Bathilda's Secret (Reprieve)

A/N: In celebration of October (and Halloween at the end of the month), I wrote this piece which is my version of events of what could've/should've happened in Godric's Hollow with Harry, Hermione, Bathilda, and Nagini. And of course, sprinkled throughout are Harry/Hermione romance moments. I hope you enjoy!

"And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined." – Remus Lupin, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

As Harry watched the muffled figure limp towards them, he regretted slipping off the Invisibility Cloak upon seeing the house where his parents were murdered and for talking Hermione out of using Polyjuice Potion before they even arrived. Though it was no guarantee they'd be kept safe, both were a guise under which they could temporarily hide under. And it was in those seconds of hiding that made all the difference in that it would allow them to escape if need be. Harry actually considered a quick getaway right then and there, and was glad he and Hermione had practiced Apparating and Disapparating, but resolved to stay put lest the figure coming towards them actually was Bathilda Bagshot, as Harry assumed she was, and that this would be their only chance to talk to her. Retrieving the sword of Gryffindor was of utmost importance and leaving Godric's Hollow without it would jail a way for Harry and Hermione to destroy Slytherin's Locket.

A rainbow of Christmas lights from the town square haloed the figure as it crept closer, though Harry guessed that holiday festivities were the farthest thing from its mind. Even more, if the figure did happen to be Bathilda Bagshot, she had since gone batty, at least according to Rita Skeeter she had, and thus, Christmas was simply another day in another year, lost in a time warp of insusceptibility.

It didn't pay any attention to the cottages it passed, smoke coughing out of a chimney of one and a skinny stream of light spilling out from behind partially closed curtained windows of another, but instead focused its attention on Harry and Hermione. Snow was like a carpet under its feet, the figure cutting tracks in them, and lightly dusted her shoulders like powdered sugar. Its spine was bent irregularly so that the figure looked like it was hunch-backed. Harry thought a cane might help her.

Her arm looped through his, Harry could tell Hermione was tense beside him. Her breaths tickled the side of his neck and he leaned into them. They felt good against him, comforting even, and threatened to timber an avalanche of memories inside his head. Yet, as good as those memories were, he'd have to draw on them later, perhaps sometime tomorrow when he and Hermione were alone together, and the sword of Gryffindor in their possession. For now, however, he was simply focused on the approaching Bathilda Bagshot, spending as little time as possible with her, and taking out of Godric's Hollow at the first opportunity.

"I don't like this," Hermione whispered to him. He felt her breath on his neck again. "I don't like this at all."

"It'll be alright," he said back. He wanted to reassure her with a smile, but was less inclined to take his eyes off of the figure now mere feet away. It was a slow approach, alright, the snow certainly didn't help matters, and waiting out in the open as they were now was a dangerous game to play because about half of the streetlamps were out, birthing an overpopulation of shadows over them.

"Maybe we should try again when it's lighter out?" Hermione suggested.

"We have our wands, don't we?" Harry asked, reaching inside his jacket and pulling his out.

"But someone might see!" Hermione protested, grabbing his arm tightly. "There are Muggles nearby!"

"Better for them to see than for us to be caught off guard," he replied, never taking his eyes off of the figure. It had now stopped and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione fumbling for her own wand. When she took hold of it, they both ignited them with a quiet, "Lumos."

Light hit the face of the figure and Harry saw that it was indeed an elderly woman. She was small, reaching up only to Harry's chest, and frail…very frail. Her skin was spotty like planets in the solar system, while broken veins were like baby snakes slithering across her face. Fogginess had glazed her eyes and exhibited a healthy descent into cataracts, and her mouth had dehydrated into a thin brook void of any moisture. And though she wore a moth-eaten shawl over her head, it had since fallen askew, letting Harry see that large patches of white hair were missing, with those that remained like isolated snow dunes.

"Bathilda?" Harry whispered. "Bathilda Bagshot?"

The woman did not confirm or deny this, but instead raised her hand and waved them forward.

"You think it's her?" Hermione asked him quietly.

"I suppose," Harry said, keeping his gaze on the woman. "Who else could it be?"

"Death Eaters," Hermione answered instantly. "This could be some sort of disguise, like Polyjuice Potion or human Transfiguration!"

Harry shook his head. "Death Eaters wouldn't waste any time. They would've already called him with the Dark Mark."

"But still…," Hermione began then trailed off. He could hear the uneasiness in her voice, and her wand-free hand was wringing his arm like a Muggle would a wet towel. "It could be a trap."

"And what if it's not? What if she has the sword of Gryffindor?"

Again, the woman beckoned at them with her hand.

"This just doesn't feel right," Hermione said. "I don't know what it is, but it's something."

"Then we'll be quick," Harry proposed. "We'll follow her back, see what she has to say, and then leave."

"That sounds too easy."

"Maybe it will be," he shrugged.

After a moment, Hermione sighed and nodded her head. Harry unwound her arm from his, and resolved to grab her hand in its place. He squeezed it, and she squeezed back. Then together, they stepped forward just as the woman raised her hand for the third time.

Ron had left them, that much was for sure, and his exit had drowned a brief excitement upon them learning that there were two copies of the sword of Gryffindor, and that Snape was in possession of a fake. Hatred had burned inside Harry the night of his departure, but what was more were Ron's words confirming that both he and Hermione had been disappointed in Harry's lack of direction and deficient planning. Wanderers were what they were, and nothing more than that.

And though Ron's accusations stung Harry on a level that was somewhat foreign to him, the look on Ron's face when Hermione chose to stay with Harry was a feeling of hurt beyond Earth's orbit. Harry had seen it because Ron did nothing to hide it. And maybe he did that on purpose so that when he was gone, it was all Hermione would see. Perhaps he hoped that above all else, it'd haunt Hermione so much so that she'd go on to blame Harry for what had happened and come to resent him.

Yet, such culpability never came to fruition. Sure, the silence grew heavy between Harry and Hermione, and sometimes they went days without speaking to each other. The weather was another factor that kept both their moods dour, and Slytherin's Locket was another. Moving from location to location, farther and farther away from the possibility of Ron ever returning, did nothing to help either. But the accusation he'd been expecting from Hermione never materialized in her eyes. And for that, he was more grateful than words would ever be able to convey.

But it was Harry's audit of the Marauder's Map that truly changed things around for both he and Hermione, though he was not privy to such knowledge at the time. When he was on watch duty during the night, Harry would take the map with him, spread it open in his lap, and study the many dots by wand light, looking for Ron's name. He was positive that it'd appear sooner or later, though Harry was unsure as to why this mattered. He guessed it was a battle of wills that would suggest Ron was weak for returning to Hogwarts, and that he was strong for evading a Dark Lord across the countryside. Clearly, he was still a slave to the hatred of Ron leaving.

So until the time came when Harry would see Ron's dot back within Hogwarts, and he could thus declare victory over him in that regard, he found himself staring at Ginny's dot. He had missed her before, and was under the impression that merely seeing her name would cause such feelings to surge within him like flooding water over a river bank. Therefore, it came as a great surprise when these sentiments were drowned under the weight of his own indifference on the matter. He tried to hold himself accountable, and believed that he was a right tosser for not caring in the slightest, but he just couldn't help it. All her dot was to him now was an ant in a large anthill. And this sense of detachment only grew as the winter dragged on, as the snow fell down in thick and heavy

curtains so that Harry had a bit of difficulty in seeing Bathilda, and was rather grateful that she was slow in her old age. She led them past low stone walls crowned with holly and Christmas lights, while wreaths were on the front door of every cottage. Most lawns were well manicured by Harry's quick inspection, though upon turning in at a gate, he wasn't all that surprised that Bathilda's wasn't: potholes littered a dirt path that was barricaded by an unkempt overgrowth on one side as weeds strangled the parts of the grass that weren't yet dead on the other side, and had invaded flower boxes on the window sills, though Harry thought it looked like ages since flowers had occupied such boxes. However, what really struck him about Bathilda's cottage was how dark and brooding it was. Her neighbors weren't at all quiet about the Christmas holiday, yet Bathilda's home was like a black hole for such celebrations, leading Harry back to the strong possibility that Rita Skeeter was telling the truth in that Bathilda really had gone batty. Or maybe she was simply too old to care.

They took up a pair of wooden stairs that whined loudly like the floorboards of an old home would as Harry tried to look in through the front windows. Yet, a thick layer of dust draped each pane, rendering visibility to be scarce. He looked over at Hermione quickly and noticed how pale she was. He squeezed her hand again, meaning for it to be comforting, and frowned when he didn't feel her return the pressure.

Bathilda pushed open the door and walked inside without as much as a backwards glance at her two visitors. They followed her into a small, dark foyer which was bare except for an oval mirror that was stuck on one of the walls. It was caked in grime and rust after years, if not decades, of disuse which wore it down. Black splotches were splashed against the mirror like dead spiders. Harry looked at himself and saw that he had snow in his hair like dandruff and purple bags were buried under his eyes. He looked tired, and felt it even more. He appeared haggard, resembling someone who could do with a good night's sleep, and how he wished he was sleeping right now. He watched as Bathilda staggered away from them and under an archway. After she did, Hermione murmured, "Do you smell that?"

And Harry did, yet had no idea where it was coming from (or what is was). It was rancid and foul similar to that of rotten eggs. It lingered in the foyer above them almost like an invisible warning sign to go no further than they already had, and he guessed the odor would only grow stronger the deeper they went inside the home. Harry certainly had no intention of staying longer than several minutes or so and figured if Bathilda did have the sword, she'd want to dispose of it rather quickly being that she looked ready to fall over and sleep herself by how she was when she first approached them.

They crept into the sitting room, holding their wands above their heads, and saw that it was severely cluttered: a bow-fronted chest of drawers monopolized one corner while a horizon of photographs sat atop it; two moldy wing-backed chairs huddled before an empty grate; and stacks of books towered waist high in every area they could fit into. Candles stood like single watchtowers above each one. Bathilda was scurrying around with a family of matches, lighting each candle by hand.

Hermione decided to help her as she pointed her wand, muttering, "Incendio," as she did so. She repeated her actions with the candles on the small chandelier above them.

When she finished, Harry asked the woman again, "Are you Bathilda?" He thought he knew but considered it would be best to have confirmation.

But she seemed not to have heard (or was pointedly ignoring him instead) and went into the loo. There, he heard the toilet flush, and Bathilda came back out again a second later, her face stony. She hobbled over to one of the chairs and sat down in it nearly panting, and a cloud of dust sighed into the air just above it. It was then that Harry saw that Bathilda's feet didn't even reach the floor.

He went over, crouched down on one knee in front of her, and said, "The sword…do you have the sword of Gryffindor? Did Dumbledore give it to you?" He wet his lips quickly. "We need it."

Bathilda didn't answer but reached a bony hand out to him. She used it to push his hair upward a little and traced his lightning bolt-shaped scar down his head with a fingernail, making Harry wonder how she could see being that she seemed nearly blind. She looked at it almost lovingly and smiled. At least, Harry thought it was a smile even though it resembled more of a grimace instead. Then, to his surprise, Bathilda nodded her head. It was a small movement, and he doubted Hermione even detected it as she stood behind him.

"Where?" he asked. "Where is it?" Excitement flared inside him as he felt Slytherin's Locket softly punch his chest. It knows, he thought to himself. It knows it'll soon be destroyed. He even thought they could get rid of it there, in the presence of Bathilda, and maybe she could help them do it. He had a small suspicion that upon opening Slytherin's Locket, whatever was inside would put up a fight against him or whoever wielded the sword. Tom Riddle's Diary was proof of that. But with the three of them together, Harry supposed it would be an easy kill, despite Bathilda's old age.

However, before she could disclose the sword's location, the sound of a toilet lid banging open echoed out of the bathroom. The suddenness nearly made Harry drop his wand while Hermione gasped loudly. He heard her hit the chest of drawers and when he looked back, the photographs fell over like Muggle dominoes.

"What was that?" she asked shrilly, paying no mind to Bathilda's belongings.

"Dunno," he replied, his eyes on the blackness emanating just beyond the loo's open door. Didn't Bathilda just flush the toilet?

He got to his feet and walked slowly around Bathilda's chair, of which she hadn't even flinched at the sound of the toilet lid banging open in the loo. Instead, she still wore that loving look she had when she traced Harry's scar down his head.

With Hermione at his side, Harry inched forward, his wand held out in front of him. The distance to the lavatory was closing and from inside, he heard something else: a gurgling sound, almost as if someone was drowning in water. Running along a spectrum of what the noise was coming from, he came up short, each probability as unlikely as the next. What could possibly be inside, and what was it doing in there?

Their wand light globed one corner as they stood on the threshold of the loo, casting twin moons above the lavatory. Harry looked around quickly and concluded that the toilet had vomited water onto the tiled floor for there were half a dozen puddles there. Stepping inside, he felt his hands run with sweat (the toilet gurgled), his breaths quicken (the toilet gurgled), and his chest grow sore as Slytherin's Locket punched him even harder now (the toilet gurgled).

Peering over the bowl, but making sure to keep a safe distance away from it, Harry was confused for he saw what looked like a red hill inside the toilet. He felt his brows pull together across his head as he looked back at Hermione and said, "It looks like it's clogged. See for yourself." She did as Harry took a quick peek back at Bathilda, who hadn't moved from where he left her, her tufts of white hair just visible over the top of the chair she was in. However, shock ripped through him when Hermione screamed loudly.

"It's moving!" she yelled and backed away, her eyes wide and unblinking. "It's moving in there!" and pointed a shaking finger.

Harry took back to the toilet and saw that she was right: the red hill was growing larger, appearing as if it was pregnant with whatever lurked underneath it. It ballooned then sagged, ballooned and then sagged again. It was almost as if it was breathing. He pointed his wand at this alien life form, readying himself for a fight, but gasped loudly when the red hill turned upwards, and Ron's face stared back at him.

He supposed it had been building for a long time, but for some reason, never realized it until now. After all, he and Hermione had been best friends for a number of years, and their arguments with each other were minimal. Sure, they had their disagreements every now and then, and Harry really was angry with her when she told McGonagall about his Firebolt, thus having it confiscated for closer inspection, yet they never fought for long, and they usually kept it between themselves (unlike her spats with Ron which seemed to affect the world and everyone in it). So, he shouldn't have been surprised when one night, he dreamt of Hermione, and woke up with a raging erection, right?

Because that's exactly what happened. He couldn't really remember what brought it on (or up in this case), but something certainly had, and Hermione was involved, intimately at that. The following day, he was helpless in stealing glances at her when she wasn't looking, hoping that that would assist him in piecing together this unexpected mystery in his (supposed) newfound feelings for her. In doing so, he noticed things about her he never had before: like how, at mealtimes, she would take exactly three bites of her food each circuit and then set down her fork and knife and wipe her mouth with a napkin, or when she was reading, she would sit in the same position and never move an inch, except for when she was completely engrossed in her book and began to twirl a strand of her hair around her finger. Then, there was the fact that she always slept on her left side, with her right arm on her hip and her left under two pillows. And, yes, it was always two pillows…never any more, and never any less.

It was these small nuances that added together a somewhat more coherent formula of Harry's sentiments for Hermione that he was trying to solve, because admittedly, he was very confused. Of course, merely trying to stay alive was complicated enough, but to have his teenage hormones kick in at the same time was just asking for trouble. That was why he broke things off with Ginny before summer break. And he was glad he did, especially now, for if he tried to stay faithful to Ginny while these dreams of Hermione left him feeling like he had to mate with her at the earliest opportunity, well, he might've given himself up to Voldemort then, for that'd surely be easier, wouldn't it?

But beyond it all, Harry wondered why these emotions were sprung on him seemingly at random. There was no denying his hormones had something to do with it, yet that didn't explain his sudden attraction to Hermione, and Hermione alone. And yes, they were by themselves, they had been for a week or so now, but did isolation really force a desirability that had been absent previously? He ran over the thought that maybe he always fancied Hermione deep down, his feelings having most likely started the night of the Yule Ball, but managed to suppress them because he knew (or thought he knew) Ron and Hermione would eventually get together someday. But if he was to be honest with himself, he didn't think it would take this long, and they still weren't even together! Then there was the absurdity with Cho Chang, and later Ginny (though less absurd with her, of course) that suffocated what he really thought of Hermione even more, and now, here he was, confused as a little chick with its head cut off.

Harry supposed he could talk to Hermione about this, but didn't know how she felt on the matter. It was entirely possible that she hadn't given it a second of thought and was waiting (hoping) for Ron to return. She'd probably have a good laugh at Harry for being so ridiculous in that he actually believed feelings other than friendship existed between them. Or, a second possibility was that Hermione might feel pressured into doing something with him, all because Harry had suggested he fancied her. He didn't know what he'd do if it came to that, though judging by his dreams, he'd fully respond to such a scenario. Yet, he was rubbish at talking about his feelings, never having really done so before, and believed his conversation with Hermione on the matter might sever the tight rope they both were walking on together, causing them to fall down.

But it was their isolation that drew him to her like a siren song. During the day, he found himself staring more and more at Hermione, and at night, he brought the Marauder's Map less and less with him. He didn't really care if Ron was back at Hogwarts, and he didn't really care what Ginny was up to either. All that mattered to him was he and Hermione…alone…together…somewhere in the English countryside…cold…sometimes hungry…and starved for physical affection. And it was slowly driving Harry mad. Gone was his worry about Voldemort and his Horcruxes. Instead, his dreams began to consume him from the inside out, and they were getting more and more explicit. He figured he'd have to do something about it soon, but didn't exactly know

what was more, Ron was beginning to make his way out of the toilet. Harry pointed his wand at Ron while he heard Hermione call out his name from behind him.

"Ron? Ron, is that you?"

"It's not him," Harry answered quickly. And it definitely wasn't: this Ron was pale and skeletal, one of his eyes sunken deep into his head and glossy. The other eye was dangling out of its socket and still attached to its optic nerve. However, that wasn't the only problem that Ron had for his spinal cord was sticking grotesquely out of his back, piercing his skin, while all of his fingers were bent oddly, looking as if they were broken. One of his ears was missing completely (Saint-like, George once had said. You see…I'm holy. Holey, geddit?) and the other had raw flesh oozing out of it. And because he was wearing no clothes, parts of his ribcage were exposed as well as his groin.

Harry wanted to keep Hermione away from Ron and made to push her out of the loo, but she evaded him quite easily and saw the horrible state he was in. Though her mouth was opened, no words came out because he supposed, like him, she was too stunned to really say anything. He did notice that her eyes bulged and for a second was worried both of them would pop out of their sockets and hang down her face. Thankfully, they didn't.

Ron stood by the toilet, staring at Harry and Hermione, the latter of whom, Harry could see, was shaking. He then belched a bubble of blood out of his mouth as the toilet gurgled once again. However, Harry wasn't planning on waiting to see who came out of it next. Instead, he aimed his wand and shouted, "Stupefy!" A jet of red light hit Ron in the chest, but miraculously, he was unaffected by this, and stared at the spot where Harry's spell hit him. He growled animal-like, baring his teeth at Harry as if he was a rabid dog.

"What're you doing?" he heard Hermione yell at him, but he didn't have time to respond, because Ron lunged and tackled him to the ground. His wand flew out of his hand and he heard it clatter away from him. Overpowered, Ron straddled him and punched him in the face, over and over again. Losing count (not that he was keeping tally of how many times Ron's fist came down), he felt blood spurt from his nose. Ron looked devilish above him, his teeth snapping together like that of a cannibalistic savage, and his fist striking again and again and again.

As Ron pulled up for another blow, a scarf suddenly wound around his neck, and tugged violently at him. Ron's hands clutched at the scarf and tried to tear it away from him but he couldn't. Harry got to his feet and saw that the scarf belonged to Hermione and that she was using it to restrain Ron's violence. She handed his wand back to him and said urgently, "We have to get out of here, sword or no sword!"

"But Bathilda said she has it!" Harry said back to her, as Ron stumbled into the living room, knocking over a pile of books and the candle that rested on top of it. Hermione's scarf was still choking his neck.

"We have to hurry then because-," but she was interrupted when a hand viciously grabbed her hair from behind. Hermione's head was yanked backwards into the bathroom and Harry saw the chords on her neck swell. Rushing forward, he skidded to a stop when he saw Ginny, and figured that the gurgling sound from before belonged to her and that like her brother, she too came out of the toilet.

She seemed to be in a much better state than Ron, though her eyes were misty (but still intact from what he could see), but her hair was thinning like that of an old woman. "SLAG!" she screamed at Hermione. "YOU SLAG!" Ginny's voice didn't at all sound like her own, instead it was much deeper, and Harry wondered what had possessed her, for something surely had in order for her to act like this.

As she tugged her hair again, making Hermione whimper in pain, anger pillared inside Harry and he yelled, "Reducto!" His curse flew at Ginny and when it made contact, half of her head exploded. Her brains splattered on the wall behind her. The force of the spell made her let go of Hermione's hair but a nasty ripping sound had one of Ginny's hands full of the recently parted hair.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pulling Hermione against him. He saw that she was on the verge of crying.

"Let's just go," she nearly whispered.

Before he could Disapparate, he heard Bathilda hiss from behind him, "The sword." He turned around and Bathilda beckoned at them from the living area as if nothing had happened. She was standing now though something was off about her.

Hermione seemed to sense this as well because she said to Harry, "Don't."

He ignored her, being that the whole purpose of visiting Bathilda was to see if Dumbledore had left the sword of Gryffindor with her. Leaving without it, especially if Bathilda did have it, would give Harry and Hermione absolutely no way to destroy Slytherin's Locket, and they'd have to start hypothesizing all over again with how to do so.

Walking out of the loo, Harry saw Ron was either dead or just passed out. He didn't know which one he wanted more. He was sagged against one wall, and managed to fall on his bottom, his legs splayed out in front of him. His face was purple, and his tongue hung out of his mouth. Also, his hanging eyeball swung back and forth like a pendulum.

"Where is it?" Harry asked Bathilda, looking around. "Where's the sword?"

Bathilda shook her head from side to side and opened her mouth wide like a cave. A forked tongue poked out of it, and Harry saw what he thought was a pair of red slits inside. Paralyzed with fear, the red slits were actually eyes…eyes that belonged to a snake that slipped out of Bathilda's mouth. Her small body trembled with its movements as the snake coiled upwards from inside her. Vomit dribbled down Bathilda's chin as its main exit was blocked by the massive serpent.

Though having only seen her once before, Harry knew this snake belonged to Voldemort…it was Nagini. It was in the graveyard of Little Hangleton where Voldemort was resurrected that he saw her initially, and as Peter Pettigrew cut off his hand, he wished to never again be in the presence of the snake. Yet, here he was.

Nagini hissed at him, making him slowly back away from her. On the other hand, Hermione yelled, "Confringo!" A fiery orange light erupted out of her wand and flew at Nagini, but she managed to move out of the way. Instead, several towers of books exploded, their pages storming the living area's window. The snake then sprung at Hermione, and Harry just managed to tackle her to the ground. Thus, Nagini flew headfirst into the wall. Cracks sprouted like lightning around it.

Hissing again, Nagini quickly whipped around and her tail struck both Harry and Hermione in the stomach, the force sending them backwards. He was knocked into the empty grate and a cloud of black soot fogged him. Harry coughed and stumbled around on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath for it was being tag-teamed by Nagini's tail and Slytherin's Locket repeatedly punching his chest, yet dived out of the way as Nagini once more jumped at him. She missed, and instead knocked Bathilda flat on her back. Harry winced when he heard her head hit the floor with a loud thud.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione coming towards him. Once their hands touched, they'd Disapparate out of Godric's Hollow…that much was certain. He wanted to leave rather than stay with Nagini, who had no doubt already alerted Voldemort of Harry's whereabouts judging by how painful his scar was at the moment, and began to clamor over to her. But before he could reach her, he was tripped up from behind. Rolling onto his back, Harry was horrified to find that Ron was not dead and had not passed out, for he was dragging Harry by the legs back towards him, drool falling like a light rain from his mouth. Hermione's scarf still collared his neck, joined now by harsh red welts.

As Harry pointed his wand at Ron, meaning to blast him away, he was shocked to find that it was nearly snapped in two. Cursing, Harry resolved to kick Ron's hands away, doing anything he could to get away, grab Hermione, and take out of Godric's Hollow. However, a piercing scream then raged into his ears as he looked around and saw Ginny, half her head gone and the small part of her brain that was still inside jostling together like mashed potatoes, charge out of the loo and at Hermione.

"Incarcerous!" she yelled, and thick ropes shot out of Hermione's wand and lassoed around Ginny.

Out of frustration, Ginny shrieked, "YOU SLAG! YOU FUCKED HIM, DIDN'T YOU?! YOU FUCKED HIM! YOU FUCKED HIM! YOU FUCKED HIM ! YOU-,"

As Ginny continued screaming, Harry managed to kick Ron in the face, and when Ron's grip on him slackened, he did it again. He then sat straight up and planted one end of his broken wand into Ron's remaining good eye. Ron howled and clawed at it, shouting, "I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKER! I'LL KILL YOU FOR GETTING THE SLAG PREGNANT! I'LL KILL YOU FOR IT, YOU FUCK!"

"PREGNANT!" Ginny screeched, her head whipping from Harry to Hermione, then back to Harry before settling on Hermione. "PREGNANT!" she repeated, and began to gnaw at the ropes binding her together.

"Stupefy!" Hermione aimed her wand at Ginny, and then at Ron. They both fell silent with dual flashes of red light.

However, Nagini then came back into view and rapidly slithered over to Bathilda. She twisted her tail around the elderly woman's neck and squeezed. Both of Bathilda's eyes jumped right out of her head and rolled over the floor like bowling balls. Harry heard Hermione cry out as she pointed her wand and rained down a flurry of curses at the snake. But nothing worked. It was almost as if Nagini was protected by some invisible shield. And after rearing her head back, the snake struck at Bathilda's face over and over, her fangs ripping the flesh cleanly off.

The front door of Bathilda's home was then blown apart just as Harry's scar seemed to split open. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Nearly blinded by the agony his head was afflicting upon him, Harry was still able to see a hooded figure enter into the home. It surveyed the situation quickly before hissing in Parseltongue, "Well done, Nagini." The figure then raised its wand and the bodies of Ron and Ginny rose to their feet. The ropes binding Ginny were cut off and she and her brother gathered before the figure like the trio of some eerie cult.

Lowering its hood, Harry saw pale white skin, a skeletally thin body, and dark scarlet eyes with cat-like slips for pupils. His face was whiter than a skull, and the slits of his nostrils were like that of a snake. The hand that gripped his wand was large, his fingers long like those of a spider, and his fingernails were sharp and pale blue. Gone were his hair, lips, and shoes, and that of any moral compass if one even existed. It was Voldemort…and he was in Bathilda Bagshot's home in Godric's Hollow with Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and the surely dead host.

Not waiting another second, Harry sprinted at Hermione, and she at him, and he saw hard determination on her face. Voldemort fired a curse at Hermione, but she was able to use her wand to levitate one of Bathilda's wing-backed chairs as a barricade in front of her. The chair then detonated in a bomb of white cotton that spiraled around the room like glitter in a shaken snow globe. When their hands touched, Harry felt a pull around his navel and they were gone.

It was one night when it happened…when they happened. It was cold and very wet, so much so that rain had flooded their tent, and Harry and Hermione were in the midst of getting rid of all the water. Harry had yet to bring up the idea of visiting Godric's Hollow and as he cleaned, he was trying his best to think up an argument of which he could use if Hermione was against the idea of going. But, try as he did, his desires kept getting in the way.

His dreams had not subsided, and part of him believed they wouldn't any time soon. They were just too strong, and getting more and more erotic as the nights wore on. He was conflicted on the manner of such dreams based off of the idea if they were normal to have of his best friend versus if they were normal to have if he had feelings for his best friend. Harry believed both made sense, yet was leaning more towards the latter than the former, because it was clear to him now that he did, in fact, fancy Hermione.

And no, they hadn't talked about his fantasies, so he was unsure if she still liked Ron or not. Even so, the topic of Ron proved difficult to approach so neither one of them ever mentioned his name. On the other hand, his feelings for Ginny had dissipated greatly during his time away from her and considered them to be dormant, and maybe even gone altogether. The only person that really mattered to him anymore was Hermione. And she was with him on this ridiculous Horcrux hunt they went almost blindly into, but perhaps it was fate that was working its damndest to get them together.

For a while now, Harry was under the assumption that he was not going to survive his final encounter with Voldemort. And though that scared him, his time with Hermione now was possibly fate's way of giving him one more opportunity to regard his feelings for her as organic, growing naturally over the years since he first met her, and to fully realize that the best kind of affections grew in time, and were not sprung upon him in a second's notice. Sure, it was selfish of him to start an intimate relationship with Hermione when he deemed his journey would come to a definitive end sooner rather than later, but for all intents and purposes, maybe this is how it was meant to be.

They had just finished getting ready for bed and Hermione had already taken to her side of the tent. Harry began walking to his and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder and saw Hermione was fluffing two of her pillows, her covers already pulled back. His head screamed at him to keep moving on and ignore the bubbling sensation that had infested inside him but his legs seemed to operate under the influence of another brainwave altogether, and he soon found himself over by Hermione.

"What is it?" she asked him, her eyes ringed with worry. "You didn't see anyone, did you?"

"Not outside, no," he shook his head.

"Did you want me to take the first watch?"

He wet his lips. "Actually, I'm not sure if we really need one of us to keep watch."

"Don't be silly," she rolled her eyes. "Just because we haven't been caught doesn't mean that it can't happen. I mean, practically everyone's looking for you."

"Us," Harry corrected.

Hermione scoffed. "You more than me."

"Trying to make me feel better, are you?" he smiled, and Hermione laughed softly.

"So, then, what do you need?"

Harry paused and wondered how he'd go about answering her question. He hadn't yet thought about how to approach this topic of conversation with Hermione and did not want to screw it up and make things awkward between them. However, if he waited too long to think of a response, he very well might just talk himself out of letting her know how he really felt about her.

"It's complicated," he said.

Hermione sat down on her bed and patted the spot next to her.

"Explain it slowly," she instructed.

Harry sighed and felt his back hunch over. It was a horrible posture, sure, but who was judging when he was about to spill a big secret he had been harboring for the past several weeks, and if he had liked Hermione back at Hogwarts, for the past several years?

"D'you think it'd be wrong if we," he waved one of his hands between them, "thought of each other as more than friends?"

Hermione looked surprised but said, "Meaning what, exactly?"

Glancing down at the black socks on his feet, he explained, "I guess it started when we were at Hogwarts, but I didn't know it then. I was with Cho and Ginny, and I assumed you'd eventually get together with…well, you know." She remained impassive so he hurried on. "It's just that being with you these past couple of weeks have put things into perspective. I didn't really understand it before, but I'm positive of it now."

"You…" Hermione started but trailed off. Her brows were pulled together in apparent confusion "Do you really?" Her voice was nothing but a whisper.

Harry didn't hesitate when he leaned in and kissed her. It was like a hive of butterflies that suddenly bloomed inside his stomach and took flight, a kiss that easily bypassed the sky and instead was a pilgrimage of the moon. Lost in the early excitement, he deposited a shipment of wet kisses down her neck before going back and sucking each mark left behind.

Wrestling his shirt over his head and throwing it on the floor, Harry grabbed Hermione's hands as he laid down on his back and let her straddle his middle. She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. He licked his lips in anticipation, making her smile. He followed a second later. Then gently, she folded her lips over his. Her voyage was soft and tender, probing uncharted terrain of which she had not yet explored. But her kiss made him light-headed, though he didn't quite mind. He put his hands on her hips and she gasped loudly when she felt his erection.

Harry got rid of Hermione's shirt before twisting her around so that he coffined her body under his. He pushed her arms over her head and held them in place as he scanned her breasts. A feral hunger awoke from its long slumber as he let his tongue investigate one peak and then the other. Hermione moaned, throwing her head to the left and right as Harry's own pleasure surged. Her back arched and thus, her chest was thrust upwards. His breaths were hot on her like a lit matchstick and kerosene.

Though a bitter cold lingered just outside their tent, sweat soon cocooned both of their bodies, making Harry stand to his feet so that he could push down his pajama bottoms. He kicked them off and got rid of his socks. His eyes fell on Hermione sprawled on the bed, and his grey boxer shorts grew uncomfortable due to his throbbing erection. He inwardly grinned as Hermione stared at it and visibly swallowed. Slowly, she scooted off the bed and mirrored his actions by thumbing her own pajama bottoms and pushing them down, letting it pool her ankles.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Harry said to her. And he meant it. They were approaching the point of no return and sure, Harry didn't mind passing it at all, but didn't want Hermione to regret it later.

"I want to," she breathed. There was no trace of doubt in her eyes (he did make sure to check, just in case), as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. In turn, he snuggled her waist and ground his erection against her. He then kissed her swollen lips again and gave her bottom a hard squeeze. His tongue slipped inside her mouth as she met it easily, driving him absolutely mad. This was the tipping point after weeks (or years) of physical attraction he denied having, and ignoring the urges his body screamed at him during his dreams. Now, he questioned whether he could stop what was coming…what he longed for since they first kissed.

"Harry," she panted after breaking their kiss. "Please."

"Please what?" he asked, and licked her lips.

"I need you."

And those were the only three words he needed.

He removed his boxer shorts, his pre-cum bulleting the front of them, as Hermione did away with her knickers. She then got back on the bed, with Harry crawling on top of her. He spread her legs wide and nudged her entrance with his tip. Both of their breaths quickened as Harry pushed inside her. She closed her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip. She felt very tight and very wet, with a measure of resistance. Feelings of power and freedom thrived inside and he groaned in pleasure.

"You okay?" was all he could muster.

"Hmm," she nodded.

He started to move, gradually at first, letting Hermione adjust to the sensation of being empty and then full. Before long, he quickened his pace, his hands resting on either side of her face as he bent his head down to begin another assault on Hermione's mouth. Their tongues met again.

Fire in a hanging lantern dimmed, casting the inside of the tent in an evening shadow. But Harry and Hermione didn't pay any attention to this for their voices grew in volume together, and soon, Harry's breaths began to hitch in his throat, becoming quite labored. He continued to thrust inside her, harder and harder, faster and faster. The bed squeaked while Harry felt small spurts of his early arrival. Meanwhile, Hermione's legs trembled as she scratched his back relentlessly like a cat trapped behind a door.

"Hermione," he gasped, plunging deep inside her as fast as he could. Her breasts bounced and jiggled to the rhythm he created and controlled. "I'm going to…I'm going to…"

Slamming into her, Harry grunted noisily, pushing his erection as deep inside of her as her body would allow. Thick ropes of semen shot out of him as his hands balled the bed sheets tightly. His penis throbbed uncontrollably, and he was barely aware of the softness of Hermione's body under him, along with the clamping of her muscles around him. He emptied himself inside her and pulled out. Cum ran like a river out of her, parts of the flood sticking to the inside of her thighs.

Harry was utterly exhausted and Hermione seemed to be as well. Their breathing was erratic, resembling those who had just participated in the London Marathon. He fell beside her, lying spread-eagled on her bed and stared up at the

stars that winked back at him, while grey clouds sliced off a thin blade of a full moon. The tips of trees reared overhead, their branches like pointy needles, waiting to prick the veins of the cold air he was in. Turning over, he saw Hermione was beginning to come to, holding her stomach (I'll kill you for the getting the slag pregnant), and he asked, "Are you okay?"

"I think so," was her answer.

"And your…," and he motioned at his own stomach for an illustration.

Hermione nodded wordlessly, drowning Harry in relief. He then stood to his feet and saw water running behind the trees.

"Where are we?" he asked, helping Hermione up.

"The Forest of Dean," she replied. "We needed to get out, and this was the first place that popped into my head." She sighed, "I used to come here with mum and dad a long time ago."

"Good memories?"

"A few," she shrugged, taking out her wand.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"Your nose looks broken," she said. "Hold still." He did, and Hermione whispered, "Episkey." Heat flared over his nose while an arctic chill followed after.

"Thanks," he nodded his head at her. But Hermione didn't acknowledge this, as she frowned and took over to a nearby tree, leaning her back against it. Harry followed and stood next to her.

They were quiet for a moment, letting the current of the river behind them carry away their thoughts…thoughts they wished to get rid of, but seemed to accept that that would never happen. What they endured back at Godric's Hollow scarred them deeply, and the fact that they saw Voldemort and narrowly escaped death didn't help matters in any conceivable way.

"Ron and Ginny," Hermione suddenly said, "you don't think it was them, do you?"

"That's impossible," Harry waved away.

"Is it?" Her eyes were pleading. "I mean, how else would they know about…"

"Us?" Harry finished for her, and she nodded. "Dunno, but that couldn't have been them." He supposed he was trying to convince himself that there was no logical explanation that Ron and Ginny had been at Godric's Hollow. For Merlin's sake, they came out of a damn toilet! But how else would they know that Harry and Hermione had been together, and how else would they know that Hermione was pregnant? He and Hermione had known for a little over a week now and the shock that she was carrying their kid was just beginning to wear off. Of course, Ron and Ginny's reaction to that bit of news impregnated the shock right back into him. "I suppose-," however, Harry paused when the foliage whispered above him.

He instantly sprung back, pulling Hermione with him, and looked up at the branches of the tree they had just been under.

"What was that?" Hermione was gripping her wand so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

"Dunno," he said, willing his eyes to penetrate the darkness and succumbing to a heavy bout of anxiety when they failed to do so. "Light your wand, will you?"

Hermione did, and when she raised it in the air, Harry wished she hadn't: Ron's body was twisted in the branches of tree and Ginny's was next to his, both mere shadows against the white glow of the moon. Yet, Ron didn't look like he did back in Godric's Hollow. In fact, Ron seemed to be wearing the same clothes he had the night he left Harry and Hermione. Ginny also didn't look like she did back in Godric's Hollow, for she was wearing her Gryffindor robes. But what made Harry open his mouth in horror was that both Ron and Ginny were headless.

Somewhere far away from him, Hermione screamed.

A/N: Please feel free to leave a review! Thanks for reading.