Birds of Twilight

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Summary: Covered in mud and snow, like two feral children, left alone in the wilderness; mouths coated in blood, bodies bruised and battered. Doing whatever was necessary for survival.

Ship: HarryPotterxHermioneGranger

All credit goes to Pixydustworld on Ao3

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Their descent into madness was a slow one, but it happened just the same.

"Another dead end," Harry said thickly. His glasses were crooked on his nose, broken on one side — Hermione found herself thinking of all the times she'd reached across the space between and fixed them for him. Tender, like a bruise; seeping color across fragile flesh. She missed being young, her heart ached for it. She missed the simplicity of childhood, skinned knees and sour candy, fixing broken glasses being her only worry. "She has no idea where the sword is."

It wasn't in anyone's vaults, it wasn't at Hogwarts — it was as if the Sword of Gryffindor had vanished, leaving behind only trouble in it's place. Andromeda had been kind to reach out to try and help the two of them, genuine in her beliefe that the world would be saved by their shaking hands, but their failure was inevitable. An inescapable fate, impossible to avoid. They had been searching for months and had nothing to show for it; the locket was still intact, still perfect, still alive.

Hermione inhaled softly through her nose, frowning down at her cauldron, who was happily bubbling away, oblivious to the obvious tension. The tent was frigid, their breath clouding before their lips in frosty ribbons. Warming charms had been firmly outlawed after a Snatcher had almost found them through a magical trace — now, all they had was blankets and matchbooks, both somehow always existing in a perpetually soggy state.

It was the camping trip from her nightmares — worse than when her father had taken them to the Forest of Dean and accidentally set her sleeping roll on fire. At least, then, her father had still remembered her name.

"That is not great."

"Yes." Harry flopped down on his cot, knees knocking together. "Decidedly, not great."

Hermione had overheard their conversation from inside the tent. Andromeda's warm voice, so unlike her sister's, whispering through broken bits of glass —Harry's own voice, tired and resigned. Sounding as he always had, alone at the end of the world or eleven years old, facing Voldemort in the school dungeons: it was all the same, in the end.

"You should come home." Andromeda had said, voice soft in the snow. "Come stay with me, take a moment to rest. 12 Grimmauld Place is yours now, you are a Black through blood and ceremony. I'll protect you."

"I can't." Harry had said. Hermione had heard the crunch of his footsteps as he paced across the frozen ground, unending in his worry. For her, she was sure — but for Andromeda, too. A kaleidoscope of worry, blurring around the edges, branching out to touch more and more people. Harry would never be done worrying, never be settled, never be free. "Hermione and I have to finish this. And we will. One way or another."

Andromeda had been quiet for a moment, the only sound Harry's breath, catching in the air, and the bubbling cauldron before her. "Good luck." She had said softly, voice breaking around the words. It was unfair, Hermione had decided, that someone as kind as Andromeda had suffered so much. First, she had lost her sisters, then Ted, and now the two of them. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know."

"Are we supposed to eat that?" Harry asked with a grimace, peaking at the cauldron. "I thought we agreed that I was the one who did the cooking. Savior of the world. Personal chef. Another third and very impressive thing."

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