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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 34
- 35
- 36
Chapter 35. Of Wizard Tales and Wandlore

It was barely dawn, but Hermione was awake. She rolled over as soon as the boys left the bed, watching as they entered the bathroom together. She’d been lying there, listening through most of their exchange this morning, but feinting sleep, eavesdropping on their conversation. Excited by the sounds of Ron’s pleasure she was hearing, desperately aroused and terribly curious, she wanted to turn over and watch because he was obviously enjoying what Harry was doing to him. She wanted to see the expression on Ron’s face, watch him orgasm with Harry’s mouth on him, but she was afraid to interrupt their intimate moments or disturb their private discussions.
Harry wasn’t fooled, however. He’d known she was awake, but in the end, she was glad she hadn’t given into temptation. If she had, their second exchange might not have happened. She found herself surprisingly impressed with Ron, at the way he’d handled Harry. How he’d tried to get him to talk about some of his more troubling thoughts and actions yesterday despite Harry’s obvious reluctance. Harry had called it more therapy. Doctor Ron, indeed. Their approach with Harry couldn’t be more different, but there was no denying that Ron’s method was effective.
While she could still hear them talking quietly in the loo together, she could no longer make out the words. Shifting on the bed for a better look, Hermione scooted to the edge to try and peer through the open door. She caught a brief glimpse of Ron from the side before he gave Harry a quick slap on the bum and then followed him into the tub.
Left unsatisfied and achingly aroused, but starving as she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday, Hermione got up when she heard the taps come on. She would have liked to have joined them in the shower, her mind full of erotic images of their wet bodies rubbing together as Ron reciprocated, but instead, she decided to grab a quick one downstairs and get something rounded up for breakfast. They were likely to be a while if her previous experiences with Ron were any indication, and she didn’t want to dawdle and leave Harry to scrounge for his own meal in a kitchen that would feel so empty, making him acutely aware of Dobby’s absence.
It hadn’t mattered, however. When the boys had finally come downstairs, Harry refused to eat anything at all, insisting he wasn’t hungry. Then he grew agitated, nettled at having them delay his planned trip back to the seaside cottage. There was a fire in his eyes and a twitch in his limbs. He was full of nervous energy and restlessness.
While she and Ron ate the eggs she’d scrambled and toast, Harry removed all the objects from his Mokeskin pouch. Pulling them out one by one, he examined them carefully as if he were seeing them for the first time. He placed his mother’s letter on the table unread with the Marauder’s Map, but studied the glass phial full of swirling silver memories, then the golden Snitch. Next he examined the broken halves of his wand for a long time, lightly running his fingers over the fractured wood, before setting it on the table while she and Ron watched curiously.
Finally he pulled out the broken mirror shard, which made Ron’s shoulders tense and his lips form a thin white line, worried perhaps that Harry would erupt again into madness and rake it across his skin suddenly as he had yesterday. Fearful maybe, that the temptation would be too great for him to resist, but Harry merely turned the fragment in his fingers, the reflective surface catching the light as he tilted it. He rubbed his thumb over it, sighing heavily before placing it on the table to join the rest of the odd assortment. Then he frowned down at them all, chewing on his torn lip, running his tongue along the healing tear in it absently.
When he could glean nothing more from his treasured items, Harry replaced them again, one by one, back into the pouch, pulled it over his head, and tucked it down the front of his jumper. Then he got to his feet with a sigh, rubbing at his scar.
“We need to go,” he announced.
“You want to tell me what that was about first?” Ron asked, pointing at Harry’s chest with his fork to where the pouch had created a small bulge in the fabric.
“I don’t want to say. I’m not really sure yet.”
“Well, that makes me feel better. What about that?” he questioned again, pointing now at the scar on Harry’s head.
Harry didn’t respond to that, but instead replied, “You said Ollivander’s at Shell Cottage. Do you think he’ll be able to speak to us?”
“Dunno. I didn’t talk to him yesterday when I was there. He was already resting in one of the bedrooms, but Bill said he’s in pretty bad shape.”
“He was barely conscious when I found him, Harry,” Hermione added. “It may be a few days before he’s recovered enough.”
“I can’t wait that long. I need to see him today if he’s able. I need to see him right now.”
“What for?” she asked. “Harry, I don’t think he’ll be able to mend your wand.”
“It’s not that. I’ll explain after we’ve seen him, all right? Are you two ready?”
Hermione shared a worried look with Ron as they both got to their feet.
“Where’s my jacket?” Harry asked. “Have either of you seen it?”
“Harry, you left it at Bill’s. Don’t you remember? You took it off to…” She trailed off, seeing the comprehension and the memories flooding into Harry.
“I brought it back from Bill’s yesterday, but it was damp and covered in sand and, you know, other stuff,” Ron explained, grimacing apologetically. “I didn’t think to try and clean it when I got back. I just hung it up in the foyer.”
“Fine. It’s fine,” Harry said dully. “I’ll just…I’ll just go without today. What about my wand. I can’t seem to find where I flung it yesterday, either.”
“You’ve lost your wand?” Hermione asked in surprise.
“Well I don’t really remember everything that happed too clearly once we left here yesterday morning, and then after I came back, but it’s not in the bathroom or Sirius’ bedroom. I checked the stairs on the way down as well, but I didn’t see it. I figure I had to have dropped it somewhere.”
“I didn’t see it this morning when I picked up the mess on the stairs,” Hermione told him.
“Is that what happened to the elves heads?” Harry asked. “Did I rip them all down?”
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered.
“I don’t remember doing that,” he admitted heavily.
“Come on then, I’ll help you look for it,” Ron offered, waving a hand for Harry to lead the way out of the kitchen, perhaps hoping to distract Harry from more thoughts of yesterday morning as he stood up.
“Don’t be silly,” Hermione called with a roll of her eyes as she followed them into the hallway, pulling out her own wand. “We’ll just summon it. Accio Harry’s wand.”
Two wands came zooming out of Harry’s coat pocket from the other end of the hall and landed in Hermione’s outstretched hand, where they all stared at them in astonishment before looking back to Harry.
“I… I must have put them in my pocket before I took off the jacket. Dobby had fallen into my arms before I even knew where we were, and then I realized he was bleeding,” he whispered, the horror of it showing in his eyes. “I wrapped him in the jacket to keep him warm, because he was so pale and shaking. Then I pulled the knife out of his chest and tried to stop the flow with my hand, but I couldn’t. I called for help. I didn’t know what else to do. He said my name, and then he just died, staring up at me.”
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, and she choked on a sob. Ron grabbed her hand and squeezed, but Harry just looked dazed at the memory.
“I Apparated here without it, didn’t I?” Harry asked in dawning comprehension.
“It’s not the first time, mate. You did quite a lot of magic yesterday without using your wand.”
“No I didn’t. I had my wand until then.”
“Yes, but did you use it to actually cast a spell? Did you even say or think the incantations?” Ron asked.
“I did on Rowle.”
“Was that who that was?” Ron asked. “Good. Bastard had it coming.”
“Harry,” Hermione began, frowning at Ron. “Is this…is this her wand?”
He looked down at the wands Hermione was holding out to him.
“Yes. It has to be.”
“That reminds me,” Ron interjected. “The one you lent me, Hermione. Where did you get it?”
“It was Mrs. Malfoy’s wand, from when I disarmed her.”
“Couldn’t be.”
“Of course it is. Why not?”
“Because it’s the blackthorn wand I took off that snatcher bloke.”
Pulling it out of his back pocket, Ron showed it to them. Hermione stared at it in mild surprise. It was indeed the wand that Ron had taken from the snatchers and given to Harry months ago after Hermione had broken his wand. The same wand that Harry had swapped for Draco’s on the train.
“Well I don’t know why she had it, but that’s both of the Black sisters without wands now and no captive wand maker they can torture into making them another,” Hermione told them in some satisfaction.
“Pettigrew’s wand was still there so they have at least one between them,” Ron contradicted her. “It never even occurred to me to pick it up.”
“Come on,” Harry interrupted, wincing and rubbing at his scar again. “We need to go.”
Holding his hand out for the wands, Hermione handed both to him. Harry rolled them in his palm a moment, and then looked back at her and Ron.
“You summoned my wand and both of these came. Neither belongs to me,” he said, examining them again before pocketing Bellatrix’s. “I really need to speak to Ollivander.”
A few minutes later, they were standing on the cliff top overlooking the ocean, the wind blowing the hair back off their faces. Harry stood with his arms wrapped around himself against the chill morning air, staring down at the undulating waves of water below which were lapping at the sand as if he was searching for the evidence of what had happened yesterday. Their footprints, Dobby’s body, or splattered blood, but the traces had all been wiped away, made new again by the sea, leaving the sand unmarked like a clean, blank piece of parchment.
Stepping close to Harry, Ron placed a hand at his shoulder and squeezed.
“You sure you’re all right? We can give this a bit more time, mate.”
“No. I need to do it now.”
Ron glanced back at her again, but didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded and turned towards the house and began making his way there. She and Harry followed.
It was still very early in the morning when Ron knocked on the weathered front door, but they could hear the scraping of chairs and hurried footsteps.
“Who’s there?” came Bill’s gruff call from the other side of the door.
Hermione saw the curtains of the kitchen window pulled back as someone peered out at them.
“It’s me, Ron…your brother, and I have Harry and Hermione with me,” Ron answered. “We came yesterday and brought your current unexpected house guests. And when I left the second time, I was a lot more polite than the first. I also promised we’d be back today.”
Apparently satisfied that Ron was truly who he claimed to be, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
“You didn’t say you’d be back at daybreak,” Bill said accusingly in whispered greeting, opening the door wider to admit them.
“Please, dawn was over an hour ago,” Ron replied with a roll of his eyes, stepping over the threshold.
“Well, I didn’t expect you this early. It’s only Fleur and me up, trying to bang something together for breakfast. It’s not ready yet, so you’ll have to wait for a bit if you’re hungry, but there’s coffee brewing.”
“Hermione and I have already eaten, but Harry could do with something.”
“No. Please, Bill. I’m fine,” Harry argued, throwing Ron a vicious glare, which Ron shrugged off unapologetically.
“Some coffee then,” Bill replied, leading them quietly through the dark hallway to the kitchen, past a sleeping form on the couch.
“We put Dean in with the goblin. Ollivander’s in the other bedroom so Luna took the couch last night,” he said quietly in explanation.
“How are they?” Harry asked.
“Dean and Luna are going to be just fine. But it will be a while before Griphook and Ollivander are out of the woods. Griphook is still in and out of consciousness. Fleur is keeping him pretty heavily sedated while the Skele-Gro finishes its work. And they had Mr. Ollivander in chains, tortured and starved for over a year. It’s going to take some time for him to recover, if he ever does. He’s quite old.”
“’Arry,” Fleur called throatily, getting up hurriedly from the table to kiss him on both cheeks when they entered the kitchen. She appeared genuinely happy to see them. Especially Harry.
Still in her dressing gown with her hair uncombed, and yet Fleur still looked stunning. It simply wasn’t fair, Hermione thought with a twinge of irritation. Fleur could be covered in dung and still look radiant. Standing next to her always made Hermione feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly step sisters at the ball; all frizzy curls and skinny ankles. Marriage to Bill had seemed to soften some of her hard edges though, and she was beginning to grow on Hermione in spite of herself. It wasn’t Fleur’s fault that she was blessed with ample beauty and Hermione with ample brains.
Hermione had never much cared about her own looks. Her jealousy and dislike for this woman had more to do with how Ron had first reacted to her than anything Fleur had ever done. Now she thought on it, she realized Fleur’s initial frosty demeanor and aloof attitude probably had been a learned defensive mechanism against other women who would automatically hate her for her appearance and for how men favored her. What other girl would have wanted to be her friend? Destined to be passed over, invisible to every boy’s eyes, who would choose that? Not many, she thought. Hermione knew she was close to her sister, Gabrielle, but did Fleur have any other friends? Had she ever? Perhaps she had in early childhood, before one’s looks and boys mattered. Hermione, herself had been friendless before she’d met Ron and Harry so she knew that feeling of isolation well, having suffered through it all throughout primary school.
Thinking back over her fourth year, Hermione tried to remember if any of the other girls from Beauxbaton’s had been friends with Fleur, but all she could remember were their looks of bitter jealousy when she’d been chosen to compete in the Tri-Wizard tournament and they had not. Forced to compete with their gorgeous classmate and passed over yet again, judged less desirable even by an inanimate object with no eyes. For the first time in her life, Hermione actually felt sorry for Bill’s beautiful wife, the object of so much scorn for other women’s own insecurities.
Fleur hugged Hermione and Ron before turning back to Harry.
“I am so glad to see zat you are all right. We were very worried.”
Placing both hands on Harry’s face, Fleur tilted his head back to better examine him with the light streaming in from the kitchen window. Running her thumb along his bottom lip, she clucked her tongue and then checked his face for more damage, smoothing the hair off his forehead before Harry could extricate himself from her.
“You ‘ave a fever,” she pronounced worriedly.
“I’m fine, Fleur,” Harry assured her, pulling her hands away from his face by the wrists. “Thank you,” he added gratefully when Bill intervened to rescue him, stepping between them and handing Harry a mug of black coffee.
Their eyes met for a long moment before Bill released his grip on the cup. Then he squeezed Harry’s shoulder as Ron had done earlier.
Hermione knew Harry had only accepted the coffee to keep from being rude. He looked relieved when Fleur, frowning slightly with concern, had turned back to the table. Clearly he’d been uncomfortable with having her touch him. Or possibly his scar was causing him pain, and he simply didn’t want her touching it. Hermione could see that it was dark red against his pale complexion when Fleur’s hand had passed over it. Darker than it had been at Number Twelve earlier, growing more painful, it seemed. Hermione wondered why. Harry was obviously struggling to keep Voldemort out, but surely his fury at their escape and the loss of his prisoners and Wormtail had abated by now. What thoughts or emotions could The Dark Lord be having that would cause Harry pain?
“Come, sit down. Bill and I usually ’ave le petit déjeuner, but az zere are so many ‘ungry people ‘ere.”
“A small breakfast,” Hermione explained at Ron and Harry’s blank look. “The French don’t eat meat or eggs with their breakfast. They normally have pastries, and sometimes add some fresh fruit.”
“Correct,” Fleur agreed, offering a basket of baguettes to Harry, who took one at her stern look. “Zere is jam if you like.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I had the most delicious chocolate croissants on holiday once,” Hermione continued, wistfully.
It had been one of her favorite holidays with her parents and one of her last, she realized achingly. God, she missed her parents, feared for them, wondered if they yearned for her even though they didn’t remember her with the charm she’d placed on them. Selfishly, she hoped that some part of them could feel her absence in their lives as deeply as she felt theirs.
“Pain au chocolat,” Fleur sighed longingly. “Gabrielle’s favorite. Papa brings ‘er one from ze bakery every Sunday.”
“Yes, well Fleur tells me none of the bakeries around here makes anything that compares, so I thought I’d whip up something a bit more English traditional for our guests,” Bill said over his shoulder, cracking an egg into a waiting skillet which was already sizzling with several fat sausages.
It smelled wonderful, and although Hermione had already eaten, her mouth watered. The aroma and talk of food must have been making Harry’s empty stomach growl as well, and he took a bite of his baguette to silence it.
“Bill, Fleur, I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve put you through. I just didn’t know where else to send them,” Hermione apologized. “They needed medical attention—”
“All of you did,” Bill interrupted; glancing at Ron’s bruised face and neck.
“Yes. But thank you for opening your home to them. I know it was a lot to ask of you both.”
“Pas du tout,” Fleur said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Yes, it’s not a problem, love,” Bill agreed. “We’re happy to help. However we can,” he added, looking back to Harry again.
“Right, well, as to that, Bill,” Harry began, clearing his throat nervously and setting down his coffee. “I need to speak to Mr. Ollivander if he’s able.”
“Absolument pas!” Fleur replied quickly. “’Arry, ’e is very ill.”
“I understand, but it’s important. Is he conscious?”
“Oui, but—”
“Can’t it wait until after breakfast at least?” Bill asked. “I was just about to make him some porridge.”
“I highly recommend it,” Harry agreed, looking pained. “But it won’t take long, I promise. I might even be finished before its ready. Please. I really need to speak with him urgently.”
Bill and Fleur shared a look, and then with a sigh, Bill passed her the spatula.
“All right, Harry. He’s this way.”
The three of them followed Bill. In front of her, Harry’s steps faltered, and he paused at a small table where a bundle lay wrapped in white linens. It was Dobby’s body, Hermione realized with a pang, the heavy price for their freedom. Reaching out, Harry brushed the fabric tentatively with the tips of his fingers, and the pang in her chest grew into a burning, throbbing ache, constricting her breath. He rested his palm on it for a moment, before sighing heavily and walking on. Hermione followed, blinking the wetness out of her eyes, and trying to swallow past the obstruction in her throat.
Bill led them up the stairs to the bedroom with the view of the ocean and knocked quietly on the door before opening it.
“Mr. Ollivander, I hate to disturb you, but you have a few visitors who would like a word if that’s all right.”
Hermione couldn’t hear the reply, but apparently he’d agreed as Bill opened the door wider and ushered them in with a wave of his hand.
Mr. Ollivander looked shockingly fragile, his body painfully thin, when Hermione caught sight of him. Propped up on the bed in just his dressing gown with his long wispy white hair tangled from sleep, he looked ancient. The cold morning light shining in through the window only accentuated the deep lines etched into his weathered face, and his skin, which was parchment-thin, seemed to hang off him in folds like a deflated balloon. His hands were folded in his lap, and his arms were covered in a rash, the skin flaking off. He was ghostlike, nearly translucent from so long without sunlight which made the blue veins crisscrossing under the surface stand out prominently.
Hesitating, as if afraid that simply asking Ollivander to speak would be too much for him, Harry cleared his throat softly as Bill shut the door behind them. Ron and Hermione sat on the spare bed against the wall when the old wizard motioned with a gnarled, bony hand for Harry to sit.
“Harry Potter,” he wheezed, when Harry took the chair near the window as indicated. “How may I help you?”
Harry only spoke to the wizened wand maker for about fifteen minutes, questioning him about the wands he carried and asking him to identify them, which Mr. Ollivander did correctly. Then Harry asked Mr. Ollivander about his holly and phoenix feather wand and Voldemort’s and the unusual connection between them. Finally, he asked him about the Elder Wand and all he knew about wand lore.
To Hermione’s great astonishment, Mr. Ollivander agreed that the Elder Wand did in fact exist. He admitted that he had told, under torture, all he knew of it and who had been rumored to possess it. The frail wizard was clearly distressed, even fearful at how much Harry already knew about what he’d been forced to share with The Dark Lord, though Harry had been kind and tried to keep him calm, reassuring him throughout the brief discussion.
Then, having heard someone approaching before any of the rest of them, Harry turned to the door and stood up a moment before Hermione heard a soft rapping of knuckles against the wood. The door cracked open, and Fleur peered inside, carrying a breakfast tray. Hermione and Ron got to their feet as well then, the interview apparently over, and they made to leave.
“One last question, sir, and then we’ll leave you to have your breakfast,” Harry said, stepping aside to let Fleur into the room.
The old man nodded.
“Sir, what do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”
“The what?” Mr. Ollivander asked in genuine confusion. “I don’t know what…Is this something more to do with wands?”
“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”
“They tortured me,” he whispered hoarsely, not for the first time.
His face was almost chalk white as he pleaded with Harry for understanding. His skeletally thin hands gripped the blankets to control his shaking limbs, and the deep lines in his face and sunken eyes contorted into a mask of misery.
“You have no idea—”
“I do, sir. Truly, I do understand,” Harry replied softly.
That was the understatement of the century, Hermione thought. If anyone understood what kind of torture Voldemort and his Death Eaters were capable of inflicting, it was Harry.
Ollivander’s pale blue eyes grew wide in dawning comprehension as they searched Harry’s face.
“It was you. Wasn’t it? I thought whoever it was must surely have died. I could hear the screaming—”
“Thank you again, sir,” Harry interrupted, his face blanching slightly as he gripped the doorknob. “Please, get some rest. It’s over now, and you’re safe.”
Hermione and Ron quickly left the room, and Harry closed the door behind them. Then they both turned to look at him in question and concern.
“Not here,” he whispered, rubbing furiously at his scar which was apparently causing him a great deal of pain. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
“The only room not currently occupied is the loo,” Ron replied.
“That will do.”
When they’d all piled into the small lavatory, Hermione locked the door and Harry cast a Muffliato before wetting a rag with cold water and seating himself on the toilet. With shaking hands, he pressed it to his burning scar and moaned in relief.
“Harry, are you all right?”
Hermione knew he’d been struggling with the pain since they arrived, but only now with just the two of them to see it, did Harry truly let some of it show.
“Yeah, listen. I don’t have a lot of time to tell you this.”
He motioned for them to sit, and they did, sitting side by side on the edge of the bathtub.
“What do you mean you don’t have much time?” she asked in growing alarm.
“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand,” Harry blurted quickly, and then grimaced in pain.
Hermione’s mouth opened in shock.
“You can’t be serious, Harry. Dumbledore?”
“Yes, Dumbledore. He and Grindelwald were obsessed with the Hallows when they were our age. Sometime after Dumbledore’s sister died and their friendship ended, Grindelwald set out to find the wand, stealing it from Gregoravitch, the wand-maker, who’d bragged to too many people that he had it. Ollivander told V... told Tom about that rumor under torture, and he went searching him out. When he found Gregoravitch and realized it had been stolen from him, Riddle killed him and then went looking for the identity of the thief. That thief was Grindelwald.”
“Harry, I just can’t believe that the Elder Wand is real. It’s just a piece of wizarding folklore, a children’s morality tale. It can’t be real,” she argued desperately.
“The Hallows are real, Hermione. I have the cloak and the Resurrection stone, too, I think, and Mr. Ollivander just told us that the Elder Wand was real.”
“Yes, but there’s no proof that—”
“Listen to me,” he pleaded urgently.
Hermione immediately fell silent.
“Dumbledore won the wand from Grindelwald when he defeated him in their famous duel. At the Malfoy’s yesterday, she…Bellatrix, pressed her mark to summon Tom, and I saw where he was and what he was doing. He was at Nurmengard with Grindelwald, Hermione. And now he knows, as do I, that Dumbledore had the wand.”
“Did Grindelwald tell him that? Because, Harry, if he did, he was just trying to get his revenge on Dumbledore, wasn’t he?” she reasoned. “He might not have known that Dumbledore was already dead and hoped The Dark Lord would kill him.”
“No. He didn’t tell him that at all. He lied and said he never had the wand. Even under threat of death, he didn’t admit that he knew anything about its whereabouts.”
“Well, then perhaps he was telling—”
“It was a lie that Tom and I both saw through, Hermione,” Harry interrupted. “And now Riddle is going for the Elder Wand.”
“What?” Ron spluttered, jumping up in alarm and staring down at Harry in shock. “Harry, what are we doing? We have to stop him.”
“No, it’s too late for that. He’s already on his way there.”
“Oh, my God! Why the hell didn’t you say something? When did you see this?” Ron asked angrily. “Why didn’t we go straight to Hogwarts instead of coming here first? Why were you so insistent on speaking with Ollivander when you already knew that Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?”
“I’m not supposed to have it, Ron. You and Hermione were right. We’re supposed to be chasing Horcruxes, not Hallows.”
“But, Harry, it’s the Elder Wand! The most powerful wand in the world,” Ron moaned. “We can’t just let him have it. He’ll be invincible. Come on. We might still be able to get there before him if we hurry.”
He’d already taken two steps towards the door, when Harry spoke again.
“It’s already too late, Ron.”
“FUCK!” Ron shouted, whirling back around to face Harry.
“Please, listen to me, both of you,” Harry pleaded. “Dumbledore didn’t want me to have it. He didn’t tell me about the Hallows because I wasn’t supposed to chase them instead of the Horcruxes. Though it makes me feel ill, I have to trust him on this. Do you understand?”
“No! How are you supposed to beat him if he has that wand?” Ron growled, furious.
“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said firmly. “I agree with you. And I trust the plan Dumbledore laid out for you to follow. If he had wanted you to have the wand, he would have managed to get it to you somehow like he did with the sword.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re all of one mind,” Harry said ruefully. “As to beating him, Dumbledore did it. He beat Grindelwald. And after talking with Mr. Ollivander, I don’t think that Tom taking possession of the wand will truly make him master of it. I think you have to win the wand’s allegiance. I don’t think that wand will work for him any better than that blackthorn wand worked for me. That’s what I’m pinning my hopes on anyway.”
“Oh, right. Well I’ll just stop worrying about it then,” Ron snapped sarcastically.
Harry stared up at him looking grim, but did not reply.
“Ron, we have to trust Harry’s decisions and support him in this,” she admonished.
“I do support him. But I think to do that, we need to secure the most powerful weapons available to help him succeed if we have the opportunity, not just let the enemy get their hands on them and hope for the best. I’m sorry if I’m being an arse. I just don’t understand why we always have to make it harder on ourselves. Why couldn’t Dumbledore just have come out and told Harry instead of leaving us to guess at his motives? The prick really left us twisting in the wind here.”
“Well, it’s too late now to change course anyway. We just have to keep our focus on getting whichever Horcrux is in that vault now,” Harry replied. “And then figure out where the next one is hidden.”
“Harry, do you think The Dark Lord is seeking the Deathly Hallows, too?” Hermione asked then. “Is he trying to become Master of Death? Do you think Dumbledore knew he would try and kept the information from you because he knew you owned the cloak already and thought that Tom might use Legilimency on you and realize that you had one of the three Hallows?”
She was still attempting to defend Dumbledore, to rationalize his motives to herself and to Ron, still struggling to understand why he’d left her the book in his will. Why plant the information? Why lead them to discover the Hallows on their own, but then let them stumble in the dark with what they were to do with that information? Hermione certainly understood Ron’s frustration and his anger. They were born out of fear for Harry’s survival and their own.
“No. I don’t think Riddle knew anything about the Hallows. He might have read historical accounts of the Elder Wand, or the Death Stick, the Wand of Destiny, or whatever they might have called it, but he grew up in a muggle orphanage and hadn’t heard Beedle’s tales any more than we had, Hermione. Ollivander told us it was perfectly easy to trace the wand through history, but he didn’t know about the Hallows either so he couldn’t share that information with Tom. He’s simply looking for a wand that he thinks can beat mine because he doesn’t know that mine’s already in two pieces.”
“One of the Death Eaters might have told him. He might have learned of the Hallows at Hogwarts.”
“I don’t think so because he didn’t recognize the Resurrection stone in the Gaunt’s ring and turned it into a Horcrux.”
“Harry, we don’t know that the stone in that ring was the Resurrection stone,” she argued.
“I know you don’t believe it, but I’m convinced it is. I’m also convinced Dumbledore left it to me,” he replied defiantly. “Though, I admit that I don’t understand for what purpose yet. I’m hoping those memories of Snape’s will help me work that out. He said they were Dumbledore’s final instructions to me. Snape was supposed to tell me that last bit of information when the snake was the final Horcrux left, and the Snitch ‘opens at the close’. They’re tied together somehow.”
Flipping the rag over, Harry pressed the cooler side against his forehead, pressing firmly against the scar and closed his eyes against the pain.
“That’s the Hallow Dumbledore wanted me to have, and that’s the path I’m following,” he whispered before moaning softly.
Hermione got up and knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees.
“Is he…Harry, is he breaking into Dumbledore’s tomb?” she asked timidly.
“Yes,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth.
Hermione shared a horrified look with Ron. The idea of Voldemort desecrating Dumbledore’s tomb and robbing his corpse repulsed her. Harry was right not to try and get there first, she thought vehemently. There was no way that they could do what Voldemort was willing to do to gain the wand.
They were silent for a several minutes while Harry fought to close his mind to Tom, to end the vision of the evil that was taking place at Hogwarts. Then, taking a deep breath and getting to his feet suddenly, Harry pulled her up by the hand.
“Come on,” he said, tossing the rag into the sink. “Let’s get out of here before they come looking for us.”
When they arrived back in the kitchen, both Dean and Luna were at the table, tousle haired and sleepy eyed, having breakfast with Bill. They both jumped up at their entrance and embraced them all.
“Blimey, it’s good to see that you three made it out of there in one piece,” Dean said in relief, clapping Ron hard on the back before picking Hermione up in a bear hug and making her shriek in surprise.
“Hermione wouldn’t let me stay behind and help find you two, and we were going crazy here wondering if you were all right,” he explained, putting her down finally and kissing her on the cheek. “You don’t know how wonderful it was to see Hermione turn up, though. I thought for sure we were all going to die in there. Then she just appeared, like an answered prayer, an angel of mercy come to rescue us.”
Hermione’s heart constricted at his words. She understood exactly the feeling of despair he must have felt being tortured and chained up in that terrible place, left starving and afraid that those would be the last moments of his life. His eye was still swollen shut, but just having a couple of good meals, being clean and out of that dungeon had made a stark improvement in their appearance.
“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” Harry replied; now carefully examining Luna’s face as she hugged him around the waist.
“Oh, I’ve missed you three. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you,” Luna told him wistfully. “Hogwarts just wasn’t the same without you there. Actually, it was becoming quite dreadful, but not as dreadful as Azkaban.”
“Are you all right, Luna?” Harry asked her in concern.
“Oh, yes. It’s lovely here, isn’t it? My parent and I came to the coast once on holiday before my Mum died, and I enjoyed it very much even though I got a horrible sunburn. I brought home a beautiful seashell as a souvenir, a large conch shell, and when you put your ear to it, you could hear the ocean. It was the most wonderful magic!”
She released Harry then and turned back to the bemused group, sitting back down to her half finished bowl of porridge.
“I think I’ll go down to the shore after breakfast and collect some small ones to make a burial necklace for Dobby. It wards off evil, you know. Bill said we’re burying him today. Dobby was so brave yesterday, and he and Hermione saved us. I’m really sorry he died,” Luna said in her characteristic bluntness.
Nobody spoke for a minute after that, and then Harry took a deep, steadying breath.
“That sounds nice, Luna. And speaking of that, Bill, can I talk to you a minute?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Harry asked Bill for a spade, and then Bill led him to a corner of the garden, showing him the place he’d picked out to bury the elf. Harry thanked him, but brushed off Ron’s and Bill’s offer to help, insisting on doing it himself. So Hermione and Ron watched worriedly from the living room window as Harry labored in the garden for almost two hours before Ron had finally had enough. Then he and Dean both grabbed spades, ignoring Harry’s protests, and joined him in the digging while Fleur accompanied Luna to the shore.
Inspired watching Luna then punching small holes in the shells she’d collected and carving small protective runes into them before threading them together into a necklace, Hermione went in search of some yarn. Settling herself beside the window so she could watch the boys’ progress, Hermione set to work knitting by hand one final elf hat for Dobby, hoping it would be a fitting tribute to the first free elf she’d ever known, who along with Winky, had been the inspiration for S.P.E.W.
Luna had some shells left over and Hermione worked them into the creation of the hat. The white yarn, which was all Fleur had, allowed the patterns on the delicate shells to stand out. It had been a very long time since she’d knitted anything at all so it was with some relief that she realized it had turned out quite lovely and more importantly, distinctly identifiable as a hat instead of being mistaken again for a wooly bladder.
When she’d finished near lunch time, Hermione brought out tall glasses of cold pumpkin juice and tried to persuade Harry to stop working and rest for a bit. He’d pushed up his sleeves at some point, making the scars and bruising on his arms visible. When he wiped his sweaty brow and took the glass from her gratefully, she saw Dean’s eyes travel over Harry’s arms. Harry must have seen it too, because he hurriedly tugged his sleeves down again self-consciously before draining the glass. Then he set back to work again, refusing to break for lunch. Ron stayed with him, but Dean came inside with Hermione. He asked no questions however, nor made any mention of the injuries he’d seen, and Hermione was grateful.
By the early afternoon, Harry had finally decided the hole was deep enough and came inside to clean up before completing his grim task.
Tenderly, he placed Dobby’s body in the small wooden box Bill had constructed with the burial necklace Luna had made draped across him and the hat resting on top of the small shrouded body, and carried it out to the prepared gravesite. Then they buried the elf, holding a makeshift funeral at the cottage, attended by a rag-tag band of bruised and battered refugees. Still, it was beautiful, and Hermione sobbed into Ron’s shoulder when Harry laid their friend in the ground, and they all said their final goodbyes.
Fleur plucked a perfect white lily from her beloved plant and placed it on the fresh mound of dirt that Bill had magically replaced, covering the simple coffin. Then they all turned one by one, heads bowed, and headed back into the house. All except the three of them.
Once everyone else had gone back inside, Harry found a large smooth white stone and carved an epitaph into it with his wand before carefully placing it at the head of the grave. Then he sat next to the fresh mound of earth for hours while Ron and Hermione silently watched him from feet away, refusing the dinner invitation when Bill had come back out to quietly inform them that it was ready.
Harry sat; shoulders slumped, staring despondently at his blistered hands and at the dirt still caked under his fingernails while the azure sky turned indigo. Then finally, when darkness began to fall in earnest and the others in the house had long since finished their evening meal, he got to his feet and walked slowly back to them.
Hermione stood and, without a word, opened her arms to him. Stepping into her embrace, Harry rested his head on her shoulder, his hands clasped loosely around her waist.
“Take me home,” he whispered wearily into her neck as she held him to her, stroking his hair, Ron with a hand at his back, shielding them from any curious onlookers inside the house who might bear witness to his grief.
When they arrived back in the foyer at Number Twelve, Ron pulled Harry to him by the hand. Then, grasping his head, he backed Harry into the wall as he kissed him. The kiss was sensual, but not overly aggressive, and when they broke apart, Ron rested his forehead against Harry’s.
“You all right, mate?” he asked, staring into Harry’s red rimmed eyes, finally able to express his affection and concern now they were alone again.
Harry nodded, and Ron stepped back, running his hand down Harry’s neck as Hermione stepped close to them and slid her arm around Harry’s back, kissing him on his stubbled chin.
“Come on,” Ron urged him quietly, pulling Harry by the arm. “You’re going to eat something.”
“I don’t want anything,” Harry argued. “I’m just really tired, Ron.”
“Too bad. You’re eating something first.”
“I’ll eat something tomorrow.”
“You’ll eat something now,” Ron insisted.
Harry finally gave up and allowed Ron to push him down the hall to the kitchen, mumbling under his breath things like, “I’m a big boy,” and, “don’t need you to take care of me,” all of which Ron ignored without comment. Despite his grumblings, Harry took a seat at the table and Ron quickly warmed up Fleur’s soup he’d brought back from Bill’s yesterday. She and Ron joined Harry for the meal, which was a mostly silent affair, and when Ron had decided that Harry had finally eaten enough, they retreated back up the stairs.
To Hermione’s bewilderment, Harry turned into the small bedroom he’d been occupying since that day of their estrangement. She’d just assumed they would return to their sleeping arrangements from before, in Sirius’ room. As he stepped away from them, Hermione grasped him by the hand.
“Harry?” she questioned softly.
He turned slowly back to her, looking exhausted.
“Come to bed with us,” she urged, tugging gently on his hand. “I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”
Harry’s uncertain eyes searched hers, and then Ron’s, who nodded in agreement. Then without a word, he relented, letting her pull him by the hand, leading him up to Sirius’ bedroom.
Sitting on the bed as soon as they’d entered the room, Harry wearily began to remove his dirt-caked trainers and his socks, but that was as far as he got on his own before Ron was there, pulling Harry’s jumper over his head and then pushing him onto his back.
“I’m covered in dirt,” Harry protested weakly when Ron began to unbuckle his belt.
“You could be covered in stink sap, and we’d still want you,” Ron replied, pulling the belt free before dragging Harry’s loose jeans and boxers down over his hips while Hermione sat herself at the foot of the bed, kicking off her own shoes.
Harry didn’t resist, only closed his eyes as Ron continued to undressed him. He was already hard by the time Ron had worked the jeans free of his legs and then slid his hands up Harry’s thighs and over his chest. Pushing Harry’s arms over his head, Ron leaned over him to capture his lips more firmly this time while Hermione watched them, her own arousal growing.
Ron pulled back, staring down at Harry for a moment before leaning down again to place his lips against Harry’s chest. Pressing on Harry’s upper arms to brace himself, Ron held them pinned over Harry’s head, holding him down while he planted light kisses over his ribs before licking Harry’s nipple and taking it between his teeth. Harry moaned, eyes still squeezed closed, and arched his back before curling his hips automatically to rub his erection against Ron’s thigh.
A jolt of electricity seemed to pass through Hermione, as if it were her nipple Ron was worrying with his teeth, or her body Harry was thrusting against. Her unquenched arousal from this morning was returning in full force at the prospect of finally seeing them together. God, they were beautiful in this moment, and she could feel the heat building in her as it built between them.
“Come here,” Ron growled, sliding his hand under Harry’s lower back, a knee on the bed, and he pulled Harry upwards, dragging him farther up the mattress so just his feet were hanging off.
Then Ron lay down on top of Harry, wrapped his arms around him and rolled to the side, pulling Harry with him so they were face to face. As he kissed Harry again, Ron slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth, and ran his hand down Harry’s back and over his arse, squeezing the globes of flesh to press their hips firmly together while Hermione continued to watch them hungrily.
They were still kissing, Ron still pulling Harry into him and grinding against him when Hermione finally lost her resolve to remain an observer and joined them. Harry’s hand was on Ron’s shoulder, Ron’s shirt gathered in his fist, but he let go when Hermione ran her hand up his bare thigh. Reaching for her then, feeling blindly, Harry placed his hand over hers and squeezed before Ron finally released him.
Turning to her then, Harry pulled on her hand, and she came to him. He rolled onto his back, and Hermione draped herself over him, stroking his face once before pressing their lips lightly together. Then Harry’s hand was in her hair, pulling her closer, drawing her into him as the kiss deepened. When it ended, he lifted his head to press his forehead to hers in a tender gesture that held so much meaning and memories for them both. They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, and Ron took the opportunity to crawl back off the bed and shed his clothes.
Kissing her forehead, Harry tucked her head under his chin and held her to him. His hand between her shoulder blades, he rubbed her back. She could hear his heart beating rhythmically in his chest; feel his ribs expanding with his breaths. Comforted by the heat from his body against her face, she closed her eyes and relaxed against him, allowing him to take control and slow things down again.
She had missed him so desperately during their estrangement, missed just having the comfort of him this near her again. Craving more than just physical intimacy from Harry, Hermione had been longing for this emotional intimacy that they had begun to share during the nights they’d spent in this bed. Having been cut off from it so abruptly had caused her physical pain, which she hadn’t even really realized she’d been feeling until he’d returned and it had ended.
As she ran her fingers over his chest, grazing him lightly with her nails, she reveled in his nearness. Hermione thought she could just stay here all night and do nothing else, simply content to lie with him like this if that was all he wanted. If Harry just needed the shelter of them beside him tonight to protect him from his grief, she would happily oblige. Willing to stay awake through the darkness, holding him in her arms, she’d stand guard against the nightmares she knew would come for him in his sleep.
Harry was too vulnerable right now to be alone, and he belonged here with them. Maybe he was still denying it, still attempting to resist it, but he was losing. He wasn’t going to make this easy, though. Nothing with him ever was. Hermione knew he was wracked with guilt. She’d wrestled with her own conscious, and knew that she’d soon have to face the friend she was betraying, but at this moment, at this time in their lives, she’d convinced herself that it wasn’t wrong. Right now, they were still fighting everyday just for the chance to see that day come. She might feel guilt, but she could not feel regret. They needed Harry, and he needed them.
Sighing as she nestled against him, Harry rubbed his cheek against her hair, and Hermione resolved herself to a quiet night with him. Then he gasped. His whole body jolted, and she looked up, bewildered. Ron had finished undressing and had returned to them. Hermione had almost forgotten him, but he certainly hadn’t forgotten them, or his plans for Harry tonight. Leaning over the bed, he was stroking Harry with one hand, the other cupping his balls, rolling them in his palm. Clearly, he was more interested in continuing to engage Harry in a more physical encounter. Looking her in the eyes, Ron bent his head down to Harry before she could even attempt to dissuade him.
“Oh, Jesus!” Harry groaned, tilting his head back into the mattress and gripping Hermione’s shirt. “No…please, I...I’m dirty,” he gasped when Ron ran his tongue up Harry’s shaft, his eyes still on hers.
“You didn’t dig that hole with your dick, did you?” Ron asked, smirking.
“No, but I got all sweaty and gross. Please, Ron. Let me get a shower first,” he pleaded, the reason for his reluctance, or at least part of it, now obvious to Hermione.
“I’ll clean you off,” Ron responded, licking the head of Harry’s cock, which caused his body to spasm with another jolt of pleasure. “I don’t want to wait.”
Without giving Harry a chance to protest further, Ron took him into his mouth. Harry sucked in a shuddering breath, clutching the blanket.
Hermione stared, wide eyed at the sight of Ron’s lips around another man’s penis. It left her speechless. The image was so erotic that she moaned along with Harry at the heat building in her again, the passion reigniting in her core. Heart pounding, she couldn’t take her eyes off them. She was simply mesmerized.
Eager again, she touched Harry’s quivering stomach, trailing a finger over the line of soft black hair below his navel, following the path down to where it joined his pubic hair and then to the base of his cock where Ron’s lips met it briefly on his slow decent down Harry’s shaft. Smiling at Ron, she slid the digit back up again while Harry’s muscles contracted under her touch, and he groaned weakly.
“I really like this,” she whispered, now watching Harry’s face as her hand travelled back down again, guided by the trail of hair.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Harry whimpered and arched up off the bed again, helpless to stop his reaction to them or to put an end to it. Then he hissed, his body jerking once more, but it wasn’t with pleasure this time. Grimacing, he reached for Ron, who immediately stilled.
“Teeth,” he gasped. “Mind the teeth.”
“Sorry,” Ron apologized, releasing him.
“’S okay,” Harry assured him as Ron replaced his mouth with his hand again and resumed stroking Harry.
But Harry had finally had enough and sat up. Seizing on the opening, he stopped Ron’s hand with a grip on his wrist.
“It was my fault, but seriously. I really need a shower, Ron. I can’t do this like this. I won’t be long,” he promised and slid off the bed before Ron could argue, leaving the bathroom door open as he stepped into the tub.
In Harry’s absence, Ron had taken the opportunity to engage Hermione in a bit of heavy petting so that she was also nearly undressed herself, her shirt off, her jeans unbuttoned, when, true to his word, Harry came walking back into the bedroom after about five minutes.
“Now I have to get one, too, you prat,” Ron growled, scowling at Harry who was looking quite appealing with just a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin pink and his hair damp and wild from where he’d quickly dried it.
“I can’t be all sweaty and dirty. Hermione won’t come anywhere near me now with you all clean and damp, smelling like soap.”
“I love you, Ron, but that’s true,” she agreed, smiling at Ron’s sour look as Harry made a rude hand gesture in reply, removed his glasses, and lay back down on the bed.
“Don’t start without me,” Ron warned as Hermione turned to Harry.
He looked better, but still exhausted, Hermione thought as Ron grumbled past her on his way to the bathroom. The shower helped, but Harry’s arms, back, and shoulders surely ached from the exertion of digging Dobby’s grave, and she knew his heart ached with the weight of his grief. It had been such a long, stressful day. Clearly, he was reluctant to continue where they had left off, as well, since he’d taken his usual spot on the bed, the farthest away from her current position. Deciding on a plan of action, Hermione stood up to retrieve her bag.
“Roll over,” she instructed.
“What?” Harry asked nervously, glancing quickly towards the bathroom as if he thought Ron were about to ambush him. “Why?”
“I’m going to put some of Madame Pomfrey’s cream on your arms and back,” she explained. “You’ll be so stiff tomorrow; you won’t be able to move otherwise.”
“Oh, um…all right,” he hesitantly agreed.
Obediently, he rolled over into the middle of the bed without further protest. Lying down on his stomach, he pushed the pillows up and turned his head to the side to face her.
Under his watchful, albeit blurry gaze, Hermione removed her jeans and bra so that she was left in just her cotton knickers when she crawled back onto the bed and straddled his lower back. She began at the nape of his neck and then out across the shoulders. Using the cream, her fingers dug into the tender flesh, working the tense muscles loose, being careful around the perpetually healing bite marks in case they might be sore. Then she worked her way down his upper arms, every stroke of her hands causing him to whimper and her to rub herself against his lower back.
When she scooted down to sit on his bum, she ran her fingers along the column of his spine, circling her thumbs from the small of his back all the way up to his shoulders. Judging by his reaction, it must have felt good. Harry broke out in goose bumps, pressed his forehead into the mattress and moaned loudly.
“Oh, God. I’ve never had a massage before, and now I never wanted to stop having one. Christ, it feels good!”
He was relaxing into the bed, his body melting into the mattress as she worked her way outwards to his sides and then scooted down again to settle herself across his upper thighs. Then, removing his towel, she worked in earnest on his lower back and over his bum while he grunted and groaned. Repeatedly he cried out, the sound muffled against the bed when a knotted muscle rolled under her fingers or her palm and she massaged it smooth again.
When she’d finally finished, and his entire backside was red from her ministrations, she leaned down and kissed Harry in the curve of his lower back. Then she ran her tongue along his spine, which made him erupt into goose bumps and whimper again. Finally molding her body to his, she rested her head between his shoulder blades and relaxed against him. Sliding her hands over his, their fingers entwined, and they lay silently in that pose, simply breathing together until Ron returned from the bathroom. As relaxed as they both were, if he had been much longer, he might have come out to find them already asleep like that with Hermione draped over Harry like a human blanket. Not that it was likely to deter Ron very much.
“Damn, you two look beautiful!” he whispered, stroking her back.
Hermione smiled up at him, having thought the same thing about Ron and Harry earlier.
Quickly discarding his towel, Ron joined them on the bed, and Hermione sat back up, greeting him with a wet kiss. Then she lifted herself off Harry’s thighs slightly so that he could move underneath her.
“Turn back over now,” she instructed.
Harry did, with only the slightest hesitation.
He was still hard, his cock swollen and red, and his eyes had grown dark with desire when Harry looked up at her through those black lashes. Settling herself against his thighs again, she ran her hands over his hip bones as Ron crawled up behind her. His hands skimmed over her ribs, pulling her against him to cup her breasts. Lifting her back to her knees, Ron pressed his hips into her, rubbing his erection against her bum with his mouth at her neck while Harry watched them, now trapped underneath them both.
Then Harry was touching her, too, and Hermione was lost. Warm hands slid up her legs, and he caressed her, stroking his thumbs over her inner thighs as Ron did the same over her hardening nipples. Hermione tilted her head back and to the side, giving Ron more access to her neck as he squeezed her breasts, now rolling the dusky centers into firmer peaks while she moaned her appreciation.
Lifting her arm to grip Ron’s head when he finally slid a hand down her belly and under the elastic of her panties, Hermione shook with anticipation, whimpering when he slipped a long finger inside her quickly before gathering her wetness to stroke her quivering center.
Hermione was swept up in the sensation she’d been craving. Closing her eyes, she rocked against Ron’s hand, mewling with desire, needing so desperately for him to fill the ache inside her. She was pulling on Ron’s hair, urging him to enter her as she rubbed herself alternately against his hard shaft and his hand, growing more frantic for her release, oblivious to anything around her. Then Harry spoke.
“Can I watch you two together?” he asked quietly, tentatively.
Hermione’s eyes popped open, and still panting, she looked down at him in surprise. He’d spoken his request in a low voice as if afraid to ask and there was color in his cheeks, but his eyes were still dark with desire and his words felt so erotic.
The bravest man she’d ever known, embarrassed to ask for what he wanted. What a fascinating contradiction he was, how beautifully conflicted.
“I’ve been picturing it for weeks. Trying to put images to the sounds I heard in the darkness when I was drugged up and hallucinating,” he explained, his voice growing thick with arousal as he grew more confident in his request. “I want to see it.”
Behind her, Ron groaned, sending more heat flooding through her.
“Show me,” Harry whispered.

~ . ~
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What it comes down to

Chapter 35. Of Wizard Tales and Wandlore