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Yuletide Blessing in Disguise	By : Gandalfs-Beard Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Hermione Views: 122892 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 8
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related properties--all rights belong to Rowling. Nor do I make any money from the production of this work.

Chapter List
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Lord of the Ring

Hermione slid off Harry and bolted upright on her knees, her face white with fear when Harry started thrashing wildly and moaning. His messy hair was damp, his forehead was covered with beads of cold sweat, and his eyes were still shut. He was obviously having one of his nightmare visions again. This one looked much worse than last time.
She shook him vigorously.
“Harry!” she yelled. “Wake up!”
Hermione shook him again, tears running down her cheeks.
“Wake up, Harry! Please!”
She tried kissing Harry. But even that didn’t seem to be working this time, and Hermione began to panic.
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione clambered back on top of Harry’s shaking body and wrapped herself tightly around him, feeling his cold, clammy skin against her own. She pressed herself against him, her boobs squashed against his chest, and peppered his face with kisses, hoping that she could bring him out of it by forcefully asserting her presence.
It seemed like it might be working. His eyelids were flickering, and she could just make out between his ragged gasps and hisses something which sounded very much like, “… ‘rmione.” In a last-ditch effort to bring Harry round, still squirming against his writhing torso, she slipped one of her hands under the waistband of his damp pyjama bottoms and fondled him, ignoring the sticky reminder of their earlier engagement.
It was no doubt a highly unorthodox method of revival, but it worked. Harry’s eyes snapped open, his face contorted and pale. Hermione scrambled off him immediately to give him a chance to breathe—just in the nick of time.
Harry heaved once, his cheeks puffing out, and leaned over the side of the bed. He violently heaved again, vomiting on the floor; he couldn’t seem to stop throwing up, retching even after he had clearly emptied the contents of his stomach.
Hermione didn’t want to leave his side, but at this point she knew she needed help. Sobbing, she darted out of his quarters into the drafty stone corridor without bothering to waste time finding a robe and banged loudly on Dora’s door.
It opened moments later, revealing a bleary eyed pink haired figure in a fuzzy nightgown.
“Hermione what…?” Dora’s eyes popped when she saw Hermione’s state—practically naked except for her knickers, damp disheveled hair, and tears streaming from her cheeks.
“It’s Harry! He’s really ill,” she cried. “He can’t stop throwing up.”
“Blimey!” Dora muttered; she scurried quickly to Harry’s quarters with Hermione, a bewildered looking Fleur following behind them.
The three witches found Harry still dry-heaving, and Hermione let out some more sobs.
“Finite Vomite,” Dora incanted, flourishing her wand.
Harry’s retching ended, and he slumped on his bed, panting heavily. Even in her distraught state, Hermione managed to mentally file that spell away for future use.
Fleur murmured, “Evanesco,” waving her wand at the floor, and the pile of sick vanished.
Feeling less panicky now, Hermione conjured up a glass of water and sat on the bed next to Harry. He took the glass gratefully and gulped it down.
“Not so fast,” said Hermione, “You don’t want to make yourself throw up again.”
“I can still taste it…” he said, looking revolted and anguished, then gulped down more water.
“What the hell happened?” asked Dora.
“Somezing ‘e ate per’aps?” asked Fleur.
Harry just kept drinking water, averting his eyes and looking disturbed and ashamed.
“I think Harry had another one of those nightmare visions—this one was really bad,” said Hermione. “It was awful! I couldn’t wake him up until—” Hermione caught herself and turned pink.
“Dumbledore…” Harry gasped between gulps of water, still looking like he wanted to throw up some more, “…Gotta talk to Dumbledore.”
“We gotta get you to the hospital wing first,” said Dora. “Fleur, maybe you could get Dumbledore, tell ‘im to meet us there? You know where ‘is office is?”
“Oui, chérie, of course.”
Hermione looked around wildly, spotting her dressing gown which she quickly wrapped around herself and knotted the belt, then she picked up Harry’s.
“Come on, Harry!” she said, grabbing at his hand and pulling him to his feet. “You can drink more water in the hospital wing.”
“Gotta get this taste out of my mouth…”
Exasperated, Hermione refilled his water glass with the Aguamenti charm as she dragged him out of his door and through the corridors to the hospital wing, following on Dora’s heels.
Madam Pomfrey’s sleep-heavy eyes shot wide open when she saw Harry looking so ill.
“In the bed, now, Mr. Potter,” she said crisply, taking the glass of water from his hands.
“I need that,” Harry protested, looking extremely distressed as he clambered on top of the hospital bed, “Please!”
“In a minute, Mr. Potter, if I deem it appropriate...”
“But—”
Anxiously, Hermione sat down beside Harry and took his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze, telling him, “It’ll be alright, Harry. Madam Pomfrey will sort you out.”
She heard footsteps and turned to see Dumbledore—in a woolly nightgown—entering the hospital wing with Fleur.
“Professor Dumbledore,” gasped Harry, his eyes turning into saucers, “You’ve got to hurry—” he gasped again, “—before he’s gone…” Harry was having trouble catching his breath.
“Slow down Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly, “Slow down and tell me what it is that you saw from the beginning.”
“Voldemort,” said Harry; Madam Pomfrey winced but continued performing her diagnostic charms, “I saw Voldemort and Wormtail and… and…” Harry heaved and threw up some of the water over himself.
Madam Pomfrey quickly waved her wand before Harry could heave again. Harry tried tell Dumbledore what happened once more, his face contorted with revulsion and dread.
“There was a little boy—maybe eight or nine—they had him—they… Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew—he said some sort of spell and killed the boy with a knife. It was horrible—there was blood everywhere! Wormtail—he… he…”
When Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it, Hermione’s jaw dropped in horror, suddenly realizing what he had been on about.
“Harry said he could still taste it,” she said shrilly, turning to face Dumbledore, “I think Peter Pettigrew must have given Voldemort some of the boy’s blood to drink…”
Harry nodded vigorously, then winced and clutched at his scar.
“Worse…” he just barely managed to choke out.
Dumbledore looked pained and rubbed at his crinkling forehead, sighing.
“Harry,” he said gently, “Did Pettigrew cut the boy’s heart out and feed it to Voldemort?”
Harry nodded again, then winced and clutched his scar again, and Hermione squeaked as his grip on her hand tightened.
“I was… it was like I was eating it,” said Harry, “I can’t stop tasting it—feeling it in my stomach.”
“And Voldemort—he is restored, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he is,” said Harry, looking exceedingly grateful that Dumbledore seemed to understand and was talking him through it.
“You said I had to hurry—‘before he’s gone.’ Did you see where he is, then?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, starting to nod, then catching himself, “It was more like I… like he was just thinking about it though. I didn’t actually see it. He’s at his dad’s house—in some place called Little Hangleton—it’s a manor. He was sick of living there and wanted to leave before calling his old supporters. I don’t know how long he’ll be there—he made it sound like they were going to leave tonight.”
“Then you are quite correct, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I must make haste if I am to have a hope of catching him. But before I depart, I must ask you—do you believe that he sensed your presence in his mind?”
Harry shook his head, then groaned in pain; apparently shaking his head made his scar hurt just as badly as nodding at the moment.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “That dream control training we’ve been doing really helped. While he and Wormtail talked, before… before it happened, I was able to see and feel everything that Voldemort did—I could even see what he was thinking with the legilimency—but I managed to keep my occlumency up, so I’m pretty sure that he didn’t notice me, except…”
Harry paused for a moment, looking thoughtful and slightly sick again.
“There might have been a moment as he… er, ate… erm, it… and began to change. I sort of lost control a bit.”
“Quite understandable,” said Dumbledore reassuringly. “I doubt that even I could have maintained control under such horrific circumstances.”
Harry looked surprised and a bit pleased with himself.
“He didn’t seem to think it was me though,” Harry continued. “He thought it had something to do with the change—like maybe he was sensing the boy’s soul or something.”
“Very good,” said Dumbledore, peering at Harry with a look of satisfaction and pride on his face. “You have done very well indeed, Harry. Now, I’d best be off—it would appear that I have an appointment to keep with an old student of mine.”
As Professor Dumbledore departed the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey took charge again, handing Hermione three vials of potion. Hermione didn’t need to be told what to do.
“Down the hatch, Harry!”
Without argument, Harry allowed Hermione to tip the pain potion and calming draught into his mouth. Hermione peered at the second vial of calming draught uncertainly, wondering if she was supposed to give Harry that one too.
“That one is for you, Miss Granger,” said Madam Pomfrey kindly. “You look like you need it.”
Hermione turned a bit pink, suddenly realising that she must look a complete wreck, and downed the contents of the vial without a word.
“Right then,” said Madam Pomfrey, returning to her more businesslike demeanor, “Now, let’s get you two into some clean nightclothes—I’m sure Mr. Potter doesn’t want to wear that wet dressing-gown, and I expect you would much prefer to wear something which affords you a bit more modesty while you’re in the hospital wing.”
“Oh no!” Hermione moaned, noticing the gapped opening of her dressing-gown for the first time; the knotted belt had come undone.
Blushing furiously, she quickly tugged the two sides together, covering her exposed figure.
“How long?” she asked Madam Pomfrey, Dora, and Fleur, “Dumbledore—did he see?”
Dora and Fleur both turned a bit pink themselves and shot Hermione apologetic looks.
“Sorry, Hermione,” said Dora, “If it’s any comfort, I’m pretty sure Dumbledore was just focused on Harry.”
“Indeed!” said Madam Pomfrey, her features softening again as she waved her wand at the bed next to Harry’s, “Now go on, dear, there’s a clean nightgown—you can change behind the curtain.

~o0o~
Finally, after all the panic and fuss, it was over. Both of them in clean, dry nightclothes, Hermione had left her own hospital bed and was cuddled up with Harry in his. Dora and Fleur were in their own beds, guarding the door of the infirmary.
Hermione could feel Harry absentmindedly stroking her hair and thought she should feel more comforted. But even after the calming draughts, Hermione could still feel Harry’s tension.
“It was supposed to be me,” Harry muttered, breaking the silence; he almost sounded like he was speaking to himself. “It was supposed to be me—because Voldemort couldn’t have me, a little boy is dead…”
Hermione sat upright and glared at Harry, right into his green eyes, her chest heaving, her nostrils flaring with emotion.
“Harry Potter—don’t you dare blame yourself! Do you hear me? … Stop it, right now! … What do you think Voldemort was going to do once he’d killed you? … Do you think he was going to stop killing people? … Of course not!
“He’s going to keep on killing people until he’s got everything he wants, and then he’s going to kill people just for fun! But because you’re alive, we’ve actually got a chance of stopping him…”
“But—the little boy…” Harry faltered, anguish in his eyes, “…you don’t understand…”
“Harry, I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been for you—but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand. That wasn’t you—alright? … You didn’t drink the little boy’s blood—You didn’t eat his heart—that was Voldemort! …Not you!
“I’m sorry the little boy is dead—just as sorry as you are, Harry—but it’s not going to do you any good if you keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t do! Got it?”
Harry nodded, only wincing slightly.
“Okay!” he said in a small voice. “I’ll try not to.”
Hermione’s features softened, and she smiled sadly at him.
“I’ll be here to remind you, Harry. I’m not going anywhere—that’s a promise!”

~o0o~
“So, this is it, eh?” growled Alastor Moody as he peered at the moonlit village at the bottom of the dark hill, “The village where Voldemort came from?”
“Ah, technically, no,” said Dumbledore. “I found young Tom Riddle in a muggle orphanage in London, where his mother had died after giving birth to him. … That is why tracking down his roots has proved so difficult over the years. All I had to go on was his last name, and there are no Riddles in the wizard world, but quite a few in the muggle world in a nation which is today over sixty million strong.”
“You don’t say!” Moody retorted dryly.
A cracking report issued and a short-haired woman in a trench-coat appeared behind them, silhouetted against the full moon.
“No Kingsley?”
“Nice t’see you too, Mad-Eye!” the shadowy woman chuckled. “Shacklebolt an’ Dawlish couldn’t get away. They’re stakin’ out some goblins…”
“Course they are,” Moody muttered. “At least they sent someone competent.”
The woman chuckled again. “It’s me and Mulligan tonight—he’s already canvassing the other side of the village. The chief is on alert, ready to send a whole squad if we need ‘em.”
“Very good, Auror Brixton,” said Dumbledore, sounding satisfied. “If, as I suspect, Voldemort is already departed, the four of us should suffice.”
Mad Eye snorted. “‘Suffice’ my arse—you make it sound like you couldn’t take on Voldemort and one pipsqueak minion all by your lonesome!”
Dumbledore said nothing in response, but even in darkness and shadow, his twinkling eyes were caught in the same moonlight which shone from the silvery lining of his beard.
“Well then,” said Dumbledore as he peered at the woods and hills surrounding the village, “that, on the hill over there, appears to be the only residence which would qualify as a manor.”
There were three loud cracks and the wizards vanished.

~o0o~
“So, this is Riddle Manor,” Dumbledore murmured to himself after looking through half of the dusty downstairs rooms, “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?” Moody grunted as he lurched from a dark entryway, his wooden leg clunking on the cracked tile floor of the foyer.
Dumbledore was saved from having to answer the question by a shout from upstairs.
“Bloody ‘ell!” Brixton called down, her voice sounding shaken, “I found where they were at—it’s ghastly!”
Dumbledore hurried up the splintering stairs, Moody clomping up behind him. The headmaster of Hogwarts peered into the room currently lit only by his and Abigail Brixton’s wands, but he could still smell smoke and candlewax, indicating that Voldemort and Pettigrew had not long departed.
Ghastly was, if anything, an understatement. Dumbledore wrinkled his nose in disgust and disappointment. As poor Harry had indicated, blood was everywhere, and the boy’s corpse, desecrated, was unbearable to look at.
“Bloody blazes!” growled Moody, who had just entered behind Dumbledore. “That’s the worst I’ve seen since the last war!”
“It is indeed,” sighed Dumbledore, “In any case, as distasteful as this may be, a bit more light is required to examine the scene properly.”
Dumbledore aimed his wand at the chandelier above, and bulbs long dead flared to life. The tableau—a vision of horror in the half-lit darkness—was no less gruesome in a room full of light. Where once had been black and shades of grey, were now scarlet streaks and puddles around the makeshift altar upon which the boy’s body lay, surrounded by half-melted candles.
Tearing his eyes away, feeling rather ill, Dumbledore turned his gaze upon the rest of the cobwebbed, dusty sitting room. There was some blood spatter on the peeling wallpaper, but that was not what he was looking at.
What had caught his attention was some of the detritus left behind by the room’s most recent inhabitants. Apparently, Pettigrew had taken to eating takeout from muggle restaurants—no doubt to avoid being discovered in the wizard world.
Dumbledore began rooting through the rubbish in the corner of the room, finding what he was looking for, empty cans and bottles of muggle fizzy drinks.
“Auror Brixton, if you would please collect up these drink containers and take them back the D.M.L.E. I believe an examination will reveal Pettigrew’s essence—his saliva to be precise—and thus his presence at the scene of this crime. I presume the D.M.L.E. still has Pettigrew’s finger in the Evidence Storage Vault?”
“As far as I know, yeah,” said Brixton. “We should be able to get a match.”
“Excellent! Once that has been determined, Madam Bones and Minister Fudge should have everything they need to issue a Decree of Exoneration for Sirius Black.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
Dumbledore nodded and was about to voice his gratitude when an ethereal, silvery fox emerged from the tattered curtains covering the windows. The ghostly fox lit upon the floor, and an echoey human voice emanated from its mouth.
“Auror Reynard Mulligan here,” the voice said unnecessarily, “I’ve got something over on the east side of the village, about a half-mile out along the road into town—a run-down shack. Looks like a wizard family used t’live here—I’m detecting fairly high levels of residual Dark magic. … Also, looks like the place belonged to the Gaunt family, judging by the crest on the door frame above the threshold.”
The misty, etheric fox faded into nothingness and Dumbledore raised his bushy white eyebrows at Moody and Brixton.
“The Gaunt family,” said Dumbledore, “Now that is interesting. A dead family line if I’m not mistaken.”
“Probably where Riddle’s mum came from,” said Mad Eye gruffly.
“I’m not so sure the family line is completely dead,” Brixton chimed in, looking pensive. “I think there’s a Gaunt in Azkaban—dunno if ‘e’s still alive though. I can check the records when I get back to the Ministry.”
“Very good!” said Dumbledore, “I would like to interview him if he is indeed still among the living. In any case, if you would please continue cataloguing the crime-scene, Alastor and I shall visit the Gaunt cottage.”
“And we’ll send Mulligan back t’help you clean up this disaster,” Moody muttered.

~o0o~
The full moon was still high, surrounded by twinkling stars against the canopy of night, shining down upon the two wizards on the road. Only the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl broke the silence.
From the crumbling country lane full of potholes, in the darkness, it was difficult to make out the hovel shrouded in the black shadows under the copse of gnarled, ancient oak-trees. If it weren’t for the flicker of wand-light through the broken window, Dumbledore might not have spotted it.
As it was, Moody spied it first with his swiveling “Mad Eye.”
“Must be the place,” he grunted, jerking his head towards the shack.
Dumbledore nodded and lit his wand. Together, he and Moody left the road and strode up the weedy, overgrown cobblestone pathway towards the wretched hovel.
As they drew closer, it became easier to see in their wand-light. The small cottage was in worse condition than the Shrieking Shack. Nettles and moss crawled up its rotting walls, the sagging roof was full of holes and looked near collapse. The door was nearly falling off its hinges, and nothing was left in the windows but a few shards of grimy glass.
Dumbledore’s trepidation grew as they approached the door. He could palpably sense the Dark magic; the hovel almost seemed to be shrouded by an invisible cloud of evil. The door creaked and rattled as he pushed it open.
“There you are,” said Auror Mulligan, “I was about to send out another Patronus message.”
“Just bein’ cautious,” Moody growled. “You can never be too vigilant.”
Mulligan shook his head and chuckled. “Course not! Anyway, there’s not much to see here, but I reckoned it might have a connection to Voldemort.”
“I do believe you are correct, Auror Mulligan,” said Dumbledore as he stepped through the doorway.
Splintery floorboards groaned under his feet. Slowly, carefully, Moody entered behind him, wand at the ready, his whizzing eyeball taking in everything.
Dumbledore too glanced around with great interest as spiders scurried into the corners of the hut, his eyes taking in the dust of ages layered thickly on the spindly wooden table and the bowing shelves.
“Fascinating,” he said quietly.
“If by fascinating you mean a miserable wreck, then sure,” Moody grumbled. “Dunno what sorta useful evidence you expect to find here, Albus.”
“Ah, my old friend, anything which would give us insight into Voldemort’s past is useful,” said Dumbledore almost absentmindedly while reaching out with his finely attuned senses.
Unlike less advanced wizards, Dumbledore could differentiate the subtle distinctions between magics without the use of a wand. There was something here—something he had hoped not to find but had expected to find. It had been unlikely that he would have detected its presence in the manor of the father whom Tom Riddle Junior had surely hated with a vengeance, but here—as wretched as the shack was—here was far more likely.
“How many of those damned things did Riddle make?” Dumbledore muttered under his breath.
“Alastor,” Dumbledore pointed towards a cracked plank in the floor near the corner of the room by a broken chair. “I do believe you will find something under that floorboard.”
“I see it,” muttered Moody, as his spinning eye halted on the plank.
Moody pried loose the cracked floorboard, finding a small leather pouch hidden beneath. He brought it out into the moonlight and kneeled next to the path. Everyone crouched down beside him as he opened the pouch and carefully shook it over a cobblestone.
A gold ring inset with an engraved black gemstone tumbled out and clattered onto the rocky slab, glittering in the wand-light of the three wizards.
“Morgana’s Sagging Tits!” sputtered Moody, his real eye bulging as he peered at the engraving on the stone, “Albus, you don’t suppose...?”
Dumbledore nodded, his own eyes widening. Mulligan looked bewildered.
“Peverell’s ring,” croaked the Headmaster. “Yes, Alastor, that engraving is indeed the Peverell insignia—the ‘coat of arms’ as some refer to it—one of the ‘Deathly Hallows’... This would appear to be the one belonging to Cadmus. If a Peverell married into the Gaunt bloodline, it is quite probable then that Lord Voldemort is a descendant of Cadmus Peverell. Which would mean that Harry Potter is very likely distantly related, as he is a descendant of Ignotus Peverell.”
“You don’t say,” said Moody, sounding surprised. “Poor kid—the last thing he needs is findin’ out he’s related to that monster.”
“It is of little consequence, truly,” said Dumbledore distantly as he stroked his long silvery beard. “The relationship is very distant, after all. One would have to go back many hundreds of years to meet their common ancestors.”
“True enough!” Moody agreed, still staring at the long-sought artifact.
Alastor’s voice seemed to fade as Dumbledore found himself being pulled towards the Ring. The yearning for peace in his soul—the Ring seemed to be calling out to him. Entranced—lost in his own little world—his hand reached out for the Ring almost of its own accord.
Moody sharply swatted Dumbledore’s hand away.
“Are you Bloody Mad?” Moody snapped loudly, making Mulligan jump, “That thing is probably cursed, Albus.”
The headmaster’s eyes cleared; he was aghast at what he had almost unwittingly done.
“Yes... yes,” Dumbledore said shakily. “Of course it is! You’re quite right Alastor! Thank you!”
Dumbledore reached within his robes, knowing that he had found one of Voldemort’s horcruxes, and pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from its scabbard.
“What the hell?” Moody peered at Dumbledore is if he thought the headmaster mad. “What’d you bring that for?”
“Just in case,” Dumbledore replied mysteriously.
“What? You think that sword’s gonna break the curse?” said Moody skeptically.
“Quite!” said Dumbledore vaguely.
He motioned for Moody and Mulligan to stand back and lofted the Sword of Gryffindor above his head. The glinting blade of the sword flashed in the moonlight as it swung down and struck the Ring.
The Ring shuddered violently; a shrieking cacophony rent the cold night air, whipping the wizards’ robes and the long weedy grasses surrounding them in a tempestuous gale.
Billowing dark smoke poured from the Ring and the gemstone cracked—black death venomously oozed onto the cobblestone. After a few moments passed, the screaming Ring stopped shaking and the whirling column of smoke dissipated. It was finished.

~o0o~
“GAAAAAH! Aaaaaargh!”
Harry’s eyes snapped open and he nearly fell out of his bed, his scar on fire, searing as if being branded with a hot poker.
“Oh no! Oh no!” Hermione squealed in a panic, waking right up, “Is it happening again?”
“Gaaaah! No!” Harry gasped, holding his throbbing forehead. “Just pain—not sick this time—no vision—” he managed to say between gasps.
“Blimey! What’s goin’ on?” asked Dora, who was at Harry’s bedside in an instant when she heard the commotion.
“I’m not sure,” said Hermione, “He says it just hurts really badly, but there wasn’t any nightmare this time.”
Harry’s breathing and groaning slowed.
“Bloody hell!” Harry swore, rubbing at his forehead as Hermione handed him a pain potion. “It hurt about as bad as it did earlier tonight. But it was more like—I dunno—I suppose the last time I felt that horrible without having a bloody nightmare was in second year when Tom Riddle came out of the Diary, and when I stabbed the Diary with a Basilisk fang…”
AN:
@ Rayrobles: Thank you! ... :-)
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Yuletide Blessing in Disguise