Chapter One.
An illuminated clock tower stood like a blue-hued beacon against the black sky. Dense cloud and a drifting fog obscured from view any stars whose light was visible against the electric orange glow of the buzzing streetlamps or the subdued glimmer of the clock face. According to the hands it was nearly three a.m. To the one person awake in the little village it could have been any time at all.
For time seemed to have little meaning these days for Harry Potter. Nights spent fully awake, days filled with endless ponderings and poring over maps and antique catalogues; constant research into the possibilities and permutations of the mind of Lord Voldemort and into what sorts of precious objects the most evil dark sorcerer of all time would wish to diffract his soul.
This was the reason why he found himself here, in the middle of the night. He was somewhere in Wales, though he couldn't be sure where. He was no great geographer. In any case, he wouldn't have been able to pronounce it; it was Abercwmdyddderi, or something like that. The sort of place name that should have bought a vowel years ago. But that wasn't tremendously important; after all, it hadn't bothered his parents so why should it bother him?
The night time wanderings had become a feature of Harry's recent life. On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, his last night at Privet Drive, he announced to the Dursleys that he would leave them the next morning to go off and join the war against Voldemort, and that it would most likely cost him his life. He remembered the odd look of horror which flashed across Aunt Petunia's face at these words; it was a look that haunted his dreams. Even worse was the little sob she let out when he forced a `thank you' from his mouth for allowing Dumbledore's magical protection to work for all these years. He thought it was what the great man would have wanted him to do, even though it cost him every ounce of humility he possessed. It was then, at the end of their connection, that Harry really appreciated that deep down, very, very deep down, Aunt Petunia was, after all, a blood relative. On some well concealed sub level she remained Lily Evans's sister.
Harry had strode from Privet Drive at exactly eight o'clock the next morning. Uncle Vernon had already left the house and Harry, accompanied by Hermione and Ron, said a last goodbye, informed them that the magical qualities of the house were now totally removed and then left with just a mumbled goodbye. He summoned the Knight Bus and headed straight for the Ministry of Magic in London.
Harry remembered the strained trip, the beginning of a strained relationship with those two closest to him. They bombarded him with questions about what he was going to do; well, Ron asked once and didn't open his mouth again after the verbal lashing Harry handed out. Hermione, though, was her usual persistent self, demanding an explanation and adding threats that she and Ron would leave at the next stop. Harry told them nothing was stopping them doing just that and he wouldn't stand in their way if they chose to abandon him. He secretly wanted them to; he knew his path would lead them into great danger and had resolved to keep them away from it as much as he could. Still, the hurt look on Hermione's face at the suggestion still filled him with terrific guilt.
Once at the Ministry (Hermione's threats had proven to be hollow) Harry marched straight up to Level Six and after a heated discussion with Wilkie Twycross (which ended with Twycross being threatened at wand-point by Harry) a hasty Apparition test was arranged. Harry passed first time, apologised to Twycross and left with his license before anyone really knew what had happened.
This was crucial to Harry's plan. Already wracked with years of guilt at putting his friends in danger Harry had decided to do as much of the actual Horcrux hunting as possible alone. He was content to let Hermione do the research (why deny the girl her first love) and let Ron think up extraordinarily complex and highly imaginative plans to destroy the various pieces of Voldemort's soul, but when it came to the really dangerous act of actually venturing into the world to find them he was determined to do this by himself.
Which was why night time had become suddenly the most convenient time of day. For one thing it provided the cover of darkness. This had been a problem for Harry for a very short space of time. After a covert visit to Fred and George's flat Harry told them that he needed a special potion which would allow him to see in the dark. This need, Harry demanded, was not to be repeated to either Hermione or Ron. Fred and George seemed to know what Harry was thinking and within a few days of the request had brewed up the NightSight Solution, on the condition that once the war was over they could market it as a novelty product.
The night also had the dual advantage of being the time when Harry could escape from his constant shadows. Hermione seemed to have read Harry's mind about his plans to slip away and was following him around wherever he went, hoping to stop him in the act. Harry, however, had finally found the determination to learn complex magic skills and spent most day hours practising and practising non-verbal spells, Occlumency and Legilimancy with Hermione and Fleur, who were the only two capable of performing the spells and helping him in the house. The Burrow was a hive of activity in preparations for the wedding, which had to be put back due to Bill's meat craving becoming all-consuming at the time of the full moon. In this atmosphere of distraction Harry confined himself to his room or the field behind the Burrow where he could practice spells or study his books on advanced magic, both defensive and offensive. And he was becoming quite proficient.
In fact, Harry had even invented his first spell. He kept this very quiet from everyone (not even Ron knew) for it was quite a violent spell. Harry comforted himself that the desire to make it work came from his thirst for revenge and the determination to protect his friends, and to have to commit any atrocities on his own so they wouldn't have to. If love was to be the weapon which finally ended Voldemort then Harry decided it must have a devastating manner of expression. These things were not likely to be found in The Standard Book of Spells.
So Harry had taken to inventing his own. He was, in part, inspired by Snape's boasts about being the Half-Blood Prince. All the spells in that book had been invented by him, so using them against him would be pointless. Harry knew that the only way to defeat Snape was to do something unexpected, something he hadn't seen before. Hence the reason for creating new spells, building an armoury of weapons that Snape, or Voldemort, wouldn't be prepared for. Harry was willing to pit his good, `love weapons' against the baddest tools that the Dark Arts had to offer.
This had meant an extended stay at Hogwarts and long hours, usually at night, in the library. Harry had pleaded with Headmistress McGonagall to be allowed to use the castle and its resources, pointing out that he needed to know everything he could to have any chance against Voldemort. McGonagall had reluctantly agreed and Harry strongly suspected that the constant presence of a certain groundskeeper was the only thing that swayed her decision.
Still, it was a strange experience. Harry was used to Hogwarts by dark; he had taken so many night time wanderings of the castle that he felt he would have known his way around it blindfolded. Even so, this incarnation of the castle was markedly different from anything he'd ever known. It was cold. Not in a chilly, frosty way, but in its atmosphere. The castle was empty; no students, no teachers, no activity. It was quiet and still and haunting with only the house elves and Hagrid providing any life in the old place. The sense of solitude was stark and surreal to the bustling activity of the Burrow and Harry had long decided that he disliked each in equal measure.
But needs dictated, leading Harry to spend hours poring over ancient volumes illustrating just how a wizard would go about inventing his own spells. It was a mixture of amalgamating complicated parts of old words long out of use and pairing them with an appropriate wand movement. Harry's first attempts were abject failures; he was using the trusty Room of Requirement to create test scenarios which tended to be little more than a room full of masked Death Eaters. These were the subjects on which he would try out his new spells.
His early attempts were pathetic and had no effect at all, but after a few alterations and tweaks he had finally invented a workable little jinx. He dubbed it the `Eight Rack' hex as the wand movement resembled a figure 8 and the victim was left with their arms and legs stretched out fully and their wrists and ankles bound fast to one another. The incantation, (`Ochoviamus!') had come later and Harry soon realised it was much easier to perform this spell non-verbally than to speak the word itself. Now he was just itching to try it out.
But as yet his nocturnal ventures had not brought him into contact with the enemy. Harry divided his jaunts during the unearthly hours between spell creating at Hogwarts and Horcrux searching across the country. He had followed up four suspected leads so far but each one had proven false. But instead of returning to the Burrow he tended to take a little detour to that small village in Wales and sit quietly at the graves of his parents in the shadow of the long-derelict Godric's Hollow.
That was where he was now. His parents graves were simple affairs; just two small plots in what would have been the back garden, each surrounded by a ring of small pebbles and two square headstones embossed with the name of the soul buried beneath them. There was none of the grandeur of Dumbledore's tomb here and Harry liked that; he didn't think his parents would be comfortable beneath such a shrine. This simplistic vision was much more their style, or so Harry had come to believe.
The night was quiet and Harry liked that about the place. Every time he came here it was peaceful, resounding with a silent safety that he liked very much. He didn't say much when he sat at the foot of the graves, just looked mostly and thought of the things he should be saying. This was enough to him. He thought about the conversations he should be having with the headstones, telling his parents all about his life and things that were going on. He even imagined their responses sometimes and played out entire conversations to himself, often sitting there for several hours. It was at these times more than any other that Harry really wished his parents could be there to help him do what he needed to do.
Harry's mind often span at this paradox; for if his parents were still alive then he wouldn't have to do anything, other than be a soldier against Voldemort. This led Harry to wonder how Neville, the other potential Boy Who Lived, would be dealing with this situation in his place. Secretly, with arrogance that shamed him, Harry was almost glad that the situation wasn't reversed. If it were, Harry thought, we'd all be as good as dead. Besides, Neville was nervous enough and Harry wouldn't want any of his friends to shoulder the burden he had to.
As he sat there musing over all these thoughts Harry suddenly heard a noise behind him. Quicker than a flash his wand was out, pointing towards the disturbance. It was a sort of rustling and the first one was quickly followed by another. A few more later and Harry was sure they were footsteps and leapt behind his mother's headstone ready to fight. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows at the side of the wrecked house.
`So, this is where you've been going every night?' said a voice from the darkness.
`Hermione?' said Harry. `What are you doing here?'
`What do you think I'm doing here, Harry?' whispered Hermione, a trace of anger in her voice. `Taking a night time stroll two hundred miles from The Burrow?'
`Being sarcastic doesn't answer my question,' said Harry pocketing his wand and getting up from behind the statue.
`I've come to see where it is you keep slipping off to,' said Hermione, annoyed. `You must think I'm incredibly stupid, Harry.'
`We've had this discussion before I think,' said Harry irritably. `Anyway, how did you find me?'
`You're not the only person who can Apparate,' said Hermione. `Let's not forget whose being doing it longer, either.'
`No, we shouldn't do that,' said Harry. `We all know how you get when your brilliance is challenged.'
Hermione seemed unable to respond right away and Harry could see in her face that she was shocked. But he didn't care; her interfering was starting to get annoying.
`And by the way,' Harry continued, `sneaking up on someone when there's a war on isn't a nice thing to do. I could've cursed you back then.'
`And sneaking off when people are trying to look after you is utterly irresponsible!' snapped Hermione.
`Er, maybe you haven't heard,' said Harry, `but Lord Voldemort is trying to kill me. And just because you're the only one who doesn't clam up at the sound of his name doesn't mean that you, or anyone else, can "look after" me. The safest I'll be is hunting and destroying the Horcruxes. It's the only way to weaken him. Now, I'm sorry if this gets in the way of your little plans to protect me at the Burrow, but tough luck. Deal with it.'
`I know what it is you have to do, Harry,' said Hermione, her tone softer than before, `I just don't know why you keep trying to do things alone. You keep blocking everything, and everyone, out. We're only trying to help.'
`But what if you can't?' said Harry, rounding on her in the dark. The shine of the moonlight in her eyes startled him slightly but he continued, `I have to face him in the end. Not you or Ron or anyone, just me. And maybe I'm the only one who can destroy the Horcruxes. These things have self-defence mechanisms built in. Two of them killed Dumbledore; the ring made his hand useless and slowed his reactions, and going for the fake locket nearly killed him. I nearly killed him. I certainly helped weaken him enough to be killed by Snape. I don't want to make you or Ron do those things to me or for them to put you in danger.'
`And I've already told you - we've already told you - that we do this willingly,' said Hermione, facing down Harry's anger in the shadows. `We put ourselves at risk, and we do it for you. Not because we have to but because we choose to. If Dumbledore couldn't do these things alone do you think he'd want you to?'
Harry desperately wanted to say that he wouldn't know what Dumbledore wanted because he was dead. But instead he just stood there.
`I just don't like you going off on you own, Harry,' Hermione continued. `You're too important to be risked. You're the Chosen One and all that. We're nothing. Expendable.'
`You are not expendable!' said Harry defiantly. `I mean, how would I explain to Ron if anything happened to you? How would I tell your parents?'
`How would I cope with the grief of you dying, Harry?' said Hermione desperately. `How would I feel surrounded by everyone mourning your death and just waiting for the day that Voldemort comes and bangs down the door?'
`You'd have Ron, you'd get over it,' said Harry.
`That simple, is it?' said Hermione hotly. `Six years of friendship, of struggle, of bravery, of - it means nothing to you? Oh Harry, it'd just be awful!'
To Harry's immense surprise she threw her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. He patted her hair a little awkwardly. He never had been good with women in situations like this.
`Come on, Hermione, that isn't going to happen,' said Harry.
`How can you know?' she sobbed, her wet eyes reflecting a now watery moon. `You're in so much danger, we all are. You don't know how worried I've been, waking up night after night seeing your bed empty, running around the house expecting to find your - oh, Harry, I just cant stand this!'
`Hermione you have to calm down, this won't get us anywhere,' said Harry. `Come on, - um - stop crying, and let's go back to the Burrow.'
`No!' said Hermione passionately. `This is where you feel you have to be right now and I'm going to be with you wherever that place is. So we stay.'
`Are you - are you sure?' said Harry, startled. `I mean - it's a bit morbid.'
`Its not morbid, Harry, it's your parent's graves. I understand why you're drawn here.'
`Y-you do?' said Harry. `Ok then, well, I was only sitting, thinking. You know, about stuff.'
`You haven't got to tell me anything, Harry,' said Hermione. `They're your thoughts, not mine. You don't have to share them.'
`I just sort of talk to mum and dad,' Harry blurted out. He half expected Hermione to laugh but she just looked at him sorrowfully, pityingly, those watery eyes on the verge of tearing up again. `I just talk, random stuff, you know. The sort of things you say to your parents. It isn't anything special.'
`So this was their house,' said Hermione looking around. `This is where it, you know…?'
`Yep,' said Harry. He had already conquered that demon by exploring the ruins on his first visit. `Up there where the bedroom would have been. That's where it happened - mum I mean.'
`Oh Harry -` Hermione sobbed.
`I must say I like what Voldemort did with the place,' Harry heard himself saying. `I'm sure Dad would have liked the new decorations.'
Hermione gave a little sob-cum-giggle and walked to Harry. They sat down next to the headstones and just looked up at the house. After a while of looking between the devastated shell of the building and the graves of his parents, Hermione did something unexpected and took Harry's hand, squeezing it tightly in her own.
`You never have to think you're alone, Harry,' she said, as though reading his mind. He could only smile at her and return the hand squeeze as together they sat quietly enjoying the peace of the night.
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