Harry rose quickly and without delay, stretching his aching limbs and shaking the last dying remnants of sleep from his weary body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so well-rested and ready to face the day and its challenges. He shuffled to the sink and brushed his teeth quickly but efficiently, a lesson ingrained in him by the witch currently still curled in the blankets on their bunk, snoring softly. Grabbing his wand and his set of toiletries from Hermione's bag, he set on a brisk walk to the nearby river, cast a warming charm on his body, and bathed, scouring the grime, muck and blood from his frame.

Freshly dressed and pleasantly clean, he sat at the bank of the river and familiarized himself with the frosted hilltop surrounding their campsite. He felt peculiarly exposed by the lack of trees, the only greenery in sight being a few isolated shrubs and bushes. The birds twittering in the open sky filled his chest with a keen sense of contentedness, and he whistled along cheerily as he made his way back to the tent.

His jovial demeanor was briefly broken by his recollection of the previous night's events. As he walked, he took advantage of the relative peace and quiet to organize his memories. He recalled with a dull sense of horror how very close they had come to dying, more than once, and though the risk had ultimately been worth it to destroy Nagini, Harry didn't feel keen on repeating the experience. And Voldemort had found the picture of the thief, knew who he was, and how he was involved in their struggle. Harry had to concede that Voldemort simply had more information than him, which was a sobering admission.

"Morning."

Hermione was curled up in one of the threadbare armchairs, buried in dusty tome, but had smiled up at him as he entered the tent. He shuffled over to her and leaned down, planting a swift peck on her lips and snatching her cup of tea before taking a sip. He planted himself on the armrest of the chair.

"Morning," he responded. "Sleep well?"

"Very," she purred. "Also, I found him. The boy in the picture."

She lifted the book from her lap and handed it to him. The copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore was in mint condition.

"I nicked it from Bathilda's sitting room before we escaped. She didn't really have a need for it," she said darkly.

"No, I suppose she didn't."

Harry felt a perverse sort of pleasure in the idea of finally knowing all of Dumbledore's secrets. The man's uncanny ability to play all of his cards close to the chest had vexed Harry for years. In life, the headmaster had been an enigma. Now in death, it seemed, his secrets weren't held in nearly as high regard. Harry would finally have the truths he'd requested.

"I know I shouldn't be," he began, "but I'm just so angry with him. He left us with nothing. A book, a Snitch, and a makeshift cigarette lighter. No plans, no ideas, nothing else. I don't mean any disrespect; I know how you are with authority figures – "

"No, in this case, I agree with you. Dumbledore left too much unsaid that could've helped us."

"Really?"

"Harry, my philosophy is to respect figures of authority until they give me reason not to, not to just blindly take them at their word."

"Right," he mumbled. "Well then."

He rifled through the pages of the book, peering at the photographs. One showed a small family: a handsome looking woman, two auburn-haired boys, and a fragile looking blonde girl. When he finally found the picture he was searching for a read the caption, he froze, and the book dropped out of his hands to the floor with a thud.

"What is it?"

Harry picked the book up and found the page again, handing it to Hermione. When she read the caption, her eyes shot wide and found his.

"Grindelwald?"

She quickly found the corresponding chapter that dealt with Dumbledore's apparent friendship with Gellert Grindelwald and read it aloud. With every word, Harry found himself growing more and more appalled and disgusted with his old mentor. Any veneer of respect he'd held for Dumbledore evaporated in moments, leaving him with nothing but resigned indifference.

When Hermione finished reading, she slammed the book shut and threw it angrily across the tent.

"I can't believe him! This entire time, we've held him up on a pedestal, paraded him as a champion of the Light, and he was part of Grindelwald's conquest from the beginning!" she raged. "And all that 'for the Greater Good', 'right to rule' rubbish, it's just "Magic is Might' in a different package. I knew he had to have had flaws – no man is perfect. But this…this is far worse than I could have imagined.

"On the other hand," she countered herself, "this is Rita Skeeter we're talking about. The only unbiased, factual piece of journalism she's ever written was the interview you did for The Quibbler."

"Something tells me she's got her facts straight with this one," Harry murmured hotly. "The bastard. Conquering Muggles because he believed himself superior, locking his sister away. Do you know what happens when you corral and bind an unstable magical child? What it creates?"

"Yes, that's what I was thinking as well. Skeeter had that wrong."

"I just don't understand! How could he go from that to how he was when we knew him? What changed him? His sister's death? Teaching at Hogwarts? What made him change from a Draco Malfoy precursor to the man we knew – the man we thought we knew, rather."

"I don't know, Harry. We may never know. But you shouldn't dwell on this. I know it's not pleasant reading – " she shot him a glare after he snorted loudly. " – but in the end he was the one to defeat and capture Grindelwald. And he did change, no matter the reasons. I think – I think the real reason you're angry with him is because he never told you any of this himself."

"Maybe," he sighed thickly. "Probably. Think of what he asked from me, "Mione. How often he demanded I risk my life, over and over again. He just expected me – us – to follow him blindly. I thought, more than anyone, that I had earned his trust. He placed so much on my shoulders but couldn't be bothered to tell me the truth."

His voice cracked with emotion, and Hermione wrapped her arms around him in sympathy. He shed a few isolated tears of anger and pain as she murmured in his ear.

"I don't understand either, Harry. But he left this to you. You were the only one he trusted to finish it. And you know you don't have to do it alone."

He smiled weakly in gratitude, holding her close. After a few minutes, Hermione told him to help her pack up to move camp. She promised a more sheltered area to shield them from the thick snowfall. She wanted to leave quickly; she said she'd heard voices and people moving outside while he was gone.

Half an hour later they were packed and ready to move on. Harry had decided to place the horcrux in his mokeskin pouch rather than directly on his skin, to which Hermione agreed. After dispelling their protective spells, Hermione wrapped her arms around him and they Disapparated, emerging from the twisting darkness into a copse of enormous trees.

"The Forest of Dean," Hermione said before he could ask. "Mum and dad brought me camping here once."

"It's beautiful," Harry replied, tugging out tent poles from the beaded bag whilst Hermione set up their enchantments.

The forest was a biting sort of cold that slipped through clothing and soaked down to the bone. The thick masses of tress blocked most of the wind, however, and they kept mostly to the tent. Hermione conjured her favorite blue flames to keep them warm, and they huddled together as much as possible with the flimsy excuse that bodily contact would preserve warmth. Harry was still mildly distraught over their recent revelations concerning Dumbledore, but after a few more appeasing conversations with Hermione on the subject, he found himself caring less and less about it, instead turning his focus back onto their hunt where it should've been.

Due to Hermione's earlier claim of hearing voices, Harry kept his sneakoscope out on the dinner table at all times and had established a watch rotation for nights. He found himself missing the feeling of sharing a bed with Hermione, as it had become a source of comfort for him. After two nights of fitful, interrupted sleep, he felt on edge. The darkness outside their tent brought their narrow escape from Godric's Hollow back to the forefront of his mind.

He'd been on watch for a few hours, having refused Hermione at their scheduled turnover and telling her to get some rest, when a flicker of light in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He whipped his wand out and stood quickly. The light suddenly became blinding, burning his eyes, and he lifted a hand to his face. All at once the light diminished and a silver-white doe stood in its place. She was ethereal, silent, and altogether beautiful.

She stepped toward him, her pace slow and patient, her hooves never exactly touching the ground. Harry didn't know who the Patronus belonged to, or how it knew he was there. He had a sudden impulse to shout to Hermione, but something stopped him. He feared that if he made any loud noises, any sudden movements, that the doe would vanish.

She turned and walked away, deeper into the forest, and he followed on instinct. His inner voice told him to be cautious, that he might have been falling into a trap, so he held his wand aloft and alert and moved forward. He crept along after the doe, trying to be as silent as possible but not quite achieving anything resembling stealth. After several minutes she came to a stop, turned her great head towards him, and vanished.

"Lumos!" he whispered, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a small clearing, the snowy ground littered with fallen leaves and debris. He was completely alone and the forest around him was eerily silent. As he turned, something gleamed in the wand-light and he walked toward it. there was a small pool in the middle of the clearing, and in its depths –

"The sword!" he whispered to himself. The sword of Gryffindor lay at the bed of the glittering pool.

Harry turned from the water, wrenching his eyes, forcing himself to take in every minute detail of the clearing. Someone had placed the sword in the pool. Someone had sent the doe to him. Someone had known where he and Hermione were camped out. He searched and searched for any sign of life, even casting a quiet Homenum revelio charm, but was met with no sign of human life nearby. Whoever had 'helped' him, they had clearly disappeared. This gave him little relief, however, and he turned his attention back to the sword with more than little hesitation.

He tried summoning it with no success. He tried outwardly claiming his loyalty to Hogwarts and Godric Gryffindor with equal failure. Harry thought back to the words of the hat, of how it had described the House of Gryffindor in his youth: Their daring, nerve, and chivalry set Gryffindors apart.

"Fuck," he muttered. That water looked cold.

He wasted no time. He removed his clothes, chuckling ruefully at his lack of 'chivalry' at the moment, silently thankful that Hermione was not there to see the clearly visible evidence of the subzero temperature. He sat his clothes a few feet away from the edge of the pool, wrapping the mokeskin pouch in several jumpers. He'd debated putting the locket on just in case, but after the incident with Nagini, he'd decided against it. He would only be underwater for a few moments.

"Diffindo."

The top layer of ice split with an earsplitting crack. The glittering black surface of the pool reflected the pitiful moonlight, glistening ominously. Refusing to allow himself a chance to hesitate, he dove into the shallow pool. Every nerve in his body shrieked in agonizing remonstration. The water was not just cold, it was glacial. The water seemed to be freezing him solid, Before he had a chance to flinch, however, his hand gripped the sword's handle and he lifted it.

Harry leapt from the pool and landed in a heap on the snow, heaving and shivering in equal measure. While the air had been biting cold before, it was practically unbearable while soaked to the bone. He heard footsteps nearby, the sound of someone running toward him, and he lifted his wand and the sword toward the newcomer. He assumed it was Hermione, somehow having found him and come to help, but he couldn't see clearly with his glasses still lying on his clothes.

He quickly stumbled over to the pile of clothing and pushed his glasses to his face, turning back quickly to see a heaving Ron Weasley, doubled over with his hands planted to his knees.