A Potter Secret

After the Splinch

Harry's eyes flutter open. He sees Hermione, beautiful in the amber dusk, standing a bit away, studying him. "I thought it had stopped," Hermione says. Harry looks at her, shakes his head. "You can't let him in, Harry. Dumbledore himself said it. You have to close your mind. It's too dangerous-"

"It's not a candle I can blow out, Hermione. It always burns, even if it's just a flicker. Can you understand that?" Harry asks. Harry eyes her, then looks away. She frowns, concerned by this.

"Harry," Isabella starts. "You need to calm down. You know that I used to get them too. The only way to stop it is Occlumency of the highest ability." Isabella looks at Hermione. "He would have had to start during his fourth year to even have a chance. Even then, only if he's constantly practicing."

"Tell me. What you saw," Hermione insists.

"He's found him. Vol-" He stops, glancing back toward the tent, toward Ron. "You-Know-Who. He's found Gregorovitch-"

"The wandmaker?" Hermione checks.

"Yes. How'd you know?" Harry inquires.

"Viktor got his wand from Gregorovitch. Most Durmstrang students did at one time. What's he got to do with You-Know-Who?"

"You-Know-Who wants something Gregorovitch once had, dunno what. But he's desperate to have it. It's as if his life depends on it."

Hermione studies Harry. The radio squawks from inside the tent. Harry's eyes flare; he starts to speak. "Don't, It- comforts him," Hermione interrupts.

"Well it sets my teeth on edge. What's he expecting to hear? Good news?" Harry asks, sarcastically.

"I think he just hopes he doesn't hear bad news. It gets him through the day."

"And what gets you through the day?" Harry asks.

"We've all made sacrifices, Harry."

Harry eyes her expressionlessly, nods toward the tent. "How long before he can travel?" Harry asks.

"I don't know. It takes time. I'm doing all I can," Hermione assures.

"You're not doing enough," Harry says angrily.

Hermione studies Harry's angry profile. Then says, "Take it off." Harry turns, sees Hermione studying him closely. She points toward his throat, toward the locket. "Take it off. Now." Harry slips the locket off. "Better?"

"Loads," Harry replies.

Hermione takes the locket, cradles it in her fingers. "It's cold. Even though it's been lying against your skin for days," Hermione says. Hermione sees Harry studying the locket, troubled. "We'll take turns. Okay?" Hermione slips it over her neck. She frowns briefly, sensing its presence, then looks up at Harry. He studies her, then nods. "The three of us. Not Izzy."

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Ron sleeps beside the crackling radio. Harry lies a few feet away, awake.

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Hermione huddles outside in the frigid darkness, trembling. Her eyes rake the trees. Deep within, there is, for the briefest of instances- movement. Or so it seems. She squints. Sees nothing. Returns her chin to her chest. As she does, something carries on the air- laughter. The cackle of- boys? Or so it seems. Her chin rises. She looks again into the trees.

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Harry reaches out, starts to turn the radio off when, "Severus Snape, newly appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts-" it calls. As the signal fades, Harry rolls onto his side and twists the dial. Behind him, we see Hermione's shadow rise, move away from the tent.

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As the radio resists him, fading in and out, Harry grabs his rucksack, pulls out the wrinkled marauder's map. The radio calls, "Bears little resemblance to the school under Dumbledore's leadership. Snape's curriculum is severe, reflecting the wishes of the Dark Lord and infractions are dealt with harshly by the two Death Eaters on the staff-" Harry peers at the map before him and sure enough, discovers Snape's name drifting about Dumbledore's office.

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Hermione moves deeper into the trees, then stops. shadows splinter amid the towering trunks and voices come clearer. Standing utterly still, Hermione watches as a gang of snatchers make their way in her direction. They look unwashed and feral, as if they've been in the wild for some time. As they pass, within feet of her, but unable to see her, only Hermione's eyes track their passage. As before Scabior leads the way, Fenrir Greyback at his side. Abruptly, Scabior stops, eyes narrowing. "What's that? That- smell?" Scabior asks.

The others glance about dumbly. Scabior retraces his steps until he stands directly in front of Hermione, his eyes looking right through her. He leans forward ever-so slightly, only inches from her neck, nostrils flaring. The locket ticks, trembling upon Hermione's breastbone. Then, slowly, Scabior pulls back, eyes probing the darkness, before withdrawing, leading the others away. The last pair drag what appear to be bodies. As they vanish within the trees, Hermione finally swallows. "Snatchers," Harry says. She spins, finds Harry standing a few feet off. "Good to know your enchantments work."

"He could smell it. My perfume," Hermione notes.

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Ron pushes past the tent flap, peers into the darkness. In the distance, he sees Harry and Hermione. Standing close. Hermione hugs herself. Shivers. "We have to leave. We're not safe here," Harry decides.

"I told you. Ron's not strong enough to Apparate," Hermione replies.

"He should be getting better by now," Isabella notes. "I spent a lot of time with Madam Pomphrey and have a medical mastery with minimal practice. He should be at least half healed."

"Then we'll go by foot," Harry decides.

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Find the horizon. Four figures approach in the distance. Harry. Hermione. Ron. Isabella. Then, faintly, so faint it can barely be heard at first, a soft whistling sound rises on the breeze. Slowly, one by one, dots perforate the blue. The whistling sound builds. Harry stops, listening, then turns. Hermione trailing a few feet behind, stops, eyeing him questioningly. We rack focus, over her shoulder, watch the dots attenuate, take the shape of plumes.

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The whistling is ear-splitting now, more of a roar, as the trio scarper into a listing barn and throw shut the doors. As they peer upward through the skeletal remains of the hayloft, their faces lashed with light, they see a succession of death eaters strafe the blue above. The rotting timber buzzes and bats dance crazily in the loft above. Gradually, the sound recedes. The bats settle.

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