The Shell Cottage Again

A/N: Thanks to Lariope and all kind reviewers. Thank you, thank you!

Chapter 8 – The Shell Cottage Again

She woke him up several times during the night, coaxing him out of sleep with her lips and hands. After crossing all boundaries, he saw little reason to deny her...or himself for that matter. The damage was done, and he might as well enjoy it while he had the opportunity. Very likely, he wouldn't even live long enough to regret it. Mapping her soft skin with his hands, he teased and tricked her body's secrets from beneath his fingers, filing them away with each moan, gasp and tremble. There were worse memories to take to the grave.

She left the next morning. He more or less ordered her to. He helped her with his wand as she removed strand after glittering strand of Bellatrix's memories and then handed her a roll of parchment containing some of the notes Dumbledore had left him.

"Perhaps Potter knows more," he said, watching as she put the notes carefully into her small bag. "Something to shed new light on where the last one could be hidden."

"I'll pretend they were concealed in my book," she said. "Explaining how I suddenly have the Hufflepuff cup will be slightly trickier, though."

He felt the corners of his mouth tug upward at the thought. For the boys to accept any tale involving Hermione Granger single-handedly circumventing Gringotts security and escaping unscathed with a cursed object, they had indeed to be even dimmer than usual.

"I believe a Confundus Charm would be prudent," he advised. "Take a moment to read the notes before you leave. I doubt you will have much time on your own once you rejoin the Golden Trio." She nodded and followed his lead into a small sitting room, settling down into one of the chairs next to the fireplace. He went back into his chambers to shower and dress, bringing the Muggle jacket she'd worn when he'd found her with him as he came back out. She accepted it with a small smile and stored away the parchment.

"Well," she said, fidgeting with the strings on her bag. "Goodbye, I guess." She took a step closer, clearly unsure of how to act under their current circumstances. His eyes caught her lips briefly, drawn there by the small movement where they touched together with her tongue to increase moisture. For a fleeting moment, he considered kissing her, but dismissed the thought almost at once. Kissing her now, in the morning light, would be taking a step too far. Better to leave it.

"Check in with the portrait every day at midnight," he said instead. "Phineas will be waiting for your report."

"I will." She gave him a small smile. "Are the wards open?"

"Yes."

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye, Hermione."

She turned on the spot and disappeared with a soft 'pop'. Closing his eyes briefly, he set his mind on the next task. Moving to the Pensieve, he summoned all of Bellatrix's memories and added them to the phial that contained the one they had constructed at Gringotts. Swirling the mixture softly, he watched the mist settle and integrate into a single smooth entity. Satisfied with the result, he opened a secret door in the panel and walked into an adjacent room. The only thing inside was a trunk...old and worn, with seven different locks.

Drawing his wand, he set it to the seventh keyhole and watched as level after level moved aside. Looking in, he saw his prisoner, lying wrapped in blankets and ropes on the floor of the large compartment.

"Good morning, Bella," he whispered coldly, even though he knew the unmoving form was in no condition to hear him. Setting to work, he touched his wand to the top of the phial and began the process of returning the memories. While he worked, he cleared his own mind, preparing to enter hers once the task was completed, filtering out any trace of suspicion or inconsistency that the missing days or new memory might have caused. Fortunately for him, Bella's mind was rather like Swiss cheese these days, time and space moving in irregular patterns through her brain, difficult to follow even for herself, not to mention her master. The Dementors had taken so much already, damaged the mind so severely, that missing elements occurring now would most likely be dismissed as normality if anyone cared to take a closer look. He doubted it would come to that, but it never hurt to be careful.

When he was done with her mind, he returned her clothes and levitated her out of the trunk. Wrapping her in his cloak, he Apparated to a dark corner of the gardens of Malfoy Manor and woke her up as they hit the ground. A last Confundus Charm later, they were on their way to the main building, Bellatrix urging him on with barely concealed contempt as they went to report to the Dark Lord that the Sword of Gryffindor was, most definitely, still safely contained within the walls of Gringotts. All was well.

Hermione's feet touched soft grass next to a slender willow tree. She walked towards the house slowly, dreading to go inside. Would Ron and Harry still be there, and what would they say to each other now? In the span of a few short days, she had lived so much, and so much was changed inside her. There was a stranger in her chest, one who barely cared about what the boys had been up to. She should feel betrayed, she knew. She did a little bit. Harry had been her first, after all, and to be tossed aside without a warning stung, love or no. But it didn't hurt as much as it was supposed to, and that scared her, at the same time as she had very little patience with such an emotion. She had seen worse, felt worse, been worse even. After sharing her soul with Bellatrix...even if only for a short while...whatever she would encounter as Hermione couldn't be truly terrible. Or so she felt.

Someone was in the orchard at the back of the house. Harry, huddled up on a bench beneath bare branches. He looked cold. Cold and lost. She wondered what had happened in the days when she'd been gone.

"Harry!" For a minute, she thought that she had been the one speaking. The name had echoed through her mind at the exact same moment she had heard it out loud. Recognising the voice, however, she turned her head and saw Ron exiting the house, pulling his scarf higher around his ears to protect them from the February wind. She stopped moving in the direction she'd been heading and edged instead towards the other side of the house, slowing her steps to watch the two of them.

Harry didn't look up as he called his name, but kept his eyes firmly on something small that was nested in his hands. He walked up to the bench and sat down, leaning close to Harry's slightly smaller frame to protect them both against the wind. Harry still didn't acknowledge his presence and kept focus on rolling the Golden Snitch back and forth across his naked fingers.

"Hey." He reached out and caught Harry's hands in one of his, stilling the movements. The other boy didn't respond. "We'll sort it out, mate," he tried. "We always do."

"I can't get it to open." Harry's voice was hoarse, as though he hadn't spoken for a very long time. "I've tried everything I know, and it just. Won't. Open." He clenched the Snitch in his fist, slamming it into the bench in frustration, crying out as the hand collided with the hard rock. Ron leaned over and gathered it back to him, holding the bruised member between both of his, coaxing it open in his lap and softly caressing the cold skin. Harry looked from the joined hands to him, finally meeting his eyes. "Seriously, Ron, what are we doing?" he asked, defeat in his voice. "We've been looking for three days...the whole Order has...and there is no sign of her anywhere. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help to think that..."

Ron silenced him abruptly, removing his left hand from his lap to push it into Harry's hair and cut him off with a kiss. He could not let Harry voice his worry...their worry...out loud or he would lose hold of what little hope he had left. So he kissed him deeply, insistently, trying to press something of himself into Harry to counter the sadness, to soften the fears, if only by a tiny fraction. His other hand moved on its own accord, climbing up to Harry's face to touch him more intimately. His head started spinning, and he moved closer, letting himself get lost in sensation. It was their first kiss since the First Kiss, and it was just as intoxicating. Touching Harry like this, he couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that he had lived for nearly eighteen years without doing it. The past three days had been torture, now that he knew how it felt to step into light so bright it blinded him. To be so close and unable to touch, hindered by the waves of guilt that seemed to be an almost physical entity between them. He felt that pain crash and burn now, falling from them as they soared...

"Hey! Ron! Leave off the snogging and come inside," Bill suddenly called from the patio door, effectively breaking them apart.

"Get lost!" he called back, sliding his thumbs along Harry's cheeks as he leaned back in. The feel of Harry's lips burned through him from head to toe. He couldn't stop now. Just not possible. He needed this, and from the way Harry's arms wrapped tightly around his waist, he figured Harry did too. Bill didn't reply, and he pushed his brother from his mind, making more room for the way Harry's hands caressed his back and how their thighs brushed together as the kiss deepened again.

"I'm sorry," Bill said, making Ron jump from the sudden impact of a firm hand on his shoulder. He and Harry both looked up, half-angry and half-dazed, trying to make sense of the interruption. The look on the scarred face made the protests that had welled up inside die on his lips, however; he hadn't seen his brother look quite as tense for a long time.

"What's happened?" he demanded, feeling his heart plummet even as he got the words out. Not another death. Please... not...

"Hermione's back," Bill said, almost gently. "Come inside."

Too shocked to speak, the two boys stumbled to their feet, following the eldest Weasley brother into the house.

He was used to thinking of her as small, much smaller than himself, not that he was overly tall. Ron was the tall one. She used to be small. Standing before him now, she looked different, more impressive somehow. He shook his head, trying to make the random thoughts running through his brain form into some sort of logical chain. Hermione was standing in the kitchen. Alive. She was alive. He nearly fell to his knees in a mixed reaction of relief and gratitude. The day she'd disappeared... She had saved his life, somehow getting Dobby to them and healing the fatal wound on his leg, and he had repaid her by driving her out of the house. Shame still went through him in scorching waves as he thought of how he'd treated her. They had shared so much, and she had accepted him when he was all lost. She had been his friend, his lover, his comfort when the world became too insane for him to handle. And he had let himself get swept away, so dazzled by the sudden realisations of his own heart that he forgot all about hers. God, the look of her face... What could he say to her, even now?

Before he had time to think of anything, Hermione threw herself around his neck, catching Ron with the same movement. Something tense shattered in him, and he hugged her fiercely, laughing with relief, squeezing to convince himself that she was really there, that he hadn't unintentionally killed his best friend. Ron was right there with him, holding both him and Hermione so tightly that he had to fight to get air into his lungs. They stood there for close to three minutes, each whispering words of desperate apology into the girl's ears. Hermione said little, letting them do the talking. For a moment, things felt nearly normal again. Finally, they all let go and sat down around the table. Forestalling any questions, Hermione opened her drawstring bag and set Helga Hufflepuff's golden cup on the wooden surface, alongside a roll of old parchment.

"Is that...?" Harry began, cutting himself off as he reached out towards the object with an incredulous look in his eyes.

"Yes," she confirmed softly, smiling slightly as Harry's whole being seem to infuse with new hope. "It's the fifth Horcrux."

"Blimey, Hermione," Ron said, clearly awed. "How did you get hold of it?"

"Yes, how on earth..."

"This," she said quickly, throwing Dumbledore's notes into their eager hands. "Once I'd left, I found these hidden in the book he left me."

They practically threw themselves over the parchment, giving her a few moments in which to plan her next move. She would prefer not to Confund them, if she had a choice. Greater good or no, they were still her friends, and lying to them, however expedient at this moment, felt utterly wrong. They had been her first real friends, the only people in her life she could really call by that title. Despite the confusion, the hurt and everything else they had experienced lately, they were still her friends. She needed them to be. Even if it meant having to lie. The parchment in front of her held Dumbledore's notes, but they also contained an extra part, added by her to look like the original. In the addition, the cup was hypothesised to be held in a security box in a Muggle bank...stipulating that since the Wizarding World at large was generally handicapped when it came to Muggle things, this would be a very safe hiding place for the precious object. The text was accompanied with theories as to the cup's protection, most of which were flashy, cruel to unsuspecting Muggles and relatively easy to dismantle. According to the notes, Tom Riddle had been only barely out of school when he made this particular relic after all.

It was a hasty solution, thrown together in her mind while she waited for Bill to call the boys inside and quickly spelled unto the parchment. The venture into Bellatrix's mind had been of use once again. She found that she had a lot more insight on Voldemort's character now, seeing him as someone a lot more complex than the caricaturised arch-villain which dominated the minds of Wizard society. She knew the logic in her cover story was flawed in many places, but hoped that Harry and Ron would be sufficiently distracted by the fact that the cup was actually there, right on the table, to think too much about how it had got there in the first place. She was correct. Ron and Harry skimmed through the text, marvelled a bit about the brilliance of Dumbledore, lauded her for being Muggle-born and therefore familiar with Muggle banks and left it at that. Harry ran to get the sword and returned within seconds, short of breath but radiant. It felt so much like old times that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

"Here," Harry said, handing over the sword by the handle. "If anyone deserves to kill that thing, it's you."

She really wanted to. Standing there, with the sword in hand, all she could think about were the things she'd had to do to get it. She swallowed hard, pressing images of red mist and pain aside, shutting out memories of blood trickling down her body and the blackness of Bellatrix's mind. Unbidden, an image from later on rose within her mind's eye: an image of a different kind of darkness, experienced in a windowless dungeon chamber where the absence of light only served to strengthen the pleasurable sensations of the other senses...

"Thanks, Harry, but I think you'd better," she said, holding out the gleaming object. "According to Dumbledore's notes, the more pieces of soul you kill, the better your chances are against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the end."

Harry didn't argue. Swiftly, he placed the cup on the floor, took the sword from her hand and ran it, without preamble or hesitation, into the heart of the cursed object. A piercing scream tore through the air, and another Horcrux lay dead on the floor. One to go.

Which was, naturally, exactly what Ron said as he stepped forward to examine the smoking, charred golden cup. She looked up at him with the ghost of a smile and sat back down at the table. There was still much more planning to do.

The hours between ten and midnight passed in sluggish agony. She couldn't sleep but didn't want to stay awake either. Not for the first time, she wished she had a Pensieve of her own, to help sort her thoughts and alleviate the hurricane of fragments swirling in her brain. The three of them had planned for most of the day, going through everything they had in meticulous detail. Most things suggested that the last Horcrux was located at Hogwarts, that Voldemort had planted it there on the cold winter day when he went to ask Albus Dumbledore for the position as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Applying for a position he must have known he wouldn't be able to get practically screamed of an ulterior motive, and if not Horcrux-related, why would Dumbledore have shown that particular memory to Harry as part of his preparation? They had spoken to Bill and Fleur regarding known Ravenclaw artefacts and came up with a few plausible candidates, a sapphire necklace and a charmed quill from the tail feather of Rowena Ravenclaw's familiar among them. The next step would be to get to Hogwarts somehow. Something in her stomach lurched slightly at the thought. Checking her watch one final time, she took out her bag and withdrew the portrait from its confines. Phineas Nigellus was already there, waiting impatiently.

"You are late, Miss Granger," he chided. "I haven't got all night."

Muttering an apology, she quickly retold the day's events. Once she'd finished, the little wizard disappeared from his frame, leaving to pass on the information to the man on the other side of the connection. She waited.

"The Headmaster is very pleased," he said neutrally, returning at last. From the look of his face, she got the impression that he would have wanted to say something completely different, but that something was holding him back.

"What did he say?" she asked, finding it very disconcerting to hold a conversation through another person.

"Forgive me, Miss Granger, but I'm a portrait, not a parrot," he replied, rather snidely. "If the Headmaster would have wanted you to hang on to his every word, he would have spoken to you directly."

"Did he..."

"I imagine three days of your company was quite enough, despite, shall we say, your charming behaviour," he continued, ignoring her small protest. "So, if there's nothing else?"

Her mind was suddenly numb, and she could do nothing but shake her head. With a smirk and a swirl of his robes that would have made his current master envious, Phineas Nigellus Black swept from his frame.

A/N: As always, please review!