Heels clacking on the dark marble floor of the Ministry of Magic Atrium, Rita Skeeter still managed to part the crowd in front of her despite who held the strings at the top. Stares lingered on her long since she passed, whether they beheld fear, curiosity, animosity or awe, she cared little. Opinions were fickle and so easily manipulated. As long as she got the results she wanted, she couldn't care less.

At least… that was what she told herself. The attitude constructed over years of hardening herself to be as ruthless as possible to snatch success was under threat. Before, she fought to elevate her career, taking risks that could ruin all that she'd worked for. Her methods weren't exactly ethical, but no one had to know about them. Being an animagus was an easy secret to keep. Then she met Hermione Granger, her career up-ended at the hands of a mere school girl. That hiatus in her career was blissfully ended when at last that bossy brattish bitch had better things to do such as fight for her survival. Rita could stretch her beetle wings again. She found her delicious pot of gold. Tarnishing Albus Dumbledore's reputation was all too easy. All powerful people had secrets, she just had to find them and find them she did. Her publisher had never worked so hard in his life to get the first editions of her biography printed and bound. When the Ministry fell, her public scrutiny over Dumbledore worked in her favour. She had no house visits, no one smashing down the door of her Mayfair apartment. Instead, she had invitations. One from the new Head of Magical Law Enforcement, then another from the nearly instated Minister. It was just too easy to smile at the men over her coffee and agree to write propaganda.

Until her words weren't enough. The truth bled through her script no matter how hard she layered lie upon lie, twisting the narrative towards the designed angle. Meetings with Yaxley and Thicknesse involved less coffee and smiling. They involved ultimatums and threats.

Her assignment to shatter Harry Potter's reputation brought her to the very subject of her task himself. Never in all her forty six years did she expect to find herself nearly wetting herself out of fear when pinned under the wrath of a seventeen year old. Also never in her forty six years did she expect to owe her life and mind to the same boy who, despite every act of violation she'd made against him and his loved ones, appeared to want her on his side.

As she powered her way through the Ministry throng to make her meeting on time, her thoughts couldn't help but dwell on the boy. Locked within her trusty snakeskin handbag were notes that had been cleared for use by Harry Potter himself. She'd copied them up from his originals, unable to use those of course (not to mention his handwriting was atrocious). He'd given her enough facts to keep her in good relations with her handlers. He'd even given her some juicy information to sweeten the pot so the Death Eater who held her life in his hands would be very pleased indeed.

Nothing handed to her had come from Potter himself. It all came from the man who trussed her up so tightly with magical vows, it was nary impossible for her to betray who she was truly working for. Kingsley Shacklebolt might as well put her under the imperius curse. As much as the Unbreakable Vow chafed, she had to admit to herself that she at least answered to people with some sort of moral compass. She knew her own was skewed and so knew that the chance that the so-called 'Resistance' was giving her wasn't something that she would give herself in their place. But she was useful to them and while she was, she would stay alive. If she did as they said, got them information, helped gain them access to Ministry resources, they would secure her safety. She believed them… because if Harry Potter himself managed to stay alive with the whole entire country after him, perhaps they could do the same for her as well.

Stepping into one of the lifts, Rita shot her glance around at her fellow occupants. The mood in the Ministry could not be more different than how it had been only three years ago. No one made eye contact. All heads were bowed down as they just got on with their jobs, avoiding any attention. Uncomfortable, Rita adjusted her glasses.

When the doors opened for the floor she wanted, she managed to catch wary glances coming her way. Glances from Aurors garbed in their blood red robes. They were apprehensive of her rather than the other way around. At the twitch of her quill, she could have their entire families under review, sent to Umbridge's office to prove their blood status. Whatever authority they had was gone. What use were Dark Wizard catchers when their bosses were the people they trained to apprehend?

She strolled out of the lift, heels snapping loudly on the floor. Being purposeful and confident made up for so much, she learned early on. One secretary spilled an inbox tray while in their haste to get out of her way. Rita didn't stop. She wouldn't have done so before.

Her progress brought her to the door of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement's office. Fear and unease twisted inside her, but she held onto her resolve. Failure would mean her life.

Steeling herself, she knocked sharply on the door. It slowly opened, beady eyes surveying her through the gap before it opened fully. Rita gave a general sniff at whoever it was tasked with opening the door and entered without waiting for permission, acting just as she would without her life hanging by a thread. Her focus was fixed upon the man standing before his desk, hands flat on the surface as he looked down at scattered papers that had his current attention.

"I see for once you are on time, Rita."

He didn't look up as he addressed her. At her back, the door snapped shut. Her neck prickled as she started to sweat. Continuing, leaning on her usual habits, she maintained her act, shoes still clacking loudly.

"I was eager to share what I've discovered," she said as she passed the foreboding stacks of filing cabinets that contained information about every witch and wizard in the country, their files updating constantly.

Corban Yaxley looked up. Rita blinked at the state of him. His eyes were bloodshot, face unshaven. He had the general appearance of a man who hadn't slept for some days. He straightened, running a hand through his hair, his weary eyes sharpening as he caught sight of her handbag, a glimmer of hope sparking in his tortured eyes.

Rita was far from an idiot. She knew what caused those patches of burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. His puppet master had made his displeasure clear, it seemed.

"You have something?" He asked as she reached his desk, placing her briefcase in the waiting chair as she opened it. It was easy to paint her scandalous smile upon her face. Easy to make herself believe that what she was doing was real.

"I do… I have made copies of all my notes for you."

"Curse the notes. Tell me, what did you find out?" Yaxley snapped, banging a fist against the desk. Rita jumped violently, the shouting conjuring the image of a very angry Harry Potter in her mind. She steadied her hands, continuing to draw out her file with her notes, setting it onto the desk as she looked up, staring the Death Eater in the eyes directly.

"Bathilda Bagshot met with Harry Potter on Halloween. She even put him up for the night. Then, later, when he was injured after his attack on Hogwarts, he went to her for healing…"

Yaxley dived over his desk, snatching the file, opening it.

"You are certain of this?" He stared down at the parchments sheets. "This isn't hearsay like the rubbish Lovegood throws in my face?"

"I went to her house at Christmas," Rita injected her voice with smugness, "she welcomed me in, of course, lonely hag that she is. All it took, just like when I last visited, was a drop of veritaserum in her brandy. She told me everything… and it's all there."

Yaxley snapped the file closed, his nostrils flaring as he employed some very quick thinking. He put it down on the desk.

"He… he'll want to investigate this himself," he murmured, hand going over to his left hand, resting over his sleeve. He then looked back at Rita, hostility returning. "You better be right about this, Skeeter. If this is a dead end…"

"If this is a dead end, I fail to see how that is my fault." She then bristled in response. "You wanted information on Potter and I found it. It is there . It is up to you to act upon it. Arrest the old woman or whatever it is you do these days."

For a moment, she wondered if she'd gone too far but the man just grunted in response, resting his hand on the cover of her file.

"You've done well… if this is all proven and the old bat really is important to the boy."

"Once you have verified that all I've reported is factual, there's a request I would like to make." Rita then pressed. "My talks with Bagshot have me eager to pursue a more personal ambition of mine. You know she is Gellert Grindelwald's Great Aunt?"

Yaxley's expression shuttered, gaze dimming, a sign that she was losing his interest.

"Your personal ambitions are hardly my concern."

"They are if I can prove that Albus Dumbledore used the Dark Arts." She said at once. His gaze then cleared, frowning at her. She continued. "If I can get permission to have an interview with Grindelwald, I know I can get the evidence to completely ruin Dumbledore and therefore Harry Potter by extension. I'd need a portkey to Austria and… I know the arrangements with Nurmengard will not be easy. I looked into it before…"

Yaxley nodded along, appearing distracted, but she could see that she had his interest at least.

"Yes, yes, I can see how that would serve us well in our agenda… very well… if your information is as fruitful as you make it out to be, we will see about your endeavours abroad."

Relief settled Rita as she knew the seed was planted. Her information was good. Whoever Yaxley sent to investigate wouldn't find Bagshot, of course. Potter had already rehoused her, plans in motion. She did have to hand it to the boy, he knew how to play the game of cat and mouse. He was the most impossible mouse to catch of them all.

"Leave me. I will send for you once all this is verified." Yaxley dismissed her, his words cutting her pride deeply. Rita said nothing, unable to deign it with a response. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, doing her best to not falter even though her knees felt like jelly. Once she made it to the door, she expelled her breath and steeled herself once more for a long walk through the Ministry of Magic.

Ice glittered under the subtle gleam. Flagstones treacherously icy, but his bare feet paced over the frozen stone not feeling the chill. He left footprints but no moisture, his magic vanishing the liquid that came into contact with his skin.

His shadow was distorted, his thin frame visible until a bulk made his shoulders appear deformed as if he had large tendrils for arms. His own arms were slender, under the thin sleeves of vaporous silk.

A wooden door painted in a deep blue creaked open the moment he approached, needing only the barest of flickers of his power to make it open. He brought up his left hand, thin fingers tracing the air where he felt the residue of powerful and complex magic. Disappointment already burned in his throat. The enchantments that once concealed the cottage from his discovery had not been destroyed. They had been lowered purposefully, the door practically held wide open for him.

The hiss that expelled behind his thin lips was murderous but quiet. He stepped inside, the scent of old books heavy. The nostalgic smell nearly made him lose hold of his anger, but he continued onwards into the darkened hallway. He kept his wand raised, his senses alert. As he stepped into the living room, he felt the traces of the boy then. His nostrils flared and with a heavy thump, Nagini dropped from his shoulders.

" Can you taste the boy? " He hissed at the large python. Her answering hiss was guttural and dangerous as her powerful body navigated the cramped space. He followed her slowly as she made her way into the dining room.

"Yessss… his blood is here... your blood..."

His mouth downturned. Being reminded of the blood bond they shared did not sit well with him, even though it had been at his own insistance that it be made. He overcame Lily Potter's sacrifice but bound himself tighter to the boy as a result. He had dismissed Fate in his hubris and it continued to punish him for it.

"How recent is his trail?"

He shone his wand around the living room, feeling faint whispers of curiosity as he looked at the tomes. They were Professor Bagshot's original transcripts. His initial desire to raze the house down in his fury was sufficiently quelled at their presence. He was furious and disappointed, but he would not sacrifice a treasure trove of knowledge over the brat.

"His scent is everywhere. He was here… but no longer. No warm bodies."

Voldemort knew as much from his own acute sense for magic. He'd become fairly attuned to the boy's magical signature. It was as if his own roiled under his skin, desperate to dominate and destroy the power that hung in the air. Hate seared through him at the mere whisper of it but he followed it. His magic was still active. A spell of his own remained in the cottage, a beacon…

An invitation.

Nagini curled under foot as he approached the dining room table. He raised his wand, seeing a Christmas Tree in the corner. Dislike drew his lip back but he kept his focus on the centre of the magical pull.

The table was bare. He ran his wand over it, his lip jerking in the corner as a letter suddenly appeared on the top. He was not aware that the boy was capable of complex charms. A concealment spell. He would not have found the letter had he not been able to follow the magical trace. He took a precaution of casting a few charms of his own to check for curses. Other than the concealment charm, it was clean.

When he saw the name written on the parchment, he snarled. He snatched up the letter. It wasn't even sealed but no one would dare open an envelope addressed so brazenly to Lord Voldemort. Under the light of his wand, he opened up the crisp parchment. He openly sneered at the boyish script. Neat enough to be legible but hardly the hand of a wizard who expects respect.

A part of him wanted to burn the letter. How dare the boy taunt him. Yet… his curiosity won out. As much as he hated him and wished with every fibre of his being that he was reduced to cinders and ash, he had a faint begrudging respect. The boy was not a coward and that warranted some acknowledgement.

So he decided to read what the boy had to say to Lord Voldemort.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but this is a dead end.

By the time you are reading this, Bathilda will be outside your reach. You won't be able to find me either, not until I'm ready to be found. When that time comes, we'll see which way the prophecy goes.

Happy new year, Tom!

Harry

He crushed the infernal note in his fist where the parchment immediately crumpled and blackened under the swell of his power. Seething, he twisted around, his wand flashing. He kept rein on his magic, his control barely holding. He tore into the living room, hissing in rage. As his wand light shone around the room, he revealed a coffee table and more books crammed into every corner of the living space. He steadied himself, sprinkling the ash that was all that was left of Potter's letter onto the threadbare carpet.

The boy had been right in plain sight. He'd returned to Godric's Hollow again, his presence an insult. He dared to evoke a blood feud on Halloween of all times, upon the festival of Samhain. Tighter and tighter their destinies intertwined. All the while, the boy became stronger and more confident in his ability. He was a threat and now he was gone once again, slipping through his fingers. The boy had seemingly taken the old Historian with him. Yet another one of his allies whisked away before he could make an example of them.

"We are too late, Nagini. Each failure to capture him makes him stronger."

Nagini curled behind him, making unhappy hisses at how cold she was. He flicked his wand, levitating her back to his shoulders where she curled against his thin shoulders.

"I should have foreseen he would have roots here. Opportunities to snare the boy have been missed… but no longer. He may be out of my reach now, but he will return. He has no choice. His blood feud binds him as much as it binds us."

Resting his hand upon Nagini's head, he paced through the living room. Reaching the door, stepping back into the icy night, he left Professor Bagshot's home with its trove of knowledge unscathed.

Harry Potter woke up with a loud cry, clutching his face where his scar seared red-hot. Concealed under impenetrable layers of runic shields and protective enchantments, he unravelled himself from where he was caught under many blankets and tangled limbs - his own and someone else's. Images and thoughts that weren't his own flickered through his mind in a mind-bending spiral. Caught adrift between his own mind and that of Lord Voldemort, he struggled to find his place in reality. His senses were completely overloaded. Pain shot through him, his scar the epicentre, searing hot as if someone had pressed a branding iron into his skin.

Ash crumpled from his fingers… smooth scales brushed against his cheek… ice bit under his bare feet…

Breath choked in his throat as he was stuck between two places, panic lurching into life.

Warm hands wrapped around his wrists… hot breath desperate on his clammy skin… chilled air kissed his bare body, hairs standing on end… limbs folding, back arching…

His heart thudded, the organ powerfully pushing his warm blood around his body. His fingers flexed, touching his face, his skin… the contact was real. Then his hands were parted from his face, guided away by another. Soft hair brushed over his sweaty face, warm breath tickling his mouth and nose before lips pushed against his own. His breath escaped from his confining lungs and he drew in a cocktail of cold air and hot breath. Taste triggered, the taste of someone else's mouth, his senses coming alive as his consciousness fully returned where it belonged.

Eyelids open to slits, darkness consumed his vision, but that was because it was dark. It was night time, all lights extinguished while he and Hermione went to sleep.

Hermione…

He understood where he was… where she was…

All over him, face, hands, chest, legs… his skin was touching her skin.

He sighed out, his skin somehow hot and cold at the same time. He was naked, exposed to the cold air in their tent, having thrown off the blankets in his fit. Hermione's teeth raked over his lip, engaging his body and locking his awareness in place. The pain in his scar vanished.

"I'm here… I'm all here…" Harry panted out between Hermione's urgent kisses. Her efforts slowed as her hands returned to his face from where she'd been previously holding his wrists. Even though he couldn't see her properly in the darkness, he could sense every part of her. Her weight was on his thighs where she'd pinned him so he couldn't get up and hurt himself while lost in limbo. Her breasts brushed his chest which now rose and fell in a regular pattern.

"It worked," Hermione sighed in relief, collapsing on top of him before rolling off, her body dropping next to him on the camp bed. Her arm and leg were still draped over him. She turned his face to look over at her. Harry blinked, his vision adjusting to the darkness enough to make out vague outlines.

"Yeah, it worked," he said, recovering from the vertigo that he'd experienced while caught somewhere in the middle of his own mind and Voldemort's. "I don't think he meant for that to happen. His occlumency slipped."

"He was angry?"

"Oh yeah… pissed. He went to check Bathilda's house himself - just like we counted on. He doesn't want anyone else to find me other than him." Harry swallowed, a prickle of fear chasing down his spine to the point where his back had been injured. It gave a twinge. "I'd be flattered if not for, well, him hunting me down himself now."

Hermione's sigh gusted over him. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, gentle and sensual.

"Our plan is working then… or at least, she hasn't betrayed us," her voice took on a bitter edge. Harry huffed in response.

"Seems that way - for now at least. If information about our movements is enough to get Rita deeper in with Yaxley, then we have our mole. It's… a start."

Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the touch of Hermione's fingers dancing over his face, but then he shivered as he felt just how cold it was without the blankets. He then rolled over, instinctively following the source of warmth nearest to him, Hermione's skin.

"As for what we do now… I can't think of a reason why we shouldn't stop what you started."

Hermione's laugh was soft as he searched blindly for her lips clumsily. He found them, his hands gripping her shoulders as he then switched their positions so he was on top of her.

"Harry, we don't even know what the time is."

"Does… it matter?" Harry said between his kisses. Hermione's hips shifted under him. "So what if we sleep in? Who's going to tell us off?"

"I can't see a thing!"

"Do you need to? Can't you feel this?" Harry breathed out as he went to nuzzle his face into Hermione's neck.

"Your nose is freezing!"

"It's a good thing you're so warm then." Harry said into her skin. Hermione's hands gripped his arse suddenly, taking him by surprise. He let out a yelp, causing her to laugh.

"Can you feel this?" Hermione said, bringing her head up to his ear, her breath still hot. Harry's response wasn't a coherent word as his length twitched, desire burning through him, warming him up from his core.

The temperature in the tent rose significantly as their hot bodies came together. As they embraced and worshipped the carnal beauty of their love, a country imprisoned under a rule of fear slept unaware of how their heroes spent their time.