After Harry had been in Gringotts' care for a couple of days, Ironclaw stopped by the infirmary briefly to tell Harry that there had been no less than a dozen different scrying attempts on his location since he'd been admitted. "You needn't worry, though," the goblin said with a toothy smile. "Gringotts' wards are impenetrable to the puny spells of wizards and witches."
Harry briefly returned the smile, but not once did it reach his eyes. "Were you able to tell who it was?" he asked.
"Not directly," came the reply. "We can confirm that they originated in North Scotland, and that whoever did it is a very powerful magic-user. Most wizards and witches don't have the power to do more than two scrying attempts at a time, so when someone is able to do six times that it really narrows down the possibilities. Add in the point of origin, and what does that tell you?"
"Dumbledore," Harry sighed. "Should've known he'd be incapable of minding his own bloody business."
"You're safe enough within our walls," Ironclaw added, "as you will be under the fidelius as well. When you are finished in the infirmary, your elf may take you straight to the Black townhome, bypassing any attempt to find you in transit."
"Appreciate it," the young man replied. The longer Dumbledore was unable to find him the better. He suspected the old man had some plan in mind for him to save the wizarding world or something, but as far as he was concerned magical Britain could burn. The last shreds of loyalty to this fucked-up world died along with his godfather and the girl he loved. He'd barely reacted to the report of the deaths of Augusta Longbottom, Alastor Moody, and Amelia and Susan Bones when he'd seen the news in the Daily Prophet the other day. There were no leads as of yet, but Minister Fudge had hinted that Harry Potter was being considered a person of interest in those cases as well as for all who died in the Department of Mysteries. As far as he was concerned it was just another nail in the coffin of his loyalty to magical Britain.
The soul fragment was removed from the scar without incident, which had the unexpected benefit of repairing his vision. The rest of his stay in the Gringotts infirmary was focused on repairing the damages from the abuse and neglect of the Dursleys.
As he recovered his health under the care of the goblins, the numbness in his soul was replaced more and more with rage. He let it simmer quietly, careful to not let it explode on the goblins, as they were the only people collectively trying to help him. As much as he depended on Dobby's unrelenting assistance, the enthusiastic little elf was only one person and held no authority of his own amongst the rest of his people.
During his convalescence, Ironclaw had been busy getting all of Harry's accounts and properties consolidated and in order. He briefed Harry about his current holdings after the young wizard was released from the infirmary. As the Lestranges were killed at the Department of Mysteries and they had no other relatives, the vaults were passed to the Black family in accordance with the marriage contract between Bellatrix and Rodolphus, adding yet another substantial influx of coin into his accounts. Between the Potter, Black, and Lestrange fortunes, he now owned a measurable percentage of magical Britain's total wealth. If that wasn't enough, the Malfoy line was also considered extinct and the estate was in line to be absorbed into the Black account, pending several legalities involving the widow Narcissa Malfoy.
Harry barely reacted to that news. The money was nice, but he'd happily trade every knut he owned to have Hermione back, alive and in his arms. Of more interest was the fact that an artefact from the Lestrange vault, a gold cup that Ironclaw swore was the lost chalice of Helga Hufflepuff, was found to possess a similar soul fragment to the one that had troubled Harry for so many years. On top of that, the crew that had been assigned to clear out and decontaminate 12 Grimmauld Place had found a certain locket in the possession of the half-mad house elf that lived there which held yet another soul fragment. Both fragments were confirmed to belong to Voldemort.
The old house elf, Ironclaw reported, died with a smile on his face the moment the fragment was exorcised from the locket.
Harry nodded, relieved that he wouldn't have to deal with Kreacher's blood-purity nonsense and possible betrayal. He was informed that the goblins had several leads on other pieces of Voldemort's soul pieces, and that they would be quite happy to share the results with him upon their location and destruction. After listening closely to the tales of the exorcisms, he told them of the cursed diary he'd destroyed with a basilisk tooth a couple years back, noting that the reaction was quite similar to the exorcisms Ironclaw described to him. Coupled with the secret knowledge of Voldemort's parentage the ghostly Tom Riddle had shared with him, he and the goblins both were convinced that the diary was yet another one of those damned soul pieces.
Ironclaw had nothing further to report other than finding a hippogryph nesting in the attic. Harry was relieved to hear that Buckbeak had been released to a magical game reserve in Italy, and so the final casting of the fidelius on 12 Grimmauld Place was performed with Harry as the secret keeper. As he felt the knowledge of Black Manor's location sink into his soul, he couldn't help but to wonder why Sirius didn't insist on being the secret keeper before him, or why one of his parents wasn't the secret keeper for their hideaway. He remembered Dumbledore saying something about it not being possible for the secret keeper to live at the location he or she held the secret to, but the goblins assured him that that idea was as nonsensical as it sounded. It was too arbitrary and contrived a condition to logically make sense, almost as if the creator deliberately wanted a weakness in the charm – that is, if Dumbledore was to be believed. Harry was disinclined to do so, especially after the goblins successfully completed the fidelius.
Once the fidelius charm was in place, Harry bid farewell to the goblins and asked Dobby to take him to Black Manor. The solemn little elf complied, bringing Harry to the sitting room of the manor.
***EoD***
Black Manor at 12 Grimmauld Place was still dark, gloomy, and depressing. Now, though, as opposed to a month ago, the townhome was clean and all the cursed items were gone, including the painting of Walburga Black, Sirius' late mother. Even the row of mounted elf heads was removed. Not a single doxy remained in any of the rooms.
After appearing in the sitting room, Harry took a quick look around, taking in the décor. Thick, black draperies in a damask pattern hung over the windows, casting the dark mahogany wall panels into shadow. Several gas lamps with frosted and clear pattern embossed glass chimneys adorned the walls but did little to dispel the gloom. The imposing furniture was carved from ebony in ornate Victorian styles. The sofas, armchairs, and ottomans were upholstered with worn but clean crimson and black damask velvet, and a matching settee was pushed up against the wall adjacent to the large, ornate cast-iron fireplace. Small tea tables were situated between the sofas and armchairs, and an exquisitely-carved roll-top desk could be found against the wall opposite the settee next to a matching bookcase. He knew that most of the books were kept in the library, but there were still a small handful of volumes on one of the shelves. Most of the space was taken up by cloisonné vases, carved figurines, or intricate boxes. Several paintings of stern, humourless Black ancestors hung on the walls between the gas lamps, their chiselled features and piercing blue eyes seeming to disapprove of whatever they beheld.
Harry collapsed listlessly into the nearest armchair and stared off into space, unable to summon the energy or desire to climb the stairs to his old bedroom. The last time he was here, he was upset with his friends for not writing to him while he was incarcerated at the Dursleys, and worked for hours on end as Molly Weasley took over his godfather's house and forced all the young people to spend their time cleaning the place by hand. It had been marginally better than slaving away for his relatives, but only because he could eat his fill and talk with his friends, even if he was a bit put out with them. Hermione at least had given him a sincere apology and a promise that she wouldn't blindly follow Dumbledore's instructions in the future. He could tell that she was quite shaken when she realised how deeply it had hurt him to be abandoned like that after witnessing the callous murder of Cedric Diggory and the resurrection of the monster hell-bent on his utter destruction. After they reconciled, though, she'd barely had time to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before Molly goddamn Weasley had cleaning supplies in their hands and them shunted off to opposite sides of the house. They weren't given a moment's peace for the rest of the holidays, let alone time enough to have a decent private conversation – every time they turned around either Molly was there with yet another cleaning assignment, or Ron or Ginny was there with some inane comment. By the time they were back on the Hogwarts Express, Harry was bloody sick and tired of all things Weasley.
Unfortunately, the school year was not the respite he'd hoped for. Snape and Malfoy were their usual impossible selves, plus the blond ponce now had the authority of a prefect. Although he shrugged it off, being denied the prefect position after all he'd done for the school felt like a punch in the gut, especially since Ron got the position instead. Ron was by far the laziest boy in their year and consistently ranked in the bottom ten percent of his classes. Combined with his condescending attitude towards anything nonmagical and his outright bigotry towards anything non-Gryffindor, particularly Slytherin, and a solid case could easily be made that Ron was the absolute worst option for a prefect. That fact was so obvious, in fact, that Harry suspected that Ron's appointment was the sole result of Dumbledore's nepotism towards the Weasleys – it was impossible to have been based on merit.
Added to that were the intolerable detentions issued by that fucking cunt Dolores Umbridge. Untold hours of his time were wasted being tortured by that vicious bitch, and the best advice he was given by the legitimate school staff amounted to little more than to keep his head down and not draw attention to himself. And on top of everything else, the bulk of his remaining time was occupied with teaching Defence to half the school due to that bitch's incompetence or outright sabotage of their education.
He never did get a chance to really talk to Hermione that year.
Now, he never would.
There was always something popping up – studying, quidditch (at least for the first half of the year, until her toadliness issued him a lifetime ban from the sport), the Defence Association, torture sessions disguised as detentions, Hermione's prefect duties, or one of the goddamn Weasleys hanging about. The two youngest never would take the hint that he'd appreciate some alone time with Hermione. Even when she was bathing his bloody hand after having to use that fucking blood quill for hours at a time (incidentally the only gesture of concern anyone showed him that year), Ron or Ginny were inevitably somewhere nearby bitching about Umbridge, whinging about how unfair it all was, or nattering on about inconsequentials. Hell, even with his hand hurting, those would have been excellent times to talk with Hermione, if only the Weasleys had let them be.,
Were they doing it on purpose? He'd never know now. If they had, their plans were all for nought now as well.
She's gone.
The thought hit him like the Hogwarts Express at full steam, almost causing him to fall out of his chair. Tears slid unheeded down his cheeks as he remembered her smile, the sound of her voice, the brief taste of her lips.
Dobby appeared with a box of tissues, which he handed to the grief-stricken young man. "Does Master Harry be's needing anything else?" he quietly asked.
"Firewhisky," Harry muttered.
The wide-eyed little elf nodded. "Dobby be's understanding," he whispered. He popped away for a moment and returned soon afterwards with a bottle of the potent drink and a glass.
Harry took them both before setting the glass aside. He unscrewed the cap and drank the burning liquor straight from the bottle, hoping to find oblivion somewhere near the bottom.
***EoD***
He was standing on a wind-whipped grassy moor, war axe in one hand and wooden shield in the other. A flash of lightning tore through the steel-grey clouds overhead, bathing the night-darkened land in a momentary burst of light, illuminating the countless slain bodies lying on the battlefield around him before the accompanying peal of thunder roared across the desolate stoney grassland. He looked around in confusion as the thunder's echo faded into the misty air, only then becoming aware of a faint rhythmical pounding of a hide drum somewhere in the distant shadows: thump, thump, thump, pause, thump, thump, thump, pause. The beat tugged at his soul and he took a hesitant step towards the sound.
Weaving his way through the armoured bodies of the fallen, he followed the sound across the rolling hills of the battlefield. Another bolt of lightning rippled through the racing clouds in the same direction as the steady beat originated, as if even the heavens were guiding him to the spot. As the thunderclap followed in the wake of the lightning, the beat grew louder but maintained the same pace.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The mist rose higher, making it more difficult to see, but the drumbeat guided him on. Shadows loomed up through the mist as lightning flashed yet again, revealing themselves to be ancient standing stones as he neared them. He could tell they were placed deliberately and felt an urge to tarry there and try to figure out the pattern, but the inexorable beat drew him on. Even his heartbeat matched the pulsing rhythm by this time.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The path before him began to slope upward and soon the mist grew thinner. An orange glow appeared in the distance in the same direction he travelled, and as he drew near he could see the flames of a bonfire climbing up into the night sky. Cresting the rise, the mist disappeared completely and he could make out a colossal ash tree in the flickering firelight. The circumference of the trunk was surely larger than Hogwarts' grounds, perhaps even with Hogsmeade itself added. The branches spread out impossibly far and didn't seem to end so much as fade away, almost as if they were stretching into a different reality. The treetop was lost somewhere in the clouds far above, if not the very stars themselves.
A lone figure stood under the tree, a long black cloak of animal hides draped over his shoulders. Though it was impossible to tell whether the figure was male or female, there was an aura about him that practically screamed masculinity. His face was obscured by a mask or helmet fashioned from the skull of a stag, the magnificent antlers reminding him of his father's animagus form. The figure stood still, moving only to strike the round drum he held in one hand with a knobby stick held in the other.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
Even at this distance, he could see the pattern of the Norse vegvisir painted on the drumhead, eight unique stylised tridents branching out from the centre-point, much like the compass rose on a map. The symbol was supposed to be a magical talisman to guide the bearer through rough weather, even if he did not know the way. He felt this was especially appropriate since the loss of the one girl he'd ever loved.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
He took a seat on the other side of the fire as lightning crackled overhead, careful to keep the other in sight. The mysterious figure did not move beyond maintaining the hypnotising rhythm on his drum. He sat quietly in the night, knowing in his soul that he was in the right place but not knowing why. His grip on his shield and axe relaxed somewhat, but he did not lay either one on the ground.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
He slowly became aware of another presence, this one out beyond the circle of warmth given off by the campfire. He looked around and at last could make out a tall, ghostly figure rising up through the night, emanating power beyond any he'd ever encountered. Even the dark lord, even the headmaster himself held but a fraction commanded by this being. As the figure became clear, he could see the man wore a patch over one eye and carried an enormous spear in one hand. The man's long braided beard was identical to the one worn by the strange old man at Platform 9 ¾ a few days ago. A pair of ravens perched on his shoulders, and he was flanked by a pair of fierce-looking wolves. Even as he stared into the man's one good eye glowing silver in the night, he could feel that he was being weighed and measured.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
Several smaller winged figures grew more distinct from within the darkness until he could recognise them as armoured women, each carrying a shield and a spear. One of them stepped away from the others and approached him. It was a moment before he realised that she was his long-lost love.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
"My Harry," she whispered, giving him a tender smile.
"Hermione," he breathed. "Is it really you?"
"It is," she said, "but as much as we both wish it, we cannot tarry here beyond the time we have been allotted."
"Am I dead?" The longing in his voice was heart-wrenching.
"Not yet, my love," she said. She lay aside her spear and shield and gestured for him to do the same. "We stand at the foot of Yggdrasil, the World Tree that connects the nine realms. The Allfather has given us half a night together here in this place between the waking world and eternity. We have been granted this small mercy, but your path has far to go yet before we are reunited for good."
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
He took her in his arms and held her close, savouring the feel of her cheek against his, the scent of her hair. "I don't want to leave," he whispered. "I want to stay with you, wherever you may go."
"I know," she said. "Would that we could. Asgard awaits you, as does Valhalla, and you have gained the approval of the Allfather." She pulled back and looked him in the eye. "He is displeased with the way magical Britain has squandered his gift. He has been watching you, and offers you the opportunity to be the instrument of his vengeance. If you accept, your place in Asgard is assured and you will be with me for eternity." Her face grew serious. "It is not without cost, though. You must go through the darkness, prove your worthiness before him, and be reborn into his warrior."
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
"I would go through Hell itself to be at your side again, Hermione," he whispered. "After losing you, nothing holds any fear for me."
She pulled him close to her and pressed her lips against his. They held each other for several long moments, neither one wanting to be the first to let go. Tears flowed down their cheeks as both knew in their hearts that this would be the last time for a while that they would be able to enjoy each other's presence.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
Hermione stepped back as she took his hands in her own, smiling at him through her tears. "We don't have much time, Harry, but we have enough. I just wish we could have shared this moment in the waking world." She guided him to the edge of the firelight, where they found a tent made from canvas draped over a wooden A-shaped frame. The cross-poles on both ends of the tent featured elaborately carved dragon heads, much like those found on the prows of Viking longboats. Inside the tent the rhythmical drumbeat faded away as they found a bed with a wooden frame carved in a similar manner and topped with a feather mattress covered with linen sheets and fur blankets. She kissed him again as his eyes widened in understanding. "I am yours, Harry, in this and all worlds. Let me give you this to remember me by, and I will be waiting for you in Asgard."
They helped each other remove their armour and clothing before climbing naked into the bed. Lovingly, passionately, they explored each other, finding each other's sensitive spots, before finally joining together as one. They revelled in each other's touch, finding the love and joy they were both denied in the waking world, before at long last they found themselves lying side by side in each other's arms, her head resting comfortably upon his chest.
They lay silently for some time, his hand gently stroking her hair. Neither of them were quite ready to speak yet, as that would mean that their time together was drawing to a close. At length, though, they both knew that the time was nearing.
"I love you, Hermione," Harry whispered before kissing her lips.
"I love you too," she replied, giving him a melancholy smile. "I'm missing you already."
"Still wish I could stay here with you," he said.
"Me too. It's not up to us though." She paused for a moment before speaking again. "I need to tell you, there is one more who loves you as I do," she said carefully.
He gave her a confused look. "What are you saying?"
She shook her head. "You'll know when the time is right," she said. "Knowing who it is won't do you any good until then, and may actually cause you unneeded distractions. When the time comes, though, know that I approve. You will need her, and I'll be waiting for you both in Asgard."
He frowned. "I really don't want to think about anyone else," he said. "You're the only girl I want."
"I know," she smiled. "And thank you for that. I had to tell you now because I don't believe there will be another opportunity for me to do so, and I don't want you to ignore it when it happens. Don't worry about it for now, but do be ready for it. It's still some time in the future for you, though."
"Okay," he sighed. "I do need to know something, though. If this is the afterlife, or near enough, why does it all seem so, well, Viking? Aren't we British, not Scandinavian?"
She gave him a fond smile. "I really wish you'd taken Ancient Runes with me instead of wasting your time in Divination," she said. "All of our magic began with runes. While there is definitely some Roman influence, especially with many of the incantations we're taught, the runic influence is far and away the strongest. You can find it in the wand movements, in the arithmancy, and literally in any permanently enchanted object, such as your broom. And the runes we use begin with the Elder Futhark. Wounded by a spear, the Allfather hung himself from the branches of Yggdrasil for nine nights with no food or drink, and at the end received a sacred vision of the runes. He took the knowledge of the runes and their accompanying power for himself, experiencing unimaginable agony as he did so, and bestowed them upon the people as a gift, granting us the usage of magic. Though the British magicals no longer honour him, the gift yet remains, and so long as it does those of us whose blood hails from there are subject to his will and his influence and his favour. While we are now established British families, the Potters and Grangers both originate from Norman France. Our first ancestors on these shores came across with William the Conqueror. And years before the Norman invasion, the Norsemen invaded and settled Northern France, eventually becoming known as the Normans. So you see, our bloodlines originate in Scandinavia and are thus subject to the Norse traditions rather than the Celtic. Neville is the same as us, except that his ancestors were the Danes."
Harry nodded his understanding and lapsed once more into silence. Their time was near its end and he wanted to savour her presence for as long as possible.
At last they slowly, reluctantly parted and climbed out of the bed. Just as they had helped each other with removing their armour, so too did they help each other put it back on. Once they were dressed again, Hermione led him back outside, the tent fading behind them.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
"Take up your weapons, my love," she said. "I must leave you now, but your time in this world is not yet complete. You must pass through the darkness in order to be reborn. Follow in the footsteps of the Allfather. Your axe is blessed by him, but it is not your only weapon. You no longer need a wand to use your magic, but neither is it your only weapon. Though both are formidable, your greatest weapons are your mind and your heart. Face your trials with courage. Whether you live or die does not matter, only how you meet your battles matters." She kissed him once more. "I love you, my Harry, never forget that."
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
He glanced over at the one-eyed figure in the night and felt something akin to approval coming from him. Turning towards the man, he deliberately and carefully bowed deep in a show of respect. "Thank you," he said. He looked once more to the brunette girl who owned his heart even in death. "I love you too, Hermione."
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
She smiled at him once more before fading away. A moment later the other winged, armoured women disappeared as well. The one-eyed man looked down at one of the wolves at his side and nodded. The wolf trotted over and sat beside Harry, and the Allfather vanished into the night along with the other wolf and the ravens. Only the mysterious figure slowly beating the drum remained.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
Unsure of what he was supposed to do next, he reached down and scratched the wolf behind the ears as he held the axe in same hand with which he gripped the leather strap of his shield.
The wolf walked towards the tree, stopping once to look back at Harry with an expectant gaze. He took the axe into his free hand and followed, seeing no other indicator of where he should go. As they neared the enormous roots, the sheer size of the tree became more apparent. Between two of the roots, both of which joined the trunk at a point higher than the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall of Hogwarts, a stone lintel arched over a curved double-door, easily wide enough to accommodate ten men marching side by side, and twice as tall as it was wide. The stonework was carven with intricate knot-work and fanciful creatures, interspersed on either side with sconces bearing flickering torches.
Harry grasped one of the iron rings on the doors, blackened with age, and pulled. Expecting significant resistance from the massive door, he was surprised to find that it swung open with ease. The wolf entered in without hesitation and he followed after.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
He glanced back through the open door and saw the enigmatic drummer standing by the fire facing him. There was no other indication that the figure had moved at all beyond the steady striking of the drumhead. Turning back to the path that led down deeper into the earth, he put all thought of the drummer out of his mind.
A pair of braziers flared to life on either side of the doorway, followed by a row of torches in iron sconces bolted to the stone walls behind each brazier. High overhead, suspended from a chain, hung a chandelier fashioned from a large iron hoop with a score of up-ended goat horns bracketed to the outside. Each horn held a candle that lit in sequence with the rest of the lights in the hall. Two more braziers framed an archway at the far end of the hall.
The dim light revealed a flagstone floor, many of the pavers cracked and uneven. Moss and vines grew up the crumbling walls, obscuring weathered relief carvings engraved thereupon. Rough-hewn timbers anchored in iron brackets crossed the space overhead, providing support for the crumbling ceiling high above them. Several piles of rubble dotted the floor from where parts of the ceiling had collapsed.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The steady drumbeat did not grow any louder, but it now sounded as if the tree itself was the drum. The beat filled the air, and Harry could swear he felt the rhythmic pulse in the air, could feel his heartbeat changing to match the steady, inexorable cadence.
Harry made his way across the uneven surface, carefully avoiding the broken stones. Aside from the debris and the hidden reliefs, the hall was empty of anything interesting or unusual. As he stepped into the next room, more torches ignited while the lights in the entry hall began to dim and go out.
The new room was circular and looked wide enough to stretch out the basilisk he'd slain in the Chamber of Secrets. A well was built in the centre that was half the diameter of the room. Wooden beams were anchored into the sides of the well and the column rising up in its centre, forming a crude spiral staircase leading down into darkness. The column was over fifteen feet wide and held a life-sized statue on its top depicting a bearded one-eyed warrior king seated upon a throne. A magnificent spear was held in his hand, and two ravens perched upon either shoulder while a pair of wolves lay at his feet.
He gave the statue a cursory glance before descending the wooden stairs, noting how the wolves looked exactly the same as the one that padded silently at his side, and the king looked identical to the Allfather from earlier. Just as before, torches ensconced in hollowed-out alcoves lit up as they descended into the depths beneath the tree.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The sound of the drumbeat grew sharper, as of a stout, thick tree branch striking stone. Still soft and quiet, it was nevertheless enough to echo down the well.
At long last they reached the foot of the stairs and exited the well into what could only be described as a crypt. Braziers, torches, and candles lit up, illuminating a long stone hallway with niches carved in the walls containing rotted wood coffins or the wrapped mummified remains of fallen warriors. In the centre of the hallway lay a row of stone sarcophagi. A faint stench of underlying decay and malevolence filled the air.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The drumbeat thundered through the hall, and the burning lights flared with each pulse. The wolf at Harry's side began to growl deep in his throat as a pounding response sounded from within the nearest sarcophagus.
A raspy moan to his side drew his attention from the sarcophagus. Not really surprised, he stepped back as one of the mummified corpses began moving. It slowly pulled itself up to a seated position before it swung its desiccated legs off the stone slab and stood, mildewed bandages hanging from its skeletal arms and legs.
An eldritch light burned in each of its hollowed eye sockets, the shrivelled flesh of its face pulling tight against its skull in a grinning rictus. Its gaunt torso was hidden behind dusty, ragged trousers and dry-rotted leather armour over rusted chainmail. In its bony hand it held an ancient iron sword, pitted and blackened with age.
Even as the undead creature stepped forward, another skeletal arm protected by a cracked leather bracer punched through the side of a wooden coffin resting in the niche above that of the first creature. Harry had no more time to notice anything else as he brought his shield up to deflect a downward blow from the sword the undead warrior wielded.
Despite its blow being knocked wide, the warrior swung its gauntlet-clad fist around in an attempt to punch the young man. Accustomed to his cousin Dudley using him for boxing practiced, he had no trouble dodging the blow. As he ducked under the creature's fist he swung his axe towards its thigh. As its flesh had long since withered away, there was effectively nothing protecting the femur from Harry's blade. The steel axe head bit deep into the leg, and the force of the blow splintered the bone the rest of the way. As it collapsed it still attempted to swing its blade around, but Harry slammed his boot down on its arm before it could bring its weapon to bear. He followed up by bringing his shield up over his head and smashing the banded metal edge down on the creature's face. Its skull split in half in a spray of dust and bone fragments.
By that time the next half-dozen were upon him and the pounding on the sarcophagus was more forceful. Cracks had begun to appear in the life-sized stone carving of the warrior in repose that adorned the lid. Harry ducked, blocked, parried, and attacked with both axe and shield, decimating the ranks of the undead warriors. The wolf fought as well with tooth and claw, tripping his opponents and snapping bones with his powerful jaws and neck.
The lid of the sarcophagus exploded in a shower of stone flakes and shards before another undead warrior arose from within. Just as desiccated as the others, this one wore a steel helm, breastplate, tassets, gauntlets, and greaves. As it climbed out of the stone coffin, it pulled a massive two-handed great sword out with it.
"Fuck," Harry grumbled.
His eyes widened in surprise and he leapt out of the way as the creature raised its hand, dragging the sword in its other, and launched a wordless reducto at him. The spell missed, but Harry barely had enough time to get his shield up before the sword crashed down upon it.
The force of the blow would have driven him to his knees if he hadn't already been there. As it was, his whole arm briefly went numb from the impact. The warrior swung the sword back to prepare for the next blow, and the young men immediately went for the initiative. Lunging forward, he smashed the flat of his shield into the creature's face, once, twice, thrice, knocking it off balance and closing with it each time it stepped back only for him to hit it again. After the third impact to its face he suddenly shifted his shield down, his axe already in motion. The blade swung true and hit the creature in the neck, cutting most of the way through and severing the spine completely. The force of the impact sent the head flying, ripping the remaining scraps of dried-out sinew and withered flesh from its roots as it hurtled across the hall.
The next several hours were a blur of swinging metal, jarring impacts, growls, groans, flying body parts, and an ever-deepening full body ache. The hand that held his axe felt like his entire palm was just one giant blister, and the leather straps of his shield had long ago rubbed his other palm and inside forearm raw. He fought his way through scores of undead warriors and champions, descending deeper and deeper underground through a maze of catacombs, ritual chambers, arenas, amphitheatres, abandoned living quarters, and forgotten shrines. All the long while the wolf stalked his prey at his side, fighting the undead and guiding him through the twisting passages. Not knowing how many waves of undead warriors he'd be facing, he used his magic sparingly – though it flowed much smoother than he'd ever felt, even without using a wand.
The deeper they went, the less finished the various rooms appeared, until at last they looked to be simply hewn from the rock with uneven, hard-packed dirt floors. Myriad tree roots grew out from the walls, floors, and overhead, ranging from less than an inch in diameter to several feet across. Crude wooden scaffolding lashed together with ropes braced the walls and ceiling instead of the flagstone and mortar construction at the beginning of the labyrinth. The only sources of illumination now were torches in the simplest of sconces and strange glowing mushrooms growing on the slick rocks. The humidity in the close corridors was significantly higher, making the cool air damp and clammy. And still the path sloped ever downward, winding through rock and rubble. Fortunately, the crypts of undead warriors were much less numerous. Unfortunately, the path leading down grew even rougher and steeper.
The corridor closed in so that they could no longer walk side by side, and the roof nearly brushed the top of his head. Some of the moss-covered roots actually did so. The heady aroma of moist earth filled his nostrils. The sound of the drumbeat had petered off by now, but the steady thump, thump, thump, pause could be felt down to his very core. There were no more torches down here, just that eerie pale glow from the strange fungi.
The corridor kept going down, and no creature, undead or otherwise, appeared to block the way. Harry used the opportunity to cast some basic healing spells at his hands, repairing the damage and easing the aches.
The air turned noticeably colder several minutes before the narrow tunnel opened onto a ledge high up in a natural cavern. There was no actual path down to the cave's floor, but a series of old rockslides allowed an uncertain way of descent, at least for those light on their feet. The wolf did not hesitate as he stepped onto the pile of earth and rock and gingerly made his way down. Harry reluctantly followed suit.
A half-frozen waterfall cascaded into a pool on the other side of the chamber, the spray leaving a thin coat of ice on the surrounding stones and boulders. The edges of the pool were likewise girdled with an uneven ice shelf. While there were knobs of limestone where in ages past stalactites and stalagmites had started to grow, they now wore a shell of glittering ice, even forming columns in the areas closest to the waterfall.
The cavern narrowed at the far end, and in the middle of the floor was a wide raised dais carved from the floor of the cave itself, flanked by four braziers – one at each corner. Upon the dais stood an enormous statue, easily dwarfing Hagrid's half-brother Grawp, of a humanoid figure with long, gangly but powerful arms and a grotesque oversized head. The creature appeared to be covered with fur over most of its body with thick shaggy hair growing from its scalp, jaw, and chin. Protruding canine teeth grew up from its lower jaw, giving its ugly face an even more dangerous appearance. Long claw-like nails sprung from its fingers and toes. As brutishly stupid as it looked, it must have had a modicum of intelligence if the kilt it wore was at all a measure of such.
Harry sincerely hoped he would not have to face such a creature. It looked like it could flatten him simply by stepping upon him.
The air was absolutely frigid by the time they reached the statue, and they could feel occasional gusts of wind. The air even smelled cold. After a few more twists and turns down the passage on the other side they began to see snow on the ground, and they at last came to the mouth of a cave leading out onto the slope of a deep snow-draped rift between two towering jagged mountain ranges. Above was a cloudless night sky with millions of bright stars twinkling overhead in strange constellations he'd never before seen.
There were just a few snow-covered spruce and pine trees around the cave entrance, but deeper in the valley they merged with a large forest of primarily birch. A frozen river cut through the forest and meandered across the sloping valley floor until it reached the other end where it emptied into a dark expanse of water that disappeared along with the mountain ridges into the darkness of the far horizon. Near the shoreline was was a huge bonfire – even from this distance Harry could tell that it was built from entire tree trunks with their limbs shorn off, stacked with the top ends together in a tent-like structure. Several shadowy figures could be seen moving around the fire, though the distance was too far to make out any details. As best as he could tell, though, they were a match to that terrifying statue back in the cave. And based on the size of the tree trunks in the fire, that statue was indeed life-sized. He gave an involuntary shudder. He had no desire to meet just one of those giants, let alone the five or six he could just make out around the fire.
It seemed that the wolf had similar thoughts. Turning away from the bonfire, he began walking down towards the snowy taiga forest at the head of the valley. As the cave was above the treetops of the main forest below, Harry could see the ice walls of a glacier glittering in the starlight on the other side of the forest. Harry followed in the wolf's wake, pausing only when he realised that a gigantic dark shadow emerging from the craggy heights far overhead and winding down the slope to disappear into the forest below was in fact a tree root. The enormity of it told him that it could only be a root of the colossal tree he'd seen earlier tonight with Hermione – yet he couldn't see even a hint of the tree from where he stood.
The wolf paused and looked back at him reproachfully, so he tore his eyes away from the enormous root and hurriedly caught up to his companion. There was no trail, but the wolf seemed to know where he was going. As they neared the taiga forest, it was apparent that the root was at least a hundred feet in diameter. Most of it was partially buried, but as they slipped into the shadows of the forest and moved closer, they found that there was at least one point where it had grown out of the ground enough to create an overhang deep enough to act as a partial shelter.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
The drumbeat could be heard again, now sounding the same as when he'd first heard it. Up ahead through the trees in the shelter provided under the root of Yggdrasil he could see the glow of a small fire. The wolf padded straight towards it, and as they drew close Harry could see that it was a campfire with a pot of stew hanging over it from a frame. Behind the fire, nestled up against the root, was a squat cylindrical structure made of quarried rock stacked maybe four feet high.
Off to one side, sitting on a log that apparently served as a bench, was an ancient-looking man whose weathered, wrinkled countenance and long white beard made even Dumbledore look young. He wore a weathered leather vest over a rough homespun tunic and trousers, and what little of his neck was visible revealed a nasty scar that as far as Harry could see went all the way around. Suddenly the hated scar on his own forehead didn't seem so bad anymore.
Behind the seated man stood the same mysterious figure with the elk skull mask, beating the same drum in that same inexorable pattern.
Thump, thump, thump, pause.
Not saying a word, Harry took a seat across the fire on the empty log lying there. The wolf yawned and lay in front of him, resting his jaw against Harry's foot.
"Welcome, lad," the old man whispered. His voice sounded as old and as dusty as he appeared. "You need not your arms in this place."
Harry nodded his head respectfully and carefully lay the axe and shield on the bare ground beside him.
"You have followed in the footsteps of Odin," the old man went on. "You have crossed blades with countless draugr and earned the respect of Freki." He gestured towards the wolf. "Why have you come so far and braved so much to speak with old Mimir?"
Harry held his tongue for a moment. A flippant or ignorant answer would probably not be appreciated. Why was he here? Sure, Hermione had told him to come, and he could feel the approval of that great one-eyed being she called the Allfather, but he couldn't say that he was only here because they told him to come. What did he want?
And with that question the answer appeared to him in a flash.
"Justice," he said.
The old man gave him a shrewd look. "Justice, eh? Sure you don't mean vengeance?"
He again was silent as he collected his thoughts. An immediate denial would surely be seen as confirmation of guilt, yet if he was perfectly honest he could not actually deny such a desire. In the end he decided that honesty was the best way.
"I do have to acknowledge a certain desire for vengeance," he admitted. "But do the two have to be mutually exclusive?" He had suffered injustice after injustice for his entire life, and frankly he was sick of it. Being targeted by an insane terrorist, suffering at the hands and fists of his so-called relatives, year after year of being expected to take care of all those crises initiated by Voldemort or his followers – and all the while suffering further abuse from bullies amongst both students and staff while the headmaster and the rest of the staff doing nothing to prevent it… well, he'd had a gutful. And yet, even then, he'd have been content to simply disappear at the earliest opportunity and let them rot.
It wasn't until his godfather, friends, and the girl he loved were pointlessly murdered by those terrorists that he felt he had to do something. They should have all been locked up if not executed years ago, but the fucking politicians did not have the will to do what needed to be done. Many, in fact, were perfectly happy to look the other way so long as the gold continued to flow into their pockets.
It was clear to him that the pureblood bigotry that lay at the root of all this corruption was not just a cancer in their society, it was gangrenous. Everything it touched was infected, dead, and rotting. Yes, he wanted vengeance, but he desperately needed justice that would never come from either the government or the society itself.
Mimir smiled. "No they do not," he agreed. "What is important is that you know yourself and that you are honest about it."
Harry let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.
The old man climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. "Come," he said. "I offer knowledge and wisdom. If you accept you will pay a high price, but you will gain what you need to accomplish your task. Only you can tell if it is worth the cost or not."
The young wizard arose to his feet as well, trepidation in his heart but determined to see it through. He followed the old man to the well nestled against the enormous root.
"Odin himself stood where you now stand," Mimir said. "He too wanted the knowledge and wisdom provided by drinking from my well, and he too paid the price." He gestured to the waters. "Look inside and see.
He peered into the stone bowl, which seemed much deeper than it should be. He swore that he could see stars shining deep in its depths. The waters suddenly rippled, and the image of a vibrant blue eye shimmered into view, filling the bowl with its intense gaze before disappearing again.
A chill went up his spine as he realised the price Odin had paid and understood that he was being asked to pay the same.
"If that be the price," he muttered, "then so mote it be." The only thing that mattered anymore was destroying his enemies so thoroughly that they'd have no hope whatsoever of recovery. Whether or not he survived at all was irrelevant.
Closing his eyes, he focused his magic on left eye until he could feel the very nerves, blood vessels, and muscles that held the orb in place. Carefully numbing the nerves, including the thick optic nerve that went directly to the brain, he detached the tiny muscles from the sclera before severing the optic nerve and the tiny blood vessels it contained. He quickly sealed the blood vessels shut to prevent bleeding and proceeded to pop the eyeball out of his head, letting it hover in place as he opened his remaining eye. With only a thought, he levitated it to the well and dropped it into the clear, dark water. The surface rippled as the orb hit and bobbed up and down a few times before shimmering away out of sight.
Mimir smiled again and picked up an ornate drinking horn fashioned form the horn of an ox and banded with bronze. He dipped the horn into the well and offered it to Harry. "You may drink," he said.
The water was cool and refreshing, and almost like drinking light. Icy warmth spread throughout his body, washing away the aches, pains, and injuries of his journey through the catacombs – save for his missing eye. He could honestly say this was the best he'd ever felt short of lying in Hermione's intimate embrace.
Along with his physical rejuvenation came knowledge and understanding. The flows of magic, the secrets of the runes, the lore of the North, even the ways of the animals and trees, the earth and stars, all lay bare before him.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
The change of cadence and abrupt ending of the drumbeat immediately drew his gaze to the mysterious figure standing in the shadows behind the wizened old man. The drummer, however, was facing out into the snow-filled valley behind him and in the process of kneeling down on one knee. He completed his turn and saw an old warrior standing in the entrance of the shelter leaning on a long spear. With a start Harry realised that this was the same ghostly being he'd seen in the sky earlier tonight, the one Hermione called the Allfather. And was the same stranger he'd seen on the train platform after disembarking the Hogwarts Express.
He hurriedly dropped to one knee, bowing his head and resting his fist on the ground.
"Rise, lad," a warm, powerful voice said.
Harry lifted his face to the warrior's and slowly rose to his feet.
"You have assuredly proven your worth," the Allfather went on. "I saw your heart before you ever re-entered the world of your birth, and I watched as you grew up and became the young warrior you are today. Your courage, your determination to do the right thing, your steadfast resoluteness in the face of adversity has been truly inspiring. You have been tested by the trials of your life and have never once been found wanting, and you have now been tested in direct combat as well."
The young man remained on his feet but bowed his head respectfully. It was nice to receive some acknowledgement and recognition for what he'd actually accomplished in life, though so much of it was unnecessary.
Odin stepped forward and lay a weathered hand upon his shoulder. "If you be willing, young warrior, you will be my Champion and the Hand of my Judgment upon your world. While you are worthy, they have been found wanting."
"What of Hermione?" Harry asked quietly. "I don't think I'll make it far without her."
The old warrior smiled. "I understand, lad. She yearns for you just as you do for her. She cannot return to the mortal world, yet in this world of dreams you may still meet. Rest easy, my son. You will not remain separated from her forever, this I pledge."
He nodded, his head still lowered. "I will be your Champion," he whispered.
"Very good." Odin's voice was pleased. "Hold out your hand then."
Harry extended his hand, and the older man lay the edge of his spear across his palm before placing his own hand across the opposite edge of the blade. Pressing down, Odin drew the spear from between their hands, slicing both palms open. He immediately clasped their bloody hands together. "By Gungnir, you are now blood of my blood," he said. "All bindings on you are released, and all contracts on you are void. You are subject now to none but me. Your truename from this moment forth is Harold Odinson. Keep it safe, and let none bind you against your will."
He could feel the energy pulsing through his veins as every aspect of himself was cleansed and reborn, going even deeper than drinking from Mimir's well did. All the old scars were wiped away as if they'd never been, including the scars that crisscrossed his back from where Vernon Dursley had beaten him as a child, as well as the scar from when the basilisk had bitten him in the Chamber of Secrets. Most importantly, the hated scar that had adorned his forehead for almost his entire life was gone without a trace.
"Thank you, milord," he said.
The old warrior handed him an iron medallion hanging from a leather cord. "Wear this at all times," he said. "It bears my symbol as well as that of your shield-maiden. It is to remind you of our presence in your life, that you will always have us with you."
Harry held up the galleon-sized pendant and examined it. In the centre was an array of three tightly-linked triangles surrounded by a pair of flared wings rising above a staff.
"The Valknut and the Sigil of the Valkyries," Odin explained.
Harry nodded and looped the leather cord around his neck.
"Rest now," the Allfather directed. "When you awaken, your true battle will begin. Stay strong, stay resolute, and do not underestimate your enemies."
"Thank you," he replied with a bow. He walked over the pile of blankets and furs indicated by his newly-adoptive father and proceeded to lie down. Freki padded over and lay down beside him, and within moments he was asleep.
***EoD***
He awoke the next morning in his bed with a throbbing, pounding headache sending jolts of agony bursting through his skull and no clear memory of how he got there. Groaning, he pressed his hands against his temples in either a futile attempt to quell the agony or a marginally more successful attempt to keep his head from exploding, he wasn't quite sure which.
It took him several long moments to realise that he could not see with his left eye.
With that realisation, his dream came crashing back into his memory. Seeing her again ripped at his heart, but he was nevertheless grateful that she'd been in his dream. She'd looked amazing in her shield-maiden's armour, and absolutely divine out of it.
Perhaps the dream was more real than he'd originally thought.
God, he hoped so.
That would mean he actually spoke with her last night, was actually with her.
Another memory jolted through him and he grabbed at his chest. His fingers closed around an iron medallion hanging from his neck by a leather cord. He closed his eyes with a pained smile, not needing to see it to know that he would find etched upon it three interwoven triangles flanked by a pair of outspread wings.
It was real. All of it.
He slowly sat up, hoping to minimise the throbbing in his skull, but each movement sent new waves of pain and nausea rippling through his body. He grimly pushed through his discomfort and turned so that he was sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs hanging over the side.
"Dobby," he croaked through dry, cracked lips.
The sad-eyed little elf appeared with a faint pop that still managed to crash around in his head in a furious echo. "Here be's Master Harry's hangover potion," Dobby whispered, so low that Harry could barely hear him – for which the hung-over young man was quite grateful.
As was typical with magical potions, the thick liquid was lumpy, gritty, and disgusting. It tasted somewhat like what Harry imagined licking a toilet bowl clean might taste like, but not as pleasant. As was also typical with magical potions, though, the intended effects were instant and complete. The drum-like throbbing and pressure in his head both evaporated like mist as the vision in his right eye cleared. Even his dried-out mouth and throat felt rejuvenated.
"Thanks, Dobby," he said, his voice normal again. He stood and walked over to the bathroom where he rinsed the rancid aftertaste of the potion from his mouth. While there he took the opportunity to see what was going on with his left eye.
After that dream he half-expected there to be a gaping eye socket where his eye once dwelt, but he was relieved to see that it was still there – it had just been transformed into a solid white sphere instead. Stoically accepting the partial loss of his vision, he splashed some water on his face, grabbed a towel, and dried off.
When he went back into the bed chamber, he realised that he'd completely missed the massive wolf calmly sitting on the other side of his bed. Dobby stared at the animal nervously, but as it made no threatening movements the little elf bravely stood his ground.
The wolf was identical to the one who had guided him down through the crypt of the colossal ash tree in that strange dream last night – the one the old man at the well had called "Freki." He somehow was not surprised when he also saw the same war axe he'd wielded resting on top of his trunk, alongside the shield, leather armour, and bracers.
He reached out and lay his hand on the haft of his axe, nearly jerking it away again when he felt an unexpected pulse of welcoming energy, not unlike the one he'd experienced when he held his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand for the first time. He lifted the axe and twisted it around in his grip, rotating the carved steel blade so that he could clearly see the Norse runes and weaves engraved upon it.
If he could have seen himself as Dobby and the wolf did, he would have actually been surprised at his appearance. His posture was straighter and held a confidence that he'd never before shown. There was also a steely glint in his emerald-green eye that spoke of relentless determination and the destruction of all who stood against him.
The moment passed and he lay the axe back down, but the warrior's aura about him remained. "Dobby," he said. His voice was stronger than it had been in weeks.
"Yes, Master Harry?"
"I need an eyepatch," he said. "Black leather will do, I should think."
"Then Master Harry be's looking just like a pirate!" the little house elf exclaimed. "Dobby can be's doing this." Without another word he disappeared.
"Thank you, my friend." He looked over at the wolf, wondering for a moment how he was going to take care of him and feed him. As soon as he made eye contact with the magnificent animal, Freki stood on all fours and walked around the bed towards him. He nuzzled his head into Harry's palm and the young man gave him a scratch behind the ears. Something told him then that the wolf could take care of himself.
Dobby popped back in holding the requested eyepatch. Thanking the little elf again, Harry accepted it and fastened it around his head over his blind eye. He went ahead and put the bracers on but not the rest of the armour, opting instead to wear one of Dudley's old black t-shirts, jeans, and belt. A reparo on each item, followed by a careful shrinking charm, and they were effectively brand-new and sized right.
"Let's get some breakfast," Harry said as he fastened his belt.
Dobby nodded vigorously. "Master Harry be's going to dining room," he said. "Dobby be's bringing goodly breakfast for Master Harry."
"And also for yourself," Harry said firmly.
"And also for Dobby," the elf agreed. "Be's nice wolfie needing anything?"
Harry looked down at Freki. "I think he'd rather hunt for himself," he said.
"As Master Harry be's saying," Dobby said, not without a little relief.
"And could you please bring me the Daily Prophets for the last couple of weeks?" the young man asked. "It's time to start planning the next move."
Dobby agreed before popping away to prepare breakfast. It was good to see Master Harry moving with a sense of purpose again. He just wished the young master could smile again instead of looking like a warrior preparing for a battle he didn't expect to survive.
He felt different after breakfast and a shower, having had time to eat and reflect. He felt cleansed, more focused, powerful… all that and more. Seeing the girl he loved in that dream beyond a dream turned out to be healing for him in ways he wouldn't have thought possible. Talking with her, holding her in his arms, kissing her soft lips, making love with her in that fur-covered bed – promises of what yet awaited them once he finished his divinely-appointed task and joined her in Asgard. The thought of the other woman – whoever she might be – concerned him still, but he ultimately agreed with his love that it didn't matter at the moment. His focus needed to remain on his task at hand, not on a potential lover.
He was still pissed off at Dumbledore for denying him from attending Hermione's funeral. The headmaster apparently had no regard or care for those under his supposed authority – his attitude was such that he expected people to obey him instantly and without question, regardless of their personal feelings.
"It's for your safety, Harry my boy," the old man would say, or "It's for your own good." God, he was sick of listening to the bearded bloviator. It was always something that inevitably resulted in his continued imprisonment.
It was long past time that he visited his love's gravesite and paid his respects. Dumbledore's behaviour in this matter, as with others, was unforgivable. He hadn't even told Harry where Hermione was buried.
Fortunately, Harry's new-found clairvoyance told him exactly where her body rested.
"Dobby," he called.
The little elf popped into view a moment later. "Master Harry be's calling?"
He knelt down beside his friend. "I'm going to go say goodbye to Hermione," he said quietly. "I'd like to take some flowers but I can't really go out and look – as much as I hate to agree with the old goat he is right that it's dangerous to be out and about. Would you mind…?"
Dobby nodded solemnly. "Dobby can be's doing that," he interrupted. "Dobby be's putting together pretty floweries for Mistress Minee. Be's missing her bunchies too."
"Thanks, Dobs. I appreciate it." He clasped the elf's shoulder before rising to his feet. Dobby threw his arms around Harry's knees for a moment before he popped away.
His wardrobe, unfortunately, was limited. In the end, he settled on part of his school uniform – white shirt, black trousers, and Gryffindor tie.
Hedwig observed him from her perch as he dressed, and she hooted softly.
"Of course you can come," Harry replied. He finished tying the Half-Windsor knot in his tie, forming a perfect triangle with a dimple at the bottom, and walked over to his familiar where he gently rubbed her head. His owl had always been willing and eager to carry mail between Hermione and her parents. She hooted sadly and he nodded. "Yeah, I miss her too." He leaned over and nuzzled her neck, and she gently nipped at his ear.
The massive dire wolf lay watching the two, his head laying on his front paws. If he was jealous of the rapport between the boy and his owl he did not show the slightest indication. Even so, Harry turned to look at him as he stroked Hedwig's feathers. "You're welcome to come along too," he said.
Freki rose to his feet and padded across the floor, polished floorboards groaning with each step, and butted Harry's shoulder with his head. He reached up with his free hand and rubbed the wolf's ears as his thoughts again turned towards his lost love.
He still felt the pain of her absence in his heart, but the numb hollow feeling that had threatened to consume him was no longer there. Knowing that she was waiting for him, knowing that she was watching him, that made all the difference.
Dobby popped back in a few minutes later with an exquisite flower arrangement almost as large as himself clutched in his hands. He presented it to Harry, explaining the flower choices as he did so. Set in greenery and accented with baby's-breath, the arrangement held red roses in the centre, reflecting love. Surrounding the roses were purple irises for wisdom, strength, and courage; and purple gladiolus for strength, honour, moral integrity, charm, grace, nobility, and beauty.
"It's perfect, Dobby," Harry whispered. "How did you know?"
The elf looked up at the young wizard with his large eyes. "Dobby be's knowing and keeping Master Harry's secrets," he said. "Dobby also be's knowing how you'se feel 'bout Mistress Minee and be's feeling samely, and so's pretty floweries must be's saying everything what we's being rembering of pretty Mistress Minee."
"Thank you," Harry said. With Hedwig perched on his shoulder and one hand on Freki's head, he placed his other hand on Dobby's head. Closing his remaining eye, he stretched out with his senses, concentrating on her gravesite. Even though he'd never been there before, the shape of a black granite headstone topped with a carven angel began to take form in his mind's eye. He knew that this was the place he was looking for. When the image in his mind became almost tangible to the touch, he willed that he was there. In the blink of an eye he'd disappeared from the Black townhouse.
Hermione's body was laid to rest in a small, tree-lined section on the north side of Snell Hatch Cemetery in Crawley, separated from the rest of the cemetery by a shoulder-high hedgerow that was broken only by an arbour. The vine-covered archway was the chief entry-point of that particular section, though a small utility gate at the northeast corner allowed access for hearses and the groundskeeper through the West Green neighbourhood with the unlikely name of The Dingle.
Harry and his companions silently appeared out of thin air just a few feet from the polished black granite tombstone bearing her name in embossed gold lettering. He felt his good eye begin to water as the reality of her loss threatened to overwhelm him once more.
This time, though, he felt a strong sense of comfort with a decidedly feminine aura wash over him, almost as if his love stood beside him with her arms wrapped around him.
Dobby handed the arrangement to Harry without a word, and the young wizard gently laid it upon the shallow mound of earth at the base of the headstone. "I miss you," he whispered. Hedwig hooted mournfully from his shoulder while Dobby clung to his leg, fat tears sliding down the little elf's cheeks as he silently wept. Even Freki bowed his great head in respect.
Before they left, Harry set up some simple intent-based perimeter charms around the grave. He didn't want to set up too much in a non-magical area, especially since her parents were likely to be frequent visitors, but at the same time wanted to ensure that if anyone did happen to stop by with less-than-benign intentions he would receive an immediate alert.
***AN***
Before anyone asks: yes, I took inspiration from Skyrim in this chapter.
Soundtrack:
12 Grimmauld Place: Nesso by Heilung
Dreamscape: Deyja by Munknörr
Loving Hermione: Gudernes Vilje by Myrkur
Descent Through Yggdrasil: Kala by Danheim
Well of Mimir: Jötunheimr by Gealdýr
Adoption: Odin by Faun