Hermione Granger and the Deathly Hallows

When winter comes
Along these shores
Old Hollywood
We're knocking down
We're sifting through
We are the actual tigers
When winter comes
They leave behind us

Throw your arms around my neck
And hold me tightly
There's a lot that we will get
I'm asking you...

**

Ron's hand was moving through her hair in the softest of caresses and calling her name, his voice cracking on all of the anguish that was twisting inside of him.

Darkness.

"Ron, what happened? Are you all right--oh Merlin--"

Darkness.

"--can't go to a Healer!"

Darkness.

"--Nargles will help--if you milk them properly, their juices can be stewed--"

"Luna, you know I like you, but shut the--"

Darkness.

Ron's hand was now on her wrist so he could loop her throbbing arm over his shoulder. He unceremoniously pulled her to her feet, but before she could collapse back onto the cold dirt, he had scooped his other arm under knees and lifted her up with an awkward security that nevertheless reassured her that he would never let her fall.

Darkness.

"HELP! HELP!"

Ron whirling around at the sound of Harry's cry. "Someone help him--!"

"We've got it, we've got it, just get her--"

Darkness.

Bouncing up the stairs, each step jarring fresh bolts of pain through all of her nerves, her stomach clenching and unclenching in violent protest. "I know, Hermione, I know--we're almost there--"

Darkness.

Ron let out a quiet grunt as he bent over to lay her gently onto the bed. The soft mattress swallowed up Hermione's form, inviting her to rest her weary bones and never wake up ever again. "There we go--I'll just go get you some--I'll be right back--"

But Ron couldn't go anywhere. Hermione Granger very painfully thrust herself back into reality and flung herself upright so she could catch his wrist in time. She didn't know where that sudden burst of fresh strength had come from, but it had arrived in just the nick of time. She could have lost him again. "What?" Ron yelped, more terrified than ever. He immediately fell back to his knees and twisted his hand so their fingers could intertwine. "I'm here--what d'you need? What is it? Hermione?"

Hermione had a different battle to contend with, this one with her stomach. The act of sitting up was much more than her body could handle and her stomach in particular was afflicted. With the white-hot spots of a migraine dancing across her pupils again, Hermione struggled to keep her stomach still as its contents swelled and churned warningly, screaming at her for being so cruel as to allow this devastation to be unleashed upon her. She had to be punished. Hermione's hand crushed Ron's as she fought to keep it inside. No--not here--not now--not in front of him--

"What? What's wrong--oh!" Ron suddenly recognized the expression on her face and dove for the nearest wastebasket, managing to snatch it up while keeping his hand in hers. He thrust it in front of her. "Go on--"

That was all the invitation Hermione needed. She doubled over and unleashed everything she had ever eaten into the defenseless bucket. Even after everything had been dumped out, Hermione remained huddled over it, wracked by dry heaves. Ron held the trash can with his knees so he could hold her hand and grab a fistful of her hair to keep it from getting mixed up with the vomit. As always after she threw up, Hermione's head exploded with the worst headache imaginable. She rested forehead against the rim of the can in attempt to make the world stop spinning. She had to be the stupidest person on the face of the planet.

"You done?" Ron asked quietly. He helped her sit back up so he could move the sick-filled can to the side. He glanced inside and Hermione promptly cringed. Don't look...

"Oh, come on, you've seen me barf up slugs," Ron scoffed. "Nothing could be worse than that." He extracted a foreign wand out from his back pocket so he could Nonverbally clean up the mess inside the waste bin. Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You're not the only one who did amazing on their O.W.L.s--oh," he cut himself off as he realized what she was really surprised about. "It's Wormtail's. I stole it from him when we..."

He trailed off and Hermione's heart hammered like a steel drum, remembering all too well their conversation from Grimmauld Place about how far Ron would be willing to go in battle. "I didn't--but he--well, I'll tell you everything later." He moved both hands to her shoulders to keep her upright. "How're you?"

Hermione wished she could answer him, but all she could dazedly think was that she had never ever, in all the time she had known him, seen him so scared. He was as white as Nearly-Headless Nick, his freckles standing out as clearly as a manticore in a crowd of bowtruckles, and maybe Hermione's vision still wasn't completely back to normal, but she swore she saw tear tracks lining the strong line of his jaw. She could feel his hands shaking on her shoulders--but then again, she was still trembling herself--and his eyes were--it actually hurt too much to look directly into his eyes right now. She had scared him so much--it was all her fault--

To settle herself, Hermione looked around the room to try to ascertain their whereabouts. She appeared to be in a small bedroom. A glance out the window told her that they had to be on the second floor. Ron must have carried her up here. Her heart sighed with undying love for him as she swore to herself that she would not be falling asleep again any time soon. She had no idea how she had gotten here, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ron had saved her; he was the reason she was alive. The least she could do for him was stay coherent so some of the terror could finally leave his eyes.

Unnerved by her silence, Ron hurried to do anything to rectify the situation. He decided that talking was the best solution so he began to jabber away to himself, sniffing every now and again to get control of himself. "All right, let's take a look at you." He scrambled to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket, the very same way he had gallantly whipped out all of the times she had cried over the past year, and started swabbing at her face. Hermione couldn't understand what he was doing until he saw the spots of red now adorning the off-white cloth. "Those must just be from when the chandelier fell--most of the glass hit Malfoy, it was brilliant--except that one." He frowned as his hand hovered over the deeper gash on her lip before cleaning the dried blood off of her chin. "Bit your lip to keep from talking?" he asked grimly.

Hermione couldn't seem to remember just how to use her vocal cords, but Ron didn't necessitate a reply. He never did when it came to Hermione. "Right," he answered for her, scowling at an invisible Bellatrix. "Well, Fleur can see to those--she'll be up in a bit. She's been training in Healing, you know. Thought it'd be a good idea after Bill got slashed up and all. Reckoned it would happen again and she knew that if it did, we couldn't really go to hospital since the Ministry would have tabs on it and find us. Just like you did. Guess she's not as thick as we thought she was, eh?"

He forced a laugh as he unconsciously pushed Hermione's curls back for her as he always wanted to do whenever her hair fell across her face. Hermione didn't respond again; instead she lifted her right leg slightly to bring his attention to it. Ron frowned. "What? Did she hurt your leg?" He gently pulled up the hem of Hermione's jeans to find the bulge protected underneath the thick wool sock. He yanked the sock down and the beaded bag tumbled out to the floor.

"Genius," Ron told her excitedly. He snatched up the purse and began rifling through the yawning space within. "You are a genius!" He found the Essence of Dittany and damped his handkerchief with the curative solution so he could dab Hermione's face once again, this time healing the cuts and gashes. She closed her eyes so she could enjoy the soothing sensation of the cool liquid.

When he finished, Ron set down the dittany so he could search for any more injuries. He remembered how Hermione had unconsciously winced when he first had placed his hand on her shoulder so he gingerly returned his fingers to that area. Sure enough, she cringed again, and thanks to his years of playing violent Quidditch with his brothers, Ron could easily find the small fracture in her shoulder blade. "All right, that's cracked a bit, love, but Fleur'll fix right up. I've had loads worse and Mum had me mended in five seconds. Anything else?"

His eyes traveled lower and froze when he saw the very dark stain at the bottom of her jumper. Hermione could see his heart jump up into his throat. "Bloody hell, Hermione, did I Splinch you? You should have told me--I thought I might've--I'm so sorry, Hermione, I had to go so fast there wasn't time to really Deliberate and you know from studying with me that deliberation has never really been my thing and bloody hell, Apparating at all after what--"

His trembling speech came to an abrupt halt as a lump ballooned up in his throat. He had just pulled up her shirt to examine the wound, as she had done for him when he had Splinched, and gotten a close look at it. Hermione glanced down so she could see it for herself and was quickly wracked with a dry-heave of disgust: carved into her flesh, directly below her belly button was a very obvious 'M'. M for Mudblood.

Ron gulped, blinking back more tears of frustration. His entire body was clenched with rage. "I'll kill her," he said very, very quietly. This time he meant it.

Hermione sniffed hard, heart bursting with all of the things she had always been too afraid to say: that he was scaring her a bit, that she wanted him far away from Bellatrix because the only thing worse than what was happening to her right now was the idea of it happening to him, that he would never cease to amaze her, that he had saved her life just by smiling at her, that she loved him more than human beings are capable of comprehending. But now, when she finally felt ready to say them, she couldn't: her throat was raw and useless and she seriously was beginning to wonder if she'd ever speak again.

Ron glanced up and tried to smile and keep a lid on his emotions, adopting his father's soothing patience that he had always admired. His hand shook as he retrieved the dittany again and helped Hermione lean back so he could pour it onto the injury. "It's not bad, honest, Hermione. It's not deep at all. The dittany'll fix it right up."

He paused to wipe his face as they both watched the flesh flip and heal itself so the offensive insignia vanished from sight. Ron heaved an enormous sign of relief. "I'll have Fleur take a look at it just in case. She's out with Harry and the rest of them," he added when Hermione gave him a questioning look. "Harry's fine--he got here right after us with Dobby and Griphook and said he needed help so Bill and Fleur and Dean and Luna went to help while I got you inside--it's a long story," he cut himself off as Hermione's eyes got wider and wider with confusion. From what she remembered, the three of them had arrived with Dean and Griphook--where had all these other people come from? What had happened while she had been tortured?

Speaking of torture, Ron hated doing it, but he had to bring up the other element of Hermione's injuries. "And she used Cruciatus, right?" He internally kicked himself. "Of course she did, Weasley, you heard her. How many times?" he hurried along in hopes that if he spoke fast enough, he'd stop tripping over his own awkwardness. "It helps to know everything you can when you get treated for Cruciatus--which you know, of course you know, you know bloody everything. So you screamed ten times--so did she do it ten times?" He looked absolutely horrified at the prospect, but as Hermione hesitated, he pressed on. "Come on, Hermione, you can remember, I know you can. You remember everything. Was it about ten times?"

It helped to work her mind in pained recollection and Hermione felt strong enough to shake her head in response.

"More? Or less?"

Hermione shook her head once and then nodded a yes.

"Less? Good." His attention to returned to where the stab wound had been. "Bet you screamed when she did that to you, didn't you?"

Hermione nodded.

"So was it nine? Nine times?"

She repeated the movement.

"Okay, good, Hermione, good. Did she aim for any particular spot? Or was it random?"

It took a moment or two, but Hermione lifted her heavy arm to point to the spot between her eyes.

Ron quickly raised himself higher on his knees to inspect the afflicted area. "Okay. That looks all right. Where else?"

Hermione indicated where the cut had been and then the left side of her face, which still felt rather deadened, as if she had had a stroke. Ron examined those areas as well and gave her nod to let her know that there were no physical injuries. "Anywhere else?"

Hermione then pointed to her lips and Ron frowned. "Your mouth?"

Hermione shook her head and stuck her finger in her mouth; Ron's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Down your throat?"

She nodded again. Ron swore under his breath and glanced anxiously at the door. "No wonder you can't talk." His eyes darted over to the wastebasket. "And why you upchucked--that's not normal--" His feet twitched anxiously, desperate to run and retrieve more qualified wizards and witches, but he knew that he couldn't possibly leave her alone right now. And frankly, he didn't want to. "All right, I'll tell Fleur that and she'll see what she can do. Anything else? How'd your Dolohov thing hold up? Any chest pains?"

Hermione nodded.

"Does it still hurt?"

A firm shake of the head.

"Good. Good. So nothing else?"

She gave him another long look and Ron laughed at himself. "Yeah. I reckon that's enough, isn't it?" He gave the door another anxious glance. "Well, Fleur will be as quick as she can. Griphook and Ollivander are pretty bad off, but I reckon she'll come here first. She better come here first," he amended with annoyance.

Hermione's head turned sharply towards him and Ron gave yet another nod. "Yeah, Ollivander. He was being kept with Luna, how nutters is that?" Hermione managed to raise her right side of her lip in a smile of agreement. That one little gesture, however, seemed to push Ron over the edge and he had to duck his head away. "Bloody hell, Hermione, I--" he started to confess, his whole body shaking along with his voice, but it was now his turn to lose his voice.

He didn't have to say anything else. Hermione strained to say his name, but Ron hastily interjected, eyes wide. "No, don't, Hermione--just wait until Fleur takes a look at you. Cruciatus can really mess you up if they stick it down somewhere so it has direct access to internal organs. Or worse, stick it up somewhere."

Hermione's nose crinkled in disgust at that lovely imagery and Ron did the best thing possible for her at that moment: he really laughed. His laugh was so hearty and full and sincere that Hermione couldn't help joining in very softly and soon found that she could loosen her death-grip from the mattress ever so slightly and support her own weight. She would have to remember to tell her father that one of his favorite adages really was true: laughter really was the best medicine.

But something would help even more, she was sure of it. She probably felt loads braver because she had no voice and because it simply didn't seem to matter anymore, but the reason for the action didn't matter. She lifted her hands to rest over Ron's. Surprised, Ron started to scramble to his feet, thinking she needed him to get something. "What? Do you need something now? What do you want? More water? Or I could find Fleur. Or Harry--you want me to get Harry?"

Almost serenely, Hermione lifted her head to meet his eyes. Ron quickly blanched and reached out his bloodstained thumbs to wipe her face, not even bothering with the handkerchief. "Come on, love, please don't, please--"

She hadn't even realized that silent tears were still coursing down her cheeks and probably would be for a good long time. Somehow, she knew it would help her heal. Hermione very deliberately moved her eyes to the empty space next to her to indicate exactly what she wanted him to do.

Ron didn't need anything else. He dropped down beside her and Hermione didn't waste any more time. She almost fell into him, her head falling on his chest so the rapid but reassuring drumming of his heart could reverberate through her bones. As she had hoped, Ron's arms came fast and tight around her so he could hold her just like he did at the Ministry. Hermione let out a long breath, a pleasant sense of déjà vu flooding her senses, breathing properly for the first time since her rescue. This was what she needed.

**

Fleur pocketed her wand and nodded hopefully towards her patient. "Try to zay something, please."

"Something, please," Hermione answered promptly. It stung a good bit, but at least her voice was only slightly hoarse. She clapped a hand over her throat and swallowed before trying again, this time taking care to speak with more breath support. This time it was loads easier.

Fleur beamed proudly. "Zat iz wonderful. One more dose of Pepper-Up and zat headache will be gone." Hermione gulped down yet another potion while Fleur gave her one final look-over. "You are responding very well to the treatment. You will be fine." She tugged on the comforter so Hermione could slip underneath the warm blankets. "You will need lotz of rest, of course."

"Where are Ron and Harry?" Hermione asked, not making any move towards the bed. She had to admit that Fleur was an excellent nurse; aside from a general soreness pervading throughout her body and a heavy fatigue, she felt perfectly fine. Fleur was probably right--all she needed was a long nap to make a full recovery. But the problem was, there really was no time to have a bit of a lie-in. For all she knew, Harry may want to leave straightaway and she had no intention of being left behind.

"Ronald iz with Bill and 'Arry is outside still," Fleur said evasively. She patted the pillows of the admittedly very comfortable-looking bed. "You may speak to zem when you wake up."

"I should speak to them now," Hermione said gingerly, keeping her hand over her throat. She really needed to be careful not to strain her recently repaired voice. That had been the most difficult injury for Fleur to tend to; everything else had been mended in a few seconds flat, just as Ron had predicted. "Why is Harry outside?"

Fleur's hand froze momentarily on the blanket she was needlessly fiddling with, and Hermione's now razor-sharp memory sprang back to the moment when Fleur and Ron had traded spots in the room. Ron, the perfect person that he was, had sat with her until Fleur had finished tending to Ollivander and Griphook, only leaving her side when Fleur had requested some privacy for her examination. Fleur had then stopped Ron briefly at the door, murmuring something to him in a low voice. Ron had paled and covered up the best he could, giving Hermione a reassuring smile, wave, and promise that he would be back as soon as he could. But Ron could never hide anything from her and probably should know by now to not even try. On a hunch, Hermione turned around in the chair she was currently seated on and glanced out the window. She could just make out Harry toiling in the distance, digging a large hole in the dirt with a spade. Ron and Dean slowly made their way towards him with spades of their own, heads bowed in bereaved respect. Her stomach sank as she spotted a small, pathetic lump lying near the grave, awaiting its burial. "Fleur, who died?" Hermione breathed with a hand over her heart.

Fleur swore in French as she joined Hermione at the window. "We did not want to upset you, but it waz ze house-elf who came to save you three."

A cry burst through Hermione's mended voice. "Dobby?"

"I'm afraid so--'Arry seemed most upset--what are you doing, 'Ermione?" Fleur demanded as Hermione shakily got to her feet much too quickly. Hermione grabbed the desk to find her balance again and closed her eyes to ward off the sudden rush of dizziness that had assaulted her. She wasn't as healthy as she thought. "'Ermione?"

"I want to see him. Before he's buried," Hermione demanded. She looked down at her sweaty, filthy, torn shirt and jeans with distaste. They smelled of blood and vomit. "Can I borrow something to wear?" She never wanted to wear these clothes again.

"'Ermione, that iz not a--"

"Please," Hermione insisted. "He saved my life. I should say good-bye."

Fleur murmured something in French again, probably about headstrong teenagers, but she went over to the closet to pull out an old dressing gown of hers. "Thiz will do for now. I will find something more suitable."

"Thank you," Hermione said gratefully.

Fleur pointed a stern finger at her. "You will find me before you go outside. You are not to go down those stairz on your own." Hermione nodded heavily, still holding the desk's edge to keep herself upright. Fleur patted her affectionately on the cheek. "I will be right outside if you need anything," Fleur said briskly before bustling out of the room. Hermione lowered herself back down into the chair so she could gain a little strength before changing, smiling at the door Fleur had exited through. She'd never thought she'd admit it, but Fleur really was going to be a wonderful mother.

After a few minutes, Hermione managed to pull off her shirt and jeans and tossed them to the side. She had to stop to take a few minutes before slipping on the robe and belting the sash as tightly as she could. Fleur was a bit taller than her so it didn't fit very properly, but anything was better than those ruined clothes. Hermione glanced over at them again before very carefully getting back to her feet and shuffling over the mirror. Even walking managed to cause every muscle and bone in her body to ache in protest. Hermione took a hold of the wall and closed her eyes again once she reached her destination. She had an awful feeling that she was going to be out of commission for several days.

Once the waves of nausea had passed, Hermione opened her eyes so she could take a look at herself in the mirror. She hadn't done this in months. Well, there had been cursory glances in window panes, but she hadn't really stood in front of a mirror and looked at herself, the way all teenage girls did, since September. She ignored her bloodless cheeks, not wanting to think about Cruciatus right now, and focused on how thin her face had become and how her eyes now seemed to be larger and rounder thanks to the several pounds she had lost from lack of food and stress. Somehow, it made her look older. She had noticed that her hair was getting more difficult to control, but she hadn't realized how long the curls had really become until now; they now limply hung several inches past her shoulders. She really needed a haircut.

It was trivial to concern herself with this right now, but Hermione didn't care. Frankly, she needed to be petty for a moment. Hermione picked up a fistful of curls to judge how much she should cut, but a flash of scarlet stopped her. Gingerly, Hermione pulled her hair upright so she had an unobstructed view of the long, thin cut that sliced down the side of her neck. Ron and Fleur must not have noticed it because of her hair. She bit her lip and tried to remember how she had gotten it. She remembered Bellatrix pressing the sword against her cheek and she definitely remembered her stabbing her with the smaller knife, but she couldn't remember a knife to her neck. And that was definitely something she would have remembered. She would have to ask Ron or Harry what had happened after they had ran up to the room to save her. She'd like to know just how she had received such a scar. Hermione opened her mouth to call Fleur into the room so she could repair the gash, but she shut it just as quickly. Her eyes burned with fresh determination. Harry and Ron had too many scars from this ordeal; it was about time she earned one.

After judging that she would be cutting off a good six inches of hair before leaving the cottage, Hermione dropped her hair and forced herself to inhale and exhale several more times. She had a feeling that those stairs Fleur had talked about where going to be rather trying. Unsteadily, Hermione made it to the door without any major difficulties, and with Fleur's help, descended the steep stairwell. She couldn't believe Ron had carried her all the way up them.

Bill had just entered the foyer, his traveling cloak still clasped around his neck. Fleur let out a low cry of relief when she saw her husband and he hurried to her. "They're all fine. We're safe," he assured before dropping a quick kiss on her lips. He stepped back to examine Hermione. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione returned. She carefully pushed herself away from Fleur's support. "I think I can do it by myself."

"I am right behind you," Fleur comforted as she, Bill, and Hermione all went out into the pre-dawn gloom. Luna was out in the yard, dressed in one of Fleur's coats, humming to herself as she watched the stars. She seemed to be waiting for them. Luna gave Hermione a warm smile.

"You look better," she said happily. "I was worried." Hermione opened her mouth to return the sentiments, but Luna brushed them aside with a vague wave of her hand. "No, don't speak just yet. Rest your voice. I know you're happy to see me too. Even if you don't believe in the Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

She too followed close to Hermione in case her friend needed her, but Hermione stubbornly managed the journey on her own, only accepting Ron's arm when she finally reached him. He smelled of dirt, but it still was the best thing Hermione inhaled all night. She leaned against him, relying on him to support her weight and closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. Ron leaned down to very quietly ask if she felt any better. She nodded and opened her eyes to see Luna tenderly close the elf's eyelids. "There," she said softly. "Now he could be sleeping."

Hermione bit her trembling lip. It wasn't fair that poor Dobby, who had never done anything but try to help them, was dead. Yes, his schemes to protect them usually included rogue Bludgers and the sort, but Dobby's heart was always in the right place. That was what was so wonderful about him. Harry placed the elf in the grave, looking as though he was about to cry himself. Ron's arm tightened around her as they all stood around the rough hole, gazing down at the house-elf, uncertain what to do or say now.

Luna however always knew what to do. "I think we ought to say something," piped up Luna. "I'll go first, shall I?" Soberly, Luna took a step forward so she could gaze at the bottom of the grave while everyone watched, touched by the odd girl's compassion. "Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair that you had to die, when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us. I hope you're happy now.

She turned and looked expectantly at Ron, knowing Hermione shouldn't speak just yet. Looking a bit bemused, Ron cleared his throat and spoke for himself and Hermione, "Yeah...thanks, Dobby."

"Thanks," muttered Dean. Hermione glanced over at him and noticed for the first time how bruised and swollen his face was. Obviously, Dean had been through hell tonight as well.

Harry had to swallow before muttering, "Good-bye, Dobby."

There was nothing more final than that. Bill raised his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up into the air and fell neatly upon it. Hermione had to close her eyes again. Fleur had been right to worry about a funeral being too much for her right now.

Harry asked if he could stay alone, which everyone instantly agreed to. Bill, Dean, and Ron all passed him with pats on his shoulder as they made their way back to the house. As soon as he could, Ron returned his focus to Hermione. "How're you feeling?" he asked again. "Any better?"

"Yes, I am," Hermione managed to get out in a normal tone.

Ron brightened at the sound of it. "Hey! Good for you!" He hugged her even closer and helped her back into the living room. Luna had settled down on the loveseat, but the moment she saw Ron enter with his arm around Hermione, she vacated the cozy spot for them. Hermione flashed her a grateful smile as she dropped down on the cushion; she had always liked Luna Lovegood. Dean went to the fireplace to thoughtfully light a fire for them. Fleur and Bill stood in the hallway for a few minutes of privacy, speaking in low anxious tones. Hermione and Ron both watched them from their comfortable seat, Ron desperate to talk to his brother while Hermione needed to ask Fleur for some medical help.

When they had finally finished, Bill went to hang up his cloak and take off his muddy shoes while Fleur joined the others. Hermione quickly waved her over. "What?" Ron asked, instantly anxious again. "What's wrong?"

Hermione turned to Ron and tapped her lower set of teeth. "Show her the teeth you need replaced."

He rolled his eyes, but he did so with a smile. "Bloody hell, you remember everything," he complained. He opened his mouth so Fleur could see the hole the Snatchers had left. She nodded sympathetically and quickly repaired the damage. Ron was about to thank her when Bill returned to the light-colored room. "Bill," he asked worriedly. "Did you--?"

"They're out," he assured. "I got there in time. Everything is fine."

Ron's arm, which was still wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, drooped against her in utter relief. "Thank Merlin."

"Where did you go?" Hermione asked confusedly.

"To get Mum and Dad and everyone out," Bill explained. "We've been planning this for a while; we'd knew it happen sooner or later. Muriel agreed to take us in if we needed to--I don't know what Mum has over her, but whatever it is, it's good, Muriel never likes to help. Mum and Ginny went straight there and Dad went to get Fred and George--they've been hiding out at Lee's so they can run Potterwatch. I just got a Patronus from Dad saying that he got back with them just fine."

"Good," Hermione breathed as she leaned more securely into Ron so he knew that she was just as relieved as he was.

Bill took a seat on the arm of the chair his wife was perched on and closed his eyes in exhaustion for a moment. Fleur rubbed her hand through her hair, murmuring a question to him. "I'm all right," he replied. "Just tired. We had to do the Fidelius Charms," he explained to the rest of the attentive room. "So no one can know they're at Muriel's and no one knows you all are here for now; we'll transport you all to Muriel's as soon as we can manage." He appealed to Fleur. "We probably should take Ollivander and Griphook first--Muriel has more medical supplies. And we definitely don't have the room--"

"Hang on." Ron straightened up in supreme shock. "You cast two Fidelius Charms in less than an hour?" he asked in awed disbelief. "Those take ages!"

"Not if you're as good as me," Bill quipped. "Or Dad, really," he admitted. "And like I said, we've been preparing for this for a while. It's just lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe too."

Ron was oddly jerking his chin towards the door. Hermione strained to see over Ron's head to find that Harry had returned, standing in the doorway, looking dejected yet determined. Bill kindly recapped everything he had just told them, but when he reached the part about moving Griphook and Ollivander, Harry interjected sharply, "No. I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important."

Hermione struggled to sit up herself. She knew this voice very well. Harry had a plan. A really good one, for that matter. Looking embarrassed to find all eyes on him, Harry glanced down at his hands which were still covered in mud and Dobby's blood. "I'm going to wash. Then I'll need to see them, straightaway."

He walked into the little kitchen without another word or glance. Ron tapped Hermione's shoulder warningly, his eyes still on the vacant doorway. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes," Hermione answered grimly. Ron had noticed the hero-with-a-brilliant-plan voice as well.

"What d'you reckon it is?"

"I don't know," Hermione said honestly. She struggled to get up from her very comfy spot. Her body was quite ready to relinquish the sofa's comfort just yet. "Let's find out."

"Hang on," Bill cut in, sounding just like Ron. His eyes were only on his youngest brother. "What the hell's going on here, Ron? You said you'd tell me after all this died down."

Ron helped Hermione to her feet before facing his brother and answering, "Do you remember when I was eight and someone dyed all of my Chudley Cannons gear blue and you told me Fred did it? And you suggested that to get back at him I should put that itching powder on his broomstick?"

"Yes," Bill said skeptically.

"So I did," Ron continued. "But you had dyed the Cannons stuff yourself because you made a bet with Fred about who could fly around the village the fastest and wanted to find a way to sabotage him that couldn't be traced back to you. Fred lost, George told him what I did, Fred told Mum, Mum made me clean the basement as punishment, and since that wasn't enough, Fred cursed me and made me barf up slugs for three days, which led to a three-year prank war between me and Fred that only ended when we both fractured our skulls and Mum threatened to take away our wands." Bill couldn't help chuckling in remembrance, but his eyes remained hard and serious as ever. "And you," Ron continued, "you won five Galleons that you used to take out one of the Fawcett girls."

"One of ze who?"

The two men ignored Fleur. "It took me ages to figure all of that out," Ron admitted. "I didn't find out that Fred hadn't done it until I was fourteen. But when I did, I asked you why you did it, why you lied to me and why you didn't tell me the truth even though it caused a big fat mess," Ron concluded the seemingly very irrelevant story, "what did you say?"

Bill grimly clenched his jaw. "People lie," he recited.

Ron waved his hands definitely to indicate that that was the only answer Bill was ever going to get out of him.

However, that wasn't going to stop Bill from trying. He narrowed his eyes. "So it's your turn to lie? You're really not going to tell me anything?"

"You got it," Ron said almost cheerfully.

Bill's ears were tinged with furious red as he leaned forward intently to press his point. "This isn't the same thing, Ron! That was a prank--this is a war. D'you think this is some kind of joke?"

"No. I don't," Ron answered flatly. His eyes flicked to Hermione's pale face for one revealing second. "I really don't. That's why I'm not telling you anything."

Infuriated, Bill tried to speak, but his temper overwhelmed him and he stalked out into the hallway to try to regain control. Fleur bustled after him. Ron let out a low whistle as he watched the couple stand in front of the staircase, once again speaking in an undertone. "Blimey," he said under his breath, seemingly surprised at his more patient brother's display of temper.

Hermione had never seen Bill express his temper either, but she wasn't as surprised as Ron. Bill was a Weasley and in her experience, all Weasleys had a bit of a temper. It was one of the reasons she liked them so much. She took a minute to steady herself against the arm of the sofa before nodding towards the kitchen. "Shall we?"

"Hang on," Ron warned as they started their way; Harry had just emerged with freshly washed hands and Bill and Fleur were barring his path up the stairs, having decided to direct their questions to him instead.

Harry however wasn't about to have any of that. "I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander."

"No," said Fleur. "You will 'ave to wait, 'Arry. Zey are both ill, tired--"

"I'm sorry," he said without heat, "but it can't wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately--and separately. It's urgent."

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Ron whispered to her. Hermione just shook her head, as bewildered as he was. Harry was just so calm. It was almost unnerving how centered and focused he was. It was as though he was ready to find the final three Horcruxes, destroy them, and kill Voldemort all in the same day and would do so without breaking into a sweat or even batting an eye.

"Harry, what the hell's going on?" asked Bill. "You turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she's been tortured, and Ron's just refused to tell me anything--"

"We can't tell you what we're doing," said Harry flatly. "You're in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone else."

Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her; he was staring at Harry. His deeply scarred face was hard to read. Hermione shifted nervously, but Ron poked her comfortingly. "It's all right," he predicted confidently. "He won't push it."

He was right. "All right," Bill conceded. "Who do you want to talk to first?"

Harry hesitated before replying, "Griphook. I'll speak to Griphook first."

"Up here, then," said Bill, leading the way.

Harry started mounting the stairs. Hermione and Ron had been fully prepared to follow him, but they both stayed still, staring openly at their best friend who suddenly seemed so different. The indolent Harry who had idled for hours in the tent, obsessing about Hallows, was long gone. He'd probably never return. This was the Harry that was going to defeat Voldemort. Hermione could see that power and capability oozing out every one of his pores. Harry may never know it because he was far too modest, but he really was one of the most remarkable wizards the wizarding world had ever been blessed to know.

"Do we go?" Ron asked Hermione nervously, sharing her doubts.

Two hours ago, Hermione would have answered the question in a heartbeat. Now, she wasn't so sure. Harry didn't look as though he needed anyone or anything. "I don't--"

"I need you two as well!"

Well, that answered that. Relieved, the couple moved into the light and up the stairs, eager to help their best friend, Harry Potter, in any possible way they could.