It had been exactly five days since he had had the dream. Harry knew it, because that's how long it had been since he had had a single night of unbroken, fitful sleep. For almost a week now, he had lain quietly in bed, cradling Ginny all through the night as he tried to remain as still and as quiet as possible so he wouldn't alarm her.

He had a feeling that Ginny sensed something was wrong anyway. There were times when he knew there was something more behind the regular "hello"'s and "how are you"'s, but neither did she push when he didn't volunteer anything more than usual. If he didn't articulate it to her, it was not because he couldn't share it with his wife; there was nothing he couldn't share with her. But he just didn't want to hear himself say the words out loud--that is, if he even knew what the words were.

Tonight began the way all the other nights had begun. He had drifted in and out of a surface sleep, eyes closed, but well aware of the cool air in the room, gentle knocking of the branches outside their window, and the even rhythm of Ginny's breathing. She was curled up against him, her hip touching his, her arm draped across his stomach. The feel of her beside him had been his anchor all night whenever he had felt fatigue beckoning him into slumber. He had resisted each time.

But at last, he could no longer fight it.

Perhaps Harry had known all along--somewhere in the back of his mind--that if he allowed himself cross that border of consciousness, that would be it. He'd feel that sick, clammy gnawing in the pit of his stomach once again, and then the images would flood his mind once more.

Just as before, darkness closed in on him like a hungry beast stalking its prey. His lungs ached from the air trapped inside, begging to be released; even breathing seemed to require an effort now. All the blood in his body seemed to have rushed to his head, making it throb, and making each step he took tentative.

This time, he knew. He knew he was dreaming. And yet, nothing looked as it did before. There were no trees surrounding him this time, nor was this wet soil beneath his feet. It was... sand. No, not sand... gravel? Or perhaps it was rocks. Yes, rocks and tiny pebbles, littered across the ground. He felt mist on his face, and the cool breeze that brushed against him brought with it the scent of gillyweed.

When he looked down, he realized he was standing on a shore of a lake.

In the night, the surface was dark, almost black with the sheen of the moon, waves rippling gently across it. He was not nearly as cold as he had been in the other dream, though Harry shivered nevertheless. He knew he was wearing a cloak, but too few layers underneath.

His dizziness had not ceased. The world around him was still spinning, and he found it hard to even stand still, as if his legs had lost the ability to hold his body upright.

Somehow, he had come closer to the edge of the water without even being aware of it. There was an inexplicable force drawing him towards the lake, and even as his mind tried to stop it, he couldn't. In the flash of a few seconds, he felt the stab of cold water against his skin. It took him a moment to register the fact that he had fallen into the lake, and it was then that he realized he was breathing. He had begun to sprout gills, and his hands began to form webbing between his fingers.

He must have eaten gillyweed.

He was moving, though he wasn't quite sure if he was kicking his feet to reach the surface once more, or to dive even deeper into the depths of the lake. And that voice... he heard that voice again, that same voice he had heard in the forest.

"You came... I knew you would come..."

Harry thought he saw an indistinct shape a few feet away from him, but the dark, swirling waters distorted his vision, and he couldn't make out any telling details.

Was it a mermaid? A siren? Is this what had been calling out to him all along?

That voice... There was something familiar about that voice... He had heard it before, he knew it...

"Harry??"

Harry realized he was sitting up in bed now, taking gulps of air, as if he had really been underwater for the last few minutes and was able to breathe freely only now. Ginny ran her hand along his forehead, brushing away the damp locks clinging to his skin.

"Harry, talk to me... what is it?"

He looked at her, still disoriented, still trying to get his bearings.

"You had the dream again, didn't you?"

He nodded, then, after finally finding his voice, whispered, "Ginny... I think it's happened again..."

All Hermione wanted to do at the moment, was sit in a nice big tub full to the brim with warm water and bubbles so big and foamy that they tickled her skin.

That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

She loved her job, she really did. She had loved working in the Department of Muggle-Wizard Relations, ever since Ron's father had convinced Nigel Grey to recruit her out of Hogwarts, and place her in the very department he himself had founded all those years ago. And she had been honored to inherit Mr. Grey's position, after he took over as Director, upon Mr. Weasley's retirement.

But if she had to go to another one of these useless, boring, pompous conferences again, she was going to tear her hair out.

In theory, being in Edinburgh should have been something to look forward to. Hermione loved the city, and it had held cherished memories for her, as it had been where she and Ron had honeymooned. But reality set in when she realized on the first day of this blasted conference that she would not get a chance to wander around the city after all; instead, she would be stuck all day in these endless meetings, with wizards who seemed to enjoy nothing more than hearing themselves talk.

And all the while, her thoughts seemed to center on anything other than Muggle-Wizard Relations: her children, her house, Ron. She couldn't be in Edinburgh without thinking of Ron. Every once in a while, as some old wizard droned on and on about how best to educate the wizarding world about the contributions of Muggles to society, she would look outside the window, and wish she could be anywhere but here.

She was completely exhausted by the time she got back to the inn. The only thing that had sustained her in the last few hours of that dreadful meeting at the end of the day, was the thought of soaking in a nice, warm bath.

"Alohomora..."

The lock clicked open, and she pushed the heavy wooden door open, then unfastened her robes and flung them onto the bed. It took a few seconds for her to realize that a fire was burning in the hearth; she was sure she had put last night's out before heading to the conference this morning.

When she turned, she saw a figure crouching by the fire, holding his hands up to the flames to keep warm.

"Ron?"

He turned his head and gave her a smile. "Hey, beautiful..."

"Ron!!"

She raced across the room, flinging herself into his arms. His hands found the small of her back, and he pressed her against him. Just being in his embrace again made Hermione feel instantly at home.

"Oh God, I've missed you," she said, taking in his familiar scent of musk and an open sky. She pulled away and laughed. "Look at us," she said, "married for almost fifteen years, and we can't even stand to be apart for five days!"

It was then that she noticed he wasn't joining her in laughter. There was a hint of a smile on his face, but it was a forced one, one he would always use when he didn't want her worrying about him, when she knew better than to believe that nothing was bothering him. He wasn't even looking at her. She tilted his chin up so their eyes would meet. She felt--and saw--two days' growth of beard, and there were faint circles underneath his tired blue eyes, which were missing that sparkle of mischief and fire that she was so used to seeing.

"Ron," she said, "what is it? You're coming home with me, right? The mission's over... isn't it?"

"I'm coming home, but... but the mission's not over..." He swallowed, taking his eyes away from hers once more, and she could tell he was having difficulty telling her this. "I couldn't find him..." His voice was thick with regret. "There was nothing more I could have done there... so I told them I'd investigate further from home..." He looked up at her again. "But I just had to see you first before I went back... I just... had to see you..."

She brought her hand to his cheek.

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. For a while, it was all he did, and then a desperate whisper, seeking healing and comfort, broke out of his throat.

"I just... need to be with you tonight..."

There was nothing more to be said; she understood. She took him in her arms and kissed him, then let him lose himself in her.

She drifted off into a contented sleep sometime later, her head pillowed on Ron's chest, the easy rhythm of his breathing lulling her. She didn't know how long she had been asleep, but in time, she awoke to the gentle brush of his fingers, languidly running up and down her arm. Whatever this was that had brought him to her tonight, it was weighing heavily on his mind, for he usually fell into a deep slumber after they made love. But tonight, he was troubled, and she could sense it. After a while, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him, brushing away a lock of hair from his eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

He brought her hand to his lips, letting it stay there for a while. His voice was raw when he spoke, barely louder than a murmur, and cracking with emotion.

"How someone could do this to an innocent child..."

She moved her hand to cup his face, his copper stubble grazing her palm. "You can't do this, Ron," she said softly.

"Do what?"

"Take this home with you like this. Let it affect you this much-"

"Hermione, you didn't see what I saw!"

He tore away from her, taking her by surprise, then walked over to the window. A full moon hung low in the sky outside; Ron stood still, staring at it without saying anything for a long time. Eventually, Hermione came up behind him, sliding her hand up between his shoulder blades, then running it over his shoulder and finally letting it settle in the crook of his arm. After a while, he put his hand on her waist and drew her to him, and Hermione draped her other arm around his torso, embracing him.

"You didn't see how dark it was in the forest," he said at last. "You didn't see his footprints in the mud... He... struggled..."

Hermione felt his voice break again, felt the tension in his body as he fought to keep from letting the emotion spill out of him.

"Damn it, I have to find him, Hermione, I have to..."

"You will," she said. "Ron, I know you will."

Her eye caught an unmistakable flutter of wings outside the window; Ron must have seen it too, for he unlatched the window and opened it.

"Is it Gulliver?" Hermione said, her heart skipping a few beats at the thought of Mrs. Weasley sending word about one of the girls.

Her question was answered when an owl flew into their room, a large eagle owl, not at all like the mottled owl the Weasleys had.

"Oh thank God," she said, "it's a Ministry owl..."

Ron, however, did not seem so relieved. He watched it fly in and perch itself on the dresser, waiting for them to unfasten the letter attached to its talons. After a while, Ron finally walked over to it and took the envelope, then the owl took off, having done its duty.

"Well? Aren't you going to open it?"

Quietly, he said, "Hermione, would the Ministry be sending you anything?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. You know Parvati--I'm gone for a few days, and she starts panicking about the simplest of things. That's probably her just asking me where we keep the extra quills or something-"

Ron shook his head. "It's not her writing," he said. He looked up at her, and held up the envelope to show her.

"It just says, Weasley," she said. "Do you s'pose it could be for you?"

"No one knows I'm here, except..."

"Except who?"

"I told Foster he could reach me here in an emergency," he said. "A very grave emergency."

Hermione took a breath. "Open it, Ron."

Slowly, he did, and unfolded the letter within and began to read. She saw his eyes close, then watched him sink onto the window sill and she knew right away it could not have been good news.

"No," he murmured, "God, no... not again..."