Twenty

Angelina slipped a blanket over Nia's sleeping form, pressing a kiss on the younger girl's temple before leaving the room and shutting the door quietly. Fred was leaning against the wall by the doorframe, taking her hand when she appeared and kissing it quickly. Angelina smiled at him, thankful for the gesture.

"How is she?" Fred asked on a whisper, rubbing his fingers against hers. The action soothed Angelina's frayed nerves and she went to him, needing to feel his solidness and his strength.

"She finally dozed off about ten minutes ago," Angelina muttered into Fred' chest. "She won't speak to me . . . not even a grunt. She just sits there in some kind of—of daze . . ."

Fred kissed her head and held her tighter. "She's been through a lot, love. Between what happened to Voldemort and to Harry–"

"I know." Angelina sighed, squeezing Fred's waist before pulling back and framing his face with her hands. She looked at the simple diamond on her left hand and smiled, meeting Fred's blue eyes that were now tender. He chuckled slightly before bending his hand and pressing a light kiss to her lips.

"So," he said, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "Is having your baby sister around supposed to be . . . practice of some sort?"

Angelina snorted and rolled her eyes. "Hardly! She just needs a place to stay, and I understand why she doesn't want to stay with my parents. Daddy would just drive her crazy with questions–"

"He's an Auror, love."

"But Nia just lost her boyfriend. She needs time to grieve."

Fred frowned as Angelina pursed her lips into a thin line, anger bubbling below the surface on behalf of her sister. Not even two months had passed since Harry rid the world of Voldemort, and during a time when there should be much celebrating, the people who should be at the fore of that merriment were doing anything but. Ginny and Draco were over often, trying to cheer up their friend and spirit sister, but Nia was just as mute and motionless with them as she was with everyone else. When Jamilah visited, at least, Nia would rest her head in her grandmother's lap, but she still stared into a void only she could see, barely blinking and her breathing such that Jamilah would put her hand underneath Nia's nose just to make sure.

"Stupid Potter," Angelina ground out, sniffling and brushing away a tear. Fred kissed Angelina's forehead and lead her to their bedroom.

"Let's get you to bed, no?"

Angelina nodded against them, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep in her fiancée's arms—the only place on earth that seemed right at the moment.

&&&

Ginny crept down the stairs of the cottage, following the sounds of harsh breathing and items crashing. Brilliant lights played upon the walls, and a shadow seemed to frolic in them. Suddenly, there was a bloodcurdling roar, propelling Ginny down the rest of the stairs only to see a pale-blond head touching the floor, hands trying to tear out hair. Ginny rushed to him, pulling him in her arms and whispering comforting words to his ears.

"Oh love . . . oh love . . ." Ginny murmured. She wondered when he would snap, and she figured this latest trip to Fred and Angelina's would send him over the edge. Truth be told, she wasn't far behind him, but she had to be strong enough for the both of them . . . yelling and screaming wasn't going to make things the way they were.

"Ginger," Draco moaned, his voice sounding like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. "Ginger . . ."

His hands went tighter around her, almost painfully so, but Ginny didn't wince, changing her position so she sat fully on the ground as he rested his head in her lap. Ginny looked around the dusty room, shuddering at the destruction in it. Broken furniture was all on one side of the room, and she could barely tell what they were before Draco put his ire to it. Shattered glass was sprinkled around the floor like confetti, and some drapery was still smoldering from Draco's last attack. Ginny kissed the top of his head, hoping that would calm Draco just a little, but she knew he needed his outlet, and this cottage was the perfect place to do it. Narcissa had told him about it when they arrived at Headquarters after the battle, seeing the look on her son's face and knowing he would need time away from Hogwarts and the ugly scene that had been rendered there. He didn't even attend the Leaving Feast, and though Ginny wanted to stay with him, she had to be there for Ron and Hermione . . .

"I miss her, Ginny . . ." Draco said quietly, taking a deep breath and clutching her thighs. "I miss her."

"I know, baby," Ginny said, running her fingers through his thin blond hair. "I miss her, too."

"Damn Potter!" Draco said, springing from Ginny's comforting grasp and breathing heavily. His eyes were flashing quicksilver and gray and Ginny cupped his face with her hands, keeping Osiris's powers at bay. Blowing up things wasn't going to help anything.

"It was something he had to do," Ginny offered, though she couldn't keep the derision out of her own voice.

"He's killed my sister," Draco said, his voice so small and lost. Ginny bit back a sob, pressing an urgent kiss to Draco's lips. At first he didn't respond, still sniffling as his tears burned her fingertips, then suddenly, he was kissing her back with such passion . . . such force, that they was suddenly in their bedroom, her clothes being torn of with lightning speed and her hands no less busy with his. They needed each other in the most basic way . . . they needed to remind each other they were alive . . . that all was not lost. Maybe once they reminded themselves, they could start reminding Nia, too.

&&&

Narcissa smiled wanly at Remus as he placed a steaming hot cup of tea in front of her. Remus sat perpendicular to her, grasping her hand and squeezing it as he nodded to her cup, indicating she should take a sip.

"It's chamomile," he said softly. "It should help you sleep."

Narcissa rubbed the back of his fingers while blowing into the cup before taking a sip. The hot liquid tasted only lukewarm to her, but she appreciated Remus's gesture to make her feel better.

Remus sighed, pressing a long kiss to Narcissa's palm, and she hiccupped, feeling the familiar burn of tears hitting the backs of her eyes. She hadn't expected to feel this way with the news of Lucius's death. The Aurors had done a sweep of the death-laden Hogwarts grounds, and he had been among them. It was true she and Lucius did not have a happy marriage, but during these last few months . . . Lucius's letters to her had been more contrite and repentant than she wanted to believe. It wasn't until Dumbledore explained the role Set/Thanatos had played in Lucius's life did she start to warm her heart to her husband . . . start to forgive. Lucius had been under a type of Imperius all along, forced to serve a master he didn't necessarily want to serve or even know he was serving, all so he could keep his son from his rightful destiny.

Narcissa looked at Remus, looked into the man's kind yellow-brown eyes, looked at the scars he bore because of his monthly changes . . . looked at the stress and all the loss he had endured during his lifespan. He really was an expert at it, and Narcissa knew if Remus hadn't been here, she would've snapped a long time ago. She took another sip of her tea, starting when she felt the heat—that blessed heat this time—and gave a small yet very sincere smile to her table partner.

"Good girl," Remus murmured into her palm before kissing it again. "You're on the mend yet."

Her small smile slipped again, her brows furrowing as she thought of her son. "He still doesn't know about Lucius."

Remus nodded, placing their hands on the table. "Are you going to tell him?"

Narcissa ran fingers through her hair and shook her head, idly stirring her spoon into her teacup. "He's been through enough. I don't want to burden him with any more."

She yawned then, the chamomile tea and Remus's caresses on her hand lulling her body to the sleep it so desperately needed. Remus smiled, tugging on her hand as he stood, causing her to do the same. Narcissa wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes, brushing her mouth against his. Remus brought her closer, nipping the shell of her ear and whispering her name into it.

Narcissa laughed huskily, fanning her fingers on the underside of Remus's jaw. "I thought you wanted me to sleep . . ."

He kissed her even as he scooped her into his arms, climbing the stairs two at a time. "I do . . . I just want to love you, first."

"You already do," she whispered against his mouth, just as he shut the door to their room. It was that knowledge that helped Narcissa hope for a brighter future, especially for her son.

&&&

His hands were strong, yet gentle as they worked the tension out of her shoulder blades, the oil warm as he dripped it along her spinal cord before rubbing it into her soft skin. She was trying very hard to enjoy what he was doing for her, but how could she, when one of her charges was gone and her granddaughter's heart was gone with him?

Long hair brushed her shoulder and breath fanned her cheek before full lips pressed a kiss to it. "Relax, love."

Jamilah smiled a Sirius, and by his displeased look, she knew it wasn't good enough. Sirius crawled from the bed to kneel along side it, cupping her face with his hand, remnants of oil still upon it. "I'm sorry . . ."

Sirius shook his head and kissed her softly, resting his forehead against hers. "I understand . . . believe me, I do . . ."

Sirius had been rather calm about the entire ordeal, something that simultaneously worried and relieved Jamilah. Then again, with Voldemort not a threat, perhaps Sirius could feel a little peace even though his godson was gone.

"It's just . . . no preparation, you know?" Jamilah said, sitting up though clutching the sheet at her chest. Sirius remained on his knees, his hands rubbing her thighs in comforting strokes before placing his head in her lap.

"Harry didn't enter this fight blindly, love," Sirius said, his warm breath tickling some bare skin on her thigh. "He knew the risks–"

"So did my granddaughter; doesn't make the hurt any less."

Sirius looked up at her, his chin resting on the tops of her thighs and his fingers threading through hers. The candlelight casted shadows upon his face, though his eyes were bright with determination. "She'll get better; I know she will."

Jamilah closed her eyes. "You can't live without your heart, Sirius."

Sirius shook his head, sliding his hands up her arms to cup her face again. He brushed a kiss upon her nose, then rested his forehead against hers, just taking a few seconds to breathe before replying. "I remember the one time when Harry was a baby . . . right before his first birthday. He had climbed upon a step stool, trying to reach his favorite cup—had snitches on it of all things—and James and I were arguing over . . . something, I can't remember what. Anyway; he'd just gotten that cup and the stool slid from beneath him and he fell, slapping the ground really hard. Well, James, as you know, went berserk, holding his little boy to him, and begging little Harry to open his eyes. I was beside myself with fright and self-loathing—how could we not pay attention to a little baby? However, not even a minute after the accident, Harry opened those big green eyes and let out the biggest giggle I'd heard from him yet. James's relief was so profound I thought he would squeeze his son to death!"

Jamilah very much appreciated Sirius's effort, but, "He's not here to giggle now, Sirius."

Sirius hugged her tightly, kissing her neck briefly. "We'll hear it again someday, love . . . I know we will . . ."

Jamilah said nothing else, allowing him to hold her and lend her some of his strength.

&&&

There were boxes everywhere . . . but both of them were too tired to do anything about it—too tired to even lift their wand and remove some of them. She watched him look around the flat—their flat—with a mixture of awe and sadness across his face. His hand fell across the first door on the right; it was to be Harry's room, at least until he could get his own flat.

Now he wouldn't be needing the room or a flat.

"Ron?" Hermione called softly, worrying her wedding band as she worried about her husband. He gave her a brief smile, yet continued to trace his fingers along the wood paneling.

"We had so many plans, love . . . so many," Ron said on a whisper, eyes squinted as if trying to see far into the distance. "And now they've all turned to shit."

"Ron–"

"He was supposed to be our children's godfather, you know," Ron said on a laugh, looking at his wife with tenderness. His eyes dropped to her stomach before coming back to her face. "We were going to have a Quidditch team full of kids and he was going to be the godfather to every single one of them . . ."

"Ronald . . ." Hermione began, but knew there wasn't anything she could say to reassure him. She, like everyone else, thought that once Harry defeated Voldemort, everything would be fine . . . go back to normal . . . happiness would reign. They were anything but happy—at least happy to their fullest potential. A big part of their life was no longer there, and the adjustment was harder than they thought it would be. The seat next to Ron at the Gryffindor table was conspicuously empty during the Leaving Feast, and it represented the gaping hole that was in both of their hearts. More than once Hermione held her husband while he shed silent tears for their lost friend, wiping away her own as she stared at the dial of the Muggle alarm clock. They had stayed with his family for the first few weeks after leaving Hogwarts; they both needed as much love, support, and distractions as they could get before moving into their own flat just on the outskirts of London.

But now it was just the two of them, and Ron seemed dangerously close to falling apart.

"No."

Ron whipped his eyes to her, his oncoming grief interrupted by confusion. "What?"

"Come here, Ron," she commanded, crossing her arms at her chest and tapping the carpeted floor with her foot for good measure. "Now."

Ron glanced at the door one last time before following her directing, red hair falling into his eyes as he stared down at her. Immediately, Hermione felt safe. His height and solid build made him be the very knight he was when they were first years, expertly playing McGonagall's chess game to enable Harry to get the Stone. He was still her knight—he just needed reminding.

So she did, licking her lips briefly before looping her arms around his neck and bringing him down for a deep kiss. Ron was startled, but not so startled he could get his bearings quickly and return the kiss with equal enthusiasm. Suddenly she was weightless, his hands urging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he climbed his way over the boxes to their sofa. He sat down, Hermione now straddling him, and ended their kiss with small pecks. He rested his forehead against hers, his lightly-freckled face flushed but with a smile.

It had been so long since he smiled.

"I needed that," he said wryly, tangling his hands in her unruly chocolate curls.

Hermione gave him another small kiss and nodded. "I know you did, love."

He sighed deeply as her fingers caressed the hair at the nape of his neck. "I wish we could've gone with him . . . it was always the three of us . . ."

Hermione shook her head, her face the picture of remorse. "Our paths were diverging long before now, Ron. This was a journey had to take by himself . . . just like first year. We help him get there, but ultimately, he has to make that final trek alone."

"It's bloody unfair," Ron said, his fingers digging into her waist, though not painfully so.

"I know, Ron, I know," Hermione said, hugging him. Ron adjusted her so he cradled her in his lap, his lips brushing her temple and forehead. She closed her eyes at his attentions, feeling very loved as she always did with Ron.

"At least I have you, Hermione," he said quietly after a few moments. "I don't know how I would've survived if I lost you, too."

Hermione turned his face, forcing him to look deeply into her eyes. "You'll never have to find out, because you'll never lose me."

Ron gave her a skeptical look. "Hermione–"

The kiss was short but said everything she needed to say. "You won't."

Ron's eyes darted along her face, and she smiled reassuringly at him. "You won't lose me either, Hermione."

She merely shrugged, nuzzling her nose against his. "I know."

He frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Who are you talking to, Ron?"

He blinked at her, then a slow, disarming smile stretched across his face, causing her to giggle right before he crushed his mouth to hers. "My brilliant Know-It-All . . ."

And as he kissed her, Hermione felt light and happy, assured in the fact she and Ron could face anything as long as they were together.

&&&

Dumbledore rubbed Fawkes's head, the phoenix letting out a squawk of contentment before flying off high in the sky until he was nothing more than a dot. The winds whipped sand into his face, but Dumbledore was unbothered, his Shielding Spell preventing the small particles from becoming a nuisance.

He looked at his companion, familiar red ponytail whipping in the wind, the fang earring hitting the side of his neck in rapid succession. There was a haunted look in those brown eyes, and Dumbledore put a kind hand on his bicep.

"It had to be done," the old wizard said gravely.

Bill raised his eyes brows, rubbing his chin contemplatively. "I just remember seeing the look on my brother's face . . . on Nia's face . . . did it really have to be this way?"

"Yes. On the path to the ultimate good, sacrifices have to be made."

Both men looked at the hazy image of the temple as it sank back into invisibility. It had been a trying couple of weeks, finally culminating into this trip to Aswan. There were so many goodbyes . . . so many people wanted to pay their respects to The Boy Who Lived. Even Dumbledore had to wipe away a few tears; Harry had become a son to him . . . especially given his relationship with Nia.

He hoped the Little One would understand when she got older.

"I trust you, Headmaster," Bill said, giving a salute to the disappeared temple and took out his wand, muttering in the ancient language as he Apparated back to London.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, breathing in the ancient air before closing his eyes and shrugging off his robe. He sat down in the sand with his legs folded, murmuring an old spell while taking deep breaths in-between incantations.

"0ime swt ouwnx etoot . . ." Dumbledore chanted, feeling sweat begin to fall off him like rain. Soon, the entire space where he sat was wet, as though he sat in a puddle, and the puddle started to track a river through the sand, going a few feet in front of him when a woman rose from it, dark and nude save for a simple sheath. Dumbledore's mouth was suddenly as dry as the desert in which he sat. She smiled at him . . . a smile he hadn't seen in over 100 years.

"Asenath," he managed to rasp. The incantation had worked; his wife had returned to him—for however long he had—but to see her face again . . .

"All-boos," she said softly, walking, but never really touching the ground. She held out a hand to him. "Come, my love."

Dumbledore stared at her hand for a moment, scared that if he touched her she'd vanish as the temple did. However, he gathered his courage took her hand and stood. He felt the years melt off as he did so, until suddenly he was the very same age when he first met Asenath all those years ago.

Unable to help himself, Dumbledore pulled her into his arms, her light laughter causing his, and he lifted her, spinning her around before placing her back on the ground and giving her a kiss over 100 years in the making.

"I've missed you, my love," he said breathlessly when they broke apart.

Asenath's eyelids fluttered, and she rested her forehead against his chest. "It is only now I realize how much I've missed you, All-boos."

They held each other, his body getting used to the feel of hers again. Dumbledore knew he didn't have much time . . . but he wanted to indulge himself a little, feeling he had earned that right.

"Asenath–"

She stilled his words with her fingers, tracing over them with a faint smile on her face. "I've always liked the way you said my name, All-boos."

"And you mine," he admitted.

Asenath nodded, linking her fingers with his and taking a deep breath. "The next few years will be hard—harder than even you may be prepared for them to be. Take counsel with the gods, All-boos. Tell the reincarnates to do the same—especially Nia."

"Nia is not well—"

"Neither was Aset when Apedemak was gone, but Nia, like her foremother, is strong. She will get through it."

Dumbledore cupped her cheeks, his breath puffing against her forehead. She was cool, like a much-needed glass of water. "She mourns for him as I mourn for you, my love."

Asenath kissed his palm and smiled. "Do not mourn me, love. I have never left! I am always here."

"Asenath–"

"I am in our children, All-boos. I am in Jamilah and Nia . . . I will be in her children should she have them."

Dumbledore's eyes clouded over and he stared at the sky. "If Set doesn't get to her first."

"Yes," Asenath said lowly. "The more time that passes, the harder it will be to annihilate him."

"He's the one who attacked Harry . . . I'm sure of it."

"And now he thinks he's won," Asenath continued. She forced Dumbledore to meet his eyes. "That will be his downfall."

But even he, the eternal optimist that he was, was having a hard time seeing how. With Harry gone, the reincarnates were breaking at the seams, particularly the one who needed to be the fittest. But his Asenath continues to have hope, and so long as she did, Dumbledore would not give up, and do everything in his power not to let the others give up either.

&&&

His reflection was cracked and a little cloudy, parts of his head separating onto the five digits of his fingers. His bottom lips trembled and his nostrils flared, his vision becoming blurry as scalding tears hit his nerveless silver hand and the rotted wood of the three-legged table. Torn drapes hung ominously above and around him, cobwebs decorating the walls and overturned broken furniture that littered the floor. There was a single candle providing ill lighting, but he didn't need much more than that . . . didn't deserve much more after what he's done.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he muttered, hitting the handle of the knife against his temple so hard blood trickled down the side of his face. The acrid smell calmed him a little—he'd been used to it for so long it was as if his body needed it in order to function properly. He used the flat blade of the knife to wipe away the blood, then stared at it blankly . . . wondering what it would look like completely covered in it . . .

"I'd be doing the world a favor," he muttered, his eyes growing slightly, excitement and adrenaline running through his veins again. It was a similar feeling he had when he had been a seventh year in school, having used James's Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the Restricted Section upon a dare Sirius had given him. He had wanted to pick out the best, most restricted text he could find, but none of them seemed to be good enough. However, a plain text with the Egyptian Eye of Horus had caught his attention . . . even more so because upon opening it, the book was empty papyrus leaves. There was a reason for this book to be there, he had reasoned, but he wouldn't show the others until he had figured out just what it was . . .

By the time he did, he had turned traitor to James and Lily and had framed one best friend while alienating the other.

He had been trapped, lured by curiosity and the desire to be seen as worthy of being a Marauder. The ancient god had sequestered him in a tiny corner of his mind, using his body as a vessel to take over the world . . . much as he did with Tom Riddle. It was worse than being under Imperius because his prison was self-inflicted, and his foe one of the strongest forces on the planet. His last and only triumph against that evilness was turning himself into a mouse for 12 years . . .

Pettigrew twirled the tip of the blade into his temple, feeling the burn of skin and nerves breaking as he laughed maniacally. Sirius's return had allowed Set to completely take over him—Sirius and that bloody cat of the bushy-haired girl. The feelings of shame and sorrow over his betrayal had fueled the dark god to grow in power. He'd escaped Sirius's attack, had seen vestiges of the god's ancient foe in the boy's green eyes, and worked tirelessly with Voldemort to bring Harry and whoever else aided him down.

But then, Pettigrew had realized Set's purpose was greater than settling an old score. It was to gain control of the world. He knew the tickets were inside two reincarnates, but one in particular. And when Pettigrew found out the Weasley girl was Nephthys's reincarnate, he realized he hadn't been in control at all; Set had recognized something about her, even if the piece didn't fall into place until much later.

"And now," Pettigrew mumbled, pulling the knife from his hand and dragging it across his left palm, grinning at the blood bubbling from the crooked line he made. "He's found her . . ."

Aset. She looked just like her mother . . . just like the goddess after which she was named. He'd hung around after delivering the devastating blow to young Potter's body, enjoying the way his eyes flashed green as his life dribbled out the side of his mouth. She had looked at Harry the way he had always dreamed she'd look at him . . . but bide his time, he would.

But not with Pettigrew this time. The god had left his body once Pettigrew had fled the scene, looking upon his former host with disgust before floating off to Merlin knows where. Apparently, Pettigrew had served his function; Set would greet his bride in a body worthier of the introduction. Pettigrew didn't mind, though; in fact, he and the god finally agreed on something. His body had served its purpose . . . as bad as it clearly was.

The lines on his wrists were just as crooked as the one on his palm, and as the blood poured out of his body, he asked faint forgiveness to whomever before succumbing to the forgiving dark abyss.

&&&

He really shouldn't be here . . . if he were caught; it would jeopardize everything they'd been striving to achieve. But he wasn't as strong as everyone else gave him credit for being; the separation was just too great.

He hadn't wanted to leave her, but he knew it was his destiny. He'd tried to dry her tears, tried to reassure her he would be all right—and he was. He'd never felt better, actually—even got a chance to be with his parents again—but part of him wondered if this was the price he had to pay for such a gift.

He sighed, brushing a curl from her forehead, then kissing that forehead lingeringly. He missed her skin, her scent. He missed holding her in his arms as they stared at the stars in the Astronomy Tower—a privileged earned because they had friends in "high" places.

"You know you shouldn't be here."

He looked at the older man wearily before glancing back at her sleeping form. "She understands, right?"

The other man walked closer to the bed, apparently as unable to be away from her as he was. Slim, bony fingers ghosted upon her cheek before pulling away as if scalded. "She knows why . . . but the understanding will take time . . ."

"I'm coming back for her."

"But you cannot do that until you're fully healed. Come . . . the more illicit trips you make up here the longer it'll take for your return."

He wanted to argue that he felt fine, but he knew it wouldn't do. Unable to stop himself, he cupped her cheek with a gentle hand and placed a delicate, chaste kiss to Nia's lips.

"I love you," he whispered, before leaving her bed and slipping back into the darkness with Professor Snape.

Five minutes later, amid the stillness of the room, Nia hugged the pillow closer to her and smiled faintly.

"I love you, too, Harry . . ."