Hermione Granger and the Deathly Hallows

We'll do it all

Everything

On our own.

We don't need

Anything

Or anyone.

If I lay here

If I just lay here

Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

**

"Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I've got it here."

"Yeah, great, thanks." The door opened to reveal a still much too pale Harry, valiantly trying to look as though he had just had to use the toilet. He faked a smile and held out his hand for the proffered toothbrush.

Hermione however didn't relinquish it straightaway. "You sure you're all right?"

"Fine," Harry lied. He snatched the toothbrush from her grip. "I'll be right out." He slammed the door behind him before she could ask any more questions. The bolt slid shut with a loud, telling bang.

Hermione let out a long breath, considering knocking on the door again and demanding that Harry tell her the truth. But after a few moments, she decided against it and returned to the drawing room. Ron was organizing the supplies she had been unpacking from her bag before finding Harry's toothbrush. She remained in the doorway for a long moment, biting her lip as she fought to finally calm her anxious breath.

So this was it. The Horcrux hunt had finally begun.

To give herself something to do, Hermione slowly started to remove all of the bobby pins that had secured her hair. Half of it had fallen out anyway from their brief interchange in the café. Even though she had half-expected something horrible to happen during the wedding, she had never expected all of this mayhem to occur in just one night. The Ministry had fallen, Scrimgeour was dead, they were somehow tracked and nearly murdered by two Death Eaters, and now here they were, preparing to settle down for a long and possibly sleepless night in Grimmauld Place, where the Death Eaters would surely look for them some time in the very near future. For all they knew, the Death Eaters could be on their way again.

"You all right?"

Just like Harry, Hermione faked a smile and nodded, pocketing the bundle of bobby pins she had just extracted. And just like Hermione, Ron didn't believe her in the slightest, but he didn't push the matter. He nodded his chin towards the bathroom. "How 'bout him?"

Hermione shook out her recently released hair while turning back towards the closed door. "He's still in there. He says he's fine, but--"

"--when is Harry ever fine," Ron finished for her. He set down the sleeping bag he had just unearthed from her beaded bag and got to his feet. "What d'you reckon it is?"

"His scar," Hermione said definitively. Harry always had this blank, hollow expression on his face whenever he tried to conceal that something was happening with his scar. It made him look less like himself somehow, as if he was slowly becoming something else, something sinister and dark. He had had that same look when he had just opened the door for her right now.

Ron craned his neck so he too could watch the door as if it could tell him just what Harry was up to. "I'll go in there and see--"

"No," Hermione refused. "Leave him. I think he just needs a minute" She returned to her perch on the sofa and folded her arms over her chest. She knew she should help set up the room so they could get some much-needed rest, but her stomach was much too jumpy to accomplish anything right now. Ron settled down next to her, their arms and knees brushing, and together, they both watched the bathroom door in uneasy silence. Hermione had a feeling that they'd always be doing this: she and Ron would always be waiting for Harry to finally and mercifully be safe and sound.

"I shouldn't've pushed him like that," Ron admitted in a very low voice. His leg jiggled up and down, illogically blaming himself for Harry's current condition. In an odd way, Ron really was a lot like his best mate.

"You were worried--we all were," Hermione comforted. "Harry understands."

"Yeah. Still." Ron leaned back into the cushions, his eyes never leaving the door. His hand crawled over to rest on top of her thigh. The slight physical contact was enough to finally settle Hermione's nerves and she too could sink back into the cushions, unclench her shoulders, and lapse into another stretch of silence, hoping that Harry would soon emerge to convince them that he had in fact just gone in to brush his teeth.

Hermione let out a gasp and bolted off of the sofa as she suddenly realized something. "What?" Ron demanded, head whipping all around for a sign of danger. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm so sorry, Ron," Hermione apologized profusely as she kneeled in front of him and extracted her wand. "I meant to take a look at your knee at the café, but we had to get out so quickly, I didn't have any time. Let me see it."

"Huh? Oh, it's fine, Hermione." Ron sank back into the couch, but he obligingly stuck out his leg so Hermione could peek past the hole she had slashed. "Just leave it."

She ignored him. "It's still bleeding a bit. I'll see what I can do. Hold still," Hermione requested quietly as she tried to focus properly. Ron however flinched when the tip of her wand poked lightly into the deep gash. "Hold still," Hermione repeated, this time with much more exasperation.

"It hurts!" Ron protested.

"Of course it's going to hurt if you keep twitching," Hermione said somewhat curtly. She took a breath to regain her concentration so she could finally start tracing her wand along the cut, so the flesh flipped neatly over and mended itself. It was a simple procedure it terms of Healing, but Hermione was still winded nevertheless. She had a lot more respect for Madame Pomfrey; Healing really was very difficult.

Ron bent his knee experimentally, grinning when he found that it was as good as new. "When'd you learn to do that?"

"I started looking them up last year," Hermione explained. ""I can only do very basic spells--cuts, scrapes, and the sort--but I think I brought enough dittany and Skele-Grow to tend to any serious injuries." She pocketed her wand. "I thought it might come in handy."

"Yeah," Ron laughed in agreement. "We like to get hurt round here."

Hermione didn't think Ron's statement was very funny, especially because it was very true. "You weren't supposed to get a single scratch," she reminded him in a low voice. She couldn't believe that they had shared their dance only a few hours ago. It felt like she had aged fifteen years since then.

"You gave me the scratch," Ron pointed out.

"Well, I guess I'm useless then," Hermione snapped as she got to her feet and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. She had loved this dress so much when she and her mum had bought it, but now she just wanted to fling it into a corner and never touch it again.

Ron watched her carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was anything but curt or sulky. "You're still shaking."

Hermione looked down and to her surprise, found that he was right. She hadn't even realized it. She had actually thought she had recovered. But perhaps you never really recovered from those close brushes with death. "Well, I was scared," she said matter-of-factly even though she felt anything but. It really was remarkable how someone as practical as herself could be unnerved so easily. "Weren't you?"

For a moment, Hermione thought he was going to lie and scoff at the unmanly idea of being afraid, but Ron heaved a long sigh and nodded. "Yeah. Sure." As if to prove his point, Ron abruptly got to his feet and stalked back over to the window to peer past the curtains for any sign of danger. "I think we're okay. For now, at least," he reported. Hermione nodded tightly, but she didn't relax in the slightest. Ron flicked the curtains back into place and twisted awkwardly as though trying to wriggle out of his lower body. "These are really tight," he complained as he attempted to loosen the fly of his pants.

Hermione very, very deliberately kept her eyes away from his struggling fingers and flicked her wand towards him. The waistband of his jeans popped wider a few inches, making a perfect fit. "There you are," she said briskly, her eyes firmly focused on a spot on the floor.

She could hear Ron tugging on the newly-constructed waist of his pants. "Wow, Hermione," Ron remarked, sounding very pleased. "You couldn't have done that earlier?"

"I'm sorry, Ron, but your pants are not the most pressing issue on my mind," Hermione returned.

"Good to know." Ron and Hermione both whirled around at the third voice. Harry, now only the slightest bit pale, had returned at last and was inspecting the three sleeping bags that Hermione had packed, damp toothbrush in hand. "Bathroom's free," he added needlessly.

"Go ahead," Ron said to Hermione. "We'll finish setting up in here."

Skeptically, Hermione found her toothbrush and pajamas and disappeared into the bathroom, admittedly lingering a moment or two in front of the mirror to bemoan the now disheveled mess that had formerly been her gorgeously arranged hair. She wished that she could just look fantastic for just one evening so Ron could know that she was more than just brains. She inspected the musty bathroom, wrinkling her nose as she pulled back the shower curtain to examine the aged and cracked bathtub. They really needed to clean up this place if they were going to stay here.

She emerged from the loo to find that Ron, to her surprise, had kept his word; he and Harry had unrolled and arranged the sleeping bags and Summoned pillows from the upstairs bedrooms. To avoid discussing what had happened with his scar, Harry had already burrowed himself into his sleeping bag as quickly as possible without even changing out of his clothes and shut his eyes. Ron was at the sleeping bag next to him, stacking some sofa cushions underneath it for extra comfort and support. Hermione started towards the third sleeping bag, the one nearest to the window, but Ron looked up in time to stop her.

"What're you doing?" Ron got up and nodded to the makeshift bed. "That's yours."

She was so taken aback that she couldn't speak at first. "I thought you set that up for yourself."

"No. For you." Ron dropped his belongings next to his claimed sleeping bag and plopped down atop of it before she could argue with him, flashing a grin at her. It took Hermione a minute to remember the book she had found that afternoon; giving the witch the most comfortable spot to sleep would certainly be a fail-safe way to win her heart. Another giggle threatened to creep out of her. She still couldn't believe he had actually read that silly book.

A sudden idea popped up in the back of Hermione's mind. It was a horrible idea, yes, but the mere thought of carrying it out made her want to explode with laughter and after tonight, she could use a good laugh. And it would certainly tell her just how far Ron would be willing to carry out the twelve fail-safe ways to charm her. Feeling delightfully wicked, Hermione went to her beaded bag to find a cup she could use. "Actually, Ron, can you help me with something?"

Pleased to be the one she asked, Ron obligingly hustled to the door. Harry opened his eyes, forgetting that he was so cleverly pretending to be asleep. "What is it?"

"Nothing, Harry, go back to sleep," Hermione assured him. "Ron can help me."

"Yeah, I got it!" Ron called over his shoulder as he came out into the hallway. Harry watched them curiously; Hermione gave him a quick wink before shutting the door and leading the way to the bathroom. "What'd you need?" Ron asked gallantly.

He was so honestly helpful that Hermione once again almost felt guilty for tricking him like this, but she gestured for him to crouch next to her and opened the shower curtain to reveal the small colony of spiders that had set up camp in the tub.

Ron instantly threw himself back against the door; if he could have, he would have clawed his way straight through the thick oak. "Eugh!"

Hermione pretended to ignore this display of enormous courage. "Can you help me? I'd like to get them out of here."

"Don't you know a spell?" Ron suggested from the doorway, fingers twitching to scratch his skin as though thousands of spider-legs were walking all over him. "You know everything."

"I know a spell to kill them," Hermione admitted. "But I just want to get them outside." She pointed to the two large spiders and the multitude of smaller ones. "See? They're a family."

"Touching," Ron said flatly. "Kill them."

"Ron."

"Please," Ron added with a roll of his eyes.

Hermione handed him the cup she had brought into the room. "All you have to do is hold this so I can Levitate them in here. Then you just have to carry them to the window and dump them out."

"We shouldn't open the window," Ron pointed out. "They could see us."

But Hermione was already ready for that. "The window faces the back alley," she reminded him. "And it's dark outside, no one would see if you stuck out your hand very quickly."

Ron rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "What if I Levitated them and you dump them out?"

"I could," Hermione feigned a sigh. "But I don't particularly like spiders."

"Really?' Ron growled. "Because I've often compared them to butterflies." However, he gave her a curt nod. He looked a bit green, but determined all the same, as he did right before a Quidditch match. "Okay. Let's do it."

"Thank you," Hermione said as she pulled out her wand, almost as taken aback as she was when he had set up the sofa cushions for her. He never willingly put his hands anywhere near a live spider; he had enough trouble handling dead ones for potions class. Suddenly, this little trick was anything but funny; Ron really was willing to go through quite a lot to win her.

"Just don't tell me you're going to found society for the promotion of enormous spiders's welfare," Ron grumbled as he knelt down next to the tub and held out the cup.

Hermione's wand halted in mid-swish. "You know what S.P.E.W. stands for?"

Ron looked just as surprised as she did. "Yeah. I reckon I do." He chuckled under his breath. "Imagine that."

Hermione actually had a bit of trouble performing the simple charm; Ron really was full of amazing surprises. Ron cringed as he cupped his hand over the rim of the glass so none of them would escape and scrambled to the window. Hermione unlocked it with another fast flash of her wand and Ron flung the cup out into the night, shaking his hand frantically as though it had just been lit on fire. "One touched me!" he moaned.

Hermione had to clap her hand over her mouth; now this was a bit amusing. "Thank you, Ron," she said again. She thought about showing him her gratitude in a more physical way, but Ron was too busy flailing his hand spastically around as though he could shake the spider-germs off of him. "I'll get your stuff for you," she offered while ducking her head and hurrying out of the bathroom to collect Ron's pajamas and toothbrush and have a good laugh. She knew it would destroy Ron's pride if he saw her laugh at him. And it wasn't as though she was laughing at him; it just felt so good to have a good laugh after all they had been through tonight.

"Everything all right?" Harry inquired, nestled in his sleeping bag, glasses and wand within easy reach.

"Yes." Hermione went to Ron's sleeping bag to retrieve the maroon pajamas and toothbrush he had dropped atop of it. "Ron was just helping me with some spiders."

Harry closed his eyes again and snickered. "Nice," he said appreciatively.

"Thanks." Hermione barely managed to give Ron his things with a straight face; he was still bemoaning the hellish experience he had been put through. You would think that after almost being killed by Death Eaters, handling a few spiders would be as easy as Quidditch. Hermione returned to the drawing room, abruptly sober again as her thoughts returned to everything that had happened tonight. She glanced over at Harry who really looked as though he may have dozed off. Good, she thought. Harry needed all of the rest he could get. He probably was still feeling sick from his scar; sleeping would help him shake off the aftereffects. Her eyes fell on the discarded lilac dress that lay in a sad heap on the floor. She still couldn't believe she had been wearing that only a few hours ago.

Ron emerged from the bathroom, clad his pajamas that were about two inches too short, exposing his wrists and ankles. He tossed his clothes down next to the sleeping bag. "Don't think I didn't notice you packed all my maroon clothes," he informed her.

"Well, maybe you should have helped me pack instead of just throwing things into your closet and expect me know what to take," Hermione returned distractedly. She was still thinking about Dolohov's beady eyes glaring at her from the café floor.

Ron looked ready to retort, but stopped when he saw her face. "You all right?"

Hermione pushed past everything she was feeling so she could smile. "Never better."

He wasn't convinced, but he just plopped down on his sleeping bag and climbed inside. "And don't think I didn't notice what you said out there."

That caught her attention. Hermione stared at him as she sat down on her makeshift bed. She had to admit it was very comfortable. "What did I say?"

"When the books rolled around in your bag," Ron elaborated with a gleeful grin. "You said damn."

"I did?"

"Yep. You said 'oh, damn, that'll be the books'."

Hermione busied herself with climbing inside the sleeping bag. "Well, so what? You say it all the time."

"I know," Ron agreed. He looked very pleased with himself. "Nice to know I have such a good influence on you." Hermione tossed her pillow at him, fresh out of comebacks. Ron returned it with a laugh before lying back down. "Night."

"Good night."

Ron clicked the Deluminator and the darkness settled around them like a smothering blanket. She dropped down onto the pillow, but she didn't dare close her eyes. Hermione Granger had never been afraid of the dark, even as a small child, but tonight, she couldn't help wishing that she still had the seahorse-shaped night light that had brightened her bedroom in Winterbourne. Every piece of furniture in the room now resembled a Death Eater; every shadow was a potential threat; every creak and moan of the weathered floorboards became the stealthy footfall of a bloodthirsty Dolohov, intent on capturing the Mudblood who had eluded him twice now. Hermione shuddered. She couldn't believe that she had escaped from him again. If Ron hadn't been there to yank her out of the way, she would probably be dead on the café floor. She hadn't even realized that she was in danger; she had been so stupidly intent on finding the exact amount of cash for their waitress so they wouldn't have to wait for change that she had completely missed the sets of wands aiming for her head. She had been suspicious of the two men as soon as they entered the restaurant, so why hadn't she been on top of her form? Had she learned nothing from D.A.?

Stop it, she chastised herself. Hermione squished her eyes shut in hopes of falling asleep, but she only saw Dolohov's sneering face once again, his entire body magically frozen from her spell but his hate-filled eyes rocketing back and forth between the three of them. She wasn't sure Ron didn't even fully comprehend how terrified she was of that man. He knew that Dolohov frightened her, of course; at the café, when he had recognized Dolohov, Ron had instantly stepped in front of her so Dolohov could no longer sneer at her, knowing that it would haunt her for ages. But Ron didn't know that Dolohov was a recurring character in all of her nightmares. He still didn't get that Hermione Granger didn't like to be beaten and Antonin Dolohov had certainly beaten her that night at the Ministry. He very nearly beat the life out of her that night. And Hermione would never allow herself to forget it.

She tossed and turned from side to side, trying every possible position and angle in hopes that one of them would somehow abate all of her unnecessary fears, with no success. Hermione returned to her original prone position, eyes back on the ceiling as she listened to Harry's steady, slow breathing and Ron's quiet snores. It was probably for the best anyway; one of them should stay awake and alert at all times in case Snape showed up.

After a while, Ron's snores abruptly stopped and with a grunt, he rolled over onto his side, facing Hermione. She waited for the snores to start up again--she actually found the continuous sound reassuring rather than annoying--but a sleepy, slightly gravely voice whispered to her instead: "You awake?"

"Yes," Hermione admitted shortly, not wanting to discuss it any further. Talking about how frightened she still was wouldn't help matters.

He didn't even lift his head or say a word. He didn't have to. She could just make out him reaching out his arm and twitching his fingers invitingly at her. She set her palm in his and he squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't let go," he ordered her drowsily.

Hermione smiled as she finally closed her eyes. She never would.

**

She opened her eyes the next morning to find that somehow throughout the course of their slumber, she had indeed let go of Ron's hand. She was tempted to slide her fingers back in his and burrowing herself deeper into the sleeping bag for a few more hours of rest, but she thought better of it and wriggled her way out of her makeshift bed. There was work to be done.

Careful not to wake Ron, Hermione started to tiptoe towards the door when she stopped short at the sight of Harry's empty sleeping bag. A sharp blow of concern punched her hard in the stomach, but Hermione forced herself not to panic just yet. Harry could just in be in the bathroom.

But he wasn't. Nor was he in the kitchen looking for food. Nor was he anywhere within calling distance. Harry was gone.

"RON!"

Ron bolted out of bed as though he had just been stung by a manticore, his hair sticking up, eyes half-open. "What?" he demanded exhaustedly, fumbling for his wand which he had forgotten he had stashed under his pillow.

Hermione threw herself down next to him to retrieve the wand for him and push it into his tired hand. "Harry's gone."

That jolted him wide-awake. "What?" he repeated, stricken.

"Harry's gone--I woke up and his bed was empty and he's not in the bathroom or kitchen or anywhere close by--I've been calling for him--I knew we shouldn't have come here--"

"Okay," Ron cut off her ramblings, knowing Hermione could go on forever. He stumbled out of the sleeping bag. "Okay. We'll find him. I'll start in the basement, you start on the top floor and we'll meet in the middle, okay?"

There was no time to even agree with his plan. Hermione pelted all the way up the stairs, ignoring the house-elf heads and the protesting stinging of her lungs, and just kept calling his name over and over again as she poked her heads into rooms as she went, which were all disturbingly in disarray. If he was here, he would respond even if he was still in his my-scar-hurt-so-don't-talk-to-me mood. He had to know that wandering off like this would have startled them. He certainly would have been worried if he woke to find either her or Ron gone. On the other hand, there was a very good possibility that he wasn't even here; maybe Snape had found his way in and taken Harry, not caring enough about her or Ron to even kill them. Harry could be on his way to Voldemort right now and she and Ron had stupidly just been sleeping hand-in-hand on the drawing room floor, doing absolutely nothing to save him. "Harry? Harry! Harry?"

"I'm here! What's happened?"

Hermione's breath suddenly returned to her in an overwhelming gush. Thank God. Harry was just a giant idiot. She followed his voice to a messy bedroom; Harry was standing in the middle of the room, alive and perfectly unharmed; he was holding a sheet of torn parchment in her hand. He looked so honestly concerned that she was screaming for him that Hermione wished she could just fly into the room, hug him, and promptly knock some sense into him. "We woke up and didn't know where you were!" she scolded him breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, "Ron! I've found him!"

Ron's annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below. "Good! Tell him from me he's a git!"

My thoughts exactly, Hermione thought as she turned back to Harry to give him her sternest glare. "Harry, don't just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anywhere?" Her sternest glare may be enough to make first-years quail, but it didn't seem to affect Harry Potter in the slightest. He seemed too absorbed with the contents of the room to be phased by anything. She gazed around the ransacked room, trying to ascertain if Harry or someone else had left it in such a state. "What have you been doing?"

Eagerly, Harry held out the letter. "Look what I've just found." Hermione scanned the letter, wishing once again that she could hug him but for very different reasons. Seeing his mother's handwriting--she made her 'g's just like Harry did--and the words that she at one time had actually written, words about him, his dad, and Sirius--it had make Harry miss his family all the more. She bit her lip fleetingly. She and Ron may miss their families quite a bit, but nothing could compare to Harry's loss. "Oh, Harry..."

"And there's this too." He handed her a torn photograph of a baby flying around on a broom while his father's legs chased after him. Even at that age, it was clear that Harry was quite a gifted flier if he was giving James Potter a run for his money. Hermione smiled at the thought. Harry really did seem to have wonderful parents. "I've been looking for the rest of the letter," Harry said excitedly, exhilarated by all that he had found over the past hour, "but it's not here."

Hermione glanced around, once again troubled by the state of the room. "Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?"

"Someone had searched before me," said Harry, confirming her worst suspicions.

"I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?"

"Information on the Order, if it was Snape."

"But you'd think he'd already have all he needed, I mean, he was in the Order, wasn't he?" Hermione pointed out. The only bright side to that realization was that if Snape had already searched the premises, there was a good possibility that he wouldn't be back any time soon.

"Well then," said Harry, face alight with possibility. He looked as he always did whenever he was about to make an important break-through with whatever world-saving scheme they were involved with at the time. "What about information on Dumbledore? The second page of this letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?"

"Who?"

"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of--"

"A History of Magic," said Hermione, eyes wide. She supposed this is what Harry and Ron would have felt like if they had met Gwenog Jones the night she had visited the Slug Club. "So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magical historian."

"And she's still alive," said Harry, "and she lives in Godric's Hollow, Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore's family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn't she?"

Hermione just smiled at him. Now she understood. Harry just wanted an excuse to go to Godric's Hollow. Harry seemed to sense what she was thinking and snatched his letter and photo from her so they could be safely tucked them in the Mokeskin pouch Hagrid had given him. Only the most treasured of possessions went in there. Hermione swallowed hard. One day, Harry, she promised him. One day, you'll have a family again.

But he couldn't find that family at Godric's Hollow. He could find ghosts of the past, that may reassure him for a few hours, like that letter and photograph, but the ache of losing a family would never ever really go away. However, he could fight, putting an end to this war and leaving the world a safer place for all of them to move on with their lives. Harry would always miss his parents; he would always treasure their memory and he would always want to go Godric's Hollow to see their graves and talk to Bathilda Bagshot. He could only search for the Horcruxes right now.

Hermione took a sympathetic step towards him. "I understand why you'd love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too," said Hermione. "But that wouldn't really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?" Harry did not answer and she rushed on, "Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric's Hollow, but I'm scared, I'm scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I'm sure they'd be expecting you to visit it."

Harry still wouldn't look at her. "It's not just that. I want to know the truth--I was talking to Elphias Doge last night and he was trying to tell me not to let anything tarnish Dumbledore's memory when Ron's Great Auntie Muriel came up and started saying stuff about Dumbledore. She said that Dumbledore's sister was a Squib that they locked in the cellar because his mum was embarrassed that she had a Squib for a kid, and Dumbledore knew all about it and didn't do a thing to help her. Doge was going on trying to defend him and not let them trying to say that Ariana--that was the sister's name--was too sick to go to school, but Muriel said that she was never seen at St. Mungo's and they didn't send her to a Muggle school, like most people do with Squibs, so no one knows what happened to her--and then, at the funeral, Dumbledore's brother Aberforth broke his nose during the service. This Bathilda Bagshot saw the whole thing--said that Aberforth said it was all Dumbledore's fault that their sister was dead and punched him in the face and Dumbledore didn't do a thing to defend himself--Muriel thinks that Bathilda is Rita Skeeter's source for that biography and probably has photos and letters--I reckon we could use them to help us--"

Harry finished with a quick breath and waited for Hermione's answer. It took Hermione a minute to compose herself. It wasn't often that Harry became rattled and rambled on like she and Ron normally did. That must have been why he looked so distraught when she sat down at the table with him after she and Ron had danced. To have heard all of these horrible things about Dumbledore, his mentor, a surrogate father in many ways, had to be awful. Hermione almost wished she and Ron hadn't spent so much time dancing; it may have helped Harry to have had a friend by his side. "Of course, I can see why that's upset you, Harry--"

"I'm not upset," he lied rather poorly. That was another sign that Harry was feeling ill or troubled; whenever he felt fine, he was as good as the twins. Whenever he was upset, he was as bad as she was. "I'd just like to know whether or not it's true or--"

"Harry, do you really think you'll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!"

"I thought I did," Harry muttered, actually looking as though he was starting to doubt Albus Dumbledore.

"But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you!" The only truthful story Rita Skeeter had ever written was the interview with Harry that Hermione had blackmailed her into writing. "Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?"

Harry just looked away, resentment clouding his face. Hermione fought a sigh. Harry, who had been denied so much as a child, always had a hard time believing that people loved him. She had just never thought that he would doubt Dumbledore himself. "Shall we go down to the kitchen? Find something for breakfast?"

He agreed, but grudgingly, and he followed her out onto the landing. Hermione descended the stairs, half-thinking about what on earth they were going to do for food and also about all that had just happened. It seemed that more happened to Harry Potter before seven o'clock than happened in other people's entire lifetimes.

"Hermione. Come back up here."

Harry was still on the landing above her; he sounded very calm for some reason. "What's the matter?" she called back up to him.

"R.A.B. I think I've found him."

Hermione raced back up the stairs, almost tripping her own feet in the process, heart pounding. This was it. The hunt for the Horcruxes had really begun.