorne was wide awake. He hadn't slept in weeks. He had been sitting in a chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had not once felt a wave of exhaustion fall over him.

The truth was, he was scared to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, nightmares flooded his head, haunting him over and over. He would shudder at the horrific sensation and jolt awake, gasping for breath, before looking down to his left forearm as if he was trying to convince himself that what had happened to him had merely been a dream.

His stomach would turn, his pulse would quicken, and his heart would shatter every single time he caught sight of the jet black mark branded on his arm. The horrors that Charlie saw every time he looked down were profound. It got to a point where he had decided to wrap his forearm tightly in a white gauze bandage to shield it from view.

The misty fog that his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so that he looked sickly beneath his shock of untidy brown hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, empty ink bottles, and discarded clothes littered the floor; a number of spellbooks lay among the tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of unopened letters and newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of the most recent Daily Prophet article blared:

HARRY POTTER - THE CHOSEN ONE?

But Charlie couldn't bring himself to reminisce about the recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more. In fact, he couldn't bring himself to do anything.

He had isolated himself, you see, failing to do anything other than count down the days until he was free to return to Hogwarts. He was wallowing in self pity, truth be told; Charlie Hawthorne had seemingly given up.

Over the summer, Charlie hadn't reached out to any of his friends, despite their countless efforts at coming into contact with him. He couldn't bare the sickening feeling of guilt that arose in his stomach whenever he read, in descriptive detail, about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, life with the Dursley's, or, quite literally, anything from Hermione.

And why?

Well, because those letters symbolized the life Charlie had been forced to leave behind. He was no longer the little boy with the bright, kind grin that had an eagerness to be good. No, no... now, he was a man who woke up every morning, scarred by the pain inflicted from the night before, and he would put on a smile to hide the brokenness embedded in his features.

Easily, this summer holiday had the been the worst thing Charlie had ever experienced. His task wasn't set from the Dark Lord just yet, but that didn't stop his father from enforcing acts of preparation. Despite many attempts at refusal, the Dark Arts were practically forced down Charlie's throat. It was safe to assume that, near the end of the holiday, the effects of several Cruciatus curses, which he had been hit repeatedly with over the summer, had naturally begun to make his body react badly to lifting anything remotely heavy, or even flinch from too much movement.

On the rare occasions where his father left him by his lonesome for a night to recuperate, Charlie locked himself away in his old bedroom at the Hawthorne Manor, to which he hadn't lived in for almost ten years. His home had always been Hogwarts, you see, and being so far away from everything he once knew made Charlie feel as though he was sentenced to a lifetime in prison.

His old alarm clock ticked loudly on the windowsill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Charlie's tensed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Charlie had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

"Dear Charles,

I am growing worried at the sound of your silence. When thinking of the potential horrors that would justify your lack of response, my mind corrupts with fear.

Which is why, I shall call to Hawthorne Manor this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays in complete safety.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

I cannot sit back any longer, doing nothing while you suffer at the hands of your father. I will not take no for an answer. The start of term is quickly approaching and I see no reason as to why you should be forced to remain on your lonesome for the entirety of your summer holiday.

Kindly do not let your father aware of my arrival.

I love you, Charles. Stay safe.

I am most yours sincerely,

Your grandfather, Albus Dumbledore."

Though he already knew it by heart, Charlie had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a very reasonable view of the front gate. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore's words, but Charlie had never anticipated something as significant as his rescue from this god-awful place.

The only problem, however, was that it all seemed to good to be true. Charlie could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong - Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; his father might forbid him from leaving; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, and instead, a mere joke or trap. It had been so long since something actually went right in Charlie's life, and so, no one could blame his suspicions.

Charlie had not been able to face packing only to be let down, then forced to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to tie his German Shepherd, Ludo, safely to his leash.

Sure enough, however, the minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out. Charlie stood as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily rubbing his worried eyes, he pressed his nose against the window and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.

Charlie's eyes widened as though he had received an electric shock. He knocked over his desk chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into his trunk. Then, as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs, he could hear the loud, angry footsteps of his father approach the door.

"Ah, Albus... to what do I owe the displeasure?"

Feeling incredible panicked, Charlie threw on a long-sleeved jumper, covering his bruised and branded arms, before clambering over his trunk and wrenching open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, "Good evening, Fenwick. Good to see you as always. Oh, come on, don't seem so surprised! Surely, you must've known that I would've been stopping by to see my grandson sooner or later."

Charlie ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as much experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his father whenever possible.

There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and an infamous beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Fenwick Hawthorne, whose beard was as bushy as Dumbledore's, though brown and not as long, was wearing a dark dressing gown and staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his angry eyes at the sudden disturbance.

"Let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house," said Dumbledore pleasantly, and Fenwick balked. "It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times."

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.

"It has been a long time since my last visit," smiled Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Fenwick. "I must say, I like what you have done with the place."

Fenwick said nothing at all. Charlie did not doubt that speech would return to him - the vein pulsing in his father's temple was reaching its danger point - but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath.

"Ah, good evening, Charles," beamed Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. "So good to see you, my dear boy! Excellent, excellent."

These words seemed to rouse Fenwick. It was clear that there was a familiarity amongst Charlie and Dumbledore; the two had shared a relieved smile, which made it quite obvious that Charlie had been expecting his grandfather's arrival.

Fenwick spoke, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable, "I don't mean to be rude -"

" - yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man." Dumbledore smirked mischievously at his son in law's confusion, "Don't worry Fenwick, I shall only trespass on your hospitality for a short while longer."

Fenwick furrowed his brows, glancing disappointedly at Charlie on the stairs, "You will, will you?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore simply. He looked round to Charlie once more, "Now, Charles, is your trunk packed? Are you ready to go?"

Charlie hesitated when Fenwick's gaze became dangerously fixated towards him, staring at him intensely as though thinking of different consequences depending on the boy's definitive answer.

"I, uh -"

"Hold on a moment," Fenwick sneered, his jaw clenched in rage. "Where on earth do you think you're taking my son?"

"He's a teenager, Fenwick," countered Dumbledore effortlessly. "Surely, you mustn't've thought he'd stay in one place for the entirety of his holiday. You've kept him here for far too long."

Fenwick scoffed, "That's preposterous."

"Keeping him away from his friends during the summer holiday is preposterous," Dumbledore corrected, and although his voice remained light and calm, giving no obvious sign of anger, Charlie felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that his father tensed slightly.

"I have done my waiting, Fenwick. I let him go with you at the beginning of summer without a word of complaint. With the start of term approaching, however, I find it in Charles's best interest to be with people who can ensure his gracious return to Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued feverishly. "I am not leaving here today without my grandson. I have been far too kind. You have never treated Charles as your son until it was convenient for you. He has known nothing but neglect and cruelty at your hands."

"How dare you come into my house and accuse me of such things, Albus! You have no right -" began Fenwick furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ring finger for silence; a silence which fell as though he had struck the ex-Minister dumb.

"I have every right," retaliated Dumbledore, his arms crossing in triumph. "Charles comes of age in a year's time. When he turns seventeen, the moment he becomes a man, he will be perfectly capable of making decisions like these all by himself. Until then, however, he is my priority. He deserves, at the very least, to experience a childhood that is somewhat normal. You have stolen enough of his childlike innocence already. I refuse to let you further tarnish the potential memories that the boy will forever hold dear."

It looked as though Fenwick was bursting with a number of unpleasant retorts, but he merely clenched his jaw tightly shut, keeping his narrowed eyes on Dumbledore's serious and sturdy frame. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether Fenwick was going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled, turning to Charlie once again.

"Now, if that's settled... Charles, again, is your trunk packed?"

Charlie hesitated on the stairs, unaware of what to say or do out of fear for being reprimanded for going against his father's wishes.

"Doubtful that I would turn up, were you?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly, and his grandson gulped guiltily.

"I'll just go and finish off, I guess," muttered Charlie hastily, hurrying back up the stairs before his father let out a cry of protest.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed; at last he had managed to extract his school robes from under the bed, screwed the top back on his jar of color-changing ink, stuffed his wand in his pocket, and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and pulling Ludo's leash in the other, he made his way back downstairs.

Neither man was talking when the boy returned. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than ever before, and Charlie did not dare look at his father as he said, "Granddad - I'm ready now."

"Perfectly splendid," beamed Dumbledore, "Just one last thing, then." He turned to speak to Fenwick once more, "I applaud your cooperation, my dear man. However miserable Charles has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least allowed him houseroom, and for that I am grateful."

"Grateful, are you?" growled Fenwick, his tone laced with venom. "Is this how you show gratitude, Albus? Showing up at my house at this ungodly time of night to take my son away from me?"

"Let us not delude ourselves into thinking that this actually troubles you, Fenwick," Dumbledore said calmly, although his eyes narrowed slightly. "Charles is best kept in the company of his peers, and you'd do best to let him go quietly."

Fenwick let out a long, scornful sigh. His face was scrunched with a mix of, what Charlie believed to be, disgust and anguish. He was frowning slightly, as though he was trying to work out a counter argument.

"And you?" He snapped towards Charlie, his veins pulsing with rage exertion. "Do you really wish to leave?"

As though this were a trick question, Charlie hesitated. He was unaware of what to say, but was now a victim to the curious eyes of both his father and grandfather, whom were awaiting an answer. Charlie said nothing, but gave a small nod as he looked shamefully to the floor, fiddling with the handle of his trunk out of nervousness.

"Very well," muttered Fenwick angrily, and Charlie flinched as his father raised a hand, but was rather surprised when Fenwick graciously opened the manor door once again. "Off you go. Go now, before I change my mind."

Charlie furrowed his brows, confused at his father's instant agreement. Apparently, Dumbledore had been surprised too, as he had an evident look of disbelief plastered on his face, for if he knew it would've been this easy, he would've come to collect Charlie a long time ago.

"Well, Charles... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore at last, shrugging off his previous look as he straightened his long, black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to Fenwick, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as he was concerned, and after doffing his hat, Dumbledore swept from the house.

"Bye father," Charlie muttered hastily to Fenwick, and he attempted to shuffle forwards after Dumbledore, who had already made it to the end of the driveway.

"Remember Charles," Fenwick called once more as his son stepped over the threshold. Charlie cocked his head back, watching as his father's mouth curled into an amused smirk as he pressed on, "Your task is simple, answer when called upon."

Fail to do so, and there will be consequences.

The words rang in Charlie's head as though a nightmare had been brought to life. He shuddered, goosebumps forming on the surface of his pale skin.

"I remember," the boy croaked out, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall from his eyes as the horrific memory clouded his head, forcing him to relive the worst day of his life all over again.

"Very good, my dear boy," smirked Fenwick proudly, and he clapped Charlie hard on the back. "Off you go, then. Quickly now, I reckon you don't want to keep that Mudblood girlfriend of yours waiting. Oh, please do tell her I said hello."

Charlie felt his fist clench tightly around the handle of his trunk, and it took everything within him to not turn around and give his father the satisfaction he so craved. Instead, the boy walked forward, pulling his things along with him, and he could've sworn he heard a mischievous laugh before the door of Hawthorne Manor shut behind him.

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him, Charlie felt distinctly scared as he set off down the pavement after his grandfather. For he had realized that he would, in time, be reunited with his friends, whom he had ignored for weeks.

Everything was so different now, and Charlie struggled to come up with a viable reason for his silence. As Charlie continued to walk through the cool night air, he contemplated what would happen if he were to stay at Hawthorne Manor, isolated and alone with no one to lie to but himself. It was a small lapse in judgement that his mind toyed with as he reached the gate, his grandfather awaiting his arrival.

"It truly is so great to see you, my dear boy," Dumbledore breathed out, and his hardened face immediately softened when it was just the two of them.

"Yeah, you too," Charlie muttered, as he set his trunk down for a moment in attempt to stop his hands from shaking in fear.

"My Merlin, what did he do to you?" Dumbledore inquired, bending down slightly to scan the boy's troublesome face. "You look absolutely dishevelled, my boy. Almost as if you haven't eaten or slept in weeks."

Sure enough, Dumbledore was right. There was evident stress hidden amongst Charlie's physical features. In dangerous contrast to his appearance a few weeks prior, Charlie wore dark shadows under his eyes and had a distinctly greyish tinge to his normally golden skin, which was now severely bruised and beaten. His bottom lip had a small gash that had been healed over and there was a significant loss of weight that anyone could identify. The boy resembled a walking corpse that was undoubtedly due to the strain of the horrors that burdened him.

There was a moment of corrupted silence; the crisp night air had somehow became a deafening sound. Dumbledore's eyes travelled along Charlie's face, as though searching for more horrific details that Charlie would never want to explain.

"I'm fine," Charlie said finally, and even his voice was a cold, distant shadow of what it used to be.

"Charles, if something has happened, you need to let me know -" Dumbledore began, but Charlie immediately shook his head, causing the elder man to trail off.

"I said I'm fine," Charlie repeated a little more forcefully, and Dumbledore took notice of his grandson's sudden tensed state. "I just want to go home... please take me home."

Hogwarts.

The only home Charlie Hawthorne ever knew. The mere thought of his return was the only thing keeping Charlie together. His cherished memories kept intruding on his mind, as though fighting against the nightmares in attempt to keep him sane.

"We're going home, I promise. It's not long until the start of term," said Dumbledore softly, and Charlie's lips curled into the smallest smile. "But until then, you're going somewhere safe."

Charlie nodded slowly, but he knew that as long as he bared the Dark Mark on his arm, he'd never be safe again. Dumbledore looked towards Charlie's trunk, tied to which was Ludo's leash.

"We do not want to be encumbered by these now," he whispered, pulling out his wand from the pocket of his long, black cloak. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there."

With a quick wave of Dumbledore's wand, Charlie's trunk and Ludo vanished from thin air. As Dumbledore replaced his wand in his pocket, Charlie saw that his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.

"Grandfather, what happened to your - ?"

"Later, Charles," dismissed Dumbledore, completely convinced that whatever was going on with him was nothing compared to the horror Charlie had seen throughout the summer. "Come now, let us pursue that flighty temptress, adventure. Hold on to my arm very tightly, will you? My left, if you don't mind - as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment."

Hesitantly, Charlie gripped Dumbledore's preferred forearm, trying to resist the urge to bring his grandfather's finger up once again. It would've been hypocritical, he thought, to press on the matter after he, himself, had distinctly dismissed any mention of his own distressed physical appearance.

"Very good," smiled Dumbledore, as Charlie held onto him firmly. "Well, here we go."

Charlie felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black. He was being pressed very hard from all directions. He could not breathe, there were, what felt like, iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then -

He gulped great lungfulls of air and opened his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realized that Hawthorne Manor had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a public train station, to which lonely men and women were loitering on the platform. When his comprehension caught up with his senses, Charlie realized that he had just Apparated for the first time in his life.

"Are you all right?" asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously. "The sensation does take some getting used to."

"I'm alright," replied Charlie, rubbing his eyes, in attempt to clear them of their sudden blurriness. "But I think I might prefer brooms..."

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and pointed across the tracks towards a small food stand, "There."

Charlie looked up, peering through the window of the building. He could see several patrons reading their tabloid of choice; The Daily Mail, The Sun, The Daily Mirror... the Daily Prophet. Charlie blinked, utterly perplexed. The newest edition of the Daily Prophet about Harry being the Chosen One was hidden in plain sight.

His eyes wandered past the article, in search of the identity of its reader. When Charlie's eyes focused on the hidden silhouette, he was amazed to see his best friend, Harry Potter, sitting by his lonesome in the rusty, old food stand.

"This is what you needed my help with?" Charlie asked Dumbledore, although his stunned eyes never tore away from his friend. "We're here to get Harry?"

"Not necessarily," hummed Dumbledore simply, his eyes beaming as he was thrilled to see the slightest resemblance of happiness bestowed upon his grandson's face. "Consider this more of a detour before the detour. Now, if you don't mind, go fetch him for me, will you? We have to keep moving if we want to make it to the Burrow before sunrise."

Before Charlie could consider anything else, a deep, soul-shaking rumbling began to shake through the station. Coming to a stop, right in front of him almost, was a pure silver locomotive. The doors of the subway car opened with a hiss and Muggle commuters came pouring out.

Eleven steps, that was all it took for Charlie to walk from his place beside Dumbledore, through the train car, to reach the other platform over the tracks. Charlie didn't hesitate to force the door to the food stand open and scramble inside; despite his previous discouragement, Charlie was quite relieved to see Harry again after so long.

It was a small, dainty little café that smelled of something akin to coffee and motor oil. The clangs and clattering of ceramic mugs almost rivalled the sound of the nearby train car moving once again. The patrons in the little café did not dare look up from their newspapers, seemingly focused on being up to date with the latest news.

Harry, however, seemed to be the only one with his newspaper down for he was too preoccupied with conversing with a beautiful, dark-skinned, curly haired waitress. It was odd, Charlie thought, the flirtatious body language that his best mate was displaying towards the girl, for as far as Charlie knew, Harry and Ginny were still together.

"Harry Potter," Charlie heard the girl say, as she gestured towards the Daily Prophet article with immense curiosity alit in her eyes. "Who's Harry Potter?"

"Oh, um, no one," came Harry's nervous voice, sounding as though he was in disbelief that the waitress had been talking to him. "Bit of a tosser, really."

The waitress nodded before leaning over to clear Harry's empty chip wrappings. Charlie watched with a raised brow as Harry's gaze drifted over the smooth skin of her neck, the spray of freckles across one of her cheeks -

"Funny that paper of yours," the waitress laughed as she leaned back up, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Couple nights ago, I could've sworn I saw one of the pictures move."

Harry's eyes widened nervously, "Really?"

"Yeah," the waitress giggled, ultimately masking her embarrassment. "Thought I'd gone round the twist. Anyways..."

She trailed off, and with a soft smile, turned to go.

"Hey," Harry called after her, "I was wondering -"

"Eleven." The waitress said instantly, and Harry breathed out in relief. "That's when I get off. You can tell me all about that tosser Harry Potter."

(A/N: this girl had more chemistry with Harry in the movies than Ginny did... oops, I said what I said)

Harry watched her go until she had disappeared behind the counter. Charlie was forced to stifle a laugh at his best friend's attempted flirting. Not being able to resist much longer, Charlie strode around the table, approaching Harry from behind.

"Yeah, I'd have to agree," he said sarcastically, making his presence known. "Quite a tosser that Harry Potter is, truly. In fact, it's a wonder how he's got any friends."

Harry's ears perked up at the sound of his best friend's voice. He whipped his head around instantly, and his eyes went wide with surprise at the sight of Charlie standing behind him. Without thinking twice, Harry stood up, nearly knocking over his chair, before he threw himself around Charlie in a brother-like hug.

"Charlie, mate," Harry beamed, his tone radiating utmost disbelief. "What're you doing here?"

"Figured I'd best come get you." Charlie sniggered lightly, as the two of them separated. "Keep to tradition, y'know?"

Harry kept a hand on his friend's shoulder, still in utter shock that he was really standing before him.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" he inquired, and Charlie frowned slightly at the expected question that loomed over his head. "Merlin, we've all been worried sick. We thought something might've happened."

"Sorry," muttered Charlie truthfully, his lips curling downwards into a frown. "I've been, uh, busy. My father's a bit mad, y'know? I never really got the chance to write without him breathing down my neck."

"It isn't fair that you had to go with him," whispered Harry, shaking his head in disapproval. "Especially after everything he's done."

"Yeah, well," Charlie began sadly, "it isn't fair that you have to go back to the Dursley's every summer either. That's just life, I guess... it isn't fair."

Harry shot Charlie a sympathetic look. It had been the first time he had really took in the sight of his best friend's physical state, and he frowned deeply as he acknowledged the bruises, scratches, and distress evident all over Charlie's body.

"You look like shit," said Harry, sounding a lot more blunt than he was intending.

"Thanks," laughed Charlie sarcastically, shaking his head playfully. "You're not looking so bad yourself, you prat."

"Sorry," Harry muttered with a slight snort.

And although the subject matter was difficult to discuss, the two boys overcame the potential tension with a laugh. Charlie sighed, keeping his best to keep his face blank. He didn't want anyone to worry about what he had been going through. It was no one's struggle but his own.

Trying to make conversation, Harry spoke up once again, but this time the topic was, somehow, more nerve wracking for Charlie.

"Hermione's in a right state." Harry said quietly, and Charlie froze, unaware of what to say. "She keeps asking if I've gotten ahold of you. I reckon she's in her head about whether you're not responding because something's happened... or because you're trying to keep your distance, you know, with the breakup and all."

Charlie's eyes widened. He was unsure whether his heart began to beat profusely due to the mention of Hermione or the reminder of their breakup. It didn't come as a surprise to him that the news had spread by now, but Charlie was caught off guard that it had been brought up so quickly in the conversation.

He looked to the floor shamefully, muttering, "She told you?"

"She didn't really have much of a choice," shrugged Harry sympathetically. "It was curious, to say the least, that even she hadn't heard from you in weeks. Honestly, it just seemed very unlike you to completely shut her out unless something happened between you two, y'know? Apparently, Ginny asked her and Hermione told her what happened... girl talk and whatnot, I guess. At least, that's what Ron told me."

"Right," Charlie said shortly, and for some odd reason, he was reminded of the last time he had been in a café similar to this one. It was nearly a year ago when he had surprised Hermione in Muggle London, and that night easily became one of the best of his life.

It's amazing, isn't it, how quickly things can change?

"If it makes you feel any better," Harry added, clapping his friend on his back, "things didn't work out between Gin and I either."

Charlie's ears perked up, "Really? How come?"

"Dunno," shrugged Harry, and he seemed completely unbothered in comparison to Charlie's somber state from the effects of a breakup.

"That explains the waitress then," Charlie said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry laughed, glancing coyly over the café counter in search of the dark-skinned beauty, "Ginny's already moved on to Dean. Why can't I do the same?"

"Dean? Dean Thomas?" Charlie asked, completely perplexed. When Harry nodded scornfully, Charlie's mouth fell agape, "Bloody hell. I've missed quite a bit, haven't I?"

"Indeed you have," sniggered Harry. "But don't worry. You're back now, and I'll be glad to fill you in on all that you've missed. It'll give me some much-needed time away from the Dursley's."

Charlie smiled and, for a fleeting second, forgot about the horrors that plagued him during his time away. For the first time in quite a long time, Charlie felt like a normal teenager, who was deeply enveloped in stupid, meaningless relationship drama that wouldn't amount to anything. Somehow, as pathetic as it sounded, it was quite the relief.

It felt good to smile, good to laugh, good to forget about the pain he was forced to endure. This is exactly what Charlie had been craving. Simplicity... normality... even hope, perhaps?

At the mention of the Dursley's, however, Charlie had immediately remembered what he had been doing in Surrey in the first place. His little reunion with Harry almost made him completely forget about his grandfather, who was probably wondering why the two boys had been taking so long.

"That reminds me," Charlie admitted, running his hands through his hair. "We've got to get going. My granddad's probably wondering where we are."

"Dumbledore? Here?" questioned Harry, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What're you on about?"

"Well, yeah," Charlie shrugged obliviously, looking out the food stand window once again, towards the spot in which he previously stood with Dumbledore. "You didn't seriously think I'd come all this way just to let you go back to the Dursley's, did you?"

Harry flushed bashfully, "I dunno -"

"Look."

Suddenly, a light on the opposite platform flickered oddly through the window. Charlie and Harry immediately turned in its direction, intrigued. Once again, the light flickered off and on, but this time, a small cloud of glittering dust danced across the way. Another train came hurdling past, and the two Gryffindor boys squinted through the fogged up windows, watching as the dust transformed into none other than, Albus Dumbledore. Levelling his glasses on his crooked nose, Dumbledore smiled and gave the two boys a wave.

Charlie grinned, pulling Harry towards the door, "C'mon then."

After a few short moments, Charlie and Harry reconvened with Dumbledore across the tracks, paying no mind towards the Muggle commuters, who feverishly pushed their way past them. Dumbledore was staring mindlessly at the subway advertisements when they had approached him.

"Peculiar place to reside, Harry," he hummed, although his eyes never tore away from the poster in front of him. "You've been reckless this summer, you know, especially will all that's going on."

"I like riding around on the trains. It takes my mind off... things," Harry defended, as he would not consider his recent behaviour even remotely reckless. "And as for what's been going on, I've been reading the Daily Prophet. I even got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters."

Charlie tensed at the mention of the Death Eaters. Just like that, any normalcy Charlie had felt previously had been ripped out from beneath him. And as strange as it sounded, he could've sworn he felt his left forearm sting as though invigorated by the fear it inflicted. Dumbledore and Harry had yet to notice, however, as they were too busy engaged in conversation.

"Yes, I received one myself," nodded Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?"

"Not really."

"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor."

"I didn't..." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not.

"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry... although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself."

"Er... right," mumbled Harry, sharing a curious look with Charlie, who simply shrugged.

"Can we get going?" muttered Charlie uneasily, as he looked around the subway station in attempt to avoid suspicion. "The Muggles are starting to stare."

"Right, then," agreed Dumbledore, raising both of his arms for Charlie and Harry to grab. "Take my arm, we have important matters to attend to."

"Wait," Harry said at once, his eyes fixated upon Dumbledore's hand; Charlie followed his friend's gaze, noticing his grandfather's ash black hand once again. "Professor, what happened to your...?"

And yet, with such focus on the grotesque hand of his grandfather, Charlie curiously noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before. It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Harry's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Charlie saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his forehead.

"Rather unpleasant to behold, isn't it?" asked Dumbledore, clenching his fist closed in attempt of shielding his shrivelled finger from view. "The tale is thrilling, if I do say so myself, but I'm afraid now is not the time to tell it. Please, take my arm and let us go."

Harry quickly glanced across the platform. The freckled, dark-skinned waitress had reappeared through the café window; she had flushed with a look of disappointment at Harry's now empty table.

"I'm sure she'll understand," joked Charlie, trying to lighten the mood. "After all, that Harry Potter is a bit of a tosser... should've been expected, really."

"Shut it," said Harry playfully, and with the utmost reluctance, he reached out, grabbing at Dumbledore's left arm as Charlie did the same with the right.

Again, in a rush of sound and fury, everything went black. It was as if the two boys had been hurled head first into a tornado that spun them around the room. The train station disappeared in a blurry vanish, and seconds later, the three of them re-emerged to reality. The world seemed to stop spinning. Charlie blinked as he came to, his eyes stinging with tears once again.

They stood now in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.

"I just Apparated, didn't I?" inquired Harry, stumbling slightly as his eyes tried to focus.

"Indeed, and quite successfully I might add," beamed Dumbledore, his tone hinted at underlying amusement. "Most people vomit the first time."

Harry groaned, feeling sickly at the thought, "Can't imagine why..."

"This way," Dumbledore said, before setting off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Charlie looked sideways at Dumbledore again. "Grandfather?"

"Yes?"

"Uh, where exactly are we?"

"This, Charles, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."

"And what are we doing here?"

"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," muttered Dumbledore briskly, shaking his head. "Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."

Harry blinked, confused, "But how are Charlie and I supposed to help with that, sir?"

"Oh, believe me, your presence alone will be enough use," whispered Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, boys."

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. There was an odd chill that persisted in the air, establishing a feeling of eeriness. Thinking the worst, Charlie cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.

"Professor," Harry spoke again, looking around nervously. "Why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?"

"Because it would be as rude as kicking down the front door," dismissed Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance -"

"- you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," muttered Charlie, frowning slightly as a certain girl's voice trickled into his head, reminiscing in a whisper. "Hermione used to tell us that."

"And she is quite right." Dumbledore whispered mindfully, although his mind wondered whether the heartbreak from Miss Granger was the reason for his grandson's somber state. "We turn left again."

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Charlie was too busy trying to fight Hermione's intruding voice that ricocheted around his mind to have much attention left for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Charlie walked into him.

"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."

Charlie and Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt their hearts sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges. Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.

"Careful now," he whispered quietly. "Get your wands ready and follow me."

Dumbledore opened the gate, walking swiftly and silently up the garden path, Charlie and Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door open very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready.

"Lumos."

Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the living room with the two Gryffindor boys right behind him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything.

Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Charlie's small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.

"Not pretty, is it?" he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened here."

Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Charlie followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.

"Maybe there was a fight and - they dragged him off, Professor?" Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.

"You mean he's - ?"

"Still here somewhere? Yes."

And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Merlin's Beard!"

"Good evening, Horace," beamed Dumbledore, straightening up again.

Harry's jaw had dropped, while Charlie's curious eyes widened in disbelief. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt."

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like moustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.

"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

"My dear Horace," chuckled Dumbledore, looking amused, "if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house."

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead. Once again, Charlie visibly shuddered at the mention of the Dark Mark, but took a look around the room to avoid confrontation, his jaw clenched stubbornly.

"The Dark Mark," Horace muttered, shaking his head. "Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his moustache flutter.

"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore politely.

"Please."

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.

The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

"What kind of blood was that, incidentally?" inquired Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather clock.

"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.

There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.

"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."

"Why all the theatrics anyways, Horace?" Dumbledore inquired, peering down upon the round wizard over his glasses. "You weren't perhaps expecting someone else, were you?"

Slughorn looked taken aback, demanding, "Someone else? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Well," began Dumbledore, speaking matter-of-factly, "I imagine that the Death Eaters would've wanted you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder... are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?"

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, "I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house - the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands - it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave."

"Ingenious," said Dumbledore, apparently giving his old colleague the benefit of the doubt. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts -"

"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus!" Slughorn roared, clearly offended. "That's why you're here, isn't it? The answer is still no! Absolutely, unequivocally no!"

He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within. It was then, however, that he had spotted the two boys. Charlie and Harry shared a wary look.

"Oho!" Horace yelled in amazement, his large round eyes flying between Harry's lightening-shaped forehead scar and Charlie's infamous golden brown eyes. "Oho!"

"Ah yes. Introductions... almost forgot," chimed Dumbledore, moving forward to address the sudden outburst. "Boys, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn. Horace, this is Harry Potter and," he pointed towards Charlie with a smile, "that there is my grandson, Charles Hawthorne."

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd, "So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? My answer is final! Now, if you don't mind, I must ask you to leave at once."

He pushed roughly past the two boys, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.

"I suppose I can use the loo, at least?" asked Dumbledore, sighing reluctantly. "It's been quite the long journey, you see."

"Oh, fine," muttered Slughorn ungraciously, after a moment of silence. "Second door on the left, down the hall."

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. Slughorn shifted uncomfortably on his feet, seemingly uncertain of what to do with himself. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

"You look very much like your father."

Harry merely looked at Slughorn, shrugging, "Yeah, I've been told."

"Except for your eyes. You've got -"

"My mother's eyes, yeah."

Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing.

"Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn added, in answer to Harry's questioning look. "Lily Evans. One of the brightest I've ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Very rarely seen without your mother by her side, Charles."

Charlie's brows furrowed. It had been quite a long time since someone had mentioned his mother. Suddenly, he couldn't help but wonder what she'd think of him now after what he had been forced to do. It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Charlie's intestines and held them tight.

"Ah yes, Julia Dumbledore," Slughorn pressed on, reminiscing mindlessly. "Quite the charming girl. A little too smart for her own good at times. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House, you know. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

Charlie raised a brow, "Which was your House?"

"I used to be Head of Slytherin, but don't go holding that against me!" Slughorn went on quickly, seeing the expression on Charlie and Harry's faces, wagging a stubby finger at them. "You two'll be in Gryffindor, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. But then again, your father was in Slytherin, if I recall." He looked to Charlie, who had clenched his fists at the mentioned of his father, "Talented boy that Fenwick Hawthorne. Absolutely miraculous. I taught the future Minister of Magic, can you believe that? Although, I heard about his recent resignation, please do express my condolences."

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. His excitement alone aggravated Charlie for he could not understand such support for the monster whom he was ashamed to call father.

Charlie scoffed, muttering under his breath, "Condolences? Are you bloody joking?"

But Slughorn had appeared not to have heard him, despite Harry's loud snigger at the comment. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot.

"Couldn't believe it when I found out about your mother and father. Such an odd pairing, no one saw it coming," continued Slughorn, and at this point Charlie had begun to tune the older gentleman out. "Merlin, I remember the uproar of protest at the mere thought of a Gryffindor ending up with a Slytherin. Foolish rivalries, mind you, but teenagers seem to go to unjustified extremes sometimes. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done, he was in the papers recently - apparently, he died a few weeks ago."

Charlie whipped his head round to Harry, who's gaze had immediately fallen to the floor. A wave of hurt flushed over Harry's face and Charlie balked for he didn't know what to do.

"Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school, Harry. They were troublesome, those two, always used to poke fun at Slytherin House. They were nearly as inseparable as your mothers, mind you." Slughorn said, pointing between Harry and Charlie carelessly. "Julia was Dumbledore's daughter, so her study habits were expected, but I remember Lily being exceedingly bright. Lovely Lily. She was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

For some odd reason, this comment had irked Charlie more than it should have.

"My gir- one of our best friends is Muggle-born," Charlie said at once, catching himself, although this hiccup didn't go unnoticed by Harry. "She's the best in our year."

Slughorn chuckled softly, "Yes, well, funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?"

Charlie's jaw clenched, so he spoke through gritted teeth, "Not really."

Slughorn looked up at him in surprise.

"You mustn't think I'm prejudiced!" He defended at once, "No, no, no! Haven't I just said that Lily was one of my favourites? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too - now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course - another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants.

"All ex-students, all signed." beamed Slughorn, far too excitedly as he pointed to every single person in the photographs. "You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. There's Ambrosius Flume of Honeydukes,who sends me a hamper of sweets every year for my birthday. And at the back - you'll see her if you just crane your neck - that's Gwenog Jones, who captains the Holyhead Harpies. Free tickets whenever I want them, can you believe that? Then, ah yes, Regulus Black. I taught the whole Black family, you know, except for Sirius. Shame, really, I would've liked the set."

"And all these people know where to find you to send you stuff?" asked Charlie, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

"Of course not," he said, looking up at Charlie. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."

Charlie and Harry shared a look, subconsciously agreeing with the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment, then he shrugged.

"Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to digging my own grave -"

"I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore's Headmaster," chimed Harry, tearing his eyes away from the picture of Regulus Black, who looked scarily similar to Sirius. "He's supposed to be the only one Voldemort's ever feared, isn't he?"

Slughorn gave a shudder and squawk of protest when Voldemort's name was said out loud, and Charlie resisted the urge to do the same. However, Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two, seemingly contemplating Harry's words.

"Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore," he muttered grudgingly, clearly raking his brain. "In which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus..."

As if on queue, Dumbledore re-entered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.

"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said, clutching his chest. "You've been gone for a very long time. Upset stomach?"

"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," smiled Dumbledore, brandishing the tabloid in his hands. "I do love knitting patterns. Anyways, boys, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."

Not at all reluctant to obey, Charlie and Harry started for the door once again. In heavy contrast to his earlier behaviour, however, Slughorn looked taken aback.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, indeed," nodded Dumbledore, acting coyly. "I think I know a lost cause when I see one. Regrettable. I would have considered it a personal triumph had you considered your return to Hogwarts, Horace. You, like the two boys stood next to me, are truly one of a kind."

"Lost...?"

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak; Charlie and Harry stood awkwardly by the door.

"Goodbye, then," Dumbledore hummed placidly, as he placed his hand on the doorknob. He was just about to turn it when there was a shout from behind them.

"Alright, alright, I'll do it!"

Turning back around, Dumbledore smirked victoriously at the sight of Slughorn, standing breathlessly in the the doorway of the living room.

"You will come out of retirement?"

"Yes, yes," grunted Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September."

Slughorn sighed, "Yes, I daresay you will."

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them, "I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

"Well done," Dumbledore muttered towards the two Gryffindor boys.

Charlie's eyebrows furrowed, "We didn't do anything?"

"Oh, but you did." smiled Dumbledore proudly. "You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

Harry hesitated, "Uh..."

"He's an interesting bloke, I'll tell you that," shrugged Charlie, saying what was on his mind.

Charlie wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.

"Horace," Dumbledore began, as the three of them began to walk through the deserted town once again, "likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return."

Charlie had a sudden and vivid mental image of a puppeteer, pulling the strings behind a velvety curtain, forcing those in his control to do whatever he had obligated them to do.

"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against Horace - or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn - but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect the two of you. It just so happens that you two embody everything he values. That is why he is returning to Hogwarts, you see, and it's very crucial that he does."

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Charlie. Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.

"This will do. If you will, grasp my arm."

Braced this time, Harry and Charlie were ready for the Apparition. When the pressure disappeared and Charlie found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Harry and his grandfather, looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world; the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it.

"Wait, Professor," Harry began, clearly confused as to why he had not returned to Little Whinging. "What about Hedwig? And my trunk -"

"Both are waiting for you inside," muttered Dumbledore at once, pointing in the Burrow's direction. "And worry not, for the highest level of security measures have been instilled as long as you reside here."

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the Burrow's window where he could see the familiarity he had so missed. Charlie, on the other hand, felt an never-ending nervousness swell inside him at the sight, for he could not outrun the impending questions regarding his absence any longer.

Dumbledore sighed, the moonlight reflecting off of his long, white beard, "Well, I best be off. It has been quite the long night."

"You're leaving?" Charlie asked finally, in a low voice. "Right now?"

"I'm afraid so," whispered Dumbledore gently, his blue eyes twinkling ever so slightly. "I shall see you again when you return to the castle. Until then, however, enjoy the rest of your summer holiday. I do believe that you need your friends now more than ever, Charles."

Charlie sucked in a shaky intake of breath. His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for thinking it, but the fact that he didn't have to return to Hawthorne Manor felt oddly surreal, as though sooner or later he was going to wake up, entrapped once again. Yet, with a reassuring look from Harry, Charlie pulled himself together enough to give his grandfather one final nod.

"Very well, then," smiled Dumbledore, breathing in the cool night air with the utmost satisfaction. "Off you go. I see a light in the kitchen. Do not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are. Take care of yourselves, and of each other."

And with that, Dumbledore vanished from the yard of the Burrow, leaving Charlie and Harry embedded in a silence, which was corrupted by the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming from a distant shed.

-------------------

"You still haven't heard from him?" inquired a curious Ginny Weasley, as she sat across from her friend, Hermione Granger, in her childhood bedroom. "After all of this time?"

The youngest Weasley's room was quite small, with just enough room for a bed, a camp bed, a wardrobe and a small desk. The walls were painted a cool apple green, and there was a small shelf of well-thumbed paperback novels above the desk. There wasn't a frill or ribbon in sight, which somehow seemed to impersonate Ginny's persona perfectly.

"Not a word," muttered a saddened Hermione, who had been gazing mindlessly out of the third-story window, trying to take her mind off the silent treatment she was receiving from her ex-boyfriend.

"To hell with him then," scoffed Ginny, tossing her hair back with a huff. "You don't deserve that, 'Mione. Don't waste your time pining over a guy who doesn't have the decency to at least show a little effort... I don't care how perfect Charlie may seem, no guy is worth crying over."

"You don't understand," mumbled Hermione, shaking her head slightly as she watched Crookshanks frolic in the yard outside, chasing garden gnomes. "Forgetting about him is a lot easier said than done, especially because I'm unsure whether his silence is his own doing, you know? I mean, what if somethings gone horribly wrong? Think about it, honestly. He hasn't even been responding to Ron or Harry -"

"Well, that's not entirely surprising," shrugged Ginny, clearly unbothered. "Him and Ron have been at odds for the past year, and Harry... well, who knows whether he's been telling the truth or not? What if Charlie asked him not to say anything?"

Hermione shook her head, "Harry wouldn't lie. Not about something like this... he knows how worried I've been. Besides, we all know Charlie went with his father over the summer. How can that not scare you in the slightest after everything we saw in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Because Charlie's been dealing with his father's bullshit for years," sighed Ginny, studying a stuffed animal mindlessly. "I don't think a few weeks would make that much of a difference. If I'm honest, I think you're just in your head about this whole thing."

"I can't help it," whispered Hermione softly, cuddling into a pillow to give her the slightest bit of comfort. "I miss him, Gin," she admitted sadly, before burying her face into the pillow.

"Look, I get it," said Ginny sympathetically, moving to rub Hermione's back consolingly. "He was your first love. That's hard to get over and, believe me, I understand that. Sooner or later, however, you're going to have to move on. I mean, you've spent your entire summer holiday wallowing in heartbreak, yet you're still making excuses to not give up on him."

"I stopped writing!" Hermione defended at once, rising her head once again; Ginny gave her a look. "This isn't easy for me, okay? I can't just move on that fast. I loved him... hell, I still do."

"And you probably always will," admitted Ginny, who sighed in defeat. "But let's not forget that you, Hermione Jean Granger, aren't the type who's world stops spinning because of some guy." Ginny winked at her, and Hermione smiled back uncertainly. "Let him come to you. He will realize what a huge mistake he's made, I'm sure... and if not? Well, then I'm sure Dean has some friends we can set you up with."

Hermione grinned softly, although her heart panicked with guilt. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. You see, she had spent the entirety of her summer in Spain with her parents gazing hopelessly at the bracelet on her arm, hoping that one day its counterpart would send a signal to her... but it never came. Yet, that somehow didn't stop her from spending the last few weeks at the Burrow doing the exact same thing, but again, no answer.

The truth was, Charlie didn't want to see her, at least that's what she told herself, and she said it so frequently that she had started to believe it.

Ginny seemed to sense her disquiet, for she added, "I just want what's best for you, you know?"

Hermione swallowed hard, nodding, "I know."

"Alright, as long as you don't forget that," nudged Ginny with a short laugh. She stood up, dusting off her pyjamas, "I'm going to get a snack from the kitchen, d'you want anything?"

"I'm alright, thanks," muttered Hermione, shaking her head. The door closed quickly behind Ginny, and Hermione instantly buried her face back into the pillow with a loud groan.

"I hate this," she muttered to herself, for her mind had instantly travelled back to the boy with the golden brown eyes, despite the fact that she tried so hard to stop herself from doing so.

Downstairs, Ginny dashed down the vertiginous staircase; seemingly, she couldn't care less about the noise she had been making. She flew into the kitchen at a rapid pace only to jump, clutching her hand to her chest, when a dog barked loudly beside her.

Whipping her head around, Ginny gaped as she found two large trunks, an owl cage, and a German Shepherd residing in the living room. Curious, she cocked her head to one side, and to her surprise, the snowy owl did the same in return.

"Hedwig...?" she whispered, slightly aghast as the owl chirped contently. Without needing further confirmation, Ginny barrelled back over the staircase, yelling, "MUM!"

Looking up, Ginny was met was the dizzying perspective of twisted railings and crooked bedroom doors. The clock on the wall in the kitchen chimed, and nine hands, each inscribed with a Weasley name, were pointing to the words, Mortal Peril. Suddenly, a terrified Mrs. Weasley appeared over the railing, looking down in a fright.

"What is it Ginny?" she gasped, her eyes alit with curiosity. "Is it your father? Has something happened? Is it the Death Eaters?"

"My Merlin," Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes. "No, nothing of that sort! I was only wondering when Charlie and Harry got here."

Mrs. Weasley's brows furrowed, "Who? Ginerva, what're you on about?"

"Harry Potter and Charlie Hawthorne, of course!" Ginny laughed, utterly amused. "Who else would I be talking about?"

"You're barking," said Mrs. Weasley, shaking her head as she descended that stairs. "I think I'd know if Harry Potter and Charlie Hawthorne were in my house, wouldn't I?"

"Well, their trunks are in the kitchen," Ginny shrugged, eyeing the luggage once again for further confirmation. "And Harry's owl, along with Charlie's dog."

Mrs. Weasley giggled, "I seriously doubt that! Dumbledore said they wouldn't be arriving until tomorrow at the earliest."

Just then, Ludo barked loudly once again. His gruff, little doggy voice echoed around the house. Ginny shot her mother an 'I-told-you-so' look when another door opened wide; Ronald Weasley peered down the stairs, looking as curious as ever.

"What's going on?" he called, his eyes locking with Ginny's. "I could've sworn I heard someone say Harry and Charlie."

"I did, nosy," replied Ginny, giggling slightly as Ron's ears grew as red as his hair. "Are they up there with you?"

"'Course not," scoffed Ron, looking perplexed. "Think I'd know if my best friends were hiding in my room, wouldn't I?"

"They better not be, Ron. If Hermione finds out that Char-"

Once again, a door opened wide and footsteps approached the railing on the top floor; Hermione eagerly peaked her head out, toothbrush in hand, calling, "Is that a dog I heard?"

Ginny sighed, nodding, "Charlie's. Haven't seen him, have you? Apparently he and Harry are wondering about the house."

Hermione's eyes had widened, her heartbeat pounding in her chest, "Really?"

"Really," called a voice, and Ginny spun around to face Harry and Charlie, who had now clambered their way through the back door.

"There you guys are," beamed Ginny, rushing over to hug them both as the others began to rocket down the stairs to greet them as well.

Mrs. Weasley was the first to reach the bottom floor. She looked just as Charlie had always remembered her; short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing gown.

"Oh, so good to see you dears!" Mrs. Weasley gushed, pulling them each into their own bone-crushing hug. "But why didn't you tell us you were coming so early?"

"Didn't know," Harry shrugged with a small laugh as Mrs. Weasley reluctantly released him. "Dumbledore just left us outside."

"I think Slughorn proved much more persuadable than he had expected," Charlie explained, though his breath was nearly taken away from him due to the tightness of Mrs. Weasley's hug.

"That man," sighed Mrs. Weasley, a gleaming glint in her eye as she released Charlie at once. "But then, what would we do without him?"

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Charlie looked up, slightly surprised that so many people were awake despite the lateness of the hour. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron came into focus, grinning at him.

"Alright?"

"Yeah," nodded Charlie, reciprocating a small smile before Ron pulled him in for a brother-like hug, holding him tightly. "It's good to see you too, mate," he added, clapping Ron on the back.

"And you?" Ron asked Harry, as he pulled away from Charlie, only to throw himself on his other best friend. "Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?"

"Same as usual," Harry admitted, although his smile never fell from his face. The two of them pulled away from one another just in time for another pair of footsteps to approach.

This time, when Charlie glanced upwards, his heart seemed to stop. Hermione had came to a halt on the bottom of the stairs, her auburn eyes immediately locking with Charlie's. Somehow, Hermione, who had always been the most beautiful girl Charlie had ever laid his eyes upon, had grown even more attractive with their time away from one another.

She stood, her impossibly tamed hair slicked back into a loose ponytail, shifting awkwardly on her feet for a moment, raking Charlie with her eyes. Hermione wore a matching set of pearl white pyjamas that clung to her body in the most delicious of ways. Her face had thinned, accentuating her chiseled features, and her time in Spain over the summer holiday seemed to have provided her with a nice, golden tan.

(A/N: photo reference!)

Charlie gulped, his eyes devouring her as suddenly the entire room around him seemed to fall silent. He had not been expecting their first glance in over a month to have such a profound impact on him, and yet, his heart was practically beating out of his chest.

Hermione's eyes searched his face, and her heart skipped a beat with relief. She noticed very quickly, in typical Hermione fashion, the burdens embedded in his features. He looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced in his smile. Hermione's heart ached for him, wanting so badly to throw herself towards him to kiss all the pain away.

However, she only allowed herself to gawk over his appearance. Although he was utterly dishevelled, the boy she loved still peered through, piercing her heart with the golden brown eyes she loved so much, or the deep dimples that accentuated the smile that made her swoon.

When silence fell amongst the room for far too long, Hermione pulled herself together, walking forward to engulf Harry in a tight hug, which forced her gaze off of Charlie for the time being; his gaze, however, never tore from her.

"How're you, 'Mione?" Harry asked, his tone radiating happiness with every syllable. "When did you get here?"

"I'm fine, thanks... and a couple of weeks ago," whispered Hermione, and Charlie's heart leapt at the sound of her voice. "How was your summer?" she added, pulling back from him.

"Alright, I guess. As good as to be expected..."

But Hermione had not been listening.

She had turned her head back to Charlie and instantly, the tension between them grew thick. Neither of them were aware of how to greet one another with everything that's happened. Not being able to bare it any longer, Charlie moved forward, pulling her into a much-needed hug.

It took a mere second for Hermione to melt into his arms. Her head buried into his chest, inhaling his strong pine wood cologne, and she relished in the moment she had been dreaming about for weeks. He was there, in front of her; her arms snaked around him, so tightly as though she was never planning to let go.

God, how she missed him. Charlie... her Charlie...

She would never understand, however, how much Charlie had been anticipating this moment. His head buried deep into the crook of her neck, breathing slowly, trying to convince himself that this was real. His pain faded slowly away at her touch, as if Hermione had been the solution to all of his problems. After months of telling himself that he was doing the right thing by waking away, Charlie couldn't stop the lapse of judgement that replayed in his head on a haunting loop as they eventually pulled away:

You made a mistake... you let go of the best thing that has ever happened to you.

"Hi," Hermione breathed out finally, her hands lingering a second too long on his arms before she released him.

"It's good to see you," Charlie rasped, his infamous confidence had seemingly disappeared and he felt more defenceless than ever before.

"Yeah," Hermione whispered with the slightest flicker of a hopeful smile, "you too."

Just then, Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand. Charlie looked round, tearing his eyes from Hermione, and saw everyone watching their interaction closely. Charlie flushed with embarrassment when Mrs. Weasley squealed quietly, grinning widely at the proximity of the two teenagers, whom she had grown so fond of seeing together.

When Ginny looked at her displeasingly, however, Mrs. Weasley muffled her squeal with fake cough, pulling herself together.

"Right," she said at once, acting coyly. "Off to bed, all of you. We have plenty of time for reunions tomorrow, it's getting late." She looked round to Harry and Charlie, "I've got Fred and George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourselves."

"Why?" Harry inquired, eyebrows raised. "Where are they?"

"Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they're so busy," explained Mrs. Weasley, surprisingly proud. "I must say, I didn't approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dears, I'll bring you two up some food, I'm sure you're a bit peaky from your travels."

Without having to be told twice, the core four marched back up the stairs; Charlie and Harry pulling their trunks along with them. Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. When the door opened, Charlie pointed his wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow.

Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Charlie thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which Charlie and Harry placed their school trunks. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Charlie collapsed onto one of the beds, burying his head into the pillow. Despite the lateness of the hour, Ron and Hermione stayed with them.

The dazzling moonlight poked in through the windows as Ron spoke up, "So, what's been going on? With Dumbledore, I mean."

"It wasn't that exciting," shrugged Harry, adjusting his glasses on his face. "He just wanted Charlie and I to help persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn."

"Right," muttered Ron, looking a bit disappointed. He turned to Charlie, who had now sat upright on the bed, and gave him a sharp blow to the top of the head, "You had us worried sick, y'know?"

"Ron, don't hit him!" Hermione scolded, reproachfully, as she perched herself on the edge of Charlie's bed.

"Sorry," Charlie apologized for what felt like the millionth time. "Never got the chance to write, I guess."

"Come off it!" shouted Ron, unamused. "You've been off with your father, haven't you?"

Charlie nodded slowly, avoiding Hermione's curious eyes that fell upon the side of his face.

"Nothing happened, really," he lied, his Dark Mark practically screaming at him from underneath his jumper. "My father's a bit paranoid, you see... he didn't take too kindly to me reaching out to anybody."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile before speaking up.

"And that was it?" She asked, so lowly as though she was scared of the answer, "Surely, your father had an ulterior motive... did it seem like he wanted something from you?"

"I dunno," shrugged Charlie shamefully, his heart yelling at him for such an act of dishonesty. "I was never interested in talking with him much, if I'm honest. Personally, I think that's for the best, don't you?"

And with utmost reluctance, Hermione nodded slowly. It came as no surprise that Charlie didn't wish to divulge the truth on what had really happened to him over his summer holiday. He couldn't even begin to fathom the look of betrayal he was bound to receive from his friends if the truth was revealed. They'd probably hate him forever and, as Dumbledore had said, Charlie needed them now more than ever. It wasn't worth the risk.

Luckily, Charlie was saved from further talk about his father when the bedroom door opened once again.

"I know someone worse than your father," muttered a voice from the doorway. Ginny slouched her way into the room, looking irritable. "That woman is driving me mad."

"What's she done now?" asked Hermione sympathetically.

"It's the way she talks to me... you'd think I was about three!"

"I know," grunted Hermione, dropping her voice. "She's so full of herself."

Charlie balked, unaware of who his friends were talking about. Surely, it couldn't have been Mrs. Weasley... Harry looked at Charlie with a puzzled look from across the room, to which he simply shrugged in response.

Ron spoke up angrily, "Can't you two lay off her for five seconds?"

"Oh, that's right, defend her," snapped Ginny, utterly disgusted. "We all know that you can't get enough of her."

Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, "Who are you...?"

But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again and a young woman appeared in the doorway; a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden dinner tray.

"'Arry! 'Arlie!" she said in a throaty voice. "Eet 'as been too long!"

As she swept over the threshold toward the two boys, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.

"There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!"

"Eet was no trouble," Fleur Delacour waved this off, setting the tray across Harry's knees and then moving to swoop kissed down on Charlie's cheeks; he felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. "I 'ave been longing to see 'em. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about you!"

"Oh... is she here too?" Charlie croaked, gazing across at Mrs. Weasley's onion soup in attempt to ignore Hermione's daggers of jealousy that bore into the side of his face.

"No, no, silly boy," said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, "I mean next summer, when we... but do you not know?"

Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, "We hadn't got around to telling them yet."

Fleur turned back to Charlie and Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face.

"Bill and I are going to be married!"

"Oh," Harry said blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another's gaze. "Wow. Er... congratulations!"

She swooped down upon him and kissed him on both cheeks, just as she had done with Charlie moments prior.

"Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very 'ard. I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me 'ere for a few days to get to know 'is family properly. I was so pleased to 'ear you would be coming... zere isn't much to do 'ere, unless you like cooking and chickens! Well... enjoy your deener!"

With these words, she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Mrs. Weasley made a noise that Charlie couldn't decipher. Ginny, noticing this, giggled and leaned over, muttering, "Mum hates her."

"I do not hate her!" denied Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. "I just think they've hurried into this engagement, that's all!"

"They've known each other a year," shrugged Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.

"Well, that's not very long!" Mrs. Weasley disagreed, growing hotly at the topic. "I know why it's happened, of course. It's all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they're rushing all sorts of decisions they'd normally take time over. I mean, Bill and Fleur don't have much in common, do they? He's a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she's..."

"A cow," nodded Ginny, her bluntness apparent. "But Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he? He likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour... I expect that's why he's gone for Phlegm."

"Stop calling her that, Ginny," barked Mrs. Weasley sharply, but Charlie, Harry and Hermione laughed. "Well, I'd better get on... eat your food while it's still warm, dears. Then, off to bed, will you?"

Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

Harry spoke through a mouthful of food, asking, "Don't you get used to her if she's staying in the same house?"

"Well, you do," nodded Ron, "but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then..."

"It's pathetic," growled Hermione furiously, striding away from Charlie as far as she could go and turning to face him once she had reached the wall, her arms folded in disapproval.

"You don't really want her around forever?" Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, "Well, Mum's going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything."

Charlie's eyebrows furrowed, "How's she going to manage that?"

"She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner." Ginny explained, "I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family."

"Yeah, that'll work," muttered Ron sarcastically. "Listen, no bloke in his right mind's going to fancy Tonks when Fleur's around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn't doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but..."

"She's a damn sight nicer than Phlegm," barked Ginny.

"And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!" chimed Hermione from the corner.

"Fleur's not stupid though," Charlie shrugged, obliviously. "She was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament."

Hermione's head whipped round to Charlie, her lips pursed as she spoke bitterly, "Not you as well!"

Ginny scoffed scornfully, "I suppose you like the way Phlegm says "Arlie,' do you?"

"What? No, that isn't what I'm saying," defended Charlie, wishing he hadn't spoke at all. "I was just saying, Phlegm... I mean, Fleur..."

"I'd much rather have Tonks in the family," huffed Ginny, crossing her arms. "At least she's a laugh!"

The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her head in. She was looking utterly confused at the continued disturbance at the ungodly time of night.

"I can hear you from the kitchen downstairs!" She barked, her scowling face contorting. "What did I say?! Get to bed!"

"We're talking!" Ginny whined, outraged.

"Now!" yelled Mrs. Weasley, then she withdrew.

Ginny swung her her long red hair around her shoulder crossly before grabbing hold of Hermione's arm and pulling her from the room. With one last fleeting glance, Hermione looked to Charlie once more, noticing his tensed posture, his tired eyes -

The two girls disappeared and, soon after, Ron reluctantly followed in their wake. Charlie bade Harry goodnight, put on his pyjamas (quite quickly, so Harry wouldn't see his bandage), and got back into bed.

There was something hard inside the pillowcase when he laid back down. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and attempted to sleep for the first time in quite a long time.

--------------------

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Charlie, he had bolted awake, gasping for breath. He rolled over in his bed, groaning quietly as his left forearm burned profusely.

Charlie had barely opened his eyes before regretting it, squeezing them tightly shut instantly. He felt sweaty and uncomfortable, but at the same time, the cold night air was nipping at his nose and he burrowed further down into the blankets. Judging by Harry's distant snoring, it was still very late at night; even the sun had failed to rise.

What had he done to deserve this?

The thought haunted Charlie as a harsh cough forced its way through his throat, causing him to prop himself up with his elbow. It felt like his throat had caught on fire. The coughs grew deeper, and Charlie couldn't help but wonder if he was going to be sick or suffocate when he managed to get a gulp of fresh air.

As he calmed his racing heart, swallowed gingerly, and wiped at his brow - sweat was now pouring off him - he pushed the covers off of himself, clambered out of bed, and tiptoed towards the door in search of a glass of water. He managed to exit the room without waking Harry, which was a relief... he couldn't face anyone right now. Charlie delicately crept through the corridor and down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Charlie's tread grew louder as he emerged, walking past the kitchen table, thinking he was in the clear. He rubbed his eyes with a sigh, but when his vision adjusted to the vast darkness, he nearly jumped out of his body. Hermione's silhouette was framed in the moonlight peering in from the kitchen, and Charlie tensed at the sight of her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through the darkness. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Charlie shook his head, although he was slightly confused as to why Hermione was sat upon the Weasley's countertop at four in the morning. And so, he asked, "Couldn't sleep?"

"Not exactly," shrugged Hermione, and her eyes followed Charlie as he moved to the refrigerator. He forced it opened and the light shone on him, illuminating him amongst the shadows.

(A/N: for an idea of what the scene looks like)

He wore a long sleeved shirt that clung to the outline of his abdomen, while his sweatpants rode low on his hips. Hermione bit her lip as she watched him. His body, slight from weeks of neglect, was nevertheless lined with tight muscles.

Charlie grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, opening it in a sharp movement and drinking mindlessly. He had chosen to ignore the woman staring at him as he drank, for it was much easier to play coy than get sucked into a temptation that he couldn't walk away from. Hermione watched his every move, devouring him with her eyes. His head titled back, water trickling down his throat, as his firm stomach clenched tight with every gulp.

When he had finished, Charlie finally looked over his shoulder. He met Hermione's wandering eyes, but didn't dare say anything. Guiltily, his own eyes absorbed her, taking her in from head to toe. For a moment, Hermione had become conscious to the fact that her pyjama shirt had a low cut. Her breathing had gone slightly uneven, her hands clenched on the countertop to keep her balance.

He tore his gaze from her eyes, trying to focus anywhere else, as he scolded himself for what he was falling victim to. Charlie brought his attention to the bowl she sat next to, which had a silver spoon peaking out the top.

He raised a brow, muttering, "Late night snack, I presume?"

"Mhmmm," Hermione hummed, and she took the bowl in her lap, raising the spoon to her mouth ever so dangerously, for her eyes never left Charlie's... oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Charlie gulped, his heart hammering in his chest. He was able to resist everything, except the temptation of Hermione Granger.

And so, he grinned at her, asking, "Ice cream?"

She nodded with the softest giggle, which Charlie had missed so damn much, "Vanilla... but I put some chocolate syrup on top."

Charlie balked, and through the light of the refrigerator, Hermione saw him swallow hard. A smirk tugged at her lips... maybe she didn't have to move on after all?

"Sounds delicious," he whispered, so lowly as if he were admitting a sin. His breath was growing hot against his lips.

Heat seemed to stir within Hermione as well, which was a drastic opposite to the stingy coldness of the bowl in her hands. She could foresee this conversation going somewhere that Ginny would probably kill her for. But somehow, after not seeing Charlie for so long, she only craved him more.

And so, she spoke dangerously, her voice laced with seduction, "Would you like some?"

Charlie froze, seemingly to contemplate the pros and cons briefly in his head. It was in that moment that Hermione swore that if he were to refuse, she would literally kill him for being utterly clueless. To her surprise, however, he closed the refrigerator door slowly, the room succumbing to darkness once again, and he began to approach her ever so slowly.

Her heart was beating so loud that it was a miracle that Charlie couldn't hear it. With his eyes affixed on her, he ran his hands roughly through his hair, coming to an abrupt halt in between her legs. He reached his arms out on either side of her, caging her as he leaned against the counter. Hermione could've sworn her heart had stopped, for she could feel his warm breath ricochet off her lips.

It had been so long since they had been this close... this intimate. Charlie wasn't sure what had came over him. He cocked a bashful smile as his eyes travelled down her body, shamefully enjoying the view. Hermione resisted the urge to map his body with her hands and, instead, raised the silver spoonful of vanilla ice cream to his lips.

Ever so gently, Charlie closed his mouth down on the spoon, wiping it clean of its contents before he leaned back up. The taste lingered in his mouth and Hermione watched as he licked his lips when he was done. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his lips... oh, Merlin, this isn't good...

"W-Well?"

"It's really good," he breathed out slowly, his eyes flickering upwards to meet her gaze.

Hermione surprisingly moved to rest her forehead against Charlie's and, for a moment, he shuddered at the contact before his tensed shoulders relaxed. There was nothing Charlie wanted more than to kiss Hermione... but he wouldn't have had the willpower to stop. One day, he was going to have to tell her everything, but he needed the strength and courage to do so and, at that moment, he was severely lacking.

And so, with realization dawning on him, Charlie pulled away. Not enough to cause an uproar of frustration, mind you, but enough to get his point across. Hermione frowned deeply, for she didn't want this moment to end. Taking matters into her own hands, she snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him back towards her.

"Don't do that," she pleaded in a quiet whisper, and Charlie's heart broke at the sound. "Please, don't."

"Hermione, I -"

"Why didn't you write?" Hermione asked, catching the boy completely off guard. When he did nothing but furrow his brows, she pressed on, "Have you not missed me as much as I've missed you?"

Charlie sighed, "I told you -"

"You're a terrible liar, you know?" Hermione let out a light, rueful chuckle. "Whatever story you wish to delude the others into thinking is one thing, but don't you dare lie to me."

"Who said anything about lying?" Charlie defended, but it greatly pained him to do so. "I wouldn't lie about this."

This had apparently been the wrong thing to say, for Hermione's mood seemed to change in an instant. Charlie watched as she visibly scolded herself for falling helpless to his charms. Hermione let out a groan of frustration, her breathing uneven as she placed the bowl back down beside her.

She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief, "Of course you wouldn't." She jumped down from the counter, pushing Charlie back, "It's always going to be the same with you, isn't it?"

Taking Charlie by complete surprise, Hermione pushed past him, striding back around the kitchen table towards the staircase. Upset with himself, Charlie slammed his hands down on the middle island with a groan.

Before he could stop himself, he called out after her, "Would it matter if I told you that I did miss you?"

Hermione froze, her heart soaring at his words, for they were exactly what she'd been craving to hear for ages. She turned back around, Charlie's eyes devouring her once again. The ambiance grew thick with palpable tension as the two simply stared at one another through the darkness. Hermione was toying with him, making him wait with utmost anticipation as punishment for what he had put her through.

"Depends," she shrugged at last, her lips pursing ever so slightly. "Do you want it to matter to me?"

Charlie's heart hammered at a hundred beats a minute, but the rush did not reach his vocal chords. It got stuck in his throat, so his voice came out as a whisper:

"Yes."

Hermione smiled to herself through the vast shadows of darkness. As soon as she had heard the word leave his mouth, Hermione's mind had been invaded by a million and one thoughts and wants, but none of which seemed to distill into an idea or plan.

Only one thing was for certain, she wanted to somehow make Charlie come to her, just as Ginny had instructed. Hermione vowed to herself that if things between her and Charlie were ever going to work again, he was going to have to make the effort to open his heart entirely to her... she wouldn't settle for anything less, not anymore.

And so, Hermione turned from him, ignoring the fact that Charlie's face had fallen at the action, and sauntered her way over towards the vertiginous staircase once again. She left Charlie in the kitchen, alone to ponder his wrongdoings, but not before she bade him a bittersweet farewell:

"Goodnight, Charlie."

Charlie watched her leave, listening to her footsteps retreat up the stairs ever so quietly, and only one thought trickle into his head.

This year is going to be absolute hell.

-------------------

Author's Note:
*this chapter was not proof read*

we're only one chapter into HBP and I'm already obsessed with writing it ahhhhhhh

this sexual tension stuff is fun to write ;)

hope you guys enjoyed!

if you did, be sure to show some support by leaving a comment and hitting that vote button <3

until next time, much love as always!

xo, selena

p.s. we're nearly at 100k views... I am SHOCKED.