Thanks to you, I've somehow made it to the finals of the 2018 Enchanted Awards! I still don't believe it. There are still a couple more days left to vote, if you'd like to do so... there are some truly wonderful stories to choose from.
Link to vote (please remove all *'s)
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And now, this:

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".

.

She used her last two teabags the next morning.

Hermione and Harry didn't say a word as they sat across from each other, delicately sipping from their cups. He still had some of that gobsmacked air about him, and his eyes, from time to time, would glance at Ron's empty bunk, before quickly looking away.

She took the Horcrux from him, and put it around her own neck; his demons needed no more feeding.

They didn't speak as they packed their bags, nor as they dismantled the tent, nor as they erased all their footprints from the ground. They both dawdled deliberately, and they both kept eyeing the small copse across the river – foolishly thinking that a gangly, red-haired figure might emerge from within its depths – again and again, until finally, they simply stood side by side on the cleared riverbank, staring at the trees.
They both sighed, and they both reached out to grasp hands simultaneously. Hermione apparated them to a hillside in Surrey, whereupon they immediately began setting up their camp and putting up their enchantments. Not a word was spoken.

Had you asked her the day before, "When, Hermione, did you fall out of love?" she'd have hemmed and hawed and fed you some rambling, cryptic bullshit about feelings not being absolute, and how you can never really pinpoint an exact moment, and 'it's all a process, really, you know...?'
But, as she stared out at the carpet of heather that rolled up and down hills, Hermione could most decisively state – "I do not love Ron Weasley."
All her misgivings had been cemented, her doubts turned to certainties, and that twinge of longing – the one that told her that being with one of her oldest friends might just be the best happiest ever after she could hope for – died.

He'd left. He'd actually gone. He'd abandoned her. He'd... chucked up everything and just cleared off.

Surely a person's true character was revealed when things got difficult? It was in the way a strident underachiever like Harry would always rise to the challenge when faced with danger... the way meek old Neville and frivolous old Seamus were leading the rebellion in Hogwarts... the way Theo, without demur, had stuck with them to defend the school against Death Easters... the way Malfoy was risking his life to pass information to the Order...
...The way Lupin tried to run away when Tonks got pregnant; the way Fleur stood by Bill after his run-in with Greyback...
...The way Regulus Black decided to destroy Voldemort's Horcrux...
And Ron had left Harry and Hermione to their fate.

Yes, she knew the Horcrux had played a part in this. But come on, Ron... is thy honourable mettle so easily wrought from that it is disposed? She had the locket around her neck right at that moment, and she could feel it's insidious coils of influence in the back of her mind... yet, her loyalty to Harry, and to the cause for which they were fighting would always, always triumph over them.

"I don't love you," she whispered, so soft that it became one with the wind. For the first time since that whole horrible ordeal, a tear rolled down her cheek.

Hermione and Harry still weren't speaking very much. Over the next week, they moved from one hill to the other in the same locality, dithering really, wondering what to do next.

One evening, as they ate eggs that Harry had filched from a nearby farmhouse, ("Don't worry, I left some money by the coop,") they wondered, once more, where Dumbledore could've left the sword:
"...with Professor McGonagall?"
"...a vault in Gringotts?"
"...maybe gave it to Moody?"
"...could it be with batty old Mrs. Figg?"
Needless to say, they weren't getting anywhere.

The evenings were doused entirely in silence. She felt that Harry was afraid that if they spoke too much, she'd bring up Ron, or tell him that she'd had enough and was leaving too. There was no way to tell him how silly he was being without, well, bringing up Ron.

By the end of the week, she was so desperate that she brought out Phineas Nigellus' portrait to join them from dinner.
"Your insolence is simply staggering," he drawled disdainfully, batting uselessly at the blindfold she'd conjured over his eyes.
"What you call insolence, Professor, I call discretion," Hermione replied, matching his tone.
"It's that muggleborn upbringing, I'm afraid," he sniffed, "Beastly."
"Stop that. How're things at Hogwarts?" Harry demanded angrily.
"I refuse to say a word until I am treated with more respect!"

Hermione added that experiment to her long list of failed endeavours.

Their reticence bled into weeks, and Hermione felt cold and debilitating loneliness wrap around her like a vice. Sitting vigilant outside the tent in the damp Lincolnshire Marsh, she wrote an imaginary letter to her parents. It was eleven pages long.

When Harry came out to take over from her, he gave her a curious look. "Do you think it's possible that Dumbledore gave the sword to Fawks?"
"The... his phoenix?" Hermione asked wonderingly.
"Yeah," said Harry, "Like in second year. Fawks delivered the sword to me in the Chamber of Secrets."
"Er, that seems highly improbable, Harry. Where would a phoenix store a sword for so long?"

Still, from that day on, Harry spent long portions of the day staring upwards. Hermione would sit by quietly, peering down at The Tales of Beedle the Bard. There was such a vast lot of distance between the earth and the sky.

High up in the Yorkshire Dales, she lay on the dwindling grass and held a strand of her hair against the setting sun. The weather was getting colder and colder; she wouldn't be surprised if it began snowing in a week or so. She let her hair drop and took out her current most prized procession: her DA Galleon.

'Babbitty Rabbitty & her Cacking STUMP?!'
'Ah! 1 of my favourites!'
'Magicfolk are mad.'
'Shut up. Delightful story.'
'She was an animagus?'
'Yes.'
'What animal would u be?'
'Puma.' –– 'No. Husky.' –– 'No. Fox.' –– 'Falcon.' –
'THEO !'
– 'Jaguar.' –– 'Gazelle.' –– 'Giant English Mastiff.' –

On Great Gable, sleet and rain tumbled down upon them seemingly out of nowhere. Hermione rushed into the tent as fast as her legs could go. She entered, and the warmth within was the greatest relief she had ever known. Shaking chunks of ice out of her hair, she walked over to her bunk and lay down on her stomach, burying her frozen nose in her pillow.
Once she'd thawed, she peeked at Harry, who was sprawled in his own bunk, immersed in the Marauder's map.

"What's happening at Hogwarts today?" she asked.
With a slight frown, he replied, "The lot of them – Ginny, Neville, Seamus... The Patils, Lavender... Boot, Corner, Ernie – went one by one to the seventh floor... and then disappeared."
"Into the Room of Requirement? I mean, of course! So Dumbledore's Army is still going strong!" Hermione bit her lip, scared for her friends, but so, so proud...
"And I think Peeves is helping by keeping the Carrows busy."
"...Wow."
"That's not the strange part. Malfoy and Tracey Davis went in too."
"Well, that's... not all that strange, Harry."
"Yeah," Harry grunted, "I suppose not. Nothing seems all that strange now anyway."
He went on to mumble something about Dumbledore under his breath, which Hermione didn't quite catch, and then they lapsed into their usual silence.

Tired of the harsh mountainous terrain and climate, Harry and Hermione set up camp in Rossendale Valley. But while the conditions were marginally better, the strain between them was at its worst. Hermione suffered for a day and a half, but then something in her snapped.

Enough.
Ron didn't deserve to have so much power over them.
"Harry," she said, sometime around five in the evening, "I'm going to pop over to the nearest town... pick up something to eat."
"Alright," he said dully.

She didn't let herself get distracted while shopping this time. The place she was in was smaller and more homely than the last one, and she quickly picked up some teabags, sugar, milk powder, spaghetti, a jar of Bolognese sauce, and tinned fruit.
Her final purchase was the main reason she'd bothered to make that excursion. She held the bottle close to her chest as she hurried out of the shop and into a corner alley, from where she apparated back to their campsite.

Long after darkness had fallen and a steady hailstorm had commenced outside, Hermione set her purchase down on the coffee table in front of Harry. He looked up from the Marauder's map, and eyed the bottle distrustfully.
"What's that?"
"Egregiously cheap whiskey," Hermione replied, placing two glasses on the table as well.
"Er... Are we going to drink it?"
"Yes."
"Is that wise?" Harry asked in that tired, sanity-questioning tone of his.
Hermione sighed in defeat. "Probably not," she whispered, staring down at her hands. Well, that was that. She was done trying; tired of failing. They'd just spend the rest of forever stewing in silence and discomfort, and –
"Pour us a glass then."

Her head snapped up in shock. Harry shot a small smile at her, baffled and amused, looking like he still wasn't convinced she was sane. But nonetheless, he held out a hand expectantly, "And don't be stingy, yeah?"

xxx

"Isn't it a terrible, terrible pity ," Hermione lamented dramatically, "That you can never tell your story to the muggle world?"
She was sitting across an armchair, with her legs hanging off one arm and her head tipped over the other. She looked at upside-down Harry with large, earnest eyes. He was slumped so low in his chair that his chin was resting on his chest.
"It'd be a pity to get arrested," he mumbled, "Stat – Stat – Sta-choot of secrecy and all that..."
"No, but just think! They'd go wild! Blooming Hollywood would lap you up! Harry! You'd become a cultural icon... a... a... fucking billion dollar franchise! You'd be bigger than – OH!" In her excitement, Hermione had sat up; the sudden rush of blood made her wonderfully giddy, "...was I saying?"
"Bigger," Harry supplied obligingly, spreading his arms wide.
"Right. You'd be bigger than James Bond!"
He snorted, "I'm not the Hollywood type, 'ermione."
Hermione didn't think that was a cause for concern. "Oh they'll find some dashing young lad to play you. No problem."
"And what about you?" Harry grinned, "There'll have to be a pretty girl sidekick sort who –"
"Bite your tongue, Harry Potter. I would never let my character be reduced to mere eye-candy!"
His grin was the closest thing she'd seen to a Glasgow smile. "Fuck, you'd make the director's life hell. You'd never leave, boss everyone around, and... and take over everything, and –"
"AND I," Hermione declared, pointing a finger at him, "Would be the reason the film'll be a roaring success –"
"Oh, sure, sure –"
"Harry, you'll be famous."
"Yeah. Famous. I wonder what that's like," he said dryly. Hermione broke into a fit of giggles.

He slid of his chair like he hadn't a single bone in his body, landing on the carpet with a grunt of surprise. Hermione's giggles intensified.

Who – seriously who – said that alcohol doesn't solve any problems?

"Last call," Harry announced, shaking the bottle. The golden liquid sloshed about hypnotically. Hermione gave Harry her empty glass and got shakily onto her feet. "Where're you going?" he asked.
"Loo."
She staggered across the tent, grabbing whatever was in her way for support. There was a scratched up and foggy mirror in the tiny, under-lit bathroom, and after she'd finished her business, she stared into it. Her face was extremely flushed, her eyelids were heavy, but the corners of her mouth were turned up.

When she returned to the main room, Harry was comfortably stretched out on the carpet, leaning against the chair he had previously occupied. Hermione fell back into her own, and picked up her freshly refilled glass gratefully, robbing it of a generous sip.

"I miss Ginny," Harry said in a low voice.
"I miss her too," Hermione murmured. "I miss Theo."
He peered at her inquisitively through his glasses. "Are you in love with him?"
She laughed softly, "No. But I do love him."
"So weird."
"...'tis. But 'tisn't. He's wonderful, Harry, really. You should..." then she sat up, suddenly energised, "You should be his friend too!"
"Wha–"
"Wait. I'll tell him."
Ignoring Harry's inane questions, Hermione reached into her pocked to pull out her wand and DA Galleon.
'Harry wants to be your friend'

"He's got one too?" Harry asked.
"Luna's," Hermione nodded.

'What the fuck?!'
Hermione frowned. 'Harry wants to b friends okay'
'Is this a joke?'
'NO.'
'What.' –– 'WHAT.' –– 'Seriously?'

"Harry," Hermione cried dismally, "He doesn't believe me!"
"Gimmi that," Harry demanded. She handed him the Galleon, and he held it in front of his face and blinked, before yelling, "YES SERIOUSLY."
"It doesn't work like that, you idiot!" Hermione stumbled over and dropped onto the floor next to him. "Like this, see..." She tapped it with her wand.
'YES SERIOUSLY. FRIENDS.'
'?'–– 'Are you drunk?'
"YES," Hermione and Harry both shouted at the coin. Then they looked at each other, before simultaneously tapping it with their wands.
'YES yes'
'Bloody fuck.' –– 'Here I am worried sick' –– '& U R out there getting pissed' –– 'This is bullshit.'
Hermione, distressed, gasped; "Sorry, Theo!"
'Luna = sanest person I know' –– 'Going to bed. Goodnight.'

"Oh no," Hermione wailed.
Harry patted her hand consolingly. "He's not being very friendly," he said crossly.
"It's okay," she sniffed, "We're going to have to be persistent. Like he was with me... and look at us now." She sighed and laid her head on Harry's shoulder. He put an arm around her and gently began stroking her hair.

"Harry," she whispered, after... some? ...a lot of?... time, "We'll get through this, you know? You'll kill that sadistic bastard, and we'll all be able to live again."
Harry let out a slow breath. "It doesn't fucking feel that way. I mean, we're not even close... And I feel like such a twat... donno what to do..."
"Shhh," she chided, "You'll figure it out. I believe in you. And I'll help... I promise. I won't leave you like... like... I won't leave you."
"I know," Harry sighed.

Her head slid down to his chest, and she could feel his every inhale and exhale; she could hear the muffled beating of his heart. He was so incontestably alive...

xxx

She woke up with a parched throat and a throbbing head. Her eyes were in no mood to open. Still, she sat up and stretched... holy hell, her back hurt.
They'd fallen asleep right there on the floor.

Hermione looked at Harry, who was still out cold, and lightly snoring. His neck and arm were bent at distressingly uncomfortable looking angles, so she straightened them out, then summoned his blanket from his bed and spread it over him. All the while, he remained fast asleep.
After washing up, she dragged herself into the kitchen and prepared two cups of sweet, strong tea. She left one hovering in front of Harry, fortified with a lasting warming charm; she knew he'd greatly appreciate it when he'd resurface.

Bundled up in her thickest coat, Hermione stepped out of the tent, and took a deep gulp of fresh and cold early morning air. There was a lot of fog about, and the world was divided into multicoloured streaks like a sedimentary rock – deep blue on top... then lighter... purple... mauve... one thin bright stripe of tangerine... a pale line of snow covered hills... the near-black silhouette of the distant town... the dark but gold-lined layer of barren trees... the blue-brown-grey foreground...
Clusters of lightly glowing fairies fluttered above the thistle bushes scattered around.

She stood in the midst of that whirlwind of colour and watched the new day blossom.

'Hi.'
'Hi?' –– 'You're saying hi?' –– 'What the fuck was all that?'
'I'm sorry.' –– 'Had a rough couple of days' –– 'Needed a break.'
'I see.'

For a full five minutes, she shilly-shallied over what to say next, feeling like a chastised little girl... but then:

'Are you okay, Hermione?'
'Yes. Miss you. But yes.'
'Miss you too. Every day.' –– 'Potter REALLY wants to b friends?'
She laughed out loud.
'Of course. Who wouldn't?'
'True. You're right.' –– 'Will make him grovel though'
'Wouldn't expect anything less.'

Hermione couldn't stop laughing as Harry tried to almost-swallow his riddle-incrusted snitch for the second time. His bulging eyes and throat gave him the appearance of a much startled frog...
"ACK!" He coughed, sputtered, and spat the tiny golden ball into his palm.
Shuddering at the cosmic amount of saliva that coated it, Hermione contained her chuckles and said, "Well, that didn't work."
"Holy cunting hell," he croaked, "No... didn't work... gah... water!"
Hermione obliged, and he gulped down an entire bottle.
"You really think Dumbledore hid the sword's location in the snitch?" Harry asked once his face was less red, and his breathing was under control.
"I have no idea, Harry."
"Hmph," he scowled, "I can't believe I let you convince me to try swallowing it."
Helpless, Hermione starting laughing again. "I can't believe it either."
"Huh?"
"Harry," she sniggered, "I was joking."
"What? WHAT?" He stood up looking most insulted, "You cow!"
"Oh, oh," she gasped, doubling over.

It was snowing heavily. They were cosseted in the tent that was covered in snow that stretched across the island that sat in the middle of Loch Maree that was situated in the Northwest Scottish Highlands (that lay in the house that Jack built).

With The Tales of Beedle the Bard resting on her knees, Hermione emerged from a period of deep contemplation with a subtle shake of her head.
"Harry," she said, jolting him out of his own ponderings, "could you help me with something?" He nodded and so she held the book out towards him and pointed to the top of the open page. "Look at the symbol."
Harry assessed the strange triangular-looking eye with its vertically bisected pupil. "I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione," he said eventually.
"I know that, but it isn't a rune and it's not in the Syllabary, either," she told him in a rush, "At first I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don't think it is! It's been inked in; Dumbledore – or – somebody's drawn it there... it isn't really part of the book. Think! Have you ever seen it before?"
"No," he stated. But then he leaned a little closer... "No, wait a moment... Isn't it the same symbol Luna's dad was wearing around his neck?"
"That's what I thought too!" she exclaimed eagerly.
"Then it's Grindelwald's mark!"
"...What?"
"Krum told me," Harry replied, "Apparently, Grindelvald had carved it into a wall at Durmstrang when he was a pupil there. It became his... mark."
Hermione stared at the odd symbol in astonishment. "I've never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. There's no mention of it in anything I've read about him. It's all... very odd. And why has it been drawn in a book of children's stories?"
Harry scratched the back of his head. "Yeah," he agreed, "it is weird."

She traced the shapes with her fingernail, thinking furiously. It had to have been Dumbledore who put that symbol there... but why? It had to mean something; why else –
"Hermione?"
"Hmm?"
She looked back up at Harry, and he was nervously tapping his fist against his knee.
"I've been thinking. I– I want to go to Godric's Hollow."
And there they were at last. "Yes," she sighed, "Yes. I really think we'll have to."
"Did you hear me right?" He blinked at her.
"Of course I did," she said, rolling her eyes, "You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree; I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."
"Er – what's there?"
She stared at him. Where was his mind? "The sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have known you'd want to go there... and I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace –"
"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"
"Harry," she ground out, quickly losing her patience, "Did you ever even open A History of Magic?"
He smiled at her very sheepishly. "Erm... I might've opened you know, when I bought it... just the once..."
"Well," she said tartly (but also smiling a bit,) "As the village is named after him I'd have thought you might have made the connection. ...But you see? Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore would have expected –?"
"Sure," Harry shrugged, and a pall fell over his face as it always did when the topic of Dumbledore's possible designs came up. "Remember what Muriel said?"
"Huh?"
"You know... er... Ginny's great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles."
"Oh."
Hermione squirmed, but Harry didn't let the name he didn't say linger: "She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric's Hollow."
"Hm. Well, I suppose – OH!"
Harry jumped to his feet, wand drawn...

"What did you do that for?" he snapped, after calming down, "I thought you'd seen a bloody Death Eater unzipping the tent, at least –"
"What if Bathilda's got the sword?" she gushed, too excited to be embarrassed, "What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?"
Harry sat slowly back down and frowned. "Yeah... he might have done. So, are we going to go to Godric's Hollow?"
Now, Hermione stood up. They had a PLAN – how glorious! "We'll have to think it through carefully, Harry. We'll need to practice disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start..." She began pacing up and down across the tent, aware that Harry was only half listening, but who cares, they had a PLAN! "...and perhaps disillusionment charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we'll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises the better..."

DAY 1 :
"Why the hell are we doing this?" Harry raged after their sixth attempt to disapparate together under the cloak had resulted in him falling flat on his face, "Let's just GO."
"I told you Harry... You-Know-Who'll expect you to show up there! We need to be fully prepared!"

DAY 2 :
Harry came back from the nearby village with a small plum cake and two strands of hair.

DAY 3:
'Your scarf saved my life today'
'What happened?'
'Xeno tried to test his new shaving charm' –– 'On me. Bounced off the scarf' –– 'sliced the tassel off his hat' –– 'You're the best.'
'Oh my god!'

DAY 4:
They managed to successfully apparate under the cloak. Hermione insisted that they do it again fifteen more times.

DAY 5:
"Come on, Hermione... we're ready!"
"Yes... yes. I think we've done all we can."
"Brilliant! So we can go?"
"Just let it get dark..."

The graveyard was filled with shadows and eerie serenity. In the distance, tiny houses decked with twinkling lights seemed to belong to a different world.

Hermione, hunched in her guise of an aging, mousy little woman, wondered among the gravestones feeling both scared and solemn. Dumbledore's mother's and sister's graves were the only noteworthy ones she'd found so far. Up ahead, Harry (a broad, balding man) was moving a lot faster, with much more purpose. She could only try to understand what he was feeling...
That is, until another tombstone stopped her in her tracks.

"Harry, come back a moment," she called softly.
"What?" he huffed impatiently, trudging through the snow towards her.
She crouched to look more closely at the weather-beaten grave; "Look at this! It's the mark in the book!"
He squatted beside her, and peered at where she was pointing. "Yeah... it could be..."
"It says Ig—Ignotus, I think –"
"I'm going to keep looking for my parents, all right?" Old-Man-Harry said with some irritation, and he stood up and rushed away.
She followed, with a sigh.

She'd never spent much time in a graveyard. Her grandparents had died, one by one, when she was very young, and she remembered their funerals only vaguely. In her memories, graveyards were peeked at from behind the pleats of her mother's black dress, or over her father's shoulder as he carried her. And here she was walking over hundreds of skeletons, passing by hundreds of tiny memorials… a bit of stone to commemorate a entire life, a whole person, a –

"Harry, they're here... right here."
She waited before the modest little tomb of pristine white marble, (JAMES POTTER; LILLY POTTER; The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,) and when he had joined her, she took his hand in hers.
They stood there for a long, long moment, hand in hand. He was struggling to breathe, she could tell; he squeezed her fingers in distress.
She spun her hand in a circle and conjured a small wreath of Hellebores, which he gently laid on before the headstone.
Then he stepped back, put his arm around her and walked them away from the grave... from all the graves... back out into the village square.

She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all.

If Old-Woman-Hermione was old, then the woman they were following was prehistoric. Old-Man-Harry had a grasp on her elbow, and was ardently dragging her along behind the hobbling relic. He was quite convinced that she was Bathilda Bagshot... and (Not-That -)Old-Woman-Hermione... well, she didn't like it. Not one bit.

They entered her house, and Old-Woman-Hermione's hand flew up to her tiny, beak-like nose. The place smelled terrible; simultaneously like rotting food and open drains.
Bathilda's colour was off. While it was true that people turned grey with age, they certainly didn't obtain that delightful green tinge on their skin unless it was necrotic.
The mottled Bag...shot shambled into an adjoining room, leaving Old-People-Harry-and-Hermione in the hall staring nervously at each other.
"Harry, I'm not sure about this," she whispered.
He shook his head. "Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower her if we had to... Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn't all there. Muriel called her 'gaga' –" A sudden loud and creepy hissing sound shot out of the room Bathilda had just entered, "– It's okay," he said calmly, and dragged her into the room.

She didn't like this... At. All.

The room was dark and extremely filthy. The unbearable stench was much worse in there. Bathilda was bent by a dusty fireplace, mishandling a stack of logs. Old-Woman-Hermione precariously approached her and murmured, "Er – shall I...?"
Ghostly, filmy eyes surveyed her impassively; she swallowed. But then Bathilda stepped aside, and let Old-Woman-Hermione light the fire.
Just as she finished, she heard Old-Man-Harry say, "Ms. Bagshot?" and turned to see him shoving a framed photograph in front of the corpse-like woman's face. "Who is this person?" he asked eagerly, "Do you know who this is? This man? Do you know him? What's he called? Who is this man?"
"Harry, what are you doing?" she asked incredulously.
"This picture, Hermione... it's the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please! Bathilda! Who is this?"
Bathilda just gazed at him mutely. She hadn't spoken a single word thus far... Old-Woman-Hermione didn't like that at all.
"Why did you ask us to come with you, Ms. Bagshot? Was there something you wanted to tell us?"
She spoke deliberately loudly... only to be ignored. Bathilda hobbled closer to Old-Man-Harry, and began gesturing inelegantly.
"You want us to leave?" he asked. "Oh, right...Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."
Old-Woman-Hermione groaned to herself. "All right," she sighed, "Let's go."
"She wants me to go with her, alone."
"Why?"
"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only me?"
She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. "Do you really think she knows who you are?"
"...Yes... I think she does."
"Well, okay then. But be quick, Harry." Please.

They left her alone in the dim, dirty, smelly little room. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking and bouncing on the balls of her feet. She really wished they'd be quick about it all...
She carefully took a turn about the room, stopping in front of Bathilda's bookshelf. Floor to ceiling, it was filled with tomes from... wow!... from the Ptolemaic Kingdom, the Achaemenid Empire...
On the small table by the shelf, was another very intriguing book, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Setting her scruples aside, she shoved it into her bag.

THUD.
It was muffled, but there was definitely a thud, and it came from upstairs. Her entire frame tingled with apprehension. She walked back into the hall and cautiously began climbing up the stairs.
"Harry?" she called. No response.
CRASH!
She nearly fell backwards down the stairs. "Fuck!" she breathed and charged ahead... really, this so wasn't the time to be stuck with Old-Woman-Joints...

The scene that greeted her upstairs knocked the wind out of her.
"STUPEFY!" she shrieked, aiming straight for the giant snake's head, but it lashed out of the way. Luckily, the motion caused it to forfeit its hold on Old-Man-Harry, and he fell heavily onto the floor. "Stupefy!" she tried once again, and the snake darted towards her menacingly. "Expulso!" she shouted, but had to dive behind a chest of drawers before she could aim properly...
There was the sound of glass shattering...

Cowering behind her hiding place, she let herself inhale once...
"Everte Statum!"
The snake flew back, uncoiling, thrashing wildly...
"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!" Old-Man-Harry's voice carried over the serpents mad hissing... and suddenly he was there, beside her. Scant hair and wrinkled face caked with sweat, he pulled her bodily toward a window...

The snake was still having paroxysms. Its tail was flaying wildly, smashing, crashing... furniture and ornaments were flying all over the place...

With her in his arms, Old-Man-Harry jumped atop a broken dresser. The snake flew at them, spitting venom and –
"Confringo!" Old-Woman-Hermione screamed.
Bright light exploded out of her wand and scattered all over the room, bouncing off everything...

And they leapt out of the window.

He fell the moment they materialised on Hay Bluff, and he took her down with him.

Old-Woman-Hermione lay panting, wheezing, coughing on the snow covered ground, with Old-Man-Harry half on top of her; by the time she emerged out of her state of shock, she was back to being Hermione, the original.
"Harry," she whispered, shaking Harry (the original's) arm, "Come on, Harry, move... we've got to put the protective spells up."
"Almost... Almost..." he hissed, but didn't move.
"What – HARRY?"
With much effort, she rolled him off herself and onto his back... he lay limp and unconscious, quite blue in the face.
"Oh god, Oh no ... Harry! Harry!" She shook him harder and harder, but all he did was moan and twitch. She touched his forehead, and found it to be burning hot. An anguished, panicked "SHIT!" tore out of her throat, and like a tornado she spun around Harry's inert body, casting enchantments, pitching the tent...

"Locomotor!" She levitated him inside the tent, laying him gently on his bunk.
"No no no no no no NO," he chanted, and suddenly his back arched and he roared. His wand – in two pieces – fell with a clatter-clatter onto the floor.
"Oh god oh fuck..."
Hermione's internal organs all clumped together to form a giant orb of terror inside her. Damn it. What was she to do?
"AHHHH, NO STOP!" Harry screamed, writhing like one in need of an exorcism. He clutched his chest, clawing at – Oh – the Horcrux! She wrenched his hands away, difficult as it was, and pulled... pulled... pulled... It seemed to have fused into his skin.
Tears flooded her eyes and she whimpered, "diffendo," severing the fucking locket off his chest. He yelled in agony.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Harry," she sobbed, pouring dittany on his wound. Then abruptly, he began to laugh. It was a cold, sinister, evil laugh that made her skin prickle. Oh what was she to do? What – What –
The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you, her tears were falling onto his shirt as, just as abruptly, he began to cry.
"No... please... MUM," he wailed. He curled into a fetal position and trembled, weeping... weeping along with him, Hermione conjured a washcloth and dabbed at his face.
"Please wake up, Harry, please wake up!"
"No," he moaned.
"Harry, Harry – please! You're okay..."
"No..."
"Harry, it's all right; you're all right."
"No... I dropped it... I dropped it..."
"Harry... wake up, wake up!"

He opened his eyes with a gasp, and looked straight into hers. The sight of that bright, wonderful green filled her with so much relief that it hurt. She gasped, too.
"Harry," she murmured tremulously, "Do you feel all –all right?"
"Yes?"
His voice was rough and unsure. Staring up into nothing, he raised a shaky hand to wipe the sweat off his brow.
"We got away," he breathed.
"Yes."