Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the plot.
A/N: Hi, long-lost old readers and any new readers I can welcome! I'm finally posting again, and this is my last Harry/Hermione story. Therefore, you can be sure that I put all the love and ideas I couldn't put in any of my other fics here. I expect I will be putting up a chapter every three to five days, no worries about it being abandoned. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
This story is HBP-compliant.
Nightingale's Song
One
Song of the Soul
"Good afternoon." The manager of the bookstore was cordial. "How may I help you?"
"I'm looking for books on magical rituals," said Hermione Granger, "especially those that have to do with the Dark Arts."
"The Dark Arts," the manager repeated. His eyes lingered on her glasses, which were supposed to disguise her.
Hermione thought quickly. "It's for research," she said. She forced in a foreign accent. "I'm writing a book on Defense and there aren't many resources in France."
"Ah, of course."
The manager was still frowning, but he was now making his way to the back of the shop. As Hermione followed, she noticed that Flourish and Blotts, usually a busy place, was almost deserted. It was fortunate; she would hate for a fellow classmate to betray her cover.
They had reached two bookshelves, holding books that seemed to date back centuries. Muttering to himself, the manager pulled out several volumes and handed them to Hermione. He stood watching as Hermione browsed through the books gingerly.
Hermione wished the manager wouldn't stay. Nevertheless, she soon found the information she wanted in a particularly old book.
"I will buy this one," she said. When he glanced at the cover and seemed to hesitate, she told him, "I will pay you double."
The manager took the book and headed back to the register. "This is one of the few copies left in Britain," he said, "The Splitting of the Soul."
-
Godric's Hollow was not conducive to receiving visitors. Its only hotel had not been renovated in years; the rooms were cramped and the furniture was in varying state of decay. Even the dining lounge, which could be considered spacious, would have benefited with the addition of working lights.
Hermione had been the one to convince Ron and Harry to stay here. "It would be very suspicious for three strangers to suddenly appear here and camp out," she'd said, firmly dissuading them from their original idea of camping near the site of the old Potter cottage.
It had also been her idea that they should each arrive and obtain a room separately, under the guise of sightseeing. That wasn't a particularly brilliant idea; the village was in its rainy season when all its charms were hidden beneath a layer of grayness.
The morning was, unsurprisingly, rainy. Being the only one to be up at an early hour, Hermione studied the overcast sky as she ate the soggy hotel food. She smiled in greeting when a familiar figure sat down beside her.
"Good morning," Ron said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. He was bolder when nobody else was around. "I'm glad you finally got here."
"I missed you too," Hermione said. "How are you?"
Ron wrinkled his nose at the cold toast on his tray. "Well enough, although I miss Mum's food. The food here is ridiculous. How are - Hermione," he said, glancing down at the book bag on her lap, "brought some light reading, I presume?"
Hermione lightly slapped his hand. "Don't tease," she said. "And to answer your question, I did enjoy my two weeks in London. How's Harry?"
"If you ask me, he's been looking a bit peaked," said Ron. "He's allergic to the food here - not that I blame him too much - and he came down with a fever a few days ago."
Hermione's stomach knotted slightly.
The lounge was starting to fill with people, though most of them seemed to be villagers or local travelers. Hermione and Ron began to catch up on everything that happened since Bill and Fleur's July wedding. After Ron finished with his story about the haunted house near the hotel, he looked up and glanced toward the doorway.
"Oh, there he is!" he said, pointing.
A minute later, Harry was sliding into the seat across from them. "Morning. Do you realize it's raining again?" he said to Ron.
"I've noticed. How's your fever?"
"Your doctoring worked," Harry said. "How're you, Hermione?"
Hermione shrugged. "I'm fine," she said, "and you're not," she added silently, taking in his appearance.
"Hmmm. That's good."
This was as good a time as any, Hermione decided. "Well," she said, lowering her voice, "now that we're all here…did either of you get my owl?"
Harry looked at Ron. "I just got it this morning," Ron said. "Hermione sounded excited about something."
"I am." Hermione took out the book from the bag. She glanced around the room, making sure nobody was looking her way, before she said, "I found a book on the Horcruxes."
Ron and Harry both reacted, though in different ways. Harry's face whitened considerably, while Ron's cheeks flushed with excitement. "I thought this kind of books would be banned!" he said.
Hermione went on, "It's written by someone who did a lot of research on historical figures who did make Horcruxes and succeed. Of course, none of them exceeded three Horcruxes. The author also came up with many theories about how Horcruxes really work. Most was speculation, but a few were supported by historical evidence."
She stole a look at the boys, both of whom were now looking expectant.
"The ritual of making a Horcrux is actually the easier part," Hermione said. "You only need an object of your choice and a piece of your soul, and recite a short incantation to embed the soul in the object."
Ron frowned. "Then it's too easy. Anything can be a Horcrux, if the maker of the Horcrux has enough magic and time to perform the ritual."
"Exactly. That's what Dumbledore told Harry, but I didn't realize its significance. Extracting a soul, however, is much harder. It takes much ill will and magic to break off a piece of human soul."
"A lopsided two way street, then," Ron said.
Hermione considered. Strange but effective analogy. She took a deep breath. Here was the hard part. "Harry, have you ever considered that you might be a Horcrux?"
It was an idea that had come to her in a dream. She couldn't shake off the vision, even though she knew it was absurd. However, Harry did not think so. While Ron was staring at her, eyebrows raised, Harry was meeting her eyes steadily.
"Yes."
His eyes were green.
Ron exhaled so loudly that a couple sitting nearby turned around. He ignored them. "You've both lost your minds," he said. "If that were the case -"
"There is a way to get around it," Hermione said. "There was a rumored case in history of a double Horcrux. There is another ritual. You can take the piece of soul out of a living Horcrux and put it in another Horcrux. The original Horcrux would have to suffer the same pain of splitting his soul, but souls can be extracted from other souls."
Ron began to speak, but Harry cut him off. "What happened to that Horcrux?"
"The book was vague on that part," Hermione said. She couldn't quite meet his eyes. "The Horcrux…did live for a few more years."
Ron rose, face flushed with anger. "I can't believe you," he said, but his harsh voice belied his words. He grabbed Harry's shoulders and shook him. "Do you understand what she's implying? Do you believe her?"
Harry bent his head and did not answer.
"I'm going out for a walk," Ron said. "Maybe your heads would clear by then."
He released Harry and left.
Harry stood up too. His hands were trembling. Hermione reached over and grasped them in her own. "You believe me?"
She knew he did, but she needed him to say so.
"Yes." Harry's voice was dull. "I do. I should go too. Ron's forgotten his umbrella."
Hermione sat there, gasping for air. She was aware that a few people were watching her, but she couldn't spare any room in her head to care. Harry had once mentioned that everyone must choose between what was right and what was easy.
She desperately hoped that she'd done the right thing.
-
Even though the three of them were on speaking terms by dinnertime, Hermione found sleep impossible. She had never felt such gnawing guilt, not even when she'd told McGonagall that an anonymous person had sent Harry a Firebolt.
She sat up when she heard dull thuds coming from a room nearby. She thought quickly. Yes, it was probably Ron's room.
"Heavens know what he's doing at this hour," Hermione muttered, drawing out her wand as she headed into the dim hallway. Back at the Burrow, Ron used to tap walls if he wanted, well, a midnight rendezvous. But Hermione knew that neither of them was in the mood.
The thuds became louder and more insistent. Hermione followed the sound. The door was ajar. After a brief debate with herself, she pushed it open.
"Ron?"
She tried to turn on the light, but it flickered and died. "Lumos," she whispered.
Light from her wand lit up the room. The bed and desk were both empty. There was only one other place he could be.
The toilet flushed. Hermione's heart jumped when Harry, instead of Ron, came out of the dark bathroom. "Hi, Hermione," he said. "Did I wake you?"
Hermione felt her face warm with embarrassment. It figured that she would confuse Ron and Harry's rooms. "Well, I heard - I thought I heard…what happened to your hands?"
Harry looked down. His knuckles and his nails were bloody. "Oh, that. I had a nightmare. Scratched myself, probably."
He sounded casual, but Hermione saw through the lie at once. She pushed him aside and went into the bathroom. "What were you doing to yourself?" she demanded, staring at the red patterns on the gray tiles. Except the words had come out wrong, and what Harry heard instead was, "What were you doing to the wall?"
"I was - I can't sleep."
Hermione bristled. "Do not lie to me," she said. She grabbed Harry's left hand and examined it. He had evidently used what healing charms Flitwick had taught them, though he'd done a shabby job. "Look at your hand. There are cuts and bruises all over!"
"I told you, I can't sleep!" Harry shouted, pulling his hand away.
Hermione flinched, suddenly comprehending. Of course he couldn't, not after what she'd told him. She reached up and brushed his cheek. He hadn't look so vulnerable since Dumbledore's funeral. He seemed lost and helpless again, and this time Ginny wasn't here to lead him.
And I don't know if I can take her place. "I'm sorry," she said, apologizing for many different things all at once.
Harry tensed under her touch. Hermione let her hand fall. "Don't be. You did what you have to do."
Did she? Hermione wondered. Or did she pile responsibility on Harry because she did not want to burdened with the knowledge alone?
"I don't understand," he said softly, almost to himself. "I defeated Voldemort when I was a baby…you would think that I am stronger now, but I'm even more helpless…"
"Maybe I'm wrong," Hermione said. "You might not be the sixth Horcrux."
He laughed, except it sounded like a hiccough. "You're never wrong."
"Then maybe - maybe there's another way," she said. There couldn't be, because magic just didn't work like that, but she had to say it. "I will try another bookstore."
"There isn't enough time," Harry said, and Hermione knew that was true. The Horcruxes.
"I think I know where the fourth Horcrux is," she supplied. Somehow her hand had curled around his again. "It's at Grimmauld Place."
Harry caught on immediately. "The locket, if Mundungus hasn't sold it. We can go tomorrow." He paused. "Hermione…is the ritual painful?"
She squeezed his clammy hand; she owed him the truth. "I'm afraid so."
"But…you will be able to perform it?"
"Yes."
She heard Harry draw a shuddering breath. "All right…that's all set, I s'pose. I will go back to bed now."
"I'm - I'm just two rooms down, if you need me," Hermione said, as she lingered at his doorway. "You…sleep well."
Harry just shook his head and gave her a tired smile. In the half-illuminated room, he looked haunting, beautiful. Hermione felt her breath catch painfully, and she had to turn away.
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