Chapter 45: Aurora

"So, they really met here, before Hogwarts was even founded?" Sirius asked incredulously, looking at the green landscape with the sharp, water-filled trench and the picturesque lake. "Awfully cold to hold a government meeting, don't you think?"

Visibly frustrated with what was either genuine interest or an extremely successful attempt at annoying her, Hermione massaged her temples and sighed a little. They were standing on a small hill, overlooking Þingvellir, the site that their muggle-made travel guidebook confidently called the 'oldest remaining parliament of the world'. It was somewhat understandable that the people of this island were proud of their heritage, and more than a thousand years of something even approaching democracy was certainly impressive; yet classing what was basically a selection of fields as a parliament was rather far-fetched, she had to admit.

"I think they would have used tents, and big warm fires," Daphne observed. Their dark-haired friend had joined the group in taking some of the brooms stored in what had once been the helicopter hangar to the site that had been earmarked for some exploration during their planning session the night before; of course, given that they had been employing brooms, Hermione had happily shared one with Harry, pressing up to her boyfriend the whole time and squeezing her eyes shut.

Of course, taking Daphne out from under the Fidelius had been a risky endeavour, even considering the fact they were literally hundreds of kilometres away from anyone who might have been looking for her. Still, the precautions they had taken were considerable: She had been decked out in a slight glamour charm and supplied with a potion of rather illicit nature that was used to fool tracking charms. Where and how exactly Sirius had gotten hold of it, Harry had not been interested in finding out.

"Ah, all nature and history," Harry's godfather complained, "I liked Reykjavik much better. The booze might have set me back quite a bit, but that 'Black Death' stuff really gives you a kick."

In response, Harry only managed to groan annoyedly, as he proceeded to remember the preceding evening; yes, Sirius really had been a very happy camper after consuming a good portion of the half litre bottle of liquor, just as Martin had been. However, none of them had had to go out and search for one of them either, only to find their godfather and the helmsman in a hotel room, both nursing a bad hangover and lacking big chunks of their night. Luckily, and with Hermione's help, Harry had been able to piece together their location from the drunk mirror-calls he had received. Still, as far as he was concerned, Sirius was going to be tagged with a tracking charm for the already announced bender he was going to go on for their last evening on the island.

The fondly annoyed expression on Hermione's face seemed to mirror his state of mind perfectly. "As long as you don't expect us to pity you the next morning," she huffed. "Hangover-cure is all well and good, but you know quite well that the only thing that really helps is time. And don't expect me to brew any of that stuff for you, again, either."

Hearing this, Sirius feigned hurt for a bit, before he returned to reading the description in the guidebook, all the while leading the group back along increasingly narrow and overgrown paths and to the sheltered area where they had landed and dispelled their disillusionment charm. In a backwards recreation of their arrival at the historically important site, Hermione summoned their brooms from the depths of her space-extended backpack, along with their heat-charmed clothes. With everyone decked out appropriately (or as appropriately as it was possible on an island where the weather tended to change in intervals of what felt like minutes), Sirius applied the disillusionment charm back to himself and Daphne, as well as their broom, and Hermione made herself and her boyfriend virtually indistinguishable from the background.

The sinking sun in front of them, the group set off westward where they knew they would hit shore. With what to Harry felt like it would read as around 50km/h had he been able to properly read his tachometer, they reached the sea north of the small nation's capital less than an hour later, at which point he went into a lazy turn north, where he knew they would find… whatever it was they were looking for. Even knowing that there was a Fidelius Charm protecting their base of operations, suddenly not knowing was definitely a unique experience. He had no idea where Sirius and Daphne were, but he did not much care either way. As much as it sometimes did not seem that way, his godfather was actually an adult, and Harry was sure he would move heaven and earth to keep Daphne safe. Additionally, and this was immensely comforting as well, they both still had their portkeys.

Seeing as it was getting late, Harry accelerated the broom a good bit, until they were flying at what had to be double the speed they had been travelling at before, making him incredibly grateful to Hermione for having charmed their clothes. Suddenly, he could feel a vibration at his back, and only the enchantments embedded in these travelling brooms intended to smooth out ones flying protected them from violently jerking in the air; not that he had a real problem with some more wild flying, but he had a feeling Hermione would not appreciate it.

"Can you slow down a bit," the girl cuddling up to him almost screamed in that moment, reminding Harry that there was still a communication mirror vibrating in her coat-pocket. With as much deceleration as comfort allowed, he slowed down and tried to listen in on the mirror-call Hermione was now taking.

"Hey, Sirius," she greeted the man on the other side. "Sorry you can't see us, but we're still in flight and under the disillusionment charm," Hermione explained what was probably an interesting view on the other end of that call. "Can you give us the location?"

"The Gwyneth is anchored just north of Helissandur on the peninsula of Snæfellsnes," he relayed loudly enough for Harry to hear, at which point the pieces fell back into place inside his head; truly an odd feeling, that was. "Daphne and I took the portkeys back, she was getting cold," the marauder continued unbidden. In response to what Harry could only assume Sirius thought was the look Hermione was giving him, the man continued, "Fine, I was getting cold."

Now, Harry could actually feel his girlfriend shaking with uncontained mirth against his back. "I told you, you should have accepted the additional enchantments," she half-scolded.

Sirius, for his part, just huffed. "You just get back here first, then we'll talk. Let's see how warm you feel then," he rebutted. "See you later."

After he had given Hermione a few moments to reorganise herself and put the mirror back, where it belonged, Harry accelerated the broom again, now flying straight over the water and toward the white-capped mountain in the distance with the unpronounceable name that was somehow not even the worst of the bunch; Sdnayfelsyokittl, or something along the lines one of the people in Reykjavik had called it.

Around an hour had passed, until they could see the single position light of the Gwyneth in the distance; Harry angled the broom, so it was flying straight at the single, white light that had been added to what had formerly been the ship's funnel. While his mage-lights had not turned out the way he wanted them, at least not yet, they were almost perfect for this use. Because, what was better than light to find a ship on the water? An extremely bright light, of course. Within minutes, Harry and Hermione's feet touched the ground where someone had added a giant B to the deck, in favour of the former giant H. They stepped through the hangar doors gingerly, legs stiff from the long flight on a rather uncomfortable vehicle, put sad vehicle back to it its place on the wall, and joined the rest of the crew in the ship's mess.

After a short dinner and his evening rituals, Harry soon fell into bed next to Hermione, who kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "You know, when used like this, maybe brooms aren't half bad."

They both fell asleep that night with a smile on their faces.

OOOOOOOO

A good thousand kilometres to the south, a regal owl that somehow managed to look even more conceited than many of the other members of its kind, was making its way across the English West Country. Had it cared for such things, the place it had just passed would have been considered picturesque, but the owl did not care for these things much. Instead, the one receiving the message was holed up in a small house close to the village, nothing much, as the owl's owner had determined. Never having been there, of course, he had determined it was not the Dumbledore family seat, but instead just a small cabin in the woods, far away from any sort of public scrutiny.

"Nothing worth of someone of his stature," he had declared. "Or mine, for that matter. Still, think of all the books I could sell, accepting this position…"

The owl hooted in frustration; humans were a weird bunch, indeed.

OOOOOOOO

"Harry, Hermione," a loud voice pierced through the pleasant nothingness of sleep Hermione had been enjoying, cuddled up as she was against the warm pillow that was her Harry. "Get up, you need to see this," the voice, which she now identified as being Daphne's, continued.

Hearing the groggy grumbling that indicated Harry had also been roused and was now getting up, she guessed she did not have much choice but to find out, what had their friend so excited. That very friend was already dashing out onto the corridor in front of the Captain's quarters again, and Hermione could just about make out, "You'll need warm clothes!" before she was gone. In their usual routine (they had come to the silent agreement that the first time they saw more of each other's body would be something special), Harry moved his action of getting dressed to the bathroom, while she slipped into warm socks, underwear, pants and a warm, woolly pullover. Coupled with her enchanted coat, these layers were sure to be able to deflect whatever the night threw at her.

Barely five minutes after being brutally awoken, Hermione led the two of them out one of the doors on the ship's portside and into the cold, salty air. Not knowing what the reason for coming outside had been, they were a little lost as to where exactly to go. Taking into account that it had been Daphne who had awoken them, Hermione simply concluded to try it with the girl's favourite spot first.

They did indeed find the rest of the Gwyneth's crew arrayed on the otherwise empty foredeck, all of them staring up into the sky; following their example, Hermione finally saw what the reason for the interruption to their rest had been.

On the clear night's sky, bands of sickly green light were lazily weaving their way through the blackness, their contorted forms ever shifting. It was something she had been hoping, but had not actually expected to see; even as far north as Iceland, aurora borealis was not a common occurrence, and with how cloudy the sky tended to be, even if they showed up, they were often hidden behind a curtain of grey. Completely enraptured as she was with the spectacle of nature unfurling before her eyes, Hermione almost missed the tension that had crept into Harry's posture, the arm he had around her.

Almost.

"Hey, what is it?" she asked her boyfriend, whose eyes were darting around furtively, almost as if he was waiting for an attack to happen. Now captivated by something other than the beautiful northern lights criss-crossing the sky, Hermione pulled the glove off her right hand and lifted it towards Harry's face. The moment she touched him, he jerked a little, before finding her with his eyes and easing his cheek into the comfort of her fingers. "Come on, talk to me," she almost pleaded. It might have been a bit beneath her, or maybe it wasn't, but she had seen Harry look like this before; it rarely indicated he would be open about what was troubling him.

"It…" he began, only to pause immediately and take a shuddering breath, before he continued, almost whispering, "What spell does that colour remind you of?"

Suddenly, the haunted look marring her Harry's face made sense; it might not have occurred to her, but yes, this normally breathtakingly, hauntingly beautiful piece of nature unfurling before their very eyes had a colour disturbingly similar to that of the Killing Curse. And the last time Harry had seen one of those…

Now, it was Hermione's turn to shudder. Looking at things honestly, she could see that Harry had probably never really dealt with that night. To be even more honest, neither had she. The thought of losing him and what they had was one hard to grapple with. It was not even the dying part that was really scary, actually, at least not to Hermione; no, it was the idea of not having lived properly before that was, and it was something they would have to deal with at some point. For now, though, they would have to get out of the situation, first.

"Hey, we're going back inside," she told the others quietly, and with a meaningful look at Martin she added, "The colour of those lights doesn't exactly dredge up good memories."

So, only minutes after getting outside, Hermione lead a numbly following Harry into their shared bedroom. She divested her boyfriend of his clothing up until the layer of his long johns and vest, maneuvered him back to bed and did the same for herself, before joining him under the still warm covers.

"I was looking forward to dying, Hermione," Harry suddenly started talking, and just as shocking as his words was the tone of voice with which he delivered them. Low, breathless, laced with incredible guilt. Sensing that her input was neither required nor welcome, she simply cuddled up to him and smoothed over his hairs in a calming gesture. "I was looking forward to dying, to leaving everything behind," he went on, his voice now a bit stronger, even if there was an audible frog in his throat. "I left you behind, abandoned you, abandoned everything we have now."

The hand that was caressing his face went a little wet with the tears now escaping from his tightly closed eyes. No longer able to bare not saying anything, Hermione tried soothing him, "It's not like you really had a choice. Voldemort would have kept coming back, and you never had enough time to ponder anything different."

"But I should not have been looking forward to it!" Harry lashed out angrily, followed by full-on sobbing. Trying her very best to not be hurt by her boyfriend's anger, Hermione simply scooted up on the bed a little, pulled his shaking head against her chest and let him cry.

"Oh Harry…"

OOOOOOOO

AN: Hi all,

It's a shorter one, I know, but it was a ready-made end.

I am of course neither endorsing nor vilifying suicide. However, if you do find yourself dealing with feelings like these, or the wish to commit suicide, please seek help. Nearly every western country has some sort of hotline for suicide prevention, please use it. And yes, I know Harry isn't the classical case of suicide, but just to be on the safe side; as you can see with our dear protagonist in this tale, things can turn around.

Hoping that this AN was completely unrequired for you all,

alexandertheII