Chapter Thirty-Four: The Hills of Ottery St. Catchpole.

More than an hour had passed since Hermione had left Harry standing alone, outside the tent. His thoughts were scattered and unfocused, mirroring the swell of emotions that swirled in his chest. For a brief moment, he felt weightless and free, his fingers still grazing his lips where Hermione's had been not long ago. Within that pause of time, Harry no longer thought of Bathilda Bagshot, or Horcruxes, or Dumbledore. For one, short-lived glimpse of eternity, Harry no longer needed or wanted anything from the world because she had given him everything he had ever wanted; love.

His elation vanished quickly, however, as his stomach boiled with sour bile, realizing he had kissed his best-mate's girl. Despite Hermione's confession after the confrontation with the Horcrux, his own, buried and unprofessed feelings, and the fact that Ron had abandoned him and Hermione did little to assuage the guilt. On the contrary, it only seemed to validate the constricting of his heart. It didn't matter that Hermione had initiated. It didn't matter that Hermione shared the same buried feelings that he did. It didn't matter that she and Ron were not involved. The guilt was real.

What he needed was for her to understand. He needed her to see there were no alternatives than the path before them, that only one fate awaited him. More than anything, he wanted her to understand why he needed to do it—why he couldn't run.

He ran into the tent, desperately clinging to the words he had rehearsed in his mind, only to find the Pensieve displayed on the small, circular kitchen table, the empty vial lying beside it, and Hermione nowhere in sight. He knew, then, the vial Dumbledore had left her had finally turned blue and warm. Time halted as he slumped into a chair, his heart beating fast and fearful that he wouldn't get the chance to explain before Dumbledore surely would.

When Hermione did emerge—a very strange phenomenon to witness, considering Harry had never before been the observer when someone left the Pensieve. Her eyes were wet, puffy, and red. She was angry—Harry saw it as plain as day. She was angry with him, angry with Dumbledore—and if Harry knew her like he thought he did—more than livid with Voldemort. It was here that Harry's mind traveled back in time, to the smelly, spidery broom shed at the edge of the Burrow.

"Yes, I think they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something this important to them."

Of course, Dumbledore had been referring to the prophecy then, but Harry realized as Hermione stood before him, her chocolate brown eyes piercing into his, that he ought to have told her as well. He had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he might have to tell her before the end. But not like this. This was never what he had intended.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he was startled when Hermione grabbed a chair and sat down next to him, her gaze having never left him.

"You talked with Dumbledore," asked Harry after several minutes.

Hermione pursed her lips tighter and nodded in reply. Despite this, she said nothing. Instead she appeared to be waiting for him to speak. Harry swallowed, unsure of where to start.

"Hermione…I didn't mean—it's just that I…I didn't want…"

Again, the broom shed flashed before him.

"I didn't want—"

"—to worry or frighten them? Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry."

He was frightened. Not for his life—not really. He had known all along where this conflict could lead to. Indeed, he suspected that his impending walk to meet death would be more difficult than he imagined, but he was not afraid—at least not now. No, he was afraid he would fail. He was afraid he would let them all down—that he would let her down. He was afraid that, if he confided in them the fate that waited for him at the end of the journey, he would lose the will to see the task to its completion. Instead, he vowed to carry this one burden alone.

"I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong…"

Those distant words floated in Harry's ears.

"I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act…"

The truth was he—like Dumbledore had to him—cared more for Hermione's happiness than the truth. And like Dumbledore, he had been navigating the same chessboard—albeit with less pieces. He had led Ron and Hermione here, keeping them ignorant of the truth; that the pursuit of Horcruxes would lead only to one conclusion—his death. He had done to Hermione and Ron what Dumbledore had done to him.

"You're more like him than you know, Harry…you just won't let yourself believe it…"

A sharp pain erupted in his chest. The pain of shame, and the pain of understanding at last—or at least some understanding—of why Dumbledore had carried the truth of the prophecy for so long. Harry raised his head so that he was once more level with Hermione.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "I—I didn't want to hurt you."

"I know."

"Hermione—I'd understand…you know—if you wanted to…"

But Harry could not say the last word, as it felt stuck in his throat.

Hermione shook her head and her eyes flashed dangerously. Harry swallowed that last word.

"I've already told you, Harry," she replied, looking at him pointedly. Her meaning was clear.

"This time will be different…this time I'm stepping through the flames with you…"

"You still want to see this to the end," he asked, his voice low and disbelieving, "even now, when you know how it has to end?"

"Yes," she said, her voice confident and full. "We'll find the rest of the Horcruxes and finish that monster once and for all, and," she added forcefully, "I will still find a way to save you."

"Hermione," he said, his voice rising to an uncomfortable pitch, "it's not possible."

"Oh I know it's impossible to convince you, or change your mind," admitted Hermione, her voice remaining steady, though her eyes gathered fresh moisture as she spoke. "I know you, Harry, better than you think I do. If you thought you could end the war today, you'd hand yourself over to that monster willingly. You love so much that you won't even think your life matters just as much as the rest of ours does, but I've told you already." She stood up from her chair, placed hands on both his cheeks and pulled him into the second kiss that night.

Why did her lips have to taste like that?

He leaned in a little, pressing his own lips into hers.

Why did they feel like they were taking all the pain away?

He felt one of her hands move from his face and caress his neck.

NO! I can't let this go on.

Harry broke the kiss. Hermione took hold of his shoulders, her pursed lips spreading to reveal a tiny smile.

This wouldn't do.

"Hermione, we can't…I can't…"

Hermione, though, put a finger to his lips and gave him another piercing look that silenced him.

"You're the most important person in my life, Harry," she said. "I can't lose you. I'm too selfish to let the world, a prophecy, or a monster, take you from me. I know you can't accept it right now—because that's just who you are—but I can wait. And when it's over, when he's finally gone, I'm going to be even more incredibly selfish and take you far away from this place."

She then leaned forward and kissed him briefly on the forehead, grabbed her charmed bag, retrieved a sizeable stack of books, and before Harry could say another word, before she had even cracked open the copy of Beedle the Bard, she pointed to Harry's bunk.

"Get some sleep. We've got a lot of work to do."

() () ()

"We need to see Mr. Lovegood, Harry," said Hermione the next morning. She sat at the kitchen table, wrapped loosely in her blanket and clutched a simmering cup of tea in both her hands. Harry gave her a quick look. Her eyes were still red and puffy, and bags had formed beneath her eyes. Spread over the kitchen table were several books, each open and with bits of torn parchment and notes lying in the creases of the spine. She hadn't slept much, likely having read through the night. Harry timidly joined her at the table, his heart picking up several irregular beats as he remembered the previous night.

"Didn't sleep much," he asked softly.

"I dozed a bit," she admitted, her eyes glancing downward for a moment. "I'm alright—there will be plenty of time to sleep later."

"Hermione…"

"I said I was fine, Harry," said Hermione pointedly. "There's tea in the kettle, it should still be hot enough."

"Hermione, did Dumbledore…did he say anything, about…you know…" he motioned toward his scar and hoped the meaning got across.

"We talked about a few things," said Hermione, not quite meeting Harry's gaze. "Some of it was very personal," she added.

"Right," said Harry, nodding with full understanding. After all, he had said the very same thing to her while staying at Grimmauld. But he had to know.

"It's just…he promised me…not to say anything…"

"He didn't," said Hermione, who understood completely. "I told him I already knew."

Harry nodded. It was foolish, he knew, to hold onto the promise of a memory, but it was important, even if he couldn't rationalize why.

"But we did talk about a couple of things I think you should know."

Harry nodded, went to the kitchen counter, poured himself a cup of tea, and returned a moment later, ready to listen.

"First, the Deluminator," she started. She told Harry everything Dumbledore had told her of the Deluminator, and giving Harry her best guess as to why Dumbledore had left it to Ron.

"So Dumbledore thinks he'll want to come back," asked Harry, disbelievingly. But at the back of his mind, he desperately wanted that to be true.

"Dumbledore seemed to think so," said Hermione, the same disbelief carried in her voice. "At any rate, the Deluminator is clearly more than we thought at first glance. Which brings me to the book," she added, again holding up the copy of Beedle the Bard. "Dumbledore all but said the story we should be looking at is the Tale of the Three Brothers. I still don't want to believe it, Harry, but he seemed to suggest—though he wouldn't outright say it—that one or more of these objects actually exist."

"Does he think, you know, the brothers actually met Death?"

Hermione shook her head.

"No, but he did seem to suggest they were created by wizards…possibly the ones from the story. And then there's the symbol, here," she said, pointing at the title where Dumbledore had drawn in the triangle, circle, and line. "It's the same one on the grave of Ignotus Peverell."

"And what does this have to do with Luna's dad?"

"Do you remember that necklace Luna's dad was wearing?" Harry thought back to that night, but his mind did not want to think about Luna's dad. All he could think of was the knee-length blue dress, her tied-back hair, the feel of her head tucked between his shoulder and neck…

Harry shook his head.

"Sorry, I don't remember it clearly," he said honestly.

"His necklace had the same symbol, I'm sure of it," said Hermione. "The symbol has turned out too many times to be coincidence, Harry. Luna's dad, the book, and now a very old tombstone in Godric's Hollow—Harry, this is important."

"Alright," said Harry. "Did Dumbledore say why it mattered?"

"Not precisely, no," said Hermione, looking a bit disappointed. "But I'm sure Luna's dad can help us. And he's on your side, Harry. I'll admit I'm skeptical of anything Luna or her dad might believe in, but I think we have to look into this."

"What about the Snitch," he asked, pulling the little golden ball from his pocket. "Did he offer any clues as to what it's for?"

"Only that it was something you'd need," she said, "something that would open at the right time."

Harry nodded. Another riddle.

"There's one more thing I think you should know," she said, her voice turning a bit flat and empty.

"What's that?"

"Snape," she said, carefully. She explained to Harry how the memories appeared to be linked, and that the Dumbledore that she had spoken with was fully capable of recalling the conversation he had with Harry in the previous instance.

"He still trusts Snape," said Harry incredulously. "I told him what happened. He used the killing curse. I saw it. I was there!"

"I know," said Hermione, gently, trying to force calm in her voice. "But as he put it, 'Things are not always what they appear to be.'"

Harry just shook his head. He would never forgive Snape, no matter what Dumbledore had said while living, or what he passed on in memory. Snape had murdered the only person keeping Voldemort at bay, dad murdered the man who defended his trustworthiness when no one else did, murdered the aged wizard that Harry had started to think of as a grandfather. He would never forget, and he would never forgive.

"So, Luna's dad," said Hermione after a spell of silence, "do you agree that's our next step?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "It's the only lead we have. But Hermione, I think we're both forgetting something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know where Luna lives," he admitted. "Do you?"

"Not exactly," she said. "But I know approximately where. You know the hills next to the Burrow? They live there, somewhere. Ginny mentioned it awhile back."

"Shame we can't stop in at the Burrow," said Harry after he drained the last of his tea. "Let them know we're alright." Hermione gave him an understanding look.

"We'll see them soon, Harry," she said. "I know it."

() () ()

Harry and Hermione landed on the top of the nearest hill overlooking the village of Ottery St. Catchpole with a soft pop. The hillcrests were bathed in the dawn light, but the crevices and shallow valleys remained in shadow. Harry instinctively looked over the fields toward the village, spotting the familiar orchard of the Burrow.

"Soon, Harry," reminded Hermione gently, taking hold of his arm. Harry nodded and turned back toward the hills.

"These hills go on for a bit," said Harry, looking ahead and to each side. "We could be out here all day."

"I don't think that will be necessary," said Hermione. She drew her wand, held it loosely in the flat of her palm and incanted, "Point Me." The wand spun on her palm three times before it came to a rigid stop, pointing distinctly east of the Burrow.

"I thought that spell only pointed north, Hermione."

"Will and intention, Harry," reminded Hermione. "How do you think I found you so quickly the night we destroyed the locket? Why don't you try it? Think hard of where you want to go and perform the spell."

"Right," he said, thinking hard. I need to know where Luna lives, he thought.

"Point Me," he said. He was astounded when his wand pointed in the same direction as Hermione's.

"Shall we go," asked Hermione.

"Yeah," said Harry. Together, they set off at a brisk pace, their cloaks bundled tightly around them as winter was still present in the morning air. Hermione had enchanted their cloaks with warming charms, but even so, the light breeze atop the hills nipped at their nose and ears, quickly turning them bright red.

"It's still Christmas break, isn't it," asked Harry as they ascended the second hill.

"I think so," said Hermione.

"Maybe we'll see Luna too," said Harry thoughtfully. Hermione gave him a wide smile.

"Yes, I think you're right."

They continued their path up and down each hill, with few words shared between them. Despite this, however, Hermione walked close beside him, her arm interlocked with his—loosely as they descended a hill, and firm again as they ascended. Harry wasn't entirely sure what to do, or what to say. Every time he thought he had stringed the right words together, they would disassemble into meaningless noise when he opened his mouth to speak.

Harry knew he had never been any good at telling people what he thought, much less how he felt. Ten years with the Dursleys had groomed him poorly for such occasions. Despite Snape's criticism of his inability to control his emotions, he felt his ability in expressing those emotions to be as equally competent as his Occlumency skills. Unsure of what to say, he decided to quiz her instead.

"Hermione, what were you up reading all last night?"

"Horcruxes," said Hermione. Harry waited but she did not elaborate.

"What about them?"

"Their history," she said. "Not terribly detailed, mind you. Very few recorded instances of known wizards who have created them. Interestingly enough, there are no records of a witch having a Horcrux."

"I wonder why—I'm sure there've been a fair number of dark witches out there."

"There have," conceded Hermione. "It's possible they, like a lot of other dark wizards from those times, took the warning seriously about the dangers of creating a Horcrux. Of course, just because there isn't a record of a witch and her Horcrux doesn't mean they don't or didn't exist. They might have been smart enough not to brag about it. But then again, I suppose if you're that committed to Immortality, you're probably not interested in subtlety, are you?"

Harry agreed.

"Haven't you been though those books a few times already," he asked as the fifth hill rose about them.

"Six times, now," said Hermione, matter-of-factly.

"So why were you—"

"—reading them again," she finished for him, her gaze pointedly on the hill. "Because I meant what I said." She looked at Harry, her eyes dancing with the same determination he had seen several times since last night. "I will figure it out, Harry. I'm not going to stop until I do."

"And I don't suppose I can tell you differently, can I?"

"No, you can't."

They climbed the fifth hill, and again, Hermione took firm hold of his arm. As they reached the crest, they could see in the distance a dark looming structure, tall, cylindrical, and harsh against the backdrop of the horizon. They shared a brief glance and started down the hill. It was here, that Harry was finally able to string together two words he had desperately wanted to say.

"Thank you."

Hermione gave him a small smile, squeezed his arm and urged him onward.

"Let's go see Luna."