A/N: I won't be able to post next week (and possibly the week after) so I'm compensating with another chapter. School is incredibly busy this time of year, and I have a lot of things I need to wrap up. Additionally, this is a chapter I think many of you have been waiting for...

Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own.

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The ice crunched beneath their boots as they walked down the well-worn lane. Harry had asked Sirius for a private chat, and—not being obliged to stay at the Burrow this time, as he was of age and quite able to take care of himself—had been invited along to visit Godric's Hollow. They walked in silence, gazing off into the distance through the snowfall. Lights were on in the street, with decorations hung merrily around every post. Music could be heard from the pub, and in the distance, choir music filtered through the air.

"I came here last year," Sirius finally said, as they rounded the bend. "To visit James and Lily's graves. I thought…" he broke off. "I thought it would be the first thing I did when I broke out of Azkaban, but that obviously didn't happen. And then I thought it would be the first thing I did when I was finally pardoned…"

They came to a stop by the war memorial, in the heart of the village square, a shiny black obelisk with names carved within it. As they approached, Sirius drew Harry to a halt, and it suddenly transformed before their eyes. Harry took a step closer, slowly taking in the man with untidy hair and glasses, the woman beside him, and the smiling baby boy between them. Harry recognized himself in the boy, though he had no scar. They were covered in a light pattering of snow.

"That didn't happen, either. So I decided to stop by on Christmas."

They stood there for a moment. Harry's breath caught. He didn't know what to feel. He had never thought about visiting his parents' graves before. In a vague way, though he had known they were dead all these long years, it had never really occurred to him that they actually had graves, that they were actually laid to rest somewhere that he could visit. All his life, they had simply been… gone. Out of his reach. In some great beyond that he would never find.

Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder.

"That's you," Sirius said unnecessarily, but Harry didn't begrudge him the need to explain. He was glad his godfather was with him for this. "They got the likeness right. For your parents."

Harry swallowed. They stood there for several moments in silence, and then Harry nodded, indicating they should continue. They walked down the lane, approaching the church, and then they came around the bend to a stop just behind it. Music continued to drift from the building in rising chorus and Harry felt his throat catch, thinking of all the holidays he never got to spend with his family. Wondering if they would have been in the village square celebrating Christmas with him now, if they had lived.

They walked into the graveyard square, quietly slipping through the kissing gate, walking as though they did not wish to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. Harry stopped ever so often to look at the various names on other gravestones, and Sirius quietly waited for him at every turn, unhurrying and understanding.

Harry came to a halt when he found a single gravemarker that bore the family name of Dumbledore. Kendra Dumbledore and listed beneath her date of birth and death, her daughter Ariana. They must be relations of Dumbledore's, Harry thought muzzily, though he had never really thought of Dumbledore as ever really having a family. In a way, he had always seen Dumbledore as just being there. He had simply popped up one day, a wise old man, Headmaster of Hogwarts, respected Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. But here it was, with recent enough dates that Harry thought they might perhaps be close cousins. Perhaps an aunt.

There was an inscription.

Where your treasure is, your heart will be also.

How true that was, Harry thought, as he moved away. He realized then that Sirius was not there. He glanced around quickly for a moment, and then he saw him a few feet away, just two rows ahead. And he knew by the slope in Sirius's shoulders, the way he stood with his head bent, that it was his parents graves. He hurried over, breathless with something like thrill, anticipation, and something else he couldn't quite put words to.

Their names were side by side, connected by a single inscription.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Harry read it carefully, as though he would only have one chance to read it.

"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death…" he murmured. He didn't understand what it meant. It sounded like a Death Eater ideal, particularly since he knew Voldemort spent so much time obsessively attempting to avoid death's final rule, but he couldn't imagine that being the reason for having such an inscription on his parents' graves.

"It means—it means living beyond death," Sirius said quietly. He cast about for the right way to say it. "It means living beyond death, like leaving behind a legacy. Or perhaps conquering one's fear of death by finding a way to accept it. Of course," he added humorlessly, "Dumbledore could have picked a better way to say it, but I think he was going for something concise and poetic."

"Yeah…" Harry said softly. Tears prickled at his eyes, and he felt them trail down his cheek, hot and wet despite the bitter cold. "I suppose…"

They stood there in silence. Harry appreciated that Sirius wasn't forcing him to speak, but was simply there, putting one arm around his shoulder to comfort him but otherwise allowing him space for his own thoughts.

At last, Harry spoke.

"Hermione and Dumbledore…"

His throat closed up again, still caught up with emotion and thoughts about his parents, but Sirius rescued him.

"You wanted to ask me about them."

Harry nodded stiffly. He wiped his cheeks with the back of his gloved hands, worked his jaw for a moment, and then spoke.

"If you had to pick between listening to Hermione or Dumbledore, who would you choose?"

"That's quite a dilemma," Sirius said, looking surprised.

"I—" Harry swallowed. "Dumbledore showed me a memory of her arguing with him over keeping you shut up in Grimmauld Place…"

"I wish I'd been there for that," Sirius said with a weak chuckle. "All I know is that she got her way in the end."

"What did you think of that?" Harry asked quietly.

There was a long pause, and Harry got the sense that Sirius was thinking his answer over carefully, not to decide how much to tell him, but to figure out how to best answer the real question Harry was asking.

"Dumbledore is a man that does things for the greater good," Sirius said at last. "Hermione takes a more... personalized approach." He let out a long sigh. "I think that if Dumbledore felt in was in the best interest of protecting the Order, he would have kept me locked up in Grimmauld Place for as long as necessary, and wouldn't have cared how long." He gave a harsh, bitter bark of laughter. "Hermione couldn't accept that."

Harry waited, listening to his godfather with rapt attention.

"She tried to convince him to do it her way at first, but he simply said no. He didn't think it was worth the risk." He drew his shoulders up, and then let them slump back down with another sigh, expelling a cloud of frosty breath. "So Hermione made the decision to do it under his nose. She'd been doing stuff like this for years, small-scale stuff—if you want to call breaking me out of Azakaban 'small scale'," he added, with a wry smile. "But she wasn't defying the Headmaster when she did that, and she knew that he was well aware of the evidence that would exonerate me. She knew that he would eventually come around, because of her foreknowledge of the timeline. She knew all would be forgiven." Sirius rubbed his cheek. "What she did for me the second time around was… different."

"So that's when she started going behind Dumbledore's back?"

"Believe me, Harry, I've thought long and hard about this," Sirius said heavily, "because to some degree, it bothered me too, even though I was the one she was helping."

Harry watched him closely. "But you still think she did the right thing."

Sirius smiled. "Wouldn't you?"

"You didn't deserve to be in Azkaban, and Dumbledore couldn't keep you locked up at Headquarters forever," Harry said, with a slight edge to his voice. "Of course she did the right thing. Both times."

Sirius stuffed one hand into the pocket of his coat. "When we were young, Dumbledore was the one we all looked up to." He made a vague gesture with his other hand. "You know what it's like, Harry—the wisest and most powerful wizard alive. He always saw things from higher up, in a way the rest of us couldn't." He looked away. "But then Hermione entered the picture and… things changed. Maybe—maybe if she hadn't gone back in time, if she hadn't had twenty years to experience You-Know-Who and grow into her own power in the interim, she wouldn't have become like this. But now she's a formidable force to be reckoned with, and she's young. She's in the prime of her life, and Dumbledore's nearing the end of his."

Harry licked his chapped lips, thinking this over. It was hard to imagine Dumbledore ever just dying, much less of old age. "But Dumbledore…"

"Dumbledore is leagues ahead of Hermione, but make no mistake Harry, Hermione's gaining on him. She's probably the most powerful witch in Britain. And lately, her plans have been quite a bit more successful than Dumbledore's," Sirius said quietly, "not that I'd ever say that to anyone else—but it's true. So to go back to your original question, if I had to pick between the two of them…" he closed his eyes. "I'd go for the best friend who broke me out of prison because she knew I was innocent, and was willing to risk Dumbledore's wrath to let me enjoy my freedom."

And most importantly, Harry thought, she succeeded.

"Don't disregard Dumbledore's plans, because there are things he knows that Hermione would never guess, not in a hundred years," Sirius told him quickly, "but Hermione's got the better schemes in the long run."

And then he grinned.

"It's hard to believe our bushy-haired know-it-all became one of the most formidable witches of our time, isn't it?"

Harry had to agree. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers crossing as he finally made his decision.

~o~O~o~

When he returned to the Burrow, it was to find that Bill and the twins had already set up the Christmas tree. Ginny and Selenius had made a paper-link chain and hung it around the living room, draping it over every surface possible. Hermione and Arthur were sitting in the living room, each with their own cup of tea and a plate of biscuits between them. Hermione was settled with a book; Arthur had The Prophet. Remus and Tonks were in the kitchen with Molly, sitting at the table together while she made her Christmas feast preparations.

Harry's eyes traveled once to Gaunt's ring on Hermione's finger, and then he went to the kitchen to see if there was any soup to be found; his intestines felt frozen solid from being out in the cold for so long. He sat there, relieved to find a hot bowl of chicken soup waiting for him, and began ladling spoonfuls into his mouth. He felt his insides instantly warm up.

He was now less concerned about getting the ring from Hermione and more concerned about how he was going to find out what Malfoy was up to—or more importantly, why. Voldemort wanted a book, and he had sent Draco to do it—why he hadn't used Snape, Harry wasn't sure, unless it was the fact that Voldemort was still furious with the senior Malfoy's failures over the last year and a half. Perhaps he wanted to make them all suffer a bit, and get Convulsions of Nature in the process. That was all very well, Harry thought, but it still didn't explain how Selenius had gotten entangled in it all. Particularly when Selenius was supposed to be staying out of Voldemort's sight.

As soon as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen, Harry set his spoon down.

"Have you ever heard of a book called Convulsions of Nature?"

Tonks looked at him blankly. Remus slowly set down his cup of tea, looking mildly curious.

"No, I haven't. Is that a particular book you've picked up?"

"No, I've just heard it mentioned once or twice," Harry said with a noncommittal shrug. "I thought you might know what it's about."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't." Remus's fingers curled around his teacup. "Have you checked the Hogwarts library?"

"Yes," Harry lied. "It's not there."

"Then you might try checking Flourish and Blotts. Unless," Remus said delicately, looking at Harry over his cup, "it's not the sort of book you might find in any old store?"

"I don't know," Harry said with a shrug.

Two days later, after much persuasion, Mr. Weasley agreed to take him to Diagon Alley. He and Ron found themselves uncharacteristically perusing shelves, hoping to find the book in question. After an hour of no luck, they threw caution to the wind and asked the clerk for help. The clerk was more than happy to help them, but was disappointed to have to inform them that Flourish and Blotts did not carry it. And after checking several registers, informed them that it was a book they were unlike to ever come across in their lifetime.

"It's heavy on the Dark Arts—particularly the illegal practices—and only seven copies were ever made," he said, tapping the list. "We wouldn't have it."

Harry thanked him and left. He and Ron checked that Mr. Weasley was preoccupied in the Muggle section before darting out of the store and heading down toward Knockturn Alley.

"Borgin and Burkes might know of it," Harry suggested hopefully.

"With only seven copies in the world?" Ron said. "Nah, mate."

They kept their heads low to avoid being recognized until they ducked into the shop. The man Harry realized must be Borgin looked up at their arrival, and his gaze narrowed in suspicion as they approached.

"We're looking for a book," Harry began.

"Then go find a bookshop." The man turned away. "Get out."

"We already checked—" Harry began.

"It's called Convulsions of Nature," Ron blurted. Harry saw Borgin jump at this, and the man's head slowly turned on point to look at them. "We were wondering if you'd seen it."

To their surprise, Borgin laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

"You're not the first to ask for it," he sneered, setting down the goblet he had been polishing. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. I sold it over fifteen years ago."

"Who did you buy it from?" Harry demanded.

Borgin spat at the floor. "None of your business, boy."

"Who did you sell it to?" Ron asked.

"That's none of your business, either. When I last saw that book, you were in nappies." Borgin bared his teeth at them. "You shouldn't stick your nose where it isn't wanted. Now either buy something or get out."

Harry stood his ground. "Can you at least tell us what the book's about?"

Borgin eyed Harry for a long moment, and then said, "Fifty Galleons."

"What?"

"Fifty Galleons, and I'll tell you everything about the book—except for who I sold it to, of course."

Harry reached into his pockets, and began counting out coins. "I have thirty."

"Hand it over." Harry dumped the money onto the counter, and Borgin said, "It's Dark Arts, though that's largely because of the subjects it covers. But it's a pretty dark book itself." He stroked his chin as he began counting out Harry's money. "Anything you ever wanted to know about how to defy the laws of nature, it's in there. Death, alchemic transmutation, time, ley lines, manipulation of prophecies and magical fate—everything you ever dreamed of, boy, it's in that book."

No wonder Voldemort wants it, Harry thought.

Borgin leaned forward, bracing his arm against the counter.

"Most of the knowledge in there was never meant for humankind. It's the sort of thing that other magical creatures know and never tell," Borgin whispered. "There are only seven copies, and each one is bound with a different animal skin, or so I'm told. The one I had was dragon-bound, and it was a vicious thing."

Ron's eyebrows had risen to his hairline in confusion. "I don't understand."

"The wizard who created those books didn't write them, boy," Borgin spat. "Herpo the Foul slew seven magical beasts, bound their souls into their skins, and enspelled them to organize and leak all of the magical knowledge they contained." He gave the red-head a nasty grin. "It was insatiable curiosity that caused him to commit such an atrocity, I reckon."

Harry felt his hair stand on end. Any question as to why Voldemort wanted the book were dismissed—the reasons were obvious.

"What do you mean 'again'?"

"Headmaster Dippet sold it to my business partner some fifty years ago," he said, running his tongue over his teeth. "Burke sold it to Hepzibah Smith a year after it fell into our possession, and her family didn't sell it back to me until two decades after she died."

Harry's breath caught. Hepzibah Smith had been a collector of rare artifacts, not a maniac with plans to take over Britain. Barring her bad judgment in acquaintances, the book would have been safe with her. It was a shock that Voldemort hadn't found it there—perhaps he hadn't even realized she owned it. Harry quickly did calculations in his head. Dippet would have sold the book while Voldemort was in school, which was probably where he first came across it. Perhaps it was even where he learned about Horcruxes. Hepzibah bought it before Tom Riddle began working at Borgins and Burkes. Voldemort had been stuck in Albania during the time period that Borgin had sold it a second time. It was incredibly fortuitous that he had never gotten his hands on the book outside of the Hogwarts Library, in the fifty years that it had been taken out of circulation.

Harry had an inkling suspicion that Voldemort might have been searching for that book his entire adult life.

"Then—then you've got to tell us who has it!" Ron exclaimed.

"Vol—You-Know-Who's looking for that book," Harry interjected, before Borgin could speak. "We need to find it before he does."

Borgin bared his teeth at them.

"It's the only copy in all of Britain, and I haven't got it anymore," he hissed. "Leave."

"Wait," Harry said, holding his hand up. "One more question. Did the book ever mention the Deathly Hallows?"

Borgin's eyes narrowed at him for a moment.

"I've told you what you paid for. Get out!"

The two boys quickly exited the shop. The bell jangled overhead, and they glanced back at Borgin before hurrying down the street.

"We've got to find out who has it," Harry panted, as they ducked around the corner. "Voldemort's looking for that book, and if he gets it, it's all over."

"Borgin knows, but he's not telling," Ron said. "Didn't you say You-Know-Who used to work there?"

This drew Harry to a halt. "You don't think he knows Borgin had it in his possession while he was gone, do you?"

"If he did, we wouldn't be talking to Borgin, we'd be reading his obituary in The Prophet," Ron said in a hushed tone.

Harry rubbed his hands together. "And the way he threw us out at the end—there's definitely a mention of the Deathly Hallows in there somewhere."

He and Ron exchanged looks. Ron sighed.

"Why do people have to go around compiling this stuff for any old maniac to find?"

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~Anubis Ankh