The weather went from chilly to positively frigid as they continued their sporadic camping trip. The weeks raced by at a fevered pace. They spent no more than three days in any one site, and despite its source of relative comfort, tended to stray from southern England and into the altogether colder, more rough terrain of the north. After one exceptionally awful night on an island in the middle of a Scottish loch, Harry put his foot down and they moved back south for a few days, giving Harry an opening for his tentative suggestion to Hermione.
They had enjoyed an unusually satisfying meal of Ratatouille (under Hermione's suggestion) after a clandestine trip to a supermarket under cover of the Cloak, and Harry had decided they should take a break from wearing the locket as they usually did while talking. Harry had been the one to suggest that routine a few days after Ron left, arguing that without the locket's influence, they would be able to talk rationally with one another. After that, it had become standard practice. Rather than beat around the bush, Harry decided to just lead with his proposal and answer the inevitable million questions Hermione would have for him.
"I think we should go to Godric's Hollow."
"Hmm?" She was curled up on his bunk, her copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard open across her lap along with Spellman's Syllabary, and she looked to be cross-referencing something between the two tomes. Harry, for the life of him, couldn't understand what could be so difficult to decipher in a children's storybook.
"Never mind. Having trouble with something?"
"Yes. Look at this symbol here. Do you recognize it?" she said, pointing to what looked to be a rune at the top of one page. It resembled a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line. Something tinged at his memory. He had seen the symbol somewhere but couldn't remember where.
"Yeah, I've seen it…somewhere. Hold on, let me think. Yes! It's Grindelwald's mark!"
"What?"
"Yeah, Krum told me at the wedding that it was Grindelwald's mark. Apparently, Grindelwald himself carved the mark on a wall at Durmstrang back in his day. Luna's dad was wearing a pendant at the wedding with the symbol on it. Krum looked like he wanted to curse him."
"Grindelwald."
"Yes, Grindelwald."
"The Dark Lord Grindelwald."
"Yes, Hermione. That Grindelwald. Honestly, how many blokes do you know named Grindelwald?"
She kept looking back and forth from the symbol to Harry. "There's never been any mention of him even having a mark in anything I've read."
"Like I said, it's just what Krum told me. Mind you, he did try to kill me in the maze, so who knows?"
She rolled her eyes and smiled. "So, Godric's Hollow?"
"Yeah, I want to go. I figure the sword might be there, you know?"
Hermione gaped openly at him, her mouth flapping open and closed while she tried to find her words. Harry felt both gratified and insulted.
"No need to look surprised. I'm not stupid, you know. I can read."
She quickly recovered, suddenly bashful. "Of course, Harry. I didn't mean – you are intelligent, I just – " she sighed. "I'm not making myself look good here, am I?"
"Not so much, no," he said cheekily. "I get it. I used to love reading, you know. The summer before first year, I read through all my schoolbooks. I wanted to learn magic so much. Not sure where I went wrong, really."
"Ron's influence, most likely. Here, let me grab the book."
He held it up in his hand. "I've got it here." He opened the book at the page he'd marked.
"'Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.'"
"The Potters aren't mentioned because Professor Bagshot doesn't cover anything past the end of the nineteenth century," she said as he closed the book.
"I'll admit, the sword wasn't my first thought when I had the idea of going, but after I read this it made the idea more convincing. I know it's a risk, but I think it's worth it."
"What else is there?" she asked curiously, but before Harry could reply she stiffened, and her eyes started glimmering. "Merlin, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, Harry, of course you'd want to visit them."
"Yeah, there's that," he said, grabbing her hand to tell her she'd done nothing wrong, "but I want to see the house as well. And Auntie Muriel said that Bathilda Bagshot still lives there."
"Bathilda Bagshot…" she murmured, absent-mindedly rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. Out of nowhere she gasped and gripped his hand so tightly that he thought they were under attack, and instinctually he drew his wand and threw himself over her, bracing himself. To his surprise and chagrin, she started laughing.
"What?" he demanded, somewhat annoyed. He looked down at her with a glare to see she was flushed and still giggling, her hair wild and fanned out over a pillow. Something hard jerked in his stomach seeing her so happy and seemingly carefree, and before he knew it he was smiling and laughing, too.
Rubbing one of his arms held above her, she smiled up at him. "Harry, I appreciate your protective instinct, but I can take care of myself, you know."
"Right," he said sheepishly. "I know that. You just scared me is all."
She smiled and shifted her legs, and suddenly Harry realized that he was lying on top of her and quickly pulled himself up and to a respectful distance. His face felt like it was on fire, and when he glanced over at Hermione, her face was flushed crimson.
"Sorry about that," he croaked.
She shook her head quickly, still smiling. "It's alright, Harry. I didn't mind – I mean, it isn't a big deal."
And that was confusing. Until just a few weeks prior, Harry had been sure that Hermione had harbored feelings for Ron for years. But apparently, he had been wrong about that to an extent. He was sure, however, that Hermione was not attracted to him. But she didn't him lying on top of her? Did he mind? Not for the first time, Harry cursed his sheltered upbringing for not preparing him to deal with women.
"Right. Okay then," he said, forcing a smile. "So why did you gasp like that?"
"Oh! Yes, I thought, maybe, what if Bathilda Bagshot has the sword? What if Dumbledore left it with her, knowing you'd want to visit?"
Harry had to admit that the theory had merit. It seemed like the kind of backward, overly complex solution that Dumbledore seemed to prefer. But Bathilda Bagshot would be extremely old by now, not to mention that Muriel had insisted that she was "gaga." Harry was on the fence about it, and told Hermione so.
"Of course. There's no way of knowing for sure besides actually going there," she said. "We'll have to plan well. Disapparating under the Cloak, maybe Polyjuice? We'll need hairs. I think the more elaborate our disguises the better."
"Yeah, that's a good idea."
He let her hash out the details of the plan, throwing in ideas here and there, content to let her manage it. While Ron had been their resident strategist, Hermione was more than clever enough to make up for his loss. While she talked and wrote, he took his photo album from Hermione's beaded bag and flipped through its pages, smiling down at the moving images of his parents taken so many years ago. He was still looking through it when he noticed that Hermione had gone silent and glanced up at her, only to find her looking at him with an odd expression.
"Do you want a family one day?" she asked.
"I – I don't know. I think I haven't really let myself think that far ahead. I think... Yeah, I'd love to get married one day, have kids and all that. But I'm not sure. I think if I survive, then I'll think about it then."
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that. If you survive…" she shook her head.
"It's a war, Hermione. And what we're doing, it's especially dangerous. There's so much that could go wrong. And when we get all of the horcruxes, I'll still have to fight him in the end."
She just kept looking at him, pinching her eyebrows together like she was in pain, before she closed her books and flicked her wand. The lamps that kept the tent partially bathed in pale light extinguished. Hermione kicked her boots off and lay back in the bed, drawing the thick coverlet over herself. She waved him over, ignoring his look of incredulity, and he stepped over to the bed and lowered himself down beside her, laying on his side. She kept her eyes trained on his and scooted up to him, curling her body against his. With a heaving sigh, she placed her hands on his arms and buried her head in his chest.
"I hope – is this okay? I don't really feel up to sleeping alone," she said. Her voice was trembling, and the last thing on Earth that Harry felt capable of doing was denying her.
"Yeah, of course," he choked out. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"
She hummed, already halfway asleep, and Harry waited until her breathing evened out before closing his eyes and following her into slumber.
