was a nasty concoction. The lack of awful taste was soon forgotten in the waves of unrelenting pain that washed over them. Harry vaguely thought that he was glad they had the forethought to lay down before beginning. It felt as if their very being was being split apart and sewn back together again. Their very magic was mixing and it hummed with great force around their convulsing forms. Their magic was something they had not considered heavily, as, having both been muggle-raised, they knew little of what family magics really were. Hermione was being accepted by the family magics Harry carried with him, and Harry was doing the same. This influx of power did nothing to stop the great pains they were both enduring.