So uh, this would probably be the last one for a while. HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! May the new year bring fortune.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

The transition was silent. It suited the calm, swaying movements of the train carriage.

Harry almost feared that they would spend another eternity on the train, waiting and waiting for that somewhere that Death wanted them to be in. But the near rumbling hums erupting from Hermione's throat was enough to break it.

She was scared, more so than he was.

It was understandable. Harry knew why they left so suddenly—why they had to move. Hermione was left in the dark, only knowing things that Harry wanted her to.

He'd done better; had been a better leader some time in his life. Memories of his life from before. It was more blurred than they should be—a haze that gave them a dreamlike quality that he could barely discern from the visions of endless slaughter and commitments of mercy. It was there yet not there. Perhaps with time, his mind would have them sorted.

Hermione stopped her humming to ask again, "Where is that somewhere?"

It was quite an oddly phrased question that brought back memories of another girl with blonde hair and wide, blue eyes that saw what was not visible to others.

Luna would have made that question a lot odder than it should.

Harry chose his words carefully, still quite unable to organize his own thoughts, "Wherever Death needs us to be." Even he was not privy toeverything Death knew. There must be a limit, a line that no mortal- a line that no being made from Life could pass.

He expected Hermione to press, to ask, and to fill in the suffocating silence.

She did not start humming again.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

When the train stopped, it was barely noticeable. The only indication that it had was when they suddenly found themselves surrounded by people, the boisterous crowded noise nearly deafening their ears. Having spent an almost eternity in silence except for their own company, the two magical beings flinched and immediately scuttled away from the crowded train.

Harry kept his head down as Hermione snaked their way out of the worse coagulation of people, using her apparent feminine status to clear the way as best as polite British society could. They had emerged from King's Cross station, bypassing platform 9 and 10.

There was an odd quality to the scene before him that seemed amiss. Men were wearing decidedly formal suits made of soft materials that are not jeans; a larger portion of the women wore dresses and skirts that reached modest lengths. Every other couple had at least one child with them.

Hermione grabbed a newspaper on the way, not bothering with payment knowing they did not have anything on them. Harry grabbed the hem of her dirty jacket to avoid getting lost. It was only now, when the difference of their clothing was apparent, that Harry realized they had been wearing the same clothes as they had when in the battlefield (which one? Which battlefield? Grasslands? Muddied craters? Fallen rubble? Burnt down wards and despairangerfear—).

People stared at them oddly, most likely due to their dirtied and singed clothes. More than one fretfully clutched their purse nearer to their bosom, as if he and Hermione were common thieves. Harry may have done a lot of things—some he still couldn't quite put a finger on—but he wouldn't have dressed this way if he were a pickpocket.

That kid beside the gentleman should be the one they are wary of. Harry had seen his fingers dipping down pockets and purses the moment the rush of too many people abated.

Hermione made a sound of surprise just as Harry bumped into her, her nose stuck into the newspaper she had grabbed.

"Sorry." Harry brushed a hand against his cheek that had impacted on her shoulder. Then he blinked at her astonished face. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, she showed the newspaper.

The Beatles' Last Concert at Candlestick Park
A.L. Lloyd

Harry furrowed his brows.

"1966!" Hermione practically hissed, excitement and trepidation warring in her expression. "We're in 1966! What are we doing here? How is this even possible?"

He leafed through the thin paper when Hermione suddenly grabbed his hand. "Huh?"

"You know how—why we're here, right?"

The downturn of her lips and the crease between her eyebrows was what had Harry nod though even to him, the idea of the answer was vague. It was an abstract reason of just knowing; simplistic and just there like knowing that the sun sets at night. But he understood her need to know that there is some control in what they are doing.

It must seem as if there was no direction, no reason.

A slow smile stretched his lips. That's right. Hermione had always been dictated by logic, guided by her booksmarts, and controlled by her emotions. Instructions, whether detailed or not, were preferable to on-the-spot thinking. Well, perhaps not 'controlled by her emotions' but rather, 'swept up in times of strong emotion'. Ron was the one controlled by his emotions.

Then, as if treating a scared animal, Harry pried her fingers off of his wrist and instead angled hers so he could see the black marking. Thoughtfully, he traced the pattern of the mark—of the Deathly Hallows—and watched her face twist into various emotions he couldn't name.

The Soul Bond allowed for sharing of knowledge at a controlled degree. It was preferable to Death marking her instead of Harry. Death is a being of omnipotence, present in every crevice of reality. A Bond of the same nature Death had established with him was only possible with Death's own interference.

Harry became the Master of the Hollows. It was an accursed title earned by the Herald of Death—the only way to become one. And only Death could choose who it bestows this title to. Only Death could decide what would happen to its Herald.

As its Herald, Harry was to do what needs to be done.

Hermione was different matter altogether. Her sacrifice and his half-formed bond with her had been enough to tie them together. Love is the strongest of Bonds and sacrifices of Life have the power to alter beyond magic and into the essence of reality.

(And had Ron sacrificed himself, too, they wouldn't have been torn apart. Hermione wouldn't have been as lonely as she is; as torn up and heartbroken. The Golden Trio—him and his brother and sister.)

"Oh." Hermione gasped, knowledge of whenwherewhy flooding her senses. She gripped his hand tight where he had a piece of cloth bandaged around, eyes wide as her mind worked rapidly to store the information. Hermione had always been better at keeping an organized mind than he or Ron.

Harry knew the moment she understood.

For a moment, rage swept across her delicate features, marring it with ugly lines and sharp sneer. And to a degree, Harry could sympathize. But the scowl on her face and blind rage reflected in usually soulful eyes did not suit her (as didn't the heartbroken and tired resignation). So Harry reached up and tried to physically smoothen it down with his free hand, not even wincing as her hold on his injured hand tightened.

And perhaps it was bad judgment on his part to give her everything she needed to know at once instead of in increments. He wiped away the tears that gathered in her eyes before it even fell.

"It's why we're here, 'Mione," Harry made much effort to sound soothing, "To avoid it. To correct what has gone wrong and prevent that outcome."

Her voice full of righteous anger, Hermione hissed, "He killed you!"

"And he killed you," Harry threw back, not for the first time the voice of reason yet slight anger slipped into his tone. "And he will kill many others before the End of Magic could be blamed on him."

They stared at each other, both having never backed down from an argument. Then Hermione broke eye contact and said in a small voice, "How can you be so calm about it?"

Harry paused and considered his words. "I've long since come to terms with it."

He'd cried and raged and screamed. He could still feel it, the burning anger and stinging betrayal, simmering in wait until he could find a better use for them instead of having them uncontrollably destroy. He'd come to terms with it, had found solace in that eternity of rage and sorrow.

Death had given him that time.

"I never even realized it was him. I just knew I had to get you out of the way."

The confession was meant to be offhand but Harry knew better. They shared a silence that was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, the newspaper forgotten on the sidewalk as people rushed around them, paying no heed to the battered teenagers.

Then Harry carefully pulled away. The makeshift bandage around his hand was stained a deep red and he hid it before Hermione could have a chance to catch sight of it.

Harry cast a glance around, "C'mon, let's go. You've got your wand with you?"

She tapped around her clothing and pulled out her wand from her sleeve with a contrite look on her face before she faced him, "Yes. Where're we off to?"

Taking her hand in his, he lightly tugged her in the direction of a less crowded street, "We'll have to see if the Goblins could help us."