Hello everyone! Continued thanks to everyone who has stuck by the story and waited patiently for every chapter - you are the best.

Getting back into some plot progression here, but there's a Harry/Hermione moment for all your patience. Plus, it developed quite naturally, so why fight it? As always, none of this is mine, it's JK's, even though I don't agree with every word she wrote.

Chapter Sixteen: The Letter

Morning came swiftly with sunlight burning between the curtains. Harry wrestled himself from the confines of his sleeping bag. He lazily slid on his glasses and surveyed the room. Ron and Hermione were on either side of him, sleeping soundly. He smiled briefly as he looked down on Hermione, curled on the floor. Ron had attempted, and failed miserably, at insisting that Hermione take the sofa.

"I'm not a fragile piece of glass, Ron," she had said after refusing several times to sleep on the sofa. However, the memory only briefly distracted Harry as thoughts of his conversation with Dumbledore surfaced once more on his mind. Not wanting his thoughts to run away in the quiet of the living room, Harry quietly made his way from the living room and climbed the stairs.

It had only been two short years ago that he, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins began their struggle of cleaning the Black ancestral home, yet the dust persisted, muffling his footsteps as he ascended to the second landing. Indeed, it seemed to Harry the house was both eternally destined and determined to remain fitting of its heritage. He paused as he came to the very room he and Ron had bunked in that eventful summer. He looked inside the room as he recalled his angry outburst toward his friends after that fateful run-in with the Dementors.

Caught up in his thoughts, he was only vaguely aware of climbing to the third landing. To his right was Sirius' bedroom. The door was closed. He had never ventured to his godfather's room in all his time at Grimmauld. His hand wavered as it touched the brass door handle as a wave of emotion rushed over him. It felt wrong to trespass. Then again, he could not ignore the invisible pull urging him to step over the threshold as he pushed the door open as it offered a subdued creak.

The room was in complete disarray. Spacious and once immaculate, the hardwood floor was littered in dust, scraps of parchment, disheveled books, and a few broken trinkets. The dresser had been clearly sifted through, as had the wardrobe closet. Someone had been here.

His eyes then shifted from the contents scattered on the floor to the room as a whole. Unlike the rest of the house, the room reflected just how far Sirius' path had deviated from that of his parents and heritage. Large Gryffindor banners were draped over the silvery-gray walls, accompanied without shame, by several posters featuring bikini-clad Muggle women, as evidenced by their stationary poses. However, it was the photograph affixed to the wall at the center of the room that captured his attention.

The four of them stood arm in arm, all of them smiling broadly, reveling in their carefree world. Sirius, tall, straight-backed and brimming with confidence, stood arm locked with a young man Harry immediately recognized as his father, his untidy black hair a dead give-away. It was almost like looking upon himself in a mirror. He was the clear alpha male. Harry couldn't resist smiling. No matter how many people told him he was just like his father, he couldn't help but feel certain the only thing he'd inherited from his father was looks. To the right of Sirius was the rat. Harry paid him little attention. On James' left was Remus, shabby-dressed and betraying the smallest hint of doubt behind his smile. Still, he looked absolutely pleased that there were people who accepted him as he was. Harry reached for the photograph, gingerly attempting to pull it away from the wall. It wouldn't budge.

You would make sure no one could remove it, wouldn't you, Sirius?

Giving the photograph a final look over, he returned his attention to the rest of the room, examining the misplaced contents of Sirius' last sanctuary. Someone was looking for something, he thought as walked around the room, surveying the various sifted books and papers. Whatever the culprit—likely Mundungus, Harry reasoned—was looking for, it was clear they found little of anything valuable. While the house undoubtedly contained items of considerable value, none of them would have been worth an ounce of Sirius. Everything his godfather would have cared for was stuck to the walls in the room.

He turned his attention to the bed. It was a beautiful bed made of dark mahogany and showcased ornate carvings in the headboard that extended down the frame and into the curled legs beneath. A few books were strewn upon the disturbed covers and accompanied bits of parchment and various leaflets. He rummaged through them, giving each a quick glance. Finally he came to some parchment that had been handled quite roughly. He smoothed it out and felt his breath catch.

Dear Padfoot,

You irresponsible dog! Why would you ever think a toy broomstick is an acceptable gift for a one year old? If you were here I'd personally charm a horde of fleas to go with your other dog-like traits as a reward for your flea-brained brilliance. Boys! He's a natural of course, just like his father. It's nearly impossible to separate him from the broom. James isn't any more responsible, mind you. Yesterday he was actually trying to get Harry to catch the Christmas ornaments while he flew a foot or two off the carpet. I swear Quidditch turns every boy, no matter his age, into a brainless, one-track-minded simpleton incapable of constructive thought and oblivious to danger. He's already broken the hideous vase Petunia sent and I'm hard pressed to feel sorry about it. The poor cat darts from sight every time he zooms around the corner. I've included a picture. Still, thank you for his gift—it is undoubtedly his favorite. It's also a welcome distraction for James as it keeps his mind off of being shut up in the house.

We're sorry you couldn't be here. I know how much you wanted too, but the Order has to come first. Besides, Harry doesn't even realize it's his birthday. Bathilda came by and she absolutely dotes on Harry. Dumbledore borrowed James' Invisibility Cloak, so there's no chance for a little excursion. It would do James a world of good if you could stop by when you have the chance. Wormy stopped by a few days before. I'm worried about him, Padfoot. He looked so down. You heard about the McKinnons, I'm sure; I cried all evening when I found out. Maybe that's why Wormy was down?

It's not all gloom though. We are enjoying our time with Harry, as well as Bathilda when she drops in. She tells the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I'm not sure he'd be too happy if he knew. Some of it is incredible of course, but I struggle with how much to believe sometimes. I can't imagine that Dumbledore was friends with someone like

Harry dropped to the bed while his grip doubled on the priceless parchment. At last he held tangible proof that life was normal at least some of the time before Halloween. It was also proof that Lily Potter lived beyond the images of photographs. He smiled again as he read the letter once more. Only the tender age of one, yet he was already the proud owner of a broom. A rush of emotion crashed over him as he realized that Sirius had been the one to unite him with his first love.

His dad was already tossing him Christmas ornaments. They had a cat. Did it also perish the night Voldemort trespassed upon their abode, another unnecessary victim in his quest to eliminate any threat to his power? Everything in the letter brought to life a world Harry had only previously imagined. Now he had definitive evidence for one of them.

The letter raised questions too. Why did Dumbledore have his father's cloak in the first place? Had someone in the Order needed it? Wormtail was down in spirits—had he realized that encounter might be the last time he would see them alive again as the last vestige of guilt escaped from his eyes unnoticed? Sirius was away for the Order—what had he been doing? The joy the letter had brought him was temporarily doused by the letter's abrupt ending. He could see the bottom portion of the parchment had been torn off, leaving a jagged edge and a few short tares. Dumbledore was friends with someone, but who? What was so unbelievable about the friendship? Dumbledore had been friends with many people, all of them equally distinguished and well known in many cases, like Nicholas Flammel, the creator of the Sorcerer's Stone. Determined to find the answer, he scoured the remaining leaflets of parchment strewn on the bed, but found nothing of the letter's remnants. He did however find the picture his mother had referenced. He watched as baby Harry zoomed around the kitchen corner with his father chasing after him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the soft knock on the door. He turned to see Hermione standing in the doorway. She had only been awake a few minutes as evidenced by the frizzy-ness of her hair.

"I'm not surprised to see you in here," she said surveying the room as she approached the bedside where Harry was still sitting. "What happened in here?"

"Dunno," said Harry with a shrug. "Somebody's been here looking for something."

"Strange, the rest of the house appears to have been left undisturbed."

"Maybe Kreacher cleaned it up," offered Harry. "This has 'Dung written all over it. No telling what he's nicked."

"What's that in your hand," she asked taking a seat beside him.

"It's," began Harry, finding himself speechless. Instead, he handed the letter over along with the photograph. With a curious look, she took the letter. Harry watched as her eyes darted back and forth quickly. Her chocolate brown eyes grew steadily from dry to wet as she looked up from the letter to the photograph and finally to Harry. She took a moment to wipe her eyes on her sleeve and took a steadying breath.

"I'll put these in your album for you," she said softly as she pulled him into a one-armed hug. Harry nodded his quiet appreciation. As they sat there on the bed with the sunlight peeking through the window, the previous night's conversation came back to him.

"There's something you're not telling us, isn't there," asked Hermione when Harry had recounted his heavily abridged version of the conversation that had taken place inside the Pensieve. "I can't imagine Dumbledore going through all this work just to tell you about the fourth principle of spell casting that is in every basic textbook we had in our first year. He could have told you about the sword in the letter too, since it was sealed and couldn't be broken."

"Look, Hermione, some of it was personal," said Harry. "It wasn't about Horcruxes, or the sword or anything else. There's a reason he gave us each a vial. I don't know what he will say to you or Ron, but I know it's not meant for me."

And yet as he sat in her comforting embrace he felt the tug-of-war within. He wanted to let everything spill over and confess the truth, to reveal the fate he alone had to face, only to strengthen his resolve further to spare her pain.

"I'm sorry for pressing you last night," she said.

"It's okay."

"It was just like me, butting my nose in where it didn't belong. Just like your broomstick."

"That's not true."

"It is," she said finitely.

"If you didn't butt your nose into my life I wouldn't have made it here." She shook her head aggressively.

"Whatever Dumbledore had to say to you must have been terribly personal and emotional. I can tell—you're carrying more weight than you were before."

"I am," he said. "But it's different from the prophecy."

"And you can't tell me," she said defeated but with a distinct sniffle.

"Not now," he said. "I've got a lot to think about, not just Horcruxes and the prophecy. I am struggling with something though."

"Tell me."

"No matter how many times he said it wasn't my fault, I still feel guilty for living when he's not. It's the same with Cedric, Sirius and my parents, even Mad-Eye if I'm honest. I see them all the time, calling for me, but I never make it in time." He felt Hermione's hand slide up his back and rest on his neck. He looked up and met her gaze. "I see you and Ron all the time."

"We're going to be right beside you, Harry," she said. He nodded but her words did little to ease his fear.

"Dumbledore warned me that guilt would tempt me to act hastily and that Voldemort would take advantage of it. He has before. He'll take everything that matters to me until I have nothing left worth fighting for. Promise me, Hermione, that you won't let me fall into that trap."

"I promise," she said.

"I don't want to be the same like I was with Sirius."

"Harry, it's true that we have to be careful and patient and think before we act, but we might not always get that chance. There's a difference between taking caution and being paralyzed by fear. You have good instincts, so don't ignore them. And it will be different this time." Hermione shifted her body on the bed, gesturing for Harry to do the same until they were no longer siting side-by-side, but rather across from each other. Gently, her hands slid back and forth over his shoulders as they came to rest on either side of his neck. The familiar comfort of her touch sent electric shivers up his spine. It was the same feeling when they had danced no less than twenty-four hours ago.

"This time it will be different," she repeated, pulling Harry from his thoughts as their eyes locked. "You're afraid you'll lose us but I'm just as afraid of losing you. This time I'm stepping through the flames with you." Harry opened his mouth but only the sound of his catching breath came forth. He watched as she bit her lower lip, her eyes betraying her uncertainty of what she said would be accepted. Harry's mind felt jumbled but a strand of thought broke through; despite her and Ron's continual reassurances they were all in, he had always felt alone. But this declaration pierced him like a knife. Only she could have said those words, and only she could have understood their impact. She was truly willing to walk through fire with him.

"Thank you," was all he could manage. Hermione smiled broadly now, her thumbs unconsciously stroking his neck. Harry returned her smile. Then, abruptly, she pulled her hands away and leapt up from the bed.

"We should probably head downstairs," she said with her back to him. She picked up the letter and the photo of baby Harry and gave it one more glance before she turned and smiled rather teasingly.

"You were a very cute baby, Harry. I'll get this in the album. Maybe you can make breakfast and I'll see if I can rouse the sleeping lion from his den." Harry nodded and Hermione rushed out of the room. He gave one last look around the room.

I won't let you down, Sirius.

Harry closed the door behind him with a soft thud. He turned toward the stairs as the glint of something shiny caught his attention. He walked over to the door across from Sirius' bedroom. On the door was a nameplate, simple, gold plated and read:

Regulus Arcturus Black

Harry stared at the nameplate. A cold shiver ran up his back.

"Hermione," he shouted down the stairwell. "Hermione, come quick—bring Ron too!"

"What is it," she answered as she bolted up the stairs, dragging Ron behind her.

"R.A.B.—I've found him."

"In Sirius' room? I didn't see anything—"

Harry pointed to the name plate.

"Oh Merlin," she whispered. "Sirius' brother?"

"He was a Death Eater," said Harry, looking to both of them. "Sirius told me that when we were looking at the family tree. He joined young and got cold feet—tried to leave—Sirius reckoned they killed him."

"But I thought You-Know-Who didn't tell anybody about his Horcruxes," said Ron as he tried vigorously to rub away the drowsiness in his eyes.

"No he wouldn't have told Regulus either, but it fits," said Hermione. "If he became disenchanted with Voldemort, well, who knows what he might have discovered. As a Death Eater, he'd have more of a chance of discovering it."

"Do you reckon the locket might be in there," asked Ron. "And if we're going in, can we at least have breakfast first?"

"Eat later, Ron," said Harry as he gripped the door handle and gave a yank. The door was locked. Wordlessly, Hermione tapped the door with her wand the distinct click of the lock echoed down the stairwell. Together with wands out, they entered the room.

The room was poorly lit, the only sliver of light breaking through a tiny window high above the bed. Emerald and dull silver draped everything from the bed to the walls. Along with the draping, the walls were plastered with old yellow newspaper cuttings, each highlighting various headlines with images of the Dark Mark, Death Eater's in their regalia, and a few with Voldemort himself.

"They're all about Voldemort," said Hermione as she read through each headline quickly. "He must have thought about joining even while he was attending Hogwarts." Harry started shuffling through the dresser. It seemed as good a hiding place as any. Ron dropped to his hands and knees with his wand lit and peeked under the bed.

"Accio Locket," chanted Hermione looking rather triumphant. However, nothing came and her look turned to disappointment.

"It's a good thought," said Harry moving on to the wardrobe. "I tried the same thing when I was with Dumbledore in the cave. I'm sure Voldemort will have enchanted it to resist summoning charms.

"How do we find it then," asked Ron disappointingly as he plopped onto the bed and sending a cloud of dust into the air.

"We'll have to search for it by hand," said Hermione. So, with a grumbling Ron, the three of them combed every inch of the room for well over an hour. No locket was found.

"Can we have breakfast now," asked a very grumpy Ron.

"Where would he have hidden it," asked Hermione as though Ron hadn't said anything.

"Dunno," said Harry. And then it hit him.

"Wait," he said, "remember the summer we spent cleaning this house?" Hermione's hand flew up to cover her gasp as her eyes widened.

"Yes," she said. "Remember all those horrid things we tossed out of the house? The clock that fired bolts at passerby, or the robes that tried to strangle Ron; he could have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place. We might have looked right past it and…and…"

"We had it," she said finally. "There was a locket…the one we all tried to open…the one we threw out." Despair struck Harry.

"So it's gone then," said Ron unbelievingly.

"It went into the sack of rubbish like all the rest," said Hermione slowly, flopping onto the bed beside Ron and disturbing once more the recently dislodged dust.

"Hold on," said Harry suddenly. "Kreacher nicked loads of stuff back, kept them in his closet." Without waiting for them he dashed from the room and descended to the ground floor several steps at a time. He was so loud the portrait of Sirius' mother woke with a deafening screech as she began to spew forth insults.

"Filth! Scum! Half-bloods, blood-traitors and mudbloods! Get out of my house!"

Harry ignored her rantings as he barreled into the kitchen. Ron and Hermione followed closely behind as Ron slammed the kitchen door shut. Harry reached the door of Kreacher's cupboard and nearly pulled the old door from its hinges. It was a revolting sight; old dirty blankets were piled in the shape of a nest. Nothing of Kreacher's previously salvaged trinkets were to be found. Harry lifted the blankets, refusing defeat. Ron slid down against the wall.

"We had it," said Hermione softly, defeat in her eyes.

"No, it's not over yet," said Harry. He raised his voice and yelled.

"KREACHER!"