In the Bleak Midwinter

Phoenix Tears, Chapter Ten : In the Bleak Midwinter

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute. Dialogue marked with an asterisk is quoted from the original HP stories.

My brilliant, beautiful, bravissime betas have turned my nonsense into coherence once again! Thank you, LAxo and WriterMerrin.

The Occlumency Hermione deployed against the Horcrux was useless against the black depression that engulfed her once Ron left. Back at Hogwarts...which now felt so distant that it seemed more like a past life than her own lived history...Hermione would have turned to the seductive logic and subtle pleasure of Arithmantic calculations to cheer herself up. With Ron gone, however, the results of the matrix Vector had started were so unpromising that the mere thought of Arithmancy left Hermione feeling worse than ever. She forced herself to check the calculations once a day, hoping against hope that something in the external world would effect the results enough to show her a way forward; the rest of the time she sought another distraction.

She'd taken to reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard obsessively. She went through the stories with a fine tooth comb, painstakingly checking the translation of each rune in her syllabary...even those she knew well...hoping to discover some hidden secret meaning, but so far her attempts had been useless.

Hermione and Harry's attempts to deduce the whereabouts of Gryffindor's sword had been similarly fruitless. The initial rush of excitement...fuelled by the realisation that the sword had imbibed the Basilisk venom and thus could destroy the Horcruxes...hadn't lasted the evening. Indeed, a couple of times Hermione had wondered whether Ron's rather abrupt departure had been stage managed by the Horcrux itself. She had often suspected that it might be responsible for the trouble they'd had thinking about how to destroy it, and Ron had been wearing the Horcrux when they finally found an answer. He had very nearly walked out with the Horcrux on, and perhaps that had been the hideous locket's goal.

Yet, regardless of why he had left, he had. And the fact of his absence made everything bad, worse.

As each interminable, frustrating day passed, Hermione's thoughts about Albus Dumbledore became increasingly bitter. How dare he leave them with so little information to work with? It wasn't as if he didn't know his death was fast approaching. He could have told them, for example, what to do with their bequests, rather than trusting that they'd work things out for themselves.

He'd always been a little too fond of leaving them hints and clues...Hermione couldn't help but remember the incident with the Time-Turner from her third year. Dumbledore had merely suggested that with enough time, two innocent lives could be saved that night. In the moment, she'd felt thrilled at her ability to parse his meaning; in retrospect, she wished her younger self had told him there and then to be more forthright in the future.

Hermione developed the habit of pulling Phineas' portrait out from her bag on a regular basis and propping it up on one of the dining chairs. It was almost like having an extra person around, although what she really wanted (more than she liked to admit) was to see Snape.

That in itself was an extraordinary unlikely possibility...if she were to see him, it would undoubtedly mean they'd been captured by Death Eaters...but talking to Phineas was an almost bearable substitute. He was happy to talk at length about Snape's activities...as long as Harry could hold his tongue and not say something offensive...and knowing that he was still alive, that neither the Aurors nor the Death Eaters had taken him hostage, was the only spark of hope in Hermione's rather miserable existence.

While Phineas spoke of Snape's activities in glowing terms, emphasising his own delight that another Slytherin had obtained the coveted position of headmaster, he also conveyed subtler hints regarding the difficulties and stresses his tenure entailed. On the one hand, there was a part of Hermione's psyche that thrilled to the knowledge that students were resisting the Death Eater regime, but she was equal parts concerned that her friends might place themselves in danger and worried about the consequences of their actions for Snape and his double role.

The morning that the Arithmantic probabilities of doing nothing sunk so low that going to Godric's Hollow proved a safer option was the same day that she finally found something of note in the Beedle Bard book.

"Harry," she asked, the tiniest flicker of excitement curling her stomach and shortening her breath, "could you help me with something?"* She spun around her copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard and pushed it towards him. "Look at that symbol,"* she directed, pointing to a small triangle, overlaid with a circle and bisected by a vertical line.

"I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione,"* he protested, but obediently looked where her finger was pointing.

"I know that,"...Honestly, did he think I had forgotten?..."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 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. Think, have you ever seen it before?"*

Harry leaned in closer, his brow furrowing almost comically as he concentrated on the odd symbol. "No . . . No, wait a moment."* Excitement caught at Hermione's throat and she forgot to breathe. "Isn't it the same symbol Luna's dad was wearing round his neck?"*

Hermione let out her breath all at once and grinned for the first time in weeks. "Well, that's what I thought too!"* she exclaimed.

"Then it's Grindelwald's mark."*

"What?"*

Even after Harry had elaborated the details of the story Krum had told him at the wedding...about Grindelwald carving the mark in the Durmstrang wall and about other students who copied it in a twisted form of emulation...Hermione found it difficult to believe that the mark of one of the worst Dark wizards in the twentieth century had passed by the Ministry censors without being noticed. The gifts Dumbledore had left them had been checked repeatedly before Scrimgeour had grudgingly passed them on.

"Hermione?"* asked Harry, breaking into her reverie.

"Hmm?"*

"I've been thinking. I...I want to go to Godric's Hollow."*

Hermione raised her eyes from the strange symbol and took in Harry's nervous-yet-determined expression.

"Yes," she replied. "Yes, I've been wondering that too. I really think we'll have to."*

Harry had wanted to rush off to Godric's Hollow the very next day, but Hermione was not prepared to countenance such risky behaviour. Godric's Hollow was dangerous...that much was evident from the travesty that was once her Arithmantic projections. Honestly, if she didn't get some more information about what was happening in the outside world soon, all of her calculations would be next to useless.

Hermione had insisted that they practice Disapparating and Apparating while under the Invisibility Cloak and that they obtain some hair from a couple of strangers, and thus take Polyjuice too. Harry had thought her paranoid. He went along with her elaborate preparations only to humour her; he was so keen to visit his family home that he would have agreed to dying his hair or painting his toenails to keep Hermione committed to the plan. Yet, as the aching wonder inspired by the sight of the Potters' half-destroyed house dissolved into anxiety, the naïveté of Hermione's careful precautions became pressingly apparent. The old woman knew exactly who they were, Hermione was sure of it. She shouldn't have been able to see them at all, but she was staring right at them.

Instinctively, Hermione moved closer to Harry...the damaged house, the kissing-gate, and the plaque with its wreath of graffitied encouragement momentarily forgotten. The woman was tiny, hunched over and shrunken with age; her movements were clunky and awkward. It took her two attempts to free a hand from the folds of her coat, and she gestured for them to approach.

"How does she know?"* breathed Hermione, but Harry merely shook his head.

The woman motioned once again.

"Are you Bathilda?"* asked Harry suddenly, his voice loud in the snow-muffled silence of the outskirts of town.

The tiny, old woman nodded jerkily and beckoned to them once again. Hermione felt panicked, but at Harry's apprehensive glance, she nodded minutely. They'd come here to meet with Bathilda Bagshot, and here she was. It wouldn't do to run away now.

The moment she and Harry stepped forward, Bathilda turned and staggered off along the path by which they'd come. Hermione and Harry followed, slipping slightly on the compacted ice. Though the old woman looked unsteady on her feet, she moved surprisingly quickly.

Harry and Hermione had spent so long on the run that walking into the town of Godric's Hollow unencumbered by the Invisibility Cloak had felt reckless. Hermione had been ready for Death Eaters to swoop down any second, as if their presence were a flashing beacon. The feeling had faded somewhat in the sheltered graveyard behind the church. Illogically, the brightly coloured light that spilled across the snowy gravestones from the church's stained-glass windows and the sound of the parishioners carolling had given the scene a sense of serenity and security. She'd been reminded of the choir she'd sung with as a young girl, and of Christmases with her parents at the local church.

In contrast with how she felt now, however, Hermione's earlier dread felt like a whispered premonition: she was terrified. How on earth can this woman see us? How does she know who we are?

The strange old woman led them through a gate of one of the nearby houses and up the garden path. The garden was overgrown, almost as badly as the house that had once been Harry's home, and the building was in desperate need of repair. It also stank. Hermione wrinkled her nose at the fetid air as she and Harry sidled past Bathilda and into the corridor. Perhaps it was the old woman who stank, rather than the house?

Once inside, Harry pulled off the Cloak and took the opportunity to stare down into the old woman's face. Hermione glanced around the hall. All the available horizontal surfaces, including the floor, were covered in a thick layer of dust. It didn't look as if Bathilda got out much, and their arrival was stirring up clouds of filth.

"Bathilda?"* asked Harry again, the unfamiliar voice of his Polyjuiced form adding to the weirdness of the situation.

The old woman just nodded in reply, then turned away. As she headed into what was presumably a sitting room, she shouldered Hermione out of her path. Hermione flinched away from her touch: there was something oddly squishy and slightly repulsive about the way the old woman's body felt. The smell alone turned Hermione's stomach.

"Harry," she whispered as Bathilda disappeared through the door. "I'm not sure about this."*

"Look at the size of her," he protested sotto voce. "I think we could overpower her if we had to."* He saw that Hermione still looked apprehensive. "Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn't all there. Muriel called her 'gaga.'"*

A radiator hissed suddenly in the adjacent room, and the unexpected sound made Hermione jump. Instinctively, she clutched at Harry's arm.

"It's okay,"* he said, gently prying her fingers from his arm and leading the way into the room behind Bathilda.

The old woman was busy lighting candles. Small stubs were balanced in all sorts of precarious places, secured by puddles of wax to dresser tops and cracked saucers. She was lucky she hadn't burned herself to death long ago. Hermione rubbed at the top of her arms in an attempt to stop a shivering that was not entirely based on the cold.

This woman should have been put into a home long ago, she thought, with a sudden rush of pity. She knew nursing homes could be pretty soulless places, but Bathilda clearly needed care. She wasn't coping.

"Let me do that,"* said Harry, crossing the room to where Bathilda stood and taking the matches.

Hermione bent to light a fire in the grate. The place was so filthy that, before she could do so, she had to clean up an inordinate pile of ash, sending a cleaning spell up the chimney for good measure.

"Mrs...Miss...Bagshot?"* asked Harry suddenly. His voice shook slightly, and Hermione twisted on her heel to see what had affected him so. "Who is this?"*

Hermione's bluebell flames caught on the dry wood she'd conjured, and golden light spilled across the room as Harry asked again.

"Miss Bagshot? Who is this person?"*

He was holding out a framed photograph, and the old woman squinted down at it obligingly, but said nothing.

"Do you know who this is?"* asked Harry, enunciating each word clearly and distinctly. "This man? Do you know him? What's he called?"* Still Bathilda made no reply. "Who is this man?"* repeated Harry, his frustration evident.

"Harry, what are you doing?"* Hermione reached tentatively for his arm.

"This picture, Hermione, it's the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch!"* He swivelled back towards Bathilda, staring her in the face and willing her to respond. "Please!" he begged. "Who is this?"*

Her continued silence was creepy. Why won't she talk? Is there something wrong with her? "Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs...Miss...Bagshot?"* asked Hermione nervously. "Was there something you wanted to tell us?"*

The old woman ignored Hermione completely. She was fixated on Harry's face, her head twisted up at an odd angle in order to compensate for her hunched posture. Gazing at him intently, she jerked her head towards the door.

"You want us to leave?"* asked Harry in surprise. Hermione was similarly taken aback. They'd just got there. "Oh, right . . ."* Comprehension dawned on Harry as Bathilda jerked her head again, this time pointing at his chest, then at herself, then at the ceiling. "Hermione," said Harry, "I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."*

"All right, let's go."* Hermione wanted to hang around in this house about as much as she wanted to stab herself through the foot with a Basilisk fang, but they'd come here for a purpose. They needed to find the sword of Gyffindor.

Bathilda, however, clearly had no desire for Hermione's company either. She shook her head almost violently and pointed at Harry again, and then herself. She did not point at Hermione.

"She wants me to go with her, alone,"* remarked Harry unnecessarily.

"Why?"* Anxiety pounded through Hermione. She absolutely didn't want to be separated from Harry.

"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?"* Harry sounded so hopeful.

"Do you really think she knows who you are?"* This whole thing could be a red herring. This woman is clearly out of her mind; why on earth should we trust her?

"Yes," replied Harry, glancing back at Bathilda's face. "I think she does."*

Against her better judgement, Hermione complied. "Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry."*

Harry shot her a quick smile before turning back towards Bathilda. "Lead the way,"* said Harry gallantly and gestured towards the door. The old woman trundled off immediately, with Harry close behind; Hermione was left all alone.

Instinctively, her arms closed protectively around her upper body as she glanced around the dank, smelly room. Harry had found...and stolen, she noted...that picture of the wand thief; it was more than likely that something else here would solve the mystery.

To Hermione's mind, the bookshelf presented itself as the most likely possibility...and besides, though Bathilda Bagshot might be well past her prime, she was once a formidable historian. There might even be books that would help them in their Horcrux search, perhaps something listing objects that could be traced back to the founders of Hogwarts.

"Lumos," she muttered as she crossed the room, pointing her wand to illuminate the shadowed cavities of the bookshelf. The sputtering candles offered very little assistance.

Most of the books were shrouded in dust that lay too thickly for Hermione to make out their titles. It was the exception that caught at her attention: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore by Rita Skeeter. The book had been roughly shoved into the bookshelf and lay across the top of several other titles. When she pulled it out to examine the cover, Hermione noticed the copy was brand new, the binding tight. It probably had never been opened.

A single sheet of note paper had been slipped inside the cover, and Hermione recognised the familiar curves and acid green colour of Rita's handwriting.

Dear Batty, she read, Thanks for your help. Here's a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it. Rita.*

For thirty endless seconds, Hermione stared down at the picture of Dumbledore that graced the cover. His image pulled his glasses down with one hand and regarded her curiously over the tops of the lenses. She knew...from the moment her hand closed around the book...what she was going to do, but it still took several moments to assuage her guilt about stealing from a senile old lady.

It's not like she's capable of reading it, she reasoned with herself. Besides, this book might be just what Harry and I need! Perhaps it contains an essential clue about Dumbledore's personality that will help us solve the mysteries! The word "Lies," isolated in the book's title, seemed to flicker before her eyes. She suddenly heard an echo of Snape and Jocelyn, calling her out on her moral choices. Be honest, Granger, she lectured herself, you want to read this book because you're angry at Dumbledore, nothing more, nothing less. Acknowledging the truth helped. Doesn't mean I'm not going to take it, but at least I can admit why. Glancing over her shoulder to check that neither Harry nor Bathilda had reappeared, Hermione pulled her beaded bag from the inside pocket of her coat and slipped in Rita's book. It was only as she returned the bag to the safety of her pocket that she heard the crash from upstairs.

"Harry?"* she shouted, already moving towards the corridor as the question left her lips. She navigated around the coffee table and pushed though the doorway. She pounded up the stairs.

Halfway across the tiny landing, she saw their attacker. An enormous snake...Nagini! she realised...was poised to strike, its powerful body towered above her in an obscene display of strength, and wicked fangs gleamed in the light from her wand. Instincts kicked in, honed by hours spent training under Severus Snape, and she fired off a blasting curse as she dove out of the way, her body automatically curving to cushion her fall, her knees tucking under as she rolled and regained her footing.

She bashed her ankle against the dresser as she landed, but she ignored the pain. Her curse, unfortunately, missed the snake, smashing into the window and showering her with shards of broken glass. Several sunk into her arm and she cried out in pain.

The snake was unprepared for Hermione's fast evasive action, and Nagini's fangs had sunk into the doorframe near where Hermione had previously been. With a terrifying hissing sound, Nagini tore herself free. As she twisted around to find Hermione, her tail lashed out and struck Hermione on her already tender ankle.

Hermione fell backwards, crashing into a spindly chair, which snapped under her weight. The snake reared above her. Wrenching her wandarm upward, she fired a stunning spell directly into the head of the snake. With a loud bang and a flash of red light, the snake was blown back across the room. Hermione drew a gasping breath and pushed herself to her feet. She hadn't heard anything from Harry, but she refused to consider the possibility that she might have been too late. To her inordinate relief, he shouted out at just that moment.

"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!"* From the panic in Harry's voice, it was evident who "he" was: Voldemort.

Though Hermione had managed to hit the snake, it was far from stunned. As it thudded back onto the floor, it hissed madly. Harry dove across the bed, grabbing Hermione bodily and dragging her back with him. She shrieked as a piece of the splintered chair punctured the flesh on her hip. Though the middle-aged man Harry had transformed into was surely weaker than Harry himself, he managed to hoist the tiny figure Hermione had chosen and staggered towards the window. The snake reared up once again, lunging towards them.

"Confringo!"* shouted Hermione. Firing curses while being physically lugged across a springy mattress by your best friend is a tricky task, and the spell went wide, ricocheting wildly around the room.

Harry jumped from the bed to the dressing table and then leapt from the window. Hermione screamed as a piece of glass slashed open her calf. Her fingers closed tightly around Harry's shoulder, and as they fell, the practice drills on which Snape had insisted paid off once again: distancing herself from her own pain, Hermione twisted them into nothingness.

They botched the landing terribly, thudding into a snowy hillside. It took Hermione several seconds to realise that it wasn't her screaming any more: it was Harry. She untangled her limbs from his...no easy task, as he was writhing on the ground...and pushed herself to her knees. The first thing she saw was Harry's broken wand, clutched in his hand; the second thing was the deep puncture marks of the snake bite on his forearm. Dread clutched at her heart.

For several seconds, Hermione knelt there, frozen with shock. She couldn't process what she needed to do first.

The wards. She realised suddenly. They couldn't afford for Voldemort or his Death Eaters to find them now. She sprung to her feet, staggering at the pain in her legs, and cast the protective spells that would keep their location hidden. The process took less than a minute, and at the same time, she managed to pull out her beaded bag with her other hand.

"Accio antivenom!" she shouted, with her hand thrust inside the opening. Nothing had ever looked as beautiful as that tiny phial of green potion. With trembling hands, Hermione cracked the wax seal and unstoppered the bottle. Topically or orally, she remembered.

Harry had yet to stop screaming, ruling out oral administration. Wincing at the necessity, Hermione Silenced him; the sudden quiet was a balm to her ears. Immobilising him with a spell, she poured half of the dose she had into each of the two holes in his arm. The antivenom was absorbed so quickly that had she blinked, she might have imagined it to have disappeared.

That done, Hermione let out a long breath. She Summoned and erected the tent, and levitating Harry's body, she moved him inside, laying him on one of the lower bunks. She placed his broken wand on the floor beside the bed. Next, she treated the site of his snakebite with dittany, trusting that Snape would have mentioned it were it likely to interact poorly with the venom's antidote. By the time she was done, the Polyjuice had worn off, and the achingly familiar contours of Harry's face appeared, stretched and pinched with pain.

Once she was certain that she had arranged enough pillows to buffer his head against the solid internal tent walls and the bedposts, Hermione removed the Immobilisation Charm. Thus liberated, Harry began to writhe once more, his hands clutching at his neck and his face contorted by his now-silent screams.

The Horcrux. Fired by a new panic, Hermione tore at Harry's clothes, pulling them open to reveal the locket, which pulsed ominously against his chest. After only seconds of trying to grasp hold of the Horcrux, Hermione immobilised Harry once again. The chain lifted easily enough, but with a growing sense of horror, she realised that the locket itself was fused to his skin. Looping the chain out from under his head, Hermione threw her weight against it. It wouldn't budge.

What do I do? What do I do? The Horcrux was obviously hurting Harry, and what's more, the idea of it stuck to him...joined to him...freaked Hermione out. I have to get it off.

Closing her eyes, she pressed both palms against the warm flesh of Harry's chest. Get a grip, Granger, she instructed, forcing herself to take several deep breaths. I am calm, she told herself. When she opened her eyes, her hands had stopped shaking, and Hermione performed a complicated Severing Charm, slicing away the top layer of Harry's skin. When the Horcrux finally lifted free in her hand, relief washed over her. She stashed the Horcrux inside the beaded bag. As long as she could help it, no-one was wearing that again.

She applied more dittany to the wound she'd created. Almost certainly Harry would bear the scar for the rest of his life...although, she comforted herself morosely, At least he will have a life.

Before Hermione removed the Silencing Spell and the Immobilisation Charm for the second time, she checked over the rest of Harry's body. He had several large bruises and a couple of small glass cuts. The cuts were easy enough to heal, and the bruises just needed time. Only then did she remove the charms, holding her breath hopefully that Harry would be calm and quiet.

With the Horcrux gone, he was no longer writhing to the same extent, but he was far from restful. His body twitched nervously, and his brow was feverish. As she watched, he muttered unintelligibly and twisted his head against the pillow. His eyes were screwed shut.

Hermione wasn't sure what to do next; she didn't know how to help him. As she sunk back on her heels, despair prickling with tears at the back of her eyes, the aches and pains of her own body clamoured for attention. Keeping most of her attention on Harry, she catalogued her injuries: there were a number of glass cuts...the worst of them the gash on her leg...a scraped ankle, a gouged hip and a number of other miscellaneous cuts and bruises.

The careful application of dittany dealt with most of her problems, and, ironically, she used one of the charms gleaned from her intimate perusal of Molly's copy of The Healer's Helpmate to mend her ankle. Take that, Ginny Weasley, she commented, but the attempted levity fell so flat she wished she hadn't bothered.

Even after Hermione had healed her own wounds, Harry was still delirious and feverish. Hermione pulled a shallow bowl from her beaded bag and filled it with water. Summoning a flannel, she began to mop down his face.

"Come on, Harry," she muttered as she worked. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

She was washing his right arm when his fingers twisted in hers and gripped gently onto her hand. Her eyes flew to his face, delighted to see him staring back at her.

"Harry!" she exclaimed.

"Hermione," he replied wonderingly. He gazed around, a bemused crease between his eyes. "Where are we?" he asked.

Relief drained away as quickly as it had blossomed. "We're," she broke off and had to swallow before she could continue. "We're in the tent, Harry. You were attacked by You-Know-Who's snake."

"Ah," Harry nodded wisely. "That makes sense." His brow cleared.

Involuntarily, the most pressing of Hermione's many questions tumbled from her lips. "How did he know we were there, Harry?" she asked, not expecting a coherent answer.

Harry looked back at her beseeching face with a sympathetic expression. "He and the snake," he said slowly, reaching towards his temple with his free hand, "can talk to each other with their minds."

"They can?" demanded Hermione, sitting straighter in surprise. "Well that proves the snake is..." she broke off, horrified. Speechless, she watched as Harry's eyes rolled back in his head, leaving him unconscious once more. That proves the snake is a Horcrux, she'd been going to say, but the logical corollary of that premise had gripped her gut like ice and frozen the words in her mouth.

The only other living thing that can talk to Voldemort with his mind . . . is Harry.

The rest of that long, horrific vigil, Hermione sat beside her unwell best friend. She held his hand while he screamed, she bathed his fevered forehead, she held his body down when he thrashed around and threatened to injure himself. Every now and again, she wept. Throughout it all, Hermione fixated on her realisation, turning it over and over in her mind. She wanted to doubt her intuition, but logic told her she was correct: it made too much sense of things that had always been strange.

She would just have to work out a way to deal with it...a way that kept Harry alive . . . without giving Voldemort another escape route from death.

A / N : I have two quick thing to say. Firstly, one of my readers pointed out that by shifting the Fidelius Charm earlier on Shell Cottage, I contradicted the book. Now, I thought it was going to be fine because Ron would have been able to tell them about the house despite the charm, they just wouldn't have been able to see or find it until they knew the secret (think about the DEs outside Grimmauld Place, they clearly *knew* the house was there, they just couldn't see it). I remembered Harry seeing people run towards him once he arrived at Shell Cottage with Dobby, which would have worked fine, but when I checked back, JKR does actually mention that he sees a cottage in the distance. So, SORRY!!! I failed in my attempt not to contradict canon, but it is only minor and I hope that you'll forgive me. :) Because really, why wasn't the house already secret kept?? Did Bill have no qualms about leaving his young wife alone while he was off at work, even though the Ministry was controlled by Death Eaters??? Okay, enough of that.

Secondly, guess what comes next week in the story?? I'll give you a hint: the chapter, written from Snape's perspective, will be called "Special Delivery"!!