CHAPTER TWO:

Third Person Narrative:

The ramshackle house creaked in the gentle night breeze as Harry Potter made his way downstairs. All was quiet, all was still.

He had managed to get dressed without waking Ron; his rucksack was already packed. He lingered for a moment outside of Ginny's room, knowing that Elaina was in there, just yards away from him. He wanted nothing more than to burst in, than to run to her. But instead, he headed for the stairs.

The living room was empty. The kitchen too. He was out of the door in seconds, shutting it with a soft click. And without another look back, he walked towards the path through the tall grass.

But it could have been no more than a few seconds until he heard the door open. He paid it no mind, continuing as if he had heard nothing; maybe it was just his imagination.

"Going somewhere?" came Charlie's angry whisper.

Harry turned, caught. He choked down the flooding emotion of guilt, reminding himself that he had to do this. In his mind, they had to let him go.

"What're you doing awake?" inquired Harry, trying to change the subject. "You could've given me a bloody heart-attack."

"I couldn't sleep. Now," said Charlie, moving on as if his insomnia was nothing to worry about, "where do you think you're going?"

"No one else is going to die," said Harry, looking to his feet. "Not for me."

He turned on his heels, intending to leave it at that, and walked further down the garden path. Charlie, stubborn as ever, followed after him.

"For you?" he questioned bitterly. "You think Mad-Eye died for you? Think George took that curse for you? Contrary to your belief, mate, this war is a whole lot bigger than you. It's always been bigger than you, than all of us."

But Harry continued to walk, not looking back.

"So that's it then? You're just going to leave us behind? Going to disappear? Without even saying a proper goodbye?"

Harry stopped in his tracks.

"After all we've been through... you'd think you'd at least have the decency to say goodbye..."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because we are all willing to die for you —"

"Yeah, and that's the problem!" yelled Harry, whipping back around. "Don't you see? You're in danger —"

"Whether you're in our lives or not, we're all in danger!" Charlie bit back, his jaw clenched. "Honestly, Harry, the war doesn't just end because you've decided to fight all on your lonesome. If anything, you'd just be signing your own death sentence."

"Come with me then," pleaded Harry, motioning towards the path behind him. "We can be well on our way before anyone even realizes we're gone."

"I'm not going anywhere without Hermione," said Charlie, his voice firm and indisputable. "We wouldn't last two seconds without her, mind you, and nor would I ever want to. I'm staying here with the people I love, Harry, and you should be thinking of doing the same. Besides, both of us have still got the Trace, and we've still got the wedding."

"Look, I don't care... about a wedding. No matter whose it is," groaned Harry, a shake in his voice at his own harsh words. "I have to start finding these Horcruxes, they're our only chance to beat him and the longer we stay here, the stronger he gets."

"Tonight's not the night, mate," Charlie shook his head, taking a step towards Harry. "You'd only be doing him a favour."

Harry stared and, after a long moment, flung his rucksack at his feet, turning away. Charlie crouched down, seemingly eager to collect it before Harry could have a change of mind. Silently, Charlie beckoned for his friend to follow him as he returned to the house.

To his great surprise, Harry did.

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The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the house in the days that followed; Charlie kept expecting to see him stumping in through the back door like the other Order members, who passed in and out to relay news. There was a part of Charlie that agreed with Harry. It seemed as though nothing but action would satisfy his feelings of guilt and grief, and that they ought to set out on their mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon as possible.

"Well, we can't do anything about the" — Ron mouthed the word Horocruxes — "till the both of you turn seventeen. I imagine we should plan here in the meantime, don't you? Or," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "d'you reckon you already know where the You-Know-Whats are?"

Harry shook his head, admitting, "No."

"I think Hermione's been doing a bit of research," added Charlie, casting a look over his shoulder towards the living room. "She's had her nose in a book since we've got here."

They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley and Bill, who arrived at the Burrow shortly after them with Fleur, had just left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone upstairs to wake Hermione, Elaina, and Ginny, while Fleur had drifted off to take a bath.

"The Trace'll break on the thirty-first for me, thirtieth for Charlie," Harry whispered eagerly. "That means means we only need to stay here four more days. Then we can —"

"Five days," Ron corrected him firmly. "We've got to stay for the wedding. Mum and Fleur'll kill us if we miss it."

"It's just one extra day, Harry," shrugged Charlie, when his best friend looked mutinous.

Harry rolled his eyes, "Don't they realize how important — ?"

"'Course they don't," said Ron. "They haven't got a clue. And now you mention it, I wanted to talk to you about that."

Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check that Mrs. Weasley was not returning yet, then leaned in closer towards his two friends, albeit him and Charlie hadn't cast a look in each other's direction up until that morning.

"Mum's been trying to get it out of me, you know, about what we're off to do. I'm sure she'll try one of you next, so brace yourselves. Dad and Lupin are both curious as well, but when I said Dumbledore told you two not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though. She's determined."

Ron's prediction came true within hours. Shortly before lunch, Mrs. Weasley detached Charlie from the others by asking him to help identify a lone man's sock that she thought might have come out of his rucksack. Once she had him cornered in the tiny scullery off the kitchen, she started.

"Ron seems to think that you, Harry, Hermione, and him are dropping out of Hogwarts," she began in a light, casual tone.

"Oh," gulped Charlie, nerves swelling in his stomach. "Well, yeah. We are."

The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, wringing out what looked like one of Mr. Weasley's vests.

Mrs. Weasley furrowed her brows, "May I ask why you are abandoning your education?"

"Well, my grandfather left Harry and I... stuff to do," mumbled Charlie, trying not to say too much. "Ron and Hermione know about it, and they want to come too."

"What sort of 'stuff'?"

"I'm sorry, I can't —"

"Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to know, and I'm sure your future in-laws would agree!" countered Mrs. Weasley. Charlie had been afraid of the 'concerned parent' attack; he forced himself to look directly into her eyes. He hadn't even cared to acknowledge the way she remarked Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Still, he wondered what Hermione's parents actually thought, how much they even knew. At the very least, he hoped they were safe.

"Dumbledore didn't want anyone else to know, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry. Ron and Hermione don't have to come, it's their choice —"

"I don't see that you or Harry have to go either!" she snapped, dropping all pretence now. "You're barely of age, any of you! It's utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed work doing, he had the whole Order at his command! Charles, you must have misunderstood him. He was probably telling you something he wanted done, and you took it to mean that he wanted you and Harry —"

"I didn't misunderstand," said Charlie flatly. "Harry and I have got to finish what my grandfather started, and I'm sorry but I can't tell you anything else."

He handed her back the single sock he was supposed to be identifying, which was patterned with golden bulrushes. "And that's not mine, I don't support Puddlemere United."

"Oh, of course not," said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden, and rather unnerving, return to her casual tone. "I should have realized. Well, Charles, while we've still got you here, you won't mind helping with the preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding, will you? There's still so much to do."

"No — I — of course not," stuttered Charlie, disconcerted by this sudden change of subject.

"Sweet of you," she replied, and she smiled as she left the scullery.

From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Charlie, Harry, Ron, and Hermione so busy with preparations for the wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The kindest explanation of this behaviour would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them all from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of colour-matching favours, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the garden, and helping Mrs. Weasley cook vast batches of canapés, however, Charlie started to suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep him, Harry, Ron, and Hermione away from one another; he had not had a chance to speak to the three of them alone since the first night.

"I think Mrs. Weasley thinks that if she can stop the four of you getting together and planning, she'll be able to delay you leaving," Elaina told Charlie in an undertone, as they laid the table for dinner on the third night of his stay.

"And then what does she think's going to happen?" Charlie muttered, slightly annoyed. "Someone else might kill off You-Know-Who while she's holding us here to make stupid wedding decorations?"

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Elaina's face whiten.

"So it's true?" she said, mouth agape. "That's what you're trying to do?"

"I — no — I was joking," said Charlie evasively, and ridiculously quick. He knew that if Harry had wanted Elaina to know, he would've told her himself.

Luckily, Elaina didn't have much time to further her inquiry, for the door opened, and Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, and Bill walked in. They were often joined by other Order members for dinner now, because the Burrow had replaced number twelve, Grimmauld Place as the headquarters. Mr. Weasley had explained that after the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of the people to whom Dumbledore had confided Grimmauld Place's location had become a Secret-Keeper in turn.

"And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty times as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the secret out of somebody. We can't expect it to hold much longer."

"But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the address by now?" asked Harry, his ears perked with intrigue.

"Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against Snape in case he turns up there again. We hope they'll be strong enough to keep him out and to bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but we can't be sure. It would have been insane to keep using the place as headquarters now that its protection has become so shaky."

The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was difficult to manoeuvre knives and forks. Charlie found himself wedged in between Elaina and Hermione and hardly had enough room to move his elbows. He was glad Hermione was crammed on his other side, continuously brushing her arm as they ate their meals in order to avoid bumping into Elaina in any respect.

Hermione shot him a knowing glance, but looked neither pleased nor upset.

"No news about Mad-Eye?" Charlie asked Bill, trying to make conversation.

"Nothing," replied Bill. They had not been able to hold a funeral for Moody, because Kingsley and Lupin had failed to recover his body. It had been difficult to know where he might have fallen, given the darkness and the confusion of the battle.

"The Daily Prophet hasn't said a word about him dying or about finding the body," Bill went on. "But that doesn't mean much. It's keeping a lot quiet these days."

"And they still haven't called a hearing about all the underage magic Charlie and I used escaping the Death Eaters?" Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who shook his head.

Charlie kinked a brow, "Because they know we had no choice or because they don't want us to tell the world that You-Know-Who attacked us?"

Beside him, Hermione tensed. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to himself.

"The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn't want to admit that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that Azkaban's seen a mass breakout."

"Yeah, why tell the public the truth?" muttered Charlie, clenching his knife so tightly that the faint scars on the back of his right hand stood out, white against his skin: I must not tell lies... I am a filthy blood traitor. Having noticed this, Hermione caught his other hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly, though it did little to calm him down.

Ron scoffed, "Isn't anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to him?"

"Of course, Ron, but people are terrified," Mr. Weasley replied, "terrified that they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumours going around; I for one don't believe the Muggle Studies Professor at Hogwarts resigned. She hasn't been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile, Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day: I just hope he's working on a plan."

There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked the empty plates onto the work surface and served apple tart.

"We must decide 'ow you will be disguised, 'Arry," said Fleur, once everyone had pudding.

"For ze wedding," she added, when the boy looked confused. "Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey 'ave 'ad champagne."

"Yes, good point," nodded Mrs. Weasley from the top of the table, where she sat, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. "Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?"

"Why?" exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother. "Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry, Charlie and I are fine with it the way it is!"

"We are holding your brother's wedding here in a few days' time, young man —"

"And are they getting married in my bedroom?" countered Ron furiously. "No! So why in the name of Merlin's saggy left ballsa—"

"Don't talk to your mother like that," scolded Mr. Weasley firmly. "And do as you're told."

Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.

"I can help, some of it's my mess," Harry told Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut across him.

"No, Harry, dear, I'd much rather you helped me finalize some last-minute decorations for the wedding," she quickly shifted her glance, adding, "Charles, while we're doing that, would you be kind enough to help Arthur muck out the chickens? And Hermione, I'd be ever so grateful if you'd change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they're arriving at eleven tomorrow morning."

Hermione nodded, but caught Charlie's eye meaningfully.

Too scared to dispute Mrs. Weasley, Charlie went to help Mr. Weasley after dinner was over. As it turned out, however, there was very little to do for the chickens.

"There's no need to, er, mention it to Molly," Mr. Weasley told Charlie, blocking his access to the coop, "but, er, I already tended to the chickens early this morning before I left for work. Didn't want to say anything in front of her, mind you, but I imagine I've done us both a favour."

Charlie grinned, nodding, "Yes, thank you."

Mr. Weasley shuffled awkwardly, then added: "Oh, and Charlie. Just... well, I know you and Hermione are sort of together now." Charlie felt himself turning a violent shade of pink, though his embarrassment was more than matched by Mr. Weasley. "I just want to say... if there's any... err... advice, I can offer... you are both of age, or well, nearly and well, y'know... I've got six sons so... I've got the —"

Charlie cut him off quickly, "Uh, thanks, and I appreciate it, Mr. Weasley, but I think we'll be okay."

Mr. Weasley smiled, clearly glad he wouldn't have to have 'the talk' with Charlie.

"I know it's not my place... but you know Molly would throttle me if I didn't offer, you two are like our own to us as it is," he said with a chuckle. "Although, given the amount of jobs she's giving you I guess you've hardly had any time together anyway!"

"Err... right, yeah," affirmed Charlie, trying to sound casual, glad that that particular subject had been avoided.

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Charlie slipped upstairs to the room Hermione had been asked to prepare for Monsieur and Madame Delacour.

Charlie found her as she just finished tucking in the corners of the bedsheets. She smiled ever so softly as he made his presence known in the doorway, as though she had momentarily forgotten that she was supposed to be mad at him.

"C'mon," he whispered, beckoning her silently, so as not to alert Mrs. Weasley that they were together.

Hermione giggled lightly, chucking a pillow toward the headboard, and followed Charlie to Ron's attic bedroom.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing — ! Oh, it's you two," said Ron in relief, as Charlie and Hermione entered the room. Ron laid back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only change was that Harry was now sitting on the edge of his camp bed, Hermione's fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at his feet.

Charlie plopped down on his makeshift cot, burrowing his head into the pillows and letting out a breath of relief. Hermione made her way over to the enormous pile of books stacked in the corner, some of which Charlie knew were his own, that Hermione had deposited in the room earlier in the week. She took a towering armful of the books from the top of one of the intimidating pile before sitting next to Charlie as he sat up, Crookshanks bounding into her lap. She began sorting through the hefty stack.

"We were just talking about Mad-Eye," Ron said aloud, motioning between himself and Harry. "I reckon he might've survived."

Harry shook his head, "But both you and Fred saw him hit by the Killing Curse."

"Yeah, but I dunno anymore, we were both under attack too," shrugged Ron, looking conflicted. "How can we be sure what we saw?"

"Even if the curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet," said Hermione, now weighing Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.

"He could have used the shield charm —"

Charlie furrowed his brows, "Didn't Fred say that his wand was blasted out of his hand?"

"Well, alright, if you want him to be dead," Ron growled in response, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

"Of course we don't want him to be dead!" exclaimed Hermione, looking shocked. "It's dreadful that he's dead! But we're being realistic!"

For the first time, Charlie imagined Mad-Eye's body, broken as Dumbledore's had been, yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.

Ron though for a moment, then said wisely, "The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that's why no one's found him."

"Right," grunted Harry, his face contorted. "Like Barry Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him —"

"Don't!" shouted Hermione, and Charlie looked over to her, startled, just in time to see tears fall slowly into her copy of Spellman's Syllabary. Without thinking much of it, he pulled her into his arms, and Hermione silently weeped into his chest.

"Oh, no," murmured Harry, as he watched the interaction. "Hermione, I'm sorry..."

"No, I'm sorry, Harry, I know... It's so awful, I just never imagined Mad-Eye dying."

It was awful to consider someone as qualified in Defence as Mad-Eye fall victim to Death Eaters; it made Charlie wonder what chance they had. He caressed her arm in agreement, and Hermione managed a small smile as she looked up into his eyes. She noticed what she was doing a moment later, however, and turned her head guiltily away from him. Unnoticed to Charlie and Hermione, Ron watched the exchange glumly, looking rather like he wished he were the one sitting next to Hermione.

"Yeah, I know," said Harry, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "But you know what he'd say to us if he was here?"

"'C-Constant vigilance,'" whispered Hermione, mopping her eyes.

"That's right... he'd tell us to learn from what happened to him. Hell, I know what I've learned is not to trust that cowardly little shit, Mundungus," Charlie offered, looking at Hermione expectantly.

Hermione gave a shaky laugh as she closed Spellman's Syllabary and picked up two more books. A second later, The Monster of Monsters had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously toward Charlie's ankle.

"Oh, not this again!" Hermione cried, as Charlie removed his arms from around her waist and ably wrenched the book from his leg and retied it shut.

"What are you doing with all those books anyway?" Ron asked, eyeing his feet to be sure they were safely above the reach of the monstrous tome.

"Just trying to decide which ones to take with us," explained Hermione, slightly annoyed that Charlie had retracted his touch, "When we're looking for the Horcruxes."

"Oh, of course," said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot we'll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library."

"Funny," scolded Hermione, looking down at Spellman's Syllabary again. "I wonder... will we need to translate runes? It's possible... I think we'd better take it, to be safe."

She dropped the syllabary, picked up Hogwarts: A History, First Edition, and started flipping through the enchanted pages. Charlie's heart skipped a beat at the sight; it had been the exact copy he had gotten her for Christmas two years ago, only Hermione seemed to have engraved their initials in a heart on the inside of the front page. Having noticed his staring, Hermione flushed a bright magenta and awkwardly snapped the book closed.

But before Charlie could open his mouth to say anything, Harry addressed the three of his friends.

"Listen, I've been thinking," he said, and Charlie, Ron, and Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance. "I know that after Dumbledore's funeral the three of of you said you wanted to come with me..."

"Ah, here we go," Charlie whispered to Hermione, rolling his eyes. Ron merely laughed lightly and laid back down in his bed.

"As we knew he would," Hermione sighed, turning back to the books. "You know, I think I will take Hogwarts: A History. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think I'd feel right if I didn't have it with —"

But Harry was relentless.

"Wait, listen!" he demanded, and his three friends looked at him at once. Charlie shook his head, his jaw clenched.

"No, Harry, you listen," he corrected, his tone firm in it's belief. "We're coming with you. That was decided months ago — years, really."

"Yeah, so shut up," Ron advised Harry, uncharacteristically agreeing with Charlie.

"— are the three of you sure you've thought this through?" Harry persisted, though from the look on Hermione's face he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"Let's see," said Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. "I've been packing for days, so we're ready to leave at a moment's notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye's whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron's mum's nose.

"I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced they're really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they've now done. That's to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me — or you, because unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you."

"Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don't — well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know that they've got a daughter, you see."

Hermione's eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Charlie gaped at the love of his life. Hermione, an orphan of sorts now, too, but by her own choosing — for Harry, for the Wizarding World... and, unexpectedly, for Charlie. He was stunned beyond words at her impossible acts of selflessness and sacrifice. He could hardly absorb the information, his mind racing. All he could manage was to stare in wonder at her, well aware that she completely owned every ounce of his love.

This time, Ron got off his bed, sat on the other side of Hermione, and put his arm around her, the weight of the three of them side-by-side straining the camp bed to it's maximum. Crookshanks, unwelcoming of Ron's sudden presence, leapt from Hermione's lap to Charlie's. Ron frowned at the feline, and then, with equal measure, frowned at Harry across the room as though reproaching him for lack of tact.

Charlie could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

"I — Hermione, I'm sorry — I didn't —" Harry sputtered, his eyes apologetic.

"Didn't realize that I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, I do."

Hermione turned her head again, and instinctively met Charlie's gaze. Her eyes were hopefully boring into his, trying to absorb any comfort found within them. They looked at each other in silence for a moment before she spoke again.

"Ron," she announced, breaking her lingering stare with Charlie at last, as she turned back around, "why don't you show Harry and Charlie what you've done."

Ron laughed, shaking his head, "Nah, they've just eaten."

"Go on, they need to know!"

"Oh alright, come here, then."

"Why?" Harry asked, following Charlie and Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.

"Descendo," muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low ceiling. There was a hatch that opened right over their heads and a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half-sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains.

"That's your ghoul, isn't it?" inquired Charlie, who had never actually met the creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence. The Weasley family ghoul had been living in the attic for as long as Charlie could remember, and he'd been notorious for banging the pipes loudly whenever he thought it was too quiet around the house.

"Yeah, it is," muttered Ron, refusing to spare a look in Charlie's direction, as he climbed the ladder. "Come and have a look at him."

Both, Charlie and Harry, followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. Charlie's head and shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth wide open.

"But it... it looks... do ghouls normally wear pyjamas?"

"No," said Ron, smiling to himself. "Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules."

Charlie contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now that Charlie's eyes became used to the darkness, was clearly an old pair of Ron's pyjamas. He was also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry purple blisters.

Ron motioned between himself and the ghoul, "He's me, see?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head, "I don't."

"I'll explain it back in my room, the smell's getting to me," grunted Ron. They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined Hermione, who was still sorting books.

"Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come and live down here in my room," explained Ron. "I think he's really looking forward to it — well, it's hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool — but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?"

Charlie and Harry shared a glance, both of them looking confused.

"It is!" exclaimed Ron, clearly frustrated that his friends had not grasped the brilliance of the plan. "Look, when the four of us don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think Hermione and I must be with you two, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they've got information on where you are."

"Hopefully it'll look like I've gone away with Mum and Dad," added Hermione, peering over her book. "I think it might work, mind you, a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment."

"We can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their jobs," added Ron eagerly. "So we're going to put out the story that I'm seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit's really contagious, so they're not going to want to go near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, because apparently you can't once the fungus has spread to your uvula."

Charlie kinked a brow, "And your mum and dad are in on this plan?"

Ron shrugged, "Well, Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum... well, you've seen what she's like. She won't accept we're going till we've gone."

In truth, Charlie didn't believe the spattergroit ghoul would fool anyone with any measure of sense, but he was floored at the lengths that both Ron and Hermione had already taken for their journey to find the Horocruxes. It made him feel slightly guilty, however, for his excuse of not returning to Hogwarts next term was deluded down to unbearable grief that needed to be satisfied with a extensive mourning period. To Charlie, his reasoning didn't seem nearly as impactful as Ron or Hermione's sacrifice, but perhaps it was easier that he had no family to say goodbye to —

There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione continued to throw books onto one pile or the other. Charlie sat watching her, as Ron dramatically threw himself back on his bed. Harry looked between his friends, from one to the other, unable to say anything. The measures everyone had taken to protect their loved ones made him realize, more than anything else could have done, that they really were going to come with him and that they knew exactly how dangerous that would be.

"Thank you," he said, though it came out as more of a croak. Harry knew what he'd said wasn't much, but after seeing Charlie stop what he was doing to return his smile, he figured it must've been enough.

"On second thought," joked Ron, sitting up on his bed, "I'm going to have to retract my offer if I'm gonna have to put up with this sappy bullshit."

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione shot back, throwing a book at Ron as he laughed.

Harry laughed too, followed by Charlie, and then, with slight reluctance, Hermione. They were just coming down from their laughter filled high when the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting came up from four floors below.

"Ginny's probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring," said Ron, shaking his head. "I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding."

"Fleur's sister's a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she's too young to come on her own," explained Charlie, shamelessly watching Hermione as she poured over Break with a Banshee.

"Well, guests aren't going to help Mum's stress levels," groaned Ron, burrowing his face back into the pillows.

"What we really need to decide," began Hermione, tossing Defensive Magical Theory into the bin without a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, "is where we're going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric's Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, but... well... shouldn't we make the Horcruxes our priority?"

"If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I'd agree with you," countered Harry, who did not believe that Hermione really understood his desire to return to Godric's Hollow. His parents' graves were only part of the attraction. He had a strong, though inexplicable, feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply because it was there that he had survived Voldemort's killing curse; now that he was facing the challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to the place where it had happened, wanting to understand.

"Don't you think there's a possibility that the Dark Lord's keeping a watch on Godric's Hollow?" Charlie asked, turning back around. "He might expect you to go back and visit your parents' graves once you're free to go wherever you like?"

This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently following his own train of thought.

"This R.A.B. person," he said. "You know, the one who stole the real locket?"

Everyone around the room nodded.

"He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn't he?"

Thinking for a moment, Charlie dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.'s note was still folded.

"I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can," Charlie read aloud, brandishing the locket in his hands.

Ron cleared his throat, "Well, what if he did finish it off?"

"Or she," interposed Hermione.

"Whichever," dismissed Ron, waving her off, "it'd be one less for us to do!"

"Yes, but we're still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren't we?" questioned Hermione, "We need to find out whether it's been destroyed."

Ron furrowed his brows, "And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?"

"Well," said Hermione, "I've been researching that."

"How?" asked Harry, one of his eyebrows kinked. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library?"

"There weren't," muttered Hermione, who had turned pink. "Dumbledore removed them all, but he — he didn't destroy them."

Charlie sat up straight, wide-eyed, "And how exactly have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?"

"I-It wasn't stealing!" stuttered Hermione, looking from between the three boys with a look of desperation. "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn't want anyone to get at them, I'm sure he would have made it much harder to —"

Ron groaned, demanding, "Get to the point!"

"Well... it was easy," said Hermione in a small voice, avoiding Charlie's curious gaze. "I just did a summoning charm. You know — Accio — and they zoomed out of Dumbledore's study window right into the girls' dormitory."

"When did you do this?" Charlie asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture of admiration and incredulity.

"Just after his — Dumbledore's — funeral," whispered Hermione in an even smaller voice, bowing her head shamefully. "Right after we agreed we'd leave school to look for the Horcruxes. When I went back to get my things it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be... and I was alone in there... so I tried... and it worked. They flew s-straight in through the open window and I packed th-them."

She swallowed, and then added imploringly, "I don't believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it's not as though we're going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?"

"It's brilliant," muttered Charlie, clearly abashed, his mouth agape. Hermione whipped her head towards him, letting out a breath of relief in the process. She would've thought he'd be angry that she was snooping through his deceased grandfather's belongings.

"Yeah, we're definitely not complaining," gasped Ron, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting attentively. "Where are these books anyway?"

Hermione rummaged for a moment and then extracted a large volume, bound in faded black leather from the pile. She looked a little nauseated and held it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead.

"This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art — it's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library... if he didn't do it until he was Headmaster, I bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here."

Ron blinked, confused, "Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already read that?"

"He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven," explained Charlie, recalling his pst memories. "My grandfather was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. Hermione's right, that could easily have been where he got the information."

"And the more I've read about them," added Hermione, looking suddenly frightful, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"

In that moment, Charlie remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond 'usual evil'.

Before he had a chance to speak, Ron asked, "Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?"

"Yes," said Hermione with a hollow smile, "but it would be excruciatingly painful."

Harry peered down at her, through his round glasses, asking, "Why? How do you do it?"

"Remorse," Hermione said simplistically. "You've got to really feel what you've done. There's a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?"

"No," answered Ron, before Charlie or Harry had the chance to open their mouths. "So does it say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?"

"Yes," said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting entrails, "because it warns dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on them. From all that I've read, what Harry did to Riddle's diary was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux."

Charlie furrowed his brows, "What? Stabbing it with a basilisk fang?"

(A/N: forgot to mention last chapter — Charlie will have facial hair from now on <3)

"Oh well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then," groaned Ron, being sarcastic. "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

"It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang," corrected Hermione patiently. "It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it's incredibly rare —"

"— phoenix tears," finished Charlie, nodding. Memories of their second year flashed in his head. He remembered when he and Harry went down to the Chamber of Secrets, and how Fawkes had saved him after he was pierced by a basilisk fang and left for dead.

"Exactly," beamed Hermione, glancing at her complicated lover for a brief moment. "But our problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. That's a problem we're going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won't do the trick. You've got to put it beyond magical repair."

"But even if we wreck the thing it lives in," Ron began, finding a slight problem in Hermione's explanation, "why can't the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?"

"Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being." Seeing that Charlie, Harry and Ron looked thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on, "Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and stabbed you, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."

Ron narrowed his eyes, "Oh yeah, that's a real comfort for me, I'm sure."

"It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched," scolded Hermione, shaking her head. "But it's the other way around with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can't exist without it."

"So, Riddle's diary sort of died when I stabbed it?" questioned Harry, remembering ink pouring like blood from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of Voldemort's soul as it vanished.

When Hermione nodded, Charlie pressed on, "Which means that once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist. And that'll explain why when Ginny tried to get rid of the diary, by flushing it away, it came back good as new."

"Hang on," interrupted Ron, frowning. "The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it," Hermione added before Ron could speak. "I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You're in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux."

"I wonder how my grandfather destroyed the ring." muttered Charlie, bowing his head to think. "Why didn't I ask him? I never really..."

His voice tailed away. He was thinking of all the things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the Headmaster had died, it seemed to Charlie that he had wasted so many opportunities when his grandfather had been alive, to find out more... to find out everything...

The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked and instinctively threw herself into Charlie's arms, dropping the book in her hands in the process; Ron jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before realizing that the four of them were now looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose face was contorted with rage.

"I'm so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm sure you all need your rest... but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help."

"Oh yes," squealed Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books flying in every direction, "we will... we're sorry..." and with an anguished look towards Charlie, Harry and Ron, Hermione hurried after Mrs. Weasley, out of the room at once.

"It's like being a house-elf," complained Ron in an undertone, still massaging his head as he, Charlie, and Harry followed. "Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding's over, the happier I'll be."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed, nodding, "then we'll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes... I'm sure, that'll be like a holiday, won't it?"

Despite their differences, Ron laughed, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley's room, stopped quite abruptly.

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The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o'clock. Charlie, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Elaina were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur's family by this time, and it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs to put on matching socks, and Harry attempted to flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to await the visitors.

Charlie had never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door were gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing on either side of the door in large pots; though there was little breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive rippling effect. The chickens had been shut away, the yard had been swept, and the nearby garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up, although Charlie, who liked it in its overgrown state, thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual contingent of capering gnomes.

He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. Weasley had therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they were to arrive by Portkey.

The first sound of their approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, who appeared at the gate moments later, laden with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf-green robes, who could only be Fleur's mother.

"Maman!" cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace her. "Papa!"

Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plump, with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.

"You 'ave been to much trouble," he said in a deep voice. "Fleur tells us you 'ave been working very 'ard."

"Oh, it's been nothing, nothing!" trilled Mrs. Weasley. "No trouble at all!"

Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome who was peering out from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.

"Dear lady!" said Monsieur Delacour, still holding Mrs. Weasley's hand between his own two plump ones and beaming. "We are most honoured at ze approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline."

Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too.

"Enchantée," she greeted. "Your 'usband 'as been telling us such amusing stories!"

Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look, upon which he became immediately silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the sickbed of a close friend.

"And, of course, you 'ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!" announced Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with waist-length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile and hugged her, then threw Charlie a glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Hermione cleared her throat loudly.

Madame Delacour looked around at everyone who had come to greet, but when her eyes landed upon Elaina, she squealed in delight and embraced her as she did her own daughter.

"Ah, Elaina! Comment ça va? Eet 'as been far too long!" she said, her cheeks rosy as they pulled away. "Est-ce que tes parents viendront au mariage? Je leur ai envoyé une invitation!"

(A/N: to any French speakers, please correct me if this is wrong... I swear I learned nothing from four years of taking French classes loll)

"Oui, Madame," said Elaina, smiling from one ear to the other. "My parents are coming to the wedding, they should be arriving in a few days. They would've liked to stay longer, but with the state of the French Ministry, they can't afford much of my father's extensive absence."

"Ah, bien sur, je comprends," nodded Madame Delacour, patting the girl on the shoulder. "Eet is no problem! We will be delighted to 'ave zem regardless!"

And with a small grin from Elaina, who shortly moved back to her spot beside Harry, Madame and Monsieur Delacour turned back around towards Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"Well, come in, do!" beckoned Mrs. Weasley brightly, and she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many: "No, please!"s and "After you!"s and "Not at all!"s.

The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful, pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything and keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour declared everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids' shoes: "Charmant!" Madame Delacour was most accomplished at household spells and had the oven properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she could and jabbering away in rapid French.

On the downside, the Burrow was not built to accommodate so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour's protests and insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was rooming with Fleur in Percy's old room, and Bill would be sharing with Jack, his best man, once Jack returned home from Romania. Opportunities to make plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it was in desperation that Charlie, Harry, Ron, and Hermione took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the overcrowded house.

"But she still won't leave us alone!" snarled Ron, as their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms.

"Oh, good, you've fed the chickens," she called as she approached them. "We'd better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow... to put up the tent for the wedding," she explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted.

"Millamant's Magic Marquees... they're very good, Bill's escorting them... You'd better stay inside while they're here, Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these security spells around the place."

"I'm sorry," said Harry humbly.

"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" dismissed Mrs. Weasley at once. "I didn't mean — your safety's much more important! Actually, I've been wanting to ask you, and Charlie of course, how the two of you wanted to celebrate your birthdays this year. Seventeen, after all, it's an important day..."

"Oh, we don't want a fuss," said Charlie quickly, envisaging the additional strain this would put on them all. "Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine... it'll be the last couple days before the wedding..."

"Oh, well, if you're both sure, dears. I'll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?"

Harry and Charlie shared a glance, both subconsciously aware that the motherly woman wasn't going to let them off unscathed for their birthdays.

"That'd be great," grinned Harry at last, and Charlie nodded in agreement. "But please don't go to loads of trouble for us."

"Not at all, not at all... it's no trouble..."

She looked between them, a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened up, and walked away. Charlie watched as she waved her wand near the washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain that had been placed upon her.

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The day of Charlie's seventeenth birthday arrived in the midst of wedding preparations. He awoke early in the morning, blinking in his surroundings. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The mark on Charlie's forearm was prickling.

It was another night at the Burrow in which Charlie laid awake, staring at the ceiling and counting the seconds until the sun would rise. He had been seventeen for a few hours now, entering blissfully into the world of adulthood. Still, he didn't feel any different. And if anything, his birthday only now served as a cruel reminder that Dumbledore was no longer around to celebrate with him.

Charlie rolled over to his side, staring at the Dark Mark engraved on his exposed skin. He tried to remember exactly what his life had been like before he was tortured by Voldemort, but all that came back was an overwhelming feeling of guilt and the haunting vivid blue colour of his grandfather's eyes. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, willing to succumb to the potential horrors of his dreams.

Not long after, the sun had finally risen, bathing the ramshackle house in a golden shimmer. Harry was the first to awake out of the three Gryffindor boys, and he quickly put on his glasses, leapt out of bed, and went to wake Charlie, holding his friend's birthday gift in his hand.

"Oi! Wake up! It's your birthday," shouted Harry, shaking his best friend awake. Charlie stirred, blinking in the immediate sunlight, before acknowledging the shadow that Harry was casting over his bed.

"What is it?" he said groggily, taking a moment to catch on. "What's going on?"

"Your birthday, you git," laughed Harry, thrusting a small wrapped parcel into Charlie's hands. "Here you go, mate, I hope you like it."

With a grateful smile, Charlie peeled back the parchment to reveal a stunning, fiery crimson feather, remarkably belonging to that of a magical Phoenix. He took it into his hands, his mouth agape, and immediately felt a sense of comfort. His grandfather's Patronus had been a Phoenix, the first pet he'd ever had was Fawkes, and weirdly enough, the single feather reminded him of a home he had almost forgotten.

"Thank you," Charlie choked out, unaware that his throat was clogged with emotion. "It means a lot, mate."

"Eh, don't mention it," shrugged Harry, but there was a slight smile on his lips. "I found it on the grass at the end of last term, so I imagine it might've belonged to Fawkes. I figured you might've liked to have it, you know, as a reminder of your granddad."

Charlie nodded, staring down at the feather, utterly transfixed. The room fell into somber silence, which was only broken by the croak of the rooster outside, signalling dawn. He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon's cage, thinking, but with no intention of ruining the entirety of the day, Charlie seized his wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the crimson feather, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The feather rose from his lap and hovered about four feet above his head. Although it wasn't that impressive, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing it float effortlessly in the air. Relishing in the removal of his Trace, Charlie sent Harry and Ron's possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Charlie also tied the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron's Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.

"I'd do your fly by hand, though," Ron advised Charlie, sniggering when his friend immediately checked it. There was a pregnant pause in which Ron hesitated, before adding, "Uh, here's your present. Unwrap it up here, it's not exactly for my mother's eyes."

Although entirely shocked by this gesture, Charlie graciously accepted the gift. It occurred to him then that Ron always did lack the ability to apologize and often hoped that in time all would be forgotten. But it raised the question of whether his recent actions were deemed forgivable. Charlie did not know yet.

"A book?" he questioned, as he took the the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure from the tradition of sweets, isn't it?"

"This isn't your average book," explained Ron, smirking mischievously. "It's pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. Fred and George gave me a copy, and I've learned a lot. I've got one for Harry too, but he's getting his tomorrow. You'd be surprised, it's not all about wand work, either."

Behind him, Harry had burst out into laughter, collapsing on his bed, immersed in a fit of giggles. Charlie scoffed at the thought of a self-help book being the foundation for a relationship. It didn't seem very honest to him, an endeavor bound to fail catastrophically. Still, he did his best to hide his grimace in front of his friend, who had clearly put some thought into his birthday gift.

"Right," mused Charlie, trying not to laugh himself. "Uh, Ron, you are aware that both Harry and I have girlfriends, yeah?"

"Would be bloody hard to miss," quipped Ron, his jaw clenching slightly. "But anyone can see that you and Hermione have been on the outs. So maybe you need that book more than you care to admit."

Charlie's face fell significantly. To this, he didn't have any retort, and the three boys spent the rest of the morning getting ready for the day in silence, the air thick with tension.

When they arrived in the kitchen a little bit later, they found a pile of presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs. Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan.

"Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Charles," said Mrs. Weasley, beaming at him. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our present on top."

Charlie sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the face instead of hands.

"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age," explained Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but I thought that —"

The rest of her speech was lost; Charlie had got up and hugged her. He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, because she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.

"You're welcome, dear," she said, smiling. "I hope you'll keep it as a reminder that, although not bonded by blood, you're apart of this family; Arthur and I will forever care for you as one of our own. Same goes for Harry, too, and he'll be getting my brother Gideon's watch tomorrow as well, but let's have that be a surprise, okay?" she added in a airy whisper, casting a cautious glance over her shoulder at Harry and Ron, who were already divulging on breakfast.

"Morning, everyone. Happy birthday, Charlie!" greeted Elaina, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her own present to the top of the pile. "It's not much, but I hope you like it!"

With a mouthful of food, Ron said, "Come on, then, open Elaina's!"

She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contained an enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur, chocolates from the Delacours, and an enormous box of the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George. After all of his gifts were unwrapped, Charlie, Harry, Ron, and Elaina did not linger at the table, as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

"I'll have to give these to Hermione so she can pack them for you," Elaina said brightly, taking Charlie's presents out of his arms as the four of them headed back upstairs. "I reckon she's nearly done, but she's probably waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of the wash —"

Ron's splutter was interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor landing. The four of them whipped their heads towards the sound; Hermione had stepped out from the doorway of Ginny's bedroom. Charlie felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of her.

"Speak of the devil," giggled Elaina, making light of the sudden change in atmosphere. "Morning, Hermione! Sleep well?"

"Y-Yeah, thanks... uh, Charlie," Hermione said quickly, as she casted a smile towards the boy in question, who was sure he must've turned bright red, "will you come in here for a moment?"

Ron came to an abrupt halt on the stairs, but Elaina took him by the elbow and dragged him forward; Harry followed after them, clapping Charlie on the back as he passed. Feeling overwhelming nervous, Charlie carefully walked up the rest of the stairs and turned into Ginny's bedroom, closing the door behind him and entrapping them in silence.

The room had changed slightly since he'd last seen it. It was still small, but bright. There was a large poster of the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture of Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, on the other. A desk stood facing the open window, which looked out over the orchard where he and Harry had once played a two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and Ginny, and which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The golden flag on top was level with the bedroom window.

Hermione looked up into Charlie's face, took a deep breath, and said, "Happy seventeenth."

"Yeah... thanks."

She was looking at him steadily. Charlie, however, found it difficult to look back at her, scared that somehow she'd be able to see right through him.

"Nice view," he said feebly, pointing toward with window.

Hermione ignored this. He could not blame her.

"I couldn't think of what to get you," she whispered, disappointment hidden in the shakiness of her voice.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Charlie told her, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. "I'm not one to get dead chuffed about birthday presents."

But Hermione disregarded this too, unconvinced.

"I know things have been... well, complicated... between us lately, but I still wanted to give you something that you'd hopefully like."

Charlie chanced a glance at her. He could have sworn his heart stopped for a moment. In fact, to him, nearly everything did. The world stopped, time stopped. Then, Hermione took a step towards him, their bodies dangerously close, and Charlie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on alert, his feet frozen in place.

"I can assure you, Hermione," he managed, trying his damnedest to keep his eyes from trailing down her body, "I automatically love anything when it involves you."

"Quite the charmer, you are... it's nice to know that hasn't changed," Hermione whispered, blushing, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his. Charlie shuddered at her touch, enjoying the way her baited breath danced across his parted lips. He had missed this.

And before he could even process what was happening, Hermione had pressed her lips against his, kissing him in a way she had never kissed him before. It was no more than a second before Charlie reciprocated, the sensation reminiscent of a blissful oblivion that was far better than firewhiskey. The kiss robbed them both of breath; Hermione got what she wanted. She needed that sense of danger she got with him, that slight dizziness and disorientation which made her question all she thought she knew. They kissed and kissed, deep and hard, their tongues battling for dominance.

After a month of torment, Hermione was the only thing that Charlie seemed to crave desperately. She was the only real thing in the world to him in that moment, his hands tangled in her hair. Just when he thought all hope was lost, Hermione was there to remind him of everything he could have. He was dazed, feeling as though he might've collapsed if only he wasn't dead set on making up for lost time.

Neither lover seemed to want to stop, both lost in a world that was entirely their own, but then, as luck would have it, real life started to assert itself again. As soon as Charlie went to deepen the kiss, the door banged open behind them, causing him and Hermione to jump apart from one another.

"Oh," mumbled Ron pointedly, making his presence known. "Sorry, was I interrupting something?"

"Ron, you bloody idiot!" Elaina was just behind him, with Harry at her heels, both of them slightly out of breath. Charlie groaned internally, feeling a sudden desire to strangle the redhead to death.

There was a strained silence, then Hermione had cleared her throat, caught, and muttered, "Well, happy birthday anyway, Charlie."

Ron's ears were scarlet; Elaina and Harry looked nervous. Charlie wanted to slam the door in their faces, but it felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when the door opened, and his shining moment had popped like a balloon. All the reasons for the strain in his and Hermione's relationship, for his recent behaviour, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron, and all blissful forgetfulness had since evaporated.

Charlie looked at Hermione, wanting to say something, though he hardly knew what, but she had turned her back on him. He thought that she might have succumbed to fear, instantly regretting what she had done. Still, he could not do anything to confront her about it in front of the others.

"Everyone should be arriving soon," he said, trying to ease the tension. "Let's get on with it, yeah?"

And with that, Charlie turned, leaving Hermione, and followed the other three out of the bedroom. To his utter disappointment, she didn't stop him.

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Hermione did not seek another one-to-one meeting with Charlie for the rest of the day, nor by any look or gesture did she show that they had shared more than polite conversation in Ginny's bedroom. Nevertheless, Charlie and Harry's joint birthday celebration did provide a distraction.

Several tables were placed end to end in the garden, making room to accommodate the arrival of Jack, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid. Fred and George bewitched a number of purple lanterns all emblazoned with a large number seventeen, to hang in midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley's ministrations, George's wound was neat and clean, but Charlie was not yet used to the dark hole in the side of his head, despite the twins' many jokes about it.

Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes.

"Nice," awed Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You've really got an eye for that sort of thing."

"Thanks, Ron," said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. Charlie had to turn away, shaking his head. In truth, he was starting to get a bit annoyed by Ron's newfound hobby of complimenting Hermione. He had half a mind to show Hermione the book Ron had given him for his birthday. He was sure she'd have some nasty thoughts on the subject.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a miniature replica of the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium floating in front of her. Seconds later Charlie realized that it was his and Harry's birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground.

When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Charlie smiled, "That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley, thank you."

Mrs. Weasley beamed, speaking fondly, "Oh, it was my pleasure, dears!"

By seven o'clock all the guests had arrived, led into the house by Fred and George, who had waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honoured the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook Charlie's hand, Charlie thought he looked rather unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him, looked simply radiant.

"Happy birthday, Char," she beamed, hugging him tightly.

"Seventeen, eh!" gaped Hagrid, as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Crazy ter think, ain't it? I remember the day yeh were born!"

"That makes one of us," said Charlie, grinning up at him. "I'm happy you're here, Hagrid."

"Happy ter be 'ere! I know Dumbledore would've bin proud o' the young man yeh have become!" Hagrid chortled, before swiftly moving on. "All righ', Harry? Ron? Hermione?"

Charlie turned, only just realizing that his friends had come to join in on the conversation.

"We're fine, Hagrid," greeted Hermione, smiling. "How are you?"

"Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns, I'll show yeh when yeh get back —" Charlie avoided Harry, Ron and Hermione's gazes as Hagrid rummaged in his pocket. "Here, Char, Harry — couldn' think what ter get yeh both, but then I remembered this."

He pulled out two small, furry drawstring pouches with long strings, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. "Mokeskin. Hide anythin' in there an' no one but the owner can get it out. They're rare, them."

"Hagrid, thanks!"

"'S'nothin'," said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. "An' there's Jack! Always liked him — hey! Jack, how're yeh?"

Jack approached, running his hand through his long, matted ginger hair. He was shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns and scratches up his muscle defined arms.

"Good, Hagrid, how's it going?"

"Bin meanin' ter write fer ages. How's Norbert doin'?"

"Norbert?" Jack questioned, laughing. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now."

"Norbert's a girl?"

Jack nodded, "Oh, yeah."

Hermione kinked a brow, "How can you tell?"

"They're a lot more vicious," explained Jack. He looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum's getting edgy."

They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly at the gate.

"I think we'd better start without Arthur," she called to the garden at large after a moment or two. "He must have been held up at — oh!"

They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that came flying across the yard and onto the table, where it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel, which stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley's voice.

"Minister of Magic coming with me."

The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur's family peering in astonishment at the place where it had vanished.

"We shouldn't be here," said Lupin at once. "Harry — I'm sorry — I'll explain another time." He seized Tonks's wrist and pulled her away; they reached the fence, climbed over it, and vanished from sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.

"The Minister — but why? I don't understand —"

But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second later, Mr. Weasley had appeared out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair. The two newcomers marched across the yard toward the garden and the lantern-lit table, where everybody sat in silence, watching them draw closer.

As Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light, Charlie saw that he looked much older than the last time they had met, scraggy and grim.

"Sorry to intrude," announced Scrimgeour, as he limped to a halt before the table. "Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party."

Charlie rolled his eyes, asking, "To what do we owe the pleasure, Minister?"

"I think we both know the answer to that, Mr. Hawthorne," Scrimgeour went on, looking around at the guests. "I require a private word with you. Also, with Mr. Harry Potter, Mr. Ronald Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger as well."

"Us?" said Ron, sounding surprised. "Why us?"

"I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private," muttered Scrimgeour, leading the way towards the Burrow. He cocked his head back, "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur. This'll only take a second."

Charlie saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence, Charlie knew that the other three were thinking the same as he was: Scrimgeour must have, somehow, learned that the four of them were planning to drop out of Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messy kitchen and into the Burrow's sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light, it was already dark in the around the house. Charlie flicked his wand at the oil lamps as they entered, illuminating the cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Charlie, Harry, Ron, and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa.

Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke, "I have some questions for the four of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you three" — he pointed at Harry, Hermione, and Charlie — "can wait upstairs, I'd like to start with Ronald."

"We're not going anywhere," hissed Charlie, while Harry and Hermione nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."

Scrimgeour gave Charlie a cold, appraising look. Charlie had the impression that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.

"Very well then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another. Charlie let out a shaky breath, his eyes wide.

"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?"

"All of us?" questioned Ron. "Me and Hermione too?"

"Yes, all of —"

But Charlie interrupted, "My grandfather died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?"

"Isn't it obvious, Charlie?" scoffed Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she yelled, her voice trembling slightly.

"I had every right," retaliated Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will —"

"That law was created to stop wizards passing on dark artifacts," corrected Hermione, her eyes narrow, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?"

"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour, evading the equation.

"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione, shaking her head. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world!"

Harry and Ron laughed. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered toward him and away again as Charlie, feeling an immense rush of pride and adoration for Hermione, spoke up.

"So, why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a reason to keep them?"

"No, it'll be because the thirty-one days are up," explained Hermione at once. "They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they're dangerous. Right?"

"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione.

Ron looked startled, stuttering, "Me? Not — not really... it was always Charlie and Harry who..."

Ron looked around at Charlie, Harry and Hermione, to see the three of them giving him a 'stop-talking-now!' sort of look, but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron's answer.

"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions — his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects — were left to his grandson. Why do you think you were singled out?"

"I dunno," gulped Ron, hating the way Scrimgeour looked down upon him. "I...when I say we weren't close... I mean, I think he liked me..."

"You're just being modest, Ron," interrupted Hermione, taking the pressure off of the stuttering redhead. "Dumbledore was very fond of you."

This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Charlie knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them had been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He simply put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the ones Hagrid had given Charlie and Harry. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud.

"'The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'... yes, here we are... 'to Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, a device of my own making, in the hope that when things seem most dark, it will show him the light.'"

Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Charlie had seen before. It looked something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in his fingers, looking stunned. On either side of him, Charlie, Harry and Hermione leaned in for a closer look.

Ron kinked a brow, as he held it in his hands, "Dumbledore left this for me?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant, er... what is it?"

Scrimgeour did not react. Ron shrugged, giving the small button on the Deluminator a squeeze. The light in the nearby oil lamp immediately went out, zipping into the tube in Ron's hand. Another click of the button, and the light zipped back to the lamp.

"Wicked," breathed Ron.

"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," Scrimgeour persevered, watching Ron. "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will were you four. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I s'pose," mumbled Ron, shrugging. "What else could I do with it?"

Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.

"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"

Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained and peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap and gazed at it. Charlie saw that the title was in runes, but he couldn't make it out. As he looked, a tear splashed onto the embossed symbols.

"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour, desperate for answers.

"He... he knew I liked books," said Hermione in a small voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

"But why that particular book?"

"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."

"Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"

"No, I didn't," snapped Hermione, still wiping her eyes. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."

She turned away from him again, suppressing a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Charlie had difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.

"'To Harry James Potter,'" he read, and Harry straightened up with a sudden excitement, "'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first ever Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"

As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, but Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.

Before he handed it over, Scrimgeour asked, "Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?"

"No idea," answered Harry, honestly unaware. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to remind me what you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," muttered Harry, his eyebrows furrowed. "What else could it be?"

"I'm asking the questions," growled Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.

"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Quidditch pitch... quite peculiar, I must say, all the broomsticks and Snitches decorated on the sides," Scrimgeour said to Harry. "I assume it must hold some sort of significance?"

Charlie laughed derisively. "Oh yeah, because it can't possibly be a reference to the fact that Harry and I love Quidditch. Nah, that's too easy, there must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"

"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing, Mr. Hawthorne," corrected Scrimgeour, rolling his eyes ever so slightly, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

Charlie shrugged. Hermione, however, spoke up; answering questions correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit in which she could not suppress the urge.

"Because Snitches have flesh memories."

"What?" said Charlie, Harry, and Ron together; the three of them considered Hermione's Quidditch knowledge negligible.

"Correct," nodded Scrimgeour, impressed. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch" — he held up the tiny golden ball — "will remember your touch, Potter. It occurred to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you. And so now, I implore you, Mr. Potter, go on and take it."

Charlie's heart was beating rather fast. He could practically hear Hermione's brain whirring from beside him. As Scrimgeour took out the Snitch, Harry reluctantly held out his hand. The Minster leaned forward and placed it, slowly and deliberately, into the boy's palm. Nothing happened. Even when Harry's fingers closed around the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and went still. Scrimgeour, Charlie, Hermione, and Ron continued to gaze avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still hoping it might transform in some way.

"Well, that was dramatic," quipped Charlie, shaking his head. He looked up and met the Minister's yellow eyes, "What else have you got?"

Scrimgeour cleared his throat, looking thoroughly discouraged. Nonetheless, he looked towards the parchment on his lap and read aloud.

"'To my beloved grandson, Mr. Charles Florent Amadeus Hawthorne, I leave my magical companion, Fawkes the Phoenix, as a reminder that once we learn to rise from the ashes, we will burn brighter than ever before. Remember, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. Until we meet again, m'boy, trust that I will be with you every step of the way.'"

Charlie felt unshed tears immediately fill his eyes, threatening to trickle down his cheeks. He sniffled, moving his gaze to floor in attempt to contain his sadness. Beside him, he felt Hermione's hand settle upon his knee, comforting him silently. After a moment, Charlie pulled himself together, heaving a heavy sigh.

"That's all, then, is it?" he choked out, making to raise himself off the sofa. "Forgive me, Minister, but I think you're beginning to overstay your welcome."

"I'm not quite finished, Mr, Hawthorne," said Scrimgeour, who looked bad-tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest."

"What is it?" asked Charlie, intrigue rekindling. Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.

"The Sword of Godric Gryffindor," he announced. Harry, Hermione, and Ron stiffened. Charlie looked around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but Scrimgeour did not pull the sword from the leather pouch, which in any case looked much too small to contain it.

"So where is it?" questioned Charlie, eyebrow raised.

"Unfortunately," began Scrimgeour, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. The Sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs —"

"To Charlie... it belongs to Charlie!" said Hermione hotly, clutching her book firmly in her hands. "It chose him! It came to him when he most needed it in the Chamber of Secrets —"

"According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, Miss Granger," retaliated Scrimgeour, "but that does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Hawthorne, no matter what Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his shaven cheek, scrutinizing Charlie. "Why do you think — ?"

"— my grandfather wanted to give me the sword?" finished Charlie, struggling to keep his temper. "I dunno, Minister, maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."

"This is not a joke, Hawthorne!" growled Scrimgeour, his jaw clenched. "Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the Sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Interesting theory," quipped Charlie, his blood boiling. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what you've been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying — I was nearly one of them — You-Know-Who chased us across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there's been no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And yet, somehow, you still expect us to cooperate with you?"

"You've gone too far!" shouted Scrimgeour, standing up; Charlie jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped toward Charlie and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his wand. It singed a hole in the boy's t-shirt like a lit cigarette.

"Oi!" barked Ron, coming to Charlie's defence and raising his own wand.

But Charlie quickly caught his wrist, "Don't be fucking stupid! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"

"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" growled Scrimgeour, breathing hard into Charlie's face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may hide behind the 'Chosen One', Hawthorne, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's about time you learned some respect!"

"Funny, I think it's about time you've earned it," said Charlie, unbothered by Scrimgeour's empty threats. Suddenly, the floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.

"My apologies... we thought we heard —" began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Charlie and the Minister virtually nose to nose.

"— raised voices," finished Mrs. Weasley, panting. Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Charlie, glancing at the hole he had made in the boy's t-shirt. In that moment, he seemed to regret his loss of temper.

"It's nothing to worry about, Arthur," he growled, lowering his wand. "Just a misunderstanding, isn't that right, Mr. Hawthorne?" With a grimace, he turned to look at Charlie in the face once more, "You know, you seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you — what Dumbledore — desired, but you're wrong. We ought to be working together."

"In case you've forgotten, Minister, I don't care much for your methods," retaliated Charlie, as he raised his right fist and displayed to Scrimgeour the scars that were still showed white on the back of it.

Scrimgeour's expression hardened. He turned away without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried after him; Charlie heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she called, "He's gone!"

"What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking around at Harry, Charlie, Ron, and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.

"To give us what Dumbledore left us," answered Harry, sighing. "They've only just released the contents of his will."

Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the three tangible objects Scrimgeour had given them were passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard and lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to pass on the sword, but none of them could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the Deluminator for the third or fourth time, Mrs. Weasley said tentatively, "Charlie, dear, everyone's awfully hungry, we didn't want to start without you or Harry... shall I serve dinner now?"

They all ate rather hurriedly. A hasty chorus of 'Happy Birthday' followed, and after much gulping of cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to the wedding, but was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a tent for himself in a neighbouring field.

"Meet us upstairs," Charlie whispered to Hermione, while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."

Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, Harry sat holding the old Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly, and Charlie filled Hagrid's mokeskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized: R.A.B.'s locket, Fawkes's crimson feather, and the enchanted necklace he'd received from Hermione nearly three Christmases ago. He pulled the strings tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then laid down on his cot and stared mindlessly at the ceiling. Not long after, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.

"Muffliato," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs. She turned her head towards her three friends, "We need to talk. Ron, show us that Deluminator again, will you?"

Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.

"The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.

"Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!"

"I know but surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the lights!"

Harry thought for a moment, then asked, "D'you think Dumbledore knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd left us?"

"Definitely, my grandfather was always foreseeable in that sense," said Charlie, sitting up. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was leaving us those things, but that still doesn't explain..."

"...why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron, finishing the sentence.

"Well, exactly," huffed Hermione, sitting down on the end of Charlie's bed, and flicking through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. "If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd think he'd have let us know why... unless he thought it was obvious."

"Thought wrong then, didn't he?" snarled Ron, and Charlie instinctively clutched his fists, casting a glare across the room. "Don't look at me like that, Charlie, I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch — what the hell was that about?"

Charlie sighed, shrugging, "No idea."

Hermione looked up from her book, "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!"

"Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickening as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?"

Hermione kinked a curious brow, "What do you mean?"

"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" recited Harry, purposely hinting at what he was trying to get at. "Don't you remember?"

Ron and Hermione looked simply bemused. Charlie, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.

"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"

"Exactly," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch. It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him. With a sigh, he lowered the golden sphere but then Hermione cried out:

"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!"

Harry nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin, slanting handwriting that Charlie immediately recognized as Dumbledore's:

I open at the close.

He had barely read them when the words vanished again.

"I open at the close... what's that supposed to mean?"

Harry, Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

"I open at the close... at the close... I open at the close..."

But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.

"And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch's inscription. "Why did he want Charlie to have the sword?"

"And why couldn't he just have told me?" mumbled Charlie quietly, looking down. "I was there, it was right there on the wall of his office every single time I was in his office last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn't he just give it to me then?"

He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to have been able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was there something he had missed in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Should he know what it all meant? Had his grandfather expected him to understand?

"And as for this book," added Hermione, brandishing the text around, "The Tales of Beedle the Bard... never even heard of them!"

"You've never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" said Ron incredulously. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not!" muttered Hermione in surprise. "Do you know them, then?"

"Well, of course, he does," mused Charlie, smiling as the circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had not was unprecedented. "They're old children's stories that are popular in the Wizarding World. Majority of them are supposed to be Beedle's, aren't they, Ron?"

"Yeah, that's right!" said Ron, looking bemused by Harry and Hermione's surprise. "The Fountain of Fair Fortune... The Wizard and the Hopping Pot... Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump..."

"Excuse me?" interjected Hermione, giggling. "What was that last one?"

"Come off it!" gasped Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. "You must've heard of Babbitty Rabbitty —"

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, uttering, "Ron, you know full well that Harry and Hermione were raised by Muggles. They didn't grow up with the same stories we did, you stupid git!"

"Exactly," said Hermione, shaking her head. "didn't hear stories like that, we heard Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Cinderella —"

Ron furrowed his brows, "What's that? An illness?"

"So these are children's stories?" asked Hermione, ignoring Ron and bending again over the runes.

"Yeah," affirmed Charlie, reading over her shoulder. "I mean, that's just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they're like in the original versions."

"But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?"

But before anyone could try and answer her, something creaked downstairs.

Ron gulped, "Probably just the twins, and now that Mum's asleep, they've got time to work on new products for the joke shop."

"All the same, we should get to bed," whispered Hermione, rising to her feet. "It wouldn't be wise to oversleep with everything we've got to do over the next few days."

"No, you're right," agreed Ron, moving over to his bed. "A brutal quadruple murder by the groom's mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding."

"Goodnight," said Hermione, smiling at Ron's quip before she made for the door.

Before he even realized what he was doing, however, Charlie had followed her out onto the landing, grabbing her gently by the arm and turning her around.

"Hermione, d'you think we could talk?"

"It's late, Charlie," she said, her voice shaky, as though she was not yet ready to discuss their intimate relations that had happened earlier.

"Still," Charlie pressed on, closing the door to the attic bedroom behind him, "I'd like to talk about what happened. Please, I haven't stopped thinking about it all day."

"It was only a kiss," Hermione reminded him, pulling out his grasp ever so slowly, "and it's best not to make a big deal out of it. Although, if it's any consolation, my idea for your birthday night wasn't exactly snogging you in front of everyone."

Charlie stood in stunned silence for a moment, unaware of what to say in response, his mind in the gutter. Hermione looked at him, an equal measure of embarrassment and exasperation on her face.

"That's not what I meant," she corrected, although her voice had become uncharacteristically high.

"Yeah?" Charlie challenged, taking a dangerous step forward, his warm breath dancing across her parted lips. "What did you mean, then?"

"I was hoping to get the chance to talk," Hermione chided, putting an emphasis on the word, while trying her damnedest to resist his temptation, "but plans evidently changed." She paused for a moment, sighed, and with all the willpower she could muster, slipped away from his embrace, "In case you've forgotten, I'm upset with you, Charlie, and one kiss isn't going to fix that."

"I know, I know... I was just hoping that —"

His voice trailed off; there was another clattering sound coming from the kitchen below. Hermione took this as an excuse to end the conversation.

"It's late, Charlie, I'm going to bed," she repeated, before the boy could even offer to finish his sentence. She tiptoed towards Ginny's room, then casted one last look over her shoulder, "I hope you had a good birthday."

And she was gone, disappearing out of sight behind the door. Charlie watched her go, fully aware that although she didn't know it, Hermione had given him the only thing he wanted for his birthday. With the remnants of a smile ghosting his lips, he turned back on his heels and slipped back into Ron's attic bedroom.

Charlie didn't spare a look towards Harry or Ron, unwilling to explain anything that happened. Instead, he pulled the back the covers of his bed and got in, his mind drifting back — as it so often did — to that particularly splendid night of the Yule Ball. He decided in that moment that while his life may not be ideal, as long as he had Hermione, he'd somehow be okay.

"I'll get the lights," he heard Ron mumble, and with one more click of the Deluminator, the room was sent into a eerie darkness.

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

hello, hello! hope you enjoyed the chapter <3

expect more frequent chapters over the next week or so ;)

also, real quick, I just wanted to ask about chapter lengths — are they too long? I try to make them long in attempt to fully immerse Charlie into the story, but I don't want you guys wasting your valuable time to read these long af chapters... idk please lmk what you think! longer or shorter chapters?

this chapter was more of exposition than anything else, but stuff heats up in the next one! it'll be posted sometime this weekend!

until next time! much love <3

xo, selena