Be still, and wait without hope

[sunandsilence]

Title: Set the Fire to the Third Bar
Fandom: HP
Characters: Hermione Granger, Lily Evans, the Marauders
Pairing(s): Haven't I made this obvious??
Summary: Basically, it's your usual Harry-goes-evil-and-murders-Hermione's-parents-as-a-sick-birthday-present-so-she-remembers-the-Time-Travel-research-she-did-in-Third-Year-and-uses-thier-blood-to-send-herself-back-to-the-time-of-her-conception fic. Or maybe not. I'll let you be the judge of this one. 
Notes: So, it's only been ages since this story has been updated. The entire world (HP-wise) has changed. People died. I read DH. And re-read it. And re-re-read it. And that chapter I'd been sitting on until the book came out? Yeah, I scrapped it and wrote a brand-new spoiler-filled version in about a day and a half. Yay, me. Here's hoping you like it.

And just for those of you who didn't catch it the first time...

DH Spoilers ahead! 

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

-         T. S. Eliot, East Coker

 

Chapter Four

Of Dead and Living

 

He wondered what they would say if they knew Bellatrix had once been his favorite cousin.

They probably would not believe it, actually, he muses. Everyone he was friends with now had heard too many of his vicious, angry speeches about her over the years. Vicious bitch and ignorant harpy, and once, even, daringly, Death Eater whore. He directed most of his family-related anger towards her, or his mother.

Yet, in another lifetime, where he had not known anything other than doting Purebloods and cold approval from his family, Bella had been his first real friend. Cousin, too, but more than that, for all the years that lay between them. He got no saccharine praises from her; every word she deigned to speak must be earned, good or bad.

He liked that about her. Sometimes, in the weeks between the once-routine Howlers from his mother (may she rot in hell), he found himself thinking of that, and could admit, for one furtive half-second, that it was something he respected, even if it was the antithesis of his own behavior.

Endearments and praise dripped like honey from his lips. Curses, too, came easily. He was as physical as he was verbal, never sitting still, always moving, touching, slinging an arm around a pair of widening shoulders or aiming a punch at a leanly muscled arm. He never tired of contact or conversation, of the constant reassurance that he was loved, or at least liked. That he belonged.

And yet…

Bella’s grey eyes were a mirror of his own. Large, clear and sharp, framed by dark lashes against pale skin. As he got older the resemblance became more apparent; to Andromeda, to Bella, to Regulus. They were Black, all of them, flawless features and imperfect minds, no matter what colors they tried to paint themselves. Underneath the Gryffindor colors was Black blood.

Bella knew that. It was the only reason she had turned up at Alphard’s funeral, snuck away from one of Uncle Cygnus’s family dinners and her insufferable new fiancé and stood in front of the grave with him.

“Come back,” she said.

And for just one second he had wanted to. He had looked into her (his) eyes and seen in them mirrored her love and her pride and her need for her favorite to come back to the fold. She had seen him wavering, he could tell by the foreignly familiar spark of triumph that flashed in her eyes. Her hand had reached up to cup his face, and he had been recalled back to himself by the cold press of her ring against his skin.

“Never,” he said, and walked away.

Mr. Potter looked at him a little oddly when he Apparated in front of the Manor with his once-Black robes turned suddenly scarlet, but he did not say anything. 

“Hey, Mr. Potter,” Sirius said easily, and wondered when it had become so easy to pretend he did not care about his royally fucked up family.

“Sirius,” Mr. Potter nodded.

The older man waited until they were inside, with the door firmly closed behind them, before he embraced him.

“Welcome home,” he said.

Sirius tried not to let on how happy hearing those words made him. Sirius being Sirius, though, it was quite impossible.

“Thanks. It’s good to be back. Somehow, the funeral wasn’t all that fun.”

Mr. Potter raised an eyebrow. “Funny, that,” he said mildly. “But I’ve got a bit of news for you that might cheer you up. Of course, you could also end up feeling less than chuffed, but –” He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say “Hey, what can you do?”

“And this news would be…” Sirius trailed off, and gave the other wizard his most charming grin.

“Ah, I think I’ll let James explain that to you. I’ve got to be at the office in an hour.”

Sirius was surprised. “Now? But it’s almost dinner.”

“I know,” Mr. Potter grimaced. “Abby’s none too pleased with me, but times being what they are – ”

He let the sentence hang. There was no need to verbalize those thoughts, when the darkness was already apparent around them.

“Anyway,” he said. “James and the Prewett boys are somewhere about here, just thought I should warn you.”

“The Prewetts? What are they doing here? Shouldn’t they be going back to the Ministry with you?”

“Yes. I’m going to collect them now. But they needed a bit of a lie-in today, after – Well, I’m sure James will explain everything.”

Having grown up a Black, Sirius knew when someone was signaling an end to the conversation. That did not always mean he would go along with that, but then, he did have a special place in his heart for the Potters.

They stayed silent until they reached the end of the Manor, where the loud voices and louder laughter more than made up for any lack of speech from the two of them.

Sirius saw James sitting on the floor with two redheads he remembered were called Gideon and Fabian Prewett, though who was who, he had no idea. They may have been Pureblood, but the Prewetts, loud and rambunctious and steadfastly Gryffindor, had never been on Walburga Black’s list of People Who Were People. Rather said, now that he came to think of it. They looked like the sort of people he could get to like.

Which is why Mother had “no opinion” of them, he thought.

“Come along you overgrown teenagers,” Mr. Potter said, rolling his eyes affectionately at the little party spread out across his dining room floor. “We’ve got to be off before Moody comes after the lot of us. And leave the Flaming Peppermints behind,” he added as the taller of the two suddenly belched a plume of fire.

They grumbled and made a show of shaking all the brightly wrapped candies from their robes, but when Mr. Potter turned away to head for the fireplace, Sirius saw James hurriedly shove them back into the other wizards’ hands.

The Prewetts Flooed to the Ministry with James’s father, and then the two Marauders were left alone. 

“Padfoot,” James grinned.

He pushed aside a pile of candy wrappers and a discarded copy of the Holyhead Harpies team calendar (Lettie Brownbatt winked at them from the bikini-covered pages of July) with his foot. Sirius plopped down next to him, making sure to push his hair out of his eyes in one of those carelessly graceful gestures that so enthralled the female population of Hogwarts.

James rolled his eyes and smacked him on the nose with a Sugar Quill. The end broke off, and Sirius caught it on his tongue.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, grinning around the sudden treat.

James snorted. “You’re insufferable, you are. Don’t know why we put up with you.”

“It’s because of my dashing good looks, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s real helpful. Exactly what we need, some mad idiot who’s prettier than half the witches in our year.”

“I am not pretty.” This was said with as much disgust as he could fit into one word.

James was not impressed. “Yeah, and that’s why that bloke down at Hogsmeade tried to pick you up last month.”

“He was drunk. And he could’ve just been a pansy!”

“Which is why he made sure to mention that he didn’t mind flat-titted girls.”

“Exactly.”

“Does that mean I should be worried about you trying to bugger me in my sleep?”

Sirius smacked him around the head.

“Fine, I’ll stop,” James said, grinning. “How was the funeral?”

Sirius’s face darkened. “Fine.”

James raised an eyebrow, looking uncannily like his father had a few minutes before.

“That it? Normally, you’d have something a bit more…elaborative to say. ‘s not like you to mince words.”

“Bellatrix was there.” He slipped in the middle of the word, had to remind himself to add on the ending. Wouldn’t do to act like she’s family.

“Ah.”

Sirius grunted. James looked around shiftily, and once he was sure his mother was not going to suddenly appear (ever since the two wizards had gotten their licenses the summer before, Apparating in the house was strictly forbidden, so there was one worry gone), he pulled a small bottle of something golden out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it into Sirius’s hands.

The long fingers fumbled for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden action. James watched him for a moment, the sight as familiar to him as his own reflection. Slashes of skin like snow as Sirius’s fingers curve around the bottle, unscrew the top; a flash of red as it disappears between his lips. James wondered, not for the first time, what it might have been like if things were different, if it were him who was blessed with Sirius’s “dashing good looks.” Would Ev- Lily have gone for him if he looked like a Black instead of a Potter? Sure, Sirius and Lily got on about as well as oil and water, but that was because Sirius didn’t go for girls like her (girls with half a brain, Remus might have said), and besides, he’d never known Sirius to get turned down before.

Not that he was a troll, or anything, far from it. Thanks to Quidditch he at least had some fairly respectable muscles, and certainly none of the pudge that Peter carried around his waist. Still, it was hard to have a best mate who looked like Sirius and flirted like Sirius and managed to be so damn careless about it all.

“So, your dad said something about news,” Sirius said, interrupting his thoughts. “Sounded right shifty about it, too.”

James firmly ended his previous line of thought. There was no use moping over what couldn’t be, he supposed. Besides, if he kept it up he might start sounding like a girl, or worse, Peter. Not that Peter was a bad sort, or anything, but he did have his whiny moments.

 And the Black looks come with a price, he thought. I’d much rather be a Potter with messy hair and eyes like a bat.

“Eh?” he said absently.

“The news,” Sirius said slowly, around sips of Firewhiskey. “Your dad. You explaining it.”

“Right.” Well, that was certainly enough to tear him away from thoughts of wooing Lily Evans with his best friend’s face and only slightly-mussed hair. “That’s a long story, that.”

Sirius waited. James did not say anything.

“You’re going to need the bottle back, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Wanker,” Sirius grumbled as he passed James the Firewhiskey. “Got any more of this stuff?”

James shook his head. “Nah, we went through most of it after Christmas. And then we did the one that Moony sent us for Christmas on New Year’s.”

“Bugger.”

“Indeed.”

Sirius waited until James had had a fortifying swallow or three from the bottle before prompting him for the story again. This time James responded, hiccupping small bursts of smoke as the explanation went on, until Sirius was left staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

James took one look at him and shook his head. He took the neck of the bottle and angled it above Sirius’s mouth, before pouring in a good measure of Firewhiskey.

Sirius coughed and sputtered, having apparently tried to swallow it and spit it out at the same time. The end result was that most of it ended up going through his nose.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted. “That burns!”

What followed was a string of expletives that had Mrs. Potter placing a Sonorus Charm on her voice just so that she could tell them to “stop using that language right now” all the way from her bedroom upstairs at the far end of the Manor.  

James roared with laughter the whole time, but eventually he pulled himself together enough to conjure Sirius a glass of water. Sirius glowered at him as he drank it.

“So you’ve got a possible Death Eater from the future as your sister,” Sirius finally said. “And I thought my family was bad.”

“They are.”

“True,” Sirius inclined his head at that point. “So where is she now?”

James shrugged. “Hogwarts. Mum shoved her into the fireplace the second she woke up…at 4:30.”

“Damn, that was only an hour before I got here,” Sirius complained. “I could’ve gotten to see her. I would’ve been able to tell you if she was Narcissa’s spawn or something.”

“In the morning,” James clarified. “‘spect Dumbledore probably had one interesting wake up call.”

Sirius snorted. “Knowing him, he probably predicted it. He’s got a lot more Sight then that batty old hag who teaches Divination.”

“Nah, Dumbledore isn’t a Seer. He’s just really good at figuring things out.”

“They should offer that as a class instead.”

“Did I just hear the great Sirius Black admit that he could use an extra class?”

“Of course not. I was talking about for Remus – you know how he loves that sort of thing.”

“Right.”

“Feel like going down to the village for a bit?” Sirius asked.

James shrugged. “Sure. I’d fancy a chance to replenish our stores, maybe grab a pint at the pub…but let’s finish this bottle first.”

Sirius grinned and passed the bottle back.   

 

Hermione Granger was not having nearly so pleasant a time.

In her time, she had always known that Dumbledore could be a bit scary. He was the wizard who defeated Grindelwald, someone that Voldemort feared. It stood to reason that he could be a formidable person when the mood took him.

However, knowing a thing in your head and experiencing it firsthand were entirely different things.

She had never seen him look this fierce. Not angry, per say, but dangerous. As if, despite his wrinkles and the spangled blue robes, he would not hesitate to do away with her if he thought he had to do so.

Unbidden, a memory of a magically copied letter rose to the surface of her mind, loopy writing spelling out in clear letters, “for the greater good.”

That was a long time ago, she reminded herself.

Dumbledore sat and surveyed her from behind his half-moon spectacles. The sight is so familiar she wants to cry, although the look in his eyes as he does so is definitely not. He opens his mouth to speak, and she does something that only two years of desperation could have forced her to do.

She interrupts the Headmaster.

“You already know who I am,” she said. “You know that I’m from the future, and since you’re looking decidedly unfriendly right now, you probably know how I got here. Definitely know how I got here,” she corrected herself. “You were the one who gave me the books that showed me how it was done.”

A look of curiosity flits across his face for the briefest of moments.

“And now you want answers,” she finished.

“Rather succinctly put, but yes, that is the gist of it,” Dumbledore agreed, and while he does not look nearly as affectionate as she remembered, he was, at least, not looking at her like she disgusted him.

“I won’t tell you everything,” she cautioned. “There are some things better left unsaid.”

“Too true. The future is an unstable thing. It does not do to know too much about it.”

There was so much subtext in that statement, it made her head spin.

“Nothing is constant,” she shot back. “Time moves forward. What was once the future is now the present, or the past.”

To her surprise, he favors her with a smile, benign and benevolent as anything frozen in her memory.

“You’re well-versed in Magical Theory, I take it,” he said. “At least I know the standards of education at Hogwarts will not drop in the near future.”

Hermione is sorely tempted to say something about Dolores Umbridge.

“You’d be surprised,” she mutters instead. After all, if she did her job right, Voldemort will never rise again to be ignored by the Ministry.

She ignored the raised eyebrow. “How much do you know about Voldemort’s Horcruxes?”

The eyebrow rose higher. She kept ignoring it, even though her inner Prefect was screaming at her to show a little more respect. They were at war, here in a time that was not her own, and in the one she had left. Every word wasted could be another life that should have been spared.

Hermione suddenly thinks of the three portraits that have not yet joined the others on the wall – Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, and of course, the man sitting in front of her. 

“Horcruxes in the plural form?” Dumbledore asked.

He was appalled. They had all been, at first. That was before such things became normal.

“You are in the middle of a war, Headmaster,” she said. “With the second-Darkest wizard known to mankind. He will take every step possible to retain that position. He’s on that path right now.”

“And you have come here to stop him.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m here to stop the person who will do that.”

Dumbledore’s eyes blazed. He was on the verge of Petrifying her, at the very least.

“The person who will stop him is the Darkest wizard the world will ever see.” She hates herself for what she feels when she says that; the guilt and the sadness and the regret. What had happened to them all? “And it will all be because of Voldemort and his blasted Horcruxes.”

It was strangely comforting to her that she was not so far gone as to not blush when swearing in front of the Headmaster.

“I am afraid that I cannot help you if I do not understand the whole story,” Dumbledore prompted.

Hermione pursed her lips and continued. “Voldemort traveled farther on the path to immortality than almost anyone. In my time, he managed to split his soul into seven pieces. Five of them went into objects that he considered to be of great worth. One remained in his body. The other – ”

She trailed off. “I suppose I should start from the beginning, though, shouldn’t I? But where is the beginning? Here, in this office, about ten years ago? At a Muggle orphanage in the ‘20s? Or when you went to pick up a boy named Tom Riddle and found him with a wardrobe full of stolen trophies?”

Dumbledore does not question how she knows these things, and he does not stop her from rambling to herself.

“The beginning is exactly where we choose to place it,” he said.

She met his eyes, brown against brightest blue, and resumed her explanation.

“Then it begins with a job interview,” she says. “Between you and a slightly batty woman named Sibyll Trelawney.”

The wizened old wizard across the desk from her does not interrupt her. He sits quite still, his eyes conveying patience, and she finally understands just how it is that so many people ended up telling this man their deepest secrets. She had always wondered how Snape of all people could have brought himself to confess his undying love for a married woman to his old Headmaster. He was just that sort of person. She wished she had gotten the chance to figure that out in her own time, without a cloud of fear and suspicion lying between them.

“We destroyed six Horcruxes, and then Harry went off to battle Voldemort. We should have known that it was too easy, that victory couldn’t be achieved after barely two months of open war. But, then, none us thought there might be a seventh Horcrux, did we?

“It was all so wonderful for a time. There were a few weeks where the world was just…perfect, for most people. Everyone was so busy celebrating that no one noticed what was happening to Harry. We all wrote the sudden bursts of temper to mood swings, or having what we’d done sink in.

“We were all pretty stupid.

“It was sometime in the middle of November when Harry left. Ron and I wouldn’t have noticed a thing, except we were still so used to keeping watch by the door. He set the Caterwauling Charm off on his way out. It woke us up, but…

“There’s really no excuse, I suppose. We both felt that something wasn’t right, but neither one of us was brave enough to actually say anything. Who wanted to set the “Savior of the Wizarding World” off on another one of his screaming fits at two in the morning?

“So we let him go, believed him when he told us not to wait up, that he would be back in the morning. It was Harry, after all. Things change, but not that much.” As she spoke, Dumbledore had the feeling that she had said those words to someone else before. Perhaps a doubting friend with red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, he thought shrewdly.

“We didn’t hear anything for a few days. And then the news – a Muggle family newly-returned from their holiday in Majorca had just been murdered in Surrey. It was definitely the work of a Dark wizard. And after all the effort that had gone into preserving the secrecy of Harry’s whereabouts during his child, not many people made the connection between the Dursley family of Number Four, Privet Drive, and Harry Potter, the Chosen One.

“But some of us – all that was left of the Order and the DA – knew. We tried convincing people to go into hiding, tried finding Harry, tried to believe that the rumors of a new Dark Lord rising were just rumors and nothing more. But it didn’t work. It was Harry, and yet, it wasn’t Harry.

“He wasn’t the Harry that I knew. I still don’t know exactly how it had happened, but it was like Harry and Voldemort merged. They weren’t two separate entities sharing a connection anymore, but…”

For the first time, Dumbledore interrupted her.

“In essence divided,” he murmured.

Hermione nodded grimly. “I never felt less happy about figuring something out,” she said. “Harry picked up where Voldemort left off. The Ministry was still a shambles, and none of the Death Eaters had even gone to trial yet, so he still had a loyal crop of followers. He managed to break them all out of Azkaban and have the Ministry under control before anyone even admitted that it could be Harry behind all of it. Voldemort alone had been bad enough, but with his cunning and cruelty and Harry’s courage…

“It was disaster. Most people hadn’t listened to us when we told them to go into hiding, we only just barely made it ourselves. The Muggle-borns were rounded up within a week. Anyone with a useful talent was Imperiused and put to work. The rest…well, I’m sure you can imagine.

“We split up. With things as bad as they were, there was no hope of a second Resistance unless we had outside help. Staying together made it that much easier for Harry to pick us off, especially once the Taboo was in place. If anyone got pissed and let Harry’s name slip, or Voldemort’s, it was safer that only one of us died and not all.”

She swallowed heavily. One did not need magic to know that particular theory had been put to the test many times.

“I checked in on my parents when I could. At first I thought it was safer to avoid them altogether; to wipe their memories and send them away again, where no one could hurt them. But Harry found them at the airport. He’d tipped off the Muggle Minister and told him to have an eye out for anyone who looked like them, and, well, no one had thought to warn Downing Street that the Savior of the Wizarding World wasn’t what we’d thought he was.

“He didn’t do anything to them, though. Just waited at the house with them until I showed up, sure that they were dead already. And then he asked me to join him.  

“I feel like I should have said yes.”

She stopped there. Dumbledore seemed to understand that no amount of prompting would get the rest of the tale from her, and after all she had said, he could not conscience using Veritaserum on her. She had proven herself to be no threat to the school. The feathery-light probe of Legilimency that he subconsciously used at the start of any conversation (“testing the waters” Bathilda Bagshot had once complained good-naturedly) confirmed that she was not lying, and that she had no skill with Occlumency whatsoever.

He was distracted from his musings as she pulled out her wand and pointed it at her temple. He felt a brief irrational jump of alarm, the need of any teacher to protect a student coming to the fore, but then relaxed as he saw what she was doing.

Silvery blue mist coalesced around the tip of her wand as she pulled it away. He conjured a flask for her and she deposited the memories.

“I don’t think I’m going to be telling anyone about how I got here,” she said quietly. “But I thought that there were people who would like to know. To study it. Time travel can be a fascinating subject, you know.”

He nodded once and pocketed the flask. Moments later, there was a small pop! as a house elf appeared carrying a tray full of sandwiches and two glasses of pumpkin juice.

“Let us eat before I explain the arrangements that have been made for you.”

Hermione nodded and tucked into a dainty turkey and cheese sandwich, crust-less, and cut into a diamond shape. It was funny how amazing something like a sandwich could be after spending the better part of a year in hiding or on the run.

While they had lunch, they talked about more mundane topics. The latest issue of Transfiguration Today (Hermione could freely participate in this topic, having memorized each issue back-to-front); the Gryffindor-vs.-Ravenclaw Quidditch match coming up, and how “young Professor McGonagall” was being delightfully shameless about her enthusiasm for the game (and the fact that all of the classes that included one of the Gryffindor players were mysteriously lacking in homework from the lesson plans she had turned in to the Headmaster); Muggle literature (who knew Dumbledore was a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald?); and a thousand other things. Hermione almost felt guilty about it. Here was the opportunity that Harry had always wanted, but it was her sitting across the desk from the silver-haired headmaster.

Don’t think like that. Just remember, Harry won’t need this opportunity when you’re done. He’ll have parents and grandparents and a godfather…

The day passed with surprising speed. Hermione found that she enjoyed speaking to the Headmaster, something she could now find rather amusing when she reflected on her one-time shyness around him.

Nothing like a few near-death experiences and a dash of time travel to place things in perspective.

She only barely managed to cover her astonishment at the lengths the Headmaster had gone to protect her, especially when he called Abigail Potter into the office and she realized that the woman who had practically shoved her into the Floo pot was none other than Harry’s grandmother.

“Hello, Albus,” Abigail said as she walked in. “Hermione.”

There was just a touch of awkwardness about the way she pronounced Hermione’s name, tongue fumbling over the unfamiliar syllables, that put the other witch at ease. Apparently, Mrs. Potter was just as overwhelmed as she was, even if the older woman seemed more adept at hiding it.

“Shall I leave you two alone for a time?” the Headmaster offered, already rising from his seat.

Mrs. Potter nodded once. She waited until Dumbledore had left before speaking.

“I’m sure that this must all be very hard on you,” she began. “And would just like you to know that my family and I will try our best to make this as easy for you as we possibly can.”

Hermione was taken aback. “You don’t have to do that.” Then, in response to Mrs. Potter’s skeptical expression – “No, honestly, you don’t. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I – That is to say, I have always known that if it ever came to this, it wouldn’t be comfort I was looking for.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be miserable,” Mrs. Potter said. “Far from it.”

“Doesn’t it? You don’t – you can’t understand what it’s like. There are just so many things for me to do…”

“Including pretending you belong here,” the other witch cut across firmly. “Miss Gra- Pot- er, may I call you Hermione?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Hermione, you seem to be forgetting one very important thing. I can’t say I know what plans you and the Headmaster have cooked up, and frankly, I don’t want to. Albus’s schemes tend to go over my head a lot of the time. But I have had it made clear to me that in order for anything to work, you have to be above suspicion, and that means I have to not just act like your mother, but be her.”

Her mother was dead. The words were running through Hermione’s head like a mantra even as she warmed just the slightest bit at the realization of what Mrs. Potter was offering her.

“Why are you saying this?” she said, the words coming out sharper than she’d intended.

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” the other witch replied. “I had one once, long ago, but she is lost to me now, the same way your parents are lost to you. I think we could both use a chance to start over, don’t you?”

Hermione mulled over her words for quite a while. Somehow, Mrs. Potter instinctively knew not to break her silence. It was a lot to ask, especially of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.

And yet…

Her old life was lost to her. Even her name would not stay the same. Hermione Granger did not exist, and neither did her parents. It was rather ironic, really, that this was the way it should happen. Before she had come to Hogwarts, she had read all about another Potter, and dreamed of meeting him and falling in love and bearing his name in an entirely different way.

Irony was the currency of life, though, or so it seemed.

Quite a while passed before Hermione looked up. She did not say anything, only smiled – a trembling, fragile thing. But it was enough.

a/n: Ok, so this chapter got its PG-13 rating from the first few paragraphs alone, but before anyone starts complaining, I’d like to point out that said paragraphs were from the perspective of a teenage boy. More importantly, a teenage Sirius, which really makes all the difference. Much as I love the Hermione!angst, I also love the wonderful, irresponsible, craziness with just a side dish of arrogance and insecurity that is the Marauders at Hogwarts…or on vacation from Hogwarts. And sorry about the giant exposition dump, but there was some information that just had to be known before we could move on, and it was a real pain to write, so I tried to work it in as well as possible and break it up with some Sirius- and Potter-filled fun. I hope you had fun with this chapter, and sorry it took so long to get out…I pretty much died of DH anticipation/theory-making/reading Mugglenet editorials until…now, actually. And since I’m still halfway through re-re-reading DH, I guess I’m still sort of in the midst of book 7 insanity. Oh, and since new information now states that the Potter family lived in Godric’s Hollow, I’m going to put the Manor as being near it…which is to say, miles away, but the closest Wizarding residence nonetheless. And also, James now has an aunt (married, and therefore no longer a Potter) who lives in “the village”, just to be on the canon-safe side (even thought this whole fic is pretty much a gaping hole in the actual canon timeline.)

The title and the quote are, surprisingly, not from a Snow Patrol song (so much for my little theme), but from a T. S. Eliot poem which I’ve loved…pretty much forever, really. To tell the truth, the quote was originally going to be:

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.  

But that was just too long. Still, if you haven’t already, read that poem! – stops shameless poetry-nerding -