Thank you everyone, for patiently waiting. Without further ado, let the story continue.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: More than Flesh and Blood

Harry slept miserably through the night, waking repeatedly, each time shaking his head vigorously in the desperate hope to free his mind of the enslaving images of his dreams. However, in the still darkness of Bathilda's guest bedroom, the vestiges of his nightmares flashed before his eyes, illuminating every dark thought held in his heart. Harry was no stranger to the night terrors; he had adjusted to them as his life was tossed from one peril to the next. He had dreamed his death many times since his visit to the graveyard in Little Hangleton. They would still wake him, but they no longer lingered into the night.

But tonight his dreams had shifted ferociously. Twice he had been startled awake with his stomach in knots by a youthful and merciless Dumbledore standing head and shoulders over shackled Muggles and Muggleborn. The third time this happened, his mind cruelly morphed the headmaster into the likeness of Tom Riddle. It was, however, after the fourth dream that he had given up on sleep entirely. Quietly he tossed the blanket aside, climbed out of the cot Bathilda had conjured and tiptoed across the room to sit at the window facing the ruin of Potter cottage.

He looked once over his shoulder toward the bed where Hermione slept. He watched her for a while, momentarily entranced by the slow rise and fall of her breathing. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.

She was safe.

Again Harry shook his head and resumed his window gaze, desperate to be lost in the eternity of the falling snow flakes.

And for a moment he was.

His thoughts drifted until they found another world kept safely in another time. The cottage was whole and vibrant, cool and inviting beneath the shade of the aspen. James and Lily Potter joined him and Hermione on the porch, observing the quiet cul-de-sac as they talked about another school year come and gone.

Harry felt a smile rise on his lips.

They had graduated.

His mind drifted further.

He and Hermione stood at the center of friends and family in the back yard with congratulatory banners strewn in the trees. The Grangers, the Weasleys, Luna and Neville, Professor McGonagall, Sirius, Lupin and Tonks, Dumbledore, and others were present. Ron came forward speak. Harry didn't know what he was saying, but whatever it was had Hermione in happy tears as she lunged forward and hugged him. Ron then clapped Harry hard on the back, teeth bared in a broad grin. And all became clear as Hermione leaned over and captured his lips with hers. Everyone smiled and clapped joyously around them.

Harry felt the heavy lunge of his heart as he saw it; the ring on her finger.

Hermione was radiant. The curled locks of her hair turned gold beneath the summer sun and her chocolate eyes capturing his green gaze. Again his heart leapt.

They were engaged.

His eyes grew heavy as an incomprehensible peace filled his chest.

He was sitting at a long, ornate table, looking from face to face. These were not the friends and family that had been gathered around him. But he knew these people. It mattered little though as he waited for the sallow-faced one beside him to speak.

"You summoned me, Milord," asked Severus.

"I did indeed," he said. "I trust you are not inconvenienced by my summons?"

"My master never inconveniences me."

"Lord Voldemort is pleased to hear it." His eyes lingered over his servant. Severus had been instrumental in the success of his most precious plans. The double agent had delivered him his most delectable prize; the death of Albus Dumbledore. But now was not the time to revel in such sweet emotion.

The crackling of fire stretched over the silence. Severus waited for him to speak. He allowed himself to smile. If only the rest of his followers were half the skilled wizard as Severus.

"Severus, indulge my curiosity for a moment if you will."

"Of course, Milord."

"I wonder, Severus, did the old fool ever take Potter to Godric's Hollow?"

"Not to my knowledge, Milord," said Severus confidently. "You may remember that Potter and Dumbledore started to have fallout when the Ministry turned against them. As you know, Dumbledore distanced himself from Potter in the hopes to dissuade you from your attempt to possess him. That relationship began to rebuild last year, but I do not think it had adequate time to repair the damage done. Dumbledore had confided in me that he believed himself unworthy to accompany the boy on such a personal journey. Ironically, it would have been the very action to mend the relationship."

"I see…" He held Severus' gaze, forcing his way into his servants mind. Images flashed in quick succession. After several minutes of collaborating Severus' information, he was satisfied.

"Good, very good," he said. "Another query, if you would be so kind, Severus?"

"Milord knows my knowledge is his."

"Do you think Potter would seek out the resting place of his dead mother and father?"

"Potter wears his emotions on his sleeve," said Severus with evident disgust. "I know not if he ever expressed a desire to visit Godric's Hollow, but I would not discredit his desire to do so."

"I thought as much," he said. Satisfied, he turned his attention toward another at the far end of the table.

"Pius, you have acquired the information I requested of you?"

"I have indeed, your grace."

"Come, then," he said, waving his spidery hand in a simple gesture. Pius rose from his seat quickly, knocking his knees on the table bracing, but it did not deter him. Pius walked as straight and narrow as he could, approached the head of the table and presented him with a sealed document.

"Open it," he commanded. Pius broke the seal and withdrew a slim sheet of parchment and handed it to him.

His eyes darted over the document:

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Public Records Division

Magical Residence Registry

Godric's Hollow

Bathilda Bagshot

15 Aspen Court

Godric's Hollow

He eyed Pius.

"And this is the only known magical occupant of Godric's Hollow?"

"It is, your grace," said Pius with a catch in his throat. "There are several vacant plots of land owned by several wizards or witches, but only this one currently resides in Godric's Hollow."

"You may return to the ministry, Pius," he said lazily. "You have done what Lord Voldemort required."

"It is my pleasure to serve," he said, bowing clumsily.

"Milord," asked Severus.

"Speak, Severus."

"What consequence is the old historian?"

"Not much," he said with a shrug. "Quite the contrary, she and Rita Skeeter have been quite useful to Lord Voldemort in further besmirching the name and reputation of that Muggle-loving fool. Regardless, she was an old friend of the fool's family. It is likely she was residing in the village when I last visited. I know Potter. If he knows or learns that Bathilda resides in Godric's Hollow, his chances of visiting are increased two-fold. One, the connection he'll seek with his family, and two, to learn the truth of his beloved headmaster. As you indicated, though the relationship between Potter and the fool were damaged, it was on the mend. Given how the old fool's death came about, Potter will feel a great need to understand. Who better to monitor the village than dear Bathilda, I wonder?"

"You intend to place her under the Imperious Curse, Milord?"

"No, I think not," he said with hungry smile. "I have something far more…befitting of the occasion. It is not enough to discern Potter's arrival; he must also be detained. For this, I shall need the help of Nagini."

"Come, Nagini," he hissed, "I have great need of you." He waited for his faithful pet to slither from underneath the great table to coil around his chair. He reached out a hand and stroked Nagini's head.

"Does Milord require anything further?" asked Snape.

"No, you have given valuable information to Lord Voldemort; you may return to your usual duties." Snape rose from his chair and bowed before him. Then, with his robes billowing behind him, Snape left the dining room.

It appears, Potter, that you and I shall return to Godric's Hollow, though fortune will favor me this time around. He stood then, stretched out a hand to Nagini and Disapparated. Then he felt pain; great splitting pain in his forehead.

"Harry, Harry, are you alright?"

Harry opened his eyes. Hermione crouched over him, her hair obstructing most of his view from the ceiling while a strand brushed his cheek. He was lying on the wood floor, several feet from the window. Aside from the pulsing sting in his forehead, the back of his head throbbed.

"I think so," he answered

"You took a nasty fall," said Bathilda, hobbling through the doorway. "Heard it from the other room."

"What did you see, Harry," asked Hermione. The question brought Harry to his senses.

"We have to leave, now," he said, pulling himself up. As he rose to his full height his body swayed and the room spun violently. Hermione quickly latched onto his for support.

"What do you mean, leave now?"

"He's coming," said Harry. "Tom's coming."

"You let him in?"

"No, he was talking to Snape and Pius," said Harry quickly. "He wanted to know if Dumbledore had ever brought me to Godric's Hollow. Snape told him no and then Pius brought him a ministry document that contained known magical residences of Godric's Hollow. Bathilda was the only one on the list." He looked over to the aged historian. She held his gaze for only a moment, her eyes briefly unfocused. Then, Bathilda's eyes darkened and her face hardened.

"You two need to leave now, out the back, this way." She left the doorway as she gestured for them to follow her. Hermione quickly summoned all their things and stowed them into her charmed bag and followed Bathilda down to the main landing. Bathilda lead them through the kitchen, the pantry room, and finally, to the door leading out to the covered porch and the back yard.

"Hurry now," said Bathilda, flicking her head toward the back door.

"Aren't you coming with us," asked Harry. Bathilda smiled.

"This is my home, Harry; I'll not see it unattended too."

"I can't accept that," said Harry. He looked to Hermione; her eyes were locked on his. She understood.

"Harry, you cannot save everyone," said Bathilda sadly.

"He's coming here because of me."

"And he'll meet the most unhappy woman he's had the misfortune to stumble upon," she said with a heavily wrinkled smile. "I am old, Harry, far older than I care to admit. I am tired. And you of all people should understand." Harry gave her a confused look. Bathilda smiled again and gestured with frail, wide-open arms at her house.

"This is my home, Harry," she said again. "To you, it's a house in which I live—replaceable, indifferent to those surrounding it—but to me, it is a library of every fond memory I hold dear. Every book I've written, every person I've interviewed, every dusty text I've combed is a story that only has meaning within these walls. This fight is more than that of flesh and blood, Harry; it is everything that we hold dear."

"He'll kill you if you don't give him what he wants," said Harry, pleading.

"Indeed he shall have too."

"I can't live with that."

"You must, dear boy," she said. "Have courage to persevere; the end will come. Chosen or not, you cannot save all. I suspect you'll find difficulty in accepting this, but my will is mine own, Harry, and though you seek to save this life of mine, I choose to give it. You cannot take from me my right to do so; for if you did, you would be no different than the forces you stand against. Good-bye, Harry." And before Harry could react, Bathilda had flicked her wand.

"Stupefy."

Hermione caught him as he fell unconscious, giving a curious look to Bathilda.

"We both know it was the only way," said Bathilda. "Do look after him, won't you?"

Hermione nodded, fighting to hold back tears.

"Do not cry for this old pile of bones," said Bathilda. "I know what I must do. With me the trail will grow cold as winter. Keep him safe. The world cannot lose him."

"I know," whispered Hermione.

"And neither can you."

Hermione attempted to speak but was interrupted by an ear splitting chime from the cuckoo-clock hung on the kitchen wall.

"He's here," said Bathilda. "Go, now."

Hermione gave one last look of gratitude to the historian before dragging Harry out to the porch and Disapparated to the first place that came to mind.

Hermione landed with Harry in tow moments later, her feet landing on the frozen, leaf-and-snow covered ground. Snow littered the very tops of the trees and the air was bitter cold, but they would at least be sheltered from the wind. She laid Harry softly on the ground, making sure his head was elevated on her rolled-up robes in a make-shift pillow. She quickly retrieved the tent from the bag and assembled it magically before setting all the protective enchantments. Then she roused Harry, who woke in a startle.

"She stunned me," were the first words from Harry's lips. Hermione helped him to his feet, led him into the tent, and helped him to a chair.

"I know," said Hermione quietly. She immediately busied herself with making tea, her mind running wild with imagined horrors they had abandoned Bathilda too. Just as Hermione set the kettle upon the burner Harry let out a terrible scream. She turned on her heals to find Harry holding his forehead with both hands, eyes shut tight, and teeth bared.

"Harry, Harry," shouted Hermione, taking hold of his shoulders and shaking him. He didn't respond and soon slumped in the chair, his arms dropping like dead weights to the side.

He had tried to show manners. He had knocked on the door. His patience easily exhausted these days, he blew the door from its hinges easily enough. He stepped over the threshold. Like a museum wax replica, the old historian stood in the living area, her wand pointed calmly at him.

"Bathilda," he said in what he thought was a polite voice, "It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Your notable academic contribution is well known. Lord Voldemort values such pursuit. Do not be foolish. Put down your wand and hear what Lord Voldemort has to offer you."

"You can offer me nothing I don't already have," she said curtly. "And nothing you offer is anything I wish to partake in."

"Willing or not, you will serve Lord Voldemort," he said tiredly. He had little patience for misplaced vibrato. "Best if you choose willingly, I assure you."

"You'll have to kill me, Tom Riddle." He felt his insides burn. He gave his wand a quick swish and the old relic was thrown into the wall, her eyes wide. She slumped to the floor, gasping for air. Still, her hand gripped her wand tightly.

"A taste of my displeasure, Bathilda; should you fail to address me properly, I promise you the next time will be very unpleasant."

"I suppose…it is…the habit…of…an old historian…like me…to call things what they are…and not how they are perceived."

"I tire of this conversation, Bathilda," he said venomously. "Lord Voldemort has an important task for you."

"And what task would that be?"

"Harry Potter will come to Godric's Hollow, I am sure of it. And when he does, he will come to you. You have answers he seeks. You will watch for him and detain him for me."

"And what makes you think Harry Potter wants to chat over tea with this old relic?"

"You knew the Dumbledore's, did you not?"

"There are others as well."

"Ah, but none like you, Bathilda. Only you have the answers he seeks; the truth. And when he does, Bathilda, you will be his captor."

"I'll do no such thing."

"You don't have a choice." He smiled as he gave in to the bloodlust coursing in his veins.

"Crucio." Bathilda crumbled to the floor, writhing, shouting, her eyes wide and bulging, and her back arching in spite of the limitations age had placed upon her body. After a minute had passed he lazily lifted the curse, his lips curling in satisfaction. Bathilda had gone limp. Perhaps a bit of assistance was in order. He levitated her body into an upright position, her feet dangling just inches above the floor.

"You're too late, Tom," she finally breathed, her voice nearly inaudible.

"What?"

"Harry Potter won't be coming to Godric's Hollow."

"You don't know Potter like I do."

"You may wish to re-evaluate what you know, then."

"Speak then, what I don't know."

"He was already here. He won't be coming back."

No!

Anger pulsed in his chest. Hot bubbling liquid erupted in his stomach. He flung his wand in a violent swish, sending Bathilda once more into the wall. She slid down the wall, barely able to hold her face up to look upon her aggressor.

"Where did he go? Tell me!"

"I don't know."

"Lies," he bemoaned. He flicked his wand and Bathilda was raised to full height. He locked eyes with her. "I shall know soon enough."

"You can try."

She hadn't lied. Potter had come. Bathilda had watched them in the churchyard, followed them from afar as Potter and his female companion found the ruin of his home, and finally, invited them into her home, divulging the answers he, Lord Voldemort, believed Potter was compelled to know. And somehow, Potter had flitted into his mind without him knowing any the wiser. The old historian had elected to stay behind. She had stunned Potter to ensure he left.

Rage engulfed him.

How had the talentless wizard navigated his mental shields?

He was staring at the old woman, her eyes longing for death's release. He would oblige her.

"You have served your purpose, Bathilda. Know that you have only delayed the inevitable. I will kill Potter. His death will be the final victory toward a world guided by the purity of magical blood. You have won nothing tonight."

"You are wrong…"

He laughed and raised his wand.

"You underestimate him, Tom. That boy has something you'll never understand."

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry woke in his warm bunk bed, though his sheets and blankets were dank with sweat. A damp cloth was folded over his brow. A sliver of golden light peeked through the tent flaps. Hermione stood at the kitchenette, tending to a tea kettle, but upon hearing Harry stir, she came to his bedside with a fresh cloth.

"You're awake," she said, replacing the cloth.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Nearly twelve hours. It's ten to noon."

"She's gone, Hermione," he said, heavily.

"I know," she said, stroking his cheek briefly. "I think you said aloud most of what you saw from You-Know-Who's mind. I tried to wake you several times, tried for nearly an hour, before you fell quiet. I stopped trying once I discerned you had fallen asleep in earnest."

"Why did she do it, Hermione? She didn't have to die."

"I know. But I think I understand why."

Harry waited.

"She was right; this is a battle of more than flesh and blood, Harry. You-Know-Who takes everything that is good in this world. When he takes the life of a mother, a father, a friend, a loved one, he isn't looking to just take a life: he tries to prove that we'll do anything—betray our loved ones, commit terrible atrocities, or give in to the darkness that consumes his very soul—in exchange for our lives. Bathilda remained because she had too, Harry. You-Know-Who took her life, but she was the victor. She died uncorrupted, uncompromised, and free."

"And she'd still be those things if she'd left with us."

"Maybe," said Hermione sadly. But then she smiled and as her chocolate eyes caught the light, her face radiated with pride. "But Bathilda was an old soul. She's witnessed so much prejudiced brutality in her lifetime and I rather think that last night was her way to speak in a way she never could in all her books."

"And no one knows but us," said Harry gloomily.

"Today, yes," acknowledge Hermione, "but not forever."