On The Hunt: Chapter 35

Note: All characters involved in this are over the age of consent.

The group materialized with a series of sharp cracks on the windswept cliffs overlooking a jagged stretch of coastline. The air here was thick with salt and the faint tang of damp earth, a stark shift from the oppressive weight of Azkaban's ruins. The Black Rock stood silent, its silhouette loomed against the bruised purple sky, all sharp angles and broken spires, like something yanked straight out of a nightmare. The Fidelius Charm shimmered faintly around it, a ripple of magic that made the place feel alive, watchful.

Harry stumbled as his feet hit the uneven ground, his legs shaky from exhaustion and adrenaline. Daphne tightened her grip on his arm, keeping him upright. Tonks sagged against Bill, her dull brown hair plastered to her sweat-streaked face, while Cedric leaned heavily on a makeshift staff conjured from a snapped branch. Sirius was a storm of motion, pacing ahead with his fists clenched, his breath coming in harsh bursts.

The unconscious Death Eaters they'd managed to nab—Travers and the Carrow twins, who'd been too slow to escape Voldemort's fiery exit—hovered limply behind them, bound by glowing cords of magic. Mulciber and Rowle hadn't been so lucky; they'd fallen in the chaotic battle, while the rest of the Death Eaters had managed to escape.

The group trudged toward the manor's entrance, a towering set of double doors carved with serpents and thorns. Sirius waved his wand with a flick of irritation, whispering a password that made the wards shimmer in recognition. The doors groaned open, revealing a cavernous hall that—unlike what they'd expected—was lit with dozens of floating candles, the air buzzing with activity.

"They're back!" came a shout from inside, and suddenly the hall was flooding with people pouring in from adjoining rooms.

Neville was first to reach them, his round face tight with concern. "Thank Merlin. We've been worried sick." His eyes widened at the floating Death Eaters. "You actually got some?"

"At least better than none," Harry replied, his voice rough from exhaustion. "Though we lost more than we gained."

The crowd parted as Augusta Longbottom swept forward, her vulture-topped hat bobbing precariously, followed closely by a stern-faced Amelia Bones whose normally immaculate robes were rumpled from what had clearly been hours of waiting.

"Dumbledore," Augusta said, her voice clipped. "Elphias and Benjy?"

Dumbledore's silence was answer enough. Augusta's face hardened, while Susan pushed forward to stand beside her aunt, her face pale.

"We prepared the cells as instructed," Amelia said, her professional tone barely masking her worry as her eyes sought out Sirius. When they locked gazes, something passed between them—relief tinged with lingering fear. "Second floor, eastern wing. Reinforced with every containment charm in the Auror handbook and then some."

"Perfect," Sirius replied, his voice softening just slightly. "Let's get these bastards locked up while they're still out."

Bill and Cedric moved to guide the unconscious Death Eaters upstairs, but Fred and George stepped forward, wands at the ready.

"Allow us," Fred said, a dangerous glint in his eye that made him look uncannily like his older brother Percy in rare moments of fury.

"We've been brewing up some special restraints," George added, patting a pouch at his belt. "Experimental stuff. Touch the bars, and you get the magical equivalent of a Muggle electric shock."

"Plus some less pleasant side effects," Fred finished with a grim smile that held none of his usual mischief.

Bill hesitated, then nodded. "All right. But I'm coming with you. These three are slippery."

As the group made their way upstairs, Harry finally took a proper look around. The place felt less like an abandoned ancestral home and more like a haunted house stuck in some half-forgotten time warp. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere, and the walls were lined with yellowing maps and charts that looked like they'd been slapped up by someone who didn't even care to make them straight. The whole room had this oppressive, musty vibe—showing that it hadn't been touched in decades.

A long, battered table sat in the middle of the room, cluttered with broken potion vials, half-burned scrolls, and random junk that had clearly been left to rot. Tracey was hunched over in one corner, her dark hair a tangled mess as she scribbled away on a piece of parchment, completely ignoring the disaster around her. Anthony and Padma were off in another corner, noses buried in a thick book, whispering to each other like they were solving the world’s problems. Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes. The place was a wreck, and the whole ‘Black family legacy’ thing felt like a joke now. If this was supposed to be some kind of base of operations, it was a damn sorry one.

"We've been working non-stop since you lot left," Ginny explained, appearing at Harry's side. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes burned with the same fierce determination he'd come to rely on. "Tracking spells, communications networks, defensive preparations—the works."

"Turns out having a bunch of swots from different Houses actually comes in handy," Zacharias Smith added from where he was sorting through what looked like bundles of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Despite his typically acerbic tone, there was no real bite to his words. The war had a way of filing down even the sharpest edges.

Daphne squeezed Harry's arm, her usual composure slipping to reveal bone-deep exhaustion. "I need to sit down before I fall down," she murmured.

Tracey glanced up at the sound of her best friend's voice and immediately abandoned her work, rushing over to pull Daphne into a fierce hug. "You stupid, reckless Gryffindor-by-association," she hissed, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the tremor in her voice. "When we got word about the Death Eaters—"

"I'm fine," Daphne said, returning the hug with equal ferocity before pulling back. "But I wasn't kidding about sitting down."

Hannah Abbott appeared with a tray of steaming mugs. "Hot chocolate," she announced, pressing one into Daphne's hands and then Harry's. "With a dash of Pepper-Up. Madam Pomfrey's special."

Harry took it gratefully, the warmth seeping into his cold fingers. As he sipped, the rich sweetness mixing with the spicy kick of the potion, he noticed Cho making her way through the crowd toward Cedric, who had just returned from the makeshift prison upstairs. She threw her arms around him, her face buried in his shoulder, and Harry could see the tension drain from Cedric's body as he held her, his eyes closing briefly in relief.

"The prisoners are secure," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying over the buzz of conversation. "For now, we must debrief and rest. The coming days will require all our strength."

The large group made their way to what had once been the manor's ballroom, now transformed into something between a war room and communal living space. Comfortable if mismatched furniture had been arranged in clusters, and a massive fireplace roared at one end, casting flickering shadows across the room. Maps and charts covered one wall, while another bore photographs of known Death Eaters, newspaper clippings, and scribbled notes connected by threads of different colors—red for confirmed attacks, blue for suspected movements, gold for potential targets.

"Nice setup," Tonks commented, collapsing onto a sagging sofa beside Angelina Johnson, who was nursing a mug of what smelled distinctly stronger than hot chocolate. "You lot have been busy."

"Neville’s nan’s been running us like a drill sergeant," Angelina replied with a tired grin, shifting to make more room. "Between her and Madam Bones, I'm starting to think the Death Eaters got the better end of the deal."

"I heard that, Johnson," Augusta called from across the room, though there was a hint of approval in her stern voice.

Amelia had settled beside Sirius on a battered loveseat, their shoulders touching slightly without being obvious about it. "Tell us what happened," she said, her monocle catching the firelight. "All of it."

And so they did. Harry, Daphne, Cedric, Tonks, Bill, Sirius, Cyrus, Moody, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Dumbledore took turns recounting the disaster at Azkaban—Voldemort's unexpected arrival, the battles that took place, the horrifying display of that ancient, terrible spell that had consumed Azkaban in flames that seemed to burn through soul as much as flesh, and the overwhelming force of Dementors that had consumed Benjy and Elphias. The room grew quieter with each detail, faces hardening or paling by turns.

When they finished, a heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind outside.

"So he's stronger," Blaise Zabini said finally from his perch on a windowsill, his normally smooth voice rough.

"That spell—Protego Diabolica—I’ve read about it. It’s the kind of magic that costs more than most are willing to pay," Cyrus remarked.

"What kind of cost?" Terry Boot asked, leaning forward.

"Blood," Daphne elaborated, exchanging glances with both Harry and Dumbledore. "Old magic, the kind that requires sacrifice. The book covered it—historical accounts too," she continued, "of dark wizards who tried similar rituals to gain the ability to cast such spells. Most end up destroying themselves in the process."

"Voldemort's not most wizards," Harry said grimly, his fingers absently tracing a pattern on his palm. Daphne's hand found his knee, squeezing gently in silent support. "He's one of the most remarkable wizards of the past century. He’s pushed the boundaries of magic beyond what we can even fathom, and that's made him nearly unstoppable."

"Not unstoppable," Alicia countered, her jaw set. "Just harder to stop. There's a difference."

"Miss Spinnet is right," Dumbledore said, rising from his seat by the fire. "Tom seeks to demoralize us, to make us believe his victory is inevitable. But even the darkest magic has its limitations, its vulnerabilities."

"Fat lot of good knowing that does if we can't figure out what they are," Anthony muttered, earning an elbow from Padma beside him. “The guy came back from the dead. How does that even happen?”

A moment of silence ensued as Dumbledore stared into the distance, his lips pursed.

Sitting with Ginny, Michael Corner raised his hand slightly, a habit from Hogwarts that seemed to be stuck with him. "What about those Death Eaters upstairs? Could they know something about this power source or whatever that made him not die?"

"We're going to find out," Harry said, exchanging a look with Daphne. "They might not know much, but even scraps of information could help."

Dumbledore sat silently, his gaze pensive and his mind churning with thoughts. There were times when he’d wondered whether he should disclose the information about Horcruxes, but the fewer people knew this secret, the better it was.

He glanced at Harry who sat with Daphne. The boy was in the center of it all, and if anyone deserved to know this secret, it was him. However, it was not the time.

"First, you all get some rest," Augusta said firmly. "None of us will be of use to anyone in our current state. A few hours of sleep, then we'll deal with our... guests."

Despite wanting to argue, Harry knew the woman was right. The adrenaline that had carried him through the battle and escape was fading fast, leaving him hollow and heavy. Around the room, others were clearly fighting the same losing battle against exhaustion.

"There are bedrooms on the upper floors," Sirius announced, standing and stretching with a wince. "Nothing fancy, but they've got beds and warming charms. Pair up, find a spot, and get some sleep. We'll reconvene in a few hours."

The group began to disperse, moving in pairs and small clusters toward the stairs. Cyrus gave him a nod as Harry felt Daphne's hand slip into his, her touch comforting him amidst the swirl of fear and determination and bone-deep weariness.

"Come on, love," she murmured, tugging him toward the stairs. "We both need some sleep."

Harry allowed her to pull him, and together with the others, they made their way up the stairs.

“Rest, you two,” Sirius said, giving Harry’s shoulder a soft squeeze as he walked inside an empty bedroom, Amelia walking right alongside him.

“It’s really happening, then,” Daphne said, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she glanced at Harry, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “Sirius and Amelia. I can’t say I’m surprised—it’s been a long time coming, especially after what we know now.”

Harry nodded, mirroring her smile as he leaned back on his hands, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah. It’s good, though. They deserve this. After everything… it feels right.”

Daphne stepped closer, her expression warming as she gazed up at him with a small smile. “You’re right. Think about how some people just click, no matter what’s thrown at them. Like after a tough fight—someone pulling another out of the mess, barking orders even when they’re battered, refusing to be fussed over, but you can still see they’ve got each other’s backs.”

Harry chuckled, knowing exactly what she was talking about. “Yeah, or those moments when they team up for something simple—like charming a kitchen to whip up a meal for everyone. Half the room’s annoyed at the chaos, half impressed it actually worked. And one of them just grinning, saying no one else could match their pace.”

“They’ve got that fire,” Daphne agreed, her voice softening with fondness. “Even with everything going sideways—enemies lurking, hiding out, endless planning—they’d still find ways to balance each other. It’s not just some agreement, is it? It’s deeper than that.”

“Way more,” Harry said, his green eyes brightening. “Sirius has been through so much—Azakaban, losing my parents, the years on the run. And Amelia, with her brother gone and the Ministry falling apart… they’ve both carried heavy things. Seeing them agree to build something together—it’s like a win for all of us.”

Daphne tilted her head, her smile widening. “You’re such a sap sometimes. But yeah, it’s a win. They’ll be unstoppable now—Sirius with his wild ideas and Amelia keeping him grounded. I bet they’ll have the whole situation here sorted by breakfast.”

Harry laughed, genuine and warm. “If anyone could, it’s them. I’m just glad they’re happy. They’ve earned it.”

“More than earned it,” Daphne said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Come on, though—we’re supposed to rest. Let’s find a spot before we’re too tired to move.”

They found an appropriate bedroom at the end of the corridor, smaller than the one in Grimmauld Place but somehow still welcoming in the current situation with its freshly conjured sheets imbued with all the requisite charms and a flickering bedside lamp—clearly the work of someone preparing for their return. Harry sank onto the edge of the bed, his muscles screaming in relief. Meanwhile, Daphne closed the door behind them and leaned against it for a moment, her eyes closed.

In the isolation of the room, the heaviness of what they had gone through today truly weighed down on them. They remained silent for a while, taking the time to come to terms with it all.

"You were amazing today," Harry said softly, watching her. "With the Death Eaters, with everything. I don't think I could have—"

"Don't," she interrupted, opening her eyes to fix him with that piercing blue gaze that still made his heart skip even after all these months. "Don't do the 'I couldn't have done it without you' speech. We're past that, remember?" She pushed off from the door and crossed to sit beside him, leaving a minuscule gap between them. "We're in this together. All of us."

Harry nodded, reaching for her hand and threading his fingers through hers. "Together. But I'm still allowed to think you're amazing."

A smile tugged at her lips, warming her tired face. "Well, that's just factually accurate." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "You weren't so bad yourself. The situational awareness you showed in the chaos of that battle and the ease with which you fought—it was really great."

"Desperation's a powerful motivator," he said, the memory of those moments flashing back—the bone-chilling cold, the screams, the sight of spells flying about, Bellatrix’s mad laugh echoing all around them. His mind was soon occupied with the devastating spell Voldemort cast at the end, his mindscape swallowed by bright blue flames and the...

"Hey." Daphne's voice pulled him back. "We got out. Not all of us, but we got out. And we'll make it count."

Harry nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling around them. The room had two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, but Harry couldn't bear the thought of that distance between them, not after nearly losing her in the chaos at Azkaban.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," he admitted quietly, vulnerability raw in his voice. It wasn't something he'd normally say—the weight of his responsibilities had forced him to be strong, independent, confident in himself—but with Daphne, he'd learned that strength sometimes meant being honest about what you needed.

She squeezed his hand gently. "Me neither. The presence of those Dementors in Azkaban... I keep feeling them, even now." She shivered slightly. "When I close my eyes, I see—" She broke off, shaking her head.

"I know," Harry said simply, because he did. The Dementors had always affected him worse than most, and today's encounter had been the most intense yet, even though they hadn’t encountered them directly. He could feel why Sirius was so affected. The very air of Azkaban was rife with darkness and despair.

Without thinking, Harry put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer in an embrace. Daphne melted against him immediately, her body fitting perfectly against his, as if tailor-made for him.

"We should at least try to sleep," Daphne said after a while, her voice soft against his chest. "There's a lot to get done tomorrow."

Harry nodded, acutely aware of their situation—alone in a bedroom, both physically and emotionally raw. Their betrothal had been formalized in a reflection of the pureblood doctrine, and while it had been unexpected, they'd shared many intimate moments, having fallen for each other on the way.

"I can take that bed," he offered half-heartedly, gesturing to the narrow cot against the far wall.

Daphne glanced up at him through her eyelashes, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek lovingly. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry. I can see that’s the last thing you want right now." Her other hand found his, their fingers interlacing with perfect ease. "Just like I don’t want to be apart tonight."

Harry found himself smiling as he kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his outer robes. He transfigured his clothes into comfortable ones and watched as Daphne did the same, her wand movements assured and precise.

For a moment, they stared at each other, their eyes roaming over each other. Daphne was wearing a simple top and shorts, her long legs bare, and Harry reached out, taking her hand as he flicked his wand, combining the two beds into a king-sized one. They settled onto the bed with perfect ease, Harry on his back and Daphne curled against his chest, her head tucked perfectly under his chin. This wasn’t routine, but it damn well felt like it could be.

“Much better,” she murmured, her hand finding its place over his heart. Harry’s hand came up to rest on hers, and the betrothal rings on their fingers caught the moonlight, glinting softly—a quiet reminder of the life they had ahead of them, war or no war.

“You know,” she continued, her voice low and soft, “I used to have this whole five-year plan. Graduate top of our class, get accepted into the Department of Mysteries, make some groundbreaking magical discovery by twenty-five, revolutionize the field by thirty.”

“Sounds very Slytherin,” Harry murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there for a beat. “Ambitious as hell.”

“Mmm. And nowhere in that plan was ‘become betrothed to Harry Potter’ or ‘fall stupidly in love with him’ or ‘fight in a wizarding war’ or ‘sleep in a decrepit manor full of Order members.’”

Despite her words, there was no bite, no regret—just a soft, wondering disbelief that made him smile.

“Sorry to mess up your plans, Daph,” Harry said, his fingers tracing familiar, lazy patterns on her back, dipping just under the hem of her top to brush her skin.

She shifted to look up at him, her blue eyes catching green in the dim light. “You didn’t mess them up. You just… expanded them. Made me see there’s more to life than my neat little career path.”

Her fingers trailed along the line of his jaw, a tender gesture they’d shared more than a hundred times, but it still sent a shiver down his spine. “Though I’m still planning to revolutionize magical research after we win this war. With you by my side, obviously.”

Harry caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, letting his lips linger on her skin as he gazed at her. “I wouldn’t dare stand in the way of a determined Daphne Greengrass.”

“Wise man. That’s why I don’t regret agreeing to marry you,” she teased, her smile warming him from the inside out, chasing away the chill of the old manor and the lingering presence of Azkaban, or the Dementors.

Harry let out a contented sigh, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer, burying his face in her hair. He inhaled her scent—something floral and sharp, uniquely her—and let it soothe him.

“We’re going to win this, Harry,” Daphne whispered after a stretch of comfortable silence, her voice soft but steady as steel. “Not because we’re the ‘good guys’ or some noble crap, but because he’s alone, and we’re not. He’s got followers. We’ve got friends. Family.”

The word family hung between them. Harry had never had a proper one—not until Hogwarts, not until Sirius, not until Daphne and Gabrielle wormed their way into his life and made it theirs too. Now, holding her close in the dark of this ancient, creaking house filled with people fighting for the same cause, something clicked into place in his chest—a belonging so deep it almost ached.

“I love you,” he said, the words slipping out with a weight that seemed to fill the room. They’d said it before, sure, but tonight it hit different—raw and urgent, a tether against whatever tomorrow might throw at them.

Daphne went still in his arms, then shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at him. Her face was half-lit by the moonlight slipping through the cracked curtains, her hair a mess of shadows and silver.

“Say that again,” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper, but her eyes burned with something fierce.

Harry swallowed, his throat tight, but he held her gaze. “I love you, Daphne Greengrass.”

A slow, radiant smile broke across her face—not her usual sharp smirk or polite half-smile, but something wide and unguarded that lit her up. “Well,” she said, her voice catching just a little, “that’s bloody convenient, because I love you too, Harry Potter.”

The vulnerability there—the crack in her Slytherin armor—made his chest twist. This was his Daphne, always so careful, letting herself go soft for him on a night when they’d faced down hell and lived.

She leaned down, and their lips met in a kiss that started soft, familiar—like coming home. But then she tilted her head, deepening it, and Harry felt the shift, the spark igniting between them. His hand slid up her back, fingers splaying wide under her top, pressing against the warm skin there as he pulled her closer. She made a quiet sound against his mouth, half-sigh, half-whimper, and it lit him up.

“Merlin, Daph,” he muttered against her lips, grinning as he nipped at her bottom lip. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Shut up,” she laughed breathlessly, her hands sliding up his chest, one tangling in his hair while the other gripped his shoulder. “You love it.”

She kissed him again, harder this time, all heat and intent, and he groaned into it, his free hand finding her waist, his thumb brushing the edge of her shorts.

They rolled slightly, her half on top of him now, and the kiss turned messy, hungry—teeth clashing, tongues sliding, all that pent-up love and tension spilling out. His hands roamed her back, tracing the dip of her spine, then up to her shoulders, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss, and she grinned against his mouth.

“Tease,” he accused, his voice rough as he slid a hand down to grip her hip, his thumb slipping just under the waistband of her shorts to graze the skin there.

“Takes one to know one,” she shot back, her breath hitching as she rocked against him slightly, her lips brushing his jaw, and then his throat. “You’re not exactly playing fair either, Mr. Potter.”

“Never said I would,” he murmured, tilting his head to give her better access as her teeth grazed his pulse point. His hand slipped up her side, brushing the edge of her ribs, and she shivered, her own hands sliding under his shirt to map the planes of his chest. Her touch was warm, exploring, and it sent heat pooling low in his gut.

“Oh, you’re impossible,” she said, half-laughing, half-gasping as she pulled back to look at him. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper. “I should’ve known you’d be trouble the second I said yes to this whole betrothal thing.”

“Too late now,” he grinned, catching her wrist and kissing the inside of it, right where her pulse fluttered. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Lucky me,” she deadpanned, but the love in her voice was unmistakable. She leaned down again, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was slower this time, but no less intense—long and deep, like she was pouring everything into it. His hands slid up her back again, his fingers threading into her hair as he kissed her back just as fiercely, tasting the promise of them on her lips.

Her hands moved too, one slipping down to rest over his heart again, the other cupping his face as she pressed herself closer. His thumb brushed the curve of her waist, then higher, grazing the edge of her bra through her thin top, and she arched into the touch with a soft moan that made his head spin.

“Daph,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. “You’re driving me mental.”

“Good,” she smirked, her thumb tracing his bottom lip. “Keeps you on your toes.” But then her expression softened, and she kissed him again—gentler, sweeter, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious. “I love you, you idiot,” she murmured against his mouth, and the words hit him like a spell, calming him even as his heart raced.

“Love you too,” he managed, his voice hoarse as he pulled her back down, their lips meeting in a tangle of heat and tenderness. His hands stayed on her waist, firm but careful, keeping things from tipping too far, though the temptation was there, buzzing under his skin. Her fingers slid back into his hair, tugging lightly as she kissed him like it was the last night they’d ever get—which they’d never let happen, even if Voldemort came knocking on their doorstep. They had a whole life ahead of them, and they would chase that life with all they had.

When they finally broke apart, chests heaving, Daphne settled back against him, her head on his chest, and her breath warm against his collarbone. His arms wrapped around her, one hand resting on her hip, the other stroking her hair as their heartbeats synced up. The moonlight illuminated them on the bed, and for a moment, the world outside—the war, the danger—faded to nothing. It was just them, tangled up in each other, holding on tight.

“Tomorrow’s gonna suck,” she muttered after a while, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Yeah,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “But we’ve got this. Together.”

“Together,” she echoed, her hand finding his, their rings clinking softly as their fingers laced. Harry pulled her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

A comfortable silence settled between them as they held each other, their heartbeats syncing as they relaxed.

"When this is over," he murmured into her hair after a few minutes, "we're going to have that spring wedding you and Gabrielle have been planning. With the blue, silver, and green flowers two told me about."

"And the Gryffindor red accents I insisted on," she reminded him with a soft laugh. "Can you imagine? The wizarding world's most symbolically unified wedding. Not just Gryffindor and Slytherin, but Beauxbatons too."

"Breaking traditions and starting new ones. That's us," Harry agreed, his hand running through her silken hair in the way he knew soothed her toward sleep.

"Get some sleep, Mr. Potter," she murmured, her voice already growing heavy with exhaustion. "We've got a lot to do in the morning."

"Yes, future Mrs. Potter," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and feeling her smile against his chest.

As sleep began to claim him, Harry realized he wasn't afraid anymore—not of Voldemort, not of the coming battle, not even of dying. The only thing that truly frightened him now was the thought of losing this—losing her and Gabrielle, and losing the family they'd build together one day from the broken pieces of whatever would be left of their respective lives once all this was over. And it was that fear, paradoxically, that gave him the courage to face whatever came next.

Her steady breathing was the last thing he registered before exhaustion finally pulled him under, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

To be continued...