After suffering through a few hours of unbearable insomnia, Charlie silently pulled himself from Hermione's sleepy embrace and offered to switch lookout positions with Harry, so that his friend could enjoy some well-deserved rest.
As Charlie sat down next to the tent entrance, he took a deep breath of clean air. The pure, colourless vastness of the sky stretched over him, indifferent to him and his internal agony. They had Disapparated to another forest; Charlie could hear a river cascading not far from them.
In truth, to be alive to watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet Charlie could not appreciate it. His senses had been spiked by the calamity of watching Voldemort kill his mother. As tears filled his eyes, he shook his head and looked out over a valley blanketed in snow, distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.
Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times than he could count; this journey had already given him scars to his chest to join those on his hand and forearm, but never, until this moment, had he felt himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and isolated, as though his last glimmer of hope had been torn from him. He had lost the motivation to uncover the truth, and only now that it was gone did he realize how much he had been counting on it.
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And, although he hated to admit it, Charlie's fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like lava, scorching him inside, wiping out every other feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked themselves into believing that Godric's Hollow held answers, convinced themselves that they were supposed to go back, that it was all part of some secret path laid out for them by his grandfather.
In reality, however, there was no map, no plan. Dumbledore had left them to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown and undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided. Nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, they had no sword, and now, Harry had no wand. Then, to make matters worse, Charlie had dropped the photograph of the thief, making it easier now for Voldemort to find out who he was.
Voldemort had all the information now, and the trio of teenagers whom were trying their damnedest to survive were more hopeless than ever before...
"Charlie?"
Hermione looked slightly concerned as Charlie whipped his head around towards her, clearly startled. Her face streaked with tears, she crouched down beside him, two cups of tea trembling in her hands and a blanket draped across one of her arms, which was also cradling her small beaded bag. He could see their narrow escapes, this seemingly endless search through the darkness was taking its toll on her, too.
"Thanks," he said, taking one of the cups.
"Do you mind if I sit with you?"
"No, of course not," he smiled, beckoning her closer, and he didn't turn away from Hermione as she sat down next to him and snuggled into his side, draping the blanket over their knees.
