Chapter Thirteen
The sun was sinking in the sky of Christmas Day—the candy-floss colors of light pink and blue stretched across the sky over Harry. He leaned against the tent entrance and took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the sun’s last rays sparkling on the snowy hillside ought to have been the greatest treasure on Earth, and yet Harry could not appreciate it. To be alive…to live…it was not enough...
And now it seemed that his senses were heightened by the calamity of losing his wand. He looked out over the valley blanketed in snow, distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.
And then a voice chirped from within his pocket, “Harry? Hello, Harry?”
Harry couldn’t help it—he smiled.
He withdrew the swirling two-way mirror from his pocket and tapped it with Hermione’s wand. She had gone into the village nearby under the Invisibility Cloak and insisted Harry keep the wand. They had had a brief row in which Harry said she ought to stay in the tent today or take the wand, and Hermione had stuck out her chin and said she was going into town and Harry was to keep the wand. The sharp light of her brown eyes made Harry pause, and Hermione had taken advantage; rushing out of the tent and down the hill, with only her footprints in the snow visible to Harry.
Now Harry held the mirror in one hand, Hermione’s wand in the other, and looked at the smiling cherub face of Teddy Lupin.
The toddler’s hair immediately became black and untidy, a lightning scar appearing on his forehead, and his eyes shifted to the bright green of spring leaves. Harry found himself marveling for a moment on those eyes—they were what those who knew his mother Lily always lingered on when they looked at Harry. They were indeed beautiful eyes.
“Hello Teddy,” Harry said, “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas!” Teddy replied, bouncing eagerly. Harry saw that he was sitting on the sofa in 12 Grimmauld Place. Beside him were Remus and Sirius; they each smiled at Harry and waved a hand, but did not speak. Harry saw their eyes seemed slightly clouded over, and could not blame them for it.
“Good lot this year?” Harry made himself ask.
Teddy nodded, “I got Coloring Quills!” He turned to Remus and said, “Hold the mirror, Dad,” in a very serious tone. Remus did, smiling, his eyes focused quickly and then began to twinkle with mirth as Teddy showed off his new knitted Christmas jumper for Harry.
It was turquoise, same as Teddy’s jumper from last year, but now there were a knitted row of initials: T.M.B.L. Teddy Marrok Black Lupin.
“Ayala and Diana got jumpers too!” Teddy said, “And Andy and Tonks and Fleur and Bill—"
“Molly made one for you and Hermione as well,” Remus’ voice carried to Harry from behind the mirror as Teddy beamed, patting his jumper and exclaiming, “It’s soft!”
Harry smiled back, “That’s brill, Teddy. And tell her thank you for us, will you, Remus?”
Sirius spoke this time, his voice slightly urgent and hoarse, “Moony and I could come bring them to you, Harry, and a new wand maybe, we could nick one—”
“Give him time,” Harry heard Remus whisper to Sirius.
Sirius sighed, and Harry knew without seeing that Sirius was running his hand through his long black hair, “Alright,” Sirius said back, voice low.
Teddy was speaking again, “Snow, Harry?”
Harry realized Teddy had noticed the snow around the tent and he nodded, resting the mirror on his bent knee to scoop up a handful of snow, “That’s right. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
Teddy nodded, eyes wide (Harry’s eyes), “I miss snow…” he breathed. He looked at Harry’s hand holding the snowball almost hungrily.
Harry’s smile, weak as it already was, fell. London hardly ever got proper snow, of course, but even so, Teddy hadn’t left Headquarters since Bill and Fleur’s wedding. And that was five months ago. Five months of being cooped up indoors with no other children to play with, no teenagers even at the very least. Harry felt guilt rise thick in his throat—he’d just been brooding over his own lack of ability to appreciate the scenery around him.
But just then, the air around the tent shimmered and Harry turned to see Hermione step through the enchantments as she hastily removed the Cloak. She held a heavy parcel in one hand, wrapped in brown paper.
“Hermione’s here,” Harry said, turning back to the mirror.
“’Mione!” Teddy cried, scrambling on the sofa so to be closer to Remus who still held the mirror. As Harry angled his own mirror to reveal her, Teddy’s hair grew brown, long, and bushy, his face slightly freckled, his eyes brown.
Hermione smiled, leaning low to Harry’s mirror, “Hi there, Teddy! Happy Christmas!”
“Happy Christmas!” Teddy chirped back at once, “I miss you!”
Hermione’s smile faltered, “We miss you too, Teddy.”
“Alright, Hermione?” Sirius said from behind the mirror.
Hermione answered quickly, “Yes, we’ve got food and I think I may have found something that will help us…” she looked down at the parcel in her hand.
“I believe it is time to good-bye now, little one,” Remus murmured to the child, his face still hidden from Harry’s view, “Harry and Hermione have work to do. Please let us know if there is any news, you two.”
“Of course,” Harry said automatically, “I’ve got to go, Teddy. But talk soon, okay?”
Teddy’s features (Hermione’s) faded back to the face that was his own—turquoise curls, hazel eyes framed by sandy eyelashes, a round, pale face. He nodded, his lips downturned, “Okay, Harry.”
And Harry felt the words tumble out of him without thinking, “I love you, Teddy.”
Teddy looked up, and he reached a small hand to touch the mirror, “I love you, Harry.”
“I nicked this from a bookstore in town—but I guess, not really, I left money in the till, of course,” Hermione said while Harry boiled the water for their supper on the camp stove inside the tent.
Her voice was shaking a little, and with a timid look on her face, she lifted up out of the brown paper wrapping in her lap a pristine copy of a book. The title read: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
“Nope,” Harry said at once, “Not interested. Not a chance. No.”
She threw up her hands, “We’ve got to read it for ourselves, Harry!”
From the scant Daily Prophets that Hermione had managed to grab during their months on the run, Harry had come to know of the book written by Rita Skeeter which supposedly delved into Dumbledore’s mysterious past. When Harry asked them, Sirius and Remus had said they hadn’t read it and didn’t plan to. Sirius’ jaw had flexed at the mention of Rita and he’d listed off a string of swear words. Remus had said with a quite determined look on his face, “The past matters only on account of how it brought us to our present. Dumbledore’s past, therefore, should lie with him.”
But now Hermione spoke again, but in her old Prefect voice, the one she used to employ for scolding First Years, “I know you’re angry with Dumbledore. I’m angry at Dumbledore. But Bathilda contributed to this book, and she was important enough to be…” Hermione shivered, “to be hosted by Nagini. And we’re out of ideas now about the sword. So…maybe the answer is in here. It’s worth a try, anyway.”
Harry groaned, but he knew Hermione was right—as usual. He reached for the book, his anger now also enflamed by his curiosity. He shifted through the pages of the ‘biography’ and found a series of photographs in the middle of the book.
And then Harry saw a photograph of a young Dumbledore. He was strikingly handsome—tall and thin, with those blue eyes of his sharp and unframed by spectacles. Beside him was another handsome man, with blonde hair and a smirking grin. Harry’s mouth fell open. His eyes dropped to the picture’s caption—Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death, with his friend Gellert Grindelwald.
Harry’s eyes shot back to the magical photograph. The young Dumbledore was laughing at some joke that the young Grindelwald—young Grindelwald!—had said, and their arms were wrapped around one another’s waists. Young Grindelwald’s hand was low on the young Dumbledore’s hip. Their eyes feasted on one another, as if the photographer did not exist.
It was their eyes…the look on their faces…their arms wrapped around one another…
Harry had lived now for four years in the company of two men in love. He knew what it looked like.
Slowly, he lifted his head to stare at Hermione, “Grindelwald wasn’t his friend.”
Her brow furrowed, “I know you don’t want to believe it, Harry—”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Harry shook his head and shoved the book, the page with the photograph open to Hermione, towards her, “Look.”
She did, and then her eyes widened, “Oh my…”
“Yes,” Harry said, lifting a hand to his forehead, his fingers touched his scar, and he brought his hand back to the table with a thump. Hermione looked up at him from the page, “Dumbledore was gay.”
Harry nodded, “Seems so. Guess that’s why he was so accepting of Sirius and Remus. He knew about them and never said a word against it. Come to think of it…he never said a word in favor of them either though…”
“But he was….with Grindelwald…? Of all people!” Hermione shook her head, her mouth hanging open, “How…why…?”
Harry and Hermione found the answer in a chapter in the book entitled “The Greater Good.” The title alone seemed ominous to Harry; gooseflesh rose on the back of his neck as he read the words.
The chapter detailed how Dumbledore graduated from Hogwarts with accolades, intent on exploring Europe before establishing a mighty career for himself, when his mother unexpectedly passed. Dumbledore returned to his hometown of Godric’s Hollow—
And here Harry raged, “He never mentioned he was from the same bloody village!!”
Hermione nodded, frowning, “I know! Why didn’t he?”
They read on.
—Dumbledore returned to his home in Godric’s Hollow to care for his younger brother Aberforth and his younger sister, Ariana. The chapter delved into Ariana’s supposed ‘illness’ and her confinement within the family home. Aberforth was described as “wild and unruly”. Meanwhile, Rita described her interviews with Bathilda Bagshot, who lived next door to the Dumbledore’s. It was through Veritaserium that Bathilda told Rita of Albus’ ‘friendship’ with Gellert Grindelwald, who had been expelled from Durmstrang at sixteen for “unsightly experiments” and was sent to Godric’s Hollow to live with his great aunt. Bathilda herself had introduced the two men to one another and apparently, they had gotten on “like a cauldron on fire”—
“For Merlin’s sake!” Harry cried, “If Bathilda’s descriptions aren’t enough, that one photograph is! They weren’t just friends; they fancied each other!”
Hermione nodded and lifted her head, giving Harry a solemn, sad smile, “History hates lovers.”
“The present hates lovers,” Harry snapped, “Sirius and Remus only got married through a legal loophole. Same-sex marriage is still illegal in the U.K.”
“Not for long,” was Hermione’s curt reply.
Harry raised his eyebrows at that, but they read on. There was an excerpt of a letter that Albus had written to his lover. Harry’s stomach roiled as he read, his disgust overpowering his outrage.
“Gellert—
Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES OWN GOOD—this, I think is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power, and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled…we seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD….
Albus.”
Harry read on, his anger and loathing like a storm within him, as Rita described how Ariana’s death drove Grindelwald and Dumbledore apart—never to meet again until their legendary duel. How neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever mentioned their ‘friendship’. “How Ariana died is a mystery,” Rita wrote, “but is it possible that Ariana Dumbledore was the first person to die for the greater good?”
Hermione spoke quietly, “They were really young, Harry. And love…it makes people blind.”
“They are the same age we are now,” Harry said, straining to keep his voice steady.
“He changed, Harry! He changed! It’s as simple as that! It’s what Remus said, isn’t it? The past can bury us, if we let it, and the past only matters on account of how it brought us to our present!”
“Oh, so he got a wake-up call, is that it?” Harry snarled, rising from his chair and beginning to pace, “And what if he hadn’t?”
Hermione shook her head, her jaw tight, “It doesn’t matter, Harry. And I’m sorry, I really am, but I think the real reason you’re so angry is that Dumbledore never told you any of this himself.”
Harry let out a sharp barking laugh that he knew imitated Sirius but was colder, harsher, “Not just me! He could have told Sirius and Remus he was gay—that would have been bloody brilliant, that would—but no, he was too much of a coward to come out like them! And—and look at what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly like your parents did, like Sirius and Remus did, and never mind the consequences or the times I abandon the people I ask to serve! Just trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!”
Hermione blinked back the tears in her eyes, “He meant well, Harry—”
“Oh, so it was all for ‘the greater good’ then?” Harry said, his voice cracked, “All that he did in the first war and now again? That’s a dangerous road, Hermione.”
She nodded, her voice quiet, “I know.”
Harry didn’t have the heart to share what he had learned from the book with Sirius and Remus. At the very least what had sunk into him, if the rest was still a swarming cloud of indignation and vitriol, was that the past should be left alone.
Still, Harry thought, it didn’t change the fact that the present was marred with the mistakes, of the choices, of those that lived before. All that is exists because of what was. How, then, to sit with it?
Harry knew the answer Sirius and Remus would give. Move on, work, make a difference, make it mean something. And that was Harry’s aim—but still the sword and the other Horcruxes alluded him, and the idleness felt like guilt, and weighed him down, leaving him listless and raw. He realized he recognized the feeling. It was like Dementors now hovered around him.
It was midnight, now December 26, and Harry could not sleep. The feeling weighed him down, yes, but he was empty already. Finally, he rose from his bed and joined Hermione keeping watch outside the tent. She was huddled by the entrance reading A History of Magic by the light of her wand-tip. The snow was now falling thickly, and Harry thought of Teddy.
“I keep thinking I could hear people moving outside,” she said, “I even thought I saw somebody once or twice.”
Harry glanced back through the tent flap at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope.
“But perhaps we ought to leave just in case?” Hermione asked.
So, they did.
Half an hour later Harry peered around a mass of trees, asking “Where are we?” as Hermione opened the beaded bag and pulled out the tent.
“The Forest of Dean,” she said, “I came camping here once with Mum and Dad.”
They stayed there in the thick forest, and two days later, Harry sat keeping watch outside the tent as night deepened all around him. It was so dark that Harry’s eyes trained behind his glasses. The snow was thick on the ground here too, muffling every noise.
And then it happened.
A bright silver light appeared ahead of Harry, moving through the trees. Whatever it was, it moved silently; maybe because of the snow. But still the light drifted towards Harry.
He jumped to his feet and raised Hermione’s wand. And then the source of the light stepped out from behind a thick, ancient oak.
It was a silver-white doe, moon-bright and dazzling, picking her way over the ground. Her head was held high, looking right at him.
It was a Patronus, some part of Harry’s mind knew, but she was so…familiar. He felt like he had been waiting for her to come, but that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they had arranged to meet. He thought of Prongs and stared at that doe…
They gazed at one another, and then she turned and walked away.
No,” Harry’s voice cracked, “Come back!”
But she continued to step deliberately back through the dark forest, and soon her brightness was striped by the trees’ thick black trunks. For one second, Harry hesitated. But she was a doe Patronus…and no matter who cast her…Harry knew it wasn’t Dark magic. He set off in pursuit.
She led him deeper and deeper into the forest, and at last she came to a halt. She turned her beautiful head, her huge eyes framed by long lashes, toward him, and he broke into a run to reach her, a question burning within him, bust as he opened his lips to ask it, she vanished.
Harry cried, “Lumos!” on instinct, and Hermione’s wand lit. The doe had led him to a small forest pool—it was frozen, its black surface glittering under Harry’s wand light.
Harry looked down. Deep below the thick, misty grey carapace of the frozen pool, something glinted. A great silver cross…
Harry’s heart leapt up into his mouth. He dropped to his knees at the pool’s edge and angled the wand so as to flood the bottom of the pool with as much light as possible. A glint of deep red…it was a sword with glittering rubies in its hilt…
The sword of Gryffindor was lying at the bottom of the forest pool.
A thousand questions flashed in Harry’s mind—How? Why?—but he found that those questions could wait. He licked his lips, pointed Hermione’s wand at the silvery shape and murmured, “Accio Sword!”
Nothing happened. And part of Harry had known it wouldn’t. He had learned in his Second Year that sword only revealed itself to a Gryffindor acting in the way of its House: Daring and nerve set Gryffindors apart.
Harry knew what he had to do. With fumbling fingers, he removed his many layers of clothing until he stood there at the edge of the pool in his underwear, his bare feet upon the snow.
He pointed his wand at the ice, “Diffindo.”
It cracked like the sound of a bullet in the silence: the surface of the pool broke and chunks of dark ice rocked on the ruffled water. Harry placed Hermione’s wand on the water’s edge, the tip still lit. And then, Harry jumped.
The cold was agony—it attacked him like fire. He pushed through the dark water, and only one word rattled repeatedly through his frozen brain: Anything. Anything. Anything.
He groped for the sword on the mulchy bottom, and his fingers closed around the hilt. He pulled it upward.
Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought first of Grindylows, but as he raised his hand to his throat he found not claws, but a chain. It was the chain of the Horcrux that had tightened and was now slowly constricting his windpipe.
Harry thrashed, scrabbling at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it, and little lights popped inside his head, and he realized he was going to drown….there was nothing left, he had failed…he was going to die…and he hadn’t made his life, his parent’s sacrifice or Sirius’ and Remus’ care, worthwhile…and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s…
Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he had ever been in his life, he came to in the snow. Somewhere close by, another person was panting and coughing and staggering around. There was a muffled word and then Harry was bathed in a Warming Charm—his teeth stopped their chattering, and he began to be able to feel his limbs again. He reached for his throat, and found nothing there…no chain…
Harry raised his head shakily as a voice panted, “Are—you—mental?”
The Warming Charm now fully taking effect, Harry found the strength to stagger to his feet. And there, standing before him, was Ron.
Ron was fully dressed, but drenched to the skin, his hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken chain in the other.
“Why the hell,” Ron gasped, holding up the Horcrux, “didn’t you take this thing off before you dived?”
And Harry couldn’t help it—he stammered and smiled and then staggered forward until he was embracing Ron. It was just…so good to see him.
“It was you? You cast the doe?” Harry asked, stepping back and looking at Ron’s surprised face.
“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!” Ron answered, handing Harry his clothes.
Harry dressed as he answered, “My Patronus is a stag.”
“Oh yeah, right. Antlers.”
Harry laughed, pulling on his last jumper and picking up Hermione’s wand, “How come you’re here?”
Ron looked sheepish and avoided Harry’s face, “Well, I’ve—you know—I’ve come back,” Ron cleared his throat, “If you still want me.”
Ron looked down at his hands and seemed surprised to see the things that he was holding.
“But…how did you get here? How did you find us?” Harry pressed.
“Long story,” Ron said, “I’ve been looking for you for hours, it’s a big forest, isn’t it? And I was just thinking I’d have a kip under a tree and wait for morning when I saw that deer coming and you following—”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“No, but I…I think I saw something move over there, but I was running to the pool at the time, because you’d just gone in and you hadn’t come up so I wasn’t going to make a detour—hey!”
Harry was hurrying to the place Ron indicated. The two oaks grew close together, there as a gap of only a few inched between the trunks at eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The ground around the roots, however, was free of snow, and Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked back toward Ron, who was still holding the sword and the Horcrux.
“Anything there?” Ron asked.
“No. Whoever must have cast the Patronus must have put the sword in there,” Harry said, inclining his head back toward the pool.
Harry looked around and found a flat rock lying in the shadow of a young yew tree nearby. Harry nodded, “Let’s finish what Regulus started.”
They walked towards the small yew tree, and Ron set the Horcrux upon the smooth stone before it. He then offered the sword to Harry.
Harry shook his head, “You should do it.”
“Me?” Ron asked, shocked, “Why?”
“Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it’s supposed to be you. I’m going to open it, and you stab it, Straightaway, okay? Because whatever’s in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to kill me.”
“How are you going to open it?” Ron asked. He looked terrified.
“I’m going to ask it to open using Parseltongue,” Harry answered. This had come to him like a bolt sliding into place.
“No! No, don’t open it, Harry, I can’t do it!” Ron was backing away, the sword dragging at his side.
“You can do it,” Harry said, “You can! You’re a bloody Gryffindor just like me, alright? You pulled out the sword, and I know it’s supposed to be you. Please, Ron, for Regulus….see it done, okay?”
Ron swallowed and then he nodded. He moved back toward the rock and said, “For Regulus. For everyone.”
“On three,” Harry said, “One…two…three…open.”
The last word came out as a hiss and a snarl and the golden doors of the locket swung wide with a little click.
“Stab,” Harry said.
Ron raised sword in his shaking hands. Then a voice hissed out from within the Horcrux, “I have seen your heart, and it is mine.”
The words hit Ron directly in his heart, as if the voice was coming not from beyond, but within.
“I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible…”
“STAB!” Harry was shouting but Ron saw it…
"Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter—”
And Ron saw his mother doting on baby Ginny while he flew on his toy broomstick around the orchard, “Look, Mum, look at me!” but his mother did not look up from the baby girl in her arms.
"Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend—”
And Ron saw Hermione’s worried eyes on Harry; always on Harry. He saw her that night in the empty classroom last year, her and Harry perched on the professor’s desk as he and Lavender came into the room. Harry and Hermione's bodies had been close, so close…and Ron had wanted to scream, “I knew it! You fancy him!”
“Eternally overshadowed—”
And Ron saw Bill, now a fully respected member of the Order, married to the beautiful and indomitable, Fleur. He saw Charlie, all muscle and bravery, battling dragons. He saw Percy, now at the Ministry, all the money and respect at his blasted feet. He saw Fred and George in their new dragon-skin suits, their joke shop blazed in gold. He saw Ginny, too, her skill on a broomstick and her perfect jokes and her many admirers.
And then there was Harry. His best mate. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Orphaned, yes, but doted on by two guardians—Ron had never admitted his jealousy of those two men’s attention and care on Harry. But Sirius and Remus were the strongest, the bravest, the most battle worn and still so caring…and all focused on Harry....
“RON! STAB IT!” Harry bellowed.
And Ron raised the sword over his head. He heard and saw every one of his worst thoughts—images and voices of his loved ones. Hermione saying she would never prefer him over Harry, his mother saying she loved Harry more, his twin brothers sneering and laughing at his poor magic, Percy raising his nose, ignoring him like Ron was just scum on the bottom of his shoe, and Bill...
It was Bill. The image of Bill. Riddle had failed in this—the image did not show Bill’s scars. And that was the first breaking point. Because then Ron thought of the real Hermione: the kindness and keenness in her eyes that Voldemort's Horcrux failed to protray. The indefinable range of her was astounding. She'd once told Ron that he had the emotional range of teaspoon, and if that was true, then she had such range of the poets, of philosophers and Seers, and Riddle would never be able to see it. But Ron did.
Ron dove the sword down into the open locket.
Harry stooped and picked up the broken Horcrux. And Harry knew, beyond just staring at the broken glass within the locket, that the thing that had dwelled within it was dead.
Harry held up the locket and turned to Ron. Ron and Harry’s eyes were both wet, but Harry was smiling rather watery, “You did it, Ron. You did it.”
Harry stumbled forward and hugged Ron again, “She’s like my sister,” Harry whispered, I love her like a sister and she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.”
Harry was almost giddy as they found their way back to the tent. He imagined telling Sirius about the destroyed locket and bit back a grin. They entered the tent; it was gloriously warm.
Hermione was sleeping in an armchair but stirred at once, “Harry? What’s wrong?”
Harry smiled, “Everything’s fine. More than fine. Grand, actually. There’s someone here.”
“What do you mean? Who—?”
She saw Ron, who stood there just within the tent’s entrance holding the sword, which dripped onto the threadbare carpet.
Harry stepped back.
Hermione rose from her chair and moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes on his pale face. She stopped right in front of him; her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak, hopeful smile and half raised his arms.
Hermione launched herself forward and started punching every square inch of Ron that she could reach, “You—complete—arse—Ronald—Weasley!”
Ron stepped back and then Hermione screamed, “I came running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back!”
“I know,” Ron croaked, “I’m sorry, Hermione, I’m really—”
“Oh, you’re sorry!” She laughed, “You come back after weeks—weeks—and you think it’s all going to be all right if you just say sorry!”
“I wanted to come back the minute I left,” Ron said and it was so clear and declarative that Hermione went still, “But I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, and I couldn’t go anywhere.”
Harry’s blood went cold. From what Sirius and Remus had told them ‘Snatchers’ was the word for Death Eaters and would-be Death Eaters who rounded up Muggle-borns and blood traitors.
“Anyway, I got away,” Ron continued, “I had Apparated to some new area of the forest and by the time I made it back to the river bank where you’d been…you’d gone.”
"How exactly did you find us tonight then?” Hermione hissed, “That’s important. Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.”
Ron glared at her, and then pulled small silver object from his jeans pocket, “With this.”
“The Deluminator?” Hermione asked, sounding more surprised than cold now.
“I don’t know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio on Christmas morning…there was some carol playing, the really sad one about this poor drummer boy… he must play to the savior—if you believe that kind of thing—but all he has is his drums. His one skill, and he’s not sure it’s befit for someone so…magical. And then I heard…I heard you.”
Ron was looking at Hermione.
“Your voice came out of my pocket,” Ron said, holding up the Deluminator, “Your voice came out of this.”
“And what did I say?” Hermione said.
“I’m not sure…” Ron said, “But I knew your voice. I was sure. So I clicked it. And the light went out of my room, but another light appeared right outside the window. It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing and bluish. I knew this was it. So I grabbed my stuff and packed it, and then I stepped out into the garden. The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for me, and then it…well… it went inside of me.”
Ron pointed his finger at his chest, “Right here. And once it was inside me I knew what to do. So I Apparated, and came out on the side of a hill... I waited all day, but I knew I must have missed you. So I clicked the Deluminator again, and the blue light came out and went inside me, and I landed here in these woods. I couldn’t see you, but I hoped one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe, first, obviously.”
“You saw what?” Hermione exclaimed.
And Harry and Ron explained the story of the Patronus doe and the silver sword in the pool, and what happened after.
“Ron destroyed it,” Harry said, letting his feeling of triumph seep into his words as he raised the broken locket for Hermione to see.
Hermione reached out, taking the destroyed Horcrux into her hands and staring at it long and hard. At last, she put the vanquished Horcrux into her beaded bag and then climbed into her bed, her back to them both.
“Could’ve been worse,” Harry said, turning to Ron.
“Yeah. Remember those birds she set on me?” Ron said.
“I still haven’t ruled it out,” Hermione said from her bed but Ron just smiled.
Harry grinned back, “You two sleep. I’ll keep watch. I’ve got some news to share.”
Remus Lupin bent low over the unlit candle wick and snapped his long index finger and thumb together—he used to light cigarettes in this way back when he and Sirius smoked—and now he lit the candle wick to flaming with a simple, magical, snap.
He smiled and turned, admiring his work. Candles lit and warmed their bedroom in 12 Grimmauld Place. The two-way mirror rested on the bedside table, Harry’s face had been visible just minutes before, sharing his wonderful news. Remus lifted three of the heaviest and tallest candles to rest on the windowsill, and turned as he heard the soft crack of Apparition outside the bedroom door.
A moment later, Sirius pushed open the bedroom door. He was shaking off his traveling cloak, which was dusted with now-melting snow, and Remus moved forward to help him remove it and hang it on the coat stand.
“I swear sometimes Sturgis is bloody useless—” Sirius was saying and then he lifted his head. He took in the gluttering candles and the soft music playing from the record player, “Oi..." Sirius turned toward Remus, his dark eyes shining and he smiled crookedly, “What brought this on, Moony? Not complaining, mind you...”
Remus lightly reached and took both of Sirius’ hands in his, “The locket is destroyed, Sirius. What Regulus started…”
Sirius’ eyes swelled in his pale face, his fingers tightened on Remus’, “It’s…done?”
“The locket is no longer a Horcrux,” Remus said, bending low to kiss Sirius’ sharp temple, “And I’ve cast a Silencing Charm and an Alarm Jinx in case Teddy wakes…”
Sirius released their hands, but now his fingers were on Remus’ hips and he was pushing them backward toward the bed, a growl low in his chest, his eyes shining with victory, “Bloody hell…yes…bloody yes!”
Remus smiled widely, his lips now on Sirius’ throat as they fell backward atop their blankets, and Remus pinned Sirius below him, his deft hands working to remove their clothing. Sirius managed to speak between kisses in a thick, hushed voice, “They got the sword then?”
“Yes,” Remus answered, and then together Sirius and Remus said, “Later.”
Later they’d go into the how and the why and the implications but now…now was for rejoicing.
Remus grinned, and paused, kneeling over Sirius’ hips and then he raised one scarred, nimble hand from Sirius’ carved, muscular torso to wandlessly and wordlessly change the record. The needle made a soft sizzling sound as it landed on the new record and then the opening chords began to play….
And now our bodies are oh, so close and oh, so tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right,
And we’re glowing like the metal on the edge of knife
Glowing like the metal on the edge of the knife
C’mon! Hold on tight!
C’mon! Hold on tight!
Sirius growled lowly, “Really, Moony?”
Remus smiled, lowering his hand to trace a finger along the V that carved downward from Sirius’ hips, “Oh, yes, I think so…” his voice was laced with desire, “I certainly feel as if I’m glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife…”
“Tease me all you like,” Sirius growled, his smile huge in his face as he licked his lips, his eyes thick with lust, “as long as you deliver.”
Remus bowed his head, landing open-mouthed kisses on that beautiful V that led down to Sirius’ hard length, which was now naked and revealed in all its glory, “Hold on tight, love, as long as you can. And then…let go.”
“I’ll take you with me, darling,” Sirius moaned.
“Of course,” Remus whispered, his lips now reaching their target, “Together…”
And the record played as the two men found an ecstasy that was both unending and eternal, but yet also within a brief reprieve, for it was within one allotted moment of victory in a long, long war. And Sirius Black finally succumbed to the inevitable—it took long enough; he already had had the flying motorcycle and the collection of leather jackets. It seemed only that he needed this excuse to finally allow himself to become a Meat Loaf fan.
Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep, dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light…!