Chapter XVII: The Way Forth
AN: Hello again. It's me, Mr Unreliable, here with another chapter for you all. It's very late (technically early) where I am but I soldiered on through and finished the chapter today because I couldn't wait to share it. This part of the story has been something I wanted to introduce for a while now and while I'm sure not everyone will enjoy it, I'm quite proud of it. We're slowly closing in on the endgame. I'd wager we have but a few more chapters to go now. The end is in sight. For now, however, please enjoy.
Ron had been sitting beside the radio for an hour, as he had every day for the past week.
It started not long after they'd scarpered from the Burrow. Ever since they had put down roots in the Shrieking Shack and began establishing a route through the known locations. Ron would be there, an empty listener, waiting for each meeting to be over before glueing himself to the portable radio they'd brought from the Burrow. When he wasn't doing that, he was scouring through the few copies of the Prophet they could steal.
Ron wouldn't tell them what news he was waiting to hear, but whatever it was, it hadn't happened yet. Until it did, he had silently committed himself to wait for it.
"Is it Riddle? Do you think you have a lead?"
"What?" Ron replied absently. He blinked and then looked at Harry as if he had been caught sleeping. "Uh, no, it's… it's complicated."
It was the same answer he'd given every other time they'd brought it up. The same tired answer that was beginning to get on his nerves. Harry tried not to grit his teeth whenever he heard it, otherwise, he might not have any teeth left.
It became routine after a week. Day after day Ron spent every second of spare time elsewhere, leaving him and Hermione to plan the Horcrux Hunt almost single-handedly.
"You know when he said he was going to be part of the team," Harry grumbled to Hermione as he read through the History of Helga Hufflepuff, "I assumed it meant he would actually help."
Hermione hummed, noting down a particular passage from the advanced dark arts manuscript they'd stolen from the Forbidden Section of the Hogwarts library.
"He does help, Harry, you know he does."
"By sitting on his arse all day listening to Fred and George's radio show?"
"By smuggling their supplies to us," she countered. "By keeping contact with the Order while we do this. He's even cooked a few times."
"Are you seriously vouching for his cooking?"
"Okay, maybe that one was a stretch." Hermione smiled, reaching out to place her hand over his. "Studying was never his strong suit. Maybe it's best that he skip this bit."
"This isn't a bloody school," Harry seethed, pulling away and slamming the book in his hands. "This actually matters and he's over there doing anything else."
"You never know, it could be important."
Harry quietly guffawed at her response.
"It never is. Unless he's actually listening to Death Eaters with that thing. Then it might be useful."
The weight of Hermione's gaze shone through him and all of a sudden he felt strangely exposed.
"There are more important things than Riddle, Harry."
Realising he wasn't going to win an argument with Hermione, Harry changed the subject. He reached for her hand as he returned to his book and felt her fingers lace with his.
The memories that Dumbledore had shown him before he died had given Harry at least one solid lead, specifically the memory of Riddle's encounter with Hepzibah Smith, and the two artefacts that had caught his eye.
One of them was already accounted for and had indeed turned out to be a Horcrux. Luckily, Harry had managed to track down and destroy it that summer with Kreacher's help. The locket wouldn't be troubling them from now on. The other artefact, however, had not been accounted for.
The cup of Helga Hufflepuff was still out there somewhere. The fact that it went missing along with the locket when Smith died told Harry that he was on the right track. There was a pattern forming, he realised. The prized trinkets of the Founders were now perverted into cages for Riddle's wretched soul. If they could figure out what he might have stolen from Ravenclaw, then they would have all seven Horcruxes figured out.
That is if he could ignore the sound of the radio piercing his concentration every second.
"Is it your family?" Harry asked one evening as he looked over the map they'd pinned up on the wall with all the key locations pertaining to Riddle and the Horcruxes.
"Uh, no," the redhead replied. "No, it's not them. They're with Aunt Muriel. They're fine."
Harry nodded, thankful for the reminder that the Weasleys had managed to escape unharmed but scattered. There was a sliver of guilt in the knowledge that the Burrow could no longer be their home. He wondered whether they could have stayed if only he had simply run away that night, but he banished the thought quickly. There was no use wasting time over whether or not it was true. It had happened. They had to move on.
It was at that moment when another person popped into Harry's head and it all fit into place.
"Is it Angela?"
Feet shuffled against the ground. Harry turned to find Ron looking at him with an anxious expression.
"She hasn't written to me." His eyes were pulled back to the radio. "Not one letter. She's not at Hogwarts either. I've asked Seamus and Neville to look but she's in Hufflepuff. They've been asking around, but no one can find her. Something's wrong."
"You don't know that."
"I can feel it. One minute she says she's fine, the next she disappears, Harry. She promised she'd write at least once a week."
"Maybe she wanted to," Harry said, trying to calm him down, "but plans can change. For all we know, she's in hiding. Maybe her owl can't reach us."
"And for all we know, she needs my help."
Harry sighed, quickly piecing together what Ron had in mind.
"Is that what you want?" he begrudgingly asked, summoning every ounce of leadership in his body as his heart raced in his chest. "To go find her?" Ron stared at him with a dim bewilderment that made Harry want to slap him around the head. "It's either that or you just keep staring at that radio all day waiting to hear her name."
The words came charging out of his mouth before his head could catch up and the moment they met his ears he knew them to be a mistake.
The chair Ron was sitting on clattered to the floor.
"What? Are you saying I should just bugger off?"
Harry felt like he had taken one too many steps off a diving board and it was too late to turn back.
"I'm saying I need you here, Ron, not there," he insisted, pointing at the radio. "Unless you wanna do something about it, in which case just tell me and I'll see you off."
"What's gotten into you?" Ron stared accusingly at him, looking him up and down for any cracks. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"I didn't say you had-"
"What are you saying, then? That I'm not allowed to worry about my girlfriend?"
"No, I just-" This was quickly devolving into something he didn't want to contend with. Harry tried taking a deep breath to calm himself. He didn't even know why he was fighting at this point, only that there was a part of him that enjoyed letting it all out. "Look, I'm sorry."
"You'd understand if it were Hermione."
Like the flip of a switch, a wave of anger tore through his body once again. Harry glared at the boy in front of him, trying to contain himself.
"Oh, you wanna go there, do you?"
"Yeah, why not?" Ron shot back. "Since we're in the mood."
"Look, I know this is difficult for you, but we're doing this to protect people like Angela, like your family. You signed up for this!"
"Yeah, I did! I'm with you every step of the way, Harry, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to give up everything else in my life!"
"We all have to make sacrifices."
"That's your excuse."
The words hit Harry harder than a fist to the face. Harry opened his mouth to say something but could conjure no words. He wanted to disagree, to tell Ron he didn't know what he was talking about but he had hit too deep. The wind was knocked from him, robbing him of his voice.
As the quiet drew on, Ron picked up the upturned chair and landed heavily on it. "I know what we're fighting for, mate. I know what we have to do. But this is different. I know you get it."
That primal part of Harry's mind wanted to carry on shouting and arguing until the knot in his stomach had unwound itself, but seeing Ron so downtrodden took all the joy out of arguing with him. Even if Harry really had a point, he knew Ron was right in the end. That Hermione was right. There was no use in this.
"Yeah," Harry relented. "Yeah, I do. Look, I want to help her too but we don't have time to take a trip into Diagon Alley, not when we have everything else to contend with."
"I know," Ron replied dejectedly. "That's why I listen. I just need to know. Even if it's bad."
"Hey," Harry said, placing a hand on his best mate's shoulder. "Don't think like that. She's gonna be okay."
Ron shook his head with a faint smile. "You don't know that."
"No, I don't, but try to believe it. Believing is half the battle. Trust me."
The next day saw Ron sitting beside the radio, listening once again for Angela's name. Despite his eyes firmly fixed on the book in his hands, Harry was right there with him as each name came and went. Harry imagined for a moment that he was waiting for Hermione's name, how that awful tension in his chest would only be worse for it, and he finally understood.
He didn't pester Ron about the radio from then on, nor did he figure out why it had annoyed him in the first place. The anger that had sat eating at his head had been twisted into confusion. It left him feeling wound up like a clockwork toy and the key only ever kept turning.
Harry tried diving into the life of Helga Hufflepuff, hoping that he could distract himself from his feeling. Of course, it didn't work. It was at times like this when he wished he still had Amelie around to talk to.
The cup of Helga Hufflepuff was created around the time of the building of Hogwarts, as a ceremonial artefact, mainly for the presentation of food and drink. It was handled mainly by house elves and was said to be able to contain far greater quantities than its small size could possibly contain.
This was important information. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Any information at all about a possible Horcrux was vital in tracking them all down, Harry knew that. It would help then if his head thought so too, maybe then he wouldn't be distracted by the woman sitting beside him, the one who could make his heart beat out of his chest without even trying.
Every time she sat beside him, he felt the urge in his fingers to wrap around hers, clutching at her hand like a lost child. Whenever her face was in view, his eyes would wander to her lips, caught between her teeth in concentration and he would remember how they felt against his own. The memory of that moment would replay itself over and over again and his heart would flutter in his chest.
Most of all, however, the greatest distraction was knowing that eventually, he would have to face the reality of that kiss. Eventually, they would have to bring the moment into the light and decide what it meant to them both. Harry selfishly wished it could remain as just a memory, a nice little moment that he could cherish and ignore whenever it suited him. Another part of him wanted to do it again, to do all the things he wished he had done whenever he remembered that electric moment. Those little desires threatened to make his legs shake and his stomach twist delightfully.
It happened in a quiet moment as he and Hermione stood outside the Shrieking Shack, checking the wards that surrounded their base for any breaches as they did once a week. It was a habit that Harry himself had encouraged if only for an excuse to get out of the derelict building for a while. This time, Hermione had joined him and the inevitable question arose.
"Are we ever going to talk about it?"
Harry tried pretending that he hadn't heard her but she had been clear and concise, so it was a wasted effort.
"Well, the cup is a valuable artefact," he explained, "so it's entirely possible he used it to make a Horcrux, but until we find it-"
"Harry, please don't pretend I'm that stupid."
He at least had enough shame to look embarrassed.
"Sorry."
The pair looked at each other, standing silent at the edges of the forest. The sun was beginning to set along the canopy, the heat of the day slowly settling into an evening breeze that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"Talk to me," Hermione begged. Her hand slipped into his. Her eyes burrowed into his mind and latched onto his heart. "Do you regret it?"
"No!" Harry said hurriedly, clutching both of her hands tightly. "No, of course not. Not for a moment. In fact I… it was amazing."
He didn't know how else to describe it, he simply lacked the words to condense it all. It was a wonder that he could manage words at all, despite his malfunctioning nerves.
A rosy blush settled beneath the soft skin of Hermione's cheeks.
"Yeah?" she asked, staring up at him from beneath her lashes. Harry grinned, nodding eagerly.
"Yeah."
A small giggle erupted from Hermione's throat, a tempered little sound that made Harry want to kiss her all over again. Once she brought herself under control, her face shifted to gentle concern.
"Then what's wrong?"
Harry couldn't remember how many times he had asked himself the exact same question, begging for his brain to untangle itself. The only answer he had was a feeling, a nagging twinge in his chest that had been tormenting him so often. It was the same mix of agitation, anxiety and emptiness he felt whenever he saw Ron sitting beside the radio, listening for Angela's name. That horrid sensation that always returned despite how far he pushed it away, despite knowing that the feeling had come long before he had any rational explanation for it.
Most of all, however, was a gaping emptiness in his heart that stung from exposure, like a paper cut on his consciousness. The knowledge that something was missing, the hurt that filled the hole and how he had tried to ignore it all until it flooded the dam.
"How do we do this?" Harry whispered, eyes desperately avoiding the pair whose gaze could break him down and put him back together again. "I can barely keep up with everything as it is and if we add this on top, it'll just…"
The sentence trailed off into aimlessness but Hermione, ever patient, was quick to reassure him.
"I told you it can be whatever you want it to be."
"No, that's not-" Harry tried not to bite through his teeth as he tried to think of the right words. "It's not about what I want it to be… because believe me, that's- that's not the problem"
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"I'll get it wrong somehow. I always do. And when I do I… I get people hurt. I don't want that to happen to us but I know it will-"
A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders and he felt Hermione's warmth envelop him completely.
"Harry," she soothed, "you're not going to hurt me."
"Eventually I will," he said. "We can't avoid it."
"Don't think about the future." She took him by the arms and gently moved him so they were eye-to-eye. "What do you want, right now?"
'You,' Harry thought, 'in my arms. Always. I want that to be enough.'
Not for the first time, Harry longed for a life so simple and ordinary. He wished for something he could hold on to, he wished for the luxury of waiting, of falling in love and knowing that it could go on for endless tomorrows. A future beyond the war, like what Ron and Angela could have. The chance to make something of his time, to build something brilliant and beautiful that would last. Or just the luxury of knowing that if he mucked it all up he could move on, that one day he would have another chance…
The truth was that he could never have a life like that. Not with Hermione, not with anyone. To pretend otherwise would only make it all worse.
"I…" And yet he couldn't say no to her. It went against his very being. It would be so much easier to lie but he could never lie to Hermione. He felt the words in his head fighting to flee, to be heard and understood as only Hermione could. "That's not important. We need to focus on the mission. That's what matters now."
Of course, she didn't believe him. Harry didn't believe it himself. She simply placed a calming hand against his cheek - those warm brown eyes stared at him, so utterly disarming in their beauty.
"So do you." The words echoed into his bones. "You matter. Your happiness matters."
There was not a shred of dishonesty in her voice, not a gleam of motive in her eyes. It was the truth - the honest truth - and it was enough to topple every barrier he had left. He wanted to tell her the truth of it as much as he wished he had the strength to lie. He could do neither.
"Hermione, please…"
"You can't just bury your feelings until they go away."
"I know. I just don't know what else to do."
The dirt shifted beneath them as Hermione took a step closer and Harry soon was enveloped in another Hermione hug that he gladly reciprocated. It wasn't enough to mend everything, but it was enough to shoo away the gloom that clutched his bones. He heard her whispering softly into his chest, but he couldn't make out the words. His fingers flowed between the tresses of her dark brown hair, feeling the smooth locks flow against his skin. How distinctly Hermione it was. How he loved every bit of it, as he loved her so completely.
He leaned down to press a kiss against her crown, as her lips pressed up into the hollow of his neck. A soft, secret peck that was only for him. Their own little rebellion against the state of the world.
The pair happily stood entwined against the evening wind, happy to forget their troubles for but a moment.
That was until Harry saw a flash of something ducking behind a tree in the corner of his eye and he froze. His hands tightened around Hermione's shoulders.
"Harry," she whispered, "I know you're anxious. I am too. But I'm not going anywhere and neither-"
An urgent finger pressed against her lips.
"Someone's here."
Hermione swivelled, scanning their surroundings. The silent forest stilled under her sight. For a moment, Harry thought it had been a trick of the light, but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. It was too big to be an animal. Too deliberate to be an accident. He kept his eyes fixed on the trees, waiting for a sign.
Seconds crawled past in anticipation until they heard a twig snap to their right. Immediately, Harry's wand was up. Hermione followed swiftly, aiming to the other side of a silver birch trunk.
"We know you're there!" Hermione demanded, extracting herself from Harry's side. "Show yourself!"
Not a second later, a stranger stepped out into the clearing, their sore, shaking hands above their bowed head. They were short, only slightly taller than Hermione. A dull hoodie hung loose on their body, their worn jeans were covered in dirt. They looked like a muggle that had wandered down the wrong footpath. Harry might have believed it if they weren't so far out of the way.
"That's close enough!" Harry shouted and the stranger stopped.
"Is he here?" a girl's voice emerged from beneath the thick hood. Harry was taken aback at just how young she sounded. Her whole body was shaking.
With a quick nod to Hermione, Harry hurried inside the shack and called for Ron.
"Get out here, now!"
"What's going on?" Ron shouted from inside.
"Someone's here! Hurry!"
Leaving a scurry of footsteps in his wake, Harry rushed back outside to find that the stranger removed her hood, revealing a round face with large blue eyes staring at the tip of Hermione's wand. Her blonde hair was cut haphazardly into a jagged bob. Dark bags hung under her eyes. Her cheeks glowed red from exhaustion. She had a face that looked like it had been made for smiling but hadn't done so in a long time.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know how to contact you. I had to make sure it was you. I had a thought he might come back here and I wanted to make sure he knew…"
Unmoved by her apparent distress, Hermione pressed forward, jabbing her wand against her hoodie.
"Empty your pockets."
"I don't-"
"Do it!"
The girl immediately emptied the pockets of her hoodie and jeans. A wallet, a piece of crinkled paper, a loose sandwich wrapper, a large, faded, green badge and a gnarly wooden wand fell to the forest floor.
"That's all I have, I swear."
It was hardly enough supplies to last a day trip to the woods. Either she hadn't travelled far or she was woefully unprepared.
Hermione wasn't convinced either way.
A subtle nod was sent his way and Harry aimed his wand at the stranger, ready for any dirty tricks she might have left. The Death Eaters weren't above impersonating a teenage girl to lull them into a false sense of security, they both knew that. Whilst Harry's wand pinned the girl to the spot, Hermione performed a couple of wand movements as she circled the stranger like a lioness. A glow covered her from head to toe until Hermione was seemingly satisfied.
"She's clean," she announced. The girl looked more relieved about it than either of them.
"Is Ron here?" she asked, her eyes dancing from one to the other. "Please, he knows me. I just wanted to see him-"
Heavy footsteps trudged up behind them until they suddenly stopped. Harry turned to see Ron staring wide-eyed at the new arrival, his knuckles white from gripping the decrepit doorframe of the shack.
"Angela!"
The girl's face lit up with a beaming smile.
"Ron!"
A wave of realisation rolled across Harry as he finally put a face to the name.
In an instant, the pair was in each other's space. Angela hung from Ron's neck as he hoisted her into his arms, whispering something that Harry couldn't hear. He caught a glimpse of Hermione staring at the pair, utterly confused and Harry forced himself not to laugh.
Eventually, the couple had both pairs of feet back on the ground but they refused to separate. A shaking hand gently held Angela's golden locks.
"You've changed your hair," Ron said dumbly and Angela giggled.
"And you haven't, you idiot," she replied, pinching a few strands of his distinct ginger hair. "What if someone recognises you?"
Ron blinked and began blushing a soft shade of pink.
"I hadn't thought of that."
"What would you do without me?" Angela tutted with a fond smile that made Harry squint.
A loud cough interrupted the reunion and their eyes shifted to an indignant Hermione.
"What is going on?" she demanded.
"Oh, right." Ron stood up tall and patted the girl on the shoulder. "Harry, Hermione, meet Angela."
Angela waved with an apologetic smile.
"Hello."
Beside her, Ron beamed with pride.
"She's my girlfriend."
"Wait-" Hermione stuttered as her brain caught up. "That girlfriend? The one you've been keeping secret all this time?
"Yeah," Ron nodded nonplussed.
This did nothing to extinguish Hermione's befuddlement.
"She's real?!"
"I know, right?" Harry smirked, to which Ron stared unamused at him.
"Cheers, bud."
Whilst Hermione struggled to form words, Angela pulled on Ron's sleeve.
"Is that really-?" she whispered with barely concealed awe.
"Yes," Ron nodded, "yes, it is."
"But I mean-" the girl shook her head. "God, I'm sorry, but-"
She stepped forward and Harry mentally prepared himself to be on the receiving end of the standard hero worship. He trained his face to appear natural, temper the agitation that briefly flared in his chest… only for Angela to walk straight past him and instead nervously shuffle towards Hermione.
"You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?" she asked, to which Hermione stared perplexed at the girl.
"Yes?" she replied hesitantly.
"I can't believe it!" She wrapped Hermione in a tight hug, which Hermione was clearly unprepared for. "I'm a huge fan!"
"Oh, really?" Hermione asked faintly, eyeing Harry for help. Harry meanwhile merely stood and watched as, for once, someone other than himself was showered in praise from someone he'd never met.
"Of course I am! You're amazing! Look-!" Angela reached down to the floor, picking up her few possessions, including the large green badge which upon closer inspection clearly read, "S.P.E.W." Hermione stared dumbfounded at the badge in Angela's hand, her cheeks turning a rosy pink.
"Where did you get that?" she gasped.
"I… found it on the floor in the Hufflepuff common room ages ago," Angela bashfully explained. "I really wanted to sign up. I was just… too shy to talk to you. But I did wear it, though! All the time! I got made fun of… a lot, but it was worth it!"
Hermione stood in stunned silence, clearly not knowing how to respond. She turned to look at Harry, who bit his tongue to stop from laughing at her overwhelmed expression.
"Is this how it feels?" she asked breathlessly.
"You get used to it," Harry replied.
"Oh, sorry," Angela shook her head, presenting an open hand, "you must be Harry. It's good to meet you."
"Hey, Angela," Harry smiled, shaking her hand. "Believe me, we're very glad to see you're alright, but why are you here? I thought you'd be at Hogwarts."
"Right, yes," Angela's face darkened. "I don't think that's an option for me anymore. Probably best we sit down."
They escorted Angela inside the Shrieking Shack, into the warm, furnished living room that used to be a run-down hovel. Before long she was sitting on the wide, ornate sofa sipping a mug of hot chocolate. The mug was empty by the time she summoned the courage to continue.
"They've taken my sister." Her voice was so small that Harry almost missed what she said. "I don't know where. For all I know she might be dead."
Ron looked beside himself. Hermione's face was downcast and she was strangely still. Harry merely stood beside her chair, taking in the information. It was a lot to process, suddenly having another person appear on their doorstep, clearly in a sorry state. Everything about her told him she had been running for a long time. She looked exhausted and hadn't much in her pockets, perhaps her only possessions left in the world.
"What was her name?" Harry eventually asked.
"Eve," Angela replied. "Eve Levitt."
"Who took her?"
The girl gave him a strange look, almost in offence.
"What, you don't know?"
"We haven't exactly been in the loop recently," Ron explained quickly. Angela shook her head, reaching into her pocket to hand him a folded pamphlet.
"The Ministry," she said. Harry's concern only grew as he was handed the pamphlet. "They've introduced a new law. The Muggleborn Registration Commission. Every Muggleborn in the country has to register. At first, we thought it was a census, but then people started disappearing. Turns out they were arrested and put on trial. I've heard they're even sent to Azkaban for it."
Both his and Hermione's head shot up and Ron's face was turning a shade of puce.
"Azkaban?!" Hermione cried.
"On what charge?" Ron asked just as vehemently.
"For apparently stealing their magic from 'real' witches and wizards," Angela replied, her lips curling as if the words soured her mouth.
"'Real' witches and wizards?' What the hell does that mean?"
Harry had to unclench his teeth to speak.
"Pureblood, presumably," he spat. "What else would it be?"
"Halfbloods, too, technically," Angela added, "but we don't know how long that will stand."
"Merlin, if they go after Halfbloods they'll have to lock up most of the Wizarding world," Ron moaned. "Not even the Ministry can enforce that."
"No, but you can stop them from making more." Harry wiped his face. "I wouldn't be surprised if they outlawed Muggleborn marriages next. Keep the magic folk mingling and you won't have any Halfbloods left."
He saw beside him that Hermione was shaking violently. The tips of her bushy hair stood on end.
"It's vile," she whispered. "It's genocide."
"It gets worse," Angela said. Harry could imagine how that was true, but then she continued. "They don't just try adults…"
All three of them stared at Angela in abject horror. Harry had to stop himself from throwing up. Ron looked like he was about to faint.
"No… surely not-"
For a moment, Angela couldn't speak. Her lips were trembling, her eyes darkened with despair.
"I was supposed to be arrested, too. My sister sent me away before that could happen."
"But the kids… all those Muggleborn students," Ron breathed faintly. "Don't tell me they-"
"I don't know," Angela shook her head. "But I'm not going back to Hogwarts. It's not safe for me there."
"No," Ron nodded, clearly unsure what else to do, "good idea."
"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need," Harry decided. "Do you have anywhere else to go? Any family to stay with?"
In spite of his deepest wishes, Angela shook her head, and Harry felt his soul ache for her.
"Eve was all I had. And now…"
Now she was like him. All alone in the world, except for them. Harry took a step closer and kneeled to meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, resting a hand on her arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "We'll look after you, I promise."
"And… we'll try our best to save your sister," Ron added to which Angela offered a small, defeated smile.
"You'll have to find out where she is before you can do that."
"Is she not at the Ministry?" Harry asked.
"If she was, we would've heard the news of a trial by now," Angela replied, "but there's nothing."
"So maybe it wasn't the Ministry who took her…"
"What do you mean? She told me that Snatchers were coming for her-"
"'Snatchers'?"
"Dark wizards," Angela explained, "hired to round up undesirables."
"Why not use Aurors?" Harry asked.
"Why use the Ministry's police force when you can make your own?" Hermione spoke up for the first time in a few minutes. They turned to see her face deeply flushed, twisted in a deep-seated rage aimed at something far in the distance.
"So they work for Riddle?" Harry broke down her reasoning.
"A secret police that operates only in your best interest," Hermione explained. "It's a basic totalitarian procedure."
"Riddle?" Angela repeated. "Who's Riddle?"
"You-Know-Who," Hermione replied. "That's his real name. Tom Riddle."
Angela's blue eyes went wide, darting from person to person.
"I didn't know he had a real name," she gasped.
"Well, he does," Harry shrugged. "Or did, a long time ago, back when he was a student at Hogwarts."
"Seriously?" Angela breathed. "You-Know-Who went to Hogwarts?"
"Yep, and he was a prick even then, believe me."
It was clear that Angela didn't entirely know what he was talking about but she decided not to question him.
"In any case," Harry pondered, "the question remains, why would Volde-"
"Don't!" Angela screamed. The trio jumped in their seats. Angela glanced around apologetically. "Sorry, just, you can't say it. It's Taboo."
In the midst of Harry and Ron's confusion, they heard Hermione gasp. Her brown eyes had grown to the size of saucers, her hand covering her mouth as if the word might slip through.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked pointedly.
"Ever since Riddle took over the Ministry," Angela elaborated, "he made his name Taboo. It means anyone who says it can be found through any ward and any protections they have can be circumvented."
"Just by saying his name?"
"Yes," Hermione gasped. "I read how he wanted to do it during the First Wizarding War, but only the Ministry has the power to enforce it. And now he can."
Despite the creeping horror Harry felt of knowing any word he spoke could be his undoing - yet another small luxury that magic was quick to strip of him - he sighed, shrugging his shoulders and putting on a brave smile.
"All the more reason to call him Riddle, then," he smirked. "That and it really pisses him off."
"What if he makes that taboo too?" Angela said.
"He won't," Hermione interjected, "because to do that he would have to acknowledge he was once Tom Riddle and that's the last thing he would do."
"But what would…" Angela took a moment to sum up the courage, "Riddle want with my sister?"
The trio glanced at each other, silently begging for ideas, until Harry answered, "I don't know."
"Was she a dissident?" Hermione proposed. "Did she publicly oppose him?"
"No, I don't think so," Angela replied. "Not as far as I know."
Taking a step back, Harry consulted the last six years of mysteries that they solved, trying to find a way forward.
"Did anything strange happen before she disappeared?" he asked. Angela thought for a moment before she frowned.
"There was one thing. A week before I left, there was a man who came in who needed a tattoo removed."
"A tattoo?"
"Well, she is a tattoo artist," she quickly explained, "and a really good one at that."
"Good enough for people to come begging?" Hermione asked.
"Well, it's not usually quite so literal, but in this case, yes. He was desperate to get it done that same day but Eve said it was too complex. That and apparently it was too dangerous, for numerous reasons."
"Who was it?" Harry asked but Angela shook her head.
"She wouldn't tell me who, she said it wasn't safe for me to know. All I could figure out is that it was a 'he'. And he was rich, like mega rich. Dropped a thousand out of pocket to get it done."
"A thousand galleons?" Ron remarked as if the very notion was absurd.
"In coins with a little money sack and everything," Angela nodded, trying to convince them, "I know because I counted for her. Eventually, Eve said yes but they made a deal, something about safe passage. I think she was buying my way out in case it all went south."
"You sure he wasn't the one who gave you both up?" Hermione pondered. "It would be a good way to cover his tracks."
"No, I wouldn't think so. He gave us a broomstick for me to use on the way out. A Nimbus 2001."
"Did you get a good look at him?" Harry asked.
"No. Eve forbade me. She had him sneak in during the night under a cloak and took him down into the basement to do the procedure." Her face cringed in vivid recollection. "It… didn't sound nice. He was screaming like it was an amputation. Apparently, it was a cursed tattoo on his arm. One of the most difficult removal jobs she's ever had to perform."
"The Dark Mark," Harry realised. "It was a Death Eater. That's why it was kept hushed up. One of Riddle's crew is defecting."
"That does seem the most likely answer," Hermione said, mostly to convince herself. "But who? The Dark Mark is supposed to be for the most dedicated supporters. It's not like them to suddenly turn tail."
"It could be one from the First War," Harry surmised, "like Kakaroff. Someone who's turned a new leaf."
"Yeah, and how likely is that?" Ron shot back and Harry put his hands up.
"Just putting out ideas."
"No," Angela said, "this guy didn't sound all that old."
"Maybe he was using polyjuice?" Ron supposed.
"And risk it wearing off mid-surgery?" Hermione replied in horror.
"Is it any riskier than trying to get a Dark Mark removed?"
"Was there anyone else who might have turned you in?" Harry asked, trying to stay on topic. "Anyone at all?"
"I don't know who else it could be." Her eyes fell to the floor and her shoulders hunched up. Ron was quick to wrap an arm around her and she leaned into him. "We were good people. We hadn't done anything wrong."
For the first time since they had sat down, Hermione left her chair, stepping closer to comfort the poor girl. With nothing left to say, Angela allowed herself to cry and Harry and Hermione left her and Ron to their privacy.
Later, as the afternoon drew on, the pair found themselves sharing a blanket on their doorstep. Harry watched the ember treetops rustle in the wind. His head was loud and heavy on his shoulders. Hearing Dumbledore talk about Riddle's plans for the Ministry was one thing but it was another to look into the eyes of someone whose life had been destroyed by it. It was easy to comprehend the Pureblood regime when it was bullet points on a manifesto; when you could step back and laugh at the lunacy of it all. Now it was everywhere, looming above them, seeping into the foundations of everyday life.
Hermione was still reading over the pamphlet, she ran her fingers along it before she unceremoniously crumpled it and threw it on the ground. With a flick of her wand, it was set aflame, reduced to ash in mere moments, but it did little to ease the tension in her shoulders.
"How could Dumbledore let this happen?" she hissed. "He knew this was coming, how could he let it come to this? Surely he could've put something in place to prevent it?"
"Well, he didn't," Harry replied. "We're on our own now."
"Not exactly," a voice spoke behind them.
The couple turned to see Angela standing in the doorway with Ron at her side watching vigilantly over her. Her eyes were still red and raw, her shoulders hunched over, but her face was nevertheless determined.
"There's something you all need to see."
The group appeared as the sun was setting along the distant hills. The low light was punctured by harsh spotlights all around them. For a moment, Harry's heart froze. His eyes whirled around him, hoping that he hadn't just walked straight into a trap.
Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the light and he realised they weren't alone. All around them were people, sitting together, standing in queues, talking, shouting and crying. Too many people to count.
Beyond them were small buildings, more like trailers, enough to house a few dozen at a time. It reminded Harry of the caravan parks the Dursleys would retreat to with Dudley for the holidays, the kind he only ever saw in photographs.
The camp was built in the shadow of a large mined-out crag with caves leading inside the rock wall. The thick canopy above and the tall trees standing around them made for an area shielded on all sides.
What the hell was this place? Who were these people? Why had Angela taken them here of all places? And, most worryingly, why was every single eye in the camp pointed at them?
"Is it really him?" a voice whispered a little too loud, but before Harry could find the source, another came rushing towards him.
"Mr Potter! Thank goodness that you're alright."
She was a thin, flustered old woman, wearing a frayed shawl, her hands shaking from the cold despite having hurried from a fireside. A thought in Harry's head pestered him as he stared at her wrinkled face until finally, he recognised her.
"Doris Crockford," he whispered. Immediately, her tired eyes lit up in surprise.
"Why yes… oh my word," her voice warbled and Harry was compelled to hold her hands. "He remembers me."
"What's happened?" he gently asked. "What is this place?
"An evacuation point," Angela explained. "There's a gateway here, a floo that's off the books. It connects to a safe-house in France."
'Evacuation?' Harry repeated to himself. Then that would make these people evacuees. Were they like Angela, people with nowhere else to go? Harry found himself staring at each and every one of the faces surrounding him with a new perspective, with each new face plunging his heart ever deeper into his stomach.
"It's Harry Potter! It's him!"
"Have you come to save us?"
"Can you really kill him?"
"I'm…" Harry fought to keep looking into their eyes, trying to stand tall, as he realised how little he had accomplished so far. "I'm working on it."
That answer couldn't sate the crowd's worries, however, and the chorus of woes only grew louder. His heart raced in his chest. He felt the grip on his breath slip as panic reared its head.
"Please, Mr Potter, have you seen my daughter?"
"They took my wife, please, I beg you-"
"They took everything I have! My family-"
"He won't survive in Azkaban, not with his heart-"
"Mr Potter," the frail fingers of Doris Crockford tightly grasped his hand and he was forced to look into her pleading face. "My granddaughter. They took her from the train. The Hogwarts Express. Please, tell me you know where she is?"
The image of a young girl being dragged from the Hogwarts Express by masked figures, kicking and screaming, afraid, attacked his mind. It broke Harry's heart in two. He felt like the floor was falling away beneath him. He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn't accept it.
"I… I…"
There was nothing he could say to ease her suffering, nor any of them. He couldn't tell them about the Horcruxes, about his mission to end Riddle for good and how few leads he actually had to follow. Nor did he have the heart to admit that he knew nothing about them or their plight until today. He didn't think he could live with himself if he had to tell poor Mrs Crockford that he had no idea where her daughter was, nor that saving her was ever part of the plan.
How had it come to this in so little time? Why the hell was he off chasing Horcruxes when there were these people he could have been helping from the start?
The rage boiled up inside him and flooded his panicked mind with purpose. Harry gently moved Mrs Crockford into Angela's waiting care.
"Who's in charge here?" he demanded amongst the crowd. "Someone needed to have set this up. Who was it?"
"It was me."
The hoarse, aged voice cut through the discord like thunder. The crowd hushed and stepped aside, revealing a tall figure standing amongst them dressed in a thick coat. Harry recognised the man's stern, sagging face immediately.
"Or rather, Albus did. Using my estate, of course," said Mr Dalton, his cane tapping against the leaves as he approached. The old soldier stared down at Harry with a stony expression betrayed by a familiar twinkle in his eye. "It's good to see you again, Mr Potter. I'm sure you have many questions."
Harry was still shaking as he came to the end of the long walk up the property. He took deep, deliberate breaths all the way across the forest to Mr Dalton's country house. It was nothing so large as a mansion, but it was older than Harry could discern, most likely a farmhouse converted into a home, with a heavily bolted iron door that took some convincing to open.
As he was led through the dark, cramped hallways - that Mr Dalton had to hunch to fit through - Harry felt something ancient emanating all around him. There was old magic in these walls, older than anything he had felt outside of Hogwarts.
Soon enough, he found himself standing in front of a mahogany desk in a dimly lit study. There was a small fireplace. The room was full of oddities, paintings, antique weaponry, stuffed creatures that Harry had never seen before, a book that looked older and heavier than himself, and contraptions that reminded him of the ones found in Dumbledore's office. In fact, this whole study reminded him of Dumbledore. Harry wondered how many of the old Headmaster's possessions resided here, whether this was Dumbledore's house just as much as Mr Dalton's.
"I'm assuming you told Angela how to find us?" Harry asked but he already knew the answer. Mr Dalton's nod came as no surprise.
"I did. She's an extra pair of hands," he said flippantly. "Someone willing and bright and already acquainted with Mr Weasley. I thought you might appreciate it."
"I appreciate being told what I need to know."
He saw Mr Dalton deflate slightly as if even he knew just how sensitive of a subject it was that they were about to venture into. It irritated Harry to no end that he was still having to untangle all of his old Headmaster's good intentions. The shadow of Dumbledore's invisible hand continued to obscure his path even beyond the grave, working above and around him to keep him blind. Harry assumed that his trust had meant something.
"I wanted to," Mr Dalton explained, "but Albus refused and the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with him."
"Why?" Harry insisted through clenched teeth. Mr Dalton sent him a stern glare in return but Harry refused to blink. He needed to hear whatever excuse Dumbledore had, whatever reason he could possibly have for hiding this side of the war from him.
"Because he knew as soon as you found out about this place, you'd want to focus your efforts here. It is imperative that you do not."
Harry's patience was rapidly dwindling.
"Why not?"
Mr Dalton sighed, placing his hands on the table and rising from his seat.
"These people, important as they are, are merely the collateral damage of the real war happening right now, the one Albus was preparing you for."
"They are not collateral!" Harry exclaimed to a stone-faced Mr Dalton.
"That is beside the point."
"No, that's exactly the point!" The teen paced on the spot, glaring at the man in front of him. "I'm starting to think you and Dumbledore have gotten used to treating this all like one big game. This is real life and these are real people you're playing with here!"
"The Horcruxes are what matter the most," Mr Dalton explained. "They are what this war will be decided by, they must be your absolute priority."
"You can't expect me to ignore all of this now," Harry scoffed. "Innocent people are being stolen away and locked up as we speak. They're-" His mind flashed back to the faces surrounding him at the camp, at Doris Crockford's granddaughter. The anger he had been barely containing suddenly erupted. "They're putting children in Azkaban! I can't just stand by and watch it happen while chasing these stupid Horcruxes-"
The elderly soldier stood up suddenly and roared.
"It will get worse if you don't! Far worse!" Harry had never heard Mr Dalton shout before and now he wished he hadn't. A shiver of adrenaline surged through him. It was enough to make his hair stand on end. The old man's eyes were burning like the sun. "I have seen the depths of human evil on foreign shores and I will never see it again! Not here! Riddle must die and every day he does not that horror comes racing closer! When Riddle dies, this tyranny dies with him."
Even the fire of Dalton's fury wasn't enough to stop Harry's tirade, however.
"It won't stop with him," Harry replied, staring the old man in the eye even as his hands shook. "You know that. Before Riddle it was Grindelwald. Before him, who knows, but it's always the same thing again and again. Even if I kill him, how do we know that everything he's done will just go away? I'm half-convinced that the Ministry's been wanting exactly this for a long time. Riddle just gave them the excuse to finally show their true faces."
"Not all of them." Mr Dalton's anger had mellowed to a simmer but he still stood tall like a statue, still resolute. "There are some that welcome the world Riddle is creating, but there are many, many more who believe in none of it. It's only fear that keeps them docile. That is why you are so important."
"Me?" Harry scoffed. "What am I doing to help them? Nothing!"
The old man gave him a long, silent stare that pierced Harry's ballooning defiance like a needle.
"You are hope." His weary voice hung in the air and smothered him. "Hope that one day Riddle can be defeated. The power of men like him is that he makes people believe that he is invincible. As long as you live, that isn't true. Everyone knows it. You're a symbol to all of these people that this won't last forever, that the fight is not over, that one day they'll have a home to come back to."
"I've been a symbol my whole life and frankly it's done nothing but cause trouble."
"For you, absolutely. But there are people out there who harbour the will to resist simply because they know you're alive, that there's a chance. That's more powerful than any army, believe me."
Harry sighed, listening to the crackling of the logs on the fireplace, watching the flames dance in the dim evening light.
"I want to fight with them," he said. "Not hide away from the worst of it while I follow dead ends."
"You cannot let the Horcruxes slip through your fingers," Mr Dalton insisted, "not for anything."
"I won't," Harry replied, "but I can't just stand aside and let this happen either. I'm not like you or Dumbledore. I can't play the long game. If people need help… I have to help."
The teen squared his shoulders, staring up at the old man's face with a hard stare, hoping that it was enough to convince him of his steadfastness.
"I will help these people," Harry announced, "I will find the Horcruxes and I will kill Riddle. I will do all of those things and nothing less. You can't stop me. This is my war, I choose how it's fought."
His words seemed to give Mr Dalton pause. For the first time, Harry was treated to the silence of the old man's astonishment, until eventually, the man's face crinkled into a smile.
"Your war…" he quietly pondered. "You are just as Albus described. Brash, stubborn, reckless and - most annoyingly - right. Always right…"
A moment passed then Mr Dalton reached over to a glass cabinet, opened it and grabbed a large bottle of orange drink. He uncapped the bottle and decanted the whiskey into two small glasses that seemingly appeared on the desk.
"I will let you fight, Mr Potter, on one condition." Once both glasses were poured, he offered one to Harry, who accepted. "The Horcruxes remain your top priority, no matter what. Ending the war as fast as possible, as callous as it sounds, is the only strategy we have. You must promise me that if it comes down to a choice, you choose the Horcruxes. Even if it goes against everything that you believe in."
Harry swirled the whiskey in his glass, pondering the path laid out before him.
"That's not a choice I want to have to make," he admitted. Mr Dalton shook his head.
"It won't be easy, but it must be done."
The two glasses clinked together and the pair drank. The liquid burned his throat and Harry tried not to wince. It was stronger than any fire whiskey he'd ever had, saw no such struggle from Mr Dalton though, who set the glass on his desk with a heavy thud. His eyes were misty, staring down at the small imperfections in the wood.
"I was in the Battle of Britain, you know," he whispered. "Fought the German Luftwaffe over the Channel." The man scoffed. "It was chaos. They sent you up, you tried not to get killed, and if somehow you come back alive they shower you with medals. Called it a job well done. They never wanted to hear the truth. How you had no idea what the hell you were doing. Or how some of those planes you shot down may very well have been your own." His tired, shining grey eyes turned to Harry now. He looked like he had almost forgotten Harry was there. "They wanted to think that it all meant something. Valour, honour, duty. There might have been real heroes up there that day, I didn't feel like one. But I came back. They didn't."
All of a sudden, Harry understood the man completely. He recognised that look, he had felt that same ache in his bones. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, akin only to peering down into a chasm and knowing that the only way forward was down. The frown on Mr Dalton's face only grew deeper. The many lines across his face turned down, the shadows flickering across them somehow turned to black.
"You're a braver man than I, Harry," Mr Dalton admitted. "Braver than any of us. I'm sorry."
"What did he say?" Hermione asked him the moment he returned to the camp. He found her sitting with Angela, talking to a huddled group of people and handing out a pile of clean blankets. Harry looked at her, wondering what on Earth he should say. He found nothing, only the prescience to take her hand and gently kiss her fingers. Hermione stared at him as he did so. It felt like a goodbye almost, or an apology. The fact was he couldn't tell and neither could she.
"Angela," Harry asked, reluctantly stepping past her, "how do people find this place?"
"Word of mouth, mostly," Angela shrugged. "It's not efficient but it's the best they can do."
"And what if we need to find people first?"
"We check the registers," another woman spoke up. She was older, in her thirties, wearing a bright purple vest and a reflective band, "The Muggleborns for starters. Mr Dalton has a line to the Hogwarts book of names. He knows how to find them in case they need help."
"If the Ministry or Riddle's folk try to take them," Harry said, "any of them, you call me. I'll be there."
He felt a hand grasp his arm and he was looking into Hermione's eyes once again.
"We're supposed to be looking for the…" she gestured in a way that needed no explanation, "you-know-whats."
"We'll do both."
It was evident from her alarmed expression that it was not the response Hermione wanted from him.
"Hunting the… you-know-whats is dangerous enough without dragging ourselves into a civil war."
"Then I'll do it myself," Harry shrugged. Hermione sputtered.
"That's not the point-"
"Why not?" Harry retorted. "It'll be me and Riddle in the end, anyway. He'll want me alive for himself. If I can use that advantage to help people, then so be it."
If only Hermione were anyone else, someone who didn't know him nearly as well. They might have flinched, or maybe backed off, but Hermione stood unmoved, staring at him with something he could only call pity.
"Harry…" She attempted to speak, but Harry stopped her.
"This is where I need to be," he said, trying to convince her as much as himself. Trying to ignore the tugging on his heart as he watched her try to talk him down from the edge. "This is what matters. This is how we make a difference."
And just like that he was gone, following the kind woman to her fellow committee. He left Hermione alone but she remained with him in every waking thought. Those pleading eyes that only ever wanted the best for him. Instead, he moved his body forward and tried to forget what was behind him.
There is no tomorrow anymore, he told himself. Tomorrow was for everyone else.
"What did you say to him?" Hermione demanded. Her voice was acidic, her body standing as tall as possible and yet towering over him in spirit. The spirit that had not yielded at the doorway and marched her inside Mr Dalton's office, compelling her to confront the man himself. The elderly soldier was only slightly perturbed by the young woman's insistence, her wide, brown eyes glaring at him like a woman scorned by God himself.
"I told him the truth," Mr Dalton replied carefully. "I tried to turn him away, but he was very persistent."
To no one's surprise, his diplomatic nothing of an answer did nothing to quell her ire. Of all the people to impose themselves on Harry's life, to rob him of any peace, he was the only one she could find. As such, it was him that she chose to unleash herself upon.
"This is too much," she hissed with barely shackled outrage. "It will kill him."
"It's his fight. He gets to choose his next steps."
Hermione resisted the urge to laugh at his cheek. As if Harry had any choice at all in this war, let alone insisting that he was willing to bear it all.
"How could you do this? Fill him up with all that rubbish, slap him on the back and send him off to die like it's nothing!"
Mr Dalton turned to face her, fixing her with a piercing stare.
"Be very careful, Miss Granger-"
"Oh, go on, threaten me!" she glared right back. "Tell me I'm wrong! I don't care! Do you know what he has to do?"
"Yes," Mr Dalton spat, "and it is the greatest shame I will ever bear. I've seen what war does to young men like him-"
"And you're going to do that to Harry," Hermione shouted, "because you and Dumbledore and everyone else couldn't sort this out by yourselves!"
"Do you think I'm not aware?" Mr Dalton bellowed. "Do you think I don't hate what I've become? I swore to never be one of those old, bitter men who sent young boys to fight for them… and yet here I am and he offers himself freely." Hermione could make out his jaw trembling in the firelight, the regrets of decades on his face. "And I wish I was a better man than to let him fight but it's not my choice."
His voice died in his throat and Hermione was left steaming in silence, a stinging in her own eyes that she had chosen to ignore since Harry had returned, looking like a dead man walking. She wanted to scream until her lungs burned and her throat would no longer make noise, but it was pointless. It was all so pointless.
"Why does it always have to him?" she lamented. "Harry doesn't deserve that. He deserves a long, happy, peaceful life and I don't know what you've put in his head," her tears burned down her cheeks and her voice turned fierce, "but I'm not going to let you or Dumbledore turn Harry into another soldier."
"Whether we like it or not, Harry is a soldier," Mr Dalton replied shamefully. "It's our war he's fighting now. We've laid the world at his feet and asked him to carry it for us because he's the only one who can. That's enough to break a man."
"You're saying that as if he'll do it all by himself. He won't and he never ever will," Hermione stood up defiantly, brushing her cheeks with her jumper, "because he has me. And no matter what you tell me, no matter what Dumbledore had planned, that's never going to change."
There was a long pause, through which the old man stared contemplatively at her.
"Albus told me plenty about you, Miss Granger." He stood slowly from his chair, reaching for his cane. "Your intellect, your stubborn righteousness, your dazzling courage. A true Gryffindor if there ever was one." He stepped closer, peering down at her with fondness. "The person who Harry Potter trusts implicitly. And who loves him more than anyone."
Hermione felt her heart jump. Her eyes widened. The hairs on her arms stood on end. It felt like her chest had been ripped open. She had rarely felt so uniquely vulnerable.
"What are you saying?" she whispered.
Mr Dalton smiled at her, a melancholy smile, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"I know you mean every word you've said. I know because I lived by them, just like you." His eyes sparkled with memories. "We both fell in love with extraordinary men, Hermione. With the beating heart that lies deep within. They burn so brightly. It is our privilege to stand by their side. To hold them in their most vulnerable moments. To be their rock when they need us most."
Unable to reply, she shook her head, partly to vainly deny it and early to hide the rivers of tears running down her cheeks.
"This isn't fair," she gasped softly between hidden sobs. "You know I can't ask him to stop."
"I know," the old man nodded. "Because if you did, he might just listen."
"I can't do that to him. I won't make this any harder for him, or force him to make that choice if that's what you're worried about."
The elderly soldier looked bemused and sighed.
"Actually it's quite the opposite." He turned to stare at the mantlepiece, where a pair of half-moon spectacles sat watching over the room. "It's a quiet thing to lose someone…" Mr Dalton cleared his throat. "I made Mr Potter give me a promise and I'm afraid I must bind you to one too. Albus and I… we failed him." He turned once again to face her. "You will not. You hold his spark in your hands, Hermione." He took her small hands in his own and Hermione realised just how thin and frail they were. "Please… don't let it go out."
Hermione looked down into their conjoined hands and then up into the man's ancient eyes. There was no choice. It was the easiest promise she ever had to make and she would make it every day.