Unofficial Portkey Archive

Thank you again, for the display of support. I appreciate it immensely. I have been unwell this week, so writing had to take a bit of a back seat. So if you'll forgive me that, I am back off to bed and I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

Harry Potter. Do you dare to defy your destiny?

Hermione sighs, snuggling back into Harry's embrace. Her breath is even, her skin is warm, and the scent of her perfume infuses his nostrils as he stirs from his slumber, his lanky frame twisted in the lumpy bed.

The night has passed, but outside, the world is still dark.

The words of his dream world linger, ringing in his ears. Unlike shadows that fade, the idiom of illusion remains.

If he's honest with himself, he's living for something he can no longer define.

He has to decide if he'll toss aside the utterance of his most grievous nemesis, face the inevitable, or be content just to stay where he is, trading his trial for safe harbour.

Opportunity knocks but once. Success is measured by the standard of his accomplishments, the success of his proficiency, the courage that he will maintain in the face of his enemy.

Harry holds the palm of his hand over the scar that embellishes his forehead. He has been driven to his knees before, the memory of his time with the Dursleys, losing Sirius, Dumbledore, Cedric Diggory, agonizing, the untold stories inside of him.

Anything, anything would be better than the pain that gnaws at his gut. But right here, with Hermione in his arms, her suffering, the sorrow, this is the inspiration for his survival.

His sanity slips a little more each day and he finds that he is not exempt from the grip of insipid madness. And though his mind screams, through it all, his heart demands that he do the impossible; preserve his life, defend his love, his family.

Many things have changed over his lifetime, but Harry is sure of one thing. You begin and end with family.

Harry closes his eyes, his nose pressed against Hermione's placid curls. He counts back from ten and makes it to four when his consciousness drifts and joins Hermione in sleep.

The time will soon come to pass, Harry.

"No," Harry whimpers defiantly, pathetically.

The one known to me as Hermione Granger, she hinders my progress, she disrupts my course. This shall no longer be the case. Your death is imminent. Your destiny is calling.

"No," Harry shifts; his body thrashes and grips his chest in pain, white-hot searing that burns a hole in his armour. His teeth gnash and he curses. His vision is clouded, his hand in front of him as he shuffles towards the light where he is engulfed by a freeze-frame of images.

Hermione Granger, twelve years old, together in the Gryffindor tower. His saviour, wrapped up in a tiny package, so infinitely perfect, so unique, so brilliant. Hogwarts and potions, horcruxes and howlers. The curious sensation of making love to the woman he loves and the beat of her heart beneath his skin.

A young boy with eyes of green his dark hair shines in the splendour of the midday sun. He laughs and he cries, he takes his first steps. He wears his fathers face; he has inherited his mother's brilliance. He squeals. Harry smiles.

Radiant burning that flares like wildfire, flames that lick, flames that destroy with a flash and a spark. Harry watches his family burn. His son cries and screams, vulnerable, his human qualities denying him his existence. Hermione holds their child as they are ravished. She hums a lullaby. Even in the face of death, she is steadfast until the end.

Harry cannot move. He is frozen in time, suspended in lights. Like dead weight, he watches helplessly, struggling against his trappings, Voldemort sneers. Harry tries in vain to rescue them, time and time again, but a part of him dies with them and a cold rain turns his heart frigid as it extinguishes the blaze.

"No, please, no."

Harry's sentiment echoes that of his son.

"Harry, wake up."

Hermione tries to shake him from his blind torment.

"Harry, it's me. Wake up."

Something in Hermione's tone catches and Harry stirs in her arms, his eyes wide and his body shaking.

"He's going to do it," Harry says to himself. "He's going to take them."

Hermione holds him and watches Harry, so utterly desperate. His voice is hoarse, his throat is dry and he pleads with her to help him. The look in his eyes breaks her heart, reminds her of that graveyard where his mother and father found their rest.

"Harry, you have to calm down. Look at you, you're shaking."

"Voldemort, he's going to do it. He's going to take them," He says again.

"Who? Harry, you're not making any sense. Who is he going to take? Is it Ron? His family?"

"Hermione and the baby," Harry mutters, trying to release himself from Hermione's embrace.

"Harry, what are you talking about? It was just a dream. I'm right here. Everything is going to be okay. I promise."

Harry inhales a ragged breath that seems to slow his breathing. He looks at Hermione, watches the rise and fall of her breast as she too breathes.

"Harry," She holds him at arms length, two hands, one each, on his shoulder.

He shakes his head.

"A dream. It was just a dream, Hermione."

Hermione is sceptical, but she does not question his acknowledgement. She is aware of the fact that he has experienced enough heartache of loss from the wand of dear Voldermort himself. The consequences speak for themselves.

Harry will not let this prophecy come to pass. He won't allow Hermione to become the subject of assassination.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I know how much it hurts. I miss my parents terribly."

"You're so special, Hermione. I don't think you know how special you really are."

He delights in her presence, even though she is still unaware of the feelings he holds, of the depth of emotion captured in his heart for her.

"It's going to be okay, Harry. We've come this far, we can't turn back now."

Harry smiles and nods. He listens to Hermione because he knows that she is right. Even if she had fudged it all, he'd still let her lead him like a lamb to the slaughter.

****

Harry leans the bulk of his frame against the old trunk of a Downy Birch that is perched upon the river ledge. The bulbous roots span out across the dewy land and spread their buds along the length of the stream, absorbing water and mineral salts for sustenance.

Harry's shoulders slump against the weathered exterior of the tree. His hands are pushed deeply into his pockets and the collar of his jumper is turned up towards the heavens. It tickles the back of his neck when he turns his head to watch the strolling waters.

The dusting of snow beneath Hermione's feet belays her approach, it's not until the touch of her breath warms his cheek that he realises she has come to join him.

"It's beautiful out here, Harry."

Her words tickle his nose as they become a frosty veil of obscured fog that surrounds them, sweeping away the light of day. The marvellous richness of their surroundings renews his energy, despite his lack of sleep the previous eve.

Just stay here. Grow old.

Together.

"Reality is what you make of life, Hermione."

Harry wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side, tucking her head beneath his chin, he rests his weary body upon her, and they bask in the muted tones of common light heralded from the sun as it pours freely, impartially, over the valley, kindling the morning.

Hermione prods the soil with the toe of her shoe, shifting it beneath her foot while she tries to compound the consonants and vowels that will form the sentence that could help them with their quest for knowledge.

"Harry, I've been thinking," She speaks with her face turned towards the ground. "The symbol that Luna's father wore at the wedding, I think we need to find out more about it. There's something so seemingly familiar that I just can't put my finger on."

Harry's fingers scrunch the locks of hair that they're wrapped around and then his hand relaxes again. He's locked in a bout of concentration, his head cocked to one side as he considers her proposition, the inherent dangers that come with eloping.

"Do you think he can tell us more about the Peverell lineage?"

"Whatever he can tell us might be able to explain the connection between Ignotus and the symbol that was on his gravestone."

"Blimey, Hermione."

His mind screams. Logically, he knows that they're here for the sake of others, for countless unknown souls, connected by the ties of enchantment, supernatural presence, their birth right, but for once in lifetime, he aches for selfishness. His veins are fuelled with the very notion, chasing away the chill of the season.

"Harry, I know we're throwing ourselves at things we can't possibly even begin to understand, but I think it's worth the trouble."

He expels the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. So many questions, he's unsure of where to start.

"Just … give me a moment, Hermione."

"Okay. I'll be waiting."

Albus once told him that the true joy of life is being used for a purpose recognised as mighty, being thoroughly worn out before you come to find your time of rest, being a force of nature. Do your duties to the best of your abilities, all life demands struggle.

He hopes his parents are proud.

Harry turns back to Hermione and she smiles.

That's how he knows that the world is okay, that when the stars fall from the sky, she'll be in the dirt designing more. That's how he knows that he can make it through anything, with Hermione by his side.

"You might want to start packing. It's quite possible that we have a date with a madman."

Hermione is in his arms before he can blink, and he thinks to himself - the more she does that, the more he likes it.

He refuses to let her out of his sight. Even as they wander the path that will lead them to the whereabouts of Xenophilius Lovegood, she does not leave his sight.

Harry knows that the Burrow is close by, even if he closes his eyes, he can feel the terror that leaches from every fibre of the humble Weasley abode, the pleasant connotations of family ties replaced with something else, something he can't quite put his finger on … Pity?

He wonders if Ron is there, back at home with his family under his wing. Briefly, he finds himself wondering where Ginny is and what she's doing. He's surprised that in his haste, he does not feel the gnawing guilt that he probably should, that he's earned by right.

Still, he knows that they must not pass on over the hill. Nothing good will come of it. That much he is sure of.

Harry is weary as he ascends the front steps that taper up to the ramshackle building. Gaudy orange globules hang like a string of crudely strung fairy lights and thick thatches of tall grass stoically guard the entrance to the great gnarled cavern.

He clutches Hermione's hand in his as he uses his free hand to knock at the door. His thumb grazes her knuckles, but he cannot shake the foreboding feeling that ruffles the hairs on the back of his neck.

Luna's father answers promptly.

"What is it? Who are you?"

Harry shifts the pack that clings to his shoulder.

"I … I'm Harry Potter. We met a few months ago. At the wedding?"

The man with platinum hair remains silent.

Harry exhales and takes a step towards the threshold.

"Could we come in?"

Hermione eyes the dark, damp house littered with papers. The smell of grease and ink makes her nostrils flare, but Harry ushers her inside with his hand pressed firmly into the small of her back and she can't say no.

She accepts the steaming mug that is set down before her as she eases herself into the lumpy chair by Harry's side. Her fingers curl around the pottery and she stifles a sob as she thinks about sipping tea at home with her mother in front of the hearth.

"So," A third voice pulls Hermione from her musings and she eyes the man carefully as he speaks to Harry.

"How can I help you, Mister Potter?"

"Actually," Hermione's eyes are drawn to Harry. "It was about something you were wearing around your neck at the wedding. A symbol."

Hermione does not flinch but narrows her eyes as Xenophilius draws the chain from beneath the hem of his shirt and holds the silver pendant to show the two teens seated together in his common room.

"You mean this?"

"Yes, that's it," Hermione almost chokes on the mouthful of tea as she swallows.

"What we wondered is," Harry asks politely, "What is it?"

"What is it?"

Harry nods.

"Well it's the sign of the Deathly Hallows, of course."

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