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Chapter Text

Flashing bulbs, a thousand questions, the furore of public in panic, the blustering of a leader trying to retain order. Harry heard none of it. He was sure that he looked dead on his feet, staring blankly outward, saying nothing. He could barely remember if he blinked in the last minute or so. Maybe that would explain the sting in his eyes that was drawing fresh tears that are blurring the chaos in the front of him. It all becomes shapes and noises to him. None of it seems real. Harry hoped none of it was real, because if it was - if this was real - then the previous few hours leading up to this moment were real as well.

The shame of leading his friends into a death trap he should have seen coming. The horror of seeing his best friend hit square in the chest by a stray curse, watching her fall limp to the floor. The powerlessness of looking into the eyes of his godfather as he fell through the veil. The endless infinity of waiting for the body to hit the ground on the other side, instead met with silence. The violation of having the evilest wizard in history tearing through his brain as if he owned it.

But at least the public believes him now. He's no longer the route of all discontent in the world. Now he's a hero again, the saviour of the Wizarding world.

Except, he isn't. He wasn't the one that drove Voldemort back. He wasn't the one who apparated into the department of mysteries and saved his friends in the nick of time. He wasn't the one who knew what the hell he was doing. He didn't feel like much of a hero at the moment. He felt like a failure. Everyone who had been injured today, everyone who had risked their lives, it was because of him. They were his fault. Sirius was dead, and it was his fault. If anything, the public should hate him, more than ever, just like he does.

Yet, here he was. He was the one who was being photographed, interrogated, applauded. None of the Order. None of his friends, who had been the bravest of them all. Not Sirius. None of the people who deserved it. It would be his beaten, bloody, ugly face in the paper the next day, ready for the rest of the world to see. He couldn't wait to see all of his emotions reappear in stunning detail for the entertainment of people whom he didn't even know. He couldn't wait to be their dancing monkey again. That's all he would ever be, to everyone. He was an prop, in a play that just so happened to be his own life.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him away from the scene. His legs move on their own, following whoever was shepherding him, one step at a time. Harry assumes that it's Dumbledore, but in his state, it could be anyone. Maybe it was an Auror, escorting him to his cell. He did break into the Ministry after all. He did get someone killed. It would only be fair if they threw him into a small, dark, lonely cell and left him there. It was how he spent most of his childhood, anyway.

They don't take him to a cell. Instead, Harry feels the sensation of falling through a hurricane, landing unceremoniously on the floor of the headmaster's office. Finally, he is alone. No more cameras, no more loud noises, no more people.

The scream that tears its way out of his throat is pointless, but it's the only thing he can think to do. It doesn't bring him any relief. His body still feels numb. He remains a failure and a danger to everyone around him. No matter how sore his eyes, no matter how empty his lungs, it doesn't bring his family back.

He's still the Boy-Who-Lived.

Of all the days that Snape could have picked for Harry to serve detention, of course, he had to pick the day of the House Cup. It wouldn't be enough to have to force him to spend time with his least favourite teacher. No, Snape had to make sure that he stole away the time that was most precious to him. Of course, he would. Anything to help bring down Gryffindor. The few hours that Harry had been forced to spend stuck in the dungeons, knowing that this team were out on the Quidditch pitch, without him, were pure agony. The worst part was that Harry was sure Snape enjoyed every second of it.

Now, having finally been released from his detention, Harry was hurriedly making his way up from the dungeons, his heart heavy with anxiety. He slowed down as he passed the first set of windows, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet... it was over, then...

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

"Quid agis?" he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, "You'll see."

And she swung forwards.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won! EVERYONE! LET'S HEAR IT FOR OUR CAPTAIN!"

The crowd of ecstatic Gryffindor are all cheering his name. Their cries were so loud, he almost didn't catch when someone in the crowd called to him.

"Harry!"

He turned. His eyes met Ginny's beaming face, which appeared from out of the crowd and ran towards him. Her smile was bright and beautiful. Her hair, fiery red, was swaying in time with her stride. Her arms were flung out wide, ready to engulf him. Her forehead is covered in blood, and she's screaming-

Harry flinched.

No, there was no blood. What was he thinking? She was right there in front of him. She was clean, not a drop of blood on her. She was perfect. She was excited. She's screaming and running towards him, the green, sickly light of the killing curse rushing past her ear, the mad cackle of-

There it goes again. Harry glanced around him, trying to discern reality from… whatever was happening to him. The adolescent humidity from the party fogged his glasses and the faces in the crowd merged, the mini fireworks exploding into light in the corner of his eye. The sound of dozens of students chanting his name rings in his ears.

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

" Potter!"

"Harry!"

" Potter!"

"Harry, are you alright?"

" Potter!"

" Harry Potter!"

"Potter!"

" Potter!"

" Potter!"

" Potter! Is it true that-"

FLASH!

" Potter! What is your position on the return of -"

" Potter! Look this way please!-"

FLASH! FLASH!

" Potter! What are your thoughts on the death of the mass-murderer Sirius Black?"

" Did you know that-"

FLASH!

" Will you be returning to Hogwarts next-"

" Will you seeking legal action against-"

" Potter!"

" Potter!"

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

The reporters are swarming him. The bulbs are lighting up his bloody, broken face. His eyes are unfocused. Their faces are a shapeless mass of colour. Sirius is dead. He's alone. His friends are going to die.

Harry inhales and draws little breath. His throat is closing up. He can't breathe. He tries to draw in as much oxygen as he can, and all that comes are shallow, shaking gasps. The pounding of blood through his head punctuates the suffocating noise. His legs feel loose beneath him.

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice distracted him momentarily. He glanced around and a few seconds later he saw the face it belonged to. She was no longer smiling. Instead, her face was contorted with something else. Her eyes, once sparkling, were now confused. She didn't understand his sudden turn in mood. None of them did, Harry realised. He just looks crazy to them. That's all he'll ever be, to everyone. He was the hero, in a play that just so happened to be his own life. He's a freak to them. Just a-

" FREAK!"

" Get back in your cupboard, boy, and STAY THERE!"

" I'd rather see you rot in that cupboard, freak!"

Ginny's hand reaches hesitantly towards him.

"Maybe we should beat the freakiness out of you!"

A large, silhouetted hand reaches towards him.

He pushed her hand away from him, and behind it saw her shocked face. She was trying not to look offended, but Harry could see it clear as day. She was only trying to help. Why wouldn't he let her in? It was his fault. It was because of him. They were his fault. Sirius was dead and it was his fault. The cacophony of the mob attacks him once again, this time with oppressive force, crushing him alongside his shame.

He had to run. He had to get away from there, away from the people. Away from whatever was happening to him. He had to run. He took a step back from Ginny, her heartbroken expression ripping a hole in his heart. It's for her own, he told himself. Ginny was a good person - one of the best. She didn't deserve to be stuck with someone like him. Someone who ruined everything he touched.

He turned around and as fast as he could, straight through the portrait hole. He never turned back. His only focus was pumping his arms and legs as fast as they could go. He dared not to stop. He couldn't stop. They were right behind him. Throwing curses over just above his head. He had to keep going, he had to get his friends to safety. He had to-

Harry gasped, bringing himself back to reality. His legs gave way, sinking against the stone wall, curling his robe around himself as he began to shiver. A drop of cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath still evaded him.

He was sure that looked like a wreck. Out of breath, trembling, rocking back and forth in a dark corner of the castle… alone.

Maybe someone would come back and take a picture, sell it to the paper, let the world see what had become of their precious hero. Perhaps then they would find out how he had nearly killed Draco. How he had stared the young man in the eye and cast the curse that sliced him open. How he had stood and watched in stunned silence as the boy slowly bled out onto the bathroom floor. How he could only stand motionless as Snape found him, his eyes wide as he looked upon Harry's doing.

Harry pulled himself out of yet another lapse of sanity, gritting his teeth and cursing his own mind for betraying him. What was happening to him? Was this Voldemort's doing? Why was he having these visions? Why was it so difficult to breathe all of a sudden? Why did every shadow send a spike of panic down his spine, as if each and every one of them were some new horror coming to get him? He felt ill. Worse than ill, he felt broken. He felt like he was going insane.

Maybe he was. Maybe they were right last year. Maybe he was really was crazy. Maybe they were right to doubt him. After all, how could this tiny, broken thing be the chosen one? How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort? He could barely stand up at the moment. He couldn't muster the effort to pick himself up off the floor, let alone fight the Dark Lord. How was he going to win?

Harry felt a small tear run across his face as he realised the truth. He wasn't going to win. Voldemort was going to kill him, and everyone he loved. The Wizarding World, who trusted him, swore by him, expected so much of him, was going to fall into the Dark Lord's hands, and the blame will be on his shoulders.

With the barrier broken and no one else around to help him or care, Harry hung his head and began to sob.

Hermione twirled the unopened bottle of butterbeer in her hand, watching the hibiscus inside rotate and swirl hypnotically. Every so often she would glance up towards the portrait hole, expecting to see it open, disappointed when it didn't, then back to her bottle, distracting herself from the mounting anticipation.

Gryffindor had won the match, in a landslide victory, despite the absence of their captain. It had been a brilliant match - or at least to her, it had been brilliant. Hermione was never an enthusiast when it came to Quidditch, she only watched Harry's games because… well, because of Harry. This time was an exception, but since she and Ron had decided that maybe they could be a thing, she thought it appropriate to turn up, to support him and all. Still, it wasn't the same without Harry there. It just didn't seem as necessary if it wasn't him up in the sky, risking life and limb to secure a victory for the house. Still, Ron was there, and Ginny and they had flown exceptionally well.

She couldn't wait to see Harry's face when he found out.

Luckily, Hermione didn't have to wait long, because not a few seconds later, the common room erupted into applause, and her best friend was dragged into the room, his eyes full of surprise. She saw Ron bound up to him, shouting something - presumably about how they won - and Harry's face bloomed into a brilliant smile that she found herself mirroring.

The common room exploded into chanting, a celebration of Harry's leadership - well-deserved after months of rigorous training. The area was consumed with sound, from the repeated call of "Potter! Potter!" mixed with some of the twins' miniature fireworks, the place was alive, and the mood was ecstatic. Hermione turned herself to take it all in, glancing around to see the happy faces of Gryffindor house, a feeling shared by Ron and Seamus and Dean and Ginny - who was pushing past them to get to Harry. Hermione glanced back to her best friend and was taken aback by what met her.

The broad smile he was wearing only a moment before was gone. Instead, his eyes were wide, his face paling rapidly. His shoulders were stiff as if frozen by a body-lock spell, but his hands were shaking violently. His chest was heaving, and his mouth was hanging open - Hermione could tell his breathing was laboured and panicked. His eyes were moving erratically in their sockets, running along the line of faces in the crowd. He looked like he expected to be attacked at any second. He looked… terrified.

Her eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

Hermione stood, pushing past Ron, trying to get closer to Harry as Ginny began to reach towards him. Before her hand could make contact with his cheek, Harry swatted her away violently. Ginny recoiled in shock, and Hermione saw a fresh wave of horror fall over his face.

Before she could reach his side, he bolted from the room, sending the people behind him tumbling as he barged through. He was out of the portrait hole and sprinting down the hallway before anyone noticed he had even left. The furore of the party died down, replaced with confused murmurs as people as the gathered Gryffindors wondered why their Quidditch star had suddenly fled the scene. It was only Hermione who had the initiative to chase after him.

She called after him, but he refused to stop. He simply kept on running until he turned a corner, out of sight. Hermione began to run, trying to match his speed, but with the head-start he had gained in those vital few seconds, she inevitably lost him.

As she turned the fifth, sixth, seventh corner, she swivelled on her heel, gazing down each end of the corridor. She sighed in frustration, knowing he could have gone down either one and that she didn't have time to explore both, not at the speed Harry was running. He could have been anywhere in the castle, and she needed to find him quickly, before someone who would want to cause him any more humiliation did.

She glanced around the space, noticing the row of portraits dozing lightly on the wall.

"Excuse me," she implored, waking the sleeping subject, an old man in a dressing gown and nightcap, "My friend came running past a few moments ago. Did you see where he went?"

"Do you know what time it is, young lady?" the old man groaned back. "Honestly, students these days. So disrespectful!"

"Please," she begged. "I need to find him! He's hurt, he's not feeling well! He needs to go to the medical ward!"

"So, it's an emergency?" the old man pondered. She nodded vigorously, her bushy hair flying in disparate directions. The old man straightened up in his seat. "Very well."

He shuffled around, leaning past the back of his chair towards a lady in a long, blue dress reading idly in the neighbouring frame.

"Guinevere, dear?"

The lady stirred, glancing at the old man.

"Yes, Baldric?"

"This young lady is looking for her friend," he explained. "Apparently he was around in these corridors not moments ago."

The lady - Guinevere, Hermione reminded herself - hummed.

"Young madam," Guinevere addressed her, "did he happen to have black hair upon his head and glasses upon his nose?"

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I see. He went in that direction," she replied, pointing to Hermione's left. Guinevere grabbed a dove from a nearby branch and whispered to it. "Emmanuel will guide you to him."

She released the bird, and Hermione dutifully followed as it flapped from one painting to another, guiding her deeper into the castle. Eventually, the small dove rounded one last corner, resting on the rim of a painted fruit bowl. Beyond it, Hermione could make out a dimly lit hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight piercing through the windows.

Tucked away in the vertices, she saw Harry, and her heart broke.

His robes were tightly wrapped around him, making him appear so very small, so very fragile. His shoulder shook with quiet sobs; his face was hidden behind his arms as if trying to mask his suffering. It hardly worked - then again, she saw it through her eyes. Hermione had a talent for seeing through Harry's facade, whatever form it took.

She trod toward him carefully, as if approaching a spooked animal, making herself known. He pretended not to notice. She crouched down, placing her hand on his, stroking it softly.

"Harry…"

The sound of her voice coaxed him up from himself, his head raised and revealed his face her. It was clear that he had been crying heavily, his eyes were red, his cheeks covered with lines of moisture. His face was still pale, his eyes still wide, his breath coming only in gasps.

"M-Mione…"

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head desperately.

"I-I don't know…" His bottom lipped trembled. "I don't know what's happening. I just… I can't breathe…"

"Shh," she called to him. "Shh. I want you to take deep breaths for me, Harry."

"I-I can't."

"Yes, you can. Just breathe. Copy me."

She began inhaling loudly, prompting him to copy. He started to draw in air, fighting against his sobs to slow down his respiration. After a few moments, encouraged by her constant guidance, he began to calm down.

"That's better," she smiled. "You're doing great. You're doing brilliantly. It's okay."

He tried smiling back.

"Thank you," he gasped. "I don't know what came over me."

"I think I do."

He glanced at her, his brow furrowed.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hermione explained, "but I think I know what happened to you. Harry, I think you just had a panic attack."

Harry blinked.

"I… You..." He gulped. "What's that? I-Is it a spell, or…?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Harry, a panic attack is something psychological."

His eyes widened.

"You think I'm going crazy?"

"No," she quickly assured him. "No, Harry. Never. A panic attack… it's something that can happen to anyone, especially if they're experiencing a lot of stress or anxiety."

He frowned.

"Have you e-ever had a panic attack, 'Mione?"

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "I have felt stressed before - Lord knows I have - but never enough to have an attack."

"I haven't felt anxious recently," Harry protested.

"Haven't you?"

Harry gazed at her, and she could see his resolve weakening.

"What with the Quidditch match, Snape's detention, the prophecy, Malfoy, the book," Hermione listed, "I'd be surprised if you weren't feeling stressed about it all. You've been working so hard recently. You've accomplished so much this year. I'm so proud of you, Harry. You might just be tired."

He shook his head.

"No… I don't think that's it…"

Hermione tilted her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"When I was in the common room, I…" He thought carefully about how to describe it. "I… saw things."

Hermione's heart flipped.

"Saw what?"

"It was… like a memory," he explained, "Or a nightmare. It was like I was experiencing it again."

Her hand gripped tightly around his.

"Harry, what were you seeing?"

"The press," he admitted hesitantly. "After the Ministry raid last year. Before Dumbledore took me away, there was a moment when the press were taking pictures of me, asking me questions about Voldemort. That was night Sirius died."

Hermione exhaled, her eyes shining.

"Harry," she said, placing a finger under his chin, drawing his head upward, so the two were staring each other in the eye. "I think you need to see Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible."

"What for?" he asked.

Hermione sobbed, clasping her arms around him, bringing him closer into her embrace.

"Hermione?"

"Oh, Harry," she lamented. "I'm so sorry."

"Hermione? What's wrong with me?"

She hugged him tighter to her chest, refusing to let him go. She counted the symptoms in her head. Every one of them pointed to the same thing, the same horrible, heartbreaking conclusion.

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she held him, as long as he needed her, as long as he wanted, until he found the strength to stand. All the while, she sat with him, wishing that he wasn't cursed with the life that had been thrust upon him, that Harry Potter had the chance to be a normal, carefree young man for once in his life. He was only sixteen years old, and already so much had been taken from him. His family, his security, his confidence, his mental health, possibly his future.

But not her.

That was the moment that Hermione Granger promised to herself that no matter what - no matter how bad it seemed; no matter how bleak the horizon; no matter how little odds stacked in their favour - she would stand by Harry Potter forever.

He would never lose her.

Never.

Harry went to Madam Pomfrey's the very next day. He described everything he had explained to Hermione the night before, in as much detail as he. He told her about his regular nightmares in fourth year and beyond, the flashbacks he had experienced in moments such as in the common room, his first panic attack, his feelings of self-loathing that had accumulated over the years.

He didn't have to wait very long for a diagnosis. It was only a few days later, during a similar talk with a mind healer from St Mungo's when Harry finally had a name for it:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. P.T.S.D. as it was commonly referred to.

Honestly, it made a lot of sense in retrospect. Facing constant life-threatening danger was bound to leave somewhat of an impact, especially at a young age.

Then Harry learned just how uncommon it actually was, how usually the only people who had PTSD were soldiers, war refugees, people who had been through extreme danger and come out the other side scarred for life. Suddenly Hermione's anxiety over the issue all the more appropriate.

He wasn't crazy, though, and with that securely in his mind, he felt he could stand a little taller, a burden slightly lifted from his shoulders.

When he found Hermione, anxiously waiting in the common room, and he finally confirmed her suspicions, he was surprised when she began to cry. She flung herself into his arms, holding him as if he were her only lifeline. He reciprocated, pulling her close, reassuring her that he was still breathing, just as she told him to.

They stayed that way, wrapped in each other's embrace, for a good long while. For that moment, it was only himself and her, alone, together. Harry realised as he rested his head in the cushion of her chocolate brown hair, that Ron was the luckiest man in the world, because Hermione…

Hermione was everything anyone could ever want in a friend… in a partner...

Ginny was normal, sure. Ginny could make Harry feel like any other person, and he loved that about her. Hermione, though… Hermione made him happy in who he was - or if not happy, at least glad. Hermione made him feel good to be Harry Potter, because if Harry Potter could be friends with this amazing witch, then how bad could he be?

Judging by the warm feeling in his chest, resting just beneath where her face was pressed against his chest, not bad at all.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the last Quidditch game of the season had wrapped up, securing the House Cup for Gryffindor, yet another year in their winning streak. Two weeks since the party that had changed everything. Two weeks since Harry had his first panic attack. Two weeks since Hermione had promised to herself that she would never let him down, that she would be anything and everything he needed her to be.

So far, she had more than kept that promise.

Ever since then, Hermione had been hard at work, studying whatever material she could find about possible treatments, balms, therapies - anything that could provide Harry with some kind of relief from the effects of his trauma. And so, for the past couple of weeks, her sole focus had been pouring through the library, scanning each and every relevant tome for answers, along with ordering the newest theories in magical psychology. She had pestered Madam Pomfrey about ways she could assist in Harry's treatment outside of his sessions with a private mind healer.

If there was a piece of text in the castle even tangentially related to mental health, Hermione made it her mission to read it.

And that was where she found herself, on a bright afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, sitting with her knees beneath her on the sofa, leafing through a copy of 'The Advanced Guide for Potioneers: Mental Health and Recreation'. She was alone - Harry was out on the Quidditch pitch, teaching Ginny and the team tactics and manoeuvres they would need for the next year - but that barely bothered her. In fact, her isolation only made her more efficient. She preferred it that way. It was all for a good cause, after all. Ron, on the other hand...

"Hey, Hermione," the boy in question greeted her as he passed through the portrait hole.

"Good morning, Ronald."

He dropped heavily into the seat beside her on the sofa.

"What're you reading?"

"The elements needed to craft a draught of peace," she replied. Ron's face twisted into a picture of disgust.

"Potions? I didn't realise we had homework for potions."

"It's not homework," she explained irritably, bristling over his aversion to work. "It's for Harry."

Ron frowned.

"Right, of course, it is," he said, his shoulders stiff. "Should've guessed."

Hermione paused on the sentence she was reading, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"Is there something wrong?" she offered. He shrugged.

"No, no of course not, 'Mione." She forced herself to resist cringing at his nickname for her. For some reason, hearing it from his lips felt incredibly uncomfortable. "I was thinking, the Hogsmeade weekend's coming up. I thought you and I could go together. Just the two of us."

Her eyes narrowed.

"What about Harry?"

He looked at with a bemused expression.

"What about him?"

She sighed.

"He might like to come too," she replied.

"Well… he's got Ginny, hasn't he? They can go together," he reasoned. "So what do you say?"

Hermione frowned, biting the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows tilting upwards.

"I'm not sure, Ron," she said eventually, turning back to the passage in her book. Ron scoffed.

"Oh, come on," he urged her. "We've been meaning to go on a date recently, this could be nice." He scooted himself closer to her. "Just us, alone…" He reached his hand across to her knee. "You know…"

"Hmm," she hummed noncommittally. Her eyes stayed glued to the page. Ron, flummoxed at the lack of response, cleared his throat loudly, stretching his arms on the spine of the sofa. Once again, she failed to reciprocate his intentions.

"Hermione?" he called after several moments of silence.

"Hmm?" He looked up from her book, suddenly noticing his proximity. "Oh, sorry, I was miles away."

He forced sigh.

"Yeah, I could tell."

"It doesn't mention anything about the lavender flower in here," she noted, her focus once drifting back to the book in her lap. "I wonder, if I included just a pinch, it might enhance the calming effects…"

"I just think it would be good for you get away from all this for a bit," Ron interjected, resting one hand on the page she was currently scanning.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to nudge his fingers away from the text.

"You've been studying far longer than usual, Hermione," he replied. "It's not good for you. You need to relax."

"I can't relax, not yet," she insisted. "I need to master this calming draught first."

"What for? Surely it can wait a few days."

"What if Harry needs it before then?"

"Oh, there we go again." He threw his hands up in annoyance. "It's always about Harry nowadays, isn't it?"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" she challenged, folding the book closed and letting it rest by her side.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Hermione," he shot back. "Either the two of you are off doing god-knows-what together, or you're too busy researching another project for him. Every time I try and offer to do something with you, there's always one more thing that Harry wants, which of course needs your full attention."

Hermione glared at him, her pout turning into an unpleasant frown.

"Don't tell me you're jealous, Ron-"

"Maybe I am!" He stood from the sofa. "My best friend is with my girlfriend more often than I am!"

"I'm not going to apologise for being with Harry," she growled.

"I'm not asking you to," he retorted. "I'm just saying that if this is gonna work between us, then we at least need to spend time together."

"And do you suggest we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Because every time I offer something, you seem to reject it."

"No one wants to have a date in the library, Hermione."

"I wasn't suggesting the library!" she exclaimed. "It's not my fault that all you want to do with me is snog."

"Lavender and I snogged all the time when we were together."

Hermione's mouth fell open in disbelief. Ron paled, quickly realising his mistake.

"Oh, you saying I'm not up to snuff with Lavender now?"

"No!" he insisted, his palms raised. "No, that's not what I meant!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" she challenged in a serious tone. "That I'm not giving you enough as it is?"

"You're barely giving me anything!"

"I'm giving as much as I can!"

"Right, but it's still Harry that gets the most love and care."

"Because he needs my help, Ronald!"

"He's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione! He can take care of himself!"

Hermione flew to her feet.

"You have no idea what he's going through right now, do you?" she glared at Ron, her teeth bared. He scoffed.

"Oh, I can imagine," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Poor Harry. It's such a tragedy being the chosen one and all. How can he live with the fact that he's rich and famous and-"

"Hermione!" The winded, urgent voice of Neville interrupted their argument. She turned, spotting him as barrelled into the common room, huffing and gasping for air. "Hermione!"

"Neville? What's wrong?"

"It's Harry!" he explained. Her eyes widened. "He just collapsed in the middle of the pitch. He… he told me to find you. He won't speak to anyone else… he's not speaking at all."

Her heart began pounding in her chest as she realised what had happened. Immediately, all motivation to continue arguing with Ron fell away, replaced with a sudden need to find her best friend.

She stared Neville in the eye.

"Take me to him."

He nodded, gesturing to the portrait hole. Hermione nodded, telling him to lead and she would follow. Before she had reached the opposite side of the room, Ron called to her.

"Hermione…"

She turned, allowing him a glimpse determined, steely look. Whatever he was about to say, he faltered, realised that no matter what came out of his mouth, it wouldn't change her mind. She was going, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. He sighed, his jaw tightened, and he stalked past her, back towards the boy dormitories. Before he could entirely disappear, she gave him one last look that told him one thing: 'We need to talk about this.'

He jerked his head, gesturing for her to leave already. And she did, striding out of the common room without hesitation. She did not look back.

Hermione didn't slow down until she reached the pitch, running the rest of the way down the hill outside of the castle walls, so fast that even Neville had trouble keeping up with her. By the time they reached the entrance to the stadium, she had allowed Neville to catch up, letting him lead her into the boys changing room, where a small crowd of people were gathered around one corner. The sound of ragged, distressed breathing persisted just above their concerned murmurs. Hermione recognised it immediately.

"Harry!" she gasped. She stepped forward, ushering people aside. "Let me through! Give him some space!"

As she pushed past Dean Thomas, Harry was revealed to her, curled up in a ball in the very edge of the tent, rocking back and forth, his skin pale and laden with sweat. Ginny was on her knees beside him, her hands on his arms, trying to pry them away from his face. His eyes met Hermione's face, and he cried.

"'Mione," he called to her in a small, raspy voice. "I can't breathe."

She crouched to his level, enveloping him in a warm, comforting hug. Ginny reluctantly moved aside.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she whispered, stroking his hair. "It's okay. It'll be over soon. It's just a panic attack, that's all. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here now."

His breathing began to level out, and his tension in his body began to unwind, but he still clung to her like a lifeline, his grip tight, matching her's. She whirled around, glaring at the gathered Quidditch team, forcing them to take several steps back with only a look. One by one, the students departed, leaving only Neville on a nearby bench, and Ginny, who was rubbing Harry's back in small circles.

"What do we do?" he asked.

"Get Madam Pomfrey," she ordered. "Tell her we'll need a calming draught."

Nevile, clearly tired and in no fit state to run, called through to the outside of the tent.

"Dean!"

"On it!" Dean's voice replied. The sound of a broom taking off from the ground followed and Hermione exhaled, knowing that help was on the way. She turned back to Harry, gathering him as she slowly sat beside him on the grass floor.

She glanced up, noticing Ginny was still present.

"Is he going to be alright?" the younger girl asked, concern evident on her face.

"He will be," Hermione replied plainly. "Don't worry, I'll look after him."

A spark of something dangerous flicked across Ginny's face. She stared into Hermione's eyes, who stared right back, challenging her to try, just try and get her to leave. Eventually, after several moments of staring each other down, Ginny relented, storming out of the tent. Hermione couldn't help the small smile that appeared on her lips.

"Harry, what happened?" she asked softly, continuing Ginny's ministrations. She noticed that he responded far more positively to her touch than when the youngest Weasley had done so, shivering in her arms in a way akin to a house cat.

"I don't know," he replied weakly, shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "I was just flying around in the air, I was fine, really. It just sort of happened. I'm really sorry. I should've-"

"Sometimes these things just happen, Harry. It's not your fault." She placed a light kiss on his temple. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this. You're doing so well. Madam Pomfrey will be here in a minute with some calming draught. You'll be alright in no time."

The pair sat together, taking a moment to revel in the peace and quiet of the empty changing room. Eventually, Harry's breathing began to even out, settling into a steady rhythm. His body was still tense, and his trembling had yet to quell, but for that moment, Hermione was immensely proud of how well he was handling himself.

"'Mione." His voice brought her out of thought. "Can you stay with me? Please? Just for a little bit? Until Madam Pomfrey arrives?"

She smiled nodding.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," she replied, holding tighter against her chest. "I promise. I'll be right here with you, for as long as you need me."

"I'm sorry you have to do this, 'Mione. I-I'm trying…"

She shuffled her grip, placing her hands on the side of his face, so he was forced to look into her eyes.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she said resolutely. "This is my choice. I want to help you. Never apologise for letting me help you."

"I… I know," he whispered, "but I've seen how much work you've been doing. How much you've been helping me. I know you'd rather be with Ron, and I…"

"Harry," she said, weaving her fingers through his hair, "there's nothing I'd rather do than help my best friend." And she gave him a broad, beaming smile that he attempted to mirror.

"…You're my best friend, too, Hermione," he admitted, his eyes shining in the dim light. She nodded, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you, Harry. That means a lot to me."

"I'm sorry I can't give you much of anything back," he chuckled.

"You do," she assured him. "You being my friend, that's more than enough."

He seemed ready to say otherwise, to protest the very idea that something so meagre as his companionship could mean so much to anyone, but for some reason, it never came. For whatever reason, he decided against, instead preferring to sit with her, basking in her embrace. Perhaps he thought it pointless to argue, maybe he thought it would annoy her to carry on stubbornly denying his own self-worth, or probably - and Hermione hoped as was the case - she was finally getting through to him.

Regardless, she was glad when the entrance to the tent opened a few minutes later, and Madam Pomfrey walked through, wielding a Draught of Peace in one hand and a bouquet of lavender in the other. The effects of the light blue potion were immediate. His shaking stopped, his face regained its pinkish colour, his breath slowed to a manageable state. The difference was night and day. Gone was the small, vulnerable boy that she had held and comforted for the past few minutes, replaced with good, old Harry, her best friend.

Despite no longer needing it, which Madam Pomfrey verified as she left, it was a while before the two disengaged from each other's embrace.

Ron Weasley found himself alone on the loveseat of the Gryffindor common room later that evening, stewing in the irritation that plagued him since his argument with Hermione. He shouldn't have felt as anxious as he did, he and Hermione regularly quarrelled, and every time they eventually got over it. Surely this is was just going to be one of those times. Except, it certainly didn't feel like it. Something told him that this time it was different, that this time the two had crossed a line.

The fact that she had chosen to go to Harry's side after all was said and done certainly stung. After all that she had done for Harry, all the work she had indulged in on his behalf, all but ignoring Ron for the past couple of weeks, he had thought that it would have been enough. Ron had assumed that if he merely offered, if he confronted about it, then she would relent, see the error of her ways and run straight back to him. But she didn't.

Instead, she left him, alone, without a moment's hesitation. She had chosen Harry over him, her boyfriend - in all but name. It was but one more thing that Harry had that Ron didn't, and yet he still demanded more, deserved more, apparently.

His thought was interrupted by the sound of the portrait hole opening, and the sight of Hermione walking through into the common room. The moment she noticed him, she paused, standing in the light of the fireplace. Neither spoke for several agonising seconds, merely staring at each other in an awkward stand-off.

"Has it always been him?" he asked from across the room, eliciting a glare from her. Her jaw clenched, and her hands tightened into fists.

"Ron, if you're asking me to pick between the two of you, that's not going to happen," she replied coolly. "This isn't about which of you I like most, this is about Harry needing my help."

He inhaled, calming himself. He had tried getting angry before it didn't work. She at least deserved to explain herself, he reasoned.

"What's happening to him?"

Her face took on a weary, forlorn expression as she stared into the fireplace, watching the embers dissolve into flame.

"He's not well, Ron," she explained. "He has something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Met with his confused silence, she continued. "It's when a person experiences something very traumatic or distressing in their life, and it affects their mental health. He's not going insane if that's what you're thinking. He's still the same Harry that we know, but if it's not treated soon… then he's going to be traumatised for the rest of his life. Who knows what could happen to him."

"Is that what you've been doing?" he asked his mood from agitation to concern. "Helping him get it treated?"

She scoffed sadly.

"I'm nowhere near qualified for that. I've been trying to find ways to help with his panic attacks."

"His what?"

"Sometimes, Harry gets these moments when he panics, for no reason," she elaborated, taking a seat on the sofa. "It's never intentional, it just happens. He starts struggling to breathe, his body loses function, he even has flashbacks of the worst moments of his life." She glanced to him, her frown deepening, her eyes glistening. "It's hell, Ron. It's like he's trapped inside his own worst nightmare."

The image of Harry in pain brought Ron crashing back down to Earth.

"Merlin…" he sighed, suddenly feeling all the more guilty for pestering her. A million more question fired through his head, but he only verbalised the prevailing one. "Why hasn't he told me any of this?"

"Because he's embarrassed," she simply said. "It's an incredibly personal thing, Ron. He thinks it's some form of weakness, that it's somehow his own fault."

Ron sighed in frustration.

"How could that possibly be his fault?"

"I don't know, but he'll find a way," she answered sardonically. "He's not in a good place at the moment. I think all the pressure in his life is starting to catch up to him."

"Is there anything we can do?" he asked, his head hung low.

"We can help him when he needs us," she replied, glancing at him in a way that communicated her discontent. "Apart from that, I don't know. This isn't something we can fix. If Harry's ever going to get better, it needs to come from him."

Ron stood meekly from the armchair, moving to rest on the opposite side of the sofa.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said quietly. "I never realised…"

"It's okay," she replied tiredly. "I haven't been entirely open with you. Which is why we needed to have this conversation. Ron, I know you care about me a lot, and I care about you too. I just don't think we're right for each other. If you want someone who will snog you like Lavender, then you're better off trying to get back with her. I know you want a girl who will devote all their time to you, who will cater to you and your life and love you in exactly the way you need to be loved… but I'm not that girl, Ron, and I never will be. And that's not entirely your fault.

"I kept this going, just like you did. And partly because I was vain. I liked having someone who desired me, who could love me, even. I wanted to feel like Lavender or Parvati, or any one of the other girls in our year who were beautiful and popular and... Except, I realise now that that's not how a relationship works. I understand now that I wasn't giving anything that you couldn't get from somebody else. I think it's time we stopped treating it like anything other than it actually is: a crush.

"We could carry on saying to ourselves that this is something deeper, but at the end of the day, we're teenagers, and this was always going to end in disaster. And that's okay, that's what teenagers do. The problem is you're also my friend, Ron, and I don't want to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I'd rather love you as a friend than pacify you as your crush."

"What if I feel differently?" he replied, shuffling closer to her and taking her hand in his. "What if this could be something more?"

Hermione replied with a sad smile, stroking his digits with her thumb.

"Ron, how many times have we argued over the smallest of things?"

"Couples do that," Ron argued.

She shook her head.

"Couples apologise. When have we ever apologised to each other and meant it?" He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came to mind. He quickly skimmed through the past six years of his life, looking for every time they had quarrelled over their time together. Ron's heart fell as he slowly realised she was telling the truth. Six years, and not a single apology that he could remember, not a single time when they had made up after an argument. His face fell as he saw their perfect match for what it really was: two hormonal teenagers at each other's throats. Hermione, however, was surprisingly composed.

"Ron," she called to him, a small but beautiful smile on her lips, "You deserve someone who will love you for who you are, something who won't pester you about homework or get annoyed with all your foibles. Someone who can see you for you. Trust me, Ron, you can do far better than me."

"Somehow I doubt that," he laughed humourlessly. His hand reached to the back of his neck and rubbed, trying to relieve the tension that it found there. "It's hard to admit, but I can see where you're coming from. I guess I was so caught up in wanting you that I never stopped to think why."

"And why did you?"

He smiled at her, tilting his head in a way that asked her, 'Why the hell wouldn't I?'

"Because you're brilliant," he replied, "and you're smart, and you're quite pretty as well. That and… no, I can't say it."

"Please," she implored. Ron glanced at her, waiting expectantly, and he sighed, shaking his head.

"I was... jealous." He cringed. "I may not be as smart as you are, but I could see what was right in front of me. I saw how much you and Harry adored each other, how well the two of you worked together. Hell, everyone, we've ever met thought you two were together already. It always left me feeling like the extra one. Harry was brave, powerful, handsome, rich, the bloody chosen one of all people, and you were the smart, decisive, reliable one. Me? I was just your friend. I guess I just didn't want to be left behind. That, and - I feel like such a git for this but - I wanted something that Harry couldn't have. I wasn't wealthy, or smart or famous, but I thought if I had you, then maybe I would be happy. I know, I know, it's awful, but that's just what I thought at the time. I'm sorry."

Her face was unreadable.

"Better to have it out now than ten years into marriage," she shrugged.

"Merlin, don't even talk to me about marriage," he laughed, palming his forehead. She chuckled lightly, relieved that the mood had even slightly changed for the better. "I guess this is it, then."

"It is," she sighed.

"Thank you for trying," he replied.

"Thank you for exactly the same."

The two stared at each other for a moment, before they reached forward and embraced each other, awarding one last indulgence before their relationship came to an end.

"I'll always care for you, Hermione," he whispered, patting her on the back. He felt her nod into his shoulder.

"Feeling's mutual, Ron."

The two leaned back, gazing at each other as if finally seeing themselves for the first time, and smiled. It felt as if a crushing weight had been taking off of their shoulders, replaced with a sense of deliverance.

"What about Harry?" Ron eventually asked after a long while staring into the dwindling fire. Hermione didn't immediately respond, but her determined expression told him everything he needed to know.

"Harry needs me, Ron. He needs you, too. I'm staying by him, no matter what. Take that how you will."

Ron shrugged.

"Sounds about right. Just… Don't you two forget about me." He grinned, patting her shoulder fondly. She smirked in return.

"How could we? I'm sorry I was an awful girlfriend."

"Nah, you were fine," he waved her off. "Could have done with less nagging, but, you know, you get what you signed up for. Just make sure you're happy, alright?"

"I will."

"Promise me," he repeated, giving her a pointed look, "because you often forget about that sort of thing."

Hermione glanced at him, feeling a warm glow in her chest as she realised just how pleasant it felt to be valued by someone she cared about. She realised that Harry must have had that exact same feeling, in the tent earlier that day.

"I promise."

Ron nodded, knowing that there was not much else he could do.

"And, do me a favour," he added. "Let Harry know I care."

"He knows, Ron," she assured him, gazing into the eyes of her friend, relieved that she had made the right choice. "He knows."

Chapter Text

Surprisingly enough, contrary to what Hermione had dreaded, breaking up with Ron had only strengthened her friendship with him, rather than weaken it. Not that she minded, per se. Compared to the horror stories she had head about couples breaking up and never wanting to see each other again, keeping Ron as her friend was the much better alternative. They still argued, often, but nowadays they were far more amicable, as opposed to the tension that had permeated their interactions for so long. Now, Ron was far more relaxed about speaking his mind, no longer worried about his image or what she would think of him. He no longer felt the need to impress her, and as such, the real Ronald Weasley began to shine through. Their rapport slowly morphed from clipped tones and jealous remarks to silly jibes and outlandish mockery, akin to how siblings would make fun of each other.

Hermione could definitively say that she preferred this Ron more than the one that had obsessed over her for so long. The stark contrast between the two sides of her friend made her wonder why she had put up with the former for so long. She could honestly say, from a more detached point of view, that he was far more attractive now than he ever was back when they were sort-of dating. It almost made her wonder if there could be something between them.

And then Hermione would remember very clearly why he was like this, the boundaries the two had put in place that facilitated this change, and she reckoned that it was for the best that they stayed that way.

Of course, it wasn't long before Ron had moved on to someone else. At first, he had tried fixing his relationship with Lavender, to which he received an adamant refusal, one which manifested in a suspicious hand-shaped mark on his cheek. She and Harry very much enjoyed the image of a humiliated Ron Weasley, much to the chagrin of their friend. Soon, though, the youngest male Weasley had declared, not three weeks after he and Hermione had broken up, that he was seeing someone new.

Frustratingly, however, he was mature enough about it that he didn't say who it was.

"Are you sure it's not Pansy Parkinson?" Harry offered one evening, as he leafed through his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook for the hundredth time. Ron merely rolled his eyes.

"Why on Earth would it be her?" he cringed.

"I'm just saying, mate, the longer you keep it a secret, the crazier the theories are going to get. So far we've had people saying it's Susan Bones-"

"I've barely even spoken to her once!"

"Daphne Greengrass-"

"A Slytherin?"

Harry merely shrugged.

"Even Romlida Vane's on the list."

"Romlida Vane? Come off it!"

"Why not? After all, you did swear your undying love to her, remember?" Harry smirked devilishly.

"Yeah, when I was drugged to eyeballs on love potions," Ron pointed out.

"Which only happened because you have zero self-control when it comes to chocolate," Hermione added from her place leaning on the sofa, her head resting on Harry's legs as she read yet another weighty volume on psychotherapy.

"The way I see it, if I hadn't eaten those chocolates, it would have been Harry who'd have embarrassed himself." Ron puffed out his chest. "If anything, I made the ultimate sacrifice to protect Harry's honour."

"By eating my chocolate that you didn't even know had loved potions in them," Harry countered.

"Yes, and I'll be accepting a 'thank-you' any day now."

Harry scoffed.

"Yeah, right."

Ron shook his head, sighed irritably.

"Honestly, I keep one secret, and everyone thinks they deserve to know what it is," Ron grumbled. "Is this what it's like to be famous?"

"Mmhm," Harry hummed, "Except usually, people publish their outlandish theories as articles."

"Wow," Ron sounded, "Being famous sucks."

Harry gave Ron a long, tired stare.

"Yes, I bet it does."

No matter how many times they asked, Ron refused to give up the name of his mystery lover. All he ever said was that they knew her, and she was, as he liked to describe wistfully, unlike anyone he had ever met before. When Harry had offered that the reason for that was because she was fictional, the look on Ron's face had him and Hermione in stitches for the rest of the evening.

It became a bit of a running joke between Harry and Hermione to guess the most ridiculous answer to who Ron's girlfriend actually was. Some of their highlights were Rita Skeeter, Winky, Trelawney and Professor McGonagall. After all, Ron had often been at odds with his transfiguration teacher, and, as Hermione often reminded him, he always said that couples regularly argued. Ron's only response was the lifting of one finger.

Besides making jokes at Ron's expense, her relationship with Harry had blossomed in other ways. Ever since she and Ron had broken up, it allowed her far more time to be with her best friend, offering him support or helping him with his schoolwork. It came to a point when Harry spent more time with her than anyone else he knew since they shared the majority of classes together and the happened to live in the same tower the rest of the time. Not that she was complaining. It meant that, whenever he did need her help, she was always nearby to assist him.

It also meant that she actively missed him when he wasn't around. She had always felt Harry's absence before, such as on holidays, or when he disappeared off to Dumbledore's private lessons, but now whenever he disappeared from her life, even for a few hours, the feeling that she had misplaced something was all the more powerful. She reasoned that it was because, at any moment, Harry could come down with another panic attack, and her not being there to help him made him vulnerable. However, the more she spent time with him, the more she listened to what he had to say, about how he felt, the more she realised that it wasn't entirely true. Hermione always worried about him - it was in her nature - but it was just anxiety that drove her to miss him. It was longing.

She missed his smile, his laugh, his way of teasing her that made her feel like precious, the way he trusted her, and she, in turn, trusted him. He made her feel so secure, not only in her safety but in herself. He made her feel like Hermione Granger meant something.

Of course, that didn't mean they never disagreed, or even argued. Of course they did, they weren't perfect by any stretch. The textbook, for one thing. For some reason, whenever Hermione thought of the damned book, she felt a deep-seated anger flare from within her. It wasn't just that it basically allowed Harry the easy path to a perfect score, it was also what else that book contained.

The Sectumsempra curse, for one. From what Harry had described of the spell, Hermione assumed that it had been copied down from one of the Dark Arts tomes in the forbidden section of the library. However, when she had gone to check, filtering through each and every book on the subject, she couldn't find the spell anywhere. Even when Hermione had asked Madam Pince, or Professor Flitwick, or even Professor McGonagal, they all told her the same thing: the spell Hermione had asked for simply did not exist. Except, she reminded herself, inside that textbook.

The only logical assumption she could make, a theory she had quickly told Harry himself, was that the Half-Blood Prince, whoever they were, had created the spell themselves. The understanding - nay, mastery - of the dark arts required to do such a thing revolted her, to the point where she was determined to find out who the Prince was, just to see whether they were as ghastly as she imagined.

It was during that following trip to the library, scouring through the records for any clue as to the Prince's real name, she found something. Something big. Something which she quickly brought to Harry's attention the following, early Saturday morning.

"I have a lead," she announced, to an audience of one. Harry stared gormlessly at her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Pardon?"

Hermione scoffed, landing beside him on the common room sofa.

"On the identity of the Half-Blood Prince."

Immediately she saw his expression switch from weary disinterest to active irritation.

"This again? Hermione, please can you let it rest?"

"No, not a chance!" she protested. "Surely you must be at least curious."

Harry shook his head.

"Not at all. I only ever liked that book for the potions tips, anyway."

Hermione scoffed.

"Potions cheats, more like."

He rounded on her, showing her a pleading frown.

"Look, if it helps me get the O, then that's all that matters."

"It's more valuable to know how you got the O though," she argued, "otherwise, you're not learning anything."

"It's not like I was inventing anything that I couldn't already do," Harry pointed out. "Is crushing rather than cutting so revolutionary?"

"Then why aren't your potions grades as high as they used to be?"

To her immense satisfaction, he stumbled on his next few words, his lips tightening in some pale imitation of McGonagal.

"Because… because the Prince is just better at potions than I am, alright?"

"And they always will be if you continue to rely on THEIR work!"

"It's not like I'm going to be a potioneer when I leave Hogwarts am I, Hermione?"

"No, but Aurors need to know how to make all sorts of potions - healing, pepper-up, light-foot, ember of heart, lungbarrow—"

"I can just buy if I need them—"

"And what if you're by yourself with nowhere to buy them from?"

"Then…" He glanced around the room, anywhere but her penetrating stare. Eventually, realising he had painted himself into a corner, he admitted defeat. "Look, okay, okay! You've got me. I shouldn't rely solely on the Prince, but you can't say me getting a better grade is a bad thing."

"I'd rather you earned it," Hermione replied, which only served to further crush his mood. Realising how they had gotten off-topic, Hermione cupped his cheek. "Look, Harry, I'm not saying this to annoy you. I never want to annoy you or make you hate me."

"Hey…" he suddenly pulled himself together, rubbing her arm in return. "Hey, I'm sorry. I could never hate you, Hermione. You're my best friend, remember." He sent her a quick smile. "It's just that I don't need you reminding me of my shortcomings whenever I sit down. It makes me feel… inadequate. Especially when it's coming from you."

"Because I'm bossy, I know," she dismissed, to which Harry suddenly looked very indignant.

"No, because you're amazingly clever, 'Mione," he said with such conviction that she was momentarily stunned. "It just reminds me of how little I actually know. Especially considering what everyone's expecting me to do…"

"Harry, admitting to not knowing something is a good thing. Something I don't do nearly as much as I should."

"That's because there's so little that you don't know…" he pointed out. Hermione blushed despite herself.

"Aww, Harry, I…" Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute, I see what you're doing."

Harry suddenly looked flustered.

"Doing? Wh-What am I doing?"

She grinned.

"You're trying to distract me, showering me with compliments, so I forget about the Prince."

For a moment, there was a look on his face that told her that was anything but the truth, but it just as quickly evaporated.

"…No, I'm not," he replied as innocently as he could.

"Yes, you are."

"Nope."

"Harry."

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, it was worth a shot. Go on. Tell me what you've found."

Hermione couldn't help but smile, scooting across the seat so that they were side by side.

She pulled an ancient piece of newsprint out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in front of Harry. 'Look at that! Look at the picture!'

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; Ron leaned over for a look, too. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Under-neath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.

"So?" said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged.

"Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry."

They looked at each other, and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say.

"Seriously? You think she's the one?"

"Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it? No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was "Prince", and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a 'half-blood Prince'!"

"Even I think that's a bit far fetched, Hermione…"

"But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!"

"Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell."

"You just don't want to believe that a woman could be clever enough to be the Half-blood Prince."

"Hermione…" He seemed genuinely put-out. "Of course, I don't think that. In fact, I know a certain young woman who happens to be the smartest person I know."

Hermione smirked, deciding to act coy.

"Do I know her?" she asked, glancing towards the far corner of the room, her nose upturned.

"You just might…" he grinned back. "Still, you might be reading too far into it. This is a student's book, after all. I doubt they put too much thought into their own nickname."

"Blood status isn't something Wizards announce lightly, Harry," she reminded him. "It may sound a bit over the top to us - we grew up with Muggles after all - but here it's something very serious, especially back when the Prince owned the book. That was just before Voldemort's rise."

"You could be right…" Harry digested all that she had said, his eyes squinting in deep thought. "Still, I'm not convinced it's a 'she'. Call it intuition."

"Call it male chauvinism."

"Male what now?"

She lightly hit his arm.

"Prat."

"Hey, we might both be right," he proposed, peaking her attention. "Perhaps there's another Prince out there, a relative, maybe. Did Eileen ever have children?"

She pondered it for a while, wondering if there was a registry for past students and their kin, or perhaps an article about the Prince family she could consult. Either way, it meant yet another long day in the library. For Harry, though, it was worth it.

"I'll have to check." The ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner drew her attention. "Oh, it's nearly ten o'clock."

Nearly time for Harry's detention with Snape, a whole day of Harry's most hated teacher insulting him as much as he wanted. It always left him in a sour mood, one the Hermione often had to undo herself. She glanced back to Harry, who suddenly looked downcast.

"Yes, it is…" He stared dispassionately at the clock face, deliberating over whether it was worth actually turning up. Of course, Harry knew it was for the best that he did. He deserved it, after all, even if what had done to Malfoy was an accident.

That didn't mean his entire day had to be wasted, however.

"Hermione," he said softly, "I would love to study some potions this evening if you want."

Hermione smiled, taking his hand in her's.

"I'd love to, Harry." She nudged him with his shoulder. "We'll get you back to the top of the class in no time."

"I thought you coveted that spot."

"I'd be more than happy to give it away to whoever earns it." Before Harry could protest, Hermione pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't let Snape get to you, okay?"

The feeling of his arms wrapping around her, in turn, sent a shiver down her spine.

"Okay." Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her embrace, standing up and walking towards the portrait hole. He gave her one last passing look over his shoulder, which she met with her own wistful gaze. "See you soon."

Once again, detention was set in the dingy excuse for Snape's old office, stuffed with towering stacks of old boxes, all filled to bursting with disciplinary cards needing to be copied and filed. It was the epitome of tedium, an activity that chewed away the hours with all the enthusiasm of a slug. And, to provide further insult, it was all to be done in silence. Or, at least, his silence, because Professor Snape certainly didn't abide by that rule, taking time out of his day to spite him with insult after insult, and Harry could do nothing but take it.

Luckily the breathing exercises that Hermione had taught him for his panic attacks had another use. They also worked exceptionally well when it came to countering anger, a fact that Harry had fully taken advantage of. As much as Harry wanted to respond to Snape's words with some of his own, ultimately he knew it would be far more aggravating to remain silent, o not take the bait. He had to admit, watching Snape get more and more desperately to provoke any kind of reaction out of him, only to bristle when he failed, was immensely satisfying.

Of course, once Snape had decided to move one from insulting him to insulting his friends, then Harry had a bit more difficulty keeping his temper in check. Especially when Hermione was the victim of the man's vile remarks.

"It's a shame that these detentions are keeping you from spending more time with Miss Granger," he drawled, after yet another one of his long-winded speeches. At this point, Harry's primary response was to zone out, ignore what Snape was saying, get on with the task at hand. Hearing his best friend's name, however, had snared Harry's attention, something that Snape had noticed and was more than willing to exploit. "Perhaps her academic discipline would straighten you out. Then again, if I had a friend as insufferable as her, I would have gladly taken detention, rather than be forced to listen to her jabbering away."

Harry took in a deep, quiet breath, just as Hermione had shown him, centring his focus on the card on the desk. He continued copying the faded words carefully, letter for letter. He wanted to smash Snape's head against the table, but expressing even a fraction of that anger would only benefit him, so Harry remained silent. Snape stiffened, his scowl deepening to a full frown. Harry could tell, even from across the room, that he was starting to try Snape's patience. He scoffed inwardly. Serves him right, Harry thought.

Deciding that he finally had enough of subtlety, the slimy professor rounded on Harry, putting them practically face-to-face.

"Then again, I'm sure she wouldn't have been stupid enough to use a curse on a fellow student without knowing its full effects." If Snape meant for his words to have any effect, they failed. Harry kept his head down, refusing to dignify the man's barbs with any kind of response. "You're lucky that I happened upon you and Master Malfoy in time; otherwise you would be in dire trouble. If it weren't for me, perhaps you'd have followed your godfather to Azkaban."

Harry bristled, his grip on his quill tightening. He was about to think of some baiting response that might have said if he were allowed or were stupid enough when a thought struck him.

He realised as he ran back through his memory, back to the scene in the toilets, seeing Malfoy on the floor, blood flowing from a vicious cut that appeared on his chest. He remembered how Snape had appeared, just in time, chanting a spell that Harry couldn't recognise that quickly closed Malfoy's wounds.

It was remarkable to Harry just how lucky Malfoy was that Snape knew the correct counter curse to heal his life-threatening injuries. How fortunate that Snape just so happened to know the countercurse to a spell that no one else knew. A spell that, according to even Hermione's thorough research, didn't exist anywhere else except inside Harry's potions textbook. A spell that Snape had to have recognised almost immediately to save Malfoy's life.

Maybe it wasn't luck, Harry pondered. Perhaps, as the evidence concurred, Snape really did know exactly what Harry had hit Malfoy with. But if Snape knew about Sectumsempra, then…

Harry ran the idea through his head again and again and again, trying to find fault in it. No, he thought. Snape was not the Half-Blood Prince, how could he be? It wasn't possible. Surely. Right? But no matter how much Harry tried to deny it, he couldn't stop the pieces in his brain from clicking together. The mastery of potions; the propensity for the dark arts; Snape's knowledge of the countercurse; his insistence to search Harry's textbooks; how he knew immediately that Harry had used Ron's instead. The timing would fit, too. Snape must have attended Hogwarts around the same time when the book was new, around thirty years ago, maybe.

Harry realised as he brought himself back into the now, that his quill had stopped writing altogether, arrested on a singular point of the parchment. His eye trailed again to the card on the desk, noticing that one particular entry was covered up. Harry picked the card in his hand, releasing it from under the parchment, revealing the rest of the entry. His blood ran cold. Dated 12th March 1977, it read:

Severus Snape. Unknown laceration curse on Stephanie Brown. Victim's wounds healed by the perpetrator at the scene. Punishment: two months daily evening detention.

The rest of his detention passed like a blur. His brain could barely function, it felt like every cog in his head had fallen out of place, only allowing him the capacity to read and copy. Before he knew it, the detention had ended, and he was walking free. His feet found the Gryffindor Common Room before his eyes did, his brain only catching up once he found his place on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

He knew that Hermione would be back from the library eventually, ready to meet him with open arms, to hear about his day. Today, however, she carried with her something far more important. Today, she had presumably spent her time researching the Prince, about who they could be. If her theory about Eileen Prince was correct, or at least led to another person - anyone but Snape - then he could rest easier. At least he could rest assured he hadn't put his undying faith in Snape - nearly killed a person because of Snape. Suddenly, everything Harry had done over the past year came into startling clarity. How he had defended the Prince, made so many excuses for them, tried desperately to hand onto that precious book, despite the horrible, horrible things it contained. Hermione's cautionary words, her constant and vocal denouncement of that book, felt all the more relevant.

Harry realised, no more than ever, Hermione deserved an apology.

A few minutes later, the portrait hole opened, and Hermione stepped inside. Spotting him, she hesitantly made her way over to the spot by his side. Her face spoke of either shock or confusion, or maybe both. Either way, it spoke only bad omens.

"Harry, you're not going to believe this," she said gravely, crushing what little hope for some good news Harry still had. "I was looking through old copies of the Daily Prophet… tucked away in a back issue from the 60s, there was an article about Eileen. Apparently, she married a man called Tobias…"

She paused for a moment, seemingly unable to carry on. Harry held his breath.

"T-Tobias Snape." Harry paled. Her hand gripped his tightly. "Her son was called Severus. Harry… you don't think…?"

But Harry knew the answer. He knew, deep down, before she had even arrived.

"It's him," he replied resolutely. "I know it is."

He went to explain what he had heard in his detention, how it related to what had to Malfoy, every conclusion Harry had drawn up, beat by beat. Slowly, but inevitably, Hermione's frightfully reluctance turned into dawning horror, as she too realised the truth.

Snape had been the Half-Blood Prince all along.

Soon, though, the horror in Harry's chest subsided, smothered a deep, burning hatred. Snape, the man who had called his father and his godfather no-good troublemakers, the worst kind of humans, had been creating dark curses in his free time. Back when Harry's father was occupied with harmless jokes, Snape's weapons of choice were the curses of cowards, the types that aimed to hurt, to maim, to kill.

And Harry had let himself be caught up in it all, all because it got him a better grade in potions.

As far as Harry was concerned, he never wanted to see that textbook again. Now, with a new-found purpose, he stood from his seat, marching towards the entranceway.

"Harry?" Hermione asked from behind him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Harry turned, allowing Hermione a proper look at his incensed look, a picture of fury she dreaded to see on her best friend's face.

His response was clipped and blunt.

"To destroy that stupid book."

Chapter Text

"I'm not going to say it," Hermione announced aloud, as she and Harry marched up the stairs, straight towards the Seventh Floor. Harry looked at her from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised in a way that made him look unconvinced.

"But you are, aren't you?" he stated rhetorically. Hermione tried to glare at him, to protest that she could control herself, that she wouldn't say the four words that had been screaming through her head for the past few hours. Ever since she had learned the turn about who exactly the Half-Blood Prince was. "Go on. I know you want to."

And so she did.

"I told you so!" she exclaimed. "I told you, you-" Her eyes grew to the size of saucers, her eyes darting around wild to see if anyone heard. Hushing herself, she carried on in a softer tone of voice. "I told you that the Prince was bad news. I knew it! If you had just listened to me from the start-"

"From the start?" Harry scoffed. "Back when the only reason you hated the book was that it helped me beat you at potions?"

"That is hardly the point, Harry! The point is that you shouldn't have messed with that book in the first place."

"How was I supposed to know that it belonged to that slimy bastard? As far as I knew it was just a textbook with notes in it," he seethed. "It's got to the point where even my textbooks are dangerous. My bloody textbooks, Hermione!"

"I think Hagrid made sure that this wasn't the first time," Hermione mentioned.

"You know what I mean!"

He saw Hermione flinch at his tone and realised immediately that he had crossed a line. He took several deep breaths, calming himself, realising that it wasn't Hermione that he was angry with. She certainly didn't deserve to deal with his attitude.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said wearily, palming his forehead. "I'm just… tired of it all. I'm tired of having no choice. I hate that, no matter how hard I try, it's always me. Like everything I do or everything I own has to mean something."

Turning back to the girl by his side, Harry realised that he hadn't explained himself very well, not if the confused expression on her face was anything to go by. He readjusted himself, plotting out the right words to describe his thoughts.

"I nearly killed a person, because of that book," he explained, trying to express in a glance the depth of his shame. "Even if it was Malfoy, I still nearly did it. I never thought it would come to that. And I know, I should've taken it more seriously. I know, looking back, if I had taken the time to look into it, if I had studied it properly, I might have figured out that it was dangerous… but a part of me feels like, 'Well, surely I shouldn't have to'.

"Why should I have to second guess everything in my life? Why do I have to be surrounded by all these coincidences? Why can't I have something or do something or meet someone who is just normal? Why can't I just be normal, for once?"

Hermione was looking at him with the same concerned expression that he saw during his panic attacks. The same expression that she would usually adopt whenever he was in pain or injured, and every time he saw it, Harry was reminded just how much she really cared for him.

"You know, it's why I was interested in Ginny," he chuckled awkwardly, "for a time. Because she's so… so… nonplussed about it all. She's so cool, she's so… there. Like, when she's in the room, she just owns the stage, so much so that sometimes she helps me forget that I'm the chosen one."

Hermione pursed her lips, her brow furrowed in an endearing way. A motherly way that made him feel warm inside.

"So, you want someone who just sees you as you?" she asked.

Harry nodded.

"Yeah, I guess so," he shrugged as if it were some farfetched wish.

"Not even I did that," Hermione remember solemnly. "Not at first."

"No," Harry concurred, "but you have ever since. More often than most. How do you manage it? I mean, it seems like every year I'm pulling you and Ron into some dangerous new adventure, for the fate of the world. Is it difficult, not seeing me as the Boy-Who-Lived?"

From anyone else's mouth it might've come off as arrogant, but the way that Harry spoke of his title, the one he had been given nearly 16 years ago, made it sound like a horrible slur. Hermione shook her head, taking Harry's arms in her's.

"No, Harry," she assured him with a smile, "because I know that if you had any other choice, you wouldn't be. Which is why it frustrates me, too, to see you so caught up in these grand conspiracies. You deserve a normal, quiet year Harry. You, more than any of us. Most of the people in this school don't realise how lucky they are, that they have the choice to just be like anyone else. That they have the choice to be anonymous."

"You do, too," Harry pointed out. Under her piercing, expectant gaze, Harry shrank away, refusing to meet her eyes. "If you wanted. You could run away, leave me to deal with Voldemort by myself. You don't have to-"

"Harry," she said, interrupting every thought in his brain. He looked up and saw her staring at him, her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn't quite identify. "Running away was never an option. Especially not from you. You need me, so I'm staying."

Harry tried to smile back, but he failed.

"And what if I get you killed?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he suddenly felt far older than his sixteen years of age. "What if you're the next person I lose?"

Hermione cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb.

"You can't think of it like that, Harry." She manoeuvred his face so that he staring her dead in the eye. "Look at me. I'm here, now. Because I want to be, because I will never leave you, Harry. I'm here."

Harry couldn't help the way his hand found her waist, the surprise mingled with relief when his hands found her body, and he realised that she really was there. Just like she'd promised she would be.

Hermione, the one he could rely on to be there for him when no one else was. The who never gave up on him, who was always there to lend a hand, to comfort him in the worst of times. The one person he trusted most in the whole wide world.

Harry's mind imagined her absence for only a moment, and the thought flooded him with more terror than he thought possible.

"Hermione. I…" Harry didn't know what he was about to say when he started talking, but he knew he had to say something. People who felt like this usually say something. He noticed for the first time, as he was staring at her, that there was a pleasant aroma around her.

"Have you got a new perfume?" he asked, to which she merely chortled sweetly.

"Lavender," she replied. "I'm just trying it out."

"I really like it," he told her honestly, and she smiled brightly, illuminated her eyes in a way that ripped the breath from his lungs. That was it, he thought to himself. He had to tell her. "Hermione…" he began.

She gazed on, patiently waiting.

"Y…You're my best friend."

Hermione tilted her head at him.

"I know, you've told me," she assured him. "Many times."

"No," he insisted, holding her tighter. "Hermione, you… I mean, what I'm trying to say is…"

And yet the words wouldn't come. His tongue twisted and his throat closed and his teeth felt large and obstructive in his mouth.

"It's okay," she tried to placate him, to which Harry sigh in frustration.

"No, it's not," Harry growled, disappointed in himself. "I-I can't say it."

"Why not?" she asked.

Harry looked up, gazing at Hermione's warm face, framed by curls upon curls of chocolate brown hair like a beautiful mane. The feeling he held for her, so deep they threatened to take the strength from his body, so powerful that he couldn't possibly think of the words.

"I don't know," Harry said finally, and he hung his head, suddenly realising far more about himself than he enjoyed. So much for the house of the brave.

Their conversation was interrupted, however, by the sound of the bricks on the far wall twisting and morphing. They turned and saw the doors of the Room of Requirement begin to take shape.

"That was quick," Hermione admired, smiling at him. Harry stared back at her, suddenly realising what she presumed.

"That's not me," he said shaking his head. Hermione's eyes widened. Clearly, it wasn't her doing either. So whose was it? Just as the question passed through his head, the doors began to fully materialise. "Quickly, behind here."

Harry took hold of Hermione's arms and pulled her behind a nearby stone pillar, pulling her into himself as tightly as possible to hide them from view.

The pair heard the sound of two heavy iron-cast doors swing open, and footsteps striding out, quickly making their way down the hallway, luckily heading away from their hiding place.

Harry and Hermione chanced a peek around the corner of the pillar, and their eyes immediately met the back of a head of platinum blonde hair.

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered. "What's he doing in there?"

"Does it matter?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," Harry murmured. "I really think it does."

They until Malfoy turned the corner of the hallway, then wait, just to be sure, for a couple of minutes more.

It was only after a solid minute of silence, that Harry took his chances.

"Okay, I think he's gone," he announced quietly. Harry walked up to where the door used to be, having sunken back into the wall when Malfoy departed. He began pacing back and forth in front of the wall, muttering something softly.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, only hearing what he was saying as she began to tread closer.

"I need to see what Draco has been up to," he was quietly chanting, a look of intense concentration on his face. Hermione sighed.

"You think it's something to do with him being a Death Eater," she reasoned. Harry gave a serious look in return.

"I know it is," he replied. "But what?"

"You don't think you're reading too far into it?" she offered as the towering oak doors of the Room of Requirement began to slowly reappear. Harry smirked, glancing at her cheekily.

"Well, look at how the tables have turned, Miss Granger."

Hermione blushed despite herself.

The doors opened to a large room full of what looked like abandoned things. Piles and piles of rubbish as far as the eyes could see, things like tables, chairs, books, glasses, goblet, chests, and all sorts of other lost items. Immediately in front of them, however, alone in the middle of a cleared out space, lay a cabinet. The junk that would have hidden it pushed away to make room for it, creating a large circle around it, allowing the ambient light from the open door to shine directly onto it like a spotlight. Harry and Hermione instinctively knew that this was what Harry had asked for.

"Is that it?" Harry asked, slightly disappointed.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, more to herself than to Harry. Not that he could tell the difference by the way he shrugged.

"How am I supposed to know. It just looks like a wardrobe."

The two circled around it, studying the wooden contraption for any clue as to its purpose. Which Hermione soon found.

"What's that?" Harry heard her murmur, to which he quickly walked over to her side.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"There're runes, all along the sides," she explained, her finger lightly tracing the top of the cabinet, where what looked like runes lay carved into the wood. "'Door to Door, Brother to Brother.' This thing looks ancient."

"What's Malfoy been doing with it?"

"I don't know." Her attention soon turned to the sides, where a large line ran up along the walls of the box. "It looks like it's been fixed recently. Maybe he's the one who fixed it. But whatever for?"

Harry took a step back, taking a good long look at it, closing the doors of the Room just incase. Just as the doors closed, they disappeared, revealing that they were far deeper into the room than Harry initially realised. He turned back to point this out to Hermione when he paused. Suddenly seeing the cabinet again, in the dingy, musty light of the rubbish reminded him of something. Something that happened to him a few years before.

Harry's eyes widened as he finally connected the dots.

"I've seen this cabinet before," he announced. Hermione's head popped around the corner almost comically, her face alight with curiosity.

"What? When?"

"Do you remember back before second year?" Harry asked. "When we met in Diagon Alley?"

"Yes?"

"Early that morning, I accidentally flooed into the wrong fireplace. I ended up in Knockturn Alley. Specifically Borgin and Burkes. That's where I saw this cabinet."

"In Borgin and Burkes?" Hermione asked, to which Harry nodded. "But why would Dumbledore buy a cabinet from Borgin and Burkes?"

"Who says Dumbledore bought it? "

"Well, it would've been under his supervision," Hermione deduced, dusting off her hands on her skirt. "A student couldn't possibly sneak this in. Unless…"

Hermione paused, a thought suddenly occurring to her.

"Harry," Hermione asked, "did you get in it?"

Harry looked at her.

"In what?"

"The cabinet, in Borgin and Burkes?"

Harry thought back to that day, back to when he was but twelve years old, stuck in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by darkness and horrible things.

"Yes," he remembered, "I think I did, to hide from Malfoy and his father."

"Did you close the door?"

"What?"

"Harry," she said urgently, "did you close the door?"

"No," he quickly insisted, "I didn't I kept it open, just a little, just so I could spy on Malfoy."

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip, testing out an idea in her head.

"Let me test something," she held out her hand. "Give me I can use."

"Will I be getting it back?" Harry smirked. Hermione shrugged.

"I honestly don't know."

Harry decided, then and there, that hearing those words coming out of Hermione's mouth was one of the most uncomfortable feelings he had ever experienced. Without hesitation, he took off his jumper and gave it Hermione, who smiled and rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek. She then carried it over to the cabinet, opened it, placed the jumper carefully inside and closed the door. Hermione waiting for several seconds, before she hesitantly opened it again.

The jumper was nowhere to be seen. Hermione gasped loudly, and Harry quickly found her side, checking to see if she was okay.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Harry," she said faintly, with a hint of wonder, "this is a vanishing cabinet."

"A what?"

"A vanishing cabinet," she repeated a broad smile on her face, her eyes wide. "I read about them. They were used pretty often during Voldemort's time. Someone could step inside one cabinet, close the door, then step out of another. An easy escape route."

Harry frowned.

"Then the cabinet in Borgin and Burkes must be a different one," he surmised. "That's why he's been fixing it. He's trying to sneak something in Hogwarts."

The expression on Hermione's face quickly turned from wide-eyed amazement to pale-faced dread, as she realised the implications.

"Or someone," she pointed out. Harry glanced at her, his face set. Hermione saw him remove his wand from his pocket. "Harry, what are you doing?"

She felt him grab her arm, pulling back as he took several paces away from the cabinet. She saw his wrist movement and realised he was preparing to set fire to the cabinet. Her eyes widened.

"Harry, stop!" she called, grabbing his hand gently and pulling it away. "He might not have fixed it yet."

"How do you know?" he challenged.

"Look," she instead, as she pulled him back towards the cabinet.

Hermione quickly closed the door and reopened it. The jumper did not reappear. She gave a sigh of relief.

"I knew it," she replied. Harry stared at her dumbly.

"So?"

"Right now it can make things disappear," Hermione carefully explained, rubbing his arms in a soothing manner, "but not reappear. When I closed the door, instead of sending your jumper to the other cabinet, it just made the jumper vanish into thin air."

"So, where did it go?" Harry asked. Hermione gave him a strange look.

"It didn't go anywhere. It just vanished," Hermione described with an unsettling finality. "But that's a good thing because it means that this one is useless to him for now."

"But he's close," Harry argued. "Look at it. It doesn't look broken."

Hermione rolled her eyes endearingly.

"Fixing a vanishing cabinet takes more than a simple repair spell," she assured him. "You have to repair the enchantments as well. The cabinet is just a shell for the real magic that happens inside of it. And so far he hasn't gotten that to work yet. We have time."

"But how much?" he warned. "It could be fixed by tomorrow for all we know."

Hermione smiled, pulling out her own wand.

"Not if we have anything to say about it," she smirked, making Harry suddenly feel a thousand times better. She presented her wands, waving it around, preparing it. "Repeat after me, Harry," she instructed, demonstrating a slicing motion with wands, cutting the air in a horizontal line. "'Finite Incantatem'. Ready?"

Harry nodded.

"Finite Incantatem," he chanted at the same time as Hermione, slicing the air. A purple glow erupted from the ends of their wands. The cabinet shook, ratlin from side to side so violent that Harry thought it was going to topple over before it then fell deathly still.

Harry, gasped, suddenly feeling very tired as if he had just run a long, arduous race. Hermione buckled beside him, and he caught her just before she toppled to the ground.

Hermione leaned on his shoulder, hugging his arm for support, as Harry rose to his feet.

"Okay, what now?" he asked, slightly winded.

"Give me your tie," she ordered tiredly.

Harry carefully unravelled the Windsor knot in his tie and presented it to Hermione, who ceremoniously placed it into the cabinet and shut the door. She waited for a few moments, just like the first time, reopening it. Contrary to the last time, the tie remained, and Hermione she smiled a satisfied grin.

"Mind telling me what you did?" Harry chuckled, seeing how her hands had clasped together excitedly.

"We, Harry," she reminded him. "We removed the cabinet's enchantments. It's just a cabinet now."

"Is that why I suddenly feel drained?" Harry assumed.

"It takes a lot of magic to disenchant a magical object this big," she noted. "I couldn't do it alone. Thank you."

"Thank you," he insisted, pulling her into a hug. Hermione stiffened, unused to Harry initiating hugs - that was usually her job - but she soon relaxed, relishing the feeling him, wrapped around her.

The two merely stood in each other's embrace for a while, the exertion of the counter-spell rendering them perfectly happy to stand around relaxing. Eventually, though, they knew they had to move. They had to do something.

"We need to tell the headmaster," Harry told her, leaning back to see her face. Hermione nodded, her smile was replaced with a determined frown.

"Agreed."

The two soon after departed, heading straight for the headmaster's office.

"Mr Potter, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore called as he strode down the seventh-floor hallway a few minutes later, several paces behind both Harry and Hermione. "I admire your enthusiasm, but please do remember I am getting on a bit."

The two paused, looking slightly embarrassed as they allowed the old headmaster to catch up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is urgent," Harry explained.

"He's right," Hermione chorused.

"Very well," he nodded and continued as a more sedate pace. The reached the empty wall, and harry began pacing back and forth, whilst Dumbledore took a moment to admire the tapestry beside it. Specifically, the one that depicted Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach a group of eight trolls in the art of ballet, each of the hulking beasts dressed in bright tutus, floundering in their attempts at plies. "I always like this tapestry. I grew up on stories of Barnabas. Do you know what happened to him after this?"

"What happened, sir?" Hermione asked as Harry concentrated on opening the room.

"The trolls ate him," Dumbledore replied. "Apparently, that was how they discovered their taste for humans. A shame, really. He was an enthusiastic teacher if a little confused."

He turned back to Hermione, a glint of mischief in his eye.

"If you're here to show me the Room of Requirement, I'm already very aware of its existence, I'm afraid," he noted.

Harry scoffed.

"Forgive me, sir, but I'm not surprised," he said offhandedly, before turning back towards the wall. "I need to see what Draco has been doing."

Dumbledore suddenly looked very tired.

"Harry-" he attempted to placate, but Harry shook his head.

"Please, professor," he begged, just as the Room of Requirement opened once more. Harry gestured Dumbledore inwards, and the old man walked inside, prompting Harry and Hermione to follow. When Dumbledore finally noticed the vanishing cabinet in the centre of the cleared out space, surrounded by walls of furniture, he didn't seem surprised. In fact, he looked at it with an air of recognition, one which Harry immediately noticed.

"You know what it is, don't you?" Harry asked.

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "I'd been meaning to throw it away. Especially when its twin found its way into Mr Borgin's possession."

Harry's eyes widened and his face fell.

"You knew?" he accused. "You knew about the one in Borgin's?"

"I did," Dumbledore replied calmly. "However, I knew the threat it once posed had passed when Peeves broke it in your second year."

"Not anymore," Harry retorted. "Draco's been trying to fix it."

"'Trying,' Harry?"

"Well, we found it earlier today, when we were…" Harry paused, remembering what their original mission had been, what he had been trying to get rid of, and suddenly feeling very guilty.

"When you were what, Harry?" Dumbledore prompted.

Harry took a deep breath, determined to be brave.

"When I was coming to destroy my potions textbook," he explained. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"I never considered you a vandal, Harry. Although, we all have hobbies. May I see that textbook, Harry?"

Harry withdrew his wand and waved around his head.

"Accio textbook."

The potions book flew from a far corner of the room and landed in his hand. Somehow it felt heavier than it used, despite Harry knowing that actual weight hadn't changed.

Dumbledore politely took it from Harry's outstretched palm and examined it, turning the pages, carefully. The twinkle in his eye disappeared as he read page after page after page.

"This used to belong to Professor Snape, I believe," he said, his usual warmth chillingly absent.

"Yes," Harry nodded. Dumbledore glanced at him, neither angry nor upset. Rather disappointed, which hurt far more than either.

"Is this where you found the dark curse you used on Mr Malfoy?"

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore sighed, clasping it shut.

"Why did you not report this to me, immediately?"

Harry met the headmaster's gaze, channelling all the frustration he had felt that morning into courage, forcing himself to stand taller for Dumbledore's inspection.

"Because I was selfish, sir," he answered truthfully. "Because I thought that my grades were more important than the safety of those around me." Harry eyes momentarily found Hermione, who was looking at him with an apologetic expression, as if she wanted to speak up in his defence, but knew that she couldn't. Harry wouldn't have let her anyway. This was his fault, and he wasn't about to let anyone take it for him. "However, if I knew it had belonged to Snape, sir, I never would have used it."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected, to which Harry's eyes darkened.

"He's not my professor, sir," Harry replied darkly. "Nor does he deserve to be."

"Harry-"

"Just read that book, sir. The things he's written in there-"

"Are all things I already know," Dumbledore replied patiently. "I would appreciate if we could move on to the matter of the vanishing cabinet?"

Harry wanted to argue on, but he knew that it was pointless. This wasn't the first time Dumbledore had taken Snape's side, and it wouldn't be the last. The very fact that Snape was teaching in Hogwarts was proof of that.

"Of course," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "Sorry, sir."

Dumbledore seemed to accept his apology and soon turned his attention back towards the cabinet.

"What do you believe I should do to it?" the old man asked them both.

"Well, Harry and I removed the enchantments on the cabinet, sir," Hermione quickly explained, trying to discreetly emphasise Harry's involvement. "It's completely useless to anyone now."

"Excellent initiative, Miss Granger," Dumbledore smiled. "What else is to be done?"

"I think we need to deal with Draco, sir," Harry offered. "For good."

Dumbledore more hummed.

"Is that so?"

Harry glanced at him, his brow furrowing.

"You don't think we should?"

The headmaster shook his head.

"Mr Malfoy is no longer a threat," Dumbledore explained. "You and Miss Granger made sure of that."

"But that doesn't mean he won't try other things," Harry pointed out. "He gave Katie the cursed necklace and nearly poisoned Ron-"

Dumbledore gave Harry a stern look.

"Those are bold accusations, Harry," he warned.

"Oh, come off it! We both know he was responsible!" Harry growled.

"Harry," Hermione quietly exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Harry," Dumbledore admonished, "I would ask you to calm down."

"I will once you have Malfoy expelled," Harry challenged, "or arrested, even!"

"I will not be expelling Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said firmly. "That is my final decision."

Harry stared him down, refusing to give in so easily.

"What are you not telling me about him?" he challenged, gauging the old man's face very carefully. "What are you keeping from me?"

Dumbledore remained passive, drawing himself up to his full height and pocketing the textbook.

"Thank you, both, for bringing this to my attention," he calmly told them. "Ten points each for your initiative. Good afternoon."

And with that, the door out of the room reappeared and Dumbledore stepped through it, closing it behind him with a twitch of his finger.

Once he was gone, Hermione turned to him, her mouth agape.

"Harry," she scolded, "you shouldn't have been so rude?"

"Hermione," Harry bit back, "you know he was hiding something."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Obviously," she countered, "but he wouldn't do that unless there was a good reason for it." She suddenly looked uncertain, wrapping herself tightly in her jumper. "Would he?"

Harry glanced back at where the door used to be, seeing Dumbledore striding through it, acting completely dispassionate towards Harry's anger, just like he had done so many times during last year.

"I don't know, Hermione," he said truthfully, as anxious as she was, but refusing to show it, for her sake. "I don't know."

The pair soon left, their moods much lower than when they arrived.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed slowly. Harry, still very aware of Draco's plans, made it a habit to check on the Room of Requirement every day, scoping it out to see if the Slytherin made an appearance. So far, he hadn't, which did nothing for Harry's nerves.

Luckily, he had Hermione to keep him somewhat grounded. She didn't exactly condone his obsessive behaviour, she knew that he had reason to do it - a valid reason at that. She had seen first hand the depths to Malfoy would go to achieve his plans, so if what it took to keep others safe was to give up Harry for an hour each day, then so be it.

However, she always made him pack an extra bottle of calming draught, specially made by her after several weeks of practise. He treasured it gladly, smiling at the lavender cutting carefully taped to the side of the glass.

He would often rub it, just when he was bored or lonely, imagining the care that Hermione had put into it, how she would smile whenever he noticed the effort. He wondered if this was what it felt like when couples did similar things. He had seen instances of Molly Weasley decorated her husband's lunch box, tucking in endearing notes and treats, sending him off for a new day.

The thought of his own wife, beautiful and smiling and loving, came to Harry's mind, and he blushed bright red, glad that he was hidden behind a pillar on the deserted seventh floor where no one could see him. It was a welcome thought, something that Harry had imagined for years now. A family, all of his own, divorced from the prophecy, or the Order, or the responsibility of saving the world. Something normal and peaceful. With someone who he could love and cherish and not have to worry about their safety. Someone who could give him children to love in turn.

Someone who smelled like lavender flowers. That would be nice. Ginny smelled like lavender, didn't she?

A crash from nearby broke through his daydreams, and Harry sprung to life. He spied out from behind the pillar, expecting to see Malfoy. But it wasn't him. Instead, it was someone desperately clutching at a large wooden box, spilling dozens of clear bottles all over the floor of the hallway.

It was Professor Trelawney, he realised. His used-to-be Divination teacher.

"Professor?" Harry called as he walked out from behind the pillar. Trelawney jumped, shrieking in surprise. She turned towards him suddenly, her glasses warping her eyes into huge, blinking headlamps.

"Oh, Harry," she gasped. "Oh, deary me. I was just getting rid of- um, I mean, transporting a few things to my classroom." She casually tried to sweep some of the bottles behind her, away from view, smiling as casually as she could, which of course meant very awkwardly.

"Right," Harry nodded, unconvinced. "Would you like a hand with those?"

Trelawney glanced at Harry, then back to the bottles strewn across the hallway.

"Yes," she nodded numbly, "O-Of course. Thank you, my boy."

Harry slowly began picking up the empty bottle glancing at the label, noticing for the first time that they all used to contain sherry. Used to, because Harry was pretty sure where it had all gone if Trelawney's erratic swaying and murmuring were any sign.

"Are you alright, Professor?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, why, yes, my boy," she stuttered. "Simply… tired. Yes, tired. Must be working myself thin. Oh, I remember when I used to be young. I had dreams, Mr Potter. Dreams of becoming a great Seer. And now look at me. A teacher."

"Being a teacher isn't so bad," he tried reassuring her as if he deposited a few more bottles into the crate.

"Oh, no, I suppose not, but oh, there are so many who come into my classroom who do not possess the gift. And far fewer interesting Objects. I always found that you, Harry, were a fascinating Object."

"Right," Harry murmured, remembered very well what it was like being Trelawney's object of interest and how much he hated it.

"One of the most interesting I've ever seen… But, oh, look at me. I'm not your teacher any more, no since you decided to… quit."

The last word she spoke with a tone of voice so flat that Harry almost paused.

"Well, I just didn't have the gift, did I?" he offered, to which Trelawney sighed.

"No, you didn't. You were a dull Seer. Still, we can't all read the universe and its signs with fluency. No, not like me."

"No," Harry nodded, "I don't think anyone's quite like you, Professor."

It certainly wasn't a lie, Harry justified to a scolding voice in his head that sounded very much like Hermione.

"Oh, but they mock me, Harry!" she cried furiously. "I heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great-grandmother's gift. Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to him?"

Harry mumbled something indistinct, placing the last bottle in the crate and lifting it into his arms, carrying it as Trelawney absently lead him to her Divination classroom.

"I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore," went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. "He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed ... I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally - bed bugs, dear boy - but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room at the inn. He questioned me ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed towards Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day ... but then …"

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.

'"… but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!"

"What?"

"Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore - you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes - Harry, dear?"

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking, and they were now ten feet from each other.

"Harry?" she repeated with uncertainty.

Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long.

Without another word, Harry put down the box of sherry bottles and began marching - nearly jogging - the other way, his face set in stone, and his eyes burning.

"Harry?" he heard Trelawney call after him. "Harry, do mind-?"

But it was too late. Harry turned to the corner before she could finish her sentence.

He didn't stop, not until he reached the gargoyle guarding the steps to the headmaster's office.

Harry dictated the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered, "Enter," after Harry had already flung himself into the room.

Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the window. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, carefully writing. He glanced up and smiled.

"Harry," he greeted. "How can I help you?"

"It was Snape," Harry said, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "It was him who overheard the prophecy. Don't pretend it's not true. Trelawney told me."

Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing.

"When did you find out about this?" he asked at last.

"Just now!" said Harry, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, he found he could no longer stop himself. After all that had happened to him recently, his patience had been worn thin. "And you let him TEACH here, and he told Voldemort TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!"

Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would just shut him out, dismiss his qualms as teenage angst and nothing more…

"Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Please listen to me. Professor Snape made a terrible-"

"Don't tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!"

"Please let me finish." Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. "Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know - he had no possible way of knowing - which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards-"

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter.

"So, what, because it was just any old child he would have been fine with it, would he? He was a Death Eater, Professor. As far as I'm concerned, he chose his side many years ago. Professor... how can you be sure Snape's on our side, even now?"

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last, he said, "I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely."

Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.

"Well, I don't!' he said, as loudly as before. "He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still-"

"We have discussed this, Harry," said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. "I have told you my views."

"I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to-"

"To what?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. "What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Harry finally losing all sense of composure. "I don't know what the HELL they're going to do! Do you? Do you have ANY IDEA what Malfoy is planning? Do you have ANY IDEA about Voldemort's next move? Because I don't. I don't know ANYTHING! Nothing about what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to do it! I didn't even know who was responsible for my parents' deaths until a few minutes ago-"

"It's not professor Snape you should be angry with―"

"SHOULDN'T I?" Harry bellowed. "No, actually, maybe you're right. Because he's not the only one who's been keeping secrets from me, is he? He's not the only one who seems to know more about my own bloody life than I do, is he? I bet you're keeping plenty of things all to yourself, aren't you, Professor? You spent the entirety of last year doing exactly that! Hell, I didn't even know there was a prophecy about me, until I found it, deep in the Department of Mysteries, after I had to break into the MINISTRY OF MAGIC! If you had just TOLD me about the prophecy, if you had just TOLD me about my connection with Voldemort, then maybe Sirius would be alive!"

"Harry!"

"SHUT UP!" Harry shouted back, the shock of his own outburst drowned out by his intense anger. "Don't you dare say that's not true, because it is! Every time you, or somebody else, keep something from me, I'm the one who pays for it! It's me who has to lose the people I love! It's MY FAMILY that has to be killed! IT'S NOT FAIR!"

"Enough!" Dumbledore bellowed. The feeling akin to a gust of wind rushed through the room, silencing Harry before he could utter another word. The office was left deathly still. Not even Fawkes dared to break the silence. "I understand that you are angry, Harry. I recognise that I have not told you all that I know, or perhaps all that you deserve to know, but I have never withheld anything from you to merely spite you. I care about you far too much to show you such cruelty."

Harry bristled, his fists balling up tightly. Refusing to react, Dumbledore continued.

"Every secret I have kept from you was for your own good, for the sake of your health, for the sake of your happiness, for the sake of your studies. It was always for your own good. I knew that if I told you about the prophecy from a young age, it would be robbing you of your childhood. It would be destroying what little security you had left. It would have changed you into something awful. I wanted you to have a life separated from the realities that you would soon have to face. I wanted you to feel like you could have a life outside of Voldemort, protected from prophecy or expectation. And if there was anything you truly needed to know, I told you."

Harry couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He couldn't quite fathom how the person responsible for his parents' deaths, for being raised as an orphan, unloved and abused, for his worrying lack of self-worth or confidence, was information that simply was not deemed his by rights. It felt like a betrayal on the most fundamental of levels. Harry trusted Dumbledore to tell him what he needed to know, to give him as much of a leg-up in this fight as he could, and yet, apparently, he didn't trust him with the most essential of truths. As if Harry were still but an irresponsible little child, who needed to be shielded from the horrors of the world.

Not that it protected him from Quirrel, or the Basilisk, or the Dementors, or the Triwizard Tournament, or Umbridge, or even the Half-Blood Prince. In fact, if what Harry had experienced was protection, he dreaded to think what Dumbledore's version of apathy was. Or maybe this was it. Perhaps he thought if he left Harry alone for a while, then he would magically turn into the chosen one, the hero of the Wizarding World. Well, safe to say that wasn't happening any time soon, not at this rate.

"This can't continue, professor," Harry said tersely. "You can't carry on keeping secrets from me anymore. I can't do this if you keep not telling me what I need to know. I know you wanted to shield me from the truth, from the fact that at some point, I was always going to have to fight Riddle, but now? Even after he came back? Even after the prophecy? That's not excusable. It only left me vulnerable. It made me into this… someone who's certainly not ready to kill any dark lord, let alone Riddle. You need to start trusting me, sir, because if not, then I might as well just walk up to Voldemort's front door and let him kill me."

He caught a glimpse of Dumbledore going stiff, the old Professor's gaze quickly averting his. Harry stared at him, dumbfounded, narrowing his eyes.

"Professor… You're not really going to do that, are you?"

To Harry's horror, Dumbledore remained silent.

The teen paled, realising that his worst fear had just been confirmed. The man who always believed in him, no matter what, had all but admitted that he expected Harry to die. Even Dumbledore thought he was going to lose. Worst of all, apparently he was planning on it.

"I guess that explains why you never bothered to train me," Harry growled. "Why waste time trying to give me a fair chance when I was always just going to die anyway? At least now I can pretend that it was all part of the plan!"

"Harry," the old man sighed, his eyes shining with a sudden rush of tears, "If I knew any other way, I would have taken it. I didn't know if I could save you, and I tried to find alternatives. I tried everything… I'm sorry, I have truly failed you…"

Harry stared at him, unable to fathom what was happening. There was no way in hell that Dumbledore was simply giving up. That was… Impossible, surely.

"There must be some way that I can survive, some secret weapon or- or weakness that we can use?" Harry hurriedly suggested. "You said it yourself, what about the power of love? What does that have to do with it? Why are you so sure that I'm going to die?"

"Because it is the only way," Dumbledore replied gravely, his head hung low. "It is imperative that Voldemort takes your life, not so that he may survive, but so that he doesn't."

Harry exhaled, somewhere between a sob and scoff, as he tried to decipher the headmaster's words.

"I don't understand," Harry began. "Why…?"

The truth came crashing down on him like a guillotine.

His Parseltongue. His scar. How it burned whenever he and Voldemort were near. How it connected their two minds. How it allowed the two of them to share abilities, memories - even emotions.

Dumbledore's very words, describing what Voldemort had done to him, how he had left a part of himself upon Harry when he was only a child, resurfaced in Harry's brain.

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry had said, all those years ago, unaware at just how appropriate those words really were. Utterly oblivious of just how true they would turn out to be. The blank, trained face of Professor Dumbledore, staring back at him in his memory, suddenly seemed all the more frightening.

"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore had replied. He knew, even back then, it seems. He knew all this time, and yet…

Harry suddenly felt very faint. His breathing began to draw less and less oxygen, and the corner of his vision began to fade. He knew what was happening, what was about to happen, and he hurriedly reached into his cloak, producing the bottle that Hermione had given him. He popped it open and swallowed about half, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles release.

Despite this, Harry toppled, leaning against the stone pillar as he slid to the floor. He curled up against the stone as his world came crashing down, everything he had ever known no seeming to matter anymore.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do.

The scent of lavender flowers found Harry's nose, and he began to cry. He would never have the family he always wanted. He would never wake up to a beautiful wife or gorgeous children. He would never own a house, have a job, eat packed lunches, cook dinner for the little ones, never grow up or grow old watching them become adults, never live to see grandchildren. He would never have any of that.

All because he was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and he wasn't allowed it.

There was only one more question left in Harry's head, amongst the grief and sadness and overwhelming feeling of loss, and so he spoke it.

"Who else knows?" Harry asked once his voice returned to him, his tone completely flat.

"I have not-" Dumbledore began, having stood in a bid to help him, but the old headmaster never finished.

"Who else did you tell?!" Harry exclaimed through gritted teeth, every syllable hitting Dumbledore like a swift punch. Harry knew that he wasn't acting very mature, nor would lashing out necessarily help. But he was angry, and he wanted Dumbledore to know it. He refused to let the headmaster worm his way out of giving him the truth.

To Harry's grim satisfaction, Dumbledore at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"Severus," he replied. "Only Severus."

Harry's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched at the thought of that greasy-haired man-child being afforded more trust than he ever did - to his own secrets, no less. To his own future.

"And when did you plan on telling me?" Harry asked with all the warmth of ice.

The silence that followed spoke far more than words ever could. Harry's shaking fist clenched his brain fighting between panic and rage despite the smothering effects of the calming draught - with anger winning the fight, easily.

"Let me guess," Harry drawled in a corrosive tone, glaring holes into the headmaster's eyes, "I didn't need to know."

For once, Dumbledore was without a response. The old, wizened wizard merely stood behind his desk, staring down at Harry with something akin to pity, or was it shame? Harry didn't much care. He couldn't bring himself to care about much anymore. He struggled to see the point.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asked. "Why wait?"

Dumbledore fidgeted, sighing heavily, shaking his head in a way that reminded Harry just how old Dumbledore really was.

"You have to realise, Harry," he began, his voice hoarse and rough, barely compose, "I was never sure. I never… I couldn't believe that Tom would have done something so… so monstrous. Using a living being as a Horcrux, let alone a child, is an abomination, an act so vile that it has never been attempted, not even by the darkest of wizards. I don't think even Tom meant to do it."

"And there's no way we can destroy it without me dying?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Not that I know of."

Harry's gaze fell to the floor tiles. The fight had left him.

"Then I guess that's it," he shrugged morosely. "I have to die."

"No, Harry," Dumbledore replied, "not necessarily."

Harry couldn't help but scoff.

"What else can I do?" he asked. "You said it yourself. If I don't die, then neither does Riddle. There's no other way."

"It seems like it," Dumbledore said cryptically, "And, until 16 years ago, Harry, there was no way to survive the killing curse. And yet you did so."

"Not on my own, I didn't," Harry noted. "That was my mum, not me."

"Exactly, Harry, exactly," Dumbledore exclaimed quietly, bringing himself around and kneeling in front of the teen. "Your mother's love for you, her child, is the reason you still live to this day. A love so powerful and so pure that it could bring about the impossible."

For a moment, Dumbledore faltered, glancing down guiltily at Harry's feet.

"I didn't tell you, Harry, because I wanted you to know what it was like to love, and to be loved, to allow yourself to open up to people, to let others into your heart in a way that Riddle never could. And knowing that you had a death sentence over your head would have made that all the more difficult. Even now, I suspect you're thinking of shutting out the people closest to you, for their own protection. Because you care about them. You love them all so much that it hurts. But you must let them in, Harry. You must always hold on to hope, and to the people who love you."

"What hope?" Harry asked, trying to calm his wobbling lip. "What can I possibly hope for now? I'm going to die."

Dumbledore looked at him, a sad smile adorning his face.

"As am I, Harry. Before the end of this year, I should think."

The old man produced his blackened, withered hand for Harry to inspect. It was looking worse now that it ever had before as if any moment it would fall off. Dumbledore pulled back the sleeve of his robe, revealing thin, black lines running up through the veins on his wrist, creeping up his forearm like spider legs.

"I have managed to keep it contained, with the help of Severus, but I do not have long. It is a miracle I have survived as long as I have."

Harry stared at it, suddenly feeling a wave of pity for his old mentor, almost wishing that he hadn't been as severe as he had, but knowing all the same that he was entitled to his anger.

"It is why I am unconcerned with Draco's mission. His endeavour is merely a punishment, not for him, but for his father. Voldemort knows that, even now, in my condition, a teenage boy is in no way my equal. He will either succeed or be expected to die trying, which is undoubtedly the result that Riddle is expecting. Keeping Draco here, in Hogwarts, is for his own protection. And I know, Harry, he has done little to deserve it, but I cannot allow another soul to be lost to Tom's machinations if they can be saved."

"You think Malfoy is worth saving?" Harry asked. "Over Katie? Over Ron?"

"I did not make this decision lightly, Harry. Contrary to how I may appear, I am hardly the type to make plans on a limb. You must understand, Harry, that Malfoy is as much a victim of Riddle as anyone else."

"I doubt that," Harry argued. "He took Riddle's side, agreed to try and kill you. He made his choice."

"Did he?" Dumbledore said pointedly. "If Voldemort came to your front door, asking for you undying allegiance, I doubt many people would have the courage to oppose him, let alone a child raised on the extreme values of a staunch blood-purist. Draco has done many deplorable things of his own volition, but I struggle to believe that this was entirely his choice."

Harry considered it for a moment, still not entirely convinced. Of course, Malfoy had been his tormenter for many years now, so he certainly wasn't willing to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. But he had to face the facts. Malfoy was a woefully inept choice for an assassin, and Harry refused to delude himself into thinking that Riddle couldn't have known that. This was undoubtedly a way for Riddle to toy with Draco, to set him up to fail spectacularly.

"Then what happens?" Harry asked. "You're not going to let Draco kill you, surely, sir?"

"No," Dumbledore replied. "He will not be the one to kill me."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Then who will?"

"Severus," Dumbledore explained, continuing before Harry could protest, "Under my orders, Harry. Killing me will both save Draco from a terrible choice and allow Severus to gain favour from Tom."

"But, then, Draco will have failed."

Dumbledore nodded.

"But Tom has contingencies," he explained. "He will turn to Severus to finish the job, thereby voiding Draco's oath."

Harry sat rigid, staring at the old man in front of him, the image of his cod, dead body lying at the feet of Snape sending waves of anger through him.

"Do not be dismayed for my sake, Harry," Dumbledore said, "This is a kindness. If Severus weren't to kill me, the death that I would be bound to is far worse. The curse that was placed upon me is a dark and terrible one, designed to consume its victim in the most torturous way imaginable. Even now, captive in my hand, it is agonising. It would not be a quick death. It will be slow and meticulous, keeping me alive long enough so that I can feel every nerve in my body fail, long enough to render me a living corpse, begging for death. In contrast, the killing curse is almost merciful."

Merciful. The word echoed throughout Harry's head, the idea that imminent death could be any kind of mercy. What kind of death awaited him, Harry thought, now that his fate lead to Voldemort. Would Voldemort allow him a merciful death? Or would he drag it out, forcing Harry to experience a long, painful end to his life?

A sense of existential terror gripped Harry's body as he realised that his future was all but certain. He was going to have to face Voldemort, alone, with not even Dumbledore around to help him.

He was going to lose.

"Sir," Harry trembled, "without you, I don't stand a chance. How am I supposed to do this on my own?"

"You won't," Dumbledore insisted, staring the younger man in the eye. "No matter how dire, no matter how the dark the days that are to come, you won't ever be alone. That I promise. You are right, in my efforts to protect you, I've left you woefully unprepared. No longer. I am going to take measures to make sure the Order will still be around and active after I am gone."

"But what about Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his thoughts flitting to the students, the ones most vulnerable without Dumbledore's protection.

The old headmaster smiled a small, melancholy smile that made his eyes twinkle once again.

"Snape will take my place as headmaster, and he will help you in any way he can. He will protect the students under my express orders." Harry was about to protest, to question whether Snape could possibly be the one to hold that responsibility, but Dumbledore interrupted him. "He may very well have the capacity for spite - his behaviour towards you is proof of that - but it is either him or someone far worse. Severus is not a cruel, nor vindictive man, not to the degree of the rest of Tom's inner circle. I promise you, Harry, he is more than ready for the position, and he will not filling it lightly.

"As for you, Harry, I intend to accelerate your training with me to every other day. There is a lot I have yet to share with you, and it is about time I did. I have been far too complacent in my aid as of late. No more. It is time that I commit to arming you for the coming fight."

Stray beams of moonlight, seeping through the stained glass windows, crested Harry's vision as he slowly walked through the hallways towards the Gryffindor common room. His footsteps echoed heavily, creating a hollow thudding noise that matched the one slowly thumping away inside his head. The one Harry couldn't help but listen to as he trudged his way back to bed after a long, long evening. It terrified him to know that one day that noise, the steady sound of his heart pumping away, would cease forever. To know that he was going to die sooner, rather than later.

Death had always been a part of his life - it had taken his parents away from him at a very young age, and the Dursleys had no qualms at reminding him of that - but the concept of his own death had yet to truly sink in. Whenever Harry cast his mind to the future, it always went the same way. Graduation; a job; a wife; a house; a child or two; a pet; Sunday dinners; washing machines; TVs; little school clothes; grey hairs; reunions; retirement; drifting away peacefully. The idea of having none of it made Harry feel so very empty. How much he had taken for granted, how much was denied of him, for merely being born.

How on Earth was he going to tell the others? Because he would have to tell them eventually. His friends needed to know - deserved to know - that his time was limited. How was he going to tell Hermione? Or Ron? Or Remus? What words could possibly describe how grateful he was to each of them, of all they had done for him.

For helping him believe he had any future at all.

Harry came to the portrait hole too soon. He would rather have stayed out in the hallway, find a lonely corner and disappear. Anything to avoid what he knew he had to do.

He spoke the password, the entrance swung open, and he stepped inside.

Harry had barely taken a few steps when a familiar voice met his ears.

"There you are."

It was Hermione, sitting vigilantly on the sofa, right where she always was. The common room was empty, not a single person around except for her, as was usual for the time of night. She must have stayed up to wait for him. The thought made him want to cry.

She stood to greet him, and Harry stepped out of the archway, into the light of the fire.

"I was wondering when you…"

He must have looked a wreck because the words died in her throat, and her cheery, bright demeanour had shifted to wide-eyed shock.

It was all Harry could do to meet Hermione's gaze, his eyes barely seeing anymore. She looked so worried, her eyes darting across his face for any clues to his current state.

"What happened?" she soon asked, guiding him back to the sofa, so that he was seated right beside her. So close that he could almost hear her heart beating away. The sound of life.

She was here. She was alive. She deserved to know.

And so he began, telling her all he knew about the Horcruxes; about how Voldemort created several soul anchors to help keep him alive; about how one of them caused the mess in the second year and had possessed Ginny; about how if even one were still intact, Voldemort would retain his immortality.

All the while, Hermione remained silent, her composure slowly losing its colour as she realised the gravity the situation, how impossible of a task that lay before Harry's feet.

It took all the strength in Harry's soul to look Hermione in the eye, to tell her what - or whom - the last Horcrux was, and watch her heart break in two.

Her beautiful brown eyes were flooded with tears, her shoulders hunched together, her fingers reaching out to hold onto him.

By that point, he too was crying, and he too was reaching out, bring her in closer for a desperate embrace. She gripped him tight enough so that he couldn't escape if he wanted to, as if any moment she feared he would crumble into dust.

Her tortured sobs rang loud in his ear, in contrast to Harry's silent ones. He was too tired to scream - he had shouted plenty enough at Dumbledore earlier in the day.

Occasionally Hermione's wails would lapse into barely literate words. Often along the lines of "No," or, "Not fair," or, "Why?"

Harry could only hold her, gently reminding her by his very presence that he was still alive, that they still had time.

Time - Harry was reminded by every tick of the clock and every beat of their hearts - that was slowly running out.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Harry found himself sitting in the Great Hall, staring at his breakfast. Hermione was beside him on the bench, coaxing him to at least take a bite out of his toast. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much his stomach twisted inside his body, screaming at him to eat, Harry couldn’t muster the effort.

He was too distracted with everything else around him. Far too caught up in wishing he was anyone else other than Harry Potter.

He tried to focus on his breakfast. He tried to ignore the noise of people talking, eating, laughing or complaining amongst themselves. The sounds of people with everything waiting for them. People who had no idea just what kind of burden had been placed on his shoulders.

Suffice to say having the knowledge of his own impending death hanging over his head was doing nothing for his mental health. If Harry had been in a bad place before, it was nothing compared to where he was now.

He felt like a drifter, barely conscious. Nothing seemed to faze him any more. Not even the allure of Dumbledore’s limitless knowledge, his multitude of magic and wisdom, could bring him out off his constant stupor. Harry knew that he should feel things, that he should either be afraid, or sad or happy or anxious or angry. Still, for some reason, he could never conjure up the energy to actually feel them.

All he felt nowadays was guilt.

Guilt for not being enough, for not being the hero that everyone needed him to be. For not knowing how to help Hermione, who had become more clingy than ever, barely letting him out of her sight, and only crying when she thought he couldn’t see her. And every time, he noticed, and we wished he could just disappear from her life. Anything that would stop her from suffering too.

The worst part of it was he knew that this was his fault. Hermione was crying over him, and Harry could do nothing to comfort her. He couldn’t lie to her, tell her that everything would be okay, that he had any chance of survival because she knew, just as much as he did, that was a lie.

Hermione was suffering, and it was because of him. For some reason, that fact hurt more than his eventual death ever could.

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw a flash of red in his peripheral vision. He looked up, hoping to see the one person he wanted to talk to, but instead, it was Ron, taking the seat in front of him. Harry froze. He had forgotten all about Ron.

What the hell was he going to tell him? How much could he tell him? Dumbledore had told him to keep his knowledge of the Horcruxes to the people he trusted completely. Harry knew that Ron absolutely fell into that category, it was whether he could bear to tell him the entire truth.

He gave Harry a quick nod, frowning when he didn’t respond as Ron had hoped.

“You okay?” the redhead asked.

Harry tried his best smile, nodding quickly.

“Yeah,” he replied, “of course.”

Even to his ears, it sounded unconvincing, something that Ron obviously noticed. For a moment, he looked as if he were about to say something, maybe ask what was wrong or if he could help. Then, for a shadow of a moment, his eyes flickered to Hermione, still sitting by Harry’s side. Whatever he was going to say was forgotten, and he began filling up his plate with toast.

Whatever just happened, Harry was glad for it. If it meant more time to think about what he going to say, he wasn’t going to complain.

Harry turned, noticing none other than the one person he had meaning to talk to rising from her seat and making her way towards the entrance of the hall. Harry turned to Hermione, who had also noticed the youngest Weasley. Without a word, she nodded, and Harry stood, pacing after the redhead before she could leave.

“Ginny,” he called a few steps behind her. She turned and greeted him with a small smile.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, recounting just how long it had actually been since he’d talked to her, face to face. The last time he could remember meeting her face-to-face was Quidditch practise, and that had been two weeks ago, at least. It had been a while, yet another regret to add onto the pile. “Listen, Ginny, we need to talk.”

Her face fell from hopeful curiosity to burgeoning anxiety in the blink of an eye.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly.

Harry gestured to the door, walking past her pointedly, leading her out of the hall. They needed somewhere private for this, she deserved it. It wouldn’t do to be in front fo the rest of school when the conversation inevitably turned serious. He guided her to a secluded corner in a forgone hallway until he was sure they were alone.

“Ginny, listen …” Harry said, very quietly. “I’ve wanted something to happen between us for so long, and I think you have too. But now, I can’t let that happen.”

She said, with an oddly twisted smile, “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?”

Harry paused, wondering how to respond. He didn’t think what he was doing was stupid, and he hardly wanted to think of himself as noble. It just what needed to be done, for her own sake.

“Ginny, we just can’t... I’ve got things to do alone now.”

She rolled her eyes, obviously irritated, and Harry could relate all too well. She wanted this as little as he did, but they had no choice.

“Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to,” Harry noted. “He’s already used you as bait once, and that was just because you’re my best friend’s sister. Think how much danger you’ll be in if we… He’ll know, he’ll find out. He’ll try and get to me through you.”

“What if I don’t care?” said Ginny fiercely.

“I care,” said Harry. “How do you think I’d feel if this was your funeral, or Ron’s, or Hermione’s... and it was my fault …”

She looked away from him,

“I never really gave up on you,” she said. “Not really. I always hoped ... Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more - myself.”

Harry stared past her, thinking back to Hermione.

“Smart girl, that Hermione,” said Harry, trying to smile. “I just wish I’d asked you sooner, Ginny. We could’ve had ages ... months ... years maybe …”

“But you’ve been too busy saving the wizarding world,” said Ginny, half-laughing. “Well ... I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

Whatever Harry was going to say died in his throat. Ginny’s words echoed inside his head, over and over again. He recalled them, analysing them as if he hadn’t quite heard her correctly.

As if she hadn’t just said that hunting Voldemort was what made him happy.

It felt like someone had thrown a rock in a pane of glass. The image of Ginny, their normal relationship, shattered into a thousand pieces before his very eyes, and Harry felt emptier than ever before.

Even if he had asked her out; even if Voldemort hadn’t been resurrected; even if he was coming back for his Seventh Year and something came about between them; it never would have been normal. He still would have been the Boy-Who-Lived, even to her.

Not even in the safety and mundanity of a relationship could Harry escape his own public image. Of all the people he thought could see past that, Ginny was high up on that list, perhaps the highest. But no. It turned out the parts of him she liked so much were exactly what had tried so hard to divorce himself from. In the end, she was just like anyone else. Someone who thought that he enjoyed fighting Voldemort. Who thought that he took any joy out of risking his life, year after year, trying desperately to protect the people closest to him and losing them anyway. As if any of this were his choice.

Harry noticed as he brought himself down from his musings that Ginny was staring at him. She was smiling a small, innocent smile, unaware of what her words had just caused. For some reason, looking at her now, she appeared very different in his mind. The once blazing, set determination in her gaze now felt piercing, judgmental, as if she were looking right past him into the eyes of someone else. As if she were constructing something else than the image in front of her, imagining what she wanted to see. It made Harry feel naked, and certainly not in a good way. It was as if she was expecting him to stand up at any moment and conjure a majestic light-show, or raise the castle from its foundations with the swish of his wand.

But Harry could do none of these things, he never could, and he never tried to. He never once advertised himself as anything more than just Harry. Yet, whenever anyone looked at him, just Harry was the last thing they saw. It broke his heart to know now that Ginny was among that number.

It was only as he felt Ginny’s hand on his arm, and he came to, that he realised he hadn’t spoken for a long while. She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly, prompting him to reply.

Harry couldn’t find the words.

Actually, he managed a few. Only enough to say goodbye, to politely part ways with her, leaving Ginny behind as he trudged back to the Great Hall, confused as to what she had said.

Harry didn’t speak much for the rest of the day. Only to answer direct questions, or to tell Hermione the usual - that he was fine and she needn’t worry. Of course, the truth was that he was the furthest thing from fine. In fact, he felt like he had just lost a leg or an eye. The future he might have had, the one he imagined, taken solace in, was built on a lie. That perfect image - that promising, safe, mundane life - was nothing but an illusion after all.

He should have known. Ginny had always been in awe of in some way or another. From the moment he first met her, she was shy, jittery, refusing to speak to or even look at him for the longest time. She was enamoured with him, or rather the idea of him, the hero that she wanted to believe in. And he was foolish enough to think that would all be erased, that she had magically been able to see past that.

It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t like he ever did much to dispel that image of himself. He saved her life when she was only eleven-years-old, that was always bound to leave an impression. His fault, yet again.

It was always his fault.

The day was over before Harry even knew it, and as his thoughts came back to the present, he found himself back in the common room, with Hermione sitting by his side. Just as she’d been for the entirety of that day, right by his side.

He needed to be away from her, just for a little bit. He needed to get whatever it was that was bubbling inside him out before it swallowed him whole. And the last thing he wanted was for Hermione to be there when it happened. Not that it would be bad. It was perfectly natural, he dismissed. He just didn’t need her worrying about him, thinking that he was handling it worse than he was.

He was fine. It was all normal. Absolutely normal.

Harry excused himself from Hermione’s side, telling her he had to take a shower, that he’d be back in no time, and not to worry about him. Hermione was surprisingly calm when she conceded, telling him that if he ever needed her, all he had to do was shout.

The next thing he knew, he was in the boys’ bathroom, his clothes bunched up in the corner, standing underneath a running showerhead. And wishing he had never left.

Harry felt awful. Truly awful, like a burning fist had been clenched around his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was the water from the shower that was blurring his vision or if it was his own tears. Either way, he felt like a wreck, and the warm water wasn’t helping matters.

He stepped out from underneath the shower, wrapping himself in a towel and stepping up to a nearby mirror. He turned on the cold tap, pooling a hand of water and throwing it into his face. He exhaled slowly, glancing up into his reflection.

He looked as bad as he felt. His eyes were red, darkened by a lack of sleep. His hair was soaking head, dripping down his face in dark, long tendrils wrapping around his face and neck, constricting against his throat, choking the life out of him as his vision began to darken-

Harry choked in a breath, trying to steady himself for the side of the sink. He glanced down, his hands were grasping the porcelain so hard that his hands were turning pale. A deathly pale, thin and sickly, devoid of life of love or mercy, eyes glowing blood red, staring into his with murderous intent. He was going to die, he was-

Harry slipped, falling to the floor as his fingers lost their grip. He crashed the floor, flopping like a corpse on the cold, wet tiles. Harry tried to stand, only for his legs to give way beneath him. He scanned the room, finding his clothes in a pile by the benches.

A glistening vial of blue elixir taunted him, so near and yet further than Harry could ever dread. He had to make it. He had to get that potion.

He reached forward, trying to reach the edge of the sink, using his towel as leverage as he rose to meet his reflection once again.

His once raw, grew eyes were now a blood-red; deep, rotting holes piercing through his skin like wounds. His scar was burning, black, viscous liquid bleeding down his forehead. Harry screamed, reaching his hands up, trying to scrape it away, only for it to remain impervious to his fingers. From beneath his fingers, he saw blood painted across his head, soaking him in deep crimson. Still, he kept on scratching away, trying to rip apart the Horcrux the beneath his scar, crying out when the red of his eyes became blinding.

Suddenly, Harry felt a pair of hands wrap around him, pulling him into the corner. He panicked, lashing out, trying to push away at whoever was clutching at him, dragging him away. Harry was shoved into the corner, his arms trapped by his sides. He shouted out, calling for help, masking whatever the stranger was saying.

A moment later, Harry felt the lip of a bottle pressed against his lips, a cold liquid pure against his closed mouth. He recognised the taste immediately. It was the calming draught. Harry opened his mouth, drinking the elixir down, clutching at the vial in the stranger’s hands.

The effect was instantaneous. Harry’s body relaxed, the pounding in his head slowed to a steady rhythm. And, with the adrenaline leaving his body, the pain began to set in. The scratches against his forehead began to throb and burn. His thighs and elbow bruised, and, looking down at his hands, he saw that he had acquired several deep cuts in the palm of his hands. Harry glanced over to the sink, only to see that it had been smashed, the floor now covered with bits of porcelain lining the floor.

Looking back, he realised how foolish he had been, how obvious it was that it had all been just a hallucination, conjured in a fit of mania. But it had felt so real like he was trapped in some horrific moment. The fear was real, at least.

Harry turned back to his saviour, expecting to see a head of bushy brown hair and chocolate eyes.

But he didn’t, because the person sitting in front of him, staring at him expectantly, wasn’t Hermione. It was someone else. Someone Harry didn't expect.

“Ron.”

“Hey, bud,” the ginger-haired boy smiled.

“How’d you know?”

“I just had a hunch,” he shrugged. “Ginny, she came to me after breakfast, told me what you’d said to her. I knew you’d be pretty shaken after something so…”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Look,” Harry began to confess, “Ron, I-“

“Hermione told me.”

Harry stopped, staring at his best male friend, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“She told me everything,” Ron continued, “the night we broke up. Well, I say ‘broke up’, but we weren’t really a thing at the time, more just trying it out but it was- doesn’t matter. The point is I know what you’re going through.”

Harry scrunched his eye, leaning into hands, trying not to cry.

“I never wanted you to worry, either of you.”

“I know,” Ron nodded, patting him on the back, “’cause if we worry it becomes real. Don’t get me wrong, Harry, I don’t like worrying about you, I don’t wanna have to see my friend like this, but it’s better than feeling like I can’t help you.”

Harry began to laugh morosely as something broke within him. Ron narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

“What?”

“You can’t help me, Ron,” Harry choked. “No one can.”

“Bollocks,” Ron replied. “There are those, what d’ya call ’em, therapist people - those mind healers in the muggle world, they can-“

“No,” Harry insisted, “they… I… Ron, I’m going to die.”

Ron shook his head.

“No, you’re not, Harry.”

“Yes, yes, I am because I have to. Because I always going to have to, it was always going to happen.”

“Look, mate, if this is about the prophecy, we’ve been over this.”

“No, it’s not just that.” Harry glanced around the room, towards the door over Ron’s shoulder. “Are we alone?”

“Pretty much,” Ron confirmed. “No one’s coming in. Why?”

“Voldemort,” Harry began, and Ron resisted the urge to flinch, “he has these things, they’re called Horcruxes. It’s something he can use to store a piece of his soul.”

“His soul?” Ron repeated carefully. “What, like…?”

“A piece of himself,” Harry explained, “hidden away. As long as those Horcruxes survive, so can he.”

Ron inhaled a shaky breath.

“Is that how he survived the first time.”

Harry nodded.

“Yes.”

Ron suddenly looked very anxious, deflating, his eyes were wide open, staring into the middle distance.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “And, what, you have to find them all?”

“And destroy them. The diary, the one that Ginny was writing in, the one that possessed her…”

Ron paled.

“You’re not saying…” Harry nodded gravely, and Ron shivered. “I feel sick.”

“It gets worse.”

“What can be worse than that?”

Harry looked at him, a deep frown set into his face.

“He made more than one.”

“More than one?!” Ron exclaimed. “How many did he make?”

Harry shook his head.

“I don’t know. We’re not sure, but the estimate is seven.”

“Seven?” Ron hissed. “He split his soul seven times? How the hell is he still alive?”

“I told you, the Horcruxes keep him from dying.”

Ron sat back against the bench, his mouth wide open.

“Merlin…” He stared at the bathroom tiles, trying to digest what Harry had just said. Eventually, he sat up, nodding to himself. “So that’s it. We have to find them all and destroy them. That’s what we’re gonna do. Right?”

Harry didn’t answer. Ron turned, spotting his friend staring at the opposite wall, his head hanging on his shoulder, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Harry?”

“The last Horcrux…” Harry croaked, his hands trembling. “I know what it is, Ron. Dumbledore told me. It’s how I’ve been able to talk to snakes. How I’ve been able to see his thoughts. Why I have those nightmares.”

Ron stared at him, about to ask what it all meant, why he suddenly looked so...

“No…” Ron gasped as he finally put the pieces together. He leaned over, trying to look Harry in the eye. “Harry…”

The raven-haired boy remained silent, and Ron’s worst fears were confirmed.

Ron stood from his seat, pacing the bathroom back and forth, his brain on fire. Harry merely sat and watched as his friend slowly lost his composure. His breathing turned into loud, heavy grunts, like a train reaching full-steam. His shoulders hunched, his fists clenched and - without warning - Ron threw his fist at the nearest wall, shattering the tiles.

“BASTARD!” he screamed with apocalyptic fury, his face glowing red, his eyes wild. He turned in Harry’s direction, marching towards him. “Well, come on, how do we get it out?”

“We can’t,” Harry replied softly, to which Ron shook his head.

“No, no, we can,” Ron doubled-down. “Of course we can. Why can’t we? We… Hermione, she’ll know. We’ll go down to the library, and we’ll…”

“Already tried that,” Harry explained, too tired to raise his voice above a whisper. “We found nothing. Ron, there’s nothing we can do.”

Ron glared, pointing his shaking finger in Harry’s face.

“Don’t say that. Don’t… don’t you dare…” But something in Ron’s eyes told Harry even he knew that it was a losing fight. “What are we supposed to do, then? Just let you die? Is that what we’re doing?”

“Nothing else we can do.”

“WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?”

At this point, Ron had tears streaming down his face, unashamedly mourning for his friends as he tried to regain his composure. Eventually, after several minutes of barely concealed sobs and troubled murmurs, Ron fell onto the bench beside Harry, feeling utterly drained.

“How long have you known?” Ron asked, wiping his eyes.

“Only a few days, Ron,” Harry replied. “Barely even half a week.”

Ron nodded, constructing a timeline in his head.

“Why didn’t you…” he began, but the question fell away. “Have you told Hermione?”

“Yeah. She was the first person I told. You’re the second.”

“No wonder she looks awful,” Ron breathed, rubbing his face with his hand. “Merlin, I feel awful. For you. Just can’t catch a break, can you?”

“I guess not,” Harry chuckled mirthlessly. “I was going to tell you, Ron. I was. I just never knew how to bring it up.”

“No, I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you at all. You gonna tell anyone else?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry sighed. “If Voldemort finds out we know about the Horcruxes, he’ll move them, hide them away, protect them. If he does that we’ll never get them. And if we don’t get them all…”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron nodded grimly. “Well, don’t you go offing yourself anytime soon, alright? We need you, Harry. Hermione, especially.”

Harry shook his head.

“What Hermione needs is to get far away from me. You too.”

“Well, that’s not happening in a million years.”

“Ron-“

“It’s not happening, Harry,” Ron said firmly. “We had our chance to leave, and we’re still here. And if you don’t like it, tough. Hermione would agree with me.”

“So would Sirius.”

“Harry…” Ron tried to argue, but Harry stopped him.

“You think I don’t want you guys around?” he said, his voice trembling. “Of course I do. You’re my family. The only family I have left. And that’s why I can’t let you stay with me. So many people close to me have died, or suffered, and if that happened to you or Hermione… hell, it’s already happened! I’ve nearly got both of you killed, so many times. Do you think I’d want to carry on if I lost you too? Who else would I have?”

“And that’s exactly why we’re sticking with you,” Ron replied. “I don’t care what anyone says. We’re gonna find a way to get this Horcrux out of your head, and we’re gonna find the rest of them and destroy them.”

“We don’t even know if we can, Ron.”

“Then we’re gonna keep trying,” he said resolutely. “That’s what we always do. We don’t give up, right? That’s what the Harry I know would do. And he’s still in there, somewhere, I know he is. We need that Harry, more now than ever.”

Harry looked at him.

“You think I can be that person?”

Ron tried his best smile, patting him on the shoulder.

“Honestly, I think you never stopped. You just needed some help realising it. You are gonna hunt down these Horcruxes, right?”

Harry shrugged.

“That was the plan.”

“Yeah,” Ron grinned, “he’s definitely still in there. Come on, let’s dry you off. I think the others want a shower.”

Ron reached over, helping Harry to his feet, revealing the pooling river of blood running off of his frayed knuckles.

“Your hand…” Harry gasped. Ron looked at it, tilted his fist from side to side.

“Yeah, it does hurt a bit,” he remarked nonchalantly. “Probably shouldn’t have punched that wall, now that I think about it.”

Harry emitted something between a laugh and a scoff.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry nodded. “Still, nice to see you care.”

“You’re my brother, Harry,” Ron replied as he picked up Harry’s trousers and offered them to him. “Of course I care.”

The two friends returned to the common room shortly afterwards, walking in on an expectant Hermione. She was stroking a closed book that was resting in her lap, biting her bottom lip in the way that she did when she thought intensely about something.

The moment she noticed them, Hermione hurried over.

“What happened? What took you so long?”

Harry shrugged, offering his lacerated hand.

“Long shower.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, producing her wand and waving it over his hand.

“Oh god,” she gasped as the wounds disappeared, “are you alright?”

Harry glanced to Ron, who was standing by his side, a small grin on his lips.

“I am now.”

“Did you manage to get to your calming draught?” Hermione asked, bringing him into a tight hug.

“He did,” Ron replied, summoning her attention towards him. “I know about the… you-know-whats. I know Harry’s one of them. I want to stay. I want to help in any way I can.”

Hermione gazed him, sending him a melancholy smile as she tightened her hug around Harry’s shoulders.

“Thank you.”

The three of them stood together for a while. Harry and Hermione wrapped in each other’s arms and Ron by their side, smiling at them, someone of his own in his mind.

There the three friends remained, united once again, relishing in what little time they had left. And planning, for a steadily approaching future, and for the fight that lay before them. The battle that all three of them would inevitably face.

Together.

Chapter Text

Nothing quite exemplified the sudden shift in Harry's priorities than this year's exams. In that, they came and went, and he hardly noticed. No longer did he see them as an anxiety-inducing gauntlet, a potentially insurmountable barrier between him and a successful career. Now, it was just sitting in a room for two and a half hours, writing everything he could remember, regardless of whether his answers were correct. Harry was sure he'd get a ribbing from Hermione later about the whole ordeal. So, at least he could look forward to that.

The time away from studying was hardly wasted, though. Indeed, Harry believed that the activities that had replaced it held far higher value than his N.E.W.T.s could ever hope to possess. The Headmaster himself had given special permission to him, Hermione and Ron for extended, extra-curricular studies (or, as Ron put it, Saving-the-World class) in which the three of them, aided by Dumbledore, spoke extensively of their plans for the next few months. Everything for battle training, strategy, politics and the Order were discussed.

Every shred of intelligence that Dumbledore had gathered about the Horcruxes was shared - every clue he had found, every lead he had followed - all piled into daily sessions in the evenings and mornings. They spent all free periods tutoring with the Headmaster, which meant that revising was quietly shunted into the background. Ron barely minded, sharing Harry's disenfranchisement with the trivial nature of a grade system in terms of measuring one's abilities or worth (though not in that many words). Hermione, however, struggled slightly with the shift in focus, citing the sanctity of her perfect grade average.

Of course, in typical Hermione fashion, she decided that training for the Horcrux hunt and revising for intensive exams at the same time with minimal breaks or sleep was entirely possible - that is, until Harry locked her in the Room of Requirement with only a bed for company. When he opened the doors five minutes later, Hermione was already fast asleep, and a lesson about the virtues of rest had been learned.

So, it was with little confidence that Harry entered the Great Hall on the day of his first exam. He had briefly glimpsed his textbooks and notes before entering (offering an honest, if feeble attempt at preparation). Still, he was under no illusion that he was mentally equipped for the coming task. So, Harry could only imagine his surprise when, as he closed the final page of the final exam, he felt a sense of anti-climax befall him.

They were… easy.

Or rather, not easy per se, but more simple. Without the build-up, anxiety, or stakes, all that was left were questions on a sheet of paper and time enough to answer them. All the nervous energy that might have led him to over-think, or second guess himself, or forget basic theory trying to remember everything else, simply didn't exist. Maybe his newly-found nihilism had its uses after all.

So, the first year of N.E.W.T.s came to an end with all the ceremony of a bill. Maybe not all hope was lost in this world after all.

Hermione seemed to be sharing in his delight, though maybe not for the same reasons as he had in mind.

"What did you think about that last page?" he heard her ask, trying and failing to mask her enjoyment of the exam season. "Honestly, it was almost juvenile. I know the Ministry is desperate to recruit new Aurors, but still, they could have implemented some challenge."

Harry turned to her and blinked.

"Last page?"

"You know, page 10? The one with the question on Centaurs?"

His eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"There was a page 10?"

Hermione's eyes widened, mirroring his own, and her face suddenly became pale. Her mouth opened, imitating a fish on dry land. She was about to launch into a hysterical tirade when she noticed the corners of Harry's lips turning upwards. Her shocked expression turned into heated chagrin, and Harry grinned like a cat that had caught the canary.

"Harry!" she admonished, smacking his elbow.

"Gotcha," he laughed.

"That's not funny."

"It is, Miss Granger." He tilted his head, eyeing her. "You know it is."

"No, it's not," she grumbled, turning up her nose, refusing to look at him any longer.

"I can see you smiling," she heard from her side.

"You see nothing."

Harry merely laughed, threading his arm through hers.

He didn't mean to get Hermione riled up so often. It just so happened that he immensely enjoyed when she was. It wasn't anger, exactly - Harry hated seeing Hermione angry, that meant she had been hurt in some way. This was something else. It was fun, cheeky, challenging, like a tennis match or a duel. It never devolved into an argument, but there was something there, just beneath the surface — a spark threatening to erupt. Into what, Harry didn't know, but he enjoyed skirting the edge, daring it to reveal itself.

"Besides, it's not as if these exams matter to me at the moment," he reasoned. "If all goes to plan… I won't be here next year."

"No, but they might be useful later on," she replied, finally deciding that he deserved to be looked at again. "After Hogwarts, when you want to get a job."

"Yeah," nodded half-heartedly, "after Hogwarts…"

Hermione glanced at him, noticing how his eyes had fallen to the cracks on the floor.

"Because you are going to survive this, Harry," she urged, gripping his hand. "You are."

Harry looked unconvinced but nodded anyway.

"If you say so."

Hermione frowned, quickly deciding to change the subject before the mood became unsalvageable.

"What do you want to do, Harry?" she asked, as the pair emerged from the walls of the castle, out into the open air. "When you graduate?"

"I really don't know…" He took a moment to think, his brow creasing. "I hadn't thought that far."

"You could become an Auror," Hermione offered, to which Harry scoffed.

"I didn't get the grades for an Auror."

Hermione scoffed right back.

"You've fought Voldemort and lived to tell the tale. Several times," she reminded him. "I'm sure that makes you more than qualified."

To that, he shrugged, conceding if only to stop talking. He lead them over to an empty patch of grass, taking in the way the sun crested over the tops of the mountains on the far side of the Black Lake.

"Honestly," he murmured after a long, contemplative pause, "I'm not sure if I even want to be an Auror."

Hermione glanced at him, frowning in confusion.

"What do you mean? I thought-"

"I used to," he clarified, "but now that I think about it… I'm not sure I want to chase dark wizards for the rest of my life. I know it sounds selfish, but-"

"Harry," she smiled, patting his hand, "it's not selfish to want a bit of peace. Not after everything you've done. If that is what you want."

Harry's gaze fell into the middle distance, and a faint hint of a smile lit up on his face. Behind his eyes, Hermione could see the cogs turning, dreaming up something beautiful. His face adopted a peaceful expression, unlike anything she had seen before; as if he were in a deep sleep.

"I've always wanted to be a father," he admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly as the words came tumbling out.

Hermione paused. The image of it, Harry and fatherhood, came together so very swiftly. She couldn't help picturing an older Harry - taller, wiser, beaming - sitting beside a couple of young children, holding them tight in a warm embrace.

"You'd be a good father," she told him and meant every word.

Harry's countenance shifted as he was suddenly, deeply moved.

"Thank you, Hermione," he croaked. "That means a lot to me."

"Though," Hermione added quickly, "it does take two."

Harry let out a bark of laughter.

"I am aware."

"Anyone in mind?" she probed. "I think Ginny's single."

"I don't Ginny's an option anymore," he cringed.

"How come? You never did tell me what happened with her."

Harry's face darkened, his grip on her arm tightening in something akin to frustration.

"She said that she could only picture me being happy… chasing Voldemort."

Hermione gasped.

"She didn't!"

"She did," Harry asserted, his tone nearly as scandalised as her own.

Hermione stared at him, then just past his shoulder. She shook her head, her hair flailing around her face like a mane.

"That little cow!"

Harry jumped at her sudden outburst.

"Christ, Hermione!"

"Well, she is!" she doubled-down. "You know she came to me for advice, with how to make you notice her. I thought… I thought she'd be good for you."

"She did mention that." Harry decided as he stroked her arm, that leading the conversation towards the secluded shore of the lake was the best course of action. "Your advice worked, by the way. I'm starting to think you know more about me than I do."

Hermione smiled dangerously, gazing out onto the water's edge.

"I'm thorough."

"I'm sure you are."

"Well, evidently, I'm not thorough enough." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry, I had no idea she was like that. I thought she genuinely liked you for you."

"I think in some ways she did," he pondered. "She just didn't know who I was, not as well as she thought she did."

"It's an easy mistake to make." She continued before he could protest. "Harry, no matter what you think of yourself, you are a hero. Everyone knows that."

"But I don't want to be."

"Who does? Everyone wants to be famous, everyone wants to be strong, but few people want to be a hero."

Harry blinked, his eyebrows disappearing behind his fringe.

"You should have been a philosopher," he meagrely offered.

Hermione grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Who says I'm not?"

"Touché."

The evening air bristled against them, prompting Hermione to move closer, inserting herself into Harry's side where it was warmest. If Harry minded her proximity, he didn't show it, choosing to remain focused on the landscape. Hermione closed her eyes, listening to his breathing, and she smiled when, eventually, his arm found her back, unconsciously beckoning her closer still.

Moments like these - still, peaceful, precious - were becoming all the rarer nowadays. It was a good day if Harry could wake up and go to bed without a panic attack in between. She wasn't sure if Harry was getting better or becoming accustomed to the prospect of constant paranoia. For the sake of her sanity, she liked to presume the latter. If it were up to her, his whole life would be made up of these moments, away from the war, the Ministry, maybe even Hogwarts. If that was what it took to keep him safe…

It was a treacherous thought. An exciting one. One that she could never hope to follow; that Harry would never go down, not while the Wizarding World needed his help. Not that it deserved it.

The resentment threatened to consume her, and so Hermione promptly flushed it from her head.

"That's enough sidetracking," she chirped, leaning back to address Harry properly. "Tell me, now that Ginny's out of the picture, who else is on your radar?"

Harry responded with a dumbfounded expression.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"What? I can gossip," Hermione argued. "Besides, I have a vested interest."

"Oh, really?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded. "Now spill!"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry sighed. "I've been a bit busy at the moment."

"You're a teenage boy, Harry. You always have enough time for that."

Harry smiled, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his blush.

"Alright, I might have been checking out a few girls."

"Ooh!" Hermione sang, shuffling closer with a mischievous grin. Harry's blush blossomed into a crimson glow.

"Shut up."

"Aww, he's blushing!" Hermione cooed. "Come on then; before curfew would be nice."

"Susan Bones," Harry replied flippantly.

"Susan? But you've hardly shared two words with her…" Hermione stopped and sighed wearily. "You just like her for her chest, don't you?"

Harry shrugged.

"How could I not?"

"You know, there's more to a woman than…" Hermione gestured wildly around her chest area, "that!"

"I know, I know. It just so happens that Susan has more of…" Harry copied her gestures, "that than any other girl in the castle."

"What did I expect?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know - something with more substance."

"You want substance? Alright, Luna's nice."

"Luna?" Hermione scoffed which drew a stony stare from Harry.

"What's wrong with Luna?"

"Nothing," Hermione quickly amended, "Nothing. She's just a bit…"

"If you say 'loony' we're going to have a problem."

"No, of course not! She's just… not quite there."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that, because I think she's only got eyes for Neville."

"You think so?"

"I don't know. Call it instinct."

"I think Hannah already called the shots on that one."

"Hannah? Really?"

"You haven't noticed? She stares at him like how Ron stares at a ham sandwich."

Harry exploded into peals of laughter, and Hermione swiftly followed.

"Speaking of which," Harry managed to eke out once he had finally calmed down, "who is this mysterious girl that Ron seems so obsessed with nowadays?"

"I don't know, Harry."

"Can I get that in writing?" Harry smirked, receiving a swift slap on the arm.

"Prat. It could be anyone. I'm not even sure she exists."

"Can you imagine if it was someone like Daphne Greengrass?"

"Why? Would you be jealous?"

"Not really. I don't know that much about her."

"She's pretty."

"Yeah," Harry nodded, "but there's more to a relationship than looks."

Hermione hummed, turning to the horizon and gazing at it down her upturned nose.

"Except with Susan Bones, evidently," she said primly.

"Okay," Harry chuckled, "you pressured me into that answer. Besides, I was half-joking anyway."

"Then give me an honest answer!"

"Luna was an honest answer!"

Hermione sighed wearily, rolling her eyes at him affectionately.

"Honestly, it's like pulling teeth with you, Harry."

"Well, my options are quite limited, Hermione."

"How?"

"Well… well, look at me!" Harry argued, gesturing to himself. "I'm not exactly a looker, am I?"

"Yes, you are, Harry."

"I look a twig with skin."

"That's called being lean. Trust me, I've seen thin, and you're not it."

"I'm not that handsome, either."

"Tell that to the dozens of girls who stare at you behind your back."

"That's only because-"

"No, it's not. We've all seen you in Quidditch trousers, Harry."

She stopped when she noticed Harry's absent expression. He seemed to have shut down, only providing a weak, "Oh…" as a reaction. Other than, he remained silent, staring off into space.

"Hello?" she called, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Harry?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly.

"Sorry, just… spaced out."

She nudged him, right in the ribs, causing him to cry out as she poked his funny bone.

"Don't let it go to your head, mister," she warned, her smile defusing what little authority she tried to push.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grinned. Then he nudged her in return. "How about you, Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Who are you interested in?"

Hermione paused, her brow furrowing as if he had just said something very improper.

"Now, I really don't think-"

"Come on!" Harry exclaimed.

"Harry," she begged.

"You can't press me on this for so long and not expect me to ask the same question," he argued. "There's got to be someone."

"Well…" Her sentence faded away, lost in the midst of deep contemplation. Harry could only stare as her gaze hardened. Her bottom lip became trapped in between her teeth, and she began chewing away as her musings overtook her. Eventually, she decided upon something, eyeing him anxiously. "Well, there might be one…"

But then she stopped, her mouth snapping shut. She froze as if suddenly remembering where she was.

"Hermione?" Harry called softly. She didn't answer.

Without another word, Hermione lay her head on his shoulder, looking out onto the lake. Harry, having learned not to question Hermione long ago, didn't dispute it. As confused as he might be - and boy was he confused - he knew not to prod. If she didn't want him to know, then it wasn't his place to pry it out of her. No matter how much he desired the answer.

Hermione spoke barely a word for the rest of their time together, but Harry could swear that her grip on his arm was even tighter than it was before. At least Harry could take solace in the irony that, despite having a female as his best friend for more than a few years now, the female species remained a complete mystery to him.

Unbeknownst to him, Hermione took great solace in that fact as well.

If someone had told Harry that today's session of Saving-the-World class had recruited a new member, he might have been excited. Then he found out who exactly that new member was.

Dumbledore told Harry extensively about the nature of his relationship with Snape, that of a double agent and spymaster, loyal to the cause of the light. Harry, however, struggled to see it that way. He knew that eventually, he would have to engage with the man on some level if they were to win the coming war, but Snape… Snape was the last person Harry ever wanted to work with, especially after finding out the truth.

Because Severus Snape wasn't just Harry's least favourite teacher anymore, or an everyday nuisance - a vile, rude, unbearable pain that tormented Harry's curriculum. He was so much more than that now.

Severus Snape was the man whose choices lead to the death of his parents, along with ten long years of neglect and abuse. It was his fault that Harry had to live in a dingy cupboard, without love or comfort or so much as a hug for the longest time. It was because of him that Harry would never be able to hug his mum and dad, never listen to them say that they loved him, or ever share in the happiness that so many other children took for granted. Because of Snape, Harry's childhood had been irrevocably ruined, and he was expected to just supposed to work with him now? To let it all go without so much as an apology? To just ignore all the pain and torment that this… this bastard had caused him and move on, just like that?

If Harry were a lesser man, he might have hexed the greasy Potions Master where he stood. He might have finally tested out some of the new tricks that Dumbledore had taught, maybe add in some of Snape's own that he created under the guise of the Half-Blood Prince.

But now wasn't the time. They had a war to plan, and frankly, he had already spent far too much time wallowing in self-pity. All the energy Harry once had for this sort of thing had passed long ago. Now he was just tired - too tired to waste time being angry at a man who didn't deserve the effort. Snape was pathetic, yes, but very soon he was going to be the most valuable ally they had.

As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Snape would have access to the one item they needed the most: the sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore explained that, due to its exposure to Basilisk venom (a memory that earned an anxious glare from Hermione), it now held the ability to destroy Horcruxes, harnessing the corrosive power of the venom to its advantage. The sooner they were able to secure the Founder's weapon, the better, and with Snape acting as its guard, it would hopefully be in their hands before long. Dumbledore had initially planned to leave it to them in his will, but complications with the sword's status as a relic meant that it wasn't his to give.

'His will.'

Harry still had trouble processing the idea that Dumbledore would soon no longer be around to help them, to lend them support or advice when they needed it. Despite all that the older man had done - forcing him to stay with the Dursleys; refusing to explain or adequately prepare him for the oncoming war; the lies and deception at every turn - Harry couldn't help the grief that he knew was creeping upon him. Even after everything Albus had done, he was still Harry's mentor.

Which meant Harry needed to focus on these final, vital few lessons.

So far, he thought he was doing well. Dumbledore had only shown him a few of his many tricks, but he had picked them all up very quickly. Perhaps the most exciting new technique was silent casting, something that came to him almost naturally. As Dumbledore explained, the act of announcing a spell was more of a focusing technique than a requirement. Maybe it was something to do with how often he found himself arguing with the voices in his head, internalising his problems rather than letting them out, meant that his inner voice was strong enough to focus his magic. Harry decided not to let that particular fact reach Hermione's ears.

Besides that, Dumbledore's lessons had been far different than what he expected. Contrary to what Harry had imagined, his syllabus didn't contain a multitude of powerful, unknown spells that defied the laws of magic. No, if anything the spells Dumbledore chose to teach him were far more elementary. It was how they were used that surprised him the most. Such as using the sticking charm to walk up walls, or maximising the Lumos charm to blind opponents or combining the Notice-Me-Not charm with quick bursts of transfiguration, changing the terrain right under their feet. Simple, effective spells used in ways that no one could expect. It some ways it made sense. If one could block the killing curse with something as mundane as a levitated obstacle, then why bother trying to learn an overpowered shield spell that would just leave you tired and vulnerable afterwards?

And that was the principle that ran throughout most of Harry's training: easy-to-learn spells implemented in unique ways. It was so simple; it was genius.

Beyond these sessions, Dumbledore had also been filling Harry in on the specifics of Magical politics, mapping out the ways that Tom had probably already begun to seize power in the Ministry. Harry was no fan of politics before, but now, after learning more about the nature of power than he ever wanted to know, he could safely say he despised the topic. Dumbledore, amusingly, shared his exact sentiments.

It got to a point where he knew more about the Ministry than Ron did - but, of course, Hermione still ran circles around him in that department. With this new knowledge, it allowed them to explore opportunities that they never thought possible. It also exposed just how much they hadn't thought of. For example, all the talk of venturing around the country helped them realise that they had no plan for how they were going to do it.

Dumbledore suggested they set up a permanent base of operations, somewhere that could act as a safe house. Harry presumed that they would use 12 Grimmauld Place, however with Dumbledore soon to be dead, and the Fidelus Charm being tied to him as Secret-Keeper, that meant that the building wasn't going to be secure for very long. (Once a Secret-Keeper dies, everyone else who was shared the location become a Secret-Keeper, meaning that everyone in the Order - including Mundungus Fletcher - would be able to share the house's location, Hermione explained off-handedly.) They needed somewhere new, somewhere only they knew about.

Hermione propositioned the use of an expanded tent, a home that they could take with them, however, she conceded that it wasn't the answer for a permanent base. Maybe for away missions, but nothing more substantial than that. Regardless, none of them wanted to live in a tent for months on end. Besides that, a tent was much harder to equip and defend, not like a proper building, so not only would they be down to the bare essentials but also they would be more vulnerable to a surprise attack. Not only that, but they would be ultimately cut off from Hogwarts, and their one ally who had any chance of retaining power in the new regime that was rapidly approaching.

So, they needed a place that was abandoned, rarely visited (if at all), isolated, yet close and connected to Hogwarts. Somewhere in Hogsmeade seemed to be the obvious answer.

Dumbledore proposed the Hog's Head, explaining that he knew the owner very well and could easily pull a few strings to ensure them a hiding spot. However, that produced its own problems. Hogsmeade certainly wasn't airtight. If the Death Eaters got word and decided to scour the place, they wouldn't have many houses to search. That and the frequent visitors that lodged in the establishment meant that the old hotel was too dangerous to be considered a permanent base.

Ron suggested they pitch up in the recently abandoned Zonko's in the heart of Hogsmeade, but that idea also had flaws. Being in the heart of the village meant that coming and going with any sort of secrecy was hardly going to be easy. Worse, if they made any noise, suspicions from neighbours would expose them before long.

That was when Harry suggested the Shrieking Shack. The smile that he earned from Hermione had him grinning for the rest of the evening.

It wasn't long before Dumbledore sent a troop of house-elves to renovate the building, and Harry could relax, knowing they had a base of operations for the following year. The simple prospect of having somewhere safe, secure and secret they could retreat to if it all went to hell, made the future look at least a little brighter.

If only Harry's present had the gift of such clarity.

Hermione was a mystery at the best of times, but nowadays, she had adopted a distant quality. Whenever she thought he wasn't looking, she'd spend her time staring at him, as if breaking him down in her head. As soon as he turned her way, she would try to pretend she had been looking elsewhere, but the distinct flick of her bushy hair told all. It was a phenomenon that was becoming more and more common. Harry almost thought that he had something on his cheek the first few times - maybe a stray glob of jam from breakfast - but every time he checked, he found nothing.

It took far longer than it should have for Harry to consider that it was him she was interested in. But why? Was she judging him? Did she have her doubts about him? About the mission?

No, Harry scolded himself. If Hermione had any doubts, she wouldn't be here with him, planning every step of their journey. It wasn't like her to only get cold feet now. She had assured him, promised him, that she was with him no matter what. Harry knew it was only fair, after everything that she had done for him, that he trusted Hermione's word.

What could be troubling her, then? Because it was evident that something was on her mind. Maybe it was this person that she liked, the one she refused to tell him about. The one that, for some reason, Harry felt a great deal of disdain for, without even knowing who they were.

They probably deserved it, Harry reasoned, although he was never entirely certain why.

In any case, he needed help figuring it out. Maybe there something obvious that he had missed. Maybe there was something in the grapevine that had passed him by. He hoped not. If he couldn't pick up on mild playground gossip, what hope was he going to be on the run, surviving day to day on nothing but whispers?

Harry wanted to be happy for Hermione; he really did. He knew he should be pleased that she was branching out, making new friends… but something about this whole ordeal didn't sit well with him. What if it was someone who wanted to hurt her? What if they were trying to get to him through her?

Neither seemed likely, but then again, what was plausible anymore? Chance and coincidence seemed to love him.

The thought preyed on Harry for at least a couple of days before he felt desperate enough to seek help. If he needed to see the obvious, there was one person he could certainly get an answer out of.

"Ron?" Harry asked one evening from the other side of his old chessboard. Ron moved his knight, placing it deliberately in its new square, and looked up.

"Yeah?"

"I think Hermione likes someone."

Instead of answering, the redhead merely stared at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Really?" Ron murmured with just a hint of sarcasm. Harry frowned, moving his pawn forward a square.

"You know who it is?"

Ron guffawed, moving his rook to take the pawn. He stopped when he noticed that Harry wasn't laughing along with him, and his face dropped.

"Seriously?" he asked as if Harry had forgotten the colour of an orange. "Oh, come on, Harry. It's obvious."

"Is it?" Harry argued. Ron sighed.

"You really don't know?" he asked rhetorically, looking at him like a hunter would a wounded deer.

Harry shook his head.

"No."

The redhead slumped in his seat, staring at the ceiling in disbelief.

"And people think I'm the dim one. Honestly!"

"Look," Harry urged, "just tell me who it is!"

"Well," Ron replied, still gazing up at the ceiling, "it's someone she spends a lot of time with."

"She hasn't been spending time with anyone; she's been too busy helping me."

"Oh, really?" he pondered aloud.

"Yes! Unless she's been meeting someone in her free time…"

"I'd say she has," Ron grinned. Harry glanced at him.

"Really?"

"Yep."

Ron sat up, rubbing his hands together.

"Okay," he began, as Harry leaned forward as not to miss a word, "you know him. You know him very well. And yes, she likes him. Proper likes him. Even when we were sort-of going out, she liked him. The two of them are inseparable."

"Okay," Harry replied, nodding as he mentally noted it all down, "but who is he?"

Ron was about to answer, when a thought struck him, like a joke he had suddenly remembered. He looked at Harry then to the chessboard, then back again.

"You know what?" he said, a smirk adorning his freckled face. "I think you can figure this one out."

"What?" Harry protested. "But-"

"And while you do that," he continued, unabashed by Harry's sputtering, "I'm going to bed."

Ron toppled the king piece with a flick of his finger, letting it roll into the centre of the board. Then he stood and began to head for the stairs to the dormitories. He stopped and turned, just before disappearing.

"Oh, and when you do figure it out," he called, suddenly sobering himself, gazing at his friend intensely, "don't hurt her. Because I will kill you if you do."

It was as if Ron was staring right through him. Harry knew, just from the way his eyes glistened in the firelight, that he was deadly serious. All he could do was nod hurriedly in response. Ron smiled.

"Alright," he said cheerily, "have fun."

With that, Ron ascended the steps, leaving Harry to simmer further in his confusion, still no closer to an answer.

And the worst part was that he couldn't ask Hermione for help.

The doors to the Room of Requirement slowly moulded into shape. Light flooded into the dusty old chamber, and the silhouette of Draco Malfoy stepped inside. The door sunk away as quietly as it had materialised, and the teenager was alone.

Immediately, his eyes went past the piles of forgotten chairs, tables, parchments, drawers and countless other antiques, landing on the one item that mattered the most. The Vanishing Cabinet, standing in all of its glory. His ace in the hole; his ticket into the good graces of Lord Voldemort himself. Dumbledore had never suspected a thing. No one did.

This old, unkept room was perhaps Draco's most significant discovery, holding many treasures that he had only ever dreamed of. There were artefacts in this room that held secrets beyond even his understanding. Months of hiding in this space with his Blood Traitors and Mudbloods and Potter didn't know half of what the room was capable of. He had no idea what Draco was planning.

Draco knew that Potter was spying on him; the Gryffindor was hardly subtle, hardly the master of stealth and subterfuge that Draco was. It was but a small obstacle in his plans. Of course, the previous attempts at assassinating the Headmaster had gone awry, one of them by Potter's meddling hand, but that was neither here nor there.

The cabinet was all Draco needed. It would suit his needs nicely. An entire year's worth of hard work and intensive maintenance, all coming together ever-so-nicely. Very soon, Hogwarts would be without its precious, muggle-loving Headmaster. Finally, Draco thought, he would take his place alongside his father in Voldemort's inner circle.

At long last, he would feel the pride of his family, of the most powerful families in the Wizarding World. They will all know what the name of Malfoy truly meant.

Draco waved his wand over the cabinet - back to front, side to side, inside and out. Not a crack, nor a stain. The cabinet was in pristine condition, exactly how he left it not two weeks ago. And the enchantments were still very much…

Gone.

Draco thoughts came crashing to a halt. He waved his wand again.

Nothing. Not a spark, nor a blink.

He paled. He checked again — still nought. And once more, with shaking hands and rapidly shallowing breath. It all read the same.

The cabinet was empty, in more ways than one. It was dead. Nothing more than an ordinary cabinet.

"No," Draco whispered faintly, grabbing a nearby teacup and throwing it into the cabinet. He slammed the door, waited a few seconds, and opened. The fragmented pieces lay there, taunting him, right where they were but moments ago. Draco slammed the door again, opened it, and was met with the same result. He kicked the cabinet, as hard as he could.

It scarcely even wobbled.

Draco cried for the first time in a long, long time. The cruel, red eyes of the Dark Lord stared at him in his mind's eye, chilling him to the bone just as they did when he first met the Dark Lord in person. Dread clasped his body in a tight fist and refused to let go. His perfect, platinum hair was now dishevelled from the cold sweat that swiftly permeated his skin.

He stumbled out of the Room of Requirement, far less composed than when he entered. Without a moment to lose, Draco began walking hurriedly down the hallway, towards the only man he could trust.

And Harry Potter - perched behind a nearby pillar, having seen everything - waited until Draco had passed far beyond the seventh-floor corridor, before quickly making his way towards Dumbledore's office.

Chapter Text

"He's going to do something, sir; I know it! I can feel it!"

"Then let it come; now focus, Harry! Focus!"

Harry rolled just in time to dodge Dumbledore's leg-locking jinx, the sparks just clipping the edge of his robes. He immediately fired back with a counter, turning the floor into jelly beneath the headmaster's feet. The old man swivelled with inhuman speed, dancing just out of the area of effect.

"You have a great deal of power, my boy, but your patience is lacking. You must learn to temper your thoughts, reduce your focus to the here and now."

"Be here, in every second - I know, professor."

"Then show me."

Eager to do just that, Harry cast a Lumos bright enough to block out the sun. He threw the orb of light into the centre of the room, allowing it to explode in a flash of white. Wasting no time, Harry immediately charmed the underside of his shoes. Instantly he felt his strides become harder as his soles stuck to the floor.

He ran to the far wall, and straight up it, the extra stickiness of his shoes allowing him - with some difficulty - to run across the wall. He was already sideways by the time overcharged Lumos wore off, but Dumbledore was waiting for him. A quick 'Finite', aimed squarely as Harry's feet, sent the boy tumbling to the floor.

"A fine trick, Harry," Dumbledore applauded, "But not one to rely on, especially more than once."

"It did pretty well last time," Harry groaned. "I almost got you."

"Indeed, but it wasn't enough last time. It won't be enough today."

The headmaster raised his wand to cast his net spell, but Harry had beaten him to it.

"Imago Geminae!"

Harry sprinted from his spot on the floor to the headmaster's right. To Dumbledore's left, a copy of Harry ran in a perfect mirror image. The two Harry's began casting spell after spell, lighting up the room in unison. Unable to quickly discern which of the spell-casters was the real one, resorting to dodge the oncoming attack. Harry grinned as he realised that his trick had worked.

That triumph was short-lived, however. The magic required to power the clone was wearing on him quickly. The spell-fire subsided for a few seconds as Harry caught his breath, and the headmaster took his opportunity. Dumbledore quickly glanced at the clone across the room, before his eyes immediately turned to Harry – the real Harry - and resumed their duel in earnest. Realising the ruse was up, Harry hurriedly dispelled the mirror image.

"Excellent spell-casting, Harry, but next time you use that spell, be aware of your clothes."

"My clothes?"

The teenager quickly glanced down at his robes and realised his mistake, how Dumbledore was so quick to recognise which of them was the fake. His Gryffindor badge, planted over his heart on the left side. It must have been on the clone's opposite breast, on the wrong side. Of course, Dumbledore of all people would be the first to notice that kind of detail.

A disarming spell just missed Harry's wand, spurring the teenager back into action. Scrambling behind one of the Room of Requirement's great pillars, he gave himself but moments to think. Duelling Dumbledore to a standstill, as the headmaster had prescribed, had turned out to be a Herculean task. The old man was quick, craft and ruthless when on the other side of a wand. There was almost nothing Harry could do to stop him.

Almost, a voice that sounded remarkably like Hermione repeated in his head. Think! What do you have that he doesn't?

Youth, Harry answered himself. He may be smarter, but I'm faster and more agile. But how does that help me? I can't run from his spells.

But you can defend, the Hermione-like voice replied, if only for a little while.

It won't be enough, he argued… to himself. It won't ever be enough. It's not like I can shack up behind a shield and wait for him to tire himself out.

He tried to recall every spell that Dumbledore had taught him, all the small, useful tips and tricks he had been given over the past few weeks and came up blank. Amongst the spells flashing by his shoulder and the frantic panic of trying to outsmart a master-duellist, Harry's brain was quickly overwhelming itself.

Don't try and remember them all, Hermione's voice sounded, try and remember two. Just two.

Two spells. He could think of two measly spells. Confringo. Wingadium Leviosa. Easy enough. Now all he had to do was find a way to turn them into an answer.

Dumbledore, he was crafty, and fast and powerful, but every wizard needed to be able to see. He had already used Lumos the headmaster would know that trick already. Harry glanced around the room, trying to find a solution, the sounds of Dumbledore's spells colliding against the pillar, sending pulverised dust everywhe-

And just like that, Harry had his plan.

Peaking around the corning for only a moment, Harry lined up his wand with a far pillar and cast the blasting curse. The stone erupted into dust, caking the floor with rubble. The teen immediately rolled out of his cover, placing Dumbledore between him and shattered stone. A quick Wingardium and the dust was already on the move.

The cloud consumed Dumbledore's face, causing him to splutter and cough, and it smothered his eyes and mouth. For only a few milliseconds, he was defenceless.

Harry didn't hesitate for even a moment.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell collided with Dumbledore's wand, sending it arcing into the air. With the skill of a trained seeker, Harry caught it in his free hand, holding it high like a trophy. He had done it. He had bested Albus Dumbledore.

If only in a practise duel, but still, a victory was a victory.

Quickly bringing himself back down to Earth, Harry hurried over the headmaster's side.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked, quickly cast a cleaning chair on the aged headmaster's face, clearing away the rubble. The old man took a deep breath, blinking several times over.

"Yes, I should think so." He stood tall, his eyes searching for his wand. Once he found it, sitting in between Harry's fingers, his breath hitched ever so slightly. "I see. Very well."

He held out his outstretched hand, and Harry placed the wand in the headmaster's palm. The elder wizard grasped his fingers around the handle as if waiting for something to happen. He sighed, seemingly satisfied, and fixed Harry with a strange look.

"You are probably eager for news about Master Malfoy."

Harry blinked, straightening up.

"Yes, sir. I am."

"He has been to consult Professor Snape. Severus told me he was extremely anxious, lamenting about a Vanishing Cabinet on the seventh floor. It seems you and Miss Granger were absolutely correct in your assumptions."

The teen couldn't help the small warm glow that sparked in his chest at the headmaster's affirmations. He couldn't wait to tell Hermione the good news, to thank her profusely for helping him.

"Did he mention his next move?" Harry asked.

"Severus wasn't exactly clear. He is unsure if Draco even has a 'next move'. The boy is running out of options and fast."

"What can I do to help?"

"If you wish to do something useful," the headmaster continued, "then keep an eye on him. Severus and I only have so much time to spend watching over his whereabouts. If you are truly worried that Draco is planning to act on his mission, then that is the best thing you can do."

"Keep an eye on him," Harry repeated. "Got it. Thank you, sir."

The door to the Room of Requirement slid open, and the duelling room faded away, resorting an empty stone chamber. Harry bowed, as was tradition, and made to leave.

"And, Harry," Dumbledore added, stopping the boy in his tracks, "I highly suggest not intervening, or confronting the young Malfoy. We wouldn't want to exacerbate his desperation."

Harry nodded.

"Duly noted, Headmaster," he lied.

Draco Malfoy entered the Great Hall at seven o'clock in the morning and sat there until eight. He didn't take any food, nor did he pour himself any water. He simply sat and stared at his empty plate until it was time to leave. He interacted with no one, he said nothing. This was his schedule, every day for the past three days. And every time, Harry was there to see it, silently observing him from afar.

He had hoped that watching Malfoy for long enough would provide a clue as to what he was planning, now that the vanishing cabinet had been taken out of commission. It didn't.

Come on, Harry urged, watching his target from the other side of the Great Hall. Do something. Anything.

How Harry yearned to go over there and pry the truth out of the blond ponce himself. But alas he had been instructed to wait, to observe for now, and only intervene if absolutely necessary. And so, he did. He obediently put his desire for justice aside, keeping his distance, as he was doing now. At least he had company, with Hermione sitting across from him and Ron beside him to keep him company. He could hardly complain. Well, actually, he could, because…

"Three days," Harry murmured, "and he's done nothing."

"Has he been to see Professor Snape?" Hermione asked as she worked her way through a bowl of cereal.

Harry nodded.

"He has indeed."

"And?"

"He knows he's done for," Harry recounted, remembering Snape's words in the headmaster's office. "He knows that he's running out of time. So, why hasn't he done anything? What could he possibly be waiting for?"

"Maybe he's waiting for Dumbledore to die? From his hand?"

"No, he wouldn't know about the curse."

"Maybe Professor Snape told him?"

"And risk it leaking back to Voldemort?"

Hermione frowned, remembering that Dumbledore's mere presence in Hogwarts was the only reason Voldemort had yet to make a move on the school. If any information came out about the headmaster's declining health, it would risk making the castle a target, along with every man, woman and child within.

"No, I see your point," she conceded. She went back to chewing her bottom lip ponderously.

"Besides," Harry continued, "if he simply waits for Dumbledore to die, he won't have fulfilled his vow. He needs to act, so why the hell isn't he?"

Hermione took the chance to peer over her shoulder, following Harry's gaze towards the Slytherin table. Her eyes caught platinum blonde and beneath it a solemn, ragged face, almost the same colour as his hair.

"He looks terrified," Hermione remarked, with the slightest hint of something resembling pity. She was certainly not wrong, however.

It looked like Draco hadn't slept in days, and yet there was still a nervous energy about him that refused to let him rest. He was a wreck, a fossil of his former, cockier self. A far cry from the Draco Malfoy that Harry knew.

"Serves him right," Ron's voice bluntly interjected. Their attention was torn away from Malfoy, Harry and Hermione glanced at their friend in surprise. Ron stared right back them. "Don't give me those looks. He's taken the Dark Mark. You said so yourself, Harry."

"He didn't take it willingly," Harry tried to point out as Hermione went back to observing the Slytherin in question.

"As far as you know."

A soft bark from above told him of Hedwig's arrival. The snowy white owl swooped down, landing elegantly beside his plate, a letter in her beak. Harry stroked the soft feathers on the back of her neck, taking the blank envelope and tearing it open. From the corner of his eye, he felt his owl staring a hole into him, and he obediently offered her a rash of bacon. Seemingly satisfied, the owl gobbled up the treat.

Tipping the contents of the letter onto the table, Harry was surprised to see a small, folded note fall onto his plate. He hesitantly unfolded it, relaxing when he saw the familiar scrawl of the headmaster's handwriting.

"What is it?" he heard Ron ask through a piece of toast.

"A time," Harry answered. Ten o'clock, to be precise. "I think Dumbledore has news."

"What do you think it's about?"

"Considering my next training day is tomorrow, something urgent, I think."

"Do you think it's about the… you-know-what's?" Hermione asked. Harry looked up at her, noticing how her hand was now gently stroking Hedwig's snowy feather. He couldn't quite describe the feeling of seeing someone like Hermione pay such kind attention to his familiar. Still, it was a warm, exciting one. He shook it off, repeating her question in his head.

"It could very well be." Harry stabbed a piece of scrambled egg lazily. "Not sure what I'm going to do if it is, though."

"Well," Ron, "it can't be worse than the bloody chamber of secrets, can it?"

"I've learned the hard way not to underestimate Riddle," Harry shrugged. "How's our target, by the way?"

Hermione began to lean around, casually gazing at each of the houses, before coming to Slytherin.

"Okay, don't panic," Hermione whispered, swivelling back towards them, "but he's looking our way." Harry and Ron both began to lean around her to get a better view, but Hermione's glare stopped them in their tracks. "Don't both look at once."

"He knows we've been staring, Hermione," Ron waved her off.

"Forgive me for at least trying to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice."

"Eh, Al's been wrong before."

Harry was about to agree before he replayed Ron's words in his head. He turned to the redhead by his side, his face morphing into a confused expression.

"'Al'?"

Ron nodded as if it were obvious.

"Albus."

"Why are you calling him 'Al'?" Hermione asked.

"Well, I thought since we're working with him…" Ron nodded again, gesturing his hand as if to present his finding. "Al."

"That's not an answer."

"I think that explains it perfectly," Ron dismissed, crossing his arms.

"Why 'Al'?" Harry asked. "Why not at least call him 'Albus'?"

"Al rolls off the tongue better," Ron explained.

"Like vomit," Hermione scoffed.

"What else are you going to do for your best bud, Al?" Harry teased. "Name your kid after him?"

"It's better than 'Professor Dumbledore' over here," he retorted, pointing this thumb in Hermione's direction.

"What? He is a professor," she insisted. "It's just a fact."

"It wastes time," Ron argued. "Imagine we're in a critical battle scenario. What would you rather have to shout out, 'Watch out, Professor Dumbledore!' or 'Watch out, Al!'"

"Why would you be telling Dumbledore to watch out?" Harry asked. "He's one of the best duellists in the world."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

"Boys!" Hermione hissed, ceasing their spat. "Can you please pay attention. You're meant to be keeping an eye on Malfoy."

This time it was Ron's turn to scoff.

"Come on, Hermione. It's only been, what, twenty seconds? It's not like he'll have up left in twenty se- oh, bollocks, he's gone."

Harry's head shot up.

"Wha-?" he gaped, his eyes quickly returning to their target. Malfoy's seat was empty. His eyes scoured the rest of the Great Hall for a blonde head, but the Slytherin was nowhere to be seen. "When did he leave?"

"I don't know," Ron said, equally as alarmed, "he just…"

"Useless," Hermione sighed, holding her head in her hands. "Both of you."

"We have to find him," Harry said resolutely, vaulting from his seat. "Come on."

He stormed out of the great hall, Hermione and Ron close on his tail. The trio emerged from the giant doorway, into the crowded hallways of the castle. Harry scanned the many faces in front of him, his eyes jumping from person to person. He felt an elbow dig into his side. He turned, only to see Hermione pointing down the opposite side of the hall. His eyes focused just in time to see a flash of blond rush past the corner.

Threading through the crowd, Harry raced after him.

"He can't have gone far," he said to himself.

"Unless he ran," Hermione offered.

"Or apparated," Ron added, to which Hermione predictably scoffed.

"You can't apparate inside Hogwarts, Ronald."

"Where does it say that?"

"Hogwarts: A His-"

"Hogwarts: A History, of course," Ron finished. "There's probably the cure for Dragon Pox in that bloody book, but no one's ever read far enough to find it."

"Well, I have, and it's not in there."

Ron gaped sarcastically.

"Is it not?"

"Both of you be quiet!" Harry hissed, ending their argument. "Right now!"

The pair had the decency to at least look sorry.

They followed the labyrinthine passages of the school, trying to trace Draco's steps. Eventually, however, the trail ran cold. The Slytherin had seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth. Any chance they had of catching him now was minimal. If he had the marauders map, then maybe, but he had left it in his case up in the dormitories.

"He's gone," Harry growled, stalking across the tiles. "He could be anywhere by now."

"We really shouldn't be doing this," he heard Hermione lament.

"Tell me something new, Hermione."

He was about to head off once again when he felt a small but firm hand and grab his arm.

"Harry, listen to me," Hermione insisted. "We should go."

"It's too late for that now, Hermione," Harry argued, staring her down.

"No, it's not," Hermione retorted, staring right back at him. "He doesn't know we know, not yet."

"He knows someone's on to him."

"But not us. If Draco realises that it's us that's after him, he'll obviously figure that Dumbledore knows too. And when he realises that, who knows what he'll do!"

"Not if I can convince him otherwise."

"You think you can change his mind?" Hermione gaped. "This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Come on, Harry," Ron chimed in, "He's been on the dark path for years now."

"But he doesn't have to be," Harry insisted, "don't you see? If I could just make him see that he's done for, then I can-"

"I think he already knows," Hermione pointed out. "He looked like he was ready to sign his will. He knows he's out of time like you said. Why would hearing you repeat that fact change his mind?"

"I can at least try. I can duel bloody Albus Dumbledore to a standstill now. If it came down to it, I could stop him."

"So could Dumbledore, and yet he's done nothing. Maybe there's a reason for that."

"Yeah," Harry frowned, "like how there was a reason that he didn't tell me about the prophecy, or how he didn't bother to train me until only a few weeks ago, how he let my relatives keep me in-"

Memories of the inside of his cupboard, covered in dust and grime; the screaming and shouting from the other side; the dark, elevated only by thin strips of light in between tiny slats in the door; a singular shelf, meagre and small but still big enough to house his few possessions. Harry was glad that his throat closed up before he could continue before he could let slip the truth of the first eleven years of his life. They couldn't know. None of them could ever know. What would they think of him if they found out?

He spied the concerned faces of his friends, Hermione's caring gaze, Ron furrowed brow, and he realised that he already said too much.

"Look, it doesn't matter now. We need to find out where he's going, and we need to-"

"Harry," Hermione's voice, calm but firm, shot through him like an arrow, "This isn't just about Draco, is it?"

Her eyes bore into him like a river, carving into his resolve.

"It's nothing…" but he couldn't lie, not to Hermione, and now - as he poured over his thoughts - not even to himself.

He knew exactly why he wanted to stop Draco, he had known it all along. Because if Malfoy could be stopped, turned to the light, then maybe, just maybe… Dumbledore wouldn't have to die. He wouldn't have to say goodbye to the man he had come to know almost as a surrogate grandfather. His mentor, his guiding figure. By no means perfect, but he was there, all the same. He vouched for Harry, defended him, saved his life more than once. Even after everything the old man had been responsible for, he couldn't disregard all that the man had done for him.

He couldn't let a good man like Albus Dumbledore die. Too many good people had died for him. People he cared about, and who cared for him. His parents… Sirius…

But I can stop it, a small, persistent voice spoke out, I can prevent it this time. Maybe, if I'm good enough, I won't have to lose anyone else.

"No one else."

It came out as barely a whisper, but it rang like a choir, beckoning him to battle.

He gazed at his two best friends, still watching him, waiting patiently for his response. Even when they thought he was wrong, they were here, standing with him.

"I'm going after him. I'm going to my room, I'm going to get the map, and I'm going to find him."

But he didn't have to, because, as he turned the corner, a sudden pressure in the side of his neck told him exactly where Draco was.

"You're really not very good at sneaking around, are you Potter?" the Slytherin's familiar drawl sounded from an alcove to his right.

"And you're not very good at planning an ambush, Malfoy," Harry replied casually. Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco's confidence turn to confusion, as he finally noticed Hermione and Ron with their wands raised in his direction. Harry grinned. "You really didn't think this through, did you?"

Knowing that it was too late to back out, the Malfoy heir doubled down, sticking his wand into Harry's neck.

"Why are you following me?"

"You know why."

"Prove it!"

"Okay," Harry shrugged, holding out his hand. "Give me your arm."

Draco scowled, his eyes widening.

"What are you talking about?"

Harry glared at him, pinning the Slytherin to the spot.

"Give. Me. Your. Arm."

Whether it was the barely contained anger in Harry's voice, the two wands pointing at his face, or the lack of sleep, Draco relented. He reluctantly began to reach out his forearm. Harry immediately grabbed it, pulling it towards him. Suddenly uprooted, Draco stumbled into Harry's grip, as the Gryffindor wrenched the limb behind Draco's back at an awkward angle. The Slytherin cried out, dropping his wand.

"God, you're dumb," Harry sighed tiredly, kicking away the lost wand. "Now let's see what you've been hiding."

Harry manoeuvred Draco's arm to the front of his body, pulling his sleeve up and revealing a darkened tattoo, detailing a skull and a snake, intertwined. He saw his friend's face flitter from shock to anger to disgust.

"Even for you, Malfoy," Ron scowled, "this is low."

"You'd know about low, wouldn't you, Weasley," Draco spat. "You too, Mudblood."

The only response we could pull from Hermione was a lazy laugh.

"Is it wise to insult your captors, Ferret?"

"You've got no power over me. Not compared to him."

"He," Harry growled, "is not here right now. We're all you've got. We know you've been tasked to kill Dumbledore, that you were behind the necklace and the poison and the vanishing cabinet. And we know that you're desperate. So how about, for once in your life, you shut up and listen? Because aside from us, and maybe Dumbledore, there isn't a single person in this castle that's willing to help you. And very few others beyond that."

Harry let go of his arm, allowing the Malfoy heir to readjust himself.

"And what are you offering, Potter?" Draco sneered, ever-defiant. "Salvation? Protection?"

"An opportunity," Harry replied resolutely, "to make the right choice. The next time Voldemort calls, don't go to him. Come with us. We can take to someone who can help you."

For the briefest moment, there was a flicker of something other than hatred in Draco's face. Harry could almost describe it as longing. It was extinguished as instantaneously as it appeared, and the classic Malfoy scowl returned in full force.

"Here's my offer, Potter. You stay out of my way, and I don't slaughter your friends like the swine they are."

"Better a swine with a wand than a rat without," Ron scoffed, jostling the willow instrument in his hand.

Draco looked extremely unamused. Realising that any potential fight would end very badly for him, he turned, crouched down and picked up his wand. He sheathed it inside his emerald-lined robes and tutted audibly.

"Any of you try to stop me, I will kill you."

Harry, remembering how he had successfully disarmed the great Albus Dumbledore only days before, couldn't help but smirk at the Slytherin's threat. If I had a penny for every time I've heard that one. Oh, wait. I probably do.

"Remember what I said, Draco. We can help you."

Harry couldn't tell if Draco failed to him, or he simply ignored what he had to say, as the blond took off down the corridor, in a pale imitation of Snape. The Gryffindor trio didn't stop watching until he had rounded the corner, disappearing into the lower levels of the castle. His footsteps mingled with the distant sound of schoolchildren, ultimately fading into the chaos.

"He's going to try something," Harry murmured. "I know it. Maybe even today. We can't let up on this."

"Harry," came Hermione's anxious voice a few seconds later, one they were sure Draco had gone, "I'm not sure this was a good idea."

"Neither am I," Harry shrugged.

"In fact, I think that was rather reckless."

"Oh definitely," Harry agreed, "but it's better than any other plan I had. If Dumbledore wants him alive, there has to be a reason." And as he turned back to Hermione, he realised that there may be one more little piece of truth that he had yet to mention. "Besides, as you said, he's terrified. I know what that feels like. I wouldn't be a very good person If I didn't try to help him."

The look he got from Hermione in the moments after made something in his chest sing, like a string on a cello pulled tight and plucked to a tune. All of sudden, any other words he might have had seemed frozen in his head. His mouth failed to work, even breathing seemed to be put on hold. He didn't know why a look from Hermione was all it took to mess with him on a molecular level, but at that moment it almost made sense.

Neither of the pair noticed Ron glancing between them, rolling his eyes as he made his way back to breakfast, eager to finish his toast.

Ten o'clock came swiftly, as Harry met with the gargoyle standing guard in front of Dumbledore's office. Whatever reason the headmaster had summoned him, Harry was ready. His confidence from beating his mentor in a duel the other day still had yet to deflate. His enthusiasm was only tempered by the nervous anticipation of waiting for when Draco inevitably made his move.

At least, if Malfoy did try anything today of all days, there would be someone in Hogwarts to combat him. He at least retained that small comfort, having entrusted his mission to the two people he trusted the most. If there was anyone who could handle the task, Hermione was one of them. And Ron was there too. It couldn't hurt to have backup.

The gargoyle opened, beckoning him in. He climbed the stairs, two at a time, knocking on the heavy wooden door once he had reached the top. He heard the familiar voice of the headmaster summoning him inside, and Harry entered the room, ready for whatever Dumbledore had to show him.

The aged professor was sitting at his desk, studying something - a book, Harry realised as he approached. He stood to attention in front of the headmaster's table.

"Good morning, sir."

The man in question looked up from his desk, from the book that he has been pouring over. It was Riddle's diary - the hole from the Basilisk fang was as fresh as the day Harry put it there.

"Good morning, Harry."

"Another training session, sir?" Harry asked, to which Dumbledore shook his head.

"Not today." He stood, beckoning Harry closer. The teen leaned it, and Dumbledore began whispering so that only Harry could hear. "What I am about to tell you must not reach beyond these walls."

So, it was about the Horcruxes then, just as Harry had suspected.

Dumbledore flourished his wand, and the low hum of ambient white noise subdued to a buzz, like they were submerged underwater, or in the middle an invisible cotton bud.

"You've found a Horcrux, then," Harry presumed. Dumbledore eyes twinkled

"Perceptive as ever, Harry," he smiled before his face shifted to grave authority. "Now, I must warn you. Tom has never been one to take the protection of his Horcruxes lightly. Where we go will likely be fraught with danger. I cannot guarantee what we may find, nor that we will survive it unscathed."

Harry stared on, unflinching.

"Where is it?"

"I've managed to narrow it down to a cave on the southern coast. Tom went there on a trip arranged by Wool's Orphanage. I believe he persuaded two other children to follow him into the depths of this cave, where he tormented them."

"That certainly sounds like him."

Dumbledore gave a particular stare, somewhere between scolding and agreement.

"Harry, this will likely be incredibly dangerous. Perhaps more so than anything you've faced before."

"That's saying something."

"It is," Dumbledore nodded tiredly. "It is indeed, but it's the truth. Perhaps if I knew what was inside that cave, I wouldn't be so remiss to say otherwise, but I don't. if you do not wish to accompany me, I would understand."

"No," Harry insisted. "If this really is as dangerous as you say, you're going to need my help."

The smile on Dumbledore's face returned in full force, and for a moment, the years fell away. The mischief and charm that Harry had come to know him for were there for anyone to see, absolutely fearless.

Harry was sure, as long as he had Dumbledore by his side, nothing could go wrong.

The Gryffindor common room was practically empty at this time of day. The only inhabitants, barely a few, were quietly working or chatting, barely above whispers to not disturb the atmosphere. Hermione Granger was one of them, currently absorbed in The Tales of Beedle the Bard - a book that Dumbledore has not-so-subtly hinted for her to read. From what she could tell, it was a book of fables, little cautionary tales for magical children. Why would Dumbledore of people instruct her to read this? Especially when she could be reading something far more valuable.

Or perhaps, Hermione pondered, there was something she was missing. Maybe Dumbledore trusted that she, of all people, could read between the lines of these stories.

She turned back to the front page, studying the dedication - made out to one Mr P and his son, who contributed to the book in their own way. IN the corner, faded by time, was Dumbledore's own writing. His first name, Albus, made out in careful, practised calligraphy. This was Dumbledore's personal copy, Hermione had deduced. Except, there was something wrong with his signature. Unlike in her Hogwarts acceptance letter, or her subsequent academic awards, Dumbledore had described his signature A nothing she had seen before.

It was a triangle, surrounding a circle, divided by a straight vertical line. Hermione had never once known the letter to be expressed like that. That was saying something, considering she had read some of the oldest, most archaic tomes in the library, where R's look like S's and the letter C barely existed. She had never seen this symbol in her life, and yet it called out to her. Why?

Her train of thought went right out of the window, as the portrait hole flew open. Hermione looked up just in time to see Harry hurry inside.

"How did it go?" she asked as he spotted her.

"No time to explain," he said hurriedly. "I'm meeting Dumbledore in the entrance hall in five minutes." He glanced around at the couple in the corner. They were packing up and beginning to leave, now that the peaceful mood had been shattered. Once they had left, Harry leaned in and whispered. "We're going off to find one of the you-know-whats."

Hermione's eyes widened, locking with his.

"Really?" she gasped. Harry nodded, a cheeky little smirk on his face. "Won't that be dangerous?"

"Probably," he shrugged, but his smile fell away as he recognised Hermione's concern, written plainly on her face. "I'll be fine, Hermione, I promise. I'll have Dumbledore with me."

Hermione felt her bottom lip slip between teeth, habitually chewing lightly.

"Wait here."

She stood from her seat, striding up the stairs, leaving Harry standing in the middle of the empty common room. A minute later, she returned, with a small bundle, wrapped in a blanket. "I made this especially for you."

The bundle was handed to Harry, who held it like it was made of glass. He unwrapped the blanket, revealing a small, glass vial of blue potion. Just below the lid, a cutting of lavender was taped to the surface. To top it all off, a bright red ribbon had been wrapped around the neck.

"Keep it close," she told him, wrapping his fingers around it, "just in case."

For several moments, he just stared at the bottle, the fluorescent blue of the calming draught glistening in the reflection of his glasses. Eventually, he cleared his throat, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

"Thank you, Hermione."

The girl nodded, her fingers moving to his arm, carefully running up and down the fabric of his jumper.

"How long has it been since the last one?" she asked as casually as she could.

"A week," Harry answered stiffly.

"That's good," Hermione reassured him. "That's really good, Harry."

The boy shrugged, trying a smirk.

"I hope so."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He was trying so desperately to remain composed. She almost wished he would just let it all out, but him being Harry, he would try and see it locked up inside for as long as he could. He wouldn't want her to worry. As if that would ever not happen.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Hermione stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.

"Stay safe, please," she spoke into his chest. "I worry."

She felt a pleasant rumbling in his chest as he laughed, and smiled at the feeling of his hand, reaching up and stroking her hair.

"I know you do."

"I've half a mind to never let you go, Mr Potter," she admitted, drawing another soft chuckle.

"At least I'd be safe." They drew back, gazing at each other for a moment before Harry captured her hands in his. "Listen, Hermione, in my dormitory, there's my bottle of liquid luck. If Malfoy decides to act up, I want you and Ron to use it."

"What?" Hermione gaped at him. "No, Harry, you should take it."

"I won't need it," he tried to argue, only for Hermione to glare at him.

"You're going off to who-knows-where to find a- you know! You need it more than I do!"

"I don't know what Malfoy's planning to do," he insisted, his hands tightening around her's. "He's desperate, and he's agitated. That makes him dangerous. He could go after you, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone I know. I need to know you're safe."

Infuriated, Hermione pulled her hands away, staring him down.

"How do you think I feel? Not being there to help you. What if…" Her eyes fell to the floor. "What if this time you don't come back?"

The feeling of a firm grip on her shoulders brought her attention straight back to Harry.

"Look at me," he demanded. At some point he had leaned down ever so slightly so that they were at eye-level, allowing his blazing green eyes to transfix her to the spot. "I'm coming back. That's a promise. I don't break promises."

The intensity in his eyes was like a bonfire; a raging, beautiful inferno that sent heat flushing across her cheeks. Instinct told her to look away, to find anything else to stare at other than him and yet she couldn't. She hardly noticed when, at some point, a hand had reached up and gently cupped her cheek - it must have happened while he was speaking - but it certainly didn't help matters.

Hermione knew what she needed to do, what her subconscious was screaming at her to do.

And so, she reached forward and planted a quick peck on the side of his face.

It was over as soon as it had begun, but the moment that her lips had touched the edge of Harry's cheek felt like it had lasted a lifetime. By the time she pulled back, his entire complexion had suddenly gone crimson, mirroring her own.

"For luck," she stuttered, the first excuse her brain was able to pluck from thin air.

Perhaps unable to do anything else, Harry nodded, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a minute O.

"F-For luck…" he eventually sounded through his nerves. "I feel pretty lucky now."

There was a second of shock from both of them, as they realised what Harry had said. The two could only gawk wide-eyed at each other, blushing up a storm. That is, until a giggle made its way up Hermione's throat, dammed in vain between her tight lips. With the sight of an utterly flustered, helpless Harry standing in front of her, she couldn't help it. She quickly dissolved into a giggling fit, unable to contain it any longer.

Harry continued to stare at her until it all became too much for him also. He sniggered, then he chuckled, then the floodgates blew open, and he cried out with hilarity.

The laughing eventually died down, leaving the two teens by themselves, in a deserted common room. Even though the temperature of the space had seemingly gone to normal - or at least that was how it felt to Hermione - there was still something between them. This hanging, unspoken thing that refused to be given a name. The two realised it as their eyes met once again, suddenly very aware that it was just the two of them.

Anything could happen. No one would know.

Dangerous thoughts, Granger, she told herself. Enough.

"You'd better be off," Hermione reminded him. She saw his eyes widen a fraction, suddenly remembering why he had come here in the first place.

"Yes, of course," he agreed reluctantly. He turned to leave, stopping slightly as if he had forgotten something. "Miss you."

"You're still here, Harry," she smiled, revelling in how his face glowed.

"Right," he said bashfully. His smile had turned adorably lop-sided, a hand had snaked up behind his head, absently scratching away.

He turned, pocketing the blue vial of potion in his pocket, hightailing out of the common room to meet with Dumbledore. Just in time to miss Hermione's wistful reply.

"Miss you too."

Undoubtedly a few minutes late, Harry came upon the entrance hall. Dumbledore, predictably, was already standing inside, a gentle, amused smile on his face. He didn't ask where Harry had been that had caused him to take since seven minutes as opposed to their agreed five. Then again, perhaps he already knew. Harry wasn't entirely sure that omniscience wasn't one of Dumbledore's many skills.

Wasting no more time, the two began the long trek to the edge of Hogsmeade, where they could then apparate to... well, wherever it was they were going.

Harry really didn't know. He didn't where he was going, or when he was coming back.

He might not even make it back.

That was always a reality whenever he went off on one of these adventures - he certainly didn't think he would really survive a battle with a basilisk, for instance. But this time, it felt all the more real. Dumbledore's presence, ironically, only served to reinforce the fact that this wasn't going be a walk in the park. This was real.

He might never see Hermione again.

Harry didn't know why that fact seemed to disturb him so, or why it was Hermione's face that came to him first. It was probably because she was the last person he had spoken to, Harry reasoned. Because he promised her, he would come back. He didn't want to have to break another promise, not to her. Especially not to her.

They reached the edge of the town, past Rosmerta's tavern, the barmaid in question giving them a short farewell as they apparated away.

A wall of salty air and rushing waves assaulted his sense as they touched down on solid ground. A thunderous, biting wind ruffled his hair as he looked out on a grey, violent world. Standing upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. Waves, higher than him crashed against each other, in a never war against the elements.

No wonder Riddle was attracted to here of all places, Harry thought to himself. It almost made too much sense.

Keen not to waste any time, Dumbledore beckoned him and began making the treacherous journey to their destination. Harry followed, fingering the extra bottle that Hermione had given him, revelling in the small hike in confidence it gave him.

"Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again..."

"This will make it stop, Professor," Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore's mouth.

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned, "Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead..."

"Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right," said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet.

"Please, please, please, no... not that, not that, I'll do anything..."

"Just drink, Professor, just drink..."

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. "No more, please, no more..."

Harry scooped up a tenth goblet of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. "We're nearly there, professor. Drink this, drink it..."

He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass. Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, "I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!"

The anguish in his voice tore Harry's heart in two. The pain, written all over the headmaster's face, spoke of the horrors he was seeing. Harry could only imagine what was going on inside Dumbledore's head, what fresh nightmare he was being subjected to.

"Drink this, Professor. Drink this..."

Harry offered the goblet with a shaking, clammy hand.

Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, "KILL ME!"

"This - this one will!" gasped Harry, trying to reconcile the pain he was putting the headmaster through. Trying desperately to keep his breathing steading, to combat the creeping terror that was approaching out of the dark. "Just drink this... It'll be over... all over!"

He realised, as his words began to slur, and his breathing became laboured and shallow, that something was wrong. Very wrong. It was another attack. Now of all the times, of all the places. But he couldn't stop now, not when the headmaster needed him to carry on. Once the potion was drained, then he could remedy the attack.

He pushed aside the fear, forcing it down for only a moment, fighting every instinct in his body to finish the task. He put the goblet to the old wizard's lip and poured, trying to keep it steady.

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.

"No!" shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again. Instead, he dropped the cup, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over onto his back. Dumbledore's glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. "No," said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, "no, you're not dead, you said it wasn't poison, wake up, wake up - Rennervate!" he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore's chest. There was a flash of red light, but nothing happened. "Rennervate - RENNERVATE!"

Nothing. The old man, pale and limp, didn't stir. He had killed him, Harry realised. It was by his hand that Harry had fed him the potion. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

Dumbledore's eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt, "Sir, are you - ?"

He fought against the trembling in his jaw, trying to form a sentence.

"Water…" he heard Dumbledore gasp. "Water..."

Harry grabbed the goblet from where it had been abandoned on the rock, twirling his wand.

"Aguamenti!" he cast, filling the cup with fresh water. He offered it to the headmaster's lips and poured. Nothing came out. The water was gone as soon as his eyes left it. "Aguamenti!" He tried again. As soon as the goblet was full, the water vanished. Harry threw it aside. This wasn't working. He had to do something. He couldn't think. He needed air; to get out this damn cave and get them to safety. He needed to run. Run! The dark! The dark was closing in! Dumbledore's rasping breath, echoing with his own. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't…

Harry's hands flew to his back pocket, taking out the vial of calming draught Hermione had gifted him.

In a moment of selfishness, he downed the potion. Instantly he felt his world inflate and calm. He took a deep breath, his thoughts falling into place like snowflakes falling onto freshly-cut grass. The scent of lavender filled his brain, and all was right.

He knew what he had to do. Dumbledore needed water, and he had a vial that used to be filled with calming draught, now empty and waiting to be filled. Harry waved his wand over the glass container, and water rushed into the empty vial. He waited a few seconds, testing if the liquid would vanish. To his relief, the water sat within the glass, barely moving, except to lazily roll around. The cave itself wasn't cursed then, only the goblet. That was good.

Harry climbed back towards the headmaster, lifting his head and pouring the water inside. This time, he saw the liquid rush between the old man's lips, seeping into his throat. Dumbledore drank eagerly.

The vial soon ran dry, but Harry was ready with another spell, filling the bottle back up in seconds, ready to quench Dumbledore's thirst. Hopefully, it wouldn't be long now before Dumbledore would be strong enough to get up and leave. He had fought through the worst of it, drinking the potion with admirable resolve. They had the Horcrux, they had beaten the test. All they had to do now was leave. Everything was going to be…

What little Harry victory had earned was shattered when he saw movement on the edge of the water.

Pale, bony hands were breaking the surface, followed by hollow, glass-eyed faces atop of skeletal bodies. Corpses, barely held together, approaching from all sides by the dozens. The Inferi, Harry deduced. The creatures he had been warned about. It was strange to see such fearsome creatures, one that contended with Harry's worst nightmares, and to know that the fear was there. But he wasn't scared.

The calming draught was working its magic, smothering the worst of Harry's primal instincts, leaving him in a zen-like state of pure concentration. His mind was meticulously picking apart the situation in front of him. Plans began to spring to his mind in the dozens. Blast them to bits. No, too many. Freeze the water. No, that wouldn't hold them long. Besides, wasn't there something that Dumbledore told him about these things? Something they were deathly afraid of?

Fire, Harry remembered. Fire is what will stop them. It'll need to be a lot. I had better get started, they're surprisingly fast for corpses.

He stood, resting on legs weakened from fear, but strengthened by courage.

Protect. Defend. Around us both. Keep them away.

He palmed his wand, summoning the strength to cast one last powerful spell. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and shouted with everything he had:

"INCENDIO!"

Fire, unlike anything Harry had ever seen.

Bright orange, blinding and scorching. The Inferi fell away under a curtain of flames, rising and swirling like a tornado around the island. Steam rose and evaporated as the wall of fire touched the surface of the water, pushing the Inferi back. He could see the surface thrash away as limbs fought to sink further into the depths.

Harry didn't stop there. He couldn't stop, not when Dumbledore's life depended on it. His promise to Hermione, to come home safely, sat at the forefront of his mind. He would come back to her, and Ron, and everyone else. He had to keep pushing himself, further than he ever had.

The teenager pointed his wand to the entrance of the cave, folding the tornado into a tunnel. With one arm keeping the fire in line, he leaned down and hooked his arm around Dumbledore's shoulders with the other, grabbing the wand that had fallen on the floor beside him. Heaving the Dumbledore up onto his feet, Harry trudged towards the boat that sat on the bank. He lowered the headmaster's frail body into the seat, jumped in and pushed off.

The oar had been lost on the escape, but it mattered not. As long as Harry had a straight shot to the opposite shore, he could get them to safety.

Focusing his sights on the bank on the far side of the cave, he lowered his wand, keeping the shape of the tunnel in his mind. The flames remained, forming a direct path to the exit.

"Celerio!"

The boat shot forward, speeding through the water as if an engine had been fitted to the back. Harry breathed in and out, focusing on keeping the demand of two titanic spells from swallowing him up. It would only be for a moment more, just long enough to escape… Stars flitted across his vision. Darkness encroaching at the sides, despite the light of the fire illuminated all that he could see. He was losing consciousness. He had to breathe. He had to focus on the now. Just a little bit more.

Seconds later, the boat landed with a thud against the bank, and Harry wasted no time. He quickly dispelled the flames and the acceleration spell, suddenly feeling his youthful vitality return to him. He picked up the headmaster and pulled him ashore, rushing to the cave entrance, before the Inferi had a chance to catch up.

The middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade was greeted with Harry and Dumbledore's sudden arrival. For one horrible moment, Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was stirring. All was still, the darkness complete but for a few street lamps and lit upper windows.

"We did it, Professor!" Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch in his chest. "We did it! We got the Horcrux!"

Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off-balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"I've been better," said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "That potion... was no health drink..."

And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground.

"Sir - it's OK, Sir, you're going to be alright, don't worry-"

He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen, and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.

"We need to get you up to the school, Sir... Madam Pomfrey..."

Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help - and looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons.

"I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't think what to - but what's wrong with Albus?"

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.

"He's hurt," said Harry. "Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?"

"The school? Don't you realise - haven't you seen -?"

"Seen what?" said Harry, not really listening to her, to busy with trying to support Dumbledore.

"What has happened?" asked Dumbledore. "Rosmerta, what's wrong?"

She pointed in the direction of Hogwarts, towards a bright orange light that shone light the evening sun. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words ... he turned and looked.

The castle was alight with flames. Smoke was billowing up into the sky, blocking out the stars.

"When did this happen?" asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry's shoulder as he struggled to his feet.

"Must have been minutes ago, it wasn't there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs -"

"We need to return to the castle at once," said Dumbledore. "Rosmerta," and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation, "we need transport - brooms-"

"I've got a couple behind the bar," she said, looking very frightened. "Shall I run and fetch -?"

"No, Harry can do it."

Harry raised his wand at once.

"Accio Rosmerta's brooms."

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry's side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly, at waist height.

Madam Rosmerta was already tottering back towards her pub as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground and rose up into the air. As they sped towards the castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he fall, but to his surprise, the old man had seemingly got his second wind, his long silver hair and beard flying behind him in the night air. He was still deathly pale and hunched over his broom, but he was far from dead. Which is more than could be said for Harry's friends.

How long had they been away? This must have been Draco's doing, but when? How long had the fire been burning? What had caused it? Was it an Incendio? An explosion? A Fiendfyre? Hermione! Ron! Had they been caught up in whatever the hell this was? He was the one who had told them to keep an eye on Malfoy, he had asked them to jeopardize their safety... was he about to lose someone else?

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some strange language again. He thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder for a moment when they flew over the boundary wall into the grounds. Dumbledore was undoing the enchantments he had set around the castle so that they could enter at speed.

As they soared towards the entrance hall, Harry noticed a large crowd of students gathered on the grass, away from the source of the flames. A small sense of relief ran through him as he realised that at least the rest of the school was safely out of the way. They landed in the giant doorway, and immediately Harry went to Dumbledore's side.

"My office," he demanded, "Now!"

Harry, too overwhelmed to argue, obeyed. The two managed surprising speed as they trudged up the many flights of stairs, up to the Headmaster's tower. The managed to arrive in good time, and Harry shouted the password, carrying Dumbledore inside once the gargoyle slid away. The pair entered the office, and Harry deposited the aged wizard in his chair.

"The locket," Dumbledore prompted. Harry handed it over and watched as the Headmaster produced a key, unlocked a drawer in his desk and dropped the relic inside. "That should keep it contained for now. We can destroy it later."

"Do you think Draco's behind the fire?" Harry asked.

"I'm almost certain of it," Dumbledore nodded, his eyes dropping as if he were fighting to stay conscious. Harry had never seen the Headmaster so vulnerable. He was in no shape to fight anyone, let alone Malfoy. But Harry was and knew immediately what he had to do.

"I'm going to stop him," Harry announced, pulling out his wand and turned towards the door. However, a firm, bony grip on his arm kept him in place.

"Harry," Dumbledore rasped, staring him in the eye, "what did you say to him?"

A wave of guilt racked through Harry's body. He had last forgotten about his confrontation earlier that day. Back then, he had been riding the high of beating Dumbledore, so sure that he could figure out the young Malfoy, that he knew better than the Headmaster. How long he had been. How foolish, to think that he could just barge into the situation and take control.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry whispered, forcing himself to return eye contact. "This is all my fault."

"No," Dumbledore said as he shook his head, "Harry, it is mine. I've spent so many years keeping secrets from you. Things that you most certainly should have known. I thought that you wouldn't be ready to hear them, but now I realise you were ready for this war before I ever was." His good hand reached around and held Harry by the shoulder, squeezing as a grandparent would their favourite grandchild. "You are one of the finest wizards I've ever had the pleasure to teach, and I'm sorry, Harry. I'm deeply, truly sorry."

He sat back, taking in a deep breath, steadying himself against his chair.

"Go," he ordered, in a tone of voice that beggared no argument, "find Draco. I shall send for Severus, he'll know what to do."

Harry nodded.

"Yes, sir."

And with that, he turned and sprinted out of the Headmaster's office. Down the stairs, past the gargoyle, and through the corridor, Harry raced to where he had seen the fire. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the fire was raging where the potions labs were situated - it was presumably how Draco had been able to start it. Who knew what kind of damage a room full of potions could cause if it were set alight. Harry could only hope that no one was inside when it had been set alight.

Harry vaulted through the central courtyard, his wand ready and waiting just in case he met Draco along the way. As he was running, he almost ran headfirst into another person. He skidded to a halt just in time to catch sight of a head of long, red hair.

"Ginny!" Harry exclaimed. The girl in question, wide-eyed and panting, took one look at him and engulfed him in a hug.

"Harry!" she cried. "Where were you! Hermione's been worried sick! I thought you were caught in the fire!"

"I'm fine, Ginny," Harry hurriedly placated her, prying her arms off of him. "Listen, I think I know who started this-"

"Draco," she nodded. "Hermione told us that he was going to try something sooner or later."

Hermione, Harry remembered suddenly, as his heart jumped into his throat. He was about to ask when Ginny shushed him.

"She's fine," she said, "She was the first to find the fire. She even cast a barrier to keep it in the classroom. She's outside with the others."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"They needed a couple of people to do one last sweep of the castle, and since I'm one of the fastest, I offered."

"And risk running into Malfoy?"

"He's nowhere near here," she explained. "Ron, he got the Marauder's Map from your case, to keep an eye on Malfoy. As soon as the fire started, he went straight up to the second-floor corridor."

"The second floor?" Harry repeated. "But that's…"

That was where the Headmaster's office was.

Harry's eyes widened as he struggled to remember if the gargoyle had closed behind him. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have…

A strange shape, pressing against the side of his robes, one that he hadn't noticed until now, finally caught his attention. He reached inside, fingering a thin sliver of wood. Begging against hope that it wasn't what he thought it was, Harry grabbed hold and lifted it out of his robes.

It was Dumbledore's wand. Dumbledore was in his office, right now, without his wand, defenceless.

How? Harry distinctly remembered giving the Headmaster's wand back to him. He could visualise it clearly. Unless… Harry thought back to the moment Dumbledore had grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving, placing this other hand on Harry's shoulder. Dumbledore must have slipped it into his pocket when he wasn't paying attention.

He knew what was about to happen. He knew that he wouldn't need it.

Suddenly, Harry realised precisely what the purpose the fire had served. It was a distraction, nothing more. And Harry had fallen for it.

His heart thundering against his chest, Harry swivelled on the spot and began sprinting back up the corridor. Even as Ginny screamed after him, he kept on running, daring not to look back.

He pumped his arms and legs until he thought they might fall off. His lungs screamed out in pain, his blood pumping against his eardrums as his vision tunnelled in on where he needed to go. He had to save Dumbledore. This was all his fault. Running faster than he ever had in his life, Harry turned the corner of the second-floor corridor.

The gargoyle was still open. A flash of blonde rounded the corner of the stone staircase. Harry's heart stopped.

He sprinted down the corridor up the stairs as quietly as he could. Despite his panic, he knew he needed to have the element of surprise if he was to stop Draco. He carefully and skilfully jumped up the stairs three at a time, stopping at the open doorway. He glanced inside the office, his blood boiling as he registered the scene in front of him.

Draco Malfoy, standing tall and proud, held a pale, weakened Dumbledore at wand-point.

A deep-seated fury erupted in Harry's mind. A voice in his head whispered to him. He's going to kill Dumbledore. Stop him! Kill him! At least do something!

Harry raised his wand, ready to cast the spell that would incapacitate Draco when he caught a glimpse of Dumbledore. The old man's eyes flickered in his direction, straight at him for only a moment. But it was enough.

With one look, Dumbledore told him everything he needed to say.

Don't.

Harry's head screamed at him to ignore the Headmaster's order, to take matters into his own hands yet again. But his head, the voice that reminded him so much of Hermione, warned him that ignoring Dumbledore's orders was what caused this whole ordeal. He had to wait. He had to give Draco a chance...

So, Harry tucked himself into a corner, non-verbally casting a silencing charm on himself, and watched.

"I've got a job to do," Draco announced.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," said Dumbledore softly.

There was silence. Harry stood, staring at the two of them, waiting with bated breath. He had done this. This was his fault. If only he hadn't confronted Draco. If only he had just followed the Headmaster's orders.

And yet, nothing happened. Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore who, incredibly, smiled.

"You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year, and yet this may be the closest you've come. To be honest, I wonder whether your heart has been really in it…"

"It has been in it!" said Malfoy vehemently. "I've been working on this all year, and tonight -"

Somewhere in the depths of the castle below, Harry heard a muffled yell - merely a final call for any remaining students. Yet it was enough to make Malfoy flinch and glance over his shoulder in alarm. Dumbledore, in contrast, sat undisturbed, even with a wand aimed at his head.

"I see," said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. "You are afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" snarled Malfoy, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore. "It's you who should be scared!"

"But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe…"

Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the urge to shout or to vomit. He gulped and took several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly at the latter's heart.

"If you really knew that I was behind all those things, why didn't you stop me, then?" Malfoy demanded.

"I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders -"

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother-"

"Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but-"

"He's a double-agent, you stupid old man, he isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape -"

"Well, you're losing your grip, then!" sneered Malfoy. "He's been offering me plenty of help - wanting all the glory for himself - wanting a bit of the action - 'What are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, it could have blown everything-'But I haven't told him about today. He's going to wake up tomorrow, and it'll all be over, and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite any more, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!"

"Very gratifying," said Dumbledore mildly. "We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course ... but you must understand that Lord Voldemort is not the appreciative type. He is using you, Draco. Surely you must see."

Malfoy's mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he had tasted something very bitter.

"Now, about tonight," Dumbledore went on, "I am a little puzzled about how it happened ... you knew that I had left the school? But of course," he answered his own question, "Rosmerta saw me leaving. How long has she been under the Imperius?"

"Took you long enough to figure out."

"Well, it has been a tiresome day, my boy. And, she tipped you off, how?"

Malfoy lifted a familiar, enchanted galleon into view.

"Confiscated a couple of these off the DA last year. I knew they'd come in useful one day," said Malfoy. "But she said you were just going for a drink, you'd be back …"

"Well, I certainly did have a drink ... and I came back ... after a fashion," mumbled Dumbledore. "So you decided to spring a trap for me?"

"Decided to set fire to the potions lab to distract the staff, get everyone out of the castle, then sneak up here," said Malfoy. "Snape said you went out to get something important, that you'd need to store it here immediately after you got back. I took my time, waited for you and Potter to come back, heard him say the password. I outsmarted you! Caught you unaware!"

"Well... yes and no…" said Dumbledore. "But am I to take it then that nobody has been harmed?"

'Someone might've,' said Malfoy. "Didn't check if anyone was in the room. Just knew I had to cause a big enough bang."

"And you just so happened to choose an empty classroom, after the final afternoon class. What a happy coincidence."

"What are you saying?"

"Nothing, nothing, my boy. Now, considering how, in a few minutes the fire will be distinguished, and your ruse will be rumbled soon after, I believe there is little time, one way or another," said Dumbledore. "So let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options!" said Malfoy loudly. "I'm standing here with a wand - I'm about to kill you -"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means."

"I haven't got any options!" said Malfoy, and he was suddenly as white as Dumbledore. "I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family! He's given me this one chance to make up for being found out, and if I don't do it…"

"Draco, no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived ... I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't," said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking very badly indeed. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice."

"We can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban ... when the time comes, we can protect him too. You still have a choice."

Malfoy stared at Dumbledore.

"But I got this far, didn't I?" he said slowly. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here... and you're in my power... I'm the one with the wand... you're at my mercy …"

"No," said Dumbledore quietly. "It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now. You're not a killer, Draco, and you are not your father. The moment you admit that to yourself, you will be free."

Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it drop by a fraction -

But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs, and a second later he felt his muscles seize up. Another spell and he was shoved into the corner of the staircase, disillusioned from sight.

A figure in black robes burst through the doorway, his wand readied. Paralysed, his eyes staring unblinkingly, Harry could only watch as Snape entered the room, finally answering Dumbledore's summon.

What is he doing? Harry screamed inside his head. Why now? I had this under control!

His black eyes scanned the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against his chair, to Draco, shaking in the middle of the room. Harry could see the faintest hint of a scowl curl his lips as he realised what the young Malfoy had come to do, anger that what he was about to do.

And then his eyes returned to the Headmaster, resignation written all over his face. He began to raise his wand, knowing what he had to do. Harry's heart leapt into his throat. This was it. It was happening now. He wasn't ready. There was so much he had to say, so little that he knew.

But above all, he didn't want to see another person he cared about die.

"Severus …"

The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading. It was for show, of course. This was all part of the plan. The only person who didn't know that was preordained was Draco himself. Still, it hurt to hear his mentor so desperate, even if it was a facade. He didn't want to remember the Headmaster in this way - weak, pale, begging.

Snape said nothing, but walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and regret etched in the harsh lines of his face.

"Severus... please..."

Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!"

It was over in less than a second. To Harry, however, watching the life leave Dumbledore's eyes felt like it took a thousand years.

His mentor's body collapsed, finally at peace. And Harry screamed into silence.

Chapter Text

Harry expected Dumbledore's body to move. Something, deep in his brain, refused to believe what he had just seen. Even long after Snape had dragged Draco from the office, dispelling the spells keeping Harry in place, he just stood there, staring at the headmaster's body. Waiting. Hoping. Begging.

Please move. Please get up. Please don't be dead.

Dumbledore remained unmoving, and Harry knew this was real.

Sensation eventually returned as Harry's legs lead him to the desk in the middle of the room.

He trod slowly, conscious of every footstep. As he stumbled closer, Harry got a look at the headmaster's face. Dumbledore's eyes were staring outward, seeing nothing. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished forever, replaced with an empty, endless gaze. They looked like they were made of glass.

Carefully, as if not to hurt the aged wizard, Harry reached over and closed them. One last dignity for the man that done so much for him. The one he failed to save.

Harry stared at the ancient wand in his hand. It felt far heavier than he expected it to be. Why Dumbledore had given it to him was beyond him, why the headmaster had chosen to bestow his only defence to his failed student. He was the one who got him killed, he didn't deserve to hold Albus Dumbledore's wand.

Harry knew what was to come. It had been discussed many times. Snape and Draco were on their way out of the castle right this second, and he had to chase them, all the way to the edge of the Hogwarts bounds, far enough to where they could apparate away. And, at the same time, put up enough of a fight to convince Malfoy that this was a desperate, hurried escape, and not a pre-meditated attempt to preserve his life.

Draco may never know how much they had sacrificed to save his soul, what had been taken from the world so that he could survive another day. So that could carry on walking down his father's unapologetically twisted path. That thought alone was enough to turn Harry's sorrow into apocalyptic anger.

He left Dumbledore's wand on the oak desk, gathering himself for the chase. He just had to make sure Draco escaped. It didn't mean he had to make it easy.

The teenage wizard, vibrating with righteous fury, stormed out of the headmaster's office and took off after his prey.

His legs carried him faster than he ever thought possible. Corridors and hallways rushed past him as if they were flushing him out of the castle. Soon enough, he was out onto the open grass, and sprinting down the path, ignoring the students gathered in safety far away from the blaze. The sound of gravel under his feet, and heaving of his own breath, drove him faster and faster to the edge of the grounds.

Before long, he spotted two dark figures, hurrying to the gate — one with a billowing cloak, and the other, shorter with a head of blonde hair.

"Malfoy!" Harry roared, throwing a blast of fire flying past them, onto the lawn by their side. "You coward!"

The two jumped, and Draco whirled around, his eyes wide and evident with fear. Immediately he threw curses back at him, but Harry's reflexes - trained by years of Quidditch and honed by Dumbledore himself - were too quick. Every spell that came his way, he deflected with ease. Draco's barrage did nothing to halt, or even falter, Harry's stride.

"Draco, run!"

The Slytherin boy was herded behind Snape's back, and the potion's master threw his own spell.

Harry defected the wand with nary a thought.

And so the duel began. The fight that was already decided, designed to buy time for an escape. An exchange of spell-fire without any real intent. Every spell for show, every movement practised. There was going to be no real winner.

Both of them were bound to protect Draco, not just by vow, but by a promise to Dumbledore himself. Snape had no choice in the matter but to act the part, and neither did Harry. This had to happen, just as Dumbledore had said it would.

The two unspoken allies stared at each other, apprentice and spy. A shared revulsion, and shared respect, rippled between them.

"He trusted you!" Harry cried, putting his all into a convincing performance. "He trusted you, and you killed him!"

Harry wondered if it was the reflection of the fire, or if he could really see something of remorse in Snape's eye. A shadow of a man that wanted more than this, if he thought he had a choice. Or rather, if he hadn't wasted what opportunities he once had. Just like Draco had done - just like Draco was doing right now.

The coward just turned and ran, leaving Snape to face Harry himself. He was heading straight for the boundary, caring only for his escape. He was abandoning the one person who cared for his safety to their own demise, his own ally.

Harry watched as the ferret sprinted away and growled. It was his fault that Dumbledore was dead, it was he who refused to stand up to Voldemort, to accept their help. He, who almost poisoned Ron, almost cursed Katie, kept Rosmerta under Imperius for an entire year. He, who had a family and a mansion to run back to, who would happily side with a murderer and way of life that subjugated innocent people.

He was a bastard, a wretched, spineless parasite. He deserved the worst pain in the world, to be gutted like a pig… the rage was too much to bear.

Harry aimed his wand and let it all out in one explosive cry.

"Sectumsempra!"

The spell flew through the air and hit its mark. Malfoy's back exploded into a fine red mist. Harry's heart stopped as the young man fell to the ground, perfectly still. Shock plunged his body into an icy chill. Blood was soaking the dirt, draining out of Draco's rapidly paling skin.

The moment passed. Harry came back to himself. His heart shook as he realised what he had done. Even Snape was staring at him in shock, mirroring his own.

Something was singing within him now. There was a piece of him that was glad, now that Dumbledore had been avenged. An animal that had just tasted its first blood, and heartedly enjoyed it.

Then he blinked, and he was somewhere else entirely.

The grass was gone, and Harry was back in the boy's bathroom. The water ran red, blood staining Draco's shirt. His feet were soaked through, send a freezing cold up his body, and Harry could only stand there and stare at his work.

He had killed a man. A boy, no older than he was, lay dead on the tiles. He was a murderer.

"Very good," a snake-like voice sounded from within his ear.

The hairs on Harry's neck stood on end. He glanced around, desperate to find the source of the noise. His eyes caught sight something other than blood in the water. Harry looked down to where his reflection should have been and screamed at the face that met him.

Gleaming red eyes and a pallid, slit-nosed face grinned back.

Harry resurfaced, and the nightmare vanished before his eyes.

He instinctively reached for his glasses and gazed around frantically. The red bannisters; the other boys, sleeping soundly; Ron, just opposite, snoring away. The bathroom was nowhere to be seen.

His shirt was stuck to his heaving, chest with sweat, his lower body strangled in his contorted bedding. His muscles were spasming wildly, clenching and unclenching to the tune of his pounding pulse.

It took several seconds before his brain could finally function as usual and had regained a part of himself. He was safe. It was only a dream, none of it was real, that wasn't what had happened that night. He was not a murderer; Draco was still very much alive, somewhere, as was Snape. Or at least, if he wasn't, it had nothing to do with Harry.

Harry lay back against his pillow, untangling his legs of the duvet and exposing himself to the cold midnight air. He stared up at the rafter as his mind stilled, breathing in and out. In and out. One lungful at a time.

His head was a cocktail of emotion. Shock, fear… and rage.

The rage was still there. Harry wanted to cast that spell. The beast within craved Draco's blood that night, for all that the brat had done not only to him, but to Katie, and Ron and everyone else he had used. And not just Draco, but his father too, and Bellatrix, and Nott, and Fenrir, and Riddle. He wanted them all to suffer.

It was terrifying, to know that piece of him lay just beneath the surface. If any Death Eater found themselves at the end of Harry's wand, they would know it well. Did that make him a bad person? Was it still cruelty if he was hurting evil people? Probably, Harry thought. But this was soon to be war. It's not like they would take mercy on him. He had to be ready to fight like his life depended on it. If that meant using lethal force…

The thought sickened him, but Harry knew it was almost inevitable. He wasn't a murderer; or, at least, he didn't want to be a murderer. Harry wasn't even sure that he had it in him to actively take a life, even a morally decrepit one. If all went to plan, however, he would have one person's blood on his hands. He would eventually have to take the life of a living person.

Maybe if Voldemort didn't exist, if there wasn't a war on the way, he could keep a promise never to kill or maim or injure. Maybe then he could keep his hands clean. But he didn't live in that perfect world, and war was coming.

He would have no choice but to fight.

Harry hoped that people wouldn't forget that part. He hoped that future generations, people who told his story, would remember that detail. That just because he fought, just because he killed, didn't mean he ever wanted any part of it. He didn't want to become a soldier, or an assassin, or a hunter. It was never his dream to hurt anyone. All he ever wanted was to be normal.

The choice was never his. It still wasn't. This was his path, too late to change it now. 17 years too late. He could run away- except, he couldn't even do that. He wouldn't let himself stoop to cowardice, not when people here in Britain needed him. And if he did try to run, fate would find him. No matter how far he ventured, for however long. Prophecy always wins, in the end.

In the end. What if it never ended? What if he and Voldemort were doomed to battle each other forever? Tom would undoubtedly get his immortality then.

Harry sighed, wiping his hands across his face, trying to scrape away the thoughts of Voldemort from his head. He needed to get some sleep. It was going to be an early morning, and he'd need his strength for the funeral.

Dumbledore's funeral.

How he wished the sight of Dumbledore's empty face had just been another trick from his nightmare, just like Draco's death, and Riddle's face looking up at him. Hell, he'd sooner have a wicked nightmare than the morbid reality he was living in now.

It took longer than it should have for Harry to realise that, now, he really was on his own. No more falling back on Dumbledore to pull his arse out of the fire. No more relying on the headmaster to protect him from the powers that be. He had to rely on himself now, he had to be better. If he didn't, the next person he could lose might be far closer than Dumbledore. It may only be a matter of time before he lost someone he couldn't live without.

Who would that be, he wondered. Was there any one person he valued more than anyone else? Who, if they were to die, would take all hope that Harry had left with them?

'Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine today,' Harry thought to himself, the corners of his lips curling as he realised how much like Ron he had just sounded.

Ron… Dumbledore's death hit him surprisingly hard. Ron had always seemed impervious to the world around him (most of the time anyway). He always seemed so blasé about pretty much everything. So seeing his best friend breakdown once he heard the news of the headmaster's passing was quite the shock to almost everyone. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, whether he should have expected it or not, whether it spoke more about Ron or about him.

Hermione's reaction was as he expected - quiet, sullen shock. She had immediately thrown her arms around him, moments after finding him that evening, refusing to let go until she knew he was alright. When he finally got the chance to relay the news, she was visibly shaken, most likely realising the weight of Dumbledore's death quicker than Harry had. He told her all about the cave, of course, and about the extra vial of calming draught. Harry was keen to mention it very well saved his and Dumbledore's lives. That seemed to cheer her up if only a little.

As for the others, it was a mixed bag. Some were stoic, others were distraught, but most were merely in shock. The circumstances surrounding the headmaster's death were never directly explained; no one could be allowed to know the truth, only snippets shared around in rumours. The most anyone had managed to piece together was that Draco Malfoy had a hand in it in some way, and Snape's sudden disappearance was also connected. A few people went so far as to blame Harry for it, scorning him, assuming that he had some part of it, that he didn't do enough to stop it.

He didn't dare tell Hermione how often he agreed with them. She wouldn't ever hear the end of her trying to convince him otherwise, how it was always Dumbledore's plan to die by Snape's hand, how he had done everything he could to stop it, to save his life and Draco's soul. Every time his thoughts threaten to slip into self-hatred, there was an echo of Hermione that held him back. She was always with him in some capacity, whether physically by his side or there in spirit. That girl rarely left his head. Not that Harry wanted her to, quite the contrary. It was nice to have a face other than Voldemort, or Malfoy, or Sirius or Dumbledore in his mind's eye.

And it was a cute face, to be fair - with her large, brown eyes, her wide smile, her small, round nose and bushy hair that framed it like a lion's mane. It was little wonder why Ron used to have a crush on her. He was surprised that others hadn't expressed the same interest when he thought about it. People were always lining up for Ginny's attention, including him, and she was only marginally more beautiful than Hermione. Why didn't have boys just raring to make a move on her?

Maybe it was this boy that Hermione supposedly spent her free time with, the one that Ron had told him about. Amidst the chaos of the last couple of weeks, Harry was still clueless as to who it could be. It seemed like more and more her time was being eaten up by Harry himself, helping him, consoling him, making sure he was alright. It frustrated Harry to no end.

There was someone out there who she really liked, and yet she was forced to dedicate her every waking minute to him. He felt like a parasite, slowly syphoning away her life to keep his should from crumbling under everything, unloading the stress and heartache onto her. She should have a life beyond him, away from his problems. She should be spending time with this boy that she likes while she had the chance.

Because before long, very soon, in fact, she was going to be fighting for her life.

How on Earth was she going to handle this? Even with his and Ron's input, there was a silent understanding that they were going to rely on her and her encyclopaedia of magical knowledge to help them. That was how it had always been. Except now, it was truly life or death. That pressure, that duty… how on Earth was she going to tell her parents? What could she tell them? That was she off to fight in a war and that they might never see her again? Or would she lie, tell them that it was going to be another year of Hogwarts? How was she going to protect them in the meantime? How…

Harry couldn't help the feeling that he was ruining Hermione's life. All that she had given him, and what had he given back? Friendship? A fat lot of good that did anyone. It certainly wasn't any form of protection - he couldn't even protect his family, his mentor, his allies.

It was a wonder she had left him already. Everyone else had, for far less and for good reason, too. He wanted to shout at her, to scream at her to just leave, to run as far as she can not stop until the name 'Harry Potter' was but a distant memory. She didn't deserve to burn herself out on a dead man. Running with him would only end in pain, only Hermione refused to see it. She still thought he could be saved somehow. He wanted to believe her, give in to her optimism, but he couldn't, in the end.

Because even Hermione Granger could be wrong sometimes, especially about him. She didn't know. She could never…

Harry punched his pillow, drawing the covers over his head, forcing his eyes shut, as if to smother the memories in darkness. It wasn't long before sleep retook him, too tired to put up a fight.

He almost expected the following morning to be an oppressively overcast scene, but as if despite the day's events, the sky was empty of cloud and the sun beamed. Then again, Harry could be thankful that Dumbledore's funeral would be a day of peace. He would have wanted that.

Students were allowed to attend, what few that were left anyway. Most parents had taken their kids out early - Seamus' almost had him back on the train the day before, but he refused to go home before the funeral. The honoured guests would be seated on an island in the Black Lake, joined to the shore by a magical jetty, where Dumbledore's body would be laid to rest. Those that chose to attend would be sat towards the back, filling out the sea of chairs on the shore.

Despite having known the headmaster for several years now, Harry was still surprised to find that he was to be sat on the second row. He fully expected to be with the rest of the students, but apparently, it wasn't the case. He wondered whether it was by Dumbledore's request, the staff's acknowledgement, or whether it was the Ministry's decision, assuming that his status as the 'chosen one' warranted him special treatment.

Well, special treatment or not, Harry welcomed it solely for the fact that Ron and Hermione were also allowed to sit with him. They were accompanied by a very select few of the DA, all of the Ministry six in fact, with Luna sat beside Ron, leaving Neville and Ginny to occupy the rest of the row. Harry couldn't help but feel reassured by their company, knowing that whatever happened, he had friends close by.

As for the other guests, he recognised most of them from the Order. Those he didn't recognise were most likely old peers, ministry officials, more celebrated witches and wizards that only Hermione knew by name. The Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, stood in the sidelines, flanked by suits; Cornelius Fudge, with his lime-green bowler hat; Rita Skeeter with her magic quill; he even spied Delores Umbridge, tucked away in the back. Just the sight of her and her porcelain smile made Harry's blood boil. All the people who couldn't be here, and she made it. And she likely wasn't the only one. Harry could only guess how many people attending actual knew Albus Dumbledore. How many of them actually could claim to mourn his passing. Even now he could see a crowd of slimy vultures eyeing the more prestigious members of the party, including him, just waiting for their chance to network with the esteemed partners of the late great headmaster.

It was lucky that he had Hermione. Having his best friend beside him, her soft but firm grip on his arm, kept him grounded throughout the procession. Every time he felt it all becoming too much, he would reach over and find her hand rest against his sleeve. It meant the world to feel her fingers discreetly locking with his and squeeze in reassurance. A few strands of her bushy hair tickle his neck, her legs pressed against his, they were practically attached to the hip. But Harry was grateful for the contact. That was something real, at least.

Harry wondered what Hermione thinking about, in that brain that never seemed to slow down, even for a moment. It was a wonder she could sleep with a mind like that. He hoped to God that she wasn't imagining his funeral; he pleaded that she wasn't doing that to herself. She had been through enough already for his sake. Maybe that explained why she was holding onto him like he would fade away at any moment. He made sure to rub his thumb against her hand, softly reminding her that he was there, that he was still alive, still right there next to her and well. A small comfort, but he knew she needed right now.

Ten o'clock signalled the start of the ceremony, played to a short overture as everyone took their seats. A deathly quiet, save for the birds and the gentle lashing of the waters, fell over the company. In the aisle between the seats, Harry saw Hagrid marching solemnly towards the front, his face gleaming with tears, carrying what could only be Dumbledore's body, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars. Harry had to repress a melancholy smile at the sight of the garish garment - even in death, the man would never tolerate subtlety.

At the end of the aisle lay a small, white, marble altar, gleaming like heaven in the bright sunlight. Hagrid gently placed the body on top of the shrine and retreated back down the aisle. Harry tried sending him a reassuring glance as he went, but his eyes were so swollen with tears that it was a wonder that he could see where he was going.

From the surface of the lake, a chorus of merpeople began singing in a strange language he did not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Harry's neck stand up, and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild faces of the singers, he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for Dumbledore's passing.

That was when he heard sniffling from beside him. Tears were falling like raindrops into Hermione's lap as all composure broke. Harry couldn't blame her. If it weren't for the fact that he was sitting in the sights dozens of strangers, he would likely have broken down too. He carefully readjusted himself, placing an arm around her shoulders in support, and he felt her bury herself into his shoulder.

The merpeople weren't the only unexpected visitors. As Harry surveyed the scene, across the surface of the lake, he spotted centaurs at the edges of the forest, watching silently. He wondered if Firenze was amongst, thinking back to his first time in the forest, how this stranger had chosen to intervene, to save his life even if it meant estrangement from his kin. Why did they not want him to help, Harry wondered. Was it because they too knew that he was bound to a terrible fate, either way? The centaurs could read the stars, Harry remembered, it was their way of divining the fates. If he asked, what would they say about his future? Could they even see that far? Did they know this was going to happen? Did they care?

Then several people screamed, and he jumped. Harry whirled around in time to see bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the body. White smoke spiralled into the air and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs' tribute: he saw them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from view.

The white tomb sat still against the horizon, and the funeral was over.

As the guests began to depart, each made their way up the aisle to the tomb. One by one, witches and wizards of all sort spoke their peace to the late Albus Dumbledore, and Harry made sure to do the same, once his turn came. He chose not to say any words. Instead, Harry decided to lay a single hand on the marble and promised to do his best. He hoped, wherever Dumbledore was, he heard it. Hermione and Ron too chose to pay their respects, nothing too extravagant, just a few words in remembrance for their mentor. They were probably as eager as he was to get it over with just so they could get away from the crowd.

As Harry escorted Hermione back to the shore, passing the long line of guests and students waiting for their turn, he saw Ginny glancing at him expectantly from the corner of her eye. She probably wanted a few words with him alone, but today of all days, that was the last thing Harry wanted. There was far too much to think about without adding Ginny to the list, and though the day was still relatively young, Harry felt emotionally drained.

He couldn't help but regret how he had treated the girl the last time he spoke to her. She had poured her heart out to him, and his only response was to run away. Ever since then, she had tried repeatedly to talk to him, but every time he had avoided her. Harry tried to argue that he was protecting her by staying away, but he knew that was a lie. The only person he was protecting was himself, running away from the shame treating on his friends, someone he thought he loved, like a leper.

What were they now? They were hardly boyfriend and girlfriend, as he assumed they could be for the longest time. Like how a part of him still wanted to be. Despite knowing it could never happen - not after what she said to him - but it was still there, deep down. He had harboured a crush on Ginny for a while, one that he couldn't throw away at the drop of a hat just because he should. He liked Ginny, she was fun and fiery and full of life. He wanted to be around her, he wanted her as a part of his life. Maybe they could be like brother and sister instead, not that he would ever know what that was like. He had never had any siblings, the closest he had was probably Ron. And Ginny was Ron's sister…

Harry decided not to think too hard about what that said about him.

Eventually, the crowd began to die down, as the guests were escorted out of the Hogwarts grounds, and the students back to the castle. A handful of people had the nerve to speak to Harry directly, either to give their condolences or just lick his boots. It should have been no surprise that Rufus Scrimgeour made himself known, asking - or instead interrogating- him about where he was with Dumbledore the night he died. Of course, Harry refused to say anything that might have even remotely pointed to the word 'Horcrux'. Scrimgeour then had the gall to ask if Harry had reconsidered his offer for publically supporting the Ministry, which would basically amount to singing their praises for the sake of it. Harry told him to sod off - in a diplomatic fashion, of course, though he was sure the Minister could read between the lines, judging by how he stormed away.

The company had almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, whose howls of grief were still echoing across the water. Harry reminded himself to visit the gamekeeper that evening, realising that he had been to see him since Aragog's funeral. He should've been a better friend to him, the man who rescued him the muggle world all those years ago. Hagrid was one of the few people Harry trusted absolutely. He was like an uncle he never had, maybe even a father. It broke Harry's heart that fact that he couldn't tell Hagrid about the Horcruxes, or that he was going to die. He would know exactly what to say to make him feel better.

It was coming up to midday when the last of the guests had departed, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione, and a few other students, alone on the lawn looking out on the island. There was a long silence between them that only Hermione dared to break.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Harry turned to her, coming face to face with her concerned features once again. He tried to smile but gave up once he realised he couldn't get his lips to turn the right way.

"…No," Harry eventually replied. "I just… I didn't want this to happen. I never wanted this. Any of this."

A pair of arms reached around his shoulder, pulling him into a tight hug, and Harry realised just how much he had missed Hermione's hugs.

"I know," she whispered softly. "But he didn't die for nothing. We've still got the Order, and his notes, and the Shrieking Shack. We're ready for this. We're going to win, Harry."

"Don't you go anywhere," he whispered back, far more sincerely than he intended. Hermione only smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hermione's right," he heard Ron say, "as always. We'll be there, Harry. We're with you whatever happens. Although, I'm almost dreading having you two at the Burrow this summer."

"Why?"

"Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember? It's gonna absolute mayhem, and Mum's gonna have us working day and night getting it ready."

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as ordinary as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.

"Yeah, but we shouldn't miss it," he said finally.

That was when Harry spotted something. A man was standing on the shore of the lake, one that Harry certainly didn't recognise from the funeral. He didn't look like a wizard, in fact, he dressed in clothes that screamed 'muggle', and he wasn't moving, just standing and staring, as if he were waiting for something.

For some reason - whether it was just the image of someone alone at a funeral that resonated with the young man or just some mild curiosity - Harry felt compelled to go to him. No one should have to mourn alone. Harry knew that pain all too well.

He excused himself from Hermione's grasp and began walking over to the stranger. He walked carefully, not wanting to disturb the quiet contemplation. Harry was about to introduce himself when the stranger spoke.

"Good afternoon, young man."

Harry was almost taken aback, wondering how on Earth he could have known he was coming. He didn't look like a wizard, dressed in a raven overcoat and black trousers and suit. Then again, he had known Mad-Eye-Moody long enough to know that some people didn't need magic to be hyper-aware of their surroundings, although it certainly helped. Shaking it off, Harry returned the greeting.

"Good afternoon, sir."

The teenager took the last few steps, joining the old man in standing by the shore. Harry subtly studied the man beside him. He was old, probably in his eighties, with silver hair and a face that drooped in a way that reminded Harry of a Bassett Hound. Despite the walking cane in between his hands, he stood taller than even Harry, barely moving against the breeze. His eyes were staring out onto the island, toward's Dumbledore's grave, his face set in a stoic but despondent expression.

"Did you know him?" Harry eventually asked. The old man sighed.

"Yes," he replied thickly, "Yes, I did."

"Were you two friends?"

The old man merely glanced at him, a thin smile crinkling his lips. His eyes twinkled in a way that instantly reminded Harry of the late headmaster.

"He told me a lot about you, Mr Potter, but I suspect he told you very little of me."

He reached out his hand, which Harry immediately took. His grip was surprisingly firm, shaking his hand vigorously.

"My name is Gareth Dalton," the man introduced, his hand returning to his cane. "I've known Albus for many years."

"You were close then?"

"I should hope so," Mr Dalton grinned, "considering he was my partner."

It took all of Harry's restraint to not let his mouth gape open, and his eyes widen in shock. It must not have worked, because the old man - Mr Dalton - guffawed loudly.

"I can see how he got the taste for it now. What with his flair for the dramatic. That should have been your first clue."

First clue? Was he supposed to be judging that sort of thing? Was it really that obvious?

Even amongst wizards, Dumbledore stood out with his flamboyant pink robes and endless energy. Harry always took it as just some of the old sorcerer's developed eccentricities. A side effect of being unparalleled in his field, growing past the point of caring what others thought. He didn't know why the thought of Dumbledore having a partner was so odd - in hindsight, it would have hardly been the weirdest thing about the old man. Still, there was a naive, childish side to him that always assumed Dumbledore just lived at the school, that his role as headmaster was just his whole life.

Unable to think of any sort of dignified response, Harry wisely chose to shut his mouth and nod.

"Don't worry, Mr Potter," Mr Dalton eventually said, deciding to take pity on the boy, "you weren't to know."

"I didn't even think he was married," Harry marvelled, staring out at the lake.

"Married, no." Mr Dalton shook his head, his face souring. The grip on his cane tightened and readjusted as if he were attempting to strangle it. "I don't need to tell you that wizards aren't exactly, shall we say, enamoured by people who are different."

Harry couldn't help but think back to Hermione, having to hear slur after slur against her, consistent judgement and derivation from people who couldn't fathom the brilliance of someone of her birth. Or the humiliation that Ron had to put up with, just for being less of pocket. Harry wondered after he had put Riddle in the dirt, whether the Wizarding world would actually learn from the oncoming war. Or whether they would just carry on as they always did, allowing their ignorance to blindly breed another would-be dark lord.

"We debated whether or not to go public," Mr Dalton continued, "but we never did, evidently. My choice. I didn't want to be his weakness - what with his status and the enemies that came with it - though, he never saw it that way. Can't say it didn't suit me, though. I was very used to keeping secrets already. What was one more, eh?"

"Secrets?"

He saw Mr Dalton grin once again.

"You really do ask the right questions, don't you?"

"It's more of a recent habit," Harry shrugged.

Mr Dalton cleared his throat, settling in for a long tale, and Harry, realising this might take a while, adjusted to a more comfortable stance.

"Before I met Albus," the elderly gentleman began, "I served under the Royal Airforce, during the Second World War. Confidentiality was second nature to us, back then, as it should have it been to most people. We were all on the lookout for anything suspicious. All for Mr Churchill, for Queen and Country, you see. Couldn't let any German spies break through the ranks. Well, you know very well keeping magic hushed up is a task in itself, but trying to do it during a war? With everyone and their grandmother on the lookout? It was only inevitable that some muggles slipped through the cracks. I was one of them.

"Grindelwald was desperate to destabilise the British Air force, you see; he saw it as the greatest threat to his forces. I was working at my post one day when I managed to intercept a fight in my hanger. Made quick work of them."

"You killed wizards?" Harry gasped, to which Mister Dalton eyed him mischievously. Something between a twinkle and a glint fell across his pair of blue irises.

"When you have an aim as good as mine," he explained, "it's easy work. Albus just happened to be one of the wizards fighting to protect the base. Afterwards, we got talking, and he managed to recruit me to the cause."

"I didn't think they'd let muggles join in on that sort of thing."

"Nowadays, definitely not, but back then, they were desperate for anyone who could put up a fight. Besides, my military connections proved quite useful in the end, but maybe that's a tale for another day.

"After it was all over, we few muggles had done enough for the right side that we were quietly classified under 'squibs' and told to keep our heads down."

"Doesn't sound like much of a reward," Harry said.

"We certainly weren't granted any honours," Mr Dalton bristled, "but I suppose we were just glad that we got to keep our memories. Eventually, we were even allowed into the Wizarding world. It's how I was able to come here today."

"I'm glad you could be here, for his sake. He would have wanted you here… if you really are who you say you are."

"Oh, you want proof, do you?" Mr Dalton chuckled, to which Harry shrugged.

"You can't blame me for being cautious."

"No, I suppose not, what with a murderer on your tail. I could belong to anyone. You'd be a fool to trust me outright, however-" He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a blackened lump perched in the palm of his hand, "-perhaps you'd be a greater fool to not trust him."

Harry looked closer at the pile of charred, dirty feathers, nothing for the first time a pair of beady eyes blinking up at him. His eyes followed its body downwards, to its tiny wings, tipped with specs of scarlet and gold, and he gasped.

"Is that-?"

Mr Dalton smiled and Fawkes the phoenix chirped happily as if saying 'hello' to a familiar face.

"I've known this one for as long as I've known Albus," he explained, gazing down fondly at the chick in his palm. "He's quite the personality. Always brought Albus to me in times of crisis. He'll be perfectly alright with me for now, Mr Potter. Let the rest of them believe he's gone off to the next great adventure."

Harry carefully stroked Fawkes' tiny head, before Mr Dalton returned him to his pocket.

"Whilst we're on the subject of Albus' effects," Mr Dalton continued, "where's his wand?"

Harry gestured towards the island, where the white tomb still stood, gleaming in the midday sun.

"With him."

Mr Dalton glanced at the teenager by his side, fixing him with a strange look.

"He told me that it was your's."

"Doesn't matter," Harry shrugged. "I don't want it."

"Hmm, quite right," Mr Dalton nodded dutifully, deciding that was the correct answer. "Let it rest, I say. He was an astute man, and I admired him greatly, but the Hallows were always Albus' one failing. Don't believe everything he told you, they have been his obsession ever since he was a young man, and believe me that's been a very long time indeed."

"The Hallows?" Harry asked, suddenly bewildered. "What are those?"

Mr Dalton looks at him for a few seconds, before he rolled his eyes and sighed irritably. Harry frowned what he had done wrong before he heard the old man mumbling to himself.

"Useless, that man. Utterly useless."

"Are they important?" Harry asked, causing the elderly gentleman to scoff.

"They might very well be." Mr Dalton straightened up. "Albus always did want to see them buried, but I never did think it was his tale to close."

"Is his wand one of them?"

"He was certainly convinced of it. As was Grindelwald. He bargained his empire on that wand. You can guess how that turned out."

"Grindelwald believed in the Hallows as well?"

"Oh, he was more than a believer," Mr Dalton growled. "Went so far as to take their symbol as his own. You'd be hard-pressed to ask about the Hallows without Grindelwald's name eventually showing up. He thought they were the key to absolute power."

Harry's eyes widened as another thought popped into his head.

"Do you think Voldemort might try and find them too?" he asked.

"He wouldn't be the first," Mr Dalton murmured, "he certainly wouldn't be the last. The history of the Hallows is one steeped in blood. For every bit of good they've caused, they dwell in a dozen tragedies. Greater men than Albus have lost themselves to the search, Mr Potter." Mr Dalton gave him a look from the corner of his eye, and a sudden chill gripped Harry's body. It was safe to say Harry no longer harboured any doubt that this man had taken a life. "So, take my advice and don't go looking for them. If it is truly to be, they will find you."

Harry quickly nodded, desperate not to get on the wrong side of his temper.

"Yes, sir."

In the blink of an eye, the elderly man's ominous demeanour was gone, and the lifelong companion of Albus Dumbledore was back. He smiled enigmatically.

"He spoke very highly of you, Mr Potter. You may, in fact, have been his favourite student." He reached into his jacket pocket and offered Harry a black card between his fingers. "Should you ever need any help of the muggle variety, don't be afraid to call."

Harry took it, reading 'Mr Gareth Dalton' and a phone number. He was about to ask what kind of business he was in when he noticed the elderly gentleman looking out towards the island, in quiet contemplation. Deciding not to disturb the scene, Harry slipped the card safely in his back pocket and joined him in gazing at the tomb.

"I just wish I could have done more," Harry eventually admitted.

"We loved him," Mr Dalton replied, his voice croaking at the seams. "That's all we could do."

Despite the years having slowly stripped it from him, Harry could still see the essence of a soldier within the old man. An air of dignity worn thin over time, but still pervasive. It reminded Harry of an ageing lion, its mane more grey than gold, but still majestic in its own way.

"I'm sorry," was all the teen could say.

"It's alright," Mr Dalton replied robotically. "I've had a year to come to terms with this. Yet, here I am. Still not quite…"

"Would you like to be alone?" Harry asked in of more prescient moments. Mr Dalton nodded.

"Yes, I think I would." He turned to Harry and offered him once final shake of the hand, before gently batting him away with his cane. "Now, off with you. Go to your girl. She's been watching us like a hawk ever since you came to talk to me."

My girl?

Harry turned around, expecting to see Ginny in the distance, her distinctive shade of red hair, ready to explain how they weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend - except his eyes met Hermione's face instead.

Even amongst the small crowd of students, he found her as if she were the only one. She was indeed staring at him, a peculiar expression on her face. She looked perfectly at peace, proud and awed and happy, but somehow morose at the same time. It was only there for a quick second before she quickly glanced away and continued talking to Professor McGonagall, one of the few remaining guests. However, even that tiny exchange was enough to swell his heart through his ribcage.

It felt nothing like one of Ginny's pervasive stares - that awkward, overbearing presence the made him feel uncomfortable in his own body. Hermione's gaze felt warm and inviting, like sunlight. He was always happy to see it, whenever he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it, and it always made him stand just a little bit taller, made him feel like he was doing something right only by existing.

Hermione trusted him, understood him, completely. And she knew him - the real him - better than anyone. Compared to Ron… Ron was his best friend, and Harry loved him, but he didn't need Ron, not in the way that he needed Hermione. The possibility of Ron being buried under the tomb saddened him, but it didn't make him physically ill like it did to imagine Hermione's cold, lifeless body in Dumbledore's place. It didn't grip Harry's stomach in terror and rip his heart in two and sour his every waking moment, because he'd been without Ron before. Harry had gone weeks without Ron in his life, acting like a stranger, and he had managed it because he had Hermione by his side. Just as she had been since the moment he met her.

Harry couldn't imagine his life without Hermione. It simply didn't compute.

Because he loved her.

And all of a sudden it was like seeing his favourite photograph in colour for the first time. Like remembering the name of a song stuck in his head. Like realising why he had clung to the scent of lavender in his darkest moments to carry him through.

I love Hermione. My Hermione. My girl…

Harry refused to believe it. Not because he wouldn't want Hermione - no, he realised, he wanted her more than anything in the world. But he… he didn't deserve her. He was a broken toy. She was the whole world. She needed someone who could give her everything, someone who at least had a life to live. Harry knew he didn't have that. All he could hope for was a good death.

He couldn't tell her, not now. Telling her, knowing that he only had so much time left, would only be cruelty. Having something with her, loving her, only to have to say goodbye, would break her. He knew that pain of having to let go of something he loved, and any future he might have shared with them. To have that hope torn away.

Harry could the end of that road in the man beside him. Even having all those years with Dumbledore, all that time to live and love each other, it still wasn't enough. No amount of time could temper that kind of loss.

He and Hermione wouldn't have years. Every day that he was alive was another day Riddle was allowed to torment all that was good in the world. His death was coming sooner rather than later. That was a sacrifice he had to make, a burden he would carry with him. Letting her in, tying her to a dead man… He couldn't do that to Hermione. Not her.

How could hurt her that deeply and claim to love her?

So, he would let it die with him. He loved Hermione, he knew that now more than ever, but she didn't love him back. At least, not in the same way. At least that was what he had to believe. How could she ever truly love him, in that way? Him, the one without a future. She didn't know what his home life had done to him, the humiliation he was forced to endure. All she saw was the person he was trying to be, not the wretched thing that crawled out of the cupboard and onto the Hogwarts Express. Harry could never ask her to love that because he struggled to either.

Noticing that he had actually yet to move, Harry momentarily shook himself out of his crisis. Hermione had gone to rejoin Ron, and the two looked eager to head up back to the castle. And so Harry began the slow walk back, returning up to the castle for a spot of lunch. His last day at Hogwarts as a free student.

He left Mr Dalton to mourn in peace, and all the while pretended not to notice the tears trailing down his time-weathered face.

Chapter Text

The evening rolled in and the fireplace in Dumbledore's was dormant for the first time in years. The logs sat waiting, the coal bucket full, but there was no fire to feed them to. It was a strange thing to notice, but the little fire did so much to illuminate the space, especially in the evenings. Harry could still hear the subtle cracks and pop of the logs breaking down, still feel the currents of air that were neither too hot nor too cold, still picture the light flickering against the many trinkets on Dumbledore's desk. Now, however, the fireplace was just a hole in the wall, darkened by soot and shadow, and - much like the rest of Dumbledore's office - missing the warmth that once inhabited it.

Looking at the room now felt like looking at a skeleton. The same morbid fascination, the evidence of something once teeming with life, stripped away. Harry knew that he was the only person in the room, but he hardly felt alone. The portraits of departed headmasters hung high on the walls, overlooking him, but it wasn't their eyes that Harry felt on his back. It was strange to compare the shadows of the past that lingered in every corner to ghosts, considered Harry personally knew a couple, but it was certainly the word that came most readily to him. More specifically of Dumbledore. His every step, every object he ever touched.

His final words.

Even with the telltale ache in his legs that came from standing for too long, Harry refused to sit in Dumbledore's chair. Even the notion revolted him. Just like how it felt touching his wand, his desk, the key to the secret compartment that Harry had yet to open. The possessions of a dead man that Harry himself had inadvertently put in the grave.

No, he reminded himself. Stop it.

He remembered Hermione's words after the funeral after he'd finally had enough of commiserating and reminiscing with the rest of the Gryffindor common room. Her soft voice still rang in his ear, his arms still tingled from the way she had gripped him by the arms.

"It was Dumbledore who got himself cursed," she said. "It was Draco who forced Snape to kill him. The only thing you did was try to save someone who didn't want your help. It's not your fault, Harry."

Harry had wondered for so long why her voice held more power in his head than his own. Hermione could effortlessly undo him from the knot he'd tie himself into. Her presence alone was enough to put him at ease. Harry worried that, after realising his true feelings for Hermione, the comfort he once gleamed from her might be tainted, but it wasn't. Realising what he felt for Hermione was more than just friendship only amplified it.

That dull itch that he felt in her absence now clawed at his insides and finding any other balm than her was fruitless.

Harry's fingers found the key to the desk drawer, tucked in between a couple of books leaning on the headmaster's desk. It was a small, inconspicuous little thing, not like the grand brass keys he associated with Hogwarts. It was appropriate, Harry noted, glancing at the lock tucked away under the lip of the desk, out of sight from anyone other than those who knew its existence. Harry slid the key into the keyhole and turned. The lock clicked, and the drawer slid open.

Slytherin's Locket gleamed up at him, even amidst the evening darkness. Harry bristled. He felt like it was taunting him somehow, enticing him to do who knows what. He could feel a certain pull, an idea of lifting the chain and placing it around his neck. How it would shine against his chest with all the millennia it had lived.

The teenager turned, striding over to the mantlepiece. Just above it, still in its display, where it had sat since Harry's second year, lay the Sword of Gryffindor. This weapon - one of the few that could kill a Horcrux, according to Dumbledore - would be the tool of the Locket's demise. He grabbed the hilt, careful not to touch the blade with his open palm. Harry had been told several times about the potency of the Basilisk venom that had been absorbed into the metal and how he should never under any circumstance allow himself to be wounded by it.

He still remembered how quickly the venom had sapped at his life, down in the chamber. How he felt his limbs give out, the light fading away, the pain numbing. How calm it all was. If it were to happen here, without Fawkes to save him with his tears, it would truly mean the end for him. At least it would be a peaceful death.

Staring at the silver blade, the sharpened that not even age could dull, Harry wondered if maybe he ought to prick his finger and be done with it. He could end it all, on his own terms. It would be so easy. Even a paper cut would be enough to allow the venom into his bloodstream. Barely a minute later and he would be gone…

Harry blinked.

Shaking his head, his eyes found the locket again and glared. Dumbledore had explained that Horcruxes had the ability to influence those in their presence to do things they would never normally do.

Such as these notions of ending his own life, the temptation to just put an end to the whole ordeal… it could only have the Horcrux whispering to him, taunting him. That must be it. It had to be.

It had to be.

Gripping the metal hilt in his palm, Harry marched past the desk and grabbed the chain of the locket. He hauled it into the open space of the office floor, letting it hit the stone surface, hoping that it hurt. It rattled heavily against the wooden desk, akin to a dry, hoarse cackle.

Harry let the tip of blade rest ever so slightly on the face of the locket, lining it up for one powerful swing. Raising the sword above his head, Harry let his voice slip into Parseltongue and spoke.

"Open."

He waited for the lid to spring apart, revealing some devilish thing inside. He waited for an apparition of unspeakable evil to come rushing at him. He waited for the glinting red of Voldemort's eyes. He waited. And waited.

Something was wrong.

Harry lowered the sword, confused. He fingered the locket cautiously, finding and prying the stiff latch open. He immediately jumped back, only growing more confused as nothing chased him. His heart thundering in his chest, Harry crept forward, staring into the open locket and seeing nothing but a piece of folded paper.

Carefully, he picked up the locket as his once iron-clad resolve sank in his stomach. He spied open the paper and began to read, and with every word his spirits plummeted further:

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

Shock turned to horror. Horror turned to despair. And beneath it all, anger. A seething, bitter frustration burning his insides.

Harry crushed the note between his fingers. He tried breathing, counting to ten, thinking of better times, of Hermione's words, but it couldn't distract him for long. No matter what his mind conjured, it all came back to this.

This was what Dumbledore had suffered for, what Harry himself had nearly died for. Their supposed big breakthrough, the only thing that could have had made their horrific loss somewhat worth it in the end.

A fake locket, and no Horcrux.

Harry let loose a furious cry, throwing the locket with all his might. It hit a far wall and the impact shattered the faux relic in two. His jaw had clenched so hard he might have shattered his teeth. His nails dug into his palm, too far gone to care about the pain. Eventually, though, the rage dulled, like any great inferno tended to do. Harry was left a flustered, tired mess. The Sword of Gryffindor lay by his feet, and Harry felt like it was staring at him, judging him. The weight of a millennium of great wizards rested on his shoulders and Harry felt like he had humiliated them all.

He remembered back to but minutes ago, when he held the sword in his hand, the blade just a hair's breadth from his skin. That voice, that temptation, the longing to let go…

Harry cursed loudly, grabbing his face in his hands.

"Young man, do you know what time it is?"

Harry jumped, his head swivelling in the direction of the voice. There on the wall, sitting in one of the numerous picture frames lining the headmaster's office, was Phineas Back, former headmaster of Hogwarts - although any reverence that title may have mustered was slightly tempered by his dressing gown and sleeping cap.

Suddenly struck by a moment of inspiration - or desperation, he couldn't tell - Harry stormed over to the painting.

"R.A.B," Harry announced. "How many of you know someone with the initials R.A.B.?"

The painting of Phineas Black merely stared at him disapprovingly, his eyes still beady from sleep.

"I'm sorry?"

"R.A.B.!" Harry shouted, rousing the rest of the gallery from their naps. "Someone in Voldemort's inner circle, close enough to learn his darkest secrets! Who in Voldemort's most trusted was a R.A.B.?"

None of the paintings spoke, both too confused to offer an answer to such a specific question, and flummoxed at the audacity of a student calling upon them in a such a disrespectful manner. Harry even heard a few of them scoff from their frames, which only served to ignite his rage further. Soon, Harry's patience wore out.

"ANYONE?!" he roared at the doddering portraits. "Come on! Reginald? Romulus? Ronald? Remus? Robert? Richard? Give me something!"

He was met with a wall of silence. Harry was about to try again, when a lone voice replied, "There is one."

Harry turned and his eyes locked once again with Phineas Black's portrait.

"Who?" he asked. "Tell me, now!"

The painting ruffled, gazing upon him with derision, but obliged.

"Regulus Arcturus Black. My great, great Grandchild. Son of Orion and Walburga Black."

"Regulus," Harry gasped, suddenly remembering the Black family tree Sirius had shown him over a year ago. "He had a brother, didn't he? Sirius Black?"

"Indeed," Phineas Black squinted inquisitively. "Though, might I ask why the sudden curiosity in my family line?"

"No," Harry quickly replied. There it was. The last piece of the puzzle. how the hell he was supposed to figure that out on his own, he had no idea, but now he wouldn't have to. That narrowed down the location of the real locket considerably. Now he had a place to start looking. "I need to leave."

Without another word, Harry picked up the sword of Gryffindor and made his way back to the stone staircase leading out of Dumbledore's office.

He was about to pass through the doorway when his mind returned to the broken locket in the corner of the room. For a moment he considered leaving it there before something in his head told him otherwise. It would be good, he reasoned, to bring it along, if only so that he knew what to look for.

He picked up the two pieces of the fake locket, placing them into his pocket, before taking off out of the door, hoping to make it to Madam Rosmerta's before dark.

The sun was just dipping below the mountains as Harry landed in Hogsmeade, draped under his invisibility cloak and sat astride his Firebolt - it was the quickest method he had of breaching Hogwart's wards without being seen. From here he would make the rest of the journey on foot. Apparating mid-air was by all accounts not a good idea, especially with his destination in mind.

He set himself down in the middle of the town, careful to not make himself known. To his right he spotted the Three Broomsticks, sitting dormant. He quietly dismounted his Firebolt, walking slowly up to one of the windows and peering inside, glancing around the empty pub. Just like Dumbledore's office, it held the ghosts of evenings past. Chairs sat abandoned, tables barely furnished, gathering dust. It was a shell of a once warm and cosy abode, its bones laid bare for Harry to see.

Ever since the fire attack on the school, and the sudden evacuation of the students, the Three Broomsticks had sat almost empty for many weeks. Not that there was anyone in a fit state to run it, not with Madam Rosmerta still recovering from her time under the Imperius. Now its only visitor was a Hogsmeade resident, a friend of Rosmerta's who volunteered to keep the tavern clean in her absence - an elderly lady called Mrs Pippin if Harry remembered right.

Just another casualty of Malfoy's efforts to become the Dark Lord's favourite pawn.

As he made his way up Hogsmeade's cobbled streets, Harry noticed that the Three Broomsticks wasn't the only building more subdued than usual. The town's once merry homeliness had been constricted with fear. The attack on Hogwarts, the revelation of Rosmerta's condition, the rise of extremism from every corner, had choked the life out of the area. Now each house sat like tombstones, curtains drawn, doors closed. The streets were deathly quiet, with only the occasionally owl's call invading the silence.

Walking through Hogsmeade was a sombre affair, but in many ways, it only strengthened harry's cause. The sooner Voldemort wad dead, the sooner life could return to normal for everyone in Britain.

Reaching the outskirts of the town, Harry shrunk his Firebolt, pocketing it for safekeeping. He reached for his wand, picturing an old, gloomy manor house in the middle of a London borough, and disappeared with a quiet pop.

Harry landed on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place a second later. Glancing up, checking that he was indeed at the right house, Harry surged forward, readying his wand to unlock the door. He gripped the doorknob, only for the door to give way at his touch. Confused, Harry pushed, and his eyes widened as the door swung open, unlocked. He supposed for a moment that maybe, since the house was technically his, that it merely allowed him in, but that theory went down the flames when he heard the sound of footsteps from inside.

Someone was already here. Someone who shouldn't be here.

Anyone who would have had reason to be inside the house was at Dumbledore's funeral, and none of them had any plans to visit. There was to be no meeting of the Order today, and besides those rare occasions, no one stepped foot inside this house anymore.

Harry readied his wand, assuming the worst, and crept inside.

A strong stench of alcohol and tobacco met him first as he quietly advanced through the entrance hall. Echoing through from across the way was the sound of hollow metal clinking and clanging together. Training his ears, Harry heard it originating from the living room, turning left at the staircase. Sure enough, the living room door was open ajar. Harry entered the room, and immediately spied the source of the noise. A figure, rummaging around in a lumpy sac, grabbing objects off of the chandelier and throwing them inside the bag with little care. He was short, with bandy legs and long, thin ginger hair. He was old, or perhaps his vices had aged him for his face looked weathered with time, and crumpled with duplicity.

Harry recognised the man immediately as the one member of the Order who wasn't at the funeral.

"You."

The stranger glanced up, his eyes falling on Harry as he shed his invisibility cloak, and he froze. Mundungus Fletcher, his hands clasped around an ornate candlestick, stood stock still like prize statue.

Before the man could even reach for his wand, Harry had already cast his non-verbal spell.

Expelliarmus.

Mundungus' wand flew from its holster, into a far corner of the room. Realising a fight would be futile, Fletcher raised his shaking hands.

"Okay, now, Harry, I know what this looks like-"

"Oh, yeah, do I? DO I?" Harry rounded on the smaller man, who cowered at the sight of him. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Your house?" Fletcher rebuked, straightening up as if he had been personally offended. "Far as I was told, this didn't belong to no Potter."

Harry's attention soon returned to the sack at Mundungus' feet

"What the hell have you got in here?" he growled, pushing the other man away before he got the chance to close it again. He ripped open the bag, the glint of silver and gold shone back at him, exposed to the dim light. Trinkets and antiques he recognised as the ones he and Ron were tasked with cleaning last summer. Ancient black family heirlooms, unceremoniously lumped together into a small pile. Harry glared back at a guilty-as-sin-looking Mundungus. "Kreacher!"

A small pop and a grumble announced the arrival of the ancient House-Elf.

"Filthy half-blood master calls Kreacher."

Choosing to ignore the insult, Harry ploughed on, presenting the bag to the aged House-Elf.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Now hang on, what are you implying-?" Fletcher tried to protest, to which Harry snarled.

"SHUT UP!" He turned back to Kreacher, who was still gazing forlornly at the objects in Mundungus' bag. "Kreacher, answer me!"

Kreacher eventually reared his head up at Harry, his lips curling into a grimace. "Since the wretched traitor boy died."

"Sirius?" Harry surmised. Kreacher nodded, his leathery ears flapping lazily. Ever since last summer, then. For a whole year, he was being robbed from right under his nose, all because he never bothered to check.

"He's lyin'," he heard Mundungus stutter. Harry glared up at him. "He's a House-Elf, he'll say what he wants."

"He's my House-Elf," Harry growled back. "He can't lie to me."

"Since when?"

"Since Sirius gave his title to me, in his will and testament," Harry explained, standing up and pacing towards the man. "You're robbing from me, Mundungus, so give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out."

Mundungus scoffed, adjusting his collar.

"This is ridiculous-"

Harry suddenly reached forward and grabbed him by the lapels, hoisting Fletcher up and glaring holes into the man.

"Today is not the day to gamble on my patience," he snarled, the anger in his voice so corrosive that it almost burned his tongue.

Any resistance that Mundungus once had, any sense of indignation, faded away in an instant as he realised just what he was up against. This was a person that could not- would not be bargained with.

"I-I'm part of the Order!" He reminded Harry. "I'm on your side, you crazy bastard!"

"And yet you're robbing my house," Harry pointed out icily.

"Y-You can have it back! All of it!"

"And stuff that you've sold?"

"I'll get that back too! I swear!"

Harry continued to stare down at the man for a few moments before he reached into his pocket and presented the broken locket to him.

"Tell me, have you sold something like this before?"

Mundungus' eyes widened, visibly flinching away from the object in front of him.

"That? No… not that."

"But you've seen it."

"Yeah…" Mundungus nodded faintly. "It's… It's on the third floor."

"Why didn't you take it?" Harry asked.

"That thing?" Mundungus replied as if Harry had just asked him to chop off his own arm. "It's bloody evil it is. Just looking at it I could tell. Felt like my skin was moulting."

"So, it's not in your pocket? Or hidden anywhere else on you?"

"If you want that locket you can bloody have it. No idea why you would, though."

"Keep it that way," Harry interjected. "If you're lying to me-"

"I swear, I ain't," Fletcher insisted, shaking his head. "Cross my heart, on my magic…"

Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes. As if he really thought Harry was gullible enough to take him on his word, the man who but minutes ago was robbing the room they were standing in. And now he wanted Harry to trust him. Harry would rather turn his back on the devil himself than put his trust on the man in front of him.

So, instead, he called upon someone who could only give him the truth.

"Kreacher," Harry spoke to the House-Elf, who was still skulking at his feet, "is the locket where he says it is?"

"Yes," Kreacher replied as if he despised the word.

So he wasn't a complete liar, Harry surmised. Still, it didn't exactly count for much. Looking over at Mundungus once again, seeing him cower at his gaze, Harry felt his rage dampen, filled with something akin to pity. How piteous this excuse of a man was, stealing from a dead man's house, refusing to honour the man who let hi join the Order. What Dumbledore saw in him, Harry would never…

The sudden reminder of Dumbledore choked what little anger was left in Harry's mind. The rage that had once filled him to the brim shrivelled away in an instant, and Harry was left holding Fletcher by the lapels, seeing himself clearly once again.

Dumbledore wouldn't want him to be this. Hermione wouldn't want him to be this person. They'd both want him to be better than this. Mundungus was a poor excuse of a man, but he was a man nonetheless, and an ally. There was no point in creating divisions now, and it was certainly not the time to abandon mercy.

Harry let go of Fletcher's coat and backed away from the man.

"You've got a week," he announced. "If anything is still missing the next time I check, I will find you, and I'll make sure everyone in the Order knows exactly why you never turned up to Dumbledore's funeral. Now GET. OUT. "

Okay, maybe that last bit was a little over-the-top, but by the terrified expression for Fletcher's face and the way he all but sprinted out of the room once Harry released him from his grasp, it seemed to work. Once the sound of the front door slamming shut met his ears, Harry glanced once again at the bag of valuables on the floor. He'd have to start coming here more regularly if only to stop things like this from happening. It wasn't enough to trust Order to keep the house safe, to do his job for him. Sirius left this place to him. It was about time he treated it with respect.

He closed the bag, turning around to see Kreacher eyeing him with a glint of curiosity.

"What?" Harry asked tiredly.

"Half-blood seeks the locket?" The ancient House-Elf croaked. "Master Regulus' locket!"

"Yes, Kreacher, I do."

Kreacher gnawed on his finger, grabbing his ear and pulling as if in deep thought.

"Why would Half-Blood want Master Regulus' locket?" he murmured to himself. "Does he want to steal it? Sell it?"

"To destroy it," Harry replied earnestly.

"Destroy…" Kreacher paused as if he had only just heard the word. Kreacher's mutterings and fidgetings stopped. He turned and looked up at Harry. His scowl dropped from his face, a curious hope taking its place. "You… You would do Master Regulus' final work? You'd kill it?"

"That's the plan," Harry shrugged. The House-Elf's eyes widened to the size of tennis balls, and Harry couldn't help but note a resemblance to a certain other House-Elf he knew.

"Kreacher can take you to it," Kreacher nodded. "If he may?"

Harry couldn't see why not. It would certainly save time.

"Go on, then."

Kreacher reached up, taking Harry's fingers in his bony hand, and in an instant, they were in a dark, dusty room. Harry could only assume that this was the third floor that Mundungus had mentioned. He swivelled on the spot, taking in his surroundings. It was barely a room. The wallpaper had given in to mould. The floor was more dust than wood. Every object in the room was covered in a thick white sheet into which hole had been chewed by insects and time, the darkness underneath sticking out like lesions.

Funnily enough, Harry couldn't remember ever seeing this room before, not when he and Ron had been put to work cleaning the house last year. Harry wondered if this was the place where Mrs Weasley had encountered the Boggart, but then Mad-Eye had searched the room top to bottom to expel it, and he hadn't found a Horcrux anywhere. Perhaps it was the paradox of this room that had Harry so edge. Then again, maybe it was Horcrux itself, its evil seeping into the very walls, infecting the shadows, somewhere from within the room.

Kreacher tentatively trod towards a podium in the corner of the space, grabbing the corner of a sheet and pulled. The fabric fell away, revealing a wooden box, surrounded by broken chains - Fletcher's doing, he assumed.

Harry stepped forward, lifting the latch on the ornate chest, and opened it. Inside was a perfect lookalike of the locket he had found in the cave, except this one looked brand new in a way that the copy didn't. This locket appeared as if it hadn't been barely touched at all, not even a smudge or a scratch littered its form, and yet as Harry felt its metallic surface, tracing the bejewelled 'S', he felt dirty. If the copy had the uncanny feeling of almost watching him, this one was leering at him, sizing him up like a snake would a fat mouse.

"This is the real one, then?" Harry asked, but he already knew. He could feel the evil coursing through it, like blood through a vein. No wonder Mundungus had been so reluctant to take it.

"Yes, sir. Kreacher kept it hidden all this time." Despite having led him here, Kreacher refused to look at the locket, only just peeking at it from the corner of his eye. "Couldn't destroy it, sir, no matter what he tried. Too strong, sir. Too much."

"I'm not surprised," Harry murmured, putting aside the question of when exactly Kreacher had started calling him 'sir'. "But I have a way to kill it now. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Kreacher stared at him, squinting suspiciously before Harry presented the Sword of Gryffindor, somehow bright and shining like a torch even in the darkness. The gleam of the blade twinkled in Kreacher's eyes.

"Stand back," Harry instructed. "I have a feeling it's going to put up a fight."

Kreacher obediently did so, and Harry returned his attention to the locket. It was still there, still glinting eerily him. Harry wondered if it knew what was about to that, that today was to be its last day. He was going destroy it right now, and from then on Voldemort would be but one step closer to death.

This was happening now, he thought resolutely until a sliver doubt pierced his resolve.

Perhaps… perhaps he should keep it alive. He knew where it was, and killing it now might clue Riddle in on what he was doing far earlier than he needed. Killing all of the Horcruxes at once would surely be smarter. But Kreacher, who had lived with dark objects all his life, was scared of it. Even Mundungus Fletcher, a man who probably had a home in Knockturn Alley, refused to go near it. Even a man like him could sense the stench of evil from that thing.

It would be safer. Voldemort could find out. Did he dare risk exposing his plan so soon? Or was it worth keeping a dark object on him for however long it may take to find the others? He could keep it alive. It was a powerful object. It may help him. Keep it alive…. Keep me alive…

Harry's eye widened as he realised the voice in his head was no longer his. He blinked, shaking slightly to dispel the trance. This time, he knew it was the Horcrux, it could be nothing else. It was instinctive, the difference between his own thoughts and the echoes of something decrepit seeping into his head. A deep feeling of revulsion settled in Harry's very core.

That settled it. Perhaps more sure than he ever been of anything, Harry lined up, raising the sword above his head. He glared at the locket, cursing its very existence, trying to contain the glee in knowing that its time was up.

Making sure that Kreacher was standing well away from him, he squared up and spoke in his best Parseltongue.

"Open."

The latch flew open. The locket erupted in a cloud green smoke, the screams of what could only be the dead filled the air. It came so suddenly, that Harry hadn't the time to swing the sword, suddenly thrown off-balance by the force of the gale.

Harry was thrown to the floor and before he could register what had happened, his head burst into a fiery agony. His scar was hurting more than it had ever hurt before. It felt something was burrowing out of his forehead and Harry screamed against the pain, trying not to pass out.

The smoke was rapidly gaining shape, morphing into some demented mockery of a figure.

Harry Potter, a voice sneered, echoing from both furthest corners of the room and the deepest crevices of his head. I see into your heart. I see that which you love.

Fighting against the blinding pain in his mind, Harry opened his eyes once again and immediately wished that he hadn't.

The smoke founds its form, the image that had been plucked from Harry's nightmare. it was Hermione, lying beaten and broken in a pool of blood, a profound terror permanently etched onto her face. Standing above her wasn't Malfoy or Riddle, but himself, glaring through her body into his own eyes.

A darkness lies within you, a corruption.

The voice boomed throughout his mind, forcing Harry to shut his eyes once again, crying out in protest, as if trying to drown out with his own screams. It didn't work.

It will kill you and everything you hold dear.

Harry blindly reached out for the sword, scrambling across the weathered oak floorboard for the hilt.

You cannot fight it. You cannot run from it.

The pain was becoming too much. His head felt like it was ripping itself apart. The back of his eyes was on fire, his eardrums ringing like alarm bells. Every nerve in his head was lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Harry… please…"

Harry's heart stopped. His blood ran cold. For a moment he forgot his own pain, he forgot that this was all an illusion. Harry knew Hermione's voice like it was his own. He knew what that sound meant. She was in pain, crying, begging, whimpering like a wounded animal.

"Please… please don't hurt me…"

She was afraid. Afraid of him, of what he had done to her. only added to the torture, both his head and his heart being wrung and dissected with no mercy.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, everything stopped. The pain, the screams, it all fell away. Harry blinked, disorientated at suddenly being able to think again. Frantically he glanced around and found the source of his relief.

Kreacher was rocking back and forth in the corner of the room, the Locket clutched shut against his chest. His wide eyes were wet and streaming tears, his whole body was shaking like a flag in a thunderstorm. The elf looked at him once again, and to the sword, and Harry saw a wave of disappointment and despair fall across him.

"It is being too powerful," Kreacher whimpered, shaking his head. "It can't be killed."

"It can." Harry stood, shaking off the after-effects. Kreacher needed him to be strong now. He needed to get this done. Carefully, on unsteady legs, Harry made his made way over to Kreacher's side, approaching him as one would a spooked doe. "You have to let me try again."

"No!" Kreacher screamed, flinching away from him. "It will kill you too. Evil, it is. Eats all it touches, screams in the night. Turned this house rotten."

Harry was forced to wonder if Kreacher knew the pain that he had just been put through. Whether, perhaps, this wasn't the first time he had seen the locket destroy a person so thoroughly.

"Please," Harry asked, leaning down to the comfort the ancient elf, "let me try again. I was caught off guard, but I'm ready this time."

Despite his best attempt at a soothing voice, Kreacher still refused to budge. Trying once more, Harry grabbed Kreacher's shoulders and fixed him with his most earnest stare.

"I will kill it," he promised. "It will die today."

For a moment, so transfixed was Kreacher by the teen's resolve, the elf seemingly forgot about the locket in his hands. Harry must have done soothing right, because slowly, hesitantly, Kreacher surrendered the Horcrux with shaking hands. Gently wrapping his fingers around it before the elf could change his mind, Harry took the locket and placed it in the middle of the room, far away from a still shaking Kreacher.

Glancing around, harry's eyes found a glint of silver and the blade it belonged to. The sword, of course, was still intact. There was barely a scratch on it or even a stain. It still shone with an unearthly light. Harry was glad of that fact at least, something he could rely on.

This time, it had to go differently. Remembering how strong the force from inside the locket was, Harry realised that he needed as much leverage as he could get. Grabbing the hilt, Harry planed himself beside the locket, looking down upon it. One hand on the top of the hilt, the other holding the grip, Harry aimed the blade straight down at the Horcrux. From this position, he could easily put his entire body weight into a plunging attack.

He only hoped it would be enough.

As for the pain… well, Harry was no stranger to pain. He'd just have to do what he usually did when up against adversity: just carry on and bear it.

It was time. Harry tensed, getting ready to pull his all into one conclusively strike. He just hoped that Dumbledore was right, that the sword would be enough to kill a Horcrux.

"Open," Harry repeated in Parseltongue, preparing himself for a second dose of Hell.

The second the latch burst open, Harry pushed down. The stream of smoke and screams rushed forth like a rapid. The Horcrux in his head pushed against his skull, its assault as painful as it had been last time. The experience of having his head torn open began anew, but Harry was expecting it this time. All he knew, in the maelstrom of torturous existence, was to keep pushing down as hard as he could.

Bit by bit, Harry could feel himself sinking into the darkness. He was gaining on the Horcrux, he knew it. He only had to hold out for a bit longer. Knowing that it had no hope to persuade him, the Horcrux was throwing everything it had at him, expelling his body and seizing his head in a fiery grip of pure agony.

It wouldn't be enough.

Like pushing through the world's strongest current, Harry barely felt the progress, but he struggled on. Bracing himself on last time, he gipped the hilt tighter than he had very gripped anything, so hard that he thought he might bend the metal, gave it his all. He summoned every last bit of strength he had, forcing the tip of the blade downwards as far as his body could make it. Realising it was now or never, Harry gave the sword one last forceful plunge.

CRACK!

And the world fell silent.

Harry collapsed against the floorboards, thoroughly exhausted. Leaning against the sword, buried in something hard and solid, standing like an obelisk, he wilted. Stars erupted behind his eyes. He took his time breathing in and out, forcing himself to stay conscious.

Eventually, he was able to open his eyes, adjusting to the darkness of the room. He rolled the blade down to the floorboards, where he noticed the dead Horcurx speared on the tip. The sword had managed to pierce all the way through the locket, embedding itself into the wood beneath. Harry couldn't help but sigh in relief as he registered the sight in front of him.

It was dead. The third Horcrux out of seven was dead and Voldemort was all the weaker for it. That at least was worth the pain.

He waited for Dumbledore's congratulations, his kind, reassuring words that would make him feel all the better. Only to suddenly remember why he was here. The ache in his heart throbbed again in earnest and despite his momentary victory, he felt strangely empty for it.

Harry took hold of the hilt and lifted the sword from the floorboards, allowing the locket to slip unceremoniously from the blade and onto the floor. Unable to resits, Harry raised his foot and stomped on the remains, grinding its broken pieces into the floor with his heel. One last expression of his utter disdain for the object. It felt good. Petty, but good.

"It's alright, Kreacher," he announced. "It's dead. Can't hurt anyone else."

From behind a sheet, Kreacher stepped forward, peering at the glinting shards that lay on the floorboards. His shaking had ceased, but the tears in his eyes had not, and now seeing the object of his torment smashed and powerless before him, they flooded his eyes once more.

Allowing Kreacher his moment to grieve, celebrate or whatever he was doing, Harry reached into his robes and held the fake locket up for inspection. This was perhaps his final connection to Dumbledore, or at least that night in particular. This is what Dumbledore had died for, in the end. Throwing it away now seemed disrespectful, especially since the original was now nothing but broken glass and metal.

However, he still didn't have a clue what to do with it. He could take it back to Hogwarts, offer it as an artefact of school history, like the sword of Gryffindor. But then people would ask how he came across it, what he had been doing with it and why. People would become suspicious. Voldemort would get word that someone had been looking for his Horcruxes. No, he needed to keep it secret for now.

"May I, sir?" he heard Kreacher's voice pipe up from beside him. Harry looked down and found Kreacher staring up at him, pointing at the fake locket.

"You want this?" Harry asked, causing Kreacher to nod in a faint imitation of Dobby. "Here, let me." Harry found his wand and pointed it at the locket. He silently cast a simple 'Reparo' and the two pieces bound together once again, reforming into its original shape. He could hardly tell that it had been ripped apart. Leaning down, he offered it to Kreacher. "It's yours. I've no use for it now."

The ancient House-Elf accepted the locket giddily.

"Thank you. Thank you!"

He lifted the locket over his head, muttering something under his breath. The locket fell over Kreacher's head, settling over the pillowcase that he wore for clothes, and his eyes shone with genuine happiness for the first time ever.

"Kreacher," Harry eventually asked, "how did you know about the locket? Why keep it for this long?"

Kreacher glanced up at him, his hands returning to the locket, rubbing it nervously between his bony fingers.

And so, the ancient House-Elf began his tale. He told of how Voldemort one day required a House-Elf from one of his followers, and how he was offered willingly by his master Regulus Black. Harry sat and listened as Kreacher told him of the cave, fury ignited with it him as he heard how Voldemort forced him to drink the potion - emptying the basin for he locket - and then left him to die to the Inferi.

It was then when Harry asked, "But, how did you escape? You can't apparate into the cave, Dumbledore said so, and no one was around to help you. How did you get out?"

Kreacher had fixed him a sullen but mischievous look.

"Difficult for wizards not so for House-Elves, sir," he explained. "We is going places wizards can't. Make magics that wizards dream of."

Harry hadn't thought of that. That must have been how Dobby got into Privet Drive so easily, passing the supposed blood wards on the house and the numerous other protections, complete undetected. He could even pop in and out of Hogwarts like it was nothing. He could simply go to-and-fro without a trace if he wanted.

He placed that train of thought aside for the moment as Kreacher then told of his escape, how he relayed everything he saw to his master, Regulus, who by that point had begun to reject Riddle's cause. Regulus had a fake locket made and travelled with Kreacher back to the cave, where - to Harry's surprise and admiration - Regulus himself drank the potion and told Kreacher to escape with the real locket. And despite what a rude, miserable House-Elf Harry knew Kreacher to be, he couldn't help but feel heartbroken at his tears, remembering his master being dragged beneath the surface of the water by the Inferi.

From then on, as Harry could gather from Kreacher's wailing, the House-Elf had returned alone, and spent the next few decades living with the truth, unable to destroy the locket. That is, until today. Living with that pain, that feeling of powerlessness, for that long, with no one else to give you even a modicum of support or kindness… Harry understood Kreacher for who he really was. A victim of Tom Riddle, just like so many others.

"Kreacher," Harry asked, eventually summoning up the resolve, "how would you like to work for me?"

It wasn't much, but it was a start. Kreacher an old elf, someone who probably didn't want a friend. A kind master, therefore, one who kept his best interests at heart and understood his pain, would have to do.

"I is already loyal to the Black family," Kreacher replied. "Now I is loyal to half-blood sir."

"You don't have to call me sir, Kreacher," Harry dismissed. This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Kreacher crossed his arms.

"I is doing so anyway, sir," Kreacher spat defiantly. "Is tradition for the Black family."

"I'm not a Black."

"Oh, but you is, sir. Yous grandmother was a Black. Traitor boy-"

"Sirius," Harry interjected before he trained himself and continue calmly. "Please just call him Sirius. I know he didn't treat you well but to me he's family. I'm sorry."

Kreacher seemed taken aback at a genuine apology. Unable to decide what to do in response, he simply decided to carry on speaking.

"Sirius boy made you his heir," Kreacher explained. "Yous being a Black now, so I is loyal to you."

"I'm sorry I never came back," Harry apologised once again, in spite of Kreacher's inability to accept it. "I couldn't handle it. Not after... You lied to me Kreacher. You told me he wasn't in the house, why did you do that?"

"For lady Bella. I's wanting her back, a true Black, in the family again."

"A pureblood," Harry surmised tiredly. He could help but smirk. "Well, now I'm afraid you have me."

"You is destroying Master Regulus' locket, sir. And you is coming back. Bella never come back, ever. No one is. You is better than nothing, sir."

That was almost a compliment. If there was ever any evidence that Kreacher was getting better, that was it.

"We can only hope," Harry shrugged. "If you're going to work for me though, I don't want you ever calling my friends blood-traitors or mudbloods ever again. I won't tolerate it. You don't have to be friendly, but you don't call them that. That stops now. Clear?"

Perhaps it was the fact that he had received a direct order, but Kreacher's demeanour morphed in front of his eyes. The awkward apprehension changed into an instinctive discipline, and he stood slightly straight, nodded dutifully to his new master.

"Yes, sir. I is trying, sir."

And with that, Harry left him to his own devices - namely cleaning, which considering the state of the house would be more than enough for the old House-Elf for now.

This house would need a lot of work before it would ever be home, but at least Harry had somewhere. One more gift from a dearly beloved godfather. The thought made Harry consider his own will, what he would need to pass down and to who. He knew he'd want to give something Hermione, Ron, Lupin, Hagrid, the Weasleys as a whole, but beyond that…

A sudden realisation popped into Harry's head, something that Kreacher had mentioned in his story. House-Elves could apparently go where wizards couldn't apparate (for lack of a better term) through wards built to keep wizards out. And, apparently, they could bring people with them. How? How had this never been considered before? Were wizards seriously that short-sighted by blood that they never considered House-Elves for their abilities?

According to Dumbledore's plan, in a couple of months, he and the Order of the Phoenix were supposed to escape Privet Drive with nothing but broomsticks and some Polyjuice potion. What with anti-apparition wards, a lack of Floo network connection and presumably a blockade around the house preventing them from escaping any other way. But what if there suddenly was another way? What if there was an angle they hadn't considered yet? Dumbledore in their extensive talks on the subject never mentioned House-Elves. Perhaps, he simply didn't know. Who did? Harry seriously doubted that anyone in Voldemort's circle would ever talk to their House-Elves, nor would their hubris ever allow them to see them as anything other than lower beings. They would never rely on a being as simple as a House-Elf.

Harry, suddenly overcome with inspiration, almost gasped out loud. And as he and Kreacher teleported straight back to the Headmaster's office, past the ancient and supposedly unbreakable wards, Harry's confidence improved tenfold. Now he had a new plan, one he was sure no one, not even the Order themselves, would expect. One that, he hoped, Dumbledore himself would have been proud of.

Chapter Text

Harry's Summer at Privet Drive had been unremarkable, thankfully so. No inflating aunts, no World Cup, no Dementors, no visitors. Besides the occasional letter from Hermione and the Order, delivered by hand thanks to Dobby, communication had been kept airtight. Hermione at first decried sending him back to his relatives, after what happened in previous years but to her surprise, Harry had no objections. It gave him plenty of time to prepare for the months to come, as well as plan his new escape route from Privet Drive.

It had taken him weeks to line up all the pieces correctly. The only thing left to do now was to wait and hope that they fall the right way. It might cost him his life, or he might even live. Next month, next week, even tomorrow was starting to feel more and more like a fantasy. His future, however long he had left, was going to be war. A war that could only end in both his and Riddle's demise. Harry would never see peace in life again. So, the idea of preserving his life, worrying about survival, when all that lay in front of him was the long night… Harry couldn't tell how he felt about that anymore. He struggled to see the point in anything beyond his death. In the end, it might be the only thing that mattered.

Maybe the isolation had taken its toll after all.

Harry packed the last of his books into his trunk as he did a mental checklist of his belongings, or rather the ones he wanted to keep. He knew he was never coming back to Privet Drive after today, so he had to be sure he had everything. His school books, his clothes, his invisibility cloak (he had gifted that item to Hermione on the train ride home - he insisted she take it, in case she should ever need it). Apart from that… nothing. Harry had never had any toys, or gadgets, or any other precious valuables. For a long time, he barely owned the clothes on his back, even this plain black attire was sporting for this evening. It was a shame, Harry thought, that there was little he could others that meant something to him, besides maybe his Firebolt and his invisibility cloak. Tributes from the dead, reminders of the legacy he had yet to live up to.

Except there was something that he held very dear, even to this day. A gift from the person that had rescued him from the Dursleys all those years ago, perhaps his very first friend. Harry glanced at his travelling case once again, rummaging within and finding the old photo album that Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. He flicked through the pages, smiling at the sight of his parents holding him, his friends laughing right beside him. There weren't many pictures beyond what Hagrid himself had included. Harry supposed that Hagrid wanted him to fill it with his own memories, his own happy moments. Maybe Colin had been able to sneak a few, whilst he wasn't looking. Was it too late to ask now? He would love to have this filled up before the end, further proof that the Boy-Who-Lived did in fact live a little… if only for so long.

The sound of a car horn from outside roused him for his thoughts. He blinked, realising that his eyes had grown wet, staring at the photographs. The book was promptly slammed shut and stuffed back into his trunk. He clasped it shut, locking it and left it on the bed for Kreacher to take to the Burrow. Hedwig had been escorted there the day before, along with all of her necessities, leaving only Harry himself, dressed in his simple jumper and jeans, and his Firebolt, leaning up against the empty wardrobe. Realising that he had only a couple of hours before the great escape, Harry strode out of his room, intent on finding out why the Dursleys had yet to vacate.

The house was practically barren now. Every little piece of furniture that the Dursleys could carry has been packed up into a cavernous moving van that Vernon had rented the week before. Each and every one of the framed photographs, china plates, cutlery, electrical appliances, chairs, lamps, lampshades and even the garden ware had been removed. All proof of habitation, spare for a few pieces of furniture too big to carry, was stripped away, leaving only the carpet and the wallpaper, probably because stripping them both would take far more time than they had left. And as Harry found his way down the stairs, into the living room, with little more than a sofa and a wine cabinet to suggest that it ever was a living room, he noted he could hardly tell the difference.

It wasn't like Dumbledore's office that radiated loss, that felt alive. Number 4, Privet Drive, looked no more or even no less homely without its proof of occupancy than it did without it. It felt deathly and plain before and it felt deathly and plain now. Even Grimmauld Place, the dark and dank and oppressive box of a house, had its legacy at least, it had a history. There was no such history. Petunia had kept the house so clean that they hadn't even left memories behind.

Only Petunia herself stood as a testament to the Dursleys ever existing in Privet Drive, staring into the pristine fireplace that looked like it had barely ever held a spark, let alone warmed a home.

Harry was about to ask how long until they could leave when Petunia spoke.

"I have lived in this house for 20 years. And now, almost overnight, I've been forced to leave."

She sounded neither morose nor angry; merely inconvenienced, as she always sounded. Slightly annoyed at the world around her. Passive-aggressive at the idea of existence itself, unless it conformed to her.

"It's for your own good," Harry replied. "They will torture you and Dudley and Vernon. They won't take pity on you just because you're muggles."

"You think I don't know what they're capable of?" Petunia glared back at him accusingly. "You didn't just lose a mother that night in Godric's Hollow, you know."

It was all he could for Harry to stare right at her, utterly perplexed. She wanted to talk to him about what they had lost that night? As if she of all people had gotten the raw end of the deal? As if she-

A bubble of rage inflated within him. Fine, Harry thought. If she wants to talk, let's talk.

"No, I didn't," Harry spat. "I lost my whole life."

Petunia glanced back at him, squinting at him as if he were a fly on the wall.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Before that night I had a family. I had people who loved me, who wanted me; a warm home; a safe place; a bed; a room; a childhood; and many years left to live with all of those things. And then it was all taken away, just like that, and as if it couldn't any worse, I ended up here."

It felt so good to finally have it out, at the very end. It was such a relief to finally have no need to hold back. He would hopefully never see the Dursleys again after today. What better time than now to say all that he had wanted to say since he was a little boy.

"All these years," Petunia glared at him, bringing herself up to her full height, "from before you could even speak, we've harboured you. Does that mean nothing?"

"Considering I was living like a dirty secret for ten of them, no, not really."

His aunt tutted, preening indignantly.

"To think of all we gave you. A roof over your head, the food from your table, the clothes off our backs. It would never have been enough, would it?"

Harry simply stared back, unmoving.

"This house has four bedrooms," he pointed out. "Four. And you kept me in a cupboard. If my world hadn't knocked on your door, how long would you have had me live there? The rest of my life? Or until you could afford to get rid of me?"

"You were forced on us," Petunia scoffed. "We had no say in the matter. All of sudden, another child, another mouth to feed, yet another burden. What did you expect-"

"I don't know, maybe a hug!" Harry bellowed. "A warm word every once in a while! A proper bed! A meal beyond scraps! Something to make me feel like a person, a real person who deserved to be loved! You couldn't even do that! You want me to be grateful for that?! And the worst part is you don't even care, not really. You couldn't give a damn that you abused your own family, spat on your sister's memory-"

"How dare you use my own sister against me?"

"Oh, now she matters, does she? I thought she and my father were drunks, that they died in a car crash? You're pathetic. We might share blood, but we are not family and this has never been my home. Be glad that it took me this long to admit that, or this house wouldn't be standing."

By now, Harry was heaving, his face flushing red from barely-contained rage. His magic was radiating outwards from his body, his fists shaking. Petunia was staring wide-eyed at him, visibly shaken at his outburst. She looked like she expected him to turn her into a teacup or vaporise her on the spot. And Harry might have if he thought she was worth the effort.

He took a few calming breaths, centring himself.

"I hate you," he continued, "and your family, for everything that you've done to me. But I don't want anyone else to die, so I'm gonna give you some advice. Run. Run as fast as you can and don't stop for anything. Not until you're out of the country and far away from here. And if you ever hear my name again, even in passing, you haven't run far enough."

Petunia Dursley stared at her nephew, her mouth twitching as if trying to think of how to insult him further, to turn his suffering back on him and paint herself as the victim. Nonesuch insults came. There were no words left to say. She had tried to diminish him his entire life, and yet here was, a fighter, a soldier, telling her right to her face to go to hell. She had no power over him anymore and therefore found this conversation pointless.

She marched out of the room, not even glancing at the boy as she left the house. Harry looked on, feeling a sense of victory at last. After all these years of her saying he had no place in this house, it was he who had banished her.

The goodbyes were minimal, from Petunia and Vernon both, who by now were just ready to leave. Dudley however, was not. He lumbered out of the car, walking up to Harry in a way so unlike himself. He was fidgeting, his eyes barely meeting his, his frame hunched over. He was nervous.

"Hey," Dudley awkwardly began. Harry stared at him, wondering where on Earth this was going. Dudley took a deep breath. "I don't think you're a waste of space."

Harry blinked, thoroughly surprised. Sure, it wasn't exactly Shakespeare but coming from Dudley it was almost… poetic. He was strangely touched by the gesture.

"Right," Harry nodded. Dudley nodded back.

"I- um… I've got this for you."

From out his pocket, Dudley pulled out a small envelope, the paper yellowed and crinkled with age. Harry looked at it, half-expecting expecting it to do a trick.

"What's this?"

Dudley didn't answer, except to push it at him, prompting Harry to accept it. Harry took the envelope and turned it over, recognising the handwriting immediately. It was Dumbledore's unmistakable scrawl, addressed to him.

Harry Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive,

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry read the address, again and again, studying the long-since dried ink. The Cupboard Under the Stairs. They knew, even then. They knew what Harry had been put through, what kind of life he was being forced to live and they let it happen.

"I stole it when I was younger," he heard Dudley explain. "I suppose I couldn't handle you having something I didn't. I never opened it. I couldn't, no matter what I tried. Probably some kind of magic. I thought it was about time I gave it back. Not that you need it, but you could have it as like a souvenir." He reached out his hand, which Harry hesitantly took in a handshake. "Sorry for being a terrible cousin."

It was like something out of a fever dream. Dudley had apologised to him, he was shaking his hand, he had given Harry a parting gift. And Harry was glad for it.

Maybe there was hope for the young man after all.

"Thanks, big D," Harry offered.

Dudley smiled an awkwardly but genuine smile.

Overall, Harry was glad to see the back end of the Dursleys car turning off at the end of the street, relieved that he would never have to talk to them again. However, at the same time, something in Dudley's genuine remorse resonated with him. Why? Why leave it until the very last moment to try and repair things? If Dudley really felt this way, why couldn't they have done this earlier? Hell, why couldn't it have been like this since the beginning? He could have had a real cousin and maybe a real family. It could have been so different, so much better.

He could have had a life worth living.

A few minutes later, having stared down the street for far too long, Harry walked silently back into the house. He had work to do. Now that the Dursleys were gone, Harry could finally go about fortifying the house for later that night. There were still many, many preparations he had yet to complete, and so little time left before the Order was due to arrive.

Without a second glance, he tossed his acceptance letter onto the kitchen counter, forgetting about it as he breached the back garden. And there it lay, forgotten, unloved, alone, just like the boy it had been addressed to, all those years ago.

Two hours later, the face of Hermione Granger appeared on the corner of Privet drive, her eyes raw from crying, her body hunched from exhaustion, physical and mental.

The journey had not been pleasant. Navigating the endless suburbs of Surrey was in itself a tedious task, even knowing Harry's address like the back of her hand. She had no broom to ride on, the Knight Bus had cut its routes (most likely yet another string pulled by the puppeteers at the Ministry) and she had yet to truly master apparition. However, here she was, and in good time. The rest of the Order was set to arrive at any moment now, and the escape from Privet Drive could commence.

However, there were other reasons why the lead-up to today had been a living nightmare for Hermione. Or rather one, far greater, more sorrowful reason that eclipsed her entire world. It had only occurred the night before. She had gone to bed crying that night and had woken up crying this morning. It was like a wound freshly-ripped into her heart, bleeding even now. The very briefest of recollections was enough to send her spirits plummeting into the ground.

It had to be done, Hermione told herself. It had to be done. Even if it was the worst thing she could ever imagine, what felt like the end of her world.

Despite all the people she knew would be willing to help her, to reach out and comfort her, to try and soothe the loss, Hermione couldn't help but feel so completely alone. She had no one now, except for Harry. He was her light in this, undoubtedly, one of her darkest days. He was the reason she was still going, why she going to continue fighting, no matter what.

Even now, she was wrapped in his precious invisibility cloak, a gift from his late father, now protecting her against anyone that might do her harm. Yet another reason why she trusted Harry so completely. He was willing to give up so much for her, even risk the last remnant of his parents for her personal safety.

Now, more than ever, she truly understood the significance of that gesture.

Hermione rapped on the door to Number 4, Privet Drive three times, determined to move one before she could dissolve once again. It didn't take long for the door to open, and for her to see the one face she had desperately been missing all summer.

"Hermione-"

Before he could barely get the word out, Hermione had flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as her muscles would allow.

"Woah," she heard Harry chuckle from above. "It's good to see you too"

But despite his remark, she felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around her, bringing her closer into his surprisingly padded chest. She would have to ask him about that.

Hermione leant back, smiling as best she could for him. Harry's smile wasn't quite as radiant, but it was genuine and strangely intimate. His eyes twinkled in a way that made her toes tingle.

"I've missed you so much," he breathed. Hermione nodded desperately.

"Me too. God, it's only been two months."

"Really? It's felt like forever to me. How does it go?" Harry gazed to the ceiling as if calling upon a divine muse. "'A moments break from your gaze is an eternity past'?"

It was enough to make her groan and whack his chest affectionately, once again surprised by the resistance that met even her meagre slap.

"Honestly, Harry," Hermione sighed, trying to fight the smile threatening to erupt on her face. Not even five minutes with him and already she felt the weight of the world slipping away. God, had she missed this. "Have you been working out, by the way?"

In a moment, his previous bluster slipped away. A distinct shade of red blossomed on his cheeks, one which Hermione loved to see.

"A bit," he shrugged. "I thought I'd best start getting fit if we're really doing this. Do you not like it?"

"No," Hermione said quickly. "No, I love it- I mean, I think it's good. It's a good idea. I should probably do the same, now that I think about it."

"You'll have time at the Burrow."

"You'll teach me?"

Harry smiled.

"I'll do my best."

She took a moment to feel his arms, her thumbs slowly caressing his muscles. They weren't anything on the level of a body-building, but they were certainly more than he had last time he saw her. Or perhaps he had simply become leaner, shedding what little puppy fat he had left. Even his face seemed slimmer, more mature, more jaded.

"They have been feeding you well," she asked, slightly embarrassed by her lack of tact but she needed to know the answer, "haven't they?"

"As much as they can be bothered," he replied. "But let's just say I've been prone to stealing my fair share."

"Good. As long as you haven't been starving."

"Nope. No more starving for me. Three courses, most days."

Hermione didn't entirely like that sentiment. No more starving. The implication that he had been starved before. Then again, given Harry's stature in previous years, assuming malnourishment could hardly be considered a stretch - luckily though, ever since attending Hogwarts, Harry was allowed to embrace his full appetite, which made up for those years. Now, Harry was well on track to be one of the tallest in her year, maybe even catching up to Ron at some point. (Which was simply not fair, might she add? She always already barely cresting his chin last time she saw him and now she was lucky if she could see over his shoulders!)

"Well don't you go turning into Arnold Schwarzenegger on me!" Hermione protested, poking him in the chest, to which Harry laughed. "I'm serious! Muscle mass is all very good but it burns through calories and is almost useless in a survival scenario."

"Come on, Hermione, let me have this. I almost have abs!"

"You don't need abs, Harry."

"Maybe, but I want them."

"Boys," Hermione sighed affectionately.

Without warning, Harry's wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her up into the air.

"Harry!"

The boy in question merely laughed up at her, a smug smile plastered on his face.

"Hmm, looks like muscle does come in useful."

"Put me down."

"Hey, Hermione, you're taller than me! At last!"

"I swear to god-"

His grip tightened on her hips as he slowly lowered her down, crouching until her feet met the carpet.

"I can't wait to do that more often. Could you see my house from up there?"

"Har, har, you're hilarious." Hermione brushed some invisible dust off her trousers. "Speaking of which…"

She finally took her first steps into the rest of the house, making her way into the now-empty living room, which had been stripped bare of possessions, leaving only the sofa and the rather horrendous wallpaper. And the sofa looked ready to give up the ghost. If she hadn't already seen the size of Harry's uncle and cousin from her fleeting glances at Kings Cross each year, she could probably gauge an accurate guess at their weight from how the frame of the sofa sagged from repeated use.

"Trust me," Harry spoke up from the hallway, "it didn't look much better when they lived here."

"It's not exactly the Gryffindor common room, is it?"

"No. Then again, I doubt a splash of red would make much of difference."

Hermione doubted that even the most ornate piece of furniture could make a difference. This was not a loved room. This was not a loved house.

That hardly boded well for the boy that lived in it for sixteen years.

"Hermione?" she heard him call to her. He must have noticed the way her shoulders had fallen, how she had begun rubbing her shoulder anxiously, glancing around forlornly. "Are you okay?"

Hermione took a moment to collect herself, making sure to stand taller, to enhance the facade.

"Yes, I'm fine."

And of course, he wasn't convinced. Even she wasn't convinced and she had said it. Oh, how she wanted to just tell him all that had happened to her, what was really tearing at her soul, but it was too much. He already had so many worries, so many regrets. Harry didn't need hers as well to weight him down. Not on the brink of war.

Her thoughts were shattered, when she felt his fingers gingerly brush against hers, prying her hand open and slotting his digits with hers.

"You can tell me these things, you know?" he whispered, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

"So can you," she whispered back.

"Mine would take too long."

"We've got time."

He smiled at her. Not a happy smile, not a sad one either. It was something like pride, like an apology. A 'thank you for caring', 'thank you for trying'. But no. he was still so guarded, more closed off than ever. Treading softly on glass. This place, this house, it was never his home. His prison, maybe, but never a home.

What Hermione wouldn't give to have taken him away from this place all those years ago…

It wasn't long after that Harry abruptly left her in the kitchen to check the wards around the house. He explained that he had been studying the enchantments on the perimeter of the property, trying to deduce what Dumbledore had done to secure the place, how much abuse they could withstand. Apparently, he had been reading up on blood wards, in between his other studies and his exercise.

It was after Harry had rushed up to the first floor, up to his bedroom for he called 'final checks', that Hermione finally noticed the object sitting in the corner of the kitchen counter. Relenting to her curiosity, she leaned across the surface and snatched it up, figuring it as some old bill that the Dursleys had decided to leave behind. To her immense surprise, it was nothing so mundane.

It was an old, crinkled envelope, the paper dry and yellowed with age. Not just any letter, in fact; Hermione would recognise the red, wax seal anywhere. It was a Hogwarts letter. This must have been Harry's acceptance letter, she reasoned, suddenly feeling a hint of nostalgia. Except, it hadn't been opened. Why was that, Hermione wondered. A spare? No, why would Hogwarts send a spare letter? Why would Harry even need a spare acceptance letter?

Hermione turned it over in her hands, briefly scanning the envelope's surface. It was so similar to hers, not that that was exactly a surprise, with the same green scrawl, the same lettering, the intricate calligraphy that made up the lettering. Except instead of her address and her name neatly written onto the parchment, it was Harry's.

Harry Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive,

Little Whinging

Surrey

Hermione was about to put the letter down and forget about it when her brain finally registered what she had read. And then it screeched to a halt. Her fingers gripped the paper nil she was sure they would puncture through. She read the second line over and over again, her eyes begging her not to see the words for what they meant.

The Cupboard Under the Stairs… The Cupboard Under the Stairs… They couldn't have… Please tell me they didn't…

Her eyes were inexplicably drawn to the hallway leading out of the kitchen, to the space underneath the stairs. To the door that surely marked out a cupboard. Until that point, was sure that she would never be afraid of a door, but now there were very few things more terrifying than the idea of what lay behind it.

She shouldn't look. That would be a major invasion of his privacy, a line that he would never want her to cross.

But she had to know. She would never be able to sleep again unless she knew the truth. At least if she knew, she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life wondering, agonising over the idea o Harry being to forced to live in…

Hermione checked her surroundings, carefully listening out. Footsteps, faint but pronounced, coming from above her. Harry was still upstairs. She had time to check, to put her fears to rest.

Hermione tiptoed towards the cupboard, making sure to not make a sound against the kitchen tiles. Every step felt like torture, and every instinct in her body was telling her to turn around and never look in the direction of that cupboard again. She ignored every one of them. This was for Harry. She had to know.

Hermione finally found herself in front of the cupboard door, the one with slits on its face like tiny prison bars, feeling more nervous than she any right to be. A few more footsteps from upstairs, unhurried as far she could tell. It sounded like he was pacing his room. Now was her chance.

She quietly unhooked the latch and opened the cupboard under the stairs.

A cloud of dust wafted from inside, beckoned by the rushing air of the opened door.

She didn't know what she had expected but this… wasn't it. It was just a cupboard. A dark, dingy, cramped cupboard, full of cleaning supplies and miscellaneous rubbish that might have had a use once. Nothing like the horrors her mind had conjured. It looks almost like the one she had at home. Hermione pictured trying to get inside and found it would have been a tight squeeze for even her. If a child were to sleep in here, it wouldn't be a comfortable night's rest. Even a toddler would find this space cramped. Hermione would certainly not want to live here, not with the cobwebs and the dust and the darkness. It was extraordinarily dark. She struggled to see the far corners - far being a generous use of the word considering it was barely deep than her elbow. Maybe that was why Harry had such terrible eyesight…

No, she thought. Why was she imagining such things? There was nothing here to say that Harry lived here, not the remnants of a bed or a mattress. Not even a blanket. Maybe she had misread the envelope. Maybe she had misunderstood. Oh, how she hoped this was all one big misunderstanding. Maybe with all that she been through over the past few days, she was just delirious.

In any case, Harry's footsteps were getting closer now. She should shut the door and make her way back to the kitchen before he noticed her.

Hermione was about to close the cupboard forever when the tips of her fingers felt the slightest mark on the inside of the door frame. She paused, suddenly intrigued. She pushed her fingertip around up and around, feeling out the rest of the frame, following the groove until she recognised the shape. It was a letter, definitely a letter. An 'H'… and after that an 'A'… and, to her growing horror, an 'R'.

Hermione's heart thundered in her chest. Her stomach twisted into an anxious knot. She could barely prompt her numb, trembling digits to feel the rest and so, with all the courage she had left, she leaned down and looked inside. Peering up at the faded paint on the inside edge of the cupboard door frame, she found the rest of the letters.

She barely read the two, clumsily carved words in time before her eyes flooded with tears. Before her, as clear as the cupboard was dark, scratched into the wood and the paint:

harrys room

Her whole world came crashing down, and Hermione had to force herself not to scream.

All this time… He had been hiding this from them all this time…

And now that she knew the truth, she started to notice more things that only served to push the knife further into her heart. The stone floor, that was freezing cold, even in Summer. The exposed pipes to the boiler that any child could have easily burnt themselves on if they weren't careful. The splintered wooden stairs that provided a ceiling, that Hermione dreaded to touch. The slits on the door, which she realised could be shut off, forcing him to live in complete darkness. They had kept her Harry - her loving, sweet, kind, brave, gorgeous Harry - in this awful abode, a space that looked more like a hole than a cupboard and the furthest thing from a bedroom than she could possibly imagine.

How long had this been going on? Surely- Surely they hadn't kept him here when he was a baby? Surely they hadn't been monstrous enough to shove a baby - their own nephew - into the dark for him to be forgotten about?

Her mind was assaulted with the image of a tiny, black-haired child, locked away in this dank, dusty old cupboard, crying for his mummy and daddy. Cries that would never be answered except maybe for the closing of slits, forcing him to cry in the dark. Maybe that was why Harry rarely ever asked for help. Maybe, after a while, he learned that it never amounted to anything, that no matter how much she screamed, no matter how loudly he cried, help would never come.

It was all too much. Tears were already rolling down Hermione's cheeks, but now she was fully sobbing, barely holding onto herself. She couldn't hide it anymore, so she didn't even try. There wasn't enough fortitude in the world that could keep her brave face intact. And that was only a glimpse. Harry had to live it, for as long as he could remember.

"Okay, that should be everything." Harry's voice echoed in the storm of her mind.

His footsteps were rapidly descending the staircase as he rattled off his mental notes. Hermione made no effort to move, to hide her crime. There was nothing she could do. She could only wait for the inevitable.

"I've got my stuff ready for when the Order gets here," he continued, completely unaware of the scene in front of him. "The Blood Wards are still good, though they probably won't last past midnight. Still, should give us time to…"

He paused, his footsteps frozen at the foot of the stairs. He had finally noticed her, kneeling in the hallways, her face surely a wreck from sobbing, shaking like a leaf in the wind. But still, his voice was calm, concerned.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

Hermione stared at him from the corner of her eye, and she was bombarded with images again. Harry's face, younger, rounder, crying, in pain. Alone.

"Harry…" she could only gasp through her tears.

His eyes panned form her distraught face to the open cupboard door and the letter in her hands. She could tell the exact moment he put the pieces together. The exact millisecond that his walls came crumbling down. The colour drained from his face and he staggered like the bones in his legs had disappeared. His head was shaking violently.

"No…"

Whatever he was going to say deteriorated into short gasps of air, his chest began heaving in and out. His eyes darted around wildly, jumping at the slightest of shadows.

Hermione's own maelstrom of emotions died away in an instant, and her basest instinct, to protect Harry, shined into gear like clockwork. She could recognise the signs of what was coming and she needed to focus.

"Harry," she beckoned softly. Hermione stood carefully, akin to if Harry was a spooked foal. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not like that. It's not…"

His shaking breathe began to speed up, slowly racing out of control.

"It's okay," she whispered slowly. She reached out her hands, but Harry jumped away from her like she was made of fire.

"I'm not… I'm not…"

Despite Hermione's best attempts to approach him, Harry flinched from her touch, as if her hands were made of hot coal ready to burn him alive. It broke her heart to see him like this, so scared of the word around, so trapped in his own head that he didn't even recognise her. Whatever was happening to him now was merely the echoes what had happened before, and yet for him, it was the now. For him, it was entirely too real.

Communication was key, now. She had to get into his head, to drive him out of his nightmare before it swallowed him whole.

"Harry," she announced, soft but firm, pleading but authoritative, "please, let me hold you."

There was a hint of recognition in his eyes for a fraction of a second. Hermione took it as her cue. Hesitantly, ready to pull away at any moment, she moved her fingers into his own. Once she was sure he wouldn't rip his hands away again, she fastened her grip.

"Breathe for me," she whispered, mimicking long, deep breathes, just like they had practised. "It's okay. It's okay. It's not your fault."

His panic soon settled into shaking on the floor, no longer the manic scramble of nerves trying to escape his own body. The dust had settled, but the storm was still rumbling by, yet to break.

"I'm not…"

He tried desperately to speak, to force his mouth to coordinate with his brain and make sounds. Hermione waited patiently, still holding his hands in hers. He knew she wasn't going anywhere. Eventually, he managed a whimper, but she found the words like they were written into her eardrums.

"I'm not weak… I'm not weak…."

"No," Hermione said resolutely, "you're not. You're the strongest person in the world, Harry. You really are."

His green eyes found hers, suddenly looking so much younger than they were before. She knew she was looking directly into his soul now, a part of him that hadn't seen the light of day for a long, long time.

"I never wanted you to know."

Hermione nodded.

"Because you thought I'd see you differently." Channelling her iron will once again, she moved so that her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his body into her grasp. One of her hands gripped the material of his jacket, the other began stroking his hair, and as she did so, she felt his muscles slowly begin to relax. "Well, I don't. You're still my Harry. My gorgeous Harry. And you always will be. This isn't your fault. They don't get to decide who you are."

Despite how strong he always seemed to be, despite the burdens that he carried every day, despite his often aloof and distant demeanour, Hermione knew that Harry was anything but invincible. In the end, behind the facade he put up so masterfully, behind the titles and daring deeds, Harry was just a boy who wanted to be loved. There was a part of him still in that cupboard under the stairs, one that had yet to escape, and it was here in her arms that she truly saw it for the first time.

The boy in her arms, the one who whose head was resting against her chest, whose limbs were curled against his body, shaking as he sobbed into her jumper… this was what all those years of Privet Drive had done to him. This was the side of him that Harry had hidden away from even himself because that was what he was taught to do. That was the mindset that was forced upon him.

Now, however, in her arms, he knew he no longer needed to hide. Hermione had seen the worst parts of him already, as well as his best. And she judged him by neither.

They sat together for a while until the worst of it had passed, and Harry was able to speak once again. It was then that Hermione moved them to the living room sofa, preferring even the worn-out cushions to the thin carpet. Despite them changing locations, Harry had yet to move away from her. He still clinging to her, refusing to let go for anything.

"I'm sorry," he eventually said.

"Don't say that," Hermione cooed. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You know that."

"I know, but I still am. I can't help it."

Hermione that feeling all too well.

"I should…" She paused, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I should have never let you come back here. I should have kidnapped you at King's Cross."

To her delight, a chuckle erupted from Harry's chest and rubbed through their bodies.

"I would've liked that," he said with a melancholy smile. He sniffed, wiping his nose and taking a deep breath. "Though I'm not sure your parents would have agreed with you bringing a boy home."

Humour was always his first defence, Hermione noted. His walls were slowly building upwards again. The Harry she knew was starting to reappear, like leaves in Spring.

"Oh, they know all about you, Harry. I told them, repeatedly, about how much you mean to me. I wish you could have met them before…"

She stopped talking suddenly. No, she couldn't tell him what she had done, not now. That was not what he needed to hear. If he knew what had happened to her parents, that he had even the slightest part in her decision, it would only cause him more pain.

"Before what?" Harry asked, with worry that mirrored her own in so many ways. You can't tell him. He doesn't need that on his conscience.

"Before all this, I mean," she quickly said. "Before the war. We could've spent the summer together, one year. It would have been so much fun."

"Yeah," he nodded, but she could there was a part of him that wasn't entirely convinced. There was something in his eyes, the way they studied her face intently. "Are they safe, Hermione? Your parents? Please tell me they're safe."

The soft, caring tone of his voice made her want to spill all of her secrets to him right there and then. It would so easy for her to break down and tell him everything that she had been throughout these past few days. Oh, how she wanted to dissolve in his arms and hide from the world, just like what he had done with her. But now was not the time. Harry was hurting like her and one of them needed to be strong.

So Hermione shoved that pain down into herself for the time being and merely smiled at him, forcing the edges of her lips to reach her cheeks.

"They are. I promise you, they are."

But Harry was still conflicted, his face was proof enough of that. His eyes still searched her face, as if trying to memorise every detail. Her heart raced in her chest as she tried to remain composed. Hermione hated having to lie to him, but in some ways, she did so every day without him knowing. Removing herself from her own deepest desires, pretending t be content with holding him at an arm's length. She was closer to Harry than perhaps anyone else in the world, but even still she felt distant, compared to she really felt.

These past few months without him had been hell. Not knowing whether he was okay, not being able to see him, to talk to him face to face, to laugh with him, to hold him; it had felt her feeling exposed, akin to missing a limb. Harry was part of her now. Losing him was not an option, by any measure.

"Hermione," Harry spoke, bringing her attention back to his face. His features had grown dark, his eyes downtrodden. He looked almost ashamed. "Hermione, I haven't been honest with you.

"What do you mean?"

"I- I lied to everyone. You know about Dumbledore's plan to get me out of here, using Polyjuice potion. He told me about it before he died. I know you're going to pretend to be me, you and bunch of other people in the Order."

Hermione nodded, taking his hands in hers.

"It's safer that way."

"No, it's not," Harry shook his head, gripping her hands tightly. His entire body language changed in an instant. His once timid frame inflated, rising in his seat towering over her. His body sat stock still and rigid, in something like anger? Worry? No, determination, Hermione realised. There was fire behind his eyes, raging, not at her but from within. "I'm not going to let you put yourself on the line to protect me. People have been doing that since the day I was born and it stops today."

The conviction in his voice left her reeling in her seat. She had rarely seen Harry this steadfast before, the only other times had been just before diving headfirst into danger. That fact did little to calm her nerves

"Harry, what are you planning to do?"

To her dismay, Harry remained in his stubborn saviour mode, resorting his signature cheek in response to her genuine concern.

"Something insane," he shrugged. "Something that's going to protect you. All of you."

Hermione knew this was an act. She could tell that this sudden newfound confidence was surface-level. A facade, scaffolding on the ruins of himself. He was turning away again, resorting to what he knew. Falling back into old habits because that was all he knew.

"And what about you?" she asked, staring him in the eye as if trying to send her thoughts into his head. Or rather one in particular: talk to me. Tell me that I shouldn't be worried about what you're going to do.

There was a moment when the wind left his sails and he was left confused as if the thought of his own safety hadn't even crossed his mind. However, before she could ask further, there was a loud knock on the front door. Before they even opened it, they both knew who was on the other side.

The Order of the Phoenix had arrived.

Harry was the first to welcome them in, saying his hello's and greetings after so long away. His ecstatic reunion with Remus, and Tonks, was almost enough to set Hermione at ease, but at the moment she felt like she was walking on eggshells. She hated to think of Harry like this; like he was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, but in some ways he was.

He had been left alone in this house for months, letting his pain and self-hatred build up in the back of his mind. Until now… now it had reached a boiling point. It had seeped under his skin and slowly wound him, affecting him in ways that were just hidden beneath the surface. None of the Order had noticed a thing, but Hermione saw it clear as day. The way that Harry held onto a hug for just a fraction longer, the way his face would drop when he sure no one could see it. But she saw it, every time. How could she not?

Hermione knew she had to tell someone, she couldn't in good conscience keep this to herself. So, she went to the one person who might understand as well as she did.

"Ron, something's wrong."

The teenager stared at her, jolted out of his reverie by her hushed, hurried voice.

"What?"

"With Harry," she clarified, dragging him off to the side. "He's been planning something and I don't think it's going to go well."

"Like what?" he asked.

"I don't know but it's about what's happening tonight. He's been going on about how he doesn't want anyone else dying for him and how he wants to keep us all safe. And there's something else…"

Ron, to his credit, glanced around, asking are no one else was listening in.

"What is it?"

"I can't say. It's Harry's secret. I only found out by accident."

"Is it to do with the…" He clumsily pointed at his forehead, glancing out of the corner of his eye to make sure Harry hadn't seen. Luckily he was still talking to Bill and Fleur to notice.

"No. It's bad but it's not like that."

"Well, I'm not gonna go asking about it," he said decisively, to which Hermione nodded.

"Good. Just keep an eye on him. I don't think he's well."

Ron's gaze returned once again to their friend across the room, who was still caught up in talking merrily with the Order.

"He looks fine," he noted sceptically. Hermione couldn't blame him for thinking so. Harry's facade was nearly perfect. Had she not spent the last hour comforting Harry through a breakdown, she too might have assumed he had gotten through his years with the Dursleys unscathed. But the mental scars of trauma were often like crevasses; the deepest and most dangerous were rarely plain to see.

"Most do," she replied solemnly. "It's his relatives, I know it is. This house, he despises it. And we forced him to live here for two months, on his own."

"I tried convincing mum to let him stay at the Burrow," Ron reasoned, "but she refused. Apparently, there are some wards around the house that makes it the safest place for him to be outside of Hogwarts."

"Blood wards," Hermione answered, "Harry told me about them. He's been studying them over the Summer."

She heard Ron sighed wearily.

"I did try, Hermione. I really did, but no one wants to go against Dumbledore's orders."

But Dumbledore's not here, Hermione thought to herself. He's gone. Harry, however…

Hermione thoughts halted in their tracks as she realised something. What if Harry thought the exact same thing? What if this was his way of taking it all upon himself, trying to step and be the next Dumbledore? To be the new leader of the light that the world supposedly needed him to be?

As if he has anything left to prove, the rational part of her brain decried, but then again Harry wasn't thinking rationally right now. This wasn't their Harry they were talking about. This was Harry's insecurities filling him up and moving him around like a machine. Whatever he had done was not the doing of a sound mind, and Hermione couldn't simply wait to see what that was.

She needed to tell Remus, as soon as possible. If there was anyone whom Harry would listen to, it was him. She only hoped that it wasn't too late to stop whatever Harry had planned, for their sakes and his.

'Something that's going to protect you. All of you.' Oh, Harry. What have you done?

Chapter Text

Midnight was closing in fast. In but twenty short minutes, Harry would be leaving Privet Drive forever, never to return. It would also be the moment when the blood wards around Privet Drive collapsed, allowing the swarm of death eaters waiting outside to attack the property and everyone within. The Order thought they had taken enough precautions to ensure his safety - feeding the Ministry a fake date; trying to link the house up to the floor network; charming Portkeys to safe-houses - but Harry knew it would be for nought from the very start.

Dumbledore had received reliable information from Snape that Riddle's first target would be Pius Thicknesse (the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) and recent intel had suggested that they had succeeded in bringing him over. Apparently, it had been Corban Yaxley who accomplished the task of placing him under Imperius and now Thicknesse's roots within the senior class of the Ministry were being fully exploited. Dumbledore had explained to Harry that, with the DMLE under their control, the dark contingent could do a great many things to impede Harry's escape, such as making it an imprisonable offence to connect Privet Drive to the floor network, use a Portkey within its ground or apparate in and out of the house. Harry was all but sure, now that they had Thicknesse as their puppet, the Death Eaters had done just that. They were always going to face opposition in their escape. Dumbledore knew that and he planned for that very occurrence, somehow managing to turn it into an advantage.

Snape's position as one of Riddle's most trusted servants relied on what would happen this very night. In order to keep Snape at Voldemort's side, he needed to look trustworthy. In order to look trustworthy, he needed to be seen going against the Order, feeding Riddle vital information. If that information wasn't true, then Snape would quickly lose favour and their closest tie to the heart of the dark contingent would be lost.

It was a twisted game of loyalties and double-crosses and Dumbledore's plan to counteract it was equally devious. However, given months on his own to ponder his old mentor's intentions, Harry had decided that he could do better. He created his own escape route, one that would hopefully accomplish all that Dumbledore set out to do with a far lesser risk of collateral damage.

Because if there was one thing that Harry Potter could no longer accept, it was other people putting their lives on the line for his sake.

Certain criteria had to be filled but they were easily worked around. Dumbledore's original plan of the Seven Potters, each a member of the Order under Polyjuice, had too many holes. Too many chances for people to be killed. This new plan, the one Harry himself had concocted, was no less perilous, but the risk of casualties had dropped from several to one. Of course, that one was himself, but the fact of his own mortality hadn't really been a priority to Harry. He was going to die anyway. If anything, his death would only be an asset to the Order. Both Hermione and Ron knew enough to carry on the fight without him, and with him out of the way, Riddle would be one step closer to death.

A win-win, in Harry's mind.

The act of changing the plan was no more complicated than a simple secret message, sent via a disgruntled Mundungus Fletcher, who was still ever-so-willing to help after being caught in Grimmauld Place. Harry knew that if he were to provide Fletcher just a glimpse of his secrets, they wouldn't remain secret for long and he used it to his advantage. From there it was a matter of having Kreacher tail Mundungus to a pub, pump him full of alcohol, then wait for Snape to happen upon him and pick up the intel. It was more of a show than anything, proof as to how Severus could know the Order's so-called plan, to begin with - since he couldn't very well say that his betrayal was a calculated move orchestrated from beyond the grave by Dumbledore himself. Another lie, another risk. However, now Snape could genuinely say that he pried the truth from Mundungus, having no previous knowledge of the escape plan. Of course, there was a risk of the plan spreading to other people, but then again, it wasn't like any of them would gather much meaning from, "Change of plan. Give chase North-East. Mind the fireworks." Not immediately of course, but in the right scenario, at the right moment, they would. Snape would.

As the last of the Order of the Phoenix gathered into the living room, Harry excused himself momentarily and headed up to his tiny bedroom. Once he was sure that he hadn't been followed, he took out an old mobile phone of Dudley's and a small black business card from his pocket. He quickly dialled the number on the card and waited for the dial tone to end.

The other end picked up and a familiar voice spoke into his ear.

"Mr Potter."

"Mr Dalton," Harry replied cordially.

"A pleasure hearing your voice again," Mr Dalton continued. "I assume it's time for me to play my part?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Very well, then."

Harry had spoken with Mr Dalton a few weeks before about formulating his elaborate escape, and despite his initial reluctance, the old man's advice had been constant and invaluable. Now, the time had come for their machinations to take shape. Harry could only hope they hadn't forgotten anything vital. Well, there was no backing down now.

"I'm not entirely sure Albus would have approved of this, Mr Potter," he heard Mr Dalton murmur from the other side.

"As you've said. And what about you?" he asked. He heard something like a chuckle emanate from the other side.

"Get some good shots in and we'll see. ETA?"

"We'll say midnight. Twenty minutes."

"Good. Gives the boys some time to rally themselves."

"Are you sure they'll believe you?"

"There's a protocol for this sort of thing. I should know. I invented it."

"Thank you, sir. And remember, tell them to wait for the fireworks."

"Wait for fireworks. Understood. Godspeed, Harry. And expect a guest."

The line went dead and Harry shoved the phone into his pocket. This was beyond him now. All he had to do was play his own part and somehow convince the others to play theirs, a task Harry was particularly dreading.

In order to calm his nerves, Harry did one last check of his equipment. He crawled under his bare bed and pulled out an inconspicuous bag - plain black and covered in straps - and opened it. Within its much larger innards lay everything he would need for his escape. His firebolt, a cluster of novelty fireworks, flight wear and a bounty of Weasley pranks that would make any teenage delinquent drool at the possibilities. Tonight though, these tools would be the linchpin of his escape and they would all be contained within this handy enchanted bag (covertly bought from Diagon Alley with the help of Kreacher). Harry fastened the bag onto his back and stood up, readying himself for what he was about to do.

He made his way back down the stairs, down into the hallway where he saw a pair of large, beaming eyes glance at him from the corner of the doorway. Their owner gave Harry a quick wink from his hiding place, telling him that he too was ready, and Harry dutifully nodded back.

The Order was still talking amongst themselves when Harry returned to the living room. He quickly counted 13 people. All accounted for. Even Mundungus Fletcher had shown up. Harry half expected him to bolt at the last minute, but surprisingly he had stuck by his word. Of course, he was still a thief, a drunk and a cheat, but at least he wasn't a coward.

Bill and Fleur had turned up as well, along with Fred and George and Arthur Weasley. Harry wanted to feel reassured by their presence but he couldn't help the guilt biting at the back of his mind. The Weasleys had already given up far too much for him. They could never truly sit out of the war, simply for Ron being his best friend, but putting their own children on the line, even if they were of age, baffled Harry. He shouldn't be worth that much, not to anyone.

Rounding out the company was Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hagrid - all competent, powerful fighters that Harry was glad to call allies. Hagrid particularly seemed glad to see him, as his face lit up when Harry entered the room. Even in the face of what they were about to do, he seemed so buoyant and full of life. Harry couldn't help but smile back.

He could tell Hermione suspected him already, the way her eyes never left his direction, scanning him up and down for any evidence of what he was doing upstairs. Perhaps she had even noticed his choice of clothing, an ensemble of pure black, boring jacket and jeans, his feet strapped into his quidditch boots. Harry could see each of the dozens of questions flickering across her face, her mind running like a super-computer. For all he knew, she could have already figured out exactly what he was going to do. Even Ron was staring inquisitively at him from the corner of his eye. Trust his friends to notice when something was up with him.

It had to be now. It was time to get started.

Finally congregated, Mad-Eye gathered the Order around them and produced his vial of Polyjuice potion. The wizened Auror explained their plan for six volunteers, some of which being Harry's close friends, to each take a dose of the potion, morphing into his exact likeness, to act as decoys for his own escape. As much as Harry wanted to interrupt Moody - to tell him like hell he would be so cowardly as to deliberately let someone pose as him, regardless of whether it made him safer - he kept his mouth shut and played along. Occasionally he would nod solemnly as if accepting that it was simply necessary. At certain points, Mad-Eye would give him to once over, waiting for Harry to protest, but he didn't. He simply kept quiet, absorbing the information, blinking every so often as if to feign surprise.

"I'm sure you're not exactly happy with this idea," Mad-Eye spoke in his ever-gruff manner, "but we're out of options. These people-" he gestured to the six volunteers, who mostly avoided Harry's piercing gaze as his turned to look at each of them, "-are all overage and willing to take the risk. Our only chance of escape is to use decoys. Even You-Know-You can't split himself into seven."

Harry caught Hermione's eye and looked away once again.

"So, Potter- some of your hair, if you'd be so kind."

Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced at him in a just-do-it sort of way.

"Quickly, now," barked Moody, limping forward as he pulled the stopper out of the flask of potion. "Straight in here, if you please."

"Give it to me."

Mad-Eye paused. Harry looked up at him with a casual smile.

"Give me the flask and I can give you my hair."

He reached out his hand flippantly. Harry could tell no one expected a reaction like this from him and how it unsettled them. Even shouting and screaming would have been preferable to this unknown. Wanting to waste no more time, however, Moody reached out and placed the vial of Polyjuice into Harry's waiting palm.

"Thank you," Harry nodded. Without resistance, he reached up and plucked a strand of hair from his head. He carefully slid it into the vial and watched as the muddy substance turned a bright golden colour. Harry then turned to Fred Weasley, the first in line to take the potion. "Right, Fred, you're up. Mind the glass."

Fred's face quickly turned to confusion.

"Glass?"

Harry turned and threw the vial as hard as he could.

SMASH!

It collided with the kitchen wall. The bottle shattered into a thousand pieces with a thunderous crash of glass and ceramic. By the time anyone realised what had happened the golden potion was already spilling out across the counter and soaking onto the floor.

"POTTER!" came Moody's cry of genuine distress.

"Oh, whoops," Harry shrugged in disinterest.

The room quickly descended into a cacophony of voices.

"BLOODY HELL!"

"Harry, what have you done?"

"Are you insane?"

"Do we have a spare?"

"No, of course we don't have a sodding spare- Who the hell has spare Polyjuice just lying around?"

"Merlin, Harry, you idiot!"

Immediately people began trying to fix the vial but what little potion had remained in the fractured pieces had already spoiled. The mood quickly turned from shock to panic. Harry meanwhile strolled towards the empty fireplace and reached inside his bag. From within, he grabbed a small balloon and blew into it, filling it up with air. Ignoring the chorus of alarm around him, Harry tied off the balloon at the tip and readied a pin from his pocket. Just as the furore could get any more despondent, the balloon exploded and once again the room's attention was drawn back to Harry.

"Are we quite finished?" he asked. Every person in the room was now glaring at him as if he had grown a second head. "Good. Now let's talk about our escape."

"There is no escape," Moody snarled, "not anymore! We'll have to delay it."

"We can't delay it," Arthur Weasley refuted. "We don't have time to brew more Polyjuice."

"I say we go ahead," Tonks piped in. "They don't know we're moving him today."

"That's where you're wrong," Harry replied. "They know it's today. Outside those wards I'm willing to bet are about… say, thirty Death Eaters ready to shoot us out of the sky? Give or take."

"How do you know that?"

"I checked. Hermione saw me doing it earlier before you all arrived. Turns out blood wards can not only track what's inside of its bounds but also what's outside of it, just cresting the edges. And right now, they're telling me that about thirty unknown people are hovering a quarter of a mile above the house, waiting for us to leave." Harry glanced around, observing as each of the Order realised the gravity of the situation. "If you go up now, you'll all be heading into a trap. However, there is another way out."

"And how might that be, Potter?" Fletcher argued. "We can't apparate. We can't use a Portkey. This house has no floo. What would you have us do instead? Dig our way out?"

Harry smiled at Mundungus, before swiftly turning to someone else.

"Bill, what do you make of the wards on this place?"

"What does that-" Bill tried to dispute before Harry interrupted him.

"The blood wards. Moody must have told you about them. A part of my mother's protection that was supposed to keep me safe all these years. I've been studying them these past few months-" He spun on the spot, addressing the rest of the room. "Did you really think I'd sit on my arse all this time and just wait for you to rescue me?"

"That's all very well and good," Moody remarked, "but those wards are going to break down eventually, or was your plan to wait until the 30th for them to fail on their own?"

"You think we'd be safe until then?"

"I'd say they're the only thing keeping us alive right now."

"You'd bet your life on them?"

"For the moment."

"And they're impervious to any sort of magic."

"Yes."

"No."

Moody squinted at him.

"'No'?" he parroted. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

Harry glanced at the people around him, recognising that he had them in the palm of his hand. Feeling the thrill of control, his own flair for the dramatic, he soldiered on.

"The wards on this house are impressive," he clarified, "but they're not impenetrable, not even close. There are people that can move in and out of these wards as easily as through the front door. And, fortunately, I happen to know a couple of them."

The teen stood aside and gesture to the small being that had appeared behind him. To Hermione and Ron, his flappy ears, long nose and eyes the size of dishes were instantly recognisable, but for the sake of everyone else, Harry clear his throat and introduced them to the new arrival.

"This is Dobby," he proclaimed. The excited house-elf gave everyone an ecstatic wave. "Four years ago, Dobby managed to pass through these wards and levitate a cake onto one of my aunt and uncle's guests during an important dinner meeting. To this day, the Ministry still thinks that was me. As far as they know, Dobby was never here."

"Dobby was trying to save Harry Potter's life," Dobby said happily. "Harry Potter was a boy back then. Dobby is honoured to do so again."

"He can even pop in and out of Hogwarts without much fuss. It's astonishing that nobody's thought of this before."

The occupants of the living room of 4 Privet Drive simply gawked at the two of them, seemingly bewildered.

"Just so we're clear," Ron broke the silence, "we're going to escape using a house-elf?"

"Not just a house-elf," Harry replied scandalised. "Two house-elves." He indicated to the doorway leading into the hall, suddenly occupied by another, much older house-elf. "Most of you already know Kreacher."

The elderly house-elf took one look around before his glare fixed on Mundungus, who suddenly looked far more uneasy than he did before.

"Dirty, thieving Fletcher," Kreacher murmured under his breath, before shuffling into the room and standing to attention in front of Harry.

"How are you this evening, Kreacher?" Harry asked cordially, bowing ever so slightly to properly address the elderly house-elf.

"Kreacher is well, master. Very well."

Harry smiled.

"Good." He then turned to the rest of the room. "These two will be taking each and every one of you to your safe-houses. If all goes to plan, that lot upstairs won't realise you've gone until it's too late. Not even the Ministry should be able to track you."

"And you're sure this will work?" Remus urged from his corner of the room, having listened intensely over the past couple of minutes. Harry looked his former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in the eye and nodded.

"I'm sure."

Remus sighed, fingering the fraying edges of his jacket, pondering over the possibilities.

"Okay," he finally gave in, "it's better than nothing. We'll go one at a time. Harry, you first."

Harry shook his head.

"No, I'm going last."

Remus stared at him, his face turning deadly serious.

"That's not happening."

"I'm afraid it is," Harry disagreed, "because I won't be here for long."

"Why? Where are you going?"

The teen pointed, and Remus' eyes followed, up towards the sky.

"Absolutely not!" Remus yelled, with the rest of the Order expressing similar reactions. By this point, Hermione's face had turned deathly pale and Ron's eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets, jumping between Harry and Hermione as if screaming what on Earth to do.

"They're expecting me," Harry stated firmly. "If I'm not flying up there in person, then our spy is going to look like they were fed the wrong information and our closest link to Riddle will be gone."

"You know who the spy is?" Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke for the first time.

"Yes, I do," Harry replied, raising his hand before Kingsley could speak any further. "I can't say who it is so I need you to trust me on this. I know what I'm doing." Remus once again tried to interrupt but Harry ignored him. "After you lot have been taken to the safe-houses, only then will Dobby and Kreacher come back for me. By that time, though, I'll be exactly where I need to be."

"Where?" Mad-Eye's voice asked from the other side of the room, perhaps the only calm voice of the scene. The Auror was closely watching Harry, his face a strange mix of curiosity and scepticism, seemingly more intrigued than offended at Harry's newfound agency.

"There's a military base called RAF Northolt, not 10 miles from here," Harry said, pointing North-East. "With my Firebolt, I can make that journey in less than four minutes. When I get there, I give a signal to Northolt and they pick off any Death Eaters on my tail - which considering I'm their number one target, should be a lot."

Harry always knew his plan would be a hard sell and the astonished faces of his audiences only validated that assumption. Each of them was staring at him as if he had proposed offering himself to Voldemort on a spit and he couldn't blame them for thinking that. But then none of them knew the full truth of the situation. None of them knew just how expendable he truly was.

"You know, I think the rumours were right," one voice piped up, belonging to none other than Mundungus Fletcher. "You really have gone insane."

"Fletcher!" someone hissed back at him, likely Mad-Eye, judging from the way that Mundungus stared back at him.

"He has! Insane or bloody suicidal!"

A couple of people quickly glanced at Harry, then immediately looked away. By this point, few seemed at all composed enough to begin to untangle the tangled web of contingencies laid out in front of them.

"First of all," Kingsley began tersely, "how the hell do you think you're going to get past thirty Death Eaters without being able to cast a spell? Secondly, how will Northolt know you're coming? They're muggles! They won't even know what to fire at!"

"A friend of mine," Harry replied, "Mr Gareth Dalton." There was a great tremor that spread through certain members of the room. Harry raised an eyebrow. Evidently, that name held more weight than he had thought. Good to know. "He was at Dumbledore's funeral. He still has some connections in the RAF. I had him call in with a tip. They'll be ready. Once they see my signal, they'll begin firing in my direction."

Apparently, that perfectly reasoned response did little to douse Kingsley's nerves. He sighed once again, massaging his knotted forehead.

"It's bad enough getting the muggles involved but this only works if you make it to Northolt in one piece. This is exactly why we had decoys in the first place."

"Who said there weren't going to be decoys?"

"Potter, unless you've forgotten, we have no Polyjuice potion!"

"Who needs Polyjuice potion? I have one better. There's a very simple spell that allows me to cast a mirror image of myself for as long as I concentrate."

"You can't cast anything while you still have the trace!" Remus exclaimed.

"That's where you lot come in," Harry shot back. "It won't take long for you all to learn the spell, it only took me a few minutes. The difficult part is maintaining it and I can't do that and focus on not getting killed. That's why I need you lot to stay here. Once I'm up in the air, the copies and I will split up and fly in opposite directions, and hopefully, by the time they realise which one is the real me, I'll be well on my way to Northolt."

A murmur ran through the assembly as the pieces began to fit together. Harry was confident he was slowly winning them over, but their cooperation was still far from secure.

"Okay," Remus murmured, nodding, "so the escape I understand, but the trap only works if they figure out which one is the real you."

"The spy already knows which way I'm heading."

"And you know where their loyalties lie? What if they decide to just shoot you out of the air?

"I'm the youngest seeker in a century on the world's fastest broomstick," Harry allowed himself a momentary smirk. "I'd like to see them try."

It was then when the Weasley twins glanced at each other, shrugging.

"At this point, I'm just curious to see if it will work," George grinned.

Their smiles were banished by a stern glare from Remus, clearly nowhere near convinced. He turned back to Harry, his features schooled in a reprimand that reminded Harry of the night he had been caught red-handed looking for Peter Pettigrew with the Marauders' Map. Despite having not had a class under Remus in over three years, Harry felt like he was back in the classroom, trying to defend himself despite knowing he was in the wrong. But this time he wasn't in the wrong, was he? He was doing what was best for them. He had to hold onto that fact.

"Harry," Remus' voice was coarse, barely held, "we had a plan. It might not have been perfect, but we had one."

"You did," Harry agreed, "and it was going to get you all killed. Now we have a new plan."

"This isn't a plan, this is madness," Remus exclaimed once again. "We're supposed to be helping you, we're supposed to keep you safe-"

"What's safe anymore, Moony?" Harry challenged. "I'm a marked man. They can't risk killing me or they answer to him. Everyone else - each and every one of you - is fair game."

A switch flicked inside Remus' brain and his ire transformed into bewilderment.

"Oh, you think that's how it's going to work?" he said, his words soaked in incredulity. "Just because they can't kill you, that doesn't they can't hurt you. And they will hurt you."

"With what?" Harry scoffed, starting Remus directly in the eye. "I've been starved, beaten, poisoned, possessed, scarred, maimed, had my bones broken, tortured more than once - hell, I've nearly had my soul sucked from my body! You think they can do anything worse than that?!"

He could feel his body shaking despite himself. His vision was blurring at the edges and his voice was cracking at the seams. Damn it, he was supposed to be in control here. He was supposed to be composed. Harry took a deep breath, balling his fists, fighting to remain calm.

Throughout his speech, the colour in Remus' face had slowly drained away. Now, his once teacher was gazing at him, grey like a stone statue, as if seeing Harry properly for the first time. The rest of the room wore similar faces, ranging from shock to guilt to anger. To Harry's shame, Hermione's face was the worst. He had told her a few things, some of them she had lived alongside him, but there was still so little she knew about what he had suffered. Despite the many walls she had knocked down in their time together, she had yet to truly see the depths of how ruined he was. Harry was unsure if he would ever let anyone get down that far. He might not even have the time.

"I can handle pain," he forced himself to articulate. "That's nothing new. I don't care if they break every bone in my body but I am not letting anyone else die for me! And you don't get to decide how many lives I'm worth!"

"You are not going to get yourself killed because you think you have something to prove-" Remus began, ready to launch into a tirade, when Hermione finally decided enough was enough.

"Professor," she uttered so abruptly that it stopped Remus in his tracks. He fell silent, allowing Hermione to take control. She approached Harry carefully, taking both arms in her hands. "Harry, I want you to tell Dobby to take you first."

Harry shook his head, unable to meet her gaze.

"No."

"I'm not joking."

"Neither am I." He took her hands in his. "I've planned all of this, every detail. There's no way it couldn't-"

"You don't have to do this, Harry," she whispered, almost pleading. "Not for me, not for anyone. I don't want you up by yourself. Please, please let us find another way."

The sheer turmoil in her voice made Harry's heart crack.

This amazing person, who was willing to risk her life for him, over and over again. Harry genuinely didn't know what he would do without her, and here the Order was, trying to dress her up and send her into a maelstrom, possibly to die. And she wasn't the only one. Hermione was one of many decoys, one of many people he cared about, who were worth more than he ever would be. People, with lives and futures and families to take care of. What was Harry Potter compared to that?

"Not if I want to keep you safe." He forced himself to pull away from her grasp, for fear he might stay there forever. "Look, you've all done more than enough for me."

"You know, surprisingly, mate, this isn't just about you," Ron spoke from the other side of him, his voice tinged in something that caught Harry entirely off-guard. Harry didn't think he had ever heard Ron be actively disappointed in him, but this might just be his first taste.

This wasn't like the rare jealous remark or livid shouting he had been forced to hear but a few times in their long friendship. And here they were now, with Ron looking at him like he didn't even recognise him anymore. Ron, the one who no matter stupid the plan, no matter what the danger, was always ready to help. Ron, his brother, making him feel like a stranger.

Not for the first time that night, but perhaps most poignantly, Harry felt his confidence stumble. He gave Ron one fleeting glance and moved on.

"Look," Harry continued, "we've got about ten minutes before I have to be at Northolt. You can help me now, or you can let Dobby and Kreacher take you to safety. Either way, in six minutes, I'll be up in the air. You want to start learning the spell now or later?"

Finally returning to the quarrel, Remus spoke up, shaking his head.

"No. We're going up there with you," he insisted, scanning the room for volunteers, "with or without Polyjuice."

"I don't think so," Harry scoffed.

"No arguments!" Remus roared. "We're not going to let you fly up there all by yourself, even with decoys!"

"Oh, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

"How?"

Remus paused.

"I'm sorry?"

Harry shrugged.

"How are you going to follow me?"

"What…" Remus froze for a moment, before tearing off into the hallway. Harry heard the front door open and footsteps on asphalt. By this time, Tonks had twigged as well. Her face, even her hair, had turned ghostly white.

"Oh, no you didn't-" she sputtered as she too hurried outside. "No, you didn't!"

"Didn't what?" Fred asked. "What did he do?"

"What the hell's going on?" Bill echoed from beside Fleur.

"Hagrid!" Arthur Weasley called from the living room window, having moved there to investigate. The giant in question, along with the entire Order, turned in Arthur's direction. "Hagrid, where's your bike?"

"Shoul' be jus' on the pavemen'," Hagrid replied, jostling people out of the way and leaning down to peak through the window. "It was righ' there, I know it!"

"Where's Dobby?" Hermione pointed out, swivelling around madly. "Where's Kreacher? They were just—"

Her eyes sought Harry and found him standing casually in the middle of the room, tipping back and forth on the balls of his feet. His gaze met hers and he quickly looked elsewhere.

Not a moment later, Remus returned to the living room, marching up to Harry with a face of pure fury.

"Tell them to bring them back," he growled.

"No."

"Harry-!" His bellow cut itself off as Remus reigned himself in, his fists clenched so hard that Harry was worried his knuckles would breach the skin. "For the love of God, Harry, please just think!"

"I have, Moony, more than I ever have in my life. I know I can do this."

"If they cotton on to the real you, you won't be able to defend yourself, you'll be a sitting duck- You'll get yourself killed!"

"Not without a wand, I can't, but luckily I happen to have a bunch of new toys," Harry grinned, jostling the bag on his back, "all thanks to those two."

He pointed to the pair of redheads standing to the side of the room, who suddenly looked unusually uncomfortable being the centre of attention.

"You two…" their father seethed.

"You were helping him plan all this?" Tonks accused.

"What? No, not this!" George quickly replied, his hands raised high.

"We thought he just bored," Fred added, copying his brother. "You know what his family's like!"

"They didn't know," Harry shrugged. "Sorry, lads."

"This is not a game, Harry!" Remus insisted. "This is not Hogwarts! This is life and death and you'll only get one chance at this!"

"Sounds like every other year at Hogwarts to me," Harry replied. He glanced around at the rest of the company. "So, who's helping me?"

After an arduous few moments of silence, Mad-Eye Moody gave a single grunt and hobbled towards him.

"If you wanna get yourself killed, fine by me."

The room turned on the aged Auror, but if there was anyone to be unaffected but the attention, it would be Mad-Eye Moody. He limped over on his staff dwarfing Harry even with his hunched frame.

"You- You can't be serious." Tonks sputtered

"Far as I see it the brat's got us well and truly hogtied," Moody growled, fixing Harry with a petrifying stare, "so if he's confident about his little plan then I say we humour him. And whatever happens, he can be the one to deal with it."

Harry blinked. He really thought that it would be Moody he'd have the most trouble convincing to play along, but apparently, the old Auror was still full of surprises. Though, he didn't exactly look all on board. No, the look on Moody's face at the moment was begrudging acceptance. He seemed angrier at himself than at Harry.

"Careful, Mad-Eye," Harry grinned, "that was almost a compliment."

"Cut the crap, Potter, and teach me this blasted spell." Harry knew it was wrong to prod the man in that way that he had, but he could hardly resist. He had just got one up on Mad-Eye Moody. Amount of people on the planet who could say that was probably in the single digits!

"Anyone else?" Harry offered. "Really, now's the time."

One by one, the more experienced members of the Order gathered around him, as the rest were escorted to another room by the newly reappeared Dobby and Kreacher. Eventually, the only person left standing on their own was Hermione, still staring in Harry's direction with a conflicted expression on her face. Before long however her mind was made up and she marched over to the small group surrounding him, her wand ready.

"Alright," Harry smiled. "The spell goes like-"

"I know how it goes," Hermione responded with none of her usual warmth.

Harry sobered in an instant. Right, of course, she knew it. Why wouldn't she?

Though, as Harry surveyed the people waiting patiently for his instruction, he noticed that her attitude far from an outlier. Perhaps, Harry pondered, he really had pushed things too far this time.

In stark contrast to the subdued anxiety at the beginning of the evening, there now sat a thinly-veiled discontent amongst the group. No one seemed happy to be following his instruction, and Harry was sure if there were any other way out, they would have eagerly taken it. They were just as trapped by his will as by the Ministry, or rather the Death Eaters than ruled it behind the curtain.

Welcome to my life, Harry thought to himself.

"Right, everyone gather around, we don't have much time."

Amidst the shroud of night, a few dozen shadowy figures waited, circling the skies above Privet Drive like sharks in water. Each of them had their eyes peeled keenly on the house, waiting for any sign of movement.

Any second now, Harry Potter's escape party would make their departure. Though they were safe for now, behind wards that no spell nor body could surpass, the moment they breached the protections, they were fair game. All except for Potter himself.

The boy was for the Dark Lord only. The rest were disposable. And disposed of, they shall be. As far as every person in that house knew, they were running in an empty night. That couldn't be further from the truth. Severus Snape had not seen a force like this since Voldemort's fall. He had wondered if the Dark Lord's army would ever reach the heights of that which almost conquered Britain but seventeen years ago. Now, however, he expected the dark contingent to excel those bygone numbers.

The war was tipping ever out the Order's favour. He could only hope that Dumbledore's threads would pull together in the end. That is if Potter weren't trying his very best to muck it all up. What the hell was that boy doing? Did he really think he knew better than someone like Albus Dumbledore? Just because he tutored under the man for a time. There was no place for arrogance in war and Potter's was likely going to get him killed.

"We've got movement!" He heard MacNair shout from his side. And indeed there was.

A group of dark shape were emerging from Privet Drive. Five- no, seven- no, ten blurs shooting out of the veranda like bullets from a gun. They shot up through the air, arcing up into the moonlight on broomsticks, identical in size and shape. The decoys, Snape recognised. However, the rest of the Order was curiously missing. Each Potter was supposed to be accompanied by an escort in several means of transportation to confuse the enemy. These flyers all looked to be travelling alone. And there was only ten of them, rather than the thirteen that Snape knew had entered the house.

The moment their brooms passed the bounds of the house's protection, the Death Eaters attacked. The air devolved into a storm of spells hurling past each other, trying to fit their target.

Only, no matter how many spells they shot, not one ever met their mark. Even with ten individual targets, their curses hit anything but. The decoys were too fast, their speed and handling with a broomstick unrivalled.

Severus dared flying as close as he could to one of the decoys, trying to get a closer look, but every time he got close, they spooked away. In the madness of the firefight, tracking the decoys' path was merely impossible. Sometimes they flew straight into the line of fire, only to swerve. Some darted across the sky like they couldn't even see the chaos around them.

He needed to take a step back and get a different perspective on the scene. Severus pushed away from the chaos, flying a ways back in a tactical retreat before an errant curse blew his head from his shoulders. Leaning back on his broom, he got a good look at the commotion and immediately noticed what was wrong.

Somehow, all of the Potters were moving in perfect unison. Whenever one potter swerved, the other would copy exactly. Whenever one dipped, the others dipped, regardless of their own danger. It was as if they were mirror images of each other. They even looked identical, all flying the same broom, carrying the same bag, wearing the same clothes. Even their body language was indistinguishable. They were all Harry Potter. None of them was Harry Potter? All but one of them?

"They all look the same!" Someone bellowed in the melee. "Who do we kill?"

Before Severus could decipher which Potter was the original, the clones performed one last twirl high above the swarm, before each tore off towards the horizon in separate directions.

"Which one do we follow?"

"All of them!" Severus shouted back. "Don't let them get away!"

It was as the dark contingent split itself into groups, each picking a target to chase when Severus finally remembered the message that Mundungus drunkenly regurgitated to him in the Leaky Cauldron.

Give chase North-East.

His head swivelled, searching for the moon, only to for him to give up and discreetly conjure a compass. He aligned himself, just as Potter's distant silhouette crested the horizon, dodging oncoming spell-fire. The spy gripped the hilt of his broomstick and sped off into the night.

Chapter Text

Harry honestly believed he had never flown this fast before. Very rarely had the occasion called for the true limits of his Firebolt's speed. Now, however, with two- no, three Death Eaters barrelling towards him, intent on sending his corpse to the ground, Harry was pushing the broom as hard as it would go. The whistle of wind bushing past his ears was almost deafening. He could feel every inch of his body pushing through the air until the skin of his face sat flat against his skull.

He chanced a glance to his rear. Three, four Death Eaters on his tail - they too pushing their brooms to the limits - and Harry didn't doubt that there would be more to come. Even though he knew he had the advantage when it came to speed, they had full use of their wands to compensate. It would be all too easy for him to lose focus and get hit with a stray spell. He had to concentrate on where he was going.

On the tip of his broom handle, Harry had stuck a small, portable compass, calibrated to point him North-East. He had never paid attention in Astronomy classes, so he didn't trust his ability to chart by the stars. He had thought to try and send them on a wild goose chase, weaving past villages, eventually making his way to Northolt. This was scrapped when Mr Dalton pointed out that the longer he spent in the air, the more likely he'd get killed. He suggested Harry go as the crow flies. If he kept the Firebolt at its top speed of 150mph, all the way to Northolt, he'd get there in less than four minutes. All he had to do was keep flying in the right direction, according to the red line on his compass dial.

Harry looked up from his handle, just in time to see a silhouette racing towards him. He swerved out of the way, sending the death eater sailing past his body. Looking back, he saw his assailant circle back and join the ever-growing pack on his tail. However, they were not the only new arrival. As Harry turned to readjust, he saw two more silhouettes appear right in front of him, materialising out of thin air. They were apparating, Harry realised, to make up for the difference in speed. Granted, having played Quidditch for six years straight, they were easy enough to avoid, but it would only take them one lucky shot. Their numbers would grow, very soon. He had to start whittling them down. He had to get out of the open air.

Harry scanned the ground for anything that he could use as a trap, and quickly found a long line of headlights. A motorway, Harry realised. He pushed down onto the handle of his broom, entering a long dive to the ground. He could tell without looking that the Death Eaters had copied his descent. He kept his broom pinned straight down as the tarmac raced towards him. He waited, with bated breath, as the gap between him and the road steadily closed, until he could just make out the grooves in the surface. He immediately reared up with all of his strength until this broom was parallel to the ground and surged forward. And just like that, Harry Potter pulled off a perfect Wronski feint, to great success. He heard the satisfying snap of two broomsticks colliding with the road.

Not bothering to look back, Harry needled past the nearest cars, weaving between vehicles faster than he ever thought possible. Gliding no more than a couple of feet from the ground, he zigzagged through traffic, using the traffic as cover from the next spell. One by one car alarms lit up as each vehicle took the brunt of a devastating spell. Luckily, with the target being so low to the ground, none of the curses hit the occupants, just cresting the bumpers or shattering a rear window or two.

As quickly as he could, Harry reached into his bag and grabbed the first thing his fingers touched. Gripping the paint bomb in one hand, he reared up and somersaulted into the air. He waited for the Death Eaters to fly past him, only to zip past them into the opposite lane, right into the path of oncoming traffic. Those brave few that followed Harry, kept to just above the vehicles, not daring to copy him as he skimmed across the tarmac, darting between lanes.

Glancing back, Harry tightened his grip on the handle of his broom and jerked it to the side. As he turned mid-air, he chucked the paint bomb as hard as he could at the nearest Death Eater. The bomb exploded, sending paint flying in all directions. The death eater he targeted, now covered head-to-toe in luminous pink paint, cried out in panic. That cry was cut short a second later, as they immediately collided with an oncoming vehicle that they had failed to notice.

Grabbing another paint bomb from the bag, Harry hastily repeated the process before the other realised what had happened. He lobbed a second at a pair on the other side of the motorway. The bomb exploded, its modified explosion radius easily dousing them both in paint. The two Death Eaters wobbled in the air, unable to see where they were going, only to crash into one another and fall into the road beneath them. Harry took hold of another, just as he noticed a Death Eater apparate in front of him. In alarm, Harry threw the paint bomb and hit the Death Eater square in the face. He swerved as the cloaked rider, now dripping with paint, just missed him. Harry's eyes followed their path, which led right into another death eater. The two collided in a mess of broomsticks and cloaks, crashing violently onto the tarmac behind him. Harry was about to celebrate when he noticed a bright beam of headlights reflected in the back of his glasses. He swivelled on his broom only to come face to face with a truck barrelling towards him. Harry swerved his broom as hard as he could into the opposite lane. The lorry missed him by the breadth of a hair.

Not wanting to risk another collision, Harry took to the skies once more. He looked down to realign his compass and took off as fast as he could. Glancing back, he noticed the crowd of Death Eaters had shrunk to a mere two. Far more manageable, but it wouldn't be like that for long. The more time he spent in the air, one by one each of his clones would disappear, as their caster was taken to their safe-houses by Dobby and Kreacher. And as each clone disappeared, the Death Eaters that were chasing them would eventually start chasing after him instead.

Harry scanned the ground for anything he could use to pick off an unlucky few and found a body of water. A small reservoir, in the middle of marshland. His broom descended until he was hovering above the water, his speed casting ripples on the surface. There were four on his tail now, with one slowly creeping towards him, daring to try and take him on personally. This would only work in Harry's favour.

Once again turning to his bag of many tricks, Harry rummaged until his fingers touched a spherical, abrasive object. The Weasley Blasting Bath Bomb, one of their experimental pranks that they deemed a bit too extreme for the general public.

Harry readied the bath bomb, just as a couple of Death Eaters were closing the gap. Slowly down ever so slightly to lure them in, he waited until they were but feet away and threw the bomb straight down into the reservoir. The water exploded behind him in a flurry of boiling water, sending his attackers careening into the nearby bank. A small crack, just barely audible on the wind, told him they didn't land well.

In the confusion, Harry circled back on the rest, producing a roll of Weasley Silly String. Casting the line out wide, he looped around as many of his cloaked assailants as he could. The thin, sticky thread caught the handle of one of their brooms, just as Harry severed his side of the line. The Death Eaters, too busy focusing on trying to hit their target, didn't notice the string condensing and tightening until they were being pulled together. In seconds, they were encased in thin ropes harder than concrete. Those caught in the string smashed into each other, falling into the depth of the reservoir and sinking beneath the surface.

Even with those small victories, Harry couldn't tell if his efforts were making any progress. It seemed like every time he dispatched one Death Eater, two more would appear to take their place. He had to get drastic if he was going to make a dent.

Spying a tall, metal structure not a quarter of a mile away, Harry ascended above the treetops, coursing over open fields towards his target. The group baring down on him was slowly condensing into a swarm, their ebony cloaks somehow darkening the pitch-black midnight sky.

Rummaging in his bag, Harry prepared yet another Weasley invention for use. His eyes fixed on the tall, metal pylon in front of him, getting closer and closer to him. Slowing down to once again entice any who dared, he aimed his broom down at the base of the tower

Just as he was about to hit its foundations, Harry changed course and flew straight up along the height of the pylon. He arced elegantly through the structure, weaving his way past the live wires. Glancing back for just a moment, he saw a few dark shapes following his exact pattern.

He grasped the clump of Weasley Wide-Wrap Webs and threw them with all of his might at the pylon.

His aim was perfect. The Death Eaters that followed him rammed straight into the billowing material, caught on its sticky surface like flies. The edges spread wide and far, wrapping themselves around the only points it could find: the pylon itself.

Harry swivelled to continue his escape, only to hear a loud bang and sizzle from behind him. One of the Death Eaters must have tried using a cutting hex to free themselves because the web had suddenly burst into flame and fried its catch. Harry pushed it from his mind and raced in the direction his compass dictated.

Even with his many tricks, there were still a dozen silhouettes shadowing him in the sky. If it came to defending himself against that many Death Eaters, he'd stand no chance. He had to get to Northolt as soon as possible. Checking the small electronic wristwatch he had stolen from Dudley, he noted that it had been around three and a half minutes since he left Privet Drive. By now, Harry was sure most of the Order had been evacuated, meaning that now, without his decoys, the attention would be all on him.

The ground opened up into farmland, allowing him to push his Firebolt to the very limit and keep it there. A barrage of spells lit up the air around him as curse after curse was fired his way, some of them far too close for comfort. He hoped to all hell that Northolt was close. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep dodging and swerving for much longer. Even his most rigorous Quidditch matches hadn't been this intense. He was pushing his body and his broom to their very limits.

The amount of physical exertion needed to fly in the way he had been was sapping Harry's energy quicker than he anticipated. Not only that, he didn't even have a second to relax, constantly checking the compass, his rear, the ground beneath and the air in front of him, making sure he wasn't in the line of fire.

Harry was starting to realise just how much trouble he was really in. He doubted he would last much more than a few minutes, especially not in the area he was in now. As much favour as the open-air gave him in terms of speed, the lack of cover was almost worse. The most he had were some passing hedges, maybe a car or two. Apart from that, all he could do was twist and turn and hope that he wasn't hit.

Eventually, however, after dodging yet another curse intended for his head, Harry looked up to the horizon and found a glorious sight. A long runway, adjacent to a group of bunkers, lit up by surrounding buildings.

There it was! RAF Northolt, finally in sight. And he was but half a mile away.

Realising now was the time, Harry reached into his bag one last time and took out his final trick, one that the Weasley twins had invented back in Harry's fifth year, which they used to great effect to cause havoc in Hogwarts' halls. Wildfire Whiz-Bangs, mischievous fireworks that were as bright as they were loud. Except these ones were the outdoor variety, far more powerful than the measly firecrackers Fred and George used to prank Umbridge. Just one of these would get the attention of people for miles around, and he had several.

He readied the Whiz-Bang, reaching for a lighter to set them off.

A flash of red passed just by his eyes. CRACK!

Fiery pain erupted in his arm. The muscles in his fingers spasmed, dropping the fireworks. Harry cried out in panic, reaching out to try and catch the Whiz-Bangs, only to cry out as another spark of pain ran up his arm. His arm hung loose, screaming in agony. Harry looked at it, trying to move it. The limb proved useless. It was indeed broken.

Ignoring the pain for a moment, Harry removed his good hand from his broom handle to stuff his broken arm in his jacket. He hissed at the contact, quickly shielding his useless limb in the safety of his clothes. He scanned the world beneath him, looking desperately for the fireworks, only to realise that they had fallen into the grass far behind him. There were too many Death Eaters on his tail to turn back, even if he knew where to look.

Harry's mind raced, trying desperately to think up a solution. He didn't know whether it was the shock, pain or panic, but his brain just wasn't cooperating. No spells, no other tricks were coming to mind. He had no spare fireworks to light up, and even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to light them with only one hand.

At least he still had Dobby and Kreacher. It was coming up on the time, according to his watch. They shouldn't be long now. All he had to do was last a few more seconds and they'd be here. Any second now.

He looped in the air, avoiding spell-fire, as the seconds ticked by and the house-elves were nowhere to be seen. What happened? This was the plan! Why weren't they here?

Harry waited a few seconds more, and another few seconds after that. The Death Eaters were approaching, more now than ever, like an angry swarm ready to cut him down. Still, the distinctive pop of a house-elf's arrival was nowhere to be heard. It was looking more and more likely that he had been abandoned to his fate.

Everywhere he turned, another flock of Dead Eaters appeared until the entire sky was blocked out by dark robes. No matter where he looked, they were blocking the gaps for his escape. He was vastly outnumbered, hovering above the fields outside of Northolt.

Harry was completely alone.

As if it couldn't get any worse, a splitting pain erupted in Harry's head. His scar was burning. His heart stopped as he realised what was happening. A shade like the visage of death itself - its face deathly pale, its eyes blood red - made itself known. Harry didn't need to look twice.

Lord Voldemort was here, floating like a shadow of the air, staring down at him viciously.

Harry's heart fell into his stomach and his blood ran cold. The Horcrux in his head rang like a death toll. Harry had faced certain death before, many times, but this was different. There was no one here to help him, no secret escape plan or loophole he could exploit. If Dobby and Kreacher weren't coming and he couldn't send a signal to Northolt, then he really was on his own. And there was nothing more he could do to stop what was coming.

The Dark Lord raised his wand, eager to end it all. Harry, realising that he had nowhere left to run, and no tricks left to pull, lifted his own wand in defiance - trace be damned. He heard laughter from all around him, mocking his meagre protest, but he refused to listen. This was about him and Riddle. It always had been.

Their eyes met, time slowed to a crawl. This was always going to happen. From the moment he was born, this moment had been decided.

He was going to die, right here, right now.

He hadn't told Hermione he loved her, but that was okay, he told himself. Better for her to never know than to live with the loss of what could have been. He only hoped the rest of the Order didn't feel too bad about it. Ron and Hermione would make sure to tell them about how it had to happen, how it made them all safer in the end. His death would not be in vain. He'd finally be worth all the trouble he'd put everyone through. They'd finally be free of him.

And him? He'd finally get to rest. No more pain. No more disappointing others. No more of his miserable life. Just sleep. This was right, Harry told himself, even as his heart ached for more and every instinct in his body screamed for him to run away. A voice that sounded so much like Hermione, begging him to live or at least not give up just yet. Fight on, Harry. Come back to me.

But Harry had no more fight left in him. Seemed like all he did nowadays was fight, fight to get out of bed, fight to stay held together, fight to carry on knowing that he'd have no reward in the end. Maybe he didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live this life anymore either.

So, come on, Tom, Harry thought, locking eyes with the Dark Lord in the hope that he would hear every word, let's do this one more time. I'll go easy on you if you want.

And then the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard cried out in the darkness.

Harry turned, Riddle forgotten, only to find a streak of dazzling fire soaring towards him. Bright orange, tipped with red, alight in a glorious display, so bright that not even the night could dim it. It was like looking into the sun.

It came straight for him and Harry reached out his good hand as a pair of taloned feet stretched their digits. He could see Riddle panicking, waving his wand in what he knew was the killing curse. A flash of green entered his peripheral vision, just as Fawkes touched the fabric of his jacket, digging in painfully.

His world exploded in a ball of fire and Harry Potter disappeared.

The Death Eaters were left alone, levitating around an empty spot, and Voldemort exploded in a furious bellow. His followers glanced at each other wondering what on earth had just happened, what they could possibly do now.

That was until a loud bang echoed from the North-East and one of their own fell like a downed pigeon. And then another, and another. A hail of objects, small, sharp and gleaming, came rushing past them, in the hundreds, thousands, it was hard to tell.

Some tried to fly away, only to be caught in their escape. Some tried shielding themselves, but the objects broke through their shields like rocks through glass. Those who didn't have the common sense to apparate away were left to die, riddled with bullets falling upon them like rain.

Riddle abandoned them all, disappearing as instantaneously as he arrived, leaving his followers to be cut down by the forces of RAF Northolt. Their lives mattered little to him, far less than his own. He had to survive. Everyone else in the world was expendable.

There was a fraction of a second where Harry felt the air shift around him before he felt himself careening into the long grass. His body sprawled, folding awkwardly against his broom and his holstered arm. By the time his muscles tensed to firm the impact, he was already rolling to a stop.

He came to rest in a heap, face up against the earth. Harry breathed, trying to calm his racing heart, to dim the buzz inside his head so he could think again.

All at once, the adrenaline faded away and the pain came crashing down on him. His broken arm throbbed angrily against his chest, a seething pain in his shoulder blades made itself known, and he felt a long sharp sensation of his broom pressing into his leg. Harry grasped the handle and threw it up and away from his body. Rolling onto his good arm, he pushed up against the ground, using the rucksack on his back as a support.

He almost reached an upright position, only for his shaking limb to buckle, dropping him onto his side. Harry knew trying again any time soon would be useless, so he took a second to rest, staring out over the meadow he had been dropped into. It was a clear sky. The night was speckled with stars, twinkling in the blackness. A cool breeze brushed against his face.

Exhaustion clung to his very being.

Harry wished he could stay here, in this calm and quiet moment. It would be so easy to fall asleep here and never wake up. He imagined being left here, for all eternity, to let the grass slowly eat him whole, all for the world to forget him. What a way for it all to end, in silence.

He almost had an end. He was fully ready to die back there, in the skies above Northolt. In but a few seconds, he had made peace with it, readied himself to pass on into the next great adventure, as Dumbledore always said. Then the next second, he was alive. Now, the end was even further away. And between now and then, and endless struggle.

A soft flutter and a chirp signalled the arrival of Fawkes. Harry turned his head to the Phoenix in its full glory, a far cry from the hatchling he saw at Dumbledore's funeral. He put on his best smile, reaching out to stroke the feathers on the bird's head.

"That's two I owe you now," he whispered softly. "Thank you."

The Phoenix responded with a jubilant song that soaked into his bones and filled him with warmth.

Harry heard his name being called in the distance, but he didn't call back, too enraptured to want to interrupt Fawkes' melody. It wasn't until he could make out the sound of grass being trodden underfoot that Harry was finally drawn out of his trance.

"Harry!" Remus said, who, accompanied by Arthur Weasley, was reaching down to check him over.

"I'm fine," Harry replied as the two men hooked their arms underneath his shoulders to hoist him up. "It's just my arm. I think it's broken."

Harry moved his legs as best he could as he was carried towards what he now realised was the Burrow.

"No one going to thank me?" he joked, only to fall silent when he realised neither of them was smiling.

"I don't think anyone's going to be doing that," Remus replied tersely and said no more.

They were approaching the garden path leading to the main house. By that time, Molly Weasley was already hurrying towards them, Fleur in tow with a tray of medical equipment - bottles and bandages galore, so many that the tray was overflowing.

"What happened?" she said hurriedly. "Is he alright?"

"He's alive," Arthur replied, hurrying him into the kitchen. "Arm's broken, but otherwise…"

They sat him down at the head of the table, just as Harry's legs gave way, allowing him to collapse into a chair. He hissed as his arm jostled painfully in his jacket.

With practised ease that Harry had only seen in Madam Pomfrey before now, Molly carefully extracted his arm and laid it onto the table, cutting through his jacket sleeve to get a closer look. The Weasley matriarch tutted, reaching into the tray as Fleur leaned closer to get a better look. Harry only managed a quick glance before he cringed away. His forearm was bent at an awkward angle, the skin a raw, angry red.

Molly shoved a blue bottle into his hand.

"Drink this," she ordered, and Harry complied.

He downed the potion before he had the chance to even smell it, and his tongue was assaulted with a stinging sensation. He spluttered but kept the liquid down as the stinging sensation travelled down his gullet and into his chest. Before long, however, the searing pain in his arm began to weaken to a dull throb.

"Now don't move that arm, I'm going to set it," Mrs Weasley explained. Harry nodded, making sure to stay still, even as a shot of agony spiked down it every time Mrs Weasley moved it, readying a cast.

"I'll admit I expected worse," a familiar, elderly voice remarked from the corner of the kitchen. "You must be a damn good flyer, Mister Potter."

Harry glanced up, past the table to the opposite side of the room, where a familiar face was staring back at him.

"Mr Dalton," Harry greeted tiredly, hissing as Mrs Weasley lifted his arm into a bandage wrap. "What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you arrived safely, my boy," the old man smiled keenly. "And it's a good thing, too. I presume you've thanked Fawkes for saving your life."

And the sound of his name, Fawkes made his entrance, swooping through an open window into the kitchen, landing just in front of Harry.

"Yeah," Harry nodded, winking at Fawkes. "Yeah, I have"

Mr Dalton clicked his tongue and Fawkes flapped onto the man's shoulder.

"I shan't be here in the morning, Mr Potter," He said, stroking Fawkes' plumage, "so I'll say my goodbyes now."

He tipped his flat cap and strode carefully to the kitchen door, his cane tapping against the stone tiles as he went. He was about to open the door when he sighed and turned back.

"Harry," he said, staring the young man in the eye, "Albus is gone. You can only follow him so far." He adjusted the cravat around his neck, turning the doorknob and opening the door, allowing a gust of chilled air to breeze into the room. "I'm sorry about your friend. Goodnight."

A sinking sensation settled in the pit of Harry's chest

"My friend?" he asked, but Mr Dalton had already closed the door. A few seconds later he had disappeared in a burst of phoenix fire. Harry then turned to the adults standing around him, fixing his arm in its new cast. "What did he mean?"

Mrs Weasley gave Remus a quick look that told Harry more than words ever could.

"That should do for now. It should be healed by morning. Take him upstairs to the guest room," she said. "I'll tell the others he's safe."

"I want to see them-"

"No," Remus refused. "Molly's right, I'm taking you upstairs. You and I need to talk."

"What happened?" Harry insisted as Remus lifted him from his seat. "Is everyone alright?"

But no one answered. Even as Harry repeatedly, all but shouting, begging anyone to just tell him what had happened when he was gone. Pulling on his good arm, Remus led him one, two, three flights of stairs - Harry noticed along the way that every room was occupied, spying the lights underneath the doorways, hearing indistinct voices from behind the closed doors. They eventually came to the guest room, a small room meant for only one person. He led Harry inside, helping him onto the single bed that lay inside. The room was small, but it fit him and Remus well enough, decorated with only a few basic pieces of furniture. Harry noticed, as Remus went to get the door, that his luggage was nowhere to be seen, likely still downstairs.

The door closed, leaving him and Remus alone in the small bedroom. Now alone, with no other distractions, no more tricks for him to pull, all laid bare, the mood was tense. Remus stared down at him, shaking his head as if simply dumbfounded at the sight of him.

"That was reckless," Remus remarked brusquely.

Harry shrugged, ignoring the pain in his arm.

"Well, at least it-"

"Enough." The fire in Remus' voice made Harry flinch. The man's arms were crossed so tightly that Harry could see them shaking. "You're going to listen to me now because what you did tonight was monumentally stupid, arrogant and completely self-serving and you are NEVER to do anything like that again!"

In all the years that Harry had known Remus, he had never known him this angry. It was like seeing a new side to the man, a sobering one that made shame radiate from Harry's core.

"You almost died tonight! If it hadn't been for Fawkes, who knows what might have happened. And when I get my hands on that Mr Dalton fellow…"

"At least you lot were safe."

"No, we weren't," Remus rebutted. Harry looked up at him, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Remus took a moment to make sure he had Harry's attention before explaining. "It wasn't long after you left that the Death Eaters, what few didn't chase you, began attacking the house. And because the Blood Wards fell as soon as you left, we were sitting ducks. Kreacher bought enough time for us to get out, but it was close."

Harry's defiance cracked into a thousand pieces. How the hell did he not realise that would happen? They must have turned right back around as soon as they figured out the trick with the decoys. Because of course, they would. But he didn't take that into account. He thought his plan was bulletproof.

"And how is he?" he asked desperately, his own feelings forgotten. "And Dobby? Are they okay?"

"Dobby's exhausted himself but he should be fine," Remus replied. "He's sleeping in the living room."

"Kreacher?"

Remus sighed and Harry felt like he was falling through the mattress.

"… Harry, I'm sorry."

And just like that, Harry landed. A great weight settled onto his chest, pushing down around him. The walls of the room closed in around him.

"No…"

"He took a killing curse intended for one of us," Remus explained. "I don't know who from. His body is downstairs."

Killing curse… body downstairs… Kreacher… dead. That was all his brain could process. Everything in his head fell apart, the cogs dislocating. And as they began turning again, the horror only deepened into an abyss.

Kreacher had only just been freed from that wretched Horcrux's grip over Grimmauld Place. He had been improving, steadily coming out of his shell after all those years of torment. And now he was dead. That poor elf had lived a horrid existence for so long and just as it had begun to get better, it was snatched away. Harry had taken it from him. Harry had forced him to stay. It was his stupid, stupid, stupid plan that forced him to be there. And Dobby too. If he had died as well-

It was his fault. It was always his fault. Another screw-up, another disappointment. He had failed, again, just like so many times before, and he had hurt others. He was going to be the death of everyone he loved. His friends were going to die.

"Harry?" Despite him standing only a few feet away, Remus' voice sounded so very distant. It was barely there before something else took its place. And Harry didn't know what else to say

"I got him killed…"

"Harry-"

"It should have been me," he gasped. The weight on his chest was crushing him now. His head was spinning. The walls were right up against him. He didn't know where he was. It was all going dark. "It should… it… help me!"

He saw Remus kneel down in front of him, carefully approaching him.

"Harry," he called out to him, "I need you to breathe now."

"Why does this keep happening?" Harry cried, shrinking in on himself. His whole body was shaking violently. "I keep getting it wrong. I got Sirius and Dumbledore killed and now-"

"They were not your fault."

"YES THEY WERE!" he roared, clawing at his face desperately. "I'M- Sh- Should have left me behind. Why do I have to keep doing this?" Tears were streaming down his face, soaking his jeans. All composure had vanished. "I don't want to fight any more. I just… I just want to die."

Despite it being a whisper, it felt like a bombshell. The room descended into complete silence, besides Harry's occasional gasp for air. He was sure Remus had forgotten to breathe. Harry felt the seconds tick by, waiting for Remus to walk away, to realise how lost Harry truly was, that he wasn't worth the trouble. And Harry waited to be left alone, just like he always was. Just like how he had lived the first eleven years of his life, shut away in a dark hole and ignored. Left to rot, like the waste of space he was.

Except that wasn't what happened. The door never opened, no footsteps walking away. Harry heard the floorboards creak as Remus moved closer, and he felt two heavy hands rest on his shoulders.

"You don't want that," he heard Remus say, his voice solemn and raw. "You think you do, right now, but that's not it… You just want it to get better. And it can, Harry. I know because I've been there."

For a moment, Harry wondered how the hell Remus of all people could understand how he felt. That was until he remembered the kind of life the man had lived. To his shame, Harry realised how, in many ways, Remus was considerably less fortunate than himself. The man in front of him had at one point lost his closest friends, had no family, no prospects, and yet he had grown into one of the best men that Harry knew. Maybe Remus didn't understand exactly what he was going through, but he at least could relate to feeling like there was no way forward. That state of mind that made every tomorrow a burden, an endless tunnel with no light at the end. Except apparently Remus had been through that tunnel and came out the other side as someone better. Someone who believed that life was worth living.

"Don't give up, not now," his uncle in all but blood spoke, the closest thing he had left to a father figure, except maybe Hagrid. "Your life isn't over yet. You can still make it a good one. You've given more than any of us to make it happen and I'm so proud of you. I know James would be, too, and Lily. You've done so much more than any of us could ever ask of you.

"Kreacher died protecting us; that was his choice. And so did Sirius, James and Lily. I'm not asking you to honour them, just to recognise that they didn't die for nothing. You're a good man, Harry. Better than most. Every single person in this house would risk their life if it meant they could help you because we believe in you. Not the prophecy; not fate. You, Harry. Tonight hasn't changed that.

"We were angry, yes, because you deliberately put yourself in danger. Maybe you don't want help, maybe you just want to fight this war alone, but if you do, you won't get very far. And if you do want us to help you, that's good, but you need to help us, too. You need to talk to us, to anyone. It doesn't have to be me, but please don't keep it bottled up inside. Don't do that to yourself."

Harry felt a part of arms wrap around his shoulders, one hand patting his back in solidarity.

"You're not alone in this, Harry," Remus whispered. "You never were."

And nothing else was needed.

The man rose and gave his shoulder one last squeeze. "Now, get some sleep. We'll talk more about this in the morning."

It was as Remus was walking to the door when Harry finally found his voice again.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out. "I'm… I'm really sorry… I thought…"

Remus raised his hand, shaking his head.

"Rest," he ordered softly. "What's done is done. Besides, it's not me you need to apologise to."

And with that, Remus stepped out of the guest room, leaving Harry alone with his many thoughts. Lying back against the mattress, he dwelt on the events of the night. Looking back, he wondered how he could ever have been okay with dying tonight. Now that he was out of the moment, away from the fight, the last thing he wanted was for his life to end here, when it had barely gotten started. What would his life have been, if he had allowed Riddle to kill him? Seventeen years and only a handful of them well-lived. What would Harry Potter have been after all that? How could he let Tom Riddle of all people decide that for him?

He was jostled out of his thoughts by the sound of the door creaking open, only to latch shut. Harry knew who it was without needing to see. He could recognise those footsteps anywhere, light but decisive, graceful yet efficient.

He almost didn't want to look. He didn't want to face the shame of what he had done, what he had put her through. but that was the coward in him talking. So, he carefully shifted onto his back, turning his head to look at the new arrival.

She looked as exhausted as he felt, her fingers tangled anxiously together, woven in the fabric of her jumper. Harry noticed her frame shaking ever so slightly like she was trying to fight off a chill. Overall, she was an emotional wreck, and Harry felt a wave of regret rise up from his chest. This was what he had done to her. This was his fault.

Even so, even wracked by grief, she truly looked beautiful. A kind, concerned face, framed by a halo of moonlight gleaming in her tresses. Not even the tear tracks on her cheeks, nor her raw, red eyes could detract from the fact that she looked like an angel. He didn't truly deserve her.

Looking back, she had probably been listening at the door. She very well might have heard everything said. Or maybe she had known from the start. He could never really tell with Hermione. In many ways, she knew him better than he knew himself.

"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. "I'm so sorry. I know I was stupid, but I couldn't-"

"Couldn't what?" Hermione said, her voice cracking at the seams. "Couldn't bear to see any of us in harm's way? Couldn't risk any of us dying?" She was barely holding it together, he could tell, but she was adamant about making sure he heard every word. He deserved to be reprimanded for what he did. "Believe it or not, Harry, I care about you, too. Those five minutes, waiting to see if you came back, were the worst of my entire life. Don't you ever do that to me again."

"I won't," he promised, shaking his head. "I swear, I never wanted to hurt you."

A sliver of the Hermione he loved, her kind, warm, forgiving side, shined through the anger. She sniffed, looking at the floor as she lost the battle for control of her emotions.

"And I never want to see you hurt."

Whatever pride Harry had left was properly extinguished at the sight of Hermione in pain. It was the one thing that he couldn't handle, torture worse than the excruciation of his broken arm.

"What can I do?" he asked desperately. He would do anything - run a marathon, lift a car, bring down God himself - if it meant it would make her happy again.

Hermione asked for none of that. instead, walked hesitantly to the edge of the bed and climbed onto the mattress. She crawled across the sheets, lying down so that she was resting against his good side.

"Hold me," she whispered.

"Hermione?"

He didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't say he didn't want this but did she? Or maybe she needed this more than he could ever realise. Her response was to reach up and wrap his unbroken arm around her body, gripping his shirt tightly.

"Just… hold me," she insisted. "Be here when I wake up."

It was the least he could do, Harry reasoned, even when every instinct in his body told him to move away, to reject her affection and instead suffer alone and in silence. A coward's way out. Because, really, this was what he was afraid of, even after facing death head-on. Allowing himself to feel something good, to take pleasure, to love because it never lasted. No matter what, those things he took for granted - friends, family, security, future - would always leave him in the end. and he would be alone.

However, he wasn't alone. Not now, not since he was eleven years old. Because Hermione was there, always and forever. She promised.

She's here. She's safe. Now, you need to be safe for her. Dying would be too easy.

"Hermione?" he whispered

"Harry?" she replied, her breath tickling his chest.

"I'm going to get help," he promised, holding her firmly against him, rubbing her head through her mountain of hair. "I promise. I'm going to get better."

Her grip on his body tightened as she buried her face into his shirt. He heard a barely audible, "Thank you," before her body went limp and her breathing evened out.

Harry spent a few minutes stroking Hermione's hair. He lay entangled with her body, savouring the moment of basking in someone's affection - Hermione's affection, the person who mattered most to him in the world - before he decided that he too should sleep. He was in for a long day tomorrow, apologising to those he had hurt, to those he had lied to. Making amends. Being better than those that came before.

It was funny, Harry realised. In trying to defy Dumbledore, Harry realised he had become exactly like him. He had pushed people away, kept them in the dark, lied, schemed, put them all in danger, kept them in a state of emotional turmoil for their so-called protection. Most of them didn't even know he was dying. All the parts of his old mentor that Harry had resented the most, he had inadvertently adopted.

A road paved with good intentions, indeed.

Well, now at least he knew better.

Harry fell asleep that night realising something about himself for the first time - or maybe something he had forgotten, buried in the back of his mind where it could no longer hurt him. A truth - a painful, awful truth - that he could no longer deny to himself.

I want to be happy again. I want to have a life worth living.

They converged on the land outside RAF Northolt in the dead of night. The team worked silently, efficiently and with utmost discipline. Sixteen bodies were found, removed and carried to unmarked vans, ready for disposal. No words were exchanged, not a moment was spared for hesitation. One minute corpses were strewn across the grass, the next they were gone, as if they had never been there.

The coordinator, a middle-aged man with a sour face and dark, brown eyes, oversaw the transfer from the marshes to the moving vans, making sure that no pictures were taken and no soldier who even looked upon the remains had any thoughts of remembering them. All standard procedure for a mission of this calibre. It was rare nowadays for one to receive a call inciting Code: Emerald; there were only a handful of people in the UK that understood its true nature. The coordinator was not one of them, but he did know how to take orders and how to make sure no questions were asked.

But of course, there were questions. Everyone had questions. Code: Emerald was confidential beyond confidential, going as high as the crown, predating the head that now wore it. A call for Code: Emerald meant only one thing: a threat to national security too dangerous to be exposed to the public and too abnormal to be officially classified, but very much real. A military procedure like that set a dangerous precedent in the coordinator's eyes but upon inspecting the bodies more closely, as they were hurriedly rushed into body bags, he couldn't help but see why it had been called in.

Each of the sixteen corpses was dressed in black robes and their faces covered by ivory masks carved into grotesques distortions of skulls. Below the robes, clothes in a style that was unrecognisable to the modern man. And the surrounding them was littered with brooms, adorned with strange words such as Comet, Cleansweep and Nimbus along with arbitrary numbers. If he were a superstitious man, the coordinator would very well say that they were witches, like his mother used to tell him, missing only their green skin, warts and crooked noses. But he was a rational individual. There had to be some other explanation for this phenomenon. Not that he ever expected to get one.

The only man who might know was Mr Gareth Dalton himself. He was, unfortunately, a footnote in history, but one of the few known facts about Code: Emerald was that Dalton was the man who authored it. The coordinator had yet to meet Mr Dalton in person, but he had heard the folk tales. They said he was the last great witch-hunter, a man who dedicated his life to studying the paranormal. An intensely superstitious, paranoid individual and a gem of the RAF.

Perhaps he was the key to all this, the coordinator supposed. Perhaps Mr Dalton wrote Code: Emerald because in all his years of exploring the unknown, he had found something too terrifying to imagine. A very real, very dangerous threat to the fabric of society. An underlying truth about the world that was best left to those who could stomach it.

The last of the bodies were carted away, and the coordinator sent the remaining troops to their dorms, telling them to get a few hours of precious sleep before dawn. He would be doing the same. There was no paperwork for a Code: Emerald operation. No evidence of it ever happening. It would be best if he simply forgot all about what had occurred tonight. To never again think about the words Cleansweep or Nimbus, or those bodies dressed in clothes he couldn't recognise and masks that made his blood curl. Forget about witches, forget about the unknown.

Forget it all, for his own sake.

Now, what was he doing again?

Chapter Text

The sound of soft chirping roused Harry from his sleep. His eyes peered open only to retreat in the face of blinding light. He blinked, raising a hand against the light, allowing his eyes a moment of respite. Following the chirping, his gaze found another pair of eyes, large and yellow, staring down at him unblinking from the bedpost.

"Hello, girl," he whispered. Hedwig preened at him, her feathers gleaming in the morning sunlight. "Glad to know you're always looking out for me."

The stark white owl chirped at him, a strange warmth in her eyes as if to say, 'of course'.

Harry took stock of the rest of his body as he slowly came back to himself. He could already tell just from a few moments of consciousness that his arm was in much better shape than it had been last night. Tentatively, he reached up to his shoulder and clipped the sling from his arm, tentatively pivoting his elbow and marvelling at how he felt no pain. It was good as new, as if it had never been broken at all. He'd have to thank Mrs Weasley for that. A broken arm was a handicap he really couldn't afford right now.

His scuffed wristwatch on the bedside table read nine o'clock in the morning. Undoubtedly, the rest of the house should already be awake, what with the Weasleys being early risers. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had allowed himself to sleep in so late. He rarely had time to just relax, what with there always being something that needed his attention. Now, however, he was happy to spend what little time he could lying in bed.

He pulled Hermione's body closer, revelling in the feeling of her shape against his side. She felt so soft and warm, bundled in blankets and her casual clothes. Closing his eyes, Harry felt the urge to fall straight back to sleep, but he resisted.

He knew he shouldn't be doing this, that he was weak for giving into his longing, but he might never get to feel this intimacy with her again. Hermione would go on to have a life beyond him, find someone new who would give her everything that she deserved. And he would be left behind, one of a lucky few who once knew her, who once held even a fraction of her heart. There would be but a handful of people in the world with the chance to hold Hermione Granger like he was now, and Harry wasn't going to waste that chance.

Harry softly stroked her hair, not too much to disrupt her sleep but enough where hopefully she would be soothed by it.

Her face was still, perfectly relaxed, and Harry was once reminded of just how truly gorgeous she was. How he had never seen it before was beyond him. True, he had never considered Hermione ugly or unattractive, not from the moment he had met her. She was always… well, she was Hermione, which was more than enough for him. She wasn't just a girl or just pretty or just anything, she was more important than that. To him, Hermione was more than just a person in a body, but the books, the library, Crookshanks, hugs, toast, letters and the feeling of never being alone. And then, on that fateful yule ball, she was more. More than Hermione, more than a feeling. She was beautiful, inside and out. Seeing Hermione in her periwinkle ball gown that evening had been a revelation. A piece of Harry that he didn't know he had ached from within him, whispering, "Oh, this is how it should feel."

Why on Earth Harry had continued to chase after Cho after experiencing that sensation would forever be a mystery to him. There were likely a thousand reasons. Hermione was his friend and he assumed that was all she would ever want to be; it was clear that Ron wanted Hermione for himself even if he was too thick to admit it; his crush for Cho came first and, being a teenage boy, his brain forbid him to admit defeat and just accept that it was never going to happen.

But Cho wasn't lying with him at that moment. He would never have allowed himself to cry in front of Cho. And Hermione had come to him. Not Ron, not Krum, him. It should all be perfect. He should be elated that he finally had the chance to tell Hermione how he felt. After all these weeks of keeping his feelings to himself, here was the woman he loved more than anyone else in the world, alone, sleeping in his bed with him. Surely, now was the time?

So why did it feel so wrong?

Why did he feel like he was standing on a precipice, looking down over a fall no man could survive? He knew that wasn't the case, there was no danger to be found here. Hermione was kind, she was strong. There was no doubt in his mind that a relationship with Hermione would be a wonderful thing.

Just, not right now.

Loving Hermione the way she deserved to be loved would be more than he could cope with. Harry knew that at this moment, a relationship as deep as theirs could be would drown him. He was not fit to be anyone's boyfriend, not with the kind of things he had been doing recently. Only last night, he had flown into a death trap with some part of him hoping he wouldn't come back. Rather than face the problems he knew he had, Harry channelled them into being a better soldier for Dumbledore's war. He had been a bad friend, a bad master, a bad son. There were amends to be made, starting today.

It was time for him to wake up and get started on that. He had already delayed his duties enough.

"Hermione," he whispered as he lightly jostled her body. The dozing girl responded with a low whine that squeezed Harry's heart and forced his lips to smile. Waking up in the morning with Hermione Granger by his side was something he could get all too used to. He slipped himself out of Hermione's grip and softly held her hands as she felt for him.

"I'm here," he promised. "I'm just going outside now but I won't be gone for more than a couple of hours. If I am, you have every right to drag me back on a lead."

Harry settled one soft kiss on her crown and quietly slipped out of the cot, not daring to stay any longer, for fear that he might never leave.

He still had his dark riding gear on, a stark reminder of the previous night. Harry stared down at himself. If he had been any less lucky, if Fawkes hadn't turned up when he did, these would have been the clothes he died in. All black, how appropriate.

Choosing to forgo the jacket, leaving him in his dark blue t-shirt and grass-stained jeans, he sidled through the doorway as quietly as he could. He tread carefully across the landing in his trainers, trying not to alert anyone of his presence. The last thing he wanted was to come face to face with any of the Weasley children, not just yet. There were others who he needed to apologise to first.

He descended into the kitchen, finding the usual suspects already awake. Mrs Weasley was busying herself in the pantry. Fleur sitting at the table, reading the prophet, sitting side-by-side with Bill. Remus too was at the breakfast table, having just finished a plate of toast. Tonks was nowhere to be seen, nor was Kingsley, likely having already left to resume Auror duties. Luckily Mundungus was nowhere to be seen, a blessed relief on Harry's already sour mood. It was a shame to see that Hagrid had already departed for Hogwarts, but then again he doubted there was room for him in the first place, what with the Burrow housing so many guests as it was. Mr Weasley was the first to notice his arrival and very quickly he came to a standstill. The man stood upright, examining the young man, waiting.

No point in drawing it out any longer, Harry thought to himself.

He cleared his throat and every eye landed on him. One by one, eyes turned in Harry's direction as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. The atmosphere in the kitchen quickly turned cold, like an icy breeze had blown through and snuffed what little warmth there was left.

Everyone was staring at him as at any moment he would erupt. It was probably justified. He had all but run away to die last night. God only knew what kind of state he was in. Even Harry himself barely knew. He immediately felt shame boiling up inside him.

"I'm sorry," he announced to the small gathered company. He tried to keep the tremor from his voice, standing tall. He didn't deserve their sympathy, he wasn't a little boy anymore. If he wanted to be treated as a man, then he needed to act like one. He had to say it. "I was wrong. I lied to you. I put myself and all of you in danger. It was stupid, it was self-entitled and it won't happen again, I promise."

He expected disappointed sighs, reprimands, anger, shame. Everything that he deserved for being such a colossal idiot. That didn't come. The first sign of movement from the small audience was from Mrs Weasley, who stopped whatever she was doing as rushed over to him. Before he could stop her, or insist that he didn't deserve it, Harry found himself in the grasp of one of her firm hugs.

Once Mrs Weasley released Harry, Remus was next to embrace him, and this time Harry didn't hesitate to hug him back. Everything that Harry needed to hear had already been said last night. There was little point of repeating it, not when Harry remembered almost every word. He knew exactly what Remus thought of his actions, and that most importantly he was forgiven. Now, the only thing left to do was learn the right lessons. No more burrowing away his thoughts, trying to do everything by himself.

From his place at the table, Bill smiled at Harry, glancing at Fleur for a moment, who nodded.

"It was stupid," Bill said, "but we both get why you did it. If I were in your place, I might have done the same thing. Besides, it's what we get for trying to keep you in the dark."

Harry hadn't allowed himself to think of it that way, hadn't allowed himself any such satisfaction. What he had done was wrong and to try and justify it was to disregard his culpability, to disregard the anguish he had put others through. Although, despite himself there was a small voice in his head that couldn't help but agree with Bill. He squashed it immediately.

A few moments later, once Remus had stepped away, Mr Weasley walked up to him, so that they were standing eye-to-eye. He sighed, looking the boy up and down.

"I don't agree with what you did," he said and Harry nodded, "but regardless, I accept your apology, Harry."

That meant more to him than he could ever know. It was an immense relief to know that he hadn't lost the respect of a good man like Arthur Weasley. He spent the majority of his time awake weighing up the odds of whether they would just kick him out of the house and be rid of him. He couldn't blame them if they did, he'd even understand. He'd already thought of a contingency, going to stay at Grimmauld Place by himself, letting Ron and Hermione stay and have a nice Summer at the Burrow whilst he prepared for their next step.

Now, he wouldn't have to, because for some reason they were all willing to give him another chance. Remus' words from last night echoed in his ear, 'Every single person in this house would risk their life if it meant they could help you because we believe in you. Not the prophecy; not fate. You, Harry.' If there were any doubts left in Harry's mind about the truth behind those words, then this was the final proof. The simple fact that he was still standing in the Burrow, treated a welcome guest. Like he was family…

Harry was quick to change the subject before he dissolved into a mess. That was when he remembered the previous night and the one who deserved an apology more than anyone else. The one would never be able to hear it.

"Where's Kreacher?"

Mr Weasley's face dropped and he gestured through the wall.

"In the living room."

He led Harry through into the sitting area where, on a nearby sofa wrapped in a blanket, Kreacher's body lay. Harry stood and stared at the bundle for a while, not speaking, nor thinking of much. He didn't want to imagine what was underneath the blanket just yet. He just wanted to get on and do something.

"He was my elf, he's my responsibility. I want to bury him - by hand, without magic."

Mr Weasley nodded and went to fetch a shovel from his shed. Not five minutes later, Harry had left the Burrow and was walking down the garden path away from the house, making sure to always be in view of the kitchen window and to stay well within the bounds of the wards. His only companion was Dobby. Many offered to come with him and help dig the grave but Harry insisted he go by himself. The work was more than toil, it was penance.

Despite what the others told him, Kreacher's death was in part his fault. He would always feel the weight of the house-elf's untimely end on his shoulders and that was something that couldn't be reasoned out of him. Harry needed this, to take responsibility for it in some way, so that he could move on.

However, he knew that he shouldn't do it alone. Of all the people who offered to join him, he allowed Dobby as his sole companion. It wasn't just about having another house-elf as witness to Kreacher's burial, because Dobby was more than that. Losing Kreacher made Harry realise just how much he took Dobby for granted. Despite many other wizards and witches not sparing the poor house-elf a second thought, Harry didn't want to think of the day when he would have to bury Dobby too.

For one, he wouldn't know how. For all his talk of Kreacher's burial being his responsibility, Harry didn't actually know what he was supposed to do. In fact, Harry realised he had no knowledge of any house-elf traditions. What were you supposed to do with a house-elf when they died? Or at least, what would they want? He certainly had no intention of mounting Kreacher on the wall of Grimmauld Place like some trophy. Would a burial actually suffice?

"Is there any specific way you're supposed to bury a house-elf?" Harry asked as they walked, suddenly regretting not having asked this before they left the Burrow.

The small house-elf thought for a moment before shaking his head, flapping his long, dropping ears as he did so.

"Dobby doesn't know."

How would he? Dobby was in servitude to the Malfoys for… for who knows how long. Those monsters wouldn't have treated their elves anywhere near the right way, and Harry wanted no part of their traditions. Well, since there were no other elves to ask, Harry decided to go with what felt right. What he would've wanted.

"Then we'll pick a good spot. Somewhere nice to look at."

After many minutes of walking under the blazing summer sun, the pair reached the edge of the meadow surrounding the property. The tall, uneven house of the Weasleys was still in sight, not a kilometre away, but diminished under the all-encompassing blue sky that stretched across the fields for miles. Harry was thankful when they passed beneath the shade of some trees leading deeper into the woods. The subtle lapping of water nearby drew them to a picturesque stream and Harry decided to follow it.

They eventually found a small clearing beside the river bank with soft soil and plenty of space. The breaks in the canopy allowed beams of light to fall on the centre, illuminating the spot with some unearthly glow. This… this was the right spot. Harry couldn't help thinking that he wouldn't mind being buried here, when the time came. But hopefully not for a while, he reminded himself.

He looked to Dobby for affirmation, wanting to be sure. The small elf noticed his eyes on him and quietly nodded. Harry readied the shovel. It was best to get started, he had a feeling he would be here for a while.

Harry stabbed the shovel into the earth and began to dig. Pivoting the handle, he pushed down and pulled away at the earth. Slowly but surely he dug away at the ground, marking out a small rectangle big enough to shelter Kreacher's body. Deeper and deeper he went; the pile of dirt next to him only grew taller as he sunk further into the earth. Every so often he would pause, gasping for breath as he realised just how easy it could be to take magic for granted, only to continue with renewed vigour.

Harry didn't allow himself to rest for too long. It was the least he could do to to get this done, for Kreacher's sake. What with the task being so simple as to dig and heave, it allowed him time to think back, to mull things over. All the mistakes, the hours spent alone at Privet Drive, letting himself go down into a place that he knew was unhealthy. There were many things that were beyond his control but his mental discipline shouldn't be one of them. How the hell was he supposed to win a war if he lost against his own mind? He had to take back control, and now was as good a time as any.

'If you can't handle being alone,' Harry thought to himself, 'then don't be alone. If you can't get better by yourself, then get help. Being sad isn't good enough anymore and I'm sick of it.'

By the time the grave had taken shape, Harry's skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and dirt. Even with the knowledge of how big the grave was going to be, he had somehow underestimated the work behind digging a hole, even a small one. He thought he would be done by breakfast. Now, however, he'd be surprised if it weren't coming up on lunch around now.

Harry set the shovel aside for the moment.

At this point, the hole was deep enough to swallow him up to the waist. There would be little point digging any deeper than that. He planted both hands on the side of the hole and vaulted out. He glanced over his shoulder to find Dobby with a large, flat rock at his feet for the headstone. As Harry began to wonder how he would write out Kreacher's name without a wand, he noticed, placed neatly beside the rock, sat a hammer and a chisel.

Then came the difficult part. Harry looked down to the bundle he had been lying silently a little ways from the grave. He was relieved to see that it had been undisturbed, no insects or birds having touched the fabric. Kreacher deserved that luxury at least.

Careful not to unravel the blanket, Harry picked up Kreacher's body. He slowly climbed down and gently laid the bundle in the grave. Once he was sure Kreacher was settled, he climbed out and began piling dirt on top. He was sure to take his time, almost serving the earth on top of the body, as if not to hurt it. He decided to let him lie with the blanket still around him, it would be more comfortable that way.

After a while, the hole was filled, and Harry started on the headstone. Grabbing the hammer and chisel, he chipped away at the grave with a sharp stone, carving Kreacher's name and date of his death as neatly as he could. Once he was done, he planted the rock at the head of the grave. He made sure to push into the ground, burying its base so that it wouldn't fall over. With the marker firmly planted, Harry leaned back to take a look at it and frowned. Even with that small detail, something was missing from the scene. It needed a bit of colour, something to make it less out of place amongst the vibrant pasture.

"I don't know what flowers he'd like," Harry admitted bashfully. It was just another reminder of how little he really knew of the old house-elf, the lack of time he had taken to truly understand him. Luckily for Harry, Dobby clicked his fingers and a bunch of daisies sprouted from the ground in front of the headstone.

Harry glanced around, watching the sunlight gleam though the canopy, and sighed.

"I hope you like it here, Kreacher." He looked down at the upturned soil, imagining the old elf lying peacefully under the ground. He wondered how he might have felt about this being his final resting place, whether he had finally done something right for the poor elf. "I'm sorry. I wasn't a very good master, was I? I didn't look after you nearly as well as I should have. Haven't been looking after myself, all that well, either…" Harry looked down at the grass beneath his knees. "You won't be forgotten, though. I'll make sure people know what you did. How you were a good elf, in the end." He glanced at the clumsily-carved headstone. "You sleep now, Kreacher. You've done more than enough."

It was as fitting a good-bye as Harry could have given. The only way it could have been better in his mind was if Kreacher were alive to hear it.

He looked down at the house-elf by his side

"Anything you'd like to say, Dobby?"

Dobby wrung his hands, looking down at the grave with a strange expression, melancholy but with an air of peace.

"Kreacher is like Dobby now." He looked up at Harry, his eyes shining. "He's free."

Harry couldn't help but smile at the house-elf's unique sense of wisdom.

"I think you're a good elf too, Dobby," clapping the house-elf gently on the shoulder as he sat down, "and a good friend."

In the thin beams of light that shone through the canopy, it looked like Dobby's eyes were wobbling in their sockets. Tears were flooding down his small cheeks, dripping down his long, pointy nose. It was all Harry could do to pull the house-elf into his side and let him dry his face on his t-shirt.

Eventually, after his tears calmed to the occasional sniffle, Dobby decided that he ought to go back and help the Weasleys around the house. It was only once Harry excused him, after noticing the house-elf sitting by his side, waiting for his approval, when Dobby disappeared in a crack and Harry was alone with his thoughts. He had never made Dobby his elf, not properly anyways. Maybe it was Hermione's S.P.E.W. efforts catching on in his head, or the reminder of Dobby's treatment at the Malfoy's that caused Harry such hesitation on the matter. Besides, Dobby was happy to be free, and who was he to deny him of that? Then again, Harry would never have done it without asking the house-elf first. If Dobby wanted to help him from now on, it was his choice and Harry secretly hoped that he would. It would be smart to keep Dobby close-by when they went underground, not just for the company but also having a house-elf they could rely on would be extremely useful.

The rustle of trodden grass from behind him caught his ear. His heart leapt into his throat. Driven wholly by instinct, he sat up. His body twisted around, his eyes wide and alert. It took a second to register the sight of Fleur standing in front of him and only when he was sure it wasn't a trick did Harry allow himself to relax.

"Eet's only me," she smiled as Harry took a deep breath. Whether she merely failed to recognise his reaction or just chose to bypass it for his sake wasn't clear. Instead, she waited for him to stand and brush the dirt from his jeans. He noticed a small bouquet in her hands. "I brought zese. For ze 'ouse elf." She took a few tentative steps closer, taking in the small woodland clearing as she looked around. "You picked a lovely place for eet."

"Thanks," Harry nodded as his eyes returned to the make-shift tombstone. "He deserved it."

"'E saved Bill's life. Ze curse that killed Kreacher, eet would 'ave 'it Bill," she explained. "I wanted to say thank you."

"That's good of you."

Fleur placed the lilies beside the newly-grown daisies, settling the bouquet against the headstone. Harry thought the two flowers complimented each other suitably.

For a few moments, Harry allowed the mood to sit in quiet contemplation, partly to appreciate the tranquility of the scene and partly to mask his struggle for how to continue.

"How's Gabrielle, by the way?" he finally asked after a while of thinking of something to say.

"She's well, very well," Fleur smiled. "She's coming over for the wedding. Very excited to see you again."

"Oh, dear," Harry chuckled as he ducked his head.

"She's been going on and on about meeting ze great 'Arry Potter again," Fleur added mischievously, "asking me all zeese leetle questions about you. I think you 'ave a secret admirer."

Harry nodded, not really listening, having long since caught on to what was happening. He tolerated it until now, but here, in front of Kreacher's grave, alone, it felt stifling. It shouldn't have made him feel this way - he knew she was only trying to help - but for some reason it did. However, rather than stay silent and let it all build up, he decided to let it be known.

"You know, you don't need to come out here just to cheer me up, or to check that I'm still here," he assured her. Her face fell slightly as she realised the game was up. He sighed. As the moment drew on, his polite smile faded away. The mood quickly turned somber. "I know I'm not well. I haven't been for a long time now." The only sound left was of the stream rushing by, washing away the guilt from his mind. He had to let it out. Admitting these things was the first step, perhaps the hardest. "If I can, I want to get better, because it's not just about me. There are people who rely on me. I've got too much to fight for to give up now."

There was a long pause where Harry worried that he had said too much. That was until he felt Fleur take his arm in her's, in what felt like a form of solidarity, and Harry was surprised to note that it helped somewhat.

"I know someone who can 'elp you. I will get you in touch with zem."

He once again nodded in thanks, not sure what else to say, or whether he could. For some reason he couldn't muster the enthusiasm to feel anything, stuck in this limbo of slight despondence, teetering on the edge of exhaustion, physical and mental. It wasn't fair to her or the Weasleys, he told himself. They had done so much for him already and now they had to put up with him in this state. They had other people to worry about without him acting like this, but no matter what he tried, he couldn't drag himself out of it.

"I'm sorry to drop this on you all," he said, "especially you, Fleur. You've got your wedding coming up and that all needs to be organised. This should be a happy time for you all and I've just-"

"'Arry," Fleur interrupted before he could dig his hole any deeper, "did you ever wonder why Bill and I insisted on holding a wedding at a time like this?" Harry glanced at her, waiting for her answer and Fleur took it as a sign to continue. Clutching his arm, she gazed down at Kreacher's grave. "Because this is not a happy time. People are suffering, dying, and it will only get worse. But we are taking whatever happiness we can get, while we can. You should, too. It's alright to want something for yourself even if it's inconvenient. Love always is."

Harry glanced at Fleur from the corner of his eye, scrutinising her. How much did she know? Was he that obvious with his feelings? He hadn't made the best effort to hide them, after all, especially last night. Or perhaps she was far more perceptive than anyone gave her credit for.

"Come on," he said as he realised he'd been staring at nothing for too long, "let's give Kreacher some peace and quiet."

It was time to go back to the Burrow and face the rest of the Weasleys, he decided, and probably time for some lunch as well. Before he could turn to leave, however, Fleur stopped him. As he was about to ask what was going on, she reached up and pulled him into a warm hug.

"You are one of ze bravest men I know, 'Arry," she said quietly, with steely conviction. "You 'ave given so much to so many people. Take some time for yourself, now. Please."

Harry was once again lost for how to respond, so he just decided to stay quiet and hug her back. He and Fleur had never really spoken before now, not with this amount of sincerity. Had they never found the chance to talk, he might have never known that she felt this way about him, that she actually believed in him - someone who, in his mind, should have no reason to. Just like everyone. Harry always assumed that she thought he was-

He smirked as a memory from years before resurfaced.

"So I'm not a 'leetle boy' anymore?" he asked innocently. He heard a tut as he was swiftly let go. Fleur glared at him but her eyes held no real venom.

"Now why would you say zat?" she admonished. "I was trying to be nice to you."

"Just making sure Bill has nothing to worry about," Harry laughed. Fleur shook her head.

"'E agrees with me," she assured him. A warm feeling rushed through him, knowing a man like Bill Weasley thought so highly of him. With her arm hooked in his. he began leading him back to the Burrow. "And by ze way, I wasn't lying about Gabrielle. And I'm sorry, but I did promise you would meet 'er at ze reception."

Harry sighed dramatically.

"And here I was thinking you were buttering me up for no reason," he smiled. "Don't worry, of course I'll meet her. Can't disappoint my adoring fans, eh?"

"Bien sûr."

Harry picked up the shovel and they both turned together, ready for the walk back to the house.

"Thanks for coming to see me," in a moment of real honesty. Fleur simply smiled and patted his arm.

"You're welcome."

'Right, that's enough about yourself, Potter,' a voice in his head spoke. 'Change the subject, focus on her for a change.'

"I'm looking forward to the wedding," he offered politely. "You and Bill, it's nice. He's a cool guy. I'd say you're both lucky."

Fleur hummed.

"I like to think 'e is ze lucky one and I merely 'ave a refined taste."

"Lucky indeed. He's marrying a Triwizard Champion, after all. Well," he added particularly, "third place, but who's counting?"

"You seem to 'ave cheered up," Fleur noted with a hint of amusement.

"What can I say?" Harry said as they ventured from the thicket. "I'm a smug git."

The pair soon left Kreacher's grave behind them, where it sat quietly, undisturbed in its tiny corner of the woods. The little songbirds sang, the treetops bristled and the river ran clear as glass. A quiet little world for an elf fast asleep, never to be hurt again.

Harry spent most of his late lunch in a hard talk with Remus. He had a lot of questions about what Harry planned to do now he was out of Privet Drive, their mission from Dumbledore, his seventh year, how he was going to get better whilst in a war. Harry didn't have answers for many of them - either for the fact that he didn't know or simply couldn't tell him - but he tried his best to convince Remus that he was taking this all seriously. No more random acts of outlandish martyrdom. He was in it for the long haul now, or for however long he had left.

Despite wanting to, despite knowing that he deserved the truth, Harry still didn't tell Remus about the Horcrux in his head, or about the Horcruxes in general. Knowing about the Horcruxes would only put him in danger, along with everyone else. Harry hated it, having to keep it to himself, but he shared as much as he could, skirting around the important details.

He told Remus about his depression, his panic attacks, his brief sessions with a mind healer from St Mungo's, how they labelled it P.T.S.D. and just told him to avoid stressful scenarios. As if that would ever be an option for him. And at the end of it all, Harry told him that he had no idea how to go forward, but he knew that he needed help, desperately, if he was ever going to get to a healthier place. Luckily, Fleur stepped in with that 'someone' she knew from her time in France, someone who specialised in trauma therapy - veterans, victims and all sorts of broken people. She offered to send an owl over that very same day, just for an initial visit, to see if it could work, and Harry agreed. It was a start at least.

Throughout their discussion, Harry couldn't help but notice how Mrs Weasley kept a very close eye on him, like he would disappear at any second. She all but forced him to eat every scrap on his plate, until there was nothing left in front of him. Although it was a tad overbearing - he expected nothing less from Mrs Weasley - Harry had to admit that he needed the food. For all the excuses he'd made to Hermione about stealing his fair share, he hadn't been fed nearly enough over the Summer. It got to a point where he couldn't pinpoint how much of his body's new definition came from rigorous exercise or malnutrition.

By the end of the afternoon, Harry was exhausted. Laying everything bare like that, digging everything up and trying to make sense of it, had left him with nothing else to give. Deciding that they had made enough progress for today, he excused himself from the kitchen and made his way upstairs to rest in his room before dinner. His leaden feet trudged one at a time, up and up, floor by floor. Harry kept his eyes to the floorboard as he went, not daring to look at the doors he passed, the reminders of what was to come. The conversations with the rest of the family - with Ron - were yet to come and he wanted to do it right. Facing anyone else now, at what felt like the end of his rope, would be too much. He just needed a nap, or something, just some time to himself.

Eventually, he arrived at the door to the guest room and pushed it open, only to find Hermione sitting on his bed. Despite his exhaustion, Harry immediately stood up straight. Hermione in turn looked up from the book in her lap and sat up, her face strangely neutral. The fact that she was dressed in different clothes was the only evidence that she hadn't been sitting there the entire day.

"Hello," he finally said, to which she simply replied.

"Hi."

There was a long, awkward moment before Harry walked forward, picked her up and hugged her tight. Hermione burrowed into his side. Few things meant more between the two of them than one of their hugs.

"I'm so sorry-"

"It's alright." She looked up at him through her eyelashes and her messy fringe. "I know you are."

The reunited pair moved to the bed, sitting so close to each other that their sides were almost glued together. Harry took a moment to simply be with Hermione, holding her against him, wondering for a moment how they had ended back here again. Then he remembered what Fleur had said, about wanting something for himself, and decided to just accept it.

During they're impromptu cuddle, Harry told her about his morning, his walk with Dobby to find the spot, digging the grave, carving the headstone, how he'd all done it all by hand - Hermione seemed to really appreciate that little fact. He also told her about what Fleur said to him, about the friend that Fleur suggested and told her he was planning on taking up her offer.

"I need all the help I can get," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "I think I was making a bit of progress with the healer from St Mungo's, but it was more just figuring out what was happening to me. Which was good but it wasn't making me any better."

"Talking about these things - even if it's just with me - that helps. It doesn't have to be a professional."

"No, I guess so, but at the same time I want someone who knows how to deal with people like me."

"There's nothing wrong-"

"I know, I know," he hastily replied, wanting to get his say in before she got started. "You know what I mean. It's more just… I don't want to pile on you or Ron or anyone else when they've got their own problems to deal with- and I know you want to help, I know, and I really appreciate it. I just need someone who I can talk to about just this. I don't want my whole life to be about me dealing with this. I want something… outside of that- more normal. It's more fair on all of us."

Hermione bit her lip as she stared up at him and for an instant Harry considered doing something very selfish.

"As long as you'll talk to me about things that are troubling you, okay?"

"I could never hide anything from you." He pulled her closer, leaning his forehead against hers. "You're right here, Hermione, always. Even when I can't see you."

The pair sat together for a while longer, their hands woven together, neither saying anything in a mutual silence. Except, it didn't stay that way for long. The long pause in conversation, the comfortable limbo they had settled into, was soon broken by Hermione when she finally whispered, "I need to tell you something."

There were a million things going through Harry's mind as to what this something could be. He really hoped that it was good news, he needed more of that nowadays. However, as he leaned back to get a good look at her, he quickly realised that it was anything but. She looked anxious, terrified even. Despondent. In spite of his own reservations, Harry urged her to go on. If this was as important as it sounded, the last thing she needed were his own fears compounding on hers. She took a deep, shaking breath.

"I told my parents everything, the war, Voldemort… you. I told them that, if they stayed in England, they would probably be killed. We decided it was best if I…" she swallowed. Her bright, brown eyes were shining, distorted through tears. Harry's sinking feeling only intensified, but he remained stoic for her sake. "I- I made them forget me."

For what felt like an eternity, Harry merely stared at her, trying to comprehend what he had just heard.

"Wh… What?"

Even as alarms blared in his head, his first instinct was to hold her as her lip trembled and her shoulders shook.

"They're gone, Harry. I took their memories and I sent them away. They've probably landed in Sydney by now. They don't remember anything of their previous life. They don't even know who I am anymore."

Harry stared at her in pale-faced, wide-eyed horror. Despite trying his best to remain strong for her, felt like he was going to throw up.

"No," he whispered desperately. "Hermione, why? Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Because I had to keep them safe," she whispered in a broken voice. Her eyes met his, fire raging behind a sheen of despair. "I'm with you no matter what, Harry. It's no secret where my loyalties lie. If Voldemort found out about my family-"

"But we could have protected them!" Harry stood up and began pacing back and forth in the tiny room. "Oh god, can you undo it? Can we stop them from-"

"No, Harry. It's too late to bring them back. And even if we did find them, I wouldn't know how to restore their memories."

"Hermione, do you know what this means?" He took hold of her shoulders, forcing her to stare into his face. "You might never see your parents again!"

"If they stayed," she replied, staring right back at him, "they would have been killed."

Harry wanted to scream at her, or rush over the nearest airport and fly all the way to Sydney, to do anything to fix this. But he knew it was already too late. That was why she only told him now, so that he couldn't stop it, because she knew he would try. Harry felt a great wave of shame radiate from within him. This was his fault, he knew it. If he wasn't who he was, if he- he sighed, kneeling in front of her in surrender.

"You should have gone with them," he said quietly.

"Not a chance," she objected indignantly, to which he bit right back.

"Yes! Hermione, do you understand what you've just given up?"

"Of course, Harry!" She grabbed his face and tilted it upwards so that they were looking eye-to-eye once again. Tears trailed down her cheeks. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do!"

"Then why would you do it?!" he cried, amazed, frustrated how she could possibly be so adamant about this.

"Because I'm not leaving you!" she said with a voice of steel. "Not ever. I promised that I would stay by your side no matter what and this is part of that. This is where I stand, right here with you."

"I never asked you for this," he whispered as if by some hope he could change her mind and convince to run far away and live a life in Australia with her parents before it was too late. "I never asked you to ruin your life for me."

That was when she pulled him up into her arms, whispering into his ear.

"It wasn't your decision. If you had any choice in the matter, I know you wouldn't have let this happen, but it has. My parents are gone but they're safe. I can live with that. If I could convince you to do the same, I would, but I know I'd be wasting my time. And I know you can't convince me either. I'm here for as long as you need me."

Harry pawed at her jumper, gathering her up in as tight a hug as he could muster. Her body pressed against his, kneeling together on the carpet.

"I'll always need you," he breathed into her neck. He felt her smile into his cheek.

"Then I'll always be here."

"Ahem." The sound broke the mood between them. Harry managed to turn his head, just enough to see Ron standing by the door, as he had been for who knows how long. The redhead awkwardly raised a hand. "Hi."

Harry reluctantly disengaged from Hermione's embrace and walked over to his best mate.

"Ron-"

"Yeah, I know," Ron waved him off. "You're dumb and you have a death-wish."

"It won't happen again."

"You bloody well know it won't." A pair of gangly arms captured him before he could step away. "Shut up, you're getting hugged. Hermione, you come here, too."

He heard Hermione scuffle towards them from her place on the floor.

"I don't think-"

"Yeah, come on."

Before he knew it, there was another pair of arms around him as Hermione was pulled into the group hug. The Golden trio, finally reunited after too long. It warmed Harry's heart, having two of the most important people in his life, his family, right there with him. This was what he was fighting for, this was why he had to stay.

"I can't promise that I won't be sad," he admitted, "or that I won't have bad days."

"Well, we all do, don't we?" Ron shrugged. "Sometimes I'm a moody, jealous git who needs a kick up the arse and I don't even have a Horcrux in my head. I think you're allowed some bad days."

"And sometimes I'm a bossy know-it-all who can't accept when she's wrong," Hermione added. "No one's perfect. Having times where you can't cope doesn't make you a bad person. Frankly, Harry, I'm staggered at how resilient you are in the face of all of this."

"I could say the same for you," Harry replied knowingly, rubbing a hand up and down her arm to comfort her. Hermione silently nodded and Harry knew his gesture was deeply appreciated

"Just…" Ron sighed, catching Harry's eye with an uncharacteristically sober stare, "next time you come up with a plan that should more than likely get you killed, tell us first so we can convince you not to do it."

Fighting down the urge to laugh at the blunt delivery - he reckoned that would ruin the moment - Harry simply nodded.

"Good plan, Ron."

Now Harry could only hope that he would stick to it. He only wished that he had such faith in himself, that he honestly believed that he could get better, that he could be fixed. That was how he saw himself, someone who was broken in so many ways, who had a long road ahead of him if he was ever going to become a functioning human being.

The silver lining in it all, however, was that he had people he could rely on to pick him up when he stumbled. The greatest proof that Harry Potter was a living, breathing person, not just a story or a symbol or a chosen one, was standing right in front of him. His two best friends, who'd been through hell for him, who hadn't lost faith in him, even at his worst, and who would be there for him right up until the end.

Just like how Harry would never run away from them again, no matter how scared he was, no matter how hard it was to look at them, knowing that one day soon, Harry would never see them again. They wouldn't grow old together, share long, busy, annoying, joyous lives together, as they should. One day the Golden Trio would be broken forever.

That day wasn't today, nor would it be tomorrow, nor would it be weeks from now, no matter what fate or prophecy dictated. Harry was going to fight, with every breath in his lungs, every drop of his blood, every second he could steal from time itself. He would never give in so easily, no sooner than when death itself came to personally escort him down into the earth.

And until then, Harry would fight not just for his life, but for his soul. So that one day, when it came time to lay him in his final resting place, he might be remembered as more than a boy who lived, but as a good man who died well, sorely missed and deeply loved.

Chapter Text

The days went by quicker than Harry wanted. Just when he thought he might have a grip on the seconds as they passed by him, his mind slipped, distracted by something else that needed his attention. And then it would be the next day and he would be back to wanting everything to just slow down for a second. He wondered how he could have wasted all the days before this moment, what he wouldn't give to have just a few of them back. When he was a boy, time used to move so slowly. A week was an eternity, dripping by like molasses. Now a week was a blink of an eye.

One day very, very soon, he wouldn't have the chance to simply bide his time in the Burrow. He wouldn't be able to pretend his life was normal whilst the world burned down around him. They were all about to go to war. This one quiet moment was the calm before the storm and Harry knew he had to make the most of every second.

Mrs Weasley kept him, Ron and Hermione busy with jobs, sorting out the house, preparing for Fleur's wedding, anything that would keep them from planning their next year. The others made no secret how much it annoyed them and whilst he was similarly annoyed, Harry was secretly happy for the distraction, even though he knew he shouldn't be. Better to have his head filled with busy work than worrying about the insurmountable task in front of them.

However, whilst his days were filled with chores and busy work, his nights were hardly so mundane. Once they were sure everyone was asleep, Harry and Hermione would sneak into Ron's room, where they would talk into the early hours of the morning, planning their next move. Before they could do anything, they needed to figure out their first targets, namely which Horcruxes to hunt first. They had all poured over Dumbledore's extensive research, combing the objects' histories for possible leads, any intersections in the life of Tom Riddle. Their information was limited without access to the Hogwarts library, but with the Black library at their fingertips thanks to Dobby, they were already forming connections.

They started by going through the list of the Hogwarts Founders' treasured items. They had already destroyed Slytherin's locket and Gryffindor's sword was accounted for, which only left Hufflepuff's cup and Ravenclaw's diadem. They would have to do a thorough sweep of the castle just in case they were hidden somewhere in its depths, but disposing of them would be relatively easy once found. The others would be much harder to nail down. Nagini, for example, would have to be one of the last ones they destroyed, considering how she never left Riddle's side. Killing the snake would mean coming face-to-face with Riddle, and that was something they wanted to delay for as long as possible.

Then there was Harry himself. However much Ron and Hermione tried to convince him otherwise, he knew he would have to die by Riddle's hand. In fact, he had almost come to accept it, in a weird way. It's just what had to happen. Who knows? Maybe he could take Tom with him? Or at least give him a good fight on the way out? He never voiced these thoughts, neither Ron nor Hermione would find the humour in them like he did. Then again, he supposed there wasn't much humour to be found in knowing that your best friend was going to die.

This was all going to be a major undertaking, in more ways than they had even considered. It was only when they detailed the nitty-gritty of their life on the run did they realise how under-equipped they were to survive on their own. Food, water, bedding, clothing, washing - all these things that they had taken for granted were all suddenly no longer so simple. It would only be the three of them most of the time, they had to make do with what they. Hermione made it abundantly clear from the get-go that she would not be doing their cooking just because she was the only girl, a sentiment that made both boys flush with indignity.

"Surely we won't be completely by ourselves?" Ron offered as a platitude. "I mean, we'll have Hogwarts right next door."

"Not for everything," Harry replied, pacing from wall to wall in the cramped room that he and Ron had been sharing in the week since Harry's birthday. "It'll only be whatever Snape can smuggle to us and I don't want to rely on him too often. If he gets found out it's all over. The less attention we bring to him, the better, and that means staying out of his way as often as we can."

"Dumbledore said that V…" Ron hesitated before gripping his fingers into a fist and gritting his teeth. "Oh, bloody hell- Voldemort would probably take over the school once he's done with the ministry."

"You control the children, you control the families," Hermione surmised from her seat on a small wooden chair beside him. "You control the families, you control the Wizarding World. He'll want to crack down on Hogwarts as soon as possible."

"Just like Umbridge," Ron noted. Harry shook his head.

"Worse."

Ron's face contorted as the true horror of that scenario slowly began to sink in and the red hue in his cheeks drained away.

"Right," he whispered. The young Weasley glanced at his two best friends worriedly. "Should Ginny even be going back?"

They were silent for a moment as they both realised that they had somewhat forgotten not just about Ginny but about everyone else at Hogwarts. What nightmare would their lives at Hogwarts become whilst they were off hunting Horcruxes?

"I don't know," Harry finally spoke. "The Weasleys are technically pureblood. If she keeps her head down, she'll probably be fine."

"And how likely is that to happen?" Ron scoffed.

"I'm more worried about the muggle-borns," Hermione muttered darkly.

"Well, obviously," Ron replied. "I can't imagine what it's going to be like for them."

The idea sat in the air for a while, the dreadful possibilities swimming amongst their thoughts. A school run by Death Eaters with no one to answer to. At least Umbridge had her career to keep her in check and a Ministry with some level of accountability. Riddle had neither.

If he wanted, Riddle could turn Hogwarts into a torture chamber for any child not deemed of pure enough blood and there would be no one to stop him. Besides them, of course. There used to be another, but now he was buried in a tomb of white marble, unable to help anyone.

"How could Dumbledore let this happen?" Hermione whispered despondently. Harry had no answer, for he often wondered the very same thing. All those years to plan ahead, to prepare for what was coming, and yet it still came down to this. Not an army, but a group of teenagers scrambling for lost treasure. This should never have happened in the first place.

"At least we have Snape as headmaster," Harry offered as some small glimpse of optimism. "He won't let it get too bad."

Both Ron and Hermione's faces remained thoroughly unconvinced.

"Won't he?" Ron asked.

"If Dumbledore trusts him, surely we can."

"He won't be the only one, surely," Hermione reminded him. "If Voldemort's willing to put one Death Eater in charge of Hogwarts he'll probably instate more. People far worse than Snape."

There was a gasp and Ron sat bolt upright.

"Can you imagine if it's Bellatrix?"

By now, he had gone a near snowy pale, his eyes wide as saucers.

"It won't be," Hermione explained, though even she was starting to grow rigid at the thought. "She's his right-hand woman and a wealthy Pureblood. A Black married to a Lestrange. There's no point having her up at Hogwarts when there are better uses for her, politically I mean. And it won't be someone like Greyback either, he's more valuable as a fighter and recruiter."

Whilst her words provided some relief, Ron's body still refused to relax.

"So it's a lesser-evil sort of scenario?" he sighed.

"If that even exists with the Death Eaters," Harry muttered.

Then again, what if Riddle did do the unthinkable and placed Bellatrix at the head of the school. What if the worst came to the worst? What then? What could they possibly do? Rebel? Take back Hogwarts? It seemed laughable to even consider it, but then again, eventually, they would have to fight. God knows how many Death Eaters they would come to face on the run at any one time. If it came to just them, in an ambush with nowhere left to run, could they possibly fight a horde of Death Eaters by themselves?

It wasn't too long ago that Harry himself had led a group of six against them, but even then they needed the Order to bail them out. That wouldn't be an option this time. Harry tried desperately not to think about the moment Dolohov's curse collided with Hermione's body, how he watched in horror as she fell silently to the floor. The split second when he was sure she was gone forever.

What if it happened again? It might, that was the problem, and he was no more prepared for it as he was last time.

Harry came to a realisation.

"We're not enough."

It took several seconds of oppressive silence for Harry to clock on that he had said that out loud. He glanced at Ron and Hermione only to find them staring back at him.

"Not saying we three aren't terrific but we're hardly an army," he explained as he crossed his arms. "If we run into a group of Death Eaters along the way, what's to stop them from overwhelming us? Even if we were the best duellists in the world, it would still be a hard fight. We need more, as many as we can get. At least one more person. Surely there's one more person we can trust."

"We need someone with a strategic mind," Hermione pondered, pacing back and forth alongside him. "Someone crafty, able to think on their feet."

"Hey, I'm strategic," Ron piped up from between them. Harry and Hermione gazed at him silently for a few seconds, before immediately going back to pacing.

"Someone with training," Hermione continued without missing a beat, "who's able to hold their own in a fight."

"Oi, I am," Ron argued.

"And what makes you think that?" Harry asked. Ron rolled his shoulders, pumping up his chest.

"I'm pretty good at chess," he offered.

The pair merely stared at him, supremely unimpressed.

"Alright Ronald," Hermione eventually replied, "I'll indulge you. Let's play a game."

Ron, taken aback by her sudden turn, blinked.

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands, "as long as you're sure."

He slid a well-worn chessboard out of the nearby bookcase, laying it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and set about placing each of the pieces in their proper positions. Hermione kneeled on the other side of the low table, patiently observing him. Harry couldn't help but be reminded of a cat getting ready to pounce on an oblivious mouse.

"Now the first move is always the most important," Ron explained, to which Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "It sets the stage for the whole battle."

The redhead grabbed a pawn in the middle of the first row and set it two squares forward. He smiled triumphantly.

"See, look at that," he marvelled. "Confident, decisive. Now your turn, Hermione."

Instead of reaching forward to move a piece, Hermione untucked her wand from her pocket. With a small wave, she set the board on fire.

Ron stared at the ruined game, his face unreadable like his brain was stuck trying to process the scene. Harry meanwhile, was trying desperately to mask the smirk that threatened to erupt on his face, for Ron's sake.

"Good game, you two?" he asked once the flames had died down.

"Quite" Hermione beamed before turning back to Ron. "Practising chess doesn't make you better at war, Ron. It makes you better at chess."

"So, what? Have I just wasted all these years playing chess for nothing?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

Whilst the pair argued, Harry was already thinking ahead, weighing up his options. That was until his focus was broken by a soft bang below him, muffled through the floorboards. He glanced down at the floorboards at his feet. Underneath them was the twins' room. Likely what he had heard was one of their experiments. They were always designing and refining new pranks to sell in their shop. He could at least admire-

Harry stopped and then he thought for a moment. Maybe… possibly… but if… Yes, actually, that could work. That would work extremely well. It was a wonder that he hadn't thought of it before.

Without a word, he left Ron and Hermione to bicker amongst themselves and descended the staircase down to the lower floor. He approached the first door on the left, confident that this was the right one.

He knocked and waited as two pairs of footsteps approached from the other side. The door opened and two ginger heads poked out through the gap.

"Good evening, Harry," one of them spoke, indivisible from the other.

"Hello, Fred, George," he greeted cordially. "I have a proposition for you both. Let's talk inside."

The long conversation that followed would not leave that room, but as Harry departed the twins' abode later that night, he knew that he had just recruited two valuable and very cunning allies to his cause.

"I don't know how… you do this every day," Hermione's voice huffed and puffed behind him. Harry shrugged as best he could as he slowed down a tag to a light trot.

"You get used to it," he replied. "Besides, it's easier when you're not stopping and starting so often."

For that, he earned a piercing glare, which would have been followed up by a punch to the shoulder if she had the energy. To be fair, she was doing well for her first jog in who knows how long. The wards around the Burrow, by virtue of being connected to ley lines, covered great swathes of the countryside, far enough where a round trip around the perimeter was a hearty mile. The perfect route for a light jog on a sunny day like today.

"I really am… out of shape, aren't I?" she laughed breathlessly.

Harry certainly didn't agree with that sentiment. Despite not being in the best shape she could be, Hermione didn't give herself nearly enough credit. He thought about saying that her shape looked absolutely fine, then wisely bombed that thought from orbit before it could go anywhere near his mouth.

"Better to work on it now than not at all," he shrugged. "This could save your life."

"You know, for all the running around we do…" she pulled in a large breath through her nose, releasing it from her mouth as Harry had told her, "you'd think I'd be better at it."

"Well, it doesn't help if most of the time between all that running is spent sitting in the library and studying."

Hermione glanced at him, wanting to argue but knowing his logic was mostly correct. She groaned, stretching her back like a cat.

"Urgh… how much further?"

"Only half a mile," Harry provided cheerfully. "We can get that done in five minutes if we don't stop."

He saw her eyes dart down the track, then back at him, before she closed them and stretched onto her tiptoes.

"Okay… Okay…" She sighed, readying herself with a steely glint in her gaze. "This time don't let me stop."

Harry dutifully shook his head.

"I won't," he promised. A few seconds later they were off again.

True to her word, Hermione didn't stop jogging until she reached the Burrow's garden fence, and once she did, she cheered and whooped herself, revelling in her victory. Three miles in 35 minutes was nothing to scoff at. There was room for improvement, but then there was time for that yet. Although, the triumph was slightly dampened by her collapsing onto the lawn. Harry dutifully brought her a cool glass of water to resurrect her, which she gratefully accepted. The water was gone so fast Harry thought she might have vanished it.

Eventually, Hermione peeled herself off of the lawn and rose to her feet. The image of her hair all over the place and her face flustered and covered with bits of grass was quite the sight to behold, however, the look on her face when he said they'd be doing it all over again the next day was priceless.

For the rest of the day, Harry was put in charge of putting up the marquee with Bill. The majority of the work was a few focused levitation charms, nothing too complicated. It made Harry smile, remembering a time when he struggled with something as simple as levitating a feather. That one morning charms lesson stood vivid in his mind, being surrounded by students all clumsily chanting the spell, with only Hermione able to do it flawlessly, because of course she could. Then he thought back to that little eleven-year-old boy, excited to learn all about this new world that had been inducted into, and all the things that awaited that little boy. The good and bad.

There was no doubting that he was a completely different person now, he had to be to have survived for as long as he had. A part of him wondered what that boy would think seeing him as he was now. Would he be disappointed? Afraid? Sad? Or maybe he would be happy to see his older self alive, anywhere but Privet Drive, surrounded by people who actually cared about him. Because really, despite the fact that Riddle and his followers wanted him dead, that he would soon be forced into a war for the fate of the world, he still had so much to be thankful for. Friends, allies, warm meals, a roof over his head. Some people didn't even get that.

It was a challenge to remind himself that there were good things in his life that he should cherish, but it was a necessary one. Some days, it was so very hard to stop himself from going to that dark place in his head, where it all seemed so pointless and tomorrow seemed unreachable. That was when it was most important for him to pull himself up by his britches and get on with the day, even if that meant busying himself with mundane tasks that a first-year could accomplish. That was what his new therapist had told him to do.

True to her word, Fleur had gotten in touch with an acquaintance from France, someone who she said could help him find a road to recovery. A couple of days later, a stranger was walking up the path to the Burrow, someone who Fleur cheerily met at the gate. After several thorough checks by the Order, Harry was finally allowed to meet her, a woman in her early thirties, wearing a pristine suit that reminded Harry of a primary school teacher. Her name was Amélie Sauveterre, beyond that Harry didn't know what to remark upon. The way Fleur talked about her made her out like she was some miracle worker but from what he could tell, she was just an ordinary woman. She was plainly unremarkable, seemingly by design. but then maybe that was the point.

After a brief introduction, he and Ms Sauvaterre - "Please, Harry, call me Amélie." - sat themselves down in a secluded corner of the living room and Amélie erected a few privacy charms around. Remus was visibly sitting at the doorway, unable to hear anything but always watching. He gave Harry a wink from his chair which set some of his nerves to rest.

As it turned out, she was nice. The majority of their sessions were her asking fairly simple questions, getting him to repeat what he already knew, probably more for her sake than his. It was only his first session, a catch-up, much the same as his first time with his previous mind healer, the one provided by St Mungo's. He hadn't made much progress with them either before all that business with Dumbledore. Hopefully, this would be different. Amélie briefly asked about him too, whether he wished to discuss his feelings regarding the whole situation, but Harry sidestepped the issue.

The truth was he still had a lot to say about Dumbledore. There were days when he forgot the old man was dead, times when he was almost waiting for him to walk through the door with some new mission. Harry would imagine him pacing his office at Hogwarts, waiting for him to return on the Hogwarts Express, ready to teach him some new lesson or impart some more cryptic wisdom. That was how he wanted to remember him, rather than him slumped in his chair, his glassy eyes staring outwards and…

"Harry?"

His eyes perked up, wiping the clouds away.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Yeah, I'm here."

Amélie wrote something down on her notepad in a neat scrawl and Harry felt himself shift in his seat.

"Would you like me to repeat what I said?" she asked to which he politely nodded. "Alright, then. I have tried to get a referral from your medical records at St Mungos, however, no one could find them. They were heavily classified. However, I understand from speaking to Fleur that you have had therapy briefly before. Tell me, how do you think that went?"

Harry thought for a moment, wondering if Dumbledore was behind his medical files being treated like a state secret. It made sense, he didn't want the fact of his illness to be known to the other side. The last thing he needed was his golden boy, the Chosen One, looking weak.

"I'm not sure." He shrugged. "I'm still sick, aren't I?"

"How do you mean?"

"PTSD," Harry supplied. "That's what they call it. Like what soldiers get. Means my brain's not working properly or something like that. I don't know the specifics."

"I'm guessing they did not explain it to you properly, then," Amélie replied. At his nod, she sighed, noting it down with an underline. She then set the notepad aside and gave him her full attention. "It's an anxiety disorder. It typically develops after moments of severe stress or trauma, however, it can also develop after prolonged exposure to repeated incidents of trauma. We call that Complex PTSD. Sometimes people develop it immediately, sometimes it can develop many years after the fact, but both can be treated in time. Really, if you are suffering from PTSD, it takes more than this kind of therapy to truly tackle it."

"So there is a cure? I can get better?"

"It's not quite that simple. It takes a lot of work from both ends, I'm afraid. I'm not here to cure you, Harry. This isn't an injury or a sickness. I'm here to help you understand yourself better so that you can start to come to terms with how this has happened and how you want to move forward."

A tired sigh escaped from him before he could quell it.

"So there's nothing you can give me for this? No medicine or pills or something?"

"It would be much easier if there were, wouldn't it?" Amélie smiled. "But no. Typically the only drugs that are prescribed, at least in the muggle world, are antidepressants, which, as you might guess, counteract the chemical imbalances in your brain that come with depression or other disorders. But they aren't a cure, Harry. They're more like a crutch, I suppose, and they do have numerous side effects. There aren't many potion substitutes either. Magic is far too spontaneous to have such specialised usage, however, I heard you've been taking Calming Draughts on occasion?"

"Just to stop the panic attacks," Harry nodded.

"That's some good initiative. However, I wouldn't recommend using them too often," Amélie suggested softly. "We don't want you becoming dependent on them, even if they can help you."

"Sure."

"Would you like to talk about those panic attacks, Harry? Can you remember when they started?"

Harry cast his mind way back, months ago, back to that evening in detention, eagerly awaiting his release.

"It was May. Or April. Maybe earlier. It was definitely after Easter, though. I was at a party, in my common room, and then suddenly I just wasn't there anymore. It felt like I was back in one of my memories. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what was going on."

"That is called a flashback. Certain sounds or images can trigger you to partially relive traumatic moments from your life. It often feels like you are living in two moments, the past and the present. Is that what it felt like to you?"

"Yes. Yes, exactly."

"Okay. Do you have any idea what might have triggered this memory? Anything from the party in particular? Was it a loud noise, a certain smell or taste, anything that might have reminded you of the event?"

It was difficult to picture the scene exactly as he saw it all those months ago, but the memory he could envision was clear as day.

"I think someone was setting off fireworks. All the people as well, crowding around me, saying my name. It reminded me of…"

Photographers, flashing bulbs, the Ministry, his friends, Riddle, Sirius, the Veil… Damn it, he thought he was over this already. Why the hell was it still affecting him now? Why were his eyes hurting? His hands were shaking and his tongue felt like lead.

"We don't have to talk about it, Harry, if you don't want to." Amélie's voice rang in his ears, keeping him rooted in his armchair, on this summer day at the Burrow. Reminding him that he was safe. She took his silence as a sign to move on. "It's alright. We can tackle this at your pace."

"I want to," Harry refused, forcing himself to breathe. "I just… I'm sorry, this is stupid of me."

"No, it's not. It's common for your mind to attach certain sensations to traumatic memories. It's a survival mechanism that helps the brain identify danger and process severe trauma. Except, sometimes the brain doesn't process it correctly. Whatever you saw at the party reminded you of that day and told your brain that you were in danger, even though you know you really weren't."

"So, how do I tell it to stop?" Harry growled through clenched teeth. "How do I get it to shut up?"

"Breathing helps," Amélie said pointedly. Harry paused, taking in another long breath of air, trying to relax. "Curing PTSD is a long and difficult process. The most I can do is to help you understand why you're responding to these memories the way you are and possibly how to change that. I understand that we may only have so much time, not nearly enough in a typical case, so I want to give you as much advice as I can while you're able to listen.

"However, this doesn't mean I'm going to force you to progress any faster than what you're comfortable with. These things take time. If you're not ready to relive these memories, then I won't make you. I'm here to help, Harry. I promise."

Their session didn't last much longer than that. It was mostly a review of what they had discussed. Seeing it all written down on paper made it all seem so meagre, but Amélie assured him that they indeed made good progress. Their next sessions would be the following week, to which Harry asked if she needed him to prepare anything. She laughed at that, though not in a demeaning way. She merely asked him to think about what he wanted to talk about for next time.

Once Amélie had left the property, Harry made a point to find Fleur and thank her for introducing the pair. In response, Fleur merely gave him a soft hug and told him it was no bother.

"Consider it your birthday present," she smiled, a sentiment that caught Harry wildly off-guard.

His birthday. He'd almost completely forgotten all about it. Then again, considering what had happened recently, it was no wonder it had skipped his. Honestly, he didn't expect to receive a single gift, however, at this point, he couldn't find it in himself to care. There was no use wasting money on a dead man, anyway.

That idea was disproved the very next day when Mrs Weasley wished him a very happy seventeenth birthday and carefully presented him with an old watch wrapped in paper. It was a dull gold, with little stars across its face, obviously well used but still ticking.

"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age. I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but-"

But it was perfect, Harry told her via a fierce hug. It didn't matter that it was a hand-me-down, that it wasn't the newest or shiniest on the market, it meant so much more than that. He carried a piece of her family's history now, a family she had welcomed him into, that had become like his own. One that, despite his mistakes, still accepted him, still loved him.

It was surprisingly comfortable to wear, the type of comfort that had been worn in from years of use. Putting on the watch felt like stepping into another man's shoes, yet it felt like his own too. According to Wizarding tradition, he was a man now. It would be up to him to see if he turned out a good one.

However, this wasn't the only surprise the day had in store for him.

"Harry?"

He turned as he was about to mount the stairs back up to Hermione's room, only to find Ginny's eyes staring back at him.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, not sure what to say. Ginny, however, looked like she had plenty to say.

"Do you mind following me for a second?"

Harry caught Mrs Weasley's eyes just for a moment he thought he saw her wink at him, only to return to the marquee outside like nothing happened.

Slightly confused, Harry followed Ginny up the stairs towards a green door on the third floor. The redhead opened the door and pulled him inside, allowing Harry his first-ever glimpse of Ginny's room. It never occurred to him until now that he had no idea what Ginny's room actually looked like, however standing in the middle of it now, staring around, it didn't look like a girl's room. There were posters of Quidditch players all around, a clean set of uniforms in the corner along with her broom, books and trainers and all sorts of things she had collected in her time at Hogwarts. Not a single thing in her room was pink, rather it was a scene of reds and greens and golds. It suited her very well.

The owner of the room was now standing in the centre, her hands behind her back, staring up at him from underneath her long eyelashes. She almost looked bashful, in a way that was very unlike her.

"I couldn't think of what to get you," she said. "For your birthday, I mean."

"Honestly, Ginny, you didn't have to get me anything."

Ginny ignored him, taking a step closer. Her eyes never left his face.

"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you." They were but a foot from each other now, so close that Harry could see she was wearing make-up, more than she usually was. "So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."

"I don't think we're going to be meeting very many Veela on the run," Harry laughed nervously. Ginny smiled mischievously.

"Maybe… but if you ever did…"

And then she began leaning towards him, her eyes closed. There was a moment of infinitesimal time when he considered letting it happen. The moment passed and his heart squeezed in his chest as he forced himself to lean back, avoiding her lips.

"Ginny, what are you doing?" he asked.

Her eyes opened, only to roll at him as she grinned.

"Giving you my present," she replied in a sly whisper. She closed her eyes again, continuing to lean into him when Harry grabbed her arm and pushed her away.

"Stop it."

This time, when Ginny's eyes opened again, their mischievous spark was gone.

"Wh-What?" she asked, her smile faltering.

"I told you we can't do this."

For a moment she looked confused, only for a sense of relief to wash over her.

"Harry, you don't have to be noble," she laughed, taking his hands in hers. "It's just us."

"I meant it."

Her brow furrowed. The girl looked genuinely taken aback as she realised his reluctance wasn't a joke.

"I won't see you for months," she argued, her concern turning to frustration. "At least let me give you this."

Harry was about to once again reiterate that he didn't want to, that it was irresponsible of them, when he was reminded of the last time they spoke, of what she had said to him.

"Did you mean it?" Harry asked a perplexed Ginny. "When you said the only way you could see me happy was if I was hunting Voldemort?"

Harry had hoped for this moment for so long now, the chance to ask Ginny to her face, to get her genuine answer, as if knowing the answer to that very question would force it all to make sense. The redhead simply stared back at him, as if trying to read him and not knowing where to start.

"Well… yes," she replied hesitantly. "Isn't it?"

A thousand times he had pictured this moment in his head. In his mind, he would breathe, look her dead in the eye and calmly explain his feelings to her, where she had gone wrong. But now it was actually happening and all of his carefully-imagined confidence had been thrown out of the window. Ginny's innocent reply had disarmed him to the point where he wasn't sure if he could say anything. He couldn't even look at her the same way anymore.

Here she was, standing right in front of him, yet Harry had never felt further away from her. They may have been in the same room but they were nowhere near on the same page. At that moment, Harry felt like he was staring into the eyes of a stranger.

Harry shook his head. He wasn't ready to deal with any of this. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have right this second. Desperate to escape back to his room, ignoring Ginny's concerned face, he turned towards the door.

"Harry? What is it?" He felt her hand on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Oh, I can talk to you, can I?" he replied sharply before he could stop himself, sharply shrugging her off. "Or would you rather talk to the Chosen One?"

Much to his shame, Harry couldn't help but take some grim satisfaction in the shock written so plainly on her face. At this point, he was too far gone to feel anything like that. He wanted to throw her off balance. He wanted her to feel some small measure of his own discomfort as some sort of retribution for what she had inadvertently been through.

Of course, Ginny's shock didn't last long. She was much too resilient for that.

"I'm sorry?" she bit back just fiercely, but she had no idea what she was getting into, how long he had been waiting to say these words.

"You really think hunting Voldemort is what makes me happy?" he said with barely held anger, letting his hurt bleed into his voice. "Seriously?"

Her eyes widened as she realised her mistake. She shook her head violently.

"No, I- I didn't mean it like that-"

"What else could you possibly have meant?"

"I meant-" she took a moment to find the right words, all the while Harry had to resist interrupting. "I meant that you couldn't just stand by and let someone else do it for you." explained, so crystal clear to her. "You don't give up, you don't stand aside, you don't think about yourself, only about other people. You saved my life when you barely knew who I was. And I know that you wouldn't let anyone else take this burden for you."

"Yes, I would," Harry responded immediately. "If I knew that was a choice, I'd take it in an instant."

The words hung in the air, followed by a deafening silence. Ginny's face froze in some combination of shock, disgust and sadness, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in a frown. She looked at him as if the person she had known for so long had disappeared and she was looking at someone entirely different.

"You don't mean that," she protested faintly as her entire world came down.

Harry could only scoff.

"Don't I?" He took a hard step towards her, advancing on her as his anger grew in his chest. "You don't think that maybe I'm tired of this shit? Waking up every day wondering if this is the day that I'll have to fight Voldemort again? Wondering if maybe I should just run away and leave you all behind because better that than watching you die one by one for my sake?

"I worry about everyone all of the time." He bit his teeth together, trying to tame the tremor in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. "All I can think about is how much safer you'd all be without me in your lives. I almost died last week, Ginny, and a part of me actually wanted to, just so that I wouldn't have to live like this anymore. I have no choice, I have to fight Voldemort. Not because I couldn't be happy otherwise, but because I never had a choice, from the moment he gave me this." He pressed a finger to his scar, so hard he thought the tip of his finger might push right through his forehead into his skull. "This… this isn't who I am, Ginny."

By the time his tirade ended, his chest was heaving from the effort. Ginny stood silent in front of him, stiff and straight at her full height. Her shock had slowly been transforming into anger, until now she merely looked him in the eye with a hard stare embedded in her stony, freckled face. Almost immediately, he wished he could take the words back, but it was too late.

"Then who are you, Harry?" her voice was eerily calm and yet brimming with emotion. "Who are you really? Because I can't- I-" Her stoic facade quickly began to crumble. "You don't let anyone in, ever. I'm trying, Harry, I really am, but every time I'm just met with this brick wall. What do you want me to do? I can't keep giving my all to someone who won't give anything back. You even kept your panic attacks from me. Do you know what that's like to watch you suffer and be able to do nothing about it? It made me feel so worthless, so- so useless." Furious tears were running down her face. "I hated myself for it. And then you didn't speak to me for weeks and when you did it was to tell me that you didn't want me… I didn't even know what I'd done wrong."

Eventually, it all became too much for her and she broke down into sobs, having reached her limit. And Harry was forced to watch, knowing that it was his fault. A pang of horrible guilt clogged his lungs and stabbed like sharp pins in his heart.

"Oh, God," he stammered, for he didn't know what on earth else to say. "Ginny, I never…

"Never what? Never thought I cared about you?" Harry winced like he had been exposed to bright light. It would've hurt less if she had slapped him. "I know what you did on your birthday, Mum told me everything. I didn't sleep that night, Harry, because my friend, a boy I care for so much, sent himself off to die and now you're putting that all at my feet like it was somehow my fault-"

"Ginny-"

"No, you don't get to do that to me! You don't get to pretend like I'm some heartless bitch who only wants her fairy tale hero who'll go off and die for her! You don't put that on me!"

Her eyes were wild with a burning fury that made Harry's skin prickle. The pair sat simmering in an oppressive silence, so heavy that it felt like you could scream and not break it. Harry wanted to say something to ease the situation, but his mind came up blank at every turn. Nothing he could ever say felt like it would be enough. They had dug so deep that any sort of effort to climb out felt insurmountable.

Realising that he had nothing to contribute, Ginny sighed forlornly and turned to stare out the window. There wasn't much to see - the marquee blocked most of the view - but that wasn't the point.

"I've tried my best to help you from an arm's length," she said softly, her arms wrapped around herself, "but if you don't want that anymore then… Then I'll just try to stay out of your life from now on. You can ignore me as much as you want, pretend like I don't care, that I never cared about you. I can be that for you if it helps."

That was as clear an invitation to leave as he was going to get, however that was the last thing he wanted. Harry felt hollow. He wanted to help her, to console her, but he didn't know what on Earth he could possibly do to make this better. This was all his fault. She hated him. Everything he did just seemed to make things worse, no matter how much he tried. Hurting people, just like always.

With his heart in his shoes, Harry turned and walked to the bedroom door. Ginny didn't move to stop him, proof in his mind that she wanted nothing to do with him.

His fingers gripped the doorknob with the intent to turn it. It sat tight in his hand, waiting for him to twist and pull it open. Harry, however, did no such thing.

He couldn't leave it here, not like this. In a moment of clarity, Harry let go and chose instead to be brave.

"I'm sorry."

The words tumbled from his throat clumsily, but in the silence of the bedroom, they echoed like church bells. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny look back at him over her shoulder. She was standing completely still, caught in a moment.

"For what?" she said, clearly taken aback.

Harry wanted to say 'everything', but he knew that wouldn't cut it.

"For ignoring you. For never letting you in."

He took a step back from the door and turned to face her head-on. It was time to be brave.

"I didn't do it because I hated you. I never hated you. I liked you, a lot. I just thought…" He gritted his teeth, trying to think of the right words. This really wasn't the time for him to trip up and say something he didn't mean in trying to protect himself. "Ginny, I'm a mess. I'm not well. I hurt people. I didn't want to hurt you too, because you don't deserve that. I thought if I stayed away for long enough, you would just move on with someone better."

"Just move on?" Ginny murmured in disbelief. "From you?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugged as if that were the obvious solution. "If either of us could do it, it would be you. You can walk away from all of this, from Voldemort, from the War. I… can't."

"I don't want to walk away." She tentatively stepped closer. "Harry, I- I care about you. I want to help you. I do. I want to help you get through this, I just don't know how."

"I don't want to put that on you-"

"But I can learn. I can learn how to help you, I know how to fight. I want to be there for you if you'll have me. And whoever you want to be, beyond all of this, I can love him, too."

It broke Harry's heart to see just how eager she was, how ready she was to help. After all the things he had done to her, she had forgiven him, she still wanted to commit to him and a part of him wondered if it would just be easier if he said 'yes.' That thought was fleeting, quickly filed away. That was exactly what they had done last time. It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, but that's not the point." He took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he knew he had to say. "I… I don't love you, not in the way you want me to. I'm not sure if I ever did. I liked you, a lot, but… I'm sorry. I've been lying to myself and to you. But I do care about you, never doubt that. I never wanted to hurt you. Never. So, I think it's best if we… don't."

Harry looked up, his eyes having drifted downwards as he spoke, and saw Ginny faintly nodding, not in acceptance but by instinct, her face clearly distraught.

"I don't want it to end like this," she whispered.

"It has to," Harry assured. "I can't give you what you want. I can't be that person. I'm just me and I can't change that."

"I can love you…" Ginny insisted, and then she paused. "But you love someone else, don't you?" Harry said nothing. He didn't know how he could explain. He certainly couldn't deny it. As it turned out, he wouldn't have to. "It's Hermione, isn't it? Does she love you back?

Harry couldn't stop the blush that appeared on his face, confirming her every suspicion.

"It wasn't- I never cheated on you, if that's what you think," he said. "I didn't even know that I loved her when we were together. I really wanted to be good enough for you, Ginny. I wanted this to work but it didn't. And ever since, she's been there for me and I… I need her, Ginny."

"I know you do," Ginny replied, now far more understanding. "I've always known. You and Granger against the world. It's how it's always been. I just wanted to believe otherwise." She suddenly became very nervous. "You don't… hate me, do you?"

Harry stared at her in shock.

"No. No, of course not," he insisted, followed by a smile. "Couldn't hate you if I tried. You don't hate me?"

Ginny shook her head.

"No. It hurts like a bitch, but I don't want to lose you, so I guess I have to accept it."

"You can be angry. You have every right."

"I'm not angry. I'm just…" She shifted anxiously. "It wasn't my fault, was it?"

"Absolutely not," he said softly. He gently gripped her shoulder. "Hey, look at it this way: we tried and it didn't work. That's not either of our faults, it's just the way it is."

It seemed like that was enough for her, since her spirits quickly lifted, at least on the surface. She sniffled, unconsciously tidying herself up.

"Well, now I don't have anything to give you for your birthday," she laughed half-heartedly.

"I'm not sure I've earned a birthday present," Harry smiled back. "Maybe next year."

If there was ever going to be a next year, which at this point was seeming ever less likely. The shadow of that fact cast itself over them, and what little relief they had managed to claw back retreated into the shadows. The pair glanced at each other, realising that this might be the last time they would have a moment alone. The last chance to make peace with what was to come.

Without warning, Ginny swept him up in a desperate hug, not quite as tight as one of Hermione's but affectionate in its own way. Muffled by his shirt, he heard her whisper something in a small voice.

"What was I to you, Harry?"

Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulder, drawing her in closer, thinking over his answer.

"You made me feel… normal," he eventually replied. "That I was like anyone else because that's what I wanted to be. But you don't need someone who uses you for their own ends. That's not what love is. I'm not like anyone else and I need to accept that. And you deserve someone better. Someone honest."

Eventually, the two parted, having said all that needed to be said. They looked at each other, taking each other in, seeing each other more clearly.

"Please don't die, Harry."

Harry put on a brave smile for her, knowing that he could never promise such a thing, nor could he explain why. Even after opening so far up to each other, there were still things she could never know, things that she deserved to know, and it sickened him. How the hell did Dumbledore do this? Hiding bits and pieces of himself to his friends, his family, and his allies, hoarding them inside his head and letting them eat at him?

Not for the first time, Harry wished that the burden of the Horcruxes hadn't fallen to him. He wished that he at least had the security in the chance of survival, the dream of a future surrounded by his loved ones. He imagined what kind of life lay in store for Ginny, many years from now, long after he was gone. He imagined her having a family of her own, a career, friends she hadn't met yet, moments he would never get the chance to be a part of.

It was a life that he himself would never get to see, but that didn't mean it wasn't something worth fighting for.

Harry couldn't promise his own future, but he could promise hers as well as everyone else's. All those who Riddle wished to exterminate, all those young children somewhere in the muggle world who had yet to receive their letters, every student whose lives had yet to get started. They deserved a future without the spectre of Tom Riddle hanging over them, without the hatred that poisoned the Wizarding world. Those were the people he could promise himself to, Ginny included.

He would make sure that no one ever had to carry this burden again, not Ginny, not her family, not any of his friends. That this whole sordid ordeal would end with him and Riddle lying in the ground if that was what it took.

"I'll try my best," Harry vowed, conviction imbued into every word.

They parted soon after as friends, only friends, and Harry spent the rest of the day assisting in preparing the marquee for the wedding. Moving chairs and tables, putting up decorations, laying out carpets and all sorts of other tasks filled his mind. All the while he strangely felt lighter than he had in days, one less weight on his shoulder, the certainty of a question answered. He didn't see Ginny again that day, probably for the best to save them both the awkward exchange, for it would be awkward for a while.

By the time the sun set, the marquee was all but ready for the wedding that would be taking place in a few days' time. Harry sat in his room - waiting for the rest of the house to fall asleep so he, Ron and Hermione could scheme once again - staring at his new watch. It used to belong to Mrs Weasley's brother, who had died in the previous war. How many years had Fabian owned it? Judging by the subtle denting and worn edges of the straps presumably a while, many years if he were to guess. Longer than he would ever have it, Harry realised.

He wondered what would happen to the watch once he was gone, whether Molly would keep it for one of her grandchildren, perhaps. Harry only hoped that whoever finally received it on their seventeenth birthday would be living in a better world than he was, one without Tom Riddle or his Death Eaters.

A world that no longer needed a Boy-Who-Lived.

Chapter Text

The early morning light glinted on the Golden Snitch’s surface as it flew up into the air and landed in its new owner's palm. Not a second later and it was up in the air again, landing always in Harry’s hand as he tossed it up and down. For a ball made of solid gold, the snitch was surprisingly light. It was a testament to its craftsmanship that the tiny metal ball was so satisfying to handle. And now it was his. A final gift from his late headmaster.

The reading of the Will of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had taken place only yesterday, in the living room of the Burrow. The Minister for Magic himself, Rufus Scrimgeour, appeared at the Burrow to personally deliver it. His presence should have been expected considering the importance of the personal effects of a man such as Albus Dumbeldore, however, Harry would have much preferred McGonagall or Flitwick - even Snape. They at least knew Dumbledore. They could pretend like they were joining in remembrance of the man himself, as opposed to this thinly veiled political ploy disguised as ceremony. 

As for the will, Dumbledore has left Ron his Deluminator, apparently to remind him never to lose faith in the light, even in darkness. Hermione was left Dumbledore’s personal copy of The Tales of the Needle and the Bard, the one that Hermione had already been pouring over for months; that she had made mountains of notes over, with input from Dumbledore himself, luckily in a separate notebook rather than directly onto the pages. Harry dreaded to imagine what the prying eyes at the Ministry might have gauged with that insight.

Finally, Harry was given the Golden Snitch he’d caught in his very first quidditch match - well, caught in a loose sense of the term, swallowed would be more accurate - as a reminder of the merits of perseverance and belief in one’s abilities. Harry failed to see how it could be useful, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

All of their bequeathed items had been stripped down and tested for any secrets or enchantments, but Dumbledore knew very well that would happen. None of their gifts was meant to provide them with any strategic edge. All of the important items they would need for their quest were stored in the Shrieking shack already under lock and key. The Ministry’s efforts were destined to be fruitless, but that did not stop the Minister from inserting himself into their ceremony as one last attempt to pry for answers.

Thankful, after realising he would get no cooperation from the trio, Scrimgeour had the decency to depart, leaving them with their gifts and a foreboding sense of anxiety. Dumbledore was truly gone now. The will had been read, his effects delivered, the casket in the ground. The old headmaster wouldn’t be able to help them anymore. It was up to them to finish what he started.

Harry watched the morning sun slowly rise from behind the rolling hills with solemn awe. It was all so quiet, so serenely still, like the world was holding its breath. Harry was used to early mornings like these, ever since the nightmares had disallowed him to sleep. Views like this, however, made them almost seem worth it.

“Can’t sleep?”

If her voice didn’t immediately tell him who it was then the rhythm of her soft footsteps certainly did. That and the warm glow in his chest that made him feel safe and content, the one that only came from her.

“Pretty much,” he replied as Hermione took her seat beside him next to the window sill. He felt her fingers rest against his arm, stroking the bare skin in a comforting gesture.

“Is it your scar?” she asked and Harry frowned. He had almost forgotten about Riddle since sitting down to watch the sunrise. There was little he wouldn’t give for the luxury of forgetting all about that maniac.

“He’s angry,” Harry murmured. “I think he’s looking for something.”

Her fingers paused against his skin for a moment.

“It’s not the Horcruxes, is it?”

“No,” he reassured her. “Definitely not. It’s something else. But he really wants to find them.” Harry shrugged. “We’ll just have to see.”

Hermione nodded, seemingly resigned to the feeling of yet another problem that needed solving in time. It wouldn’t do to think about it now, though. They could at least try not to think too hard about the future before breakfast. 

“You shouldn’t be letting him in.”

Having no response, Harry carefully weaved his fingers through hers in the lightest of touches.

“I know,” he said. It was not an apology nor an excuse, but it was all he had. 

It wasn’t nice to have Riddle's thoughts in his head, Harry hated letting him in, but it was an advantage they couldn’t afford to forgo. Knowledge of the enemy is crucial in war, after all. To know the enemy is to know every battle. If Riddle wanted something so desperately, chances are it would only be a matter of time before it was used against them. 

Maybe he should be more concerned over the fact that he was risking his own mind in return for this information. Then again going mad was better than being dead. Hell, he was practically mad already.

Or at least he soon would be if Hermione’s fingers continued to dance across his skin like that. It was like she was using his arm as a canvas, brushing the tips of her nails in small circles up and down his pale arm, leaving goosebumps wherever she went. Harry wondered if she even realised what she was doing to him.

“Why are you up so early?” Harry whispered once he found his voice.

“It’s going to sound silly,” she whispered back. “I just… had a feeling. I followed it. And here you are.”

The amber morning light hid his blush well. 

It was then that he noticed she had been carrying something in her other arm. It was a book with a worn spine and gold lettering across its face. Even in the low light, Harry recognised it immediately, having seen it only yesterday.

“Is it a good book?” he said, gesturing to the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard sitting beside her. “I mean, is it a good read? On a scale from Dickens to Hogwarts: A History?”

Hermione looked up at him from beneath the fringe of her dark brown hair and smiled. Harry’s heart would have leapt from his chest had it not been imprisoned in flesh and bone.

“I’ll have you know that Hogwarts: A History is a fascinating read,” she replied with an affronted little grin.

“This coming from the only one who actually stayed awake in Binns’ history lessons?” Harry retorted. Hermione chose to ignore that remark.

“It is, actually,” she pondered as she carefully handed the weathered book over for him to inspect. “Although, it feels weird reading fairy tales when I know now they could very well be real.”

That was a feeling Harry could absolutely relate to. He used to love fairy tales when he was a young boy, whenever he had the chance to read them. Stories about orphans whose good hearts and kind actions earned them the happiness they always wanted, with casts of colourful characters and moments of whimsy that allowed him to forget his own world for a little while.

However, it was one thing reading about Cinderella and her Fairy Godmother who could turn her rags into a ballgown and a pumpkin into a carriage and feel the wonder of such magic explode inside his young mind. It was an entirely different experience to know that not only were such miracles not fiction but to be able to surmise exactly which spells he could use to recreate them. It was strangely melancholic to feel a layer of mystery to the world become so very mundane in its own ways, filled with its own problems that needed miracles to solve.

“Any favourites?” he asked, genuinely curious as to what kinds of stories the children of witches and wizards would be enchanted by.

“The Three Brothers,” Hermione answered immediately. “I think that’s my favourite. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Like a bedtime story?” he chuckled and Hermione smiled back, only slightly bashful. “I think I’m a bit too grown up for that.”

As if pleading to the contrary, Hermione stuck out her bottom lip and Harry laughed. A few moments later, Hermione’s face returned to its studious curiosity.

“Actually, there is something I’ve been trying to figure out.” She opened the book to the first page and held it out for him, joining at the corner of the page. “Here.”

Precisely where she was pointed was Dumbledore’s first name ‘Albus’ scribbled in an uncharacteristically messy scrawl that told of a much younger man. It was to be expected since the book was his own personal copy, however, the ‘A’ was not its normal shape. In fact, it appeared to be unlike any letter he’d ever seen. A triangle containing a circle bisected by a horizontal line. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out what it’s supposed to mean,” Hermione said. “At first I thought it was some form of ancient greek, but it isn’t. It’s not a rune or a mathematical symbol, either. The closest match I could find was the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s stone…”

“Dumbledore did know Flamel personally,” Harry nodded. “They were research partners, remember?”

“But it’s not an exact match,” Hermione mumbled in frustration. “Besides, the Philosopher’s stone was destroyed, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“So, if he wanted us to find it, why not just tell us?”

“Wouldn’t exactly be beyond him to lie about it.”

The notion seemed to greatly dampen Hermione’s spirit.

“But he promised,” she replied weakly. Harry could only pat her hand in some consoling manner.

“I know,” he said, not an apology nor an excuse.

The memory of Dumbledore’s machinations didn’t suppress Hermione’s mood for long, however, and soon she had shuffled up beside him and showed him the symbol again.

“What about you?” she asked. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Harry tilted his head as he stared at the symbol yet again.

“You think I’d recognise it?”

“It’s good to have a second opinion.”

The teenager thought for a moment, trying to think of a dignified answer that would convince Hermione he had any clue at all. 

“Maybe he just made it up?” he offered. Hermione’s beleaguered sigh told him that it hadn’t worked.

"Maybe he made it up,” she scoffed in a manner that was not a little bit patronising. Harry could only smirk at her.

“You wanted a second opinion.”

Hermione scoffed again and Harry pinched her. Eventually, the two had shifted so closely together that Hermione’s head was resting on his shoulder, looking out over the morning landscape beside him. There was a moment of quiet where Harry thought they might just sit and watch the sunrise forever, but with Hermione’s mind now awake and very eager, the quiet didn’t last.

“Have you figured out how to get into the snitch yet?” she diverted to the golden ball in his hand, to which Harry shook his head.

“Not yet. You don’t think there’s a password, do you?” He held the ball up in front of his mouth like a microphone. “‘Sherbet Lemons’.” The Snitch remained lifeless between his fingers. Harry tutted, only slightly disappointed. “I thought not.”

“Maybe the Ministry removed the flesh memory when they were testing it?”

“Wouldn’t put it past them.” He casually threw the ball a few inches and caught it, jostling it in his hand. He then offered it to Hermione who happily took it between her fingers and admired it. “Oh well, now it’s just like any old snitch. At least they cleaned it up for me.”

“Well, not just any snitch,” Hermione smiled. “I still remember your first match.”

“Hmm.” He leaned over her and smirked. “Wasn’t that the one where you set Snape on fire?”

“And saved your life?” she replied with her chin raised. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“You are allowed to say you enjoyed setting him on fire.”

“A professor?” she said, scandalised. “Never.”

Despite laughing, Harry decided that remark had earned her a pinch in her side. It wasn’t long before Hermione was stifling her laughs, trying not to wake the rest of the house.

“You know,” Hermione eventually managed to squeak out, pushing away Harry’s hands, “after the match, I looked up the Quidditch statistics for how many seekers caught the snitch on their first time out.”

“And how many were there?”

“Not many. It was something ridiculous like 4%. Yet you caught it on your very try. And you were only eleven years old. I was so impressed.”

“Technically, I didn’t exactly catch the Snitch,” a reddening Harry scoffed, “I swallowed it if you remember. Besides, you saved my skin more times than I can count… Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t respond. The girl’s face was frozen in a picture of wild inspiration, or shock, Harry couldn’t tell the difference. Her brown eyes were wide, her eyebrows creasing the ridge of her brown, her mouth slightly open, whispering to herself.

“Swallowed… oh my God.” She frantically turned to him, grasping the Snitch and pushing it towards his face. “Harry, put it on your lips.”

He wanted to ask what on Earth she meant, but after six years of knowing Hermione, the boy had learned by now not to question her. Obediently, he plucked the snitch and placed it on the skin of his lips. Suddenly the golden ball vibrated in his grip. His heart jolted. He pulled it away just in time to see the soft glow of words embossing themselves on its golden surface. A message appeared before his very eyes.

"’I open at the close’,” he read. He tilted the ball so that Hermione could see. She peered over his shoulder to get a better look.

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly, but Harry already knew. His heart grew heavy inside his chest. 

“It means it’s not time yet,” he replied simply. He felt Hermione’s eyes searching his face. Her fingers tightened on his arm.

“Harry…”

“Whatever this is, I don’t think it’s something Dumbledore wants me to have just yet,” he explained. “I think it’s for the end. After all this. For when I’m about to-“

The sound of a sniffle broke his train of thought. He swivelled to see Hermione covertly wiping her shimmering eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. Suddenly, whatever he had to say didn’t seem so important anymore. The snitch was quickly forgotten as he wrapped his best friend in a warm hug. Hermione wrapped herself around him until his whole body felt warm, and he embraced her as well, pulling her against him to ward away the morning chill.

They sat and watched the world outside the bedroom window until they could delay breakfast no longer, savouring the few moments of peace they had left until the rest of the house was awake.

On the morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Harry stood watching the garden from the kitchen window, silently thanking that he hadn’t been roped in as an usher. A crowd of guests were being ushered inside the entrance to the marquee by an already-bored-looking Ginny, a never-ending sea of suits, dresses, red hair and platinum. It seemed like both the Weasleys and the Delacours had large extended families, or at least a lot of family friends. 

It was a wonder that the marquee could contain them all. Harry chuckled to himself as he imagined the marquee inflating like a balloon, expanding from the sheer amount of guests and the concentration of perfume.

‘Oh, Harry, don’t be ridiculous,’ Hermione’s voice scolded him inside his head, ‘it probably has an expansion charm in the inside, the same as the tent the Weasleys stayed in when we went to the Quidditch World Cup, remember?’

And of course, the voice was correct. The inner dimensions were mostly likely expanded to at least twice the perimeter would allow, he helped Bill construct it all up after all. He even asked about the charms involved and Bill was happy to give him the run-down. A simple expansion and construction rune on each pole, which made putting it all away at the end as simple as turning off the circuit. Maybe the real Hermione would appreciate the second-hand lecture. It might prove a nice distraction from the day they were about to have. 

Several long, laborious hours of introductions, small talk, congratulations and all sorts of meaningless rubbish people performed to keep up appearances. At least he wasn’t a member of the family so he would have to pretend he knew any of them, nor would be on the other end of people remarking at how big he’d grown, like how Ron would inevitably be. Then again, all of that wasn’t really the point. Harry was there because he wanted to support Bill and Fleur however he could, for everything they had done for him, especially for introducing him to his therapist, Amelie.

Speaking of which, their sessions had been progressing nicely, from what Harry could tell. He had yet to make any major breakthrough but being able to plainly speak his mind helped lay his thoughts out in his head. Mainly how he felt about the upcoming wedding and his anxieties around that. 

Bill and Fleur had invited him personally, they wanted him there and he accepted simply because he wanted to be a part of it, not just to appease the happy couple but for the sake of being part of a crowd and enjoying a day as a normal person. Of course, however, he was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter wasn’t allowed to be a face in a crowd. Despite that caveat, Amelie encouraged it of him, if only to unwind for a day, but her approval didn’t solve that main issue. 

It was simply a matter of logistics, mainly how on Earth the Chosen One was supposed to just casually attend a wedding without becoming swarmed with nosy guests or worse turning the wedding into a target. As much as Harry wanted to be part of the celebrations, he didn’t want to do so at the expense of Bill and Fleur.

There was too little time to brew a batch of polyjuice and they couldn’t very well allow Harry to attend the wedding as himself for obvious reasons. Of course, there were more traditional disguises but the thought of spending the entire day wearing a tacky red wig made Harry’s scalp itch. 

If only it could be as simple as taking off his glasses, Harry pondered aloud as they discussed ideas, Superman did it all the time and no one recognised him. The confused faces around him prompted him to explain what on Earth he was on about, with Hermione backing him up. It was a ridiculous idea. And for some reason, it stuck. 

Remus left for Diagon Alley that same day and returned with what he described as a late birthday present: a box of contact lenses for Harry to try on immediately. Placing them onto his eyeballs for the first time was supremely unsettling - his eyes watered buckets from trying to do it himself - but after the first few attempts of taking them out and putting them back in every hour or so, Harry soon got used to the procedure. His eyes felt irritated for a good few days, however, that was apparently normal. 

(From what Remus told him, there were magical contacts he could buy that not only circumvented the side effects but also had a bunch of cool advantages like night vision and far-sight enhancement, but the last thing Harry wanted was anything magical in his eyes. He much preferred knowing that the worst thing that could happen was an irritated eye, rather than a missing or damaged one.)

The lack of glasses was a good start, but then came the real test: Harry’s first proper haircut. It took Molly a good half an hour to get his hair under control and after a long afternoon, Harry’s signature wild mane had been brought under control.

The sides and back had been trimmed down to almost a buzz cut. Instead of the mop that used to sit on top of his head, his hair now reminded Harry of a neatly styled brush, with only a few errant strands curling at the ends to suggest the untamed wilderness it once was. Molly attempted to style it further using a scoop of hair gel style earlier that morning, but for some reason, his raven locks refused to comply. Apparently, there was only so much his hair would allow.

After all was said and done, Harry was left with a style that he would’ve felt indifferent to had it been on anyone else’s head. As for his own, it would take a while to get used to. Still, it was leagues better than Aunt Petunia’s haircuts, as if that was a high bar.

Then came a series of minor glamours. The first was directed at his eyes - which Harry vehemently protested at first before Remus had the chance to explain - shifting them from emerald green to a lighter sky blue. Next, his skin, which quickly sprouted a healthy covering of dark stubble thanks to a prototype remedy from Fred and George. It was not quite a full beard yet but enough to break up his pale skin. Finally, another glamour and the scars that peppered his face disappeared, leaving his skin bare and unblemished. 

It was by no means a permanent disguise - the glamours would wear off and would have to be reapplied at around midday - but it was just enough to make people not look twice. Well, except for Harry himself of course.

Seeing himself in the mirror for the first time, after all the finishing touches had been applied, left him bewildered. It was unsettling to look into a mirror and, for a moment, not recognise the face staring back at him. He looked like a stranger, he thought. Like a Harry from another world where it all hadn’t gone completely wrong. He looked… he looked like someone else and Harry didn’t really know how he felt about that.

The reactions from the others ranged from shock to astonishment to rigorous teasing.

“Bloody Hell, Harry! You look like you actually hit puberty.” 

“Oh, dear, you look so handsome! Not that you weren’t before, of course- but oh! The short hair really suits you. And those contact lenses make your face so much brighter.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. You don’t look like a Harry to me. In fact, I think he looks more like a ‘Dave’ than a ‘Harry’. What do you think, Fred?”

“Oh, definitely not. More like a Jacob to me. Besides, the Harry we know couldn’t grow a beard to save his life.”

“And he definitely didn’t look like the type who pulls girls like this fine stallion right here-“

“Oh, stop it, you two! Leave him alone.

“It’s a compliment, mum!”

Mrs Weasley tutted at her twin sons and busied herself with brushing some invisible lint off of Harry’s shirt.

“You’re going to make a lucky woman very happy one day, dear.”

“Thanks, Molly,” Harry smiled, trying to maintain his cheery attitude despite remembering how he wouldn’t have a ‘one day.’

“Speaking of which,” he heard Fred whisper to him, nudging him in the side, “here she comes.”

Harry didn’t need to ask who Fred was talking about. He could recognise those delicate creaks down the stairs any day. 

Despite his initial reluctance, the thought of Hermione’s reaction to his new appearance maybe him giddy with anticipation. Even Harry could admit he looked more handsome now, with all of his small changes, than he did when he woke up this morning - not that any improvement was hard. A part of him, a very possessive part of him, wanted to covet Hermione’s shock at seeing him for the first time, at finally impressing her in that way.

Of course, that all went out the window when he saw Hermione for himself.

The first thing he noticed was her smile, so bright that he almost squinted. Her face had been decorated with just a hint of makeup, enough to highlight her gentle features. Her hair had been combed into a loose ponytail that framed her radiant face like an ornate picture frame. She was wearing a floaty lilac dress that gently hugged her body and briefly reminded Harry of the dress she wore at the Yule Ball, as well as all the ways she had grown up since. The combined effect had his thoughts stuttering in his head. The confidence he had slowly built over the course of the day quickly softened to jelly.

He barely summoned the presence of mind to smile back at her, after a harsh nudge from Ron. 

“Y-you look brilliant,” the words tumbled from his mouth. Hermione laughed softly, lifting an eyebrow as she looked him up and down. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” She smirked, drawing Harry’s attention to her glossy, pink lips. “I like the stubble.”

Harry’s brain had to quickly reboot before formulating a reply.

“I like your dress.”

“Thanks,” she twirled on the spot for him. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“N-no. Not at all. I think you’re very good.” He blinked. And then his brain caught up. “I mean- the dress. Looks very good. On you.”

Hermione nodded, ever-so-slightly confused.

“Good.” She smiled. “See you inside?”

“Y-yeah, of course. See you inside.”

Neither made an attempt to move. The pair stood in place for longer than they should have, staring at each other unabashedly. That is until Ron made a very conspicuous cough and the spell was broken. The pair blushed. Hermione quickly made an excuse to leave. Harry watched as she left, enjoying the swaying of her dress against her legs. 

“That was tragic,” Ron’s smug voice spoke behind him. “I mean, even for you, that was tragic.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Harry begrudgingly acknowledged.

“I’m afraid we have to agree there, Harry,” Fred chimed in. George nodded solemnly.

“Not exactly your finest moment, mate.”

“Oh H-H-Hermione,” Fred simpered in a high-pitched voice, “you look simply a-amazing in that dress.”

“Shut up,” Harry protested, which only cued George to continue.

“W-wanna get m-m-married and b-buy a house and h-have lots of kids with b-beautiful brown eyes?”

“Oi,” Ron said, “only I’m allowed to make fun of him. Piss off, both of you.”

The twins baulked at him in unison.

“Why’s that then?”

"Cause I’m his best friend. Now, go on, go make your own friends.”

“Oh, fine ,” Fred said with a beleaguered moan. “We’ll let you play with your best friend .”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun on the kids' table.” George peered out of the window and rubbed his hands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I think some Veela have arrived.”

Fred watched his twin swagger out of the kitchen with an amused grin.

“I give it two minutes ’til fireballs.” He clapped the two boys on the shoulder. “Good luck, Dave.”

Before long, the kitchen was empty, and Harry was finally allowed a moment to breathe.

“It’s a rollercoaster with you lot.”

“You know for someone who can duel Dumbledore to a standstill,” Ron poked, “you’re really terrible with girls.”

“Who’s your date then?” Harry retorted. “Not that mysterious girlfriend of yours?”

The smug expression on Ron’s face faltered.

“Well, no… I don’t think she’s showing up.”

“Because she’s not real?” Harry smirked, only to very quickly frown when he realised Ron wasn’t laughing with him. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Ron waived him off. “She hasn’t been replying to my letters. I think something might be wrong.”

“Who is she?”

“Someone from the year below. Her name’s Angela. She’s…” His freckled face mimicked the fiery shade of his hair. “Well, she’s brilliant, mate. Proper beautiful, too, but like, that’s not why I- well, I mean that’s part of it but… She just makes me feel happy to be me, you know?”

Harry glanced out of the kitchen window, spying a head of wavy brown hair, and smiled.

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“She lives in Diagon Alley with her sister, who runs a tattoo parlour” Ron explained. “We both wanted her to come but it was too dangerous.”

“You know her sister already?”

“Well, not really. We’ve never met, Angela’s only really mentioned her in letters. I don’t even write to her with my real name, but she knows it’s me.”

“What do you call yourself?”

Ron casually adjusted his shirt with an aloof expression on his face.

“Joey Jenkins.”

Harry blinked. It was a ridiculous name on its own but for some reason, it tickled his recollection. Where had he heard that name before? It took a few seconds for Harry to remember and when he did, he began to laugh.

“Isn’t he the beater for the Chudley Cannons?” 

“Yeah, so?” Ron replied rather disgruntledly. “First name that came to my head.”

“You couldn’t have just made one up?”

“I did!”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry exclaimed through his giggles, “that one’s already taken!”

“Well, it’s too late to change it, it’s Joey Jenkins now. Besides, she loves the Cannons.”

“Are you sure she didn’t just say that to make you happy?”

The redhead frowned through an unconvincing glare.

“She wouldn’t do that,” he weakly replied and Harry had to stop himself from laughing at even more his friend’s expense.

Eventually, the pair couldn’t find any more reasons to hide in the kitchen, so they rejoined the rest of the family in the marquee. The area inside, adorned with gold balloons, golden chairs and purple carpets, was already teeming with guests and the chairs were only half-occupied. At this rate, Harry wondered if they would have enough food to feed them all.

The guests were decorated in a spectrum of colours and fumigating smells, each one gaudier than the last. Bright, exotic flowers and enchanted birds were sitting on the witches’ hate, and the wizards’ cravats were decorated in intricate patterns and twinkling gemstones. The hum of chatter choked the marquee, nearly drowning the band underneath it.

“When I get married, I’m not gonna bother with any of this,” Ron mumbled or rather bellowed over the noise. “I’m just gonna do it in my living room when I’ve got my own house and I’ll-“

Then he stopped. He looked at Harry as if he’d accidentally said something wrong, his face suddenly solemn. Harry merely nodded.

“I agree with you. Hell, I’d happily do it in bed if I could, wouldn’t even have to get up. I just hope for your sake Angela likes your living room.”

A shove on his shoulder and Ron was back to normal.

“Shut up,” he smiled. “Honestly, I don’t remember half of these people. I swear if they’ve invited Aunt Muriel…”

They were interrupted by a voice intruding from behind them.

“Ah, Mr Weasley.” They rotated to see a tall, thin, middle-aged man with pale blonde hair wearing mustard yellow dress robes that looked like they had been assembled by a tumble drier. The man smiled at Ron before turning to Harry. His bright blue eyes looked awfully familiar. “And you are?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply with a fake name, only to realise he’d forgotten every name that had ever existed. In a fit of panic, he blurted out the first one that came to his head.

“Joey Jenkins.” Ron fixed him with a perplexed stare and Harry had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “Joey Jenkins Smith. People call me Joe. Or Joey Smith. Jenkins is a middle name. Like the Quidditch guy. Crazy coincidence.”

Luckily, the man simply nodded as if it were common knowledge.

“Xenophilous Lovegood,” he said, presenting his hand for Harry to shake. “We live just over the hill. Friends of the family.”

“Lovegood?” Harry asked as he took said hand and shook it politely.

“Yes. You might know my daughter, Luna. She’s about your age, relatively.”

“Yes, I do. She’s a friend of mine.”

“Funny,” Mr Lovegood noted. “My little Luna’s never mentioned you.”

“Yes, I have,” a small voice sounded from behind him before a girl with identical blonde hair appeared in a bright yellow dress. “You must have forgotten, Daddy. I do have quite a few friends now.”

“Why, yes, of course, Turnip,” her father smiled. “I must have lost count. I’ve been experimenting with the hide of a Vermicious Knid recently. It must be playing tricks on my memory. Frightful creatures, really. Speaking of your friends, do you think Mr Potter will be here?”

“I’m not sure,” Luna smiled in Harry’s direction. “Joe, have you seen Harry around?”

“Er, no,” Harry sputtered, shaking his head. “No idea where he is. I’ve heard he’s in Cornwall but I haven’t seen him in a while. At all, in fact-“

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ron interjected to Harry’s relief. “He’s just vanished. I haven’t even had a letter from him in ages.”

Mr Lovegood gazed at them with a peculiar expression.

“That’s certainly a shame. I had hoped to meet him. Oh well, I’m sure somebody else here will be interested in my research. I’ll go find our seats, Luna. You catch up with your friends.”

The man left as quickly as he appeared, shuffling away into the crowd until his garish mustard robes were swallowed by the guests. Harry sent a pointed look to Ron who replied with a similar strained expression.

“That’s a good disguise, Harry,” Luna said brightly, to which Harry sighed. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

“Almost?” Harry asked.

“You have the same nose,” Luna pointed out, running a finger down her own. “Don’t worry, it’s a nice nose.”

Harry laughed at the peculiar compliment.

“Thanks, Luna. You look nice today.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes became strangely mischievous. “Hermione looks nice, too.”

Images of Hermione in her lilac dress exploded in Harry’s head and he couldn’t help but agree.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, twisting and turning to try and spy her brown hair.

“No,” Luna shrugged with a small grin on her pale face, “but you’re blushing so I assume she does.” 

Harry gawked at her for a good few seconds before bowing his head and sighing once more.

“Nice,” he conceded and Luna curtsied. “I’m gonna go find her. Enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Ignore the Nargles, Harry,” she called as he walked away. “You listen to them too much, both of you.”

It was times like this when Harry wondered whether Luna knew far more than she let on.

He jostled his way through the crowd, venturing towards one of the staff wearing golden jackets, who kindly handed him a program. Hermione would probably have her own already, and maybe even one for him too, but it was best to be prepared. The crowd shoved him towards the seating area, where he eventually managed to make out Hermione already sitting in her chair. It wouldn’t be long now before the ceremony began.

As he was jostled down the aisle, Harry recognised Mr Lovegood, holding a program of his own, his head peeping out over the crowd to spy Luna. And as he was reaching up on his tiptoes, Harry noticed something glinting on his chest. It was a necklace, with a silver pendant in the shape of a triangle. A triangle containing a circle bisected by a-

Harry stopped, and a couple of guests bumped into his back. He stared at the shape on Mr Lovegood’s chest. It was the symbol in Dumbledore’s book. The exact same symbol.

Without a moment’s notice, he barged past the guests and sidled through the rows of chairs towards him.

“Mr Lovegood,” he called, pulling on the man’s sleeve and pointing to the necklace, “what’s that?”

The man looked down at his chest and back to Harry, clearly perplexed.

“This?” he asked, showing off the necklace. “Well, this is the sign of the Deathly Hallows, Mr Smith.”

The Deathly Hallows. That name rang a bell. Why? Why did it seem so familiar?

And then his mind was cast back to the funeral, to the shore of the Black Lake, meeting Mr Dalton for the first time.

“ He was an astute man ,” he had said, “ and I admired him greatly, but the Hallows were always Albus' one failing. Don't believe everything he told you, they have been his obsession ever since he was a young man, and believe me that's been a very long time indeed. ”

It had to be them. How else would it explain it being written in one of Dumbledore’s childhood books? But what were they exactly? Why was Dumbledore so fascinated with them? Was Riddle looking for them now?

And then Harry remembered something else that Mr Dalton had said, very briefly.

“ The history of the Hallows is one steeped in blood. For every bit of good they've caused, they dwell in a dozen tragedies. Greater men than Albus have lost themselves to the search, Mr Potter. ”

Whatever they were, they were clearly bad news. Perhaps it was best to simply leave Riddle to find them himself and learn that fact the hard. Then again, could he take the risk?

A sharp cough interrupted his thoughts. Harry shifted only to come face to face with a middle-aged couple who were both staring imperiously at him to move aside. Harry realised he’d spent so long inside his own head that Mr Lovegood had long since left and most of the guests were now sitting in their places. With an apologetic smile, Harry awkwardly shuffled away, spying the empty seat beside Hermione, and carefully manoeuvred towards her. 

“Where have you been?” she whispered as he took his seat. “It’s almost started. I’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, scanning the room to see if he couldn’t pick out the Lovegoods in the audience, “I got sidetracked.”

A hand rested on his knee, drawing him back to her.

“Are you okay?”

A part of him wanted to ignore her and keep looking for the Lovegoods, another compelled him to ditch the wedding altogether and go searching for the Hallows himself. However, that wasn’t what today was for. This was about Bill and Fleur, about having a normal day. He may not get another chance.

Harry put those thoughts away for now. They could wait for tomorrow, he told himself.

“I’m fine.” Harry smiled and patted her hand. “How about you?”

In return, Hermione smiled and nodded, just as the band began the wedding march. The Hallows were quickly forgotten as all eyes turned to the front.

Bill and Charlie were stood by the alter, decked in pristine tuxedos and wearing white flowers on their lapels. Bill looked nervous as hell but despite this, the smile couldn’t be wiped from his face. His complexion held more colour than it had in months. Charlie was grinning beside him, looking out between his brother and the crowd, looking as proud as his parents. Harry heard Fred whistling from the crowd and plenty of people laughed. There was a thick sense of anticipation building like a drumroll with sparks of gasps and nervous chuckles.

Mr and Mrs Weasley strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; Mrs Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of royal purple robes with a matching hat. They both looked jubilant as their sons. They smiled at Harry and Hermione on the way and they both smiled and waved back. For a moment, Harry truly felt like a part of the family and he was so very happy to be there for them. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in his mind; he had made the right decision.

A moment later, the crowd hushed. The music swelled from the band. Hermione swivelled around in her seat to look at the entrance and Harry did the same, as did the crowd. Gasps and sighs erupted from around the room as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur, twinkling in her wedding dress, came walking up the aisle - Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming.

Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress, Harry wasn’t sure whether the very faint glowing from her allure or the bright sunlight that seemed to illuminate every corner of the tent. Though every eye in the room was hers, her gaze never left the man standing at the altar. The smiles on Bill and Fleur’s faces when they finally reached each other made Harry flush with an overwhelming glee. It was an infectious feeling and it was exactly what the world needed at that moment.

Ginny and Gabrielle followed along behind her, both wearing golden dresses, and quickly took their places beside the altar. After a few moments, Ginny spotted him and Hermione sitting in the crowd and Harry gave her a quick thumbs-up. It was then that he spotted Gabrielle looking his way. Harry was puzzled for a moment before he remembered what Fleur said at Kreacher’s graveside. His eyes quickly darted back to the front and with a slight shock, he saw the same small, tufty-hired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore's funeral, now standing in front of Bill and Fleur.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a slightly singsong voice. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."

The ceremony unfolded as the couple read their vows to each other, affirming their love and their duty to care and protect, all the while Harry sat in the audience more aware than he ever had been of the girl sitting beside him, her arm pressed against his, her foot lightly resting against his shin. At one point, Bill began holding Fleur’s hands in his and Harry felt his fingers tighten around Hermione’s. He listened to words flowing from Bill’s mouth and imagined repeating them to the girl next to him, hearing her own vows repeated back to him.

It was almost painful how right it felt. A flood of contentment was filling him up, threatening to escape in tears. Despite himself, knowing that it would never transpire, Harry wondered what his wedding would look like and found that there was only one person he could ever imagine standing beside him. 

"Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?"

There was a chorus of sniffles from around the tent, along with a sound like a fog horn, signalling that Hagrid too had begun to burst. Ignoring them all, Harry turned to Hermione. Her sparkling brown eyes were full of tears, her face beaming bright and beautiful like the sun. Her dark hair glistened like a halo in the light and for a moment he imagined a white veil over her head. The image squeezed his heart and made him forget to breathe. The very real wedding passed him by as he sat transfixed by the woman he loved.

Harry almost felt sorry for Fleur, for even on her brightest and happiest day, at undeniably her most beautiful, not even she could compare to Hermione in his eyes.

"...then I declare you bonded for life."

Throughout her life, Hermione always had a soft spot for weddings. It started when she was a little girl, those special few times she was allowed to meet the rest of her extended family that she saw so rarely, and it was something she never really grew out of. The food, the drinks, the dresses, the atmosphere; it all spoke to her in a way she would never typically admit. Even here in this menagerie of weirdness that was a magical wedding, it all felt like a safe slice of normalcy that she had been missing.

The only thing that could have made it better was if her parents were here to enjoy it with that. For some reason, Hermione thought that pretending would make the loss easier but the wound was still fresh in her heart. Even diving headfirst into the celebrations hadn’t buried it completely. A small part of her wished she could see them walking through the entrance, just to see them again. And every time she could swear she saw them in the corner of her eye, only for a glance to prove her wrong, something twisted inside her chest and she took another sip from her drink.

Still, there was no point in wasting time thinking about all of that, not when she could be enjoying herself. That was what her parents would have wanted. She was going to find them, once the war was over. She was going to have days like this again.

And there was plenty to distract herself with. Once the ceremony was over, she was one of the first to congratulate her, shower her with compliments about everything she could think of, for there was a lot. Fleur looked positively angelic in her wedding dress, which was no surprise to Hermione since she had seen it before any of the guests had arrived, but seeing her walk down the aisle in it was another matter entirely.

“You look amazing, Fleur!”

“Thank you, ‘Ermione!” the Bride preened, before turning her attention to her lilac dress. “But so do you! You’re so beautiful!”

“Oh, er, thank you.” Hermione blushed, fixing her lilac dress. “I’m very happy for you.”

“So am I! I almost want it to be over already, but alas I have so many guests to talk to.”

“Would you like me to bring you a drink?”

“No, you go and have fun. No complaining, I insist. It’s my wedding after all.”

The evening came swiftly, aided by a large and extravagant lunch filled with delicacies that reminded Hermione of her holidays in the South of France. Despite stuffing themselves silly, the guests found no qualms with getting up on the dance floor once the tables were cleared away. Even Hermione was convinced to join in, particularly by one guest.

She’d been looking for Harry when suddenly her path was intercepted by a dark figure, one that she didn’t recognise at first. That was until she took a closer look and recognised him immediately. It had been years since she’d seen Viktor Krum face-to-face. They had kept in touch via writing for a while before slowly the letters had become less frequent and she got caught up in everything else that was happening that year.

Nevertheless, here he was, looking healthier than he ever had, offering her a dance. And Hermione accepted.

Hermione had never had a crush on Viktor, per se, nothing like with Ron or… others, but she certainly felt something for him back in the day. How could she not? She was a fifteen-year-old girl and he was an older boy who paid attention to her. It also helped that Viktor was a good dancer. Of course, nothing grew from it, he mainly wanted her there so that he didn’t have to go for a fangirl, however, it provided her with a unique opportunity to show everyone that she wasn’t just a bucktooth bookworm. And it was all worth it for Harry’s reaction. She had never seen him so speechless before that moment. It was a memory she treasured dearly.

That brought her mind back to Harry, who seemingly disappeared once the dancing began. One moment he was there standing at the sidelines, talking to someone who could only be Luna’s father whilst occasionally staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The next, he was gone, nowhere to be seen. 

It wasn’t like he had been dragged off to talk to some distant Weasley relative. Hermione could spot him anywhere in a crowd, it was instinct at this point. He simply wasn’t there. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined him in the midst of a panic attack somewhere, or perhaps he’d run off again, just like that night in Privet Drive- until she forced herself to remain calm and her reason returned to her. No, Harry had to be somewhere. She was going to find him. He was alright. He wouldn’t do that to her again…

It took a few minutes, but she eventually tracked down Ron, who hadn’t seen him. Then she moved on to Ginny, Luna, Fleur, Mrs Weasley, Remus, Tonks Viktor, but they hadn’t seen him either. So he hadn’t gone missing, she realised. He didn’t want to be found.

She kept searching, dodging relatives and friends of the family as she navigated to the entrance. A few of the guests were loitering outside, taking in a bit of fresh air before returning to the party. Hermione rounded the corner and sure enough, there he was, sitting on the lawn and looking up at the sky. He was still, his breathing even. Not a panic attack, thankfully. This was something else.

“Hey.”

His ears picked up and he turned towards her, his face already smiling bashfully.

“Hey.”

Hermione took a few steps closer and sat down next to him, taking a moment to study him. It felt strange to look at him, to recognise him, with all his differences mostly intact. The short hair threw her off the most. Harry’s hair always treaded this elusive line between a whirling tempest and a bird's nest, but now it was practically tidy. It almost suited him, but Hermione would always prefer it long and wild.

“What are you doing out here?”

Harry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck that he always did when he was trying to be casual. “Just taking a break. Watching the stars.”

Hermione nodded with narrowed eyes.

“And why are you really out here all by yourself?”

She noticed his smile become tight like a bowstring. He gazed at her as if he was about to say something, before changing his mind.

“How’s Krum?” he asked pleasantly, which only served to seed her suspicions.

“He’s fine,” she replied. “Just wanted to catch up.“

“Well, that’s good, then.”

“Apparently he’s met someone,” she explained and immediately she noticed his shoulders unwind. “A girl from Bulgaria. Wondered if I had as well.”

“Depends,” Harry smirked, “have you been to Bulgaria recently?”

“Prat.” She smacked his arm gently and Harry laughed.

His body still wasn’t entirely relaxed, there was clearly something bothering him just beneath the surface, but he was smiling at least and that was enough to assuage Hermione’s worries for the most part.

By now, most of his glamours had worn off, even with Remus reapplying them at lunch. The small nicks and scars had returned to his pale skin. The lack of glasses not only made his face fuller but brought more attention to his eyes, now back to their forest green, just the way she loved them. Vulnerable and gorgeous in their own way.

Harry was staring at her too, those eyes were pouring into hers and for a moment, Hermione thought he was going to spook.

“You look… beautiful,” he whispered as if it took all his strength to say it. “Truly.”

Hermione sighed, taking his hand in her’s so effortlessly.

“Harry…”

“It’s just… all of this,” he gestured to the tent, “it’s a lot. I had to get some air.”

“I know,” she soothed and Harry shook his head.

“You should go back inside and enjoy yourself for once.”

“I enjoy being with you,” she reassured him. He tried to smile again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know…” He stared at the ground, his brow furrowed and his lips twirled in a frustrated scowl, not towards her but rather himself. “It’s not just all the guests and the noise. Seeing you and Viktor together… it reminded me of the Yule Ball. How Ron and I screwed it all up for you.”

“I remember that was mostly Ron,” Hermione laughed softly.

“Yeah,” Harry conceded, “but I didn’t stop him either.” He looked at her once again, heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry, Hermione. That should’ve been your night. And we just… mucked it all up.”

“I wasn’t all bad,” she shrugged, nudging his shoulder. “I got to dance with a champion, after all. I wanted to dance with two, but I had to settle for one.

“I don’t blame you,” he smiled. “I bet half the girls in the school wanted to dance with Cedric.”

At this point, it was all Hermione could do not to smack him.

“Modesty is noble and all, Harry,” she retorted, “but it can also be rather annoying.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Harry stared up at her, his cheeks bright red. “There are a lot of things that should’ve happened that night. That doesn’t mean they can’t happen now.”

She made to lead him back to the tent until she suddenly felt resistance. Hermione turned to beckon him on but Harry’s face was conflicted. His blush remained but there was a deep sadness in his eyes that almost looked like fear. She couldn’t tell whether he looked ready to follow her to sprint in the other direction.

They both knew what this was. They weren’t stupid by any means. They had been tiptoeing around each other for so long now that they knew all the steps. All those longing stares, the casual touches and quiet moments when it felt like their hearts beat in unison.

“Hermione,” he chose his words carefully like he was stepping out onto a tightrope. His hand was shaking. “I wish I… You know I’m not well enough for this. God, I want to, but… If this could ever happen-“

“Harry,” her voice cut through. Slowly, she took his other hand in his, looking up into his eyes with an unwavering gaze. His fingers laced between hers and he held on like he was her last hope. “It can be whatever you want it to be, whether that’s just a dance, something more… or something less. It’s your choice. All I care about is that I’m here with you.”

A wave of relief visibly swept through his body and as the seconds passed, his face morphed into a smile.

“I’ll try not to step on your feet,” he replied, squeezing her hands. Hermione smiled back.

“Let me lead,” she said, releasing one of his hands, “and you should be fine.”

She led him carefully back into the tent, towards the dance floor, and he followed along eagerly. They soon found themselves standing together amongst a crowd of guests, at which point Hermione grasped his hands and tried to ignore her heart beating out of her chest as she placed one of his hands on her hip. She gave Harry a curt nod, which he returned with a scarlet face, and they began.

The music guided their movement as they moved in a circle, each foot stepping between the other. Harry, bless him, had his eyes fixed on the floor until Hermione made a point to turn his chin up to look at her instead. From there, it mostly fell into place.

They eventually moved on from the box step to a move freeform style of moving between the guests, all the while keeping eye contact, even amongst the occasional laughter from trying to remain composed. After a few minutes of rigid rhythmic swaying, the pair settled into a more relaxed routine. The music began to blend into the background and the world shrank until it became only the ground beneath their feet. Lights and colours and sounds hardly seemed to matter anymore until finally, they were dancing.

Over time, the space between their bodies shrank until she felt the fabric of his robes pressed up against her and she could make out the individual specks of colours in his eyes, the pores in his skin, the jagged edges of his scars. The closer she looked, the more she felt herself falling into him, until they were barely one person.

All the while their feet deftly moved as one, stepping in time with the lazy beat that allowed them to remain so close. That was until the beat began to pick up again and a cheeky glint in Harry’s eye.

“Don’t,” she warned, but it was too late. He had already raised his arm and spun her. She cried out in laughter and her skirt fanned out like a flower. And yet to their astonishment, neither of them ended up on the ground.

“You’re not too bad at this,” she gasped as he pulled her back into his chest.

“I don’t know how,” he laughed. Hermione raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“Because you’re letting me lead.”

“Probably,” he shrugged. “It helps to have the right partner.”

The quick burst of energy soon subsided and the pair were left slowly spinning in place. At some point, Hermione’s head had found a space on Harry’s chest, with Harry’s resting on her crown. He pressed a light kiss into her hair, and stayed there, breathing her in. All the while, Hermione heard his heart beating away, a quick but steady thrum that lulled her into a sense of deep calm.

“This is nice,” she murmured into his chest, so quietly that she was sure no one could hear her besides Harry. She felt Harry nod above her, his arms warm and solid around her.

The two teens came apart as the band finished their song, only enough to see each other clearly once again. For a moment, they stood in silence. The guests shifted around them like ghosts.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” Harry eventually said with a soft smile and glistening eyes. 

“I’m glad,” Hermione nodded, suddenly quite nervous. “I have, too.”

For only a second, Harry’s attention was drawn to the edges of the dance floor and his face fell ever-so-slightly. 

“I think some of the others might want a dance,” he chuckled, to which Hermione scoffed.

“Well, I’m very happy here, thank you.” Harry’s laugh tripped in his throat, in a way that suddenly made her nervous.

“You never know. You might meet someone nice. Weddings are a good place for that.” Hermione was about to ask him what he meant but she stopped. A tear was running down Harry’s cheek, one he was too slow to hide. “You deserve that, Hermione. More than anything. To meet someone…”

All of a sudden, the mood dropped like a chill riding on the wind, and the reality of their situation returned to them. The inevitable future rang in their ears and they felt naked. How many nights would they ever have like this again? How many chances would they have to be normal people? What could they possibly be with what little time they had left? And what would happen once it was all over and they had to say goodbye?

Without any sort of answer, without a care for the people around them, Hermione jumped into his arms, wrapping herself around him so tight he might snap in half. And Harry hugged her back just as fiercely, whispering to her with a voice hoarse with emotion.

“Hermione, promise me after I’m gone-“

“Please, don’t say that-“ she begged to keep pretending just a bit longer. “Please, don’t-”

“Promise me you’ll find someone,” he continued as if every word brought him physical agony, “someone who loves you for who you really are.”

“I already have,” she insisted, staring him in the eyes, silently pleading. Harry looked utterly defeated.

“Hermione, I’m dead.” The words stabbed into Hermione’s heart like knives. “Chances are I won’t live to see 18. I can’t give you what you deserve. I don’t have the time. I’m not…”

Hermione didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Not whole. Not real. Not the right choice. None one bit of it was true. 

“You’re alive,” she spoke, pushing every ounce of her feeling into her voice. “You’re here, with me, right now. This is the time, Harry. It’s all the time we ever have.”

Harry took her face in both of his hands, his eyes staring down at her so softly it made her feel precious for simply breathing. There was no one else in that marquee, no one else except for them. All she knew was Harry’s face, his soul gazing at her through emerald windows, his hands holding her like he would his own heart. She could feel his pulse drumming against her fingertips as she held his wrists, reminding him every second that she here inviting him to hold her.

The space between them disappeared as if it were never there. Hermione closed her eyes just in time to feel Harry’s lips brushing against hers. 

Everything fell into place. Their world became now. 

All pretence of the dance was forgotten. There is no rhythm of structure, only his raw passion dancing across her lips, tangled in her hair, pressed against her body. Her whole being was Harry but somehow she was left wanting more. So much more.

Her arms reached up around his shoulders and pulled him even closer, until she was all but hanging off of him, holding on for dear life. Every second, new emotion sparked inside of her and her heart sang a chorus that makes her chest inflate. And she knew he must have felt the same way by how desperately he was reaching out for her, gathering her up into himself with all of his strength.

It was a truly happy moment.

And the world could not let it stand.

The couple parted with numb lips and burning lungs, just as a glistening silver creature came scurrying through the roof of the marquee, landing amidst the crowd on the dance floor. The guest swivelled, frozen mid-dance, as the Patronus’ mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

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

A moment later, the world exploded into chaos.

A panic fell over the tent as more and more people finally realised what had just transpired. Immediately, Harry reached for his wand. Hermione grabbed hers from a strap on her leg. The panic consumed the entire crowd and the pair were jostled around from the ensuing stampede. By the time the Patronus had vanished in a swirl of white mist, the wedding had been plunged into anarchy.

Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her to the entrance. Screams erupted from all around them. He scanned the room for Ron. The fleeing guests blocked his view but he caught a peek from the other side of the marquee. The crowd thinned as many disapparated, the rest fleeing outside. A shimmer ran across the night sky as the protective enchantments around the Burrow were broken.

“Ron!” Harry shouted.

“Ron, get to the house!” Hermione bellowed beside him.

Remus and Tonks found them a second later. Their wands were drawn and pointed all around them. Harry looked over his shoulder to see figures in dark cloaks appear in the marquee. They had run out of time.

With a seeker’s instinct, he pushed Hermione behind a table as a spell flew above their heads.

“Get out of here!” Remus roared. “Run!”

His eyes darted to Hermione and saw her readying her wand.

“Protego!” Tonks cried from above them. Harry chanced a quick glance above the table. The Death Eaters were crowded in the centre, a group of ten all spreading out into the crowd. He heard a shrill scream and saw one tackle a person with platinum hair.

“Gabrielle!”

Fleur’s voice erupted from behind Remus, who was desperately trying to block the spellfire. The dark figure bearing down on Gabrielle licked his fangs. Fleur’s shouting became screams of anguish.

A red mist fell over Harry’s mind. Without hesitation, he vaulted the table and aimed this wand. A ‘reducto’ crashed into Fenrir Greyback’s side, ripping him open. Harry was atop him a second late. He jammed his wand into the man’s head and blasted a ‘Bombarda’. He didn’t see what happened next. He only cared about making sure Gabrielle was safe.

“You alright?” he bellowed above the cacophony. The girl didn’t respond, plainly in shock. Harry pulled her behind his body as a spell flew above them. He peeked out to see Antonin Dolohov advancing at them with a vicious glint in his dark eyes. Thinking fast, Harry sent a blast of water at the ground, causing him to slip. Another spell sent a table at the man’s head. The table shattered into pieces but a stunning spell from his other side sent Dolohov spiralling.

Not waiting for another opportunity, Harry picked up the younger girl and all but carried her to safety, somehow dodging the spells aimed at his head. The young girl was delivered in Fleur’s arms and Harry was back out again before anyone could stop him, throwing spells and dodging curses as Dumbledore had taught him. He was not going to let anyone die today, not when he was there to stop it.

He ran to the guests who had been too slow to escape, putting himself between them and the attackers when he could, shepherding them to the edges as he did so. As he was moving to help another elderly relative, a shot of light appeared in his vision. Harry moved to block it but he was too slow. His robes burst open. A sharp pain erupted in his side. Harry heard screams from all around him. One of them might have been his. He dropped to the floor, clutching his side as the elderly guest finally reached the entrance.

Before long, the Death Eaters were ignoring the guests entirely and were solely targeting him. Whether they knew who he was or just wanted to be rid of his meddlesome defiance, Harry didn’t know. All he knew was, if he wasn’t gone soon, he’d be dead. 

He quickly ducked behind another table just in time to avoid a killing curse. He spied the entrance and saw the Order flanked by the opening, firing off spells as fast as they could. The guests had been evacuated. It was only him in the firing line now. His wand ready, he began throwing the golden chairs at the unsuspecting Death Eaters. The furniture collided with their shields, bouncing off or shattering, leaving splinters on the ground.

Harry cast a wide levitation charm. The splinters rose into the air and flew towards the group. The sharp wood sliced through them at all angles. Harry smiled, just as a blasting charm nearly tore into his skull through the table.

He had to get out of there now. He sent a look to Hermione who was firing off disarming spells as fast as her arm could swing. One look and Hermione levitated a table to him. Harry caught it with another charm and began running as fast as he good. His side screamed as he ran but he pushed through the pain. Just before he was out of sight, he cast a wide sticking arm to the dance floor. The Death Eaters, those that were corralled into the centre, were stuck in place.

He made it out of the tent just before the table fell to ashes. Without a moment’s notice, he rushed to Bill and bellowed at him.

“It’s clear! Turn off the runes!”

Bill understood immediately, waving his wand against his lapel and the Marquee deflated and shrank into a pile. A lump in the middle and around the sides told him where the Death Eaters were, blinded by the canvas. Harry ordered everyone to cast a sticking charm to the tent and the Order did so. The canvas sheen as its surface became an adhesive that trapped the Death Eaters inside it, like flies in a trap.

It wasn’t enough, his mind told him. These animals had tried to slaughter a wedding. They’d attacked innocent people. The anger within him swelled to breaking point. They deserved more than humiliation. They deserved to suffer.

Harry readied his wand as the tent and cast his spell.

“Incendio.”

The edges of the tent caught alight, the flames quickly encroaching on the Death Eaters. Shouts were heard from beneath the sagging marquee as they realised their options. They either ran or burned.

The tent sagged once again as the attackers hastily retreated, disappearing into thin air before the hungry flames could catch them. The rest of the canvas fell into the inferno. 

Harry stood watching the fire eat away at the marquee in silence. His mind was a thousand miles away, in another time, another place. The fire was all around him. Dark hooded figures were marching amongst burning tents. People were screaming and running for their lives. He had to run. He had to find…

A soft hand laced with his and the tension in his body melted. The mist swirled away and Harry was left with a moment of horror. What had he almost done? What had he allowed himself to do? But before those thoughts could plague him, he felt a hand on his cheek and saw brown eyes staring into his, uttering silent words. 

’It was them or us,’ she told him with only a look, ‘you did the right thing.’

Harry’s heart settled in his chest and slowly the world came back to him. The pain in his side blossomed into agony and Hermione and Fleur hastily cast some healing charms to mend the damage. Miraculous, no one else was injured besides a few scrapes. They had made it out alive. It was alright now. They were safe.

Except, he wasn’t. The Death Eaters had vanished, but there was no time for victory. The first wave was gone, but the hornet's nest had been kicked. More were coming, angrier and more deadly. They had to move now. 

Whilst Harry and Ron busy themselves helping the Weasleys pack up, Hermione sprinted up to their room, as fast as her dress would allow. When she returned, she was carrying Hedwig’s cage and a moleskin pouch Hagrid had given her.

Inside was everything that they could think to carry in an emergency: clothes for all three of them, equipment, research, food, drink, shoes - everything short of stripping their rooms bare. It would have taken her ten minutes to collect it all, if not for the fact that she had done so that same morning. She called it a hunch. Harry wanted to kiss her again but now wasn’t the time. Every second wasted felt far too long. 

Ron was in the kitchen, trying to remove himself from his crying parents.

“Ron, please, come with us!”

“I can’t, Mum! I’m going with them!”

“Ron, don’t mess around. We’re going to Aunt Muriel’s and that’s-“

“DAD!” Ron stood his ground. “They need me! Please.”

Mr and Mrs Weasley stared at their son like they were seeing him for the first time. Harry stood back and watched. This was Ron’s moment. He deserved at least this.

Eventually, the Weasleys realised there was nothing left to do and they gave their son one last hug before whisking Ginny and all the luggage they could carry away to Aunt Muriel’s. Bill and Fleur bid them adieu before apparating to their new home by the coast. Fred and George hastily said goodbye and promised to contact them before the end of the week. Soon, the only people left were the trio.

“So,” Ron said, looking at Harry and Hermione, anxiety written all over his face, “this is it, then?”

“Yes, it is,” Harry nodded. A moment later, he called for Dobby. A few seconds later, they were gone. The Burrow stood empty and silent.

The night was over but the war had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Ron had been sitting beside the radio for an hour, as he had every day for the past week.

It started not long after they'd scarpered from the Burrow. Ever since they had put down roots in the Shrieking Shack and began establishing a route through the known locations. Ron would be there, an empty listener, waiting for each meeting to be over before glueing himself to the portable radio they'd brought from the Burrow. When he wasn't doing that, he was scouring through the few copies of the Prophet they could steal.

Ron wouldn't tell them what news he was waiting to hear, but whatever it was, it hadn't happened yet. Until it did, he had silently committed himself to wait for it.

"Is it Riddle? Do you think you have a lead?"

"What?" Ron replied absently. He blinked and then looked at Harry as if he had been caught sleeping. "Uh, no, it's… it's complicated."

It was the same answer he'd given every other time they'd brought it up. The same tired answer that was beginning to get on his nerves. Harry tried not to grit his teeth whenever he heard it, otherwise, he might not have any teeth left.

It became routine after a week. Day after day Ron spent every second of spare time elsewhere, leaving him and Hermione to plan the Horcrux Hunt almost single-handedly.

"You know when he said he was going to be part of the team," Harry grumbled to Hermione as he read through the History of Helga Hufflepuff, "I assumed it meant he would actually help."

Hermione hummed, noting down a particular passage from the advanced dark arts manuscript they'd stolen from the Forbidden Section of the Hogwarts library.

"He does help, Harry, you know he does."

"By sitting on his arse all day listening to Fred and George's radio show?"

"By smuggling their supplies to us," she countered. "By keeping contact with the Order while we do this. He's even cooked a few times."

"Are you seriously vouching for his cooking?"

"Okay, maybe that one was a stretch." Hermione smiled, reaching out to place her hand over his. "Studying was never his strong suit. Maybe it's best that he skip this bit."

"This isn't a bloody school," Harry seethed, pulling away and slamming the book in his hands. "This actually matters and he's over there doing anything else."

"You never know, it could be important."

Harry quietly guffawed at her response.

"It never is. Unless he's actually listening to Death Eaters with that thing. Then it might be useful."

The weight of Hermione's gaze shone through him and all of a sudden he felt strangely exposed.

"There are more important things than Riddle, Harry."

Realising he wasn't going to win an argument with Hermione, Harry changed the subject. He reached for her hand as he returned to his book and felt her fingers lace with his.

The memories that Dumbledore had shown him before he died had given Harry at least one solid lead, specifically the memory of Riddle's encounter with Hepzibah Smith, and the two artefacts that had caught his eye.

One of them was already accounted for and had indeed turned out to be a Horcrux. Luckily, Harry had managed to track down and destroy it that summer with Kreacher's help. The locket wouldn't be troubling them from now on. The other artefact, however, had not been accounted for.

The cup of Helga Hufflepuff was still out there somewhere. The fact that it went missing along with the locket when Smith died told Harry that he was on the right track. There was a pattern forming, he realised. The prized trinkets of the Founders were now perverted into cages for Riddle's wretched soul. If they could figure out what he might have stolen from Ravenclaw, then they would have all seven Horcruxes figured out.

That is if he could ignore the sound of the radio piercing his concentration every second.

"Is it your family?" Harry asked one evening as he looked over the map they'd pinned up on the wall with all the key locations pertaining to Riddle and the Horcruxes.

"Uh, no," the redhead replied. "No, it's not them. They're with Aunt Muriel. They're fine."

Harry nodded, thankful for the reminder that the Weasleys had managed to escape unharmed but scattered. There was a sliver of guilt in the knowledge that the Burrow could no longer be their home. He wondered whether they could have stayed if only he had simply run away that night, but he banished the thought quickly. There was no use wasting time over whether or not it was true. It had happened. They had to move on.

It was at that moment when another person popped into Harry's head and it all fit into place.

"Is it Angela?"

Feet shuffled against the ground. Harry turned to find Ron looking at him with an anxious expression.

"She hasn't written to me." His eyes were pulled back to the radio. "Not one letter. She's not at Hogwarts either. I've asked Seamus and Neville to look but she's in Hufflepuff. They've been asking around, but no one can find her. Something's wrong."

"You don't know that."

"I can feel it. One minute she says she's fine, the next she disappears, Harry. She promised she'd write at least once a week."

"Maybe she wanted to," Harry said, trying to calm him down, "but plans can change. For all we know, she's in hiding. Maybe her owl can't reach us."

"And for all we know, she needs my help."

Harry sighed, quickly piecing together what Ron had in mind.

"Is that what you want?" he begrudgingly asked, summoning every ounce of leadership in his body as his heart raced in his chest. "To go find her?" Ron stared at him with a dim bewilderment that made Harry want to slap him around the head. "It's either that or you just keep staring at that radio all day waiting to hear her name."

The words came charging out of his mouth before his head could catch up and the moment they met his ears he knew them to be a mistake.

The chair Ron was sitting on clattered to the floor.

"What? Are you saying I should just bugger off?"

Harry felt like he had taken one too many steps off a diving board and it was too late to turn back.

"I'm saying I need you here, Ron, not there," he insisted, pointing at the radio. "Unless you wanna do something about it, in which case just tell me and I'll see you off."

"What's gotten into you?" Ron stared accusingly at him, looking him up and down for any cracks. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"I didn't say you had-"

"What are you saying, then? That I'm not allowed to worry about my girlfriend?"

"No, I just-" This was quickly devolving into something he didn't want to contend with. Harry tried taking a deep breath to calm himself. He didn't even know why he was fighting at this point, only that there was a part of him that enjoyed letting it all out. "Look, I'm sorry."

"You'd understand if it were Hermione."

Like the flip of a switch, a wave of anger tore through his body once again. Harry glared at the boy in front of him, trying to contain himself.

"Oh, you wanna go there, do you?"

"Yeah, why not?" Ron shot back. "Since we're in the mood."

"Look, I know this is difficult for you, but we're doing this to protect people like Angela, like your family. You signed up for this!"

"Yeah, I did! I'm with you every step of the way, Harry, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to give up everything else in my life!"

"We all have to make sacrifices."

"That's your excuse."

The words hit Harry harder than a fist to the face. Harry opened his mouth to say something but could conjure no words. He wanted to disagree, to tell Ron he didn't know what he was talking about but he had hit too deep. The wind was knocked from him, robbing him of his voice.

As the quiet drew on, Ron picked up the upturned chair and landed heavily on it. "I know what we're fighting for, mate. I know what we have to do. But this is different. I know you get it."

That primal part of Harry's mind wanted to carry on shouting and arguing until the knot in his stomach had unwound itself, but seeing Ron so downtrodden took all the joy out of arguing with him. Even if Harry really had a point, he knew Ron was right in the end. That Hermione was right. There was no use in this.

"Yeah," Harry relented. "Yeah, I do. Look, I want to help her too but we don't have time to take a trip into Diagon Alley, not when we have everything else to contend with."

"I know," Ron replied dejectedly. "That's why I listen. I just need to know. Even if it's bad."

"Hey," Harry said, placing a hand on his best mate's shoulder. "Don't think like that. She's gonna be okay."

Ron shook his head with a faint smile. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't, but try to believe it. Believing is half the battle. Trust me."

The next day saw Ron sitting beside the radio, listening once again for Angela's name. Despite his eyes firmly fixed on the book in his hands, Harry was right there with him as each name came and went. Harry imagined for a moment that he was waiting for Hermione's name, how that awful tension in his chest would only be worse for it, and he finally understood.

He didn't pester Ron about the radio from then on, nor did he figure out why it had annoyed him in the first place. The anger that had sat eating at his head had been twisted into confusion. It left him feeling wound up like a clockwork toy and the key only ever kept turning.

Harry tried diving into the life of Helga Hufflepuff, hoping that he could distract himself from his feeling. Of course, it didn't work. It was at times like this when he wished he still had Amelie around to talk to.

The cup of Helga Hufflepuff was created around the time of the building of Hogwarts, as a ceremonial artefact, mainly for the presentation of food and drink. It was handled mainly by house elves and was said to be able to contain far greater quantities than its small size could possibly contain.

This was important information. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Any information at all about a possible Horcrux was vital in tracking them all down, Harry knew that. It would help then if his head thought so too, maybe then he wouldn't be distracted by the woman sitting beside him, the one who could make his heart beat out of his chest without even trying.

Every time she sat beside him, he felt the urge in his fingers to wrap around hers, clutching at her hand like a lost child. Whenever her face was in view, his eyes would wander to her lips, caught between her teeth in concentration and he would remember how they felt against his own. The memory of that moment would replay itself over and over again and his heart would flutter in his chest.

Most of all, however, the greatest distraction was knowing that eventually, he would have to face the reality of that kiss. Eventually, they would have to bring the moment into the light and decide what it meant to them both. Harry selfishly wished it could remain as just a memory, a nice little moment that he could cherish and ignore whenever it suited him. Another part of him wanted to do it again, to do all the things he wished he had done whenever he remembered that electric moment. Those little desires threatened to make his legs shake and his stomach twist delightfully.

It happened in a quiet moment as he and Hermione stood outside the Shrieking Shack, checking the wards that surrounded their base for any breaches as they did once a week. It was a habit that Harry himself had encouraged if only for an excuse to get out of the derelict building for a while. This time, Hermione had joined him and the inevitable question arose.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?"

Harry tried pretending that he hadn't heard her but she had been clear and concise, so it was a wasted effort.

"Well, the cup is a valuable artefact," he explained, "so it's entirely possible he used it to make a Horcrux, but until we find it-"

"Harry, please don't pretend I'm that stupid."

He at least had enough shame to look embarrassed.

"Sorry."

The pair looked at each other, standing silent at the edges of the forest. The sun was beginning to set along the canopy, the heat of the day slowly settling into an evening breeze that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"Talk to me," Hermione begged. Her hand slipped into his. Her eyes burrowed into his mind and latched onto his heart. "Do you regret it?"

"No!" Harry said hurriedly, clutching both of her hands tightly. "No, of course not. Not for a moment. In fact I… it was amazing."

He didn't know how else to describe it, he simply lacked the words to condense it all. It was a wonder that he could manage words at all, despite his malfunctioning nerves.

A rosy blush settled beneath the soft skin of Hermione's cheeks.

"Yeah?" she asked, staring up at him from beneath her lashes. Harry grinned, nodding eagerly.

"Yeah."

A small giggle erupted from Hermione's throat, a tempered little sound that made Harry want to kiss her all over again. Once she brought herself under control, her face shifted to gentle concern.

"Then what's wrong?"

Harry couldn't remember how many times he had asked himself the exact same question, begging for his brain to untangle itself. The only answer he had was a feeling, a nagging twinge in his chest that had been tormenting him so often. It was the same mix of agitation, anxiety and emptiness he felt whenever he saw Ron sitting beside the radio, listening for Angela's name. That horrid sensation that always returned despite how far he pushed it away, despite knowing that the feeling had come long before he had any rational explanation for it.

Most of all, however, was a gaping emptiness in his heart that stung from exposure, like a paper cut on his consciousness. The knowledge that something was missing, the hurt that filled the hole and how he had tried to ignore it all until it flooded the dam.

"How do we do this?" Harry whispered, eyes desperately avoiding the pair whose gaze could break him down and put him back together again. "I can barely keep up with everything as it is and if we add this on top, it'll just…"

The sentence trailed off into aimlessness but Hermione, ever patient, was quick to reassure him.

"I told you it can be whatever you want it to be."

"No, that's not-" Harry tried not to bite through his teeth as he tried to think of the right words. "It's not about what I want it to be… because believe me, that's- that's not the problem"

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I'll get it wrong somehow. I always do. And when I do I… I get people hurt. I don't want that to happen to us but I know it will-"

A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders and he felt Hermione's warmth envelop him completely.

"Harry," she soothed, "you're not going to hurt me."

"Eventually I will," he said. "We can't avoid it."

"Don't think about the future." She took him by the arms and gently moved him so they were eye-to-eye. "What do you want, right now?"

'You,' Harry thought, 'in my arms. Always. I want that to be enough.'

Not for the first time, Harry longed for a life so simple and ordinary. He wished for something he could hold on to, he wished for the luxury of waiting, of falling in love and knowing that it could go on for endless tomorrows. A future beyond the war, like what Ron and Angela could have. The chance to make something of his time, to build something brilliant and beautiful that would last. Or just the luxury of knowing that if he mucked it all up he could move on, that one day he would have another chance…

The truth was that he could never have a life like that. Not with Hermione, not with anyone. To pretend otherwise would only make it all worse.

"I…" And yet he couldn't say no to her. It went against his very being. It would be so much easier to lie but he could never lie to Hermione. He felt the words in his head fighting to flee, to be heard and understood as only Hermione could. "That's not important. We need to focus on the mission. That's what matters now."

Of course, she didn't believe him. Harry didn't believe it himself. She simply placed a calming hand against his cheek - those warm brown eyes stared at him, so utterly disarming in their beauty.

"So do you." The words echoed into his bones. "You matter. Your happiness matters."

There was not a shred of dishonesty in her voice, not a gleam of motive in her eyes. It was the truth - the honest truth - and it was enough to topple every barrier he had left. He wanted to tell her the truth of it as much as he wished he had the strength to lie. He could do neither.

"Hermione, please…"

"You can't just bury your feelings until they go away."

"I know. I just don't know what else to do."

The dirt shifted beneath them as Hermione took a step closer and Harry soon was enveloped in another Hermione hug that he gladly reciprocated. It wasn't enough to mend everything, but it was enough to shoo away the gloom that clutched his bones. He heard her whispering softly into his chest, but he couldn't make out the words. His fingers flowed between the tresses of her dark brown hair, feeling the smooth locks flow against his skin. How distinctly Hermione it was. How he loved every bit of it, as he loved her so completely.

He leaned down to press a kiss against her crown, as her lips pressed up into the hollow of his neck. A soft, secret peck that was only for him. Their own little rebellion against the state of the world.

The pair happily stood entwined against the evening wind, happy to forget their troubles for but a moment.

That was until Harry saw a flash of something ducking behind a tree in the corner of his eye and he froze. His hands tightened around Hermione's shoulders.

"Harry," she whispered, "I know you're anxious. I am too. But I'm not going anywhere and neither-"

An urgent finger pressed against her lips.

"Someone's here."

Hermione swivelled, scanning their surroundings. The silent forest stilled under her sight. For a moment, Harry thought it had been a trick of the light, but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. It was too big to be an animal. Too deliberate to be an accident. He kept his eyes fixed on the trees, waiting for a sign.

Seconds crawled past in anticipation until they heard a twig snap to their right. Immediately, Harry's wand was up. Hermione followed swiftly, aiming to the other side of a silver birch trunk.

"We know you're there!" Hermione demanded, extracting herself from Harry's side. "Show yourself!"

Not a second later, a stranger stepped out into the clearing, their sore, shaking hands above their bowed head. They were short, only slightly taller than Hermione. A dull hoodie hung loose on their body, their worn jeans were covered in dirt. They looked like a muggle that had wandered down the wrong footpath. Harry might have believed it if they weren't so far out of the way.

"That's close enough!" Harry shouted and the stranger stopped.

"Is he here?" a girl's voice emerged from beneath the thick hood. Harry was taken aback at just how young she sounded. Her whole body was shaking.

With a quick nod to Hermione, Harry hurried inside the shack and called for Ron.

"Get out here, now!"

"What's going on?" Ron shouted from inside.

"Someone's here! Hurry!"

Leaving a scurry of footsteps in his wake, Harry rushed back outside to find that the stranger removed her hood, revealing a round face with large blue eyes staring at the tip of Hermione's wand. Her blonde hair was cut haphazardly into a jagged bob. Dark bags hung under her eyes. Her cheeks glowed red from exhaustion. She had a face that looked like it had been made for smiling but hadn't done so in a long time.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know how to contact you. I had to make sure it was you. I had a thought he might come back here and I wanted to make sure he knew…"

Unmoved by her apparent distress, Hermione pressed forward, jabbing her wand against her hoodie.

"Empty your pockets."

"I don't-"

"Do it!"

The girl immediately emptied the pockets of her hoodie and jeans. A wallet, a piece of crinkled paper, a loose sandwich wrapper, a large, faded, green badge and a gnarly wooden wand fell to the forest floor.

"That's all I have, I swear."

It was hardly enough supplies to last a day trip to the woods. Either she hadn't travelled far or she was woefully unprepared.

Hermione wasn't convinced either way.

A subtle nod was sent his way and Harry aimed his wand at the stranger, ready for any dirty tricks she might have left. The Death Eaters weren't above impersonating a teenage girl to lull them into a false sense of security, they both knew that. Whilst Harry's wand pinned the girl to the spot, Hermione performed a couple of wand movements as she circled the stranger like a lioness. A glow covered her from head to toe until Hermione was seemingly satisfied.

"She's clean," she announced. The girl looked more relieved about it than either of them.

"Is Ron here?" she asked, her eyes dancing from one to the other. "Please, he knows me. I just wanted to see him-"

Heavy footsteps trudged up behind them until they suddenly stopped. Harry turned to see Ron staring wide-eyed at the new arrival, his knuckles white from gripping the decrepit doorframe of the shack.

"Angela!"

The girl's face lit up with a beaming smile.

"Ron!"

A wave of realisation rolled across Harry as he finally put a face to the name.

In an instant, the pair was in each other's space. Angela hung from Ron's neck as he hoisted her into his arms, whispering something that Harry couldn't hear. He caught a glimpse of Hermione staring at the pair, utterly confused and Harry forced himself not to laugh.

Eventually, the couple had both pairs of feet back on the ground but they refused to separate. A shaking hand gently held Angela's golden locks.

"You've changed your hair," Ron said dumbly and Angela giggled.

"And you haven't, you idiot," she replied, pinching a few strands of his distinct ginger hair. "What if someone recognises you?"

Ron blinked and began blushing a soft shade of pink.

"I hadn't thought of that."

"What would you do without me?" Angela tutted with a fond smile that made Harry squint.

A loud cough interrupted the reunion and their eyes shifted to an indignant Hermione.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

"Oh, right." Ron stood up tall and patted the girl on the shoulder. "Harry, Hermione, meet Angela."

Angela waved with an apologetic smile.

"Hello."

Beside her, Ron beamed with pride.

"She's my girlfriend."

"Wait-" Hermione stuttered as her brain caught up. "That girlfriend? The one you've been keeping secret all this time?

"Yeah," Ron nodded nonplussed.

This did nothing to extinguish Hermione's befuddlement.

"She's real?!"

"I know, right?" Harry smirked, to which Ron stared unamused at him.

"Cheers, bud."

Whilst Hermione struggled to form words, Angela pulled on Ron's sleeve.

"Is that really-?" she whispered with barely concealed awe.

"Yes," Ron nodded, "yes, it is."

"But I mean-" the girl shook her head. "God, I'm sorry, but-"

She stepped forward and Harry mentally prepared himself to be on the receiving end of the standard hero worship. He trained his face to appear natural, temper the agitation that briefly flared in his chest… only for Angela to walk straight past him and instead nervously shuffle towards Hermione.

"You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?" she asked, to which Hermione stared perplexed at the girl.

"Yes?" she replied hesitantly.

"I can't believe it!" She wrapped Hermione in a tight hug, which Hermione was clearly unprepared for. "I'm a huge fan!"

"Oh, really?" Hermione asked faintly, eyeing Harry for help. Harry meanwhile merely stood and watched as, for once, someone other than himself was showered in praise from someone he'd never met.

"Of course I am! You're amazing! Look-!" Angela reached down to the floor, picking up her few possessions, including the large green badge which upon closer inspection clearly read, "S.P.E.W." Hermione stared dumbfounded at the badge in Angela's hand, her cheeks turning a rosy pink.

"Where did you get that?" she gasped.

"I… found it on the floor in the Hufflepuff common room ages ago," Angela bashfully explained. "I really wanted to sign up. I was just… too shy to talk to you. But I did wear it, though! All the time! I got made fun of… a lot, but it was worth it!"

Hermione stood in stunned silence, clearly not knowing how to respond. She turned to look at Harry, who bit his tongue to stop from laughing at her overwhelmed expression.

"Is this how it feels?" she asked breathlessly.

"You get used to it," Harry replied.

"Oh, sorry," Angela shook her head, presenting an open hand, "you must be Harry. It's good to meet you."

"Hey, Angela," Harry smiled, shaking her hand. "Believe me, we're very glad to see you're alright, but why are you here? I thought you'd be at Hogwarts."

"Right, yes," Angela's face darkened. "I don't think that's an option for me anymore. Probably best we sit down."

They escorted Angela inside the Shrieking Shack, into the warm, furnished living room that used to be a run-down hovel. Before long she was sitting on the wide, ornate sofa sipping a mug of hot chocolate. The mug was empty by the time she summoned the courage to continue.

"They've taken my sister." Her voice was so small that Harry almost missed what she said. "I don't know where. For all I know she might be dead."

Ron looked beside himself. Hermione's face was downcast and she was strangely still. Harry merely stood beside her chair, taking in the information. It was a lot to process, suddenly having another person appear on their doorstep, clearly in a sorry state. Everything about her told him she had been running for a long time. She looked exhausted and hadn't much in her pockets, perhaps her only possessions left in the world.

"What was her name?" Harry eventually asked.

"Eve," Angela replied. "Eve Levitt."

"Who took her?"

The girl gave him a strange look, almost in offence.

"What, you don't know?"

"We haven't exactly been in the loop recently," Ron explained quickly. Angela shook her head, reaching into her pocket to hand him a folded pamphlet.

"The Ministry," she said. Harry's concern only grew as he was handed the pamphlet. "They've introduced a new law. The Muggleborn Registration Commission. Every Muggleborn in the country has to register. At first, we thought it was a census, but then people started disappearing. Turns out they were arrested and put on trial. I've heard they're even sent to Azkaban for it."

Both his and Hermione's head shot up and Ron's face was turning a shade of puce.

"Azkaban?!" Hermione cried.

"On what charge?" Ron asked just as vehemently.

"For apparently stealing their magic from 'real' witches and wizards," Angela replied, her lips curling as if the words soured her mouth.

"'Real' witches and wizards?' What the hell does that mean?"

Harry had to unclench his teeth to speak.

"Pureblood, presumably," he spat. "What else would it be?"

"Halfbloods, too, technically," Angela added, "but we don't know how long that will stand."

"Merlin, if they go after Halfbloods they'll have to lock up most of the Wizarding world," Ron moaned. "Not even the Ministry can enforce that."

"No, but you can stop them from making more." Harry wiped his face. "I wouldn't be surprised if they outlawed Muggleborn marriages next. Keep the magic folk mingling and you won't have any Halfbloods left."

He saw beside him that Hermione was shaking violently. The tips of her bushy hair stood on end.

"It's vile," she whispered. "It's genocide."

"It gets worse," Angela said. Harry could imagine how that was true, but then she continued. "They don't just try adults…"

All three of them stared at Angela in abject horror. Harry had to stop himself from throwing up. Ron looked like he was about to faint.

"No… surely not-"

For a moment, Angela couldn't speak. Her lips were trembling, her eyes darkened with despair.

"I was supposed to be arrested, too. My sister sent me away before that could happen."

"But the kids… all those Muggleborn students," Ron breathed faintly. "Don't tell me they-"

"I don't know," Angela shook her head. "But I'm not going back to Hogwarts. It's not safe for me there."

"No," Ron nodded, clearly unsure what else to do, "good idea."

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need," Harry decided. "Do you have anywhere else to go? Any family to stay with?"

In spite of his deepest wishes, Angela shook her head, and Harry felt his soul ache for her.

"Eve was all I had. And now…"

Now she was like him. All alone in the world, except for them. Harry took a step closer and kneeled to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, resting a hand on her arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "We'll look after you, I promise."

"And… we'll try our best to save your sister," Ron added to which Angela offered a small, defeated smile.

"You'll have to find out where she is before you can do that."

"Is she not at the Ministry?" Harry asked.

"If she was, we would've heard the news of a trial by now," Angela replied, "but there's nothing."

"So maybe it wasn't the Ministry who took her…"

"What do you mean? She told me that Snatchers were coming for her-"

"'Snatchers'?"

"Dark wizards," Angela explained, "hired to round up undesirables."

"Why not use Aurors?" Harry asked.

"Why use the Ministry's police force when you can make your own?" Hermione spoke up for the first time in a few minutes. They turned to see her face deeply flushed, twisted in a deep-seated rage aimed at something far in the distance.

"So they work for Riddle?" Harry broke down her reasoning.

"A secret police that operates only in your best interest," Hermione explained. "It's a basic totalitarian procedure."

"Riddle?" Angela repeated. "Who's Riddle?"

"You-Know-Who," Hermione replied. "That's his real name. Tom Riddle."

Angela's blue eyes went wide, darting from person to person.

"I didn't know he had a real name," she gasped.

"Well, he does," Harry shrugged. "Or did, a long time ago, back when he was a student at Hogwarts."

"Seriously?" Angela breathed. "You-Know-Who went to Hogwarts?"

"Yep, and he was a prick even then, believe me."

It was clear that Angela didn't entirely know what he was talking about but she decided not to question him.

"In any case," Harry pondered, "the question remains, why would Volde-"

"Don't!" Angela screamed. The trio jumped in their seats. Angela glanced around apologetically. "Sorry, just, you can't say it. It's Taboo."

In the midst of Harry and Ron's confusion, they heard Hermione gasp. Her brown eyes had grown to the size of saucers, her hand covering her mouth as if the word might slip through.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked pointedly.

"Ever since Riddle took over the Ministry," Angela elaborated, "he made his name Taboo. It means anyone who says it can be found through any ward and any protections they have can be circumvented."

"Just by saying his name?"

"Yes," Hermione gasped. "I read how he wanted to do it during the First Wizarding War, but only the Ministry has the power to enforce it. And now he can."

Despite the creeping horror Harry felt of knowing any word he spoke could be his undoing - yet another small luxury that magic was quick to strip of him - he sighed, shrugging his shoulders and putting on a brave smile.

"All the more reason to call him Riddle, then," he smirked. "That and it really pisses him off."

"What if he makes that taboo too?" Angela said.

"He won't," Hermione interjected, "because to do that he would have to acknowledge he was once Tom Riddle and that's the last thing he would do."

"But what would…" Angela took a moment to sum up the courage, "Riddle want with my sister?"

The trio glanced at each other, silently begging for ideas, until Harry answered, "I don't know."

"Was she a dissident?" Hermione proposed. "Did she publicly oppose him?"

"No, I don't think so," Angela replied. "Not as far as I know."

Taking a step back, Harry consulted the last six years of mysteries that they solved, trying to find a way forward.

"Did anything strange happen before she disappeared?" he asked. Angela thought for a moment before she frowned.

"There was one thing. A week before I left, there was a man who came in who needed a tattoo removed."

"A tattoo?"

"Well, she is a tattoo artist," she quickly explained, "and a really good one at that."

"Good enough for people to come begging?" Hermione asked.

"Well, it's not usually quite so literal, but in this case, yes. He was desperate to get it done that same day but Eve said it was too complex. That and apparently it was too dangerous, for numerous reasons."

"Who was it?" Harry asked but Angela shook her head.

"She wouldn't tell me who, she said it wasn't safe for me to know. All I could figure out is that it was a 'he'. And he was rich, like mega rich. Dropped a thousand out of pocket to get it done."

"A thousand galleons?" Ron remarked as if the very notion was absurd.

"In coins with a little money sack and everything," Angela nodded, trying to convince them, "I know because I counted for her. Eventually, Eve said yes but they made a deal, something about safe passage. I think she was buying my way out in case it all went south."

"You sure he wasn't the one who gave you both up?" Hermione pondered. "It would be a good way to cover his tracks."

"No, I wouldn't think so. He gave us a broomstick for me to use on the way out. A Nimbus 2001."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Harry asked.

"No. Eve forbade me. She had him sneak in during the night under a cloak and took him down into the basement to do the procedure." Her face cringed in vivid recollection. "It… didn't sound nice. He was screaming like it was an amputation. Apparently, it was a cursed tattoo on his arm. One of the most difficult removal jobs she's ever had to perform."

"The Dark Mark," Harry realised. "It was a Death Eater. That's why it was kept hushed up. One of Riddle's crew is defecting."

"That does seem the most likely answer," Hermione said, mostly to convince herself. "But who? The Dark Mark is supposed to be for the most dedicated supporters. It's not like them to suddenly turn tail."

"It could be one from the First War," Harry surmised, "like Kakaroff. Someone who's turned a new leaf."

"Yeah, and how likely is that?" Ron shot back and Harry put his hands up.

"Just putting out ideas."

"No," Angela said, "this guy didn't sound all that old."

"Maybe he was using polyjuice?" Ron supposed.

"And risk it wearing off mid-surgery?" Hermione replied in horror.

"Is it any riskier than trying to get a Dark Mark removed?"

"Was there anyone else who might have turned you in?" Harry asked, trying to stay on topic. "Anyone at all?"

"I don't know who else it could be." Her eyes fell to the floor and her shoulders hunched up. Ron was quick to wrap an arm around her and she leaned into him. "We were good people. We hadn't done anything wrong."

For the first time since they had sat down, Hermione left her chair, stepping closer to comfort the poor girl. With nothing left to say, Angela allowed herself to cry and Harry and Hermione left her and Ron to their privacy.

Later, as the afternoon drew on, the pair found themselves sharing a blanket on their doorstep. Harry watched the ember treetops rustle in the wind. His head was loud and heavy on his shoulders. Hearing Dumbledore talk about Riddle's plans for the Ministry was one thing but it was another to look into the eyes of someone whose life had been destroyed by it. It was easy to comprehend the Pureblood regime when it was bullet points on a manifesto; when you could step back and laugh at the lunacy of it all. Now it was everywhere, looming above them, seeping into the foundations of everyday life.

Hermione was still reading over the pamphlet, she ran her fingers along it before she unceremoniously crumpled it and threw it on the ground. With a flick of her wand, it was set aflame, reduced to ash in mere moments, but it did little to ease the tension in her shoulders.

"How could Dumbledore let this happen?" she hissed. "He knew this was coming, how could he let it come to this? Surely he could've put something in place to prevent it?"

"Well, he didn't," Harry replied. "We're on our own now."

"Not exactly," a voice spoke behind them.

The couple turned to see Angela standing in the doorway with Ron at her side watching vigilantly over her. Her eyes were still red and raw, her shoulders hunched over, but her face was nevertheless determined.

"There's something you all need to see."

The group appeared as the sun was setting along the distant hills. The low light was punctured by harsh spotlights all around them. For a moment, Harry's heart froze. His eyes whirled around him, hoping that he hadn't just walked straight into a trap.

Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the light and he realised they weren't alone. All around them were people, sitting together, standing in queues, talking, shouting and crying. Too many people to count.

Beyond them were small buildings, more like trailers, enough to house a few dozen at a time. It reminded Harry of the caravan parks the Dursleys would retreat to with Dudley for the holidays, the kind he only ever saw in photographs.

The camp was built in the shadow of a large mined-out crag with caves leading inside the rock wall. The thick canopy above and the tall trees standing around them made for an area shielded on all sides.

What the hell was this place? Who were these people? Why had Angela taken them here of all places? And, most worryingly, why was every single eye in the camp pointed at them?

"Is it really him?" a voice whispered a little too loud, but before Harry could find the source, another came rushing towards him.

"Mr Potter! Thank goodness that you're alright."

She was a thin, flustered old woman, wearing a frayed shawl, her hands shaking from the cold despite having hurried from a fireside. A thought in Harry's head pestered him as he stared at her wrinkled face until finally, he recognised her.

"Doris Crockford," he whispered. Immediately, her tired eyes lit up in surprise.

"Why yes… oh my word," her voice warbled and Harry was compelled to hold her hands. "He remembers me."

"What's happened?" he gently asked. "What is this place?

"An evacuation point," Angela explained. "There's a gateway here, a floo that's off the books. It connects to a safe-house in France."

'Evacuation?' Harry repeated to himself. Then that would make these people evacuees. Were they like Angela, people with nowhere else to go? Harry found himself staring at each and every one of the faces surrounding him with a new perspective, with each new face plunging his heart ever deeper into his stomach.

"It's Harry Potter! It's him!"

"Have you come to save us?"

"Can you really kill him?"

"I'm…" Harry fought to keep looking into their eyes, trying to stand tall, as he realised how little he had accomplished so far. "I'm working on it."

That answer couldn't sate the crowd's worries, however, and the chorus of woes only grew louder. His heart raced in his chest. He felt the grip on his breath slip as panic reared its head.

"Please, Mr Potter, have you seen my daughter?"

"They took my wife, please, I beg you-"

"They took everything I have! My family-"

"He won't survive in Azkaban, not with his heart-"

"Mr Potter," the frail fingers of Doris Crockford tightly grasped his hand and he was forced to look into her pleading face. "My granddaughter. They took her from the train. The Hogwarts Express. Please, tell me you know where she is?"

The image of a young girl being dragged from the Hogwarts Express by masked figures, kicking and screaming, afraid, attacked his mind. It broke Harry's heart in two. He felt like the floor was falling away beneath him. He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn't accept it.

"I… I…"

There was nothing he could say to ease her suffering, nor any of them. He couldn't tell them about the Horcruxes, about his mission to end Riddle for good and how few leads he actually had to follow. Nor did he have the heart to admit that he knew nothing about them or their plight until today. He didn't think he could live with himself if he had to tell poor Mrs Crockford that he had no idea where her daughter was, nor that saving her was ever part of the plan.

How had it come to this in so little time? Why the hell was he off chasing Horcruxes when there were these people he could have been helping from the start?

The rage boiled up inside him and flooded his panicked mind with purpose. Harry gently moved Mrs Crockford into Angela's waiting care.

"Who's in charge here?" he demanded amongst the crowd. "Someone needed to have set this up. Who was it?"

"It was me."

The hoarse, aged voice cut through the discord like thunder. The crowd hushed and stepped aside, revealing a tall figure standing amongst them dressed in a thick coat. Harry recognised the man's stern, sagging face immediately.

"Or rather, Albus did. Using my estate, of course," said Mr Dalton, his cane tapping against the leaves as he approached. The old soldier stared down at Harry with a stony expression betrayed by a familiar twinkle in his eye. "It's good to see you again, Mr Potter. I'm sure you have many questions."

Harry was still shaking as he came to the end of the long walk up the property. He took deep, deliberate breaths all the way across the forest to Mr Dalton's country house. It was nothing so large as a mansion, but it was older than Harry could discern, most likely a farmhouse converted into a home, with a heavily bolted iron door that took some convincing to open.

As he was led through the dark, cramped hallways - that Mr Dalton had to hunch to fit through - Harry felt something ancient emanating all around him. There was old magic in these walls, older than anything he had felt outside of Hogwarts.

Soon enough, he found himself standing in front of a mahogany desk in a dimly lit study. There was a small fireplace. The room was full of oddities, paintings, antique weaponry, stuffed creatures that Harry had never seen before, a book that looked older and heavier than himself, and contraptions that reminded him of the ones found in Dumbledore's office. In fact, this whole study reminded him of Dumbledore. Harry wondered how many of the old Headmaster's possessions resided here, whether this was Dumbledore's house just as much as Mr Dalton's.

"I'm assuming you told Angela how to find us?" Harry asked but he already knew the answer. Mr Dalton's nod came as no surprise.

"I did. She's an extra pair of hands," he said flippantly. "Someone willing and bright and already acquainted with Mr Weasley. I thought you might appreciate it."

"I appreciate being told what I need to know."

He saw Mr Dalton deflate slightly as if even he knew just how sensitive of a subject it was that they were about to venture into. It irritated Harry to no end that he was still having to untangle all of his old Headmaster's good intentions. The shadow of Dumbledore's invisible hand continued to obscure his path even beyond the grave, working above and around him to keep him blind. Harry assumed that his trust had meant something.

"I wanted to," Mr Dalton explained, "but Albus refused and the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with him."

"Why?" Harry insisted through clenched teeth. Mr Dalton sent him a stern glare in return but Harry refused to blink. He needed to hear whatever excuse Dumbledore had, whatever reason he could possibly have for hiding this side of the war from him.

"Because he knew as soon as you found out about this place, you'd want to focus your efforts here. It is imperative that you do not."

Harry's patience was rapidly dwindling.

"Why not?"

Mr Dalton sighed, placing his hands on the table and rising from his seat.

"These people, important as they are, are merely the collateral damage of the real war happening right now, the one Albus was preparing you for."

"They are not collateral!" Harry exclaimed to a stone-faced Mr Dalton.

"That is beside the point."

"No, that's exactly the point!" The teen paced on the spot, glaring at the man in front of him. "I'm starting to think you and Dumbledore have gotten used to treating this all like one big game. This is real life and these are real people you're playing with here!"

"The Horcruxes are what matter the most," Mr Dalton explained. "They are what this war will be decided by, they must be your absolute priority."

"You can't expect me to ignore all of this now," Harry scoffed. "Innocent people are being stolen away and locked up as we speak. They're-" His mind flashed back to the faces surrounding him at the camp, at Doris Crockford's granddaughter. The anger he had been barely containing suddenly erupted. "They're putting children in Azkaban! I can't just stand by and watch it happen while chasing these stupid Horcruxes-"

The elderly soldier stood up suddenly and roared.

"It will get worse if you don't! Far worse!" Harry had never heard Mr Dalton shout before and now he wished he hadn't. A shiver of adrenaline surged through him. It was enough to make his hair stand on end. The old man's eyes were burning like the sun. "I have seen the depths of human evil on foreign shores and I will never see it again! Not here! Riddle must die and every day he does not that horror comes racing closer! When Riddle dies, this tyranny dies with him."

Even the fire of Dalton's fury wasn't enough to stop Harry's tirade, however.

"It won't stop with him," Harry replied, staring the old man in the eye even as his hands shook. "You know that. Before Riddle it was Grindelwald. Before him, who knows, but it's always the same thing again and again. Even if I kill him, how do we know that everything he's done will just go away? I'm half-convinced that the Ministry's been wanting exactly this for a long time. Riddle just gave them the excuse to finally show their true faces."

"Not all of them." Mr Dalton's anger had mellowed to a simmer but he still stood tall like a statue, still resolute. "There are some that welcome the world Riddle is creating, but there are many, many more who believe in none of it. It's only fear that keeps them docile. That is why you are so important."

"Me?" Harry scoffed. "What am I doing to help them? Nothing!"

The old man gave him a long, silent stare that pierced Harry's ballooning defiance like a needle.

"You are hope." His weary voice hung in the air and smothered him. "Hope that one day Riddle can be defeated. The power of men like him is that he makes people believe that he is invincible. As long as you live, that isn't true. Everyone knows it. You're a symbol to all of these people that this won't last forever, that the fight is not over, that one day they'll have a home to come back to."

"I've been a symbol my whole life and frankly it's done nothing but cause trouble."

"For you, absolutely. But there are people out there who harbour the will to resist simply because they know you're alive, that there's a chance. That's more powerful than any army, believe me."

Harry sighed, listening to the crackling of the logs on the fireplace, watching the flames dance in the dim evening light.

"I want to fight with them," he said. "Not hide away from the worst of it while I follow dead ends."

"You cannot let the Horcruxes slip through your fingers," Mr Dalton insisted, "not for anything."

"I won't," Harry replied, "but I can't just stand aside and let this happen either. I'm not like you or Dumbledore. I can't play the long game. If people need help… I have to help."

The teen squared his shoulders, staring up at the old man's face with a hard stare, hoping that it was enough to convince him of his steadfastness.

"I will help these people," Harry announced, "I will find the Horcruxes and I will kill Riddle. I will do all of those things and nothing less. You can't stop me. This is my war, I choose how it's fought."

His words seemed to give Mr Dalton pause. For the first time, Harry was treated to the silence of the old man's astonishment, until eventually, the man's face crinkled into a smile.

"Your war…" he quietly pondered. "You are just as Albus described. Brash, stubborn, reckless and - most annoyingly - right. Always right…"

A moment passed then Mr Dalton reached over to a glass cabinet, opened it and grabbed a large bottle of orange drink. He uncapped the bottle and decanted the whiskey into two small glasses that seemingly appeared on the desk.

"I will let you fight, Mr Potter, on one condition." Once both glasses were poured, he offered one to Harry, who accepted. "The Horcruxes remain your top priority, no matter what. Ending the war as fast as possible, as callous as it sounds, is the only strategy we have. You must promise me that if it comes down to a choice, you choose the Horcruxes. Even if it goes against everything that you believe in."

Harry swirled the whiskey in his glass, pondering the path laid out before him.

"That's not a choice I want to have to make," he admitted. Mr Dalton shook his head.

"It won't be easy, but it must be done."

The two glasses clinked together and the pair drank. The liquid burned his throat and Harry tried not to wince. It was stronger than any fire whiskey he'd ever had, saw no such struggle from Mr Dalton though, who set the glass on his desk with a heavy thud. His eyes were misty, staring down at the small imperfections in the wood.

"I was in the Battle of Britain, you know," he whispered. "Fought the German Luftwaffe over the Channel." The man scoffed. "It was chaos. They sent you up, you tried not to get killed, and if somehow you come back alive they shower you with medals. Called it a job well done. They never wanted to hear the truth. How you had no idea what the hell you were doing. Or how some of those planes you shot down may very well have been your own." His tired, shining grey eyes turned to Harry now. He looked like he had almost forgotten Harry was there. "They wanted to think that it all meant something. Valour, honour, duty. There might have been real heroes up there that day, I didn't feel like one. But I came back. They didn't."

All of a sudden, Harry understood the man completely. He recognised that look, he had felt that same ache in his bones. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, akin only to peering down into a chasm and knowing that the only way forward was down. The frown on Mr Dalton's face only grew deeper. The many lines across his face turned down, the shadows flickering across them somehow turned to black.

"You're a braver man than I, Harry," Mr Dalton admitted. "Braver than any of us. I'm sorry."

"What did he say?" Hermione asked him the moment he returned to the camp. He found her sitting with Angela, talking to a huddled group of people and handing out a pile of clean blankets. Harry looked at her, wondering what on Earth he should say. He found nothing, only the prescience to take her hand and gently kiss her fingers. Hermione stared at him as he did so. It felt like a goodbye almost, or an apology. The fact was he couldn't tell and neither could she.

"Angela," Harry asked, reluctantly stepping past her, "how do people find this place?"

"Word of mouth, mostly," Angela shrugged. "It's not efficient but it's the best they can do."

"And what if we need to find people first?"

"We check the registers," another woman spoke up. She was older, in her thirties, wearing a bright purple vest and a reflective band, "The Muggleborns for starters. Mr Dalton has a line to the Hogwarts book of names. He knows how to find them in case they need help."

"If the Ministry or Riddle's folk try to take them," Harry said, "any of them, you call me. I'll be there."

He felt a hand grasp his arm and he was looking into Hermione's eyes once again.

"We're supposed to be looking for the…" she gestured in a way that needed no explanation, "you-know-whats."

"We'll do both."

It was evident from her alarmed expression that it was not the response Hermione wanted from him.

"Hunting the… you-know-whats is dangerous enough without dragging ourselves into a civil war."

"Then I'll do it myself," Harry shrugged. Hermione sputtered.

"That's not the point-"

"Why not?" Harry retorted. "It'll be me and Riddle in the end, anyway. He'll want me alive for himself. If I can use that advantage to help people, then so be it."

If only Hermione were anyone else, someone who didn't know him nearly as well. They might have flinched, or maybe backed off, but Hermione stood unmoved, staring at him with something he could only call pity.

"Harry…" She attempted to speak, but Harry stopped her.

"This is where I need to be," he said, trying to convince her as much as himself. Trying to ignore the tugging on his heart as he watched her try to talk him down from the edge. "This is what matters. This is how we make a difference."

And just like that he was gone, following the kind woman to her fellow committee. He left Hermione alone but she remained with him in every waking thought. Those pleading eyes that only ever wanted the best for him. Instead, he moved his body forward and tried to forget what was behind him.

There is no tomorrow anymore, he told himself. Tomorrow was for everyone else.

"What did you say to him?" Hermione demanded. Her voice was acidic, her body standing as tall as possible and yet towering over him in spirit. The spirit that had not yielded at the doorway and marched her inside Mr Dalton's office, compelling her to confront the man himself. The elderly soldier was only slightly perturbed by the young woman's insistence, her wide, brown eyes glaring at him like a woman scorned by God himself.

"I told him the truth," Mr Dalton replied carefully. "I tried to turn him away, but he was very persistent."

To no one's surprise, his diplomatic nothing of an answer did nothing to quell her ire. Of all the people to impose themselves on Harry's life, to rob him of any peace, he was the only one she could find. As such, it was him that she chose to unleash herself upon.

"This is too much," she hissed with barely shackled outrage. "It will kill him."

"It's his fight. He gets to choose his next steps."

Hermione resisted the urge to laugh at his cheek. As if Harry had any choice at all in this war, let alone insisting that he was willing to bear it all.

"How could you do this? Fill him up with all that rubbish, slap him on the back and send him off to die like it's nothing!"

Mr Dalton turned to face her, fixing her with a piercing stare.

"Be very careful, Miss Granger-"

"Oh, go on, threaten me!" she glared right back. "Tell me I'm wrong! I don't care! Do you know what he has to do?"

"Yes," Mr Dalton spat, "and it is the greatest shame I will ever bear. I've seen what war does to young men like him-"

"And you're going to do that to Harry," Hermione shouted, "because you and Dumbledore and everyone else couldn't sort this out by yourselves!"

"Do you think I'm not aware?" Mr Dalton bellowed. "Do you think I don't hate what I've become? I swore to never be one of those old, bitter men who sent young boys to fight for them… and yet here I am and he offers himself freely." Hermione could make out his jaw trembling in the firelight, the regrets of decades on his face. "And I wish I was a better man than to let him fight but it's not my choice."

His voice died in his throat and Hermione was left steaming in silence, a stinging in her own eyes that she had chosen to ignore since Harry had returned, looking like a dead man walking. She wanted to scream until her lungs burned and her throat would no longer make noise, but it was pointless. It was all so pointless.

"Why does it always have to him?" she lamented. "Harry doesn't deserve that. He deserves a long, happy, peaceful life and I don't know what you've put in his head," her tears burned down her cheeks and her voice turned fierce, "but I'm not going to let you or Dumbledore turn Harry into another soldier."

"Whether we like it or not, Harry is a soldier," Mr Dalton replied shamefully. "It's our war he's fighting now. We've laid the world at his feet and asked him to carry it for us because he's the only one who can. That's enough to break a man."

"You're saying that as if he'll do it all by himself. He won't and he never ever will," Hermione stood up defiantly, brushing her cheeks with her jumper, "because he has me. And no matter what you tell me, no matter what Dumbledore had planned, that's never going to change."

There was a long pause, through which the old man stared contemplatively at her.

"Albus told me plenty about you, Miss Granger." He stood slowly from his chair, reaching for his cane. "Your intellect, your stubborn righteousness, your dazzling courage. A true Gryffindor if there ever was one." He stepped closer, peering down at her with fondness. "The person who Harry Potter trusts implicitly. And who loves him more than anyone."

Hermione felt her heart jump. Her eyes widened. The hairs on her arms stood on end. It felt like her chest had been ripped open. She had rarely felt so uniquely vulnerable.

"What are you saying?" she whispered.

Mr Dalton smiled at her, a melancholy smile, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"I know you mean every word you've said. I know because I lived by them, just like you." His eyes sparkled with memories. "We both fell in love with extraordinary men, Hermione. With the beating heart that lies deep within. They burn so brightly. It is our privilege to stand by their side. To hold them in their most vulnerable moments. To be their rock when they need us most."

Unable to reply, she shook her head, partly to vainly deny it and early to hide the rivers of tears running down her cheeks.

"This isn't fair," she gasped softly between hidden sobs. "You know I can't ask him to stop."

"I know," the old man nodded. "Because if you did, he might just listen."

"I can't do that to him. I won't make this any harder for him, or force him to make that choice if that's what you're worried about."

The elderly soldier looked bemused and sighed.

"Actually it's quite the opposite." He turned to stare at the mantlepiece, where a pair of half-moon spectacles sat watching over the room. "It's a quiet thing to lose someone…" Mr Dalton cleared his throat. "I made Mr Potter give me a promise and I'm afraid I must bind you to one too. Albus and I… we failed him." He turned once again to face her. "You will not. You hold his spark in your hands, Hermione." He took her small hands in his own and Hermione realised just how thin and frail they were. "Please… don't let it go out."

Hermione looked down into their conjoined hands and then up into the man's ancient eyes. There was no choice. It was the easiest promise she ever had to make and she would make it every day.

Chapter Text

The silent forest echoed with the sound of bark rupturing with a thunderous crack. Splinters of wood collided and were lost amongst a carpet of leaves.

A wand slashed through the cool morning air and a beam of light skewered the dawn, leaving a trail of steam rising from nothing. The wand slashed again and a dagger of ice embedded into a log, followed by a second, third, fourth, and fifth. The ice melted and seeped into the gaps between the wood, only to freeze again. The log creaked and cracked as its insides were forced apart by the expanding ice.

The wand flicked and in a moment, the forest floor exploded as leaves flew into the air and became solid rock. With another flick, the hail of stone leaves swarmed a nearby tree trunk, reducing the bark to a pulp as the deadly projectiles shattered against it.

Not yet satisfied, the caster wrenched his arm forward and the remnant of a fallen tree leapt through the undergrowth, arcing through the air, only to stop before it hit the ground. A small twist of the wrist had the tree rapidly returning and Harry stepped out of the way to avoid it. The mighty oak collided with the rocky wall behind him with a deafening crash and rolled to its rest at his heels.

Finally, Harry breathed and sat on the fallen tree trunk. His magic felt different this morning which took a minute to get used to. It was like he was using the wrong hand. His leg ached from the weight of supporting his body, the angry cut along his thigh still not entirely healed. It was a lucky hex from a stray Death Eater. Hermione was worried it may never heal properly, but even if it did, it would just be another scar to add to the dozen he'd collected over his life. Harry considered himself lucky that he still had a leg.

This brook had been so peaceful when he first found it. Abandoned, even of animals - which eased his conscience considerably - in the furthest edge of the forest. He didn't know how far sound usually travelled in a forest, so he had erected a silencing ward around the area, so as not to disturb Hermione's rest. Their tent was only over the hill and she needed her sleep.

The sun was rising high over the canopy. The chill of morning dew slowly receded into the shadows. Conceding that his training was over, Harry removed the wards around him and allowed the sounds of the forest to meet his ears once again. The chirping song of birds, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the subtle trickle of water in the nearby stream. It was a peaceful moment and Harry allowed the cold air to sting his lungs.

He spent a few minutes simply sitting and watching the world pass him by, but his senses never dulled. Every broken twig summoned his gaze and a twitch from his wand hand. Harry wouldn't say that the mood was relaxed, but it was certainly nicer than direct danger. It wasn't fear or anger or concern. It was quiet and that was enough.

Eventually, hunger won the war between staying and returning to the real world. Harry crested the hill around a small crag and quickly found his way back into the safety of Hermione's wards. The tent they had chosen was one on loan from the Weasleys, small and unassuming on the outside, large and homely on the inside. It wasn't as established as their base in the Shrieking Shack, but it was a nice change from the abandoned building's dingy walls and cavernous insides.

Hermione was waiting for him, sitting by the entrance with a book in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Harry tried not to eye the cup of tea with too much envy as the November chill seeped into his skin.

"Good morning," he called. Hermione looked up from her book and smiled politely.

"It's nearly ten o'clock. I was about to come looking for you."

Harry sat beside her, placing the wand down beside him and wiping his brow.

"Did you have a good sleep?"

"Yes, actually." She slotted a paper bookmark between the pages and carefully closed her book. "How about you?"

Harry merely smiled but didn't answer. Instead, he stared between the trees surrounding them, as far as he could see. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had been somewhere where so little happened. He could sit for days here and achieve nothing. No one would find them. No one would look for them. It was like a world lost to time.

"Why are we here, Hermione?"

Her hand gripped his shoulder and her thumb stroked his skin.

"Because you need to rest," she explained softly. "To get away from it all, just for a bit. We both do."

They certainly did. Every day from the moment they left the Burrow until last week when Hermione had all but dragged him to this place - the Forest of Dean where she and her parents used to holiday - had been fraught with battle after battle. Everything they once took for granted, even surviving day to day, was now a fight that seemed to never end. Harry was sure he had nearly died more times in the past few months than he had in the last five years.

His body hated him for it but his mind was too tired to care. It took Hermione strong-arming him with all of her stern authority for him to even consider slowing down, let alone sitting out for a while.

"Riddle won't rest," Harry grumbled, "even if we do."

"I know," Hermione replied patiently, her eyes darting to his leg, "but you've been fighting constantly for months now."

"I'd rather be helping people on the front line than hiding away out here."

"You can't help people if you burn yourself out. This is war, Harry. Rest is a strategic necessity."

"And the reason why Ron isn't here with us?" Harry asked with a light smirk, to which Hermione replied with one of her own.

"I'd rather our supplies lasted longer than an afternoon." She patted his hand. "And you're much better company."

Harry breathed and made a show of looking around the brook they had made their camping site.

"Is this where you and your parents used to stay when you were little?"

"Not here, exactly. We'd usually rent a cottage and take the car out here for walks. I've never camped in the forest itself." Hermione's eyes shifted to the horizon and beyond, back through the years. The mood shifted to something sombre and Harry allowed her to reminisce in silence.

Hermione hadn't talked about her parents since the Burrow, but he could see it weighed on her. It saddened him to know that for once, she completely understood a part of him now, more than she ever should. At least it had been on her terms, but even then, it was a sacrifice she shouldn't have had to make.

Harry hoped that by returning to this place that meant so much to her, she could heal some of that wound. That was partially why he didn't want to come when she mentioned it. She deserved this time to herself. This place was hers, her memories, her time to mourn and come to terms with it all. He would only get in the way. He already was.

He sat on his heels and made to pour himself a drink when Hermione grabbed his arm tight. For a moment he thought she was hurt, but quickly he realised she wanted him to stay. So he did. With a sad smile, she lifted her blanket and revealed another mug of steaming tea, still warm and waiting for him. Graciously, Harry took a hungry sip and smiled as it tasted just how he liked it.

"It's lovely." He turned to look her in the eye, smiling from behind the rim. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Hermione smiled back and Harry took another sip as she rose to clean up her mug. That was when Harry noticed something.

"Hey, have you seen my wand?" he asked. "I put it down a second ago."

"It's inside," Hermione explained with amusement. "You've been using my wand."

Harry frowned. His eyes dropped to his side where he had placed the wand he'd been using since he had woken up that morning, the one he'd haphazardly grabbed in the dark as he stumbled out of the tent. A ten-inch vine wood instrument, with a core of dragon heartstring.

"Oh, so I have," he noted, his face blushing. Hermione stared at him curiously.

"You didn't notice?" she chuckled and Harry shrugged.

"Well, it was pitch black…"

Harry stopped talking as he realised his mistake. It wasn't long before Hermione's brain began putting pieces together and her amusement faded into concern.

"How long have you been training?"

Like a chagrined schoolboy, Harry stared at the ground, fiddling with his fingers as he refused to acknowledge the question. The truth was he didn't know. All he knew was that when he started, the moon was still in the sky. He kept practising long after the sun rose. He hadn't realised that he'd been using Hermione's wand. His mind was so far away, he'd hardly noticed daybreak.

A beleaguered sigh met his eyes and Harry's heart sank into his stomach. It would have hurt less if she shouted at him or hit him. Even disappointment would have been easier to swallow.

"Oh, Harry..."

The tired young man shook his head, giving up all pretence of pretending he was okay.

"I can't sleep." His fingers pulled at the hair on his temples as if trying to wrench the nightmares out of his head. "I'm sorry, I'm just-"

A warm weight pressed into his side and her arms wrapped around him.

"It's okay..."

Resistance wore out and Harry burrowed into her jumper.

"It just doesn't stop," he whispered. "Every night it... I want it to stop."

"I know…" Her hands brushed over his head, her fingers weaving through his hair. "We have dreamless sleep potions."

"No," Harry insisted half-heartedly, "those are only for when we need them."

"You can't sleep," Hermione's voice was hard and pleading. "You need them."

"I shouldn't have to. I should just…" He should just be better already. Why couldn't he be strong for her? Why was it always like this, Hermione forced to bury her pain to ease his own? It wasn't fair. He pushed her away, just enough to see her face. "I'm so sorry, we're in this beautiful place and I'm with you and I want to be happy and I'm just being miserable-"

"You're allowed to be miserable, Harry," she smiled and she looked so beautiful. For some reason it only made him feel worse. "I can take it."

"I don't want you to take it!" he shouted. Hermione looked unfazed but Harry immediately wished he could take it back. He took a deep breath to regain some composure. "You shouldn't have to. I'm trying... I'm trying my best... I'm just so tired."

"I know." With that, she rose to her feet, holding out her hand. "Come on. I'm going to give you dreamless sleep and you're going to rest now."

"No-"

"Yes," she said, her mind made up. "I insist. You'll feel better, I promise."

It was the truth, Harry knew it. It just felt wrong to accept it. He didn't want to need anyone's help, not when he could lie and say that he was fine. Not when so many others needed help. However, this was Hermione asking and, in the end, he could never say no to her.

Harry took her hand and allowed her to lead him inside the tent. He tucked himself into his cot and Hermione brought him a dreamless sleep potion, just as she said she would. Not five minutes after the potion passed his lips, Harry was fast asleep.

He awoke to the sound of a kettle softly whistling and opened his bleary eyes to the glow of morning light. There was a dry taste to his mouth, and his bones felt heavy, but his head was clear for the first time in weeks. His body felt refreshed and Harry quickly found himself standing on lighter feet.

With steady steps, he padded across the tent and entered the kitchen area - a large open space with a table and chairs laid atop a red carpet and a rustic stove, sink and countertop hugging the edges. Hermione was sitting in an armchair in the corner, tucked into a large book with a cup of tea sitting on a table beside her. Hearing his feet thudding across the floor, she looked up from her book and greeted him with a tender smile.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty."

"Good morning, yourself," Harry mumbled back. He clumsily landed in a chair, leaning against the table as the rest of his body woke up.

"Feel any better?"

"Yes, actually. Tons." He blinked, spying the glint in her stare. "Go on, say it."

Hermione sat a little taller in her chair, grinning with all the glee of a child.

"I told you so," she announced cheekily. Harry rolled his eyes at her, but truthfully he didn't mind losing to Hermione, especially when she treated him to her beautiful smile.

"Yes, you did," he smiled, stretching the stiff muscles in his face. "And I'm always glad for it."

Rather than gloat over him any longer, she responded with a gracious nod, though still looking very pleased with herself.

"So I'm thinking a quick walk around the forest while there's still light - not too far, your leg's still healing - and then dinner," she said as she passed him a still-warm mug of tea. "I've caught us some fish."

"You have?" Harry asked, remembering her many attempts to catch fish with the levitation charm. Hermione huffed, her arms planted on her hips.

"Yes, I have," she pouted. Harry shrugged.

"Clever girl." He took his steaming mug into his hand before she had the mind to take it back. "I'll cook. I need something to do."

"And then afterwards we'll discuss theories on the Horcruxes."

"Of course, dear."

And just like that, life was easy again.

It wasn't long before they were both bundled up in layers of thick clothing and walking side by side down the river, just the two of them. They didn't talk about much, mainly what Hermione had discovered from Rowena Ravenclaw's history. There were few leads to follow, although there was a diadem that continued to appear in her many accounts. It wasn't farfetched to assume that Riddle had taken an interest in that particular artefact. Finding it however would be a different matter entirely.

They didn't walk far, Harry's leg was still healing and they didn't want to hurt it with strenuous exercise. It forced Harry to take it slow for the next few days while the dittany solution worked into his wound. It was a slow process, even with the dittany speeding up the healing process, but there were still traces of dark magic that threatened to tear it open again, undoing any progress it made. Harry didn't know how to feel about it.

On the one hand, it meant he would be out of the fight for even longer than he anticipated and that fact itched in his head with every idle moment. On the other hand, it meant he had no choice but to embrace the calm all around him. The Forest of Dean was truly a beautiful place. It was nice that he had been given the time to appreciate it.

As the week continued, they quickly fell into a cycle. They would wake up, eat breakfast, research their leads, have lunch, walk around the forest to get some air, catch and cook supper then finally conduct more research before bed. Their routine rarely deviated except when they were low on food and had to sneak away to a nearby market.

However, Harry didn't mind the repetition quite so much as he had in the shack. He hadn't realised how much he missed something so normal. It reminded him of his time in Hogwarts, all the best parts. A routine to follow, something to do just for himself. It felt almost like a life of his own.

No, it was better than that, because it wasn't just his own. It was a life he shared with someone, with Hermione no less. Just the two of them, alone in a tent, in the middle of a picturesque forest. It was almost enough to make him forget the war entirely.

There were these little moments - whether it was handing Hermione her plate of dinner, seeing her eagerly watch him as he cooked, or noticing how the evening sun caught her hair as she read by the creek - that made him realise just how deeply he wanted a life like this.

Every day that passed in these woods served as a reminder of why he'd fallen for her. Everything felt so much simpler with her. No problem felt insurmountable, every moment ushered by in comfort. All the time in the world would've been worth nothing without her there to spend it with.

And then reality would catch up with him. He would look down to his notes and see the word 'Horcrux' jumping out at him, recall the memory of Riddle's face, hear the voices of all those people at the camp begging for news of their family, and the faint breeze that rustled the leaves would have him shivering as though it were an arctic wind.

"How's your leg?" Hermione asked one day as she applied new bandaging to his thigh. Harry tried not to wince as the dittany settled into his skin, days of healing transpiring over seconds, the sting of dark magic trying to resist it.

"Better," he nodded. "A few more days and it should be back to normal. "

"You promise you'll be more careful?" she said, staring at him with those brown doe eyes that demanded his attention. He smiled as she tightened a piece of fabric around his leg.

"I promise," he said dutifully, resisting a smirk.

"Good," she nodded, "Because next time, you'll be bandaging yourself."

"Ooh," he crooned, "but I like it when you tend to me."

For just a moment he caught a soft blush blossoming on her cheeks before she quickly turned away.

"You still need to learn how to do it." Her frown deepened as she carefully washed her hands. "For the next time, you go running off all by yourself."

It could have almost been a light jab, if not for the way she said it. Tired, resigned, strained. Harry felt his bluster fade away.

"I'm not gonna do that to you," he replied earnestly. "Or Ron. We're a team."

He heard her sigh from across the room. Her hair waved with the shake of her head.

"I want to believe you, Harry," she said wearily. "I really do."

"Then believe me."

She turned to look at him, a melancholy smile on her face.

"I want to, but I know you too well."

The mood never quite recovered after that. Harry was left reeling at the sudden turn, unsure what he did wrong, whether he had done anything wrong at all. Throughout supper, he had silently churned over Hermione's smile, one of fond defeat.

The next few words they shared were over empty plates after their small meal had come to a close. Hermione had silently dismissed herself to an armchair in the corner of the tent, reading the ancient tome of Rowena Ravenclaw's life. Not daring to disturb her, Harry quietly washed and dried the dishes, wasting time with as many small chores as he could. The dim candlelight, once cosy, felt suffocating, only exacerbating the silence.

"Have you heard anything from Ron or Angela?" he asked, dropping the question like a boulder into a frozen lake.

"Nothing," she replied, her eyes never leaving the words on the page.

"Are you sure?" he asked again.

"Yes, Harry," she snapped.

He was half-tempted to leave it at that and simply go to bed, but then he would hardly be a Gryffindor if he did.

"You're upset with me." He announced it without any preamble, so plainly that not even she could ignore it. Her eyes finally tore away from the book in her lap and Harry felt his hair stand on end. "Please, just tell me why."

"I'm not upset with you," she sighed.

"Yes, you are."

"It's not-" She stopped, swallowing what she was about to say, staring into space. The book closed with a heavy thud and was carefully set aside. "I know you just want to get out of here already, back to the shack. Back to Ron and the others. We're only waiting on that leg before we go."

Harry hadn't the shame to deny it. Perhaps he could have done more to hide his fleeting moments of impatience but then again Hermione could always see through him no matter what he tried to hide. So that was what she meant when she said she knew him too well.

"That's different," he argued. "You know they need our help. So many people do, all the time and we can barely keep up as it is-"

"I know," Hermione snapped, before taking a calming breath, "I never said you're wrong for thinking it. We never would've had forever. I just… I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. I get it. It's just…" he sighed. His shoulders drooped. "I can't just stop."

"Why not? It's only been a week, Harry."

A week? He mentally counted the days backwards and found them to be correct. This warm haze of normalcy he had sunken into had played more tricks on him than he had thought.

"Has it been that long?" he smiled nonchalantly. "Feels like we just got here."

"Feels like we've been here for years," Hermione said pointedly.

Harry glanced at her, feeling her eyes settle on him, waiting for his response. In the time that they had spoken, the distance between them had diminished, until Harry's hand was resting on her shoulder, her bushy hair tickling his fingers. He knew she wasn't talking about the tent.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Maybe we have."

The next day, the pair found themselves sitting around a tree trunk, the cool morning air doing little to warm the frigid air between them. Hermione was absorbed in a book, sipping from her steaming mug. Harry chose to sit in silence, staring at how the river ran by.

His fingers delved into his pocket, feeling the furry pouch inside, formulating a plan. One of the things he hadn't considered when they began preparing for a life on the run was money. Harry had managed to arrange for one of the Order to collect a small fortune on his behalf before Riddle had taken over the Ministry and made that nearly impossible, but it wasn't a permanent solution.

They mostly used their money for supplies out in the field, whenever they weren't at Mr Dalton's property or within the vicinity of Hogwarts. Along with this, Harry had been able to get a portion of it transferred to muggle currency, to better blend in. That was what the furry pouch in his pocket held, a stack of notes and coins hastily stuffed into a magically enlarged bag.

They were only supposed to use it in emergencies, but Harry knew there would be plenty for later. Right now, they both needed some cheering up.

"There's a supermarket nearby," he announced, breaking the silence between them. Hermione didn't make a sound. He hesitantly continued. "I'm thinking of going there sometime tomorrow, picking up the essentials. Like eggs, maybe. I haven't made an omelette in a while, thought I'd give it a try."

"I like my omelette with basil," she eventually said without looking away from the page. Harry's chest glowed with fondness.

"Looks like I'm getting basil, too," he smiled and Hermione shrewdly smiled back.

"Thank you."

"And if it goes wrong, then I hope you don't mind scrambled eggs," he chuckled.

"As long as there's basil, I'll be fine," Hermione grinned. "Do we have enough money?"

"We have plenty," he reassured her, "don't you worry. I'm also getting you a gift."

A pair of big brown eyes fixed towards him, evidently surprised.

"You don't have to-" she tried to argue but Harry refused.

"Yes, I do. I've been an arse recently. I know it can't make up for it by buying you stuff, but I'd like to try."

"Harry…" Hermione shook her head, closing her book, "please, you haven't-"

"Hermione." He gently took her clammy hands in his, staring into her eyes in a manner that pinned her to the spot. "I want to do this. Just relax. I'm taking care of everything tonight."

A light blush dusted her cheeks and Harry readjusted her scarf to cover them, a teasing smirk on his face as he did so. Hermione hastily returned to her book, although it didn't quite absorb her as it did before, judging from how often he would catch her eyes wandering toward him only to return to her page.

A quick trip to the market later, and after a long evening of preparing the most intricate meal of his life, Harry sat across from a thoroughly sated Hermione Granger, leaning back in her chair with a dazed expression. Her plate was empty to the point of cleanliness, her cutlery strewn lazily across her plate.

"Harry," she spoke in an almost drunken drawl.

"Hmm?" he replied as he finished off his last roast potato. Hermione's half-lidded eyes rolled to gaze at him.

"That was the best omelette I've ever eaten."

Harry couldn't contain his triumphant smile.

"You're welcome."

There was a loud scrape as Hermione settled further in her chair, visibly melting.

"Oh God, I can't move," she groaned. "I'm full."

Her host sighed dramatically. He stood up, picked up her empty plate and stacked it to be cleared away later. He leaned over her chair, staring face to face at the well-fed young woman who was struggling to stay awake.

"What am I gonna do with you?" he sighed endearingly.

"Make me another omelette, please?" she smiled pleadingly, her large brown eyes staring up at him like a puppy. At this, Harry cackled and dropped a kitchen towel on her face.

"Nice try."

Hermione clumsily swiped the towel away as Harry dropped their plates into the sink.

"Prat," she pouted.

"Excuse me," he exclaimed over the swish of water, "I made you a lovely supper."

"And now you've spoiled omelettes for me forever."

"Well, maybe if you learned to make one yourself…"

"As long as you promise to teach me." She paused for a moment. "And you extra promise not to laugh when I get it wrong."

"Teach you? Well, I suppose…" he sighed, affecting his best impression of Snape. "I expect a twelve-inch essay on the correct preparation method of omelettes by next week, Miss Granger."

The brunette rolled her eyes at him, biting her lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction of her humour.

"Is this going to be revenge for all those times I pestered you to do your homework in school?"

"Besides, you're saying it wrong. It's LeviOmelette, not LeviomeLETTE."

That was too far for Hermione, who began to bellow an indignant laugh.

"Shut up! You're lucky I'm too full to get up and strangle you right now!" she warned with a red face.

"Oh, I'm very lucky," Harry drawled. He reached into a cabinet and produced a bottle of dark red liquid. Hermione's eyes widened as the bottle was waved in front of her. "Would you like some wine, my lady?"

"Yes, please."

A couple of round glasses were placed carefully on the table, gleaming in the candlelight.

"For the record, if I were going to spoil you," Harry noted as he got to work pulling out the cork, "I'd buy you the biggest library in the world."

"Go on…" Hermione leaned in and whispered, quietly enraptured.

"And I'd put your favourite armchair in it," he continued, pouring a healthy swig of wine into each glass, "right next to a roaring fireplace, with a little bed for Crookshanks too."

"And don't forget a Quidditch pitch," she teased, "just so you have a reason to visit."

"As long as you're there, Hermione," he smirked, "I'll always have a reason to visit."

"Oh," she crooned, "now you really are spoiling me."

The two lifted their glasses and gently clinked them together.

"Cheers," they spoke, their eyes locked together.

"To a lovely dinner," Hermione whispered. With that, they drank. It wasn't bad for cheap wine, though Harry didn't have a frame of reference. However, the warm glow in his chest was nothing compared to the heat he felt radiating off of Hermione. He felt his mind shifting into a total calm, the dim light gently highlighting Hermione's smooth skin and making her eyes glitter.

It was embarrassing how often his thoughts came back to her eyes, but they had a power over him that was hard to shake, like a spell of their own. For all the things he could do - he could resist a Veela's allure and even shake the Imperius curse - he was powerless to avoid her gaze. Clear, warm, and inviting.

Loving.

He hated to break the spell so soon, but as the evening wore on, he found his mood slowly sinking. There had been something that weighed on his mind ever since coming to the Forest of Dean, one that had rarely left him. All that time thinking about Hermione and her parents had reignited a longing he thought he had come to terms with. He had been debating whether to bring it up at all, but in the end, he knew he needed to at least broach the subject.

"What is it?" Hermione asked him when she finally noticed his mood.

Harry stared at her, inching towards the edge, trying to muster up the courage to get the words out. In the end, he had to remind himself that it was Hermione he was speaking to. She wouldn't think any less of him for it. She would never judge him. His council was safe with her.

"I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

An uneasy quiet settled over them, so quiet that they could hear the bustle of leaves outside. Harry felt himself withdraw, suddenly feeling very small.

"It's not far from here," he added. "We can make a day of it."

He was just about to admit defeat when he felt Hermione's hand grasp his, lacing their fingers together. Just that simple act made him feel all the more secure.

"Harry," she said softly. "He knows how important it is to you. It's an ambush waiting to happen."

"I know," he nodded, agreeing with everything that she had said, "but I have to go. It's something I've always meant to do. Before I die…" He shook his head, the words not quite sinking in. "I need to see them. And I can't do it without you."

The thought had occurred to him of going there himself, either sneaking out one night or simply venturing there without Hermione to help him. Both scenarios filled him with anxiety that made him realise the truth. He didn't know what he would find there, but whatever it was, he couldn't imagine facing it without Hermione.

The young woman stroked his knuckle with her thumb. Her face furrowed in deep contemplation. He saw the cogs turning in her head, undoubtedly thinking through everything that could go wrong, of which there was plenty.

"I'm not saying we can't do it," she murmured, "but we'll need to prepare. And if it turns south, we leave immediately."

"Of course," Harry agreed before she changed her mind.

Her chair creaked as she leaned forward. Harry felt her hair brush against his cheek and she drew him into a tight hug.

"Thank you for telling me," she whispered, her lips moving against his ear. Harry grabbed hold of her, pulling her in tight, feeling her warmth seep into him even as a sense of dread emerged in his heart.

It was decided. They were going to Godric's Hollow.

Chapter Text

It took them a week of preparation before they decided they were ready for the journey. It was one of the longest and quickest weeks of Harry's life. Every day he woke up hoping for it to be the day, only for hours to drag on and no word from Hermione. Harry dared not question her judgement, however.

Despite the fact that their destination was not an hour away by car, even less by apparation, the distance was not their concern. It was a risk simply to be there. Godric's Hollow was not a safe place for them anymore, few places were. They had to be ready for the worst.

Eventually, on the seventh day, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, their feet landed on the cold cobblestone of an ancient village. Huddled close under the invisibility cloak, Harry and Hermione's eyes scanned up and down the roads ahead, across every window. The village had gone to sleep. Its streets sat empty and silent. It could have been confused for a ghost town.

A lone figure stood underneath a lamppost nearby, as Harry knew they would be. They looked down at their wristwatch and then back up at the street, watching and waiting. Harry made a loud scuff with his boot, twice. The figure looked up and their eyes fell upon the pair as if possessed with unnatural sight.

A moment later, the figure gave an audible cough and the pair knew it was safe to move. Their feet tread onwards but Hermione stayed close to his side. The cloak draped over the pavement as they walked along the dimly lit lane, the lampposts leading them to where they needed to go.

Along the way, Harry noticed a gap in the centuries-old houses, the tips of overgrown grass peeking through the gaps in a wooden fence. As they passed closer, he looked to his side and saw a derelict house with a gaping wound in its roof. He hardly recognised it, but he knew immediately who it once belonged to.

It took Hermione's arm reeling against his to realise he had stopped dead in his tracks.

The cottage was everything he imagined it to be. His mind peered back through the years, into his warm, glowing memories, and he could feel the sun on his face, the whispers of his mother's voice beckoning him inside.

This was where they had lived. This was where he was happy and loved, once upon a time. This would have been his home—this house and this street and this village.

A foolish part of him wanted to push open the wooden gate and venture on inside, as if, instead of the empty, forgotten husk of a home, he would find them there alive and well, sitting on the sofa beside a roaring fire with open arms.

But Harry knew where they really were. He knew he would find nothing inside except the bones of an old house, left to time. Being there, standing by their garden gate and staring at their front door, made every faded memory feel so much more real. As if he could reach out and touch it.

Without a word, Harry turned and began walking down the street. Hermione didn't ask what he had seen. She said nothing at all.

The church sat in the centre of the village, an alley or two down from the square. In its shadow lay a field of tombstones, rows and rows and yet you could see them all from its walls. For a moment, Harry wondered if there were more people in Godric's Hollow under the ground than in its houses, for how many there were and how long the village had stood. A town with more dead than living.

Harry and Hermione passed under the arch of the kissing gate, into the empty graveyard. Once they were sure they were alone, they removed their invisibility cloak and allowed the cool air to touch their skin. The figure stood by the low wall and Harry gave them a nod, which they returned. They had ten minutes. Best not to waste them.

The pair separated and started searching one gravestone at a time, all the while their guard kept constant vigilance. Harry's brain wanted to skip the oldest, but his conscience told him to slow down and read their names. It wouldn't do to walk amongst the dead and not offer at least some small remembrance.

The search led him briefly to the grave of a young man. His name was too faded to make out clearly but according to the dates he had been only 16 when he was killed in the Great War. Harry tried to imagine a boy his age – no, younger - in a uniform, scared out of his mind on a battlefield in France. He imagined the boy's parents, the horror and pain they must have felt to bury their son before his time.

It wasn't long ago when Harry would have thought 16 years to be a long time. Now, however, it was barely anything at all.

There was another name that jumped out at him, however. Ariana Dumbledore. Born 1885, died 1899. Only 14 years old. From what he knew of Dumbledore, it could have only been his sister and this fact alone unsettled him. Harry never thought of Dumbledore as having family, but here was the proof as clear as day.

A secret partner and now a sister; yet another secret that the old Headmaster had kept. Harry had long accepted that he would never know everything about his old mentor, but this gravestone only proved that he knew very little at all. Did Dumbledore tell anyone about his life? Were there secrets he kept even from Mr Dalton? Was there a single person in the world who knew the true Dumbledore, or did all anyone ever see were the carefully curated snapshots of a man they trusted to know better?

Harry's eyes continued down the long row of gravestones, scanning each and quickly moving on, briefly noting their time of death and imagining how different the world must have been in their time.

And then he saw them.

Their marker was pristine in comparison, a plain stone tablet with both their names and dates stamped beside each other. They had been buried together, Harry realised, because of course they had. He was glad for it in some small way, that they were together even in death. Sleeping side by side under the ground, for all eternity. Harry imagined himself sleeping beside them, feeling their embrace one more time in the dark. He would mind being buried here. It was a beautiful place.

Hermione's voice softly called to him but he was miles away. His body was standing by itself and Harry was somewhere inside, hiding, trying not to fall apart. Already his parents' names were becoming unreadable, clouded by tears that stung in the cold.

A soft pair of footsteps trudged through the leaves towards him. The numbing shock slowly faded and he felt the pain all the more viciously. He tried to breathe and tell Hermione he was alright but only sobs came out.

His parents were dead. He was alone. He would never see his mum and dad again. A part of him would forever be buried under the ground, unreachable.

Breaking from his side, Hermione crouched down and waved her wand at their grave. With a burst of magic, she conjured a bouquet of lilies. Harry watched their petals bloom into being and their stalks lean against the cold stone. Their muted colour stood boldly against the grey.

That was when Hermione leaned forward, her fingers lightly brushing their names and whispered, "Thank you."

Harry tried desperately not to cry at the gesture, and yet he did so anyway, not caring if she saw because she would know anyway. Hermione always knew what to do or what to say. As she stood to take her place by his side, Harry stared down at the lilies, his mind turning over the words he had been waiting to say for this very moment.

"I miss you, Mum. I miss you, Dad," he spoke. "I always will. Thank you."

Then he turned to look at Hermione and noticed that she too had tears in her eyes. Instinctually, he reached over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bringing her ever closer. He wished that they were around to see her themselves. What he wouldn't give to see their smiles when she introduced herself, seeing how similar she was to Lily and yet so unapologetically herself. They would have loved Hermione, he was sure of it.

"Mum, Dad, this is Hermione," he said. "She's..."

Harry looked at the woman beside him trying to think of the words how to define all that she meant to him. Hermione gazed back at him, her watery brown eyes shining in the evening light.

"She's the reason why I'm alive."

They stood and silently watched over the Potters' grave, wrapped together so closely that to a faraway observer, they might have been one. They stayed until the harsh wrapping of a cane on the pavement told them it was time to leave. Harry wiped his sodden cheeks and quickly draped the cloak over them both.

A moment later, they were gone. The figure made one last trip to the edge of town and too disappeared. Godric's Hollow enjoyed a silent night. None of its inhabitants were any wiser that their lost son had come to say goodbye.

The couple reappeared back in their warm tent, throwing off the cloak once their feet were safely on the floorboards. Harry stood silently in front of Hermione, neither speaking nor moving. After everything they had seen, neither knew what to say.

Then, without a moment's notice, Harry marched to his cot and began packing his bag.

"We need to get moving," he announced. He continued shoving unfolded clothes into the small rucksack as Hermione slowly walked up to him.

"Harry, stop."

"If we leave tomorrow, we can catch up on what we've missed. I've heard from Ron that we might have a lead on one of the Horcruxes-"

A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and turned him on the spot.

"Just. Stop."

Her eyes burrowed into him. Harry was pinned. The moment stretched longer and longer until the wave of action that had spurred him on was lost, replaced with a deep sorrow he had tried to ignore. Hermione raised a hand to his face and wiped away fresh tears from his cheeks. He hadn't realised he was still crying.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, I'm here."

"It's just…" he breathed in a shaky breath. "Why is it me? What did I do to deserve this? It's… it's not fair. And I know it's stupid of me to say so-"

"It's not," Hermione replied. "It's… it's the truth. Harry…" She hesitated, lost in thought for a moment, before continuing. "There's this beach in the south of France that my parents and I used to go to every year," she explained. "It's tucked away in a little cove, with soft sand and crystal clear water. It's gorgeous. Last time I went there I thought to myself, 'Harry would love it here' and I promised that one day I'd bring you along too. I still want to."

Harry allowed himself to picture the scene. The cold forest was beautiful, but it left him wanting for the warm Mediterranean sun and blue seas. The Dursleys had certainly been there before but Harry had never been allowed to join in. The closest he had come was swimming in the Black Lake.

He could only try to imagine feeling the water rush between his feet as they sank into the sodden sand, staring out onto the sea as it stretched onward to the horizon, looking back over his shoulder to see his parents waving back at him, smiling… So many missed opportunities in his life. So many memories that should have been his.

"It sounds beautiful," he whispered. "I wish I had the time to see it."

"That's the thing, you do!" Hermione said desperately. "We could go tomorrow. Right now, even."

"I can't. You know that."

"You're acting like you're already dead."

"I pretty much am," Harry shrugged.

"No, you're not!" she insisted. "You're right here, talking to me, Harry. You're alive. You don't need permission to live. You're not a soldier."

Harry scoffed, trying to keep his composure despite her words ripping into him.

"That's not fair. We're in a war, Hermione," he argued. "People are suffering. Riddle's constantly working against us-"

"Are those your words or his?"

Harry bit his tongue, staring at her intensely. His face twisted into a tired scowl.

"What's the alternative?" he snarked. "Run away, pretend like nothing's going on? Let the rest of the world deal with Riddle for once while I live it up on a lovely beach in France?"

"And you don't want that?" she replied dumbstruck.

"Of course I do, Hermione!" he bellowed, making Hermione gasp and step back. "How could I not? I want it more than anything!"

The shock on her face killed his anger immediately and a wave of shame erupted through him. He quickly turned away, afraid to let any more of his temper slip. Hermione didn't deserve this, he scolded himself, he was only trying to help.

A new surge of frustration bubbled in his throat. Until now he had done so well to pretend that he was getting better. He didn't want her time in this beautiful place to be tainted like this. Yet he couldn't deny the pain coursing through his body. His eyes stung, his heart standing heavy in his chest. His limbs felt like chains hanging from his body. It was as if years of fighting had suddenly caught up to him all at once.

"It's just easier to pretend," he gasped. "Pretend that I don't care. Pretend that I'm coping. Whatever gets me up in the morning… I had dreams of how my life would turn out; what it would be like when I grew up. I still do."

In his mind, the tent faded away and a small house took its place. A garden sitting outside the front door, one he could work on in the sun, try happily filling his time with nothing. He imagined their walks accompanied by a dog. he'd always wanted a dog. Not a small, nasty one like ripper, but a big one that always looked happy to see him.

It was so easy to picture it all, easier still to want it so desperately that his heart ached. He wanted calm that wasn't fleeting. He wanted something he knew would be there the next time he woke up. Stepping into Godric's Hollow, seeing his parents' house and their grave, had only shown him how none of it could be his. There was nothing to go back to, no one who would share it with him.

By his tears had long run out. It was a fight to keep his breathing steady and rhythmic between swallowing his dry sobs.

"I can't even think about it," he admitted. "What I'll have to do when I… When I die. What my last words might be. I look at you every day, trying to figure out how to say goodbye. And I can't. I'm not strong enough, Hermione. I'm not…"

A pair of small arms reached around him and hugged him from behind. Her hair bristled the back of his neck, her fingers playing with his jumper.

"You can't live like that, Harry," she whispered.

"To be fair," Harry offered feebly, "it wasn't a long-term solution. But it's all I've got."

Her hands gripped him, hanging on for dear life. Her face pressed into his back, so hard that she could surely hear his heart beating in the cavern of his chest. Every beat slowly ticking away until its final beat. Every second drawing the inevitable closer.

Until finally it all became too much for her to silently bear.

"I love you."

She had spoken so softly that Harry had thought he'd misheard her. His body grew rigid, his eyes wide. His heart leapt in his chest and his hair stood on end. The words hardly felt real, even as he felt her slip away, just enough to leave him space.

"I love you, Harry."

The boy slowly turned on the spot to stare at her. He blinked. This wasn't a dream. This was real. Hermione was standing in front of him, her heart laid bare, looking smaller and more vulnerable than perhaps she ever had.

"It hurts so much," she said, "looking at you, knowing that you don't realise how much you're loved. You're the best person I've ever met and you think no one cares, but I do. I need you, Harry, so much that I can barely breathe."

Harry felt like he was falling through himself - down, down, down - while his feet were still firmly planted on the floor. He scarcely moved. He forgot to breathe. And in the silence, Hermione took his trembling hands in hers.

"We don't have forever," she whispered into the space between them. Her whole body was shaking, her eyes shining and pleading. "We never would've had forever, but we do have time and I don't care if it's only a month, or a week, or a day. I don't want to be a stranger to you anymore, pretending like I don't love you half as much as I do. It's the worst pain in the world."

The few inches between them felt like a gaping chasm and the further Harry looked down into it, the more his legs threatened to wilt beneath him. A fear unlike any other he had suffered gripped his heart and made his throat into a vice. His body had turned to stone. And all the while he was forced to stare into the face of the person he trusted most, seeing that fear reflected back at him.

"Please believe me," she begged as the silence drew on. "You don't have to say it back…"

And then something clicked inside of him. The lilies on the gravestone. Those flowers still lay beside the final resting place of his parents, a splash of colour in the grey. That one simple gesture meant so much and yet he never had to ask for it.

Hermione. The girl who was always there for him. The bright spot in his many, many dark days. The reason why he was alive. The love of his life. And she didn't even know. He had done so much to hide it away from her, pretending that she wouldn't care, that it was better that way. But it wasn't. She was in pain and it was his fault. Even now, she thought she had made a mistake, that he couldn't possibly feel the same way as she did, nor as deeply as she wanted.

She was moving away, probably to give him his privacy, expecting him to wake up the next morning and act as if it never happened. The rest of his life was running away from him so very fast.

But Harry was faster.

His hands shot forward and grabbed hers, refusing to let her retreat from him nor let the moment run away from him.

"I love you."

At those three words, he saw Hermione come back to life. Her face bloomed with relief and shock in equal measure and the world became so much brighter. Harry offered a bashful smile.

"I've known for a while. You're right, we never would've had forever…" He swallowed a lump in his throat, thinking back to the ruined cottage. "My parents certainly didn't, but they got married, made a home, had me - they lived a whole life, with what little time they had because they could."

Harry fixed his emerald green eyes with Hermione's chocolate brown ones, holding her hands before him like a prayer.

"I want that too," he confessed. "A whole life, or however much of it I can get. With you."

By now, Hermione's tears ran unbidden, her lips stretched into a radiant smile that made him want to sing. Even though Harry could see it coming, the hug that she launched herself into nearly toppled him and had him laughing in her ear. His hand reached up and cradled her head against his, his other grasping her waist until she was pressed into his body.

"I love you with all of my heart, Hermione Granger," he said into her mane of dark brown hair. "And I'm yours, completely. Until the end."

The pair looked at each other with new eyes, Hermione beaming down at him, her hair raining down around his face like the branches of a willow, creating a pocket of the world with only him and her. And Harry cried, freely and happily, having opened up the last few frightened pieces of himself to his world.

The searing kiss that followed was different from the one at the wedding. That one was desperate and longing, echoes the empty parts of them crying out to be filled. This was slower, softer, more tender and filled with the glee of acceptance. It was the feeling of finally coming home to each other after so very long away.

They poured themselves out until love and relief shifted to need and frustration. Their clothes became obstacles and were swiftly thrown away. Their bodies became vessels of worship, unseen to everyone but them, as they reached deep into each other and themselves. Despite the Winter chill outside that had almost seized his bones, Harry had never warmth like in that moment, surrounded by the love of his life, finally allowed to open his soul and let it breathe and cry out in sheer happiness.

As their tryst finally wound down, leaving them both tired and flushed, Harry took a moment to gaze adoringly at his lover. He had never seen her hair so bushy, but it only made him cherish it even more. It was wild and untamed and entirely Hermione.

"What?" he asked as he noticed her beaming up at him, a faint blush ever-present on her cheeks.

"I dreamed of what this might feel like," she sighed.

"And?"

Hermione snuggled into his bare chest, closing her eyes and breathing him in.

"Better than I could ever imagine."

Harry smiled, cradling her body like it was the most precious thing on Earth.

"Well, I'm rarely one to disappoint."

They lay on Harry's bed, basking in each other, happily enjoying a moment of peace in the wake of what had transpired. Harry himself had never thought he would live to feel such a thing. He had often imagined how it would happen, how he would feel in the aftermath. From how he'd heard it described by his dorm mates, you could be mistaken for thinking of it as some religious ceremony. and in some ways they were right. There were parts of it that Harry could call almost divine. But in reality, it was more human than that. It was real, it was simple and it was beautiful in its own way. And he wouldn't want it with anyone other than Hermione.

Harry's bubble of smug satisfaction burst when he heard a soft sniffle. He looked down to see that Hermione's face had gleaming trails running down it, staring off into the middle distance, lost in deep thought.

"Oh, god," he whispered, brushing her tears away with his thumb. "I'm so sorry, did I hurt you-?"

"No," she gasped, "no, Harry, it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

Hermione ran a finger down the length of his arm, tracing a vein as it reached his palm, before lacing her fingers into his.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "I'm terrified, even. And I…" A new tear ran down her cheek before she rub it away. "I'm not ready. I'm never going to be ready. I don't want to let you go."

The cruel sting of reality punctured his moment of quiet calm and all Harry could do was bundle her up in tier blanket and bring her into his embrace. The thought of letting go now hurt him to his core, but this time he embraced the hurt. It was proof he was alive, that he could love someone so deeply that the feeling rang out in every inch of his being.

"Would you keep me here?" he asked, gently stroking her back in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "All to yourself?"

"The rest of our lives," she breathed. His heart ached to imagine it and yet he did and despite the sorrow that was undoubtedly raging within him, he smile.

"Until we're both old and grey and I'm deaf as well as blind?" he teased and he heard Hermione laugh quietly into his chest. His fingers reached around to her ribs where he began to tickle her. "And you've read every single book in the world and still haven't grown an inch?"

"Stop it!" she squeaked. "Let me go-! No! H-Harry!"

Her beautiful giggle met his ears as his digits tortured her sensitive sides. Hermione wriggled violently in his grip, trying to escape, but Harry refused to give her any purchase. She squealed and laughed and even screamed but only eventually did he relent. A hand slapped against his chest in retribution and Harry chuckled heartily at her indignation, but even Hermione couldn't contain her smile.

The cloud of gloom that had been hanging over them may still be there when they woke up the following day, but at least now they were together to weather that storm. They were all each other ever needed. Harry and Hermione against the world.

"Let's just stay here, Harry," she said wistfully. "Grow old."

Harry wrapped his arms tighter, treasuring every second that he could hold her and not worry about letting go. Silently, he thanked whatever force was out that had been controlling his life that he was finally able to love Hermione with all of his heart.

"I'd like that."

Hermione's cot sat neatly empty that night. It happily would remain that way every night afterwards.

Chapter Text

As was far too familiar nowadays, Diagon Alley was empty, devoid of life except for the presence of one man. Remus Lupin glanced at his wristwatch anxiously, a sense of dread looming higher than the buildings standing tall and dead around him.

The once-beating magical heart of London lay still and silent as if holding its breath. His cautious footsteps echoed through the carcass of what should have been a bustling street. Even the sun felt like it had been smothered by a ceiling of grey. Even as he carefully wandered down its spine, past window after window, he could not tell if the shops were open or if their owners had run away and hidden.

It had only taken eight months for Voldemort's puppet Ministry to turn a thriving, defiant hub of activity into an empty theatre. The rest of the country wasn't much better. Remus struggled to remember anything quite like this during the last war. Everywhere you went, people were afraid. Many had packed their belongings and ran. The Order was stretched thin to protect what few good people were left.

However, they couldn't find everyone. Every day, more and more people were disappearing, taken by Snatchers, dragged away for punishment. Muggleborns were arrested the most, often for no reason at all. Anyone who dared to aide their escape was punished just as severely. It didn't take much to catch the eye of the Ministry, but those who did were never seen again.

It was easy to think that resistance was doomed. The Death Eaters already had the power of the country behind them, with a small but vicious group to enforce it. There was, however, one spark of hope they could not snuff out, no matter how hard they tried.

Harry Potter.

To even say the name invoked a power Remus couldn't describe, perhaps more so than even Voldemort's name could conjure. Although the past few months had been dominated with news of growing darkness, Harry's name kept appearing again and again, each time accompanied with new whispers.

"I heard a whole group of Snatchers couldn't stop him."

"I heard he managed to save a family of four in Corby."

"I heard he has a Patronus thats kills Dementors."

The rumours that eventually found Remus were plenty and astounding. Even with the highest regard for the young man, he doubted that most of them were real, but if only a few were true, it painted a picture of a man fighting a single-handed war against a mighty enemy. And somehow, in his own way, he was winning.

If the people were kept in fear, the Death Eaters were petrified. There were rumours that they refused to show their faces in public, having already lost more than a few of their number to the Boy-Who-Lived. Every one of Voldemort's circle that hunted him were lost. Those who returned spoke of an enemy that refused to be beaten. Either Harry had truly become as powerful they say - enough that even wizards twice his age feared to fight him - or he had simply learned to use his enemy's own tactics against them.

Harry Potter was turning Voldemort's brand of fear back on his own supporters and the people knew it. The fact that the Dark Lord had not been seen in public for some time only seemed to confirm that he wouldn't dare face the boy, a thought that only festered and seeped into the people that followed him. Merely a mention of Potter's name was enough to turn a Snatcher's head nowadays. People spoke it to their faces, loud and defiant, daring them to take that liberty from them.

Harry's story had become a lighthouse in a sea of despondent voices, but even Remus knew it was only a story. Harry was not a god, nor was he a dark-wizard killing machine or some mythical figure who could turn the tide of war all on his own. No, Harry Potter was not and had never been alone.

"Remus."

The voice came from a lamppost. Or rather, the person standing beside it, invisible to every living soul. Remus adjusted his cloak, making to look as if he was checking each of his fastened buttons.

"Dreadful weather," he spoke expectantly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"For dreadful times," the voice spoke rest of the code-phrase back.

"Hermione," he greeted warmly. He wished he could see his former student and remark at the amazing young woman she had become. For all the feats that Harry had become infamous for, Remus never failed to imagine Hermione Granger standing beside him, with every bit of news he gathered corroborating that image. She and Harry both had become a force to be reckoned with. It was like looking at James and Lily all over again…

There was no time for reminiscing, however. There was barely any time at all. Glancing around, Remus chose a dark alleyway nearby and walked towards it. "It's good to hear you're alright."

"You too. You look well."

Remus smile meekly. It had only been a few days since the last full moon. His muscles ached. His skin felt tight and worn.

"I know I don't but thank you for protecting my ego."

"No, you do," Hermione's soft voice insisted. "I promise. Better than you feel, I'm sure."

"Well, it certainly helps to have a warm place to stay while it happens. Andromeda has been… very kind to us."

The pair settled against the back wall of a stationary shop. Remus produced a fake a pipe to and ignited it. He felt Hermione settle in beside him and whisper to him.

"I'm sorry about Ted."

Remus sighed. His face darkened. His shoulders sagged as the trials of the last few months caught up to him.

"Have you found him yet?"

"We're trying, but there's only so much we can do, especially if he's been…" "No, I get it. Thank you for trying."

The pair settled into a solemn silence.

"How's Tonks?"

"Tired and sore," Remus smiled fondly. "I think she's eager to be done with it."

"She's due very soon," Hermione asked eagerly, "isn't she?"

"Here's hoping." He gave a tired sigh. "Truthfully, I think we're both terrified."

"Don't worry, you'll be fine." A clothed hand pressed against his arm. "So long as you keep your promise."

A memory of a night many months before entered his mind. The night he found out they were expecting, in a moment of weakness, he ran out of the two most important people in his life. It had taken a visit from Hermione and Harry, fresh from the Forest of Dean, to send him crawling back to beg forgiveness. That very night, he promised to be a better man for them both and truly meant it, a promise he had upheld to this day.

"I will," Remus said solemnly. "I have no intention of leaving her now, not with the state of things as they are."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Remus imagined her gazing around at the desolate street.

"I've never seen this place so quiet."

"There's barely anyone left. They've either run or have been snatched."

"It's awful. It's like the whole country has gone to sleep." "I doubt anyone can sleep nowadays." He noted the fading ember in his pipe. "We can't stay here long. I have news."

"I've heard."

"There's been a leak," he explained, "somewhere within Riddle's ranks. Apparently they have a critical asset hidden in Malfoy Manor, one that could turn the tide of the war."

He heard a short, restrained gasp.

"What kind of asset?" "They didn't say." He turned to where he hoped Hermione was standing. "But they say it won't be there for long and that we need to act fast if we're going to claim it. I'm guessing that means something to you two, though."

"It does," she replied in a grave voice that only made Remus more nervous. He dare not imagine what could possibly be hidden in Malfoy Manor, but what it was, it was nothing good.

By now, the pipe had long since burnt out, its smoke wafting and fading into the air.

"We have to go," he said. "We've lingered long enough."

An invisible arm awkwardly reach around his shoulder. Remus leaned into the hug as much as he thought would be admissible to an onlooker.

"Stay safe, Remus. Send Tonks our love."

"I will. Tell Harry…" He paused, mulling over the little time he had and the many thoughts running through his head. "Tell him I'm proud of him."

Without another word, Remus turned and left, with only a quiet pop, masked by his heavy footsteps, to mark Hermione's goodbye.

Not a moment later, Hermione reappeared at the edge of Mr Dalton's property and quickly made her way through the winding trails into the heart of the woods. Eventually, once she was certain she wasn't being followed, she removed the invisibility cloak and raised her hands. She stepped into the midst of a clearing and waited.

Almost immediately, she felt a the tip of a wand press into the back of her neck.

"Why is a bezoar found in the stomach of a goat?" Angela's voice demanded.

"Because a chicken's stomach would be too small."

Immediately, Angela lowered her wand. She wrapped Hermione in a hug, to which the girl reciprocated.

"We were so worried," the younger girl said.

"I've only been gone a few hours," Hermione scoffed.

"So? It's dangerous out there!" Angela finally released her from the hug, her eyes scanning the trees to spot anything she might have missed while they were distracted. "Did you get anything useful in the end?" "I think I have," Hermione nodded. "Where's Harry?"

"Main tent. I'd be careful. He's not in a good mood."

"Why?"

Angela shuffled awkwardly on the spot, her foot scraping against Hermione's nerves.

"Luna Lovegood's been snatched."

Hermione's heart plummeted into her boots. She forced herself to breathe and in an instant, a wave of dread, sadness and regret crashed through her.

"Oh, God…"

"I'm sorry," Angela reached out to rub her shoulder. "You were friends, right?"

"I think so." The brunette cringed as a stab of guilt pierced her. "I wasn't very good to her at all. God, I hope she's alright."

"Harry was beside himself," Angela wrapped her jacker around herself. "Go to him."

The words propelled Hermione through the trees, past the may tents strewn around the main site, towards the large tent at the entrance of the gateway. She barely stopped to say 'Hello', only giving Ron a passing nod as he pointed inside. She peeled back the thin canvas blocking the entrance to find Harry leaning against a table, his back to the entrance. The tension in his body was palpable from where she stood, watching him as he stared a large board covered in notes and photographs. One picture showed the mangled remains of Ravenclaw's diadem, another showed Tom Riddle's diary with a gaping hole in its cover, along with the Gaunt ring cut in two and the shards of Slytherin's locket in a pile.

A desk sat before him, covered in equipment they had found since the war began. Most prominently was a case of daggers, bullets and darts besides a jar of bright golden Basilisk venom taken straight from the the corpse in Chamber of Secrets, along with a pair of Hagrid's thickest dragon-skin gloves to handle them with. Across the various shelves sat documents of acquisitions from Borgin and Burkes, numerous case files detailing the prolific career of Tom Riddle, and a series of multicoloured devices provided by the Weasley Twins.

She noticed his hands had stopped drumming on the tabletop, his head turned towards her. The moment he realised he was alone, he marched towards her and wrapped her in a a hug. Hermione wound her arms around him, pressing her lips into his chest. The muscles in his back felt like granite, undoubtedly twisted into knots from stress. The calloused tips of his fingers brushed against her through the fabric of her jumper.

"Have you heard?" he whispered. She nodded.

"Yes."

"They took her not too long ago. I thought she was at Hogwarts." Harry took in a deep breath. "Her father called the Snatchers on us when he tried to find her. We only just managed to escape."

"He's helping the Death Eaters?"

"Not willingly. He only wants Luna back. I can't blame him. He even bought us some time to escape…" He shook his head. "He's probably on his was to Azkaban for it."

She leaned back to examine his face and admired the stubble that shadowed his features. "Are you okay?"

"Not remotely." His thumb reached up to her cheek and wiped away a tear she didn't realise was there. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

Now, in the relative privacy of their tent, wrapped in her lover's arms, Hermione allowed her dam to break.

"I was so awful to her," she lamented. "I barely spoke to her and now she's…"

"She loved you, though," he told her. "She loved all of us."

He reached behind him and presented a photograph. It took a moment for Hermione to recognise what it was, but the moment she did, her eyes became misty.

"What's this?" she gasped.

"We found it on Luna's bedroom ceiling when we went to investigate."

It was a vast mosaic of portraits, the smiling faces of Luna's dearest friends. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville… and her. Despite Hermione dismissing her constantly, almost ridiculing the girl for her outlandish theories, Luna still considered her one of her best friends.

Hermione hastily wiped her eyes and sniffled. This wasn't the time for sadness, not when she could feel a righteous fury growing in her chest, spurring her into action.

"Why did they take her?" she growled. "Of all people, why her?"

"They wanted control of the Quibbler," Harry explained softly. "They're using her to keep her father in line." "Which means she's most likely alive." "Exactly." He pressed a kiss into her forehead. "We will find her, Hermione. I promise you, we will."

The pair embraced each other, each silently turning over the news. The guilt of not being there to protect their friend, the longing to rush out there and find her and most of all, the anger, the fury that they had dared kidnap someone so dear to them. Just below all of those, at the centre, in their most selfish recesses, lay a pounding relief, the knowledge that at least it wasn't one of them. It was perhaps the few solaces that she could cling to, that they would fight until those they had lost could be brought home and that Harry was right here with her, safe and alive.

On some days, it was only those thin silver linings got her out of bed in the morning. However, after months of false trails and dead ends they had a lead.

"How do we know we can trust this?" Harry murmured once Hermione was finished explaining everything that Remus had told her. "What if it's a trap?" "Surprisingly, Harry, I had thought of that."

"You know what I mean." He fiddled with the edge of the table, tearing off a stray splinter. "If Riddle were trying to draw us out, this would be how to do it."

It did seem too good to be true. Months of furious searching only for suddenly the perfect clue to fall into their laps? That wasn't how it worked for them. They rarely got this lucky. But Hermione trusted Remus to know the difference between simple rumours and a genuine leak. "What did Professor Snape say?" she asked. Harry's face soured at the mere mention of the man but he dutifully replied. "As far as he knows, there's nothing of real consequence at Malfoy Manor."

"But?"

"But he knows the leak didn't come from Riddle and they've been upping protection at the Manor for some time."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Then it is legitimate."

Despite her excitement, Harry remained muted. He shook his head, crossing his arms across his wide chest, a gesture that showed off the few benefits of their rigorous lifestyle.

"All we know is that someone sent a message claiming they have something hidden," he reasoned. "That's barely anything."

"No, it's more than that," Hermione pleaded. "We know Malfoy Manor is probably Riddle's main base of operations. It's where all of his most trusted Death Eaters gather. If a Horcrux is likely to be anywhere, it's in that house."

"I believe you would call that conjecture, Miss Granger," Harry smirked. "No, I call it a proposition," she replied, crossing her arms in an identical manner.

"You're proposing that Riddle would trust any of his Death Eaters with a Horcrux."

"He trusted Lucius Malfoy with one."

"And look what happened. As much as I hate Riddle, I refuse to think he's stupid enough to the same mistake twice."

"Well, at least it's something." A sense of weary fell over her. "Harry, our leads have dried up. Finding the Diadem was one thing, but what about the rest?"

"There's still one more in the wind," he mumbled, refusing to look her in the eye.

"And finding it could take too long."

Harry stood from the table and began pacing the length of the tent with heavy footsteps.

"You do realise if there is a Horcrux there," he argued, "if we do manage to steal it, it won't take long for Riddle to realise it's gone."

"What if we replace it?"

"We don't even know what it is. Besides, he'll know if it's a fake immediately. I'm not saying it's impossible, but if we do this…" He stopped and glanced at her, his emerald eyes shimmering with anxiety. "It can't be undone."

"Since when did you become the cautious one?" she scoffed lightly, trying to mask her own reluctance. "Even so, we can't keep tiptoeing around them forever. Eventually we'll have to make a direct attack. Riddle's going to find out eventually. I'd rather it be of our initiative than his."

The possible consequences of their actions had hardly passed her by. She had been churning them inside her head from the moment Remus mentioned Malfoy Manor, but it had to be done.

Harry was silent for a while and Hermione could see the moment he reached the same conclusions she had. There were only so many moves they had left to make. The endgame was rapidly approaching. They had done all they could while staying in the shadows. Now it was time to play their hand, as terrifying a notion as that was.

"I suppose I can't convince you to stay?" she heard Harry offer. She smiled fondly.

"We're in this together, remember?" She placed her hands on his shoulders and locked eyes with him. "We do this as a team or not at all."

For a moment, he looked as if he was about to argue before he shook his head, dispelling the notion from his mind.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I just…"

"I know," she whispered. "Believe me, I want to keep you safe, too."

"Hermione," he grinned, "statistically speaking, I'm never safer than when I'm with you."

There was the boyish smile that made her feel like a first year again. How would that little girl feel knowing that small, messy-haired, bespectacled boy she had met on the train would be the one she would follow to the ends of the Earth? She should have known the moment he tried to wrestle a troll for her that it would end this way. Harry and Hermione and the rest of the world.

"If we're doing this," she said, "we need to agree on something."

Sensing the grave turn in her voice, Harry sat up and gave her an earnest nod.

"If it all goes wrong…" she paused, imagining the very real possibility of complete disaster. They were about to venture straight into the lion's den with no one to save them should they fail. The words felt heavy in her mouth. She could feel his expectant gaze on her. "If you have to run, then run. Even if it means leaving me behind."

"I can't-" Harry began but Hermione quickly placed her hand over his mouth. She knew everything he would say and maybe, if she let him, he could convince her otherwise. But this wasn't just about them. Hermione wouldn't allow them to believe it.

"You must. Because if you don't, if they capture you, we lose. You know that. I won't let that happened if I can prevent it. If that means I have to make that sacrifice then so be it."

Gently, Harry removed her hand and held it tight.

"In that case," he murmured, "I want you by my side at all times. No wandering off, no heroics."

"I won't," she reassured him. "But that goes doubly for you."

"Probably," he admitted. "And if you feel like something's wrong, for any reason, you tell me and we'll abort."

"Harry, I-" she tried to protest but now it was his turn to overrule her.

"No. I'd rather lose whatever's Riddle's hiding than lose you."

He held her like she would be pulled away from him at any moment, leaning in so close that his voice was barely a whisper. There was a hint of shame in his voice, as if he were a little boy who knew he was asking for too much and pleaded anyway. Hermione couldn't blame him for it, nor could she say she wouldn't make the same choice.

"What if that's too high a price?" she murmured, not allowing herself to think that her own life was worth more the many others that depended on them.

That was when she noticed a glint of defiance in his eye, the one that could topple empires, and felt his hands clasp around her own. "We'll find another way," he promised. "We always do."

Hermione shook her head, trying to keep her feet on the ground despite the sheer determination in his voice threatening to lift her up to the ceiling. It was hard to maintain a dour outlook when faced with his sheer stubborn will.

"Look at us," she sighed fondly, taking his thin face in her hands. "We're hopeless."

Harry smiled and blessed the palm of her hand with the gentlest of kisses. Try all she might to remain the sane one between them Hermione knew it was a losing battle.

"Completely mental," he smiled.

"So, are we doing this, then?" a voice interrupted from the tent flap. The pair turned, their intimate moment slightly spoiled, and Ron's freckled face poked inside. "Have you been listening in on us?" Hermione asked with a stern scowl.

"Mostly," Ron shrugged, "I drifted off when you were rehearsing your vows, but I got the gist."

Despite the many months of conflict, Ron had changed very little, except for the now sandy-brown dyed locks on his head. The poor lad had tried to argue to keep his ginger hair but Angela's logic of disguise trumping dignity had won out in the end. Still, even with his fiery mane tamed to a more mundane shade, Ron remained his ever-unflappable self. It was a welcome reprieve from the near-constant misery, even if it sometimes served as a nuisance in private moments like this.

"It was really sweet, though." The flap parted a second time and Angela shuffled in beside him. At least she had the courtesy to look contrite. "Oh, by the way, we're absolutely coming too so don't even bother trying to convince us not to because it won't work and you'll be wasting your breath." She smiled brightly. "Just so we're on the same page."

"Oh sure, invite yourselves along, why don't you?" Harry said. "In fact, let's just bring everyone. Why not?"

"Listen, mate," Ron replied in a voice dripping with just as much sarcasm, "not sure if you're aware but manors are typically quite big and the more of us there are, the quicker we can search through it."

"And the greater the chance we'll be found," Hermione pointed out, "and if we're going to break into a Manor house teeming with some of the most dangerous individuals in the country, we really don't want to be found."

Despite the apparent risk she was trying to communicate, Ron merely scoffed.

"Eh, so we'll be in mortal peril. What's new? Then again, we still don't know how we'll get inside. Maybe if I let myself get captured, I can smuggle you guys in with me. I'm a pretty big deal, hopefully they won't send me to the Ministry instead-"

"I have an idea," Hermione offered, her eyes leading back to Harry, "but you're not going to like it."

Harry stared at her in confusion before he realised exactly what she was talking about.

"No," he replied firmly. "Out of the question."

"Harry-"

"I won't do it."

"He already knows the house inside and out-"

"What are you talking-" Ron tried to ask but Angela gently elbowed him in the ribs. The boy wisely fell silent as the pair of lovers stared unwavering at each other.

"He's not going back there," Harry said with a voice like granite. A dark shadow of guilt crept over him. "I won't make him-"

"I'm not asking you to," Hermione insisted. "We'll obviously give him a choice."

"Do you really think he would say 'no' to me?"

"Fine, I'll ask him."

"Hermione-" "I wouldn't do this if I knew a safer way in." She carefully wrapped his hands in hers, carefully coaxing him out of his head. "It won't turn out like last time, I promise. Please, let me try."

Slowly, she could see his reluctance melt away, revealing a layer of shame beneath. Shame and a daunting realisation that, of course, she was right. He took a deep breath, flushing the last of his defiance from him.

"Dobby."

A small pop erupted beside them. Harry cringed from the loyal elf's excited face.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir?" He squeaked from beneath several layers of hats and scarves before turning the young woman beside with equal reverence. "And his Mione, miss?"

"How are you today, Dobby?" Harry asked, giving the elf a kind but melancholy smile.

"Oh, Harry Potter is too kind. I is well, sir."

"That's good. I, er-" Harry trailed off. It was too much to look into his friend's face, knowing what he was about to ask of him, the cruelty of the request only balanced the desperation of their plight. The words would not come. All Harry could think of was another elf he was supposed to look after, who died because of his own callousness and pride. And now fate was asking him to do it again to one of his dearest friends.

Luckily, as always, Hermione was there to do what he hadn't the strength to do, what needed to be done.

"Dobby, would you like to help us?"

The small elf stared at her with glistening eyes, as if she had offered him all the treasure in the world.

"Miss Mione is asking Dobby for help?" he gasped.

"Yes, I am," she replied. There was a pause as she too grappled with what she was about to say and the sudden flare of guilt that attacked her resolve. "We need to get into Malfoy Manor. And I'm sorry but you're the only one that can take us there."

Dobby suddenly went very still. His globe-like eyes grew ever wider, his shoulders hunched and he gripped his mitten-gloved hands to his chest.

"You is wanting Dobby t-to go back?" he whispered. "To his old family?"

"No." Harry's voice seemed to echo throughout the tent despite his voice barely rising above a breath. He leaned down onto his knees and looked the shaking elf face-to-face. "You are never going back to them. Just get us in and out of the house. Nothing more."

By this point, Hermione had followed Harry to floor and began rubbing Dobby's arm in soothing strokes.

"You don't have to, Dobby," she said. "We'll understand."

After a moment of silence in which the elf stared at his two friends, he asked with a hint of mischief, "You is getting… revenge on Dobby's old family?"

Hermione couldn't help but smirk conspiratorially.

"Better," she said leaning in, "We're going to stop the Dark Lord AND get revenge on your old family."

Dobby's ears perked up at that and his mouth twirled into a naughty grin.

"Ooh, Dobby likes that idea."

"If this works," Hermione promised, "We'll get you all the socks you could ever want. And none of them will match."

Harry had to suppress his laughter as Dobby made a face that was as close to smitten as a House-Elf could get. Meanwhile Ron could only glance at Angela, a befuddled concern etched across his freckled face.

"Mental," he murmured. "All three of them."

Chapter Text

They appeared inside the hallway of Malfoy Manor's east wing at precisely half-past eleven in the evening. The house was almost completely silent, except for the distant footsteps and murmurs of the most dangerous people in the country. They couldn't be more than a couple of rooms over, but so long as they made no noise, they would be safe under the invisibility cloak for now.

The group glanced around and sank carefully into the corner of the empty room. Harry noted, as he studied his surroundings, that Malfoy's childhood home looked almost exactly as he had imagined it. The dark oak in its walls was blacker than the night sky. The green trimmings of the carpet and the curtains eerily reminded Harry of the Slytherin Common Room. It was certainly cleaner than he had ever known Grimmauld Place to be, spotless in a way that made the varnish gleam in the moonlight, but it somehow looked more dead than that decrepit old home. The pillars of pale stone that reached up to the ceiling looked more like bones than architecture. There was a corrosive aura to the house that made Harry feel like it hated to be lived in.

He quickly held his watch up to the moonlight, reading the time. The others silently checked theirs, four watches arranged in a circle, all ticking silently together. All at once, the group marked the time left and began to move.

Ron and Angela quickly donned their newest gifts from Fred and George (headless hats that vanished the entire body for a short time) and creeped down the hallway on the tips of their silenced trainers - or 'Sneakers' as the twins called them. They would reach their destination before long, the deepest and most secretive part of the Manor: the dungeons. Harry and Hermione, also wearing 'Sneakers', remained huddled together under the cloak. They raised their copy of the house plan, or the most accurate version Dobby could provide from his many years of being forced to clean every inch, and set off for the drawing room.

The pair ventured through mouth-like hallways packed with antiquities, until they eventually found a set of tall double doors. Just as they were about to reach out and pull on the door knob, the door creaked open. Harry and Hermione jumped out of the way just as Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange ambled through. They looked visibly aged from the last time Harry had come face to face with them, Lucius especially looked worn thin.

"The number of times I've told that boy-!" His unnaturally pallid face was boiling with anger.

"Aww, is widdle Dwaco not kicking his pet enough?" Bellatrix cackled behind him. "What would the Dark Lord think?"

They passed behind a corner before Harry could hear the rest of their conversation.

As quietly as they could, they eased the door off the latch and allowed it to swing open. They scanned the room and moved inside once they saw it empty, locking the doors on their way in. They began their search, not sparing a single moment, should a member of Riddle's inner circle come knocking. Once they had sifted through each of the drawers, chests and cabinets and found nothing, they made quick work of the carpets.

The furniture was gently levitated to the corners and the carpets rolled to the side. Under the large green carpet sitting in the middle of the room was a small trapdoor, the entrance to the Malfoys' secret safe room. If there was a Horcrux hidden away anywhere in the house, it would be here. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, before Harry opened the trapdoor and slipped inside.

The room was gaping and musty, more like a hole than a room but then again it wasn't meant to be seen, let alone lived in. The air was dense with dusty and dark magic, so much so it was difficult to breathe. The shadows felt heavy and smothering. A quiet 'lumos' allowed Harry a pinprick of light to combat the darkness.

He cautiously examined each of the items in the room, making sure not to touch any of them. There was no telling what kind of magic he was surrounded by, considering that the Malfoys were regulars at Borgin and Burkes.

However, despite the clear and present evil all around him, his scar barely even itched. No matter how hard he searched, he felt nothing except a dawning anxiety. Once he was regrettably sure he had searched the entire horde, Harry ventured back up to the living room, where Hermione was guarding the trapdoor. The moment she saw him, her eyes lit up with anticipation. Harry shook his head.

"It's not here."

Her face dropped.

"Are you sure?" she asked, trying to peer around.

"I'd know."

They silently restored the room to its original condition. Defeat hung heavy on their shoulders.

"There's nothing here?" she whispered. "It's all for nothing?"

"No…" Harry's eyes trailed around the room. "There has to be something."

At that moment, he felt something heat up in his pocket. He reached a hand in and grasped one of the enchanted coins Hermione had created for them. His eyes shot towards Hermione as the coin buzzed in his hand. A cry for help.

"That's Ron and Angela."

Without a moment's hesitation, they draped the cloak over themselves. With hurried steps, they unlocked the door and slipped out in the hallways. They followed the map to the dungeons, stopping every so often when they heard nearby voices. Harry tried not to think about what kind of danger his friends were in, merely placing one step in front of the other, while keeping Hermione pulled into his side. Now was not the time to get lost, let alone get caught.

As they neared the dungeons, the voices and creaks of footsteps faded and the air grew stale.

Eventually, they ventured down a series of stone steps until they reached a wrought iron door. The lock had been melted away and just inside stood Ron and Angela.

The pair jumped as Harry and Hermione appeared from out of thin air.

"Merlin-!" Ron gasped. Hermione ignored him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, checking them over, her wand drawn.

"Don't worry, we're fine," Angela reassured her before she stepped aside. "But you need to see this."

Inside the dark, dingy dungeon was a group of faces, all of whom Harry recognised. Among them was Ollivander, the old wand maker who had gone missing many months ago. The last time he had seen Ollivander's face were in the few glimpses he'd caught into Riddle's mind. For some reason, Riddle was looking for something, something that only Grindelwald knew about. From that little information he could garner, it wasn't hard for Harry to figure out what Riddle was so desperate to find. So long as Riddle was distracted with fairy tales, it bought them plenty of time.

However, Ollivander wasn't the only person that caught Harry's attention. Dean Thomas was also amongst the prisoners, looking much thinner than Harry had ever seen him before, but with a smile just as bright as he remembered. Standing just behind him were two others. One was a goblin Harry vaguely recognised from his first year, Griphook, and beside him, swaddled in a bright blue jumper, was the pale visage they had hoped against hope to find.

"Luna!" Hermione immediately charged forward and hugged the poor girl. "My God, are you okay?"

"Hello, Hermione," Luna replied faintly. "It's lovely to see you again. Have you been captured too?"

"No, Luna. We're going to get you out of here."

"Oh," she murmured. "That's much better. Is… is my father okay?"

Harry looked at the young girl, feeling a swell of anger at the thought of her father now residing in Azkaban.

"He's…" he debated whether or not to tell her, but the sight of Luna's gleaming eyes, bursting with relief, stayed his tongue. "He misses you." He turned to look at each of the faces around him. "It's alright now. We're gonna get you all out of here."

"It's great to see you, Harry," Dean said, slamming his hand against his shoulder in sheer relief.

"It's good to see you too, Dean. How did you end up in a place like this?"

"I ran as soon as the Ministry fell," he explained. "I found Griphook soon after. It was me and him for a long time, as well as Ted Tonks-"

"Ted!" Hermione interrupted, her eyes wide. "He was with you? How is he?"

"He…" Dean frowned, his brow furrowed. "He didn't make it."

The faces of Andromeda and Tonks appeared in Harry's mind. They had held out hope for so long and this was their reward. Just another person he had failed to save.

"At least you survived," Harry reassured him, "focus on that."

Dean nodded, not entirely convinced.

"How the hell did you guys get here?" he asked.

"Well," Harry smiled. "It wasn't just us. Dobby!"

The air cracked and the small House Elf materialised in an instant.

"Harry Potter called- Oh," Dobby stopped as he noticed the small crowd that was now staring at him in surprise. "Hello!"

"It looks like it'll be more than just us who need a lift home," Harry told him. "Can you get this many people in and out without anyone noticing?"

At this, Dobby stood a little taller and puffed out his chest until it nearly touched his nose.

"Dobby won't disappoint Harry Potter, sir!"

"Where are you taking us?" Griphook finally spoke.

"A safe place," Hermione replied. "We have a floo that's off the books. It'll take you over the channel."

"Wait," Ollivander piped up, grabbing Harry's arm. "There's someone else, a girl. She's been here almost as long as I have."

"A girl?"

As Harry spoke, an alarmed Angela suddenly appeared and took the old man's shaking hand.

"Who was it? What was her name? What did she look like?"

"I- I don't know. She wasn't with me for very long and I didn't get a good look at her. They…" Ollivander's wrinkled face paled, "They hurt her very badly, but the last I heard she was still here, in the house. I don't know if she's alive but…. but please, you must rescue her if you can. I dread to think what they've done to her since."

Harry glanced at Hermione, who silently asked the same question: why would they separate the prisoners? Unless… This was who the leak was talking about. Perhaps this prisoner was the one who would turn the tide of the war.

"Dobby," Harry asked, "are there any other cells in the house?"

"None," the House Elf replied, "but if I is remembering correctly, they might haves her in the servants quarters."

"They'll be on the East side of the house," Hermione noted.

"How do you know that?" Harry asked.

"The servants would have to rise the earliest. They'll have windows facing the morning sun."

At this, Dobby nodded and Harry was once again astounded that his lover was as assuredly clever as she was.

"Okay, Hermione and I will check the servants quarters," he announced. "If she's there, we'll get her out. In the meantime, Dobby, take the rest of them back to camp. Come back for us last."

"Woah, wait, what about us?" Angela interjected. "Why can't we come too?"

"Because we need you here to protect them in case things go south."

"Harry-" Ron tried to protest.

"We're wasting time as it is," Hermione stopped him in his tracks. "Can we count on you?"

"Course you can," Ron replied. Angela, however, was still eager to argue.

"I want to come! What if-" She choked. "What if it's her?"

Harry stared at the smaller girl, suddenly recognising the rabid look in her eye. In fact, he understood it all too well. If there had been the slightest chance it was his own family stuck in this house, he would have torn the place down brick by brick to get them back. Before he could reply, Hermione deftly reached out and hugged her.

"Then we'll bring her home," she whispered to the younger girl. She pulled away and locked eyes with the other girl, a silent solidarity passed between. "But right now I need you to be strong. Make sure these people get out safely. We'll do the rest."

The longing in Angela's face hardly dimmed but matched with a determination that made her stand just a little taller. The child stepped aside and a young woman stood in her place.

"Okay," she said, glancing at them both. She nodded tentatively. "Okay. We'll see you at home."

Harry gave her his best reassuring smile, turned to Hermione and grasped the cloak. "You ready?"

The brunette pressed herself against him, her wand pointing East.

"Always."

With a flourish, they disappeared and soon the hushed sounds of the dungeon were far behind them.

The servants quarters were but a few twists and turns from the dungeons, but far enough where there was hardly any shared space between them. The Malfoys liked to keep their servants as much out of sight as their prisoners. They came across a hallway lined with doors, the wood and stone surrounding them pale and dry. On one of the doors, a small viewing grill and a cat flap had been fitted. It reminded Harry eerily of the summer before his second year at the Dursleys, of a bedroom turned into a makeshift prison, and he knew immediately they had found the right place.

Hermione waved her wand across the door, revealing a multitude of complicated charms attached to the lock. Whoever was behind this door, the Malfoys had made damn sure to keep them there.

"Can you get us in?" Harry whispered.

"There are rune carvings on the doorframe," she surmised. "All tied to a key. Without that we-"

She went silent as the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Harry grabbed Hermione and pulled them to the side as a head of blonde hair rounded the corner. They disappeared into the shadows of an alcove, just as Draco Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew arrived at the door. Harry had to slide his hand into Hermione's to stop himself from cursing the rat there and then.

Pettigrew handed Draco a large, brass key, which the young Malfoy inserted into the lock and twisted. The door clicked and thunked as lock after invisible lock disengaged and the door swung open. Sensing their opportunity, Harry carefully manoeuvred them past Draco into the cell just as the blonde stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dull, with bare walls and dusty floorboards. It had one window, blocked by iron bars. Sitting on a cot in the corner, wrapped into a tattered blanket, was a young woman barely a few years older than themselves. Her face was hard and tired, dark rings circled her eyes. She was painfully thin, likely from having been starved. Tips of dirty dyed red hair face in front of her hair, the strands turning to a light brown as they travelled to her scalp. There was something about her that Harry found almost familiar and not just because he knew exactly what it felt like to be starved, imprisoned and forgotten.

"Close the door," Draco drawled. "I want at least twenty minutes with the mudblood this time."

Pettigrew nodded and obeyed. The sounds of clicks and thunks echoed in the dank room as the door was relocked from the other side. All sound from beyond the door fell away, undoubtedly from a silencing charm. There was no way out. Harry and Hermione were now trapped with Draco and his prisoner.

The moment the door was locked, Draco reached into his jacket pocket. Harry was about to draw his wand, expecting the worst, when he saw that it wasn't a wand in Draco's hand. It was an apple.

"Eat," he urged her, reaching out with genuine concern. The woman frantically grabbed the apple and devoured it with little care for etiquette. "Try to make it last."

Even with the need for silence, Harry wasn't sure he could speak if he wanted to. What the hell was going on?

Despite Draco's plea, the girl hardly relented from her meagre meal.

"Is the Cruciatus medicine working?"

She gave him an exhausted glare to which Draco quickly shut up.

The two sat in silence until the apple was almost completely gone. Draco vanished the wafer-thin core as the woman merely examined him from her corner.

"What's wrong?" she finally spoke, her voice hoarse and deep from lack of use.

Draco glared at the floorboard. His shoulders drooped.

"They want me to kill you."

The young woman blinked as if the news were hardly surprising.

"They've wanted you to kill me for six months."

"This time it's serious. I've run out of excuses and they know it." Draco palmed his wand. "Unless you give me information now, you'll be dead before midnight."

"Well, that's a shame, because I'm not giving you shit."

"It won't be quick."

"Then kill me now."

The two locked eyes. Draco swallowed, a bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

"I- Well, I-"

"Yeah," the woman sighed. "I thought so."

"We just need a little more time, days at most."

"Why?" the young woman laughed. "What difference is it gonna make? No one's coming for me, Draco."

"They will."

"They don't even know I'm here."

"They know something's here."

The young woman glared at Draco, her head tilted to the side to expose a vicious red line around her neck.

"What did you do?"

Draco sheepishly fidgeted in on the spot. He removed his jacket, placing it on the back of the rickety wooden chair beside the bed, and landed in its seat.

"I told them we have something that could win them the war."

The thoughts in Harry's head came screaming to a halt. The air left his lungs. His hands tightened around Hermione.

Draco was the leak the whole time. This woman, whoever this woman was, was the asset they had broken in for. Not a Horcrux, not a weapon, not even information. A woman whom he had never heard of. Harry swayed on the spot. He had brought them all here for nothing. Very soon the Malfoys would find an empty dungeon, they would know their fortress was no longer safe. Riddle would know they were looking for something.

It wasn't all for nothing, at least they had found their friends, people who needed saving, and now this poor woman, but it didn't change the fact that they had been brought here by a lie. They had played their hand early. An opportunity like this would never come around again. And it was all because of Draco Malfoy.

The young woman's eyes sharpened into fine points, piercing him like needles.

"Why the hell did you do that, you idiot?!"

"Excuse you," Draco argued, "I'm trying to save your life!"

"I'm not worth saving! And now you're going to bring them here for nothing, you stupid, selfish prick!"

"Selfish?! You think it's easy for me to lie constantly? To my own family-"

"Don't you talk to me about family, Draco!" she spat, her voice seethed with venom. "You're the reason I'm in here in the first place and why Angela's out there all by herself!"

Harry had to cover Hermione's mouth to stop her from audibly gasping. He bit his own tongue to avoid doing the same. His emerald eyes were open so wide, they may have rolled out of his head. Suddenly, Harry realised why this girl looked so familiar. Sitting in front of them, staring at Draco with a glare that could freeze fire, was Eve, Angela's missing sister.

After all this time, Harry was sure she must have been dead or in Azkaban. What the hell was she doing in Malfoy Manor? Why had Draco kept her here all this time? And why was he trying so desperately to keep her alive? Enough to leak a message to the resistance? Unless…

"I helped her escape," Draco shouted, "unless you've forgotten!"

"By giving her your own broom!" Eve shouted back. "By paying me with your family's money! All of which led them straight back to me!"

It all made sense now. Draco was the mysterious Death Eater who'd had his dark mark removed, the one who was defecting from Riddle. The Nimbus 2001 that Angela had taken to escape was Draco's very own. And of course a family as wealthy as the Malfoys could afford to drop a thousand galleons out of pocket. Except, apparently, Draco didn't realise a sum of money that large wouldn't go unnoticed. How could he when all his life he had more than money he would ever need? When that money had never been spent on anything other than himself?

"They were going to kill you the day they brought you here and I stopped them!" Draco fumed. "I'm the only reason that you're alive!"

"Well thank you, Draco," Eve replied with a complete lack of sincerity, "for delaying my death for the last eight months so your buddies had plenty of time to torture and starve me instead."

"It could have been much worse," he said, "believe me."

Eve sighed in disbelief.

"God, you're a prick."

"I'm serious. They could have given you to my aunt instead."

"Does she like using the Cruciatus too?"

"Only when she's feeling nice."

"Sounds like she got the balls in the family."

For the first time since he entered the room, Draco smiled.

"Probably."

The pair fell silent, the spark of levity crushed by the dawning reality that sat just behind that door. For all they knew, Eve was going to die and despite Draco's best efforts, there was nothing they could do. Harry had never seen Draco so utterly defeated. It should have given him great satisfaction, and it might have if he were a younger man, but right now the image of his school bully wallowing in quiet misery brought him nothing but pity.

"Why did you save me?" Eve said, breaking the fragile silence. Draco looked at her in confusion.

"I've told you why," he said brusquely.

"You've told me some rubbish about how I'm more useful alive," Eve replied. "The same excuse you give them. But you haven't told me the truth."

It was rare to see Draco Malfoy at a loss for words. Often he would say whatever came to his mind with little care for the consequences, for that was the luxury of Draco's world. Or it used to be. Somehow, Eve was able to cut straight through the layers of bluster Draco wrapped himself in, exposing the scared boy underneath like a nerve. Harry almost considered turning away. It felt wrong for him to see Draco so deeply vulnerable.

"Because you're right," he said. "I am a prick. I'm… I'm a coward and I always have been. Saving your life that day is the one decent thing I've ever done. I don't want to mess that up too."

There was a long stretch of quiet, the words sat in the musty air and settled against the floorboards, perhaps the first honest words Draco had ever uttered to another living being. Until there was another, a strange laughter, hoarse and bewildered. Eve's laughter.

"You're so weird," she shook her head. Draco merely stared at her, clearly offended.

"Excuse you?" he said. Eve gave him a look that seemed to console him somewhat.

"It's just," she paused, shifting closer on the cot, "everything you do just makes me understand you less."

Draco shifted in his seat, his eyes drifting to the floor. He took a deep breath and released it.

"Me too."

All of a sudden, the locks on the door began to shift. Harry and Hermione jumped, squeezing against the wall. Draco stood up at once. He pulled his cuffs outwards, making sure to cover his arm. Eve scrambled back into the corner, sitting up straight with a defiant face. The door opened and Draco shouted through the gap.

"I told you twenty minutes!"

"Pardon the intrusion, Draco," an oily voice swept into the room, followed swiftly by Lucius Malfoy. Draco stood frozen like a statue. His pale face somehow lost even more colour, until he looked half-dead. "However, I wouldn't have interrupted if I believed you could handle this mudblood all by yourself."

"Father-"

"Don't-" Lucius growled. Draco flinched, shrinking into himself under his father's glare. "You don't understand how much trouble you're in, do you, boy? They think you're helping her. They think my own son would rather spend his time down here with this- this thing than with his own family!"

"I've been trying to get her to talk."

"Oh, spare me, I heard it all. Do you think I'm stupid, Draco? I know that mark on your arm is a fake." Draco's eyes glanced down to his arm for a moment, before fixing on his father. Harry had never seen the boy so afraid. "Your mother and I have had to move mountains to keep it a secret and your obsession with this degenerate has only made it more difficult."

"I've told you she had valuable information, I'm so close to-"

"WAKE UP, DRACO!" his father bellowed. "She doesn't matter! The Dark Lord doesn't care about one mudblood and whatever she might know. He thinks there's a spy in his order and everything points to YOU!"

Lucius' face contorted into a ghoulish shape, not just in anger but a fear beyond even Draco's. The calmest person in the room was Eve, silently staring into nothing. She knew there was no escape. All that was going through her head was that she was going to die and there was nothing she could do. Harry had seen that face in the mirror too many times to not recognise it.

"Which is why," Lucius said in a voice that brokered no argument, "you're going to kill her. Right. Now."

Harry tapped Hermione's wand, wedged in a holster by her pocket. He felt her nod against him. Her hand grasped the handle.

"No, father-"

"And then you're going to bring her body to the Dark Lord," he continued, "for him to do as he pleases. And you'll beg for his forgiveness."

"Please…"

"It's okay, Draco." Eve spoke for the first time since Lucius entered the room. "It's alright."

The elder Malfoy rounded on the girl.

"Silence!" he roared. He looked on the verge of killing her himself, but both he and Eve knew her life was not his to take. Not when Draco's life depended on it. Drawing up to his full height, Lucius stepped aside. "Go ahead, Draco."

The boy's numb fingers reached into his pocket and took out his wand. He looked at his father and back to Eve, caught between them like a fly in a web, looking for an ounce of mercy where there was none to be found.

"Do it."

Eve stared him dead in the eye. She knew he couldn't do it and so did he.

"Kill her."

Even as Draco raised his wand, aiming it towards her head, words wouldn't leave his mouth. The point of his weapon visibly shook in his hand.

"I said kill her!"

The boy flinched. He waved his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Nothing happened. No light, not even a spark. There was an eternity of tense silence. Lucius stared down at his shivering son with visible disgust, seeing the boy clearly for the first time and despising what he saw. There was no curse that left his wand because there was nothing to power it. No matter what his father demanded of him, Draco couldn't conjure the hatred required to take Eve's life. He couldn't cast the spell even if he wanted to.

"How very disappointing," he drawled. Draco had no words to defend himself. He merely stared at the young woman in front of him, at her perfectly calm face and shimmering eyes, thinking about how they ultimately doomed each other.

With a huff, Lucius slid his wand from his cane and pushed his son aside. "I suppose I'll have to do it myself."

He levelled his wand between Eve's eyes and Draco cried out.

"No!"

Just as Lucius was about to cast the spell, Harry was ready with one of his own.

Stupefy.

The eldest Malfoy flew across the room and into the far wall. His body crumpled into a heap on the floor, just as Hermione's spell collided with Draco. Before Angela could even register what was happening, both Malfoys were unconscious on the floorboards. Just as she was about to scream, Harry removed the cloak and Hermione rushed to her.

"Eve!" she called. "Eve, it's alright, we're here to rescue you!"

Eve immediately fell quiet, staring at Hermione with wide eyes.

"You're… you're Hermione Granger," she gasped and then she smiled. "My sister adores you. But what are you…?" She looked up at Harry and her bewilderment turned to awe. "Harry Potter…"

"Yep, that's me," Harry smiled politely. He glanced down at Lucius' unconscious body, fighting the urge to spit on it. "We're here to bring you home."

Eve glanced at the two of them, as if she didn't dare to believe that the nightmare was over. Then her body wilted. In one breath, she released months of horror and pain that she had buried deep down.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I thought I was going to- BEHIND YOU!"

But it was too late. Before Harry could turn around, a cold, metal hand grasped around his neck. Its digits dug into his skin, crushing his windpipe and he gasped in agony.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed. Her wand was out in front of her in the blink of an eye. "Let him go, Pettigrew, or I swear to God-!"

"Uh-uh," Peter grinned. "You come any closer and he dies." The rat tightened his grip to prove his point. Harry fought for a gasp of air but nothing came. Excruciating pain ripped through his throat as metal dug into his neck.

Hermione gripped her wand so tight her fingers turned white. Her brown eyes gazed into his. Harry gave her a silent nod, or as much a nod as he could. Reluctantly, she lowered her wand. Pettigrew grinned. His beady eyes swept across each of them, glinting from their dark sockets. The metal hand loosened its grip, just slightly.

"What a prize for my lord and master. Not only his greatest enemy, but his best friend and the traitor who lived right under his nose." He screamed out of the open door, echoing down the hallway. "Down here! Intruders with the prisoner!"

Not a few seconds later, the sounds of footsteps came rumbling towards them. They had but minutes.

"Peter!" Harry wheezed." You don't have to do this!"

"Oh, but I do. Don't you see? It's useless to fight him."

The footsteps were getting clearer, racing down stairs and across the floorboards above. They had no time. Harry looked at the love of his life and she stared back.

"Hermione," Harry cried, "get out of here!"

"I'm not leaving you!" she cried back.

"Oh, no, you won't," Peter chortled, squeezing Harry's neck. "I'm sure the Dark Lord will have lots of fun with you both."

"I saved your life, Peter," Harry growled, fighting against him, but the metal hand wouldn't budge an inch.

"That was your mistake, Harry. The same mistake your father made."

"No, it's yours. You owe me."

A door opened somewhere nearby. Voices were echoing around them, just barely audible over the oncoming stampede. He couldn't get free. He wasn't going to escape. But at least he could give Hermione the information she needed.

"Where's the cup, Peter?" Harry growled. "Helga Huffelpuff's cup! We know it's a Horcrux! Where is it?"

Pettigrew's withered face drooped..

"How did you-?" he shut his mouth tight. "I can't-"

"Tell me!"

"He'll kill me," the coward pleaded. "Please don't make me-"

"Harry!" Hermione screamed.

The footsteps were nearly upon them. They were but seconds away. Death was upon them.

"Last chance, Peter!"

The rat murmured, trying to resist, but his mouth was working against him. His life was no longer his and he knew it.

"B- Bellatrix," he stuttered. "He gave it to B- Bellatrix. It's in her v-vault in Gringotts."

The moment the words left his mouth, his hand loosened from Harry's neck and latched onto his own. Harry gasped for air as Riddle's gift constricted around Peter's windpipe, crushing the life out of the man. Not a few moments later, there was a muffled crack and Peter fell still.

Harry knew he should have felt something but there was time for that later.

He rummaged through Peter's pockets as fast as he could. The footsteps were getting closer and closer, louder and louder. Harry's fingers frantically searched the man's tattered robes until he felt something brass. He immediately threw the keys to Hermione. They slammed the door shut just as a cloaked figure was about to walk through. With a hurried turn of the key, the door was locked, sealing them inside.

"We need to get out of here," Hermione gasped.

"Dobby!" Harry called and the house-elf dutifully appeared. "Is everyone else out?"

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir."

"Then let's go. Take us three."

"No!" Eve exclaimed. She pointed to Draco's unconscious body. "Take him too!"

"We're not here for him," Hermione argued.

Eve pinned her with a glare that made Harry's hair stand on end.

"They'll kill him if he stays!"

A violent blast rattled the door. The Death Eaters, realising that the key was inside, were now attempting brute force. The door barely hung onto its hinges. Harry figured they had a few seconds before they broke through.

Making a split second decision, he shot forward and grabbed hold of Draco's body. Harry's fingers closed around his hand as the door exploded off its hinges.

They were gone not a moment too soon.

Chapter Text

The moment their feet hit the dirt, they heard Angela's voice rapidly approaching. They barely had time to steady their passenger when the young girl was upon them.

"Hermione! What happened? Did you find any-?"

Her voice died in her throat under a sudden gasp. Her eyes had fallen to the woman carried between them, staring wide in disbelief. Then, they heard a faint warble and she began to sob.

"E- Eve?"

The woman hanging from Harry and Hermione's shoulders gazed up at Angela through her dirty fringe. Her pale skin cracked into a smile.

"Hey, Angie."

Not a second later, Angela was wrapped around her sister, crying into her shoulder with inconsolable wails. Harry and Hermione wisely chose to step aside, allowing them the space for their reunion. After so long apart, they deserved that at least.

"I'm s-so sorry!" Angela spluttered between tears. "I- I left you behind!"

"Don't be stupid," Eve fondly reprimanded. "They would've caught you too if you hadn't."

"What did they do to you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"What do you need? Food, drink? Anything."

"I want a billion sandwiches," Eve laughed faintly. "And a good cup of tea."

"We'll see what we can do," Hermione spoke, winding an arm under her shoulder for support. "Come on, let's get you some help."

The three girls, Eve hobbling between Angela and Hermione, made their way towards the medical tent. Harry noticed solemnly how Eve's legs struggled to push against the mud, the way her dirty jeans seemed almost empty from how gaunt she had become. It reminded him far too much of how he felt wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs.

"Have they been looking after you, sweetheart?" Eve said, her eyes not having left her sister from the moment they arrived.

"Yes, they have," Angela smiled. "They all have."

Eve turned to Hermione and gave her a barely withheld thank you. Just as the first tears escaped from her eyes and the last of her strength left her, she was taken behind the tent flap and Harry was left with only Ron by his side, as well as his second passenger.

"You actually found her," Ron remarked with genuine disbelief. When it came to eve, Ron had always remained defiantly hopeful for Angela's sake, but even he admitted she was more likely dead than simply missing, especially after so long. However, somehow, Harry and Hermione had done the impossible once again. They had brought Angela's sister back from the dead.

Harry had to hang onto that. Ever life saved was a victory.

"How are the others?" he asked, quick to change the subject.

"They're all in the medical tent." Ron glanced at the unconscious body at Harry's side. "Who else did you-" His freckled face dropped the moment he recognised Draco's pale hair. His eyes whirled around in alarm. "What the bloody Hell is he doing here?"

"I'll tell you later," Harry insisted. He lifted Draco's body and shoved it towards Ron. "Tie him up. Get him out of sight."

Ron gave him a strained look but moved to lift Draco's shoulders while Harry took the legs. The pair dragged Draco into the cave, quickly ushering him away from prying eyes. As much as they didn't like Draco, there were people here with reason to hate him even more than they did. People who would like nothing more than to see him and his family dead. It could be debated whether or not it was completely deserved, but that wasn't the point. There was enough death to go around nowadays.

"I didn't think I was ever getting out," Eve said as Hermione wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "I thought I was going to die there."

"Well, you didn't," Angela replied and took her hand. "And now you'll never have to think about that place ever again."

Eve gave her a sombre smile.

"Easier said than done."

Before long, she was placed onto a small bed in the corner of the tent. Hermione approached with a bottle of smoking liquid.

"Take this."

Eve eagerly accepted the potion and downed it. It almost came back up as she drank it, her throat still raw and hurting, but soon the ache in her bones began to fade and she felt better than she had in months. Angela watched her sister sink into the pillows, fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but-"

"It's better you don't know, Angie." Eve sat up slightly, fixing her younger sister with a firm gaze. "But it wasn't your fault. Don't ever think that."

"I should have come looking for you," Angela pleaded.

"No. Knowing you were safe was the only thing that kept me sane." Her thin hand reached for her and Angela wrapped it in her own. "I love you, Angie."

The young girl nodded with wet eyes.

"I love you too."

Hermione happily left them to their conversation as she readied another nourishment potion. The rest of the potion was poured into a pot of water and stirred until she was left with a faintly blue concoction. She had to make sure to get the concentration correct, too many nutrients in her body at once could overload the poor girl's system. The last thing they needed was for her to die from her own medicine.

At that moment, Ron appeared, brushed his hands against his trousers. He visited the bedsides of Dean and Luna, making sure they were sound and well. Poor Luna was still struggling with the bed underneath her. She would occasionally disassociate, gripping the blanket over her body, reminding herself that she was no longer in that dungeon, that she was safe and well and loved. Hermione made sure to pay special attention to her once she had Eve settled, if not for Luna's sanity then her own.

Dean meanwhile had no trouble falling asleep, glad that he had warm bed sheets instead of the dank stone floor of the Malfoy dungeon. Ollivander too had graciously taken a cot with an extra blanket and before Hermione could even offer him a cup of tea, he was fast asleep. Griphook took her up on the offer for tea and then asked to be left alone, skulking into the corner of the tent. Hermione could only guess why, perhaps the shame of being rescued by wizards was a malady that could only be solved with time.

Ron wisely chose to leave the disgruntled goblin be and gingerly walked towards the pair of sisters on the other side of the room. He reached out his hand towards Eve, who only remarked on his arrival with a confused stare.

"Umm, it's good to finally meet you," he said. His hand hung in the air for a good few seconds, left to flounder, before Ron realised she wasn't going to shake it. The older girl's eyes sharpened.

"Angela, who's this?"

"Oh, uh," Angela sputtered. "Eve, this is Ron. He's… well… he's my boyfriend."

Eve glanced at Angela then back to Ron.

"Ron Weasley?" she asked. Ron awkwardly waved.

"Yep, that's me."

"I thought you were ginger."

"I helped him dye it, Eve, just like you used to," Angela smiled. "I think it looks nice."

"Well, I certainly didn't recognise you," Eve conceded. "I suppose I should have expected you were nearby, considering who got me out."

"He came with us to the Manor, Eve," Angela gushed, not noticing Eve's face turn sour. "He helped me get loads of people out. One of them was Ollivander-"

"Wait, Angela, you were in the Manor?"

Angela paused, realising the implication.

"Uh, yes," she replied sheepishly. Eve seemed to turn on Ron, who despite standing well above her at her bedside, seemed to shrink before her eyes.

"You brought my baby sister to Malfoy Manor?" she said through gritted teeth. Hermione silently watched from the sidelines as Ron went a startling shade of pink.

"Eve," Angela interjected, "I agreed to go. I wanted to help."

Eve then rounded on Angela, her eyes almost aflame.

"You're sixteen years old!"

"Would you rather I do nothing while other people fight for me?" Angela replied indignantly.

"Yes!" Eve shouted in disbelief. "You're a child, Angela! You're not supposed to be fighting at all!"

"Well, tough!" Angela shouted back. The two sisters stared daggers at each other. The rest of the room sat completely silent.

"Angie, I let you go so you wouldn't have to be a part of this."

"I already am." She gestured all around her. "We all are. There's no point in pretending we're not."

Perhaps to the detriment of her own safety, Hermione stepped in and cleared her throat.

"If it helps, Eve, we wouldn't have brought her along if we knew she couldn't defend herself."

A look flickered across Eve's face where, for a moment, Hermione expected her to launch into another tirade. Then, her eyes turned back to Angela, then to the tent and a wave of realisation passed over her, as if the reality of their situation had finally caught up to her. Her shoulders hunched, her face drooped in exhaustion. She gazed at her baby sister with barely concealed regret, as if this were all her fault.

"You're too young for this," Eve insisted.

"So are we," Harry's voice replied.

They turned to find him standing at the entrance of the tent, looking at them all with the same face of regret. Eve's eyes found him, read him up and down and seemed to find they recognised. Then she looked at Hermione, asking, perhaps pleading, for her to understand. And Hermione merely nodded.

"How's Draco?" Eve asked, eager to move on. Harry paced forward and fell into a chair nearby.

"Still unconscious," he replied. "Tied up, but alive."

"Where have you put him?"

"In the caves. Somewhere out of the way. I don't want any of these people seeing him."

"Probably wise," Eve nodded. "He did help me, you know. He wasn't good at it, but he tried."

"That's not the Draco I know," Harry's brow furrowed. "Why would he do that?"

Eve sighed, mirroring his confusion.

"I don't even think he knows."

"What was his plan anyway?" Hermione asked. "To get you out? Just spread a rumour and hope people come looking?"

"It was mainly delaying my death for as long as possible," Eve explained as if the notion of her death were something quite mundane. "Until he could come up with an actual plan."

"It took him eight months to think of calling for help?" Angela scoffed.

"Took him that long to realise he couldn't do it all by himself."

"Well, it is Malfoy," Ron smirked. "I'm not surprised."

"Well, then, what do we do with him?" Angela asked. "He's going to wake up eventually."

"I vote we give him back," Ron offered to a round of vocal disapproval.

"Excuse me?" Eve remarked.

"Ron," Angela gently reprimanded.

"What?" he said with raised hands. "I don't care what they do to him, frankly he has it coming. He almost killed me, remember? And Katie and you, Harry. He was going to kill Dumbledore."

"But he didn't," Harry pointed out. "Besides, we're better than that."

"Yeah," Ron sighed, "but do we have to be?"

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Oh, don't tell me you feel sorry for him too," Ron scoffed.

"No, of course I don't," Hermione replied, "but I'm not going to let him be killed either."

"Whatever happens," Harry said, "We'll sort it out in the morning. Until then, we need rest. You most of all, Eve."

Eve might have argued that point but at that moment, as if in protest, her eyelids slid down of their own accord. Any attempt to convince her sister she could go on was fruitless. Not five minutes later, Eve was fast asleep under a soft blanket. It was the most comfortable she had been in a long time.

Angela chose to sit by her side, refusing to leave and Ron dutifully kept her company. On the bedside table was a potion she was to take the moment she awoke the next morning, as Hermione explained to them before she left the tent. By the time Harry and Hermione climbed into bed, the first beams of morning were cresting the horizon.

It had been a long and tumultuous day but at least now they had a lead and the beginnings of a plan.

Draco awoke in dank, musty darkness, his wrists bound tight together, his back screaming in pain like it had been twisted out of shape. Even with eyes wide open, it took a moment before the stars dissolved from sight. The most he could make out from the sharp beams of light was dirt and the sheen of wet rock. If it weren't for the weight of his body resting on the seat of a rickety chair, he might have believed he was at the bottom of a deep, dark hole.

All around him were the walls of a cave, the mouth covered by wooden boards holding a door, like a wall cutting through the stone. Draco nudged his bindings, blinking rapidly into the darkness. His eyes adjusted enough to make out for the first time a figure standing before him.

"Who the hell are you?" he croaked.

The stranger leaned over, a beam of light caught the edge of his thin face and gleamed in the rims of his glasses.

"Take a wild guess, Malfoy."

Draco looked up into the eyes of his schoolyard nemesis and for a fleeting moment felt an ounce of relief.

"I honestly thought you were dead," he smirked.

"Sorry to disappoint," Harry replied, the playful mirth of their typical snide remarks gone. Draco felt the sharp bristles of rope around his wrists more vividly, the dull throb of pain in his back grounding him as blood pumped through his veins.

"Where am I?" he drawled.

"Somewhere your Death Eaters buddies can't find you. Every ward known to man and a Fidelus, good luck trying to call for help."

"How long do you think you can keep me here?"

"If you'd rather go outside with a bunch of people who would like to eat you alive, then be my guest."

"What are you talking about?"

Harry paced back and forth in front of his prisoner, staring at him like a particularly annoying fly.

"Outside that door is a refugee camp full of people you and your family helped displace." He stood up to his full height, staring down at Draco will barely-held contempt. "This room is about the only safe place you have left in all of Britain. God, I should just let them have you and don't think I won't just because Dumbledore wanted you alive."

"You wouldn't have the balls," Draco drawled, having suddenly regained his colour.

"It's been a long war, Malfoy," Harry warned, "you wanna test that?"

"Oh please," Draco smirked, "if you really were going to let me die you wouldn't have gone through the effort of bringing me here, tying me up - I'm guessing there's a compulsion charm to stop me from saying V-" His jaw snapped shut before he could utter another syllable, his lips pushed together against their will. Eventually, they relaxed and he was allowed to open his mouth again. "That word. I assume Granger was the one who removed the tracking charm. You do know there's a tracking charm on me, right?"

"Don't be stupid that's the first thing we checked," Harry replied. "And it was Eve who got it off you in the end."

"Was it?" Draco asked, a hint of colour permeating his cheeks. "How? It's an old family spell."

"She's clever and she didn't mind being rough."

"Is that why my back feels like it's been run over?"

"Ripped it right off your magical core," Harry whistled. "Gotta say, be glad you weren't awake for that."

"How long have I been here?"

"A week."

Draco blinked. To him it hadn't been a few hours since he was standing in Eve's cell, watching his father begin to cast the killing curse. Now, here he was, free from his family's grasp, now prisoner to someone else. He wondered if his family was out there searching for him, whether they'd had to pay for letting Eve escape.

"A week," he murmured, "and I'm still alive."

"By some miracle," Harry remarked. "If it were up to anyone else, you'd still be in that mansion getting exactly what you deserve."

Draco looked down at his feet, wincing at the ache in his spine. His shoes were scuffed and covered in dirt. He couldn't remember the last time he couldn't see his face in them.

"Is Eve alright?" he eventually asked, his eyes still glued to his shoes.

"Yes," Harry replied. "What I want to know is why you care?"

"Sorry," Draco scowled, "is that a crime now?"

"To a Death Eater, yes."

"I'm not a Death Eater," Draco growled.

"Oh, yeah," Harry scoffed, "I heard you guys aren't all buddy-buddy anymore. What happened, did you use up all their hair gel?"

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair as far as his binds would allow.

"I bet you're loving this."

"Tiny bit," Harry gave him a tight smile. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Eve helped me get my Dark Mark removed," Draco explained. "In return, I helped her sister escape."

"And then they traced the money back to her. Yeah, yeah, I know," Harry nodded impatiently, "but why keep her alive? They were going to kill her, why save her life?"

The young Malfoy stared at him as if Harry had tossed a glove at his face.

"What kind of person do you think I am?" he said in a slighted cry, which only caused Harry to laugh out loud.

"Let me remind you. Does, 'You'll be next, mudbloods,' ring a bell?"

"That was years ago-"

"Or how about trying to kill Dumbledore." Harry rounded on Draco, an icy chill creeping into his voice. "Nearly killing Katie and Ron."

Draco squirmed in his seat, suddenly finding the far wall very interesting.

"Those were accidents."

"Your dark mark wasn't," Harry pointed out. "That's not something you get on a whim."

"I paid a lot of money to get it removed."

"Money can't wash away everything. You're still a Malfoy and Malfoys only care about themselves."

Despite Harry having said much worse to him over the years, Draco was lost for words. He quietly sat in his tiny chair in his dark, cold, stone prison cell and stared at the door. His pale eyes occasionally darted back to Harry, as if sizing him up, but Harry would only stare back, daring him to try and escape.

"I saved her because I owed her," Draco eventually said. "It wouldn't be fair for her to die just because she helped me."

"You've never cared about what's fair before."

"And I'm not a child anymore," Draco seethed. "I've seen what they do to people like her."

"So has everyone."

"I didn't think it would be like this!" he exclaimed. "I thought it would- I thought it would be different, that it wouldn't be so-"

Harry leaned down towards him, until their eyes were level.

"Newsflash, moron," he spat and Draco flinched at every word, "this is exactly what it's like! It always has been!"

"Well, I'm sorry now," the boy whined. "Happy?"

"Oh, I don't care," Harry scoffed. "You think 'sorry' is going to give any of these people back their homes? You think 'sorry' is going to fix this country after what you and your whole class of scum have done?"

Harry raised his wand and for a second, Draco saw his life flash before his eyes. It was a sad, lonely life, full of privilege and comforts, yet shallow and hardly lived. And the end, the image of Eve, perhaps the first real friend, looking up at him, ready for the end.

A light erupted inches from his face, but it was not the end. The ropes snaked around his body shattered and fell to the floor. Draco took in a lungful of air, his chest rising and falling unimpeded. He was not dead, but very much alive, perhaps more so than he had ever been.

"But I know a way you can," Harry said, "and that's by helping us put an end to it once and for all."

"And how will I possibly do that?" Draco drawled.

Harry's face was set alight by a vicious grin. There was a glint in the emerald of his eye.

"By helping us break into your Aunt's vault in Gringotts."

Despite the idea being his own creation, despite having explained it in great detail to both Hermione and Draco, assuring both that it was the only way forward, Harry struggled to believe what he was about to do. His footsteps from the cave where Malfoy now sat in contemplative silence were marked by a constant dialogue in his head.

It was a battle of two voices: one saying he was mad and that it would never work, the other saying that it was mad and for that reason alone it might work. Both voices sounded remarkably like they belonged to Hermione.

However, no matter how much he might doubt his own sanity, he knew it was only the way forward. They were going to break into the most fortified Wizarding bank in Europe, sneak down into one of the central vaults and rob it. And then, somehow, they were supposed to find a way out and go on to win a war. All in one day.

The notion of stealing from the goblins sent a shiver up his spine. He remembered the poem he had read upon his very first visit to the bank, carved on the entrance as a warning to all that the only thing that awaited thieves in Gringotts was death. It made him almost glad he wouldn't be surviving the war, because even if he did somehow manage to make it to the peace of the other side, the goblins would be out for his blood anyway.

Give him a dark lord any day, but a whole contingent of angry goblins? Not even Harry was mad enough to think he could win that fight.

As he emerged from the cave entrance, he scanned the camp for Hermione, ready to discuss the fine details of his excellent plan. He eventually found her, wrapping a blanket around a woman with a head of hair violently oscillating colours.

It took a moment to recognise her heart-shaped face, a moment more to notice the small bundle in her arms. His resolve turned to a looming concern as he caught a sheen of something on her cheeks and around her eyes. She was crying.

Harry's heart stopped. His feet began moving faster of their own accord. Soon, he was running as fast as his legs could carry him. By the time he reached them, another woman he recognised hurried into view. Andromeda sat beside her daughter, comforting her as she cried inconsolably.

"What happened?" Harry sputtered. "What's going on, are you okay?"

The three women looked up at him in alarm. Hermione said nothing, just quietly shook her head. It tore Harry's nerves like a scream. Andromeda was about to explain, when Tonks stopped her. She stood, slowly offering him the bundle in her arms. Tears were streaming down her face, her eyes were red and raw.

"Harry," she beckoned him closer. "Come here."

He carefully held his arms out and the bundle was placed into his arms. The folds of the blanket parted, revealing a tiny face with a patch of blue hair.

"Harry, this is Teddy," Tonks whispered between sobs. "Your godson."

The word tossed and turned in his head and exploded. Harry stared at her, breathless, thoughtless, in shock.

"My-" He struggled to speak. "Are you-"

"I'm sure," Tonks said earnestly and despite her anguish, she managed a small smile.

Harry honestly didn't know what to say. As far as he was aware, Tonks wasn't expecting the baby for another week at least. He had no idea when he woke up that morning that this would be the day, but here it was, sleeping in a quilt blanket, completely still and content.

For a good few seconds, Harry was simply awestruck, holding Tonk and Remus' child like it was the most precious thing in the whole world. Teddy, his name was. Teddy Lupin. His godson.

He was so small, as if with one wrong fold he would be lost in the blanket forever. He barely weighed anything. His features were tiny and round and barely there yet, but Harry could tell he had Remus' nose already. Despite having known Teddy for only a moment, and having held him for even less, every fibre of Harry's being was given over to protecting this child. In this one small moment, every dark day, every heartbreak, every second of pain and torment was all pulled into sharp focus.

This was what he was fighting for. This was why he had to win.

"Hermione," Tonks called, bringing him back to the present. She held out her hand towards the brunette, who quickly took it and stood from her seat. "We want you to be the godmother."

Hermione was similarly awestruck, quietly stunned for a moment, before she shook herself and began feverishly nodding.

"I'm honoured," Hermione whispered reverently. "Thank you so much."

"What about Remus?" Harry spluttered. He glanced around, looking for his father's friend. "Has he agreed to this?"

At the mention of her husband's name, the dam burst. Tonk's hair turned a shade of deep black and she was quickly taken into her mother's embrace as she collapsed in on herself. Harry could only stand and watch in horror as her tortured wails twisted his throat and seized his stomach. He looked to Hermione, begging her to relieve him of this nightmare. She could only place a hand over his, supporting Teddy's small head, as she too struggled against tears.

"Harry," she gasped, "Harry… They just told me. Remus-"

He was already crying, even as he stood in terror, waiting for what he knew was coming. He pulled Teddy into his chest, as if to protect his baby godson from the pain he was too young to bear.

"Harry, I'm so sorry. He's dead."

Chapter Text

Atop the sands of a dune on a Cornish beach, between the reeds and patches of grass, sat a marker of dark stone. Harry hated it. It was a pathetic and meagre tribute to the man Harry considered his uncle in all but blood, but there was nothing to bury. They had no body, nor any possessions. Remus wasn't the type to keep heirlooms, and those few precious things he did own were lost in the attack.

So, in the end, they had to settle for a tiny headstone on a beach somewhere Remus had probably never been. Harry was ashamed to realise, as he sat carving into the tiny stone, that he didn't even know Remus' birthday. He wrote only what he knew.

Devoted husband. Loving father. Dear friend.

He set the stone down, staring at it, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

So much had happened over the past few days — the attack on Malfoy Manor, saving Eve, kidnapping Draco — and it had all happened so quickly that Harry hadn't had a moment to truly sit and let it all catch up to him. Now, however, alone atop the dunes of an empty beach, Harry's thoughts had nowhere else to go but inwards.

Peter Pettigrew was dead, killed by own silver hand for his treachery. Harry knew he should feel something about that fact, but at the moment, he was numb to it. Then, with Remus' passing, it was all swept away. Now, however, he realised something that had yet to occur to him until now. The Marauders were gone. The last connection Harry had to his family was now lost forever.

The stone, his tribute, was left in a circle of pebbles arranged to protect the central marker as best they could from the rain and the wind. Harry hoped that wherever Remus was, he would appreciate the effort.

The sun had yet to fall below the sea. The clouds were glowing a bright pink, scarring the deep blue sky as they crossed the horizon. The sea air was quickly turning bitter and cold, carrying specs of sand that grazed the hairs on his skin.

Further down the beach, a short walk away, was Shell Cottage, home to Bill and Fleur. The couple had graciously agreed to harbour the Tonks family while Mr Dalton's refugee camp began full evacuation procedures. Bill's curse-breaking experience meant that their little seaside cottage was now one of the safest houses in Britain, giving them the protection to conduct a private ceremony for Remus. Everyone else had left their own tribute around the marker as part of the ceremony earlier that the day. Only Harry had yet to join them all inside the cottage, but it would be a while yet before he gathered the nerve to face them again.

Harry walked along the edge of the water, treading the border between the land and sea. Eventually, he came to rest upon the beach, staring out at the water, listening to the waves. He looked back along the coast, his eyes following the footprints in the sand as each was consumed by the tide. Shallow waves lapped and rolled across them until, in time, the rough tracks were smoothed away into formless gold, as if they were never there.

The mission to Malfoy Manor had been a kick to the hornet's nest. The Death Eaters had been rattled, emerging from their hideaways to strike back at whoever they could find, anything to punish their trespassing. There had been multiple raids on the homes of Order members and their families in the past few days, swift and brutal strikes. Most had managed to escape just in time, but Remus and Tonks had not been so lucky.

According to Andromeda, they were still recovering from Teddy's birth when Death Eaters suddenly appeared, and before they had a chance to call for help, their home was surrounded. Only Tonks and Andromeda were able to escape with little Teddy. Remus chose to stay behind and fight, giving them just enough time to Floo away. A few precious seconds he paid for with his life.

Tonks was barely speaking. She spent her days clinging to her infant son like her life depended on him. Her hair had turned a deep, somber black and hadn't shifted a shade since. They had convinced her to eat and sleep for Teddy's sake, even part with her child for moments at a time, but something had become hollow within her. It reminded Harry of how she acted after Sirius' death, except this was far worse.

Every time Harry looked at her, he saw the face of a woman half-dead. Where there was once was life and joy and cheek and will, there was now only sorrow and pain.

He should have been there, Harry thought to himself. He could have saved them all, if only he had been there to help. If he had tried a little harder, had he been a little smarter or quicker, Remus would be alive to hold his newborn son. Tonks would still have her husband.

Now, she only had her mother, Andromeda, who was only just holding herself together, for the sake of her daughter and her grandson. Harry hadn't broken the news of Ted's passing yet. As selfish a decision as it was, he didn't think he could stomach breaking their hearts twice over. Just knowing that the three of them were all that was left made him feel weak to his bones.

People died in war. That was something Harry always understood from a logical standpoint. He himself had lost people to the war already. The mission to Malfoy Manor was a strategic move. No matter how long they hid, trying to find the Horcruxes in secret, they would have had to reveal themselves eventually. In doing so, they had found their lead to the last Horcrux, hidden away in Bellatrix's vault.

Yet, no amount of rationale could diminish the pain of watching Tonks holding her baby boy, barely present as her mother begged her to eat.

Harry felt tired of it all. All the pain, all the misery, all the constant fighting and running around trying to keep the world from falling apart. He imagined his friends and family and wondered for a moment whether their lives would be better had he never been born, only to quickly stamp out that train of thought. Feeling sorry himself didn't help anyone.

There were steps they needed to take. Now was not the time to drift away. The Death Eaters were mobilising. Their window of opportunity was closing. They had to get inside that bank. They had to find and steal the cup. The only question was how?

As he dwelled on his thoughts, he heard the soft padding of footsteps on the sand. He needn't turn around to see who they belonged to; he could recognise those footsteps anywhere. Hermione sat beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her wild hair tickled his cheek as it danced in the wind.

"Is it finished?" she asked. He nodded.

"Yeah." He titled his head towards the dunes. "It's over there if you wanna see it. I don't think I did a very good job."

Hermione kissed his cheek, an act that warmed his entire face in spite of the sea breeze.

"You did what you could. That's what matters."

The cold air assaulted the space between them. Hermione shuffled closer to him, snuggling into his side to find any sort of warmth. His arm wound around her shoulders, welcoming her in, and she crawled into his jumper, comfortably perching herself on his lap. It was an old jumper, one that hang off of his shoulders, but just big enough for the both of them.

"Do you remember our first lesson with him?" Harry asked. "In our third year?"

"Yes," she nodded. "It was about Boggarts, wasn't it?"

"First time I actually found Defence interesting," Harry admitted.

Until that point, there had always been a sense of disappointment that overshadowed Defence Against the Dark Arts. Even from a young age, Harry knew that he wasn't getting the most out of his classes, what with Quirrell's rehearsed cowardice and Lockhart's very real incompetence doing their best to dissuade his interest.

Remus, however, was different. Harry knew from the moment he met him, when he quite literally saved Harry's soul from a hungry Dementor. It was an effortless display of defensive magic, one that filled Harry with a sense of curiosity and drive. Remus was the first Defence teacher that made Harry truly feel like there was more to learn, that Defence Against the Dark Arts was truly worth pursuing. In fact, he was the teacher that made it Harry's favourite subject.

It never felt like Harry was obligated to respect Remus; he just did. The man earned it in a way few other people in his life bothered to. He was more than just another adult; he was a friend, someone Harry knew he could trust, which was exactly what he always needed.

"He didn't let us actually face one in the end, did he?" Hermione noted with a hint of displeasure. "He thought mine would turn into Professor McGonagal telling me I failed my exams."

"To be fair, that's exactly what happened when you eventually did," Harry smirked, earning a glare from his girlfriend.

"I was having a very stressful year," Hermione bristled. Harry chuckled, even as he felt a stinging in his eyes that he knew wasn't just from the wind.

The sun-bleached memories of simpler times rolled through Harry's head like waves. He thought back to the first time he cast the Patronus Charm, to the memory of his parents that may not have even been real. What had Remus thought at that moment? What other memories had he held, now lost to oblivion?

There were so many questions Harry had left for him. He should have had a lifetime to ask them all.

"He was my favourite teacher," Hermione eventually said in a fond whisper. "Among a few."

"He was mine too," Harry said after many moments of thought. "Although, compared to our other Defence teachers, that's not saying much, is it?"

It was enough to garner a huff of laughter from Hermione, but she quickly fell quiet. After a while, Harry could tell that it wasn't for lack of something to say.

"Andi and I are going to take Tonks to see it tomorrow." Harry nodded dutifully. He hardly needed to ask what "it" was as his mind wandered back to the pile of stone atop the dunes.

"Do you think she's ready for that?" he asked. Hermione looked unsure; being around Tonks was like stepping on eggshells. The last thing they needed was to destroy what little feeling of safety they had left.

"I don't know," Hermione answered honestly.

There was more but she was refusing to say it. The water crashed against his boots and the seagulls called out into the sky. He stroked a few errant strands of hair out of her stormy eyes.

"Talk to me," he called softly.

For a moment, she hesitated, fighting with her mind for the words she was about to say.

"Once we destroy the cup," she murmured, "it's just Nagini… and…"

"And me."

She winced as if the words threatened physical injury.

"But if we kill the snake," she continued, "if he's only got one left, surely he'll be weakened." She shifted closer, turning herself towards him. "Harry, what if- what if we could-"

"He has to die." He spoke in a dead voice. His eyes fled from hers towards the horizon. "It's the only way this ends."

"The Goblins might be able to get it out," she insisted. "They have rituals for purifying the soul, I've read about them-"

"I doubt they'll be in the mood when they find out about our plan to rob their bank."

"We could tell them about the Horcrux in Bellatrix's vault, in exchange for getting yours removed."

"Or they'll just hand us over to the Ministry."

"It's worth a try."

Harry looked on as the sun set below the sea. He took a deep, shuddering breath, deep enough to touch the weariness in his bones. The Boy Who Lived felt his lover's eyes staring at him, pleading, and he wished for nothing more than to comfort her.

"Mione, I've thought about it every day," he whispered. "I've tried to find another way out but it always comes back to this. Me and him. My death."

"And you're just okay with that?" she said, her voice a tempest of disbelief and hurt.

He shook his head, trying not keep the lump in his throat from erupting.

"This was always coming," he said. "We both knew that."

That was enough apparently to still her tongue, even as she stared up at him with a face that held an infinity of unspoken words. She gripped him in a desperate hold, her fingers grasping almost painfully.

"I thought we'd have years," she choked.

"We did." Harry pressed a kiss into her hair. He closed his eyes and surrendered to scent of vanilla and parchment and the memories they conjured. "The best years of my life."

The two held each other, never more conscious of the seconds ticking by. The sun had almost completely set now, the last sliver of fire drowning in the ocean. The cold was seeping into the sand, even as the wind began to abate and the tide slowed.

Heavy footsteps trudged along the shore, not long followed by Ron's voice.

"It's Malfoy," he announced. "He wants to talk. To all of us."

They found Malfoy sitting upright at the kitchen table; he looked completely out of place. Bill was watching him like a hawk, half convinced that he might whip out a wand the moment he turned his back. Harry certainly wouldn't put it past the old Draco to do exactly that, but this one… Harry still didn't know what to make of him just yet.

Angela sat across the table from him, glaring with disgust as she sipped her mug of tea. If anyone had reason to hold a grudge, it was her. This was the man who had held her sister captive for months on end, even if he had also been the one to keep her alive, albeit only just. Eve was still at the camp receiving urgent medical attention for all sorts of maladies, chief among them being malnutrition. It would be a long time before Eve could fully recover, physically that was. Mentally, Eve would probably never be the same and in that regard, Angela would never forgive Draco for what his family had done to hers.

Beyond the kitchen, Tonks and Andromeda sat on a sofa in the living area, lit by the roaring flames in the fireplace. Tonks wasn't speaking, nor moving, just staring into the fire, clutching a wooden blanket in her lap. Andromeda sat dutifully beside, as she had every day since they arrived. Teddy wasn't with them, but he hadn't strayed far, only to the chair opposite, where Fleur was gently rocking the sleeping baby in her arms. Fleur had been eager to help take care of Teddy; she told them it was good practice for her own. She was barely showing yet, only a couple of months into the pregnancy, but it was news that brought a little light into their world just when they needed it. A tiny spark of hope enduring in the long dark of the war.

"I have a plan to get into Gringotts," the youngest Malfoy announced as they finally sat down at the dining table. The gathered company regarded him with bemusement.

"You have a plan?" Ron scoffed.

"Those are the words I said, Weasley."

"Is it anything like your plan to kill Dumbledore?" Hermione asked pleasantly. "Because that went a bit tits-up, didn't it?"

Draco glared at her, almost smiling through a wounded grimace.

"Maybe you should try asking that old fool how well it went."

A chill swept through the room. The sound of Bill chopping carrots for dinner ended with a mighty slam. A set of heavy footsteps trudged towards them, arriving at Draco's side, who was rapidly shrinking in his seat.

"You do not insult Albus Dumbledore in this house," Bill spoke in a voice so cold it was almost enough to render the blazing fire useless. Draco, suddenly remembering where he was, audibly swallowed and nodded.

"Point taken."

After several agonising seconds, Bill eventually turned back to preparing dinner. Harry took a great deal of grim satisfaction from watching Draco shrink in his seat, even as the colour slowly return to his pale face.

"Why are you so keen to do this anyway?" Harry finally asked.

"Because if it's your intention to drag me along on this suicide mission of yours," Draco replied shakily, "it's in my best interest that we have a plan that won't get me killed."

"And naturally you trust your judgment more than ours."

"From my experience, your plans almost entirely consist of throwing yourselves at a problem and getting lucky."

To Harry's surprise, and slight dismay, he saw Hermione shrug beside him.

"I can't say he's entirely wrong."

From his other side, Ron stared aghast at Hermione, as if the very idea was an affront to his dignity.

"Whose side are you on?" he rebuked. Hermione rolled her eyes at him affectionately.

"The way I see it," Draco continued, "the only person who could walk into that bank without suspicion is myself."

"You?" Ron scoffed. "Seriously?

"Yes," he hissed, giving Ron a dirty look. "For one, I'm not a fugitive."

"You've been missing for over a week," Harry pointed out.

"That won't be common knowledge," Draco explained. "My family will do everything to keep that secret for now."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Ron asked.

"Because he's a Malfoy," Hermione smirked. "Imagine the scandal of a Malfoy being kidnapped from his own manor."

"Or deserting to the resistance," Harry added.

"Either way it makes Riddle look weak, if his inner circle can be so easily disrupted."

Draco straightened in his seat, visibly uncomfortable at the notion of the Dark Lord having a name, let alone being spoken of so carelessly. It was a far cry from living in his headquarters, skulking in his shadow, the constant fear of being discovered looming over him.

"My family also has something of a reputation to uphold, too," the young Malfoy heir bristled.

"Barely," Angela scoffed, earning a glare from Draco.

"But that won't last long," Hermione spoke. "If they don't find you soon they'll have to do something, and neither announcing your kidnapping nor being outed as a deserter will make it any easier for you to get into your aunt's vault."

"Assuming the goblins will agree to take you there in the first place without Bellatrix or her key," Angela added.

"I won't be going to Bellatrix's vault," Malfoy announced, pointing his nose upwards in defiance. "I'll be going to mine. Or at least, that's how we get past the front desk. Then once we're inside, we simply convince one of the goblins to take us to the Lestrange vault instead."

"'Convince a goblin' to help us rob Gringotts?" Angela uttered in bewilderment.

"Dare we ask how?" Harry sighed, dreading the answer that he knew was coming.

"Oh, the standard methods of persuasion," Draco waved nonchalantly. "Threats of violence or death, maybe an Imperius curse if they're particularly stubborn."

There was a sharp exhale; Hermione's fists tightened.

"Lovely," she simply said through a tight smile. Clearly there were some habits of Draco's that were dying harder than others.

"Never mind the blatant disregard for goblin welfare," Harry soldiered on before an argument could erupt between them, "you'll still need your key to get into your family's vault, which we don't have."

Draco shook his head. "No, I won't. A drop of my blood will do just fine."

Harry squinted. "There's no way they'll let you in with just a drop of blood."

"They will for the Malfoy vault," Draco replied casually. "My ancestors valued blood more than anything, even money. So long as I have their blood in my veins, the family vault should accept that instead of a key, and so will the goblins."

The rest of the table glanced at each other, each struggling in their own way with this new information. Angela looked like she had just been told that the ocean was made of orange juice, whereas Hermione was staring down at the desk, wondering how much it would hurt to slam her face into it.

"That... That's ridiculous," she eventually muttered, shaking her head.

"That's purebloods for you," Ron replied with a shrug, and Harry silently agreed. If there was one thing that he could rely on in the Wizarding World, it was there were some people who would go along with just about anything, so long as it validated the idea that they were innately special or important. Even if it meant sacrificing logic or critical thinking to do so, a notion that seemed to break something in Hermione's brain.

"It'll still look suspicious, though," Hermione said, having wisely chosen to move on. "I mean, how often do you just take a trip to Gringotts all by yourself?"

Draco thought for a moment, quickly realising the flaw in his plan.

"Admittedly, not often," he said, his air of confidence slightly dimmed.

"Exactly! If you go in there alone and without your key they'll know for sure that something's wrong."

"Then he won't go alone," a new voice announced. They turned in their seats, only to find Tonks stood waiting behind them. It was the most she had said since she arrived at Shell Cottage and for the first time since Remus' death, Tonks seemed to brim with life. "I'll go with you, Draco, disguised as your mother. That should be enough to get us inside."

Her resolve did nothing to quell the unease in Harry's stomach, however. He glanced past her, seeing Fleur holding Teddy in her arms, her eyes also glued onto Tonks. The baby stirred and Fleur gently adjusted her grip.

"Tonks," Harry said softly, "we can't ask that of you."

Her dark, gleaming eyes settled on him, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.

"You're not, Harry," she spoke, her voice brimming with conviction. "I'm offering."

"You've only just given birth," Hermione gasped, to which Tonks gave her a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.

"Yeah, I have. Compared to that, this'll be piss-easy."

"Just to point out," Bill interrupted, leaning over the table, "they have safeguards against Metamorphmagi. I should know. They contracted me to help reinforce them a few years ago."

"Does that mean you know how to bypass them?" Harry asked. Bill tilted his head in a casual gesture.

"I might have a few ideas." There was a twinkle in Bill's eye that eerily reminded Harry of Fred and George. Well, he thought, they had to get it from somewhere.

"And what about getting out again?" Draco asked, purposefully avoiding having to address Bill. "Breaking into Gringotts is one thing, but breaking out is something else entirely. No one has ever done that."

"Quirrel did in our first year," Harry corrected. "If he can do it, so can we."

Draco blinked.

"Sorry, Quirrel broke in and out of Gringotts?"

"Yes," Harry answered, only to smile. "I'm guessing Tom didn't tell you about that?"

"Can't exactly blame him," Ron laughed, "he did spend the whole year in the back of a turban."

Draco blinked again, his face twisted in confusion.

"What?"

The group ignored him. They had other things to worry about now. Harry caught Hermione's eye, buoyed by the steely resolve within them.

Breaking into Gringotts was not going to be easy, as much as they wanted to project confidence. It would be extremely perilous, perhaps the most dangerous endeavour of their lives, which would be saying something. Beyond the immediate threat, however, was the understanding of what this would ultimate cause.

This wasn't just a heist; it was a domino, one that once toppled would only be followed by others falling in a row. If they succeeded, it would be the most direct attack on Riddle yet in this conflict. There could be no other recourse except for escalation.

This was the beginning of the endgame. They had to put their pieces in place and now all they had left to do was play. Harry stood from his seat, commanding the attention of the entire room. The weight of their attention fell upon his shoulders and yet he stood tall.

"Ron, Angela," Harry ordered, "you're going to Hogwarts tomorrow morning. Tell Snape to begin evacuating the castle and prepare fortifications for attack." His friend sat up, his back straight, his eyes hard, nodding at him. It was a wonder how just a little bit of responsibility could turn the Weasleys' youngest son into a man before his very eyes. Harry then turned to Bill, who too had been watching his youngest brother, pride beaming out of him. "Contact the Order. Send word to anyone willing to make a stand. Tell them... tell them there'll be no better chance than this."

A sudden, boiling flush of anxiety seethed beneath his skin as the gravity of what he had just said came crashing down. It was one thing to imagine the day that he and Riddle would finally come to arms, but it was another entirely to commit to it. Tomorrow. This was it. This was the day that would decide the fate of everyone in the Wizarding World, and probably far beyond.

In the midst of his silence, he glanced around at the gathered faces, all watching him, waiting on his word. Everything that happened to them from now on was on him.

"Draco, Hermione and I will make preparations for the heist tomorrow," he said finally. "Once we have the cup, we'll rendezvous at Hogwarts. Be ready for a siege once we get there."

The group murmured in agreement and quietly separated, each retreating to their own corner of the house to prepare. A sense of foreboding had settled amongst them now, one that Harry felt all too familiar. In time, only one person remained at the kitchen table aside from Harry and Hermione, one who was currently pinning him with a dark glare.

Harry looked up at Tonks, maintaining to at least meet her eyes. The tips of her hair had shifted to a bright red, the first specs of colour they had seen in days. She was angry and only just managing to contain her outburst.

The boy sighed, feeling ten years older. He had taken care not to mention Tonks' name in the heist, hoping that his silence would dissuade her, and that had clearly not gone unnoticed by the woman in question. If anything, his disapproval had only stoked the fire within her into an inferno, one that Harry worried might burn her from inside out.

One quick glance at his side told him Hermione too was unsure, but still she nodded, beckoning him to do something. There was a rustle and a small whine as Teddy wriggled in his blanket.

Both Harry and Tonks looked at one another and Harry gently motioned her towards the front door, leading them out beyond the front garden and onto the beach. If there was going to be an argument, at least they could hold it where it wouldn't disrupt Teddy.

Before he had a chance to speak, she had already begun, "You're not talking me out of this."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

"You honestly think you can do this without my help? Give me break, Harry. Even you aren't that good, no matter what Remus said."

The mere mention of Remus' name only incensed him more. How could she throw around his memory so casually, especially when that was the exact reason why he was so hesitant to let her join? The last thread of his patience snapped.

"I just buried the closest thing I have to an uncle - your husband," he muttered through clenched teeth, "and you're asking me to let his wife and the mother of his child come with me on a suicide mission. What am I supposed to say to that?"

Rather than be cowed, Tonks' eyes flashed, quite literally, with indignant fury. Harry had never seen her so angry, he eyed her clenched fist warily.

"I don't know where you got the impression that I'm now some meek housewife but you'd better get that shit out of your head right now." She said it in a voice so deadly quiet that it was almost lost on the wind, yet Harry felt every word in his bones. "I was an Auror, Harry, and a good one at that. I am not out of this fight, no matter what you've told yourself my husband would have wanted."

It was a very sudden reminder to Harry that he wasn't the full-grown man he had been pretending to be. Under Tonk's furious gaze, he was just a teenager facing a woman who had lost just as much as he had, who he realised shamefully was very much aware of what was at stake if she took on this mission, and yet volunteered her help anyway. However, there was one worry he had left, one that refused to leave his mind, every moment of his day.

"What about Teddy?"

For the first time since their conversation began, Tonks looked taken aback. She became more subdued, her face softening as she saw his concern.

"He's my son," she replied.

"There's a chance you might not come back," Harry pointed out.

"That was never guaranteed in my line of work."

"He needs you," Harry insisted, unable to think of anything else except how light the little baby felt in his arms. Teddy wasn't even his child and yet the thought of causing him any more pain was just too much to bear. "I can't take you away from him - I won't."

Tonks regarded him for a moment, her face creasing in deep thought. Then, she exhaled, her body almost deflating, her face losing the boyish youth she always had. He had always thought of Tonks as more of an older friend than an adult, but now more than ever he could see the same weariness he saw in Remus and Andromeda.

"I really didn't know if I could do this, you know," she said, shaking her head. "I wasn't sure up until the very last moment. I was a mess when I went into labour. I wasn't lying; it was the hardest thing I've ever done. And then I held him for the first time and suddenly it all made sense.

"I know I will do anything to protect Teddy, and if that means helping you kill that wanker for good then I'm all-in. Even if I don't come back, even if I can't be there for him - as much as that breaks my fucking heart -" A single tear slipped down her cheek as she stared into his soul. "I know Teddy will grow up safe and cared for. He will be loved. That's worth more than my life, I know that."

"It won't come to that," Harry declared to destiny itself. "I swear, Tonks, it won't."

Tonks merely shrugged, quickly wiping her cheeks free of tear, even as more appeared to take their place.

"Whatever you say, kid. Let's say we both try and get out of this, ey? I think we've seen enough bloody sacrifices, haven't we?" Her voice wavered suddenly, her mouth trembled. The iron facade that she had worn for so long crumpled. "That stupid sod… What was he thinking?"

Without hesitation, Harry reached over and took her into his arms. Her hands dug into his jumper. Her tormented sobs heaved into his shoulder. Harry merely held her as she fell apart, absently stroking her back, his mind elsewhere, on top of a sand dune, looking out over the sea.

It was late by the time Harry finally dragged himself to bed. The moon hung over the sea, turning it to a silver mirror, reflecting a clear night sky. Hermione had turned in early, having already memorised the plan for the heist and knowing she would need her sleep.

Bill and Fleur had very kindly allowed them to share one of the guests rooms, knowing that the couple needed their privacy, even if they had only recently come of age. It was one way that Bill was very much unlike his mother, which Harry was thankful for, even if he would be very glad to see her again before...

Before tomorrow, he thought. Before his time ran out.

It was funny. For the longest time, he had always thought of himself as alone. Now, so close to the end, all he could think about was all the people he wanted to meet one last time, all the goodbyes he had left to say, and above all else, there was one person he thought of, the person closest to his heart.

He found her sitting on their bed, staring into nothing. In her hands gleamed a silver dagger, stained green with basilisk venom, one of many they kept on their person at all times. Harry carefully pried the blade from her grip and placed it in the leather scabbard on the bedside table. Her focus never left the distant horizon in her mind's eye. Either she did not know what to say or there was nothing left to say, Harry couldn't quite tell. Instead, Harry gently lifted her into his lap, held her against his chest and slowly rocked back and forth.

"Is this our last night together?" Her voice was small, like she was speaking to him from far away.

Harry's heart sunk. He took a moment to feel the weight of her, the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

"Yes."

There was a shuddering breath and then silence. She was shaking now, so Harry grabbed their duvet and pulled it up to their chins, cocooning them in the soft, thick sheets. The chill of the night was The pair was swallowed by comforting heat, banishing the chill of the night, but Hermione was still shaking.

Harry wound his fingers through her hair, watching the moonlight glisten on her dark brown tresses. He felt puffs of breath warm his chest through the fibres of his jumper. It all felt so real, he marvelled. He wanted to take it all in, to use the few precious moments he had left just to appreciate the feeling of being alive.

It hurt, he realised. There was a twisting pain in his chest, not entirely physical but very real. He wanted to hold Hermione like this forever but this was the last time he ever would, and that fact hurt.

"It's stupid," he whispered, "but I imagined a life like this."

Strands of dark brown hair tickled his chin as Hermione raised her head to look at him.

"Like what?" she asked.

"A house… maybe like this one, or something else…" The words dwindled away. He felt ridiculous. There were so many other, more important things he could be thinking about, more profound and more worthwhile, and yet in that moment this was what was on his mind?

"What else?" she prompted. Harry paused, letting himself walk step-by-step through this wonderful little dream he had trespassed upon.

"A dog," he smiled. For a while now, whenever he cast his mind to the future, Harry had always imagined himself - much older and wiser and certainly taller - with a dog all his own to keep him company. "A friendly one," he explained, "but well-behaved, so he won't annoy Crookshanks. And big - big and fluffy. The fluffiest you've ever seen."

Harry looked down at Hermione, expecting her to look at least a little skeptical, but he was taken aback when he saw that she was smiling. What with all the terrible memories he shared of Ripper chasing his heels when he was a boy, never came across as a dog person, but it was always something Harry had wanted. He could tell Hermione was surprised at just how normal a desire it was.

"It'll get hairs everywhere," she conceded, wrinkling her nose adorably.

"So do I," he smiled. That was enough to make her laugh.

"Is there a garden?" she asked. "He'll need a garden to run around in."

Harry's heart bloomed.

"Yeah, there is. I'm quite good at gardening," he bragged. Not that he had a choice in the matter, having been forced to tend Aunt Petunia's roses since he was old enough to hold the secateurs. "We'll put lots of flowers around. Maybe a hammock."

"And a vegetable patch, like my grandparents had," she said fondly, a sparkle in her eye. "We could grow courgettes."

"Maybe a pool, too."

"They're very high-maintenance."

"Don't even pretend you don't want one too."

"You just want to see me in a swimsuit."

"Can you blame me?" he smirked and even in the darkness he saw her cheeks blush. "We'd be the envy of the whole street, especially in the summer. Of course, we'll need a good kitchen, too, with a proper oven."

"And a library," she added.

"Oh, a massive one," he promised, "with every book money can buy and a big armchair for you to sit and read them in."

"Two," she corrected him. "One for each of us."

"Don't forget the fireplace," he said, "to keep everything warm."

"We can hold hands," she whispered, lacing her fingers with his. "Watch the flames go out."

"And then go to bed," he breathed. His arms tightened around her as she snuggled up to him. "Wake up the next day. Do it all again. Every day. For the rest of our lives."

A soft thumb reached up and brushed his cheek; he was surprised to find that it was wet. He had been so lost in his imagination, he hadn't realised that he was crying. Harry turned to look at Hermione, falling into her wide, brown eyes, and saw they too were wet and shining, pained with longing for the paradise they had dared to dream. The floodgates opened and soon, he was sobbing.

"I'm not ready," he confessed. His throat warbled. He felt so very small in her embrace. "I thought I would be, but I'm not."

"Harry," she cried and grasped him tight in a desperate hug.

The two held each other close, every limb curled around the other, merging their bodies together. The last thing Harry ever wanted was to let go; he pulled her body into his own until not a single inch of space existed between them. The loose strands of his heart reached out and intertwined with her own until even the thought of pulling away made it ache in phantom pain.

"I'll never forget you," she whispered in his chest, hot and wet with her searing tears. "I will love you every day for as long as I live, until my very last breath."

The words settled in his head like fallen snow, building into a heavy blanket of content. Even knowing that he would soon never see Hermione again, that this may very well be his last night on Earth, beyond the immense sorrow of the end, there was a sense of peace that he found strangely enlightening. Holding the woman he loved most in the whole world reminded him just how lucky he really was to share even this fleeting moment of time with her in his arms.

"For as long as I could remember," he whispered, surrendering his final secret, "more than anything in the world, I just wanted my family back. But I know now, Hermione…" He took her face in his hands, weeping at her beauty, tears shimmering in the amber of her eyes, "you are my family. As long as you remember me, as long as you're safe and happy and loved - that's all I could ever want, in life or death."

"Harry..." she gasped. She gazed up into his face, her eyes shining with shock and amazement, but most of all, beaming out of her in waves, was love; so deep he could never reach the depths of it, so vast he could never see the edges. It was pure affection, complete and total, and Harry knew he felt every bit of it in return.

He cupped her chin and kissed her with every sinew of his being, pouring out his soul into her body, which she accepted with equal passion. The two lovers pulled back, stunned and exhausted from the exchange.

"You are the best of me, Hermione Granger," Harry said with a sad smile. He tucked the wild threads of her hair behind her ear, tracing the shape of her face. "You always have been. You always will."

Hermione wrapped her arms around him, gathering him so close that her lips brushed his ear. Then, she whispered something she had been burning to say for a long time, until it burst out of her in a single, quiet breath.

Two little words. That was all she said, but it was enough to make his whole body seize up.

Harry was suddenly weightless. Stars shined and died and sank before his eyes. The dark and cold of the room fell away and rose out of the shadows, into the moonlight until the whole world shone in startling clarity. His senses reached out, feeling for an infinite second beyond all time - scraping eternity - before slamming back into himself in the present.

In a single moment, his heart grew a thousand sizes, outwards beyond himself, swelling with affection until he was sure it would burst. That single moment of love he held for Hermione hit him harder than all the emotions he had ever felt before in his life.

Now, it was only her and the rest of the world, and the world felt so very small and far away.

"Hermione…"

"I know…" she nodded, smiling through sobs. "I know…"

Harry couldn't speak, so he nodded and he wept.

He held her as tight as he dared, not letting go for anything. She whispered to him, calling sweetly to him, with words not another single living soul would ever hear. That night was theirs, the last night they would ever have, and they spent it together - closer than they had ever been before.

When Bill awoke the next morning, his wife was already out of bed. That was odd, he noted, because she was never usually an early riser, but these were unusual times. Then again, he himself felt restless nowadays, especially with a Malfoy under his roof. Even with Harry's assurances that he wouldn't hex them in their sleep, Bill never could relax around Draco. They couldn't afford to be careless, especially with a war on.

The early sun was rising. The days were getting longer now, the mornings lighter. It was a silver lining during an otherwise miserable time. He and Fleur had taken to morning walks on the beach, as far as the wards could stretch, anything to get out of the house and admire the surrounding coastline. They were truly so fortunate to call this beautiful corner of the world their home.

It was a bubble; they both knew that.

Beyond the bounds of their property, the world was going to hell. People were dying. The government was collapsing. Everything they held dear was slowly being corroded. Bill wondered, should they lose, if there would even be a magical Britain this time next year.

Here, however, there was peace. He had some measure of a heaven on earth, with Fleur and the little one on its way. He couldn't imagine ever giving it up, but perhaps the world had other plans.

As he ventured down the stairs into the kitchen, Bill looked out the window toward the sea. At first he merely admired the scene, until he finally noticed a group of figures already standing on the beach, just by the tide. It was a tiny gathering, only five people in all. It was difficult to recognise them in the glaring sunlight.

There was a flaming head of red hair which could only belong to his brother, Ron, and with him the smaller form of his girlfriend, Angela. Nearby was a couple standing facing each other. Bill could just about make out a bush of outrageous hair that he knew to be Hermione's and there beside her was Harry's dark locks swaying with the soft wind. As he squinted, Bill finally saw Fleur's shining platinum blonde too, standing between them. Her arm was moving in a gentle repeated motion, as if incanting something with her wand.

A beam of sunlight streaked between them, so bright that Bill had to look away. When he looked back, Harry and Hermione were embracing. The two silhouettes on the morning sun had merged into one shape. Bill could hardly tell where one person ended and the other began.

They remained embraced as the rest of the group retreated. It was Fleur who walked through the front door first, arriving into the kitchen in solemn silence.

"Morning," Bill greeted with a curious smirk. "What were you guys up to?"

At the sound of his voice, Fleur turned to look at him, as if only now noticing that he was there. Her bright blue eyes were a raw red. She said nothing and wiped away a tear. With a sense of growing foreboding, Bill went to his wife and hugged her, reassuring her through shuddering jolts and soft sniffles.

Before long, they were joined by the rest of the group, Angela and Ron, and perhaps most concerning of all, they too were crying. Bill couldn't remember the last time he had seen his brother cry.

"Hey, Ron, what's going on?" Bill asked, nodding out to the beach. "What are they doing?"

Ron looked out the window to his two best friends, still caught in their embrace. His face remained stoic but his hand grasped Angela's in a shaking grip.

Once upon a time, Ron Weasley thought he knew everything that mattered. He thought he knew Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, who they were and what they meant to him. He was so sure that he knew them inside and out - they were his best friends, after all - that it would all three of them together forever, until the end.

Then, time passed and he slowly began to understand how little he truly understood them, how the tiny sliver of them he was allowed to see was nothing compared to what they shared with each other.

Ron had tried to fight it, but in the end he could no longer deny that he was always the odd one out, the one who had to catch up to them or be left behind. That simple fact of their relationship didn't hurt quite as badly now as it did when he was a boy. If anything, Ron had found peace in it. It was not a failing of his own, it simply was, because they were Harry and Hermione. It was always going to be their lives and his.

Now, Ron could only try his best to appreciate every second he got with them because in no time at all it would vanish before his very eyes. After today, he would never see his best friends again. Harry would soon be gone and though he may miss him to the end of his days, Hermione would never be the same. When Harry died, part of Hermione would go with him and Ron feared just how much would remain when the dust settled.

Today was the day he was going to lose his very best friends and he would be left here to linger on in the world they had sacrificed so much to protect.

Ron turned to his brother, not bothering to hide his soaked, blotchy cheeks.

"Saying goodbye."

Chapter Text

At the entrance to a shady, empty alleyway, a rat sank its teeth into a hollow bird carcass, picking the bones clean of any meat it could find. Its dirty fur was slick with rainwater. Its sharp teeth gnawed incessantly, fuelled by ravenous hunger. It tore at the rotting flesh and tendons until suddenly, there was a crash and a rumble of footsteps on the cobbles down the street. The rat startled and squeezed itself into a drain, its meal left abandoned.

The small patrol of dark-cloaked figures, drunk on their power, jeered as they stalked through the empty street that was once known as Diagon Alley. Now it was hardly even a ghost town. It was said that a resistance was brewing in this street; they'd all heard the rumours. Yet if there was a single person left, they had already scurried into their houses, locked their doors and boarded up their windows. Those who dared walk the streets looked down at the ground or turned and walked away. Anyone who did put up a fight? Well, they never stuck around long.

It was pathetic. All those jumped-up mudbloods talking about how they deserved a place in their world, and where were they now? They'd all run away. The Death Eater took a look around at the lifeless abode and grinned. Perhaps, all this time, they were merely waiting for people like him to come along and show what real power was. With all that blustering and whining about how they didn't have as good as anyone else, they were practically begging for a real wizard like him to show them what's what.

People called them terrorists, reactionaries, monsters, but this was just the way of the world. For some, power was their birthright. As for others? They had their place.

And so he thought for all the time it took for him and his little troupe to tread the length of Diagon Alley, to the door of Gringotts bank, where they were to be stationed. That was until a deafening roar pierced the sky, loud enough to make their bones rattle.

The group stopped dead in their tracks. They looked around, then at each other, their eyes darting everywhere as if suddenly realising just how big the cavernous alley truly was and how small they were in comparison.

Then, without warning, the roof of Gringotts Bank was torn open.

An explosion of glass, iron and marble rained down from the sky, pelting the cobbles by their feet. They looked up just in time to see a scaled snout emerge from the ruin, then a head, then a long, winding neck covered in scales, like a behemoth of a snake rising up and out of the building.

Within moments, a shadow fell over Diagon Alley, cast by the body of a great dragon sat upon its peak, the marble architecture bending under its weight. Unseen by anyone on the ground, upon the back of that dragon, sat the people responsible for its newfound freedom.

Harry grasped the thin spines lining the creature's back with one hand, holding on as tight as his fingers would allow. With his other hand, he gripped Hermione, holding her flush to his chest as she, too, held onto the dragon's back, clasping her moleskin pouch so tightly that her fingertips might pierce through it. She couldn't lose it now, not with Helga Hufflepuff's cup stored safely inside.

Behind him, holding onto the dragon's back for dear life, was Tonks, her form having shifted back to her violet hair and heart-shaped face, but still wearing the ghastly green robes she had used to disguise herself as Narcissa Malfoy. Harry couldn't see Draco in the commotion, but his screams were nearby enough to reassure him that he hadn't gone far.

"You're all crazy!" Draco's voice shrilled into the wind. "You're completely insane!"

"Stop shouting," Hermione bellowed back, "or you'll agitate it even more!"

With a rush of wind that could rival a hurricane, the dragon unfurled two mighty wings and spread them out until they blocked the sky.

"How do we control this thing?" Tonks yelled.

"We don't," Harry yelled back. "It wants the same thing as us: to get the hell out of here!"

"And what if it decides it wants lunch?!"

"Then make sure it eats Malfoy first! His hair gel will ruin its appetite!"

Draco's response was quick and eloquent.

"I hate you all!"

The sunlight graced the dragon's sallow scales for the first time in its life. It breathed in gallons of fresh air, filling its lungs with the taste of freedom. Its tired eyes looked up into the sky, at the layer of grey clouds hanging above, and saw only another ceiling it had yet to break through.

The creature gave one more horrible cry - in victory or grief or agony, no one could be sure. It pushed its hind legs with enough power to crack the foundations of the ancient building, launching itself up into the heavens. Its shadow rolled across Diagon Alley, drenching it in darkness. Moments later, the shadow had passed, and the dragon was nowhere in sight.

The Death Eaters cowered in the corner of an empty building, having suddenly lost their bluster. They heard the caterwauling of alarm bells from inside the bank, and the frantic footsteps and screams of goblins fleeing the wreckage. They gave each other a panicked look from beneath their hoods, quickly turned and fled.

Diagon Alley was left in the smoking, ringing aftermath of the first act of what was to become the final battle of the war.

The dragon's ascent took them up into the sky, higher than Harry had ever travelled on a broom, into the dark clouds sitting above London. The chill of freezing rainwater washed across their skin as they crashed into their first cloud. Harry had only a second to shield them as the air turned frigid and thin.

Just as Harry was about to cry out for them to jump, the grey disappeared, and they emerged into a brilliant white world. It took a moment for Harry's eyes to adjust to the sudden shift in brightness, but when they did, the air was snatched from his lungs. He heard Hermione gasp by his side as she finally summoned the courage to open her eyes and look around. As the dragon finally levelled out and began to glide, the group sat up and admired the view.

They were flying over a carpet of silky, fluffy wisps of cloud, as far as the eye could see. The sun gleamed above them, sitting in the bluest sky Harry had ever witnessed, free from obstruction. It was like stepping into a picture of heaven.

Despite knowing that his meagre shield was all that stood between them and the unbearable cold of the atmosphere, Harry imagined reaching out and gliding through each of the cotton towers around him. Weightless, boundless, flying free into the wonderful forever.

Perhaps this was what awaited him, he realised. Perhaps, this was his first glimpse into the next great adventure. Suddenly, it didn't seem all that frightening. It might have been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

That was until he looked beside him, gazing into the eyes of the woman at his side, her radiant brown tresses gleaming with the light of heaven. This moment, and the woman he shared it with, was the only adventure he could ever need.

Then, as suddenly as it had climbed, the dragon dipped back into the cloud layer, soaring into the grey. The dragon continued the long journey North, underneath a grey ceiling. It had tasted its freedom for just a moment, and that was all it needed for now, as it quietly delivered them to safety.

The group arrived at Hogwarts to find it almost deserted. The students had long since been evacuated and transported to separate lodgings provided by Mr Dalton. His estate was large enough to hold them for a day or two; that was all the time Harry needed to end this.

They parked their brooms in the courtyard and ran into the Great Hall, opening the vast doors and appearing before the gathered company. There was the Order of the Phoenix, of course, walking between the crowds, handing out smaller weapons from Fred and George, and sorting them into groups. There were the Weasleys, standing out with their shocks of red hair, Mrs Weasley fussing over each of them in turn - even Bill, who plainly needed it the least.

Kingsley was at the far end near the teachers' platform, addressing a small gathering of whom Harry could only assume to be Aurors, all of them poised rigidly at attention. Tucked away in a corner, Mr Dalton was handling a large rifle, his deft fingers - moving with the precision of someone half his age - loading silver bullets, gleaming with Basilisk venom, into the chamber. Amidst the white noise of chatter, Harry could even make out Mad-Eye barking orders in his usual hoarse bellow, prompting an oddly nostalgic feeling in him for just a moment.

However, the majority of people crammed into the giant hall were people Harry couldn't recognise. Several dozen, maybe a few hundred wizards and witches - young and old, tall and short, stoic and scared stiff - yet all of them here and ready to fight. Hundreds of eyes turned towards him, glistening with excitement at his mere presence, and Harry felt a barb of fear shoot down into the tips of his toes.

He straightened up, trying to at least appear like the chosen one they needed him to be and not the anxiety-riddled teenager he knew he was. That was when he felt Hermione's hand slip into his own, and from that moment onwards, he was no longer acting; he was the man who could do anything.

His eyes scanned the edges of the hall, meeting as many eyes as he could, before they finally caught on a spec of red and gold. Harry stopped, suddenly recognising the group of students loitering at the edges, practising their wandwork. There was Seamus Finnegan, who had conjured a large fireball, with Neville on hand beside him with a stream of water. Lavender Brown was waving her wand repeatedly in the Expelliarmus array with Parvati Patil, who was copying wand movements from her sister, Padma.

There were even more people he recognised: Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Su Li, Megan Jones, Anthony Goldstein, Hannah Abbot, Lisa Turpin, and even Tracey Davis from Slytherin. Amongst them, instructing a small group of sixth-years was Ginny, who had summoned a flock of bogey bats to the awe and disgust of her audience of peers. Standing at the head of this small band of students were Ron and Angela, who both lit up upon noticing his arrival.

Harry marched over to them, politely nodding whenever someone caught his eye or stepped forward to wish him luck. By the time he finally arrived at the assembly of students, Ron was there to meet him, looking very proud of himself.

"Who are these people?" Harry demanded. Ron grinned.

"Nice to see you made it out in one piece," he laughed, rolling his eyes at Harry's stern expression. He gestured over his shoulder at the students. "They volunteered to stay and fight. Don't worry; I've explained the risks already. I doubt you're gonna talk them out of it, but you're welcome to try."

"We're all of age, Harry," Padma spoke out, holding her sister's arm. "It's our choice."

"You can't do it all by yourself, you know," Seamus smirked.

"Besides," Neville added, looking more confident than Harry could ever remember, "we wanna kill that bastard too."

Harry looked over the small crowd of determined students and realised that he was fighting a losing battle.

"You realise that once the fighting starts, there's no backing out?" he said. The sea of faces nodded. "The people we're up against will not hesitate to kill anyone who stands in their way. You need to be prepared to do the same."

A murmur echoed through the group until one student, Lisa Turpin, stood forward.

"We understand."

"It's not too late to step away now," Harry continued, looking each of them in the eye. "There's no shame in it, either. We're not soldiers. We're kids. We're not supposed to be here. I don't expect any of you to lay down your lives, especially if your family needs you safe."

There was another murmur amongst the students, quieter and less enthused. Then, to hushed gasps, Anthony Goldstein emerged from the crowd.

"I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't raise his eyes from the floor. "My mum... she wouldn't be able to-"

"It's okay," Harry reassured him. "Well done." He turned back to the crowd. "If it were my choice, all of you would be going home. This isn't a game or a lesson. People are going to die. If you're not ready to fight, it's better to go now while it's still safe."

To their credit, the majority of the crowd remained still. Only a tearful Leane Moon and a few sixth-year students joined Anthony. Harry quickly summoned Mr Weasley, who guided them out of the hall. He regarded the rest of the students, their resolve visibly shaken.

"I don't know most of you half as well as I should," he said, "but the fact that you're here means more to me than you can imagine. Dumbledore would be proud of you all."

In his place, Hermione took the limelight and began the same brief that would be given to the adults.

"This won't be your typical battle," she announced. "This will be a siege. Hogwarts is a castle, we have numerous defensive measures, and we're going to use them. We expect You-Know-Who will let his minions do the fighting for him, but should he appear - if you do see him at any point - you retreat immediately. There's only one person who can hold his own against him," all eyes suddenly shifted to Harry, "and he'll be their main target anyway."

"You-Know-Who isn't interested in slaughtering everyone in the castle," Harry added. "He'll want this over with as soon as possible with the least amount of casualties."

"We have something he wants," Hermione unconsciously gripped her moleskin bag, "and he's going to use everything at his disposal to get it, which means we have the advantage.

"You will group yourselves into pairs and team up with an Auror. It's your job to help them reinforce our lines as they focus on disabling the enemy. You must follow their orders precisely.

"They're not here to babysit you; they're here to fight. You will be expected to look after each other. Don't go rushing into fights. You won't win. You sit and you hold a position for as long as you can until you're forced to move back. If the siege breaks and they manage to invade the castle, you retreat to one of the designated safe-rooms."

"I recommend you try and get some rest now," Harry said. "It'll be a long night. You might not get another chance."

The first warning that Riddle had discovered their plan came not an hour later.

A ripple of anger rolled through Harry's skull, one he knew wasn't his own. He sat down, turned his thoughts inward and listened. Flashes of Riddle's rage burst through the connection as he screamed and hurled curses at his followers. As soon as they appeared, they were gone. Not even Riddle realised what he had done, which made this the perfect opportunity.

The Horcrux pounded inside Harry's head, linked to its master's soul. Ever since Harry learned of its presence, he wanted nothing more than to purge it from his body. Now, he was going to use it for his own designs.

With the connection freshly ripped open, Harry centred his mind and laid the bait. A picture of the cup sitting in front of him appeared in his head as clear as day, the gleaming gold encrusted with rubies. He allowed the image to sit in his mind's eye for just a moment. Too fleeting, and Riddle wouldn't even see it. Too long, and he would know that it was Harry's doing.

No sooner than he had conjured it, the thought was banished. Then, Harry sensed it: the outrage, the indignation. The panic. It had worked. Tom now knew, and yet he was still none the wiser.

Harry gasped and opened his eyes, grounding himself on the stone tiles beneath him. Riddle was on his way. A throbbing pain seared against his forehead, thrumming under his fingertips as Harry rubbed his scar. Keeping the connection open, even for a brief moment, was dangerous, but it was worth the risk.

Only one more night with this wretched thing, and it would all be over.

The words echoed in his head, each time getting louder and louder until they suddenly came into sharp focus and a heavy weight settled in his stomach. This would be his last night at Hogwarts. This would be his last night ever.

Still, it could be worse, Harry thought. He couldn't imagine fighting this hard for this long, all the while believing that there was a future for him beyond the war, only to find out at the eleventh hour that he was always doomed to die. At least this way, he could appreciate the seconds ticking by and make peace with his fate. After all, was there any place he'd rather be on his final day than the only place he ever truly called home?

Harry walked through the halls of Hogwarts for the last time, taking it all in while he still had eyes to see it with. This used to be his sanctuary, but now it was a fortress. Where there used to be students running to and from class, loitering in the halls, laughing, shouting, now there were only soldiers preparing for battle.

A bright light shimmered across the sky, falling into a protective dome as the castle's ancient wards activated. There was no turning back now. Tonight would be the most important of Harry's life, and he was going to have to sacrifice everything to win.

Harry was about to make his way back to the Great Hall when he finally noticed Draco standing by one of the ornate windows, staring up at the sky in a state of dread that took Harry by surprise. Not since his attempt to murder Dumbledore had Harry seen Draco this anxious, so utterly cognizant of how far out of his depth he was.

In an instant, his mind was cast back through the year as memories of their very first meeting resurfaced, when they were children being fitted for their school uniforms in Madam Malkin's. Never had Harry met a person he had so quickly grown to detest, what with the way the Malfoy heir held himself, the way he casually insulted him, the way he spoke with a bored indifference to everyone and everything.

It was a very different Draco Malfoy standing in front of him now, preparing to take part in a battle against the very man whom he had been raised to venerate like royalty. Despite all their differences over the years and their endless loathing for each other, by some strange quirk of fate or convenience, they had ended up on the same side.

"Last chance to run," Harry announced as he approached, jumping the pale boy out of his stupor. Draco regarded him with his usual disdain, tinged with chagrin.

"Where on Earth would I run to?" he replied. Harry was forced to privately concede on that point. There was no home for him to run to, not anymore. No mother or father to hide behind now. There was nowhere else for him to go, but Harry didn't come to see Draco grovel. Even he wasn't petty enough to do that.

"They're still alive, you know," Harry said finally. Draco glanced at him in confusion.

"Who?"

"Your parents."

The boy blinked, his shoulders sagging with unspoken relief.

"Well, that's good, I suppose." He was silent for a moment, his attention drifting off into space. His face contorted with regret. "They're never going to forgive me, are they?"

Despite Draco's pain, Harry could only imagine that as a good thing. Losing favour from two of the vilest people Harry had ever encountered, who kept company with monsters, hardly seemed like much of a price to pay for doing the right thing. Then again, in Draco's eyes, they were family, however much that meant.

"It's not them you need forgiveness from," Harry replied. There was a glint of what looked like guilt in Draco's eye, but it was quickly smothered. The Malfoy heir returned to staring out of the window, pointedly ignoring Harry's presence.

A rush of people hurried past them to their positions. The hour was close at hand. Leaving Draco to his thoughts, Harry took the chance to depart. It took until he reached the end of the corridor for Harry to realise that what had just occurred may very well have been their final conversation.

A pity, he thought. He'd always hoped to get in one good punch.

The rampart exploded by Harry's shoulder, showering him in rubble. He grunted, pulling Lavender to the side just in time to stop a curse from splitting her in half. He quickly fired one back, ducking as another curse came barrelling at him.

Lavender's scream filled the air. They were pinned. He chanced a peek from his cover. Three assailants, all aiming at their conjured barrier. Using all his might, Harry aimed at the nearest Death Eater and pushed a stream of fire out of his wand. The air was ignited in searing heat. He heard a scream and the scrabble of feet on gravel.

Harry vaulted from his spot, pulling Lavender by the hand. She fired off a stunning spell as they dived behind a pillar. There was a slumping sound from across the courtyard. Lavender cried out in triumph.

"Great shot! Don't lose focus!" he bellowed, just as another curse blasted the side of their pillar.

Bill Weasley was firing spell after spell beside them, his teeth sharpened into points as he continued his relentless barrage. Harry pushed Lavender behind Bill, who ushered her to the crate of vicious lava bombs. She wasted no time in hurling them through the gaps in the wall, only just dodging a hex aimed at her head as she did so.

The floor of the courtyard erupted into a volcanic mire. An unbearable heat filled the air as the stone tiles were covered with superheated ooze. The Death Eaters scrambled out of cover, right into Harry's line of fire. He popped a couple of curses, deflecting another into a fleeing Death Eater.

An almighty crack shattered the air. Lightning filled the sky. Bill looked up, his eyes widened in shock.

"They've broken the wards!"

There was only one person with the raw power to do that, an act so terrible that even a curse-breaker like Bill didn't think it was possible. Harry knew better than to underestimate his enemy by now. Above all other thoughts in Harry's mind, however, two truths came into sharp focus: Riddle was more desperate than they realised, and they all were in deep, deep trouble.

A chorus of pops surrounded them. Before they could even react, five more Death Eaters appeared out of thin air. In a moment of instinct, Harry banished a nearby bench into a group of three. The wooden surface crashed into them, sending them sprawling into a wall. It splintered on contact with the stone. Harry summoned the broken pieces and sent them flying towards another Death Eater. They dodged just in time, retaliating with spells that whizzed past his shoulder and shattered the glass display cabinet behind him. A golden plate rattled to the floor. Channelling his magic into a banishing charm, Harry shot the plate like a supersonic frisbee at his attacker. There was a wet slice, and a body fell to the ground, the plate embedded in a nearby wall.

Just as Harry was about to turn and find a new opponent, a bludgeoning curse caught his arm, throwing his body across the hallway into a pillar. Thankfully, the spell had only clipped him; his arm would only suffer a bruise, but the collision with the stone pillar had effectively winded him. He rolled over, raising his wand as a Death Eater loomed above him, about to skewer him with a conjured stone spike.

Suddenly, there was a rattle and clunk as a mace collided with the Death Eater's head, knocking them out cold. The robed figure dropped like a stringless puppet to reveal a suit of medieval armour standing behind him. The suit nodded dutifully at Harry and turned to search for a new invader to fight.

The rhythmic, clanking march of metal on stone filled the air as one by one the hallway was beset by an army of empty, metal men, each wielding flails, swords and spears. The Death Eaters screamed, pointed and fired off curses to no avail. A couple managed to blast an oncoming suit of armour apart, only for the pieces to jump up and reassemble like nothing had happened.

A few attempted to escape, retreating to the open courtyard, only to be beset by stone gargoyles swooping down and pelting them with wide wrap webs. The Death Eaters were caught in sticky, white webs larger than fishing nets and stronger than steel. Harry made quick work of them, as even more appeared to take their place.

It was then that Harry felt a searing pain in his forehead. A vision bombarded his head of something falling from the sky, landing amongst fire, screams and chaos. Hatred, fear, fury. He was going to kill them all.

Harry opened his eyes. Riddle was on the field.

He turned and sprinted down the hallway, firing curses at every Death Eater he saw as he went. He didn't stop for anything, dodging and firing but never once slowing down.

In less than a minute, his aching feet delivered him to the entranceway, looking out at the central square. There was Voldemort, caught in a duel against three others who were only just holding him off. There were bright lights everywhere as each combatant tried and failed to keep him at bay. It wasn't long until two had been vanquished. McGonagal and Kingsley were swept away with a wall of light and launched into the rubble, leaving only one to face the Dark Lord. Harry's heart leapt out of his chest as he finally recognised her brown bushy hair.

Riddle was bearing down on her like a lion stalking an injured antelope. Hermione desperately fired curses at him, but she was no match for him and was quickly losing ground. Riddle's soulless, crimson eyes sparked with fiendish delight. He raised his wand with the intent to kill.

"RIDDLE!" Harry roared, louder than he ever had in his life.

The Dark Lord stopped. His concentration left the little muggleborn witch as he searched for the fool who would dare call him by that wretched name. He didn't have to look far before he found none other than the Boy-Who-Lived, facing him from across the rubble. Harry gave Hermione a pointed look. With not a second wasted, she sprinted out of sight. Riddle let her run. She was nothing to him, not compared to this.

The two stared at each other for what felt like years, the enormity of this foretold moment dominating everything else. Harry looked at Riddle's hand, grimacing at the sight of his pale fingers coiled possessively around the Elder Wand, Dumbledore's wand. Severus was dead, of that he was certain. Riddle would not suffer who he believed to be its previous owner to live, and as Dumbledore's assassin, Snape had served his duty well, a decoy for Riddle's unquenchable lust for death. Harry's heart pounded as he imagined those fingers reaching into Dumbledore's grave, plucking the wand from its occupant's corpse, his serpentine face split open with a horrible smile, just like it was now.

Then, like a cobra, Harry struck.

A well-aimed Bombarda hurtled towards Tom's head. Riddle swiped it away, only to back-peddle as three more curses followed. With a flourish, he twisted the ancient wand, sending a swarm of dark magic at his younger opponent. Harry side-stepped just in time. He aimed his wand at Riddle's feet, ripping the cobblestones from underneath them. Riddle faltered but remained upright, banishing another spell while conjuring an unholy display of sorcery at Harry.

The boy sprinted behind cover, levitating the cobblestones and up around. They whistled through the air in their flight at Riddle's back, but Riddle was faster. He twirled and dissolved each stone into dust. Riddle whipped his wand back, turning to fire another spell, but to his shock, Harry had closed the gap.

Harry wound up, aimed and, with all his strength, landed a blow precisely on Voldemort's jaw. The Dark Lord reeled, almost tripping over his cloak. One thin hand clutched his face. Shaking fingers wiped his lip. He stared at the drop of blood on his fingertip, as if he had forgotten he had any at all. His red eyes glared at Harry in astonishment.

It was clear that this was the first time that Riddle had been punched in a long time. Despite the seething ache in his knuckles, something bubbled up in Harry's chest. It felt good, he realised, to make Riddle remember just how mortal he truly was.

That victory was short-lived. Riddle screamed. A shot of lightning fired from his wand, straight towards Harry. Harry only just managed to block it, his shield shattering in his face and blindsiding him. It was just long enough for Riddle to bellow, "CRUCIO!"

Harry's very next thought was of agony seizing his entire body. He cried out as pain boiled everywhere. He crumpled to the floor, folding in on himself. Waves of pure torment rolled through him, down to his bones. Muscles he didn't know he had awakened to a new type of excruciation. He screamed as the curse ripped through his very being, until his throat closed up, damming his cries of pain.

One by one, Harry forced his eyes open. He looked up at Riddle, who was snarling down at him in glee, revelling in his torture. Harry gripped his wand in his spasming hand. He begged his arm up off the floor, begging every nerve in his poor limb to raise his wand, and somehow they did. Riddle watched in dawning concern as his enemy, even in the throes of absolute excruciation, aimed his weapon and fired.

Riddle was forced to end the curse, swiping the spell away with little effort, but it stopped him in his tracks all the same. Despite his body being ready to give up, Harry raised himself on tremulous legs and fixed Riddle with a piercing glare, channelling all the hate, rage and defiance he had left.

He was drenched in blood, dirt and sweat. The aftermath of the Cruciatus curse wracked his every limb. At any moment, he felt he might collapse onto the ground. Yet, he stood tall, refusing to look away as he faced the most dangerous wizard alive.

And Riddle, who until that moment had regarded Harry Potter as nothing more than a recurrent nuisance, a child pretending to be a hero, felt the cold fingers of fate closing in around him.

So, Tom did what he had always done when faced with the inevitable. He cheated.

It was only Harry's unparalleled reflexes that allowed him to duck in time to spare his head from a cutting curse. He rolled to the side, ducking as Bellatrix sent a second curse past his back. Another curse clipped his coat from Nott, forcing him to spiral out of the way to avoid Riddle's own.

With a whirl of his wand, Riddle fired a volley of hexes at the boy. Harry raised his shield, just in time to feel it collide with a wall of dark magic. It was like a tidal wave of sheer power, pressing down on him as Bellatrix and Nott fired their own curses into the mix. Harry held it for as long as he could until finally, it cracked. The teenager buckled and flinched away at the burst of light. He opened his eyes only to see the rubble surrounding him rise into the air and come crashing down towards him.

That was when he felt a pull on the back of his collar as he was dragged away, just as the stone pillar crushed the floor behind him. He skidded to a halt by a pair of muddy boots, looking up only to see Hermione standing above him, her wand raised at Riddle, her face set in silent contempt. It was moments like this where Harry found himself falling in love with her all over again.

The Death Eaters readied their wands at the couple but stopped as, suddenly, a battle cry sounded from all around them. A dozen people came charging out of the alcoves into the courtyard, besetting the Death Eaters with spells, so many that even Riddle couldn't hope to stop them all. Fizzing fireworks rained down from the ramparts, coating the floor in sparks. The clunking of iron boots sounded as suits of armour marched ever closer in perfect formation. The air rushed as gargoyles swooped through the air.

Riddle began frantically sending blasts of magic all around him, but nevertheless, they kept coming, swarming from every direction. Despite his overwhelming strength, the army of Hogwarts had risen to meet him and would not be so easily thwarted.

That is, until, in a furious display, Riddle exploded. A ring of destructive power surged outwards as Riddle forced his magic through the mythical Elder Wand in every direction. The suits of armour melted into molten piles of metal. The flying gargoyles crashed and shattered into dust. The Weasley twins' tricks and gadgets sparked, sizzled and liquified.

The entire company was forced to hide as Riddle's hatred scorched the air and singed the stone around them. Harry reached out to grab Hermione, only to be thrown away, catapulted into the chaos.

There was a deafening bang and a rush of air. Then, there was silence.

Soon, only Riddle and his followers were left in the steaming, scorching remains. The Dark Lord wilted, winded from exertion. He regarded the wand lying in his hand as a stinging sensation buzzed in his fingertips. For a moment, Riddle wondered if he had finally tasted true power.

As the Death Eaters stood tall and alone in the smoking rubble, it seemed that the battle was quelled. However, one person arose, as he always did, and Lord Voldemort rose to meet him. His emerald eyes met Riddle's red.

"You've... stolen something from me, Potter," Riddle wheezed through his sneer. "Where is it?"

Harry tilted his head, feigning confusion. Slowly, his hand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a dirty, gold cup, much to Riddle's alarm. He threw it across the courtyard at Riddle's feet. It rolled and landed on the ruined ground, revealing a dark, mangled hole in its centre. Riddle's pale, monstrous face went slack in horror. Bellatrix turned from her typical ivory to a putrid shade of green.

"Whoops," Harry drawled. "That wasn't important, was it?"

Riddle stared at the cup, then at Harry. Then, without a word, he raised his wand and fired a sickly green curse. Harry watched it race towards him. He couldn't run even if he wanted to. His body was completely spent. All he could do was stand there, knowing he was about to die.

And yet, he was at peace. He had done what he could; he had fought until the bitter end. A shame that Riddle's ugly face would be the last thing he ever saw.

"HARRY!"

Suddenly, Harry was shoved out of the way as a weight barrelled into his side. He landed with a heavy thud on a pile of rubble. He turned over just in time to look upon his saviour as a blast of green engulfed them.

In the singular second it took Harry to recognise her bright pink hair, Tonks went limp and fell to the floor. Her body collapsed in a pile of lifeless limbs. She was dead.

A hoarse, broken wail ripped its way out of Harry's throat. He crawled over to her, broken brick and wood stabbing his knees and ruining his elbows as he went. In his numb panic, his hands clutched her face, cradling her still-warm cheeks. Her eyes rolled lazily in their sockets. Her head lolled atop her neck.

A high, shrill laugh echoed through the dead air.

"Pathetic."

Through the billowing smoke, the black robe of Lord Voldemort emerged, moving silently across the ground towards them.

"I wonder, Harry, how many more people will have to die before you can face me like a man?"

By now, Harry could hear the murmurs of people all around them, beginning to rouse. Soon, they would emerge from their cover and resume the fight. A fight that Riddle had no intention of prolonging.

"If you do not surrender by dawn, the sun will rise on the corpse of every man, woman and child in this castle. You will be the last to join them in death. The choice is yours."

With a wave of his cloak, Voldemort and his followers disappeared.

Those who remained eventually found Harry amidst the rubble, still holding Tonks' body. When Hermione appeared, she took one look at the person in Harry's arms and gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock. Soon after, the rest of the Hogwarts army appeared. The Aurors solemnly began their search for the dead. The Order gathered around him to mourn their friend and comrade. The students were deathly quiet. For some, it was the first time they had ever seen a dead body.

Harry didn't speak, not even to Hermione. There was nothing left to say. He looked at the people surrounding him, studying their faces, his weary mind imagining them all with limp bodies and lifeless eyes. In his head, a silent sea of corpses stretched out before him, and he alone was left to walk amongst them.

He promised that it wouldn't come to this. He'd told himself that Teddy would know his parents, that he wouldn't grow up in the shadows of their ghosts. Yet, despite that, he had failed Tonks. He had failed Remus. Most of all, he had failed his godson, who would suffer most for his mistake and who deserved it the least.

In the end, Hermione came to kneel in front of them, her tears falling onto Tonk's cold skin, whispering in quiet, empty assurance. Harry watched her mourn for her friend, the mother of her godson, and his treacherous mind imagined her in the same position hours from now, her tears falling on his behalf.

Chapter Text

After a thorough search of the castle, the Aurors returned with the horrible news. In all, over fifty people had died in the battle. The majority of them were fellow Aurors, who gave their lives defending the civilians and students. Mad-Eye Moody had been hit with a killing curse in the back while protecting Seamus Finnegan, who was still sitting on a bench in Great Hall, caught in silent shock.

The rest were volunteers, few of whom Harry knew, but he remembered some of their faces from his arrival earlier that day. Those made his stomach turn, but worse were the ones he had never seen before, meeting them for the first time as they lay lifeless in the Great Hall. He was almost sick with relief to find that, miraculously, none of the Weasleys had suffered a loss. Fred and George had come close, with George nearly losing an eye and two of Fred's fingers being severed while rescuing Parvati Patil from a Snatcher.

The students were by far the fewest of the casualties, mostly sustaining various minor or even major injuries. Lisa Turpin had caught a particularly nasty curse to the stomach that refused to close, but fortunately, Hermione had been there to keep her stable until Madam Pomfrey could close her up. Meanwhile, Terry Boot's leg was mangled, and he would be confined to a bed for the foreseeable future until it could be regrown. Susan Bones had been forced to duel a Death Eater after her Auror had been killed, but she held her own for over a minute, only catching a nasty concussion from a falling rock as the ceiling collapsed on top of them mid-duel. Otherwise, she was alive and well. Three students, however, were not so lucky.

Hannah Abbott was helping a fellow Hufflepuff with a broken leg when a killing curse clipped her head. The Hufflepuff girl, whom Harry learned was named Sarah, had refused to leave her side ever since. Harry hadn't seen Hannah since she left Hogwarts in sixth year, after the news of her mother's death by the Death Eaters spread throughout the school. Apparently, she had chosen to return and complete her education in memory of her late mother and stayed behind to fight the people who had taken her life so callously. Neville, who had grown very fond of her in the past year, was distraught at the news. She was a kind, driven and brave young witch and now her body was among the honoured dead.

Vincent Crabbe had been found amongst a pile of black robes, the Dark Mark emblazoned on his arm. He had tried to pick a fight with Kingsley, only to be quickly disarmed and skewered by a suit of armour. Despite his turn to the Death Eaters, he was still a student of Hogwarts and his body was laid in the corner, on the far side of the Great Hall. Above all else, despite their history, Harry pitied him. Seeing the corpse of a young man barely older than himself made all ideas of schoolyard rivalry in Harry's mind seem paltry. He wondered if Crabbe's father, one of Riddle's inner circle, would recognise his own hand in his son's death, that his madness had driven his child to an early grave.

When the fighting had finished, Draco, who for some reason had chosen to stay, sat beside Crabbe's body and just stared. Harry could only imagine what the boy was thinking, whether he realised it might have been him lying there instead, had he not chosen a different path. How long had the two known each other? They were already familiar when they ran into Harry on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of their first year. Had they been childhood friends? Then again, Harry wondered if they were ever truly friends at all. Perhaps Draco was wondering the same thing.

At last, Harry stood at the foot of Colin Creevey's body, watching in numb horror the still, slackened face of the boy who had always looked up to him. He wasn't supposed to be here. All the underage students had been evacuated for their own safety. Colin, however, had somehow snuck back in, desperate to fight for the school he loved. He was a child, small for his age, his cheeks still round with youth. He had just wanted to help and now...

It was more than Harry could bear. He grabbed the edges of the invisibility cloak and draped it over his shoulders as he marched out of the Great Hall, feeling the weight of those fifty lives pressing down on him as his boots trudged through rubble. The courtyard was a mess, columns and walls torn down into gravel, littering the ground. The moon hung above him, and small fires seethed all around him. There were flashes of red on the cobblestones.

Perhaps, Harry thought, if he removed the cloak, someone might see him and stop him. What were the chances he would come across another person on the way, someone who would finally give him the answer he needed, the way out he had been desperately looking for? That was the old Potter luck, wasn't it? Except, he knew it was the last cry of the child he used to be. The man, who had experienced enough death and misery and pain for one lifetime, knew what he had to do.

Onward he walked, through familiar halls now ruined in the aftermath of the battle. His mind was silent as he did so; he refused to think. Only when his feet touched the grass on the edges of the castle grounds did Harry stop. He took in a deep breath of cold air and felt it sting his lungs.

An unfathomable weariness clung to his bones. The lids of his eyes pulled downwards. There was a persistent ache in his head, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He stared at the line of trees, the gateway to the Forbidden Forest. There, he knew, Riddle was waiting. The time had finally come.

As the thought settled in his mind, Harry felt something tug at his trouser leg. He looked down, right into a pair of large, gleaming eyes belonging to Dobby the House Elf. The tiny elf gripped his jeans with his small fist, as if he alone would stop Harry in his tracks.

"Harry Potter mustn't go to him," Dobby warbled. "He mustn't."

A pang of guilt twinged in Harry's chest. He had never told Dobby that this was always the plan; he didn't want to cause the poor house-elf any more grief. Yet, he should have known that Dobby would not simply allow him to go to certain death. After all, that was how Dobby had entered his life in the first place.

Harry knelt before his friend, so that they were eye-to-eye and said, "I have to. I'm sorry, Dobby. You can't save me this time."

The marble globes that were Dobby's eyes grew wet with tears. His long, bat-like ears sagged. His whole body shook underneath the many jumpers and socks he was wearing, making him look like a vibrating laundry pile. It was almost comical, were it not tragic enough to break even the coldest of hearts.

Then, between harsh sniffles, Dobby whispered something that took Harry aback. "Please don't leave Dobby on his own, sir."

Harry had always assumed that, once he was gone, Dobby would use his freedom to go off and have adventures of his own, that he would have so much to do and no time at all to miss anyone. Yet, time and time again, Dobby had come back into his life; always happy to see him, always eager to help. Perhaps, he finally realised, that was no coincidence.

"Dobby," Harry spoke carefully, holding the little elf like a frightened child, "there's a little boy out there called Teddy Lupin. He's my godson." Dobby nodded frantically, hanging on his every word. "He's not very old... and he's just lost both of his parents. He'll need someone to look after him, and I had hoped that someone could be you."

Like a balloon filling with hot air, Dobby rose up until he was standing straight, suddenly reinvigorated. There was a spark in his eyes that Harry had seen a few times before, like he had just been given the most important mission of his life.

"I will, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby promised. "Dobby will make sure little Teddy is safe."

A great weight was lifted from Harry's shoulders. At least now he could leave his godson with something worthwhile. Perhaps he was inviting some small measure of chaos into Teddy's life with Dobby's unending loyalty, but there were few people he trusted more to protect his family. Teddy would grow up with another person he could rely on, someone who could and would do anything to help him. That was worth more than all the gold in Gringotts.

Without warning, Harry reached down and wrapped Dobby in a hug, who squeaked, before grabbing his shoulders to reciprocate.

"Thank you, Dobby," Harry said. "I'll miss you."

"Dobby will miss you, too, Harry Potter."

As he reflected on the strange and wonderful few years they'd known each other, Harry could only hope that he had been a friend worthy of Dobby's manic devotion. He hoped that Dobby knew just how grateful he was for everything he had done. Even if he had failed Kreacher, at least there was one elf in his care that would go on to survive the war. Dobby deserved that, a life of peace and love, with a family who would treat him well, one that he chose to serve and protect of his own accord.

After some time, the wizard and the house-elf finally parted, and with a snap of his wiry fingers, Dobby vanished before Harry's eyes. Harry stared at the empty space for a few moments before rising to his feet.

It was strange. Saying goodbye to Dobby should have brought him some measure of closure, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he felt the raw tear in his heart yawning open. Every second, he felt a door closing behind him, and through the gap, he saw the faces of his friends and family. How he wished he could meet Hagrid for tea in his thatched hut one last time, or spend the evening with the Weasleys at the Burrow for just one more evening. He would give anything for one more party in the Gryffindor common room, even if he could only sit in the corner and watch it all pass him by. He hadn't even said goodbye to Hedwig.

So many little moments that he wished he could travel back to, all to avoid one more step forward into the dark.

"Harry!"

A pair of footsteps raced behind him, growing louder as they approached. Harry let them come, both glad for their company and dreading it all the same. Sure enough, Hermione and Ron appeared before him. Their cheeks were flushed; beads of sweat clung to their skin.

"What are you doing?" Ron huffed. "You can't just wander off like that."

Harry Potter looked at his two closest friends, trying to muster something, anything, but he had nothing left to give. A cold hand had reached into his chest and scooped him out.

"I'm going to face him," he said with dull, lifeless words. He caught their eyes. "Just me."

Ron looked confused. Harry dared not look at Hermione, in case he lost his nerve.

"But- But he'll kill you," Ron said as if waiting for the twist in Harry's plan, the clever trick that he would be using to somehow escape, just like he always did. Harry just looked at him, saying nothing, watching second by second as the hope in Ron's face faded away.

"I don't…" Hermione's voice stuttered as her throat closed up. Her body began to tremble, but not from the cold.

"Once it's done," Harry forced the words out, "he'll come right to you, so don't waste that chance."

"When what's done? Harry-"

Harry turned to Ron exclusively now, grabbing his shoulder urgently. The taller boy looked at his hand, then back at him with growing panic.

"Ron, I'm sorry, but this is it."

"Wait- no- why're you…?" Hermione's shrill voice spluttered.

"No," Ron shook his head, his face turning a shade of purple, "this isn't happening."

"Ron."

"I won't let you do this, mate."

"I have to," Harry insisted. "If I don't, he's going to kill more people. I can't let that happen."

"Even if you do this, he won't-"

"I know." His fingertips dug into Ron's lanky shoulder, silencing him. "So, you kill him first. No one else dies. Only me."

Hermione had resorted to making hysterical, wordless noises, glancing frantically between the two boys. Ron gawked at his best friend, refusing to understand what Harry was telling him.

"This is stupid," he scoffed as his eyes began to glisten. "Surely we can- I mean-"

"Wait - just wait, Harry-" Hermione begged.

Harry brought his hands up to pull the lanky boy towards him. The two boys collided in a clumsy hug. Ron slowly, then ferociously accepted the embrace, his broad shoulders shaking. As they parted, Harry couldn't help but smile Ron's face, now flushed as red as his once-ginger hair. He never appreciated how it did that, nor how it made Ron look like a tomato. It was the tiniest things he found himself missing as the seconds slipped away.

"Look after her for me," Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "And your family."

"I-I will," Ron replied, just about holding himself together. "Of course, I will."

"Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione cried.

"Thank you for being my brother," Harry whispered. Ron nodded as tears slipped down his freckled cheek.

Then, Harry summoned up what little courage he had left and turned his other best friend. Her large eyes were a raw red; her fingers fidgeted with her jumper. Her hair was even more ragged than usual, forming a wild mane around her beautiful face.

"Stop it," she said as he approached, "just stop it!"

Harry took her hands in his, holding them tight, feeling how cold they were. He brought them to his lips and gently blew on them, kissing them, holding them to his mouth. He had to keep them warm. He couldn't leave her with cold hands.

"Hermione…" he gasped. His tears leaked on her fingertips.

"No," she said resolutely, shaking her head. "I won't let you. You're not going."

"Oh, my gorgeous…"

"You're not! You're not…"

Desperately, she brought her face towards his, pressing their foreheads against each other. The tips of their noses brushed, their breath mingled. For a moment, Harry felt the chill inside his chest burst into a flame.

"I'll go with you," she begged.

"No, please." He threaded his fingers into her hair, feeling the soft strands for the last time. "I need to know you're safe, 'Mione. I-I can't do this... unless I know..."

He heard her sniffles erupt into inconsolable sobs. Her arms ensnared him and pulled him close until there was no space between them.

"I don't want you to be alone," she bawled.

"I'm not alone," Harry breathed, stroking her head, pouring his affection into her. "And neither are you. I'll always be with you."

The two lovers parted only enough for their faces to meet in a soft, mournful kiss. Had they willed it, it might have lasted forever. Harry seized the moment to feel her lips on his, burning the sensation into his mind, so that it might be his final thought forevermore. Eventually, however, even this precious moment soon ended.

"I love you, Harry," Hermione whispered, her final vow. "I love you more than anything."

Harry locked her words into his heart, the only treasure he would ever hope to take with him into the hereafter.

"I love you too, Hermione," he spoke, knowing down to his very soul that they were the truth. He rejoiced in the knowledge and mourned for it.

Despite all the horrible turns his life had taken, all the years of loneliness and spite, all he could think about at that moment was what a lucky man he was to have known Hermione and to have loved her in his final days.

With great anguish, Harry let go of Hermione and took a step back. For a second, he hesitated, watching as the last lingering flames of hope faded from her eyes.

"Stay with me-"

"I-I'm sorry."

And then, Harry did the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He turned his back on Hermione and walked away.

"Harry?"

Her voice called after him, lost and hurt. The mere sound of it tugged on his heart, but he kept walking.

"Harry, please- Harry, please don't go!"

Every word was agony. It pulled at his chest like a hook; it forced him to feel the pain of every inch he stumbled forward. Each footstep became a blind battle as his eyes boiled with tears. Then, she began to scream. There was a sound of a distant struggle as he reached the tree line, Ron's voice pleading with her.

"HARRY, COME BACK! PLEASE COME BACK! PLEASE!"

Harry could only imagine what was happening - he dared not look behind him to check. He couldn't bear to see Hermione trying to reach him, begging him to stay as Ron held her back. One look at her face would be enough to unravel him.

"PLEASE, NO! HARRY!"

There was a dull thud as her knees fell to the ground, but her cries continued, devolving into horrific weeping that made his blood run cold. He fought every instinct in his body to turn right back around, run to her and comfort her, hold her, anything to ease the pain that was tearing her apart. The further Harry walked, the more he longed for her to stop, but she never did.

Eventually, the distant echoing cries fell out of earshot, but his mind refused to clear, his heart refused to mend itself, torn in two ugly halves.

In all his nightmares of that very moment, never had Harry imagined the sickness that was now consuming his body, the revulsion and pain that he felt as he remembered her screams.

That sound would surely ring in his ears for the rest of his life. The sound of Hermione, the person he loved most, in the worst pain of her life. For that, Harry would never forgive himself.

The forest was submerged in a deep darkness, beyond a lack of light but a total starvation. Yet, Harry knew where he was going, drawn by the invisible thread tying him to his final destination.

He had a lot of time to think about as he trudged the rough, forest path, his mind often returning to what was to happen to him. Would Riddle make it quick, or would he draw it out, prolong Harry's suffering until eventually allowing him to succumb to merciful death? Harry supposed it didn't really matter, in the end. Either way, he was going to die, and through that action, Riddle would be one step closer to death.

The sound of hooves interrupted his thoughts as the familiar face of Firenze appeared from between the trees. The centaur's silver hair glistened in the moonlight, trailing behind him majestically. It was strange, Harry thought. He could remember him being much taller.

"Harry Potter," he greeted stoically. "It's not safe to travel these woods."

"Just passing through," Harry replied. He glanced around at the trees. "Tell your friends I'm not here to hurt them."

"You are going to meet him?" the centaur asked in a voice that was uncharacteristically curious for a centaur.

"Yes," Harry replied.

"You will die," Firenze stated.

"Yes," Harry repeated, "but I've had a long time to come to terms with that."

The centaur regarded the young human with something like bemusement, perhaps reflecting on his own part in the events that had led up to this very moment.

"I never did thank you properly," Harry said, "for saving my life. After all the trouble it's caused you."

Firenze sighed a great gust of air from his barrel-like chest, in a manner more reminiscent of a horse than a man.

"I read in the stars that you would die in this forest by the hand of an enemy, yours and ours."

"I thought as much," Harry said. Despite being young and oblivious, it didn't take long for Harry to realise that Firenze's actions had gone against more than just a social taboo. They had disrupted the foundation of centaur beliefs, the authority of fate itself. "So why did you save me, all those years ago?"

"You were but a child," Firenze spoke softly. "It is one thing to foresee tragedy; it is another to stand by and watch as it unfolds before your very eyes. I hoped that I was mistaken. Now I realise I was only delaying the inevitable."

"No. You gave me seven years, Firenze. It made all the difference."

"I wish I could grant you more."

"I can't run, not while Riddle's allowed to torment more people. He dies tonight, no matter what."

"I shall walk beside you," Firenze declared, but Harry shook his head.

"No, I don't want you getting hurt, not for me. Riddle said that if I go to him, the fighting stops, and no one else dies. If you want to help me, then make sure that happens, please."

The proud centaur bowed his mighty head, a gesture that Harry mirrored, making sure to appreciate it for the honour that it was.

"I will do all I can. No more monsters of the forest will march on Hogwarts this night." The centaur turned to point down the path. "Your journey lies that way. Safe passage, Harry Potter."

With a gallop on the forest floor, Firenze quickly disappeared into the darkness, leaving Harry alone once again. Harry wished him well as he went, hoping that somehow that small action might make a difference.

His hands reached into his jacket pocket, removing something that he had kept there for months, just in case. His fingers touched the metal surface of the Golden Snitch, still gleaming even in the dim light around him. The words carved into its surface, 'I open at the close', called to him.

Harry raised the golden ball to his mouth and whispered, "It's time."

There was a faint click, and the Snitch unfolded to reveal a small, grey stone. Harry recognised it immediately. Of course, he realised, what else would Dumbledore think to leave him? What else could bring him courage in his final moments?

Placing the stone in between his fingers, Harry closed his eyes and twirled it three times, just like in the story. When he opened them again, he was no longer alone.

All around him stood pale, ghostly forms, but his eyes were drawn to a couple standing in front of him. It took Harry but a second to recognise them, and when he did, he was struck by duelling thoughts. The first was how remarkably he was to his father, so much so that had it not been for the brown eyes and square glasses, he might have been looking in a mirror. The second was just how young they both were.

Whenever Harry thought about his parents, he never stopped to consider their age. If anything, he imagined them to be much older, like Mr and Mrs Weasley, with wrinkles, grey hairs, the subtle signs of middle age, but James and Lily Potter were only twenty-one when they died on Halloween 1981. Harry was confronted with the sudden, horrible truth that little more than three years of age separated him as he was now from his parents on the day they died.

Until now, Harry imagined them as these noble, monolithic heroes who had defied Riddle again and again, ultimately sacrificing themselves so he might one day succeed. Now, he could only see them as they truly were: two scared, hopeless young people, like him, forced into a war, their circumstances so far beyond their control yet trying desperately to protect what mattered most to them, even at the cost of their own lives.

In that moment, their blurry, faint memories came into sharp focus. Harry finally understood his mother and father not as the stories he'd been told, but as the people they once were. Despite their phantom appearances, they had never felt more alive to him.

"You've been so brave, sweetheart," his mother said.

Her soft, gentle voice touched something buried deep within Harry's soul. Somehow, he recognised that voice. Whether it was merely his own idea of how she must have sounded, or if it really was the voice of his mother speaking beyond the grave, Harry couldn't possibly tell.

"You've come so far," the image of his father said, a sad, proud smile on his youthful face. "You've done more than anyone could ever ask of you."

Many times, Harry had dreamed of seeing his parents again. There were so many he wanted to say to them, so many questions he wanted to ask. In this moment, however, face-to-face with them for the first time, his mind had gone blank. He wasn't even sure if these were his parents, or rather, some hallucination caused by the stone. Harry remembered the story of the Three Brothers, how the apparition of the second brother's lost love begged for them to be reunited, acting as another tool in death's eternal reaping.

Perhaps this was why Dumbledore had left it to him. His old headmaster's final gift wasn't allowing Harry the closure of seeing his lost family again, but rather the cold comfort of a familiar face guiding him to the next great adventure. The anaesthetic he would need before committing his final act.

With this in mind, Harry had only one question.

"Does it hurt? Dying, I mean?" He looked at his mum and dad, begging them for some small reassurance, like a lost child. The two ghosts smiled kindly.

"Quicker and easier than falling asleep," his father said.

"And he'll want it to be quick," his mother added. "You won't feel a thing, I promise."

Harry gave a dull nod at the news.

"That's nice."

The ghostly figures gathered closer, and Harry took a moment to study their faces. Sirius and Remus looked at least ten years younger; the gaunt tightness of Sirius' face and the dark bags and frown lines of Remus' eyes were nowhere to be seen. Ironically, they appeared much healthier in death than they ever had in life.

"Sirius. Remus. I'm so sorry. I failed you both."

"No," Sirius replied, "we failed you. We weren't there for you when you needed us. And we died repaying that debt."

"I'd rather you hadn't paid it at all," Harry insisted. "And Remus, poor Teddy-"

"In time, he will understand why his parents died," Remus interjected, "to give him the life he deserved. He won't be alone. He'll have his family: his grandmother and his godmother. They'll look after him."

"I would've been there for him, too."

"I know. What happened to us wasn't your fault, Harry," he said, before his face curled into a grin. "Nym made sure I told you that. Otherwise, she knew you'd be a 'great miserable git' about it."

A laugh was forced from Harry's mouth, his heart lifting if only for a brief reprieve. It was almost enough to let him forget what he was here to do. To make his parents' sacrifice ultimately pointless.

"I know this isn't what you wanted for me," Harry said, turning to his parents once again. "I-I'm sorry."

"You've grown up, my son," his father said, "into a great wizard. And a good man."

"That's more than we could ever hope for... and we are so proud of you." His mother gave him a beaming smile that made Harry feel tall enough to reach the sky.

Even if these people weren't real, even if this was merely a trick of the stone, it had done its job. Harry was finally ready to meet his death. His only wish was that Hermione could be here, too. Then his entire family would be present to see him off to the unknown.

That was when Harry dove one last time into his pocket and pulled out his final treasure: a cutting of wild lavender. He held the precious flower up to his nose, breathing in its scent. He thought of wild, brown, bushy hair; large, dark eyes; books, jumpers, and quills. Most of all, he thought of the life they might have had, and he hoped that one day, wherever he was going, they would meet each other again.

"Can you… Can you stay with me, please?" Harry asked. "I don't think I can do this all by myself."

"Of course, sweetheart," Lily nodded. "We'll be right beside you."

"Only you can see us, after all," Remus added. "No one else."

"We're a part of you, Harry," Sirius said, "we always have been."

"And we always will," James promised.

With his loved ones at his back and his destiny ahead, Harry draped the cloak around him and stepped forward, following the path as it led him deeper into the forest. He heard no footsteps following behind him, but he knew they were all there, following just behind him. They promised, after all. That was enough to keep Harry walking, despite the terror that threatened to swallow him up.

His hands shook as he held the cut of lavender close. He breathed long, deep breaths, centring himself on the thin tightrope between anxiety and purpose. It wasn't far now, he told himself; he could hold on until then. He only had to be brave for just a little while longer.

Eventually, he came across an orange light filtering between the vast, towering tree trunks. It was a campfire, and all around it were dozens of dark figures, gathered in the shadows. Harry had found the Death Eaters with Riddle standing tall at their centre, holding the Elder Wand to his chest. Dementors floated above the gathered company, hiding in the darkness of the canopy, yet somehow their air of misery didn't seem to affect Harry as they once did. Perhaps that was the power of the stone protecting him, or maybe it was the spirits of his family, shielding him from despair.

Above Riddle, trapped inside a floating silver cage, was Nagini, his prized familiar. The giant serpent writhed, slithering against its constraints, its agitation at its own containment clear as day. Yet Riddle wouldn't risk her if he could help it, not when her life was connected to his own. Harry considered trying to kill her outright, but decided against it.

Even if he could fire a curse strong enough to kill her, should he miss or the spell simply fail against Riddle's protections, he would be met with dozens more from everyone around him. It needed to be Riddle himself who took his life; that was paramount. He had to fulfil the prophecy first. Then his friends could finally stand a chance at defeating him for good.

"No sign of him, my lord," a dark-haired snatcher announced from the trees. Riddle was silent, his head bowed as his gleaming, red eyes stared into the fire.

With careful steps, Harry ventured into the clearing, until he was mere feet from the inner circle surrounding their master like pack animals. Bellatrix was kneeling at his side, looking up at the Dark Lord with a frenzied devotion. Her face twitched, as if every moment she wasn't taking a life was agony to her.

Alongside her were many more of Voldemort's most trusted killers, all of whom Harry had faced once before, in the long, bitter months of war. He had looked into each of their faces more than once, matched them wand to wand in battle, and now he was here, surrendering himself to them.

His eyes finally came across Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and he cringed at the state of them. In the brief window of time since he had last seen Lucius in Malfoy Manor, the man had aged by years. His noble countenance had turned ragged and sunken, stress having carved him down to a sallow, simpering wreck of a man.

Narcissa, meanwhile, looked like the life had been sucked out of her. Her eyes had darkened into shallow holes, her cheeks had lost the tiny trace of colour they once had. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, no doubt agonising over her missing son. Had Riddle made them suffer for the loss of Draco? Or was there enough humanity left in them to make them suffer of their own accord?

A brief, sudden thought came to Harry's mind, telling him to run as fast as he could. The final cry of instinct, his mind realising that this was his last chance to turn back. Harry dismissed it.

Taking one last look at his family, silently wishing them farewell, he let go of the Resurrection Stone. It fell to the forest floor, and the apparitions disappeared. Harry was completely alone.

"It's almost dawn," Bellatrix growled, eying Riddle expectantly. "He's still not here."

The dark lord breathed through the thin slits of his nose, but hardly moved otherwise.

"How can you be sure he'll come, my Lord?" Yaxley dared to ask.

The Death Eaters watched their master, waiting for a response. It was then that Harry, with shaking hands, removed the cloak and revealed himself.

"How indeed?"

Riddle's head shot up, his eyes fixed on Harry. The Death Eaters swivelled in alarm, flinching at the sight of him. Bellatrix reared up, her fingers clasping her wand, begging to be used. Lucius seemed to shrink in his seat, but to Harry's surprise, Narcissa's face brightened, ever-so-slightly.

"Harry Potter," Riddle rasped, his high voice tainted with hatred and surprise. "The Boy-Who-Lived."

"Right then," Harry announced, his heart pounding in his ears, "you actually gonna kill me this time? At this rate, I'll die of old age."

The gathered company stood in stunned silence - Bellatrix glared at him with murderous intent, her hand wringing her wand - but Riddle merely laughed, a high, shrill hiss that tore through the air.

"Trying to be brave, Potter? There's no use. I can smell the fear on you. Your filthy parents reeked of it."

The fresh memory of his parents, the pride and joy in their faces, was enough to give Harry the courage to bite back.

"Oh, you'd know all about fear, wouldn't you?" Harry scoffed. "You've spent your whole life afraid. I should know. I've been inside your head."

He felt a glimmer of satisfaction as Riddle's confident smirk slipped from his pale face. Harry looked his lifelong enemy in the eyes, refusing to even blink as he delivered his final message.

"You're a coward, Tom, and you always will be."

If Harry was going to die, he may as well do so while spiting his lifelong enemy and judging by the way Riddle's face had twisted into an ugly, rabid scowl, he had done exactly that.

Enraged beyond words, Riddle raised the Elder Wand and pointed it at his nemesis. Harry closed his eyes, breathed his last breath and waited for the inevitable.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry's life flashed before his eyes in the instant the spell took to reach him. Memories of his life as far back as he could remember, from his very first steps, to the years inside his dark, lonely cupboard, to the bright, warm days of Hogwarts and beyond. Every adventure, every face, every heartbreak, all rushing by in a tidal wave breaking over him.

Until one final moment remained. That quiet spring night in Shell Cottage, the last night he shared with her. Hermione's body lying against his, her lips whispering into his ear those two little words that had written themselves onto his heart.

"Marry me."

There was no ring. There was no need, not for them.

They woke early to meet the sunrise on the beach, taking each other by the hand to recite their vows - with Fleur's guidance, Ron and Angela's witness, and the blessing of magic itself - the shining bond between them as clear as the glistening rays of the morning sun.

It was perfect, pure and true; a part of him that Hermione would covet for the rest of her life, and a part of her that Harry would take to the grave.

No one else would ever know that they were husband and wife - the others had sworn to keep their secret - but Harry felt the connection in his very being, as if all he had to do was reach out and he could hold Hermione's hand in his. The warmth of her love, like a constant companion, was never far away. In that sense, he was never truly alone.

Hermione Jane Potter, the one person who mattered most, was safe.

In that thought, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, met death with open arms.

Chapter Text

For a moment, there was nothing. Not the feeling of air on his skin. Nor the ground pressing against his back. Nor the steady pulse of blood running through his eardrums.

There was simply nothing. On and on it went. Nothing. Again, Harry tried to access his senses, to place himself in any realm of reality, but there was nothing. This must be death, Harry thought. This cannot be life. There was no pain. His life was defined by pain.

And yet, if he truly was dead, how was he thinking in the first place? Perhaps he was merely a spirit, the idea of Harry Potter floating in the ether, released from his mortal shell.

However, slowly, Harry came to recognise a new sensation. It was the weight of his own body. He was lying on a rough surface, soft and hard at the same time. The gentle sound of running water came into focus. The smell of dirt and cool air met his nose. It was as if someone was lifting a heavy veil from his senses, each one returning to him until, eventually, Harry came to.

Did he somehow survive? Was he still in the Forbidden Forest? No, that wouldn't explain the running water, or the birds calling in the treetops, or the warm breeze tickling his face. This was not the cold, dead Forbidden Forest. It was almost like...

Harry opened his eyes and saw gold. Everything was bathed in a beautiful golden light, beaming down through the canopy. Sitting up, Harry quickly recognised where he was.

It was the Forest of Dean. He recognised the brook, the river, the hill from which the sun peeked over the crest, bathing him in light. This was where he and Hermione had spent weeks together, hiding away from the war. This was where Harry had confessed his love to Hermione. This was where they became lovers on that fateful night.

All of a sudden, every ounce of fear or doubt fled his mind. This was a safe place. He might go so far as to say that this could only be Heaven, or some small glimpse of it. It wasn't truly Heaven, however, not to him. Despite the beauty and warmth that surrounded him, the almost drunken contentment that bubbled up inside him at the knowledge he was beyond his earthly suffering, no place could be paradise without her.

If this truly was Heaven, then it was a lonely one, Harry reckoned. Or was it?

There was a rustle somewhere in the undergrowth along with a pained, hoarse wheezing. It sounded like a dying animal, and it made the hair on Harry's arms stand on end. Harry stood up and inched closer to the brambled bush on the bank of the river. Through the dark leaves, he peered inside and spotted something lying on the forest floor.

It looked like a thin, malnourished body; pale, bloody, small, barely living yet still clinging desperately to life. It was disgusting. A primal nerve in Harry's brain wanted to stomp on it, to smear it on the forest floor until its harsh wheezing was silenced for good, and yet another part of him, his better half, pitied the creature. It was in pain. Every second of its miserable life must have been agony, yet it somehow survived, perhaps more out of fear than any sentient desire or ambition.

With trembling limbs, it crawled towards the rushing water until, with one last heave, it rolled into the river and was washed away. Harry followed the stream down the hill, watching in alarm as it led into a deep crevasse in the forest floor. It was a hole, so dark that the beaming, golden sunlight dared not touch it; all the cold, merciless horror of night contained in one wretched wound.

The dying thing floated on the water's surface, trying and failing to swim away, but it was powerless against the current. At last, the river carried it down into the crevasse, and it was gone. Wherever the water led, Harry knew it was somewhere from which it could never return. Perhaps there it would find some peace. Perhaps not.

"I shouldn't mourn for it, Harry," a very familiar, elderly voice spoke. "There was nothing to be done."

Professor Dumbledore smiled, rising from his seat on a fallen tree to greet him. This wasn't like any of the ghosts conjured by the Resurrection Stone. This visage of his old Headmaster was fully formed, beaming with life and colour. In many ways, he had never looked so real.

Of course, his beard was cleaner and more orderly than it had been in life, and he was wearing long, white robes, woven with a fabric that shone like moonlight. It was almost jarring to see Dumbledore wearing something that wasn't garishly out of fashion, but it suited him, Harry thought, and he was glad to see him.

"Hello, sir," he said, to which Dumbledore shook his head.

"There's no need for that, my boy. There is no due respect that you have not earned ten times over."

"You saw what happened?"

"I did." Harry had never heard the professor with so much pride in his voice, sincerity beaming out of him. It was the plain and honest face of a man who had been chained by secrets in life, now free in death. "I've been watching your adventures with Mr Weasley and Miss Granger with great interest. Or is it Mrs Potter, now?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at that, noting with joy the twinkle in his cerulean eyes. This person standing before him could only be Albus Dumbledore. He was in good company now. He could finally rest.

"Prying are we?" Harry smirked, to which his old headmaster merely shrugged.

"Forgive the curiosity of an old man," his white whiskers twirled into a cheeky grin. "I always suspected something might occur between the two of you."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, and I wasn't the only one. Minerva was particularly invested in your budding relationship, not that she would ever admit to playing favourites."

"Of course not," Harry shook his head, imagining how the corners of Professor McGonagal's lips would twitch whenever she tried to suppress a smile. "Anyone else?"

"Sirius, for one," Albus replied, not with any hint of sorrow, as Harry might have expected, but rather with fond recollection. "He was adamant that the two of you would get together eventually. He had this hypothesis that Potter men always gravitate towards the most intelligent women in the vicinity. Not in those precise words, mind, but in that spirit, certainly."

It wasn't hard to imagine what words Sirius might have used instead, but that did nothing to mask the truth in them. Harry had chosen the most brilliant witch of his age, just like his father had chosen his mother. Perhaps, in that regard, they were more similar than he realised. It was strangely heartwarming to know that he had come to embody that aspect of his parents. The spark of their love had passed down to him, and it, of his own accord, had manifested in his love for Hermione.

"I guess he was right in the end," Harry noted. His heart sank, remembering the long absence he had felt since Sirius' passing, the ghosts surrounding him as he walked to his death. "I've missed him. I've missed all of you. I'm sorry I wasn't able to-"

"Do not trouble yourself, Harry," Dumbledore quietly reassured him. "This is no place to dwell on regret."

The old headmaster gazed serenely over his shoulder, and Harry took the opportunity to once again appreciate his surroundings. It was a tremendously beautiful little corner of creation, whether it was real or not. Harry couldn't imagine a place he would rather be. In fact, he would happily spend eternity here, waiting for Hermione to join him. It would not be such a burden in a place like this.

"Where are we?" Harry finally asked. "Is this... the afterlife?"

"Oh, no, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Well, not quite. This is merely the front doorstep."

"And what does that make you? The doorman?"

Dumbledore wrinkled his lips in a wry expression.

"Perhaps, in an abstract sense. Think of this place more as a threshold, if you will, where one may decide to go on... or, in your case, perhaps to return."

Harry stopped. He looked at Dumbledore, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain what exactly he meant by 'return'. Return to where? He glanced up at the crest of the hill, the beams of light shining over it, scattering and colliding with the upper branches of the trees. Harry then thought back to the river, the water flowing downstream only to fall into the crevasse. Was that what he had meant? Was that choice laid out for him? To go into the light or down into the dark? Or maybe - surely he couldn't mean a return to the living world?

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "I died. Riddle, he killed me."

"He cast the killing curse upon you, yes," Dumbledore concurred, "and if it were anyone else, it may very well have been the end for them, but you are a unique case, Harry. The curse struck your body and cast out not one but two souls. Only one must pay the toll, as you've just seen. As such, the door is open to you, both ways."

For a moment, Harry refused to believe it, imagining this as one final test. He could sooner believe this might be some cruel cosmic joke preying on the last of his earthly desires. It was enough that after everything he had done, all the people he had let down and failed to save, he would be allowed to rest in a place of safety and peace. Surely, that was more than he deserved? Even his remarkable luck could take him no further. However, Dumbledore's face remained calm and serene, open and honest, and Harry felt a small spark of childlike warmth in his heart. It was hope.

"I-I can go back?" His voice was small, hesitant, waiting for it all to fall out from underneath him.

"Of course," Dumbledore said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, "if that is what you want."

The ground seemed to sway underneath him, like the deck of a rolling ship. The air came freely to him, plentiful and fresh, and yet Harry still struggled to steady himself. Dumbledore must have noticed as a warm, grounding hand landed on his shoulder, carefully guiding him to the fallen tree trunk.

"Why don't you take a seat?" the old headmaster offered kindly. "There's no rush. The flow of time runs very differently here. You have as long as you need to decide."

For that, Harry was extremely grateful. He sat staring at the forest floor for what felt like hours, his mind turning over each new piece of information. He could go back. He didn't have to die, after all. Somehow, the horrific, wretched web of fate that had tied him to his death was now the instrument of his salvation. For the first time in a long time, he could choose what happened next. He was free.

However, with all his elation came just as much anger. Once again, he had been kept in the dark. He had been blind all the way up to the moment of his death, manipulated like a pawn into the exact right spot, all for a greater cause. Harry had been so certain by the end. He had come to terms with his choice, counting down the days, trying to make his life one worth living and now it turned out it was all a lie. The one thing he thought he knew for sure - that he was a dead man walking - was merely an elaborate deception. Which left only one question:

"Did you know about this?" Harry spoke, turning once again to Dumbledore, standing vigil in front of him. "Did you know this could happen?"

Dumbledore stared down at Harry, his serene face slowly morphing into stoic unease, like a cloud shifting into grey.

"It was a possibility, but- let me finish," he insisted. Harry closed his mouth, resigning himself to at least hearing the Headmaster's case. Dumbledore shifted on his feet and proceeded. "I was never sure. I knew that, perhaps, with Voldemort absorbing your mother's protection and the presence of both you and the Horcrux in one body, there was a slim chance that you could survive a curse from Riddle's hand. But I could not reveal this to you-"

Harry guffawed, grinning with morbid agitation.

"Why am I not surprised?" he drawled, much to Dumbledore's shame. Nevertheless, the old headmaster continued.

"Because I knew that if I did allow you that small hope - as I so desperately wanted to - I would be damning you to certain death."

The words rang in the air. Harry blinked.

"What the hell do you mean?"

At this, the Headmaster's demeanour shifted again, the weight on his shoulders lightening. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Harry realised, with a growing anticipation despite his ire, that he was about to receive one more lesson.

"It's all a matter of intent, Harry. Think back to your first year, to the Philosopher's Stone hidden in the Mirror of Erised. Remember the enchantment that I placed upon it. What was the only scenario wherein one could successfully retrieve the stone from the mirror?"

Harry's mind raced backwards through the years, seven years past, to the night when he and his friends had decided to go after the stone. Down past the three-headed dog, between the vines of Devil's Snare, past the locked door with the winged key, across the giant chessboard and through the magical flames, entering the last and deepest chamber where Quirrel had been waiting for him.

He could still picture himself standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, wondering desperately how to find the stone. Only for his reflection to wink back before placing the stone into its pocket, and as it did so, a weight settled into his own.

Then, finally, he remembered Dumbledore's explanation in the hospital wing, the very simple principle behind his enchantment, so simple that it had remained crystal clear in Harry's mind for seven long years.

"If they wanted to find it but not to use it, only then could they take it from the mirror."

"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded. "It was a purity test for those whose ill intentions made them unworthy to wield it. The perfect defence. Quite ingenious, if I say so myself."

"I think you did," Harry noted. Dumbledore continued.

"Intent is a fundamental aspect of magic that most people completely fail to understand. I knew if there was to be any chance of your survival, your sacrifice at Riddle's hand had to be of pure intentions. You had to believe that there was no other way, that in doing so, you would be giving up your life so that others might live. Just as the purity of your mother's sacrifice protected you."

As Dumbledore spoke, the pieces slowly came together and Harry suffered the dawning realisation of just how deeply he had been deceived, how there was yet another wrinkle to the story of his life.

"I had to believe I was going to die... so that I could survive?" Harry said in disbelief at the magnitude of it. "You told me about the Horcrux... to save me?"

"Yes, although in doing so, I placed upon you an unimaginable burden. For that, Harry - for the grief and terror that you suffered - I am deeply sorry," Dumbledore sighed. "Had it fallen upon anyone else, that knowledge might have proved insurmountable, but you are a man unlike any other. The strength you hold within you would put even the greatest of wizards to shame."

Despite surely having no physical form and being beyond the toils of a mortal existence, Harry had never felt the weight of his body pulling him down like this. He couldn't stand up even if he wanted to. He was exhausted, beyond a tiredness of the body but a fatigue of the soul.

That fateful night in Dumbledore's office, when he had learned he was harbouring a piece of Riddle's soul, had never truly left him. Many times, mostly in his nightmares, he had been forced to relive that moment, hearing the words that ruined his life. Everything he felt in that moment would come seeping back into him, like poison: the helplessness, the rage, the sudden rush of horror as he realised his future had fallen out of his hands.

Except, now it turned out it had been in Dumbledore's hands from the very beginning. From the moment he had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep as a baby to the moment he was struck down in the Forbidden Forest, Dumbledore's invisible hand had been there, guiding the direction of his life to the very end. It was a supreme and calculated act of cruelty, of kindness, of play; Harry couldn't be sure. The one thing he did know was just how small he felt in the face of it, how little of his own he could truly call his own.

"I almost wasn't able to do it, you know," Harry eventually said in a quiet voice, more like a rattle from his throat. "I was so... scared. So many times, I wanted to just run away; leave everyone else to deal with it all. I'm not the person you think I am. Everything that I've been through, it didn't make me stronger or better... it ruined me."

A fire of righteous fury began to swell within him, enough for him to raise his head and stare at the man in front of him, the architect of his wretched existence.

"My life became a living nightmare," Harry seethed. "I put everyone I loved through Hell. If I didn't have Hermione or Ron or Remus or anyone else with me, I would've fallen apart. And now, it turns out that it was all just another part of your plan, that it had to happen that way. Am I just supposed to be okay with that?"

For a moment, Dumbledore did not respond. His face visibly aged. The twinkle in his eye died out. The glow in his robes faded into sullen ivory. Even the warmth of the sunlight on his face dwindled.

"You have every right to be angry at me for what I've done to you," Dumbledore said solemnly, "even if I thought it necessary. If there were any other way, some path that would have spared you from this pain, I would have taken it."

The elderly wizard stepped forward and gently sat beside him, his body wilting as he released a deep sigh of regret.

"When I was a young man, I once believed in such a thing as the greater good, but as I grew older, it only became clear to me what a false platitude it was. A lie to make sense of committing terrible acts in terrible circumstances. And you, Harry, have only proved that to me."

He turned towards Harry, the life slowly returning to his face. Harry stared back at him, seeing for once not the whimsical character that was the great and illustrious headmaster of Hogwarts - the greatest wizard of the age - but rather Albus, a man as fallible as himself.

"Fate has been cruel to you, my boy," he said. "From the moment you were born, you have been robbed of safety, family and choice. You were forced to participate in an impossible dilemma, one that few people, if any, could navigate and remain whole. It is the mark of the man you are that despite fear, despite pain, despite suffering... You faced death with love in your heart.

"That is the power that Tom Riddle knows not: to endure horrific circumstance and love fiercely, even in the shadow of death. That despite all that was taken from you, you gave up so much more for the sake of the people you love."

Great silver tears streaked down the wrinkles of his weathered face and fell into his beard. As much as Harry wanted to shout and berate him for what he had done in life, now he could not summon the rage to do it. It burned his chest and unsettled his stomach.

"I'm not sure if I can forgive you," Harry confessed. "I wish I could. I don't want to hate you. Honestly, I don't know what to feel."

"I cannot tell you to forgive my actions," Dumbledore replied, "that is not my place, but I will say that forgiveness is not to forget or excuse. It is to release a prisoner, only to realise that the prisoner was yourself."

Harry imagined the deep discomfort in his heart as prison bars constricting against it. He wished it were as simple as opening them up and letting his anguish fly out into the void, but as much as he tried, he simply could not. Nor did he desire to stew in this resentment for any longer. He wanted peace. He wanted his Mum and Dad. He wanted Sirius or Remus or Tonks or anyone else to reassure him, to tell him everything was going to be okay.

"Are my parents here?" Harry asked, looking up at the hill, the warm light calling to him. "Can I see them?"

"Only if you choose to go on," Dumbledore answered. "From beyond this place, there is no return."

There was the real choice. Everything that Harry had ever wanted was just over that hill, everything he thought he had lost forever was waiting behind him, and caught between the two was his heart, yearning for both.

"If I go back, I'll have to face Riddle again, and kill him." Dumbledore nodded, confirming his fear. The notion made his head bow. A selfish thought popped into his head, one that made him feel weak, and yet he had to voice it. "What if I don't want to fight anymore? I've been fighting my whole life. Can't I finally have peace?"

Harry half-expected Dumbledore to be disappointed in him for wishing something as basic as that, but perhaps what hurt more was the reassuring hand on his shoulder, the look of understanding on the old man's face.

"No one deserves it more than you, Harry. If you go back, you will indeed face hardships. There will be difficult days ahead... but there will be good days, too; plenty of them, that I have no doubt. There is no such thing as a perfect life, but so long as you keep the people you love close by, it will be a good one, I promise."

From somewhere in the forest, the call of a bird echoed and summoned his audience. It chirped and warbled, bouncing from tree to tree as the river ran its course and the wind rustled the leaves. The last time Harry was here, in the real Forest of Dean, he had wondered what a life of peace and quiet might feel like. The slow, simple, everyday motions of a life without Voldemort or the war, and most of all, with Hermione by his side, and Ron and all his friends and family.

A painful, beautiful longing resonated within him. He wanted that life, but did he want it more than his rightful, eternal rest? All of his lost family together again, never another bad day or lonely moment?

"It's your choice, of course," Dumbledore added, jostling him out of his rumination, "but if you want the advice of a very old man, then it's this: go back, Harry. Go back to Hermione and Ron and Teddy and the Weasleys. Love them with a heart unburdened by destiny or duty. And many, many years from now, when we all meet again, you can tell me stories of the life you've lived. A long and happy life, I'm sure."

Not for the first time, Harry realised that Dumbledore was right. There was one last great adventure waiting for him before he could move on to the next. Or rather, a lifetime of little ones that he had yet to live and someone whom he had promised to share them with. That was what he had promised, wasn't it? To love Hermione, always, even now in this space beyond life. And he knew, deep in his heart, what that meant. He had to return. He wouldn't leave her there all on her own. Not when they had the rest of their lives to live.

For Hermione, for everyone, he would live and live well.

Harry rose from his seat, not waiting another second, not while his heart was set. He turned to face the old headmaster, now looking at him with fond adoration.

"How do I go back?"

Dumbledore shuffled in his seat, looking around him as if this were the first time he had truly noticed his surroundings.

"Well, let's see. That way is forward," he said, pointing up over the hill towards the sun. "Hence, logically," and thankfully, he turned to point not at the end of the river, as Harry feared he might, but back into the misty forest, "that way must lead back. Which reminds me, what do you see when you look around you?"

"A forest, sir," Harry replied with bemusement.

"A forest, really?" Dumbledore replied brightly. "How fascinating."

"It's the Forest of Dean. Where Hermione and I first..." Harry blushed, deciding, quite wisely, to omit some intimate details, "became a couple."

"Ah, yes," the old man whispered in realisation, "I suppose that would be it, wouldn't it?"

"What do you see?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore stopped and looked around, as if silently debating to himself, then returned to Harry, a wry smile on his wrinkled face.

"A bowling alley," he said plainly, with no hint of a lie. "It was always my favourite sport, you know. Gareth was never any good at it, but he always took me here anyway, every year on my birthday."

Harry blinked. Of all the answers he was expected to hear, that was not one of them. Then again, Dumbledore was a man full of surprises, and Harry was sure there was plenty that he had only begun to discover. His partner, Mr Dalton, was but one of them. Maybe one day he might have time to learn them all. Until then, however, he had work to do.

"Would you like me to give him a message?" Harry offered. Dumbledore only smiled.

"Tell him he needs new socks. He always forgets to buy them, and no matter how many pairs I give him, he seems to lose them all anyway."

"Buy new socks? Is that all?"

"I'll see him soon enough," Dumbledore replied softly. "We'll have plenty to talk about then."

The old man reached out, and Harry politely shook his hand, noting how it was no longer black and shrivelled, but perfectly healthy and strong.

"Goodbye, Albus," Harry said kindly, as if addressing an old friend rather than an old man.

"Farewell, Harry," Albus replied with one last twinkle in his eye.

Wasting no more time, Harry turned and began to march into the forest.

As his boots parted the wisps of cool mist hanging above the forest floor, he looked back over his shoulder to check if he was going in the right direction, but Dumbledore was gone, nowhere to be seen. Harry was alone once again.

Yet he felt no remorse or fear, for he knew, one day, he would see Dumbledore again. Someday, he would reunite with his parents, Sirius, Remus and everyone else whom he had loved and lost. It may take him a very long time, but eventually Harry would return, and he would have so many stories to tell them.

This was far from the end. In fact, this was only the beginning of the rest of his life.