Harry stared at the burnt out fireplace in front of him. Even now, four years after the death of his dogfather, he expected to see his face in the ashes and coals. He was cold, he needed to start it, but he couldn't bring himself to move from where he was sitting on the floor, chin on his knees, to find a wand. His wand, his first wand, had broken in the battle with Nagini and, even after he'd repaired it, something remained broken in the bond between them. It felt foreign to him now, like a long lost memory tarnished with age. Only one wand called to him and he couldn't touch it, wouldn't touch it. Grindelwald, Dumbledore, Voldemort, all great wizards, terrible but great, and they'd fallen to its power. He did not want to fall, not farther than he had.
The Great Hero of the Wizarding World who lived in the ruins of Grimmauld Place. He-Who-Conquered. The Man-Who-Lived-Twice. The-boy-who-was-tricked. The-babe-who-was-left-to-rot. How foolish he'd been, how blind, how trusting. He knew the truth now. Voldemort's side had been wrong about many things, but the fear of the loss of their ways of life, their traditions, and their culture, and the fear that it would lead to the collapse of British Wizarding Society, was true. Magic felt weaker now, as if something intrinsic had been lost. So many families, old, old families, and their magic were gone forever and everything was becoming so tame, so sanitized.
It was only now that the smoke had cleared and most of society was moving on, as if nothing had happened, that he realized Dark Magic was not always bad magic and Light Magic wasn't always good. He remembered what Voldemort had told him all those years ago. There is no good or evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it. He found a bit of sad truth in it now. Power was the problem. Power and those who hoarded it. War was worth nothing if policies weren't changed.
A floorboard creaked and he was suddenly engulfed by a large, warm blanket that knocked his glasses askew.
"No use freezing to death," Ron scolded lightly. He sat behind Harry and pulled the shorter man back against his chest in a warm, comforting embrace.
Harry relaxed against him. "Don't want to light the fireplace. Your mother might try to visit."
"Oi! You love my mom, and she's a perfectly nice lady… when she isn't henny pennying around and trying to dig up gossip. She was in the paper again this morning. Had Victoire with her. Fleur might actually set her on fire this time."
Harry turned and threw his legs over Ron's thigh and tucked himself under Ron's chin. "Quite a woman, that Fleur Weasley. Think Hermione's going to leave us for her?"
Ron stroked his back, "Nah. Then she'd have to put up with Bill."
"But Bill's wicked," Harry murmured, letting Ron's warmth seep into him.
"Traitor," Ron frowned, kissing the top of Harry's head. "I'm more wicked than him. I have floating brain scars, I rode a chess horse and a dragon, broke into the Ministry twice, killed a hora-whatsy, and I make cheese toasties just the way you two like them. What's Bill got? Some measly werewolf scratches and a nice tan from Egypt."
Harry felt his spirits lifting despite himself. "Wouldn't that have faded by now?"
"That's not the point, mate! The point is–"
"That you're both utterly ridiculous. Bill's too muscular," Hermione broke in, her voice scratchy from disuse. She'd been on a bender in the library for five days now. On day two, they'd tried to float her out of the library and she'd locked them out.
"Ye hear that?" Ron said, quite chuffed, "Bill's… wait a minute. Too muscular?"
Hermione caught Harry's eye and winked. "That is what I said. I prefer my gentlemen scrawny and emotionally unaware."
Harry snickered as Ron sputtered. He didn't even care if it was partly aimed at him. Hermione flicked her fingers and bluebell flames roared to life in the fireplace. She curled up opposite of Harry and pressed her feet into Harry's side.
"Bloody hell! Did you transfigure your toes to ice?" Harry yelped.
Hermione hmphed and hid her face in Ron's jumper. "I wasn't moving enough. Low blood flow."
Harry sighed and began rubbing her feet. He could scold her, but he knew it wouldn't do a thing. He and Hermione were the same in that regard. Sometimes, when they were focused on something, nothing could sway them. They just needed someone to run after them, pick up the pieces, and cast a Reparo on them when everything was said and done.
Ron huffed and pulled them both closer. "What's a man supposed to do when both his partners are barmy?"
"Get a hobby?" Harry offered.
"Make them more biscuits," Hermione suggested.
"Harry's biscuits taste better than mine," Ron pointed out.
"Yes," Harry agreed, "But mine are also filled with spite. Who wants to eat spite biscuits? Yours are love biscuits."
"Love biscuits?" Ron repeated skeptically.
"I'll take evil biscuits as long as there's jam involved," Hermione yawned.
Ron and Harry exchanged a look. Ron wrinkled his nose, Harry raised an eyebrow, Ron stared pointedly at him.
Gently, Harry squeezed Hermione's feet, "Hermione?"
She hummed, eyes closed. There were dark circles under them and he spotted at least three quills in her hair. Ron frowned suddenly and pulled a petrified doxy out from a rather tangled bit and banished it towards the fireplace. It made a little popping sound.
"Hermione," Harry repeated, "Why did you disappear into the library in the middle of the night? What are you working on?"
"Were," Hermione mumbled into Ron's jumper, "Figured it out."
"Figured out what," Harry prompted.
"The Hallows…" she murmured, unaware that Harry had grown pale, "I figured out how to give them back."
"Give them back?" Ron asked, obviously bewildered, "To who?"
Something cold slithered down Harry's spine. "Hermione! Wake up! To who?"
Hermione blinked awake, frowning like Crookshanks used to. Her eyes started drooping again almost immediately. "To Death, of course." Her eyes slid shut.
For a brief moment, panic engulfed Harry causing two vases to implode. Flashbacks of her pale, empty face during their stay in Shell Cottage assaulted him. He tried to lever himself up and throw himself at her but he couldn't.
"Harry!" Ron's voice finally broke through the ocean rushing in his ears.
He was shaking, Harry realized. Ron began to knead his shoulders. "She's sleeping, Harry. Just having a little kip after some light reading."
Harry burst into hysteric giggles. Ron sent him a look of understanding. "Should we all go have a nice long kip?"
"That would be nice," Harry admits, "How did you get to be the caretaker?"
"Well, you've got the money and the celebrity, and Hermione is wicked smart. You both forget to feed yourselves on a regular basis. And, if you believe the papers, you're the second coming of Merlin and Morgana. Takes a lot of energy, that does. What with all the magic and politicking, and taking over the government, someone has to keep you stocked up on biscuits and cheese toasties. Besides, I like it. Makes me feel like there's something I can contribute that you two can't always handle."
"You contribute more than that," Harry frowned.
"Oh, I know. You two ought to thank Merlin everyday you were stuck sharing a compartment with the best the Weasley's have to offer."
Harry snorted and pinched his side.
"Oi!" Ron cried, pushing Harry off his lap.
Hermione pouted in her sleep, grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like prat. Ron looked smug. Harry laughed, freer now, and stood, helping Ron up. He draped the blanket Ron had given him over his shoulders.
"By the way, Ron, I'm only going to turn into Merlin if I get fancy robes, my very own magical familiar, and an unending supply of Hogwarts treacle tart."
And with that, he marched up the stairs, Ron snickering behind him.
Hermione slept for two whole days. Somehow, Harry and Ron sensed when she would wake. For Harry, it was a little tickle in his mind where his thoughts of Hermione were. He settled on the foot of the bed, legs crossed, and Ron stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. She woke slowly, wiggling a little, stretching her arms and legs. A little moue of displeasure worked its way onto her face. Finally, her eyes opened and she blinked owlishly. It took her a moment to find them.
"Why are you over there? I swear to Merlin, Ron Weasley, if you say I snore one more time–"
"Oi. I'm not the one in trouble. You are," Ron protested.
"Why am I in trouble?" Hermione frowned.
"What do you remember?" Harry asked. He inspected her closely. Her color was back and her sass was rising. It was a very good sign.
"The library? Which, I'm sorry I disappeared in the middle of the night, but I had this idea that I couldn't let go. Then, something about Ron baking biscuits?"
"How about locking yourself in for five days? How about stumbling out with a dead doxy nesting in your hair? How about mumbling something about giving the Hallows back to death and then passing out cold as if you'd died?"
Hermione grimaced, "Well, that was terribly unfortunate. Horribly rude, really. I apologize deeply for frightening you. I love you both?"
"Who knew," Ron tutted, "Sleepy Hermione Granger, the vocabulary of a teaspoon."
Harry ducked as a pillow went flying directly at Ron's face.
"Bravest wizard in the world my arse!" Ron grumped.
"I'm a Seeker, Ron, not a Beater. Besides, as a Keeper you should be used to getting hit."
Hermione slipped out of bed and wrapped her arms around the both of them. Harry returned the gesture, as did Ron. This was what he'd been missing his whole life. This feeling of warmth and balance and unconditional love and support. It had taken some mending to get to this point, after the fight in the Forest of Dean, and the War, and everything else. But they were here now. Not just Harry and Ron, or Ron and Hermione, or Hermione and Harry, but all three of them together, as it should be.
"I love you both," Hermione sighed, soft and sincere. "I'll help make breakfast and we'll talk?"
"I'll help too," Harry agreed, and so they did.
The three of them worked together to make a Full English Breakfast, soft looks passing between them, and perhaps a few cross ones as well, as they cooked, and cut, and buttered, reminiscing about Kreacher as they did so. The curmudgeonly elf requested to be entombed somewhere in Grimmauld place. They refused to hang his head on the wall, but came up with a compromise instead, stuffing him whole and placing him opposite of the troll leg umbrella stand. Whenever Luna visited, she brought a wreath of some kind to place on his head. On the Winter Solstice, they put a pair of stag horns on him and a holly wreath, then decorated him with a suit of twinkling lights for Christmas.
After the food was finished cooking, they ate their meals, complained about various sections of the Prophet and debated over several articles in the Quibbler. Hermione was especially riled about the one suggesting the 1912 death of Minister Venusia Crickerly was actually an assassination carried out by a small group of militant garden gnomes angered by her legislation on broom bristles. Harry still couldn't figure out why they would care about broom bristles, but life had taught him that as long as there was a minister, there would be someone willing to kill them. Soon their plates were empty and Hermione poured them all one last cup of tea before sitting down.
"Can we have that lecture about your discovery now?" Ron asked.
"Look at what you've done to us, Hermione, driven us so mad we're asking for lectures," Harry teased.
"Boys," Hermione scowled, but there was no heat to it and he could see the humor dancing in her eyes. She took another sip of tea, cleared her throat, and began.
"I was thinking about my mum actually. She was supportive, but also so skeptical about magic. Not that it existed, but that things like crystal balls, reading the stars, numerology, etc, were true. That they might be hoaxes in the muggle world, but in ours they truly meant something. I think I inherited that from her. It took some time before I could look at things like a witch instead of a muggle. But, I began thinking about the differences in various practices and I got lost in numerology.
"Three and seven are very magical numbers as you know. That led to Tom and the cloak, but, with the…changes…going on, I wondered if the Sacred Twenty Eight had anything to do with numerology. 4 and 7 are both significant numbers, having to do with balance, completion, and leadership. So I did some digging, and while Cantankerous Nott is credited with coining the term, it's not true. The Sacred Twenty-Eight were the first Brittonic wizarding families to acknowledge the Pendragons as Rulers of Magical Britain and Avalon. They were taught magical rites by Merlin and Morgana themselves!
"The Venerable Three represented Wales and Cornwall. The Potters were members of the Venerable Three. Ireland had the Cherished Fourteen and Scotland had the Revered Twenty-One. And now, almost all of them are gone! There are only thirteen families left from Britain, two from Ireland, four from Scotland, and one from Wales! They were all given ranks of nobility by the Pendragons and Magic itself.
"Then I wondered about the Founders. What about the Peverells? Well, it turns out, they're even more important. They made pacts with Magic before the Pendragons ever held the crown, some bits here and there even suggested they were either born of Magic itself or blessed by Magic itself. There were seven. Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Peverell, Orcades, and Boudica. Above them were the Pendragons, and above them were Merlin and Morgana. Besides Tom there hasn't been an Heir in centuries. Many of those lines are considered functionally extinct."
Harry listened, fascinated. His family came from Wales? They'd been nobility? "But why isn't my family noble anymore?" He turned to Ron, "Your family knows sacred rites?"
Ron frowned and shook his head. "No? Hermione, are you sure it isn't all a load of shite?"
Hermione was practically vibrating. "Positive. Harry, your family is still noble, the British Ministry doesn't recognize it because you're not British Nobility. Up until the formation of the British Ministry in 1707, you were recognized. Gamp created the Ministry because the Statute of Secrecy had passed not twenty years earlier and wizards could no longer meddle in Muggle politics. He resented that the Sacred Families held so much power in the Wizengamot. There were rumors he was about to be voted out when he pushed through the legislation to create the Ministry.
"And Ron wouldn't know the rights, not only is his family not the main Weasley branch, but because they're considered Blood-traitors–"
"Oi!" Ron complained, "Don't be startin with that nonsense–"
"It's not nonsense!" Hermione cried.
Ron looked as if he'd been struck. Hermione immediately grabbed his hand and held it in both of hers. "I'm not insulting you or your family, and I'm not saying it lightly. I didn't take the word of one book. Will you let me explain, please?"
Ron nodded slowly, "I suppose you are usually right."
Harry released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Thank you," Hermione murmured. She reached for Harry's hand too. He gave it readily.
"Blood Traitors," she explained, "Weren't magicals who liked muggles or muggle things. They were those who put muggles or muggle things above the safety of any magical being, magicals who were judged as the aggressors in a Blood Feud, magicals who betrayed their family magics, or magicals that tried to coerce someone into a marriage. In 1632, your branch of the Weasley family were Vassals to the Malfoy Family. Your ancestor Sir Bertram Weasley was supposed to escort a young Lady Solaria Malfoy as she gathered potion ingredients. He was distracted by a muggle woman's charms and Lady Solaria was attacked by several of the Malfoy family's enemies. She didn't survive. The Malfoy's called a Blood Feud when Sir Bertram refused to perform acts of contrition or even take responsibility. The Blood Feud was blessed by Magic itself. It's currently the longest unresolved feud on record.
"But that isn't all. Another one of your ancestors was involved in the death of Sirius Black the First, once again leaving him to be attacked by muggles. That was in the early 1800's and there was a magically recognized Blood Feud until the family died out with Sirius."
"Mordred's eye," Ron swore, "How could my family all sort Gryffindor if they're all cowards?" He looked at Hermione and Harry followed his gaze, noticing the uncomfortable look on Hermione's face. "It gets worse?"
"In the last century, the Weasley's tried to end the feud by offering an apology and giving them their greatest treasure. Their son, who was the seventh son of a seventh son. They performed a ritual to test magical compatibility, and when it came back compatible, the Malfoy's accepted, and they betrothed their heir to the boy. Once the marriage occurred, the blood feud would be ended.
"But the boy was interested in muggle things and didn't care about traditions. When he was fifteen, he tried to trick a muggleborn into performing an ancient marriage rite with him. He wasn't expelled only because the Headmaster was very lenient. Then, in his seventh year, he broke the betrothal irreparably. He eloped with a witch he had gotten pregnant. Your grandfather had to hand over half his holdings to the Malfoy family in reparations. So the feud continued. And that's why Lucius Malfoy hated your father."
"My father and Lucius Malfoy were engaged?!" Ron squeaked.
Hermione nodded.
"He tried to trick a muggleborn into marrying him?"
Hermione nodded again.
Ron was obviously gobsmacked. But Harry had questions. "What does this have to do with the Hallows? And Death?"
Hermione blushed, "I'm sorry, Harry, I got sidetracked. Numbers. Three brothers. Three Hallows. And can you guess which divine being the Peverell's were said to be blessed by?"
Goose pimples erupted on Harry's body. "Death."
"Death. So I did more research into the family lines. The Peverell broke into main lines when the Hallows are first mentioned. One for each Hallow. The stone stayed in what would eventually become the Gaunt line. The cloak in the Potter line. The wand did disappear and find itself in others' hands, but it always came back to someone with Peverell blood. Albus Dumbledore was the longest to hold onto without being related to a Peverell himself. But now, Harry, you're the last living person with Peverell blood in you.
"By looking at existing records, if the Peverell brothers did meet with some form of Death, the most likely place would be in Toady Bottom. It's right near a river with an ancient bridge and there used to be a shrine to Death there. Best of all, it's near the Peverell's ancestral holdings."
"You think we can use the shrine," Ron murmured.
Harry was impressed that Ron could speak at all. He was overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge Hermione was giving them, yet he couldn't stop listening. He wanted to know more and more, gobble it all up.
Hermione nodded again, "On Samhain, not only is the veil thin, but Harry is a descendant of a family touched by Death. If we do one of the more ritualistic forms of offering there, I think that whether Death itself takes the Hallows, or the veil simply opens and swallows them up, I think we can give them back."
Harry felt an ocean roaring in his ears again. Samhain. They might be able to return them on Halloween. He loved his invisibility cloak, but he didn't trust anyone else besides Ron or Hermione to have it. He thought back to his time at King's Cross and the baby. The baby haunted him, because he couldn't help but see himself, wailing and bleeding, abandoned on his aunt and uncle's doorstep.
He pulled himself back to the conversation. "That's a month away. How do I need to prepare?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. Ron crossed his arms. Hermione stared at him the same way she had when he admitted he hadn't tried to figure out the egg.
"Want to repeat that?" Ron asked.
"Samhain is a month away. How do I–oh– how do we prepare?" Harry ducked his head, he was getting better at that, thanks to Hermione and Ron, but he still had work to do.
Hermione and Ron smiled brilliantly at him. Hermione took a sip of her cold tea and grimaced. "I might have a few ideas."
The month passed by quickly, much to Harry's relief. They took special baths and ate special meals and recited certain words at certain times a day. For once, Harry saw a side of the wizarding world that was completely divorced for the muggle one. It was absolutely brilliant, and Harry wished he had known about when he was a child. Once again, the longing filled him to have been raised by his parents or Sirius, but it hadn't happened that way and nothing would change it.
The night soon came upon them. Toady Bottom was a village long forgotten by the living. Crumbling cottages covered by brush and fog greeted them. The bridge was in terrible disrepair, it was less a bridge and more piles of precariously placed stones one might balance on. The three of them began the search for the shrine. It seemed as if hours passed as they waded through briars and heather.
Finally Ron shouted, "I've got something!"
Harry hurried over, nearly bumping into Hermione on the way. Ron was next to the twisting husk of an elder tree, squatting down near the roots. They crowded around him.
"Well?" Hermione asked.
"Hold on a mo'." Ron brightened the light on the tip of his wand.
Hidden deep in the roots was a rock about the size of a fist, the sign of the Hallows glinting like a spider web catching the light. Harry felt light headed. The shrine was real and it was still here. Once, over a thousand years ago, one of his ancestors stood on this very spot.
"Shall we?" Hermione asked, her voice trembling.
Harry nodded, a whoosh of air leaving him.
Ron stood, a stubborn tilt to his jaw. "Right then. Hermione, pass out the candles and the robes."
They each had a different role to play, a different part to say and do, until they reached the climax of the ritual when they joined their voices together. Harry could feel the magic building around him, in him, and he would swear he heard whispers of encouragement in his ears. The voices felt familiar, even if he couldn't recognize them. The magic reached an almost unbearable strength as they reached the crescendo of their chant, the symbol on the stone flashed, the elder tree cracked in half and–nothing. The Hallows were still there.
Hermione was visibly distressed and Ron put a hand on both of them.
"I don't understand," she whimpered, "All the calculations, the research… Oh Harry, please forgive me."
There was nothing to forgive. He looked away from her, drawing to the roiling river, and the bridge. Suddenly, he understood.
"We have to meet Him halfway," Harry muttered once, then repeated himself louder. He grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. "Hermione, grab the stone. Ron, you take the wand."
"Don't you want them all," Ron asked, "As Master of Death?"
Harry shook his head. "Together, remember?"
Ron shook his head with a wry smile, "About time you learned. How long did it take him, Hermione?"
"Eighteen years," she sassed, though her smile was soft. She bent down and picked up the stone.
Gingerly, Ron grabbed the wand. Harry grabbed their hands.
"I love you both," Harry promised. "To Death and beyond."
"To Death and beyond," they both agreed, each kissing one of his cheeks.
They walked toward the broken bridge. A great breath of fog passed over and when they stepped out the other side, a whispery bridge greeted them. They took one step, then another, and another, until they reached the middle. A tall cloaked figure rose from the shadows.
"Grandfather," Harry greeted.
"Grandson," A soft but powerful voice returned the greeting. It was barely above a whisper, but the strength of it rang deep in Harry's bones.
Death opened his arms wide, "Welcome home, Harry, welcome home."