Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wow. I was moved by all of the kind words and well wishes, so overwhelmed that I felt I owed it to my readers to continue on. It had not been my intention to leave you all hanging; rather, I recognise the importance of a story that flows without hindrance. I honestly felt uneasy about publishing this next chapter, but if you're willing to give it a chance, that's good enough for me. Thank you.

To clear up confusion, Yes, Hermione was snatched up by Death Eaters. Harry spiralled into a world where night and day became one and he himself was not even aware of his capture until he awoke at Malfoy Manor. It would have been so easy for me just to write that, but it's a cop out, hence some of the confusion.

Please enjoy this chapter. I have tried to simplify it without compromising the story.

I don't own them.

The soles of Harry's shoes squelch as he trudges across the fringed mounds that surround the nearby cottage. His legs ache as he climbs the dunes of powdered sand. His body thrums; heavy with fatigue, but his precious cargo does not encumber.

His entourage fall into step behind him. Their footsteps are consumed by tiny grains, like sands through the hourglass that fill the void created by a man with ten pounds in his back pocket and a dream about to be shattered.

The opulent dwelling kept by Bill Weasley and his wife comes into view and Harry picks up his speed. Hermione's head lolls against his shoulder, but he tells himself that she'll be alright. The fact that the sour stench of fresh blood tickles his olfactory senses is insignificant. Insignificant.

"You're okay, Hermione. See, we're almost there. Open your eyes, Hermione. Look at the cottage."

Over the final hurdle just to be dealt another. Harry stumbles upon the obstruction, his teeth gnashed together, his brow turned in, his face a mask, the complex and obscure expression of a poker player, in a pitch dark room, with blank cards, playing for infinite stakes with a dealer who does not know the rules.

Ron's looming frame is undeniable.

"Go home, Harry. You're not welcome here."

Hit me.

"Don't do this, Ron. It's Hermione."

Ron's body language screams at the crowd - defy me at your own risk.

The husband and wife appear behind the man's baby brother. Her hand is wrapped tightly in his. United they stand, divided they will fall as loyalties begin to crumble. She'll smile at him, he'll smile at her and then, then his nerve will be extracted.

"Hermione is bleeding to death. Don't do this, Ron."

Fleur, a Weasley by name, stares at her husband. It is clear that they understand each other. He steps around Ron to observe the commotion and gasps. He certainly had not expected this kind of reception. He speaks with a heavy heart, his words tinged with sadness.

"Dobby, there is a healer the next village over. Maplethorn, ask for Healer Maplethorn."

Harry's faithful companion will not fail.

"Dobby will do it for Harry Potter."

Ron blocks the entry to the front parlour. He's not willing to give. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his bulk against the doorframe.

"Stand down, Ronnie."

"What?"

Ron turns on his heel, the look of betrayal, rife across his face.

"You heard me. Stand down. Hermione needs our help. Put your grievances aside and help her mate."

"Why the bloody hell should I?" Ron spits, furious with his brother, furious at his own misery, bitter in the face of unjust.

"Because she's one of us … Because … You love her." Bill turns back to his wife.

The words shatter his resolve. Ron knows this is not about winning, or losing. Harry always had her. No, it's not about being number one, in Ron's mind, its all about how you play the game, courage under fire and honour amongst men. But Harry had shafted him, played his hand for all it's worth, and nobody, not even his own flesh and blood will assert the role of the voice of reason.

"Let him through, Ron. If you want to be a hero, let Harry through."

"Pleeze, Ron," Fleur interjects. "Do zees fer us."

Ron relents. Whatever it takes. He won't survive the next fifty years without her.

Dejected, he moves aside, but his eyes daren't leave Harry, or the hope that he carries.

****

Hermione is tucked neatly between crisp, cotton sheets. Clementine Maplethorn is diligent in her assessment of Hermione's ailments; Ron, Bill and Fleur linger by the foot of the bed apprehensively, and Harry. Harry stands idly by the furthest window. To the untrained eye, he is seemingly passive, observing the sweeping lull of the ocean's too and fro.

His white knuckled grip on the windowsill speaks for itself.

"I'm afraid it's not terribly good news," The healer concludes.

"Miss Granger's body is trying to expel the products of conception. She is malnourished, physically exhausted. To be frank, I am surprised that she made it as far as she has."

Harry's fingers claw at the timber, but he remains otherwise unengaged.

"The foetus was most likely four, possibly five weeks old. It's not an exact science; my wand has been trained to assure me the finer details. I am terribly sorry. Do you know where the father is?"

Ron's head whips up and he turns on Harry, his hands balled into tight fists, clenching, unclenching. His body quivers, anger chasing through his veins.

"You bloody bastard. You did this to her."

Harry remains silent. Still.

"I knew it, I bloody knew it. It's your fault, isn't it? Well? Cat got your tongue, Harry?"

His words drip malice.

"We're in the middle of a bloody war, you're the one that You-Know-Who wants, and Hermione has to suffer because you're just a bloody selfish bastard."

Harry turns to face his dismayed audience. A lone tear carves a blazing trail upon his skin and he swipes it away. He clears his throat.

"You don't get to talk about this."

His eyes burn through Ron with a sickening glare, and then he excuses himself and abandons his post, his legs giving way as he barely crosses the threshold and falls to his knees.

"I … I …" The healer stutters.

"I have ordered blood replenishing potion, something for nutrition, for pain, she will need bed rest, a sleeping draught might be best, the longer the better."

Fleur throws herself into her husband's arms. She buries her face in the crook of his neck and hiccups tiny sobs that are muffled by Bill's stature.

"We'll make sure of it," He assures the kindly woman.

"So …" He adds,"Fire whiskey?"

Three heads nod simultaneously.

Stepping into the hall, they leave Hermione to rest. Harry, however, is quite another story.

"I'll kill him," Ron seethes as they make their way towards the sitting room where the crystal decanter is stowed in the fine china cabinet.

He tips his glass and tilts his head and the amber liquor burns his gullet. There's plenty more where that one came from.

"Calm down, Ron. Hermione will be alright. She's strong."

Ron laughs at his brother's pitiful attempt to reassure him.

He swallows thickly, the bitter aftertaste lingering on his palate.

There is no fucking sunshine.

He seems to forget his own strength as he hurls the glass across the room. It spirals towards the far wall of the kitchenette, colliding with the rich timber paneling. Fragments litter the floor, the tumbler lays destroyed, but still, Ron doesn't blink.

Luna pokes her head through the alcove archway and frowns.

"It's bad, isn't it?" She asks the group, Mister Ollivander by her side.

"No, Luna. It's not good. Hermione has had … She, uh," Bill struggles to find the right words.

"I can feel Harry's pain," She says simply.

"Pain," Ron turns on his heel. "What would he know about pain? All he does is hurt other people, causes them pain and suffering. How would he know what that feels like? He's Harry Potter."

"Ron …" Fleur chastises, "Zat eez enough."

"I don't think Harry should be sad at all," Luna mutters beneath her breath. "I think this is a blessing. I can feel it," She all but whispers.

****

Out on the front step, Harry sits with his back against the chiseled stone. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he watches the breeze pick up around the thatch of dune grass. The stems bend and bow with the force of the elements. It's peaceful. It's painful. He is reminded of the cycle of life. For every living creature, there must come death, no yesterday and no tomorrow.

To lose someone you love is to alter your life forever. No father should outlive his son. There is a hole in his heart, nothing; nobody will ever fit the mould carved out by his unborn child.

Hermione. Hermione.

What she has sacrificed for him.

Her pale face still haunts him; her gaunt figure sprawled upon the soiled sand. Her scars, he'll only ever remember the scars that marred her beautiful skin. Snatches of time replay over and over again, her cold cheek, her lips of blue.

In his grief, he can almost feel the tiny consciousness that was his son. Almost like a trace of recognition that flickers deep within his mind. It can't be that. It's merely little more than a father's unbridled misery stabbing his heart and piercing that niche.

He shakes his head to brandish the clouds. Uncle Vernon said it best - Don't fool yourself, Boy.

"I don't think you should ignore your feelings, Harry."

Harry looks up at Luna.

"Your son lives on you know. We're all spirit in essence," Luna tries to tell him, tries to make him understand.

"He's gone," Harry argues.

"No, but he's not. Don't you see? Listen to that voice inside of you …"

"Luna," Harry cuts her off. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. Really, I do. But I need to be alone right now."

He'll figure it out one day. She thinks.

"Alright, Harry. Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need?"

Harry sighs.

"I need for my son and Hermione to be alright. Can you do that for me, Luna?"

Luna smiles brightly.

"Oh, but they are, Harry. They're both bright shining lights. Surely you know that."

Harry has had enough.

"Luna," He snaps. "Get Ollivander. I need to know more about the Elder Wand."

Luna can barely see Harry's aura, and that bothers her. Though he radiates blue, different shades rippling like gossamer from turquoise through midnight - his sadness, there's no mistaking the haze of grey that represents Hermione and her ailments or the sliver of white - something new, pure spirit.

"You'll be alright, Harry," She says before she leaves to collect the man most highly regarded in the art of wands. She doesn't have to move too far. He's standing at the top of the stairs.

"Thank you Miss Lovegood. Mister Potter and I will take it from here."

Luna nods curtly, leaving the two to their conversation.

"So," Mister Ollivander says, taking his place on the bottom step beside Harry. "You want to know more about the Elder Wand, do you? Let me see then. Ah, well, obviously it is made from Elder wood, the most powerful of all wand woods because it symbolizes regeneration. If memory serves me correctly, it was fashioned by Death himself. They say that only he who has mastered death can ultimately master the Elder Wand."

Harry contemplates his words carefully; curiosity has its own reason for existing.

He who has mastered death.

If only his son had.

"I am sorry for your loss, Harry. I hope that in time, Miss Granger will come back to full health. I too know the pain of the loss of a child."

Harry hangs his head; it is simply beyond all comprehension.

"Thank you. I … Ron was right. It's my fault."

"Everything happens for a reason, Mister Potter. Do you think it mere coincidence that the wand that chose you held the twin core of The Dark Lord's wand also?"

"She's going to be devastated."

"Likely," Ollivander tells him. "Very likely."

Harry waivers with his next question, wanting to swallow that give way to acknowledgement.

"Does it ever get better?"

"It's not something you will ever forget."

Tears sting Harry's eyes, but he forces them back, determined not to let his loss defeat him.

"You are not finished when defeated, Mister Potter. You are finished when you quit. Think about what you're giving up on; think about what Miss Granger will need. Do not live to regret your reaction, do not allow your son to have died in vain."

Harry chokes back a sob.

"You're right. It's time to think about Hermione now."

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