CHAPTER SIX:

(A/N: here's another AMAZING graphic by wonhosmila)

Third Person Narrative:

When Charlie awoke the following day it was several seconds before he remembered what had happened. Then he hoped, childishly, that it had been a dream, that Ron was still there and had never left.

Then, by turning his head to look across the tent, he could see Ron's deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it seemed to draw his eyes. Hermione, who was already busy in the kitchen, did not wish Charlie good morning, but turned her face away quickly as he went by.

He's gone, Charlie thought to himself.

He's gone.

He had to keep thinking it as he dressed as though repetition would dull the shock of it.

He's gone and he's not coming back.

And that was the simple truth of it, Charlie knew, because their protective enchantments meant that it would be impossible, once they vacated this spot, for Ron to find them again. Charlie and Hermione ate breakfast with Harry in silence. Trying to ease her saddened state, Charlie reached under the table and put his hand on hers. Thankfully, he thought, she did not pull away, but she did not reciprocate either.

Hermione's eyes were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not slept. They packed up their things, Hermione dawdling. Charlie knew why she wanted to spend their time on the riverbank; several times he saw her look up eagerly, and he was sure she had deluded herself into thinking that she heard footsteps through the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure appeared between the trees.

Every time Charlie imitated her, looked around (for he could not help hoping a little) and saw nothing but rain-swept woods, another little parcel of fury exploded inside him.

He could hear Ron's voice lingering in his head, repeating the same things over and over:

"We thought you knew what you were doing!"

"It's always going to be the fucking Death Eater..."

"You chose him."

Charlie could still envision the looks of disgust Ron had directed his way, which is why he resumed packing with a hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and would soon spill over onto their bank. They had lingered a good hour after they would usually have departed their campsite. Finally, after having repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay. Soundlessly, she, Charlie and Harry grasped hands and Disapparated, reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside. In truth, a small part of Charlie was glad to leave that rainy riverbank behind.

When they arrived, Hermione did not drop Charlie's hand; Harry had forged on already, keen to not linger much longer. His two friends, however, stood rooted to the spot. Tears glistened in Hermione's eyes, but did not fall. Except for her touch, everything felt cold and bitter. All over again, Charlie saw the contemptuous expression on Ron's face, the aggression and hatred.

"I understand why he left and why he said those things to me... but I don't think I'll ever forgive how he's treated you or Harry," Charlie's voice was still hoarse from the night before, his eyes tiredly rested upon their interlocked hands.

Hermione said nothing, nor did she spare Charlie a second glance. She dropped his hand at this statement, and walked away, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with what he knew were sobs. Charlie watched her, wondering whether he should go and comfort her, but something always kept him frozen to the spot.

It had seemed, by Charlie's insinuations, that Hermione had lost faith, too. Often times, he thought it might have been easier if she'd have left with Ron, then, at least, he'd have known where they stood in their relationship. Even if she had chosen Ron over him, he would've at least found comfort in knowing that she was safe, that her and Ron were together, happy and in love.

This was clearly what Ron wanted and maybe, judging by her tearful reaction, it was what Hermione wanted too, deep down — a normal life. One that didn't involve aimlessly roaming the countryside in search of things they had no clue about. Her and Ron could live a long life. Charlie could go off with Harry and finish this hunt for Horcruxes, and she probably wouldn't even have to worry about him coming back...

Ridiculing himself for thinking this way, Charlie strode off towards the rocks, walking in a large circle with the distraught Hermione at its centre, helping Harry cast the spells she usually performed to ensure their protection.

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. It seemed as though both Charlie and Harry were determined never to mention his name again, and Hermione seemed to know that it was no use forcing the issue. Instead, they devoted themselves to trying to determine the possible locations of Gryffindor's sword, but the more they talked about the places in which Dumbledore might have hidden it, the more desperate and far-fetched their speculation became.

Cudgel his brains though he might, Charlie could not remember Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in which he might hide something. There were moments when he did not know whether he was angrier with Ron or with his grandfather.

We thought you two knew what you were doing...

We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do...

We thought you had a real plan!

Harry and Charlie could not hide it from themselves; Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left them with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means of destroying it; the others were as unattainable as they had ever been.

Hopelessness threatened to engulf Charlie, who often took the position of lookout now in attempt to occupy his treacherous mind. Most nights, he was guiltily staggered to think of his own presumption in accepting to accompany Harry on this meandering, pointless journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he was constantly, painfully on the alert for any indication that Hermione was about to tell him that she had had enough, that she was leaving, that she had finally given up on him too.

During the couple weeks immediately following Ron's departure, Charlie, Harry and Hermione spent many of their evenings in near silence; their thoughts, however, were anything but. More and more in his periphery, Charlie caught Hermione staring at him; she'd often open her mouth, then close it as if she were too afraid to speak with him.

Charlie's mind too burned with things he wanted to say, and questions, the most frequent of which:

Why didn't you go with him...?

Harry had started bringing out the Marauder's map and examining it by wandlight. Charlie got the impression that he was waiting for the moment when Ron's labeled dot would reappear in the corridors of Hogwarts, proving that he had returned to the comfortable castle, protected by his status of pureblood.

Hermione took to bringing out Phineas Nigellus's portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron's departure. Despite his previous assertion that he would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did not seem able to resist the chance to find out more about what Harry was up to, and consented to reappear, blindfolded, every few days or so.

Most times, Charlie was even glad to see him, because he was company, albeit of a snide and taunting kind. They relished over any news about what was happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated Snape, the first Slytherin Headmaster since he himself had controlled the school, and they had to be careful not to criticize or ask impertinent questions about Snape, or Phineas Nigellus would instantly leave his painting. Still, that did not seem to stop Charlie from making a few snide remarks.

Snape seemed to be facing a constant, low level of mutiny from a hard core of students. The ex-Potions Professor had reinstated Umbridge's old decree, forbidding gatherings of three or more students or any unofficial student societies. From all of these things, Charlie deduced that Elaina, Ginny, Neville and Luna had been doing their best to continue Dumbledore's Army.

Guiltily, as Phineas Nigellus talked about Snape's crackdown, Charlie experienced a split second of madness when he imagined simply going back to the school to join the destabilization of Snape's regime. Being fed, and having a soft bed, and other people being in charge than Harry Potter, seemed the most wonderful prospect in the world at that moment.

Far too quickly, however, Charlie remembered that he, Harry, and Hermione were the first three on the Undesirables list, and that to walk into Hogwarts these days was just as dangerous as walking into the Ministry of Magic. Phineas Nigellus inadvertently emphasized this fact by slipping in leading questions about Charlie, Harry and Hermione's whereabouts. Hermione shoved him back inside the beaded bag every time he did this, and he invariably refused to reappear for several days after these unceremonious goodbyes.

November was now in full swing, though it was difficult to fully keep track. The rain and wind were freezing, and frost was around in the morning and through the nights. Two weeks — or maybe three — after Ron's departure, they returned to the heather-swept hill top where they'd come in the aftermath of that fateful night.

That evening, while taking his turn to keep lookout, Charlie wandered dangerously from the campsite. He remained close enough to find his way back, but still ventured a significant distance in hopes of clearing his head. There was no telling how long he stayed in the woods by himself, but when the exposure to the elements became too much to withstand, he was forced to head back to the tent, heaving a heavy sigh.

As he approached the campsite, Charlie had noticed the intricate way in which the fire casted shadows over the tent's canvas, smoke billowing in the air. Only when he was a few meters away, did he acknowledge the presence of Harry, who was now huddled in the tent's entrance, keeping warm.

With the sound of leaves rustling underneath Charlie's approaching footsteps, Harry's head snapped upwards in alert, his wand raised quickly.

"It's just me," muttered Charlie, stepping out from the trees and making his presence known.

Harry breathed out in relief, lowered his wand, and said, "I swear to Merlin, you're going to give me a heart-attack one of these days."

"Sorry," Charlie mused aloud, unable to keep the cheeky grin off his face. He took a seat next to the fire and asked, "What are you doing out here? We aren't supposed to switch for another half hour."

"I know," said Harry, sighing heavily, "but I couldn't take it anymore. Everything in there just reminds me of what happened — Hermione doesn't help either," he added in a hushed whisper, now poking at the firewood embers with a stick.

Charlie's look of disdain was covered by his messy locks of hair, which were now dangling in front of his face. He stared at the wet, muddy grass, shifting uncomfortably and trying to clear his head of any opposing thoughts stirring in his head.

After several moments of silence, he cleared his throat, daring to ask, "Has she been crying?"

"It seems like that's all she does nowadays," Harry replied, shrugging; Charlie gulped at the implications of this statement. "Can't blame her though, can you? Things just haven't been the same since —"

"— Ron left... yeah, I get it," finished Charlie, focusing his gaze upon the flickering flames. He was determined to avoid Harry's bright, emerald eyes.

"It's been difficult to adjust," muttered Harry, cursing the hoarse tone that his voice had taken. "I mean, the three of us never really talked about what happened. Hell, we haven't talked much about anything over the last few days..."

"What is there to talk about exactly?" Charlie asked, with as much annoyance as he could muster. "Ron left. He's not coming back. And honestly, after what he said, I can't say that I'd want him back anyways."

"Well, while your mind is made up," began Harry, bowing his head slightly, "I don't really know what to think. There's a part of me that wants to believe that Ron lashed out because of the Horocrux, but I feel as though all it did was force him to tell his truth."

"We all took turns with the locket," Charlie hissed, unwilling to make excuses, "but the rest of us didn't act out of turn like that. I dunno, Harry, think what you want, but what had happened that night is inexcusable in my eyes. Yeah, Ron and I had our differences, but I never would've done what he did."

"But haven't you ever wondered whether he was right?" questioned Harry sadly, bringing his legs up to his chest, cradling himself. "Not about everything, mind you, but maybe about this whole trip being a complete waste of time."

Charlie sat dumbstruck, and for that minute, all that he could hear was the crackling of the firewood. He snapped his head up towards Harry; his best friend was sat across from him, burying his face into his hands. It would be hard, Charlie thought to himself, to forget the look of sadness that was bestowed upon Harry's face.

"It'll be worth it in the end, mate," sighed Charlie, trying his damnedest to sound reassuring. "Ron may not see that, but I do. Things are a bit hectic now because we don't know our next move. Once we've got that sorted, I have faith that this'll work out in our favour. Trust me, we're not doing all this for nothing."

With this, Harry went silent, and Charlie thought exhaustion finally got the best of him, but in truth, he was tearing up and silently sobbing to himself. He covered his face, hiding beneath his untidy, raven black hair and hoping that his breakdown went unnoticed. Although Harry would never admit it, the potential outcome of this war was a daunting task. And now, with the added burden of Ron's departure, he was forced to confront everything he'd kept buried inside.

"It hurt, you know," he began, clenching his jaw tightly as angry tears welled up in his emerald eyes, "when he said I had no family — I almost couldn't believe it."

"Well, Ron's a little lying twat, isn't he?" Charlie said at once, earning a small laugh from his friend. "You have a family, Harry. You have me. After everything, we're brothers to the end —"

"But what if —"

"Contrary to your belief, I'm not going anywhere," reassured Charlie firmly, looking up to meet Harry's gaze. The saddened emerald eyes from moments ago were now a dark green, staring in almost disbelief. "And neither is Hermione. Or Remus and Tonks. Or Hagrid. Or the other Weasley's. Shall I continue?"

"Charlie, but I can't —"

"Elaina's waiting for you to come home," Charlie reminded him, hoping the mention of the French girl would bring Harry to his senses. "She's apart of your family now too. And if she were here, you know she'd agree with me. Honestly, Harry, the sooner your realize that you're not alone in this, the better. You are loved by so many people, myself included. So please, for the sake of my sanity, don't believe anything Ron said that night."

Unable to say anything in rebuttal, Harry nodded appreciatively. He sat still for a moment, debating whether he would divulge in his curiosity or not. Deciding against it, he looked up and gave Charlie a lighthearted smile.

"Same goes for you, mate," Harry quipped, visibly relaxing. "I know I don't say it nearly enough, but I'm always going to have your back."

Clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder, Charlie smiled genuinely, "I know you will."

"Good," said Harry, turning his attention back to the fire, albeit this time he seemed happier. "Now, enough of this sappy nonsense. Go in there and talk to Hermione, would you?" He waved a hand towards the tent. "I think you two should have a proper chat."

As he turned his head to look at the tent that was a few yards behind him, Charlie gulped guiltily. It was lit up, only showing Hermione's seated silhouette against the canvas. Suddenly, a familiar quote came to the forefront of Charlie's mind in the moment, taunting him; Dumbledore's voice echoed through his mind:

"Happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light."

But Charlie shook his head at once, speaking his fears aloud, "No, it's okay, I reckon she's probably upset with me anyways."

Harry hesitated for a moment, trying to ascertain whether his friend was joking or not.

"You really believe that?" he questioned, his eyes now narrowed and fixed on Charlie's own. They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment before Charlie was forced to respond.

"Well, I don't really know," he shrugged, sighing, as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "I'm just assuming."

"Yeah, well, you're assuming the worst," Harry insisted with a laugh. "Shame, honestly, because I didn't think you were quite that dim."

Charlie looked shamefully down at the dying firewood embers, his overlong fringe falling in front of his eyes. He half-huffed and half-laughed in response.

"I dunno what you're on about," he said, although he was not sure whether he wanted an answer.

"Talk to her," repeated Harry, speaking loud enough for only Charlie to hear. "Trust me, not only will it ease your worries, but it'll also lessen the tension in the damn tent."

"Okay, okay," Charlie gave in, unwilling to argue. He rose to his feet, pulling himself together, and moved towards the entrance to the tent. "I'll be back."

"No, you won't," laughed Harry, shooing his best friend away. "Not to worry though, I'll keep watch out here. However, for the love of Merlin, I beg that you keep the snogging to a minimum. I'd rather not hear the two of you going at it for hours, okay?"

Rolling his eyes, Charlie made his way through the tent flap and closed it; the sounds of the fire and Harry's little chuckles to himself were cut off as though he had stepped into a soundproofed room. Standing in front of the now-closed canvas doorway, he scanned the room with his eyes.

He quickly found Hermione; she was sat on the steps which led to the kitchen table, her arms huddled around her folded knees, chin resting atop them. The radio — the only remaining evidence that Ron had been with them — tuned to a local Muggle station; the only one which seemed to work in this location.

Charlie had frozen in the entrance of the tent, gazing lovingly in her direction. It was a pastime he had had taken to quite a lot over the last few weeks; just staring at her, taking her beauty in all over again every time. He wasn't sure if she'd seen him do it. If she had, she hadn't said anything.

Over the last few weeks, there had been fleeting moments when that spark between them seemed to reignite, when their love for each other seemed to shine through the fog of despair and depression which hung over them; the odd electric touch, the odd time in which they would hold hands just a little longer than necessary before or after Apparating, the odd smile, however fleeting, after another day of meandering and guesswork.

But those moments would inevitably go just as quickly as they had come.

Pulled from his thoughts, Charlie now recognized that the start of a song — a ballad — was now emanating through the static. Hermione's eyes remained fixed on the radio; she had yet to even acknowledge him.

'Best Part' by Daniel Caesar (feat. H.E.R.)
(A/N: play video above!)

You don't know, babe
But when you hold me
And kiss me slowly
It's the sweetest thing
And it don't change
If I had it my way
You would know that you are

Without really thinking or planning what he was going to do, Charlie crossed the space between them silently. He knew only that he had to do something, or Voldemort might as well have won the war already.

Hermione only looked up when he stood before her. She met his gaze, looking suddenly alarmed. With a charming smile, Charlie held out his hands.

"Dance with me," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Charlie, what are yo—"

"Please," he interrupted, internally cursing himself for how weak and vulnerable he sounded.

Hermione hesitated for a moment and then, with almost a resigned sigh, placed her small, slender hands in his — the fit as perfect as it ever was — and allowed herself to be pulled up.

You're the coffee that I need in the morning
You're my sunshine in the rain when it's pouring
Won't you give yourself to me
Give it all, oh

Once she was level with him, Charlie moved his hands around to the back of her neck. His eyes didn't leave hers as he unclipped the fastener of the chain; the Horocrux locket fell limply from around her neck and into his hands. With just a glance — a millisecond — away from her face, he chucked it onto the nearest bunk, before his gaze was locked to hers once more.

I just wanna see
I just wanna see how beautiful you are
You know that I see it, I know you're a star
Where you go I'll follow, no matter how far
If life is a movie, know you're the best part, ooh
You're the best part, ooh
Best part

He took her hands again, caressing her skin softly as he led the way into the open space of the main tent. Hermione's expression was almost unreadable. It was inquisitive, but as if the curiosity wasn't really there, like how Charlie himself had felt about R.A.B's note in the fake Horcrux in the weeks following his grandfather's death.

But when Charlie started to move his feet, coercing her into dancing alongside him, her expression changed. Her slight frown disappeared; the creases on her forehead seemed to immediately decrease as a small, involuntary smile curled upon her lips.

It's this sunrise
And those brown eyes, yes
You're the one that I desire
When we wake up
And then we make love
It makes me feel so nice

In truth, Charlie was a shoddy dancer, but it didn't matter. His hands linked around her waist, pulling her closer; Hermione's breath hitched, but she quickly melted into his touch. Unable to stop himself, Charlie grinned at her expression, his doubts fading away.

This was Hermione.

His Hermione.

And he was hers.

They had each other, and for now, in this moment, that was all that seemed to matter.

You're my water when I'm stuck in the desert
You're the Tylenol I take when my head hurts
You're the sunshine of my life

Soon, Hermione was stepping in time, her hands settling around the base of his neck. Seconds later, her smile had turned into laughs as Charlie — making up for all the lost time where happiness seemed almost impermissible — twirled her, trying out every ludicrous move he could think of.

Her smile, her laughter, was infectious.

The song was now becoming more upbeat; it was reaching a second chorus which lifted them higher than either of them had been in weeks.

I just wanna see how beautiful you are
You know that I see it, I know you're a star
Where you go I'll follow, no matter how far
If life is a movie, know you're the best part, ooh
You're the best part, ooh
Best part

The gleam in Hermione's eyes, her beautiful, absorbing eyes, was back as she laughed at Charlie's dismal, corny attempts at dancing, but joined in nevertheless, her gracefulness coming to the fore as it always did when she got the chance to show it; when she wasn't concerned with studying or having to keep them alive or hunt for parts of Voldemort's soul.

And then the song echoed to its conclusion, slowing back down; the static of the radio starting to return as Charlie pulled her closer once again, and Hermione rested her head on his shoulder like she had done hundreds of times before.

If you love me, won't you say something?
If you love me, won't you?
Love me, won't you?
If you love me, won't you say something?
If you love me, won't you?
If you love me, won't you say something?
If you love me, won't you?
Love me, won't you?

As silence filled the tent, they still danced, swaying in ever-slowing circles, their bodies entwined together. They continued in this way for quite some time, the absence of music long forgotten, the tent full with their laughter and something they couldn't describe.

Impulsively, Charlie placed a kiss on her shoulder, and then on the side of her neck. Their dance slowly lost acceleration, lost movement, and the laughs that had once filled the room became deep, shallow breaths. Hermione's breathing turned normal again and her grasp on Charlie loosened, but not completely. She held onto his neck slightly still, wanting to feel his presence, but needing to meet his gaze once again.

"Thank you," she whispered, as she trailed her fingertips over Charlie's jawline, smiling once she saw his Adam's apple bob with every gulp. Her hands slid past his face, towards his messy hair, and stayed there, playing with the strands that stood up rebelliously. Charlie's eyes fluttered closed, his grip around her waist tightening instinctively.

"Hermione," he mumbled, opening his eyes and staring helplessly at the intricate details of her face. He saw that her eyes weren't as sad as they were moments ago, instead they now held a familiar emotion which Hermione had reserved only for him.

"Yes?" she whispered, continuing her comforting gesture. She shifted closer to him, nuzzling closer into his embrace, their noises practically touching now.

"I love you so much," Charlie admitted softly, his eyes involuntarily flickering down towards her soft, pink lips, "and I know that you need time, but I —"

He was going to assure her, the words already on his tongue, but Hermione acted before he even had the chance to speak. She placed her lips passionately upon his, silencing him at once, and then there was no longer any space between them at all.

Momentarily stunned, Charlie went rigid before relaxing deeply into the kiss. He had been starved of this type of sensation, this type of human-to-human connection. They moved clumsily against each other, slowly, like they had all the time in the world. Charlie cupped her face, deepening the kiss. They stood in that position, holding each other, both in heaven together, for as long as they could remember.

Only when they began to feel the looming suffocation caused by their loss of breath did they pull apart, panting heavily and staring at one another in disbelief and satisfaction.

"H-Hermione, w-why did y-yo—"

And with no audible answer, she pulled him back into another desperate kiss that sent shivers down Charlie's spine. To his dismay, however, the kiss ended just as quickly as it began, leaving him in an awestruck daze of lust and love.

"Because Ron was right about one thing," Hermione told him, ghosting his lips with her own when she pulled back, "it's always going to be you."

Unsure if it was Hermione's confession, their close proximity, or something else entirely, Charlie found himself saying, quite freely, "And I'm not going to let you go this time."

Charlie watched as her eyes widened and shifted between his own. Those words had been filled with such truth and firmness that it was nearly impossible to dismiss them. Being this close, having her fill up his senses, made it clear how much Charlie needed her and craved her with every part of him.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, biting anxiously on her bottom lip. For a moment, they stood there at a loss for words. She leaned into his palm, nestling into his touch as his thumbs caressed her rosy cheeks.

"Charlie," she whispered breathlessly, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that."

Smiling to himself, Charlie leaned his forehead down upon hers, inching closer towards her lips again. The low whimper that escaped her lips was enough to give him hope. In that moment, Charlie was filled with so many raw emotions that were almost too much to handle. The only person who elicited these emotions, emotions that were hard to fight, was Hermione.

Unable to stop himself, he lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers, and muttered softly, "I mean it."

"Then kiss me again," she replied, giggles eliciting excitably from her mouth, as her desperate eyes beckoned him closer.

As Hermione's laughs were reduced to soft chuckles, she looked up into Charlie's eyes, the eyes that swirled with an air of mystery and longing she'd never realized she missed so much.

Suddenly, a ghost of a smile had spread over Charlie's lips, and before Hermione could do or say anything, he captured her lips in a swift, enrapturing kiss, and she matched his fervor with a ferocity that made her start to feel the slightest bit light-headed.

The spark between them had reignited, burning as brightly as a wildfire.They'd reached an ecstasy and had fallen back down to earth together, unwilling to ever be separated again. The two of them were lost in a world entirely their own, and nothing was bound to pull them out of it anytime soon —

"Oh shit, sorry!"

Charlie and Hermione were forced apart, groaning internally at the slight intrusion. In the entrance of the tent, Harry had just poked his head through the canvas, his eyes wide, caught like a deer in headlights.

"I'm sorry! I didn't hear anything, so I thought that maybe you two had —"

"It's alright, Harry," mumbled Hermione, leaving her hands entwined around Charlie's neck. "We're heading to bed now anyways."

"We are?" questioned Charlie, not even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. Hermione nodded, smiling shyly at him. She trailed her hands down his torso before interlacing their fingers, tugging him forward.

"Stay with me?" she asked, although it sounded more of a demand rather than a question. Without waiting for an answer, Hermione turned and led the way to her bunk bed, muttering a quick 'goodnight' to Harry as they passed.

Wiggling his eyebrows in Charlie's direction, Harry received a discrete, hard punch to the shoulder from his best friend, forcing the 'I-told-you-so' look to disappear from his face. With a slight shake of the head, Charlie could hear Harry's mischievous, silent chuckles bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, but chose to ignore them as he got ready for bed.

After a few minutes, he reunited with Hermione by her bedside, watching as she pulled back the covers and crawled in. Once she was comfortable, she looked up towards Charlie and patted the empty space next to her.

Without having to be told twice, Charlie climbed into the bed and pulled Hermione into his arms. He dimmed the light on the nightstand, leaving his wand next to hers. Although it was a tight fit, they both found comfortability in the other's embrace; the blankets were pulled tightly around them. Hermione threw one leg over Charlie's and cuddled closer to his warmth, nuzzling her face into his bare chest and leaving soft, chaste kisses upon his skin.

They held each other for a while, whispering sweet nothings to one another. Hermione cried once more, and Charlie felt tears stinging at his eyes too; they both had been deprived of this type of love and connection for far too long.

Then, as sleep threatened to overcome them, Hermione said those three words that Charlie had been needing to hear for weeks. The words that assured him that — whatever happened — she'd be there, right by his side until the very end.

"I love you."

And with the weight of the locket and so much more bearing down upon them, Charlie and Hermione carried on together, their relationship strengthening with each passing moment.

Day after day, night after night, beside the sea, beneath canopies of evergreen, among frozen reeds, they were sheltered only by the tent, their protection charms — now casted jointly — and the company of each other.

(A/N: because I've missed them)

—————————————————————

As the weather grew colder, the three Gryffindors had already spotted Christmas trees twinkling from several sitting room windows before there came an evening when Charlie and Harry resolved to suggest, again, what seemed to them the only unexplored avenue left.

They had just eaten an unusually good meal. Hermione had been to a supermarket under the Invisibility Closk — scrupulously dropping the money into an open till as she left — and both Charlie and Harry thought that she might be more persuadable than usual on a stomach full of spaghetti bolognese and tinned pears. Charlie had also had the foresight to suggest that they take a few hours break from wearing the Horcrux, which was hanging over the end of the bed that he and Hermione were now sharing.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

She was curled up on Charlie's lap, reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard aloud in one of the sagging armchairs, while Harry sat next to them. It was how they spent most of their evenings now, not feeling the need to keep watch since they'd been on the run for so long; the Sneakoscope on the table near the entrance would detect any potential intruders.

Listening carefully to Hermione's incoherent mumbles, Charlie could not imagine how much more she could get out of the book, which was not, after all, very long; evidently she was still deciphering something in it, because Spellman's Syllabary also lay open on the arm of the chair.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Charlie and Harry shared a discrete glance, nodding in agreement to the other's subconscious thoughts.

Harry cleared his throat. He felt exactly as he had done on the occasion, several years previously, when he had asked Professor McGonagall whether he could go into Hogsmeade, despite the fact that he had not persuaded the Dursleys to sign his permission slip.

"Hermione, Charlie and I have been thinking, and —"

"Boys, could you two help me with something?"

Apparently Hermione had not been listening to Harry, for she leaned forward and held out her copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"Look at that symbol," she told them, pointing to the top of the page. Above what Charlie assumed was the title of the story — after not paying attention in Ancient Runes, he could not be sure —  there was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

Harry shrugged, confused, "You know I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione."

"Yes, I know that," she muttered, still raking her brain, "but it isn't a rune and it's not in the syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but now I don't think it is. It's been inked in, look, somebody's drawn it there, it isn't really part of the book. I think... well, have either of you ever seen it before?"

"No... no, wait a second," Charlie looked closer, his jaw falling agape. "Isn't that the same symbol Luna's dad was wearing round his neck at Bill and Fleur's wedding?"

Hermione beamed, thankful she wasn't losing her mind, "Yes! Well, that's what I though too!"

Realizing the familiarity of the design, Harry perked up, intrigued, and said, "Then it's Grindelwald's mark."

Hermione looked astonished. She glanced from Harry to the weird symbol and back again, before ultimately falling back in Charlie's embrace, frowning.

"That's very odd. If it's a symbol of dark magic, what's it doing in a book of children's stories?"

"Yeah, it's weird," mumbled Charlie, furrowing his brows. "You'd think Scrimgeour would have recognized it. He was Minister, he ought to have been an expert on dark stuff."

Hermione nodded, "I know... perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the titles."

With that, she continued to pour over the strange mark, leaning her head up against Charlie's shoulder. When the room fell quiet, Harry tried again.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Charlie and I have been thinking, and we — well, we want to go to Godric's Hollow."

Hermione looked up, but her eyes were unfocused, and Charlie was sure she was still thinking about the mysterious mark in the book.

"Yes," she sighed, glancing between the two boys at last. "Yes, I've been wondering that too. I really think we'll have to."

"Did you hear him correctly?" asked Charlie sarcastically, raising a curious brow. The truth was, even with their relationship back on the mend, he'd expected more resistance.

"Of course I did," chided Hermione, rolling her eyes at her boyfriend. "The two of you want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree, I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."

"Uh, what's there?" asked Harry, and at that, Hermione looked just as bewildered as he and Charlie both felt.

"The sword, Harry! Dumbledore must've known we'd would want to go back there, and I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace —"

"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"

"Bloody hell," muttered Charlie, sighing exasperatedly at the dimness of his best friend. "Honestly, Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?"

"Erm," he said, smiling bashfully. "I might've opened it, you know, when I bought it... just the once..."

"Well, as the village is named after him, I'd have thought you might have made the connection," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. She was sounding more and more like her old self; Charlie half expected her to announce that she was off to the library."There's a bit about the village in A History of Magic, wait..."

She opened the beaded bag and rummaged for a while, finally extracting her copy of their old school textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, which she thumbed through until finding the page she wanted. Once she was satisfied, she moved back over, this time planting herself on Charlie's knee so that they could read together; Harry leaned back in his own armchair, listening intently.

"'Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good,'" Hermione began to read, and Charlie couldn't help but smile again at the familiarity of it all, as if they were back in the common room. He shuffled in his chair, making a bit more room for Hermione to curl into him, and tightened his grip on her waist. 

"'It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community,'" Hermione continued, unperturbed by Charlie's hand now resting cozily in her lap. "'Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in North Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.'"

"You and your parents aren't mentioned, Harry," Hermione added, closing the book, "because Professor Bagshot doesn't cover anything later than the end of the nineteenth century. But you see? Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore would have expected you or Charlie to make the connection?"

"Oh, yeah..."

Harry did not want to admit that he had not been thinking about the sword at all when he suggested they go to Godric's Hollow. For him, the lure of the village lay in his parents' graves, the house where he had narrowly escaped death, and in the person of Bathilda Bagshot.

"Remember what Muriel said?" Charlie asked eventually, watching as Hermione flipped through the pages of her book.

"Who?"

"You know," he hesitated, unwilling to say Ron's name. "Ginny's great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles."

"Oh," said Hermione, without a change of expression.

"She said Bathilda Bagshot still lived in Godric's Hollow."

"Bathilda Bagshot," murmured Hermione, running her index finger over Bathilda's embossed name on the front cover of A History of Magic. "Well, I suppose —"

She gasped so dramatically that Charlie's insides turned over; he drew his wand, looking around so quickly at the entrance that Hermione was thrown off of him. Next to him, Harry had also stood, his wand raised. They had expected to see a hand forcing its way through the entrance flap, but there was nothing there.

"What?" said Charlie, half panicked, half relieved. "What did you do that for? I thought you'd seen a Death Eater unzipping the tent, at least —"

"What if Bathilda's got the sword?" Hermione questioned excitedly, practically jumping up and down, "What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?"

Charlie considered this possibility. Bathilda would be an extremely old woman by now, and according to Muriel, she was "gaga." Was it likely that Dumbledore would have hidden the Sword of Gryffindor with her? If so, Charlie felt that his grandfather had left a great deal to chance. Dumbledore had never revealed that he had replaced the sword with a fake, nor had he so much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda.

Now, however, was not the moment to cast doubt on Hermione's theory, not when she was so surprisingly willing to fall in with his and Harry's dearest wish.

"Yeah, he might have done! So, are we going to go?"

"Yes, but we'll have to think it through carefully."

Hermione made her way over to the table where their many notes, half-baked plans, and lists of possible Horcrux locations sat. Both Charlie and Harry followed her, and could tell that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her mood as much as theirs.

"We'll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start..."

Charlie let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever there was a pause. Harry's mind, on the other hand, had left the conversation. He was about to go home, about to return to the place where he had had a family. family. It was in Godric's Hollow that, but for Voldemort, he would have grown up and spent every school holiday. The life he had lost had hardly ever seemed so real to him as at this moment, when he knew he was about to see the place where it had been taken from him.

"...and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we'll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, you know, the thicker our disguises the better..."

"No," said Harry abruptly. Charlie and Hermione stopped talking, both looking slightly taken aback. "I'm sorry — I just mean, I want to go back as myself."

Hermione's gaze softened, and she said, "But Harry..."

"No, I'm not going as someone else," he said firmly, glancing between his friends. "Please, it's where I was born, I don't fancy returning as anyone but myself."

Charlie frowned as Harry emphasized the last part, knowing that there were inevitable dangers to his plan. And yet, he couldn't help but abide by his best friend's wishes. Harry wanted it to be the three of them returning to the place he was raised; where his parents had died. Not a pair of random Muggles.

With Charlie on Harry's side, it wasn't long before Hermione relented as well, nodding, "Alright, then."

There was a pause; Charlie and Hermione's eyes met like they had done on the night they'd danced, and he remembered her words from months ago, in the bathroom at Grimmauld Place. Together. Always.

After Harry and Hermione had gone to bed that night, Charlie quietly searched for the photograph album that Hermione had given him so long ago from her beaded bag. For the first time in months, he had the sudden urge to peruse the old pictures of his grandfather, smiling and waving up at him from the images, which were all Charlie had left of him now.

(A/N: that PoA callback tho 👀)

Awoken by the cold absence of her boyfriend however, Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes, before inching closer to Charlie, who was sat on the edge of the bed, and wrapping her arms around his bare torso from behind. She felt him tense at her unexpected touch, but Charlie soon relaxed once Hermione began peppering kisses along his shoulder blades.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered, his entire arm still out of view, searching inside the bag. To his surprise, he felt Hermione smile against his skin, clearly unbothered by the sudden wake-up call.

"Let me help," she insisted, reaching into the bag, her arm emerging with the album in hand a moment later. Charlie didn't feel the need to ask her how she knew that that was what he'd been looking for.

Nevertheless, they sat on the edge of their shared bed, illuminated only by dim moonlight, and together, they flipped through the various photographs Charlie had stored away over the years.

"I erased myself from my family photos," Hermione admitted eventually, lightly tracing a photograph of the two of them with her parents.

Charlie put his arm around her and kissed her softly on the cheek, daring to ask, "You didn't keep any?"

"Only a few," whispered Hermione sadly, as she gestured to the beaded bag once more.

Without hesitation, Charlie raised his wand, and muttered, "Accio Hermione's pictures."

Three pictures levitated from the bag into Charlie's hands; two normal, one magical. The first was a photograph of a very young Hermione, her parents on either side of her, smiling over a birthday cake topped with the number ten. The second photograph, obviously magical — Charlie recognized that it was likely taken by Colin Creevey — showed Hermione, himself, Harry, and Ron in their third year, laughing and waving up at present-day Charlie and Hermione. Finally, there was a more recent Muggle photo, again of Hermione smiling with her parents, but this time they appeared to be at King's Cross station.

"You'll see them again someday soon, I promise."

And with that, Charlie gingerly placed the photos inside his album, leaving them in the forefront as a constant reminder of what was important. Then, he turned back to Hermione, placed a chaste, passionate kiss on her lips, and rejoined her in their bed, holding her close until sleep eventually overtook them.

—————————————————————

Charlie and Harry would've gladly have set out for Godric's Hollow the following day, but Hermione had other ideas. Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect Harry to return to the scene of his parents' deaths, she was determined that they would set off only after they had meticulously planned as much as possible, though Harry remained adamantly against the use of Polyjuice Potion whenever she tried to bring it up.

It was therefore almost two weeks later — once Hermione had mastered applying a Disillusionment charm to them and they had practiced Apparating and Disapparating while underneath the Invisibility Cloak together close to fifty times — that she finally agreed to make the journey.

They were to Apparate to the village under cover of darkness, so it was late afternoon when they finally Disapparated. The beaded bag, containing all of their possessions (apart from the Horcrux, which Harry was wearing around his neck),was tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione's buttoned-up coat. Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak over the three of them, then they turned into the suffocating darkness together, once again.

Heart beating in his throat, Charlie opened his eyes. They were now standing hand in hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night's first stars were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the centre of the village.

"All this snow!" Hermione whispered beneath the cloak. "Why didn't we think of snow? We'll leave prints! We'll just have to get rid of them — you two go in front, I'll do it —"

But Harry did not want to enter the village like a pantomime horse, trying to keep themselves concealed while magically covering their traces.

"Let's take off the cloak," he said, and when Hermione looked absolutely frightened, added, "Oh, come on, you've applied all the Disillusionment charms you know and there's no one around."

Hermione's breath hitched, but Charlie didn't give her anymore time to protest, hurling the cloak off of them and stowing it in his jacket pocket, and then — linking arms — they made their way forward unhampered, the icy air stinging their faces as they passed more cottages. Any one of them might have been the one in which James and Lily had once lived or where Bathilda lived now. Charlie gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, and their front porches, wondering whether he would've somehow remembered any of them.

Then, the little lane along which Charlie, Hermione, and Harry were walking curved to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, was revealed to them. Strung all around with colored lights, there was what looked like a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright across the square.

The snow here had become impacted; it was hard and slippery where people had trodden on it all day. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, their figures briefly illuminated by street lamps. They heard a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opened and closed, then they heard a carol start up inside the little church.

Hermione gasped, tugging on Charlie's arm ever so slightly, "Wait, I think it's Christmas Eve."

"Is it?"

The three of them had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.

"I'm sure it is," said Hermione, her eyes upon the church. "Harry... they'll be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it."

Suddenly, Charlie felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like fear. Now that they were so near, he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first time, pulling him and Harry forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped dead.

"Oh my... look!"

She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother's arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

Harry took a step closer, gazing up into his parents' faces. He had never imagined that there would've been a statue... how strange it was to see himself represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead...

"I'm sorry, mate," Charlie breathed from his side, clapping his free hand down on his friend's shoulder.

"C'mon," Harry managed in response, once he had took his fill, and they turned again toward the church. As they crossed the road, Charlie glanced back; the statue had turned back into the war memorial.

The singing grew louder as they approached the church. It made Charlie's throat constrict, reminding him so forcefully of Hogwarts, of Peeves bellowing rude versions of carols from inside suits of armour, of the Great Hall's twelve Christmas trees, of Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a cracker, of the Weasleys in a hand-knitted sweaters...

Home.

In that moment, Charlie had a newfound appreciation for that fact that Harry and Hermione were still there, walking through the snow alongside him.

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Harry pushed it open as quietly as possible and they edged through it. On either side of the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay untouched. The three of them moved through it, carving trenches behind them as they walked around the building, keeping to the shadows beneath the brilliant windows.

Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. Occasionally, this light would graze Hermione's face and, each time, Charlie felt his breath catch in his throat.

Keeping his free hand closed tightly on the wand in his jacket pocket, Charlie moved toward the nearest grave.

"Look at this, it's an Abbott, could be some long-lost relative of Hannah's!"

"Yes, but please Charlie, keep your voice down," Hermione begged him, pulling him along once again.

They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard, eventually splitting up and gouging dark tracks into the snow behind them. They would stoop to peer at the words on old headstones, and every now and then, they squinted into the surrounding darkness to make absolutely sure that they were unaccompanied.

"Charlie, here!"

Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; Charlie had to wade back to her, his heart positively banging in his chest.

"Is it — ?"

"No, but look!"

She pointed to the dark stone. Charlie stooped down and saw, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the words Kendra Dumbledore and, a short way below her dates of birth and death, And Her Daughter Ariana. Underneath both names there was also a quotation:

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, and part of it had died here.

Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it. Charlie could not help thinking that his grandfather ought to have told him more about his past, yet he had never thought to share the information. Tears welled in Charlie's eyes as realization dawned upon him; they could have visited the place together. For a moment, he imagined coming here with Dumbledore, of what a bonding moment that would have been, of how much it would have meant to him.

Hermione was now looking worriedly at Charlie, and he was glad that his face was hidden in shadow. He read the words on the tombstone again.

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

Charlie looked up towards Hermione and thought he understood. He imagined that his grandfather had chosen the quotation, as Dumbledore was the eldest member of the family once his mother had died.

"Are you sure Dumbledore never mentioned anything about — ?" Hermione began.

"No," he muttered quickly, standing up straight once again. "C'mon, let's keep looking."

With that, Charlie turned away, finding it unbearable to think of his grandfather. He did not want their excited trepidation tainted with overwhelming grief.

"Here!" cried Hermione again, a few moments later from out of the darkness. "Oh no, sorry! I thought it said Potter."

She was rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it, a little frown on her face.

"Love, come back a moment, will you?"

Charlie did not want to be sidetracked again on their quest to find Harry's parents, and only grudgingly made his way back through the snow towards her.

"What is it?"

"Look at this!"

The grave was extremely old, weathered so that Charlie could hardly make out the name. Still, Hermione showed him the symbol beneath it.

"Charlie, that's the mark in the book!"

He peered at the place she indicated. The stone was so worn that it was hard to make out what was engraved there, though there did seem to be a triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name.

"Yeah... it could be..."

Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on the headstone.

"It says Ignotus, I think..."

"I'm going to go and find Harry, all right?" Charlie told her quietly, and he set off again, leaving her crouched beside the old grave. Every so often, he recognized a surname that, like Abbott, belonged to someone he had known at Hogwarts. Sometimes there were several generations of the same wizarding family represented in the graveyard; Charlie could tell from the dates that it had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric's Hollow.

Deeper and deeper amongst the graves he went, and every time he reached a new headstone he felt a little lurch of apprehension and anticipation. The darkness and the silence seemed to become, all of a sudden, much deeper. Charlie looked around, worried, thinking of Dementors, then realized that the carols had finished, that the chatter and flurry of churchgoers were fading away as they made their way back into the square. Somebody inside the church had just turned off the lights.

Then, Harry's voice came out of the blackness, sharp and clear from a few yards away. "Charlie... they're here... right here."

And he knew by the tone in Harry's voice that it was his mother and father whom he had found. Charlie moved towards him, feeling as if something heavy were pressing on his chest. It was the same sensation he had had right after Dumbledore had died; a grief that had actually weighed on his heart and lungs.

The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra and Ariana's. It was made of white marble, just like Dumbledore's tomb, and this made it easy to read, as it seemed to shine in the dark. Charlie did not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.

JAMES POTTER *** LILY POTTER

BORN 27 MARCH 1960 *** BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981 *** DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death

Charlie read the words slowly, as though he would have only one chance to take in their meaning, and he read the last of them aloud.

"'The last enemy that shall be defeated is death'..." There was a sudden horrible thought that came to him, and with it a kind of guilty panic. "Isn't that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?"

"It doesn't mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Charlie," came Hermione's gentle voice, as she joined them at the grave. "It means... you know... living beyond death. Living after death."

But they were not living, thought Harry. They were gone.

The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents' moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And before he could stop himself, tears were flowing down his cheeks.

Having seen this, Charlie pulled him into a brotherly hug, holding him tightly. Harry could not look at him, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control, eternally grateful that he and Hermione were there with him.

Crouching down, Hermione raised her wand and traced a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them at the base of the grave. Once she had finished, she stood straight and maneuvered her way into the hug. The three of them stood still in their embrace for a moment, listening to Harry's silent weeps.

After awhile, they pulled apart, and Harry's eyes became transfixed upon his parents' graves once again. He wanted to say something. He wanted to talk to his parents' graves. Tell them he was there. Tell them about Charlie and Hermione, about how he'd found friends like they once had.

But the words were stuck in his throat and, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, all he managed to sniff out was a simple: "Merry Christmas."

Taking a step back to let Harry have his moment, Charlie smiled softly from behind him, muttering quietly, "Merry Christmas, brother."

And as Hermione took Charlie's hand, squeezing it tightly, and tentatively tilted her head to rest on his shoulder, she too replied, "Merry Christmas, Harry."

(A/N: I am actually in love with these three lmfao)

Charlie did not think his heart could withstand another moment in the graveyard. He felt Hermione's head leave his shoulder momentarily, her breath shaking slightly, but soon after, her hand turned his face to hers and she leaned in, kissing him gently.

"What — ?" Charlie began.

"Sorry, but there's someone watching us, I saw something over by the church," Hermione breathed into his mouth before pulling away fully and tucking her head into the crook of his neck, so that Charlie had a better line of sight. Still, he couldn't see any movement in front of the dark church.

"Are you sure?" he whispered against her cheek.

"I saw something move, I could have sworn I did..."

"But the Disillusionment charm —"

"Might only work on Muggles, and we've just been laying flowers on Harry's parents' grave. Charlie, I'm sure someone's over there."

Charlie thought of A History of Magic; the graveyard was supposed to be haunted... what if — ? But then he heard a rustle and saw a little eddy of dislodged snow in a bush near the church. Ghosts could not move snow.

"It must've been a cat or something," whispered Charlie, after a second or two. "If it was a Death Eater, we'd be dead by now. Although, I still think we should get out of here, so we can put the Invisibility Cloak back on. Come on, Harry, time to go," he called, and his friend immediately turned.

Charlie put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, following after Harry. They glanced back repeatedly as they made their way out of the graveyard, passing Dumbledore's mother and sister, moving back toward the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.

Once they reached the gate and walked out onto the slippery pavement, they pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over themselves. The pub was fuller than before; many voices inside it were now singing the carol that they had heard as they approached the church.

For a moment, Charlie considered suggesting that they take refuge inside it, but before he could say anything Hermione murmured, "Let's go this way," and led him and Harry down the dark street leading out of the village in the opposite direction from which they had entered.

Charlie could make out the point where the cottages ended and the lane turned into open country again. The three of them walked as quickly as they dared, past more windows sparkling with multi-coloured lights, the outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

"How are we going to find Bathilda's house?" asked Hermione, who was shivering a little and kept glancing back over her shoulder. "Harry? What do you think? Harry?"

Charlie tugged at his arm, but Harry was not paying attention. He was looking toward the dark mass that stood at the very end of this row of houses. The next moment he had sped up, dragging his friends along with him; Hermione slipped a little on the ice, but Charlie caught her quickly.

"Harry —"

"Look... look at it..."

"I don't... oh!"

They could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Charlie was sure, was where the curse had backfired. He, Harry, and Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flanked it.

Her eyes transfixed on the house, Hermione whispered, "I wonder why nobody's ever rebuilt it?"

"Maybe you can't rebuild it?" Harry replied, shrugging. "Maybe it's like the injuries from dark magic and you can't repair the damage?"

Hermione's breath hitched again at this comment, and Charlie knew she was thinking of the scars, which still faintly showed just below her chest, from the curse Dolohov had cast at the Department of Mysteries; the scars which Charlie had repeatedly feathered kisses on, just like how Hermione would kiss the Dark Mark on his left forearm.

Suddenly, Harry slipped a hand from beneath the Cloak and grasped the snowy and thickly rusted gate, not wishing to open it, but simply to hold some part of the house.

"Harry, look!"

Harry's touch seemed to have done it. In front of them, a sign risen out of the ground, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it said:

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever known to have survived the killing curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years' worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are.

If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!

Long live Harry Potter.

"They shouldn't have written on the sign!" said Hermione, indignant, but Harry simply beamed at her.

"It's brilliant. I'm glad they did. I..."

Harry broke off at once. In the distance, a heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward them, silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant square.

Charlie thought, though it was hard to judge, that the figure was a woman. She was moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the icy pavement. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling gait all gave an impression of extreme age. They watched in silence as she drew nearer. Charlie was waiting to see whether she would turn into any of the cottages she was passing, but he knew instinctively that she would not.

At last, she came to a halt a few yards from them and simply stood there in the middle of the frozen road, facing them. Charlie did not need Hermione's pinch to his arm to confirm what he was thinking; there was next to no chance that this woman was a Muggle. She was standing there gazing at a house that ought to have been completely invisible to her, if she was not a witch. Even assuming that she was a witch, however, it was odd behaviour to come out on a night this cold, simply to look at an old ruin.

By all the rules of normal magic, meanwhile, she ought not to be able to see Harry, Hermione and Charlie at all. Nevertheless, Charlie had the strangest feeling that she knew that they were there, and also who they were. Just as he had reached this uneasy conclusion, however, she raised a gloved hand and beckoned them closer.

Hermione moved closer to Charlie under the Cloak, pressing right up against him, her hand clutching his.

"How does she know?" she whispered, hardly able to keep the shake out of her voice.

Both Charlie and Harry shared a glance in response, simultaneously shaking their heads. The woman beckoned again, more vigorously. Charlie could think of many reasons not to obey the summons, and yet his suspicions about her identity were growing stronger every moment that they stood facing each other in the deserted street.

Was it possible that she had been waiting for them all these long months? That Dumbledore had told her to wait, and that his grandson would come in the end? Was it not likely that it was she who had moved in the shadows in the graveyard and had followed them to this spot? Even her ability to sense them suggested some Dumbledore-ish power that he had never encountered before.

Finally, Charlie spoke, causing both Harry and Hermione to gasp and jump.

"Are you Bathilda?"

The muffled figure nodded and beckoned again. Beneath the Cloak, Charlie, Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Harry raised his eyebrows; Hermione gave a tiny, nervous nod, while Charlie managed a mere shrug in response.

They stepped toward the woman and, at once, she turned and hobbled off back the way they had come. Leading them past several houses, the woman turned in at a gate. Charlie, Harry, and Hermione followed her up the front path and through a garden nearly as overgrown as the one they had just left. She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front door, then opened it and stepped back to let them pass.

She smelled bad, or perhaps it was her house; Charlie wrinkled his nose as they sidled past her and pulled off the Cloak. Now that he was beside her, he realized how tiny she was; bowed down with age, she came barely level with his abdomen. She closed the door behind them, her knuckles blue and mottled against the peeling paint, then turned and peered into Charlie's face. Her eyes were thick with cataracts and sunken into folds of transparent skin, and her whole face was dotted with broken veins and liver spots. He wondered whether she could make him out at all; even if she could, hopefully the Disillusionment charms would mean that all she could see would be a vague shape.

The odour of old age, of dust, of unwashed clothes and stale food intensified as she unwound a moth-eaten black shawl, revealing a head of scant white hair through which the scalp showed clearly.

"Bathilda?" Charlie repeated, staring warily at her. The older woman nodded again. Then, Charlie became cautiously aware of the Dark Mark engraved on his skin; the black ink that sometimes tingled or burned had suddenly flared. Did it know, could it sense, that the thing that would end its master's reign was near? Bathilda shuffled past them and vanished into what seemed to be a sitting room.

"I'm not so sure about this," whimpered Hermione, tightening her hold on Charlie's dominant hand.

"Look at the size of her," Harry said in a hushed tone, clearly unbothered. "I think we could overpower her if we want to!"

"I don't know, Harry," whispered Charlie, casting a suspicious look towards the door in which Bathilda had just disappeared. "I know she isn't all there, but she seems —"

"Come!" called Bathilda from the next room. Hermione jumped and, this time, clutched Charlie's forearm desperately.

"It's okay," said Harry reassuringly, although he didn't believe his own words, not fully, and he led the way into the sitting room. Taking Hermione's hand again, Charlie followed behind him.

Bathilda was tottering around the place, lighting candles, but it was still very dark, not to mention extremely dirty. Thick dust crunched beneath their feet, and Charlie's nose detected, underneath the dank and mildewed smell, something worse. Bathilda seemed to have forgotten that she could do magic, too, for she lit the candles clumsily by hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of catching fire.

"Here, let me do that," offered Charlie, and dropping Hermione's hand, he took the matches from her. She stood watching him as he finished lighting the candle stubs that stood on saucers around the room, perched precariously on stacks of books and on side tables crammed with cracked and mouldy cups.

The last surface on which Charlie spotted a candle was a bow-fronted chest of drawers on which there stood a large number of photographs. When the flame danced into life, its reflection wavered on their dusty glass and silver. He saw a few tiny movements from the pictures.

As Bathilda fumbled with logs for the fire, Charlie muttered quickly, "Tergeo!"

The dust vanished from the photographs, and he saw at once that half a dozen were missing from the largest and most ornate frames. He wondered whether Bathilda or somebody else had removed them. Then, the sight of a photograph near the back of the collection caught his eye, and he snatched it up.

It was of the golden-haired, merry-faced thief — the young man that Harry had described from his visions — whom was smiling lazily up at Charlie out of the silver frame; it then came to Charlie instantly where he had seen the boy before. The thief was featured in The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, arm in arm with the teenage version of his grandfather, and that must be where all the missing photographs were — in Rita Skeeter's newest book.

"Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?" he called, and his voice shook slightly. "Who is this?"

Bathilda was standing in the middle of the room, creepily watching Harry light the fire for her.

"Miss Bagshot?" Charlie repeated, and he advanced with the picture in his hands as the flames burst into life in the fireplace. Bathilda looked up at his voice, and the Dark Mark on his arm began to burn.

"Who is this person?" Charlie asked her again, pushing the picture forward. She peered at it solemnly, then up at the boy in question.

"Do you know who this is?" he repeated in a much slower and louder voice than usual. "This man? Do you know him? What's he called?"

Bathilda merely looked vague. Charlie felt an awful frustration. How had Rita Skeeter unlocked Bathilda's memories?

"Who is this man?" he repeated loudly.

"Charlie, what are you doing?" asked Harry, looking momentarily alarmed.

"This picture. Harry, it has to be the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch in your visions! Please!" he said to Bathilda, directing his attention back to the older woman. "Who is this?"

But she only stared at him.

"Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?" asked Hermione, raising her own voice. "Was there something you wanted to tell us?"

Giving no sign that she had heard Hermione, Bathilda now shuffled a few steps closer to Harry. With a little jerk of her head, she looked at the stairs, then back at the young man, then at the ceiling.

"Upstairs?" Charlie asked, but Bathilda did not respond other than to repeat her earlier motion.

"Okay, okay," said Harry, nodding, gesturing up with his hand. "Let's go upstairs, then."

But when Charlie and Hermione moved, Bathilda shook her head with surprising vigour, once more pointing first at Harry, then to herself.

"She wants me to go with her... alone."

"Why?" asked Charlie, and his voice rang out sharp and clear in the candlelit room; the old lady shook her head a little at the loud noise.

"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?"

"But he left it to me in his will!"

"I dunno, maybe she trusts me the most?"

"Do you really think she even knows who you are?"

"Yes," muttered Harry, looking down into the milky eyes fixed upon his own. "I think she does."

"Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry," Hermione relented, extremely hesitant to let him go.

Without waiting any longer, Bathilda took a candle and hobbled towards the stairs. Charlie, pocketing the silver-framed photograph of the unknown thief inside his jacket, watched as Harry followed behind her.

"I don't trust that woman," whispered Hermione, once Harry and Bathilda were out of earshot. Aware that his girlfriend was panicked, Charlie crossed the room and captured her in his arms, placing a kiss to her forehead.

"Neither do I," he replied in a hushed voice, eyeing the staircase leading up the the second landing. His Dark Mark was painfully prickling underneath his sleeve again; it was an unpleasant, agitating sensation. "Once Harry comes back, I think we'd better go," he added nervously, and he was relieved to feel Hermione nod against his chest.

But as the minutes ticked by, frequent anxiety set in. Harry had not yet returned, and the two remaining Gryffindors were huddled in a panic on the first floor. Before they have even realizing what was happening, there was a loud thud from above and it sounded as though fragments of glass rained upon the floor.

"Harry?" Hermione called at once, but Charlie didn't waste a single second before sprinting up the staircase, pulling his girlfriend along with him.

Their wands now raised, Charlie and Hermione climbed to the upper landing, turned immediately right, and forced themselves into the low-ceilinged bedroom. Peering through the darkness, Charlie watched as the old woman's body collapsed and the great snake came pouring from the place where her neck had been.

The snake struck Harry, who had been pointing his illuminated wand in its direction, and the force of the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around the room and was extinguished. Then, a powerful blow from the tail to his midriff knocked the breath out of him. He fell backward onto the dressing table, into the mound of filthy clothing.

"HARRY!" Hermione yelled, raising her wand, but as the snake immediately released their friend, baring its venomous fangs, it then leapt in Charlie and Hermione's direction.

(A/N: fun fact... I'm actually TERRIFIED of snakes, so this gif alone brings me SO much anxiety and fear)

The two of them dived aside with a shriek, narrowly avoiding the snake's tail, which slammed against the doorframe where they had been a second earlier. Hermione deflected curse hit the curtained window, which shattered. Frozen air filled the room as Charlie ducked to avoid a shower of broken glass and his foot slipped on a pencil-like something — Harry's discarded wand.

He bent and snatched it up, but now the room was full of the snake, its tail thrashing; Hermione was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment, Charlie thought the worst, but then there was a loud bang and a flash of red light, and the snake flew into the air, smacking Charlie hard in the face as it went, coil after heavy coil rising up to the ceiling. Charlie raised his own wand, but as he did so, his Dark Mark seared more painfully and Harry let out an deafening cry.

"He's coming!" he shouted loudly, "Guys, he's coming!"

As Harry's voice rang out around the room, the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos. It smashed shelves from the wall, and splintered china flew everywhere as Charlie jumped over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be Hermione —

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across the bed, both of them conveniently collapsing next to Harry. The snake reared again, but Charlie knew that worse than the snake was coming, for his Dark Mark was pulsating madly, burning through his flesh.

The snake lunged as Charlie took a running leap, dragging Harry and Hermione along with him. When its fangs were about to pierce his skin, Hermione screamed, "Confringo!" and her spell flew around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling.

Charlie felt glass cut his cheek as, pulling both Hermione and Harry with him, he leapt from bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of the smashed window into nothingness; Hermione's scream reverberated through the night as the three of them twisted in midair —

But in the midst of Apparating, Charlie felt as though his Dark Mark had burst open, consuming him and his consciousness completely. Everything went dark, and then he was thrown into the depths of memory, an unknown vision forming in front of him.

The night was wet and windy, the little town square was oddly vacant, and the shop window shutters had been closed, all of the 'OPEN' signs had been reversed. Then, he was gliding along, that sense of power and purpose in him that he always knew on these occasions... not anger... that was for weaker souls than he... but triumph, yes...

Beneath his billowing black cloak, he clenched the handle of his wand in his long, slender fingers, invigorated by his task. Along a new and darker street he moved, and now his destination was in his sights at last, his desired victim lingering inside the depths of the white cottage house, though she did not know it yet. He made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge, and stared over it, lurking menacingly in the shadows.

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room. His most loyal undercover companion, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small brown-haired boy in his blue pyjamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist...

The kitchen door opened and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long, brown hair falling over her pretty face. Almost immediately, the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother, glancing around suspiciously as though he knew what was coming. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, feigning a yawn towards his wife.

And with this, the gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but Fenwick Hawthorne pretended he did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open in a dramatic fashion. He was over the threshold as Fenwick came sprinting into the hall, bowing at the sight of his master. It was so easy, too easy, Julianne had not even suspected it...

"I'm sorry our love story had to end this way, my darling, but you must understand, my loyalty will always remain with the Dark Lord."

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, her death would be quick and painless. Together, he and Fenwick climbed the stairs, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in. She had no wand upon her either... how stupid she was, and how trusting, thinking that her safety lay in love, that weapons could be discarded even for moments of fake comfortability...

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand... and there she stood, the Hawthorne heir in her arms. At the sight of him, Julianne let out a vicious, bloodcurdling scream that ricocheted off of the paper thin walls. He fed on that fear, relished in it even, as Fenwick moved and forcefully ripped the child from his lover's arms. She dropped to the floor, begging and pleading, as if this would help, as if in surrendering she was somehow saving herself and her son.

"Fenwick, please, don't do this!"

"I don't have a choice, Jules," spat the Death Eater, restraining the crying child whom was desperately reaching out for his mother. "Your father has gone too far — it's time to send a message."

"No, no, please!" the woman pleaded, whimpering helplessly on her knees. "I had nothing to do with this, I swear. My father —"

But he raised his slender, white hand, demanding silence.

"Your father, you silly girl, has been playing a very dangerous game. Now, he must learn what the consequences are for daring to challenge me."

"Please! Let me go!" the woman tried again, tortured by the cries eliciting from her baby boy. "Please... have mercy... have mercy! I know what it's like to grow up without a mother, so please, Fenwick, if you have any humanity left within you, don't do this to Charlie! Not Charlie! Not our son! Please, I'll do anything —"

He laughed menacingly before Fenwick even had the chance to speak.

"Oh, silly girl, but haven't you done enough?"

"Fenwick, please! Don't let him do this!"

"Goodbye, Jules."

And with that, the father stood back and watched as his master pointed the wand very carefully into the woman's face. He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of the daughter of Albus Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light filled the cramped bedroom, it lit the furniture pushed up against the wall, it made the windows glare like iridescent spotlights, and then Julianne Dumbledore fell like a marionette whose strings were cut.

The child began to cry louder. It had looked into the intruder's face with an unfriendly kind of interest, perhaps wondering if this was all a bad dream, and his mother would be alive when he awoke, smiling and laughing. And still, he did not like it crying, he had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage —

"Clean this mess up, Fenwick, and dispose of her body in the Forbidden Forest," he demanded, showing no remorse for the departed. "You're loyalty is miraculously admirable, Hawthorne, and I hope it is something your heir will inherit one day. Now, come, let us go, our work here is finished..."

And then, just as easily as he entered, he swept from the shabby, white cottage and disappeared into the night, overcome with a sudden sense of powerful invincibility.

To his dismay, however, he would soon break at the hands of the orphan, Harry Potter. He would become nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he would have to hide himself far away... far away...

"No," he hissed aloud, having reached the rubble of the ruined house far too late.

He now stood at the broken window of Bathilda's house, immersed in the past memories of his merciless capability, and at his feet, the great snake slithered over broken china and glass. He looked down down and saw something... something incredible...

"No!"

"Charlie, it's all right, mate, you're all right!"

He stooped down and picked up the smashed photograph. There he was, the unknown thief, the thief he was seeking...

"No... I dropped it... I dropped it..."

"Charlie, it's okay, wake up, wake up! Please, my love, wake up!"

He was Charlie... Charlie, not Voldemort... and the thing that was rustling was not a snake...

With a sudden jolt, he opened his eyes, gasping for breath, and clenched his left forearm in a fit of panic from the aftermath of the chilling memory.

"Charlie, relax!" whispered Hermione, her voice extremely hoarse. "Relax... it's okay..."

He looked around, blinking in his surroundings rapidly. They were back in the tent, and he was currently lying on his and Hermione's shared bed. He could tell that it was almost dawn by the stillness and the quality of the cold, flat light beyond the canvas ceiling. His body was drenched in sweat; he could feel it on the sheets and blankets. In the next moment, he was incredibly thankful to see Hermione's face swim into view again.

"Are you o-okay?" Charlie sputtered anxiously, remembering her shriek of pain in Bathilda's house.

Hermione nodded at once.

"A-And we got a-away?"

"Yes, Charlie," reassured Hermione, who had a small, wet sponge held to his forehead and her other hand in one of his own; she had been delicately wiping his face. "I had to use a hover charm to get you into the bunk, I couldn't lift you. You've been... well, you haven't been yourself..." There were purple shadows under her brown eyes, which were red and puffy. "You've been ill," she finished at last. "Quite ill."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago. It's nearly morning."

"And I've been... what, unconscious?"

"Well, not exactly," came Harry's concerned voice, as he appeared, hovering over the edge of the bed. "You've been shouting and moaning and... things," he added in a tone that made Charlie feel uneasy. What had he done? Screamed curses like Voldemort, cried like his mother on the floor?

"The Horcrux seemed to latch onto you when we were Disapparating," Hermione explained, her voice high and laced with panic, not unlike it had been when Ron had got Splinched. "It was stuck to your chest. You've got a mark... I'm sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it off."

Charlie looked down down, only now noticing he wasn't wearing a t-shirt. Sure enough, there was a scarlet oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. He could also see the reddened skin surrounding the mark engraved on his left forearm.

"Where is it?"

"In my bag," Hermione replied, dabbing his face once more with the sponge. "Harry and I both think we should keep it off for a w-while."

Hermione's voice broke suddenly, and she was shaking with a newfound panic. After Charlie had touched his tender chest, she had been watching him with tearful eyes, as though expecting him to collapse and begin thrashing all over again.

"Hermione," he whispered, bringing her shaking hand up to his lips. "I'm okay."

And yet, she must not have believed him, for she'd immediately flung her arms around her boyfriend and began crying into the bare, sweaty skin of his shoulder.

"Hermione, it's alrig—"

"Shush," she muttered against him, letting her hands freely trace the newest scar added to his skin. "I'm allowed to appreciate the fact that you're not dead."

Unable to argue with that, Charlie laid his head back on the pillows as Hermione, now curling up alongside him, rested hers on his chest, her hand laying on his stomach. He could feel the cold start to pinch as he lay still, concentrating on Hermione's breathing, which was finally becoming less shallow.

"We shouldn't have gone to Godric's Hollow," said Harry abruptly, interrupting the couple's intimate moment. "It's all my fault... I'm so sorry."

Charlie raised his head again, looking up at him.

"It's not your fault, Harry," he told him, trying to sound reassuring. "Hermione and I wanted to go too."

Hermione nodded, "I really thought Dumbledore might have left the sword there."

"Yeah, well... we got that wrong, didn't we?"

Ignoring the feeling of dizziness swirling around in his head, Charlie raised a curious eyebrow at Harry, trying to focus on anything other than the horrific memory he had been forced to watch.

"What happened, Harry? What happened when she took you upstairs?"

"She was the snake... or the snake was her... all along." Harry closed his eyes at this; he could still smell Bathilda's house on him. It made the whole thing horribly vivid. "And then, I heard you both scream..."

Hermione blinked, raising her head off of Charlie's chest, utterly perplexed: "W-What...?"

"Bathilda must've been dead a while. The snake was... was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in Godric's Hollow, to wait. You were right, Hermione. He knew I'd go back."

"The snake was inside her?"

Harry opened his eyes once again. Both Charlie and Hermione looked revolted, nauseated.

(A/N: this gif doesn't fit loll but LOOK AT HER)

"She didn't want to talk in front of you two," explained Harry, sighing, as he leaned up against the bedpost. "Because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn't realize, but of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there... and then..."

Charlie vividly remembered the snake coming out of Bathilda's neck, but both he and Harry seemed to agreed that Hermione did not need to know the details of that part if she did not see it for herself.

"...she changed, changed into the snake, and attacked me," continued Harry, looking down towards the puncture marks on his forearm. "It wasn't supposed to kill me, just keep me there till he came..."

Charlie shuddered; the memory had forced itself to the forefront of his mind once again, playing on a continuous loop. He heard his mother's voice, her whimpers, her cries... all of it. Overwhelmed and sick at heart, he sat back up abruptly.

"Babe, no, I'm sure you ought to rest!" chided Hermione, tugging gently on his arm.

But Charlie, relentless as ever, shook his head.

"I'm fine, I'll keep watch for a while —"

"Don't be stupid," scoffed Harry, stopping Charlie from making a move towards the tent's entrance. "Hermione's right, you should rest for now. I'll keep watch. Did either of you happen to see what happened to my wand?"

"I thought I picked it up, but I —"

Charlie trailed off, his attention caught elsewhere. Hermione had sat up now, biting her lip, and tears swam in her beautiful eyes.

"Harry..."

"Where's my wand, Hermione?"

With a shaky sigh, she reached down beside the bed and held it out to him.

The holly and phoenix wand was nearly severed in two. One fragile strand of phoenix feather kept both pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered apart completely. Harry took it into his hands as though it was a living thing that had suffered a terrible injury. He could not think properly; everything was a blur of panic and fear.

"I didn't know how to tell you, Harry, I'm sorry —"

But Harry was not listening to a word Hermione had been saying. Instead, he held out the wand towards her once more, his eyes pleading.

"Mend it, please."

"Harry, I don't think, when it's broken like this —"

"Please, Hermione, try!"

Hermione could see that she wouldn't be able to get through to him with rationalization, so she'd just have to show him.

"R-Reparo."

The dangling half of the wand resealed itself. Looking hopeful, Harry held it up.

"Lumos."

The wand sparked feebly for a moment, then went out. Now desperate, Harry pointed it at Hermione.

"Expelliarmus!"

Hermione's wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave her hand. The feeble attempt at magic was too much for Harry's wand, which split into two again. Charlie stared at it, aghast, unable to take in what he was seeing... the wand that had survived so much...

"Harry," Hermione whispered so quietly he could hardly hear her. "I'm so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have — must have hit —"

"It was an accident," said Harry mechanically. He didn't blame her, but he felt empty, stunned. "We'll just find a way to r-repair it."

"I don't think we'll be able to, mate," muttered Charlie gently, beyond the point of exhaustion, his eyes wide with regret. "Remember what happened with Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, Mrs. Weasley had to get him a new one."

Even as he said it, Charlie thought immediately of Ollivander, kidnapped and held hostage by Voldemort; of Gregorovitch, who was dead. How was Harry supposed to find himself a new wand?

"Well," Harry managed, in falsely matter-of-fact voice, doing his best to keep his tears at bay, "I'll just borrow one of yours for now, then... while I keep watch."

Hermione willingly handed over her wand, knowing she was capable of entrusting it to Harry. With that, he left his two friends in the tent, desiring nothing more than to temporarily get away from them.

—————————————————————

Author's Note:
*this chapter was not proof read*

I'm actually REALLY happy with how this chapter turned out for some odd reason.

also, for any fact-checkers, I'm aware that the song I chose for the dance scene wouldn't have been made at the time of the Deathly Hallows plot, but we're just going to ignore that, okay? thanks <3

as always, your continued your support is greatly appreciated! I hope you guys are enjoying DH as much as I am!

[insert begging for comment and votes here]

until next time! much love,

xo, selena

p.s. Charmione is back together, but has Charlie proven himself yet...? 👀