CHAPTER 2

Later, as he wandered the broken and pillaged halls of Hogwarts he was joined by Neville and Luna. Luna had taken a quick trip to the Rookery and found her father's mangled remains. And her home had been destroyed completely; there was nothing left to go back to. Neville informed the two of them that his Gran had very kindly offered Luna and Harry sanctuary for as long as they wished it; the wards were excellent and he very frankly admitted that too planned to stay hidden as long as Neville could manage.

Harry knew that he could not stay at Hogwarts and Black Townhouse at the Grimmauld Place was not secured or repaired yet, and it was known and accessible to all of the Weasleys. He decided to take up Neville's offer and called Kreacher to inform him of the development. Then the three of them joined Gran, as she insisted the three of them call her, at the cleverly concealed Longbottom Hall in Gloucestershire.

Until his affairs were in order once again, Harry was urged to stay here as he was always meant to; Gran bitterly groused that Harry would have called this place home, had Dumbledore not interfered. For the first time in his life since Voldemort first gave him the scar, Harry truly relaxed; safe behind the wards of the Manor. He was amidst family and friends, and no one waited in the shadows here to manipulate him for hidden agendas. At long last, he conceded that Gran was right; he was home.

After dinner that night, Harry had spoken of his quest, the Horcruxes and the battle and even the meeting with Dumbledore in the alternate king's cross station. He did not mention the Hallows at all, though, and felt that it was best that secret die with him. But he then decided to make a request of Gran. He asked her to cast a fidelus to two magical terms: Horcrux and Deathly Hallows.

In his defence, Harry sheepishly and wryly explained that the dark wanker had been satisfied with making seven Horcruxes, and had begun his quest for something that would make him master of death, and if such a thing was possible, Harry explained that he preferred that the knowledge of such possibility even existing should die with him. Neither Gran nor his two friends could find fault with Harry for this decision. Gran taught them and then she herself cast what she called the knowledge Fidelus and forever buried the two bitter secrets deep in his soul.

And then much later, in the privacy of his guest room in Neville's home, he made a magical oath to himself, swearing on his very life that he would never reveal the truth of Hallows, by any means, coerced or otherwise. He was truly determined that it dies with him. And he would make provision that whenever he passed away, his body would be chucked into the Veil, after his Godfather. There was no better diversionary tactic than talking of Sirius Black, the unsung, vilified hero of his life. He grinned into the darkness imagining Padfoot's response to the trick he would play on the wizarding world.

Harry pondered what to do with the two troublesome Hallows. No matter where he stored them, his instincts told him that someone would come sniffing; the lure of them was too heavy. He had no idea why he felt none of the appeal, but he could not forget the glitter of avarice he had seen in Ron's eyes. Harry concluded that the only way to hide them beyond anyone's reach was to hide them inside himself. Bury them deep inside his very skin. Like the wretched scar on his head had hidden a Horcrux for seventeen years. He would find a way to embed the three hallows someplace out of sight, inside his body, as soon as he could.

If it was buried under his skin, someplace no one would notice like his forehead, then it could not be seen or stolen or summoned out. He examined the scar that still remained where a basilisk tooth had sunk into him once. Excited now, he got up, fetched the Resurrection Stone from Kreacher and then made a neat slice in the exact spot where the basilisk had left its mark; lifting the skin, he slipped the cracked stone, and then settled the skin over it, and poured the essence of Dittany over the wound. Hissing from the pain he felt from the sharp incision on his skin, he watched to make sure the wound healed securely. When it did, he sighed in relief and closed his eyes for a minute. And thus he completely missed the faint glow that briefly lit up behind the spot where he had inserted the stone. He then looked at the seven-inch wand. Sighing, he decided to hold it in his hand and try his next idea.

Closing his eyes, he willed the wand to take shape of a slender wooden ring. With all his will, intend and imagination, as if he were calling the Patronus for the very first time, he willed the Elder wand to turn into a thin sliver of a ring that would mould to the skin of his left forefinger. His eyes scrunched in intense focus and concentration, he imagined and willed and then let the magic rise from his core and flow into his left hand where he loosely held the now seven-inch wand.

When the thrum of magic settled in him again, Harry opened his eyes and the wand was gone. In its stead, he noticed that there was a curious, extremely small and barely legible inscription of runes he did not recognize wrapped around the base of his left forefinger that glowed briefly and then settled and eventually vanished out of sight. Curious now, he pointed his finger at the throw folded over the foot of the bed and mentally willed it to rise, float over to him and drape itself. And as easy as breathing, the magic flowed in a gentle trickled and answered his unspoken call. He blinked. Oh, well. Sighing in relief that the two of the most difficult hallows were now out of reach even if he were to die, he thanked a shocked Kreacher, ordered him to never inform any of this to anyone, living or dead ever again, and dismissed him for the night.

Harry wondered if it would have been better to throw the wand and the stone into a vat of the most corrosive acid he could find; would that have been a better solution? Clearly, even a horrible war had not cured him of hasty, ill-planned impulses. But he knew that Hallows like the wand and the stone had no place in this world. Ignotus Peverell had the right idea. Only worthy Hallow was the Cloak and if Death ever appeared before him, he would gladly return that as well. Some legacies were best forgotten and turned into fanciful children's bedtime stories and nought more. He desperately prayed to any deity listening, especially Death that he be the last owner of the Death Stick and the Resurrection Stone.

He had bigger fish to fry soon. The battle of Hogwarts was over, but the war had yet to fully end. His work wasn't done yet. He wouldn't let things be swept under the rug to fester like Dumbledore, Fudge and Bagnold had done. He would not go rabid like Crouch Sr either. There had to be a middle ground; he was determined to find that path and walk there all the way. Resolutions forming and firming, Harry went to bed more in sync with himself than ever. Thoughts on an endless loop of worry inside him, he eventually fell to a night of restless sleep.

A/N: Review gently, please?