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ii. Cold And Other Afflictions
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A PERMANENT CHILL clings to her skin these days, and the night is worsening it as it sinks in. She tries to warm herself by the fireplace in the living-room, but it's as helpful as Harry's sweater, as in it doesn't help at all and she's still shivering violently.

"Thea."

She turns around to see Harry on his own, his face set.

She knows that face. He's determined to break her resolution not to tell him what happened at Malfoy Manor.

"Happy birthday." She says shortly before she turns back around, feeling him take a seat next to her on the floor.

"Thank you."

She looks at him and says, "I got you something."

Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the small, heavy box from her pocket, that's wrapped in perfectly cut golden paper and tied with a glittering red ribbon. He takes it and pulls the gold and red off, sending a little stab through her as she remembers the hours she spent – or wasted, by the looks of it – getting the wrapping right, because usually, she's terrible at it.

He takes out the bottle of cologne, and smiles at her a little before putting it on.

"I'm sorry it's not very imaginative. I had no idea what –"

"I love it, actually."

They're enveloped in wave of warm spice, that's nothing but comfort and bliss for Thea – she smiles back at him, before reaching out to squeeze his hand, but before she can retract it, he grips it tightly and frowns.

He doesn't speak for a moment, just looks at her, before he talks quietly.

"You're freezing."

Meeting his gaze, she links their fingers together. In a strange way, she misses her chest igniting at this; nothing happens anymore, she's just reminded of the thick sheet of ice that seems to have settled within her. It's like she's being punished for losing her flames because this is so much worse. Lyra's probably laughing in hell at her right now.

She pulls their hands in to her body and grips his tighter.

"I know."

Her vision blurs as her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to ignore the stabbing ache in her head.

"I miss you." she says lowly, moving her thumb over his hand in hers.

"Thea, you're the one who's been avoiding me."

For once, she finds that she can't pick up the emotion in Harry's voice, so she stays quiet until he meets her gaze.

Definitely sad. But he's patient, and she knows he'd sit here with her for weeks if that's what she needed.

She shuffles closer to him, where he's leaning against the bottom of the couch. He puts his arm over her shoulders and she tucks into his chest, which is comforting and familiar and the closest thing she gets to warm these days. She breathes in and it's shaky, but in Harry's arms the air she inhales is light and sweet, not heavy as though it were full of dirt.

"I know. I'm sorry, I just...I'm finding it hard without my curse. I'm too cold now."

"You don't need to go through all of this alone. Please tell me what they did to you..."

His voice is strained, like he's hurt, but it just fills her with an anger that she's struggling to stop bubbling to the surface.

"Harry, no. How many times? You don't need to know."

"Why not?" he demands. His heartbeat is now more prominent against her cheek. "Don't you trust me?"

She jerks away from him immediately, standing up and making for the door. She doesn't hear him leap up after her, and doesn't realise he has until his arm is hooked lightly around her waist and he is spinning her around to face him.

"You aren't running away from this again, Thea. We don't do that anymore."

She glares at him, pushing his hands off her but staying firmly where she is and meeting his eyes.

"Fine. I'll tell you why I'm not telling you if it's really bothering you so much."

"Go ahead."

"Because, Harry, don't you think you've got enough on your plate at the moment, with, I don't know..." she throws her arms out violently, gesturing around them, "...tracking down several pieces of Voldemort's soul in random objects that could literally be anywhere or anything, and having to destroy them with literally nothing – and don't argue with me on this because you know it's true – nothing, to go off from Dumbledore, for being, whether you like it or not, the poster boy for this entire revolution, and being one of the most wanted people probably on the entire earth –"

"Oh, thank you so much for reminding me, I'd forgotten all of this."

She steps forward, bringing her hands to his face gently.

"Look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me honestly that you're not about to crumble under the weight of it all."

There is a thick pause, and when their gazes meet, tears pierce through her eyes and gather at her lashes, only falling when he speaks.

"But I am." He's quiet, so quiet that if she were any further away from him she wouldn't hear him, and his eyes fall from hers.

She pushes his chin up, so he looks at her again, and this time his eyes are slightly glassy and she thinks something within her cracks. It's something so much worse than igniting into flames as she would've done a few weeks ago at this, so much so that she's not sure it'll heal.

"We don't have time to start putting ourselves back together yet," she replies softly. "They'd just rip it all back open again."

She hears him exhale, before he pulls her into him again and presses a kiss to her forehead. She brings her arms up and loops them around his neck, right where her face settles, and for a moment they're silent and she wants this to last forever.

"At the moment, you're the only thing that makes me feel like something's going right, T. Don't ever think you're a burden to me."

"Harry, Thea? Oh, sorry!"

The pair jump apart, and Thea looks to the doorway to see Ron and Hermione with awkward looks on their faces.

Thea smiles. "What's up?"

Ron and Hermione exchange a pointed look, that causes the smile on Thea's face to drop into something like a grimace.

"The Minister's here – for all four of us."

Thea frowns, but makes her way over to the pair, Harry in her wake.

"Why?"

"Not a clue."

Thea's frown turns into an eye roll.

"And what does that have to do with me? Are you sure he wants me?"

"Yes, Thea, just come on!"

She glares at Hermione, but keeps her mouth shut and trails after her as they enter the kitchen, where the Minister is stood with Mr and Mrs Weasley, who are a little paler than usual. Thea ignores the shiver that shoots down her spine and crosses her arms over her chest. She notices the giant Snitch cake on the table, and normally it would've warmed her, but her eyes remain dead on it until Scrimgeour speaks.

"Sorry to intrude. Especially as I can see I am gate-crashing a party." He looks to Harry. "Many happy returns."

"Thanks," Harry says shortly.

"I require a private word with you, Mr Ronald Weasley, Miss Hermione Granger and Miss Theabel Cindercroft." The Minister continues, his eyes landing on each of them in turn.

"Why?" Thea asks immediately, her tone a little sharp.

"I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private. Is there such a place?" Scrimgeour directs his question towards Mr Weasley, who the Minister's attention seems to startle, before he answers.

"Yes, of course. The, er, sitting-room, why don't you use that?"

"You can lead the way," Scrimgeour says to Ron, before looking back at Mr Weasley. "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur,"

As the group follow Ron, Thea leans in to Hermione and mutters, "So bossy. It's almost as if he's the most important person in the room."

Scrimgeour, who's just in front of them, scowls audibly, but seems to decide that Thea's little dig isn't worth wasting his breath on. Nevertheless, she smiles to herself, knowing it hit its mark.

As they enter the room Harry and Thea had been in just minutes before, the darkness and almost eerie evening glow illuminating it hits her, until Harry flicks his wand at the lamps hanging around the room, so that all of them are under a cosy, orange glow.

The Minister sits himself down in the armchair opposite, while Harry, Ron and Hermione squash together on the small sofa, and Thea perches on the arm next to Ron.

"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 points at Thea, Harry and Hermione in turn, "wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."

"Not happening," Thea muses.

"We're not going anywhere. You can speak to us together, or not at all." Harry adds.

"Very well then, together. I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

"Excuse me?" Thea exclaims loudly, while the other three exchange looks.

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

Thea feels a surge of suspicion run up her body, and immediately she starts to talk, her voice sanded sweet and with a note not different to Lyra's; manipulating and calculated, but smooth and believable.

"We were. We're just very shocked it's taken this long for us to receive them. Professor Dumbledore, of course, told us all he'd left us a little something, just for us to remember him by. We were all close to him, weren't we?"

She gives a directed look to the other three, her eyes meeting Hermione's, whose are full of understanding.

"Yes, we were all close to him. But honestly, Thea, I'm not surprised at all it's taken so long for them to reach us, because obviously – "

Hermione now directs her stony glare to the Minister, who doesn't so much as flinch, but frowns ever so slightly between the group, as though disappointed.

" – they wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!"

"I had every right – 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 artefacts, 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 think Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?" Hermione snaps indignantly.

Thea feels a rush of admiration for the girl hit her.

"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" Scrimgeour questions, his voice clipped.

"No, I'm not. I'm hoping to do some good in the world!" Hermione says hotly.

Ron laughs a little too loudly for the Minister's taste, and earns himself a look.

"So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?" Harry says, earning the Minister's attention again.

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

Hermione's question is ignored, and the Minister turns to Ron.

"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?"

"Me?" Ron begins, looking up at Thea. She sets her gaze on the Minister's amber eyes, which are burning with challenge.

Bring it on, she thinks.

"I beg your pardon, Minister, but could we please get on with it? I've already told you we were all close to Dumbledore, and we knew he'd left us something."

The Minister seems to hold Thea's gaze for what seems like a year, as though he's trying to figure her out. When she doesn't back down, he speaks again.

"Very well," he pulls a roll of parchment and a bag from his own briefcase, before unrolling the parchment and reading aloud from it.

"The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore... yes, here we are. To Mr Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he remembers me when he uses it."

Scrimgeour takes out a thin, silver device, that resembles a lighter, and passes it to Ron, his face pensive and hard on Ron.

Ron turns over the device in his hands, his gaze awestruck and full of bewilderment.

"That is a valuable object. It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?"

Ron shakes his head, before shrugging. "Like T said, we were all really close to him," then, Ron gives her a look, that's unsure, but he carries on talking. "He, er, he told me and Harry last year, it was one of his favourites because it's so simple."

Thea gives Ron the tiniest nod of encouragement, that she knows he understands when he looks back at the Minister, a little more assured.

"Dumbledore must've taught thousands of students. Yet the ones he remembered in his will are you four. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr Weasley?"

Thea rolls her eyes again.

"Put out lights, I suppose. What else could I do with it?" Ron shrugs.

Scrimgeour purses his lips, focusing for one last moment on Ron, before looking at Thea, then back at the parchment in his hands.

"To Miss Theabel Charlotte Cindercroft, I leave an old locket I came across not too long ago, in the hopes that it is not too heavy, but a reminder of your strength and fire."

From those words alone, Thea knows Dumbledore chose them carefully and with purpose, and it is clear to her, and by the sounds of Hermione's tiny gasp, the others too. This locket has something to do with Lyra. Despite the chill freezing her blood, she tries to keep her face a perfect mask. The thought of Lyra brings back the hissing of her voice, sitting stubbornly at the back of her head, and she thinks her discomfort cuts through and is visible on her face.

Wipe your mind. Don't show them anything. They will use it against you.

"Now, Miss Cindercroft," The Minister starts, clearly ignited by their reactions they let slip, and Thea feels a little dread creep around under her skin. "Upon inspection, we found the letters – or should we say, initials – D.C. engraved in the back. Those are your father's initials, correct?"

Thea swallows. "Yes."

"And you knew your father? You know he is alive, as far as his records say?"

"No clue," she responds shortly, taking the locket from the Minister's outstretched hand.

She measures the weight in her hands, which is a little more than it appears just from the look of it. She traces the ridges of the sapphire stone and feels over the bronze casing of it, the coolness chilling her further rather than sending shoots of familiar comfort up her arms. The Minister's pale, honey eyes pierce her, so she shoves it straight into her pocket and meets them, a little intimidated, but refusing to show it.

"Your mother, Lyra Vincent, was in Ravenclaw house at Hogwarts, correct?"

"Yes. You already know this, so why are you asking?"

"I just wanted to confirm. Do you think this locket could have anything to do with her? Its colours are that of Ravenclaw. Blue and bronze."

Thea feels a prickle of annoyance up her neck.

"So this is the weak excuse you used to keep our stuff? That it might be associated with Thea's mother?" Harry interjects, raising his eyebrows.

The Minister narrows his eyes. "Lyra Cindercroft was a Death Eater. I doubt you think that's a weak excuse, Mr Potter."

"She's also dead, and Thea wouldn't have any need for a dark object. So I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at her like she's guilty."

Thea feels her stomach crawl as the Minister stares at her. She straightens her posture, desperate to change the subject.

"So what if the colours are Ravenclaw colours? Maybe he just likes the colours. Or he was in Ravenclaw himself?"

"Your father was in Hufflepuff, Miss Cindercroft."

Thea starts, almost jolted by this new information about her father. Something nice, for once. She imagines him kind, and soft in the face. Helpful, and fair, clad in yellow and black. Maybe he played for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, or maybe he was a prefect. She paints the image so vividly in her head, that Ron has to poke her in the leg to bring her back into the room.

"I don't know if it has anything to do with Lyra or not. Maybe Dumbledore just found it in lost property, or my father gave it to him when he left as a keepsake?"

"Miss Cindercroft – "

"I have nothing left to say, Minister."

Scrimgeour purses his lips for a moment, staring at Thea for at least one minute in the hopes that maybe she'll break. She simply holds his eye contact as though daring him to keep grilling her, so he gives up and says, "Very well." before turning to Hermione.

When Hermione is handed the Tales of Beedle the Bard, Thea racks her brains until her head hurts for a reason Dumbledore may have given her a children's book, but all she settles back on is how much the man infuriates her. Why can't he just give them a clear picture of what they're meant to do? They're risking their lives with Harry and his vague ideas, passed on from a now dead man, and there's so much more at stake than their possible deaths. In between the Minister's giving of their bequests, and his interrogations, Thea feels herself slipping into a daydream of Desmond Cindercroft, anything to distract her from the dread poisoning her.

Her mind's eye shows her the man in the pictures she's seen of him, but the lines of age are smooth, youthful skin, and his eyes are much younger; he hasn't seen what he'd seen when those photos had been taken. She imagines him leaning against one of the walls in the castle, maybe in Quidditch uniform completed with a sparkling Captain badge and a broom slung over his shoulder, or a thick book of notes under his arm and his Hufflepuff robes perfect and in line because Lyra did his tie for him at breakfast. Or maybe he had a different girlfriend before her mother. She remembers his smile from the photos she's seen of him, and although it's a fading memory, she can't forget the stark charm and brightness it had, or the calm, clear spark in his hazel eyes. She pictures him tucked in the library, buried in a textbook, or he might have been an avid reader, cosy by the fire in a yellow and black jumper –

"Interesting theory. Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people up to that instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban." Harry says, his voice trembling. "So this is 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 – Voldemort chased me across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there's been no word about that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to co-operate with you!"

Thea is dragged from her reverie by Harry's loud voice, and Ron's jab to her leg, which is harder than the last one. Her heart starts to pound in her chest as the Minister leaps from his seat.

"You go too far!"

Thea's eyes narrow and a flare flushes her face and activates her voice.

"You mean we show you the truth and it's too uncomfortable for you to remain in your cosy office reading children's stories and playing with a Snitch! Wake up, Minister!"

"You certainly have a lot to say now Lyra is dead!" he fires back at her, nostrils flaring unattractively and gaze fiery.

"That's rich, coming from the professional Dark wizard catchers who didn't realise she was having tea and cake with Voldemort every night!" she retorts without a second's hesitation.

The Minister starts to limp in her direction, and it's not until his wand singes a hole in Harry's shirt that she realises he's going up to him, and she gives an angry yelp and a loud shout of, "Don't touch him!"

"Oi!" Ron adds, his own wand coming from his pocket before Thea has even registered his voice.

"No! Do you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"

"I'd be worried about that if I thought him even remotely competent," Thea hisses in response, earning herself a warning look from both Harry and Hermione.

Scrimgeour chooses to ignore her, keeping his eyes focuses on Harry, who's still at the tip of his wand.

"Remembered you're not at school, have you? Remembered I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It is time you learned some respect!"

"It's time you earned it." Harry responds coolly, just as the door bursts open and Mr and Mrs Weasley stumble in. Something about the sight of them seems to dilute the fury coursing through her veins.

"We thought we heard –"

" – raised voices."

Scrimgeour backs away from Harry and drops his wand from his chest, which loosens the tension in Thea's body even more.

"It was nothing – I regret your attitude," he says roughly, staring at Harry and casting a fleeting glance towards Thea, before focusing on Harry again.

"You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you – what Dumbledore – desired. We ought to be working together."

"I don't like your methods, Minister. Remember?"

Thea watches as Harry lifts his right fist, the white, slightly raised letters spelling out I must not tell lies as clear as day. Her own scar, I must not disappoint, tingles, and she finds herself raising her own arm, just as Harry does, and even when Scrimgeour's face hardens on Harry and flickers to look at Thea and he turns white, she keeps her mouth clamped shut for once, watching as he limps from the room. Dropping her hand, she catches a flash of I must not disappoint and DEATH EATER as it falls back to her side.

☾

Thea is helping Ron with his tie in the kitchen on the morning of the wedding, both glued to the radio on the table.

After Ron is ready, the pair take a seat, Thea with her elbows on the table and her chin in her palms, and Ron with his fingers clasped together and face screwed with concentration.

"The Ministry confirms the deaths of three Muggle families this morning, all in London. Investigations by Aurors are taking place since the cause is most definitely magic."

"Investigations?" Ron spits, glaring at the radio. "It's quite bloody obvious who's to blame!"

Thea swallows, giving the device a little tap when static drowns out the reporter's voice.

"You two aren't obsessing over that thing again, are you?" George Weasley comes sauntering into the kitchen, a toothbrush stuck where his ear was.

Thea raises an eyebrow.

"No. We're just trying to gage the situation."

"Not going to get much more than propaganda on Ministry-run channels. Oh, Ron, Mum's looking for you, and Thea, Fleur might end up in St. Mungo's before she gets hitched if you don't go and finish getting ready."

Thea sighs, muttering a goodbye to the boys before darting off upstairs into the room where Fleur is, finding it completely covered in clothes, makeup, accessories, dressing gowns and empty mugs and half-finished bowls of porridge.

"Ah, Zea! You are finally here!" Fleur exclaims, pulling the girl towards her and kissing her cheek. "Your dress is there, then Gabrielle will do your hair, and mother will do your makeup."

After what feels like hours of being pushed around and painted, Thea finally gets dragged over to a mirror. She looks at herself, really looks at herself, and admires the long black lashes, the perfect rosy lip and pink cheeks, that perfectly matches the golden bridesmaid dress that flows down to her knees. Running a hand through her curled hair that she suddenly realises has grown to her waist forces her forearm to reflect in the mirror before her, and the sight of DEATH EATER sends a jolt of sickness through her body. Before Gabrielle, who is marvelling at her by her side, notices it, she lets her arm drop down and tense into her side, as though worried about being banned and estranged from the group around her, should any of them catch sight of it.

It's not long before they are making their way down to the marquee set up for the wedding, Gabrielle and Monsieur Delacour leading Fleur down through the awestruck guests, who all turn around upon the arrival of the bride. Thea's face is stretched by a sunny beam, that widens when she sets her gaze upon Harry (who is, to her amusement, disguised as a measly, short ginger-haired cousin of the Weasleys, named Barny), Ron and Hermione. She raises her hand and gives them a tiny wave, earning a grin from Harry, a small smile from Hermione and a thumbs up from Ron.

Thea watches with a pang of longing for this bliss to last as Bill and Fleur exchange their vows and a kiss, the smile on her face never weakening throughout the service. When the guests melt from the organised seating plan made by Mrs Weasley and the dainty chairs are magicked away, a soft waltz begins for the bride and groom. After, a more upbeat number follows, and Thea is dragged onto the dance floor after the promise of a drink by Fred.

"How are you, Miss Cindercroft?" he says, his smile matching her own.

"Honestly, I'm great, Freddie! This day couldn't have gone better, and it's made living in fear of your mother for days completely worth it." she says.

He grins wider, "You are right, she really does have a touch for these kinds of things. But I did actually sleep with one eye open that night me and George hid all the cutlery. Dad ended up covering for us and saying he'd accidentally got the box mixed up with the champagne flutes, but he gave us a right dressing down."

"You're both idiots," she says, sighing, but starting to laugh, and subsequently stepping on his foot.

"Did Harry teach you to dance? You're as graceful as him," he snickers as they walk over to the drinks table, but not before Thea catches sight of Hemione dancing with Viktor Krum, and smiles a little, before looking back at Fred.

"Oh, no, I'm completely self-taught."

"Alright, you two?" George Weasley joins them, adorned in a complementary suit to Fred's, his a dark red, and Fred's a deep purple.

"Dandy, Georgie. Just waiting for the drink your brother promised me – oh, I don't even know what's in that, but no way."

She eyes the small flask George whips from his pocket but keeps hidden below their shoulders.

"It's Firewhiskey, from dad's stash."

Thea scoffs. "Yeah, and he won't notice!"

"He will," Fred starts.

"But he never says anything." George finishes, offering the flask to Thea.

"I refuse to be a part of this," she says firmly, pointing between the two boys before planting her hands on her hips.

"Oh, come on T! Lighten up –"

George's teasing voice lingers in the air, but his lips purse and his lazy, seemingly permanent grin drops into a worried frown. A bright, almost blinding light taking a cat-like shape floats into the tent, and it's not until Thea squints at it in the middle of the dancefloor that she realises it is a Patronus in the shape of a lynx. It seems to drain every sound and laugh from the wedding reception, until it is deathly silent.

A heavy dread starts at her toes and works its way up until it's forcing her hand into the small pocket she had sewn into her dress for her wand, and over the whirring in her brain that's reviewing the best and most effective offensive and defensive jinxes and spells, the booming, authoritative voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt fills every corner and every crevice of the tent.

"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

Thea meets the horrified looks of the twins, who are also equipped with their wands. Her eyes are wide and her mind is a working frenzy, and over the erupting chaos around her, she just has time to press a quick kiss to both twins' cheeks in turn before shouting a quick, "Be careful!" over her shoulder and scarpering off, searching desperately for Harry, Ron or Hermione.

A dark, cloaked and masked figure seems to materialise before her, and although she's doused with shock and terror, a Stunning spell is out of her mouth and her wand is slashing through the air before the Death Eater can even raise their wand. She pushes aside the fleeting thought that it could've been Jude, Eden or Draco and looks out over shoulders for the others, shouting for Ron or Hermione and keeping an eye out for Harry.

After wrenching her arm from the grip of another black figure, and throwing another Stunning spell behind her at them for good measure, she finally stumbles into Ron, gripping his hand tightly.

"Where are they?" she shouts to him over the noise, getting only a shake of the head in response, before Hermione, with Harry in tow, barrels into them and grabs onto Thea's arm, almost in the same second as Disapparating away from the hell unfolding at the wedding.

It's seconds of an outrageous discomfort that is similar to being squeezed through a thin tube, in addition to bumping into the others, before they're thrown onto solid ground, still holding tight to each other and struggling for breath. Thea's eyes spring open, and a busy, bustling street unfurls around her, hounding her already-aching head with jeers, music and drunken laughter, car and bus lights blinding her everywhere she looks, and flashing shop windows confusing her as they break out into a swift walk down the pavement.

She doesn't want to, she really doesn't, but she has to tell herself that everything will be alright, everything will be alright.

She also tells herself that she only tells herself everything will be alright twice for good measure, but as they hurry through the unfamiliar, packed streets, and she glares at those catcalling at her and Hermione, she can't stop the frosty anticipation that seems to sit in the base of her spine, pricking her nerves.

Just waiting. Waiting for the next death, waiting for the next close call, and waiting for the end.

Rushing forward, she falls into step beside Harry, who's appearance is normal now due to the Polyjuice Potion wearing off, and slips her hand into his, and although it only sends a tiny jolt of comfort through her, it's a start.