Disclaimer: I don't own this, particularly sentences with dialogue ending in "++," which comes directly from DH.

Are you there? We moved again.

I am here. Are you… well?

As can be expected, I guess. What about you?

Mmm. Yes. 'As can be expected' sounds about right.

I can't talk right now. The… others… expect me back in a minute. It's my turn to find food.

Find-

Um. I've got to go. I miss you, S-um. So much.

What do you mean, 'find' food?

Don't worry about it-I really ought to go.

You cannot… Very well. Stay safe.

You, too.

It feels like this is never going to end. Like we're never going to be finished. We'll always be running.

Indeed.

Has the reward for 'Undesirable Number One' increased?

By several hundred Galleons. As have those of his… partners-in-crime.

Well. That's something, I guess.

If by 'something,' you mean bloody dangerous-

I do, actually.

… Good. I am glad you have some semblance of common sense.

Well thank you very much! You've rooted around in my brain, for God's sake, I'd hope you'd know I have more than a bit of-

I apologize. It is late, I'm tired, and I have more than enough to worry about… here… without the added strain each week of seeing the increase in the price on y-Ah.

… Oh.

Quite.

How are you?

Tired. Really tired. We've done a lot of walking today.

Where-never mind.

How are you?

Bloody peachy.

Hang on a tic, I think one of the others is up. I'll be back.

I shall wait with bated breath.

Very funny. I'm back, by the way.

I noticed. And I'm never funny.

Yes, you are actually… God, I want to get away. Where would you go if you could go anywhere, right now? I used to go to France with my parents on holiday. That was lovely.

I have never really been anywhere, so I hardly know. In this, I bow to your superior knowledge. Though I'd have thought a somewhat more distant locale might hold more appeal to you, these days.

A slightly more-oh. Yeah. You're right. Wow, what's wrong with me, I hadn't even thought of that. Goddamnit, I'm…

…There is nothing the matter with you.

But I didn't even-I was picturing mountains or beaches or-or-I don't know, ancient temples or something. I wasn't even thinking about…

You are under a good deal of strain, I should think.

But still… God, I'm a terrible daughter, a terrible person.

You are neither.

… I miss you very much.

Severus felt a familiar flare of warmth against his chest just as he was seating himself for dinner in the Great Hall. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he sank into his chair, nodding at Amycus, seated to his left. Amycus grinned at him around a partially masticated mouthful of chicken, and Severus flicked his gaze away, reaching for his goblet and drinking deeply to cover his repulsion. To his right, Minerva snorted quietly into her napkin, and when Severus glanced at her they shared a rueful, amused look of the sort that had once been typical between them whenever a student did something foolish or Trelawney made one of her absurd pronouncements. During the tenures of both Dolores Umbridge and Gilderoy Lockhart, those looks had been frequent indeed.

Now, for the briefest of moments, it was as it had ever been between them, a waspish sort of accord. And then the tipped-up corners of Minerva's lips turned down and her expression grew pursed once more, a sharpness to her eyes that, Severus suspected, was directed as much at herself for forgetting, for a minute, that he was despicable, as it was at Severus himself. She glared at him for a few seconds before turning pointedly to speak to Filius, seated to her other side, and Severus was left with a hollowness at his core, feeling deeply just how much he had truly lost.

He focused on his pendant's gentle warmth against his breastbone as he methodically ate his meal.

Most of the portraits were either sleeping or absent when Severus ascended the spiral staircase and stepped into his office after dinner. Glancing at Dumbledore's frame and watching for several seconds as its occupant's chest rose and fell steadily with his slumbering breaths, Severus began unbuttoning the top buttons of his frock coat and shirt, unclasping the necklace and enlarging it with unconcealed eagerness. He flipped past Hermione's previous messages to the most recent page.

We've moved again, not that it makes much difference, really. she'd sent. And then, I miss you. How are you?

Severus frowned for a moment. Her words were… well, it was bloody difficult to tell without hearing her inflection, seeing her face, but they sounded hopeless in a way that worried him. Her messages, in fact, had been growing increasingly defeated in tone of late. He swallowed. Where they hell was she, and what was she doing?

He raised his wand, intending to send a response, when Headmaster Black cleared his throat self-importantly from his frame. Severus froze, shoulders stiffening, and turned slowly, raising one practiced brow.

"Yes?" he said.

Black's eyes were fixed on the small notebook in Severus' hand. "Writing to the girl again, are you?" he asked, and Severus darted a glance at Albus' portrait. The old man was still asleep, or appeared to be, but Severus knew that Dumbledore's appearance, in particular, could be deceptive.

He looked back at Black, expression bland as he could make it. "Why do you ask?"

The portrait smirked. "I merely thought you would like to know that she is occupied at the moment."

Severus' heart stuttered in his chest. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "And how do you know-"

Black tutted insincerely. "She has grown careless, I'm afraid. She left the bag in which she keeps my portrait-shoved in with books and clothing and all manner of things!-open tonight."

Severus glowered at him. "I am rapidly nearing the end of my patience," he said. "If you have something to tell me, do so. I have no interest in guessing games."

Black affected a look of wide-eyed innocence that was entirely ridiculous on his angular face. "I only wanted to forewarn you that the girl mightn't have an opportunity to converse with you for a while yet. Of course, they put up a Silencing Charm, but before they did…" He shook his head, an expression of genuine distaste crossing his features. "Most unseemly," he said.

Something very cold seemed to have settled and congealed inside Severus' stomach. "Who?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Who are you talking about?"

"The Mud-Muggle-born, and the red-headed friend of Harry Potter. As I said, I have not been privy to anything else, but from what I could hear, I cannot believe this is the first time they have been so… intimate."

It was several seconds before Severus could speak. "I see," he managed around a tongue that felt clumsy in his mouth, through lips that were suddenly very dry. He straightened his shoulders. "While I cannot imagine what interest you think I'd have in the romantic fumblings of adolescents, I do appreciate your keeping me apprised of their actions. Should you manage to glean any pertinent information, do let me know."

He turned and swept out of his office and into his sitting room, resisting the urge to look at Dumbledore's portrait. Sinking into an armchair, he rested shaking hands atop his knees.

Hermione. Hermione and that… puerile boy. Severus attempted to swallow around the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat. His eyes burned, and, feeling the need to move, he stood and began pacing before his hearth. Well. How nice for them that, whatever the fuck else they were up to, they had the time to devote to romance. How perfectly lovely. His breathing was too fast, hissing in and out through the spaces between his clenched teeth.

He realized, then, that he still held the little notebook in one hand, the corners of its brittle pages bent where his palm pressed too tightly against them. With a snarl, he flung the wretched thing to the rug. It landed without making any noise at all, really, or at least not any that could be heard above the crackle of the fire and the rasp of Severus' breathing. He stared at it-it had closed upon landing, hiding Hermione's latest communication. After a long moment, he let out a sigh, crouched down, and lifted the thing by its chain. Returning it to its flat, silver form, he fastened it around his neck and tucked it away under his collar without answering her message.

The burning in his eyes grew worse, dry and painful, and then suddenly it disappeared-suddenly, there was dampness on Severus' cheeks, leaking into the deep grooves beside his mouth, and oh Merlin, how he loathed himself.

Ron pulled Hermione more tightly against him, drawing the covers up to their chins. "Merlin, it's bloody cold," he groused. "I'm so sick of being cold." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets for a moment before dropping them and staring up at the bunk above them. "I thought Harry knew what he was doing, I thought-"

He tugged at the quilt as he spoke, inadvertently baring Hermione's side to the frigid air inside the tent, which felt all the more bitter against her sweat-slicked skin. Irritated, she yanked back on the quilt.

"I know!" she snapped. "God, how many times do we have to go over this? I know, all right? I guess maybe I thought the same thing, but we were wrong, and going over and over and over it doesn't do any of us any good!"

"What else is there to do?" Ron demanded, half-sitting. "How long are we going to do this? It's freezing, we don't even have decent food-"

"Stop thinking with your stomach and start helping Harry and me figure out where we should look for the next Horcrux, then!" Hermione's voice rose with each word until she was practically shrieking. Grateful for the Silencing Charms they used now as a matter of course during Harry's watches, she sat up as well, clutching the quilt to her chest and ignoring the sting of cold against her shoulders and upper back. She glared at Ron, who glared right back at her; his expression held no trace of the tenderness he'd shown her only minutes earlier as he moved within her, their bodies slapping together with a desperate sort of rhythm.

Oh God, we have to stop talking, she thought. Everything seemed to go to hell between them when either one opened their mouths.

And really, that was the terrible thing about it all. She closed her eyes against sudden tears. When she opened them again, Ron was watching her, wearing an expression of profound irritation.

"We have to stop this," Hermione whispered, and as soon as the words were out she felt a great rush of relief and fear. Her chest cavity felt simultaneously light and heavy.

"Stop what?"

"This." She gestured back and forth between them. Her voice shook a little. "I can't-we can't-this doesn't work, Ron! Maybe you can, but I can't just ignore the fact that except when we're…" She flushed and took a steadying breath. "Except when we're having sex, we fight all the time. I can't just… turn that off. I can't keep doing this."

A dark flush spread upwards from Ron's chest, blotching his collarbones, neck, and cheeks with red. "You've got to be kidding me," he said.

Mutely, miserably, Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's not-I do care for you, you must know that. But we're not-this isn't-"

"Right." Ron shoved the covers off himself, not seeming to care that the movement yanked the quilt from her hands. Hermione hissed as cold air washed over her body, covering her head-to-toe in goose bumps. He scrambled over her legs to the edge of the bunk and began fishing around in the dark for his clothing from the jumble of both of theirs on the floor. Hermione snatched the covers up to her chest and scooted backwards, watching as he jammed his T-shirt furiously over his head, scrambled a bit to get his arms through the sleeves, then stood, clutching his underwear in one hand. "In that case," he bit out, yanking the pants over his hips, "you might get out of my bed and let me get some bloody sleep."

Hermione blinked and swallowed hard, but pushed the covers away and jumped out of the bunk, trying to ignore Ron's eyes on her as she stooped awkwardly, picking her pajamas up off the floor as fast as she could. She pulled them on, feeling exposed before him as she hadn't since their first night together, and retreated to the other side of the room, burrowing under the blankets on her own bunk. She curled in on herself and listened to the sounds of Ron getting back into bed-God, he managed to make even turning back the covers sound angry-feeling tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. Eventually he stopped thrashing about, and she could just make out the shape of him lying rigid on his back, bedclothes clutched tightly in his fists.

"Ron, I-" she began, but the moment she spoke, he rolled over, facing the wall. Hermione lay still for several seconds; she blinked, and a tear trickled over her right cheekbone to pool uncomfortably in her ear.

"I really am sorry," she told his back.

Very late that night, so late, in fact, that it was actually very early the next morning, Severus was roused from a restless doze by a prickling across his shoulders signaling that the wards on his office had been breached. He was halfway across the sitting room before he had come fully awake; wand aloft, he threw open his office door.

Whatever it was he had thought to find, it certainly wasn't Ginerva Weasley shattering the glass on the case that held the Sword of Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood hovering behind her. At the sound of the door banging against the wall, the three students turned as one to face him, open-mouthed. For a second, no one moved; then Longbottom lunged toward the case with a wordless cry. His fingers just brushed the hilt of the sword before Severus non-verbally Summoned it to him. It slapped against his palm, and in the next instant he had the three of them disarmed and bound.

"Pathetic as usual," he sneered. He held the sword loosely at his side and looked each of them up and down. All were fully dressed-and shod-and Severus was glad, for once, that he had fallen asleep in his armchair, for otherwise he would be confronting the miscreants clad only in his old nightshirt.

"And what," he asked in his most dangerous tone, "did you hope to accomplish with your thievery?" The Gryffindors glared at him mutinously, while Lovegood appeared engrossed in watching light from the sconces play off the sword's jeweled hilt, a faint smile turning her lips up at the corners. Severus felt a surge of anger-bloody fucking teenagers, mucking about for Merlin-knew what reason. His suspicion that the jinxes he'd been discovering around the castle, set specifically to deploy only if triggered by either himself or the Carrows, were the work of Longbottom and his little gang as well, was now confirmed. Idiots, the lot of them. But now, staring at the three before him, Silenced and unable to move, Severus felt his anger wane as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a deep, deep exhaustion. Gods, but it would be so much easier if they would stop making trouble. It was difficult enough trying to keep the students safe with the Carrows, stalking the halls, a lust for violence woven through their nasty,
inbred bloodlines and just itching for an excuse to torture. With these children playing deadly pranks and then fucking disappearing afterwards it all felt quite impossible. Though a part of Severus was heartened that some of the students were not too cowed to resist the Dark Lord's influence at the school, he was careful not to speculate, even within the relative privacy of his own mind, about where it was they vanished to. He found himself grateful they had discovered such a place, and hoped it was safe..

He surveyed the students before him, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get them out of his sight. With a flick of his wand, he Vanished the ropes securing their ankles. "On your feet," he said, crossing his arms and taking a perverse pleasure in watching them struggle to rise while their hands were still bound. Once they had managed it, he directed them, with a nod of his head, to the moving staircase. Longbottom and Miss Weasley looked at him mistrustfully before stepping down, but Miss Lovegood didn't look at him at all; she was humming something cheerfully tuneless under her breath. Severus stared after her, bemused, for a moment before bringing up the rear, his wand pointed at the blond witch's back.

Argus and his mangy cat were in the corridor outside Severus' office, the caretaker swirling a mop over the flagstones. He looked up when the strange party descended, nodding his head obsequiously at Severus.

"Headmaster," he muttered, eyeing the three students.

"Mr. Filch, I'm glad you're here," Severus said. "These pupils were stupid enough to try to break into my office."

Argus' scraggly eyebrows rose. "They do much damage?" he asked, leaning on the handle of his mop.

"They neglected to consider that I might have wards," Severus said drily.

Argus gave a snort, but Severus could sense the older man's wariness. Argus was not truly the sort of person to enjoy watching people get hurt; Severus had long suspected his bluster about manacles and whips was a sort of overcompensation for his lack of status as a Squib in the Wizarding world. He had been gleeful during Umbridge's tenure simply because she acknowledged him, but it had been the result of being disrespected and ignored by generations of Hogwarts students. Severus would bet all the Galleons in his Grigotts vault that the caretaker had not been a party to some of that woman's nastier modes of punishment; since the Carrows took over discipline at the school, Severus had noticed that Argus had complained far less loudly and less often about student infractions.

"Such a bumbling burglary attempt deserves punishment overseen by someone equally idiotic and bumbling," Severus said. "I think a week's detention with Professor Hagrid should do."

The two Gryffindors, predictably enough, turned on him with outraged expressions. Bloody morons. Miss Lovegood, however, turned to look at him over her shoulder, her weird eyes thoughtful. Feeling suddenly wrong-footed, Severus shoved her forward none-too-gently with the tips of his fingers.

"Take this one back to the Ravenclaw dormitory," he said to Argus, and then, with two flicks of his wand, he had Longbottom and the Weasley girl levitating three feet off the floor, their legs kicking impotently, mouths shouting unintelligibly. "I'll bring these two back to theirs."

Hermione lay on her bunk, curled into a ball under the blankets, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was breathing in and out through her nose, quietly, concentrating on the staccato rhythm of it, staring at the tent's canvas wall. She was trying very hard not to think. If she began thinking, she would begin crying again, and she'd cried so much already since Ron-

Damn it.

-since Ron-

Stop it.

-since Ron left them. Left them, walked right out, abandoned her and Harry and the rest of the sodding Wizarding world because-because-

Because you drove him to it.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

She pressed her palms over her ears, like a child who didn't want to hear her parents scold her.

Think about something else. Think about listening to Dean and Tonks' dad and the others in the woods. There are other people on the run, too. Think about other people trying to resist. Think about the fact that we're not alone, not really. Not even with Ron gone. There are others…

From somewhere behind her, she heard the shuffle of Harry's trainers.

"Hermione?"

She didn't answer.

There are others, but they don't know what they're doing any more than you do. They're doomed, too.

"Hermione, aren't you hungry? I saved some fish for you."

With great effort, she rolled onto her back and turned her head to look at him. His face was screwed up in an expression of concern; his glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose.

"What time is it?" she asked. Croaked. Her throat was awfully dry.

"Um, a little after three, I think."

Three. That meant only a few hours until dinner; only a few more after that until they started taking their turns for the night watch. Then start it all over again the next day.

She'd been lying here for hours, apparently.

She looked up at Harry, who was still hovering awkwardly beside her bunk, shifting from foot to foot. We can't do this, she thought, and for the first time since they'd left London, the thought wasn't accompanied by her usual desire, however faint, to scour her books just one more time for information, to prove her vile, pessimistic side wrong. Instead, it was accompanied by a wash of hopelessness that left her cold.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" she said, turning to stare up at the bunk above hers.

"… What?"

"Never mind." It didn't matter.

There was a long pause; she could feel Harry there, still hovering, but couldn't muster the energy to look at him.

"Hermione-you've been wearing that thing for a while, now," he said finally. His hand appeared in her peripheral vision, palm-up. "Let me have it."

"Have wha-" she started to ask, but then she remembered. The Horcrux. Right. Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened the chain. Her fingertips brushed the clasp of the other chain she wore, the one from which her Order pendant hung. It was strange, the locket and the pendant lying side-by-side against her skin, one vile, toxic, sapping her equilibrium and her strength whenever she wore it, the other her only link to the world outside the tent, to the person who kept her going. She dropped the Horcrux into Harry's open palm and turned away again, fingers working their way under the neck of her jumper to press against the cool flat surface of the pendant. Dimly, she heard Harry retreating.

With the locket gone, Hermione felt a slight shift in her head, the insidious humming that had filled her brain for hours finally quieting. Occluding did nothing to shut the Horcrux up, to lessen its influence or block the hideous way it magnified every negative thought she had. The logical-the Hermione-part of her brain reminded her that Occluding took a great deal of energy. It required calories, and the few calories she and Harry were managing to scavenge these days were going toward simply keeping her alive, keeping her organs functioning and her brain sending signals to her fingers and feet and eyes and ears. There was nothing left over, as Hermione's dry skin and brittle hair attested, for non-essentials.

But when the locket was nestled in the space between her breasts, Hermione felt like the worst sort of failure, the Horcrux murmuring gently against the base of her skull: What a waste of his time, teaching you to hide your thoughts. What a tremendous, absurd, monumental waste you are.

The relief now at having the Horcrux off was nowhere near as profound as it would have been weeks earlier. There was still a heaviness to Hermione's limbs, as though she were being weighted to the bed by a stack of wet wool blankets. Suffocating. She curled her fingers around the pendant, felt its cool edge press against her palm.

Severus barely spoke to her anymore. Several days earlier, the same night she'd ended things with Ron, Hermione had sent him a message and he hadn't responded for nearly two days. Two days in which Hermione felt the oppressive buzz of Ron's anger like a tangible thing filling the space between them in the tent, which suddenly felt far too small. Two days in which she imagined the worst-Severus' loyalties discovered, Severus tortured, Severus dead. It wasn't until Harry unfolded the Marauder's Map one afternoon, tracking Ginny's little dot with hungry eyes while Ron and Hermione looked over his shoulder, careful not to stand close enough to one another that their own shoulders might touch, that Hermione finally saw Severus' dot moving down a corridor and into the Great Hall and knew that, physically at least, he was okay. That reassurance was almost immediately tempered by the knowledge that, if he was all right physically, he was choosing not to talk to her. The thought made her feel terribly alone, a feeling that was not much alleviated by his eventual message: I am fine. Thank you for letting me know about your change of location. And nothing else.

Since then, he hadn't taken the initiative to contact her once, and his replies to her messages were short to the point of curtness.

What had she done? Why didn't he want to talk to her anymore?

She pulled the covers over her head.

When was this all going to end?

Tonight it was easier than it had been, lately, for Hermione concentrate on the books in her lap. Well, it would be with a belly full of meaty spaghetti; with the sugary sweetness of tinned pears lingering on her tongue. She'd nearly been discovered at the Tesco in the village near their latest camp site when, out of sheer desperation, she and Harry agreed she should go in under his Invisibility Cloak and filch some food. They'd been unable to find anything of real substance for several days, and the lightheadedness Hermione felt as she wove through the crowded supermarket, trying to avoid accidental contact with any of the other shoppers, was as much from hunger as nervousness.

Hermione traced the symbol on the page in front of her with the tip of one finger. One, two, three lines to form an equilateral triangle. Another line straight down. Swoop in a circle.

Grindelwald's mark.

Dumbledore, she thought, brows drawn down in a scowl, what the hell were you trying to tell us?

Harry was still watching her. "Hermione?" he said. ++

"Hmm?" ++

"I've been thinking. I-I want to go to Godric's Hollow." ++

Hermione looked up. A part of her had known this was coming. Of course Harry wanted to go to Godric's Hollow. And part of her wanted to go there, herself. They had to do something, after all; they couldn't keep wandering aimlessly about the country, avoiding detection but not actually doing anything to further their true goal. They would run mad if they didn't do something. And Godric's Hollow seemed as likely a place as any for Dumbledore to have hidden Gryffindor's sword.

She said as much now, raising her eyebrows when Harry seemed shocked that Gryffindor himself had come from the area in question.

As they talked, she felt excitement swell inside her chest for the first time in countless weeks. They were going to do something. They were being proactive. They had a plan.

And if there was a touch of unease niggling at the base of her skull, she chose, for the moment, to ignore it.

The holiday feast felt like a mockery this year, a scene of stilted cheer. Severus, who had never much cared for Christmas, had nevertheless been oddly glad when Hagrid stumped into his office one evening early in December, twisting his hat in his hands and looking everywhere except at Severus' face.

"I was wonderin', Headmaster," he said cagily, "if yeh wouldn' object ter me bringin' in some trees fer decoratin'. Professor Flitwick said he'd be happy to Charm somethin' pretty fer 'em."

Severus cleared his throat to hide its sudden catch. "I see no reason why not. Just tell Filius not to make the decorations too" -his lips twisted into a semblance of a sneer- "gaudy."

Something shifted behind Hagrid's eyes, a sharpness that Severus generally would not have associated with the half-giant. There was a strange, significant silence between them for a moment, and then Hagrid spoke.

"Too bad Neville an' the others already served those detentions yeh set 'em with me," he said, staring at something fascinating just over Severus' shoulder. "I could've used their help gettin' the trees."

Severus gazed at him silently for several seconds. Hagrid knows, he thought, not sure why he was so certain, only that he was. Of all his former colleagues, it never occurred to Severus that Hagrid, he of the Gryffindor bravery and Dumbledore worship and slower-than-average thought processes would be the one to discern his loyalties. He fought down a sick, hysterical desire to laugh.

"Take them," he said, several beats too late. He looked up into the other man's broad, bearded face until Hagrid's gaze finally flicked down to meet his. "They're troublemakers of the worst sort; no doubt they shall continue making trouble unless they are kept… otherwise occupied. Take them and use them whenever and however you wish."

Hagrid had kept his expression blank for a long moment, then cupped one big palm over his mouth to hide the smile growing there.

"Yes, Headmaster," he'd said, having the audacity to wink before leaving Severus' office.

The encounter only worsened the constant, gnawing anxiety in the pit of Severus' stomach, but more than two weeks passed without incident-and without any other indication from the groundskeeper that anything had changed. And now, the feast was upon them. Severus stared pensively at the fairy lights strung through the branches of the largest tree, toying with his fork but not raising more than a bite or two to his lips.

The few students who had remained at the school, at least, seemed to be enjoying the food, the house-elves having produced more varieties of pudding than Severus knew existed. To his left, the Carrows were chortling to each other and drinking too deeply from their goblets; Severus chose not to reprimand them, hoping vaguely that they might drink themselves to sleep. To his right, Minerva was admiring the scarf she had received from Pomona, hand-knitted in Gryffindor red and gold pseudo-tartan. When Albus was Headmaster, the teachers generally pooled their Galleons to buy him a good bottle of mead or a ridiculous hat from Madame Malkin's. Severus was no stranger to being largely overlooked during the holidays, but the contrast was striking. He felt angry and foolish and slightly ill. Thinking about Christmas presents, of all things. Pathetic bloody wanker, have some fucking perspective.

Abruptly, Severus grabbed his goblet and drained his wine. Then, uncaring how he appeared-no one paying attention anyway-he slumped back in his chair, hands dangling over the edges of the armrests, and glowered out over the hall. Soon enough, the meal would be over and he would be free to return to his quarters. To turn on the wireless and sit with his feet propped on the coffee table, a drink cradled in his hands, and listen to the scratchy in-and-out reception.

Potterwatch.

The word was on the lips of every third student at Hogwarts. Severus had taken to casting Muffliato and listening to the program obsessively in the evenings; never had he thought there might be a day when he would be profoundly thankful to hear the Weasley twins' voices, but the knowledge that the Order was still resisting, that others were working to undermine the Dark Lord's influence, that he wasn't all alone in this was a deeper comfort than he could have imagined. Isolated as he was at Hogwarts, it was easy to feel that he was alone, particularly now his surreal, clandestine conversations with Hermione had all but stopped. He scarcely knew what to say to her, now that he knew about her and Weasley. The thought of her sent a brief rush of pain to his temple and Severus closed his eyes for a moment. The less responsive he was to her messages, the fewer and farther between her communications became; often there were days between them, and he was left to wonder if she was-

Who the fuck was he kidding? He didn't listen to Potterwatch because it gave him hope. He listened, ulcer burning and heart trying to strangle him, for news of her death.

"Make it stop, make it-oh God-stop-"

Hermione couldn't breathe. She tried-struggled-couldn't even gasp. Off to the right, Harry was screaming. He sounded like-agony. Panic rose in a swooping wave, but still Hermione couldn't get her breath. She was on her face in the snow. Scraped palms, bruised knees, wet clothes. In her terror, in her haste to get them out of Godric's Hollow and away from Nagini and Voldemort, she'd screwed up the landing of her desperate Apparition, with Harry riding side-along, and had landed hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Can't breathe-

"Shit! Ah, God, please-"

Please-

With a stutter, her lungs began working. Hands braced against the slushy ground, Hermione took in short, shallow breaths until finally-finally-she was able to fill her chest.

"Just-stop-please stop, ohgodfuckpleaseplease-"

"Harry," she whispered, pushing herself to her feet. Her friend was a writhing dark mass a couple of feet away; he must have rolled when she let go after they landed. She bent over him, muttering a hasty, "Lumos." Her hands were shaking. Her entire body was shaking. Harry was thrashing too much for her to get a good look at him, and his screams were growing increasingly incoherent. Finally, in desperation, Hermione Petrified him, praying that doing so wouldn't cause any more damage.

It was easy to see what was the matter, then. Immobilized, Harry had ended up with one arm draped across his stomach, the fabric of his sleeve torn. Shifting aside the ragged edges, Hermione felt a rush of terror-two deep, round puncture wounds marred the skin of his forearm.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God-

Okay, she had to think. Think.3 Venomous snakebite. Poison. No anti-venin, and it mightn't be the right kind even if she did have some. Poison-

"Accio bezoar!" she said, aiming her wand at her beaded bag. A bezoar whooshed from the bag's drawstring mouth, plopping to the damp ground beside her lap. Hermione put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I'm going to cancel the spell-try not to move-" she said, voice too shrill, uncertain if he could hear or understand her at all. She un-Petrified him and he sort of shuddered before squeezing his eyes shut, a high, painful noise working its way up from his throat. Quickly, Hermione shoved the bezoar into his open mouth, pushing it as far back as she could with her fingers. Harry's teeth scraped her knuckles as she withdrew her hand, and he made a choked noise before swallowing. And then the keening began again, working its way up to a horrendous wail as Harry's hands came up, scrabbling at his chest and throat as Hermione looked on, horrified.

"No!" he was saying. "No-get it-off-off-"

The Horcrux. It must have reacted to Voldemort's proximity or… something. In an instant, Hermione had Harry Petrified again. She dropped her wand to the ground, unzipped his Muggle jacket, and unbuttoned the flannel shirt he wore underneath. She reached the for the locket-and shrieked when it refused to budge. The thing was-fused to Harry's skin.

Harry didn't even seem to know she was there, his howls growing increasingly incoherent. Okay. She had to get the locket off of him. Oh God. Okay. Okay. Okay-

Tugging at it proved useless. Hermione was panting, trying without much success to stay calm. She couldn't think of a charm that would remove it painlessly. There had to be one. There had to-

Harry wrapped his fingers around the chain, yanking at it, rolling his head back and forth. Screaming. Shit. Shit. No time to think, no time, no time-

Stop it. Taking several deep breaths, Hermione closed her eyes and erected her Occlumency Shields. When she opened her eyes again, it was easy to Petrify Harry once more-he ended up frozen with his face contorted into an expression of agony-and to use a slow, careful Severing Charm to separate the locket from the delicate skin of her friend's chest. It was gruesome work, little rivulets of blood running down his ribcage, staining his open shirt, but Hermione didn't stop until the Horcrux was free. She dropped it into her bag, feeling vaguely disgusted; she had no intention to let either of them wearing the damn thing ever again. Then she Summoned a little vial of Dittany from the bag and began dripping it onto the punctures on Harry's arm and the rather dreadful, meandering scar on his chest. Only then, once she'd buttoned his blood-crusted shirt and zipped his jacket to keep out the worst of the cold, did Hermione drop her Shields-Don't use them too long, you've seen what it does to Severus-and free Harry from the Petrification spell.

He opened his eyes and worked his jaw for a moment before focusing on her and croaking, "Hermione?"

"It's okay, Harry," she said. But it wasn't-oh God, it wasn't, for there on the ground was Harry's wand and it was broken, she could see that even in the darkness, snapped in two with only a dangling, bent portion of its phoenix feather core holding the two ends together.

"Oh no," Hermione whispered. Nononononono…. The shared cores-how could Harry block Voldemort without their wands' shared cores?

"What-" Harry began, but he didn't finish the thought; a moment later, his eyes rolled back and he lay still; Hermione would have panicked utterly had she not been able to see the rapid rise and fall of his chest by the thin light of her wand. She sat back on her heels, heart pounding. Despite the cold, her skin was covered in a light film of sweat.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Okay." She was suddenly very aware of the sounds all around them. An owl hooted; a twig snapped somewhere behind her. Hermione leapt to her feet; now the initial fear for Harry's life had passed, a new fear had emerged-what if, somehow, the snake, or Voldemort himself, had followed them? Stupid, stupid to have left them so vulnerable for so long. She stuffed the broken ends of Harry's wand into her pocket and began racing in a wide rough circle around Harry's prone form, erecting the wards that would-please-keep them hidden.

The tent took only a moment to set up, they'd done it so often now. Hermione Levitated Harry onto his bunk and bundled blankets over him, then pulled up a stool and sat down, her legs feeling abruptly watery. She closed her eyes, her mind filled with flashing images-the bright cheeriness of Godric's Hollow, looking like a Christmas card village, juxtaposed with the sensation of utter wrongness when they first beheld poor Bathilda Bagshot; the abandoned dustiness of her house; the horror of that snake striking.

They had come so very close to dying.

Hermione inhaled a deep breath and looked at Harry. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, now, his breathing regular. She touched his forehead, and was relieved to find it cool. He was going to be okay.

But she was still restless and shaking. After a moment, she gave in to her urge to move and began to pace up and down the length of the tent. Harry had nearly died-they both had nearly died, really-and it was all for nothing. They were no closer to finding the locations of the remaining Horcruxes, or to destroying the one they had, than they had been before. And now the last of the Dittany was gone, and she'd used a lot of the Blood Replenisher on Ron, back when he'd Splinched after their escape from the Ministry. And they were out of Bezoars. And Harry's wand was broken.

She couldn't do this anymore. Could not. Her breathing sped up until she was gasping rather than inhaling, she was hyperventilating, and when did she start crying, crying didn't help anything-

She hadn't removed her cloak, and it flapped around her like Severus' robes. Severus. Hermione abruptly stopped pacing, her heart hammering in her chest, an idea forming even as her common sense told her it was stupid, reckless and stupid, she shouldn't do it, shouldn't-

"Accio Dreamless Sleep!" she said, and caught the little bottle-the only potion she'd brought with her that was not depleted-in the palm of her hand. She looked at Harry. He was twitching restlessly; perhaps he was in pain? Surely giving him Dreamless Sleep would be a kindness… And she could… She could see…

She unstopped the bottle before her rational mind could talk her out of it. A few drops would ensure that Harry was out for hours.

Severus was sitting by the fire in his quarters and flipping through a stack of disciplinary requests from his staff-Happy fucking Christmas, indeed-when his pendant burned gently against his chest. He froze, eyes flicking to the clock on the mantlepiece. It was late. Moving with deliberate slowness, as though there were someone else in the room who might notice his suddenly trembling fingers, he set aside the paperwork and reached under his dressing gown and nightshirt. Just as casually, he enlarged the pendant to its notebook form-and felt his heart stutter and stop when he saw what was written on the most recent page.

I'm at the gates. May I come in?

He stared at the words for nearly a full minute, unable to fully comprehend them. At the gates? At Hogwarts' gates? What the hell was she playing at? And, on the heels of that thought-perhaps it wasn't her at all.

His stomach seemed to try to swoop in dread at the same time that his heart rose in stupid, stupid hope, leaving him with a distinct feeling of nausea. This couldn't be happening.

"Are you mad? Why are you here?" he asked, and the words were a growl, his knuckles white against the ebony wood of his wand.

I just-it's been a terrible… I need help.

There was a tinny ringing in Severus' head that was making it impossible to think clearly. A question. He had to ask a question to determine her-to determine the messenger's identity.

Think, dammit, bloody think.

"What did-" His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and tried again. "What did you… do… the last time we saw each other?"

The seconds ticked past, feeling very long. In hindsight, there were several possible answers to his question-she'd confessed what she'd done to her parents, she'd sobbed, she'd let him touch her wrist. But the thing at the forefront of Severus' mind was-

I kissed you.

"I'll be right there," he said.

A/N: As always, a great big thank-you to my beta, Ivy Amelia! Part two of the chapter to follow :-)