CHAPTER TEN:

Third Person Narrative:

The news that Charlie had been poisoned spread quickly over the next few days, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie's attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master's room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately, there was no real harm done.

In fact, the Gryffindors were generally much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his commentary during the opening match against Slytherin.

With Charlie undoubtedly exempted from the match, Harry was forced to find a new Chaser. To everyone's great surprise, however, Cormac McLaggen jumped at the opportunity, abandoning his desire to be Keeper and settling for the empty position.

"Let me play Chaser! I reckon I'm quick and agile enough to be one," McLaggen preached to Harry one afternoon before Potions. "C'mon, Potter, you know I'm your best option."

"Right... yeah," muttered Harry in response, who evidently had more pressing issues on his mind. "Yeah, I suppose so..."

He could not think of an argument against it; after all, McLaggen had certainly performed second-best in the trials. And so, the position had been temporarily filled while Charlie was recovering in the hospital wing.

But after making the decision, Harry realized he'd made a mistake. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of hints that he would make a better permanent Chaser for the team than Charlie. He was also keen to criticize the other players and provide Harry with detailed training schemes, so that more than once Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain.

On the morning of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Harry and Hermione dropped in on the hospital wing before heading down to the pitch. Charlie, who had awoken from his unconscious state, was very agitated; Madame Pomfrey would not let him go down to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him.

"So how's McLaggen shaping up?" he asked Harry nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already asked the same question twice.

"I've told you," said Harry patiently, "he could be world-class and I wouldn't want to keep him. He keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he could play every position better than the rest of us. I can't wait to be shot of him."

"And I can't wait to be out of this bloody hospital bed," grumbled Charlie, kicking his sheets off. "I don't know what Madame Pomfrey's on about, honestly, I feel perfectly fine."

"You've been poisoned, Charlie," Hermione reminded him, and she took her usual spot on the edge of his bed, their hands instantly intertwining. "I think it'd be best not to rush your recovery."

And with nothing but a mess of incoherent mumbles acting as Charlie's response, Harry laughed lightly.

"Don't worry about it, mate," he said, getting to his feet and picking up his Firebolt. "You'll only need to be in here for a few more days."

"I guess," Charlie shrugged, and then he whipped his head around to lock eyes with his unofficial lover, "At least be sure to give me a well detailed recount of today's match, will you? I don't want to feel like I'm missing out entirely."

"Actually, I was planning on staying back to keep you company," Hermione tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, her cheeks reddening. "What do you think?"

Charlie brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, "I'd like that very much."

"I'll come back after the match is over, alright?" Harry shouldered his broom, interrupting his two friends' small, intimate moment.

"Sounds good," Charlie tore his gaze from Hermione and nodded in understanding. "Good luck, mate. Hope you hammer McLag— I mean Smith."

Hermione kinked an eyebrow at Charlie, acknowledging his slip of tongue. In response, he shrugged, a wide smirk curling upon his lips.

Harry shook his head, grinning, "See you later."

And with that, Harry disappeared through the grand double doors of the hospital wing. As the door shut behind him, Charlie and Hermione succumbed to the quietness of the vacant common room. With a small smile, Charlie pulled at Hermione's hand, beckoning her closer to him.

"Come here, then."

Without hesitation, she climbed into his bed with him, letting her body melt into his. As she reached out to pull him closer, Charlie reciprocated and managed to lace their fingers together, holding her tightly in his embrace. With his unoccupied hand, he rubbed circles on her back and leaned his head into her hair. Hermione threw one leg over his and cuddled closer into his warmth, just as Charlie pulled the covers up and around them.

Hermione moved again, settling against him so that her body was curled against his left side and her head rested on the centre of his chest. She listened contently to the calming beat of his heart, thudding strong and steady against her cheek. She sighed deeply, nuzzling further into him.

Charlie bent his head down and kissed the tip of her nose affectionately, "Comfortable?"

"Very much so," Hermione snuggled her cheek against him in response and took a deep breath, inhaling his musky, woody scent as she relaxed. She laid there, warm and safe, and absently trailed her fingers down the planes of his chest.

She could feel him nod against her ever so slightly.

"Hospital beds aren't nearly as comfortable as the ones in the dorms, mind you," he muttered lightly, and his heart thumped steadily, but a little quicker, against her ear again, "but I have to admit, as long as you're here, I can't complain."

Hermione giggled breathlessly, "Quite the charmer, you are."

"Only for you," Charlie chuckled, and he leaned down to place a romantic kiss upon her forehead. As he leaned back up, he looked around with a sigh, "You know, after all that's happened, I'm starting to feel as though I'm Madame Pomfrey's only patient... and I dunno if that's a good or bad thing."

"Definitely bad," Hermione perched her head up upon his chest. She somewhat got lost in the absolute beauty of his eyes as she looked at him. "You scare the living daylights out of me whenever you end up in here," she admitted, her tone soft and timid.

Charlie balked, his eyes transfixed upon her. He watched as her eyes twinkled with emotion and he instinctively pulled her closer. He could feel every curve... oh, how her body seemed to mould so perfectly with his as they laid there.

"I'm sorry," he told her sincerely, and Hermione buried her head back into his chest; Charlie could feel the wetness of her tears through his hospital gown. "It was never my intention to —"

"I know," she interjected, and Charlie felt her grip tighten around him. "I mean, I know you'd never intend for something like this to happen, but... honestly, Charlie, y-you c-could've..."

"But I'm okay," he said, before adding, after a pause, "I'm safe... I'm not going anywhere, I told you that."

Hermione sniffled before pulling out of the hug, but kept her arms wrapped around him, hooking them around the back of his neck. She leaned back, just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were shining with tears, with tiredness, with fear... and with something else, as they poured into his with direct intent.

If Charlie had been asked to, he would've been able to describe every intricate detail of her face down to the last freckle on her cheek. Lost in her beauty, he wasn't sure who moved first, or if they'd even moved at all. Before Charlie realized it, he felt himself leaning down, his eyes beginning to close as her brown orbs fluttered shut too.

And their lips met, for what felt like the millionth time, and yet the feeling still felt as surreal as the first time their lips had ever touched. Slowly, almost cautiously, but perfectly in sync, they met.

And then they met again.

And again.

Then, suddenly they were moving together on their own accord. Her hands were digging into the back of his neck, ruffling his hair, while his were coming up to caress her face.

And it felt so good and so right and so true.

At last, they stopped. Charlie opened his eyes and was met with a blazen look.

He kept his hands where they were, holding her face gently. But she moved hers, stroking his jawline with the tips of her fingers. There were tears welling up in her eyes, but she was smiling. Before Charlie could say anything, Hermione dropped her hands between them and moved in again, but this time the kiss was sweeter; more comforting, less frantic. It felt just as good and as right and as true as before, even though Charlie could taste the saltiness of her tears.

They pulled back again. He couldn't take his eyes off her and she had her gaze fixed squarely on him. Finally, he regained the ability to speak.

"I..."

Hermione's ears perked up, hoping for three little words to fall from his lips, for there was a part of her that had longed for his conscious mind to confess his love ever since he had in his mindless daze.

And to her great delight, Hermione got her wish:

"I love you so much."

She went silent for a moment, making Charlie's mind cloud with intangible self doubt. Her reaction was expected, for he had singlehandedly obliterated their standards of taking things slow and dived head first into the depths of love without warning. Which is why, seconds after the words left his mouth, Charlie deemed his proclamation as an unfair gesture, especially after all he had put her through.

"Uh, I'm s-sorry, I-I dunno why —"

"I love you too, Charlie... of course, I love you."

And just like that, the rest of Charlie's inhibitions disappeared at the little high pitched inflection in her voice. Hermione pulled him back down to her level and kissed him fiercely, tangling her fingers in his hair to keep her balance.

"You don't understand how happy you've just made me," she whispered, grinning widely as they broke apart, resting their foreheads together. "Thank Merlin, I thought you were going to make me wait to hear you say it."

Charlie placed his hands on the lower of her back, humming cheerfully,"I figured the 'takings things slow' thing was a bit overrated."

Hermione's fit of giggles carried around the room, and only when she caught him looking right at her, did she stop. She found that his dark brown eyes, which rested so perfectly on his now content looking face, were peeking out from behind a few loose, wild strands of messy brown and gazing into hers, finding serotonin in watching her laugh.

She tenderly pulled his face in for another kiss, this time pressing her body softly against his. Charlie responded by pulling her on top of him and she gladly obliged; waves of excitement overcame her as she straddled his waist. Hazily, Hermione realized that his arms were wrapping tighter around her. His lips parted a bit, inaudibly inviting her, and Hermione was right on the same page, enraptured by the moment.

When she slowly slipped in a bit of her own tongue into his mouth, Charlie shuddered with desire; the kiss was very sensual and enticing him into wanting more. He was marveling at the feeling of her body flush against his. She felt so perfect with the way she fit right into him. He moaned softly as their kisses grew more and more passionate.

She had to break away, gasping for air, needing to look at him again. His eyes, the ones that she had once associated with unbearable heartbreak, were now suddenly deep and sexy and so full of love. Hermione couldn't believe how far they had come, how quickly they had found their way back to one another. The chest she was held against was firm and solid, and the arms she was cradled in were secure and strong around her.

And still, the voice in the back of her head toyed with insecurity, forcing her to pause for a moment.

"Do you think we're being too reckless?"

Charlie, who was preoccupied trailing a line of kisses down her neck, stopped his movements and looked up.

He kinked a brow, "What do you mean?"

"I just feel like every time we're happy, similar to how we are right now, the entire universe conspires against us," Hermione spoke softly, her body tensing under Charlie's fingertips. "I dunno... maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I just — I don't want to lose you again."

"You worry too much, my love," Charlie whispered delicately, grinning, as Hermione's blush reddened at his newfound nickname for her. With a gentle sigh, she nodded, seemingly trying to desperately rid her mind of fear of living.

Charlie pressed another kiss slightly lower along her neck and Hermione had to fight off a shudder of pleasure. Being more than familiar with his ways, she knew he was trying to distract her from her line of questioning. Unfortunately, she was going to have to stay curious and wonder what would become of their happiness because she found herself completely unable to resist him and his pursuit of affection.

His clever fingers made quick work, moving down her torso towards the buttons on her jumper; Hermione tilted her head back out of instinct and Charlie took advantage. He explored the newly exposed area of her skin, encouraged to kiss away her fear and allow her to succumb to the bliss, which he, himself, found that he was grasping onto for dear life.

As Charlie made to remove the article of clothing, however, Hermione placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back with a slight chuckle.

"Easy," she told him, smirking mischievously to herself at the sight of his ruffled hair and swollen lips. "In case you've forgotten, Madame Pomfrey specifically said no to anything that might overexcite you."

Charlie groaned, throwing his head back against the pillows with a huff, "Yes, well, Madame Pomfrey says a lot of things. Honestly, Mione, I'm being deprived. No Quidditch! No se—"

Hermione slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Charles! Would you keep your voice down?" she scolded, and Charlie struggled against her hand, laughing hysterically. "If Madame Pomfrey overheard you talking like that she'd have a fit or something. Besides, you're just being ridiculous — she's only doing what she thinks is best."

At last, Charlie freed himself from her grasp:

"And I'm beginning to question her metho—"

Hermione cut him off with a kiss in hopes of silencing his protests, laughing lightly into his mouth. Before Charlie could reciprocate in the way he wanted to, however, she pulled back.

He huffed, "Okay, now, you're just being cruel."

"Cruel as I may be, you've been told to rest." Hermione shook her head, toying with him, "So put those hormones of yours on pause, will you? We can finish this later... preferably at a time where you're not bound to a hospital bed."

"Oh, alright," Charlie sighed and sat up, bringing Hermione along with him. Still straddling him, she wrapped her arms around his neck as they readjusted to the new position. "I'll hold you to it then, Granger."

Hermione's lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. "It'll be worth the wait."

Leaning forward to ghost his lips over hers, Charlie muttered seductively, "Is that a promise?"

With a small nod, Hermione smashed her lips against his, closing the distance between them and taking him completely by surprise. It didn't take Charlie long to respond just as vigorously as Hermione was.

"You're killing me," Charlie let out a light, breathless chuckle as they pulled away. He brushed her hair away from her face to get a better look at her eyes.

Charlie hated it when he needed to see what emotions were swirling around in her honey orbs, but they were covered by the voluptuous hair atop her head. That didn't mean he hated her hair though, quite the opposite. He liked nothing more than to tangle his hands into that unruly hair and kiss her until they were both completely breathless.

Hermione blushed under his gaze. There was nothing but temptation reflected in her eyes, willing Charlie to tilt his head forward to rest on her shoulder while he ruminated on the intimacy of their relationship.

All those months separating them and it almost felt like nothing had changed. Evidently, Charlie knew they were different people now and were going to have to rework some of their relationship, but if there had been anything solid there in the first place, they'd survive. They were risking so much just for a chance at being together again, they had to survive.

"You know you love it," Hermione murmured against the skin at the crook of his neck, a hint of rascality in her voice.

As her words sent chills down his spine, Charlie smiled radiantly. He maneuvered his head to place a delicate kiss upon her cheek. "Yes, well, that's because I love you."

"I love you more," she said into his shirt, nuzzling herself further into his embrace. Charlie's arms returned to their position around her waist and hugged her tightly.

With that, they sat there, just basking in each other's presence for a good long while. They fell into silence once more, both of them thinking hard about their future. While it was a murky and unsure, neither one of them wanted to fathom a future without the other.

————————————————————

Their bliss lasted about an hour before the real world started to encroach on them and erode little cracks in their moment of peaceful intimacy.

To Charlie's utmost confusion, when the Quidditch match had seemingly concluded, Harry was rushed into the hospital wing. He was sprawled upon a magically flying stretcher, his head wrapped in a large bandage and Madame Pomfrey was frantically rustling behind him.

According to a quick debriefing from Ron, McLaggen, in a fit of superiority, grabbed a Beater's bat and hit a Bludger at Harry accidentally, causing Gryffindor to lose the match, for their Seeker was out of commission. Infuriated by the news, Charlie had to be constantly reminded by Hermione to not cause a scene.

And so, reluctantly, Charlie, Hermione, and Ron sat around the hospital wing until their friend awoke from his unconsciousness.

Several hours later, Harry opened his eyes. He was lying in his remarkably warm hospital bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly.

(A/N: obviously not everyone in this gif is in the scene, but I think it's funny lol)

"Nice of you to drop in," said Charlie, grinning. Harry blinked in his surroundings; the sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson.

"What happened?"

"Cracked skull," explained Madame Pomfrey, who came bustling up the aisle, pushing him back against his pillows. "Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm keeping you in overnight. You shouldn't overexert yourself for a few hours."

"I don't want to stay here overnight," argued Harry, sitting up and throwing back his covers. "I want to find McLaggen and kill him."

"I'm afraid that would come under the heading of 'overexertion,'" dismissed Madame Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening manner. "You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the Headmaster."

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming.

"How much did we lose by?" he asked Ron through clenched teeth.

"Well, uh," began Ron apologetically, "I believe the final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty."

"Brilliant," scoffed Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —"

"You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," murmured Charlie reasonably. "However, I personally think there's got to be a hex of the Prince's that'll knock some sense into him."

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Charlie's voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled that McLaggen had messed up so badly.

"Don't you start advocating for the Prince's tactics," warned Hermione, sending a sharp look in her boyfriend's direction. "Besides, the rest of the team will deal with McLaggen, they're not happy..."

"Hm, I wonder why," scoffed Charlie sarcastically, angry on behalf of his best friend. "McLaggen deserves anything he gets. Honestly, he's lucky that I'm stuck in here for the next few days."

Shrugging off Hermione's look of disdain, Charlie laid there, staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling, his newfound rage boiling the blood in his veins.

"Madame Pomfrey came in and let us hear some of the commentary," he said, after a moment of silence, his voice now shaking with laughter. "I hope Luna always commentates from now on..."

But Harry was still too angry to see much humor in the situation and, after a while, Charlie's snorts subsided.

"Elaina came in to visit while you were unconscious," Ron wiggled his eyebrows, breaking the silence, and Harry's imagination zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in which Elaina, weeping over his lifeless form, confessed her feelings of deep attraction to him. "She told us she ran into you before the match, and apparently you'd only just arrived in time."

Charlie kinked a curious brow, "How come? You left here early enough."

"Oh..." nodded Harry, as the scene in his mind's eye imploded. "Yeah... well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off with a couple of girls who didn't look like they wanted to be with him, and that's the second time he's made sure he isn't down on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the school... he skipped the last match too, remember?" He paused to heave a deep sigh. "Wish I'd followed him now, the match was such a fiasco..."

"Don't be stupid!" exclaimed Ron sharply. "You couldn't have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy, you're the only Captain we have now that Charlie's in recovery!"

"I want to know what he's up to," shrugged Harry. "And don't tell me its all in my head, not after what Charlie and Hermione overheard between him and Snape —"

"We never said it was all in your head," muttered Charlie gently, hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning at Harry, "but we've talked about this before — we can't jump to conclusions."

"You're getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry," Hermione spoke softly, earning a sharp glance. "I mean, using the Marauders Map is one thing, but physically following him is a bit excessive..."

"I just want to catch him at it!" yelled Harry in frustration. "I mean, where's he going when he disappears off the map?"

"I dunno... Hogsmeade?" suggested Ron, yawning.

"Doubt it," said Charlie, resting his back upon his pillows. "The secret passages on the map are being watched now, aren't they?"

Ron shook his head, giving up, "Well, then, I dunno."

"And we probably never will," sighed Hermione, fiddling nervously with the rings on her hands. "It's not like we can have Malfoy tailed... we'll get caught before we've even started making significant headway. You'll just have to let it go, Harry."

Harry scoffed, "Not bloody likely."

Silence fell between them and, after a while, curfew dawned. With a chaste kiss, Hermione bid her farewell to Charlie, said goodnight to Harry, and followed Ron out of the hospital wing, leaving the remaining Gryffindors as the only two occupants of the ward.

Madame Pomfrey came out of her office, this time wearing a thick dressing gown. Charlie rolled over to his side and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she returned to her office; he heard the door click behind her and knew that she was off to bed.

Exhausted, it wasn't long before Charlie's eyes began to get heavy under the circle of lamp light above him.

"Goodnight, Harry," he yawned, and shortly after, there was a low, rumbling snore coming from his bed.

But not before another voice rang through the darkness:

"Goodnight, mate."

————————————————————

Charlie and Harry left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madame Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that the core four had all reconciled.

With everyone back on good terms, Hermione had escorted the three boys down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Elaina had argued with Theo. The drowsing jealousy creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully.

"What did they row about?" he asked, trying to sound casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.

"It's all right!" said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. "Here..."

She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, "Reparo." The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.

"I swear they're getting smaller," he said.

"Never mind her," dismissed Harry, a little impatiently. "What did Elaina and Nott row about, Hermione?"

"I don't know the specifics," Hermione told him, shrugging, "but apparently Elaina was upset that Theo was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you."

Charlie kinked an eyebrow at his unofficial girlfriend, "I didn't realize that you and Elaina were back on good terms."

"Yes, well, time works wonders," responded Hermione, her tone extremely philosophical. "As twisted as it sounds, your time in the hospital brought us all closer together."

"Bonding over a near death experience?" muttered Ron with a hint of sarcastic snide. "Who would've thought?"

"Regardless, there was no need for Elaina and Nott to split up over it," said Harry, still trying to sound casual. "Or are they still together?"

Hermione frowned, "Yes, Harry, they are."

"Careful, mate," sniggered Charlie, clapping a saddened Harry on the back. "Might want to tone down your obvious disappointment... people might get suspicious about your sudden interest in Elaina Dumont's love life."

"It's not like that!" defended Harry hastily, but his friends continued to look suspicious, and and he was most relieved when a voice behind them called, "Harry! Charlie!" giving him an excuse to turn his back on them.

"Oh, hi, Luna."

"I went to the hospital wing to find you," said Luna, rummaging in her bag. "But they said you'd left..."

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Charlie.

"...I've been told to give you this."

It was a small roll of parchment, which Charlie recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore.

"Tonight," he told Harry, Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it.

"Nice commentary last match!" Ron told Luna as she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" she muttered, and Charlie, for the first time, swore he saw a frown curl upon her lips. "Everyone says I was dreadful."

"No, I'm serious!" smiled Ron earnestly. "I can't remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?" he added, holding the onionlike object up to eye level.

"Oh, it's a Gurdyroot," she beamed, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. "You can keep it if you like, I've got a few of them. They're really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies."

And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.

"You know, she's grown on me, Luna," he said, as they set off again for the Great Hall. "I know she's insane, but it's in a good way, you know?"

They trudged on, finally settling themselves at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall for breakfast. Almost immediately, out of the corner of his eye, Charlie could see a discontent Romilda Vane glaring in Hermione's direction, her dislike overwhelmingly apparent. Hermione was acting as though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Charlie saw an inexplicable smirk cross her face.

All day, Hermione seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Charlie's Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point, because she had known that Charlie would then let Harry and Ron copy his work; even planting some feathered kisses on what Charlie knew was a particularly sensitive spot on her neck had not previously persuaded her to help him.

"Thank you, my love, I appreciate this," said Charlie, giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek before he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. "Listen, I've got to hurry or I'll be late, but I'll see you later, okay? Harry, c'mon!" he shouted across the room, alerting Harry, who stopped his game of wizards chess with Neville and came bustling over.

Hermione smiled and waved goodbye, although her eyes were transfixed on his Herbology essay; she merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Charlie hurried out through the portrait hole with Harry and headed to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs, and Charlie and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a clock chimed eight.

"Enter," called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.

"Oh bloody hell," muttered Charlie instinctively, just loud enough for Harry to hear; Harry bit down on his knuckles to keep from laughing.

"Aha!" she cried, pointing dramatically at the two boys as she blinked at them through her magnifying spectacles. "So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!"

"My dear Sybill," said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, "there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Charles and Harry do have an appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be said —"

"Very well," said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. "If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it... perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated..."

She pushed past Charlie and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Charlie guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls.

"Please close the door and sit down, boys," beckoned Dumbledore, sounding rather tired.

Harry closed the door behind them. Charlie moved towards his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's desk, noticing that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory.

"Feeling alright, Charles?" Dumbledore asked his grandson sincerely, peering at him over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "Poppy's made sure you've made a full recovery, yes?"

Charlie nodded, "Yeah, I'm feeling loads better."

"Good," smiled Dumbledore, sounding slightly relieved, "I'm glad to hear it."

The two shared a heartwarming glance, and Charlie realized just how much he'd missed confiding in his grandfather.

"Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?" Harry asked, joining them at last.

"No," affirmed Dumbledore, "Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know — and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see."

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, "But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly — have the two of you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?"

"Uh," gulped Charlie, sharing a look of guilt with Harry. "Well, we asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, grandfather, but, er, he wouldn't give it to us."

There was a little silence.

"I see," said Dumbledore eventually, eyeing the two boys carefully and giving Charlie the unusual sensation that he was being X-rayed. "And you both feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?"

"Well," Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. "Well... the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake, Charlie and I took him to Professor Slughorn. We thought that maybe if we got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —"

"And did that work?" asked Dumbledore.

"Well, no, granddad, because I got poisoned —"

"— which, naturally, made you both forget all about trying to retrieve the memory... yes, I understand completely. However, I thought I made it clear to you both how very important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it."

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Charlie's head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but his grandson would have preferred him to yell — this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

"Granddad," he said, a little desperately, "it isn't that we weren't bothered or anything, we've just been busy with other things that..."

"Other things that are on your mind," Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. "I see."

Silence fell between them again, one of the most uncomfortable silences Charlie had ever experienced with his grandfather. It seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore's head. Charlie felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room.

When Harry could stand the silence no longer, he said, "Professor Dumbledore, we're really sorry. Yes, we should have done more... we should have realized you wouldn't have asked us to do it if it wasn't really important."

"Thank you for saying that, Harry," muttered Dumbledore quietly. "May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There is little point in continuing to meet unless we have that memory."

Charlie nodded earnestly, "We'll do it, we'll get it from him."

"Then we shall say no more about it now," said Dumbledore more kindly. "When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear... to all three of us."

Burning with curiosity, Charlie was slightly disappointed as Dumbledore got up and walked him and Harry to the door. He held the door open for them, his hand still looking blackened and dead.

"Until then, however, I bid you both a goodnight."

"Uh, granddad," Charlie stopped at the door, cocking his head back over his shoulder. "One more thing..."

"What is it, Charles?"

Charlie gulped, "Y-You didn't mention my accident to my father, did you?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak but closed it shortly after. He narrowed his eyes upon the curious boy, evidently wondering how to answer his fear induced question.

"Some things are better left unsaid when it comes to your father, Charles," he said at last, peering over his spectacles. "And if your summer holiday was any indication, I do not believe your safety is Fenwick's first priority, as tragic as that may sound."

Charlie furrowed his brows, "And how do you figure that? You weren't there."

"Yes, as you've countlessly reminded me... but do not kid yourself; even with my old age, I remain incredibly perceptive, especially when it comes to my own kin," sighed Dumbledore, his eyes challenging Charlie's own, looking right through him. "But that, like many other things, is a discussion for another time, Charles. For the last time, goodnight."

"But, wait —"

"Goodnight, Charles."

————————————————————

Both Charlie and Harry wracked their brains over the next week as to how they were to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred.

Harry was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he had done so many times before.

"You won't find anything in there," said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening.

"Don't start, Hermione," Harry rolled his eyes. "If it hadn't been for the Prince, Charlie wouldn't be sitting here now."

"First of all, I don't need the painful reminder," scolded Hermione at once. "Second, he would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year."

Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation (Sectumsempra!) scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words "For enemies," and was itching to try it out, but thought it best not to in front of his three friends. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page.

They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; the only other people awake were fellow sixth-years. There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier when they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade.

Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition twice, was a little more confident, but Charlie and Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether they were ready or not.

"At least you both can Apparate, though!" said Ron tensely. "You'll have no trouble come July!"

"I've only done it once," Harry reminded him, shrugging as he peered over his book.

"Still a damn shame though," said Charlie, frowning, as he snuggled into Hermione's embrace on the common room couch. His progression Apparition has been steady; he had managed to successfully disappear and rematerialize inside his hoop during their previous lesson.

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Charlie, Harry and Hermione had already completed. Charlie fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle Dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn's memory was the most important thing to him now.

"I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry!" said Hermione, more loudly. "There's only one way to force someone to do what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —"

"Yeah, I know that, thanks," grumbled Harry, not looking up from the book. "That's why I'm looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won't do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell..."

"Maybe we're going about it the wrong way," suggested Charlie, instinctively tightening his grasp around Hermione's waist. "My grandfather says that only one of us can get the memory. That must mean we can persuade Slughorn better than anyone else somehow. So, it's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone can do that —"

"How do you spell 'belligerent'?" said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. "It can't be B-U-M—"

"No, it isn't," Hermione shook her head, pulling Ron's essay toward her. "And 'augury' doesn't begin O-R-G either. What kind of quill are you using?"

"It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Checking ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off."

"Yes, it must," said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, "because we were asked how we'd deal with Dementors, not 'Dugbogs', and I don't remember you changing your name to 'Roonil Wazlib' either."

"Ah no!" gasped Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. "Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!"

"It's okay, we can fix it," shrugged Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.

"This is why I love you, Hermione," beamed Ron, sinking back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Charlie's eyes widened and his fists naturally clenched, growing infuriated at the carefree expression on Ron's face, his blood boiling. He opened his mouth to ream out the ginger, but Hermione's voice rang out before he got the chance to speak:

"I wouldn't let my boyfriend hear you say that," she said, emphasizing the word and leaning back into Charlie's arms, as though to remind Ron of who her heart belonged to. However, Charlie was too blinded by jealousy to fully comprehend anything that had left her mouth.

Ron blinked, blushing from embarrassment, "I honestly didn't mean anything by it! It was a slip of the tongue!"

"It better have been, Weasley," muttered Charlie, trying his damnedest to remain calm. "I'd hate for us to have another problem."

"Noted," said Ron, anxiously scratching the back of his neck. "Won't happen again."

"There," said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.

"Thanks a million," said Ron, smiling gratefully. "Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?"

Charlie, who had chosen to let the Ron situation go for now, looked around; the four of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, Harry turning pages of the Half-Blood Prince's book, and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's quill. They had all been ready to go to bed, desperately yawning, when suddenly —

CRACK!

Hermione let out a little shriek and cowered into Charlie's arms; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, "Kreacher!"

The house-elf was rolling around on the floor in the middle of the common room, wearing a filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth.

The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. "Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give —"

CRACK!

To Charlie's great surprise, Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, wearing a shrunken maroon jumper and several woolly hats, which were slightly askew atop his head,

"Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!" he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. "And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!"

Surveying the room with his large, tennis-ball-like green eyes, Dobby spotted Charlie on the couch and jumped up and down excitedly.

"Dobby has missed Charlie Hawthorne! Dobby has not forgotten that Charlie Hawthorne set him free! Dobby is forever grateful! Oh, such fun to be with Harry Potter and his friends!"

Charlie smiled and extended one of his hands out towards the overexcited house-elf, "I've missed you too, Dobby. It's good to see you."

(A/N: Dobby and Charlie might be my fav ship ngl)

"What is this?" asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. "What's going on, Harry?"

Harry hesitated before answering, "Well... they've been following Malfoy for me."

"Night and day," croaked Kreacher.

"Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!" said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.

Hermione looked indignant.

"You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to —"

"No, of course I didn't," said Harry quickly. "Dobby, you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found out anything?" he hastened to ask, before Hermione could intervene again.

"Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood," croaked Kreacher at once. "His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of —"

"Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!" squeaked Dobby angrily. "A bad boy who —"

He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," he panted. "Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters."

Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, "But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!"

"Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy," Harry told Kreacher. "Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going."

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, "Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of —"

"Dobby, you tell me," said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. "Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?"

"Harry Potter, sir," squeaked Dobby, his great orblike eyes shining in the firelight, "the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters —"

"The Room of Requirement!" gasped Charlie, piecing together everything far too quickly; Harry, Hermione and Ron stared at him. "That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where he's doing... whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map — come to think of it, I've never seen the Room of Requirement on there!"

Harry's face alit with satisfaction, "The Marauders must've never known the room was there."

"I think it'll be part of the magic of the room," affirmed Hermione, raking her brain. "If you need it to be unplottable, it will be."

"Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?" said Harry eagerly.

"No, Harry Potter, that is impossible."

"No, it's not," Harry shook his head at once. "Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem."

"But I don't think you will, Harry," said Hermione slowly. "Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because stupid Smith had blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. However, you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know what to ask it to transform into."

"There'll be a way around that, there's got to be" said Charlie, though he certainly couldn't think of one right now. "You've done brilliantly, Dobby."

"Kreacher's done well too," smiled Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling:

"The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —"

Charlie balled his fists, "Kreacher, I believe I told you once before what would happen if you dared use that derogatory term again!"

"It's okay, love, please," Hermione interjected, placing her hand over Charlie's fist in attempt to calm him down. "He doesn't know any better —"

Charlie scoffed, "And that's a valid excuse, is it? Hell, maybe it's in his best interest for someone to teach him some bloody manners."

"Get out of here," Harry snapped at the house-elf before Hermione could rebuttal, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. "You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby."

"Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!" squeaked Dobby happily, "Bye Charlie Hawthorne, sir!" and he too vanished.

"How good is this?" said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Charlie, Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. "We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!"

"Yeah, it's great," said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.

"Do you think Malfoy's shown Crabbe and Goyle his Dark Mark?" asked Harry absentmindedly, staring at the fire. "Or do you think he's kept them in the dark about what he's doing? I mean, I feel as though they're stupid enough to do what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to..."

"Hm... the Dark Mark that we don't know actually exists," shrugged Ron, rolling up his dried essay before it could come to any more harm.

"But we do know it exists," said Charlie absentmindedly, not stopping to think, "I was there when he got the bloody thing."

Hermione gasped ever so lightly, realizing what the boy had said, "Charlie..."

But it was too late because Ron had heard him, loud and clear.

He narrowed his eyes, "What do you mean by that?"

"It's nothing, Ron," said Harry, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further. "It's late, let's just go up to bed —"

"No," Charlie frowned, realizing what he had done, "It's okay... Ron deserves to know."

"Have you lot been keeping something from me again?" accused Ron, looking suddenly conflicted. "Bloody hell, why am I always the last one to learn everything?"

"It wasn't intentional, Ron, believe me," said Charlie, his tone sympathetic. "This isn't exactly something I wanted to tell anyone. Hermione and Harry found out on their accord —"

"And we're glad we did," interjected Hermione, sending a look over her shoulder at the boy in question. "Now, you don't have to go through this alone."

Charlie leaned forward to kiss her cheek, showcasing his gratefulness through a simplistic display of affection.

"Can we stop changing the subject?" demanded Ron, still looking for answers. "Would someone tell me what's going on?"

"Perhaps it'd be easier just to show you," said Charlie, and he moved Hermione from his lap so that he could rise to face the ginger-haired boy; his legs felt remarkably unsteady suddenly.

He sighed heavily, unaware if he was making the right decision by sharing this with Ron. At last, however, Charlie undid the cufflink on his left wrist and rolled his sleeve up past his elbow, revealing the blackened engraving branded across his skin. The mark looked more torturous than ever before, having grown more and more inflamed as time went by; the ink was still jet black, but the skin around it was vividly red and raw-looking.

A moment's ringing silence. When Charlie glanced up, all three of his friends looked shocked by the display. Or maybe they were shocked by the way he'd shown them, effortlessly, as if it had costed him nothing.

"You must understand, I never meant fo—"

But before Charlie could finish his sentence, the room exploded into gasps of surprise and terror, for Ron had instinctively pulled out his wand and aimed it straight at the boy in question, his expression horrified and betrayed.

"Ronald! What the hell do you think you're doing?" shrieked Hermione, standing at once to get in between them. She held onto Charlie for dear life, shielding him with every intent on intervening before anything happened.

"Get behind me, Hermione," demanded Ron, as though he was making a heroic stance, but he was shaking anxiously with his wand in hand. "He's dangerous, don't you see?"

"Dangerous?" Harry reiterated, shocked to all hell. "You haven't even let him explain —"

"Explain what?" snapped Ron, his ears growing as red as his hair. "It all seems very self-explanatory to me! He's a Death Eater!"

Charlie stared back at him, aghast. He could hardly believe that Ron would go as far as to threaten him.

"I didn't have a choice!" he hissed, looking slightly saddened by the effortless way in which Ron's wand was held towards him. "They were threatening me, Ron, and torturing me until I screamed myself hoarse. They gave me an ultimatum, and I made the decision that I thought could guarantee your safety!"

"And what? I'm supposed to believe that?" Ron asked coolly, his wand still raised. "How the hell do you expect me to trust you after this? You've been branded, Charlie, you're one of them now —"

"Watch your mouth," snapped Harry, yanking Ron back ever so slightly. "Charlie's nothing like that."

"Charlie would never willingly become a Death Eater, Ron, and you know that," reasoned Hermione, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. "Please, just lower your wand! If he wanted to hurt us, he would've done it by now!"

"How can you possibly defend him?" barked Ron, looking frantically between Harry and Hermione. "He needs to be arrested! Don't you see? He's exactly like his bloody father!"

Charlie couldn't keep the contempt from his expression now. Did Ron really think Charlie bore any resemblance to his father, who had merely sat back and laughed as his son was savagely slandered and tortured?

"I'm nothing like my father," Charlie growled, his own voice sending shivers down his spine, as he took a step forward to get in Ron's face. "Now, I'm not asking again, lower your wand. Honestly, you're embarrassing yourself."

Ron scoffed, raising the wand higher, "Not bloody likely."

"Enough, please," Hermione pleaded once more, trying to appeal to Ron's better judgement. "Please, all he did was tell you the truth. Nothing about Charlie has changed. He's still your best friend, Ron, and it's pretty hypocritical to condemn him for making a mistake. We've all made our fair share."

Ron balked, "But t-this is different —"

"Charlie's the one living with that mark branded on his arm, not you," Hermione reminded him, her voice shaky; Charlie instinctively placed a hand around her waist to calm her down. "Neither of us can change what happened, no matter how initially shocked we might've been. The fact of the matter is that Charlie needs us now more than ever, and you know damn well, if the roles were reversed, he'd be there for you."

They were all silent for a moment. Ron's eyes narrowed in on Charlie's for a moment, as though looking for further reason to ridicule his decision. When the ginger found nothing but sorrow and regret reflected back at him, however, he lowered his wand at last.

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered, tilting his head to the floor. "I-I just... I d-dunno... gimme some time then, will you?"

And without waiting for a response, Ron trudged stubbornly up the stairs that led up to the dormitories. Charlie sighed after him, grudgingly rolling his sleeve back down and collapsing back on the common room couch with a huff.

"And he wonders why we don't tell him anything," he grumbled, shaking his head ever so slightly, as Hermione came to sit with him again, cuddling into his side at once.

She spoke softly into his chest, "He'll come around eventually — the rest of us have."

"Right," responded Charlie blankly, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears; newfound fear was rushing through him, making his whole body cold. His thoughts raced madly into the past, back to his own idiotic choice.

"I'll go check on him."

Harry's voice pulled Charlie back to reality. He blinked in his surroundings just as Harry, like Ron, left the common room and swept off to the dormitories, the faint echo of his footfalls being the only sound ricocheting off the walls.

"Do you think I'm destined to be like my father?" Charlie asked absentmindedly, his mind toying with the inescapable notion of self-doubt. "Do you think Ron could possibly be right about me?"

"Of course not," Hermione reassured him at once, her voice soft and delicate. "You're already so many things your father would only dream of being. The two of you are nothing like, I assure you. Dark Mark or not, you're still you at your core."

Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but the argumentative words died in his mouth when he felt Hermione's gentle fingers wrap around his wrist. Tingles travelled from his wrist all over her body, and he had to forcibly stop himself from trembling. Her touch always seemed to intervene with his thought process.

"That mark does not define who you are."

Hermione's soft voice shook Charlie out of his melancholic reverie, and he blinked, focusing on her concerned face.

"The same way my blood does not define me. You define who you are, Charlie, and quite frankly, I love the person you've chosen to be."

His face suddenly seemed a lot closer, his thoughts turning to mush the closer he got to her lips. Their foreheads were now touching, noses brushing up against each other's. Charlie was utterly entranced by the sight of her eyes and he moved to cover her mouth with his.

At first it was nothing, a hesitant touch, waiting to see how she would respond. And when she did, all tentativeness was lost. It was a moment of blissful serotonin, his hands were around her waist and hers were running up through his hair, lacing behind his head and pulling him more firmly down against her. Nothing existed but the two of them.

"I love you too," he whispered against her lips, panting, as they broke apart.

Hermione smiled at him, pulling him closer, "I'll never get tired of hearing you say that."

Charlie chuckled lightly, "Is that so?"

"Mhmm," she mumbled, bending down to nuzzle the crook of his neck with her nose.

"I'll take that as a challenge then," he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

Hermione raised her head again, rolling her eyes playfully, "You're such a prat."

Charlie leaned in again, teasing her, "Is that any way to talk about your... boyfriend?"

Hermione groaned, blushing, "I thought you hadn't heard that!"

"Hadn't heard you putting Ron in his place? Ha. Fat chance," Charlie let out a lighthearted laugh, his breath stirring the hairs around her temple. "The way you said it was rather endearing, by the way, Granger."

She lifted her eyes to meet his, challenging him, "But you were okay with it."

It was a statement, but also a question. Charlie swallowed, his mind set in its belief and his eyes gleaming with hopeful unawareness.

"Very much so," he spoke firmly, tilting her head back to pepper kisses along her jaw.

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat, her eyes closing at the sensation, "I was hoping you'd say that."

Charlie laughed quietly again.

"I love —" he cupped her cheeks gently and pressed his thumb firmly against her lips. "— you." His eyes followed the trail of his thumb across her twitching mouth, and he watched in amusement as her cheeks flushed in silent desire.

Hermione didn't have time to register. In less than a second, Charlie's mouth was covering hers once again, slowly at first, and then more urgently. His hands were relentless as they caressed her back, occasionally grasping handfuls of her shirt in rhythm with the gentle taunts of his tongue.

Something akin to lightning shot up within Hermione, and her hips met his in a rush of urgency. She heard him moan slightly, and then his hands were in her hair, his head bearing down on hers softly, but ceaselessly.

She was kissing him back, pouring every ounce of love she had into their intimate embrace.

Hermione unconsciously began to rock her hips against him, their mouths still joined. Another moan issued from deep in Charlie's throat, and he met her rocking motion with his hands, one on each hip, grabbing her and speeding her motion against him. And all the while, his mouth simply would not stop.

"As I recall, you've got a promise to fulfill," he whispered, pulling away abruptly and staring down at her swollen lips. He looked thoroughly shaken, though he was trying to hide it beneath his trademark smirk. "And, as luck would have it, I'm no longer bound to a hospital bed."

Hermione kinked a suggestive eyebrow at him. She moved closer to him and positioned her mouth next to his ear. Her following words caused his eyes to widen and his pants to tighten between his legs:

"Feeling quite lucky, are you?"

In a desire induced daze, Charlie nodded vigorously, ready to take her as though he'd been challenged to do so. Hermione let out a breathy, mischievously laugh at the look in his face.

"Come and prove it, then."

He smiled slyly, "I like the way you think."

And without having to be told twice, Charlie sealed their fate with another passionate kiss, which would spark the beginning of a long, eventful evening in the Gryffindor common room.

————————————————————

Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Charlie's mood. He had been thwarted, both in his attempts to reconcile with Ron, and in his efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to Slughorn handing over the memory he had apparently suppressed for decades.

"Just give Ron the time he needs," Hermione told Charlie reassuringly. "He's got to come around eventually."

They were sitting with Harry in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch. Hermione was clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet: Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them, for she was taking her test that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves. Charlie gave a start and looked incredibly hopeful as footsteps approached then.

"It's not Ron, mate," said Harry wearily.

"No surprises there," sighed Charlie, slumping back down on the stone bench as an unrecognizable girl came around the corner.

"Charlie Hawthorne?" said the girl. "I was asked to give you this."

"Uh, thanks."

Charlie's heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he furrowed his brows towards Harry, "I thought my grandfather said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until we got the memory?"

"Maybe he wants to check on how you're doing?" suggested Hermione, as Charlie unrolled the parchment. Rather than finding Dumbledore's long, narrow, slanted writing, however, he saw an untidy sprawl, which was very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run:

Dear, Charlie, Harry, Ron and Hermione,

Aragog died last night. Charlie, Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone.

Hagrid

"I can't believe this," murmured Harry, reading the note over Charlie's shoulder before it was passed to Hermione.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighed, scanning it quickly.

"He can't be serious," Charlie blinked, perplexed. "Aragog tried to kill us in our second year! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry over the fact that it's dead?"

"It's not just that," added Hermione. "He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if we were caught."

Harry shrugged, "We've been down to see him by night before."

"Yes, but for something like this?" said Hermione, brandishing the letter. "We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all — Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him it'd be different."

Charlie took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment —

"Love, you can't possibly be thinking of actually going," muttered Hermione, as though she could read his mind. "It's such a pointless thing to get detention for."

Charlie heaved a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, I know," he agreed, folding the parchment back up. "I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us."

"Yes, he will," nodded Hermione, looking relieved. "Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests... I think you two should try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!"

Harry scoffed bitterly, "Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?"

"Lucky," Charlie repeated suddenly, his eyes wide. "Harry, that's it — get lucky!"

"What d'you mean?"

"Use your lucky potion!"

"Charlie, that's brilliant!" gasped Hermione, astonished. "Of course! Why didn't I think of it?"

Harry stared at them both. "Felix Felicis? I dunno... I was sort of saving it..."

"What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?" asked Hermione, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Charlie smirked mischievously, "I suspect it's got something to do with Elaina Dumont..."

Harry's eyes widened, caught, and slapped Charlie on the shoulder, "Shut it!" but at last, he sighed and pulled himself together, "Well... okay. If we can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another go this evening."

"That's decided, then," said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. "Destination... determination... deliberation..."

But as the bell rang overhead in the castle, she stopped, looking terrified.

"You'll do fine," Charlie told her, as they headed toward the Entrance Hall to meet the rest of the people taking their Apparition Test. He gave Hermione a quick on the lips before she departed, "Good luck."

"And you too!" said Hermione with a significant look, as Charlie and Harry headed off to the dungeons.

There were only three of them in potions that afternoon: Harry, Charlie, and Draco Malfoy.

"All too young to Apparate?" asked Slughorn genially, "Not yet turned seventeen?"

They all shook their heads.

"Ah well," said Slughorn cheerily, "as we're so few, we'll do something fun. I want you all to brew me up something amusing!"

"Sure thing, sir," nodded Charlie, sycophantically, rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other hand, did not crack a smile.

"What do you mean, 'something amusing'?" he hissed irritably.

Slughorn shrugged, speaking airily, "Oh, surprise me."

Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion-Making with a sulky expression. It could not have been plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of time. Undoubtedly, Charlie thought, watching him over the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of Requirement.

He kinked a curious brow. Was it his imagination, or did Malfoy look thinner? Certainly he looked paler; his skin still had that grayish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw daylight these days. There was no air of smugness, excitement, or superiority in his stature, which Charlie thought was strange. There could only be one conclusion, in Charlie's opinion: the mission, whatever it was, was going badly.

Pulling himself back to reality, Charlie skimmed through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making and found 'An Elixir to Induce Euphoria', which seemed not only to meet Slughorn's instructions, but which might (Charlie's heart leapt as the thought struck him) put Slughorn into a good enough mood to hand over that memory.

"Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful," said Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow contents of Charlie's cauldron. "Euphoria, I take it? And what's that I smell? Mmmm... you've added just a sprig of peppermint, haven't you? Good work, m'boy!"

Harry was looking rather relieved, hoping for Charlie's euphoria potion to be enough to acquire the memory. In contrast, Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely "passable."

The bell rang and Malfoy left at once. Slughorn immediately glanced over his shoulder and when he saw that the room was empty except for himself, Charlie and Harry, he hurried away as fast as he could.

"Wait, Professor! Don't you want to taste my potion — ?" called Charlie desperately.

But Slughorn had gone. Disappointed, Harry and Charlie emptied their cauldrons, packed up their things, left the dungeon, and walked slowly back upstairs to the common room.

Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the sixth-years returned in the late afternoon.

"Babe!" cried Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole. "Babe, I passed!"

"Well done!" Charlie congratulated, pulling her into a tight embrace. "I knew you could do it."

As they pulled away, Harry spoke up, "And how'd Ron do?"

"He, uh, failed," whispered Hermione, as Ron came slouching into the room looking most morose. "It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just spotted that he'd left half an eyebrow behind... how did it go with Slughorn?"

"No joy," frowned Harry, as Ron joined them. "Bad luck, mate, but you'll pass next time — we can take it together."

"Yeah, I s'pose," said Ron grumpily. "But half an eyebrow! Like that matters!"

"I know," agreed Hermione soothingly, "it does seem really harsh..."

They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the Apparition examiner, and Ron looked fractionally more cheerful by the time they set off back to the common room, although he had yet to acknowledge Charlie as they now began discussing the continuing problem of Slughorn and the memory.

"So, Harry," began Charlie, starting up the conversation, "I reckon it's time to use the Felix Felicis, don't you?"

"Yeah, I s'pose I'd better," said Harry, shrugging. "I don't reckon I'll need all of it, not twenty-four hours' worth, it can't take all night... I'll just take a mouthful. Two or three hours should do it."

"It's a great feeling when you take it," smiled Ron reminiscently. "Like you can't do anything wrong."

"What are you talking about?" said Hermione, laughing. "You've never taken any!"

"Yeah, but I thought I had, didn't I?" defended Ron, as though explaining the obvious. "Same difference really..."

As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals, they lingered for a while in the common room, the plan being that Harry should go to Slughorn's office once he'd had time to get back there. When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, they decided the moment had come, and after checking carefully that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all in the common room, they snuck up to the boys' dormitory.

Harry took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle.

"Well, here goes," he said, and he raised the little bottle and look a carefully measured gulp.

"What does it feel like?" whispered Hermione, sounding genuinely curious.

Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity stole through him; he felt as though he could have done anything, anything at all. Getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy...

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence.

"Excellent," Harry beamed. "Really excellent. Right... I'm going down to Hagrid's."

"What?" asked Charlie, Ron and Hermione together, looking aghast.

"Harry," said Hermione, looking perplexed, "you've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?"

"No," declined Harry confidently. "I'm going to Hagrid's, I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's."

"You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?" asked Charlie, incredibly stunned.

"Yeah," nodded Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. "I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?"

"No," said Charlie, Ron and Hermione together again, all three of them looking positively alarmed now.

"This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?" asked Hermione anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. "You haven't got another little bottle full of — I don't know —"

"Essence of Insanity?" suggested Charlie, as Harry swung his cloak over his shoulders.

Harry laughed, and Charlie, Ron and Hermione looked even more alarmed.

"Trust me," Harry said, attempting to ease their worries. "I know what I'm doing... or at least..." he strolled confidently to the door, "Felix does."

He pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head and set off down the stairs, Charlie, Ron and Hermione hurrying along behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid through the open door.

"We are so bloody doomed," muttered Charlie, watching as the portrait hole swung closed behind, undoubtedly, Harry Potter under his invisibility cloak.

————————————————————

It was well past midnight by the time Harry had returned to the castle. After waiting up for him for what felt like hours, Charlie, Ron and Hermione had finally returned their dormitories to get their individual rest.

Charlie had finally dozed off, snoring soundly in his bed when Harry came bustling into the dorm room, eager to shake his best friend awake.

"Charlie, wake up!" he whispered, keen not to wake the others. "I've got the memory!"

Groggily, Charlie stirred awake and opened his eyes. A flash of confusion alit his face as he registered Harry's voice.

"What?"

"Get up!" Harry demanded, yanking the covers off of his best mate, despite his groans of protest. "We've got to go see Dumbledore, hurry!"

Stumbling out of bed, Charlie allowed his legs to carry him as he chased after Harry, who had already set off for the portrait hole. The two of them were hurtling down the corridor shortly after and within minutes, they were saying, "toffee eclairs", to Dumbledore's gargoyle, which leapt aside, permitting Harry and Charlie entrance onto the spiral staircase.

"This memory better be fucking worth it," grumbled Charlie, who was still sluggishly trying to keep up despite being awoken five minutes prior.

"Enter," called Dumbledore when the two boys knocked. He sounded exhausted.

Charlie pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore's office, looking the same as ever, but with black, star-strewn skies beyond the windows.

"Good gracious, Charles, Harry," gasped Dumbledore in surprise. "To what do I owe this very late pleasure?"

"Sir," Harry began, the Felix Felicis wearing off at last, "I've got it! I've got the memory from Slughorn."

Harry pulled out a tiny glass bottle and showed it to Dumbledore. For a moment or two, the Headmaster looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile.

"My word, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew the two of you could do it!"

All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle with Slughorn's memory in his uninjured hand, and strode over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve.

"And now," said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin upon the desk and emptying the contents of the bottle into it. "Now, at last, we shall see..."

Charlie bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his feet leave the office floor —

[entering the memory]

Once again again he fell through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn's office many years before.

There was the much younger Slughorn, with his thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond mustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other rummaging in a box of crystallized pineapple. And there were the half dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.

Dumbledore and Harry landed beside Charlie just as Riddle asked, "Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite —"

Several of the boys tittered again.

"— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry."

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Charlie noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader.

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Charlie was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.

"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked around.

"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by in morrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there.

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect.. ."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away..."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass.

"Project for Defence Against the Dark Arts, is it?"

But Charlie could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork.

"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"No... well... you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I'd ask —"

It was very well done, thought Charlie, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Charlie, had had too much experience of trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks.

"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir."

His voice was carefully controlled, but Charlie could sense his excitement.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," explained Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form..." Slughorn's face crumpled, "...few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.

"How do you split your soul?"

"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

"But how do you do it?"

"By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By commiting murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion —"

"Encase? But how — ?"

"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" bellowed Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. "Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?"

"No, sir, of course not," said Riddle quickly. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to offend..."

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly, "It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things... wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic..."

"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though — just out of curiosity. I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven — ?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven?! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case... bad enough to divide the soul... but to rip it into seven pieces..."

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now. He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Charlie could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all.

"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic..."

"Yes, sir, of course," said Riddle quickly.

"But all the same, Tom... keep it quiet, what I've told — that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know... Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it..."

"I won't say a word, sir," said Riddle, and he left, but not before Charlie had caught a glimpse of his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human.

"That'll be enough," said Dumbledore quietly from his place beside Charlie. "Let us go..."

[exiting the memory]

When Charlie landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Charlie and Harry sat too, waiting for Dumbledore to speak.

"I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time," said Dumbledore at last. "It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go..."

Charlie suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet.

"Well, Charles, Harry," continued Dumbledore, "I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal."

"You think he succeeded then, sir?" asked Harry. "He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?"

"A bit... or more," confirmed Dumbledore. "You heard Voldemort, what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know — as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew — no wizard had ever done more than tear his soul in two."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thought, and then said, "Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul."

"Where?" asked Charlie, demanding an answer. "How?"

"You handed it to me, Charles," said Dumbledore, and Charlie's brows furrowed. "The diary, Riddle's diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets."

"Wait, I don't understand," muttered Charlie, taking his brain.

"Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what the two of you described to me was a phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book... a fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary, indeed, had been a Horcrux."

Charlie yawned, "We still don't understand."

"Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work — in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again."

"Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted," said Harry, trying to make sense of everything. "He wanted people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time."

"Quite correct," said Dumbledore, nodding. "But don't you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on some future Hogwarts student, he was being remarkably proud about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it — as indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw to that.

"The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made — or had been planning to make — more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. Then you both told me, two years later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. 'I who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality.' That was what you told me he said. 'Further than anybody!' And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, boys, which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldomort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call usual evil..."

"So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?" Charlie blinked, putting the pieces together. "Why couldn't he make a Philosopher's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?"

"Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago," reminded Dumbledore. "But there are several reasons why, I think, a Philosopher's Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.

"While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see... or as close to immortal as any man can be.

"But now, boys, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You heard him: 'Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more piece... isn't seven the most powerfully magical numbe...' Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort."

"He made seven Horcruxes?" said Charlie, horror-struck, while several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock and outrage. "But they could be anywhere in the world — hidden — buried or invisible —"

"I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem," said Dumbledore calmly. "But firstly, no, Charles, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in his body."

"But the six Horcruxes, then," said Harry, a little desperately, "how are we supposed to find them?"

"You are forgetting... you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another."

"You have?" asked Charlie and Harry eagerly.

"Yes indeed," nodded Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. "The ring, m'boys. Marvolo's ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it not been — forgive me the lack of seemly modesty — for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux."

"But how did you find it?"

"Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have traveled widely, visiting those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seem that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul in side it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment.

"However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. The two of you destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a six-part soul, four Horcruxes remain."

"And they could be anything?" asked Harry, his voice evidently tired. "They could be oh, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles..."

"You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor."

But Harry shook his head, "The diary wasn't that special."

"The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the heir of Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance."

"So, the other Horcruxes?" Charlie asked again, trying to fight another yawn. "Do you think you know what they are, granddad?"

"I can only guess, Charles," sighed Dumbledore, looking slightly defeated. "For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him."

"Like the locket!" Charlie burst out in realization. "Or Hufflepuff's cup from the very first memory you showed Harry!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, smiling proudly, "I would be prepared to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort's imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe."

Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.

"Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?" said Harry, gulping nervously. "To try and find something from one of the other founders?"

"My thoughts precisely," affirmed Dumbledore. "But, unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders' objects. He definitely had two — he may have found three — that is the best we can do for now."

"Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a sixth Horcrux," added Charlie, counting on his fingers. "Unless he's got both?"

"I don't think so," Dumbledore shook his head. "I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?"

"The snake?" said Harry, startled. "You can use animals as Horcruxes?"

"Well, it is inadvisable to do so," explained Dumbledore, "because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents' house with the intention of killing you, Harry.

"He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort's mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth."

"So," recalled Charlie, one last time, "the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?"

"An admirably succinct and accurate summary, Charles, yes," smiled Dumbledore, bowing his head.

"So... are you still looking for them, granddad? Is that where you've been going when you've been leaving the school?"

"Correct," nodded Dumbledore, relieved to finally shared his reasoning. "I have been looking for a very long time. I think... perhaps... I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs."

"And if you do," interjected Harry quickly, "can we come with you and help get rid of it?"

Dumbledore looked at between the two boys very intently for a moment before saying, "I'm afraid, I will only be able to bring one of you."

Charlie and Harry shared a glance, thoroughly taken aback. The headmasters and headmistresses around the walls seemed less impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Charlie saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.

"Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?" Harry asked, ignoring the portraits and moving on.

"A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss... but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was terrible to behold."

"But I thought he meant for Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?"

"Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemort's order, and he never received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, had Lucius known he held a portion of his master's soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence — but instead he went ahead and carried out the old plan for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley's daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius... what with Voldemort's fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment."

Charlie sat in thought for a moment, then asked, "So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?"

"Yes, I think so," said Dumbledore, and Harry looked suddenly incredibly hopeful. "Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes."

"But we haven't got uncommon skill and power," said Harry, before he could stop himself.

"Yes, you have, you both have," corrected Dumbledore firmly. "You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —"

"We know!" Charlie rolled his eyes impatiently. "We can love!" It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, "Big deal!"

"Yes, Charles, you can love," sighed Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Charlie had just refrained from saying. "Which, given everything that has happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are."

"So, when the prophecy says that I'll have 'power the Dark Lord knows not,' it just means — love?" asked Harry, feeling a little let down.

"Yes — just love," nodded Dumbledore. "But Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end of last year. Not every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled!"

"But," countered Harry, bewildered, "but last year you said that I'll have to kill him or —"

"Charles, it's time for you to go," interrupted Dumbledore, motioning to the door despite his grandson's look of disappointment. "I'd like a quick word with Harry, and then he'll be off too, don't you worry."

"But I —"

"Now, Charles," demanded Dumbledore, his voice stern and oddly reminiscent of Fenwick Hawthorne himself.

Startled, Charlie got up, said goodnight to Harry, and strode out of the Headmaster's office, fully aware that the portraits were watching him go. The gargoyle sealed up as Charlie stepped off the spiral staircase and into the moon-lit corridor. His head was pounding, trying to process every little detail.

But, with a rush of bitter understanding, he knew at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him.

Charlie was protected, in short, by his ability to love. The only protection that could possibly work against the lure of Voldemort's power, against the burning sensation of the Dark Mark. In spite of all the temptation he had endured, all the suffering, he remained pure of heart.

If Harry Potter truly was 'The Boy Who Lived', then Charlie Hawthorne was, in direct comparison, 'The Boy Who Loved'.

And this very fact may just save his life.

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

hope you enjoyed this latest chapter!!!

I apologize for the boring exposition near the end, but it's essential to the overall story!

things are heating up as we come to the end of HBP! there might be one or two more chapters after this... are you ready?

coming up: "Malfoy, what have you done?"

[insert begging for comments, votes, and shares]

you're support never goes unnoticed <3

much love,

xo, Selena

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p.s. final couple votes have been tallied!

*insert drumroll here*

• Charlie & Hermione
• Elaina & Harry
• Ron & Lavender
• Blaise & Ginny
• Neville & Luna
• Draco & Astoria
• Fenwick & the electric chair <3