CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT—The Diadem

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Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent hours in the Room of Requirement looking through cabinets and drawers and boxes the Saturday after the second week of class. They hadn't found Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem before the Christmas hols—the room stuffed with broken furniture and keyless pianos and clocks that ran backwards on Tuesdays was massive, probably as big as the Great Hall. Ron had started wandering down the crude corridors between the stacked furniture, of the opinion that Voldemort wouldn't've spent much time in here, while Hermione figured he'd be very cautious with a piece of his soul and would have hid it thoroughly. Harry took the middle ground, not digging too deep into any one pile but trying to find a not-so-obvious hiding place.

Harry had been very sulky about their failure until they got to Sirius's house. Mr and Mrs Weasley had that effect on people—Hermione and her parents had always relied on Molly and Arthur to lead them through the strange customs of the wizarding world and the two always assisted them with a kind hand and smiles instead of condemning their silly questions. Of course, Arthur had questions about the Muggle world as a tit for tat and sometimes he had Dad stumped. Then Dad would research it and send Arthur a letter via Muggle post and that really tickled the wizard (their correspondence also helped Arthur realize the appropriate amount of postage stamps a letter required).

Harry didn't like to talk about his Muggle upbringing with his aunt and uncle and cousin but from what Hermione could glean, his aunt wasn't very motherly. Mrs Weasley had taken Harry as an eighth child even though she and Arthur didn't have money or clothes to spare. Hermione knew first-hand that Molly was a protective mama bear when it came to Harry and her children, going so far as to put Hermione at the edges of that affection when Rita Skeeter had everyone convinced Hermione flit from famous boy to famous boy in her fourth-year. And now that all that was cleared up, Hermione saw Molly even trying to rope Severus into the family fold since she found out they were married to one another. She and Ginny had had a good laugh over that the day after the holiday party.

"Oh, did you see her making Dad stand next to him?" Ginny had asked. "Then Ron? I think she was tryin' to size him up for a jumper!"

Hermione had tears in her eyes that were, for once, of joy. "It will have to be black—a black jumper and a slightly less black S if she wants him to wear it."

Harry and Ron stuck their head into the Black library to see what all the laughing was about. Ginny told them it was girl business and they quickly retreated, not wanting to talk about uteruses or the like.

"I really am glad I have you to help me through this," had Hermione said.

Ginny shoved her shoulder. "'Course," was all she said.

If all of her friends hated her husband, Hermione didn't know what she'd do. Especially now that she could admit she had a crush on the berk. Crush or not, married to him or not, Severus Snape was not an easy man to like, or an easy man to get to know. Even after all these months of marriage and seeing each other barely functioning from pain and illness, he still kept things close to the vest. At Grimmauld Place, he had gallantly kept Mad-Eye from slapping the life out of her. (Hermione was glad she was hidden in a weird desk/bookshelf grotto when the blush erupted over her face.) He had called her dear. They had snuggled on the couch—yes, snuggled. He had left before she awoke in the morning, but in the night, when the fire was low, she woke up with his ankles tangled with hers and that was definitely cuddling and no one could tell her otherwise. (Her face was now on fire.) And he had risked exposing himself as a good guy by finding out where Luna had been taken, all because she asked.

So it wasn't too terribly difficult for Hermione to think, or hope, that Severus liked her, at least a tiny bit. Liked her enough to share a stuffy couch with her at Grimmauld Place instead of retreating to the guest room, at any rate.

Hermione's ruminations on Christmas got her through three bookcases until Harry's triumphant shout echoed through the cavernous, packed room.

"Mione, Ron, come look at this—I think this is it!"

So they met Harry in the center of the room, Hermione still close to the entryway due to her careful combing and Ron having to jog from the back. She moved her beaded blue bag to her other shoulder since the strap was digging into her skin. Basilisk fangs were heavy, even despite the charms she put on the bag.

Harry stood before a mannequin head wearing a wig, sitting on top of Harry's ragged copy of Advanced Potion's Making. Atop the wig sat a stunning silver crown inlaid with sapphires. The crown was in the shape of a bird with extended wings.

"That's it," Hermione confirmed. It was even more beautiful in person. A vision of the Grey Lady wearing the diadem flashed through her mind.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "That's insane—I touched it last year, when I hid Snape's book—and it didn't feel weird or anything. Maybe…maybe it's not a Horcrux?"

Hermione felt her gut clench with anxiety. Ron stared at the diadem with disappointment.

"Yeah, shouldn't it, I don't know, look evil?" he asked. "It's had a bit of Voldemort in him for decades."

The diadem shimmered in the light. How could something so pretty be a receptacle for Voldemort's soul? Hermione twirled the end of her ponytail in her hands, twisting it into a rope. Had…had she been wrong?

She couldn't be wrong, Harry was depending on her to find these Horcruxes! And they had wasted all this time searching for a stupid crown…

Harry pressed his hand to his scar, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "No—this isn't right. My gut is telling me that's a Horcrux, but my head is telling my gut to stuff it."

Hermione tugged on her hair, twisted it until her scalp tingled. "This is all my fault—we wasted so much time and it's just a stupid crown." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "I'm such an idiot." A crippling cloud surrounded her, of doubts and fear—fear that she was devoting too much time obsessing about her unloving husband and not enough time trying to help Harry, her best friend—

"What?" Ron demanded. He looked at Hermione with horror, then at Harry who couldn't even open his eyes against the pain in his scar. Ron held out his hand. "Give me the bag, Mione."

She was weeping as she handed it over. "Everything in there is useless anyway," she sobbed. "How are we going to defeat Voldemort with old clothes and a tent? He'd find us and kill us in an instant."

Ron yanked open the bag and withdrew one of the basilisk fangs. He elbowed the mannequin head to the floor. Harry stumbled away, clutching his head with both hands.

Ron raised the fang high above his head and brought it down on the crown, right in the center gem at the heart of the splayed raven.

A black shadow flared to life like a raging fire, tongues of shadows slipping out of the cracks and up the fang and around Ron's wrist before coalescing in a roiling black cloud above them all. Voldemort's snakelike face appeared in the cloud before dissipating.

Harry panted, his hands clutching his knees.

Hermione stared at the shattered crown, tears suddenly dry. She covered her mouth with her hand. She—it—whatever vile part of Voldemort was tucked away in that crown had reached out and covered her with terrible thoughts—within seconds.

"Good show, Ron," Harry said when he caught his breath. "I'm starting to get nervous about killing the snake, after that."

"You weren't nervous before?" Ron asked, still clutching the massive fang in his hand. His whole arm shook.

Hermione walked over to Ron and put her arms around his waist for a hug. He was surprised but stopped shaking after a few minutes.

"We can do this," she said into his shoulder. "Together. Together we're strong enough."

Ron tossed the scorched basilisk fang towards the blue beaded bag that he had left on the floor next to the shattered tiara. He waved Harry over for the hug.

The three of them stood above the broken Horcrux, one arm around each of their friends. It was awkward for Ron, being so much taller, but they were mostly all forehead to forehead in their huddle.

"Together," Harry agreed.