Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasleys and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history.
***
Neville was sharpening the Sword of Gryffindor when he felt the disturbance. He was running a notched rock along the edge of the blade when a ripple swelled through the air. His father, who had been deeply meditating nearby, flew alert in a flash. His wand was in his hand before Neville even noticed his eyelids snap open. He'd never admit it, but his father would have been a bit of a hero of his even if they hadn't been related.
He was just hard as nails.
In less than a heartbeat, both Longbottoms were on their feet and sprinting towards the door. Neville felt his pulse quicken at his neck. A disturbance at the ward edge always meant intruders, accidental ones, usually, but if they were unfortunate supporters of Riddle they would get such a pasting that even their mothers wouldn't be able to recognise them.
Neville hoped they were some of the bad guys. Harry had started an open war last week when he sliced Blaise Zabini's manhood off, and Neville was itching to get in on the action. The propaganda tool that was the Daily Prophet had covered the story extensively. Inaccurately, but extensively. An unnamed, faceless fresh enemy of the New World Order. One that just happened to use Harry Potter's famous scar-shape as a calling card. It was their brand identifier.
Surely, even the oft-moronic wizarding public couldn't be so dense to not see what was really going on.
But then again, maybe not. Neville sighed with the realisation. When he and Harry finally saved this world, a programme of modernisation was in dire need of order. But first things first. Scores were lined up to be settled. And Neville hoped this would be the first one of many.
He knew it would fall to him to deal with whatever issue had suddenly arisen. Harry had left abruptly that morning, leaving Neville in charge of the Estate. Neville couldn't begin to guess where he might have gone, as Harry rarely told him such trifling details. After all, he hadn't told him he was going off to de-bollock Zabini, or to rescue Hermione's maniac cat. Perhaps he was going for a massage with some Veela. He was immune to them after all. It would keep him pure for Hermione whilst being nice and relaxing at the same time. Neville drooled at the thought of a multi-Veela massage ...
Then he slapped himself. Enola would de-bollock him if she caught him thinking like that. She had never shown overt Seer ability, but Neville was cautiously convinced that his wife could read minds. Or, more specifically, read his. He was way too transparent, he knew that, but Occlumency was just far too hard. Harry was a Master at the old mental arts, but Neville, try as he might, just didn't have the patience for it.
He was more a fighter, and pretty pleased at his proficiency in the field. He secretly felt that, of all the wizards in the Secret Enclave, only Harry could out-duel him. This was nothing to be ashamed of, either. Harry could out-duel anyone. He had beaten the top four duellers in the world in one session not so long ago. At the same time. Harry had the irritating skill of being able to not be hit. He thought and moved so fast he might as well have been on a different plane of existence. Neville couldn't wait to see the work he'd make of Tom Riddle when the time was right ...
Just so long as he didn't make it quick.
But that was Harry's job. Neville had his own, and as he reached the boundary of the Estate he quickly quietened his mind into combat mode. He focused on Enola, his stunningly beautiful wife and his perfect little daughter ... he wouldn't die for them. What would be the point? He would kill for them. Ruthlessly and relentlessly. Just to enjoy one more day with them. Merlin pity the fool who dared threaten them.
Neville halted at the boundary line. His father skidded into place alongside him. Moments later the other four members of Harry's Inner Circle were ranged in a line beside them. All their wands were drawn and throbbing with anxious energy. Neville stepped forwards and cast a rune into the air. He filled it with his magic and sent it at the boundary line. When it returned he would know if it was friend or foe, encroaching on the other side of the ward, trying to get in.
Friend
The rune couldn't lie. Neville trusted it as much as he would a promise from his mother. He lowered his wand and walked forward again, crossing the boundary and leaving the estate. He was greeted by a small, squat sort of man and a skinny, shockingly frightened girl tucked under his arm. Neville frowned at them.
"You endured the repelling charms of our outer wards," said Neville bluntly. "Your commitment to whatever cause you have is concerning. State your name and purpose before I kill you for trespassing."
"Please, we mean no harm or disrespect," said the man, bowing lowly. "I seek an audience with Lord Potter."
"There is no Lord Potter here," said Neville angrily. "Leave now, or face the consequences."
"Please ... I beg you," said the man. "I am Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. This is my daughter, Branwen. We know Lord Harry Potter lives. His ascension to Lord of Avalon has activated all the old Seals of Power in Wales. The Old Kingdom is renewed. We have been waiting centuries for this. We come only to pay homage."
"Say I believe you," said Neville. "What do you want?"
"Nothing more than a brief audience, to swear our allegiance to the Once and Future King, as custom dictates," said Pwyll. "If he is not home, we will wait. We consent to submit to any tests of truth and honour you wish to conduct."
Branwen, who was a young girl no older than fourteen, squeaked at her father's side. Neville frowned. He doubted she was a willing party in any of this ... whatever it might be. But he was inclined to believe them.
"You will submit your wands, and any other weapons you might be carrying," said Neville. "Understand, if I find you to be lying I will cut out your heart, and your lying tongue, and feed them to you. Clear?"
"Very clear, my Lord," said Pwyll. He handed over a plain wand and a curved-tipped sceptre, which served as his Badge of Office. His daughter was clean of any such affectations. Neville opened a gap in the ward and led them inside. After resealing it he turned to the other members of the Enclave
"Reinforce the ward, just in case. I'm taking these two to the palace."
"Who are they, Nev?" asked Frank Longbottom, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously.
"The guy claims to be a local Prince. Dyfed ... it's one of the old counties nearby. Says Harry channelling King Arthur's spirit has reignited some sort of ancient power Seals. Harry expected something like this, I'm sure he'll know what to do. Don't worry. I'll get Fan and Ann to screen them thoroughly when I get to the house. Will you lead the reinforcement ritual? I know Harry favours O'Brien, but I'd be more comfortable with you."
"I'll do it," said Frank. "And if Patrick has a problem with it, I'll kick him right up his Irish arse."
"Dad! That's racist!"
"No, calling him a leprechaun would be racist. And heightist. And a whole host of other pseudo-crimes. But he's the least politically-correct wizard I know, so I wouldn't worry about it."
Neville chuckled. "I'll leave it with you then. Let me know when it's done."
"Yes, Boss!" said Frank sardonically, as Neville turned and led Pwyll and Branwen towards the large manor house. When they reached it, he turned to them before opening the door.
"You will submit to a series of tests and scans by our two Chiefs of Security, a pair of witches called Angharad and Myfanwy," Neville explained firmly. "If you resist at all, they are under strict edict from Lord Potter himself to take your lives as swiftly as possible. Don't test them. They are highly experienced at this. Many have died in the Inspection Suite. If you are genuine, you needn't worry. If you are not ... well, say any prayers, to whatever God you believe in, before I open the doors."
Pwyll gulped, Branwen whimpered and clutched at her father. Neville took their silence as compliance and stroked his finger along the centre parting of the large oak doors. They faded away slowly. Neville led the way inside and pointed to a small antechamber off to the right of the main courtyard. Pwyll and Branwen were herded inside just as Angharad and Myfanwy Apparated next to Neville and stalked purposefully into the room, wands drawn and pulsing ...
***
Hermione was beside herself with fury, incandescent with rage. She couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. Poor Neville, who had endured a good five minutes of her tirade, was cowering away like a scolded child with nowhere to hide.
"You let them across the ward without any sort of checks?!" Hermione cried in angry disbelief.
"I trusted them," said Neville, meekly. "Besides, the girls have screened them. They are harmless."
"But they could have been carrying anything!" Hermione went on furiously. "Tracking charms, detection enchantments, fucking Muggle BOMBS! Are you actually insane?"
Neville mumbled something that sounded like bididyboodily. Behind him, Enola was shaking with laughter. Hermione scowled at her.
"I don't think this is funny!" Hermione shrieked at her. She wished she could stomp around to emphasis her roiling frustration, but her hips were still being treacherous to her. So she just pinned her hands to them angrily instead. "It is an unacceptable security breech! I'm sure Harry will agree. Why are you still laughing, Mrs Longbottom?"
Enola wiped her eyes. "Oh ... I'm sorry, Hermione. You're quite right and I completely agree with you. Neville, what were you thinking, honey? Take your telling off like a man. But Min ... it's just that ... you're so fierce! You are so Harry's perfect queen, I can't tell you."
Hermione went to argue, but her head spun and her words caught and Enola's declaration. She had to stop being embarrassed like this. Real Queens didn't get so flustered at the mere mention of their Kings ...
"And I can just imagine how hot Harry would find this," Enola continued. "You'd hear him panting a mile off if he could see!"
"And there was me trying to be discreet. I have to work on my Silencing Charms!"
Assorted gasps and cries filled the air. It was Hermione who regained her senses first.
"Harry! How long have you been hiding there?"
"Sorry, Hermione," said Harry, throwing off his Invisibility Cloak and striding into the centre of the room. "I was just enjoying the show. And, for the record, Ennie was quite right ... about everything. Hotter than a nuclear reactor. But Nev ... what the actual fuck, mate? Letting strangers into our little haven so easily?"
"They are quite safe, Harry," said Neville, sheepishly. "Fan and Ann have vetted them and we've reinforced the wards."
"I know, I felt like I was being squeezed through a sausage machine when I came back in," said Harry, crossly. "Your Dad did a good job. I think he was showing off."
Neville grinned. "Sorry, Harry."
"Don't worry. Just try to inspect newcomers outside our little shields, okay? Hermione is totally correct in what she said."
"Sorry, Lady Potter," Neville teased, grinning slyly at her. Hermione blushed madly.
"Shut up, LongArse," Harry teased. "Now - where are our guests?"
"The Reception Room on the Second Floor ... er, recuperating," said Neville, somewhat sheepishly. "Fanny was a bit ... vigorous with her testing. She doesn't seem herself today."
Harry frowned. "She's been a bit like that lately. Ah ... it's coming up to Alwyn's anniversary, isn't it? I'll have a chat with her later, see if she needs to talk about it. In the meantime, I'd better go and meet this Prince. Um ... Queen Hermione ... would you care to join me?"
Harry looked pointedly at Hermione, who was now so flushed she looked close to having a stroke.
"I'd better not," said Hermione. "I'm not sure I can walk all that way without support. I wouldn't want to slow you up."
"I have a pretty sturdy shoulder just begging for employment," said Harry, offering his arm. "Come on, I'd really appreciate your eyes on whoever these strange folk are downstairs."
Harry looked at Hermione so warmly she practically melted under his gaze. It was hypnotic. There was no way she could refuse him. She limped the short few steps to close the space between them and practically fell into his arms. She tensed, sure he would flinch from her invading his space. But, on the contrary, he hoisted her arm around his neck, slid his around her dainty waist and guided her from the room. They didn't leave each others gaze the entire time. Neville turned to Enola as soon as they were gone.
"I hope when they finally sleep together I am far away from the house. The air is practically sub-Saharan in here over just one embrace!"
"I know," Enola agreed. "I've already told Minny to give me a heads up. It might actually set the place on fire!"
"I'd better fireproof the furniture then," Neville mused thoughtfully. "Some of these tapestries are antiques ..."
***
Harry helped Hermione slowly down the main staircase of the house. He moved gently, wary of her injuries, but he was in no rush. She was pinned to his side, her breath warm against his neck. He was in no hurry to break this position and she seemed equally as content where she was. She was in acute discomfort, Harry could feel that physically, but she was also grinning, inside and out. It made Harry's own insides do the sorts of flips and turns that grown men really shouldn't be partial to.
But Harry loved each and every one.
He pulled Hermione closer with almost imperceptible movements. Sally had been wheeling her around the gardens that afternoon and now she smelled like apricots and daisies. Harry wished he could feel her skin. Her face was close to his, but she was purposely holding her head in place away from his scarf-covered cheek, mindful of his own tender injuries. A few times she made to place her head on his shoulder, but seemed to lose courage at the last second. Harry winced at the unusual awkwardness between them.
This was so alien for them both, he was sensible of that. For Harry's own part, he didn't share his personal space with anyone unless he absolutely had to. Apart from Neville's daughter, but she was only a baby so it didn't really count. And even that would diminish as she got older. Neville only placed his hands on Harry during ritual, Enola healed him with magic but never touched him ... Harry's aura was a shield, his own unpowered ward. Nobody crossed that boundary.
But here was Hermione, invading his space without ceremony. Harry submitted to the intrusion willingly, urging his invisible ward to cover her, too. For she was also in need of healing, and as vulnerable as he. Touch had become something to recoil from ... the tortures she'd endured had conditioned her mind to automatically decide that physical contact with another human being was functionally equivalent to hurting. Harry was pointedly aware of these particular scars. Hermione was suffering with intense residual pain in her body, and Harry knew he was crossing fortified defensive lines with her emotionally, too.
But then they'd always been comfortable with a level of physical intimacy that was unusual between friends. It may have been five years, but that aspect of their relationship appeared unchanged, despite the myriad of negative things that both had endured in that time. Nevertheless, Harry was sensible enough to still be cautious.
"Is this ... okay?" he asked quietly. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, by getting so close up. I'll understand if you'd rather I didn't. After what you've been through, it's perfectly reasonable for you to push me away if I'm crossing lines that are still sore. The last thing I want is for you to mistake my desperation to help you as ... to think this is like ... to think that I'm like ..."
"It's more than okay," Hermione whispered back eagerly, cutting Harry off before he talked himself into despair. She seemed to realise his concerns, and moved to dispel them quickly by curling in closer without any pretence that she meant to do anything else. "I've not felt this safe and protected, as I do when I'm around you, in the longest time. And being in your arms ... I could stay here forever and be happier for it. I know what you're trying to do, and what you're worried about ... but, believe me, I don't think I could ever be uncomfortable around you. And the closer you are to my body, the better. I just worry that you wont let me get close enough in return."
Harry's mind whirled at that. His skin positively crackled with electricity, and words failed him again. He reflected Hermione's comfort, but found it near impossible to tell her so. After preparing so long to simply grovel and apologise to her, to open up now in a much more intimate way might as well have required learning a new language. He realised this walk had been as much for him as it had for her ... to test the waters, assess the physical boundaries. Well, it was fair to say that the latter had been smashed to pieces.
"I'm sorry if that sounded a bit forward," said Hermione, quickly. "But we've lost out on so much time already. I don't see the point in pretending ... if we're both on the same page?"
It was a cautious question, one Harry was too afraid to answer right away. He would have rather faced a room full of Riddle's with no wand than look at Hermione right now. The promise was almost too much to hope for. But he knew he had to reply ... Hermione never was one for lingering silences.
"I know what page I'm on," Harry said quietly. "I've been on it for the longest time."
"Not that you ever told me that," Hermione teased lightly. "Which you should have. Keeping what might have turned out to be my favourite book from me, Harry ... I'll have to think up a suitably evil punishment for that!"
"I think we've both been punished enough for one lifetime, don't you?" Harry asked lowly, fixing his one eye on her. He sighed deeply. "That's why I'm finding this so hard ... to believe that you want to be this close to me. It's too soon ... and much more than I deserve. It must be, especially for you. I'm finding it hard to accept your forgiveness so easily."
"It's no easier for me, trying to believe even half the things that Enola and the others have been saying," Hermione replied gently. "About your secrets, your hurt and regrets. I have them, too, Harry, however hard that is for you to believe. I cant tell you how frustrated I've been, listening to Enola and recognising all those feelings in myself that she was telling me you had. It was so wrong of me, Harry, not to be more courageous with you when we were younger ... and I never, ever thought I'd get a chance to right those wrongs ... but now I do. And I don't want to waste any more time ... not if we both want the same thing."
"But you've been through such a terrible ordeal," Harry moaned weakly. "I can't wrap my head around how much you must have suffered. I might never forgive myself for not acting sooner. You'd have to accept that ... if you ever really joined me on that page. But I have no expectation of that. You need so much fixing, I know. I can feel it, and I'll spend my life helping you do that, without hoping for anything else."
Hermione huffed crossly. "Harry - you can be so dense sometimes. Chivalrous to the point of frustration! Haven't you ever considered what I might want? Hasn't it occurred to you that I might want the same thing you do, and that it might actually help in fixing me, as you put it?"
"No," Harry replied bluntly. "I mean ... how could you? I left you to ..."
"If you blame yourself for that one more time I'm going to hex you silent for a month," said Hermione, curtly. "Enough of the self-loathing, okay? Ron hurt me, Riddle and his New World Order hurt me ... but you never did. But you are going to revenge for me, right the world for me. Win ... for me. And the first victory is going to be against yourself. Today. Got it?"
"Yes ma'am," Harry grinned.
"And as for my being so damaged, to be so severely wounded that I've forgotten the joys of love and sex and all the rest of it, as Ennie is convinced I am, let me just educate you on that. I'm not some precious little flower, you know, delicate and fragile. I was at your side for seven years, and I picked up a few things along the way. I learned how to survived, I endured ... despite the best efforts of all the Dark forces around me. I stayed sane and never lost hope. And do you know how?"
"How?"
"By hoping ... for you," said Hermione softly, curling in closer still. "By believing in you. Every year ... on the anniversary of ... of your ..." she stumbled at the words. She refused to say them now. "Anyway ... on that date, I held a party. Every year, I hoped you'd come ... as a ghost, as a reincarnation, anything. It gave me the courage to stay alive. Part of me always knew you weren't really gone. I could feel it, though I could never describe it in a way that other people could understand. I never gave up on you. Sue thought I was mental, but I kept on believing. And now I'm rewarded, not only with your life, but with ... whatever this might be. What it could be ... what I truly hope it will be."
"I can't guess why you'd hope that," Harry mumbled, his voice on the verge of cracking. "But it'll be whatever you want it to be."
"No ... it'll be whatever we want it to be," Hermione corrected, stopping and turning to him. "We've waited long enough to admit to each other how we feel, and finally we haven't got to worry about what anyone else thinks. It's just me and you now, Harry. You want something, I want something ... and I'm rather keen to believe it's the same thing."
Harry looked at her so fiercely Hermione was taken aback, her breath shuddered at the intensity of the scrutiny she was suddenly under. His one eye darted between her two, hunting for any sign of deception or dishonesty. There was none, but he continued to study her deeply, unable to easily accept this simple truth. Hermione waited for him. She knew she had to be patient. Slowly, in a moment she saw arrive with juddering force, as the meaning in his eye shifted fundamentally, he allowed himself to believe, if only a little. Hermione knew it was too much to expect a complete acceptance right away, but even this little alteration was earth-shattering for him.
And it made the walls of the hallway glow with brilliant, bright light for several seconds.
"Okay," Harry said after a moment, his eye glinting with the light from the walls. "You might not know what you're getting into, and you'll probably come to regret it, but let's see what Neville has gotten us into first ... then we can go somewhere private and talk about it."
"Okay," Hermione agreed. "Then we'll go and tell Neville off properly for putting up such a distraction between us!"
Harry chuckled at her, smiling a wonky, dopey, punch-drunk grin at the mouth-gap in his shawls. Hermione couldn't think of anything more beautiful in that moment. She tucked back into his side, saying nothing. Both were silent, letting their shared understanding settle on them as they headed for the Reception Room. They'd long negated the need for words to communicate between each other. Hermione realised just how much she'd missed that about their connection.
They entered the Reception Room together. It was a well-furnished room, with tapestries and paintings and comfortable sofas flanking the walls. On one of these sofas sat the two visitors. They looked flustered and flushed, as if they'd just stepped in from a fierce gale outside. Hermione couldn't help but glance out of one of the large windows. It was a calm, sunny day at the Blue Palace.
Just what had Myfanwy put them through?
Hermione had little time to consider that. The short, middle-aged man had risen from the sofa as Harry approached. He hauled the bedraggled girl next to him to her feet, too. The poor thing looked petrified. She was actually trembling as she was dragged forwards and pulled into a bow at Harry's feet.
Harry considered the strangers carefully. The man was a simpering sort, the girl nothing more than a bundle of nerves.
"Arise, Prince Puth," said Harry. "You must forgive my pronunciation ... it's all those consonants, you see. I've never quite got to grips with them!"
"There is nothing to forgive, my Lord," said Pwyll, standing from his own curtsey.
"Why are you here?" asked Hermione, limping to Harry's side.
Pwyll eyed her warily but didn't reply. Harry scowled at his rudeness.
"The Lady asked you a question. Answer it."
Pwyll gulped. "Forgive me. I am Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, and I come to swear fealty to the Once and Future King, our Lord of Avalon. We offer our lives and lands into your service. As tradition dictates, we come with a gift to honour our oath." Pwyll prodded his terrified daughter forwards. "May I present my eldest daughter, Branwen. I humbly offer her as a potential bride to the Lord of Avalon, and pray you favour us with your consideration of my daughter as a suitable match."
Hermione actually gasped. Harry seethed with his own bubbling rage. Poor Branwen was simply white with fear. It was no wonder she was so afraid, if that was the reason she'd been dragged here. Harry felt so sincerely sorry for this girl's anguish. He breathed steadily to master his fury, to bring his swirling sea of emotions under his sway, as they skimmed the surface of his control enchantments.
"Step forward, Princess Branwen."
The girl did as she was told, stumbling nervously over the hem of her long dress until she was barely a foot away from Harry. She was a wiry, slight little thing. Harry wanted to wrap her in cotton wool in case she broke. Branwen made to bow, but Harry reached out and tucked a hand gently under her chin, easing her head up.
"A Princess never bows," Harry whispered, kindly. He knelt down instead, and was still nearly as tall as her, even though he was on his knees. "Always hold your head high. Now tell me, Princess Branwen, do you believe in love?"
Branwen gave a tiny, nervous nod.
"And do you hope to marry some day?"
She nodded again, but it was so cautious Harry almost missed it.
"And do you intend to marry for love?" Harry pressed.
Branwen cast a swift glance at her father. Harry seethed again, and ground his jaw.
"Do not look at him. I asked the question," said Harry firmly, making it clear his ire wasn't intended for Branwen Then he cast a very different look at Pwyll, who paled in the face of it. "Now, do you intend to marry for love?"
Branwen nodded shyly again, though much more vigorously than before.
Harry smiled at her. "So do I. Which is why I am going to have to respectfully decline this offer of marriage to you. This is meant as no slight against you, Princess. And I hope that I do not hurt your feelings or your honour in refusing you. But, you see, I am already in love with someone else, and I would only be a true and proper husband to her. And her alone. I hope you can understand that, and accept this rejection as best you can."
For the first time, Princess Branwen smiled. The relief which flooded her was palpable. Her eyes relaxed and colour suffused her skin. She was actually quite pretty, when she wasn't so inconsolably terrified.
"I take no offence, Lord Potter," she said timidly. "And I thank you for your honesty."
Harry smiled back at her. "Only marry for love, Branwen. It is the only reason you will ever need."
"I will, my Lord."
Harry smiled at her and stood again. He turned to Pwyll, his smile turning to a growling grimace. "As for you, I want you to take a message back to the other Princes of the Old Kingdom - the next man who comes here with the intention of pimping their daughters to me will be garrotted on sight ... by me personally. Is that clear?"
Pwyll quailed under the ferocity of Harry's one-eyed stare. He backed away from him with a nevous nod.
Then Hermione limped forwards and addressed the Prince. "You said you had a gift for us," she said. She flashed a quick, cautious look at Harry, questing for permission to continue. He beamed back with a racing heart and a small, encouraging nod. "I assume it wasn't this beautiful little girl of yours, as you proffered her up like a sacrificial offering. We view such a presentation as an insult, rather than any sort of gift. So, what else have you brought us?"
Pwyll looked at Hermione, and respect followed understanding in his eyes as he looked between her and Harry. He realised his error immediately and was keen to atone.
"Forgive me, my Lady," he simpered. "But we do have a gift. My daughter is carrying it. Branwen ..."
The girl, who was looking more comfortable by the minute, reached into a pocket of her dress and drew out a small mahogany box.
And the atmosphere of the room changed in a instant.
It was as if someone had poured poison into the air. It thickened and congealed with it. Harry shot forwards and positioned himself instinctively between Hermione and the box. Branwen was holding it out like it might explode at any moment. Harry gathered himself, letting the initial burst of shock pass. He mastered his concern and drew his wand, casting it over the box. Then he shot a dangerous look at Pwyll.
"What is this?" he hissed lowly. "What evil have you brought to my sanctuary?"
"Just knowledge, my Lord," Pwyll begged. "Knowledge I felt certain you needed to possess."
"This box is drenched in Dark Magic," Harry went on. "What is it?"
"Evidence of just how far Lord Voldemort has gone to pervert life itself," said Pwyll. Harry's attention piqued. "Inside is an object, and trapped within it is a soul fragment."
"A Horcrux?" Hermione breathed in low horror. "Harry ... be careful. A piece of Voldemort is in there!"
"No ... no it isn't," said Harry, thoughtfully. He became calm and studious, deeply fascinated by the box but totally in command of the situation. Hermione swooned a little at how assured he was. He cast a series of diagnostic runes at the box, cast so fast his wand was a mere blur. "There's a Horcrux in there, to be sure, but something's not right."
"How so?"
"It has Riddle's signature, his residual energy, and I can feel that," Harry explained, taking the box in his free hand to examine it more closely. "But I also know what that Dark bastard's soul feels like. We both do. This isn't part of it."
"But it's still a Horcrux?"
"Yes ... that's what I'm trying to understand. Give me a moment."
Harry conjured a containment ward around himself, ignoring Hermione's cries of objection, then continued with his casting, silencing his mind swiftly and delving into the deep, dark layers of the magical item before him. Then Harry ground his fists as he began to understand. He blinked as he came out of his casting trance. He looked at Pwyll, his eye wide and angry.
"Made ... by him ... but not from him?"
Pwyll nodded ... and Harry swore violently, causing young Branwen to turn her eyes down modestly.
"Harry ... I'm not sure I follow," said Hermione. She didn't like being slow on the uptake.
"Hermione ... it makes perfect sense, the most horrific kind of sense ... how could I be so fucking stupid not to see ..." said Harry, clapping a hand to his forehead. He sat down, shaking. "Oh, clever, Tom ... very clever ..."
"See what?" Hermione pushed. She hobbled to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He didn't shrug her off. She knew he wouldn't. He welcomed her support.
"Hermione, we suspect that Riddle went through with his plan to split his soul into seven pieces," said Harry. "We can chalk off six of the Horcruxes he made - the ring, the diary, the locket, the diadem, the goblet, the snake - then there's whatever is left in Tom, himself. But we are working on the assumption that he actually made a seventh Horcrux after he regained his body. It was his life's work. It made sense that he'd finish it first chance he got."
"But didn't Dumbledore always say he needed a significant death for Horcrux creation?" asked Hermione. "Who did he kill that was prominent enough?"
"We reckon it was Grindelwald," said Harry flatly, still rubbing his temples.
"Okay," said Hermione, processing that slowly. "That would do it. Ahh, so that's where you keep disappearing to all the time! You're going off and trying to track down that seventh Horcrux?"
"Precisely. I'll never get anything past you, will I?"
"No, and don't think I'm ignoring the fact that you do this by yourself, either," she said crossly. "I'm just parking it in my brain for now. But I'm going to severely tell you off for this later, just so you know. But why are you suddenly so anxious? The seventh Horcrux is in that box. Just destroy it."
Harry looked at her and sighed. "That's the point ... it is a Horcrux ... but not the Horcrux."
"I'm confused. You said it has Vol ... sorry, Riddle's ... energy all over it. You're going to teach me how you know things like that just by looking at something, by the way. I'm very jealous that you know all this advanced magic and are lording it over me. I can tell how much you're enjoying it!"
Harry chuckled at her. "We are equals now, Hermione. I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to it! But to get back on topic, Tom knew that we threatened him before by taking out the other six of his Horcruxes. He can't let anyone get so close to defeating him again. So we can reasonably guess that his last Horcrux is under massive protection.
"That's why it's proving so hard to find. There's no point in going for Tom, if he can be resurrected every time using the last Horcrux, and he daren't make any more. But he knows that I know his weakness ... and he must have taken out a contingency plan in case I did find a way to return, or in case I'd passed on the secret of how to bring him down to someone else. The item in this box is his solution to that problem."
"So what is it?" Hermione pressed, eagerly.
"It's a fake," Harry announced triumphantly. "But not like the locket Regulus Black left in that cave with the Inferi. This is an actual Horcrux, made by Riddle to fool any potential hunters trying to find and destroy them. He's created decoys, hoaxes, but he's carried out the ritual of Horcrux creation himself ... only he's used other people's souls to fill the objects, and somehow made them look like they are his. Like I said ... this is very clever, Tom!"
Hermione let out a shocked gasp. "Made by him ... but not from him. My God Harry! But that could mean ..."
Harry sighed heavily and rubbed his eye. "I know ... it means that there could be dozens of decoys out there ... hundreds maybe. He might have made every one of his subjects submit. Even Ron might have had his soul spilt. I can't tell you how much I'm starting to hate him, you know."
"But Harry ... that would mean that none of them could be killed without destroying the Horcrux related to them! It would make his army essentially unbeatable."
Harry sighed heavily. "I know, Hermione. I know. And I could waste years chasing Horcruxes that aren't the one I'm looking for. By the time I find the right one there might not be a Magical Britain worth saving."
"Oh for fucks sake!" Hermione cried angrily as her frustration bubbled over. Hot, furious tears spilled from her eyes. "This wont ever end, will it?"
Pwyll coughed nearby. "You aren't alone in this fight, my Lord. You have allies everywhere. They will rally to your banner when you call."
"And I will rely on that support when the time is right," said Harry. "Thank you, Prince of Dyfed. You should leave now. I will take the Horcrux into ritual, understand and then destroy it. Thank you for bringing this item to me. Now take your daughter, and my message, back to the others. And for Merlin's Sake, Pwyll, try to be a better father to your little girl in future. In fact ... that's an order."
"Yes, my Lord," Pwyll bowed guiltily. Branwen curtseyed, smiled her thanks, and followed her father dutifully from the room.
Harry turned to Hermione as soon as they were gone. "How's your strength? I might have to borrow your power for this. It's been a long time since I faced a Horcrux and none of my new friends knows what it's like to come up against one. If you feel up for it ... I could really use your support. I'd rather not face it alone"
"I'm right here with you," said Hermione staunchly. She dried her eyes and set her shoulders. "Come on, we once made kicking Tom Riddle's arse a game we did for fun. We may not have played for a while, but I'm sure it will all come flooding back to us!"
Harry grinned. He hated Tom Riddle fiercely as he stood up. Not for all his catalogue of crimes, but for simply slashing his lips in half, for he wanted nothing more than to plant them on Hermione's at that moment. He would make that snake-raping son of a bitch pay for that one day.