The feathery softness of her hair tickled against his face as he burrowed himself deeper into her embrace, his body curling against hers, his arms holding her against him, their breaths in sync as they lay together. Her long, drawn-out breaths were deep and relaxed. Harry gently caressed her, planting kisses in her hair.

"Have you not learnt, Harry?"

The high voice whispered in his ear, turning the air into ice. Harry's scar crackled with pain.

"Do you not remember what happens to those you love? Those that love you in return?"

At the words, the warm, soft body under his hands turned cold and rigid.

"No…"

Harry pulled himself back, breathless with horror, finding himself no longer in a bed, but standing before a darkened ruin, the ghost of his stolen life looming around him in broken bricks and charred wood.

"Do you not remember…?"

Harry closed his eyes, bringing his hands to his face. He could hear her then.

"...Not Harry, please…"

Green light blazed through the gaps in his fingers and he cried out, dropping to his knees. When he lowered his hands, he found himself kneeling before a perfect white headstone, the names of his parents carved into the stone.

"It won't happen. I won't let it…" he gasped out.

A white hand curled over his shoulder. Shuddering, Harry turned, seeing the long fingers, the thin wrist that was lost under the sleeve of black silk, up…up to the towering figure that stood over him.

Up to eyes the colour of blood.

"I accept your challenge… Harry Potter…"

Sunlight burned against his eyes as he violently woke up from the nightmare. He jerked up, finding the weight of blankets pressing down on his body. He moved to sit up, but a hand stopped him and a body shifted next to him, closing the distance, warm and comforting.

"It's okay, Harry… it was just a nightmare…" Hermione soothed him. He blinked, his vision adjusting enough to make out Hermione's face close to his, tense with worry. Her hand came up and brushed his hair from his face, gently running down his cheek. He closed his eyes at her touch, breathing deeply.

"You're safe… I'm safe…" she murmured to him. Then her lips pressed to his forehead. At the touch, he sighed and leaned into her presence. This was real. Hermione was real and she was warm, alive… safe. She drew back from him, settling on the pillow next to him. He blinked and then saw the bed that they had been sleeping in. The events of the night before all rushed through his mind, one-by-one, in sequence. A whirlwind of emotions tore through him as he recalled everything, seeing his parents' graves, seeing his house , meeting Bathilda and then… kissing Hermione and falling asleep with her in his arms.

Her hand was gently stroking through his hair. He noticed that she was staring at him with a soft-eyed gaze. That she would look at him like that with such tenderness, and touch him… kiss him.

It was so different to how things had been with Ginny. That had been hot and heady. The two lust-filled teens crammed each moment alone they had with a lot of kissing, but nothing else. They talked about quidditch sometimes, hung out with their friends, holding hands as they did, but they took care to not be publicly affectionate. Certainly not around Ron. They never… cuddled or caressed each other.

With Hermione, each touch, from the gentle strokes of her fingers to the firm press of her lips, was symbolic and meaningful. It wasn't driven by desire, but by a need to comfort and be comforted. They needed each other. It wasn't just attraction; it was companionship. And that was the thing that both of them had been missing with their dalliances with their different Weasleys. The relationships didn't have an emotional connection, just a physical attraction.

Around Hermione, he wasn't afraid to show his emotions. It was liberating to be able to feel what he should feel and not hold back. It made him feel human.

"Hi," he said to her. She smiled.

"Hi."

"I take it that this means that you don't regret… anything about last night," Harry said, a little nervous, as he looked deeply into Hermione's eyes. In the light that filtered through the old curtains, he could see the slight green hue in the middle of her irises before blending into the warm brown. It reminded him of looking up through the forest canopy.

"No… but if we are going to kiss again, I think it's best if we brush our teeth first."

Harry got the hint and rolled his eyes, sliding out from the bedcovers. Hermione grinned and did the same.

"We should get up anyway," Hermione said, "what's the time?"

Harry checked his watch on the bedside table and frowned.

"Five past eight."

"Do you think Bathilda will be up?" Hermione asked as she went to find her washbag. Harry hummed thoughtfully at the mention of the elderly lady. He had been so preoccupied, he had completely spaced out where they were and why they had stayed the night in the first place.

"Probably. Old people always seem to be early risers."

As Harry shuffled to the edge of the bed, he felt a pang of discomfort in his balls from the unresolved erection he had during the night. He grimaced. With his new-found feelings towards Hermione, he was going to be a lot more responsive to her gentle touches and meaningful glances. He got up to his feet, crouching down on the floor as he went to find some clothes in his rucksack.

"I'm going to head to the bathroom," Hermione stated. It was a far cry from the timid way she had asked him if he minded if she used the bathroom first the night before. Before Harry could respond, Hermione was opening the door and heading off to make use of the aged facilities. Harry rocked back, sitting down on his rear, dazed. He ran a hand through his hair and lightly touched his lips, thinking of the way Hermione's lips had danced along them, so tender and soft.

He shouldn't be feeling like this. He should be focused on his mission, on the horcruxes and the dark wizard that waited at the end of his journey, the endgame that would seal his fate. But why should he spend what time he had left not living his life? Was that why his parents had protected him with their lives? Did he not deserve some happiness? Something to fight for?

Exactly what good had it done to wall himself away from his feelings? He had become the worse version of himself and, in doing so, lapsed into a sullen state of inaction and self-loathing. It was no wonder Ron left. He had lost his drive. If he didn't believe in himself, why should he expect his friends to?

While Hermione was in the bathroom, Harry quickly swapped his boxers for a clean pair and pulled on his jeans. He tugged off his baggy shirt and searched for a new one, rummaging in his bag. He found a crumpled long-sleeved shirt and pulled it on over his head. He was pulling his mokeskin pouch back on when Hermione returned. He half-turned, seeing her smiling as she entered the bedroom, now dressed in jeans and a blouse.

"I heard Bathilda downstairs," she said to him, "from the sounds of the noise she's making, I think she might be making us breakfast."

Harry grimaced. "Ah… well… I'm not overly comfortable having a woman who's likely two hundred years old waiting on us hand and foot."

"Agreed."

"Right… I'll get sorted and then we should go down and help," he stooped down and grabbed his wash bag, dropping it on the bed. He plucked his glasses from the bedside table, restoring them to his face and took his wand. He glanced over to Hermione, seeing her at her bedside table. She was holding the horcrux.

"Here. I'll wear it today," Harry said, holding out a hand.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, concerned. They both knew it affected him worse than her.

"I'm sure. If I start to get grumpy, just hit me," he said and clapped his hands together, holding them out, indicating for her to throw it to him. She tossed it over the bed and he caught it. He flinched at the touch of the cold metal. Gritting his teeth, he put the chain over his head and stuffed the locket under his shirt.

Harry stepped out into the hallway, blinking in surprise as the previously shadowed space was revealed in the sunlight streaming in through the window. It revealed that, while the house was ramshackle and clearly very old, there were elements of homeliness to it that had been concealed in the dark. Behind the stacks of books, he caught sight of framed pictures. He paced down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking under foot. Curious, he studied one of the photoframes that weren't concealed by books. In it were two young men, one with long blonde hair, beaming out at Harry, the other with darker hair and piercing blue eyes. Harry recognised the image. He had seen it all those days ago when he had been in Umbridge's office and he opened the dreaded Biography at random.

The young man with the blue eyes was Dumbledore.

The other man, however, looked familiar too. Harry had dismissed him as Elphias Doge, but something told him that it wasn't. Doge was scared from Dragon Pox. This man was devilishly handsome. He waved up at Harry, holding the young Albus's arm with a strange possessiveness.

Harry heard Hermione moving in the bedroom and remembered that he was meant to be getting ready, not dawdling.

He didn't spend long in the bathroom. He scowled at his hair after he ran his comb through it. It immediately stuck up at the back as it always did. He brushed his teeth and then took extra care in brushing his tongue. The last thing he wanted to have around Hermione was bad breath! Business dealt with, he made his way back to the bedroom. Curiously peering down the stairwell as he did. He could hear activity downstairs.

Hopefully, Bathilda remembers that we're here!

At the thought, Harry felt a stab of alarm. What if she had forgotten? She very likely hadn't had guests in her house for years. Having them suddenly appear might well give her a heart attack. Harry pushed into the bedroom, frowning to himself, and looked up, Seeing that their bags had been cleared away, along with his discarded clothes and the bed had been made.

"You work fast," Harry remarked. "Ready to leave at a moment's notice?"

"That's how we work."

"Indeed it is," Harry said. He pulled his wand out from his jeans. "I was just thinking… What if Bathilda's forgotten that we're here? She did think I was my dad when we first showed up."

Hermione gave him a worried look. "You're concerned that we might scare her?"

"I thought I might send my patronus down."

"Harry…" Hermione stared at him. "Harry, your patronus is a stag."

Confused, Harry looked at her. "I know…"

"The same as your father's."

Ah.

"I see your point."

"I'm sure there will be no need to worry. Considering her vast age and Rita's interference, she does seem rather with it… even if she is a little eccentric," Hermione said with a wistful smile. "Come on, we have a lot to talk to her about and I bet she's looking forward to fussing over you again."

Harry gave a chuckle. "Noticed that, did you?"

"Rather hard not to."

Hermione pulled her beaded handbag over her shoulder and headed up to Harry, threading her arm through his. It was such a familiar gesture. Harry shook his head to himself. How had he been so blind to the change in their relationship? They were so very comfortable with each other.

They descended the steps arm in arm, then released each other when they remembered how precarious the stairs were. Reaching the bottom step, Hermione nearly knocked into a tower of books. Harry rushed over to steady them, his hurried steps loudly thudding on the landing.

"Good grief, how does she live like this?" Harry breathed, now seeing the lower house properly in the daylight.

"We're looking at two hundred years worth of study and research, Harry." Hermione's eyes were wide with wonder.

"No wonder she's gaga if all she's been doing is studying."

Hermione rolled her eyes and gestured to the sitting room. "The kitchen was through there."

"Right. Let's see what our host is up to," Harry said, leading the way, flashing his partner a grin. They stepped into the room they occupied the night before, seeing it properly with the wooden panelled walls and dark blue rug that covered the rickety floorboards. There was a fireplace, fronted with books of course, that likely hadn't been used for Floo travel for a long time. There were more framed photographs, mostly obscured. He continued through to where they had seen the dining room. The table was under more stacks of books, as were the chairs.

"Bloody hell, how many books are there?"

"Is someone there?" A voice called out in response to Harry's remark. Harry froze, his heart sinking.

"Oh no… please tell me she hasn't forgotten." He said under his breath. Hermione's face was stricken. He slowly moved to the doorway into the kitchen, seeing a rather cramped but well lit space. It looked very similar to the kitchen in Grimmauld Place, with large pots and pans hanging from hooks in the wall and a frightening medieval-looking cooking spit that looked like it should be in a museum not a house.

The aged witch was peering into a large cast-iron oven. She drew back and caught sight of Harry. She squinted over at him through her spectacles, then took them off.

"Ah, Harry… and I take it your charming witch is with you?"

He turned back to where Hermione was watching in the doorway, deeply amused, trying to not laugh.

"I… you remembered then?" He asked, a little hoarse.

Bathilda peered up at him. "Well, not at first." She admitted in her wavery voice. "When my morning owl with the paper did not turn up, I was a little confused, but then I remembered that I had vanished the house. The poor bird can't deliver its paper. Merlin knows what it's done with it."

"Oh…" Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I take it you both slept well. You look rather fresh-faced, if I do say so myself," Bathilda said, making Harry blush.

"Yes… thank you."

"That is what I like to hear now. How do you both fancy a spot of breakfast? We can have some scones and tea, what do you say?"

Hermione came up to Harry's side. "Professor Bagshot, please, you don't have to go to the trouble."

"Oh, my dear, it is no bother," Bathilda patted her on the arm, "though you will have to help me. My memory… you see. What was your name again, my dear?" She squinted up at Hermione, who glanced over to Harry.

"I'm Hermione," she said nervously, "Hermione Granger."

"A pretty name for a pretty girl," she said fondly, "I do not know of any magical families with your surname however. Upon which side is your heritage, my dear?"

Pink spots flamed on Hermione's cheeks.

"N-neither, Professor. I'm muggleborn."

"I bear no prejudice, my dear, forgive an old woman for her nosy ways." Bathilda then rounded on Harry, patting him on the arm. "Like father, like son then." Then she winked at him, startling Harry. Before he could respond, the old historian turned back to Hermione, giving her a warm smile.

"Oh, it is so wonderful to have company. It reminds me so fondly of when Gellert stayed here… no other family would take him in," she sighed sadly as the memory dulled the spark in her eyes. She then looked up to Hermione and patted her on the arm as she had done to Harry. "Now, why don't you and Harry clear a space at the table? One must break their fast when in company in a more dignified manner than on their laps."

Sharing a look with Hermione, Harry turned around, taking out his wand. Hermione did the same. They approached the table.

"Harry…" Hermione whispered to him as she levitated one of the stacks of books. "You know what that means, don't you?" Harry gave a blank look, shaking his head. "Bathilda's great-nephew that she mentioned last night. The one who used to stay here. It's him. Gellert, Harry. Gellert Grindelwald."

Harry gaped, looking across at the kitchen where Bathilda was busying herself. A horrible realisation came over him. "Oh my God…" Hermione looked at him, panicked at his reaction. He met her gaze. "Hermione… we… we made out in Gellert Grindelwald's bed. "

Hermione then gasped, putting her hands over her mouth, causing the stack of books she was levitating to drop to the ground with a thud.

"I'll just be a moment, my dears." Bathilda called out to them, making them jump. They shared a look and went back to clearing the table.

"Harry… that's how they must have known each other. Dumbledore and Grindelwald. They must have met here, in Godric's Hollow, while he was staying here."

Dazed, Harry went to levitate more books from the table. His thoughts then travelled back upstairs, to the photograph he had seen. He gave a shocked gasp, startling Hermione. He checked over his shoulder that Bathilda couldn't hear, then moved to Hermione's ear.

"I saw a photograph upstairs," he whispered, "It's two boys, around our age. One's Dumbledore… so the other must be…"

"Grindelwald," Hermione breathed. Harry glanced at her and she met it, understanding what he was thinking. "No… we can't ask her, Harry. It's not right. Not unless she brings it up again. Let's focus on… on the horcruxes first."

Begrudgingly agreeing with her, he continued to clear the space so they could sit down for their breakfast. Bathilda made her return, carrying the tea tray with her trusty teapot brewing away. The smell of freshly baked scones wafted in the room with her as she arrived. Behind her was another tray with a rather precarious tower of home-made scones.

"How about we have a spot of tea? If there's anything you need to ask of old Bathilda, you best do it while there is tea on the table."

Catching Harry's eye, they both went to help the old woman with the cream tea. Harry took the levitating tray, his mouth watering as he was fully assaulted by the smell of the freshly baked goods. There was also a butter dish, a pot of cream and a jaw of bright red strawberry jam. Harry carried the goods to the table while Hermione helped Bathilda with the tea.

He set it down, turning to the little old woman.

"This all looks fantastic, Bathilda." He said, and pulled out a chair for Bathilda to sit down, making her cackle at his manners.

"My, Harry, you are much more of a gentleman than your father," she remarked. He flushed at her compliment. She sat down, peering up at him. "So very modest too. Come closer, my dear boy, so I can see you in the light."

Harry felt immensely embarrassed as he shuffled closer to her. The old woman studied him.

"Your resemblance to your father truly is remarkable, Harry, but I can see your mother in you. You have her kindness… and I suspect you might also have her temper." He caught Hermione hiding her grin at the mention of his temper. She poured out tea for three. Harry felt his face warm, but he kept his gaze on Bathilda, his heart racing a little.

Hermione came over with Bathilda's tea. "Oh, bless you, dear," she said when Hermione put the teacup and saucer in front of her. Harry went to the scones, taking the plates and went about cutting them and buttering them. He caught Hermione's eye and smiled. Once plated up, he carried them over and put them down at their spaces.

"You have done this before, young man," Bathilda said shrewdly, "it comes naturally to you. It is very uncommon for a wizard of your wealth and status to be as at home with his hands as he is with his wand."

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who looked a little worried, and he pulled out the chair next to Bathilda.

"I've only recently come of age so I'm still getting used to using my wand outside of school," Harry said, deflecting the point about his 'wealth and status'. Hermione sat down in the seat next to him and immediately put her hand on his leg, giving him her support.

"Harry was muggle-raised, like myself, so we are more used to doing things without magic than most witches and wizards our age," Hermione came to the rescue. Harry smiled at her gratefully.

"Why of course. Perhaps this is a testament to the benefits of a more humble upbringing. It certainly has shaped two fine young people." Harry concealed his grimace. He doubted that Bathilda would applaud his upbringing if she knew the truth, but he didn't want her pity, not when she already pitied him for being an orphan. If she knew he had been abused as well, she likely would never let him leave.

They ate their scones in relative silence, a little awkward. Harry, as usual, finished first and asked for seconds. Bathilda was amused by his appetite.

"Harry is a fast eater," Hermione explained when Harry was sat back down with more scones, more jam and a lot more cream. "I don't know how he doesn't get indigestion."

"Oh dear… you haven't changed then," Bathilda said, hunched on her seat, clutching her teacup as she avidly gazed across at Harry. "During your first birthday, Lily had to clean the icing from your hair when you decided to wear your slice of cake."

Hermione let out a giggle. Harry blushed.

"I think I've learned how to eat without wearing it." He said, now very self-conscious of the amount of cream he had piled onto his scone. Once he finished, his face successfully clean, he glanced at Hermione, giving her a sheepish look. He wanted to ask Bathilda more about his family, but they had pressing matters to discuss with her, more pressing than knowledge about his stolen life. Hermione's hand returned to his lap and he took her hand. She met his gaze and he could see that she understood what he was asking. He got her reply.

This is for you.

Harry turned back to Bathilda. The old lady smiled at him over her cup.

"Last night, you said that you knew my grandparents as well as my parents?" Harry probed nervously. "I… wondered if you could tell me a little about them?"

"I did indeed know them. What would you like to know?"

Harry opened his mouth, still holding Hermione's hand.

"My grandfather was really called ' Fleamont '?" He asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. Bathilda let out a dry cackle.

"You are lucky he's not here! Your grandfather despised his name. It was to preserve the Fleamont name so he was stuck with it. In fact, he became quite the prolific duelist down to the amount of times he had to defend his honour when his opponents mocked his name."

Harry wore a wistful smile. "I take it that's why my dad had such a normal name."

"You are correct," Bathilda said. "Fleamont and Euphemia had James rather late in their lives and so doted on him terribly, believing him their miracle child. It was very much a surprise when Euphemia announced her pregnancy. I… may have a photograph of James's Naming. Being the eldest resident of Godric's Hollow means I have been a guest to a great many Namings and Weddings."

"Were you… at mine?" Harry asked, his eyes wide.

"Of course."

Harry reached for his cup of tea with the hand that wasn't in Hermione's. His chest ached as he realised that he may finally get the answer to a question that he had always wanted to ask, only he never had the chance to ask it.

"Do… do you know why my parents… named me 'Harry'?" He felt Hermione squeeze his hand.

Bathilda gave a soft sigh. "Oh my boy… of course, you wouldn't know." She patted him on his cheek tenderly. "You were named after James's own grandfather, Henry Potter."

Harry's heart jumped. "Wait… my name's Henry?" He gasped out.

Bathilda cackled. "No… no. You are most certainly Harry James . Your great-grandfather was known to many as 'Harry'." She grinned. "Now he was a force to be reckoned with. You were named well, my boy."

Relieved, Harry smiled to himself as the lost knowledge was returned to him.

"It is a great shame that Fleamont and Euphemia did not live to see you born. They sadly lost their lives during a Dragon Pox outbreak," she said sadly. Harry looked up at her, taking in the news.

"How old was my dad when they died?"

Bathilda drew in a sharp breath, her eyes sad. "Oh, he would have been quite young. I believe he was at school when the news broke."

Hermione squeezed his hand again. Harry felt for his dad. He knew what it was like, after all. Harry glanced over at Hermione and she rubbed her thumb over his hand. He closed his eyes, knowing that it was time to put his mission first now. He ran his gaze over Hermione's face, then turned back to Bathilda.

"I don't know if I have an extended family," he said, "my dad was an only child and… I take it he didn't have any uncles or aunts? Cousins?"

"Any relations would have come from his mother's side. Fleamont was an only child as well. You likely have many distant relations from your father's line, as is often the case for ancient pureblood families." Harry felt a hint of disappointment. It sounded then that the Dursleys really were his last surviving family. "Is there anything else you would like to know?" Bathilda asked him, blinking at him. Harry sighed inwardly. He wanted to know everything but it would have to wait.

"Actually… I wanted to tell you a bit about... what I'm up to." Harry looked across at Hermione, giving her a meaningful look. She dipped her chin, encouraging him to continue. Harry sighed and turned around in his seat so he was fully facing Bathilda. He reached out and took her hand so he had her full attention. She searched his face, looking a little scared at the seriousness in Harry's expression.

"Before Dumbledore died, he told me everything he had learned about V- you-know-who." Harry corrected himself in time. He realised saying Voldemort in front of a very old woman might not be the best idea. "His history, his motivations, everything… things about you-know-who that no one else knows. Not even his closest followers. Most importantly, he told me about his weaknesses."

Bathilda was listening to him intently, her cloudy pupils dilating.

"Dumbledore's research wasn't complete and before we could really make any progress with it, he… died, so I've been left with the task of finding… of exploiting you-know-who's weaknesses. That's why I need the Sword of Gryffindor."

Her aged eyes crinkled with confusion. "My boy, do not tell me Albus encouraged you to challenge the Dark Lord to a swordfight."

Harry gave a laugh. "No, not quite, but the Sword is very deadly. It's… been infused with basilisk venom."

Bathilda sipped at her tea, her eyes boring into Harry's.

"I sense a long and convoluted story behind how a historic artifact became such a dangerous weapon, but no matter. My concern lies with the truth you are afraid to tell me."

"Knowing what I'm really up to while on the run is dangerous knowledge. I'm actively breaking down V- you-know-who's defenses. He's already after me, but if he finds out that there are people helping me, he'll be after them too."

"It is sweet of you to be so worried for my safety, my dear boy, but I am so very old. I am all too aware that I have little time left. If I can use what little of my wits that remain to help you in your crusade, I shall." She reached forward, brushing her old fingers against his face. "Fear not, young Potter, old Bathilda still has some tricks up her sleeves and I will do what I can for James and Lily's little tyke."

Harry gave a sigh at the contact, his skin tingling at the tenderness.

"So, come on then, spit it out. What dangerous mission has Albus Dumbledore sent you off to complete?"

Taking his hands back, Harry reached under his shirt, finding the horcrux cold against his skin. He drew it out, causing a sharp intake of breath from Hermione at his side.

"Are you familiar with the term 'horcrux', Bathilda?" Harry asked her quietly. The atmosphere immediately changed as he and Hermione tensed at the mention of the word. The significance of what he had just revealed. Bathilda gazed at Harry for a moment, then she reached for her spectacles, perking them on her nose.

"A soul vessel." Her terse, clipped reply was enough to reveal that she knew precisely what it was. "So it is true? The Dark Lord survived death by splitting his soul?"

Harry's eyes went wide. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"You… knew?"

"I had my suspicions. There is no magic in existence that can bring back the dead to life, not truly. Dark magic can animate corpses as is the case with inferi. But to restore a soul? No. It is impossible. The only logical reason for the Dark Lord's return was that he did not truly die in the first place. His soul did not pass on as it was tethered to life by a horcrux."

Harry looked at Hermione, seeing his astonishment reflected there. He then ghosted his hand over the locket, looking back to Bathilda. He lowered his hand from the cold metal hanging around his neck.

"This… is a horcrux. Inside is a fragment of you-know-who's soul. It's one of many. Dumbledore believed that he created seven horcruxes and I need to destroy them all before I stand a chance against him."

Bathilda leaned over towards him, peering closely at the locket. She brought her hand over it, not touching it, her fingers an inch from the gold and emeralds.

"I recognise this artifact," she said, raising her head to look at Harry. "Is it authentic?"

Harry stared at her in surprise and then nodded. He should have known that a famous historian would recognise an artifact that once belonged to Salazar Slytherin.

"You seek Gryffindor's Sword while wearing Slytherin's locket… what else, dear boy? Are you looking for the lost diadem too?"

Harry had no idea what a diadem was and then his heart jumped into action. It has to be what we're looking for!

"Um no, but… well maybe," Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Dumbledore believed that the objects that you-know-who used as horcruxes are related to the Founders and to Hogwarts. He used this," Harry fingered the locket, "and Dumbledore had reason to suspect that he used the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff as well, though we don't know where that is. He believed that there was another horcrux, but hadn't yet found what it was or which Founder it belonged to."

When Harry mentioned the cup, Bathilda's eyes sharpened and narrowed on him.

"The last I heard, the cup was an heirloom to the Smiths. Hepizabah Smith, that insufferable gossip and flirt, often paraded it around during functions at her estate."

Harry sat back in his seat, stunned. "Well… yes. Dumbledore discovered that you-know-who murdered her and framed her house-elf."

"Dear Merlin… is that so?" Bathilda asked, shocked, "just to get his hands on the cup?" She then pointed at the locket Harry was wearing. "And please tell me that was not plucked off a corpse as well?"

Harry run his hand over the locket and returned it under his shirt.

"Well, Hepizabah had acquired the locket too so... I guess he did. Though this one actually does belong to him. It belonged to his mother, Merope Gaunt."

"Gaunt… yes… I know the name," Bathilda said quietly, "one of the many families that fell victim to tenacious interbreeding. Quite mad. And direct descendants to Slytherin as you likely know."

Bathilda then picked up her cup of tea and sipped at it, wearing a thoughtful expression. "Well, you have certainly found yourself a task if it is the Lost Diadem you are searching for."

"When you say lost… how lost are we talking exactly?" Harry asked reluctantly.

"Very. It hasn't been seen since it was stolen in the eleventh century. It was a highly coveted object, of course, gifting the wearing with 'wit beyond measure'. I may have some notes on it in an old journal… shall we take a look?"

She then slipped off her seat, back on her feet, and off she went, scuttling on her little legs. Harry gave Hermione a baffled look and she waved at him to follow. He moved after the small old lady who went into the hallway, pushing through into a room they didn't see the night before. Hermione was behind him and she gave a gasp as they stepped inside. They could see now why there were so many books all over the house. Her library was full. Hermione's eyes lit up like it was Christmas and her birthday all rolled into one.

Bathilda went to one of the many shelves. Every inch of the space in the room had been used to store books. There were books, lined up on the shelves, some stuffed in the smallest gap. Piles were stacked in the corners. The only clear space was the desk. Behind it was a handsome wing-backed chair, upholstered with deep blue velvet.

While Bathilda was perusing her bookshelf, searching for the right journal, Hermione crept over to the walls, gazing with awe-filled eyes at the trove of knowledge before her. Harry edged over to the desk, touching the handsomely carved top, admiring the craftsmanship. It made sense that such a decorated historian would have such a fancy desk.

"Here we are, my dears," Bathilda bustled over to Harry, slamming down an enormous tome. Harry jumped as dust plumed out from the pages. Hermione was at his side in an instant, her face bright with excitement. The old woman opened up the book, revealing crinkly pages of hand-written notes. Her notes. She turned the pages, her intricate and neat hand cramming the parchment.

"Ah, there it is." She stopped turning the pages and pushed the book in front of the two teens. They leaned in at the same time, looking down at where there was an impressive sketch of some sort of crown or tiara. It reminded Harry a little of the tiara Fleur had worn to her wedding, the one lent to her by Aunt Muriel.

"It's beautiful," Hermione breathed.

"White gold and diamonds, Goblin-made, of course. The Founders would have settled for nothing less," Bathilda said from Harry's elbow. Hermione was reading, her eyes darting back and forth, eyebrows waggling as she took in the information.

She gave a soft gasp. "' It was believed that her own daughter was involved in the theft of her famous diadem as she too vanished, only to be found months later, her body discarded in a forest in Albania. The diadem was not found' … her own daughter stole it and was murdered? How horrific!"

"Wait…" Harry looked at her. "Albania?" He stared at her. Hermione looked at him slowly, her expression puzzled. "He was hiding in Albania… after the stone, that was where he fled. That… that can't be a coincidence."

"So the diadem is our mystery horcrux," Hermione said. They stared at each other, the unspoken question hanging between them. They now knew what they were looking for, but they still didn't know where to look. And they were still without the sword and a way to destroy the horcrux they did have.

Harry took a step back from the desk and ran a hand through his hair.

"Thank you, Bathilda. This was really helpful," he said sincerely, "but there's something else. Without the Sword, we don't have a way to destroy the horcrux, or any horcruxes that we come across. We hoped that there might be some other form of magic that's strong enough to destroy them. Basilisk venom can't be it."

Bathilda squinted at him, her expression vacant for a while, and she sighed wearily, plodding up to Harry.

"I wish I had the answer, my dear boy. I have read of few instances where a wizard has perverted his soul and split it in order to attain immortality. Their efforts were thwarted, however, it has never been recorded what method was used to destroy the vessel. If I would hazard a guess, only the most destructive curses would cause the sort of irreparable harm on a level with basilisk venom." She eyed them. "I speak of Dark magic."

"You believe the Avada Kedavra would work?" Harry asked her, a little surprised that they hadn't thought about it before.

"Horcruxes aren't alive so they can't be killed ," Hermione said to him. Harry looked at her, baffled. Bathilda nodded, smiling across at Hermione.

"The curse would only find an inanimate object and likely rebound off it. I strongly advise against using that curse."

Harry rubbed at his forehead. "I have proof to otherwise," he said. Bathilda patted his arm, sighing.

" You were not an inanimate object and the curse triggered a magical explosion where two powerful and deadly forms of magic collided. You were the first and only person to ever survive it."

"Are there curses more deadly than the Killing Curse?" Harry asked, feeling a shiver.

"Indeed there are dark curses that are equally as deadly and knowledge of such Dark Arts is not widely known, for good reason. My research into the History of Magic has come across such gruesome magicks."

"Would… any of them be able to destroy the horcrux?" Harry asked. "Could you show us?" Bathilda gave him a direct, firm look and stepped up to him.

"I know of them. I am no practitioner of the Dark Arts."

Bathilda shut the book with a firm snap and went to return it. Harry had the strong feeling that he had offended her by assuming that she would know. He felt his face warm and he followed her.

"Bathilda, I didn't… I didn't mean to assume… I'm sorry."

He could feel Hermione's stare on the back of his warming neck. Bathilda looked over her shoulder at him, her cloudy eyes still hard. She pushed the heavy tome back into place. His heart was racing, inwardly berating himself for being so stupid. Of course, it would be a sensitive subject. Her great-nephew was Gellert Grindelwald!

She came over to him and raised her hands out to him. Understanding what she wanted, he came over and lowered himself so she could put her hands on his face and gaze deeply into his eyes.

"I know, my boy, I know." She then hugged him, surprising him and he dropped to his knees so it was easier for her. He let out a breath, fighting back the tears. Bathilda watched him closely, her eyes now soft and understanding. She let out a sigh and reached for his hand.

"You will find a way. After all, the Sword of Godric Gryffindor tends to find its way to the champion who needs it the most. Don't lose hope." He met her gaze and felt a warmth flare in him, a spark that he hadn't felt in a while. Belief.

"I'll try."

"That's all anyone can ask. Come on, I believe our tea is getting cold." Bathilda let go of his hand and swept off, bustling away on her tiny legs. Harry watched her go, equal parts amused at her dottiness and touched by her words.

A hand brushed his and turned him around slowly. Hermione wound her arms around his waist and pulled him in.

"Are you alright?" She asked him quietly. He swallowed and nodded.

"I was being careless."

Hermione rested her head against his chest. "She's right… we'll find a way."

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, holding her close to him. They stayed that way for a while before he drew back and brought his hands up to her face.

"What do we do now, boss?" He asked her. "I don't think we should outstay our welcome."

"Harry, Bathilda is besotted with you."

"That's the point. I shouldn't take advantage," he said, "she vanished her house! She has a life and we're interfering with it."

Harry stepped up to her and kissed her. She brought her hands up his back, running them up to his shoulders. He moaned into her lips, her touch electrifying him. They pulled apart after a moment, staring into each other's eyes.

"Let's finish our tea and then make a move… hopefully before the world finds out that I declared war on Lord Voldemort."

The moment he said the name, the magic laced into the runes carved into the walls of Bathilda's house reacted. He was struck seemingly from all angles before he could even move or comprehend what had happened. He went rigid as if hit with a full-body bind. He heard Hermione scream his name as his mind bleached white and he fell unconscious in her arms.


AN: Bathilda's super runes do not like the taboo!