August 1997 - Grimmauld Square
Quiet whispers emanated from the opposite sofa, disturbing the eerie silence of the drawing room. Harry turned in his sleeping bag, drowsy from his short slumber. The pain in his scar had kept him up late, stripping him from any opportunity to shut his eyes. He had simply lay on the sofa, endured the ache with gritted teeth until Voldemort's anger had finally waned and granted him a few hours of sleep.
The previous day, he and his friends had been attending Bill and Fleur's wedding, a joyful occasion that had turned into a nightmare. Shortly after the first dance, a group of Death Eaters had launched an attack on the Burrow.
The trio had managed to flee, and believed it could find some respite in an all-night-cafe, but another of the Dark Lord's henchmen had cornered them. To their luck, the fight had been short, and they had left the cafe for a safer place, abandoning behind them their opponent's body. It was this victory over one of Voldemort's most trained fighters that had triggered their enemy's wrath, and costed Harry such a debilitating pain.
As a last resort, the three of them had landed in Grimmauld square, in search for some place to spend the night. The attack on the Weasley's house had proven at least one thing to them: they were unsafe, and so were their friends and families. They could not risk bringing anyone else in danger. And just like that, before Harry had been assailed by the scorching pain, they had agreed they would get on with the Horcruxes' hunt as fast as possible.
If at least they had any idea of where to find the next piece of Voldemort's soul...
"No! We cannot tell him"
The young man opened an eye, suddenly shaken out of his drowse.
Tell him what?
He waited, very still, until he noticed the heavy silence that followed his thought.
Had he spoken out loud?
He tried to move, battled with his sleeping bag that seemed determined to keep him from turning around. When he finally succeeded, the anxious glances of Hermione and Ron told him that something was off.
"Tell me what?" he grumbled before he brought his hand to his forehead. He stroked his scar, acknowledged the difference of the flesh. That part of the skin had always been was more delicate, smoother, as if the mark carried an ironic meaning: it was his soft spot.
He raised a quizzical eyebrow and Hermione bit her lip.
"Nothing" she promptly replied before she exchanged a brief look with Ron.
Her eyes scoured the room.
"We were only discussing that…"
She glanced around, her voice drawling at the end of her sentence.
"…that Kreacher is here" she finally blurted, her eyes as wide as if she had just seen a ghost. Harry peeked over his shoulder, to find the house elf on the threshold of the drawing room.
"MUDBLOOBS!" screamed the elf, his claw-liked fingers sinking in the skin of his ugly face.
"Mudbloods in my mistress' home"
"Shut up Kreacher" Harry cursed.
"And go fix us some breakfast"
—
The kitchen smelled of warmed up tinned food and when he glanced at the pan - where a few Vienna sausages were swimming in a puddle of mushy baked beans - Harry thought that he was finally not that hungry. He sat across Hermione, who seemed deep in thought. She was dipping her teabag repeatedly in her porcelain cup, her features gaunt.
"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked, and his question made her jump. She made a strange face, as if she was hesitating, and she opened and closed her mouth before heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
Ron entered the kitchen with a towel around his neck, and drops of water dripping on his neck. He let himself fall on the bench near Hermione and his face contorted in a disgusted frown at the sight of the food. He served himself nonetheless, poured some beans and a sausage in a soup plate.
"So… what's our next step?" he asked as he scooped some food and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if to figure out what to think before he grimaced.
"I hope we won't remain secluded in here for ever. We'll need to get out, at least to fetch some proper food…"
Kreacher darted the red haired boy a black look. He was standing near the stove, his bulgy eyes shooting daggers towards the table.
"I agree. I also want to continue with the Horcr-" replied Harry, who interrupted himself and glanced warily at the elf before he pursued.
"- with our mission as early as possible"
He pulled out a chain from his pocket, to which was attached an octagonal pendant. In the middle of the locket stood a snake, wrapped around an S, symbol of the Slytherins' heirloom.
"I just wished we had a lead…"
The souvenir of that time, where he and Dumbledore had been retrieving the Horcrux from its cave casted a cloud over his thoughts. That night, the Headmaster had perished at the hands of Severus Snape… That locket was counterfeit, that much he knew, but Harry could not bring himself to discard it. After all, it was one of the last memories that remained of the wizard…
He heaved a heavy sigh, and rubbed his eyes that stung. For the first time in weeks, he realised how tired he felt. It was not exhaustion that did not originate from a simple sleepless night, no… It was a deeper one, a strain that stemmed from the lassitude of constant worry. He was tired, drained. From he hunt, the hide. He was exhausted from the war.
"Harry…"
Hermione glanced at him warily, a hand on his arm.
"You need to have a look at this" she disclosed with a soft voice. She exchanged a long look with Ron, as it to seek his approval, and when the young man closed his eyes, she pulled out a folded piece of paper from her jeans' pocket.
"We did not want to tell you at first, because we believed digging up such an old story would do nothing but worry you"
Harry grabbed the sheet she was handing him, and he recognised Arthur Weasley's clipping regarding the Quidditch accident they had discussed the previous day. The paper was folded in half, concealing the inside, but showing the animated photograph of that Quidditch player who had collided with a helicopter mid-game, and who smiled at him. "This must have been shot prior to the accident" he thought, for he doubted that the player still looked like that after the crash.
He unfolded the piece, and on the verso of the creased article, his eyes fixed upon a name.
His heart skipped a beat, and blood rushed to his head. He felt lightheaded suddenly, like if he had drunk a Dizziness Draught.
"She's alive" he was able to utter after a while, and he swallowed thickly, his voice high-pitch just like Ron's and Hermione's when they had taken note of the piece.
"She might be" gently corrected the girl.
"Neville had said he had heard her name at St Mungos" he replied straight off, to ease her doubts and Hermione simply stayed quiet.
"She might be the lead we've been searching for..." he exclaimed, suddenly hopeful, and he sensed how full of innuendo was that look Ron and Hermione exchanged.
"We have to talk to her"
"Are you nuts?" interjected Ron, who was shaking his head ever so slightly in objection, or disbelief.
"We don't know her" added Hermione.
"Yeah, smart-ass, what if she calls You-Know-Who right away?!"
Ron's voice was shaking, and he shot Harry an indignant glance.
The latter stood up, without giving in to his friends' resistance.
"There's only one way to find out"
"Harry, please" wailed Hermione, and she tried to hold him back but he stepped aside. He walked towards the stairwell, his back straight, his hands balled into fists.
He would bring an end to this whole thing.
"I made up my mind. I'm going"
And once on the first step, Harry peeked over his shoulder.
"Are you with me?"