Unofficial Portkey Archive

So, the next instalment. It's coming along nicely. Thank you for your support. This chapter we start to really deviate from canon as you'll see. The next chapter heralds a showdown with Ron and the Weasleys and we'll find out more about Hermione's condition. Time to put my thinking cap on and get stuck into the plot now. I'm not sure what I've got myself into. It's times like this I wish I had a beta! Please, enjoy, and feel free to comment.

I don't own them.

The stone. The wand. The cloak. Together they make the Deathly Hallows.

The words echo. The stone. The wand. The cloak. Together they make the Deathly Hallows.

Harry repeats them again, determined to comprehend the magnitude of such a statement.

Reiterate something often enough and it will start to make sense. The words become as much a habit as breathing and the action that follows becomes instinct, like the blinking of eyelids.

He tries to condition his mind to perform every action necessary for success.

The cloak of invisibility he has within his possession. A family heirloom, probably passed down to his father, passed on to himself. He can't even fathom. The lace that binds them all, blood, sweat and tears forged painstakingly.

Harry shakes his head. From the corner of his eye, Luna's father grips his quill, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, not overly suspicious. He returns his attention to the parchment, the symbol denoting the master of death.

Harry ponders the development some more. Will they still have to hunt down horcruxes? Perhaps they can use this to their advantage. Certainly, there is advantage, the wand and the stone versus a multitude of other antique items. They're as allusive as any, but focusing their energies into finding just the two … It's certainly very, actually quite plausible.

Harry smiles for the first time in a long time. He turns to Hermione ready to seek her approval, like a giddy child tempted with lashings of Christmas trim and brightly coloured bows beneath the tree. But the room becomes chaos.

Xenophilius Lovegood raises his arms to the heavens and bids the death eaters entry to his humble palace. The ceiling explodes, debris rains down around them as he cries out, his lungs at full capacity, his voice booming. They are focused on one thing, and one thing only - elimination.

Harry clutches Hermione's wand in the palm of his hand. His heart thunders. Curses fly, a shower of sparks shed light upon the dank surroundings, they pop and hiss, blazing and sputtering.

The intruders laugh at Harry, their wands drawn, extended in front of them. They mock his name; they seek to surrender his dreams, unrelenting. They scream in his face, circling him where he stands.

His first reaction is one of anger. His senses startled, he purses his lips and cries out, his words crisp and clear.

"Hermione, get out of here. Run. Now."

Hermione does not respond.

Harry sidesteps a blast that rips through the front door, dislodging it from the crumpled frame. He looks back over his shoulder, calling for Hermione, begging her to move, to follow him as he descends two steps at a time.

"Hermione, right now. Come on."

He ducks at a curse thrown from behind. Falling to his knees, he continues to call out to Hermione, desperate to feel her hand wrapped in his. He claws at the earth, dislodging gangly clumps of sod in an attempt to pull himself up. For a fleeting moment, the shadow of Hermione's face obscures his view of anything other than the expression of sorrow that she wears. And then she's gone.

So he runs. A fire starting in his heart, he doesn't look back.

He knows she deserves more than that, but he's lost without her.

Running across fields, lurching in between trees where he can, he lifts his heels. He knows he must run faster. He doesn't stop to think about what he's running from, or to, or why. He's so anxious he'll do whatever it takes, like a thread lost in an endless labyrinth, his anguish spurs him forth.

Harry hikes his pack higher on his shoulder and curses as he stumbles over an exposed stump. The momentum propels him forward and he falls to his knees, scrambling for cover beneath the closest veil of foliage he can lay his eyes on.

And then he breathes. His lungs burn, he inhales sharply, his chest aching when he exhales, trying to infuse his body with fresh air, his heart working overtime. For a moment he fears hyperventilation, shock taking root in the depths of his bones, but gradually, he calms himself. It's what's best for Hermione. It's what she would expect of him.

Truth be told, he's just numb. He makes himself as small as he possibly can, tucking his knees up under his chin, he leans against the tree at his back. He's not going anywhere if he can help it, not right now.

He fingers Hermione's wand, the vine wood tickling his calloused digits as he commits the slope of the grain to memory, ridges carved from her hand.

Harry sighs and stuffs the wand into his pocket. His hand meets the frigid nip of alloy, and he withdraws the golden Snitch bequeathed to him by Albus Dumbledore. He knows it's important, of some significance to his life, to himself … to others …

I open at the close.

"What does that mean?"

Harry shifts his glasses to the tip of his nose and rubs his tired eyes.

Hermione would have known.

"Hermione," He chokes on her name, his mouth dry, his spirit broken. He cradles his heavy head in his hands, the Snitch cold against his bare skin as it rests against the corner of his lip. It's not much, but it's comforting all the same.

Harry exhales again, his shoulders slumping as fatigue sets in.

"I swear," He whispers. "If anything happens to her, I won't be able to go on. I'll have failed her. If Hermione dies …" He pauses for a moment to consider his words.

Harry's hand trembles. He unfurls each finger, one at a time, and marvels as the layers of the tiny sphere retract; the surface metamorphosing. Perfectly perpendicular compartments retreat to reveal a small, smoky prism, etched with the sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Harry squints behind his glasses, his brow creased as he concentrates on the stone now in the palm of his hand.

Marvolo Gaunt, the ministry representative, the ring he'd used as proof of his heritage, his ancestry, the ring that bore the Peverell symbol.

"The Resurrection Stone."

Harry can't believe it. The battle has just become interesting. He closes his eyes and settles in for the journey to come. He hopes that wherever she is, Hermione is thinking of him too.

****

It's been weeks since he's seen Hermione, since he lost her. Harry is waiting for sleep to claim him. In the time that she has been gone, night has melded into day, the minutes become hours and the twilight can not come quickly enough. His eyelids seep, his chest begins the rhythmic rise and fall that signals slumber, offering up the deep with both hands. Without warning, he is engulfed by a vortex of dark energy. Visions of the ultimate prophecy, he's being transported toward hell, this truly diabolical torture that the inquisitor wants.

His limbs are heavy, his soul dwells outside of his physical body, his mind strong and clear. The night is his companion, solitude his guide.

Grindelwald.

"I've been expecting you. I knew you would come."

Voldemort slinks into the room, the allurement flamed by his corrupt desires. Black robes flail in the night, lined with obstinacy, the systematic organisation of blind hatred.

Grindelwald.

"Surely you must know, I no longer have what you seek."

Grindelwald.

"Tell me Grindelwald, tell me where it is. Tell me who has it, who has it, Grindelwald?"

The old man begins to laugh. Desire is the root of all evil. Blinking without remark, he cackles.

Grindelwald.

"He has the Elder wand. It is gone. Buried beneath the earth … Dumbledore."

Into the wrong hands. The master shall retrieve his bounty.

"Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore."

Harry's body trembles, shaking. He cannot sleep forever.

With excess of light surrounding him, the universe calls to him, his consciousness assisting. Inspired by some great purpose, his mind transcends the limitations, and Harry awakes to the strains of a tortured soul.

Hermione.

"She has been screaming for hours. Poor, poor little Hermione."

Luna Lovegood lingers in front of his face.

His heart breaks. It makes him vulnerable. It eats him out and leaves him crying in the darkness.

"Take heart, Mister Potter."

A second voice approaches and Harry squints, trying to make out the persona of the silhouette, hoping to be able to place the face.

"Miss Granger is resourceful," The man continues.

Ollivander.

"We have to help her," Harry stumbles to his feet, unsteady on the concrete cobblestone floor."

"Well? What are you waiting for, don't just stand there. Help me. We have to help her."

"Harry, the room is enchanted" Luna tries, but Ollivander holds his hand up, a gesture of calm and quiet.

Harry pats his pockets looking for Hermione's wand. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, deep into the recesses, scrounging for the lifeline.

"They have the wand, Mister Potter. I sense it."

Harry furrows his brow and gives the man a sideward glance.

"You doubt that I know my wands, Mister Potter? Let me assure you I know the materials and attributes of every wand I have ever sold. I have always endeavoured to give a little of myself, to each and every wand that I have ever made. Mark my words, they have the wand."

Harry thinks about the Moke-skin pouch around his next, the one that rests next to his heard, filled with his most treasured possessions. He inhales and withdraws the broken Holly and Phoenix feather monstrosity, offering it to Ollivander for closer inspection.

The elderly man simply shakes his head.

Harry replaces the wand and retrieves the golden Snitch. He curls his fingers around the tiny luminous orb and raises it to his lips. He closes his eyes and whispers.

"Open up. Please. Help me."

Nothing.

Again he whispers.

"For Hermione. Please."

Nothing.

Harry lowers the Snitch back into his satchel and startles when his finger grazes the jagged edge of the two way mirror. Having nothing to lose and the hope that she will return to his embrace, Harry chokes on his words.

"Please, somebody help me."

Luna watches with fascination.

"Do you know that whenever I'm feeling alone, I look into my mirror and smile," She tells Mister Ollivander with all the innocence of a fledgling infant.

"Help me," Harry screams into the portion of seeing glass he had retained after the loss of his father figure, Sirius.

His palms sweat and the steady staccato beat of his heart accelerates as anxious fears take their toll. If he blinks, he'll miss the quiver of azure that flares to life for a brief interlude.

When he does blink, there's a pop and a flash and Dobby is standing by his side.

"Dobby," He gasps aloud. "What are you doing here?"

"Dobby has come to rescue Harry Potter. Dobby will always help Harry Potter."

"Can you apparate with others Dobby?"

His desperation is on his sleeve, his heart in his mouth as he waits for confirmation.

"Well, yes. Dobby is an elf."

"Dobby, we have to help Hermione. She's in trouble."

Off the top of his head there is no place sacred, no place that he can think of to seek refuge, where the resistance will welcome him with open arms. It's a rabbits den of underground movements, hidden from the clutches of the dark Lord and his henchmen. Harry swallows thickly. He is about to swallow his pride. He has to do it, for Hermione.

"Dobby, take Luna and Mister Ollivander to Shell Cottage right away. When you get back, follow my lead. It's me they really want."

Another Cruciatus curse is cast and Dobby jumps closer to Harry as the two are forced to listen to Hermione stifle her whimpers. The pain in her voice cuts at his heart like splinters of glass absently working their way through his body, tearing him apart inside.

"Dobby will be right with you, Harry Potter."

Dobby takes the hands of his passengers and smiles at Harry before he delivers the pair to safety.

Harry sighs.

"Hey," He yells with absolute abandon, rattling the heavy cast iron bars as he tries to rouse a response from above.

"I'm down here. Remember me? Harry Potter? Come and get me. I'm the one you really want."

Silence.

Harry steps back from the dungeon door as it opens without warning. Warily, he follows the stairs that lead to the main parlour of Malfoy Manor. He spies Dobby at the top of the stairwell, tucked in behind the majestic balustrade that spans the length of the walk of shame.

Malfoy. I should have known.

"Look at that, Mudblood. There's Harry Potter. He thinks he's come to save you."

Draco sniggers.

Bellatrix Lestrange sneers at Hermione, her body pulled rigidly to attention, a dagger resting as the base of her throat. If she swallows, the slightest movement could pierce her pale skin.

Harry is unarmed, faced with undeniable odds. The strongest soldier, daring to die with his hands tied. For better or worse, he is determined to front his assailant. Resolve and strength are the virtues that the great know how to use.

"So, Potter. You think you're the one that I really want? But I'm having so much fun with this little treasure, the one who has stolen the sword from my vault. She must be punished."

"No."

Harry lunges forward and watches as Bellatrix drops Hermione to the floor while she grapples in her linen for her wand. Harry is on his knees, stretching to reach Hermione, to touch her skin. She is his focus. Come on Dobby. Don't fail me now.

Time stands still as Bellatrix extends her hand, gnarled fingers wrapped around her grotesque wand. She opens her mouth, the vile words on the tip of her tongue.

"Dobby will save Harry Potter now."

Harry closes his eyes, prepared to take the hit for Hermione.

The rolling waves sooth his soul. The salt is sweet on his lips, a gentle breeze sweeps his fringe from his face, but behind his glasses, his eyes remain closed.

His senses pick up the season in the air; it's unusually cool for this time of year.

One eye opens, and then the other, and he scales the span of coast in front of him.

Wildflowers border the mounds like a fringe of colourful cheer. The tide is coming in, and he can hear the waves breaking around him, he can count the seconds before the next wave rolls up to the shore. A sprinkling of dark pebbles litters the sand, sand tainted with the crimson lifeblood of Hermione Granger.

"Hermione," He is on his feet and running.

"Hermione," He screams, ignoring Luna who descends the high standing dunes after him.

He kneels beside her and his jeans are wet, his knees saturated by the damp sand. But he doesn't care. He can't.

"Hermione," He says again. Dobby watching the two with anxious eyes, wringing his hands as Luna makes it to his side at a dash.

Her pants are stained as she bleeds from her lower extremities. Harry's hands are smeared as he lifts her into his arms and strides towards the cottage like a man scorned. Fleur will help him. Fleur will help him.

He's too wound up to notice the tiny spark that prickles his conscience.

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