There had been no doubt in Harry's mind that Bathilda fully intended to fuss over him. Yet he had wildly underestimated her. Decades and decades of seclusion and loneliness had suddenly been disspelled from her life. Within seconds of being in her sitting room, he had quickly found himself being pushed into one of the chairs, handed a cup of tea, and told firmly that he was too pale, needed more sunlight and should eat more fruit. Before he could respond and remind her that he had more important things to concern himself with than vitamin deficiencies, she was gone, muttering under her breath, leaving him stumped and confused.

It was of course incredibly amusing for Hermione who had her own experience of fussing grandparents to refer to. Harry, however, was swinging between being embarrassed and overwhelmed.

It also didn't help that he was trying to wrap his mind around the revelation that he was in love.

He was quiet as Hermione recounted the night's events to Bathilda, who listened attentively. The historian predictably grew animated at the mentions of the Chamber of Secrets, even insisting that they provide her with a written description of the fabled location, as well as Harry giving his first-hand account of the events during 1992 when he battled and slew a beast of legend with the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. Hermione continued smoothly, recounting how they had to hide in the Room of Requirement where they encountered their friend, Neville, and how they bunkered down in their old hideout before hatching their escape plan.

All it took was a glance between them to communicate that it was best to leave out a part of their adventure. The part that involved the horcrux sitting upstairs, stowed away in Hermione's handbag.

"It appears that you both have uncovered more of Hogwarts's secrets in your short years than I have in my many," Bathilda remarked when Hermione paused to glance at Harry. "The Chamber of Secrets, the Come-and-Go Room… my, you ought to be historians yourselves at this rate, perhaps even archeologists."

"Hmm, well… I suppose it's wise to broaden our horizons," Harry glibly said, earning himself a soft smile from Bathilda, her eyes twinkling with an expression that he often used to catch from Dumbledore's blue eyes. Pride.

Hermione then went to describe their flight up through the school, adding details to the crash that caused Harry's injuries that he had avoided the night before. Bathilda shook her head angrily, especially when Hermione looked up at Harry, waiting for his input about what happened between him and Snape. He met her gaze, heart shuddering, knowing why she hesitated.

"There's… history between me and Severus Snape," Harry spoke for what felt like the first time in hours. "Between my family as a whole and him, I guess. He gave you-know-who the information that made him target me and my parents. I… only found that out last year and… well… then he murdered Dumbledore."

Bathilda regarded him over her third cup of tea since they had started their conversation. Her fingers clawed the porcelain cup in her small hands, the expression on her aged face unreadable.

"You were there?" She asked. "Is that true?"

He didn't need to ask her what she was referring to. After all, it was the reason that the Ministry had to make him a fugitive in the first place.

"I was, yeah, we… were caught in an ambush. Dumbledore managed to put me in a body-bind so I couldn't reveal myself while I was under my cloak. He… tried to reason with Malfoy but… the Death Eaters arrived and then Snape showed up…" Harry looked down at his cup, at the cold tea, "then he killed him and… I went after him."

"Oh, my boy, he could have killed you too!" Bathilda gasped.

He shook his head. "No, they're under orders to not touch me."

"Harry has a capture, not kill, order on his head," Hermione explained, "which gives us a huge advantage against the Death Eaters. They will refrain from using lethal force in fear of depriving their master of his prize." Her voice was bitter, her eyes hard as she spoke of their enemies.

"Indeed, however as you likely learned, these Death Eaters will go to extreme lengths to be the servants who deliver such a prized prisoner," Bathilda's voice was as hard as Hermione's. "They will not care who they hurt in their pursuit for the Dark Lord's favour. Fanatics are the worst kind of enemy. Their zeal blinds them from distractions such as morality or having a conscience."

"We've heard that the new regime strictly centres on preserving the pureblood families," Harry told her, "half-bloods and muggleborns are fair game, but purebloods… they won't kill them."

"Not when all it really takes to turn them is an imperius curse or some mind-altering potions," Hermione hissed, "if they even need to do that. Fear alone can control a society."

Bathilda made a dark hum and considered Hermione for a moment. "Fear alone is not enough. Not to shackle the minds of an entire people. But we digress…" she looked back to Harry. "This man, this Severus Snape, he is the one to put you under the Cruciatus Curse?"

Harry glanced up at Hermione again, seeing the tension in her jaw at the mention of the curse. The reaction set off his shame. He had lost control completely under the curse and screamed himself hoarse. Hermione had heard every decibel. She had screamed for him in response, the sound of her voice haunting him as he was made to remember it.

He swallowed and nodded.

"I have never met the man, something of which I am rather glad of, but I have heard that he is a bitter man who avoided Azkaban only on Albus's good word. That he is so callous and cold to repay Albus with murdering him in cold blood tells me much about the man. The Dark Arts require a particular mindset. To use them, one must either be utterly removed emotionally or one must savour the act of causing another suffering."

Harry listened, hanging onto her wise, insightful words.

"He feels emotions alright," he said, "towards me especially. Anger, hate…"

"So he is a sadist," Bathilda remarked.

"No, I don't think he is," Hermione chipped in, "he's not a psychopath." Bathilda's eyes lit up at Hermione's contribution to the conversation.

"Ah… so his motivations are emotional. Interesting. An emotional opponent is predictable and easy to manipulate through provocation. I take it you provoked him to curse you. From what you say, I believe the Dark Lord would not take kindly to him satisfying his grudge, not when he himself has a vendetta against you. He likely views you as 'his'. Men in power become very possessive, even of their enemies."

Harry glanced over at Hermione, seeing her overwhelming respect towards the aged witch. He then leaned forwards, nodding.

"That's right. I… have a habit of getting under Snape's skin and I sort of… didn't expect to push him far enough for him to curse me like that. Not when last year, he ordered the other Death Eaters to leave me alone. He went against his own word."

"For a man who is collected and controlled enough to maintain his cover as a spy for as long as he did under Albus's nose, this is interesting behaviour. One to exploit, if you ever to cross wands with him again."

Harry absorbed as much advice as he could. It was invaluable.

"So my tactic should be to make him angry?"

"Absolutely, Harry. The enemies you should fear are the ones with total control of their emotions. The ones who keep their focus and never blink. That is what made Albus so very formidable when in his prime. He kept himself in check, no matter his opponent. That was how he gained the upperhand against Gellert. He knew how to exploit his emotions and turned those passions against him."

Harry's heart gave a nervous jolt at the mention of Gellert Grindelwald. As he considered what she was telling him, he could see how right she was. He could see in his mind the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Dumbledore gained the upperhand because he was in control. He had been calm and composed, whereas Voldemort had been enraged.

"Tell me, how did you win against him?"

This time when Harry glanced at Hermione, she caught his look and offered him an encouraging smile.

"He was distracted. The students… they came out and set off a load of fireworks. I guess, what with the Death Eaters preoccupied with us, they took the chase to raise a little hell."

"Oh, how marvellous," Bathilda beamed, "so their control is not as strong as they are making us believe."

"No… they… they were cheering me on. Snape had his back turned and I had another wand, so I disarmed him and used the chance to run and help Hermione."

"Excellent, Harry. You have very good instincts."

He hadn't realised that he had taken over from telling the story, not until he came to the part where he caught up to Hermione and Neville. He went quiet before confessing to how he had used the Cruciatus Curse himself. He had been so enraged at Alecto Carrow daring to hurt his Hermione, he slipped into the dark side of his character, the side that was willing to inflict harm, his vengeful side.

"The witch, Alecto Carrow, she… used the Cruciatus on Hermione and I… well… sort of lost it," Harry softly admitted, unable to keep the shame out of his voice, "I… used it on her."

Bathilda did not chastise him, nor did she appear in any way disappointed in his actions. Instead, she lowered her cup and stared intently at him.

"Was this your first time using the curse?" She asked him, surprising him with the question. He shook his head.

"No… no I used it once before but it… um… it didn't work," he swallowed, studying his hands, "this time it did. I… I meant it. I wanted her to suffer. Hermione stopped me before I took it too far."

"How did you feel about it?" Bathilda asked him. He looked up, brow furrowing a little. "While you were casting it, were you… exhilarated?"

His cheeks burned and he gave a tight nod.

"That is why the Dark Arts are so dangerous. They are addictive. You had a need to cause pain, to make this woman pay for her actions, and the spell responded, filling your desire. How do you feel about it now? Do you… have urges to feel the same experience again?"

Harry's mouth dropped open in horror. "N-no! I… I feel disgusted at myself. I…" He bowed his head down. "I have no regrets for hurting that woman. She deserved it, but that I enjoyed it? I feel as bad as them."

"And that, my dear boy, is why you are not them. You have a conscience," Bathilda assured him gently, "your actions were righteous and in defence of someone you care about. Our motives for our actions matter, Harry. They always matter. You did not seek to humiliate the woman, or torture her for torture's sake."

Harry felt as if a weight was lifting off him. She was right. His motives mattered. The only person judging him was him, and he knew he had a good reason for cursing that woman. And he knew full well that he would not hesitate and do the same thing again.

"No… no I didn't," he confirmed, then he let out a breath.

Bathilda creaked out of her seat, setting down her cup on the saucer waiting on the table. She headed in his direction, taking his free hand in a firm grasp. He nearly split his tea as she took it. He met her blue eyes, touched by the tender way she was looking up at him.

"You have such a pure spirit, Harry. Always look inward and remember that having a heart is not a weakness. It is a strength," she tapped his chest, right over where his heart currently ached. "And it is a strength that your enemies do not have - so use it, my dear boy."

Harry found himself falling back, his memories taking him to another time when he had the same pep-talk from a different old, wise mentor. He could see the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore, tears appearing like pale topazes at the edges of his eyelids.

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all. That power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you."

Bathilda withdrew from him when he didn't speak, so overwhelmed by her words and what they meant to him. He watched her go to tidy away the tea set. She was speaking, but he had forgotten how to listen. His thoughts were spiralling out of control as he drew parallels, seemingly endless parallels, between what Dumbledore had taught him and what Bathilda was reminding him. His heart thudded, feeling too large, too clumsy, as he stared into space, mouth a little open.

He snapped out of it when Bathilda took the cup out of his hand.

"...then you'll be hopping back onto the table," she was saying to him. Harry's eyes lashed back onto her face, realising that she was speaking to him.

"Pardon?"

"You will not be leaving my house until you are the picture of perfect health, young man." Her stern look told him that he had no choice in the matter. She was going to look after him and he just had to take it. The sight of her genuine wish to care for him had him still confused. After her kind and supportive words, her advice and her praise, he was starting to believe that it was real. That there was someone else in his world that actually cared about his feelings, about him, the person under the scar. There was a void within him, an emptiness that he had felt so keenly when he knelt at his parents' graves, and it was slowly starting to fill up. Still there, still scarred, but it was healing.

"Bathilda! Are you there, old girl?"

The shout came from outside. Hermione let out a shocked squeak. Harry jerked in his seat, hand flying for his wand. Bathilda, unperturbed, slid away from Harry to move to the window and see who was calling on her. Harry stood, wand in hand, catching Hermione's eye and saw her do the same. He approached Bathilda, squinting out the window to the street beyond. He saw a man striding up to the door. With a yelp, Harry ducked down out of sight.

"He cannot see us, don't worry," Bathilda assured him, "it's only… oh Merlin, what's his name?"

Hermione was laughing softly as she approached behind him, hands coming under his arms to stand him back up again. He peered at the man, recognising him from somewhere. He was elderly, with tufts of white hair poking out above his ears. He wore black robes, adorned with a chain, similiar to what a muggle mayor would wear.

"We're starting to get worried about you!" The man called out again.

"Oh dear," Bathilda said in response, "I should probably speak to him. I haven't lifted the runes since you were here last. He likely thinks I've given up the ghost."

Alarmed, Harry shared a look with Hermione. "Bathilda, you can't… just go out and talk to a stranger."

"He isn't a stranger, dear," Bathilda patted him on the arm, "Just because my memory is failing me does not make him a stranger. I may not remember his name, but I know who he is." She peered up at Harry. "Do you have your cloak on you?"

Harry flushed. He had left it upstairs. "Um, no…"

"Well, just hide out of sight for a few minutes then. When I show myself, he'll be accepted by the Fidelius." With that, she tottered off.

Harry watched her leave.

"Did that make any sense to you?" He asked her.

Before she could respond, the man knocked on the front door. Quickly, he and Hermione dropped down to the floor, crouching out of sight, edging close to the towers of books, concealing themselves around walls of tomes. Harry met Hermione's eye and looked at the ridiculousness of their situation. They shared a smirk.

They heard the door unlock and open.

"What's all this racket about then?" Bathilda asked, then sighed. "Oh, it's you. B… it begins with B… Barnaby? Brian?"

"Barnsley," the man helped. Harry gave a soft gasp as he remembered who the man was. He had been outside the ruin on Halloween. Barnsley Bulstrode.

"Oh, right you are. I am sorry, Mr Bulstrode, you know how my mind is these days."

"I do know, which was why I took it upon myself to make sure you are alright. The last time you made your house disappear, you were in fact in Cyprus for weeks and forgot to remove the charms."

Bathilda cackled. "Oh yes. It was very sweet of you to worry, but reporting me as missing was rather unnecessary. I had letters from worried readers for years after that."

"We are right to worry, Bathilda. With Garrick missing, among many other national treasures, we feared the worst. Especially after Harry Potter returned here on Halloween."

Harry caught Hermione's eye. "I came up sooner than I expected." He whispered.

"He mentioned that he wanted to speak to you." Barnsley continued. "I… well… was worried that something had happened to you and that it was related."

Harry cringed. It had been rather careless of him to ask them so brazenly about Bathilda. All it would take was a slip of veritaserum that the Ministry would learn of her involvement in his affairs.

"I see, well… rest assured, I am very well and not a captive of the Dark Lord's."

"I am very relieved." Barnsley sounded sincere. "I… take it that you did receive young Harry and his friend?"

"I do not count you as a gossip, Barnaby."

"Barnsley… and I am merely curious. Having a Hollower return lifted all our spirits. A much needed balm during these times. The Ministry must have spotted him leave as it was all over the spread - they distorted the truth, of course. Just like they have this morning. I take it you haven't received the paper?"

"No. Since I put the fidelius up, I've not."

"Ah, so you also won't know that Harry attacked Hogwarts."

Harry rested his head against the wall, sharing a look with Hermione.

"Here, I have my copy here. I read it while having my morning coffee on the green." They heard the rustling of paper as that morning's edition of The Daily Prophet exchanged hands. "Outstanding, really. That boy very well might be the spark that lights the fire of rebellion."

"Indeed… although it is a very weighty responsibility for one so young."

"Yes… as is the true tragedy of war." The man said gravely. "If you are going to bring back your house, Bathilda, I advise you to take out a subscription in The Quibbler ."

"My mind is already doolally without filling it with all that nonsense."

"Believe me, Xenophilius has very much changed his tone. You will get a much more accurate picture from his publication than the Ministry's propaganda outlet," Barnsley said, "I will stop taking up your time."

"Farewell, Basil."

"It's Barnsl-." He sighed. "Yes, goodbye, Bathilda, and take care."

The door slammed shut. Harry put his fingers on the window sill and peered out, watching the old man hurry down the path and then twist and vanish as he made it to the gate. Bathilda returned.

"Now I think that will keep the Hollowers out of our hair. So… where were we?"


Teenaged Terrorist, Potter, targets Hogwarts: no casualties

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been the latest target of Potter's tour of terror. Eyewitness reports detail scenes of carnage as the once heralded child saviour carried out several attacks on the students of the school and the teachers, who moved in to protect the next generation of our society. Arriving at the scene a hour after the fugitive Potter had escaped and evaded capture, disappearing once again, I was met with what I can only describe as the aftermath of a merciless rampage. It was down to the brave acts of the staff that there were no casualties. Aurors on the scene detected evidence of the Cruciatus Curse having been used on Muggle Studies professor, Alecto Carrow. Many witnesses link Potter himself for the brutal act.

Reports also confirm that Potter is travelling with his muggleborn accomplice, Hermione Granger. The Auror office has confirmed her wanted status as Undesirable Number Two, placing a bounty of ten thousand galleons. The Minister for Magic is yet to make a status concerning the official reaction to the grievous breach of security and of Harry Potter's continued spree of attacks.

Harry stopped reading, slamming his head back against the chair. He pulled his glasses off his face, rubbing at his eyes, hoping that it would push the image of the headline story out of his mind. It was scarred into his memory now.

The main photograph depicted the trashed Astronomy Tower, left battle-scarred by Hermione's overpowered bombardment hex. Then there was the artist redention of himself, dressed head to toe in black, his hair now cut short, standing on the top landing, wand outstretched, ignited red with a Cruciatus Curse. His Invisibility cloak had been drawn in as a greyish cloak over his muggle attire. His eyes were savage behind his round glasses, the colour of the Killing Curse, far brighter than they were realistically. His scar had been sketched as a more wicked, angular shape.

All in all, whoever had made the art had clearly seen a memory from one of the Carrows, but had made some artistic choices to make him look a lot more dangerous and fierce.

He sighed, looking up from the paper. He was alone in the sitting room, the fire crackling merrily away. He turned his head in the direction of the hallway, hearing the distant voices of the two witches in the library. A soft smile dusted on his face as he thought of the pair, pouring over Bathilda's vast store of knowledge. The elder witch eager to share her knowledge, the younger bursting with enthusiasm at receiving a private tutorage from one of her idols. He had chosen to leave them to it after he stood baffled as the witches conversed about theories and fact that he had barely even heard of. Knowing that he was out of his depth, he had gone to make dinner, something that had Bathilda back to fussing and cooing over him.

It had taken him some time to work out how to use Bathilda's kitchen. He was far from used to operating magical appliances, but soon enough he worked out that poking something he didn't understand with his wand did the trick. Before long, he had potatoes boiling, a chicken and some vegetables roasting in the large iron cooker.

Bathilda had blessed him over and over for his domesticity, then went to congratulate Hermione for finding a wizard who was able to spoil her rotten. Harry had been blushing furiously as he poked at his potatoes with his wand, trying to not listen to a woman who had to be at least two hundred calling him a 'dish'.

As it turned out, leaving the two witches alone with lots of books had been a grave error on his part. They had joined forces in their ambition to embarrass Harry as much as possible. He had grumbled, feigning his irritation, while deep down, it thrilled him. It felt like what a family should be like. Laughter, a bit of teasing, just generally enjoying one another's company.

After dinner, Bathilda had promised to show Hermione her study on fidelius runes and the two returned to the library. Harry, having never picked up a book on Ancient Runes in his life, chose to sit in front of the fire and read the lies that had been printed about him.

He heard a sudden trill and looked down, seeing a tortoiseshell cat peering up at him. He started, then recalled Bathilda's joke about her elusive cat.

"You must be Bathilda's Marbles," he said to the cat, who gave a short meow in response.

Harry wasn't exactly a pet person. His only experience with dogs counted Ripper, Aunt Marge's dog, that had once chased him up a tree and didn't let him down until the next morning, and Sirius in his dog form, who wasn't even a dog. He got on a lot better with cats, understanding them a bit better. They mostly just wanted to be left alone, which he understood. Unless they wanted something, which he also understood.

He put his hand down over the chair arm and the cat nuzzled his head against his hand. Harry smiled and stroked him behind the ears. The cat's purrs were loud.

"Hey, you're pretty friendly," Harry said, running his fingers down the soft fur. He leaned back against the chair and then went back to reading The Daily Prophet.

He got three pages in before giving up. What was the point of reading the news if not a word of it was true? He thought about what Barnaby had said about The Quibbler and made a mental note to ask Bathilda to subscribe to it when she and Hermione were done.

His scar gave a slight throb, taking him by surprise. After the attack last night, it hadn't hurt him at all. He had a horrible feeling that Voldemort had sensed him when his emotions triggered violently. What else could explain the sudden cut off? Usually the pain ebbed away, but that time, it just cut off. As if someone had cut the power off.

He frowned and folded the paper up on his lap, leaning forward to put it on the table. He rubbed at his forehead, the mark prickling uncomfortably like it used to throughout the whole of fifth year. Something then flashed through his mind, a thought that he knew wasn't his own. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. He drew in a deep breath, knowing the warning signs. The connection was open again, Voldemort wasn't occluding him anymore.

A horrible feeling came over him, his heart starting to race. He felt as if he was being watched. Very suddenly, he was gripped with terror, and he feared moving and turning to see a pair of eyes watching him from behind. He swallowed tightly, wanting to grab his wand, but he didn't know what was causing his paranoia or if he was just going a little crazy.

He knew that something was not right. Whatever it was, he shouldn't handle it alone. He pushed back the unnatural fear and stood, grasping his wand and turning.

Of course, there was no one there. He would have heard someone, and no one could enter the house.

He let out a breath of relief and chose that perhaps he should find Hermione. Maybe have something to drink… go to bed early…

One step.

Then the pain struck him like a sledgehammer to the head. He was staggering, crying out, immediately blinded as bright light flooded his vision. A fury unlike anything he had experienced crushed him, coiling around him, tightening until his every fibre was ignited with rage that wasn't his own. He felt his knees crash into the floor, his hands clutching his face, fingernails digging.

Then he was gone altogether, thrown out of his own mind, pain following him as he found himself in a dark room, cold, unwelcoming.

There were vague shapes of furniture in the far peripheral edge of his vision, but he didn't care for them. His attention was fully on the sole-occupant of the room. At first, the figure was hunched over a table, head bowed, out of sight. Then he straightened, revealing a bald, bone-coloured head, veins visible through paper-thin skin.

Gazing upon the figure, Harry held his breath and, as he did, he realised that he was in the room too. This wasn't like his usual visions at all. He wasn't looking through Voldemort's eyes. He was in his own mind, in his own consciousness, and somehow… he didn't know or understand how, he was not alone. They were both there.

Unlike the figure in the room, Harry was on his knees, peering through his fingers, in the same position he had been when he had left his present. He dropped his hands, feeling for the ground, feeling nothing… he wasn't there…

It wasn't real.

Lord Voldemort turned to face him.

"I have put visions in your head before, Harry," He hissed, his voice soft and cold at the same time, rasping in his ancestor's tongue. The tongue that Harry himself only had mastery of because of the magic Voldemort had unwillingly given him.

Moving as fast as he had done on the night he duelled with Dumbledore at the Ministry, Voldemort flashed across the space, reaching Harry. He stood over him, appearing every bit as terrifying as Harry remembered. His flat, repilian nostrils flared with barely contained rage as he glared down at Harry, prone on his knees, glaring with large, scarlet eyes that had slits for pupils. His mouth was set in a furious line.

"Your mental defenses are still as woeful as they were then… pathetic… and you dare evoke a blood feud against me. Lord Voldemort. Heir of Salazar Slytherin. Conqueror of Wizarding Britain."

Harry's lip pulled back.

"You haven't conquered it yet, Tom," He hissed back. "Not while I'm still breathing."

Voldemort stooped down, his face coming close to Harry's, his eyes burning with an intense loathing that Harry could feel himself, through his scar, burning and scorching his thoughts.

"And how long will that be, Harry Potter? You very nearly perished while fighting only three of my servants."

"But I didn't," Harry pulled his head up, "I escaped… again…"

Voldemort's face didn't move for a second before he was moving away, the scene suddenly dissolving. Harry was now somewhere else all together.

It was dark. There were robed figures all around, panicking, spells flying out. And then Harry saw himself, vaulting over headstones, ducking, weaving, as he ran for his life.

"I wonder… when we meet again, will you fight or flee… like a coward?" Voldemort's voice hissed in his mind.

It shifted again, leaving Harry disorientated, and he now could see himself cowering against the wall in the Ministry atrium, face pale, shielded by the golden statue as a duel raged across from him.

"I admit your powers are growing… but you are still weak… still so easy to manipulate…"

Again, the scene changed and now he was in Hogwarts, standing on the top landing, and Hermione was there, on the floor, screaming… in pain… being tortured.

"I will spill every drop of her filthy blood…"

Harry tried to turn his head and look away, he closed his eyes, but the scene was in his head. He couldn't get away from it. He couldn't press his hands to his ears to block out Hermione's screams.

He staggered to his feet, blindly crashing into thing that he couldn't see.

"Hermione! Hermione!"

Voldemort's high, cold laugh echoed in his ears, in his mind. He was on his knees again. Pressing his hands to his head.

"Stop!"

She writhed on the ground, her screams growing hoarse, rough, as her throat was raw from the agony.

Harry started to pound his own head out of sheer desperation.

"STOP!" He roared.

Her screams stopped, but only because her voice gave out. She was still spasming, her hair spilling out. He lowered his hands from his face, breathing heavily, his heart pounding.

It's not real. It's not real…

He pulled his focus inwards.

Always look inward and remember that having a heart is not a weakness. It is a strength. And it is a strength that your enemies do not have - so use it, my dear boy.

Harry pulled his hands into fists and filled his mind instead of different memories of Hermione. Her smile, her gentle touches, her loyalty, her laughter…

His Hermione. The one that stood at his side, through thick and thin. The one he would fight for until the bitter end because she made everything worth it.

He then flooded his mind with the way she made him feel, the way his heart grew when their eyes met, the warmth of his magic responding to his love.

The warmth was real. It wasn't him imagining it. His magic was responding, fuelling him.

"I accept your challenge, Harry Potter…"

His vision flooded with light once again and he yelled as the pain in his head ramped up. His back hit something hard and he was rolling, his hands clutching his scar.

" Be ready to die. "

When at last he felt the presence release him, Harry slammed fully back into his own mind. The pain peaked to a new level and he instinctively rolled onto his side. He had no idea where he was, just that he was in a lot of pain. He was drenching in sweat, shaking uncontrollably.

A horrendous wave of nausea ripped through him. He was going to be sick. He rolled onto his side and vomited.

Senses were beginning to reconnect. His fingers were tingling horribly. He was trembling as badly as he had when cursed with the Cruciatus.

Then cold, soothing hands brushed at his face. Something wet and soft was wiped around his mouth and chin. He didn't dare open his eyes, terrified of what he would see if he did. Hearing returned as the ringing left by Hermione's screams faded, retreating as the pain withdrew its claws on his mind.

"...gone into shock," a voice said close to him. "Keep him comfortable and keep talking to him. He will come around."

He became aware then of the acrid taste and smell of vomit lingering in his nose and mouth. His stomach rolled and he retched again. He heard the splatter of his vomit entering some sort of bucket. Hands were supporting his head as he was sick.

"It… it's going to be okay…" a shaky, scared voice whispered in his ear, "you're safe… you're safe…"

Lips touched his clammy cheek. He knew those lips. He cracked his eyelids open, finding soft light and shade. His head was supported on something elevated, something warm. He focused on it, seeing the weave of denim. His head was on a lap.

"Harry… don't move okay? Just lay still… I've got you…" Fingers ran through his hair. "Oh… it's so cruel."

Something wet splashed on him. He rolled his head back, blinking slowly, trying to see. He heard a gasp.

"Harry… can you hear me?"

She leaned over him, her hair falling on his face. He looked up and saw the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Hermione's face was bathed in the light of the fire, warm and golden. Her eyes were wide, gleaming. In the golden light, her hair appeared like woven gold, rich and precious. He brought his hand up, desperate to touch her, to confirm this was real.

He touched her soft curls, bringing his fingers through her hair, and his chest ached as it all hit him.

Voldemort had attacked him the way that Dumbledore had always feared he would. And just as Dumbledore had told him, his heart saved him. He looked up at her, his heart thrumming, his magic radiating out of him as he leaned into his feelings. His vision blurred as tears formed.

"Hermione…" he said her name, savouring the sound of it. Real. It was real. She responded by bowing her head to his, pressing her forehead to him. He felt her breath on his sweaty skin, then her tears

"Oh, my sweetheart," she said, cradling his head gently. "It's over now."

He closed his eyes and relaxed, drinking in every sensation, anchoring himself to his reality and not the nightmarish torture that Voldemort had just put him through. Hermione kept stroking his hair.

He heard a familiar scuttling of footsteps and a second presence settled behind him.

"Bathilda?" He asked.

In response, her hand took his and squeezed it.

"Yes, Harry. I'm here," her voice was exceedingly gentle. "Now, my poor one, you've had quite the ordeal. Hermione, sit him up… careful now."

In any other situation, Harry would have been embarrassed at being manouevred around, but he felt only relief that he was safe and that the horror was over. His head felt full of static, as if he had been at the receiving end of a confundus charm. His back was propped against something hard, still on the floor.

He became aware of how sore his throat was. He flickered his eyes open, realising then that he had closed them. He found Hermione.

"Water…please?" He asked.

It took only two waves of her wand to fulfill his request. He was handed a glass and he immediate gulped down the charmed water. He could see Bathilda now in his blurred eyesight. She approached him and he looked up at her. His head pounded now, a natural headache, not from his scar. At the thought of his scar, he put his hand to his head and froze when he felt his forehead was sticky. He moved his hand away.

Blood.

"Whatever he did to you that night," Bathilda's voice was quiet, "whatever your scar is , it is not a mere curse wound. I have no answers, my boy… what happened to you, had I not witnessed it for myself, I would have told you it was impossible. You were mentally assaulted, right here, in my home… he got to you through the fidelius, through my defenses."

She moved closer, her hand brushing his shoulder. "And then there is the fact that you can speak parseltongue."

Harry peered up at her and he felt the blood draining from his face. For her to know that, it could mean only one thing. He had responded physically to what had been happening to him mentally. So when he had blundered forwards, he had done so in her sitting room.

He regarded his surroundings then, seeing that he was still in the sitting room, only behind the chairs, his back resting against one. He must have made a lot of noise, attracting the witches to him. He didn't want to picture what he had been like when they found him. He heard enough from Ron about how he acted while under in his visions. Talking to himself, hissing…

"I… I was told that on the night when… the curse rebounded, I took on a bit of his magic and that is why we have this link… and why I'm a parselmouth," Harry explained. Bathilda drew in a sharp breath.

"Albus told you this?" She asked him. He peered up at her and nodded. "As brilliant as Albus was, his knowledge of magicks did not extend to the Dark Arts. And I am afraid to say, Harry, that your scar is very Dark. It was only when you drew from your own pure magic that you severed the connection and liberated yourself."

Harry sighed and turned to look at Hermione. He felt recovered enough to stand, so he did, causing both witches to gasp and rush to help him. He raised a hand, reassuring them.

"I'm… alright. I've had something like this… happen to me before," he told them, then brought his hand up to his scar, "though my scar bleeding is new."

"My guess is that was caused when your magic attacked the curse that is in your scar… or whatever it is that is there."

"I have something in my scar?" Harry asked Bathilda, horrified, "wh-what? Like a parasite?"

"I am truly sorry, my boy, but I cannot tell you the nature of this magic. I only know that you must find a way to get yourself rid of it. Or at least find a way to protect yourself. Hermione tells me that these attacks happen often and that you had occlumency lessons to help, but they didn't work."

Harry glanced over to Hermione, then back to Bathilda.

"Um… well… it's not that they didn't work," he put his hands back on the chair behind him to support him. "I just couldn't get the hang of it but… well… now that I have a pretty good incentive to try, I might have better luck now."

Hermione moved up to him bringing her arm around him.

"I'll help. We can learn together," she said to him. He ducked his head to hers and place a kiss on her parting, inhaling the warmth of her scent.

"Together." He needed that word more than ever.

Bathilda then came up to them. She brought her hands up to Harry's face. He saw the grief and worry etched into her lined face and knew that she needed to see that he was alright for herself. He edged over to her, Hermione moving with him, and he stooped down so Bathilda could cup his cheeks. She looked up at his bloodied scar and let out a soft, sad sigh.

"While I do not have the answers, I do know someone who may understand what malignant magic is at work here," Bathilda said, her fingers running down his cheeks in a comforting way. "He would never shy away from a mystery, even now, I believe. I have not seen him in a great number of years, but I know he still yet lives. He may be the only master of the Dark Arts who would never ally himself with the current Dark Lord."

Bathilda sighed and gave Harry a long, lingering look, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"I speak, of course, of my great-nephew Gellert Grindelwald."


Two hours after Bathilda Bagshot told Harry Potter that he should seek the counsel of Gellert Grindelwald, Harry was laying in the bed of the former Dark Lord, his head resting in the dip of his girlfriend's shoulder, resting on her as she gently played with his hair. After they had both brushed their teeth and put on their sleepwear, they wordlessly went to snuggle, only wanting to be close to each other.

The only sounds were the soft noises of their breathing and the flicker of the candles that illuminated the room.

"Why did he do it?" Hermione broke the silence, causing Harry to shift upwards and put his head back on his own pillow so he was at eye level. "It wasn't just… to torment you, was it?"

He reached out to her, tracing his fingers down her arm. It didn't take him long to fully recover from the attack, but he had the full Bathilda treatment of her fussing over him, giving him potions for his headache, another to calm him. He noticed her slipping Hermione a potion, one that caused the younger witch to blush furiously. But she took it anyway, turning her back to Harry as she did.

Harry looked across at her and sighed.

"The blood feud."

Hermione's eyes widened a little. She interlaced her fingers through his left hand, tilting it towards the light so she could see the line that he had cut into his own hand.

"He must have visited the Ministry then, or had one of the Death Eaters discover the record of it," she said quietly.

Harry stared at her arm, trying his best to block those screams from his mind, but it felt like a ringing in his ears, a sound he couldn't shake. He focused on the touch of her soft skin under his fingertips. He then looked up at her, meeting her gaze.

"I will have to face him…" he said, looking up at her, "it's inevitable now. I know… we still have the horcruxes - the cup especially - to find. But at the end of it, I still have to face him."

Hermione shuffled towards him, closing the distance between them. Her hand captured his cheek and ran down his face, searching his eyes.

"Then we train," she said, staring at him, her eyes starting to take on that fire that made his heart swell, "we learn more magic, more curses and hexes, because our enemies won't be showing us the same restrain we showed them. Crabbe used the Cruciatus on your without a second's thought and all we did was stun and restrain."

Harry brought his hand up to brush through her hair.

"He's too stupid to know what he's doing," he said, "and it wasn't that bad. But yeah, I agree. We need to train. Truth be told, we're likely to learn more from Bathilda than we are from Hogwarts. And then… there's the matter of Grindelwald… and my scar."

Hermione brushed her finger over his forehead. He felt a tinge of pain at the contact, wincing a little.

"It hurts?"

"Not as much as it did," he said, "but we can't… we can't speak to him. Not just because me showing up abroad to see the last Dark Lord might cause a scene, but… I don't really want to get advice and help from someone who butchered thousands of muggles."

"No… I think we should stick with our plan and maybe look into occlumency together," Hermione said softly, "you did manage to push him out on your own."

Harry edged his head towards hers. "I used my heart…"

"Your heart?"

"Hmm," Harry brought his hand down to his chest, placing his hand over the thumping organ. "I thought of you."

Hermione's hand moved around the back of his head and she moved to claim his lips. It had him shifting closer, pressing as much as he could against her. Their kiss was desperate and clumsy, the sounds of their urgency wet and heady, but soon it slowed. The pace shifted, turning from hungry kisses to longer caresses where they let their lips linger, savouring in the feel of each other.

Harry looked at her through his eyelashes, just seeing the freckles in the low light. He brought his hand up to brush her cheek, then kissed her again.

Only this time, he leaned into the warm, steady thrum of his love and, as he did, a feeling unlike anything he felt before washed through him. He was gasping between kisses, tears now pushing out from the corners of his eyes. He clung to Hermione, his hands gripping her, holding her.

He opened his eyes, finding Hermione staring at him, and he saw glistening tear tracks on her face, matching his. They both brought their hands to each others' faces, thumbs wiping the others' tears away.

They stared at each other, silent, eyes sparkling. Until Hermione let out a sigh, her fingers moving to touch Harry's face.

"Harry… is this what I think it is?" She asked him, her voice low. Harry's hand caught hers and he gave it a squeeze. He smiled.

"I think it might be, Hermione."