Tears of the Phoenix

LunarSpirit22

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 28/04/2004
Last Updated: 10/06/2004
Status: completed

"They use my name in the Light rebel camps sometimes, but when they do, it is uttered as a curse, a filthy word to be spat rather than spoken: Hermione Granger, traitor to the Light side. But they don't undertstand. No one does. No one can." H/Hr fic, set in what would be the trio's seventh year. Very angsty. A story of redemption, sacrifice, and love.

Chapters

1. Grim Ponderings

2. Lingering Feelings

3. How Could You?

4. Risking it All

5. AN Issue of Trust

6. Exile

7. Hermone

8. Tentative Hope

9. Breaking Bonds

10. Crossing Boundaries

11. Interlude: Of Thoughts and Questions

12. Change of Heart

13. End of Spirit

14. One Last Stand part 1

15. One Last Stand part 2

16. Promise of an Eternity

17. Epilogue

1. Grim Ponderings

A/n: Hello! I’m Lunar Spirit, also known as DarkWolf24 or Ice Wolf. Some of you may have seen this fic on FanFiction.Net, where it has been for the past year, or FictionAlley, where it’s been for about six months, not quite as far along as it is on FFN. I’ve finally decided to stop being lazy and figure out the whole author-application process, and now I’m on here! I hope you enjoy this story, and please tell me what you think. You can never get enough feedback!

~~ 1 ~~

Grim Ponderings

“These wounds won’t seem to heal,

This pain is just too real,

There’s just too much that time cannot erase.”

--Evanescence

The rising of the sun is a beautiful thing. It is a sight of beauty and splendor and, for me, a sight of hope. It gives me the feeling that there is a tomorrow, no matter how strongly I believe the contrary. It’s easy to lose your hope in a position like mine, but the sun’s first rays sneaking over the distant hilltops and reaching your face, blinding you momentarily and searing tears into your eyes can help give you back some of the lost hope. Often times, this small occurrence is the only hope I have and usually that is not enough.

On this particular morning there is no sunrise, no first rays—at least, none visible to me. Clouds are setting in as they do in winter—seeming to be more of a solid gray blanket than clouds at all. I sigh as I look out the window at the gloomy dawning day. My constant, nagging feeling of lost hopelessness seems more prominent than ever. Not that it ever really goes away; I have not felt any joyful feeling for two years now. I stopped living then, at the end of my fifth year here at Hogwarts. Now I merely exist. Before that time, I’d never really known the difference between the two words. I’d have used them as synonyms of one another anytime. Now I know the difference. To live is to have reason to awaken, even if that reason isn’t always good. To exist is to force yourself to make it through each day, doing so only because you are too meek and frightened to do anything more drastic. It is when your entire life has stopped having any meaning, when all dreams of the future are lost in a bleak void. When it takes every last bit of strength to wake up and force yourself to live through one more day and when you don’t see any difference between life and death.

Maybe I’ve even stopped existing. What is beyond that, I am unsure, but whatever there is, that is where I am. I’m no more than a shell of my former self. I’ve been forced to block out happy memories, been trained to feel nothing. It’s the only way to make it in the world I’m in. Had I spent each waking moment reminiscing of times lost, I’d have gone insane long ago. I learned that lesson the hard way, not too long after Voldemort won the war. My memories were too powerful to stop and each passing day was spent remembering until I could take the comparison of my old life to my new one and the memories of the things I’d done no longer. I quite nearly killed myself. When I’m in one of my blacker moods, I’ll often wish I had. After all, how much worse could death be? Certainly no worse that my current position.

I struggle off my window ledge and jump the two feet or so down to the floor. I quickly change into my school robes, once more feeling glad that it was only two more months until I left here for good. I can’t stand it any longer. Everything I see in my day-to-day travels in the castle I’d once loved so much is enough to sicken me now. From the green bands around the cuffs of my robes to the Slytherin banners hanging high and proud in the Great Hall, everything is different. Hogwarts castle, which had before always been so jolly and inviting, is now a cold and lifeless place as though it were filled with a thousand dementors. The only happy thoughts ventured are thoughts of cruelty from the Death Eaters. Sickened, I remember—from my group. The Dark Mark on my arm leaves no questions about the fact that I am one of them. It is a fact I try hard to forget and yet one I can never seem to tuck away.

As I join the kids in the main halls, I duck my head and keep to myself. Still, I can hear the cruel words thrown in my direction. I have no place, not a single person in this world cares whether I live or die. Actually that’s not true, I decide grimly. Most would prefer me dead. My fellow students—my fellow Death Eaters, I am sorry to say—hate me. I am a joke among them. My deed to their service is well remembered, but they do not care. Each day I am ignored and shunned, not that I care much. These people are not ones with which I would care to associate if I wasn’t forced. Still, dragging on and on into months and years, their attitudes toward me quickly become depressing.

I suddenly am slammed into a wall and my books cascade from my arms and onto the floor. Cold laughter echoes from just about everywhere as the students stop to watch me gather my fallen books. Without looking, I can pick out one voice among them, no doubt the one who’d pushed me in the first place—Draco Malfoy. One of few familiar faces left here with me. He kicks the book I am reaching for and laughs again. “Go fetch, Mudblood,” he jeers, to the roars of his audience.

I stand, shaking my hair behind my neck and glaring at him. “Leave me alone, Malfoy, or I promise I will hex you into next year. These may not be my surroundings, I may hate every single one of these sorry classes, but if you care to remember, I’m still top of every one them. Which is more than I can say for you. Of course, I’ve always been better than you in that respect—why should anything change now?”

An angry murmur runs through the crowd, which I ignore. My eyes and thoughts are trained solely on one and that one is standing in front of me. I can see the hatred in his eyes as he turns away. He knows I am right and knows that I could—and would—do as I’d threatened. “Then leave, Mudblood. We don’t want you here. Oh, that’s right—your old pals don’t want you either. Kind of a sorry existence, isn’t it? No one who cares about you. Pathetic, really.” He says nothing more as he walks back down the hall. I watch his back through eyes narrowed into slits, still ignoring the stares from the people walking past slowly. I kneel back down and grab the book he’d kicked—Advanced Dark Curses—and fight back my reeling emotions. It was one of the few times he’d managed to get to me. His comment was a deep wound that would most likely never heal and I felt as though he’d deepened it by several inches.

I head back the way I came. I am not hungry. It is too difficult to eat surrounded by the Death Eaters anyway—too hard not to focus on Lucius Malfoy sitting tall in the Headmaster’s seat at the High Table. When I am back in my dorm, I sit down on my bed and stare out the window where the first fluffy snowflakes are beginning to drift downward from their gray captor. Malfoy’s words ring through my head: “Oh, that’s right—your old pals don’t want you either.” For the first time in many months, I feel a few tears stinging at my eyes. I’d given up crying long ago, knowing it did me no good. My resolve seems to be breaking down.

Malfoy is so right it hurts. Harry and Ron, the last I knew, were a part of some rebel group opposing Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I tried last year to write to them, some part of me hoping they’d be able to see what I did had been to protect them. Of course, I had been hoping in vain. They didn’t know, nor can they unless I tell them, which I cannot do. After many weeks, I’d gotten a return letter from Harry—a howler. His words were angry and harsh, shouted through the Great Hall like hundreds of sonic thunder blasts at once. When the letter had finally stopped and burned itself into ashes, I could feel my heart going with it. The Light side would never give me a second chance. This was the last time I’d cried.

Of course, the Howler had been heard by the whole school. It was the favorite thing of my peers to throw at me, even now, a year later. Lucius Malfoy, of course, had seen to it that I was punished painfully. If I look very closely, I can still see some of the scars. None of this bothered me though. The damage had come from the letter itself.

I am an outcast to both sides, stuck toeing the line between the two. I am rarely referred to by name here—usually everyone, including teachers, call me by “Mudblood.” They use my name in the Light rebel camps sometimes, but when they do it is uttered as a curse, a filthy name to be spat rather than spoken: Hermione Granger—traitor of the Light side. But they don’t understand. No one does. No one can.

Sometimes, such as now, I wonder why I even bother to go on. My life is meaningless. The hatred pouring in from all around me is suffocating, nearly unbearable. I am an outcast in a world of pain, terror, and horrors. The only reason those few good souls left survive is for their friends, family, and dreams. I have none of those. I am a teenager loyal to the Light side, but not allowed to show it in a school of the Dark Arts. I suppose the answer to why I continue lies in my hope, or what little of it is left. Though I know it is not rational, I still cling to the small, vague hope that one day I will escape this pitiful existence to return to my friends on the side of the Light. Now I see the hopelessness in such a dream and the horizon goes dark. It is during times like these when I begin to contemplate suicide once more.

I have a knife in my trunk. I’ve had it for a long time, for the purpose of self-defense. It is not unheard of for one of the other students to attack me. I am a favorite target. Lately, though, I’ve begun looking at that blade quite differently. Now I get up from my bed and open the lid of the trunk. It seems almost as if I am on autopilot as I pick up the knife and turn it in my hands. It catches the light filtering in from my open window and glitters tantalizingly. Suddenly there is no question in my mind.

I walk over to the windowsill where I had stood just twenty minutes ago. I sit down in my same position and gaze out over Hogwarts grounds, trying to transform them in my mind to look as they had before. While the grounds look the same, they are not. It is impossible to illusion myself otherwise. All I have to do is look over at the burned shell of Hagrid’s hut to remember that.

I jerk my gaze away and look back at the knife. Two quick slits and it would be over. I raise the blade and press it against the skin of my right wrist. I pause a moment to look up and take a last deep breath of winter air. My eyes wander over to the Forbidden Forest for the last time. For a moment all seems quiet and still, but a jolt of movement attracts my eyes. I have been trained to notice the slightest movement and zero in on its source impeccably. I had not lied to Malfoy—I still am top of every class. It takes me a moment to distinguish the figure, and I probably would not have been able to see it at all had it not stood frozen on open ground, staring back.

Finally, I recognize the face. The hand holding the knife loosens its grip and the blade clatters to the windowsill. The light coating of ice on the sill propels it over the side, dropping it into a snow bank far below. I take no notice. I am in shock.

The face belongs to a person I’d accepted that I would never see again, a friend I’d given my life for.

Harry Potter.

2. Lingering Feelings

A/n: I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far! I didn’t realize so many of my readers from other sites were on here as well . . . cool. :) Well, here’s chapter two for those of you who haven’t read it! Hope you continue to enjoy it!

~~ 2 ~~

Lingering Feelings

“So many questions, I need an answer.

Two years later, you’re still on my mind.”

--Mandy Moore

I am shivering where I stand. The fact that my feet, wearing tattered and hole-filled shoes, are buried in a bank of snow along the forest’s edge doesn’t help matters. More snow is drifting down from above, coating my dark hair in soft white. The silence of the snow is eerie. Rain comes down and pounds on things. You can hear it; you know it is there. Snow is quiet. If you don’t look, you won’t ever know of it’s presence. Standing along the forest of a place I’ve had nightmares about for two years now, listening to silence of my group coupled with the silence of the snow sends shivers down my spine. It has to be an omen—not a good one.

I am not aware of any of this, though just a moment before it had been foremost in my mind. Now I am frozen where I stand, unable to move or take my eyes away from the figure in the window of what once was Gryffindor Tower. My breath is caught in my throat. It is a ghost from my past, a person I’d never imagined I’d have to see again. Hermione Granger. My one-time best friend who betrayed me in the worst of ways. I hate her so deeply it frightens me sometimes. I wonder how it is possible to go from loving someone to hating them so utterly. Then all I have to do is remind myself of all the pain she has caused the entire wizarding world—her two “best friends” most of all—and I have no more questions.

But seeing her is different. It is so simple to remember old times and pick them apart, looking for any little clue of her hidden dark side. It is easy to let my hatred fill me. But when I see her, even from such a great distance, it is all so much harder. Instead of feeling simple anger, a flurry of emotions overcome me. Regret. Sadness. Things I’d long since stopped feeling.

“Harry, move it!”

I hear Ron’s voice in the back of my mind, but it is distant, as though coming from very far away. I don’t move. I watch as Hermione lifts something to her hand. I can’t tell because of the distance—I can barely tell that it is her—and then she looks up. Our eyes meet. The oddest sensation overcomes me—a powerful mixture of desires. Part of me is desperate to confront her, while the other part wants to run in the other direction. What she’d been holding drops from her hand. It is small and glittery and it falls the seven floors to the ground, where it becomes buried in a snow bank.

“Harry!” Ron yells again. He is right beside me now, shaking me violently. I finally look over to him. My face must give away my emotions, because he frowns. “What is it? We have to move if we don’t want to be caught!”

I can only shake my head. I look back up at the window where Hermione is still as frozen as I am. I cannot see her expression from here and I wonder how she feels being confronted with the aftermath of her diabolical actions long ago. Is she feeling regret? I doubt it. If there is one thing I’ve learned over the past couple of years it is that people like her, people who can so effortlessly betray the ones they love, have no regrets. And you can have none where they are concerned. Perhaps she feels elation. The very idea nauseates me.

Ron turns to look where my eyes are fixed. He squints for a moment, then his eyes grow very wide. “Merlin,” he whispers. Still staring, he pulls me back a step. “Harry, let’s go. She’ll betray us in an instant! She’s already proved that. We’ve got to get out of here!”

The urgency in Ron’s words reaches me. While I have heard everything else he’s said, nothing has really had any meaning. His last comment does. I turn away. Ron is right—Hermione will turn and run to Voldemort the second she moves away from the window.

We run back into the forest and Ron calls out our signal to abort the mission. Our meager forces are spread out wide over an area of about half a mile. I have come out of my shock by now and am back to playing my role as leader of the group. I attempt to appear indifferent and unaffected, but I do not fool myself. Seeing her has shaken me deeply. It is all I can do to hold it together so that I can lead my group safely out of the forest.

I do not remember the trip back to our hideout. I think Ron took over leading the group about halfway through, but he hasn’t brought up anything since. I do know that he was the one that led the group Apparition once we were back at the safe point. We are currently residing in an old, abandoned Muggle cabin deep in a forest in the countryside. We’ll probably move soon—we have to every month or so, or Voldemort and his forces will track us down too easily. It’s relatively easy to find places to stay—most of the country is in ruins. Voldemort controls everyone, Muggle and wizards alike. Most Muggles are dead. Voldemort has no use for them. He massacred them. Many escaped to foreign countries, but it was hard. He has control of most of Europe now. I am unsure of the Dursleys’ status, nor do I particularly care. The main leaders of the Light side have been killed. There aren’t many Light supporters left who have not finally given in, been forced into slavery, or have been killed. Some of us are being held in Azkaban, which was emptied of Death Eaters and filled instead with some of the members of the most notorious rebel groups. Our particular group has not lost a single member to imprisonment. We have been lucky—but there is no telling just how long that luck will last.

Despite the cold, I do not stay inside the cabin once we return. The walls seem to press in on me, suffocating me. I leave the cabin and walk the short distance to the small creek the runs near it. I brush the snow off a large rock and sit down, staring at the rapidly freezing water and the snowy banks. In one area, where the ice is much thicker, I can see a fish trapped within the ice. I feel an odd kinship with that fish. I can relate exactly to how it must feel—swimming along through life as usual one day, then without warning becoming trapped. Knowing your life is seeping away from you slowly, with all you need to continue just beyond your reach.

My mind is buzzing. Just this morning we were all so excited. We thought we actually stood a chance at striking a real blow to the Dark Arts school. We dared not use the passages marked on the Marauder’s Map any longer—Hermione knew of those, and what she knew, the Death Eaters were aware of. Fred and George recently managed to remember the location of a different passage, one not marked on the map. We supposed it had to be very well hidden if my father and his friends hadn’t found it and Fred and George had such trouble locating it as well. We’d felt secure in the knowledge that this time we would win. I should have known better, after everything that’s happened. I should have known that in this world, life was never going to cut me or my group a break. We were all ready, in our positions along the forest’s edge.

And then she comes in.

I find it hard to even say her name. It causes me pain, thinking of how she’d once been my friend, how I’d once even been romantically interested in her, however vaguely. Then she’d betrayed us, leaving us in this bleak position. And again she’s foiled our plans.

My eyes close and the memory I’d been trying so hard to keep at bay is finally released from my meticulously constructed barriers. Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy busting down the doors in the front of Hogwarts school and marching in, shooting down anyone in their way . . . Hermione following dutifully behind them . . .

A hand falls on my shoulder and my eyes snap open. I jump to my feet on instinct. I look over to see Ron standing beside me and relax. He is not looking at me, staring out over the creek just as I had been doing moments before. His face is blank and expressionless as always. He’s never been the same since Voldemort won the war. His whole life was destroyed, more utterly even than mine. His parents and Percy were killed. Bill and Charlie are taking cover in Romania. They can’t get back to England without getting killed themselves. Ginny, Fred, George, and Ron are all with our rebel group. All of them are completely different people. Fred and George rarely joke anymore; Ron is bleak and cynical; and Ginny is withdrawn and silent, often prone to fits of tears with no warning. I guess we’ve all changed. I don’t suppose a person could live through what we have and not have their lives be affected. But the four siblings have been through so much more.

“Are you thinking about her?” asks Ron quietly, breaking the silence. He spat out the last word with an intense anger. If possible, Ron hates Hermione even more than I do. He blames her for the deaths of his parents and brother. Rightly so, I believe.

I nod.

Ron shakes his head. I can see the frown on his face. “Another plan of ours she’s ruined. Don’t pay her any mind, Harry. She’s not worth it. Believe me, I’ve spent enough time thinking about her, playing with everything she once did and told us in my head, feeling the resentment and the betrayal. Don’t bother with it. All you’re doing is allowing her to have further control over you. You’re letting the memory of her prolong the pain that she instigated. She’d want to keep hurting you. Don’t let her.”

Ron’s words are harsh, but true. I know he is right. I try so hard to block her from my mind, but I simply cannot. I have been trying for the past two years. I can usually keep her tucked away in some distant corner of my brain, but she is never fully gone. I doubt she ever will be. You don’t just forget someone who has given you this much grief. And now I can’t even hide her away. Seeing her has put me back at square one, where my every conscious thought is centered around her. I do not tell Ron this.

We say no more; there is nothing left to be said. The silence between us is not quite companionable, but one of understanding. Finally, Ron turns and walks away, muttering something unintelligible about being cold. I do not follow. I sit back down on the rock. It is beginning to snow again. I am no longer even attempting to put her out of my mind. The hours slip past me, snow gradually building around me. I am only wearing a light jacket, but I don’t feel the cold. I am far too lost within my own head. As darkness descends around me, clarity dawns. I know that I will never be able to put Hermione out of my mind until everything is wrapped up. Until every last bit of disbelief I may harbor is banished. Until I understand. I know she betrayed us—for a long time that was all I cared to know. But now I hunger for the answers to the burning questions that have plagued my mind for years: Why did she do it? When did she go over? Was she ever truly our friend, or just a deceptive liar? The only person I can get these answers from is Hermione herself, and I can no longer deny my desperation to know them.

For the first time, I feel ready to face my past—to face her. With hardened resolution, I stand. I tilt my head back and look up at the sky. Patches of deep sapphire speckled with flecks of silver stars show through the stormy clouds. I close my eyes and focus on returning to the safe Apparition point. I am going to see Hermione Granger. I want to put her out of my mind, I tell myself. I want to be able to move on with my life. Yet deep in my head, a voice nags me tauntingly, a voice it takes all my will to ignore: Are you sure you aren’t just foolishly hoping she might still somehow be your friend?

3. How Could You?

A/n: Glad you’re all enjoying it! Though I’d like to say this chapter sheds a bit more light, I have a nasty feeling that it may serve to confuse you more. Some of you are on the right track, but most of you aren’t, from what I’ve seen of your reviews. That’s all I’m saying. :)

~~ 3 ~~

How Could You?

“A hundred days have made me older

Since the last time I saw your pretty face.

A thousand lights have made me colder,

And I don’t think I can look at this the same.”

--Three Doors Down

As I walk, my strides are quick and determined, yet wary at the same time. The sky is clear here, with stars twinkling down innocently upon my head. My feet move deftly through the snow and underbrush, rarely making a sound. I am almost there, at Hogwarts. I am still considering just how I will get Hermione’s attention. And even if I do, what can I possibly say to her? Though my movements are confident, my brain is far from being so. My heart is beginning to pound from nerves and with each step my courage falters a little more. Can I really do this? Should I do this?

I reach the edge of the forest. It is just past midnight now. I am staring out over the frozen lake towards old Gryffindor Tower. I look up at the window in which I’d seen Hermione earlier—if I think very hard I can get a picture of the layout of the tower and remember that it was the window of a girls’ dormitory. The light is on. I consider walking closer and yelling up, but realize quickly just how bad an idea that is. Perhaps I can throw a rock if I get close enough. The chances are slim that my aim is that good, but the years of Quidditch have helped. I kneel down and brush away some snow, searching for any decent-sized rocks that may lie beneath. I collect about ten and stand up again. I glance around uncertainly. This is risky. I am jeopardizing my entire group by doing this and for that I feel terrible. Some leader I am. However, this is something I must do. If I do not, the thought of Hermione will torment me for the rest of my days.

I step out into the open and pause. I half expect sirens to blare and dementors and Death Eaters to swoop down on me. Only silence comes. I let out a sigh and begin to advance toward the base of the tower at a quicker pace. My heart is pounding again. What if she sees me and goes straight to Voldemort? Something within me argues against that—no, she’ll talk to me. Even if she turns me in afterwards, she’ll talk to me. I am not sure which side of my brain I believe and that uncertainty frightens me. I have learned from my experiences never to go into something unless you are sure it isn’t a trap. This is not a pre-set trap, but I could very easily be trapping myself.

I reach the tower and stare up. It seems so much higher while standing below. The light is still flickering. I bite my lower lip. This is my last chance to walk away. I am teetering at the fork in the roads. The easiest path is the path back towards our base—the path that will lead me away from the traitorous Hermione Granger forever. The harder one lies in throwing the rocks and seeking her attention. And whatever path I choose, I cannot go back and change my decision if it is not to my liking.

I clutch a rock in my fist and feel its smooth texture. My eyes are trained determinedly upward. I wind my arm back and throw it. It falls short by about two floors. I don’t hesitate to throw another. My choice was made in that instant and I have no more doubts. I hurl rock after rock. None seems to reach. My arm begins to ache as I refuse to stop or slow. I stoop down to collect some more rocks and throw those, too. Finally, I make it. The rock goes straight into her window. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Now is the moment of truth. What will happen?

***Hermione***

I sit on my bed, staring at the wall in front of me. I’ve hardly moved all day. Since I saw Harry, I’ve been in an odd type of stupor. The walls I’d built around my emotions and memories have fallen and I have spent the day lost in their depths. It took me several minutes to accept it was actually him I had seen. For a moment I’d assumed I was hallucinating. Then I’d seen Ron run out to Harry and I realized that I was imagining nothing.

Seeing them was like a slap in the face, like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head. My two best friends who hate me. I knew they had a right to hate me, of course—I hate myself, after all. I harbor no bad feelings toward them for what they feel for me. However, I do miss them, and it does hurt to know that they loathe me so. It’s hard to remember that what I did was in their best interest. I haven’t managed to see the good side of it all yet. Certainly, they are alive, but their way of life doesn’t appear to be much better than mine. And keeping someone alive to live this kind of torture is not kindness—it is cruelty.

Ron’s expression when he saw me is indelibly etched in my mind. His expression of pure anger was enough to send shivers down my spine. Harry did not appear angry, simply startled and horrified and . . . unless I’m much mistaken . . . hurt. His expression was far more painful than Ron’s. Once they’d retreated, I had collapsed on my bed, crying.

I had not intended to live to see this hour of the day. Had Harry not appeared when he had, I’d be dead now. Death is still painfully tempting, like I am a dog with a steak being dangled in front of it. But now this dog is chained once more, with the steak just out of reach. I do not intend to retrieve the knife. Perhaps it is my own way of punishing myself for what I have done, or perhaps I still hope that one day all this will end. I’m not sure why, nor do I care. Seeing them has changed everything. It is some kind of an omen. Good or bad, I cannot tell you. I just have a deep feeling that something new is coming. That something grand and huge has been set into motion and I must be here to see it through.

Then the rock soars through my window.

It lands at the foot of my bed. I stare at it dumbly for a few moments, unmoving. All is silent and still. Then I move. I stand and walk over to it. I pick it up. It is small and round. Someone has thrown it in here. Who?

I walk over to my window and look down. Darkness is all I can see. I look toward the ground, though I cannot imagine anyone managing to throw a rock from that far. I squint my eyes through the blackness and manage to see a vague, distant figure standing below. Not for the first time, I pine for my wand. The Death Eaters confiscate it from me except for classes. I am not trusted. As I did not show up for classes today, I did not receive my wand. Therefore, I cannot light it and shine it down.

The person below seems to be thinking along the same lines. In an instant, I go from being unable to see due to lack of light to being blinded by the brightness. A moment later, the concentrated beam of light moves so that I am not staring directly into it. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust and when they do, my heart stands still. It is Harry.

***Harry***

I stare up at her. I can see her clearly, though it takes her a moment to see me. I know when she does, because her mouth falls open and an expression of surprise comes over her face. I motion for her to come down. She doesn’t seem to get the idea at first. I have to motion it several times before understanding dawns on her face. She disappears from the window and I feel mistrust and doubt tighten my stomach. Is she coming down or going to betray me?

She is out of sight for at least a minute before she reappears, startling me. I assumed she’d left. She throws something down at me. I back up instinctively. I don’t hear whatever it is land for a long time, so I assume that it is not something that would make sound on impact. I stoop down, using my wand light to search the ground. I see a piece of paper lying in the snow and I pick it up. My fingers are numb and I fumble to unfold it.

Harry,

I will try to come down. I can’t guarantee anything, though.

I could very well be stopped while making my descent, and

should I be, I will be led away for punishment. Give me fif-

teen minutes. If I do not arrive in that amount of time, I will

not arrive at all. Leave should this deadline pass.

--Hermione

I stare at the note for several moments. Fifteen minutes . . . that would be plenty of time for her to set the Death Eaters on me. I look back up and she is gone. It is a horribly strange sensation, holding the note, knowing that she had written it moments before and that I will soon be coming face to face with her for the first time in years—if she does not betray me, that is.

I back into the shadows and crouch down. I keep my back to the stone and watch alertly as my mind considers what I will say to her. What is there to say to someone who has done this much damage and pain to you? I will do my best to keep myself under control. I do not want to lose control. I want understand everything that has happened, and going wild on her will not help my chances of that.

I wait for at least ten minutes before any movement is seen. I see a figure moving silently from the front doors. I tense and prepare to move. Whether I am facing an attack or not is a mystery, which spawns fear in me and sends my adrenaline rushing.

A moment later, I recognize the figure to be Hermione and she appears to be alone. I stand and walk cautiously towards her. My wand is clutched firmly in my fist, pointed at her. I do not trust her enough to lower it to my side.

She raises her hands when she sees me with my wand. She stops. I cannot see her face. Lighting my wand, I step nearer. I keep my face blank and emotionless. Looking closer, I can see she is shaking. I look her over. Her face and eyes are dead and hollow looking, much like Sirius’s right after he got out of Azkaban. They’re no longer the brilliant cinnamon brown they once were—instead they are a dull grayish color. Her hair is shorter, cut to frame her face, stopping half an inch below her ears. She dons green-lined Slytherin robes and appears frightened.

“Nice robes,” I comment bitterly. I am unable to stop myself.

She does not reply. She lowers her eyes. “You can put your wand down, Harry,” she sighs. Her voice is full of sadness. “I don’t have mine.”

“I don’t believe you,” I inform her bluntly. “Why would you come out here unarmed to face me? Just toss it down. Unlike you, I’m honorable—I won’t attack you unless you attack me, no matter how tempting the idea may be.”

She flinches at my harsh words and makes no attempt to defend herself. “I don’t have my wand except for classes. They don’t let me keep it.”

I snort. “Sure they don’t. A loyal Death Eater like yourself deprived of your wand? I doubt it. However, if you wish to keep it, go ahead. I will not lower mine.” I glare at her. “Before we say anything more, I want to make a few points. First, I am not here to give you any type of a second chance. You are the biggest traitor the Light side has ever seen and I will never forgive you for everything you’ve done to hurt us all. Secondly, I don’t trust you. If you intend to attack me, or betray me, I suggest you tell me now. I will kill you if you betray us a second time. That is not an exaggeration. I promise you that I will hunt you down until you are dead if you betray anything we say here tonight to one of your Death Eater pals.” I am panting now as I finish. My breath is coming out in short, angry gasps and I can feel the red heat in my face. I am losing the composure I’d promised myself I’d keep.

Hermione is staring at the ground. She looks close to tears and says nothing.

“Well?” I demand. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to say? Come on, defend yourself, I know you’re dying to.” My words are harsh and bitter and I know from her expression I am hurting her more with every word. Perhaps the worst part is that I am glad. That I want to hurt her. Don’t I have that right? After all she’s done to us, a little verbal torture isn’t out of the question. And why should this hurt her anyway? She’s the cool, composed Death Eater traitor. It’s her own fault I have these things to throw at her.

“Please, stop,” she begs, her eyes meeting mine. I can see the pain in them. “I know what I did was horrible and wrong. I know I’ve done unspeakable things. I don’t expect your forgiveness or trust . . . I could never expect that after all I’ve done. But you don’t understand the whole story . . .”

“Well that’s why I’m here tonight, Hermione!” I cry, laughing bitterly and spreading my arms wide. “To understand. So why don’t you help me with that?”

Hermione groans and looks down. She shakes her head and her trembling voice says a moment later, “Harry, I can’t. I can’t tell you certain things . . . many things. What they’ll do to me if they ever found out . . . what they’ll do to me just for being here tonight . . .” She shivers and for a moment I wonder just what it is they would do to her. Then I put the thought from my mind. She’s going for sympathy. It’s all an act. Besides, what do I care if the other Death Eaters hurt her? She deserves what she gets. She’s put herself where she is now—she’s put everyone where they are now. But still, in the back of my mind, I wonder . . .

I let out another humorless laugh. “Of course you can’t. Can’t betray your people, can you? Of course, it was so easy for you to betray Ron and I—the two people who were your friends beyond condition, who would have sacrificed their lives for you. The three of us went that deep, you know, even if you never felt it. I’d have stepped in front of any curse for you. Ron would have done the same. We assumed you’d do the same for us. Then you did the exact opposite—you ruined our lives.” My anger is beyond control now. “You know who you’re like, don’t you? You’re just the same as Wormtail, going against his friends and betraying my parents—getting them killed. You’ve done just the same to Ron and I!” I spit.

I can see Hermione flinching at my every word. “Harry, please . . . I know what I did. But you don’t understand everything.”

“Then tell me!” I cry. My anger vanishes and instead is replaced by desperation. My mind is begging her to give me some excuse, some reason to justify what she’s done. I know I will not believe it, but I want to put my mind to rest somehow, even if it is with lies. It’s so hard to imagine her as the traitor she is, even after all the time that has passed. “Hermione, I want to know. If you didn’t do what it appears you did, then justify yourself.”

She just shakes her head. “I can’t . . .” she whispers.

And with that my anger returns. My voice rises as adrenaline and hatred flow unchecked through my boiling veins. “Well, then why don’t I explain some things to you? You want to know the effects of this mess you’ve put us in? I’ll give you the more personal ones. Molly and Arthur Weasley? Percy? Guess what—they’re all dead! Bill and Charlie are stuck in another county! Ron and Ginny and Fred and George have been hurt beyond belief. You have no idea what this has done to them. If you think I hate you, you should see what Ron would do if he saw you. He wouldn’t give you the chance to escape—he’d kill you without hesitation. And I can’t say that he wouldn’t be justified in doing that. Professor McGonagall? Flitwick? Madam Pomfrey? All dead!”

Hermione is sobbing openly now and begging me quietly to stop. Somewhere deep within me, I can hear my reasonable side call out to me to do as she is asking. Calling out to me that I’ve hurt her enough—that I don’t have to keep this up. However, I am too far into my anger. I have one last ball to throw her, the most painful, and I cannot help but hurl it at full speed.

“By the way, have you thought much about your parents?” I ask bitterly. She bites her lip and I know I have her. “You want to know something about them? Voldemort killed them himself. You probably already knew that, though, right? But did you know that he tortured them to death? I’m not sure why myself, as you did him such a great victory, but he did. You didn’t try to stop him, Hermione? Did you even care about them?”

I was right in thinking that she didn’t know this. Hermione collapses to her knees in the snow and covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes are large and glassy. She is positively trembling. Her sobs are the only sound echoing into the night as I try to reign my anger in. I am beginning to regret using such a harsh tone. Not all the pain she appears to be in is an act. Hermione was never a great liar or actor. She couldn’t pull this off without some reality seeping through.

“I think it’s time I leave,” I say after a long moment. “I hope you have a nice life. You sacrificed an awful lot to get it.” I turn and begin to walk away calmly into the night, intending to leave her there without looking back, just as she left Ron and I without looking back. But her call stops me.

“Harry!”

I turn around. The pain on her face is almost unbearable to me. Much as I may deny it, I still have some subtle feelings deep down for her—enough for me to care whether she is alive or dead, hurt or well. I had not been lying when I’d told her I was once willing to die for her. A bond that deep takes a long time to fully break. “What?” I ask coldly.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, looking away. She’s still sobbing. “I really am.”

“Then you’d do something,” I say, my voice not bitter, but sad. “You wouldn’t have allowed all this to go on as long as it has.”

“I’m scared!” she cries. “Every day I live in terror. You can’t understand the way it feels.”

“I think I can,” I say in a low voice. “I live in terror, too. I never know whether or not Voldemort will come after us each day. We live in constant fear.”

“It’s different,” she protests. “You’re frightened at the possibility and the hardship. My fear is a lot more solid. Do you know what everyone here thinks of me? You assume they hold me in such high regard. They don’t—you’d understand why if you knew everything that had really happened. Any chance they get, they’ll hurt me.” Her eyes are haunted and tortured as she continues. “Do you know what punishments consist of here for me? Beatings, pain, torture . . . Harry, what they’ve done to me in the past, what they’ll inevitably do to me in the future . . . if you’d lived through it too, you’d know what I was talking about. It’s really hard to gather the courage to do anything here, knowing that if it fails then your life will plummet even farther down the trail of misery in unimaginable ways.”

I am listening to her avidly, my emotions confused. So they really do hurt her. Or possibly it is more of an act to win my sympathy and trust. But the look of terror in her eyes cannot be faked, not by the most talented of actors.

She continues. “Then, this morning I finally manage to take the step necessary to try and end all this. And then . . .” She looks at me. “I see you. And now nothing’s changed. Again. Goodbye, Harry. And know that I really am sorry for so many things. I hope you have the strength to change the things I’m too cowardly to try to alter.”

She turns and walks away. I do not call after her, momentarily stunned by the power and sincerity in her words. Is it possible that everything she’s said tonight is the truth? Or am I still just hungering desperately for some last shred of goodness left in her?

She disappears back into the castle and I stand frozen for a moment. Finally, I sigh and turn, intending to walk away. My foot plummets into a hole in the snow mound I am standing on and sinks a few feet down. I claw at the snow and pull myself back up. Once I’m standing on solid ground again, I glance down and see something glittering in the moonlight that has been dislodged from the snow bank. I reach down and pick it up. It is a knife—a dagger, really. This must be what Hermione had dropped this morning.

Suddenly, I consider what she last said to me. “Then, this morning I finally manage to take the step necessary to try and end all this . . .” My eyes widen as I realize the full meaning of what she’d said. She had been intending to kill herself. My legs feel weak and I collapse to the snow. All the things I said to her, about her parents and the teachers and Ron . . . if she’d managed to find the strength to avoid killing herself before, I doubt she will hold out now.

And for the first time in a long time, I truly and deeply care.

4. Risking it All

~~ 4 ~~

Risking it All

“All your purposes are gone,

Nothing’s right and nothing’s wrong,

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

Feel no sorrow, feel no pain.”

--Three Doors Down

I do not return until close to four a.m. Ron and Hagrid confront me angrily as I enter. I have no patience for their questions and demands. I tell them harshly to leave me be and return to my room, intending to get some sleep.

My intentions are not carried out. Every time I close my eyes, images flash beneath my eyelids, sending me tossing and turning. The worst come when I manage to fully doze off. No longer are they mere images—they have transformed into fully-fledged nightmares. Seeing Hermione has brought them back in full force. I have not had nightmares to this particular degree in a long while. Worst of all are the memories of the day Hermione turned traitor openly. The day Ron and I realized we had been being used for Merlin knew how long. I saw her standing before me, at Voldemort’s side, head held high and proud as Voldemort rounded up the whole school. I am nearly sick at the memory. Oh, how I had clung desperately to the belief that she was under the Imperius Curse. All along, though, I think I knew that she was not. Then the disbelief had vanished, replaced by a burning anger that had held out until just yesterday. Then I had seen her. And now I do not know how anything stands.

I give up after about an hour of attempted sleep, knowing my efforts are wasted. If I am to lay awake for the rest of the night, I might as well make something out of the hours. Running fingers through my unruly hair, I step out of the room I share with Ron, Fred, and George. The other three have not been in here since I came back. I venture to the kitchen and see Ron sitting at the table, his head in his hands. A mug of coffee is in front of him, steam rising from it slowly. It appears untouched.

“Hey, mate,” I say softly, stopping in the doorway.

Ron’s head snaps up and he looks at me. I’m not sure what I expect to see on his face—anger, probably. Anger at me for running off without telling anyone, jeopardizing us all, and then returning only to tell him rudely that I didn’t want to talk about it. His face contains no anger, just a deep, reminiscing sadness. I can tell it is one of the times that he is allowing himself to consider the past and the possibilities had Hermione not betrayed us. He doesn’t do it too often any longer, and when he does you know he’s really upset. I have a terrible feeling that I have brought on this particular attack of nostalgia and I feel bad for that.

“Hello,” he says, his voice hoarse. I walk over and take the seat across from him. He motions at the coffee mug. “Want some?”

I nod. “Yeah. After the night I’ve had, I assure you I’ll be getting no sleep. I already tried and it didn’t work out too well.”

He says nothing to this comment. He simply stands and pours me some. It is black, but I do not care, simply happy for the caffeine. The steaming liquid burns my tongue but I take no notice. Ron is still not looking at me and I am beginning to feel more than a little guilty.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier,” I say finally. “I just took off on a whim. I’m the leader here—I have no right to up and leave with no warning. It was wrong of me. And I’m also sorry for being so short with you when I came back.”

Ron just shrugs and shakes his head. “No big deal. You’re back. That’s what counts.” He is silent for another long moment before he looks up. I can see the pain in his eyes. “I thought they’d captured you, Harry. Call me paranoid, but I was positive that’s what had happened. I went nuts. Ask anyone around here. I’ve already lost my parents and Percy; I’ve as good as lost Bill and Charlie for all the help they’re doing us over in Romania; I’ve lost Ginny, Fred and George in the sense that we’re all so divided anymore; and I’ve lost Hermione in the worst of ways. Thinking I’d lost you too . . . I really lost it there, pal.”

And there it goes, the truckload of guilt that has been threatening to tip has poured over onto me. I wonder exactly how it was that Ron lost it. I’ll have to ask Fred or George later. “I’m sorry,” I say again, though I am aware of how horribly inadequate it sounds.

Ron shrugs again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just sort of out of it right now.” He looks up, directly into my eyes. “Though I am interested in knowing exactly where it was you took off to. You look like you’ve aged about a hundred years since we last saw you. What happened to you?”

I am unsure of how Ron will take what I have done. He hates Hermione with a blazing passion the likes of which I’ve never seen. Will he see my actions as a betrayal to him, to this group? Will he hate me? I consider how to break it to him. Because I know that no matter how he may react, he deserves the explanation.

“I went back to Hogwarts,” I say finally. I offer no more of an explanation, waiting to see if he fits the puzzle pieces together himself. I don’t dare look at him, but I can sense his eyes burning into me. I feel as though we have switched places—now I am the one hiding my eyes whilst he watches my every move.

“Oh?” says Ron, almost nonchalantly. Any of his acquaintances would have taken this statement as being calm and casual. I, however, know Ron much better than most other people. I can hear the distinct undercurrent of bitter anger in his voice. In that second, my head snaps up. He knows. He’s known all along that whatever I was doing had to do with Hermione.

I call him on it. “How much do you know?” I demand.

Ron just shrugs, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “Not much. I didn’t really fit it all together until you came back. What we spoke of before you left . . . how you reacted when you saw her back at Hogwarts . . . I figured you’d gone to see her again.” The smile is gone now, and his eyes are burning deep into mine, searching for any hidden truths. “Tell me, though—why did you go back to see her? What could possibly be so important that you had to go to her?”

“She’s the only one I could go to, Ron,” I explain, aware my own words don’t make much sense. “I just had to talk to her. I’ve needed to since this whole thing began, you know? I couldn’t put my mind to rest until I did.”

Ron nods and I can see in his eyes that he understands. I am beginning to feel glad that I have caught him in a mellow moment. There were other times with a proclamation like this would have had us shouting at one another. “So did it help?” he asks.

I consider. Finally, I shake my head. “No,” I say softly. “I don’t think it did.”

“Why not?”

“I was expecting her to be cold and mean and . . . deceitful. I just plainly expected her to be some evil, callous, uncaring monster. I imagined our encounter to be brief and filled with anger. I figured she’d insult me; tell me off for being ignorant enough to believe her or something. Then I’d turn and walk away and I’d know that all these hours I’ve spent wondering whether or not she might truly still be good were wasted. That she was evil all along. It would have put my mind to rest. I could have put her behind me, in some sense. I would have been able to move on, knowing once and for all that she is and always will be a traitor.” I stop and shake my head, taking another sip of my coffee and massaging my temples. “It didn’t turn out that way. She was so . . . upset and . . . emotional and. . . . Ron, she seemed to be in so much pain. As it turned out, I was the one that lost it. I started screaming at her. I actually threw it in her face that her parents were tortured to death.”

I can see Ron’s wince. I know he is thinking of his own parents, and thanking Merlin that at least they didn’t die by torture. “Yes, well, she deserved it. What did she do, shrug and walk away?” His words are harsh, but I cannot help remembering that I’d assumed she’d react the same way.

I shake my head. “No. She started crying. I don’t think she knew . . . she was so upset I started to feel sorry for her. She kept telling me that I didn’t know the whole story, but she was too afraid to tell me. Kept going on about the punishments the Death Eaters would give her. She made it sound like she was some sort of a prisoner.”

“Sympathy,” says Ron calmly. “She’s playing you again, Harry. Of course she’s not just going to be blunt and insult you. She’ll want to entwine herself around you again, get more information, and capture us. Don’t fall for it.”

I am not so sure. Perhaps it is as Ron says, and I am falling into her beautifully laid trap once more—I’ve certainly considered the possibility myself. But that does not stop my doubts. I explain about the knife and my suspicions of her attempted suicide.

Ron just shakes his head. “She wasn’t going to kill herself, Harry. She’s probably planting it all as evidence to trick you and get more sympathy. And besides, even if she did kill herself, I’m not going to be losing any sleep over it.” He stands and stretches. He pours his half-drank coffee into the sink and wanders toward the door. “I’ll see you later. I want to see if I can’t get an hour or two of sleep before morning.”

Ron disappears out the doorway and I suddenly feel quite alone. Certainly, I’m alone in the kitchen; I’m on my own a lot and it does not bother me. I’m not alone in that sense. However, watching Ron’s back retreat, I have a terrible feeling of being on my own in the sense that no one supports me. Of course they are my friends—I know that without question. But they don’t feel what I do when it comes to Hermione. I can see why they don’t—they didn’t see her and talk to her. Even if they had, after what she did, I can’t say I’d blame them if they still turned away. But I can’t turn away. Going to see Hermione has put me right in the middle of this mess. I can’t just leave it here. There is more to all this and I will not stop until I get the whole story. Yet no one else seems to support me in this decision.

I sigh and stand, leaving my coffee on the table and not caring that Ginny, the biggest neat freak of all of us, will most likely bite my head off for it in a few hours. I take a seat on the old couch in front of the fireplace. The couch is ripped in many places and some springs poke up in certain areas. I sit staring into the flames. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that light is beginning to dawn outside the window.

I hear footsteps behind me and close my eyes, wondering who it is that will disrupt my solitude. I turn my head and see Hagrid walking over to the couch. He is so tall that he has to duck his head a little to walk through the house, because of the low ceilings. He sits down beside me and I can hear the couch screech in protest. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“All righ’ there, Harry?” he asks me quietly. I nod and Hagrid continues. “’Cause yeh gave us all quite the scare there earlier. An’ yeh don’ look so good righ’ now.” I say nothing and make no motion of response. It’s not that I dislike Hagrid’s concern, but I am simply not in the mood to talk. Hagrid, however, seems determined to start a conversation and his next comment gets the desired result: “I heard you an’ Ron talkin’ abou’ Hermione in the kitchen.”

I look at him, not particularly surprised. The house is small; people can’t help overhearing things sometimes. “Eavesdropping, then?” I tease weakly.

“Not intentionally, I swear ter it. I jus’ walked by an’ happened ter overhear her name. I paused ter listen.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “I think I heard most everythin’.”

I nod again. “So go ahead then—read me the riot act. I expect to get it by every single person in this house before the morning’s over, so get your turn over with now.”

Hagrid sighs. “Harry, I ain’ here ter yell at yeh an’ criticize yer decisions. I trust yer judgment. But I can’ say I trust Hermione. An’ I don’ think yeh should get involved any deeper with her. Yeah, a large reason fer my sayin’ tha’ is our safety. But I also don’ wan’ ter see yeh get hurt again. She’s a great con artist. We all fell fer her. We all wanted so badly ter trust her fer a while there. But tha’ time has passed. We know she’s bad. If yeh feel sorry fer her, she’ll be able ter use tha’ ter gain yer trust—an’ then she’ll betray yeh again.”

I wince at his final words and put my head in my hands. “I know. Believe me, I know. I don’t know what to think about her, Hagrid. But you didn’t see her! The way she looked . . . I just can’t believe it’s all an act. Maybe part of it, yeah. But when she was talking to me about being afraid all the time, and whatever it is that the Death Eaters do to her, the fear in her eyes and in her voice was real. That much I can swear to.”

Hagrid’s face takes on a look of sadness. “So yeh think they bin hurtin’ her?”

I take a moment to consider, and then nod. “I guess so. I don’t see what else could cause such a reaction. And Hagrid, I know she’s caused us enough suffering. I know what Ron would say—I know he’d be happy to let her be tortured to death at the hands of the Death Eaters. But I couldn’t live with that. I still remember the old times and . . . maybe all along she was just acting, but I still feel like at one point we really were friends. And I just can’t let something like that happen.”

Hagrid shows no reaction for a moment, and then looks at me. “Harry, I know where yer comin’ from. If she were ter die fer wha’ she’s done . . . I could accept tha’. She’d deserve it. But she doesn’ deserve ter suffer as much as yeh suspect she is. Ter say tha’ she did deserve it would be ter sink ter her level. I feel the same way you do—traitor though she is, she was once a friend, an’ we should at least try ter prevent her from sufferin’. Ron an’ his siblin’s have lost more than any of us. It’s no surprise he wouldn’ be willin’ ter see this the way we do. I can’ blame him fer tha’.”

“No, I can’t either,” I agree. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not sure, Harry. Jus’ remember—whatever yeh decide ter do, do it with the knowledge o’ the group and make sure yeh aren’ jeopardizing any of us.” Hagrid stands and pats my shoulder with one of his large hands, then wanders back down the hall. I stare once more into the dying flames of the fire. Now what?

* ~ * ~ *

Somehow, my antics the night before managed to stay between Ron, Hagrid and I. Ginny, Fred, George, Neville, Katie, and Angelina were all kept in the dark. I can’t help but watch the group at breakfast. Such a small, pathetic band of rebels. These were the only people Ron and I had managed to safely get out of Gryffindor common room and down the secret passage to safety before the Death Eaters took us all. I know where Sirius is—he is hiding out somewhere with Dumbledore’s group—an ally of ours. We do not know specifically where they are located in case one of us is ever captured and fed Veritaserum. The same goes for them about us. Their group consists of Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus Lupin, the real Mad-Eye Moody, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher, and a few Aurors and other Ministry personnel. They call themselves the Order of the Phoenix; we don’t call ourselves anything.

I notice Ron and Hagrid watching me rather closely as I eat, but I do not return their gazes. Many of the others demand to know where I’d gone. When I refuse to speak of it, saying that it did not matter, it only makes them more determined. By the end of breakfast, I have managed to successfully piss off almost everyone with the exception of Ron and Hagrid, as they already know, and Fred and George who plainly refuse to give up and find my determination to be a delightful challenge.

Fred and George tail me everywhere I go until I get fed up with them, yell at them, and lock myself in our room. I climb out the window and sit outside on the tree stump below the window, watching the sun come up and cast it’s grayish rays over the white and green trees. I can’t figure out what to do about Hermione. Should I follow Ron’s advice, Hagrid’s, or my own? I’m leaning toward Hagrid’s . . . he makes the most sense. But I don’t know what to do. The only way I can stop the Death Eaters from hurting her is to take her away from Hogwarts, and that would be putting us in jeopardy. Voldemort would figure out that it was us and he’d hunt us even more viciously. No, I can’t do that. But then what can I do?

After a half hour or so of thought, I climb back through the window. I throw on a thick jacket, as I am shivering from the cold. I have decided that I need more information before I do anything—and the only person I can get that information from is Hermione. I unlock the door and am relieved to see that Fred and George aren’t determined enough to still be sitting there. I figure that had this all taken place back before Voldemort’s takeover, they would have been persistent enough to go outside and climb through the window. Or use one of their own inventions to blast the door in.

Most of the others are sitting in the living room when I walk in. They all stop their conversations immediately and look at me. I clear my throat and say, “I’m going out. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I just have some unfinished business to take care of. I should be back by nightfall. If I’m not back by tomorrow morning, then you can start worrying.”

“Are you going back to wherever you were last night?” asks Ginny quietly.

“Yeah. Not everything got taken care of.” I dare to look at Hagrid and Ron. Hagrid gives me a small wink and I figure that so far he approves of my course of action. Ron gives me a stare of sadness and possibly even pity. My chest tightens at his facial expression, but I manage to say, “Ron, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

“Probably for the best. I’m thinking a lot more clearly than you,” he says calmly. I can see the flash in his eyes. His mellow mood has deteriorated and he is growing angry with what he considers my foolishness.

I make no reply to this. I head straight for the door without another word and step out into the frosty, biting winter air. A desolate wind sweeps the snow and the gray blankets of snow clouds overtake the sun. I close my eyes and begin the process of Apparition.

* ~ * ~ *

It is around eleven a.m. when I reach the forest’s edge again. It is a long hike between here and the safe Apparition point. I am beginning to wonder why I have come now. I won’t be able to make any move until nightfall, when I told my group to expect me back by. I figure I had simply needed to get away from everyone. So I will wait.

I decide that climbing a tree would be safest. I will have a better vantage point and people will be less likely to see me. The trees’ trunks are coated in slippery frost and it takes me many attempts and painful falls before I make it to the safety of a low, bushy branch.

The silence of the snow that is beginning to fall around me is relaxing. Uncomfortable and cold as the tree is, I settle back and close my eyes, letting the flakes of snow speckle my hair and listening to the calming quiet.

I must have been falling asleep when I heard the disruption. Suddenly the silence is broken and I struggle up from my near-unconsciousness. I peer over the tree branch and see two figures making their way toward the Whomping Willow. One figure is tall and regal. He has a firm hand clamped on the shoulder of a smaller figure, which has its head bowed. After a moment, I realize that the taller one is Lucius Malfoy himself, new Headmaster of Hogwarts. Of course, it isn’t called Hogwarts any longer; Lucius and Voldemort have renamed the school Puerclades. I refuse to call it that. To call it by their name would be to admit defeat. It will always be Hogwarts to me.

I focus on the smaller figure now. It has to be a student. But why would the Headmaster lead a student out to the Whomping Willow? I must squint my eyes through the snow to make out any details on the distant figure. It takes me several seconds, then my eyes widen. It is Hermione.

I watch Lucius take a long stick and prod the knot at the base of the tree. It goes still and he shoves Hermione down into the secret passage below it. He lets go of the knot and jumps in himself.

My heart is thudding in confusion. What is going on? I am unsure, but I know that I do not like it. Whatever Lucius is doing cannot be good. It is obvious, even from such a great distance, that Hermione is not going with him willingly. I jump down. I am going to see what is happening. I am risking exposure and I know it, but I simply cannot wait here and wonder what is happening out of my range of sight.

I make a jog through the snow towards the tree. I pray no one watches from the windows of the castle. I begin to slow as I near its trunk—I am a fast sprinter, but the run from the forest to the willow is more than just a dash. It takes me a minute or two to reach it, and by the time I arrive, a stitch in my side is causing me an agony I force myself to ignore. I grab the same stick Lucius used and prod the knot. I try not to make any noise as I descend the steps into the dark, concrete hallway beneath the tree. I dig my wand out of my pocket and walk forward cautiously. There is a blind corner about fifteen yards ahead and I am certain that I can hear voices from around the corner, though I cannot make out what is being said.

My steps are slow and quiet. The fifteen yards creeps by so slowly I begin to think hours have passed. I am only halfway there when I hear a voice ring out: “Crucio!”

My eyes widen as I hear Hermione’s anguished scream. I no longer bother with being careful. I dash wildly for the corner. By the time I reach it, the screaming has stopped. I round it, my wand out threateningly, but I see nothing. However, I can still hear Lucius’s angry words, dull thuds, and Hermione’s sobs.

A Wall of Invisibility, I realize and whisper, “Acclaro!” The Wall of Invisibility vanishes and I can now see what it was hiding. Lucius, who has his back turned to me, does not seem to notice my presence. Hermione is on the floor and he is kicking her. She sees me and her eyes grow wide with hope. It is just enough to attract Lucius’s attention to me.

He turns and sneer comes over his face. “Harry Potter!” he cries in delight, his wand pointed at me. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“Drop your wand and let her go,” I say in a warning tone. “I swear I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Lucius laughs. “So you care about your dear Mudblood traitor now, do you? What happened to ‘You betrayed us all—I hope the Death Eaters give you what you deserve’?”

I wince inwardly, remembering that those were the words I’d written in a Howler I’d sent to Hermione a few months after her betrayal. I grit my teeth and hiss, “Doesn’t matter what I think of her actions. I’m not letting you hurt her. So get away from her.”

“If you want the girl then come and get her! Let’s see just how good a fighter you are. Petrificus Totalus!”

A bolt of purple light sweeps towards me, and I dodge deftly. I whisper quietly, “Furnuculo!”

My own spell, murmured quietly enough so that Lucius does not know what I have aimed at him, does the trick. He does not manage to dodge my spell in time and angry red boils begin to pop out everywhere on his face and hands. He roars in anger and hollers, “CRUCIO!”

Again I manage to dodge, though this time it is a much closer call. I see out of the corner of my eye that Hermione is beginning to crawl towards me while Lucius is preoccupied. I hope she manages to make it soon so we can run. Lucius is a much more experienced dueler—I can’t hold out much longer. “Stupefy!” I holler.

Lucius jumps aside and the curse misses. He gives me a sneer. “Is that your best, Potter? Truly pathetic. How you’ve managed to evade us for so long is beyond me. Engorgio!”

This time his spell hits. My left arm begins to swell uncontrollably. It is an uncomfortable sensation, and it loses me some of my mobility, but I’m simply glad he missed my wand arm. I raise my one good arm and shout, “Reducio!” Then, a moment later, while he is still preoccupied dodging my first curse, I whisper: “Jevolosia!” He successfully dodges my first curse, as I had intended him to—but he has jumped right into the path of the Throwing Curse. It hits him in the stomach and he soars backwards, hitting the far wall. “Expelliarmus!” I howl while he is down and I see his wand flying toward me. I toss it to Hermione, as it is evident that she has no wand, and I pull her to her feet. She is hurt and leans against me heavily. I hear her groan in pain.

“Come on, we have to get out of here, he won’t be down for long!” I snap, dragging her along.

She struggles against me and when I release her cautiously, she turns to face Lucius. She raises her wand and yells: “Stupefy!” Her voice is muffled with pain, but the curse hits anyway, and I can see Lucius slump. Hermione falls against me once more, her hand going limp and the wand dropping from her fingers. I don’t stop to retrieve it, focusing my strength on pulling her along down the corridor. She is nearly unconscious and I can see blood on her face, trickling slowly out of the corner of her mouth.

We make it to the steps and climb upward. I cannot reach for the stick to prod the knot while at the same time holding Hermione, so I make a mad dash for safety. One of the willow’s branches whips my back and slices through my jacket and into my skin. I can feel warm blood, but do not stop to inspect the injury, allowing myself no more than a slight wince at the sting spreading through me.

Finally, we make it to the forest’s edge. I collapse onto the snow once we have cleared the first row of trees. Hermione is fully unconscious now. I stare up at the gray sky above, panting. Here I lay, holding the traitor that put us in the position we are now, and having just basically compromised us all to stop her from being tortured. I have gone against everything I promised my group.

What have I done?

5. AN Issue of Trust

~~ 5 ~~

An Issue of Trust

“And now she turns

This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams

The fire burns

I realize that nothing’s as it seems.”

--Sting

To say this is bad would be the understatement of the century. I force myself to my feet, fighting to keep at bay my exhaustion. The silence that had seemed so peaceful and calm just minutes before now seems frightening and deadly. The snow falling around me no longer holds the magic it did before.

We must get farther away from the school, I know. We are still in plain sight if anyone should look close enough. I cannot pick up Hermione—her body is dead weight. I drag her through the snow, further back into the forest. I am well aware of the trail I am making in the snow. It will not be hard for any pursuers to follow me, but there’s nothing I can do about this.

Once I am out of sight of the school, I collapse again. I am shivering from the cold and my heart is racing. What am I to do now? I can’t leave her here. She could freeze to death and even if she didn’t, then she would have to go back to the school and Lucius Malfoy. If I had intended for that to happen, I never would have rescued her in the first place. Therefore, I must take her with me. But where do I take her to? I can’t take her back to the hideout. Letting her know where it is would be a deadly mistake. Even if she weren’t to betray its location willingly, under the influence of Veritaserum, she would not have a choice. Not to mention the fact that Ron, Fred, and George would probably kill her on sight. So that leaves me back at base one. Where do I go?

Before I go anywhere, Hermione has to wake up. I can’t carry her or drag her all the way back to the safe Apparition point, which I know I will have to go to no matter where I take her. As she was not stunned, I cannot simply use a spell to wake her up. She has to come around on her own and the longer it takes, the more danger we’re in. Lucius will be expected back at the school and people will begin to wonder what is taking him so long. Someone will come down to see. Even if they don’t, the Stunning Spell will gradually wear off. Any way I look at it, we’re in a terrible situation.

I am beginning to see what Ron and Hagrid were worried about. I was taking risks when it came to Hermione. They were worried I would take a risk that would fail and leave me in a bad place—leave us all in bad place. Their worry was not unfounded, I now see. They were perfectly correct, and unfortunately, it took my mistake to make me realize that.

I sit here shivering and berating myself for at least fifteen minutes before I feel Hermione beginning to stir beside me. By this time, I have worked out a semi-decent plan. It is the best I can come up with, anyway. I will take her to the old cave where Sirius hid out in my fourth year. That is our safe Apparition point, so there is a Camouflage Charm over the front of it. No one knows the cave is there. We will be safe there and I can contact Sirius from there. He will help me decide what to do.

“Harry?” Hermione says beside me. Her voice is hoarse and quiet. Her eyes are squinted. “Where are we? It’s so cold . . .”

“We’re in the forest outside Hogwarts. It’s snowing,” I say bluntly. While I do not feel the same hatred for her, I still do not trust her and will not show her compassion. If Ron is right, that is what she wants and though I do not want to believe that, I know it is still a very real possibility.

She struggles to sit up. She is shivering. For the first time I notice that she is in her Hogwarts school uniform, which includes a skirt. Her cloak covers her, but I imagine that she still must be very cold. I am cold and I have on a thick jacket and jeans. I realize that her uniform was mostly green and I narrow my eyes unconsciously. No, she is not wearing a Hogwarts uniform. She is wearing a Puerclades uniform.

She does not appear to notice my angry facial expression. She cries out in pain and clutches her stomach. I remember that Lucius was kicking her. I kneel down beside her, feeling sorry for her despite my vow not to. “What hurts?” I ask.

“My stomach . . . I think I have a broken rib,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “You can’t know that,” I argue.

“I know what a broken rib feels like,” she replies.

I go silent, understanding what she is implying. “What else?” I continue, instead of responding to her previous comment.

“My head . . . and I’m so cold . . .”

I see the dried blood on her head and wonder if she may have a concussion. She has a distinct blue tinge to her lips. She’s getting hypothermia. I curse myself for not noticing she was in a skirt sooner. I stand up and rip off my jacket. The wind bites at me more harshly now, but I am still dressed warmly. I give Hermione my jacket and help her into it, noticing her dazed, half-conscious state.

“Come on,” I grunt as I pull her to her feet. She sags against me again, but she is conscious enough to walk as long as I support her. “We have to get out of here. It’s a long walk.”

It takes us twice as long to make it. Hermione can hardly stand, so I am really supporting both of us. Several times during the hike, I fear that Hermione is nearing death. By the time we reach Sirius’s old cave, I am sure of it. Her lips are completely blue and her skin as a blue tone as well. She is shaking violently and her breaths are short and shallow. By this time I am practically carrying her. She appears dazed and unaware. She often complains of exhaustion, another sign. I know better than to let her sleep, to do so would be to kill her.

When we reach the cave, she tries to sink to the floor, but I catch her and keep her standing. She blinks her eyes rapidly a few times. “Harry, please . . . just let me rest . . .”

“No,” I say firmly. “Hermione, you’re freezing to death. You can’t sleep or you won’t wake up. Hermione—do you hear me?”

She nods. Her eyes are glazing over. I remember thinking just four days ago how I couldn’t care less if she were to die. Now all I want is to keep her alive. How did this all happen? When did everything change so much?

I know that she needs warmth or else my efforts will have been wasted. I rip off my two shirts and take the thin undershirt off. I quickly struggle back into the other two before I get frostbite myself. I clump the undershirt into a ball and throw it onto the floor. I see Hermione nodding off and pause to slap her gently on the cheek. She becomes more alert again and I dare to quickly pick up some twigs and sticks from the corners of the cave. I toss them on top of my shirt and pull out my wand. “Accendus!” I whisper, and bright flames shoot from my wand’s end. The pile of sticks and cloth catches fire immediately and I drag Hermione over to it. I can see that she’s slightly more alert now that the fire is there, but she is still dangerously close to death.

I move away from the fire and hold my wand toward the ceiling. “Adminiculus!” A red beam shoots toward the ceiling, hits, and then evaporates. This is the signal our two groups have agreed upon. Dumbledore and his group, as well as my own, will be alerted to the fact that I am in trouble and to where I am. They will know who is signaling for help, so I hope that Sirius will be the one to arrive. I also hope that no one from my group shows up.

I walk over to Hermione and shake her to keep her alert. I look outside where the wind and blizzard still blows harshly. I am glad that there is no view of Hogsmeade from here. It is a grim sight. Most all of the buildings are now no more than mere foundations, burned to smoldering heaps of rubble by the Death Eaters. The Shrieking Shack still stands, for the Death Eaters’ personal use, but all other shops have been looted and demolished.

I hear a sound behind me and whirl around. Sirius stands there, staring at what must be quite a sight to him: Hermione half-unconscious by a small fire, with me sitting beside her. He shakes his shock quickly and moves forward. “Harry,” he asks cautiously, “what is going on?”

I point my wand once more at the ceiling and mutter, “Securus!” A green beam of light follows the same path the red just did. Hopefully this will prevent any members of my own group from appearing. I turn to Sirius and nod at Hermione. “She’s freezing to death, Sirius. I don’t know much healing, but could you please do something?”

“Why?” asks Sirius calmly. “Harry, why do we want to save her? Just give me a reason, because right now I can see none.”

“She’s hurt, that’s why!” I snarl. “Please, Sirius. I don’t know why I want to save her so desperately—believe me, I’ve spent plenty of time wondering myself—and I don’t have time to explain my tangled thoughts to you. Just do something!”

Sirius studies me, and then nods. He looks Hermione over, before kneeling beside her. He takes a minute or two to perform some complex spells while I watch anxiously. When he is finished, he steps back. Hermione is lying on the cave floor. She appears to be asleep. The blue tinge is gone from her skin and lips and she is no longer shivering. Sirius edges her toward the fire and she does not stir. He sighs and sits down, putting his back against the stone wall. “Okay,” he says. “I took care of the hypothermia.”

“Thank you,” I say gratefully, sitting down beside him.

Sirius is watching her. “She looks pretty banged up. What happened?” He states this as a fact. There is nothing in his voice to signal that he cares. I do not blame him. If I had not spoken to her as I have, I would react the same way.

“Lucius Malfoy was beating on her,” I say. “She thinks she has a broken rib. I think she has a concussion.”

“Yes, well, she’ll have to live with that,” says Sirius, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

“Are you all right?” I ask worriedly.

“Yes. Healing takes a lot out of some wizards, including me. I just did a very complex healing. It drained a lot of my energy is all.” He looks at me. “Harry, I need some explanations. What are you doing here, with her? And why do you care so much about her well-being all of the sudden?”

Again there is the question. I don’t know how to answer it. Why do I care so much? Just because I have a hunch that she is a victim in this too? I have no proof. She could still be deceiving me and I know it. I could have just saved the life of a person who intends to kill me. Somehow though, I don’t believe that. I do my best to explain what has gone on to Sirius. I am aware that my words are jumbled and hard to decipher. I hardly understand what I’m saying. It is no surprise that by the time I am finished, he is looking confused.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So you believe and trust her?”

“I believe her. I don’t trust her. Not yet.”

Sirius nods. “Good. I think it’s a mistake to even believe her though. She’s proved that she’s excellent at deception. And even if this all isn’t a lie, she’s put herself where she is. She doesn’t deserve a second chance. She doesn’t deserve your help.” Sirius sighs and scratches his head. “But that’s your decision to make and your help is yours to give. I don’t agree, I won’t lie to you about that, particularly since you have a group to think of, but I won’t stop you.”

“I won’t risk my group for her,” I assure him. “I know better than that.”

“You risked them today,” Sirius reminds me. “Running in there like that and dueling Lucius Malfoy . . . you were lucky. If you’d lost, then you’d be dead or they’d have you. Your whole group could have been sacrificed.”

I know he is right, which hurts the most. I nod. “Score one for Sirius,” I say. “I know I screwed up. But what would you have done? Seeing someone you once cared for being hurt so badly, knowing they could be killed? Hearing their suffering and pain? Certainly, she betrayed us, but I didn’t think she deserved that.”

Sirius shook his head. “My years in Azkaban were undeniably the worst of my life. But one thing I can say is that I learned a lot in there. One thing I have learned well is that when someone betrays you once, they’ll do it again if given the opportunity and motive. Hermione betrayed us all in the worst of ways. I simply can’t believe she’d change so entirely in such a short amount of time.”

“But what would you have done?” I press, feeling horribly certain that I already know the answer.

Sirius looks at me hard. “I think you know the answer to that question, Harry. And I think you understand the reasons why.” He looks away.

I can’t say I don’t, because just days before I would have reacted the same way. As I have told him, I am unsure of how things have changed so drastically so fast. All I know is that they have and now my life is different in many ways, some subtle, some not. I just nod in response to Sirius’s comment.

“So what do we do?” I ask. “About Hermione, I mean? I can’t just let her go back there now. They’ll probably kill her. And if they don’t, they’re sure to use Veritaserum to get her to tell them everything she knows. She’s a security risk.”

“They won’t.”

I look across Sirius and toward the fire, which is now dying to embers. Hermione is sitting up. Sirius is watching her closely, but his face shows no emotion. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“They won’t use Veritaserum,” she says. Her voice is small and I have to strain to hear her. “They would have at first, but not anymore.”

“Why?” asks Sirius suspiciously. His face is not so blank anymore.

“Because Lucius Malfoy is a cocky man. He’s grown used to being able to beat any information out of me. He takes what I say at face value, feeling I’m too meek to lie. I can hold out against the torture if I have to and I often do. His ego is simply too large to accept the fact that I would dare lie. I won’t tell him anything and he won’t use Veritaserum.” She scowls a little, but I can see the pain in her eyes. “He thinks it’s more fun to do it the other way anyway. I’m not a security risk.” She stands up. “I’ll go back. Thank you for saving me, Harry, even if it was in vain.” She turns toward the mouth of the cave.

“Wait!” I call. She turns to face me. “Won’t he kill you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t care. He probably will once he feels certain I’ve told him everything.”

I bite my lip. What can I do? I begin to talk before I’ve really thought. “Well, let me go and talk to the rest of my group. Maybe there’s some alternative. I didn’t risk everything to save you just to let you go back.”

“You’ve done more than enough for me already, Harry,” she argues. “I don’t deserve it. Just go on and forget about me. It’ll be easier on everyone. I can’t see why you’ve even done this much.”

“Because I trust my instincts, Hermione,” I reply. “And because my instincts are telling me to trust you. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re playing me again like Ron feels so confident you are, but I can’t ignore what I think. I feel that there’s more to all this than meets the eye.”

“You have no reason to,” she counters. “I betrayed everyone. I put everyone where they are now. Those are facts.”

“But everyone believes you did it willingly. Did you? Is that a fact?” I demand.

“Yes!”

“I don’t believe you!” Silence drops over us all again and I stand facing her, panting. I can see the mixture of emotions on her face. Pain, fright, and uncertainty are most prominent. I can feel Sirius watching this whole exchange intensely. I sigh and say in a calmer tone, “You still won’t tell me what you refused to last night. Why is that?”

Hermione looks down and says nothing.

I shake my head. “I won’t believe you did this willingly until you tell me what that is.”

Hermione looks up at me. She looks frightened. “Harry, just stop it! Stop living in the past, in your own fantasy! I’m your enemy! I work for the Dark side. I betrayed you and Ron. Why do you want to be around me? You’re the good guy and I’m the bad guy. That’s all you need to know. Nothing else matters.”

“If you’re my enemy then why did you apologize last night? What are you trying to hide from me? Why did you keep insisting that there’s more here than I can see?”

“Because I was lying,” she snaps. “I was trying to get close to you so I could turn you in! I was trying to earn your sympathy, and you were fool enough to fall for it! Fool enough to take it this far!”

Her words don’t hurt, because I can see the lie her in eyes. I take one step toward her. “Hermione, calm down. We both know you’re lying. Why are you trying to keep me away from you? Why are you trying to hurt me with words you don’t mean? Just explain it to me and I can help you.”

A tear slides down her cheek and she shakes her head. “No, you can’t,” she whispers. “No one can. I won’t betray you again, Harry. I promise.” She turns and walks right out the cave entrance and into the dark, roaring blizzard without another look back.

6. Exile

~~ 6 ~~

Exile

“I’m going back and forth,

No one to turn to,

Slowly losing my mind, so what am I doing?

If only you could see the pain and hurt in my soul.

But you don’t understand me,

So how could you know?”

--P.O.D.

I walk outside into the blowing storm and feel the bits of ice and snow pelt my face. In a matter of seconds it is red and stinging. It is a cold that is uncommon to these lands. I begin to shiver. It will only take a few more minutes before I begin to get hypothermia again. It is at least five below zero. It does not matter. I will not be around long enough to care. I promised Harry I would not betray him. There is only one way to ensure that I tell nothing. While it is unlikely that Lucius would use Veritaserum, it is always possible. I cannot risk that. There is no reason to hold back any longer.

I walk down the icy path in the rocks for a little while. It is a whiteout so bad I can barely see. I finally find a decent outcrop of rocks that looks steep enough and high enough. I step up on top of them and look down. It is a long fall, but that is what I want. My teeth are beginning to chatter and my tears are almost freezing. My chest is aching where Lucius’s foot cracked my rib. But it is almost over. The pain will soon come to an end, and my days of living dawn to dawn will as well. I feel no regret. I put one foot out into oblivion . . .

I am dragged backward by strong arms around my waist. I struggle against the grip, frightened at first. My fear diminishes and I realize who it must be. I begin to struggle in anger rather than in fear. “Harry!” I yell. “Put me down!”

“No,” he replies firmly. He is pulling me back up the incline and into the cave. He is too strong for me, so I finally give up and allow him to shove me back past the visual barrier and into the cave. I collapse to the ground once he lets me go. He had grabbed me right over my injured rib, and I am having horrible trouble breathing. I look up at him and he glares down at me. “What were you thinking?” he snarls.

I cannot answer, the pain is so bad. I vaguely hear Harry call to Sirius in alarm as my eyes begin to black. I cannot get the air I need! Well, I think distantly, I am coming to my end after all . . . Then I feel someone pulling back the arms that I have over my stomach and a moment later the pain begins to seep away. He is healing me. Suddenly I am breathing deeply and the blackness begins to recede. They have saved my life. Again.

Harry’s hands are on my shoulders, his face in mine. “Breath, ‘Mione, come on!” If I were not as weak as I am, I would have rolled my eyes. I am breathing, I feel like saying. Unfortunately. All I do is nod. He lays me back gently against the stone wall and backs off.

My vision is back in focus, and I can see Harry and Sirius exchanging a look. “Okay,” Sirius is saying a defeated voice. “I see what you meant. That girl is either hiding something that could change everything we believe to be true, or she is the best actress in the known universe. I’m still not totally convinced it’s not the latter, but I’m beginning to take a look at the former as well.”

Harry nods and looks back at me. “You seem to be all right now,” he says. I feel as though I am being interrogated. I probably am. “Now answer my question. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I promised you I wouldn’t give you up,” I say. “There’s only one way to ensure that I won’t.”

“Yes, well, that way is not acceptable.”

I feel like screaming. Merlin, why does he care so much? I’ve spent the past two years convincing myself that making them hate me was safest for everyone. I believe that with every fiber of my soul and being. Yet somehow my deceit has not convinced Harry. He’s putting himself back in the way of danger. I know I will not be able to live with myself if he dies because I failed to make him hate me enough. “Then what do we do?” I ask. I am too weak and weary to argue. I feel like falling asleep where I am. Silence greets my answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” mutters Harry. “Sirius, can you think of anything?”

Sirius shrugs and shakes his head. He looks at me and I look away. “I want to talk to her. Could you give us a minute? No offense, but the atmosphere is too explosive when the two of you are both in here together. I’m not exactly the most neutral person, but I’m more so than you.” Harry glances from his godfather to me, finally nodding mutely and walking outside into the blizzard and out of our sight.

Sirius walks over to me. He kneels down so that he is eye-level with me. Sirius is somehow different than Harry. There is something about him that is so calm and placid that I fear he will somehow discover my secret. “Hermione,” he says. “Hermione, look at me.”

I do not look at him. “Why? What does it matter?” I question in a defeated, dismal voice.

Sirius sighs. “Okay, don’t look at me. But listen, and listen hard. I don’t trust you; I won’t hide that fact from you. But I’m beginning to wonder. It’s a lot easier to hate you and label you a traitor when we’re miles away from each other. However, being here, watching and listening to you, things are beginning to fall into disarray. It’s obvious that you are hiding something. You are not good at hiding it, which leaves me wondering how you could have infiltrated Hogwarts as a Death Eater if you are that bad a liar. I have two ideas. One, this is all an act. You want us to believe you’re hiding something when you’re really not. Or, two, you weren’t lying, ever. Something happened and you betrayed us, but you were never a spy, or a willing participant. I’ve learned a lot about judging whether or not someone is lying, and without a doubt, you are. But I’m having a hard time deciding which type of lie you’re fabricating.”

I pull up my left sleeve and show him the red serpent and skull burned into my skin. He flinches. “I have the Dark Mark. What more is there to it?” I demand, my voice cold.

“Anyone can wear the Dark Mark,” he objects. “It’s what’s in your heart that counts. And the fact is, I never knew you or Ron as well as I know Harry, but I got the impression that you were as adamantly against the Dark Lord as either of the other two. No matter what I believe, I know you’re a smart girl. I don’t see how you could go over to the Dark side, knowing all you do about the subject. You would have known that the people you care about would be hurt, particularly because Harry and Ron are your friends and because your parents are Muggles. Unless you don’t care what happens to them.” Sirius gently moved my chin so that I was looking at him. “Do you care about what happened to your parents, Hermione?”

At the mention of them, I try to stay strong, to appear indifferent and uncaring, but it is beyond my ability. A sob escapes my lips, and my eyes begin to tear. I had long since known they were dead; that was hard enough to deal with. But when Harry informed me the other night that Voldemort had tortured them to death . . . I cannot hold strong, knowing that. I had thought my lies were protecting the ones I loved. How could I have been such a fool?

Sirius nods. “I thought so. I think it’s time you tell us the truth. You don’t have to tell me, but you owe it to Harry. He’s risked everyone to save you. You can’t keep lying to him.” This is the last thing he says. He walks over to the cave’s entrance and calls for Harry, leaving me where I am, crying for my mother and father.

Harry reenters the cave and looks my way. He and Sirius talk in hushed voices for about five minutes. I am regaining control of myself, and I can see they are obviously arguing. About me, I supposed. What else? Finally, I see Sirius nod, but it is obvious he is still not happy.

Harry walks over to me. “Can you stand?” he asks, and extends a hand to pull me up. I nod and take it, wiping my eyes again. In a gentle tone, he questions, “Are you okay?” I can tell from the look in his eyes that he really does care. I’m not sure where that leaves me. What can I do now? Perhaps it is time I tell him the truth. He will not stop asking until he knows it, and he’s already in the same amount of danger he’d be in if I do tell him. Still uncertain, I nod.

Sirius walks over. “It’s getting dark. The others will be worrying about you. Harry, are you sure about this?” He appears very unhappy.

“Yes,” says Harry in a voice that allows for no arguing. “There’s no other option, Sirius. I’m not going to leave her here. And my group can think what they want.”

“They’ll have to live by your decision,” Sirius warns. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go ahead and ask . . . ?”

“No. I know what they’ll say, no matter what my argument is. It’s all I can think to do. Thank you for your help,” says Harry. They embrace briefly and Harry turns to me. “You’re coming back to my hideout with me.”

My eyes widen. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll betray you?”

“Yes, I know there’s that possibility. But I’m willing to take that risk, because I don’t believe that you will. So take my hand and I’ll Apparate us there. You’re too weak to Apparate yourself.”

Stunned that he trusts me this much, I do nothing. He takes my hand himself and closes his eyes. Just as I do the same, I feel the dizzying, spinning feeling that comes with Apparation, and a moment later we’re out in the cold again. We appear to be in a forest, in front of a rundown, well-lit Muggle cabin in the late dusk. Harry pulls me up the steps and opens the door.

I am frightened. Not everyone will be as willing to give me a chance as Harry is. What will they do? Ron is certain to go ballistic. I tell Harry I would prefer to wait outside, but he refuses, saying I’ve already nearly died from the cold once today and he’s not going to give it a second chance at me.

He pulls me inside and closes the door. The lights are on and a fire roars, making it warm. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt warm. For the past twelve hours, there have been three temperature levels for me: freezing, below freezing, and hypothermia. It looks like the old cabin by a mountain lake my parents would take me to during the summers. The thought of them hurts and I push it away. Hagrid and Ron are sitting on the couch, facing away from us, talking quietly. My stomach clenches. It is serene in the cabin. A moment later, it is pandemonium.

Hagrid and Ron turn to see who had entered. “Harry!” cries Ron, leaping to his feet. “Merlin, pal, we’ve been freaking out here . . .” He takes notice of me and freezes in mid-sentence. For about twenty seconds he is still as a statue, stunned. His eyes are wide. Then he begins to redden and growls, “What is she doing here? Are you crazy?!” Ron lunges, but Hagrid pulls him back with one hand. Ron struggles and Hagrid holds on.

“Harry,” says Hagrid in a disappointed sort of way. “Yeh shouldn’ have brough’ her here. We can’ trus’ her.” He gives me the same look of disappointment before looking down. That is almost worse than Ron’s anger.

People are being attracted by the noise of Ron’s angry yells and are slowly appearing. The first two to arrive are Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Neville stares at me, with an innocent, hurt expression on his face and once he recovers from his shock, he whispers. “Hermione, how could you?”

Ginny steps up next to her brother and begins to berate Harry and I as well. Soon Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and George and Fred Weasley appear too. The Weasleys are the angriest, Ron in particular. While Fred and George attempt to hold back their ferocious younger brother, they glare at me with the utmost hatred. Ginny has stopped yelling at me and is standing beside Neville again. She is crying and he is trying to calm her down, though he looks stunned and hurt as well. Katie and Angelina are somewhat like Fred and George—glaring, but saying nothing.

“ENOUGH!” yells Harry, startling everyone. “Ron, sit down! Fred, George, put a curse on him if you have to, but calm him down and shut him up! Ginny, it’s okay, just take a seat. Everyone, sit down, or stand up, just listen! Be civilized. We can talk about this.”

“Talk about it?” howls Ron. “With her? You can’t talk to people like that! They’re sociopathic monsters with no feelings. You can’t make deals or be civilized. Kill her, or kick her out, then we’ll talk!”

I am trying desperately to hold back my tears. Crying will probably only make them hate me more. I know that this is what I wanted to achieve; I know I wanted them to hate me, but this is too hard. I desperately want to run from the cabin, and feel certain that I will if this doesn’t end soon.

“Ron, shut up!” snaps Harry. “Look, we all know what she’s done, but over the past two days, I’ve begun to wonder. Just hear me out.” And so they do. They listen, but their eyes are trained on me, glaring or staring in pain. I cannot bear to look up from the floor. Finally, Harry finishes, and silence greets him.

“I think we need to have a counsel about this,” decides Fred. Harry begins to step forward, but Fred holds up a hand and gives one quick, sharp shake of his head. “Not you.”

The others gather in a big circle in the center of the room while Harry and I stand on the outside. He says nothing to me, and I don’t think I can speak without sobbing, so I stay quiet as well. Finally, after at least five minutes, the group breaks apart and Hagrid steps forward, a gloomy expression on his face.

“Harry, yeh endangered all o’ us by goin’ ter see her an’ bringin’ her here. Ron an’ I are supposed ter stop yeh from doin’ things like tha’. We couldn’ stop it, but we can prevent it from happenin’ again. Yer no longer the leader. Ron, as second in command, is takin’ up tha’ job. I’m the new second in command. Fred will be third in command.”

I look at Harry. He looks as though he’s been slapped. Clearly, he didn’t expect this, but he nods slowly. “I wouldn’t expect any less, I suppose. I deserve it,” he says quietly.

“Second, she can’ stay here. Unfortunately, she’s now seen where we are. Memory charms are never foolproof, so it’s not safe ter give her one. Powerful Dark magic can reverse the spell—even one o’ tha’ git Lockhart’s memory charms can be reversed by a powerful Dark wizard. You-Know-Who could do it.” Hagrid sighs, running a hand though his hair and looking depressed. “So, tha’ leaves us with two options. One, we kill her. Some of us are very much toward that possibility.”

My insides freeze. I never imagined they’d kill me. Certainly, I no longer fear death, but to die at their hands? Merlin, they wouldn’t . . . would they? Looking at the expression on Ron’s face, I have no doubts. He could. He would.

“No,” Harry refuses. “What’s the other?”

“She’s thrown out, an’ you go with her.”

“What?”

Ron stands up and walks over to stand in front of Harry. His face is redder than his hair. “You heard him. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but the fact is, I can’t live with the fact that you’re willing to trust her. She leaves and you go with her, to keep an eye on her. I don’t care where you go, but you have to be with her. You can come back any time you like. But before you do, you have to do away with her properly.” He glares at me. “And you know what that means.”

Harry is staring in shock. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Harry stares and slowly shakes his head. “Okay,” he says after a long pause. “If that’s the way you want it.” He takes my arm and begins to pull me toward the door. I am frozen and do not move, so he stops as well, turning to face Ron again. “We’ll go.”

Ron let’s out a humorless laugh. “You’re really willing to leave us all because of her? Merlin, Harry, if it weren’t for her you wouldn’t have to make this decision!” He shakes his head in disgust at Harry and turns to me. “And you know what I think of you and all your lies and everything you’ve done to me and my family?” He spits at me. It was intended to hit my face, I’m sure, but I dodge. I stare at him. It hurts more than a physical blow. He turns. “Go on, then, Harry. Go with the traitor.”

Harry says nothing. There is no anger on his face, just a bleak pain. He turns and leads me with him. We walk out the door and a moment later it is slammed at our backs. Harry sits on the wooden steps leading up to the door and buries his head in his hands.

And I continue to cause the people I care about pain. The two groups have now been split into three and our group has been sent into exile. All because of me. And the only one willing to stand beside me is the one person in this entire world that believes I am not as bad as I pretend to be.

7. Hermone

~~ 7 ~~

Hermione’s Truth

“I’ve crossed the last line,

From where I can’t return,

Where every step I took in faith betrayed me

And led me from my home.”

--Sarah Mclachlan

I slide back against the rock wall as my legs collapse beneath me. The constant combination of exhaustion, terror, and cold is very draining. I watch as Harry sends the red sparks to the roof of the cave again and then sits down, leaning against the wall across from me. His eyes land on me for a moment, only to slide past. I am sure that if he for some reason did not before, he hates me now. How could he not? It is my fault that he’s been thrown from his home, from the only people who present him with a family. Once again, it is me who is destroying his life.

Yet somehow, he does seem to forgive me. For if he didn’t, why would he have walked out, agreeing with Ron’s second term? He could easily have kept his place in his group by ordering my death. He had not. I sigh. I simply am not capable of understanding Harry anymore. But the frightening part is, he seems perfectly capable of understanding me. In just two and a half days’ time, he’s managed to access the secret parts of my mind, the parts I’ve kept hidden from everyone for two years. I am not sure how he does it, which frightens me further. Who knows what dark secrets he’ll manage to dig from my past, secrets I’ve been desperate to keep hidden for so long?

We are back in the cave. It is fully dark now, but the wind still whips and the snow still spirals. The cave is so cold in comparison to the cabin we just left. Harry has deemed this the best place to hide for now. He doesn’t bother sending up green sparks this time, telling me there is no point. The others of his group will not come to help us.

It is a few moments of awkward silence between the two of us until Sirius appears. This time he has company: Professor Remus Lupin. I have not seen him since third year, when he taught our Defense Against the Dark Arts class, but I remember how I liked him, and feel shame weigh me down further. How many more people will I have to face?

Professor Lupin looks at me, and then turns his attention to Harry. His face is passively blank, so I am not sure what he is thinking, but it cannot be good. “What is it this time, Harry?” asks Professor Lupin gently.

For the first time, I notice the bleak, weary look on Harry’s face. It is not a look that comes from a few days of hardships, but from years of them. He’s lost all his confidence that life can contain anything more than heartache. I can see it in the depths of his emerald eyes, which are no longer bright and curious as they always had been. Now they are dull, without any of the old twinkle. Immediately, my heart goes out to him. I understand that look exactly—because it is the look I have myself. I am unsure of how I have managed to miss it for so long. It is another painful blow, realizing that I am the cause of his looking that way.

Harry sighs. “They’ve kicked me out,” he mutters. “They had me choose between her and them.”

“You chose her,” says Sirius simply. He looks at me, but now there is a pleading in his eyes. I understand what he is begging of me—things like: Harry trusts you again—don’t betray him. And: He’s risked everything for you—don’t let it be in vain. And the message that scares me the most: He’s done enough for you—you at least owe him the truth, Hermione, whatever that may be.

Harry nods and I can see that his eyes are now alight with a belligerent look. A challenging look. “Yeah,” he says simply. His gaze dares them to argue that his decision was anything but correct.

Sirius just nods. Professor Lupin scratches his thinning, mousy brown hair and sighs. “Harry, that might not have been the wisest of choices.” Seeing the look on Harry’s face, he hurries to add, “Not that I don’t trust you, but abandoning them at a time like this . . . they’ll suffer without you. And you will suffer even more without them.”

Harry shakes his head and glances at me. There is some unidentifiable gleam in his eyes as he meets my gaze. “I won’t. And I’m not abandoning them; they’re abandoning me. I’m not saying I don’t intend to go back someday, but right now, with all my heart, I believe that Hermione isn’t what she appears to everyone else. As soon as I can prove that to my thickheaded best friend, I’ll go back. But not without her.”

I stare at him, my eyes wide, and a stunned feeling overcomes me. He has risked the entire life he’s managed to rebuild, all for me—the one who destroyed it in the first place. How can he be so trusting? How can he be so caring? After all I’ve done to him . . . the very idea seems foreign. If roles were reversed, I can’t say I wouldn’t be reacting like Ron is. It makes me feel lower than ever.

Remus nods dejectedly and Sirius speaks up. “We can’t bring you to our hideout. It’s too much a risk. But we can cast a Repelling Charm around here, along with a spell that will make the cave warm. We’ll bring you some blankets. You’ll have to stay here for now.”

Harry agrees. “I figured you’d say that. Sounds perfectly agreeable. But we’re also rather hungry.”

As he says this, I realize for the first time that I am truly famished. I have not eaten in a long time . . . I struggle to remember just how long. Not today, certainly, and after everything that went on yesterday with Harry and my attempted suicide, I’d lost my appetite. Over forty-eight hours without food. My stomach seems to grumble in an angry, reprimanding response.

“What are you going to do, Harry?” questions Sirius, who is clearly having severe misgivings. “Live in this cave until you find some evidence you may never find? It’s risky to stay here, so close to Hogsmeade, let alone for an extended period of time. Just answer me this—what do you intend to do?”

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I dunno at this point. But I’ll figure something out. I’m skilled in the art of improvising. Just give me a few hours to work something out. Right now, we need food, heat, and somewhere soft to lay. If you can give us that, we’ll handle the rest.”

Sirius nods. “Okay. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to work out something substantial. But if you can’t . . . I’m intervening. Deal?”

“Okay, okay . . . deal.”

We work in silence for the next half hour. Sirius and Remus Apparate back and forth between the cave and their hideout, gathering sleeping bags, lanterns, oil, and a great deal of food. Once such things have been positioned, Sirius performs an advanced charm on the cave so that it would be near impossible to enter. Remus casts a spell that makes heat remain in the room, no matter what the temperature is outside. Finally, weary, the two men bid them farewell and Apparate back to their home. Sirius gives Harry one final warning: “Twenty-four hours, mate. No more.”

Finally, Harry looks around. In the back of the cave, there are two cushy red sleeping bags with yellow lining. As I look at them, I remember the days when the House of Gryffindor stood and such colors were the some of the proudest. The days when I wore those very colors. At Puerclades—it is an insult to think of that torturous place as Hogwarts; it may be the same building, but it will never be the same school—you can try as hard as you can to find even a speck of either color, but you never will. Everything there is black, green, and silver. Four bright lanterns are placed at strategic points around the cave, giving off dull, but effective flickering light and casting moving shadows. We have a bag full of food in the center of the cave, near where we stand.

“Well,” says Harry, looking somewhat awkward, “let’s eat, then.”

And we do. We sit down around one lantern, pulling out heaps of food and devouring it. Finally, after much starved scrambling, we settle down, our bellies content. Harry is picking the last bits out of an apple, and I’m swallowing the final bite of a granola bar. Though I can eat more, I understand that we must conserve the food. We’ll need more tomorrow, and Sirius and his group must need it as well; we cannot rob them of it all.

Harry looks up at me. I cannot tell his expression by the dim lantern light, but from what I can see, it is blank again. To my best recollection, I can never remember Harry having such a completely blank, unreadable expression. Another unfortunate characteristic he has acquired since we parted ways in the most violent of manners two years ago. I look down, his gaze more than a little unnerving.

“Hermione,” he says finally. His voice radiates like a gunshot into the silence I’d grown so accustomed to. “I think it’s time we talked.”

I nod, but say nothing. I do not move, except for my head. Talk. That can only mean one thing: he wants to know the truth. In the pits of my soul, I know and understand that he deserves that much after all I’ve done to him. But will he understand my side? Could he ever, without experiencing it himself? He didn’t care about what I’d hinted happened to me at Puerclades until he witnessed it—and a rather mild time, in retrospect. How can he understand something so much bigger? And even if he can, it is possible for me to bring myself to speak of it? People say that if you hold a secret inside for long enough, it is like a fizzy bottle of pop—it pushes upward, waiting for its chance to explode. That isn’t true, though it is at first. After a long period of time, it just weighs you down, but you grow used to carrying it. And when faced with the opportunity to release it, you hold back as much as it is possible to do so.

Harry continues, not acknowledging my silence. “I have risked a lot to trust you again. All I’ve been going on is my own instincts and a trust that formed from our friendship so many years ago. I need more than that now, Hermione. You owe it to me. If you make me carry on without knowing anything, I can’t say I won’t give up on you. That’s no threat; it’s just a fact. If you put your trust in someone for long enough, but they offer you no reason to do so, you can’t help but get frustrated and walk away, eventually.”

It is as though there is some sort of a painful lump blocking my throat. I cannot swallow or speak. My eyes are stuck on the floor.

Harry sighs in a dispirited way. “All right then, Hermione. If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t. Maybe Ron is right and I’m seeing something that isn’t there.” He shrugs and shakes his head. I can tell this is no ploy to get me to talk—he is truly uncertain and disappointed. “I hope I’m right, but it could go one way just as easily as the other at this point.”

He begins to stand and I suddenly feel a desperation to prove to him that I am not the evil person everyone thinks of me as. I want to prove that he is right. But is he? No, I didn’t betray them in the way they think, but what I have done is just as bad, isn’t it? Only a few Light survivors left, and those that do remain have hearts full of bitterness and hatred. Happiness has died and I am its murderer. Is there any excuse for that? Is there any way to make that right? I cannot see one. I may have been trying to do the best, but it turned out for the worst anyway. So that’s just as bad. Despite that, I swallow the lump at long last and say, “No, Harry, wait.”

He looks down at me, hope in a distant corner of his eyes but weariness etched in his every feature. “What?” he asks in a melancholy tone. The lanterns are lower now and the shadows make this entire scene eerie.

I sigh. Saying the next sentence will commit me to something I may not want to be committed to. Last chance to bail out, Hermione, I tell myself. You can still save yourself. But I don’t. “Okay. I’ll tell you.” There. It’s out. The words I’ve avoided saying for so long have finally been said and my heart thunders in painful anticipation. Harry sits back down, his face still blank.

“If you want,” he says casually. He tries to make it appear as though it is all my choice and that he does not care one way or the other. It is my choice, I suppose, but he definitely cares, and is interested beyond words to hear what I will tell him.

I put my forehead in my hands and think. Where to begin? Over the years, the story has become so tangled in my mind that it will take work and effort to sort out. And once I do get it all straight, can I keep myself composed while I explain? Can I simply narrate the tale without begging him to believe me?

Harry is patient with me. He watches silently, not pushing me, not annoyed. Finally, I look up and sigh. I begin telling the tale that has changed my life in the worst of ways. “It all started on Easter holidays of fifth year. As you know, I went home then. My parents dropped me off in Diagon Alley about three days before the week was over so I could get some things and refill my Potions supplies. The Apothecary is positioned on the verge of the entrance to Knockturn Alley. I got my Potions supplies and left, but I was right along Knockturn. Someone slammed into me and I dropped all my potion bottles. None broke, because I protect them with an unbreakable charm. Several rolled down Knockturn Alley, though.

“I had no choice but to go after them. It was extremely discomforting, surrounded by mysterious witches and wizards talking about Dark things. Several gave me odd looks, the prejudiced sort, you know. What was I, a fifteen-year-old Hogwarts girl who always stuck to Diagon Alley doing venturing into their world? I couldn’t find the last bottle, but I was beginning to get very scared because of some of the things people were saying. I was ready to turn around and buy another one just to get out of there, but then I spotted it, halfway down a small alleyway in between two shops. I went down to pick it up and as I was heading back out, I heard a group of cloaked men talking. I couldn’t see their faces, as they had their hoods down so low, but I heard a sentence that stopped me dead:

“ ‘Harry Potter and his friends are needed for the Dark Lord’s plans.’

“I tried to move, to run, knowing that as they said ‘friends’, I was included. I knew that I was in a bad position being so close to them. But it was as though my feet were glued to the street. I was practically right next to them. Had I just kept walking, they’d probably never have noticed me.” I shake my head. It feels as though I am reliving the whole thing again. I can remember that day perfectly, as most people remember the day in which their lives take a whole new turn. Suddenly, I am no longer in this dingy cave, telling Harry this tale by the dirty lantern light. I have traveled back two years in time, and landed right in the middle of that crowded street.

* ~ * ~ *

I am frozen in place. Harry? Ron and I? The Dark Lord? The Dark Lord needs Ron and I? The words are so alien to me, so unwanted, that I am having a difficult time processing them. I’ve lost all sense of time. Sound is dead to me. My ears hear only silence and my mind is racing.

Then that moment of confusion is broken by a single voice. “Hey, kid, what are you doing?”

My head snaps over to see the group, their heads turned in my direction. Though I cannot see their eyes, I am sure they are fixed upon me. I begin to shake. This has to be the worst predicament I’ve ever been in. Going down Knockturn Alley all alone . . . what in Gryffindor’s name was I thinking? I say nothing, hoping with some futile desire that perhaps if I don’t respond they will turn their attentions away from me once more.

“I think she heard us,” mutters another one.

My heart begins to pound. I have to run! And I try. I drop my potion bottles. They no longer matter. I begin to make a dash for the entrance back into the safety of Diagon Alley. If I can get there, someone will help me. I do not account for the other people in the street, all of whom hate me for simply wearing the Gryffindor crest on my Hogwarts robes. They stop me, shoving me backwards and in no time, those four men have me. They pull me down the street, to the laughs and jeers of the other people. Finally, they reach a large, ‘For Rent’ building and shove me inside.

I have never been so terrified in my life. While two of them hold me, the other two go about systematically closing blinds and locking doors. I have the sickening feeling that they have done this before. The building is empty except for one chair in the middle. Despite my vicious struggles and screams, they get me into the chair and use light ropes from their wands to bind me to it.

All four turn to me now. The fact that their faces are shrouded by bone-white masks frightens me even more. “I didn’t hear anything, I swear! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” My pleads are desperate and my voice high-pitched. I can’t sound very convincing.

“Shut up, girl,” commands one of them gruffly, pulling out his wand and aiming it at me. My heart skips several beats. Is this how it will end? At the hands of vicious Death Eaters all because I had to wander down Knockturn Alley for my fallen potion bottles? I can almost hear Ron’s voice in my head: “I always told you Potions was hazardous to your health . . .” Oh, how odd are the things that come to you in the ending moments of your life . . .

“Wait,” says another, and I look over. He steps forward and looks me over. I begin to tremble under his gaze. I know that the Death Eaters enjoy torturing their victims before they kill them. This thought only serves to make me surrender my last bit of dignity, and I whimper involuntarily, my shivers increasing in intensity. “Don’t kill her.”

“What?” demands the other man.

“This isn’t just any girl. This is the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter’s.” He laughs, a chilling sound that makes my blood turn to ice. “No wonder she was listening.” I can feel his eyes upon me, burning holes of ice into my soul. “To what do we owe this pleasure, young Mudblood?”

A shorter, stockier Death Eater looks to the man who has just identified me. “Imagine the rewards we’ll get when we show up at the Dark Lord’s doorstep with this one,” he chuckles.

I suddenly find it hard to breathe. Oh, Merlin, they’re taking me to see You-Know-Who! I begin to realize that perhaps it would have been better if they had just killed me, for my identity as Hermione Granger will only put me in a much worse predicament. The other Death Eaters have gathered together and are talking in hushed whispers. No one seems to be looking right at me, though it is impossible to tell. I begin to struggle against the light ropes, but I know even as I do that I will make no progress even if I had a century to work with them. Light ropes are known to be impossible to break and ones made by Dark Magic are even tougher. I can feel them pressing into me deeper the more I struggle. I slowly stop my struggles. The only reason I’d tried in the first place, knowing what I do of my bonds, was to feel as though I were doing something to help myself. For a few seconds, that helped give me a purpose. But as I cease my struggles, I realize again just how helpless I truly am.

The Death Eaters break apart and one steps toward me. I can’t tell which one, as they are all dressed identically. “Do you deny your identity as Hermione Granger?”

I know that lying is futile. “No,” I whisper, my eyes downcast.

“And do you deny that you are the friend of Harry Potter?”

“No.”

The Death Eaters share nods and one steps forward. He breaks the light bonds and pulls me to my feet. I attempt to break free of him and run, but he elbows the side of my head. My skull explodes in hot pain and I cannot see for the film of white before my eyes. I am dazed and barely feel them dragging me out the back entrance of the place. My nausea only becomes worse as they Apparate me.

I hear a loud crack, and a moment later, I stand in a long, dark hall before a pair of ebony wood double doors. The doors are carved intricately with serpents baring their fangs and several renditions of the Dark Mark. The lighting overhead is dim and dismal, casting frightening shadows everywhere. The carvings on the door look as though they will leap into life at any moment. Without a doubt, I know who is behind those doors. My head pounds in pain and my vision is blurry. My hearing is distorted and as I watch one of the Death Eaters raise his fist to pound on the doors, I feel more like I am watching this on television than actually living it. It has all happened so fast. One minute I am buying Potions supplies, the next I am confronting the most feared Dark Wizard of all time. This all has to be some horrible, realistic nightmare, of course. What else could it be? I just can’t accept that anything so bizarre and terrible could happen outside a dream.

The doors swing open slowly with a loud, ominous creaking. The room into which we step is even dimmer in the way of lighting. I can just barely make out a figure sitting behind a desk some distance away. A high voice commands, “Lumos grandai!” The room fills with light so intense it makes me squint my tearing eyes. The light seems to come from the walls themselves.

And before me stands the Dark Lord. His black robes billow down around him in an almost elegant fashion, but he does not wear a hood. His face is completely revealed, and as I see it, I shrink back in terror. I whimper as I struggle against the man who holds me, as he laughs and thrusts me forward. He releases me and I fall to my knees. Suddenly, I am looking upward at Voldemort. It is so much scarier from this vantage point. His skin is sheet-white, his skull bald as though hair has never touched it. His eyes are that of a snakes, no more than menacing slits of red. A snake nose separates the eyes from a maliciously smiling mouth. Just seeing this man could inspire a fear in you that you would never forget.

“May we present you with the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter’s, Hermione Granger?” says one of the Death Eaters as they all bow respectfully.

The Death Eaters do not stand until Voldemort commands, “Rise.” He walks forward until he is right in front of me, staring down. I cannot look up, cannot make my eyes meet his. I am shaking harder than I ever have in my life. My breathing is erratic. I am desperately fighting back the urge to cry—I will not give him that satisfaction. Suddenly, I feel his hand on my head. I gasp in terror and fall backwards, ignoring the Death Eaters’ laughter ringing out. I am desperate to escape his touch. He laughs softer than anyone, but his voice alone stands out. He looks down at me and because of my position, I must look back. I blink rapidly, hoping in some distant corner of my mind that if I do it enough, the picture before me will fade into nothingness.

“Intelligent. The wise know to fear me. The ignorant die because they do not.” He kneels in front of me and I pray he will not touch me again. Never before have I felt such a touch. The moment his fingers brushed my skull I could feel a terrible chill of terror and pain run through me. It feels almost like walking through a Hogwarts ghost, only so much worse. “Do you want to live, Hermione Granger?”

I am too afraid to utter a single syllable. On top of that, I am unsure of what I should say. Of course I want to live—but what if saying that angers him? In the end, I do nothing, focusing instead on holding back my tears.

“You will answer me,” he orders, pointing his wand at me.

I let out a faint whimper and nod, knowing I cannot speak.

He laughs softly again. “Good. I may just give you a way to save your miserable life, if you’re a good girl.” He looks up at the four cloaked Death Eaters, still hovering over us. “Leave us. You shall be rewarded for you efforts at a later time.” None of them hesitate, scurrying from the room quickly and gladly, closing the door on their way out with a final, resounding click.

My fear has reached new heights. It is so hard to fight back the tears of terror, and my stomach feels as though it has been twisted into a thousand painful knots. I pray for some way out of this. I can’t be meant to die like this. Though the Death Eaters are definitely terrible people whom I hate, it is somehow more terrifying now that they are gone and I am alone Voldemort. I have a new respect for Harry, having faced this man so many times in the past. I am beginning to doubt my ability to survive even one encounter.

Voldemort stands and walks closer to me. “Stand up,” he tells me. I cannot move. He reaches down, grabs my arms, and pulls me to my feet. Again the combined sensations of ice water, panic, and pain flow through me, blocking out everything else. I am barely aware of my surroundings again until he releases me.

He is regarding me with an unreadable expression. “I know what you feel when I touch you. Are you curious as to why?” I honestly could not care less, but I nod to appease him, keeping my eyes trained firmly on the floor. “You are a Mudblood. My blood is the purest of the pure. Certainly, my worthless father was a Muggle, but over the years, I’ve managed to purge his blood from my veins through a series of complicated processes. My power, hatred for people of your kind, and purity of blood will not allow me to touch you without giving you such a feeling. Much like your dear friend Harry could not touch me.” He smiles maniacally. “Of course, that does not apply any longer.”

“Harry is a greater wizard than you’ll ever be,” I find myself snarling, my voice shaking, but firm with belief nonetheless. I am not even conscious of thinking the words, let alone deciding to say them. The moment they are out of my mouth, I regret them.

His eyes narrow and his sense of morbid amusement vanishes instantaneously. He raises his wand and for the first time in my life, I feel the power and agony of the Cruciatus Curse. It is truly the worst of all magic combined in one. The pain is so near unbearable that I find myself wishing for death. It feels as though white-hot knives are being plunged into every inch of my flesh, only to be twisted painfully. It does not end for what seems like hours. At long last, I am left panting and sobbing on the ground. I later realize that it was even worse because of the man behind the curse. No one else can use it to the extent he can.

He steps forward and kicks me in the side, which does nothing to help my struggles to stand. I fall back and gasp for lost breath. “Never say that again, Mudblood. You will show respect to me, not to the fifteen-year-old boy who has no more than mere luck on his side. Do you wish to disagree with that?”

I don’t know where my sudden burst of rebellious courage comes from, but I find myself snapping, “Why does my saying that I respect Harry—which I always will—bother you so much? Because you know that he’s stronger?”

Again it comes, longer and with more force this time. Even after he stops, the agony lasts. I know from reading that repetitive use of the Cruciatus Curse is deadly—if you’re lucky, simply maddening. I struggle to remember after how many times it becomes dangerous—two? Three? I’ve lost all sense of logical thought at this point, my mind numbed by the lasting pain.

He stoops down and grabs my shoulders tightly. The pain that comes from this is no longer even worth paying attention to. “Do you disagree with me?” he asks warningly.

I yearn to yell that yes, I do disagree. That I will never show him respect, even if it means my death and that I will never turn against Harry. But the pain has chased away all my belligerence and has left me hollow and terrified. I can’t take that again and I know it. I shake my head, desperate to make it all end.

He lets me go and I fall back to the ground, letting the tears run freely now with disregard for his satisfaction. “Perhaps I should just kill you. You don’t seem to willing to save your own life. It’s a pity, because you could have saved the life of your precious Potter and Weasley. Ah, well.” He stands and points his wand at me again.

What he says reaches me. Save Harry and Ron? True, he could be lying, but I have to at least hear him out. “Wait, no!” I cry.

He looks at me and I can tell this was the reaction he’d wanted. “Good, you are feeling more willing now?” I nod, feeling shame that I allowed him to break me. “Then stand up.”

This is something I’m not sure I can do. I force myself to my feet. My legs are shaky and I feel ready to collapse. My head pounds and makes me feel nauseas, as though the room is spinning. The pain returning, along with the fear and nausea, is just enough to make me get sick all over the concrete floor. Weakened from this, I fall once more to my shaky knees with a disheartened sob.

“Up, Mudblood!” Voldemort hisses, his voice full of dangerous and malicious warning.

I force myself to rise a second time, and this time I fight off the wave of nausea, though it is a narrowly won battle. He pulls out another chair across from his desk, which he orders me into. I sit down and immediately two snakes bind my arms to the chair. I cry out at the sight of them. Real snakes, holding me tightly to a chair. I jerk my arm and the snake hisses, baring its tiny fangs. I pull my face back as far as the back of the chair will let me.

“My pets,” says Voldemort, taking his seat once more. “They will not bite unless I order them to. Or unless you try to escape. And yes, their venom is deadly. Nagini!”

I look around to see whom his has summoned. A moment later, from behind a table on the opposite side of the room, slides what must be the largest snake in existence. It looks more like some grotesque, legless dinosaur than a snake. It winds its way towards me and encircles my chair before it stops moving. At my feet it lies, staring up at me hungrily in much the same fashion as Crookshanks eyed what we thought was Scabbers in our third year. My fear is increased by the sight of all these snakes. I’ve never liked them. Never before have I been frightened of them, but the thought of touching one has always made my skin crawl. And now I am surrounded by them. No longer do I merely consider them as discomforting reptiles, but now I know them to be the ultimate symbols of evil.

“Now that we are situated . . .” begins Voldemort, grinning nastily at my terror. “I suppose you would like to hear my offer to you. First, let us clarify a few things. You want your friends to live, right?”

I nod meekly, keeping my eyes locked on a bit of his desk where I cannot see him or his snakes out of my peripheral vision.

“There is only one way to ensure that they will live—by making a deal with me. Because whether they live or die will ultimately be my decision.”

I have grown sick of his verbal baiting and manipulation. “Just get to the point,” I snap. “What do you want from me?”

Voldemort’s chilling smile does not waver. “You are indeed a smart girl. Foolishly courageous and loyal, but intelligent nonetheless. I’m sure that you can use some of that intelligence to get me into Hogwarts castle.”

My eyes widen. So that is what he wants me for—access to Hogwarts. “Why?” I demand after a moment of contemplation. “Why do you need my help? I’m a teenager and you’re asking my assistance? Surely a powerful Dark wizard like you can figure out a way to get inside without me.”

His smile disappears and his upper lip curls in hatred. I shrink back as far as the chair will allow, fearing I have angered him again and praying silently he will not hurt me further. “There was a time when I could have,” he says, making no move for his wand, which relaxes me. “If it weren’t for Dumbledore, I’d still be able to. Alas, after my attempt at getting the Philosopher’s Stone, he redid the charms guarding the castle. I cannot enter the grounds because of the magical . . . wards, or barriers, you may say. As long as those barriers are closed, I am trapped outside. Only Dumbledore can deactivate them, and he would die before he allowed me in. The key to crushing the Light side lies in the defeat of Hogwarts. I must get in.” His fiery eyes are full of a determined fire that frightens me.

My confusion is equal in intensity to my terror now. I manage to gasp, “But if only Dumbledore can undo them, then what can I do?”

His twisted smile is back. “Dumbledore feared that should he die, no one would be able to remove his charms. So he secretly bestowed the power to open and close the magical gates to three of his most trusted students—you and your meddlesome friends.”

I am stunned by this. Dumbledore trusts me enough to give me the key to the survival of Hogwarts? And now I am in the hands of the most evil man on Earth, who wants me to betray Dumbledore’s trust and open them? I can barely suppress a moan of horror. “But . . . he never told . . .” I stutter.

“No, he never revealed it to you. He probably felt you weren’t ready to know. But I can teach you how to unseal them.”

“Never,” I mutter distractedly, shaking my head. I know that letting Voldemort in would spell the beginning of the end for us all and that’s something I cannot allow at any cost.

“Are you sure?” asks Voldemort coyly. “I wouldn’t expect you to do this without offering you something in return. My desire to destroy Harry Potter has always been strictly personal. I will spare his life and my grudge if you do this. The same for the Weasley boy—I had no quarrel with him anyway. Trust me, there is no other way to ensure your friends’ lives.”

I am sickened to realize that his offer tempts me. Save my best friends at the cost of possible Dark takeover, or risk that one day they will be killed? My mind is buzzing. “And if I don’t agree?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Then I kill you, and your miserable little friends will join you at the first possible opportunity.”

As I sit in this hard metal chair, held here by the snakes that belong to the Dark Lord Voldemort, I feel that death would be almost welcome in comparison to this moral debate. But could I wish death on Harry and Ron as well? No, of course not. But to let Voldemort in would cause even more fatalities, wouldn’t it? How can I sacrifice all of the Light side to save two people? But how can I not do everything in my power to stop the deaths of my best friends?

An idea begins to dawn on me. Unless . . . I could warn Dumbledore, and when I let Voldemort in, he’ll be met with our forces. We might even be able to defeat him there, if properly prepared! The idea appeals to me and while it is arguably the riskiest thing I’ve ever done, it appears to be my best and only option. I know that I am basing this plan on the slim hope that Voldemort will give me the opportunity to betray him to Dumbledore, which is foolish. But what else can I do?

I let out a shaky sigh. My mind is reeling with questions. What if I’m making the wrong decision? Before I can contemplate that further, I find myself muttering, “Okay. But how do I know I can trust you? How do I know you won’t betray me and kill them anyway?”

“I thought you’d come around,” he says, smiling coldly. He picks up his wand and I immediately flinch. The pain of the Cruciatus Curse is not easily lost on anyone. However, he does not point the wand at me. He points it at a patch of air over my head and does a complex pattern of waves, uttering an unintelligible word every now and then. An object materializes in the air over the desk separating us. “The Sphere of Truth,” he says.

The Sphere of Truth is truly a beautiful thing. It hovers in midair, spinning slowly. The sphere itself is made of durable crystal, with billowy smoke of a deep royal purple filling the inside, making it look not transparent, but the color of the smoke. It looks much like a Remembrall. On the outside there are criss-crossing silver metal beams that encircle it. It seems to shimmer. I am taken by its beauty. I’ve never heard of such a thing before, though it could easily have been in the Dark Magic books, which I have never been allowed near.

“The Sphere of Truth is a powerful object,” says Voldemort. “As soon as you agree to a deal or contract, or anything to that effect, it traps your words in it. As long as that ball is intact, the commitment cannot be broken. The only people who can destroy the ball, successfully terminating the agreement, are the people who are affected by the agreement. In other words, you or I. I will keep the sphere once you agree to it, but I have no motive to break it. To do so would mean that I could kill the boys, yes, but it would also mean that you could betray me. Therefore, it is safe in my hands.” He says another complex pair of words and smiles at me chillingly. “You have already agreed to help me—you said it aloud. The terms are binding. You cannot deviate from the agreement now.”

I watch, my throat and stomach clenching in realization of my mistake, my eyes wide. The Sphere of Truth, still suspended in the air, begins to change. The silver metal slowly morphs to a vibrant, glistening gold, and the purple smoke melts into a deep blood red. I can almost feel the energy it emits. I have been tricked into agreeing to do this, I realize, hanging my head. I cannot betray Voldemort now.

I close my eyes and let despair fill me as Voldemort’s laughs echo through the room.

* ~ * ~ *

As I tell the story, the vision of that day fades. I can feel the horror of it all over again as I explain to Harry the end of the tale. I cannot bear to look him in the face, so I stare determinedly at the stone floor.

“So I had no choice but to do his bidding,” I say numbly. “And then the day came when Dumbledore left for a Ministry conference and I let the Death Eaters through the gates.” Finally, I look up, but my eyes are blurred with tears, so I cannot see his face. “Harry, I know you have no reason to, but please believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt anyone! I was trying to do the right thing and it blew up in my face. I know it’s no excuse, and you’ll probably think this is all a big lie, but I am so, so, sorry for the way things turned out. I hate myself for it. I guess I was just so selfish that I had to find some way to strike a deal so that Voldemort wouldn’t hurt the both of you. I thought any life was better than none.” I go quiet for a moment. “But that’s not true. Death is better than the life I’ve had to live the past two years. I always thought it was just easier to let everyone else think I had betrayed them in cold blood. That way no one would try to rescue me, or do anything foolish. It was, as I saw it, for your safety. Because that Sphere is still in control of me. I can’t do anything against Voldemort. But he can do whatever he wants to you—because he tricked the Sphere so that it only bound me. And that’s why he’s still hunting you down.” I let the first tear fall down my cheek.

“Hermione,” he says softly. It takes me a moment to realize that his voice does not contain hatred, or anger—but rather, horror and sadness. He pulls me into his arms and we sit that way for a long while. It takes me almost the entire extent of that time to realize what this all means—Harry forgives me.

For the first time in two years, I feel relief.

8. Tentative Hope

~~ 8 ~~

In Search of Hope

“All my instincts, they return,

And the grand façade, so soon will burn.

Without a noise, without my pride,

I reach out from the inside.”

--Unknown Artist

I hold the weeping Hermione in my arms and think hard of what she’s told me. I watched her face the whole time and I cannot claim that she looked anything but truthful. But she was so good at deceiving us before . . . can I really trust her? Much as I am desperate to, despite the sacrifices I may have made, I am still unsure. It takes a long time to trust someone who betrayed you so utterly.

If she is telling the truth, then Sirius was right—this changes everything the few Light survivors have believed. This could change the tide of the war. Perhaps it would give the despairing people back some hope—hope spawned from the idea the Hermione Granger, long-called traitor, was really just a teenager who’d made a mistake and gotten herself trapped by the Dark Lord, like so many before her. Hope coming from the idea that there had never been a willful betrayal at all. Perhaps that hope would be enough to raise a revolt that could start a true war again and not just rebellions. And if we’re in a war, then at least there will be some hope for success, however meager and unlikely.

Or maybe it will do nothing.

Maybe this is all still one big lie, and there’s no use in having fantasies of a hopeful future.

I sigh. There really are too many maybes to do anything. I can’t tell this to anyone yet. No one would believe me, and chances were that Hermione would forbid me to say anything anyway. I need proof before I bring this to anyone, with the exception of perhaps Sirius. Ron is definitely low on my list. It will take him heaps of evidence to begin to look at the possibility she’s not bad, and a whole lot more than either of us can give to convince him. So looking at the prospect of evidence, I consider what it is I will do.

Finally, Hermione pulls away from me. Her cheeks are tear-streaked and her eyes red and swollen. The pain and apology in those eyes steal my heart. How could she fake that? Still, that irritating voice nags me not to trust her. I am torn between loyalty to a one-time friend who says she needs my help and loyalty to my instincts. Who do I believe? Can I even make such a decision?

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but lets out nothing but a quivering breath. She is still shaking, but she is beginning to stop. Her eyes travel to the floor once more, and I study her. While she looks pretty much the same as before when we were at Hogwarts, she is a completely different person. You can’t completely tell that until you look into her eyes, which hold the secret, untold stories of her painful past and difficulties. She’s lived many more than her seventeen years. So have I. The sad thing is, that fact is what keeps us separated.

“Hermione,” I begin slowly, trying to think what to say. I’m not sure what I had intended to speak of when I’d said her name, but I had felt it necessary to say something. Now I am drowning in a sea of words, or rather, diving into a shallow pool of them in which there are not enough to halt my fall. Finally, I give up the search for the right thing to say and just wing it, saying what I feel as I go. “I’m sorry . . . for everything. I’m also sorry for saying what I’m about to. You know I’ve been all for giving you a chance, and if anything, I’m much more so now. But I simply can’t put my trust in all you say. You must understand why. I’ll do my best to get some evidence that you’re telling the truth, but until I have it . . . I can’t promise anything more than an alliance between us. I just . . . can’t trust you.”

I can see her flinch, but she nods. “I’d expect no less,” she whispers. “I don’t deserve your trust. Merlin, I was so stupid, to make the decision I did. I can hardly believe it myself. I can’t see you trusting me even if you had proof I’m not lying.”

“If I have proof, I’ll do everything I can to get you a place in our team,” I say fiercely. “Because if you’re being truthful, then you never meant for any of this to happen. You were trying to do the best you could for people, while facing the Dark Lord and death and torture. He’s baited and manipulated thousands of people. You’re not the first. And you’re not at fault.”

“Whatever you say, Harry,” she murmurs. I know she does not believe me, but I say nothing more on the subject.

I allow the silence to take over for a few minutes, thinking of plans to make. I need one soon or else Sirius will do as he has threatened. I know I need evidence to prove Hermione’s telling the truth. But what could possibly provide such evidence? Unless . . .

“Hermione,” I speak up suddenly. “Do you know where this Sphere of Truth is kept?”

She nods, apparently not following my train of thought. “Yes . . . I’ve seen it a million times in Lucius Malfoy’s office. Dumbledore’s old office. He keeps in this glass case.” She frowns in anger. “He takes great pleasure in reminding me of my stupidity every time he forces me in there.”

I nod slowly. “Good,” I mutter. She sends me a confused look, which I ignore for the time being. “I think I have a plan.”

* * *

We sleep badly that night. I lay awake the whole time, considering my plan and altering it and adding to it. I can hear Hermione beside me, shifting and turning throughout the night and by her breathing, I know she is not resting. I believe I hear soft sobs at one point during the night, but cannot be sure.

When the sun’s first rays peek over the distant hilltops the next morning, and the sun is a tired sort of gray, I shrug off the sleeping bag. It seems so much harder to stay awake while moving. The fatigue is tearing at me and I know that whatever I may plan, I will need rest before I do anything. Hermione is dragging in a way similar to me and we eat our food in silence.

Once we finish, Hermione stands and walks over to the cave entrance. Instantly, I stiffen. The last time she headed that way was to kill herself. I watch cautiously, not wanting to say anything if I am wrong. She sits down near the entrance and leans against the wall, looking out. I let out a breath I was not aware of holding. She must hear me, and looks my way. She attempts a small smile, but it looks more like a frown. I walk over to where she sits, my hands deep in the pockets of my pants, my face expressionless as I stare out over the snowy rises and falls of the hidden rocks along the side of the mountain.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to snow again at least,” whispers Hermione in an offhand voice.

“No,” I reply. The conversation is brief and unnecessary, but serves the purpose of breaking through the thin icy wall we’d unconsciously built between ourselves this morning.

“You thought I was going to try to jump off the cliff again, didn’t you?” she asks after a moment.

I wince. I know I am cornered. I finally nod. “Yes. I was scared you were going to try it again,” I admit reluctantly.

She looks at me with a pained, conflicted expression. “You were scared? For me?” She sighs, and the breath is shaky. “Why, Harry? Why is it that you alone have managed to look past the façade I’ve put up when no one else cares to take the time? My intentions don’t matter; I still betrayed you. How can you forgive that? It’s beyond me to understand anymore.”

I contemplate my answer carefully before beginning to speak slowly. “Yes, I was scared for you. Why? Because if you’re telling the truth—which I pray with all my heart that you are—then I’ve gained back the best friend I thought I’d lost. I care about you just as much as I ever did. And I can forgive you because it isn’t something you can be blamed for. I more than anyone know the tricks Voldemort is capable of. Contrary to your own beliefs, this is not your fault.”

“No, I didn’t want to betray you,” she acknowledges, looking down the mountainside instead of at him. “But it was my stupidity and ignorance that placed me in such a position. That’s just as bad.”

“You made a mistake,” I argue. “Not even you are perfect.”

“Tell that to Ron,” she says sadly, looking deep into my eyes. “Tell it to his brothers and Ginny. To the relatives of everyone I’ve gotten killed. Tell them that, oh, by the way, I didn’t mean it. It was only a mistake.” Her laugh is as bitter and cold as the air around us. “Yes, Harry, I’m sure that’s the way they’ll look at it.”

I can think of nothing to say to this. She has me cornered. She clearly doesn’t expect an answer as she turns her attention away again. Again, I am left feeling awkward and uncomfortable. I still don’t know where I stand. Just a moment ago I had been arguing as though I believed her, but in my heart, I still didn’t. Not entirely. So what am I to do?

We sit there for at least an hour, shivering in the frigid morning air and lost deep in the confines of our grim thoughts. I watch as the sun rises over the distant, gray horizon and tints the sky with its rays. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the sun. Clouds have taken over my days, and even if I may look back on sunny days, in my mind, they are still overcast and hazy. I have the feeling that if I look back on this day, I will view it as gray too. Still, I have a hard time ignoring the robin’s egg blue of the sky and the yellow glimmer over the horizon.

A sound behind me makes me spin. I see Sirius walking toward me, apparently having just Apparated. I stand up. Hermione glances his way before turning her attention back outside. I give her a look of sympathy and confusion before looking at Sirius.

“Anything new?” asks Sirius immediately. He never was one to waste time—it was one of the things I normally like about him. Now, though, I wish he would beat around the bush for just a little while.

I nod. “Yes. I feel . . .” I pause for a moment, considering how to voice my mixture of emotions. I sigh inwardly, knowing that my next words will choose a path for me—a path I may never be able to retrace should I later find that my faith was misplaced. “I feel completely confident that Hermione is our ally.”

Sirius’s expression is hard to read. He definitely doesn’t look pleased, but not disappointed either. I can feel Hermione turning her eyes to me at these words as well, but I do not look her way. I know I do not have the courage. To look at her would mean to allow my mind to twist these words around, would allow me a chance to doubt myself. I did not have time for that right now, not if I wanted to present this to Sirius in a way that would help him to support me.

“And what are you basing this on?” he asks in the same weary, grim sort of voice that relays no real emotion. I swear he puts on that blank face and shields his voice just to drive me into madness.

“I heard her story,” I say, keeping my argument strong and confident, though no two words were less fit to describe the way I felt. “I believe her beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sirius, and I want to help her. But in order to help her—and in order to get proof that she can be trusted—I have to retrieve something.”

Sirius runs his fingers through his hair and gives me another of his unreadable looks. “Okay. What is it that you need to get.”

“A Sphere of Truth.”

Sirius’s eyes widen, looking at me. “Er, Harry . . . those are very difficult to find, I’m not sure where I’ll be able to get you one, especially in this dangerous and hard time—”

“No,” I say. “I don’t need a Sphere of Truth. I need a specific Sphere of Truth. The one that was used to bind Hermione to an agreement she never even officially made. Another bit of deception by the Dark Lord.”

“I—I see,” stammers Sirius, obviously having a more difficult time concealing his feelings as our discussion progresses. “You want to destroy it, then?”

“Yes. And use it as evidence of Hermione’s loyalty.”

“Do you know where to find it?”

Hermione speaks for the first time. “In the Headmaster’s office at Puerclades,” she says. Looking down, she adds, “In Lucius Malfoy’s office.”

Sirius falls silent. I can see his mask of blank emotion disappearing and being replaced by an uncertain look. He does not respond to Hermione’s words immediately, instead staring straight at me. His eyes bore into my own and while I am desperate to look away, I know that his gaze is far too binding to break. He initiated it and only he will sever it. The confusion in his eyes is wild, a mixture of thoughts and worries that not even he can conceal. But I can see in them a deep faith—a faith placed in me. He will trust my instincts and my beliefs. During this moment of silent contemplation, I understand that a decision is to be made—a decision that will ultimately be up to me. If I reassure Sirius, then he will, however reluctantly, go along with me. If I do not, then he will never trust Hermione, because I had even the barest hint of a doubt in her loyalty. That doubt will lead him to throw away any thoughts he might have had in her favor. She will be the enemy in his eyes forever. Though it is true that my mind is filled with a rampant variety of hesitations and uncertainties, I simply cannot set aside the voice in my head telling me to ignore them all and trust what my logical mind will not allow me to resolutely believe. I stop this debate and look at Sirius determinedly, not letting a hint of my reserve show in my eyes. I nod once. It is a barely noticeable gesture, but it is filled with a power that will not allow for any arguments. He is defeated and he knows it. I can see this in his every dismal feature, but he does not put up a fight. He turns once more to Hermione.

“Are you certain that it’s in Malfoy’s office?” asks Sirius wearily. He puts a derisive emphasis on Malfoy’s name, but that is pretty much the only real feeling in his words. However, I notice the fatigue in his voice—he has the sound of a man who is about to forfeit an all-important battle. In a way, I know he is.

Hermione nods, but offers no more of an explanation.

“How? If Malfoy or someone just told you, it isn’t exactly certifiable information—”

“No one had to tell me,” she replies bitterly. “He has a tendency to drag me in there on occasion for one reason or another. It gives him great pleasure to present to me that damn Sphere whenever I have the slightest urge to fight him on anything.”

I give her a look out of the corner of my eye. The pain in her eyes speaks to me more than her words ever could. It is during moments like these, moments when she seems to be so vulnerable and suffering, that I cannot help but trust her. It is later that I look back on these times and question whether they are or are not a deceitful ploy.

Sirius can sense the hurtful memories that it seems he has triggered. However, he does not apologize. “All right, then. Where in his office does he keep it? And, if you know, under what sort of magical security?”

“He keeps it in a glass case of sorts. It’s right on his desk. Aside from having to get into Puerclades and then into his office, there are charms on it that will alert him should someone attempt to breach the glass. If you touch the glass before it’s been disarmed, it will deliver a painful shock, which is at about a third the intensity of the Cruciatus Curse. Very painful, but bearable. I don’t know what else, but I don’t suppose that’s all.” Hermione’s eyes remain downcast as she speaks. She continually moves from her left foot to her right in a nervous gesture, one I’d grown accustomed to seeing from her during our Hogwarts years.

Sirius sighs and runs a hand through his thinning black hair. He shakes his head. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and deny that I’m not behind you on this. I’ve always tried to be honest, when it wasn’t necessary to lie, or when I wasn’t pulling of my pranks in my Hogwarts days. I’m not going to lie to you. Harry, I think this is a bad decision. I don’t agree with you in any regard. I’m all for giving her a chance, but not risking your life. Hermione, to be blunt, I still don’t trust you no matter what my godson may believe. Regardless, I’m going along with all this. Therefore, I am going to say this now—this entire plan looks ridiculous. Getting into the school, getting into Malfoy’s office, and getting past the magical defenses? That will be near impossible. And even if you break the Sphere, what will it prove? You can show it around all you like, but no one knows why it was originally instigated, or for what purpose. It won’t convince anybody.”

I fall silent, realizing he is right. Getting the Sphere won’t help in that particular sense. Defeat pounds at me painfully as I let out a breath in sadness. It’s not so much that I’m disappointed because no one else will have evidence of her innocence, though that would have been a positive side affect. No, I know that this is no longer a mission to restore my status in my group, or to give the others a reason to believe. This is about me. I need some sort of proof that she is what she says she is. I just can’t fully trust her until I have it—but I have a silent desperation to trust her. If I can, then I have my best friend back. It is a dream I’ve long since given up, but a dream that still holds the promise of helping my bleak world become a little brighter. I am saddened that I cannot use the Sphere as evidence to prove she is innocent to my peers as well, but mostly I am disappointed at hearing Sirius voice the difficulty of the task out loud. It truly does seem hopeless. For either of us to set foot inside that school would be suicide. Again I feel my dream being crushed. I know I’ll never let it come true until I have proof.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “We’re going for it anyway. I don’t care if it doesn’t prove anything to Ron. Ron’s stubborn—it’s hard to convince him to believe anything he doesn’t want to. Eventually, with hard work from the both of us, he can be convinced that she’s not what he thought she was. Before we even try to convince Ron, I need proof myself.” I look at Hermione. “I really believe you’re telling the truth. But I need that Sphere to be positive. Aside from that fact, you can be a real ally in our fight against Voldemort—but in order for you to help us, that Sphere needs to be eliminated.” I look back to Sirius. “Any way you look at it, we have to destroy the Sphere of Truth. We’re doing it.” There is a finality in my words that speaks to Sirius.

He nods and does not attempt to argue with me again. Instead he looks away from me and towards Hermione, who still looks distant and guarded. “So how do we do this?”

Hermione doesn’t seem to realize he is directing this question at her, because she makes no motion to answer. “Hermione?” I say gently, to get her attention.

She looks up at me, then at Sirius. “What, you expect me to know?” she demands after a moment.

“You know the school as it is now better than Harry and I,” says Sirius logically. “Neither of us can even begin to make a plan without you. Can you think of any way to get into the school without getting caught?”

She leans against the cave wall and stares at her feet in silence. I can tell she is thinking from the way her brow is furrowed in concentration. Finally, she looks up at me and shakes her head. “I don’t see how. None of the passages are safe anymore.” She looks at me in shame. “I was forced to tell them.”

Something clicks in my mind. “The passages!” I cry. “The day we were on the grounds, the day I first saw you in Gryffindor Tower, we were trying to get into the school. Fred and George found a secret passage that wasn’t on the map. We didn’t think the Death Eaters knew about it. I’ll bet we can still use it!”

“The passage that’s under a floor tile by the painting of those fourteenth century goblin monarchs in the corridor leading to the dungeons?” asks Hermione.

“I don’t know where it comes out,” I say, my hope beginning to sink. “But you can enter the passage by crawling into an old, blocked up log half submerged in the water along the north bank of the lake. You tap the barricade of the log and say the correct word and it opens.”

“Same passage,” says Hermione dejectedly, sighing. “Draco Malfoy found that one about a year ago. His father is very much aware of it. There are always guards in that passage, along with the rest.”

“Malfoy’s still there?” I growl.

“Why wouldn’t he be? It’s a Dark Arts school. Most of the Slytherins still are there,” she confirms.

“I hope I run into him on our way into the school. Could be fun.”

“Right now, the problem is getting into the school,” Sirius reminds me. I force my mind away from thoughts of hurting Draco Malfoy and focus once more on the task at hand.

“We need to get into Lucius Malfoy’s office,” continues Sirius. “Even if we get into the school, we won’t know the password. There’s only one real way to get in there, aside from climbing up the side of the castle to climb into a window. We need him to let us in.”

I look at him. “Exactly what do you mean? You think we can just walk in and if we ask politely enough, he’ll open up for us?”

“Not quite,” he murmurs. “If one of us were to just accidentally be captured, then there’s a good chance that Malfoy would take them to his office, right, Hermione?”

I can see that Hermione is becoming quite uncomfortable. “It depends. If the prisoner was important enough, he probably would. He’d want to torture them himself.” She frowns. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

Sirius just continues looking at Hermione. The truth seems to hit her at the same instant it reaches me. “No!” she cries. “I am not letting him capture me! There would be nothing I could do once in there. I would be at his mercy.”

“Not a chance, Sirius,” I echo. “He’ll hurt her—kill her, even. I won’t allow it.”

“It’s our only chance, Harry.”

“Then who’s all for the window idea?” I ask sarcastically.

“Hear me out before you refuse,” says Sirius, holding up his hands in an effort to calm us down. He can see my anger, and I can see the pure terror on Hermione’s face at the prospect of having to allow herself to be captured. “This is my idea. Hermione, you walk into the school and pretend to be returning, surrendering from running away. He’ll take you into his office most likely, right?” Hermione nods. “Good. Then, Harry will be following you in his Invisibility Cloak. Lucius Malfoy opens the passage up to his office, and Harry slips in after the two of you. You make the right forms of conversation to get him to admit why the Sphere was created—while at the same time being inconspicuous, and then you find the right time to lunge for the Sphere. Distract Lucius some way while Harry removes the Sphere, and destroys it.”

I am about to respond, but Hermione surprises me by speaking up. “It could work, I suppose,” she says hesitantly. “If it really is our only chance—and if you promise that Harry will be with me—then I’ll do it.”

“I don’t have my Invisibility Cloak. It’s back at our old hideout and I doubt I’ll be all too welcome there,” I say.

Sirius nods. “I’ll go back and talk to Dumbledore. We’ll talk to Ron and get it. Give me half an hour.” And with that, he disappears, leaving Hermione and I as alone as if he’d never even been there.

I look at her, and she looks away. “Hermione,” I begin, but I am cut off.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” she says immediately. “It’s my decision to make.”

“I know,” I agree quickly. “I just don’t want you to think you have to agree to this, especially if this is going to get you hurt.”

“Don’t you see, Harry? I do have to do this. We wouldn’t be in this place if it wasn’t for me. This is the least I can do. Yeah, Malfoy will probably try to hurt me, but I can deal with it. I’ve dealt with it for two years.” She gives me a small smile and meets my gaze. “I’ll be all right. If he does try to hurt me, though, you have to promise not to intervene if you have a clear path to the Sphere. That is the most important thing. If you get the Sphere, you have to throw it to me. Voldemort and I, being the ones bound, are the only ones capable of destroying it.”

“Do you know how to destroy it?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes. I just need you get that Sphere into my hands. And I’ll need a wand—they still have mine.”

“Do you need your wand to destroy it?” I ask apprehensively.

She shakes her head. “No—any wand will do. It will be harder with someone else’s, but it’s still possible.”

I nod, but bite the inside of my lower lip hesitantly. She seems to sense my discomfort and reaches out to me, taking my hand in hers. For a moment, she looks at me uncertainly, as though expecting me to pull away. When I do not, it seems to encourage her a little and she says, “You don’t have worry for me, Harry. I’ll be okay.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. You’re telling me that so I won’t worry. I saw what he was doing when I rescued you. He’ll hurt you.”

“It’s nothing new,” she says quietly. “I can handle it.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” I argue. “I don’t want to put you in danger, Hermione. I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to do this, knowing that’s what will almost inevitably happen. We’re doing this to stop the pain and suffering, not add more of it.”

“We aren’t backing out,” she says, pulling her hand from mine and turning away to gaze out of the cave mouth, her eyes full of determination. “I don’t care what he does to me. Just get me that Sphere, Harry. I want more than anything to destroy it, for my own sake as much as anyone else’s. That damn thing has kept me bound for two years and made me do things that are unimaginably awful. Because of that thing, my parents are dead, and you and Ron are on the run. Most of Ron’s family is dead. I’ve had enough of it—I’m not putting up with it anymore. I’m going to smash it to pieces and show Voldemort that he can’t hold me down forever.”

Her words are full of a strength I have not heard in them for years. I can tell how much she truly feels what she is speaking, and it hits something within me as well. “Okay,” I say after a moment. “I won’t fight it. I’m in.”

She looks at me and her eyes are full of gratitude. In that instant, I realize that I have made a dream of hers come true. Thinking about it logically, she must have been wishing to destroy it for a long time. For her, this is not simply a chance to prove herself to me, or to free herself from the Sphere’s binding magic, but it is a chance to eliminate the one thing that has ruined every part of her life. Thinking of it in those terms, I cannot help but think that this is the only right decision. I am glad that I have given her the chance to make this one dream come true. We speak no words, but none are needed. We understand one another perfectly in the silence. For the first time since fifth year, I feel that we are one again, like when we were young. We are a team, feeling one another’s emotions as well as our own. That feeling boosts my confidence. Hermione and I are partners. She won’t betray me again. She never did in the first place. This time, Voldemort will feel our wrath. This time, we won’t back down.

And this time we won’t lose.

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words! If I may say, please forgive spelling and grammatical errors found in this. I’ve done my best up until now to catch them effectively, but from here on out the chapters are so ridiculously long that I don’t intend to re-edit them for the fifth time. I just finished a weeks-long stint of editing for when I printed this story, and me being the bright one, I didn’t save the changes. I’m not going through that again—this story is 150 pages in its completed form, and I’m inherently lazy. So if you could bear with me, I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.

9. Breaking Bonds

~~ 9 ~~

Breaking Bonds

“This is my life.

It’s not what it was before,

All these feelings I’ve shared.

And these are my dreams

That I’ve never lived before.”

--Staind

Fear eats at me from the inside out, but through the absolute terror that I am fighting to keep suppressed is a feeling of blissful anticipation. For the past two years of my miserable existence I have envisioned the moment when my hands would lift that wretched Sphere from its crystal perch and hold it high above my head. I would throw it to the ground and watch as a shower of crimson shards filled my world. It would be the most beautiful sight of my life. No matter how many times I saw it in my mind, at night in dreams or in classes, I never tired of it. But deep down, I’d never expected that moment to ever actually arrive. Now here it is—a chance to live out a dream that has sustained me for so long. A chance handed to me by the last person I’d ever have suspected—by someone whom I don’t deserve to receive anything from. By a friend I’ve betrayed in more ways than I can easily count.

As I stand here next to him, it is still too far beyond me to understand his thought processes. How can he forgive me so completely already? Certainly he still has his doubts about my loyalty, but for him to even place this much faith in me is unbelievable after all I have done to him. Now he is willing to risk everything he’s been fighting for to help me, when he wouldn’t have to be fighting so hard for anything if it wasn’t for me in the first place. These thoughts pound painfully at my mind. In all my dreams, no matter how far-fetched, forgiveness from my friends was something I never hoped I could earn. And yet I have gained it from Harry—with no understanding as to how or why.

I suppose he sees my conflicted expression and mistakes it for worry, because he walks closer to me and, after a moment’s hesitation, copies my earlier sign of reassurance. He grabs my hand and gives it a short squeeze before releasing it. “We can do this,” he says in a soft, but confident tone.

I consider correcting him—telling him that I am not worried, simply confused. In the end, I do not. “We seem to have switched places,” I say gently. “A moment ago I was reassuring you.”

“We all need reassurance sometimes,” he replies quietly. He says no more, walking further into the cave and leaving me standing at the entrance by myself.

The silence that drops upon us again gives me time to thoroughly think it all through. I begin to realize that I am dwelling far too much on the best aspect of it all—destroying the Sphere of Truth. In order to attain that goal, I have to first survive the much harsher and more frightening elements of this plan. For the first time, what I’ve agreed to completely hits me. I am going to allow Lucius to capture me. I have told Harry to do nothing to help me—to focus only on getting the Sphere. Lucius has hurt me to the point of near death for far less than this. I shudder to think what I will have to go through. Will I even survive? What if he doesn’t even take me to his office—what if he takes me directly to Voldemort himself? These new doubts send shivers down my spine. This plan has so many holes, so many ways for it to go wrong. Yet it is still our only chance. I cannot back down now, no matter how strong my apprehension is.

Still, my worries present a notable thought, which reveal to Harry: “What if he takes me right to Voldemort?”

Harry turns to look at me, brow furrowed in thought. It is apparent that he has not considered this possibility either. “We have to make sure you get into the office,” he states. “It would be too easy for him to drag you off somewhere else if you just walk in the doors and announce your arrival. We need to rework this.” He thinks for a few minutes, then says, “You don’t know the password to Lucius’s office, right?”

“No. If I did then this would all be quite a bit easier, I daresay.”

“Everyone else in the castle has less power than Lucius, right? He’s the top dog?” Harry questions.

“Yes, he holds the ultimate power in the castle, except when Voldemort comes. He’s not there often, though. Why? What are you planning?” I ask.

“Well, if you were captured by someone other than Lucius, then that person would take you right up to his office, I’d assume?” I nod. “Okay. Then Lucius would be likely to keep you in there for at least a little while if someone put you there. So we need someone else to catch you, to be sure that they take you there. One of the professors, not a student.”

“Snape,” I reply instantly.

Harry scowls angrily. “Snape’s still there? The ruddy traitor! I always knew Dumbledore was wrong in trusting him.” He goes on to call Snape a variety of colorful names. Then he looks at me in confusion. “Why do you want to go to Snape?”

“Hard as it may be for you to believe, I don’t think Snape really is loyal to Voldemort. No, don’t give me that look, Harry, I’m serious. All the other professors are . . . horribly cruel. It’s not even right to call them professors. They’re just Death Eaters. They use the Cruciatus Curse on you if you get an answer wrong. They’ve used it on me before because I got too many right in a row. Snape’s never hurt any of us. He’s been surprisingly nice to me. Not to say he’s ever been supportive, but he never forces me to answer questions, or picks on me in class like he used to. He’s not given me one detention since this all began. And certain times when I’ve been unable to complete the assigned work for . . . various reasons, he’s never marked me down. He’s a bad guy, Harry, but he’s the lesser of many evils.”

Harry grimaces in sympathy and lays a hand on my arm. I shrug him off and he retracts it. I swear that for a moment I see something that looks almost like hurt in his eyes, but he breaks eye contact a moment later and continues on the conversation as though none of this has taken place. “Okay, I’ll trust you word on it. Snape’s our boy.”

“How do we get all the way down to the dungeons without being seen?” I ask thoughtfully.

“The same way I’m getting around without being seen—the Invisibility Cloak. We’ll both use it to get down there, then you’ll appear and I’ll stay hidden.” Harry bites his lip. “We’ll need to work up an excuse as to why you’d present yourself to them, though. They’ll anticipate a trap if you just walk in without an explanation.”

I shake my head sadly. “That’s not a problem. Ever since that Howler you sent me way back which exploded in front of everyone, they all know that I’m stuck between our two sides and hated by both. They’ll just suspect what they always have—that I returned and was shunned, so I’ve come back to the only people who’ll keep me. The only one who’ll doubt that is Voldemort himself, and if luck is with us, we won’t have to meet up with him.”

Harry’s expression is pained. “Hermione, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” I cut him off, knowing that he is referring to the Howler. “I don’t blame you.” I turn away in a clear sign that this particular strain of conversation has ended. “So that’s the plan, then.”

“I am sorry,” he says, this time ignoring my obvious signal to drop it. “At that point I had no way of knowing the truth. At that point the truth was concealed from all of us in one way or another. But that time is gone now. Now we can all really start to see those hidden truths for the first time. There’s no reason to hold on to the lies any longer. We have to start again.”

And it is with this that Harry ended the conversation, leaving me pondering my thoughts on him and his feelings even more than before.

* ~ * ~ *

It is another ten minutes before Sirius Apparates into the cave once more, this time holding a folded, silvery bundle in his right hand. Harry takes the cloak from him quickly and nods, letting it run over his fingers, looking almost like liquid in its flowing movements. He nods again and looks up at Sirius. “Thanks,” he says. “For everything.”

Sirius puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder in a fatherly way. The affectionate moment ends quickly and he looks to me. I force myself to find the courage to meet his eyes and not look away. Sirius walks up and looks down at me. My courage disappears at his close proximity, and I turn my attention to my shoes.

“Harry trusts you, Hermione,” he says quietly. “I personally am unsure as to why he trusts you to such a fierce degree, but he does. I’ll go with his decision in this case. I really hope he’s right to put his trust in you. He could use someone like you—or someone like he thinks you are, depending on whether this is all still an act. He lost a big part of himself the day you turned traitor. He’s never been the same. I’d really like to see that part of my godson restored. All I can do is beg you not to hurt him again. So good luck.” He raises his voice so that Harry can hear the words he speaks as well. “Harry, you know the way to the emergency safe house? You know where it is and what spells it takes to get in?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Go there once you’re done at Puerclades. It’ll keep you safe for the time being.” Sirius looks at me. “Go there no matter what happens.”

I understand what he means by this—he is telling Harry to go to this safe house, with me if I prove myself loyal, or alone if I ultimately end up a traitor. His distrust is like a painful stake through my heart, but at least I can understand it. I know why he doesn’t trust me and I expect it. Harry’s behavior, while so much kinder, is so much harder to assess, and therefore harder to cope with.

Sirius continues. “I would like to help you, as would Dumbledore. Unfortunately, we all agree—it’s too risky. We cannot risk the lives of our entire resistance on this battle, which has no real point in the overall war. I wanted to come to help you myself, but Dumbledore forbid me. Of course, if you’d like me to come along, I could always do that.”

Harry gives a small shake of his head. “No worries. I understand where you’re coming from. If things were reversed, I’d make the same decision. I wouldn’t let you help if you wanted to—and I don’t want you to defy Dumbledore my sake. You’ve helped enough. We’ll contact you once it’s done.” I notice his emphasis on the word ‘we’.

“Best of luck,” says Sirius, embracing Harry tightly for a few seconds. I can see the unease and worry written in his features. He does not speak it, but it is obvious to anyone watching that it still lingers there. He still considers himself responsible for Harry and still blames himself for Lily and James’s deaths. He is obviously worried that he will soon have another death on his conscience.

Then we are on our own, Sirius departing without another word or warning. Harry fingers the cloak again, staring at it with an unreadable expression. Finally, he sighs and glances up at me. “I guess it’s time, then,” he says without expression.

“I suppose,” I respond softly.

“So what’s the best time to go in?” he asks.

“After classes have ended, but before dinner if we hope to catch Snape alone in his office. The Death Eaters all have meetings after dinner, so we couldn’t catch him later.”

“Then we’d best start out now.”

The walk is long and silent. The only sound comes from the crunching of the snow beneath our feet and our increasingly ragged breaths. The air is bitterly cold, so harsh that it turns our throats raw and sensitive within minutes, making every breath a painful venture. Our silence is heavy and tense. Both of us are dealing with our own demons about this plan, refraining from putting them into words out of fear. After a while, my throat stops working properly and I can hardly swallow. My fear has far surpassed terror, and ventured into an unnamed level of fright. I am shaking, but it is not from the cold. The more I try to keep my mind on the moment when that Sphere will break into a million shards of glass, the harder it seems to be.

It is a long and biting trek from that cave to the edge of the Forbidden Forest around Puerclades, but for me, it is over far too soon. In what seems like seconds after we set off, we are kneeling in the snowy bushes and looking out at the entrance of a place that built my life at one time, and ruined it at another. Once again, on this day, this will be the setting of a life-altering event.

Harry speaks for the first time in over an hour. “What time do classes let out?”

“Around four in the afternoon. Then the students have two hours before dinner for homework or whatever they want to do.”

“What’s the day today?” he asks. “Is it a weekend or a weekday?”

I think hard on this. So much has happened recently that I’ve lost track of time. I never really paid much attention while I was trapped in Puerclades anyway. I’ve learned that the more attention I pay to the time, the harder it is to continue on each day. “I think it’s Sunday,” I whisper. “I’m not certain, though.”

“We’re going with that, then, because my calculations say it’s Sunday as well,” says Harry, nodding. “We might as well check. If we’re wrong, we’ll just slip back out and wait. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Yes, it can,” I say grimly. “But there aren’t any other options right now, so let’s do it.”

Harry unfolds the Invisibility Cloak with a few graceful shakes, which send it gliding and shimmering through the frigid air, its color complementing the ivory snow in a gorgeous way. Harry sends me a look that says quite clearly, ‘Last chance to back out.’ Knowing that he is only sending this message for my benefit. I step forward and allow him to throw the cloak snugly about our shoulders and make sure that it touches the ground, covering our feet as well. As Harry’s grown quite tall, he has to duck down to make sure the cloak covers us entirely.

It’s much warmer under its silky material. Our breath, which has been freezing and turning to mist, now is trapped in the cloak with us, adding extra warmth. Despite this, I am shivering more fiercely than ever, and I can feel that Harry is experiencing a few tremors of his own, but I say nothing. For a moment, we both seem content to stand here in silence, staring up at the castle with trepidation. Finally, Harry sighs and takes a step forward. I follow and try to keep my steps even with his as we make our way through the snow and up to the castle. If either of us falls too far behind while under the cloak, it’ll come off entirely, which is not something we want while standing out in the middle of an open, vacant, snowy courtyard.

I look behind me at one point and a thought hits me suddenly. “Stop,” I hiss to Harry, and he instantaneously complies.

“What is it?” he asks, looking around us warily as though someone is standing there listening.

“Our footprints,” I mutter. “Don’t you think that footprints appearing in the snow with no one to make them must look a little weird for anyone that happens to be peering out of their windows right now?”

Harry winces. “Yeah, I didn’t think of that. . . . Okay, listen—you face forward and take steps when I tell you to. I’ll face backwards and clear the footprints as I go with my wand. We’ll have to go slow so as to keep the Invisibility Cloak over new footprints, because seeing a footprint appear mysteriously in the snow, then vanish a moment later must look even weirder.”

So our progress up to the castle was quite tedious. I am lucky to get as far as ten feet in sixty seconds. One would think that I would be relieved at the slow pace—that I would be grateful for every instant I have before actually reaching the castle. In all honesty, I wish we could have just gotten there and put the plan into motion. Sitting here with my heart thudding painfully and my body shivering in terror was not in any way ideal. My stomach is twisting in painful knots that, at different intervals, make me switch between feeling near tears and close to throwing up. I’d almost rather just get it over with then stand here and put up with the nerves for any longer.

Even considering these musings of mine, when we finally do reach the doors of the castle, I can’t say I feel relieved, or at all different from the way I’ve felt since we left the comfort of the cave. I pause on the top of the steps, allowing Harry to vanish our most recent footsteps. Finally, he turns to me and raises an eyebrow. It’s clear that he’s attempting to look prepared and determined, but I can read the fear in him.

“Ready, then?” he asks.

“Harry, I’m beginning to get impatient with your constant desire to turn me away from this,” I say in a slightly irritated tone.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt. I care about you.” I read in his expression that saying these words is a trial for him. That he is uncertain of how I’ll take it, and is uncertain himself of if that is the way he truly feels. But I can also see that he does not regret them.

“I don’t know why you would,” I reply softly. He opens his mouth to reply, but I’ve tired of the conversation. I push open the doors to the Entrance Hall and he is forced to fall silent.

My heart pounds as I take the risk of opening the doors wide enough to step through. What if someone is in here and they see the door mysteriously open by itself? What was I thinking, opening the door without being sure the Entrance Hall is empty?

Unfortunately, my suspicions that someone might be inside are correct. Once Harry and I have stepped inside and the door is gliding silently shut behind us, we notice two fifth year boys standing some distance away in a dark corner. They are watching the door through narrowed eyes. For a moment, all is still, including Harry and I. Then the boys exchange a glance and pull out their wands, beginning to advance towards the door uncertainly.

I feel Harry raise his wand next to me and utter, “Stupefy!” twice, aiming once at each boy. The spell connects, and they don’t have time to even wonder from where it originated before they fold limply into a heap on the floor.

I expect some sort of a reprimand from Harry for being stupid enough to open the door, but it does not come. Instead, he begins to walk silently towards the fallen boys, and I have no choice but to follow in an effort to keep the cloak over us both. He looks down at them and raises his wand again, aiming a couple of dueling hexes at each of them. The final product was the taller boy sporting an assortment of nasty looking, acid green pustules across every bit of skin that was visible, and a shock of hair in patches of different colors. The shorter boy, whom I vaguely recognized as being one of the professors’ sons, had a great deal of white hair coming from his nostrils and teeth large enough to rival a beaver’s. I expect Harry used a variation of the hex Malfoy hit me with in fourth year that made my teeth grow, only the growing did not continue for this boy. I raise an eyebrow at Harry, questioning why he bothered doing this.

Harry shrugged, a small sort of smile playing on his lips. “Two reasons. One—if anyone finds them, it’ll just look like they were in a duel. No one will suspect anything. Two—I couldn’t resist hexing the future Death Eaters of the world.”

He knelt down and grabbed the wand out of the limp hand of the boy with the green pustules, handing it to me. “Here. So we’re both armed.”

I nod shortly and clench the wand tightly in my fist, thankful for it.

We set out again, with a closer eye towards caution. We pass many students talking in the halls, which confirms our suspicions that this is indeed a weekend, for had it not been, all the kids would have been in class at this time. We have a couple of close run-ins—namely, almost running into a group of girls when I stumbled over the bottom of the cloak, and almost revealing ourselves when Harry attempted to dive at Draco Malfoy when we passed him—but we reach the corridor to Snape’s dungeon without too much interference.

After what seems like far too short a time, we are standing in front of Snape’s dungeon door. I stare at it with apprehension, the full caliber of the insanity of this plan hitting me. Was I really just going to walk in? What would I say? What would Snape do? Can I really do this?

Harry seems to sense my doubts and grabs my hand. I look at him, not bothering to conceal my fear. “This is madness,” I whisper, managing a small, weak laugh.

“That’s an un understatement,” he replies in an equally soft voice. “Look, you said it yourself that Snape won’t hurt you. I’m going to be lurking just out here in the shadows. I’ll be with you the whole way. You won’t be able to see me, but never doubt that I’m there. I won’t leave you.”

“What happens if you don’t manage to slip up to Lucius’s office with me? What if you miss your chance and I’m alone and don’t even know it until I make my move?” I ask, a sudden desperation to turn back grabbing me.

He squeezes my hand before releasing it. “That won’t happen. Even if I miss the chance the first time, I’ll hear the password. I can open it again and slip up. But that won’t happen. Now go on. I won’t come inside because I don’t want to risk being seen, but I’ll be right out here. Okay?”

I nod, my throat clenched too tightly to say a word. I take several deep breaths before ducking out from under the cloak.

I feel so vulnerable without the cloak to protect me. Being out in the open is a terrifying feeling, and all I want is to get back under it. Not being able to see Harry doesn’t help. I know he is there, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of abandonment that overtakes me.

Harry’s voice, from under the cloak, whispers encouragingly, “You can do it, Hermione.”

If this were a fairy tale and I was the heroine, Harry’s words would have been enough to fill me with a sudden feeling of certainty and confidence, and I would have strode through the doors to confront Snape proudly, my head held high. But this is not a fairy tale. Harry’s words do nothing to stop the pounding of my heart and the barely noticeable, terrified tremors racing through me. It helps me a little to know he is still there, but the extent of their aid pretty much ends there. Nevertheless, I force my shaking hand to reach for the doorknob and twist it.

The creaking of the hinges of the door and my hesitant footsteps echo throughout the dungeon imposingly. The room is empty, and there is no sign of Professor Snape or anyone else. I force myself to take one more step, then another, towards the desk beyond which lies the Potions Master’s office. I make no effort to hurry, but even so, it does not take long to cross the room to a point where I can see into the office beyond, and sure enough, Severus Snape sits at his desk, scribbling fiercely with a quill on a piece of parchment from a stack that is likely to be student tests. The door is open and he is facing me, but he is focused on the papers and doesn’t seem aware that I am here.

Uncertainty grips me. Oh, what do I do? Possibilities of how to start off the conversation run through my mind, each as unlikely and ridiculous as the next. “Hello, Professor, what’s up? Anything new since I’ve been gone?” and “Oh, is that a test I missed? Can I take it once Malfoy is done punishing me for running off?” Under other circumstances, such musings might have struck me as funny, but now they only serve to frighten me more.

In the end, Snape saves me the trouble of deciding on anything. Finally finishing his writing, he looks up while he dips his quill in a bottle of ink, and his eyes fall on me. My breath intakes sharply as he stares at me in what is apparent disbelief for several moments. His stupor does not last nearly long enough for my tastes, and he stands up with a grimace, striding around his work area and out the door, only stopping once he is facing me on the opposite side of the desk which oversees the classroom. He slams his palms down on the wooden surface of the desk and leans forward, glaring at me. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demands angrily.

My mouth opens and closes several times before I manage to utter the words I’m looking for. “I—I don’t understand what you mean, Professor.” My voice is choked and filled with shock. I hadn’t expected this sort of a reaction, but then, I’m not to sure what I did expect.

“I would assume my meaning is perfectly clear, Miss Granger. What are you doing back here, foolish girl?” he hisses.

I’m quite surprised, and begin rambling a response without much thought. “I went back . . . to Harry and Ron, and they turned me away, like I guess I should have known they would, so I . . . I came back. What did you expect me to do?”

Snape let out a growl, his cold black eyes flashing. “Miss Granger, I’m sorry to say that I’ve overestimated your intelligence these past years by a great margin. They turned you away—that does not matter. Surely there is someplace out there where you could have stayed hidden? You finally get a chance to escape this place, and you return to it?” His voice is full of incredulous sarcasm.

“I didn’t know where to go,” I lie. “I just . . . I don’t know . . .” I trail off, feeling completely lost.

He sighs in exasperation, and meets my gaze with a penetrating one of his own. “Tell me, Miss Granger, do you enjoy being the Death Eaters’ main punching bag? Or do you have some deep, underlying interest in the Dark Arts? Because I’d have thought that you’d have the sense to get as far away from this wretched place as you can while you had the chance!”

“Of course I don’t like what they do to me!” I cry in anger, indignation overcoming me. Who does he think he is? “And I’ll die before I turn to the dark side.”

“Then answer my question—what has brought you back?”

I feel like kicking myself. I’ve just turned down two perfectly good excuses. I could have just used one—it isn’t as though I care about Snape’s opinion. The whole idea is to get him to take me to Lucius, and apparently he needs an excuse before he’ll do that. Arguing in my own defense isn’t helping. I’ve backed myself into a corner in which I’ll have to find a lie of my own—a lie more substantial than the one about the Light side turning me away. In the end, Snape’s glare seems to have the effect of chasing away all thoughts of what I can say.

“I . . .” I say, trailing off with a shrug of uncertainty.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t discontinue his penetrating stare. I focus my glare on the stone ground instead, unnerved but desperate not to show signs of weakness.

“Of course,” he whispers, sounding as though an idea is dawning on him. I look up in confusion and he asks me harshly, “How did you get in without anyone seeing you?”

Oh, Merlin, he knows! I realize desperately. I’d been a fool to assume we could trick them! He is staring at me expectantly, and I mutter lamely in a futile effort to delay the inevitable, “I was . . . lucky . . . I guess . . .”

“Lucky. Of course,” he murmurs silkily. His eyes are staring me down now, and I have no more doubts. He knows. Fear surges up in me and before I can decide on a more sensible course of action, I turn, intending to run for the door and hope that Harry and I can make it back out before we’re trapped.

Snape’s reflexes are simply too fast. He lunges across the desk and he snags my arm in a bruising, vice-like grip. I cry out in horror and pull the wand Harry gave me from the pocket in my robes, aiming it at him. Once again, he is faster. He knocks the wand from my hand and it flies through the air, landing on the ground some ten feet away. Snape grabs my other arm and I begin to struggle violently. It’s over, I realize with a sense of dreadful defeat. It’s really over. I just hope that Harry has the sense to get out without me.

“Miss Granger, calm yourself!” Snape growls angrily. “I am not going to hurt you! I am simply attempting to keep you from running out the door or hexing me—I will release you once you show signs that you don’t intend to do either!”

“And I have plenty of reason to believe that!” I snap, attempting to punch him in the jaw when he wasn’t expecting me to be aiming my hands in that direction—I miss.

When he speaks again, his voice is choppy with the effort of restraining me, but it is uncharacteristically sincere and calm. “I ask you—since Hogwarts was turned into Puerclades, have I ever harmed you?”

I unconsciously begin to stop my struggles, though I don’t stop tugging at my arms every now and then. His tone and his words reach me. True, as I told Harry, he’s never hurt me or harassed me since everything changed. My fear has not subsided, but I am beginning to wonder if everything is as I am perceiving it, and truth be told, struggling against him was doing me no good anyway.

“Good girl,” he mutters as I cease my attempts at escape. “If you make a run for the door, I will stop you, but you may retrieve your wand.” True to his word, he releases me.

I don’t move for ten whole seconds, simply staring at him, shocked. Despite the fact that I’d stopped struggling, I hadn’t expected him to let me go. I can feel a dull, throbbing ache where his hands had been wrapped so tightly around my arms, and feel certain that bruises will end up forming there.

“Well, are you going to get it or will we stand here all night?” Snape demanded with a scowl.

I nod slowly, stepping away from the desk and walking over to where the wand landed. I never take my eyes fully off him, not trusting that he might attack me from behind, though I can see no logic in why he would. Once my hand closes around the handle of the wand, I leap to my feet, pointing it straight at him. He makes no move to pull out his own. I realize for the first time that he didn’t once bother pulling out his own wand—he’d let me struggle when there were dozens of curses that could easily have stopped me.

He sighs in exasperation. “Lower the wand, or I will be forced to confiscate it from you, which I’d rather not do.”

“Why should I?” I ask daringly, not yet willing to put away my best means of self-defense.

He rolls his eyes skyward as I remember seeing him do so many times in the past when Neville turned a potion so unbelievably wrong that it was hardly conceivable. However, when he speaks, he keeps his voice even and low, without the threatening growl it usually contains. “I didn’t tell you to put it away, Miss Granger, just to lower it. My wand is in my office. If you’d like to verify that, summon it to you and hold it. I already told you that I do not intend to hurt you.”

While summoning Snape’s wand was most likely the sensible thing to do, for some reason, I refrain. Confusion is taking me over. A minute ago I’d been completely convinced that he was going to torture me or expose my plan to Lucius, or both. Now I don’t know what’s going on. I lower my wand slowly to my side and step closer to the desk. I stay just out of his reach, watching him in wary curiosity.

Snape gazes at me with an unreadable expression. “I don’t suppose it’s necessary to ask you to confirm my suspicions after that entire episode, but for the sake of being thorough, I’ll make sure that I’m completely correct. You snuck in under Potter’s Invisibility Cloak? And I suppose Potter and Weasley are lurking around here somewhere as well, still hidden? Come for some daring plan, I anticipate?”

I do not bother to deny it. To do so would be unintelligent, and would gain me a worse punishment, depending on what he intends to do with this information. He’d still believe what he does, and I’d look like a fool. Still, I don’t mention that it’s only Harry and I, and that Ron does not trust me. “Yes,” I say simply. On second thought, I add, “How did you know?”

“Do not take me for a fool. It may have taken me a moment, but it was the only thing that made any sense. Why else would you have returned? Why else would you have presented yourself to me without even a decent excuse as to why you are here? How else could you not have been seen and dragged away long before you reached here?” Snape asks. His logic is unbeatable. Why didn’t Harry and I anticipate this? It should have been obvious that Snape would figure it out.

“What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.

“I’m shocked that our brightest pupil could possibly be so dense. How many times must I repeat the fact that I do not intend to hurt you?” he said rather snappishly.

“Then what are you going to do?” I ask. “Tell Lucius about all of this?”

He studies me intently. “No, Miss Granger. I will not tell Malfoy a thing.”

I frown for a moment, opening my mouth to demand to know why, when the thought that has been eluding me finally hits me, putting the last puzzle piece into place. I blink, feeling startled that I had not considered it before. “You’re still with Dumbledore, aren’t you?”

“Bravo, she gets it at long last,” he said scathingly. “Indeed, I am. I’ve not had much chance to speak with him in the last two years, with the exception of a couple of brief informational exchanges—all we could risk—but I am loyal to him. I’ve known that you were not responsible, as Dumbledore thought you to be, but I dared not pass along that information. To do so would have been asking for death. I was only able to pass small, seemingly useless bits of information to him, because I am monitored closely.

“I do not intend to hand you over to Lucius Malfoy. I cannot help you, though, I am afraid. I have a cover to maintain. Therefore, I will give you one chance to go out, find Potter, slip back under his cloak, and then you can abort your little mission and leave. No one will ever know that any of this happened here today.”

For a moment, I consider agreeing and thanking him, consider running back out to the corridor and telling Harry we can’t do this. But this urge is small and fleeting, and using some reserve of courage that I didn’t even know I possessed, I shake my head. “I can’t do that, Professor.”

“Gryffindor courage may be useful in some situations, but you are misusing it in this one,” said Snape in disgust. “If you decide to stay, I will have no choice but to take you to Lucius. I must maintain my cover. I will not tell him of what we’ve spoken of, but I’ll have to take you to him. If he finds out you were here and I did not bring you to him, Dumbledore’s only spy within this school will be compromised. I can’t risk it. Last chance, girl—get out and save your life.”

For a moment, I consider telling him that the whole point of this was to get him to take me to Lucius in the first place, but decide against it within a millisecond. The less he knows, the better. I shake my head again. “It’s too late for second thoughts, sir. I’m staying. You do what you have to—I understand. But I’m not leaving.”

Snape is clearly disgusted at my decision. Without a word, he turns and strides into his office, grabbing his wand and returning to me. He nods to the door. “Get going then, Granger.”

I turn and begin to walk back towards the door. This entire confrontation has been so much different than I’d imagined. The pure madness of it all had driven the fear of what is coming out of my mind for the time being, but now, as our footsteps echo and we near the door, my throat is beginning to constrict again. I’m going to face Lucius now, but I haven’t a shred of confidence that this plan is going to work. This entire first part of the plan has turned out entirely wrong. Whose to say the next part won’t end up the same?

Once we’re out in the corridor, Snape stops, and I turn to look at him. “Last chance,” he mutters in a low tone. “Once we’re seen by even one person, you can’t change your decision.”

“I don’t want to change it,” I say resolutely, though my voice quavers as I speak.

Snape points to the end of the corridor, indicating that I should start walking again. I hear him sigh softly behind me once I’ve begun moving, and I turn around just in time to see him casting a furtive glance around. I have a strange sensation that he’s looking to find Harry.

We—or should I say I—get many startled glances and jeers as we walk through the upper corridors. I struggle to keep my eyes lowered and look passive and meek, which I must admit is not hard. Fear is racing through me at a speed faster than light. I am praying silently that Harry is behind me, keeping up. I want nothing more than to look back and see, but to do so would be foolish. It would give the impression that I’m looking for something to anyone who may be watching my reactions a little too closely, and I won’t be able to see him even if he is there. In the end, though it is a struggle, I manage to keep my attention focused forward the entire time.

The area around the gargoyle entrance to the headmaster’s office is deserted. Snape and I stop in front of the gargoyle, neither of us saying a word. As Snape moves forward, aiming his wand at the gargoyle, I am sure that I hear a soft footfall somewhere behind me. This belief is reinforced when Snape spins around quickly, apparently having heard it too. No one is there—the corridor is still apparently deserted. I feel relief wash over me in that instant, and I’m sure some of it shows on my face. Harry is indeed still behind me, lurking under his Invisibility Cloak. Snape is looking at me, and I know he suspects that Harry is there as well, but he turns back to the gargoyle and raises his wand without a word about it.

He does a series of complex wand movements, accompanied by a long password, which is interrupted by more wand movements. Sometime during this, when Snape’s attention is focused on the process of gaining entrance, I feel a hand on my shoulder. My head snaps to one side, and I see only air, but the hand is still resting on my shoulder. I give the apparently empty space next to me the smallest of smiles. I dare not speak to Harry, though the temptation is great. I’d rather Snape doesn’t know he is here, and we’re far too close to the headmaster’s office to assume we’re not being overheard.

The gargoyle is sliding back, revealing the escalator-like spiral staircase heading up to the headmaster’s office. Never before has that fleet of steps looked more imposing. I hear soft motions next to me and Harry’s hand leaves my shoulder. The footsteps continue, and I assume he’s moving into a position to follow me closely. I shuffle about in an effort to hide the small sounds he’s making.

Snape looks at me. “I’ll need the wand you’re carrying. Lucius will have expected me to take it from you. I must.” He holds out his hand. With a great amount of regret, I hold it out to him slowly. Things just became harder. Now Harry will have to have to find a suitable time to pass me his wand without his presence being realized, or without his wand ending up in Lucius’s possession as well.

Snape nods and tucks the wand away in his robes, nodding up the stairs. I begin to move forward, and when my foot hits the first stair, I feel sure that I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry, Miss Granger.”

Blood is pounding in my ears and my head, giving me quite the splitting headache. My stomach is doing advanced gymnastics inside my belly, which do nothing to tame my queasiness. The walk up that staircase is the longest and most painful trek I’ve ever made. When at long last I come to a halt before the wooden door leading into the office, my hands are shaking, and it’s all I can do not to allow the rest of my body to break out in violent tremors.

Snape moves past me to knock on the door, and when his back is turned, I feel Harry’s hand come into contact with my shoulder again. His presence, while helpful and relieving, isn’t enough to calm my terror.

“Lucius! I’ve with me someone you’d be interested in seeing,” calls Snape through the closed door.

“Enter,” says the cold voice of Lucius Malfoy. I let out a soft whimper and Snape looks at me. For the first time in the seven years I’ve known the man, I see something resembling pity in his eyes. Snape turns and opens the door, stepping in before me.

I cannot see Lucius through the small opening between the door and the wall. I can still hear him, though. “So who is it you’ve brought, Severus? I don’t have time to wait around.”

“Girl!” Snape calls. “Get in here!”

I raise my head and step into the office with as much dignity as I can muster. Harry’s hand does not leave my shoulder the whole time, which is a comfort. However, he removes it the moment we are both inside, moving away, presumably, to a safer area where there was less risk of someone running into him unintentionally.

Lucius’s cold gray eyes narrow at the sight of me and I narrow my own back at him. “Well, well, well, what an unexpected surprise,” Lucius taunts in a low voice. “So they turned you away, did they? How unlikely.” His voice is full of sarcasm with his last comment.

I say nothing. My throat isn’t working well enough to allow me to force any words out.

“Severus, leave us,” says Lucius without turning his eyes away from me.

“Of course,” Snape says with a slight inclination of his head before ducking back out the door and closing it softly behind him.

Lucius walks slowly around his desk, his eyes sweeping me up and down, not saying a word. I fight to keep my expression proud and undaunted, but it is becoming more difficult by the second. The one thing that keeps me from full-blown panic is the knowledge that Harry is here. Out of sight, perhaps, but here nevertheless.

He doesn’t stop until he is so close that I can feel his breath on my face. I notice for the first time the wand he holds in his hand, which he is now pointing at me. Before I can react enough to step away, he hisses in a voice barely over a whisper, “Crucio.”

Some people might think that being subjected to the Cruciatus Curse many times would lead you to become used to it, to some degree. I can tell you that this is not the case. The pain is never any easier to handle, and you can never, with any amount of practice, manage to keep a right state of mind when you are put under it. You can learn not to scream, not to cry, not to completely break down, but it never becomes easier.

Lucius doesn’t let up for what seems like the longest of times. I find myself on the floor when he does, with no clear memory of having gotten there. I do not make a motion to get up. Why bother? He’ll most likely just knock me down again, and my knees are far too weak to be stable. I’ve managed to hold back tears, and I’d rather not show any weakness, but I simply can’t find the strength to pull myself to my feet. He is spinning his wand in his fingers with a thoughtful expression, and I have a horrible feeling that he’s contemplating what horror he will subject me to next.

I force myself to keep my mind focused. The only way out of this is to do what we came here for. The first thing I have to do is get him to admit that the Sphere was created unfairly, and that I never agreed to betray them. To prove to Harry that I am innocent. Then I must destroy it.

“So tell me, Mudblood,” he says softly. His arrogant eyes are cool enough to have been carved from pure ice. “Who was it that turned you away in the end? One of the Weasleys? I’m sure they hate you for giving us the opportunity to destroy their family. Or perhaps Dumbledore? I don’t suppose he’s quite so open to second chances anymore. Or was it even your precious Potter? I’m surprised he bothered saving you. Waste of time, wasn’t it? To save you and then turn you back to me? Do tell me what the point of that whole thing was.”

I do not respond. He is baiting me, trying to trigger me into yelling at him or breaking down. Eye on the prize, Hermione, I say firmly to myself. You’ve got your lead-in to the desired conversation. Use it!

“It’s all that bloody Sphere,” I say, making my voice shaky but angry at the same time. “It ruined my whole life.”

Lucius smirked. “It was your own foolishness that led you to be trapped in the deal. You need to be more careful what you say around the Dark Lord. But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and blame the Sphere.”

I’m not sure if that’s enough of a guarantee for Harry. Lucius’s words are vague, and don’t say all too clearly what I want them to. I press further, trying to get Lucius to say in a more obvious manner that Voldemort had tricked me into it.

“It didn’t make sense,” I whisper. “I didn’t think I’d agreed to anything, and how did he get out of being bound?”

Lucius’s eyes flash coldly. “You’re far too curious for your own good,” he hisses, pulling me up by my arms, which are already sore from where Snape had grabbed them earlier. I cry out. Lifting me off my feet, the throws me unceremoniously into the chair on the other side of his desk. My head snaps back so fast that my neck is cricked painfully.

When I dare look up at him again, he is watching me through half-closed eyes. “Inquiring in things that are not your business is a dangerous thing, Mudblood. But if you must know, the Dark Lord has ways of avoiding being bound by certain types of magic.” Malfoy sneered. “And of course, foolish little girls are easy to trick.”

I’m still not sure if that will be a satisfactory amount of information for Harry, but I dare not press it farther. To do so would be asking far worse than I’ve already received. I am trembling fiercely. I know that I now must focus my attention on getting the Sphere. I can see it from where I sit. It is perched in its glass container on the bookshelf across the room from where I sit. Perched on a silver staff in the center of a hollow cube of glass, it glimmers in the dim light. Most people would consider the way it catches the light to be mesmerizing. I consider it menacing.

Lucius is twirling his wand again. He has not made a motion to move out from in front of my chair. The Sphere is on the other side of the room. I haven’t a hope of getting to it if he doesn’t move.

Without warning, Lucius’s hand darts out and catches me around the neck. His fingers tighten to a point where I cannot breathe. “I’ve tired of this conversation,” he says in an almost bored tone. “I hope you enjoyed your moments with your old friends, because the vacation’s over. And you’re about to realize that it’s not a good idea to cross me.”

I claw desperately at him with my hands, but it is futile. By this point, I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head. My lungs are burning in desperation for air, and just when I’m beginning to think that I will not survive, his releases me. I slump down into the chair, coughing and gasping for breath, my vision distorted and fuzzy. Each time I pull in air, my lungs sting sharply. With each breath, it becomes less painful until the pain has practically faded away. That is more than I can say for my head, which is throbbing something awful.

“You didn’t expect me to kill you that soon, did you?” he taunts. “No, I have much more in store for you. You’ll soon be seeing death as a luxury—one you won’t have the pleasure of experiencing.” He aims his wand at me and I close my eyes, preparing to feel the torturous pain of the Cruciatus Curse again.

It doesn’t come. Instead, an ear-shattering alarm splits the air like a banshee’s shriek. The crystal around the Sphere of Truth is suddenly pulsating with red light, and I realize that the alarm must have been set off.

Lucius spins to look toward the glass case, and seeing my opportunity, I force my pain-numbed limbs to leap upward and pounce onto his back. Lucius, not expecting this, topples forward. However, it is a lost battle from the start. I am weak from the lasting effects of the Cruciatus Curse and lack of air, and he is as strong as ever, also armed with a wand. He has me pinned in ten seconds, and when I try to struggle, his fist lashes out crushing my nose. A moment later, I can feel hot liquid streaming out of it—my blood. The pain is awful—I doubt my nose is broken, but it certainly feels like it. Through it all, the alarm still howls.

And then, just as quickly as this entire thing began, Lucius’s weight is no longer atop me. I hear his angry cry of, “POTTER!” and open my eyes. Harry, apparently having abandoned the Invisibility Cloak, was now wrestling with him fiercely. I realize that Harry must have touched the glass in an effort to set off the alarm, as I told him that contact with it would. He is giving me the chance to get to it.

“Hermione!” Harry yells. I pull myself up to my feet and look his way. The moment he sees he has my attention, his wand spirals towards me through the air. “Get it!”

The wand soars past me and it lands on the ground some distance away. I grab it and make a run for the glass container of the Sphere. Behind me, Lucius is making every effort to get past Harry, but Harry has somehow managed to relieve him of his wand, making it quite a bit harder on the older man. However, it is obvious that Harry is still losing. Lucius is hitting at him furiously, and even as I watch, the Death Eater’s fist connects with Harry’s eye. I know he will not be able to hold his own for much longer.

I grab the glass and a shock of pain runs through me. I gasp and release it, only then remembering the protective shock charm Lucius has placed around it. This time prepared, I force myself to take the pain—I can’t waste time looking for a counter-spell. The pain is awful, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from passing out—I’ve taken too much pain since I arrived here, and it’s weakened me greatly. My pain resistance is worn down and I can hardly take it. Despite this, all seems to be going well until I realize that I cannot pull the glass container from the surface it is sitting on. It’s as though it has adhered to the wood. I let go of it again, panting for breath and leaning on the shelf in an effort to remain standing. I puzzle quickly over which spell is being used to bind the glass to the wood.

“Hermione, hurry!” Harry is calling with a definite note of panic.

All the sound is beginning to take its toll on me—the shrieking alarm, Harry’s calls to speed up, Lucius’s yelled threats. It is increasing the pain in my skull to a near unbearable level. It is almost impossible to think coherently. I know that I have to figure out which binding charm has been used, then find the counter-spell, but I just can’t make my mind work . . .

Somehow, I manage with great difficulty to focus on the task at hand. Is a Permanent Sticking Charm being used? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Then Lucius wouldn’t be able to remove it either. So then which, out of a spectrum of different levels and intensities of bonding charms, is being used?

I vaguely remember an extra credit assignment I was working on in fifth year for Charms class, about binding charms. How was it that you could tell a higher power charm from a lower power charm? I had to know, for each had a separate counter-spell. I close my eyes in an attempt to block out my surroundings and remember. After several seconds of doing this, it comes to me—if you run your finger along the place where the two bound objects meet, and you can feel a light surge of magic in doing this, then the charm is of a higher strength. If you can’t, it is of a lower strength.

My eyes snap open and I quickly run the tip of my finger along the very bottom of the glass where it meets the wooden shelf. I immediately receive the customary shock of pain from the glass, but run my finger along it anyway before removing it. My finger has an odd, fading tingling sensation that has never before accompanied the pain brought from touching the glass. It has to be the aftereffects of a magical surge.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I raise my wand, praying that I am right. “Exonoro!” I say firmly. I watch as a small, barely noticeable blue light runs along the bottom of the glass, finally fading once it has touched every place where the glass is bound.

Sighing in relief, I reach out and pull the glass casing from the wood. This time, the pain fades as soon as the glass leaves the surface, and the alarm goes suddenly silent, which is a relief to my aching skull. I toss the glass case to one side negligently, where it lands on an armchair by the small, roaring fire. My hands shaking, wondering if I really have gotten past all the barriers, or if more are to come, I reach out and pull the Sphere of Truth from its perch. It is chillingly cool to the touch, and much lighter than I’d imagined. It had looked quite heavy, but it was barely heavier then one of my textbooks. I allow myself a smile of grim satisfaction. At long last, it is I who has power over the Sphere, and not the other way around.

This scene does not play out the way I'd imagined it so many times. For one thing, I cannot simply smash the Sphere to the floor—I must use magic to destroy it. I also did not imagine that I would have blood streaming from my burning nose, nor did I ever picture Harry struggling valiantly behind me to hold Lucius Malfoy at bay without magic. But what is most notably different is that never, in all my dreams, was this moment more stunningly amazing.

I toss the sphere into the air with my left hand and aim Harry's wand with my right. This will be my only chance. In its ascent, the Sphere catches the light and glints. Lucius and Harry stop struggling to watch. Time seems to freeze—everyone is perfectly attuned to the movement of the Sphere. Nothing matters but that, for if I succeed, then everything here is settled.

I raise the wand, praying that my timing is correct. “Finite Invitus Nodus!”. I say this clearly, focusing all my thoughts and putting all my will into it.Never in all my life have I put such sheer force of will and feeling into a single spell. Even my words seem to be in slow motion.

And then the world erupts in crimson. Not just the glass shards falling, but also a brilliant light that washes down, bathing us all in its phosphorescence.I feel as though I am floating. I can feel my strength growing with each passing instant. A feeling of wonder rushes through me. I feel somethingI have not felt in years—that everything is as it should be.Then these floating instants pass and I amback in painful reality, my whole body tingling, listening attentively to the glass rain sprinkling down around me.

I stumble, regaining my balance after the experience. The glass is littered at my feet. Agelatinous liquid is seeping along the floor, apparently released from core theSphere.Some distance away I can see the golden bars that had once embraced the outside of thenow nonexistentSphere of Truth.

“No!” Lucius cries hoarsely. His eyes come alive with mad, uncontrollable anger. “You will pay!”

He lunges towards me before Harry can stop him, but before I even think about it, my wand arm is raised, and the word, “Stupefy!” has left my mouth. He slumps to the floor instantly and I do no more than stare at him and the destruction that is the world around us. After all the endless, maddening noise, the silence surrounding me is startling in its potency. My dream has been fulfilled. I am standing in a moment I'd only before imagined with a passionate longing. I see the glass case on the armchair, and on impulse, I reach out to it. With one swift motion, I slide it over the edge of the seat of the chair and watch as the crystal shatters, mingling with the blood red glass, which already litters the floor.

In that instant I understand something that is both wondrous and frightening—it is over now. This most terrible part of my life has ended, opening a door to the next chapter. What lies ahead, unknown and mysterious, is sure to be terrible. But what lies behind issomething I’ve been desperate to escape for a great many years.

I remember Harry’s presence forthe first time. He is suddenly right beside me, picking his way carefully through the glass and nursing a bruising jaw with his hand. He looks as bad as I must—his left eye is growing steadily darker from where Lucius hit him, and his glasses are dangling limply in his hand at his side, both the lenses shattered. There’s a small trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth, as well as another seeping from his hairline. He looks exhausted, but he’s grinning wearily. The two of us embrace instinctively. It is a relief to cling to him. In some way, it seems to verify that this all really is happening—that we really did succeed. While I know that so much still awaits me in my future, nothing could be as bleak as what Iam now leaving behind. I have Harry. The Sphere is gone. Hope, however small and meager, does lie ahead. And that’s enough togive me thecourage to continue, and to restore the will to live that I lost so long ago.

“It’s over, Hermione,”Harry murmurs softly. “You didit. You were great.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you for everything. For believingin me enough to come with methis far.”

“Well, I was right to trust you, as is obvious now. I’m glad I did,” he says, stepping back away from me and looking around. As somewhat of an afterthought, he snatches his cloak, which he had discarded in his attempt to restrain Lucius, from the floor nearby. “We have to get out of here now. Death Eaters are sure to be swarming up here any minute. How can we get out? Back under the Invisibility Cloak?”

“Floo Powder,”I say, stepping over near Lucius’s flaring furnace and picking some dust out of a dish on the mantle. “But where do we go to?”

“Hideout in Diagon Alley,” Harry mutters, bending down to grab his cloak from where he’d left it in a corner. He walks forward and takes some powder of his own. “Let’s go, fast. Just say ‘resistance sanctuary--Diagon Alley’.”

Inod, but something deep within calls to me.I feel a great power within me, waiting to be unleashed.In those instants when the Sphere exploded, some of my powers which were taken from me that day so long ago in Voldemort’s lair were restored. I feel powerful. Leaving the destruction behind is not enough. I want to leave a message withit. I hold up a hand, telling Harry to wait, and Iturn and walk to a suitable position. I begin to trace shapes in the air, mumbling words here and there until finally a roaring and slashing Gryffindor lion is left hovering in the air, flashing in the colors of red and gold.

With a small grin—the first smile of any sort that I’ve worn ina long time—I look to Harry. He too is smiling. “Now it’s done,” I say softly.

I walk back over to Harry, and for a moment, we are united as we stare at my work. There is something undeniably empowering in seeing that magical lion roar in the air, and a sort of pride overcomes me.

I hand Harry his wand, and something passes between us in that instant. On this day, I have severed an unwilling bond with Lord Voldemort—but at the same time, I have forged a new one witha best friend I thought I’d lost forever.

Leaving behind us the destruction, we step into the flames and are whisked away to a world of spiraling emerald.

A/n: Hope you enjoyed the longest chapter yet! But longer are still to come . . . hehe! And while I will say that there isn’t a whole lot of romance in this story, the most explicit of what there is will be in the next chapter. Keep in mind this is not an NC17 lemon, so don’t expect a full-blown sex scene, huh? :-) This story wasn’t meant for that.

10. Crossing Boundaries

~~ 10 ~~

Crossing Boundaries

“You and I got something

But it’s all and then it’s nothing to me

And I’ve got my defenses

When it comes to your intentions for me

And we wake up in the breakdown

Of the things we never thought we could be.”

--Goo Goo Dolls

With a sickening lurch of my stomach, my feet hit the ground with enough force to make my knees feel as though they’ve shattered. I hear Hermione’s simultaneous release from the flames, and I clutch my stomach, willing the feeling of imminent sickness to depart. After a moment, it does, and my eyes snap back into focus. I stand on shaky legs, but at least I am steady. I cough out some of the ash trapped in my lungs from my journey through the Floo Network. Next to me, Hermione is looking dirtier than before, but much more composed than I feel. Then again, traveling by Floo Powder has always been one of my least favorite things to do—I’m completely intolerant of the spinning. I suppose that Hermione doesn’t have the same reaction I do.

Hermione looks around herself as I watch. Our surroundings are bleak and plain, but I am happy to see the place. Any shelter that is warm, protected, and not full of Death Eaters is a good place to be. Aside from the burning fire we just stepped out of, there is nothing contained in the one large room that at one point had been a shop and is now protected by Invisibility charms and is Unplottable. We are in the hideout Sirius spoke of earlier, a small building in a remote corner of Diagon Alley that has so far managed to avoid being destroyed by the Death Eaters as much of the rest of the Alley has been. Was it really just over two hours ago when I spoke to Sirius last? How could it be any less than two days?

Hermione takes a couple of steps forward before her knees collapse beneath her and she falls to a sitting position before I can catch her. I hurry to her side, kneeling down. “Are you okay?” I ask in concern. She looks deathly pale all of the sudden and is shaking lightly. I look her up and down quickly, scanning for any injuries she might have that I’d not seen. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Everything’s just hitting me, that’s all,” she whispers. “I had a temporary surge of adrenaline, which has since depleted, and now I’m back to feeling as weak as I did before I smashed the Sphere.”

“Where are you hurt?” I demand, pulling out my wand. I can’t see her all too well, due to my broken glasses which still dangle from my left hand, but she shakes her head.

“No, Harry,” she says adamantly, attempting to get to her feet. I push her back down. She lets out an aggravated sigh. “Don’t bother trying to heal me. You’re weakened, too. Like Sirius said, healing takes a lot out of people. Don’t bother. My nose is hurting, that’s all. Other than that, there’s nothing you could do anyway. You can’t charm away the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. You just have to wait for them to subside. I’ll be shaky for a while, it’s nothing new.”

I clench my teeth at this statement. I remember how terrible it was, hiding in a corner of Lucius’s office under the Invisibility Cloak, and being forced to watch him torture her, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop him. I’d been taking a risk, touching the glass around the Sphere. I’d known it when I did it—it could have ruined everything. It was pure luck that it seemed to work in our favor. I simply couldn’t watch him hurt her anymore without doing anything.

Despite my desire to do something to help her, she is right in the regard that there really is very little I can do. She doesn’t seem to have the strength to rise or move, so I place my left arm around her shoulders. She tenses for a moment and I consider backing away, but after a few seconds of uncertainty, she eases back into me, seeming grateful for something to lean on.

With my right arm, I place my glasses on the floor and pick up my wand. “Oculus reparo!” I whisper, recalling the familiar spell. With a soft tinkling noise I watch the spider-web patterns on the glass lenses disappear, and a soft click marks the moment that the cracked and dangling left arm snaps back into place. I replace them on the bridge of my nose.

“I remember when I first taught you that one,” Hermione murmurs, a small smile coming across her face. “On the train in first year, when I was looking for Neville’s toad.”

“Yeah,” said Harry with a bit of laugh. “And Ron was trying to turn Scabbers yellow, which didn’t turn out too well. But then, what could he expect from a spell he’d received from George?”

Hermione’s smile vanishes at the mention of Ron and George and she turns her head away. I begin to berate myself mentally for having brought up that touchy subject. Can’t keep your mouth shut, can you, Potter? I growl to myself.

“Hermione . . .” I begin tentatively. We have a lot to discuss, and while sitting here on a cold floor after such a terrifying encounter and with such a poor lead-in to the discussion is not exactly ideal, I figure that it is as good as any. I open my mouth but soon find myself to be doing an accurate imitation of a fish. I finally mumble, for no reason other than to cover the awkward silence left in the wake of my saying her name, “We’ve got a lot to talk about, haven’t we?” I mentally congratulate myself on being a master of stating the obvious.

She nods, her eyes still downcast. Her shivers have stopped almost entirely now, but her breathing is still slightly erratic and she is pale. I recognize from experience that these are all severe after effects of the Cruciatus curse, which are worse if you’ve been subjected to it for a long period of time as Hermione was.

I glance towards the magically locked and secured entrance. “Would you like to sit outside and talk? We can’t risk being seen in the front, Knockturn Alley is still running, so we’ll have to sit in the alley out back. Not much of a view, but it’s better than here.”

Hermione frowns. “Are you sure it’s safe?” she inquires with a touch of worry. She sounds so much like her old self in that moment that I can’t help but grin.

“Well, no,” I admit. “It’s a risk of security and Dumbledore and Sirius wouldn’t much like it. But come on, after all we’ve done today, I think the risk of sitting in an alley is rather insignificant, don’t you?”

“Well, I’d hate to say that I survived all I did only to be caught and killed for sitting in an alley,” Hermione says softly, and while her face is seriously, I can hear the slight trace of humor in her voice.

“That would be rather embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” I agree. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll cast an invisibility spell around the alley first. It’s not fool-proof, but it should be enough, so long as we keep our voices low.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione nods. “Yes, all right. I feel faint from the heat in here.”

I frown at this. It’s not what I would call warm in the room, despite the burning fire—it’s really quite chilly. I open my mouth to ask if she is okay, but decide against it. I don’t want to irritate her again, as I did earlier when I continually asked if she wanted to go through with the plan. As she has already pointed out, I can’t do anything for her, and I can’t help a fever—if that is indeed what she has. Perhaps it is another side affect of the Cruciatus Curse. I wouldn’t know—I’ve never been put under it for so long.

“Okay, then,” I say. “But speaking of Sirius, I really should let him know we made it out all right. He’s probably worrying himself sick.”

I pull away from her and stand up. She does not move from her position on the floor, staring up at me. I point my wand at the ceiling and mumble, “Adlegatio Impetrabilis!” A blue jet of light streaks toward the ceiling and disappears. I tuck my wand away and offer her a hand to help her to her feet.

She does not take it. “What did you just do? I don’t recognize that spell,” she asks thoughtfully, her natural desire for knowledge showing through.

“It’s a special system Sirius and I set up yesterday,” I explain briefly. “They’ll receive the jet of light, and they’ll know that the mission was successful. They should be sending someone over here in a little while.”

“You didn’t tell me about the system because you didn’t trust me,” she states simply. She does not look hurt about this, but her eyes dare me to lie to her.

I nod, knowing she would catch me in any lie I could attempt to fabricate. “It was a precaution,” I begin to explain hurriedly, hoping not to offend her. She holds up a hand, stopping me before I ramble further.

“Don’t explain,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. She sways a little and I reach out an arm to steady her. Once she appears to be standing on her own, she continues. “You were just using logic. If you hadn’t taken such precautions, you’d have been a fool. You had no way of knowing for sure that I wasn’t betraying you. And you had good reason to be suspicious.”

I shift my feet uncomfortably for a moment before clearing my throat and muttering, “Uh, we were going to discuss this outside, right?”

“Right,” she agrees quickly. I can sense from her tone that I am not the only one eager to avoid the pending discussion.

I lead her to the small metal door in the back of the shop we stand in. Beyond the paint-stripped and creaky door lies the melancholy alley to which we are headed. I open the door and cautiously peek out, even though I feel there isn’t much point in it. It is doubtful that anyone is lurking beyond. As I’d anticipated, the alley is vacant, and I beckon Hermione forward with my hand.

The difference in temperature hits me as hard as a concrete wall. Certainly, the room we were just in was not warm, but compared to this bitter, biting, relentlessly sweeping chill, it was sweltering. I shiver involuntarily and wrap my cloak tighter about myself. Hermione seems relieved at the cold, and so I do not mention my own discomfort.

The alley we stand in is tight, small, and bleak. A rickety, collapsing wooden fence runs parallel to the back of our building, and keeps going along behind the next building on either side of ours. Light is scarce—only a bit of gray light filters down into this small crevice, and our main source of illumination is the light leaking in from either side of the building, where on both sides there is a small space before the next run-down and vacated shop can be seen. The cobblestone street beneath our feet is covered in just over an inch of pure white snow that glistens enticingly, untouched and undisturbed, not blemished by a single footprint or water droplet.

There is a set of three cracked and iced-over stone steps leading down from the door to the cobblestones. Using my hand, I quickly brush the snow off of the middle step and Hermione sits down. My hand stings from the contact with the snow, and I clench it in an effort to use whatever body heat I may still possess to warm it. I hesitate a moment before stepping off the last step and onto the cobblestones. It seems almost criminal to destroy the temporarily solid perfection of the icy blanket that covers the ground. It’s like when you’re a child, and seeing that smooth layer of snow makes you crave nothing more than to jump in it, but after you do, and you look back at the damage you caused, you feel sorry about the beauty you stole from it.

I walk to the center of the small alley and begin to put up some amateur invisibility charms. The charms are weak and will not sustain themselves for longer than half an hour, but I don’t suppose we will be out here any longer than that. Once I am secure in the belief that each side of the alley has been shielded from the eyes of any potential onlookers, I return to the steps and sit down beside Hermione on the step. Though the snow has been cleared, a layer of ice still lies beneath and I sigh inwardly. My hands are already numb, and it doesn’t seem as though the rest of my body will be immune from this either.

Neither of us rushes to speak. We sit comfortably, but nervously, next to one another for over a minute, watching our warm breath frost and turn to mist in the air before diffusing and fading into nothingness, only to repeat the cycle again.

Somehow I feel as though it is I who needs to begin the conversation. My problem lies in the fact that I have no clue as to how I should start it, or even what I need to say. There are the simple and necessary apologies, and the discussion of what the future now holds, but how to lead in to that? For so long, I’ve harbored so many questions in my mind, and I’ve looked forward to a day when I may get to have this talk with Hermione. But now that the time has come, it is as though all my thoughts have run away, leaving my mind empty and turmoiled.

It seems I have been lost in my thoughts too long. Hermione lets loose a deep sigh next to me and begins speaking. “Harry, before you start apologizing yet again, I must request that you don’t.”

Startled by these words, I stare for a moment before stuttering with no real direction or train of thought, “I . . .”

She shakes her head. “No, Harry, don’t. You’ve apologized enough, and though I’ve already said this, I will say it again in the hopes that after all we’ve been through today, you’ll finally hear me. I don’t blame you. Why would I?”

Thankfully, my brain—which seems to have frozen in a manner similar to my hands—chooses this instant to begin working again. “I don’t know, maybe because of how awful I was to you when we talked that first night, because of all the cruel things I said? Because I never trusted you, my best friend of five years, enough to realize that you’d never betray us?” I wince at these words and avert my eyes from hers, realizing just how much I’ve done to make her hate me. Why is she even still speaking to me? I wonder.

“You can’t blame yourself for those things,” Hermione replies, though her voice contains more of a hurt tone than an adamant one, making me feel even worse.

“Who else do I blame?” I respond dully, suddenly a lot less keen to talk and a lot more eager to jump the fence and run as far as I can.

“Voldemort,” she says, and the sureness has returned to her tone. I still don’t have the courage to look her in the eyes, but I listen. “Harry . . . both of us are victims in this. It’s not your fault that you didn’t trust me. Did you immediately assume, as soon as you saw me at the Dark Lord’s side that day, that I had turned?”

I shake my head vigorously. “No! I thought he’d captured you, or something. Once it became apparent that you weren’t his prisoner, I spent a lot of time convinced you were under the Imperius curse, or something similar. It took a long time and a lot of every one else telling me so to finally make me believe that you were really a Death Eater.”

Hermione nods. “If you spend enough time around people that believe something adamantly, or who tell you something repeatedly with conviction, then slowly you begin to believe it yourself. You lived with a group of people who thought I was a traitor, and after long enough of listening to them and seeing everything that the Dark Lord and his people were doing, you just gave up fighting it. It’s easier to believe what everyone else does than it is to maintain your individual opinion when everyone around you is telling you differently. Besides that, for the past two years, I have been trying to make you all believe that I betrayed you. You believed it—that just proves that I did a good job.”

I shrug. The explanation makes sense, and I suppose it is true, but I don’t feel appeased in the slightest.

It seems she has taken charge of the conversation, and she continues. “As for what you said to me that night . . . I won’t lie to you. What you said really hurt. It was hard to live each day and know that you hated me, but confronting you and hearing you say those things made it all the more horrible. What you said about my parents . . .”

I felt my stomach lurch, remembering delivering that particular blow. Never before have I wanted to sink into the ground more than I want to right now. “Hermione, I’m so sorry, I—”

Once again I am cut off. “No apologies, remember? We’ve both said our ‘I’m sorrys’, and now we need to get past that and talk without constantly feeling guilty,” she says. Her tone is emotionless. “Agreed?”

“Yeah,” I say, still feeling horrible. I am realizing just how low a blow that had been. I of all people know what it feels like not to have your parents, but at least I never had to live with the knowledge that they’d been tortured to death. How could I throw that in someone’s face with such ease, even if I had assumed that person was my enemy? Before, I’d never have sunk to such a level. I’d not have said that to Malfoy, even if I’d had such an opportunity. When did I turn so cold?

Hermione nods, staring down at her feet. The snow is beginning to fall again, and I watch numbly as the ivory flakes slowly begin to pepper her hair white. She begins to speak again. “As I was saying, what you told me of my parents . . . that’s not something I’ll ever forget. I . . . I can’t believe that I was trying to help people, to help you, and I end up getting my parents killed like . . . like that . . .”

She is losing her composure. Rather hesitantly, I put my arm around her and pull her closer to me. She is silent for several instants, but then continues as though no time has lapsed. “But I said we weren’t going to do the guilt thing, didn’t I? So the point I’m trying to make is that what you said hurt. But I don’t blame you for that either. As far as you knew, you were facing an enemy. You were facing the person who had destroyed your life, betrayed your trust, and gotten people you cared deeply for killed. Naturally you were full of anger. You wanted to hurt me the way I hurt you. You had no way of knowing the truth—I wasn’t talking. You had two years’ worth of anger bottled up inside and you let it loose. If our roles were reversed, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing. What matters is that after you were thinking more clearly, you helped me, and you gave me a second chance. And now here we are, somewhere we never could have been if it weren’t for you. What was done or said in the past is irrelevant. We can’t go back and redo what is done, or re-make the decisions we’ve already made. We can’t change what’s already happened. But we can change what’s going to happen. But first we have to let go of all this guilt between us. We have to let go of what’s already happened. Okay?”

Her words reach me. While I still feel bad about what I said, I know she is right. Now is certainly not the time to let such feelings control me. This is something that can be sorted through later. I have learned well how to compartmentalize, and I allow myself to tuck my guilt away for now. I give her a small smile that doesn’t contain much happiness, but rather, a promise to do as she has asked. She returns my grin, albeit somewhat weakly. Regardless, it’s nice to see her face set in something other than an expression of pain and sadness.

“So, ignoring the past, where do we go from here?” I question.

“We can’t do anything by ourselves,” she says. “We’ll need help from your people.”

I nod. “Yeah. Well, I know that you are what you seem to be, and that will be enough for Sirius. If it’s enough for him, then it’ll be good for Dumbledore, and most everyone will believe Dumbledore. Hagrid can be convinced. With time, Katie, Angelina, and Neville will believe you. But for Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny—particularly Ron—I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

Hermione sighs. “I can’t say I blame them for not trusting me. But it still hurts.”

I can’t think of any way to reply to this without violating one of Hermione’s regulations on this conversation, so I settle for saying nothing.

“Do you think they’ll take you back?” she asks.

I nod. “Probably. Even if Ron doesn’t want me to, Dumbledore can supercede him. And I don’t think it’s me that anyone’s going to have a problem with.”

“I can stay in the cave, if I’m too much bother,” she offers immediately.

“If you stay there, so do I,” I state simply. “I’m not leaving your side until this thing is played out. If they cast you out, they cast me out. End of story.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Hermione argues. After a moment, the corner of her mouth twitches. “But you will anyway, won’t you? So thank you.”

I give her shoulders a squeeze to show I have acknowledged her words. “Now the problem is finding out exactly what to do next. Things aren’t going to be easy on us anymore. We just infiltrated one of their main headquarters, beat up a head Death Eater, and destroyed the Sphere. They’re going to come looking for us with everything they’ve got. We don’t have a lot of technology or options on our side. If they make it top priority to find us, we’ve only got a limited amount of time until they do.”

“We’ll just have to do the best we can to elude them,” she says, but her brow is furrowed in worry. “Hopefully if we avoid them long enough, they’ll give up.” She shakes her head and puts her forehead in her palm. “That is the single worst plan ever invented.”

I give a sharp shake of my head, making her look at me. “No. We’ve been running for two years. It’s time to stop. We can’t keep avoiding them forever. It’s time to confront them—now’s as good a time as any. No more running away.”

I don’t know where my sudden burst of confidence and decisiveness comes from, but I now feel secure in each word I speak. My words are heavy with grim resolve. While the idea of confronting them makes my throat constrict, I do not take back what I have said.

“All we’ve been doing is showing them that they’re beating us, slowly, but surely,” I continue. “We have to show them that we’re just as fierce as they are.”

“But like you said, you guys have been on the run,” Hermione objects. “You can’t have a lot of resources on hand. And Voldemort has control and an entire army at his hands. This is suicide, Harry.”

“Maybe it is,” I agree. “But we’ve got Albus Dumbledore and myself on our side. The only wizard Voldemort ever feared, and the only one who ever defeated him. Plus four Weasleys that are out for a vengeance. That’s something. And yeah, we may die, but if we run it will be the same result. At least we’ll die like Gryffindors, right? Fighting.”

Hermione’s face is lit by the first true smile I’ve seen on it since we were fifteen. She looks at me. “You’re right. The very idea shakes fear into me, but you’re right. We can’t run away forever. And so far, all of your ideas have turned out for the best. I’ll follow you, Harry. I can’t promise much, but I can promise that.”

Normally, a statement like this would have made me become quite flustered, but somehow time is now standing still. Our eyes are still locked, and my brain seems to have frozen again. With no thought in the matter, with my body acting of its own accord, I begin to lean slowly forward. Deep in my brain, I understand what I’m doing, but I can’t see what made me do it. My mind is blank.

I feel my lips meet hers, and for a moment she seems to pull away, but before I can retract myself, she leans back towards me and our lips touch once more.

You would think that in a situation such as this, I would be focusing on nothing but Hermione, and that the background would, in a sense, fade away. In some odd way, though, it is as though all my senses are tuned, and I am completely aware of every detail that surrounds me—the snow flakes that drift slowly down to join their fallen comrades on the cobblestones, and the exact pattern and direction of the whispering wind, and the icicles dangling precariously along the roofline over our heads. Mostly, I am aware of every movement Hermione makes, every expression on her face, every breath she draws. But oddly enough, in that moment the only thing I’m not aware of feeling—of knowing—is myself.

The kiss is short and soft, and we break apart after a moment or two. Our eyes are still locked, our faces little more than an inch apart, our breath warm on each other’s faces. Hermione wears and expression of surprise and confusion, and I know my own face must mirror this. Before I have time to process exactly what we just did, a voice speaks up from behind me, startling me and making me leap to my feet with my wand readied.

“Hello, Harry.”

I find myself staring at a figure in a black cloak, which stands stark against the white of the snow. Before I can even demand to know who he is, he reaches up and pulls down his hood. A familiar shock of red hair is revealed and Ron is staring at the two of us with an expression of barely concealed hatred, resentment, and sadness.

He looks from me to Hermione, then back to me. “Well, Sirius said I’d most likely find the two of you here together,” he says quietly. His eyes flick back to Hermione, and this time his voice is as cold as the air around us. “I didn’t realize just how together you’d be.”

A/n: Hello! Thank you for all the lovely, lovely reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I it’s one of my favorites. The next chapter is just a small interlude. I’d intended to post it tonight, but by the time my mom got off the phone (we have but one phone line) it was late and now I’m watching the biography of JK Rowling, and after that the making of PoA, so I’ll be busy. :-) But I’ll post the small interlude with chapter eleven, which is a long-needed confrontation between Harry and Ron. So I’ll get those up tomorrow, promise!

A few notes:

Dizzi01: Yeah, actually, a great deal of stories are as long as mine. Longer, even. I have one that is 260 pages, and the sequel to it will probably be somewhere around 350 by the time I’ve finished. If any of you have heard of or read Just Like Hermione’s “Harry Potter and the Truest Power,” the author is a friend of mine. She told me that her story is over 500 pages currently. And if you haven’t read it, go do it! It’s and H/Hr too, and it’s a great one, seriously.

Anonymous: There are a good deal of people with this title! This particular note is directed at the person who asked about my other fics. Yes, I have the nasty and irritating habit of changing my name often. I have different names on other sites, which would be why you couldn’t find me. I want to change it to Lunar Spirit everywhere, but I don’t want to confuse my readers on those sites, so I just keep the old ones. Anyway, I am am Ice Wolf on FictionAlley, but I don’t advise going there. Their uploading process irritates me, so I only have up to chapter seven of this story posted on there. However, FanFiction.Net is my home, my life, and my world. I am DarkWolf24 on there, and I have every story of mine posted up to the latest on that site.

11. Interlude: Of Thoughts and Questions

~~ Interlude ~~

Of Thoughts and Questions

“All I ever think about is this,

All the tiring time between,

And how trying to put my trust in you

Just takes so much out of me.”

--Linkin Park

Is this really happening? Did he just kiss me? Did Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, a guy who has hated me passionately for the past two years and is just now beginning to trust me again, just kiss me? Certainly not. In no way could this be possible, or probable, or likely . . . and yet, if that is true, how do I explain the fact that our lips were touching? That he started it, and I reacted?

We are looking in each other’s eyes. I am attempting to disguise my panicked confusion and shock, but know without a mirror that I am doing quite the poor job of it. He is blinking erratically and staring at me with an oddly blank expression. I hope I have not offended him by my reaction—because, truth be told, what just happened was quite enjoyable.

But what am I thinking? Enjoyable? I cannot let myself begin to feel for him romatically! It is clear that he already feels for me in that way, and that is bad enough. I can’t return those feelings for him. We are friends again, and that is dangerous enough—for him, for me, and for everyone he is associated with. Lucius and Voldemort will not give up looking for me, if for no reason other than to prove that they are still in control of me, regardless of the state of the Sphere of Truth. They will want me dead. I’ve lost whatever value to them that I once had. Whomever I am connected with is in just as much danger.

And besides, do I really want to try to love someone again? I loved my parents, and now they’re dead. I loved Harry and Ron and my life at Hogwarts, and of course that was destroyed. I am under no illusions about the fact that all of those losses were products of my own poor judgement and decisions. Perhaps if it were the fault of someone else these past times, I could move on. But when I cannot trust myself. . . . Do I really want to risk losing someone I love again? I’m certain that I could not survive it. I’ve made it through each day these past years by keeping myself from caring about anything. Don’t feel, don’t hurt. I’d have gone mad long ago if I had not lived by this rule. Breaking it even once could be my undoing.

But aren’t those days over? Haven’t those days—when every waking moment was spent in misery and self-loathing, and of which every sleeping instant was spent ravaged by nightmares with myself as the monster—ended? Isn’t this a second chance that I’ve been granted? Can’t I afford to risk caring just this once? Can’t I afford to seek contentment in this new chapter of my life? True, I may be misjudging everything. But what if I am not? Am I overlooking a chance to be happy? Because what just happened a moment ago certainly made me feel happy, even if that happiness immediately spiralled down into the confusion I am now plagued with.

I can’t deny the fact that I did like it. And I like him. The feelings that surfaced in those instants when our lips met leave no room for uncertainties in this regard. But I just don’t know if I can let myself trust that this won’t end up as everything else in my life ultimately has—destroyed.

Can I ever escape the doubt?

12. Change of Heart

~~ 11 ~~

Change of Heart

“Fear makes you fragile darling

Hate is so heavy when you’re weak

Now we’re both lost in anger

When we’re alone we’ll find some peace.”

--Goo Goo Dolls

My throat is so constricted by this point that I can barely force the air through my wind passage. Once again, my brain seems to have been numbed by some inner force that is just as fierce as the chill that has rendered my fingers useless and unfeeling. I long to swallow the lump that has risen in my throat, but that is just not possible. Even the fact that Ron is standing there, glowering at me with something as close to disgust as I’ve ever seen him direct at me, isn’t enough to stop my mind from exploding in questions and confusion.

What did I just do? Have I gone utterly and irrevocably mad? I must have! What on earth gave me the idea to kiss her? Not a handshake, not a hug—hell, not even a peck on the cheek—a kiss! Where did that come from? What deeply buried part of my soul rose up and took control of me in that instant?

But I can’t hold my indignant denial for long. The fact is, I know perfectly well where the urge to do what I did came from. Since the end of fourth year, when Hermione kissed me on the cheek during our departure from King’s Cross Station, I’ve toyed with exactly how I felt for her. My understanding that Ron, my best friend, also harbored somewhat of a crush for her kept my own feelings at bay. But once she seemingly betrayed us, I had plenty of time to stew over exactly how I felt. I realized that I had liked her—I stopped trying to keep it hidden from myself. And now, with the sudden, solid understanding that all these years she wasn’t the evil Dark supporter I’d assumed she was, I had longed let her know how I felt before some outer force took her from me again.

She hadn’t looked all too pleased right off, either. She’d almost pushed me away, and even though she didn’t, once I pulled away, she wasn’t exactly grinning. She looked horrified, and shocked, and a variety of other emotions—none of which could exactly be called positive. True, I hadn’t had much time to examine her expression before Ron intruded on the moment—something that left me feeling even more conflicted inside—but I could feel my heart sinking nevertheless.

“Well?” Ron demands after several moments of heavy silence. “Are you going to say anything, or are we going to stand here gaping at each other until our limbs drop off from frostbite?”

Ron’s sarcasm hasn’t changed much, but I can tell that this is not an attempt at humor, but rather an angry comment spoken to get some rise out of Hermione or I. I send a backward look at Hermione, who is still sitting on the steps, staring at Ron. Her cheeks are red and she is seemingly unable to speak. I sigh, knowing that even had she been willing and able to talk, anything she could say Ron would turn against her.

I level my gaze at Ron, who is tensed and looks ready to jump on me at any second. Realizing just how wound up he is right now, I know that it is best not to take the hostile approach. Ron’s on a razor’s edge right now, teetering dangerously between control and blinding rage. Should I say the slightest thing to provoke him, he’ll go flying off to the wrong side. I’ve seen Ron in such a state before, thought the emotions that had been toying with him then had not been quite the same. Right after Hermione’s ‘betrayal’, after he’d learned of his parent’s death, he’d been in a state much like this. It had not been pretty. While Ron’s always had a short fuse, I’d never seen him as uncontrollable as I had that night. Now, in an effort to prevent that from happening again, I fight to keep my voice even and emotionless as I say, “Ron, we—the three of us—need to have a talk.”

He shakes his head in a short, abrupt manner, and stares at me, refusing to look at Hermione. “No. You and I—we’ll talk. There is no ‘the three of us’. The three of us ended a long time ago. Now there’s the two of us, and quite unfortunately, the traitor.”

I feel my temper rising, but I still fight to keep my voice even. “She’s not a traitor. I’m sure you’ve been informed by now about what we just did. I got the evidence I needed. Everything has been a big misunderstanding, and the three of us—yes, the three of us, because Hermione deserves a say—are going to talk, even if I have to put you under a full-body bind.”

I immediately see that making this threat was a poor choice. Ron’s wand is out now, quivering in my face, before I can even reach for mine. I raise my hands a little over my head, the way Muggles often do in television cop shows.

“All right,” I say. “I won’t curse you, if you will just hear us out.”

Ron’s eyes flash in uncertainty. At last, he sets his mouth once more in a grim line. “I’ll hear you out. Not her.”

I am ready to release a chorus of choice words for Ron, but realize that doing so with his wand mere inches from my nose is most likely a bad idea. I look back at Hermione, who looks frightened and saddened by Ron’s reaction. Never in our Hogwarts days was Ron so violent towards anyone. It must shock her to see him react so coldly towards me—and it must hurt her to know that she will never be anything more than a traitor in his eyes.

At last, I nod. At least Ron has come here with enough of an open mind to listen to me. And if I can get him to believe what I say, then maybe, with time and effort, he can start to listen to Hermione too. I knew even before we put our plan into action that it would take more than my word to convince Ron that she is truly on our side. It will take a lot of time, but I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to reconcile them. I’d give anything to have the three of us together again. Not the way we were before of course; that could never happen. We’ve been through too much, seen too much, done too much, and been hurt too badly to ever return to the way we’d been. But that doesn’t mean there’s no chance for us to be the trio again. A different trio, yes; but a trio nonetheless. And now that there seems a good, solid chance of that happening, I don’t intend to let it go.

Ron tilts his head toward the door, aims his wand at it, mutters, “Aperio!” It opens immediately, narrowly missing the back of Hermione’s head in the process. She scuttles backward quickly, and I bite back a comment. I know Ron did that on purpose, and even had Hermione been sitting just a little closer where the door would have hit her, he’d have done it anyway.

“Inside,” he says bluntly, his eyes darting between Hermione and I nervously, as though expecting one of us to curse him the moment his back is turned.

My patience with his attitude is dwindling, but I nod as respectfully as I can and walk up the steps and into the building. I cast a small look back at Hermione, who is standing some distance away by the fence, her eyes on me, face unreadable. I momentarily consider mouthing at her something reassuring, but decide against it.

Once we are both inside, Ron closes the door sharply behind me. The slight increase in temperature makes me worry slightly for Hermione. Despite her assurances that the cold air had been doing her good, that would only be true for so long. It was far too cold to be outside for any extended period of time. She didn’t even have a wand to warm herself with.

I dare not mention my concerns to Ron—whom I am glaring at as he warms his hands by the dying fire—for I would run the risk of angering him. The only way for me to make him see reason is for me to keep him as calm as I possibly can. I know how difficult he is to reason with under normal circumstances, but that is to say nothing of how he is when he’s angry. It feels ridiculous, being so overly conscious of keeping my best friend in a stable frame of mind, but I know that it is the only way I can do this.

As I watch, Ron conjures two armchairs with a flick of his wand and positions them so that they are near the fire and facing each other. Before sitting down himself, he looks up at where I still stand by the rear exit. The silence is broken only by the soft crackles of the flames. He motions at the empty armchair across from him. “I didn’t summon a second chair to rest my feet on, you know,” he comments. His tone is bland, almost conversational. He no longer seems angry, but I know how quickly he can take on that emotion, particularly when he’s in such a fragile state of mind. Being best friends with the guy for seven years has left me with some understanding of the way he works, and I can sense that the slightest mislaid word could be enough to set him off.

Obligingly, I cross the room and sit down, hiding my apprehension. I am silent, at a complete loss for what to say. This is different from earlier, during my conversation with Hermione when my mind had stopped responding; no, my brain is fully functional. I just cannot think of how to touch upon the subject without angering him. There aren’t even any words rolling through my mind—it is silence, inside and out. In the end, I realize it is he who must speak first. I need to start off playing the defense, allow him a chance to yell at me for being a fool and everything else I know he is thinking. Allow him to vent all his anger, leave him feeling hollow and uncertain. Then I will gradually take up the offense.

At last, Ron speaks softly, his eyes trained on the fire’s phosphorescent, flickering flames, the shadows tap-dancing across his face and the light glinting in his eyes, “Haven’t had a day this cold in a long time.”

Despite my decision upon a tactic of handling this, I must admit that controlling my emotions has never been my strong suit. While I’m not as much of a hothead as Ron, I can have my moments and this, unfortunately, is one of them. I am unable to bite back a response. “Yeah, I feel sorry for anyone left out in it.”

Ron does not miss the implication in my words, but to my great surprise, he does not rise to the challenge, or grow angry. He sighs, and lifts his eyes to mine. I can see in them now a different emotion than I’d been expecting—there is no trace left of anger, only a deep, scarred sadness.

“You love her, don’t you?’

I had been expecting an angry, sarcastic retort, an insult, a rude comment, anything other than this. I am taken completely off-guard. “Wh-what?” I stutter, blinking erratically from surprise.

Ron sighs. “Oh, come on, Harry. You’ve gambled everything on the slight chance that our beliefs about her were incorrect, you risked your life numerous times for her, you just kissed her—do I really have to ask the question again?”

I consider a response, my mind still racing. Though Ron could never know it, he’s just asked a question I’ve been struggling to ignore for days. A question that’s been eating at me, one that I’ve ignored because the answer is one that is too risky, too unlikely, too dangerous to ever let myself acknowledge.

I open my mouth to lie, but know that Ron would catch my lie in an instant. At last, with an inward groan, I try to explain my complex web of emotions without denying or agreeing with his question.

“I’m not sure if love is the right word,” I finally mutter. “It’s too soon. I need more time. Maybe before I could have said it . . . but not now, really. After everything that’s happened . . . she’s like a stranger to me, yet at the same time, I’ve never known or understood anyone better. It’s confusing. But I do feel something—something I don’t know how to classify. Something stronger than friendship, but less than love.”

Ron shakes his head and glances down at his hands. Suddenly, it is I who begins to grow irritated.

“Go on, then,” I snap, making him glance up at me, frowning in confusion. Though I’ve not really acknowledged it, I’ve had a good deal of frustration at Ron pent up inside me ever since he exiled Hermione and I. In the ongoing silence, sitting across from him, I just don’t feel as though I can hold it in any longer. “Tell me how you feel about me right now. Yell, scream, it all out! Tell me I’ve been an idiot for trusting her, insult me, insult her, say all the choice words I know you’re dying to. Go on, don’t hold back. I’m waiting!”

Ron just stares at me. The silence has grown heavier than ever, and I suddenly feel humiliated for my angry outburst. Ron’s expression is impassive, unreadable. My face is burning a little bit by the time he finally speaks, his voice not having raised an inch over the tone he’d been using since we’d stepped inside.

“You want to know how I feel, do you?” he asks. At first, I take it for a rhetorical question, but once his gaze remains leveled on me for a good ten seconds without a word, I realize he does want a response.

“Yeah, I do,” I agree, not wanting to back down now, but keeping my voice civil.

“Well, I’d love to tell you, except I don’t really know myself. I’m rather numb right now,” Ron states slowly. He shakes his head a little, and rubs his temple. “I came here today knowing pretty much what to expect—you and Hermione, together, you claiming she’s really on our side. I didn’t like it, but I was prepared for it. When I walked around the side of the building after I checked inside, I didn’t see you right away. Of course I wouldn’t have—the invisibility barrier and all. I heard your voices, though, so I assumed about the barrier. I just kept walking forward until I went through it, and then . . . well, needless to say I didn’t exactly expect to see what I did. I was livid. I couldn’t believe you were kissing her. You were betraying all of us. As long as she was in my line of sight, I just couldn’t think straight. I wasn’t even angry with you like I thought I was at first—just her. I was laying every bit of blame on her. I think I’ve blamed her for literally everything—from you kissing her, to the snow falling. But now that I’m a bit calmer . . . I don’t know what to think. Part of me feels like a real jerk. But the other part of me still doesn’t trust her. I just don’t understand anything anymore, Harry. When did everything get so complicated? How did the line between enemy and ally become so blurred?”

My aggression has diminished just as quickly as it arose. For the first time since all this started on that cold snowy day when my eyes met Hermione’s at the top of Gryffindor Tower, I am seeing Ron for himself again. Despite all his anger and coldness, deep down he’s just lost and confused. I’ve not thought much of his feelings lately. All I’ve been able to see is his anger, his thickheaded refusal to grant Hermione another chance. I never bothered to look deeper, to see what was really fueling his anger. But now I do see it.

Ron blames Hermione—and Hermione alone—for the death of his parents. He believes that by letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, she started the chain of events that led to his parents’ demise. It’s a somewhat irrational belief—Voldemort would have found another way to power, and his parents died because they were doing their best to restore peace—and I’ve known that for some time. I think he knows it deep down too. But that’s not something he’ll ever admit to, because he wants someone to blame for it, and it’s easier to blame Hermione—one girl without a whole lot of power—than it is to blame Voldemort, whose fault it really is. By blaming Voldemort, he has to face the fact he’ll never have the strength to avenge his parents. He’ll never feel as though he’s doing anything—he’ll feel helpless. But by laying the blame on Hermione, he can believe that one day he’ll be able to really get revenge in a way he’d never be able to do if he were to blame Voldemort. Sadly, Fred and George seem to have taken up this same belief. Ginny alone of the Weasleys has managed to avoid falling into this idea. She has hated Hermione because of her betrayal—but she has blamed Voldemort for the destruction of her family.

It was easy for him to choose to believe this when she was far away, just like it was easy for me to see her as a cold-blooded betrayer. But when we saw her that day, his beliefs had begun crumbling, just as mine had. His depression and confusion had come out as aggression. He didn’t want me to become involved with her in any way, for it could jeopardize his carefully erected mental sanctuary, where everything was Hermione Granger’s fault. When it hit so close to home that I had brought her to our hideout, it was all he could think of to get rid of her through any means necessary—taking me with her if it came down to it, which it did. But now it’s gotten too far beyond his control. He’s beginning to realize that he can’t live in denial forever—but he’s still so hesitant to let go.

“Ron,” I begin, “I understand.”

Ron gives the floor a sad sort of smile. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” I repeat with a fierceness in my words that makes him look up. “I lost my parents, too, remember? Sure, it’s harder for you—you knew them, you were used to having them around. But I still know what it feels like—the hatred, the burning passion of anger that you feel for the person to blame. Those feelings are all right; they’re natural. You just can’t direct them at the wrong person.”

“I know!” Ron cried, his voice somewhat strangled. To my great alarm, he looks like he might cry. “But I just can’t . . . it’s not easy, facing up to the fact that you’ve been a grade-A jackass for the past two years. It’s not easy to set aside beliefs that you’ve held for so long. It’s not easy to look into her face . . . the lingering anger and the guilt . . . I can’t do it, Harry. My strength is depleted. I don’t have enough left to face up to it.”

“Of course you do,” I say softly. “It may seem too hard now, but Hermione is not going to hate you. Trust me. She’s too worried about us hating her. She still isn’t completely firm in the belief that I don’t hate her for what she’s done, and she certainly won’t be with you.”

“Exactly!” he said. “I’d rather have her hate me! I could deal with that—we’ve been arguing from the day we met. Anger between us would be nothing new. But to have to watch her be constantly fearful that I hate her makes me feel awful. I noticed her expression out there. I didn’t care at first—I was too angry. But now I do. I believe you, Harry. It took me a while, and I’ll probably still end up acting like a jerk for a while, but I do believe you. I know you wouldn’t trust her fully unless you had a reason. That’s why I was so scared when you started to trust her. Because I knew I could trust you.”

I feel a slight feeling of elation. We are getting somewhere! With work, this can be sorted out, I just know it.

“You don’t need to be telling me this,” I say quietly. “You need to talk to Hermione.”

He shakes his head vigorously. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“You have to!” I insist.

“No,” he says. “Look, just . . . just give me a day or two, will you? Then I’ll talk to her. I can’t right now. But let her know that whatever I may say . . . I don’t hate her. I did at one time, but not now.”

“I’ll tell her,” I assure him. “But she won’t take it as anything more than me trying to make her feel better unless you say something.”

He nods. “Yeah, I know. But it’s all I can do right now. I need time.”

“Okay. Just don’t take too long. You have a chance to get something back that you never thought you could. Don’t sacrifice it,” I warn.

He nods again and stands up, looking uncomfortable. He scratches his head, clears his throat, and says in a businesslike manner, “Well, I came here originally to tell you that you’re to stay here until dark. Sirius will come for you then and take you to our hideout. We have a lot of strategizing and discussing to do.” He turns abruptly and begins to walk toward the front door. I can tell he is desperate to escape, but I call after him nonetheless.

“You should stay,” I say emotionlessly.

“I really can’t,” he mutters. “Got to get back or . . . Ginny’ll get worried . . . you know . . .”

The words are true; knowing Ginny, I know she will grow to worry. But while they are true, the reason is a lie. I nod anyway and say quietly, “Safe traveling.”

“Right,” he says before quickly scuttling out the door.

As it closes behind him, the door clicks softly. The sound is slightly jarring. When we entered this building, not ten minutes before, I’d half expected it to end with him slamming the door shut in my face, for perhaps the final time. The silence and softness with which he has excused himself is startling, and at the same time, relieving. Everything is working out as I want it, for the first time in longer than I can remember. Hermione’s on our side again, Ron’s almost ready to forgive her, we’re on the verge of being the trio again. But even as a slightly lighthearted feeling overcomes me, I just can’t shrug off the terrible feeling that things are too perfect. Perhaps these past years have just made me overly cynical. Or perhaps deep in my mind, in a place I refuse to acknowledge, I am sensing something real.

I rise and walk toward the back door, to summon Hermione inside and wait for darkness to fall.

A/n: Here we go, chapter eleven! I would have posted this earlier, along with the Interlude, but thunderstorms decided to hit and I had to shut down my computer for several hours, so . . . :-) Anyway, you got it in the end. Thanks for all the rapid feedback, guys! This is another one of my favorite chappies. I just like Ron and Harry’s confrontation. I hope you did, too! As always, a note:

Kw702955: Congratulations! Tell me if you liked the movie in your next review. I’m going with my friend on Monday after school—we have advance tickets and didn’t want to fight the weekend crowds, and I’m too tired to go at midnight . . . Fun, though!

13. End of Spirit

~~ 12 ~~

End of Spirit

“Hearts are worn in these dark ages,

You’re not alone in this story’s pages.

Night has fallen amongst the living and the dying

And I try to hold it in

Yeah, I try to hold it in.”

--Sarah McLachlan

Night falls rapidly.

As the curtain of darkness descends, it brings with it a chilly shield of cold. Slowly, as the hours wane, a storm brews. Now, as we sit warming ourselves as best we can by the fire, a screaming vortex of falling ivory flakes spins outside the window. We can no longer see the storm—but we can most certainly hear it. The whooping and high-pitched shrieks seem to come from a banshee rather than the wind. The temperature has dropped to what must be near or below zero, and even the fire is not enough to keep us adequately warm. Harry and I, sharing a wand, must alternate heating spells because one wand can only cast one spell of such nature on a single person at a time. We have scooted closer together in the chairs Ron left, trying to use the body heat of each other to help. Still, there is a definitive gap between us, both mentally and physically. Neither of us dare get too close to the other. I know I am still confused over the events of earlier, and I suppose Harry is as well.

A silence has fallen along with the darkness. The only sound around us comes from the wind’s howling and the fire’s crackling. It would be a picturesque winter scene, if it weren’t for all the worry and tension that surround us in an ebony cloud. Not a word has been spoken between us in the past two hours, not out of anger or irritation, but purely out of a desire to think the thoughts the plague us. Harry’s eyes, as far as I know, have not moved from the waves of the flames in over an hour.

The last time we spoke—meaning that we held an actual conversation, and not just simple, two- or three-letter words—was immediately after Harry came to the door to call me in after Ron had departed. I had stepped in hesitantly, glancing around myself, uncertain if I wanted to come inside if Ron was still there.

“He’s gone,” Harry had stated quietly, seeing my reaction. He give a nod in the direction of the leaping and playful flames. “Come on, hurry up, it’s cold out there.”

When I step in, I notice the two chairs that have appeared since the last time I was here, and follow Harry’s lead as he walks toward one and sits down. He looks to me expectantly, and I take the seat across from him.

I can see in his carefully guarded eyes that he wants me to ask the question he knows I will—I can see that he will not bring it up unless I do, and that doesn’t leave me with a good feeling of how his and Ron’s conversation had gone—not that I’d had a good feeling to begin with. I had felt slightly heartened when, listening closely at the door from outside, I’d heard no shouting. There had only been the dull murmur of inaudible voices. But I know from past experience with Lucius and Voldemort that some of the most threatening and terrible conversations take place in low voices rather than screams.

Finally, with a deep breath and a mixed desire about whether I want to know or not, I ask, “Well . . . what happened?”

Harry skirts around it a bit. “Well . . . we talked,” he muttered, stating the obvious with the art of a master.

“And?” I prompt.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, Harry says, “Ron doesn’t hate you, Hermione. And he doesn’t blame you anymore . . . not really. He’s just confused. He wants some time to think before he sees you and talks to you. Besides that, you know how his pride is. He didn’t say it out loud, but I don’t think he wanted to come up to you and admit he’d been wrong—his ego needs a little time to settle on it first.”

An abrupt anger overcomes me, and I find myself losing my temper a bit with Harry. “Look, don’t think you have to sugar-coat it for me. I’ve been through a lot in the past two years, and if you think what he says now is going to break me, you clearly know me even less than I thought you did. I’m not letting Ronald Weasley—who is notorious for being one of the most stubborn people in all of Europe—get to me. It’ll disappoint me, yeah, because I’d like to have him for a friend again. But if that’s one thing of many that I can’t regain, then that’s all right. Just don’t lie to me!”

Harry sighs. “I knew you’d react this way, I told him you would. But I’m not lying.”

I let out a snort of dry humor. “Oh, yes. That’s why he’s been so angry every time I’ve seen him—that’s why he kicked you out. Because he doesn’t blame me. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that Voldemort is forfeiting to Dumbledore, and Lucius and Draco will volunteer to be servants for the Gryffindors.”

“I told you I wasn’t lying!” Harry snaps, but then sinks back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and we’re both tense and tired. It’s probably best if we don’t discuss anything right now, or else we might end up saying things we don’t mean. We need each other right now. We’ll have enough in-fighting once you come back to the group with me later. We don’t need anymore.”

I had nodded, and that had been the end of our conversation.

Much of the following hours I spend contemplating Ron and Harry and what had really happened between the two of them. Try as I might, I just cannot believe that Ron actually said what Harry claims he did. Even Harry took a long time to fully trust me, and Ron hasn’t been with me as Harry has. So am I supposed to believe that after everything he’s done to show he blames me, suddenly Harry’s word is enough? I don’t buy it.

I wonder what Harry is thinking about as I sit trying to focus on the happier events of the day. His face is drawn and tight, a grim expression in his eyes, and I know whatever he is thinking is no happier than what I am. I do my best to keep myself thinking about how the Sphere is broken and how I might have a chance, but just as quickly as that joy filled me, it has left. For I know that our saga has not ended yet. I am safe for the time being. Things are getting better. But things could easily take a turn for the worse. Voldemort is out there, looking for Harry and his group—with even more vigor than before, I’d imagine. Sooner or later that situation is going to boil over into a violent confrontation, and the odds of us emerging victorious—or even alive and running—are somewhere in the negative region.

Hours pass, and I must have dozed off sometime, because the sound of a knock at the door jars me awake suddenly. My head, which had been resting on my own shoulder, jerks up and I feel the beginnings of a crick in my neck. Harry is already at his feet, wand held tight in his hand, staring at the door with a look of apprehension.

“We have a special knock,” Harry whispers to me, his eyes never leaving the front door. “That wasn’t it.”

I feel Harry’s tension for a fraction of a second before the knock comes again, and this time I can hear a distinct rhythm to it. Harry notices as well and lets out a sigh, a sign that all is well, but I can see the irritation in his face. He walks toward the door and throws it open, wand still held close in case of a trick.

Sirius steps into the room, a flurry of snow and a wave of cold air on his heels. Harry forces the door closed and locks it again.

“Did you forget the knock or something?” Harry demands testily. “You damn near scared us into running!”

“Sorry,” Sirius growls, but he does not sound contrite, as he pulls down the hood of his cloak to reveal a very irritated expression. “Dumbledore’s group has a different signal. Ron gave me yours and I got distracted when the wind nearly blew my bag away.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s always good to get the adrenaline pumping,” Harry muttered, a bit less angrily.

“Well isn’t this one hell of a welcome,” Sirius laughs humorlessly. “Harry, I have spent the past hour walking through this storm because Dumbledore thought it was too dangerous to Apparate right into Diagon Alley. You have spent the past hour nice and warm with a fire right in front of you. Please, don’t make me lose my patience.”

I can see Harry’s eyes flash in a burst of unnecessary anger. “Yeah, well you aren’t the one who snuck around Puerclades earlier and risked death. You aren’t the one who was tortured. You aren’t the one who nearly didn’t make it out alive. No, you’re just the one who walked through the snow.”

“Harry—” Sirius says, looking surprised at his godson’s irritation. I am surprised myself. I had no idea Harry had grown so testy in the hours of our silence.

Harry sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment without looking up. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice calmer. “I’m just really tense right now.”

Sirius nods slowly. “It’s all right. Some food ought to help you calm down.”

“You have food?” Harry asks in interest. I realize for the first time just how hungry I’ve grown. I’ve not eaten anything in at least twenty-four hours.

“Not with me, no, but they’ve got some ready back at the hideout,” says Sirius. He sets down the small bag he was carrying and opens it, pulling out two black cloaks. He tosses the first to Harry, who eagerly puts it on. The fire is almost dead now, extinguished by the air blown in by Sirius’s arrival. The light is so dim it is difficult to see. Sirius then tosses the other to me. I catch it and begin to shrug into it when I feel his eyes on me. I look up.

“The plan went accordingly?” he asks me quietly.

“Yes,” I reply.

He gives me a slight smile. “Good.”

I remember how he’d asked me not to hurt Harry again, and I sense that he is referring more to this than to the actual plan of destroying the Sphere. While I can’t say I’ve fulfilled that promise, I’m on my way. And a feeling of slight happiness washes over me for an instant. It feels good not to let someone down—it’s a feeling I haven’t known for far too long.

Sirius looks down and grabs something else out of the bag and throws it to me. Distracted, my arms caught up in the jacket, I miss it and it rolls to a stop at my feet. I look down and see a beat up, cherry wood wand lying at my feet.

“It’s an old one,” he says. “Dumbledore provided it.”

I bend down and pick it up once I’ve managed to get my arms successfully where they belonged in the jacket. I roll it over in my hands looking at its reddish wood and feeling its smooth texture. It’s cold as ice, and while I am relieved to be armed, at the same time, holding it fills me with a slight unease. I tuck the wand away into a pocket of my jacket and the feeling away into a pocket of my mind.

I look up to see both of my companions watching me, their faces carefully blank. I feel anxious under their gaze and look down, wishing they’d find something else to focus on. I’ve grown used to being ignored, and it’s the times when people do pay attention to me that I fear. That feeling has not yet left me.

“You ready, Hermione?” Harry asks softly. “I don’t know about you, but I’d really like some of that food.”

I nod, but suddenly realize for the first time since I’ve awoken just where we’re going. I’m to face all of my one-time friends yet again. The last time I saw them has not yet been lost on me. My hunger is quickly replaced by a boiling nausea, and I doubt if I could eat anything and hold it down.

“Good, good,” Sirius says, pulling out a small bag and walking toward the fire. He dumps powder from the bag into his palm and throws it into the fire. The crimson flames melt into glistening emerald and the fire is reincarnated, licking at the shadows and salivating ash. The green light it casts around the room is not so much comforting as it is eerie.

Always one to seek knowledge, I can’t help but speak the question that is on my mind. “Sirius, you said Dumbledore didn’t want you Apparating, but why didn’t you use Floo Powder?”

Instead of Sirius, it is Harry who answers me. “We’re hiding out, Hermione. Floo Powder is hard to come by. What little we get we have to steal from Dark wizards, and that’s far too risky to do often. We reserve it for when there’s no other option.”

“Oh,” I say calmly, watching the leaping flames play their dancing game. I turn my eyes to Sirius again. “May I ask something else?”

“Certainly,” Sirius replies graciously.

“Why didn’t you tell us before we went into Puerclades that Snape was an ally?”

Sirius seems confused for a moment. However, a moment later a look of understanding dawns on his face, and he nods. “Ah, that. So I take it you ran into him?”

“We used him to get us up to Malfoy’s office. I presented myself to him, but he figured out what I was doing—or part of it, at least,” I explain.

Sirius nods again. “Dumbledore thought that telling you was a bad idea for many reasons. He wanted to see what the two of you could do on your own, without aid from one of us. He wanted to see if you would betray Harry. The likelihood of that happening was higher when it was just you and him. With Snape around, it would have discouraged such a thing. He also didn’t want Snape to reveal himself as a traitor by aiding you. Dumbledore really needs him as an informant.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Well, that was bloody lovely of him. Let’s not sacrifice old Snape, we’ll just put Hermione and I in more danger. Not like losing us is a crushing blow, or anything.”

“Harry, it wasn’t like that,” Sirius insists. “It was a tactical move. Snape didn’t help much even after he found out you were there, did he?”

“No,” I reply. “He just offered me a chance to leave without getting caught. I said no and he took me Lucius. He didn’t know that’s what I wanted, of course.”

“See?” Sirius said. “Snape wouldn’t have helped much even if you’d known.”

“I still think you should have told us,” Harry mutters, but drops it after that. Sirius watches him in uncertainty for a moment, but does not attempt to continue the conversation either.

Without another word, Sirius steps forward and yells, “Harry’s hideout!” Like some phony Muggle magician, he spins away into nothingness.

Harry and I are alone once more. He steps forward, but looks back at me. I have not moved, nor do I want to. My eyes are still focused on the almost hypnotizing flames. I may have proved my innocence to Harry, even to Sirius and Dumbledore, but who’s to say the others will have forgiven me? I don’t want to face it. Not now. Not ever.

I feel him take my hand and look up. His face is still blank, but he says soothingly, “It’ll be fine. We’ll go together. Just yell what Sirius did simultaneously with me and we can go at the same time.”

I nod slightly and allow him to pull me forward. By some miracle, I managed to force out the words at the same time as Harry, and I step into the green flames beside him, still in a state of autopilot.

It is cramped in the spiraling world of green, and in my already nauseous state, I almost vomit. I realize that Harry’s arms have ended up around me, and he is holding me close. This is the last thing I notice before the Floo Network spits us out.

If I thought the landing would provide some type of relief, I was incorrect. While usually you can step out of the fire with some kind of grace, I now find myself lying atop Harry on the wooden floor of his hideout. He is coughing—I have likely winded him—and my nausea has not subsided. I roll off of him and on all fours, I wretch in the direction of the floor. Only air is produced; it’s been too long since the last time I’ve eaten for anything to come up.

My nausea begins to retreat and now I can focus, which I cannot say is exactly a blessing. Being on my hands and knees, all I can see is their feet, but the feet are all around me. This is a preferred view, in my mind. It is their faces I fear.

Beside me, Harry is standing. It is utterly silent; so silent in fact that I wonder for a moment if perhaps everyone has ceased to breathe. A hand is held out to me and I grab it, allowing it to pull me to my feet. Naturally, it is Harry who stands beside me now, and I can still feel the distance between ourselves and those who surround us.

Before us, in the cramped living room of the house, sits a large crowd of people, all of whom are staring at me. Ginny, Fred, George, and Neville are piled on the small couch, so tightly that it must be more than slightly uncomfortable. On a chair nearby, Hagrid is sitting. Angelina and Katie are standing, arms folded across their chests, not making direct eye contact with anyone. On a mismatched chair that he must have summoned himself, Dumbledore sits, watching me through his half-moon glasses, his gaze making me more uncomfortable than anyone else’s. Sirius, Lupin, and Mad-Eye Moody stand in the corner, talking quietly. Lupin and Sirius have already seen me, and therefore do not feel the need to stare, I suppose. While I’ve never met the real Moody, from what I’ve heard of him, he doesn’t seem the type to watch when he could be discussing, and he is living up to that image. Ron is not present.

For at least thirty seconds, it is a silent standoff with everyone motionless and staring at one another, each side too afraid to break the silence first. I look to Dumbledore furtively, willing him silently to start whatever discussion is to come, but he is waiting patiently, probably understanding that it will do him no good to start it off. It should be started by someone more directly involved. While I understand his reasoning, I can’t say I like it.

At long last, Ginny stands. Her face is blank and she walks forward. All eyes are now on her as she hesitantly steps closer to me. When she is about five feet away from me, she halts. Her eyes bore into mine, searching for answers to her questions. I guess she finds them, because a moment later, she shyly hugs me.

“Hermione, I never wanted to believe it,” she says before pulling away.

I try to give her a small smile, but I am too unnerved by all those standing behind her, all those who’ve expressed neither welcome nor hostility. But what is even more unnerving is the fact that Ginny has broken the temporary stare-down. Now is the moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating.

As Ginny steps to the side to welcome Harry quietly, Neville stands. He looks at me with painful hope in his eyes.

“Like Ginny said, I never wanted to see you like they did,” he mutters. “But I had no reason not to. I believe Dumbledore, though. If he trusts you . . . so do I. Welcome back.” He looks for a moment as though he wants to come forward and hug me as well, but in the end his shyness overcomes him and he sits back down, cheeks red and burning, eyes glued to the floor.

I feel a small surge of hope. Two of them have forgiven me. But that hope comes crashing down when the Weasley twins stand and send an angry glare in my direction.

“We don’t believe it,” George says coolly. “Maybe you’ve convinced Harry—”

“—By magic possibly!” Fred adds.

“—But you’ve got a long way to go before we can trust you again,” he finishes. “I’m not saying we never will. I guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt, a chance to prove yourself to the rest of us. But for now, we’re taking Ron’s side.”

Fred nods in agreement. They do not sit down again.

My stomach is churning as I look to Angelina and Katie. They see me looking at them and exchange a glance. It is Angelina who speaks. “Hermione . . . we don’t know either way. Just let us make our own judgment, with time.”

I give them a nod. I can understand that. I’d rather have them all at that stage than have some of them on one side and some on the other. Doubt and uncertainty are what I’m used to. While I understand the hatred, I don’t want it. And while I appreciate Ginny and Neville’s support, I have trouble accepting it.

Now Hagrid steps forward, his face slightly moist with tears. He looks as if he wants to hug me, but refrains, for which I am glad. He sometimes loses control of his own strength, and for the time being I like having my bones intact. But he gives me a watery smile.

“Hermione, I’m with Neville. If Dumbledore believes yeh, so do I. It’s good to have yeh back with us,” he murmurs. “I thank Merlin Harry had the courage to help yeh.”

“Yes, Hermione, welcome back,” says a serene, smooth voice. Dumbledore is now standing. He is directly in front of me and smiling.

My throat too tight to speak, so I settle for a simple nod.

“I do hope you won’t mind if I cut the reception short, but we have much to discuss. We are in a dire situation, that is one thing we can all agree on.” Dumbledore, with a wave of his hand, has pushed the furniture to the side, so that it is lined against the walls, giving us more room. As the chair hits the wall beside Moody, he leaps and fires a curse at it, followed by a glare at Dumbledore. Dumbledore winks in Harry’s direction, a small smile playing on his lips. He then conjures a table filled with food. Harry moves forward with the rest to grab a bite before the food is all taken—the Weasley twins are already eating with unnatural speed—but I hang back. I do not feel enough a part of them to step forward and take anything. I feel as though I am the one left uninvited.

Harry, however, notices my hesitancy. He walks back and stands before me. “Come on, Herm. You’ve got to be hungry,” he says quietly.

I shake my head. “Not really,” I whisper.

With an almost comical amount of hesitancy, he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me forward. “It’ll be okay. They’re all willing to give you chance. Ron’s coming around, and so will Fred and George. Trust me.”

“Sure,” I mutter in an unconvinced way.

Once they are all satisfied that they have snatched up enough food, they all take seats upon the floor, surrounding the table in a large circle. Lupin, Sirius, and Moody have moved to join us. Moody remains the only one standing, slightly back from the rest and watching, his abnormal eye spinning in a disturbing way. Upon Harry’s insistence, I sit. Dumbledore is next to Harry, and Neville is next to me. He gives me another shy smile before looking away.

A hush has fallen again, and all eyes dart between, Harry, Dumbledore, and I. Dumbledore clears his throat. “While I’m sure most of you expect me to conduct this discussion, I feel it would be impolite not to allow Harry to lead it. He has much to say, I am sure, and there are many matters that need to be sorted. This is his group, his hideout, and I am merely a guest.” He waves a hand allowingly in Harry’s direcion. “Harry.”

Harry shifts next to me, sitting up a little straighter and trying to appear confident and strong. “Er, right. Well . . . I guess we need to sort out the positions Hermione and I will hold. Whose the leader in Ron’s place?”

“You’re the leader again,” Fred states, looking a little ashamed. “Sorry we kicked you out before, mate. We weren’t really thinking all too clearly . . . but Ron agreed to let you take over now.”

Harry gives a small nod. “All right. Then we need to talk about Hermione. First of all, whether you believe her or not, I expect you to treat her with respect. I’m not saying you have to trust her—take all the time you like to get to that stage. But I don’t want people playing jokes on her—” a look is cast in Fred and George’s direction—“or being cruel, verbally or otherwise. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

“Ron will,” Fred says quietly, his eyes trained to the floor.

“I’ve dealt with Ron, he’ll go along with it,” Harry says bluntly. “Does anyone else have a problem?”

Many surprised looks are exchanged at Harry’s irritable tone, and no one dares speak up.

Harry nods. “Good. I’m sure you can tell I’m not too happy right now. No, I’m not. And it’s not that I’m angry with you. If this had all happened differently, if someone else had done what I did with Hermione and if I had been in Ron’s position, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same things. I can’t say I wouldn’t have believed the same things. I won’t hold that against you. I won’t hold your kicking me out against you. But I’m quite worried, because what we did earlier had an unforeseen side effect: Voldemort’s pissed off. We knocked out his headmaster and head Death Eater, made that man look like a fool, destroyed the Sphere, and took off. Yeah, I’d say we’ve made him mad. But Voldemort doesn’t slam doors and throw things. When he’s mad, he wants revenge.”

“I don’t know if you’re so right there,” George said, his voice humorous as though trying to break the grim veil surrounding us. “I’d say he probably breaks some stuff—people’s skulls included—and then he looks for revenge.”

“Stop making jokes, this is serious,” Harry snaps, and George falls silent. “Look, he’s going to come after us. And if he really wants to, he’ll find us. This run-fight-hide thing ends here. We need a better plan. We have to prepare for him. We have to decide what we’re going to do. For the past two years, we’ve always known that he was out there looking for us, but I don’t think any of us really honestly believed that one day our lives were going to come to an end. Who does, until they’re at the moment when they’re facing that immortality? But now it’s time for us to face it, because more likely than not, that moment is just around the corner, and our only chance of evading it for a little longer is to strategize right now.”

A dead silence follows in wake of this proclamation.

“Way to ruin the moment, Harry,” Fred whispers, obviously intending to be funny, but his whole demeanor is grim, and I can see that Harry’s words have buried themselves as deeply inside of him as they have inside of the rest of us.

“What can we do?” Katie asks quietly.

“I’d say we have three options,” Harry says. “The first is to see if we can keep running and keep our lives for another month or so before he catches us. Maybe we can try to get out of the country, make it to somewhere where he doesn’t have complete control. The second is to fight. Go to Hogwarts and battle it out. See who wins and who loses, bring on the end ourselves. Or our last option: throw in our hats, here and now. Give up. Sit and wait for him to come and find us.”

Harry looks around at everyone, each person’s reaction. I feel the pressure and the tension that has been filling him now. He’s right. I finally am free, only to find myself trapped in a situation where I will most surely die. None of us stand a chance. All of those options are simply paths of different lengths leading to one ultimate destiny.

A smooth voice breaks the silence. “Alastor, would you please take a seat? We won’t bite, but if you keep pacing, someone may get irritated enough to do just that,” Dumbledore suggested mildly.

Moody, who’d been pacing and driving me to distraction, seems to have been jolted from a reverie. He growls, “Sure,” and sits down, still some distance away.

Harry sighs and rubs his temple. I can see the fear and shadows in his eyes. Being the leader he is, it is his job to make his best friends choose from an array of unappealing options. Looking at him now, looking at everything now, I am consumed by amazement at myself, at how I actually thought that we could go back to the way we were. Harry and I can never be the same people again, and our situation can never return to what it was. What foolish part of my mind ever constructed that illusion?

Harry has begun talking again, his voice void of emotion, and his face slack and resigned. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to go about this. I’m asking you to vote on a life or death decision, but I don’t know how else to handle it.”

“Voting’s fine, mate,” says Fred consolingly. “It’s a good, democratic way to handle things.”

“Odd way to handle this, but don’t worry about it,” George adds. “We’ll do it for you. Whose all for the ‘let’s-just-sit-here-and-let-the-Dark-Lord-come-kill-us’ option? No one? Okay, moving on. What about the ‘let’s-go-be-martyrs-and-fight-him-for-about-ten-seconds-before-he-destroys-us’ option?”

Now several people look confused. Alastor Moody’s hand rises high into the air, along with Sirius’s and Lupin’s. Other than that, everyone else remains still. The looks on several people’s faces would imply that they’d been considering that very option before George worded it in such a blunt and frightening way.

“Three? Not bad, not bad. Better than zero, anyway. So, finally and predictably, whose all for the ‘let’s-run-away-and-try-to-cross-a-border’ method?”

Practically everyone’s hand goes up. Harry, George, Dumbledore, and I do not move, but it is clear what the general consensus is.

“Well, that’s pretty obvious, mate,” George says decidedly. “What’s your take, Harry?”

Harry is staring at them all blankly. When he speaks, his voice is oddly hoarse, a voice belonging to a man that has resigned himself to the worst. “I think it’s a stupid decision, honestly,” he states. “Running away is doing no more than prolonging the inevitable. It’s not going to do any good. More fear, constantly living on the edge, knowing deep down you’re never going anywhere, but never wanting to admit it. That’s what we’re in for with this decision. Based on that, does anyone want to change their vote?”

No one moves.

“Well,” says Ginny timidly a moment later, “if we were to cross a border to somewhere that hasn’t been so taken over . . . maybe we could fight there. Gain more people, some land of our own. A resistance and a real stronghold. That would give us a chance.”

Big if.

Harry sighs again. “I guess so. Fine then. I’m overruled. We took a vote, that’s the outcome. Looks like we’re running. Professor Dumbledore, do you want to add anything?”

“I will say no more than this: I agree with your take on it, Harry,” Dumbledore says in a grim tone. “However, I am willing to give this a chance, so long as people will give some other method a chance should this not work out and should we get the opportunity to change our plan.”

Translation: Give fighting a try should we live long enough to realize we’ve been stupid.

I agree with Harry and Dumbledore, but my word is worth nothing here, I know. I keep my mouth shut and listen.

****Harry****

I am groaning inwardly. What are they thinking? Running holds nothing but disaster. True, fighting is almost sure to leave us in a bad place, but at least we’re doing something. We’re trying to accomplish something. We wouldn’t be the first small army to win a big war. The most unlikely, probably, but there’s always a chance. Yeah, Ginny’s idea is a good one, but there’s the ever-present, unspoken question of if we can get across a border and find a new stronghold before we die. It’s too unlikely to consider. Death Eaters are everywhere. We can’t go into towns, and the borders are magically guarded. You can’t just Apparate out anymore. No Floo Powder will take you out of the United Kingdom, either. Even if we made it to the border, we’d have to go across at a designated checkpoint, all of which are guarded. Why can’t anyone else see that only death lies ahead for us on this route?

It’s over, I realize more strongly than ever. It’s something I’ve been coming to terms with since those hours in the building in Diagon Alley with Hermione. We stand no chance. I think I’ve known that, deep down, since we agreed on the plan to destroy the Sphere. Maybe even before. We were standing so close to an edge before, I think I knew that helping Hermione was going to tip us over. It’s why I kissed Hermione—because I care for her, and I knew that it would be ending soon, somewhere deep in my soul. I wanted her to know how I felt before that end came.

Then the long, grueling hours of silence in the building. That was when I truly realized it, deep down. We never really stood a chance. We’ve never made progress toward our spoken goal of defeating Voldemort. We just survived, hoping and praying for one more day. We called ourselves rebels, a resistence group, and yet we never were. It just made us feel better; made us feel as though we were being useful. But that kind of existence can’t last for long, a life of borrowed time. Sooner or later you have to pay the debt.

What bothers me even more than our decision to run is the fact that I know that it doesn’t matter which option we choose. It’s all going to lead to the same thing. Maybe I want to fight because I can’t take the constant question of when that time will come anymore. I just want it to be over with. Nothing beyond this life could be as bad as here and now.

“Fine, then,” I sigh, rising to my feet. “Decided. At first light, we run. Better start packing, we’ve only got a few hours —”

I break off suddenly, as a screaming pain overtakes my skull. I fall to my knees and hardly even notice the shattering pain as they hit the wooden floor sharply. I clench my teeth tightly. I want to scream from the agony, but I can’t even seem to do that, as if my vocal cords are locked along with my jaw. My skull feels like someone is tearing it apart at the seams, ripping it slowly, torturously.

And then comes the laughter. High-pitched, cold, and the single most awful sound ever to be heard on the planet, it resonates through my mind, almost as agonizing as the pain in my head. Suddenly, with awful and certain understanding, even through the pain, I know: All this time spent planning has been wasted. Running, fighting, the battle of the decision—all a waste, all irrelevant. All because of one horrible and mind-numbing fact coming to me in an instant of perfect clarity:

It’s already too late.

A/n: Here ya all go! I won’t have chapter thirteen up tonight; it’s really long and will take me a long time to edit. I’ll put it up tomorrow. But I hope you like this chapter more than I do—it’s not one of my favorites. It sort of bugs me for some odd reason. Hope you guys don’t have the same reaction. Have a lovely Friday evening, and I hope many of you get to see PoA! :-) (Waiting for Monday is driving me crazy . . . friends of mine who don’t even like it all that much have tickets for today . . .)

14. One Last Stand part 1

~~ 13 ~~

One Last Stand

“Why am I fighting to live if I'm just living to fight

Why am I trying to see when there is nothing in sight

Why am I trying to give when no one gives me a try

Why am I dying to live when I'm just living to die?”

--Tupac

The pain is fading now, taking with it the cold laughter. I am struggling to my feet with adrenaline pumping through my veins alongside my chilled blood. Everyone now surrounds me, asking questions, begging to know what happened, and why I had collapsed. Hermione’s hand is on my shoulder, saying nothing, but looking at me in concern. I have no time for their pointless inquisitions—our lives are all on the line.

Voldemort is coming; he’s almost here. I know this as clearly as if I’d been told, and yet it makes no sense as to why I should know something like that. How could I, from laughter? But logical or not, I trust it, and my instinct is all I have to go on now.

“Get out!” I cry hoarsely, silencing them all.

“Harry,” Sirius begins worriedly, moving toward me. I step back, shaking my head, and he stops. He is frowning and looks as though he fears for my sanity.

“Do as I say!” I yell, well aware of the wild, unreasonable tone to my voice. “He’s coming, don’t you understand? Forget our plans, forget everything! They’re worthless, because he’s here, now!”

Another silence. My frustration is enough to make me scream. What is wrong with them all? Why can’t they understand? Why don’t they just listen to me instead of standing here like deer in the headlights? Fear is written on every face now, but no one seems to believe it enough to do anything.

Sirius looks as though he is going to try to quiet me again—and if he had, I cannot say what I’d have done—but Dumbledore holds up a hand, his expression grim, his eyes locked into mine. I can see he believes and understands as I do. I see the wisdom of a century in his tired, bleak-looking light blue eyes, and it is with that wisdom that he can know that what I speak is the truth. He gives a slight nod. “Listen to him,” he orders in his mild manner.

“Go, now!” I repeat, almost panicking. “We have no time to talk! We voted to run and if we want our lives to be prolonged enough to see the dawn, we have to do it now. Run and hide in the woods. Separate, but stay with at least one or two of the others. If you hear three owl hoots, it’s me, or another group. Respond with two hoots to help them or me find you. Do not fight any enemy unless you have no choice. Now get out!”

My word combined with Dumbledore’s seems to have done the trick. I watch, my heart pounding and my throat tight as my friends snap from their stupor and practically trample each other attempting to get out the door. The most unnerving thing of it all is the utter silence with which they do it. In Muggle movies and books, such scenes always take place with everyone screaming their heads off, or at least talking. But here, not a word is spoken. They are all terrified, but it is a silent and eerie terror with which they flee.

I stand back and catch Fred’s arm as he is trying to make is way through the mob. “Where’s Ron?” I demand.

“Uh . . . in the back room . . .” Fred says, realizing it as though for the first time, his eyes widening. He turns and looks as though he is about to run back down the hall, but I stop him.

I give a sharp shake of the head. “No, I’ll do it,” I say firmly. “Get out now.”

Fred, after a moment’s hesitation, complies with a nod, running out the door and into the blackness of the snowstorm beyond. I see Dumbledore and Sirius have hung back with me.

I turn to face them and take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “Professor,” I say to Dumbledore with as much respect as I can muster through my fear, “go with them, if you will. Try to keep them organized. They’ll listen to you, and things are going to get messy out there. They’ll need order if they’ve got any chance. I’ve got to collect Ron.”

Dumbledore nods slowly. “Do as you must, Harry. I shall follow your orders. I trust you as I trust no other. But be careful,” he states, placing a hand on my shoulder temporarily, a sign of his trust. He looks to Sirius and says firmly “He will be fine. Come.”

Sirius looks at me, and nothing is spoken, but no words are needed. I can see everything he’d say to me if time allowed, everything you’d say to someone you care for deeply when you fear the end has come at last. The moment lasts for an eternity and a fraction of an instant at the same time, and then our eye contact is broken as Dumbledore pulls him out the door.

I begin to run toward the hall when a hand on my arm halts me. I spin, half expecting a Death Eater to be waiting, but instead I see only Hermione, standing there awkwardly.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice going high and squeaky with panic. “Get out while you can!”

“No,” she says, her voice calm to contrast her pale face and frightened eyes. “Harry, I’m not leaving you.”

“Hermione, don’t be foolish,” I say. “I’m not letting you die here. Please, get out!”

She shakes her head. “You’ve never left me,” she says. “Not once. You’ve stuck beside me no matter what, and I’m not about to run away from you because things are getting rough. I’m staying by your side to the end, be that end good or bad. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me from keeping that promise.”

I feel a moment of deep affection for her, and for an instant all I want to do is kiss her again, but my panic and the distant, fading footsteps of my fleeing comrades keeps me from showing it. I nod bluntly. “All right,” I sigh. “Just stay behind me.”

We make it down the hall to where the rooms are. The door to the room Ron and I share is locked, much to my irritation. I let out a growl of frustration. My situation is moving at far too fast a pace. If you’ve ever been in a situation where you know deep in your heart that time is short, you understand how I feel. The rushing adrenaline, the fast heartbeat, the rapid breathing, and the way you can’t seem to stop moving—that’s what I am experiencing now. I understand that we have precious little time left, and too much of our time has been spent talking. It seems as though we have so much less than we actually do, and my urgency grows with each passing instant. With each minute, I feel more and more as though I will explode from panic.

I pound on the door. “Ron, open up!” I yell, my voice edged with fear.

“Harry, go away,” comes a bleary, muffled voice. “I don’t want to discuss tactics tonight, okay?”

“He’s here!” I yell back, not even bothering to stop pounding, just grateful to be moving somehow. “Voldemort is here, and we have to get out! Open up!”

Two seconds later I can hear him fumbling with the lock. The door is opened and he stands staring at me, eyes wide, face pale and disbelieving. “What is this?” he demands, not with hostility, but with fright.

I push him out of the doorway and Hermione and I rush in. I turn and slam the door quickly behind me, locking it with my wand, in case the Death Eaters arrive while we are still in here. The darkness is so deep in here that I can barely see, and I light my wand. I nod toward the window. “Get out!” I command. “Wait for me just below the sill! Grab your wand if you don’t have it and be ready for Death Eaters!”

Ron, looking dazed, nods. I doubt if his mind has even fully comprehended what I’m saying yet. He goes to the window and slides out of it. I use up precious seconds to run to the table next to my bed and grab a pair of my pants. I throw them to Hermione and she catches them, looking at me in confusion.

“We’re going to be outside for a long time, I have a feeling,” I say bluntly. “You’ll never make it in a skirt. Change and come out. We’ll be waiting.”

“No, Harry, don’t wait!” she argues. “Just run. I’ll catch up.”

“Hermione, you promised you wouldn’t leave my side,” I say, standing next to the window. “Well the same goes for me. We’re in this together. So just do it!”

With that, I catapult myself over the windowsill, landing about three feet to the side of where Ron is kneeling. I extinguish my wand, well aware that letting the light penetrate the darkness would be as good as sending out a beacon to summon death. The storm of earlier is still howling and whooping all around me, and I begin to feel compassion for Sirius, having to spend an hour out in it. Even with warm clothes and a jacket, the wind is tearing through down to my skin. I don’t regret having Hermione change—had she not, she’d have made it little more than a quarter of a mile before collapsing of hypothermia.

“Harry, what’s happening?” Ron demands, his voice full of terror and disbelief.

“Voldemort is here. He’s here, and it’s over,” I reply hoarsely, well aware that I must sound optimistic enough to make anyone want to keep fighting. “It’s all over.”

“So that’s it?” he whispers, his voice so low I can hardly hear him over the wind. “We’re going to die here tonight?”

I feel guilt come over me. What kind of leader am I, making my friends feel as though all hope has gone? “No, of course not,” I lie in a half-hearted attempt to reassure him of something I don’t even believe myself. “Don’t listen to me, I’m just being pessimistic. We’ll make it out, don’t worry.”

My voice is not even convincing to myself, and I certainly don’t expect Ron to believe it.

Hermione’s soft voice drifts down from directly above where I’m crouching. “I’m coming down now,” she warns.

Ron and I stand and move out of the way. I can hear the thud of Hermione as she hits the snow a moment later.

“Harry, where are you?” she asks worriedly, clearly as blinded by the darkness as I am.

I cover the tip of my wand with my shirt and whisper, “Lumos!” A light surrounds us, dimmed somewhat by the cloth over it. I am tense, having even this little amount of light. I want nothing more than to put it out immediately, but can’t bring myself to do it, seeing the slightly relieved looks on my friends’ faces.

“Now what?” Hermione asks, her voice taut.

A good question. “Er . . . I guess we should do what I told everyone else to do—hide in the woods,” I say. I try to make it sound firm, like an order should, but it comes out sounding more like a question.

“Yeah . . . yeah, okay,” Ron mutters. His face is still very pale and I can see that he is really starting to realize the sense of doom that has been upon me for hours. He isn’t handling it much better than I did, either.

“Hermione, you have any better ideas?” I ask quietly.

She holds up a hand, her face turned in the other direction. Her eyes are narrowed and if she were a dog on the hunt, I feel sure that her ears would have been pointed slightly forward in intense focus. “Shh,” she whispers.

Ron and I obediently fall silent. While I must focus with all my might to hear over the roaring of the wind, after a few seconds, I hear the dull murmur of voices and the crunching of feet upon crusty snow. I know in my heart, just as I’d known earlier that Voldemort was coming, that those sounds are not coming from my friends.

“Damn,” I whisper. “It’s the Death Eaters!” I hurriedly extinguish my wand and pray it is not too late. My heart is racing again. “Grab hands,” I instruct, no question in my voice now. “I don’t want us to lose each other in this storm, we can’t risk the light. We head for the trees, now! Just keep running, doesn’t matter where we’re going as long as it’s away from here.”

I feel Hermione tentatively grasp my right hand, and after an instant, I ask, “Ready?”

They both respond quietly that they are, and I begin to pull them forward. The insanity of this entire situation is weighing on me. We’re running through a blizzard in the forest, completely blinded by darkness, with Death Eaters roaming around us. If we survive to see the sun top the trees one more time, it will be a miracle.

Though when I’d imagined our escape, I’d pictured us running desperately, our retreat now is staggering and slow. None of us want to go too fast and run into a tree—or worse, a Death Eater.

Distantly, out of my peripheral vision, I can see the bobbing of wand lights. The Death Eaters, searching for us. My urge to hasten our retreat is magnified by a hundred and I begin to pull Hermione and Ron forward faster. I can hear their whispered pleas to slow down, but do not heed them.

I soon find myself paying the price for my haste. I hear Ron cry out and suddenly I am being pulled to the snow alongside he and Hermione. I hit hard and feel a good deal of air explode out of my lungs.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I tripped,” Ron replies. “I told you to slow down! I can’t see where I’m—”

“Be quiet!” Hermione hisses. “Don’t move.”

Once again, her hearing is keener than mine, and after a few instants, I can pick out a high-pitched voice that is colder than the frigid wind around us. It succeeds in freezing me as the air has yet to do. Voldemort’s voice. I can hear only parts of what he is saying, depending on whether the wind was howling or at a lull.

“. . . Escaped . . . hiding, probably . . . burn . . . can’t come back . . . teach them . . . in charge!”

Through my panicked brain, I try to put together the missing pieces of that bit of conversation, but the fear, and chill, and screaming wind won’t let me think at all. I start to slowly get to my knees. We have to get out of here before they come close enough to see us. They’re already too close for comfort—with the light from their wands, I can see some of the mens’ silhouettes. But just as I am trying, Hermione pulls me back down.

“Don’t,” she repeats.

“We can’t stay here,” I hiss. “They’re going to see us!”

I don’t hear any response, because in that instant, all sound—even the wind—is drowned out by an explosion of horrific proportions. The chill of the night is suddenly gone and all around me is a wave of nearly unbearable hot air. Crimson and orange light now fills the black void that had been before me moments before. In an odd sort of stupor, I feel myself being picked up from the ground and thrown several feet. I hit the ground hard on my back, now much further away than I was before. My head strikes the ground hard upon impact—just my luck I had to get a section of the ground that wasn’t six feet deep in snow—and my vision swims.

Slowly, as my eyes clear, I use my arms to push myself up into an almost-sitting position. The sight I am immediately confronted with is one that shocks me. Our house, our hideout of many months, is up in flames. Yellow, and orange, and red tongues of flame lick at the darkness, and devour our home, our belongings, all of our few, remaining possessions. All gone in that greedy inferno.

I can’t take my eyes away from it. It is almost hypnotic. I notice dimly that the lenses of my glasses are wet with snow, but do not make a motion to wipe them off. He’s taken everything, I realize. Our families, our friends, our lives, and now the few things we’ve managed to accumulate—Voldemort has taken them. There’s nothing left. We’re the only things he has yet to destroy. And I know with a horrible, sinking sickness that if it wasn’t the connection between us that is my scar, we’d all have been inside there right now, burning to ashes along with our things. A lovely bit of irony—his first attempt to kill me is what has foiled all those after.

I finally manage to pull my eyes away from it, and look around for Ron and Hermione. The light of the fire has illuminated much of the surroundings—enough to see at least. While that’s a relief in one sense, it’s terrifying in another. The Death Eaters are too busy whooping and watching the show of our home burning right now to notice our surroundings, but sooner or later, someone’s going to spot us.

Ron is laying some distance off to the side of me. He is half buried in a deep snowdrift and his eyes are also fixed on the flames. I push myself to my feet, feeling my headache increase sharply as I stand. I sway on my feet at first, an array of black dots swarming up before my eyes and blocking my vision. But after a moment they recede, and I run quickly to where Ron is trying to climb out of the snowdrift.

I help pull him out wordlessly. His eyes never leave the flames.

“He’s taken everything, Harry,” he whispers in a voice of misery mixed with anger. “Every last bloody thing.”

“Not yet, he hasn’t,” I reply. “He doesn’t have us.” What I do not say aloud is my uncertainty at how long that will remain true. “Where’s Hermione?”

He shakes his head a little, as though trying to clear it, and looks around. “I . . . I don’t know,” he murmurs.

I look around myself wildly. She can’t have been seen, I think desperately. As most wild, panicked thoughts turn out, I am wrong. She is lying some distance away, at the base of a tree. She is motionless, still lying on the ground. I am struck by the thought that she must have hit the tree when the explosion threw her. She’s likely unconscious.

I pull Ron along toward where she is laying. I am grateful to see that it is further back into the woods, for the Death Eaters are beginning to move around now, and we haven’t much time left before Voldemort sends them to scour the woods for us, as he inevitably will.

I kneel by her side and feel for a pulse at her neck. It is there, beating strong. Just as I brush some hair out of her eyes, I feel her begin to stir.

Hermione’s eyes begin to flutter open and she groans lowly. She shifts over so she’s on her back and looks up at Ron and I. Her eyes widen. “What . . . ?” she asks in confusion.

“Sit up,” I say gently, helping her do just that. Her eyes widen as she sees the flames overtaking the house beyond. The roof has collapsed and the fire’s greedy teeth are now chewing along the walls like millions of starved termites. “Are you okay?”

She nods slowly, still staring. “Oh, Merlin,” she whispers. “Harry, this all my fault.”

“Stop saying that,” I growl. “This would have happened eventually anyway. He was always coming for us, and we always knew he’d find us one day—sooner, later, what does it matter in the long run? Now stand up and let’s get going before they start coming after us.”

She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the hand I hold out to help her. I steady her when she looks as though she is about to topple over. I hope she didn’t hit her head too hard.

“You ready?” I ask, and she nods. I look to Ron and he does the same. I am struck by how unexpected it is, the three of us together again in a life or death situation, like so many times before. But looking back on it now, I was never so dead sure that we didn’t stand a chance.

A/n: I know, this is a stupid place to stop a chapter. This chapter is actually 22 pages long and 11,000 words, but the site won’t let me upload it all in one piece. I’m uploading the second half of this immediately after this goes up. Sorry to break it in two, but I had to. Don’t judge this chapter before you read the whole thing, please. Thanks.

15. One Last Stand part 2

~~ 13 ~~

One Last Stand

Part 2

We begin to tear away through the woods, moving at a much faster pace and using the light of the flames to see. After a while, though, the light fades away into blackness once more, and we are forced to slow down. I decide to risk lighting my wand and pray that if any Death Eater spots it, they’ll assume it’s another of their own. It’s just too slow of progress, inching along in the dark.

Once we’ve run until we cannot take another step, I agree to let us stop for a minute. My throat is raw and parched from the chill of the air, and I am trembling from the cold. I put my hand over the tip of my wand in an effort to keep us hidden during our momentary break.

“What are we doing?” Hermione asks. “Where are we going?”

“Anywhere, just away from there,” I reply.

“Shouldn’t we call for the others, though?” she persists. “The owl call, remember? It won’t do us any good to be separated from everyone.”

I realize she’s right. I had forgotten that signal entirely until she’d reminded me. I nod, though I know she cannot see me, and try to muster up enough air to make an owl hoot that sounds half decent. I do it three times, and wait. Of course, there is no answer. Who knows where everyone is? They’re all in groups hiding, probably more to our east, more toward the direction of where the Death Eaters are looking.

“Let’s keep going,” I command. “We’re going east.”

“That’s toward them, though,” Ron argues.

“I know,” I respond. “But that’s where the others are likely hiding. We need to get everyone together before we can make a move.”

I know I am taking a risk, leading my friends back nearer the Death Eaters, but for the life of me, I cannot see what other options I have to choose from. Abandon the others and run off on our own, or risk our lives to find them. Yeah. Big choice.

So I begin our treacherous trek eastward, plunging through the many feet of snow, Ron and Hermione following in my wake. As I walk, keeping my wand’s light dimmed by my jacket’s fabric, I wonder about Ron and Hermione’s take on all this. Not just my decision to move us east, but everything that’s happened in . . . how many days has it been? Or is it years? It sure feels like the latter. I know Ron is beginning to come to terms with just how unlikely our survival is, and I can sense that his silence now is similar to mine during the hours back in Diagon Alley. It makes me edgy, having him in such a state and knowing that our lives depend on us working as a team. I’ve been through what he’s going through now, and I know that during those hours of silence, I would not have wanted someone putting their life on my shoulders. It’s still a shock to me. But at least I had a few hours to just sit and think and come to terms with it. Ron is being forced to accept it on the run.

In Hermione’s case, I have no idea of her emotions. It worries me in a way. We’ve shared so much recently, taken so many risks, and still made it out alive, that maybe I’m getting used to having that unity. Amazing how two years of solitude and of needing no one can change so entirely in a few days of having a friend by your side.

I am tense, prepared for an ambush or sudden encounter with the Death Eaters, but never does the silence or stillness of our surroundings break. A nagging and discomforting fear is gnawing at the back of my mind relentlessly, increasing in its intensity with every step I take: It’s too quiet and too still. Don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to run into Voldemort or his minions, but now I find myself thinking that perhaps I’d be relieved if that did occur. It’s scary to have your enemy in your sights, but it’s a lot scarier when you have no idea where they are or what they’re doing. That’s when you really need to worry.

The only real sound I hear—besides the ones we are making ourselves—is the distant crackling of the blaze that is consuming our home. My nerves are steeled and my desire to destroy Voldemort is sealed by bitterness at this thought. I’ve put up with a lot—I’ve had to to survive. But there are some things I do not forgive, and with the combination of the things he’s done to Hermione, my parents, Hogwarts, my friends, and now our home has put me so far past the point of forgiveness that I couldn’t see it on a distant horizon with a pair of binoculars.

Though I’ve been giving the owl call periodically, I’ve yet to get any answer. This is another way in which the silence disturbs me. Could the Death Eaters have perhaps gotten them, and left? Is that why everything has gone so still?

I stop and hoot again, louder than I’ve dared to so far. All I want is some confirmation that my friends aren’t dead or captured. I beg desperately for it, and for once, my prayer is answered in the form of two distant, but distinctly unnatural hoots.

I run forward in the direction that I thought I’d heard the response, Ron and Hermione following me. I hoot three times again, and this time the reply is much closer.

I hear Ron growl vaguely behind me. “Oh, enough of this bloody owl calling! Who’s there and where are you?”

“Over here, little brother!” comes a soft voice to my left. I aim my dim wand light at a bush about fifteen feet in that direction where Fred or George or both are hiding.

We trudge through the snow, my feeling of relief washing over me like clean water when you’re covered in crusted mud. When we reach the bush, we see Fred, George, and Ginny all crouched behind it. Ginny stands and runs to hug Ron immediately.

He embraces his little sister with a lot more feeling than usual, I observe. Apparently my worries for our survival and theirs were not lost on him, either.

“I’m all right, Ginny,” he assures her quietly. “You?”

“I am now,” she says, relief clear in her voice.

“Yeah, good to see you all again,” Fred agrees, and I can see in his eyes as he looks at me that he’d not been holding out much hope for our survival.

I don’t waste time with the greetings. “Where’s Dumbledore?” I ask. “We need to get everyone together, and without him, that’s hopeless.”

George looks at me. “Everyone’s hidden around here; there’s a good bet he is, too. But I’ve got to tell you, Harry, finding everyone doesn’t bother me as much as the silence does.”

So it isn’t just me whose noticed. “I know,” I agree. I do not elaborate. Stating my fears will do no more than scare us all more. But whether I say it aloud or not, I do believe deep in my heart that something is wrong. I don’t know what, or why Voldemort is holding back, but we should have run into, or seen, or heard some Death Eaters by now. And yet there is nothing. More is going on than meets the eye. We should feel on top in a way; we’ve evaded them, and we’re gathering. We’ve survived. But that’s what they want us to feel. They want us to think we’re on top of the game, and then they’ll surprise us.

With our group expanded from three to six, we set out again, cautiously, not that I see the point in that anymore. I have a horrible, sinking feeling that we’re being quiet and wary for nothing. That Voldemort knows exactly where we are and is simply biding his time, waiting for some moment which he’ll at last deem correct. We’re like ants under the glare of the sun through a magnifying glass. We run about, trying to maintain order and get out, all the while some kid is watching it, controlling everything, waiting until he tires of our running and decides to finally get the frying started. As we play the parts of the ants, Voldemort stands above, clutching that blasted magnifying glass and waiting for the sun to rise so that the death can start.

It takes a little over twenty minutes—more than enough time to confirm my fears with not so much as a distant voice from a Death Eater—to round up everyone. As Fred and George had said, everyone was hidden relatively close to one another. Dumbledore, Sirius, and Lupin were the last ones we found. We’d found Moody hiding with Katie and Angelina right before.

Now we are huddled in a circle, deep in the trees, my wand giving us the light we need. All of us are shivering from the cold. The blizzard has, thankfully, lessened to a simple, silent falling of snow. Dumbledore stands directly across from me, Sirius and Lupin at his sides. Hermione is pressed close against me, attempting to find some warmth in this world of bitter chill. Cautiously, still remembering her reaction when I’d kissed her—something I’m beginning to think I’m never going to get a chance to really talk with her about—I put my arm around her.

“Something’s wrong about all of this,” Moody is growling, his grotesque eye spinning so fast it is a blur. “I don’t trust it.”

“Neither do I, Alastor,” Dumbledore confirms. He looks at me. “And neither does Harry.”

I have not said a word about my suspicions to him, but as it often is with Dumbledore, I do not need to. He knows my emotions as well as I do, can read them from my face, my eyes, my posture when I don’t even realize I’m relaying anything. Sometimes that can be a bad thing, but right now, I’m relieved that I need not take the time to explain.

“What do we do now? He’s destroyed everything, we can’t go back,” Neville whispers, sounding as lost and frightened as a small child separated from his mother.

“Well, you know what they say,” George says, trying to be funny, but his own voice can’t even hold up the façade of folly. “If you can’t go back, you have to go forward.”

“Are we still going to try to make it to a border?” Ginny asks.

I shake my head before anyone can say anything. Dumbledore is looking to me expectantly. “No. We might have had a chance before. But we would have needed supplies. Money, food, clothes. All those things have been destroyed now. Some of us have even lost our wands in the fire. We wouldn’t make it for two days as we are.” I close my eyes for a moment, considering how to word my next decision so that everyone does not immediately oppose me, as I feel they most likely will. “We only have one option left, unless anyone thinks it’s a good idea to sit here and freeze to death while waiting for the Death Eaters to come trooping down on us. We have to fight.”

Much to my surprise, only silence resounds. No one is yelling at me, no one arguing. Just the dead, ringing silence that snow always brings when it falls, a silence that is deeper than that of any other.

“Fight . . . him?” Neville finally asks in a quaking voice.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice firm, trying to instill some confidence in my companions.

“What do you want us to do?” Katie demands, sounding rattled. “We can’t beat him. There are fourteen of us, and hundreds of Death Eaters, plus You-Know-Who himself. We don’t even have fourteen wands. Harry, you’re asking us to commit suicide.”

The silence is deeper than ever as I realize she has spoken aloud the fact I’d been trying to keep hidden from everyone by a shield of bravado and courage. Now that it is out in the open, I can no longer deny it. “Yes,” I admit. “I know. I know we can’t win, I know we’re outnumbered, unequipped, and unprepared. We’re pathetic in comparison to them. He’s going to kill us, Katie, yes. But whether we fight him or not doesn’t change that. He’ll kill us if we stay here, and he’ll kill us if we fight him. We’ll die either way. We’ve been avoiding death for almost two years now, and sooner or later we all had to know that death was going to outsmart us. That’s finally happened, and it’s all coming down to here and now. And now we have the option of going out like the cowards we’ve been, or fighting to our deaths, showing courage, being the Gryffindors we’re alleged to be. Maybe we can cause some damage to them before they finish us off. If we can even take out one of their men we’ll have done something, something more than sit here and wait for the end. Death is our only option, it’s true, but rather than letting that fact weigh you down and make you feel irrelevant, I’d like to see you manipulate it, take advantage of it, let it give you the strength to rise up and do something so great that we’ll be always be remembered as the group that made a difference. Let’s make some use out of our last hours.”

I know that if there was anyone left who hasn’t yet begun to get very in touch with their mortality, I’ve just made them join the rest of us who have. Dumbledore is watching me, and I swear that I have never seen him look older.

Finally, after such a long silence that I fear I’ve put them to sleep, Ron pipes up from beside me, “So what’s the plan?” His voice is toneless, and I can see the resignation in his eyes, resignation to the fate that I’ve just spoon-fed them all. But from these few words, I know that he’s with me in this.

“Yeah, we’re listening,” Hermione whispers. I still have my arm around her, and I look down at her. She gives me a small, sad smile, and I return it briefly, a minimal sign of appreciation for her support, and sadness that I’m the one leading us into this. Though I may know that my own words are true—that Voldemort will kill us either way—it doesn’t make it any easier to live with the knowledge that you are the one leading your friends to slaughter.

“Look,” I begin, “if anyone objects to my plan of fighting, that’s all right. We can break up if we have to—”

Ginny cuts me off. “No, Harry. We’ll follow you, and only you. Some of us may not want to face it, but I think all of us know what you just said is true. And I think that we all have pretty much given up the idea of running. You’re our leader, and if you’re going to do this, then none of us are going to leave your side.” Ginny looks around, almost warningly. “Does anyone want to argue with that?”

This time the silence is shorter, and easier to interpret. They are going to stand by me. I can’t say that makes me feel any better or any worse. It goes the same distance in both ways.

“A-All right,” I say, a little started at the overwhelming support. “So . . . I guess that if we are going to have this battle, we need to pick a battleground. We may not have much, but we have that advantage. Allowing Voldemort that chance would lessen our likelihood of doing anything. So we need to move fast, before they find us and initiate this thing. I think that we should go to Hogwarts.”

“But that’s where they’ve set up headquarters!” Angelina protests. “That would give them the advantage.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “But this all started there, two years ago, or seven years ago, however you want to look at it. But it all comes down to Hogwarts. It’s the center of everything. It’s where this began, and I’d like it to be where it ends. The way I see it, if we fight somewhere else, we’re going to die leaving Hogwarts to be Puerclades forever. Hermione knows how awful that is, and I have some idea. But if we die on those grounds, fighting for it, then a piece of it will always be Hogwarts.”

I see some people nodding. Hermione gives me a wider smile this time, and I can see I’ve gotten through to them. I now look to Dumbledore. I know that in his eyes, the final decision will rest with me, but I need his backing in this. “Professor?” I ask tentatively. “What’s your take?”

“I shall follow your decisions, Harry, whatever they may be. But I think that you are correct on both your decisions here tonight, if that is of any aid,” Dumbledore says.

It’s of more aid than he can possibly know. The fact that he thinks I’m making the right choices based on his wisdom of over a century as compared to my seventeen is a great help. “What do you think we should do now, sir?” I ask.

His answer is the one I had expected. “That is your choice, Harry. You are choosing wisely tonight, I see no reason not to let you continue to do so. However, I must suggest that perhaps it would be easier to fight if we were each equipped with a wand? We have extras at the headquarters of the Order. Unfortunately, we have not any substantial amount of money, nor enough supplies to equip even half of you all. We cannot compensate for all you have lost. Our shelter is small, with barely enough room for those we have now. So we cannot keep you there. But we do have wands. We can go there briefly if you wish.”

I nod. “Yes, that’s best. But I don’t want any of your people who are there to come along, or feel like they’re obliged to. It’s best if they stay free. They’re not at risk right now, and after the rest of us are gone, it will be good to have some people left to fight.”

I am amazed at how casually I am speaking of our imminent deaths, as though what is coming is no more than a forecasted storm. It’s unnerving, how easily I am continuing. Am I in some kind of denial, or am I just far too good at accepting the hard things?

Dumbledore gives a small nod. “Of course. But some of them will want to fight, no doubt. To allow a few to come along may not be the worst of things. Certainly not all of them, though. But the real trouble will be telling, as you started to say, the ones that feel they are obligated and the ones that truly want it.”

I bite my lip in consideration. Finally, I say, “Well, we’ll figure it out when we get there. First matter: how do we get there?”

“Group Apparition,” Dumbledore says simply. “It is a process that is maddeningly difficult, but I’ve mastered it, over time. Simply do as I instruct, and we shall be at the headquarters in a matter of moments.

“We first need to adjoin hands. Everyone’s hands must be linked. If someone neglects to touch another, the entire process will be thrown off, with dire consequences.”

I remove my arm from around Hermione and shift a bit farther away to allow room for our hands to take hold of one another.

“All right,” Dumbledore continues. “Now, Sirius, Remus, Alastor, please envision headquarters vividly. Everyone else, simply think strongly of the place you want to go to. Repeat ‘Order of the Phoenix headquarters’ over and over in your mind. I shall do the rest.”

I think the words over and over in my mind, blanking out everything else, understanding from experience just how important complete concentration is to the process of Apparition, group or otherwise. But after a while of this, my mind begins to wander and realize just how much time has passed. How long does group Apparition take?

“There seems to be something wrong,” Dumbledore speaks up in a slightly concerned tone.

My eyes open, and I can see everyone shifting. Ron drops my hand. Hermione does not. “What’s happening?” I ask, frowning.

“I am not certain,” Dumbledore begins, seeming deep in concentration, his brow furrowed, “but I do not think we did anything wrong in the process. No, I am almost dead certain that it is an error in admittance.” Seeing the blank looks on most of our faces, he explains: “Someone here is blocked from allowance due to our security barriers.”

No one bothers to ask how he is so certain of this; everyone present knows how Dumbledore is. When he knows something, he knows it. There is no reason to question how he knows it. Taking it at face value is always the best bet.

Hermione shifts next to me, and she speaks up, voice hesitant and slightly ashamed. “It’s probably me,” she says. “Your barriers probably still recognize me as a traitor.”

It makes sense, but to my surprise, Dumbledore shakes his head. “No. Our security barriers aren’t set up in such a way. Since you were always on our side as it is, it would let you through. Someone else is causing the interference.”

“Not necessarily,” Moody growls. His eye has finally stopped spinning, and is now settled on Hermione.

I bristle. “Hey, what are you saying?” I demand, growing defensive quickly.

Moody’s eye flicks to me for a moment before going back to her. He doesn’t even bother answering me. He crosses the distance between himself and Hermione and stops in front of her. I can feel her take a slight, involuntary step backward. Moody pulls out his wand, and I step in front of her.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” I yell.

“Move, Potter,” he snaps. When I don’t, he sighs in irritation. “I’m not going to hurt her. I’m running a test. It will cause no physical pain, and if it does, you can curse me if you bloody well like.”

I see Dumbledore nod at me from behind Moody, and I put my faith in his trust in Moody. “Count on it,” I mutter, stepping slightly to the side.

He points his wand at Hermione and says, “Vestigo Acclaro!”

Hermione has no reaction, much to my relief. But after a few moments of nothing happening, she glows bright red for about five seconds before returning to normal. I stare, uncomprehending. Looks of horrified understanding seem to be crossing the faces of Sirius, Lupin, and Dumbledore. Moody just looks grimly satisfied. No one else looks like they understand.

“Yup,” Moody says. “It’s her.”

“What is her?” I demand. I am well aware of Ron watching all this stiffly from beside me.

Moody glances to Dumbledore. “You tell him,” he growls before limping away to where he’d been standing. “He’s less likely to curse you.”

Hermione and I look at each other, and I can see the fear on her face. Whatever is happening, I believe without a doubt that this isn’t some last-minute betrayal.

Dumbledore sighs. “She’s under a tracing charm.”

My mind takes a few moments to understand this, but Hermione immediately gasps slightly next to me. “Oh, God,” she whispers. She looks completely stunned and horrified.

“Wait,” I demand, still trying to think and failing. “A tracing charm? Like . . . what? What do you mean?”

“Voldemort is tracking her,” Sirius explains. “It’s how he found us so easily at the hideout, and why he’s probably not coming for us now. He knows where we are. He’s just biding his time; playing with us, I guess.” He looks to Hermione, who is standing beside me, a look of horror on her face. “I, for one, don’t believe she was aware she was under it.”

“I . . . I . . .” Hermione says, seemingly unable to speak. “I’m sorry . . . Oh, Merlin, it’s all my fault.” She looks near tears.

“It’s all right,” I tell her gently. My eyes dare anyone to contradict my words. I’m surprised to see that with the exception of suspicion on the Weasley twins’ faces, no one looks accusatory.

Dumbledore steps forward. “Hermione, it is not your fault. Voldemort has tricked many of the greatest wizards, and often times the simplest tricks are the hardest to outwit. Don’t you blame yourself for this.”

She does not move. “If I’d of thought . . . of course he would, it would make sense, so why didn’t I see this coming?” she mutters. “I knew you shouldn’t have brought me here,” she sighs miserably.

“I don’t regret it,” I tell her. “Stop making it sound as though I should. How could you have known? I’ve felt that curse before—rational thought isn’t even possible.”

She shrugs, and silence falls again.

Dumbledore looks around. “I would remove the charm, but it is personalized. I cannot break it. Only the wand that instigated the charm can do that.” Hermione nods, still not looking up, and Dumbledore continues. “So . . . it does not seem as though we can take you along, Hermione. Harry, stay with her here. I will take the others and we shall go to the Order, gather all those who intend to come, and return. We shan’t be more than ten minutes, and should you be found . . . fight as best you can.”

Oh, the words that inspire such optimism. “All right,” I agree. “But make sure no one comes along unless they really want to. How many people are there?”

“Eighteen,” Dumbledore responds. “Not including myself, Sirius, Alastor, or Remus.”

I nod. “Okay. Make sure at least eight—preferrably ten or more—of them stay. We’ll need a team remaining. And . . . make sure to appoint a leader. Someone I trust. I want to know for certain that they’ll be left with someone who can continue the fight and make a real difference.”

“The only person there you know is Sibyll Trelawny. And Hermione should know Valerie Vector, the old Arithmancy teacher. Sibyll isn’t high on your list of most trusted people, I’m sure,” Dumbledore says.

I am startled to hear the Trelawny survived, but shake it quickly. “No, not her,” I say very firmly. If I leave the Order in her hands, they’ll be doomed to failure. “Who else, then?”

Dumbledore coughs slightly, making me look to him. As soon as he sees he’s got my attention, he begins, “If I may? Perhaps it does not need to be someone back there.” He looks toward where Sirius, Lupin, and Moody stand. “Perhaps someone that is here?”

I consider it and realize there’s no reason that wouldn’t work. I look to Sirius and raise an eyebrow. He sees me and shakes his head vigorously.

“No, Harry,” Sirius says. “If you’re doing this, I am going to be by your side. I promised Lily and James I’d take care of you!”

“And coming with me tonight won’t be doing that,” I reply. “All that will be doing is getting us both killed, which is quite pointless. I know that you want to avenge my father’s death. The best way to do that is not by coming tonight, when in all likelihood we’ll be torn down. It’s better for you to stay here, and keep fighting. I don’t want Moody in charge; he’s too unpredictable. And Professor Lupin could do it, but . . . I’m just more comfortable with you.”

“I must agree, Sirius,” Lupin adds, looking at his friend.

“As must I,” says Dumbledore.

Sirius is staring at me, his eyes flicking over to Dumbledore and Lupin periodically. “Harry . . .” he begins, trailing off. He sighs and shakes his head, as though trying to clear his thoughts. “I can’t let you do this alone,” he insists. “Remus will do a perfectly good job of leading them. Or even Dumbledore!”

“Not I,” Dumbledore says, with a slight shake of his head. “Oh, no, my boy. Not I. For many years I’ve expected tonight’s stand, and my old heart will never rest at ease if I do not partake in it. It is the burden of a younger soul to bear, carrying on the Order.”

“Sirius, I want you to let me do this alone,” I say. “Right now, I’m trying to deal with the fact that I am leading all the people I care about to death at the hands of a maniac. I’m carrying a huge weight on my shoulders with that. The fact that you aren’t among those I’m leading, that you’ve still got a chance to live and to fight . . . it will lessen that weight by more than you can imagine. Please, help make this easier. If you want to look out for me, to fulfill my parents’ wishes, then do this. Don’t make me go to my grave with more guilt than I already have. Please.” My words are full of truth and I say them as strongly as I can.

Sirius is watching me, looking torn and conflicted. “Are you sure? You aren’t just saying that?” he asks, and I can tell he is weakening.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say.

He looks to Dumbledore and Lupin questioningly again before sighing and saying, “All right, then. If it’s what’s best for you . . . I’ll do it.”

Sirius walks forward and grabs me into a tight hug. I hug him back, feeling tears welling in my eyes as the mutual understanding passes through each of us—this is the last time we will see each other. This makes it all real to me as nothing else has. Not to say that I’ve thought this has all been a dream—no, I’ve understood exactly what is happening. But now the real pain of it is beginning.

“You’ve done great things, Harry,” Sirius is telling me, his voice muffled and gruff from an attempt to fight back tears. “Tonight is no exception. You’re one of the bravest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting and working with. And I want you to know, from someone who knew James Potter better than anyone, that he’d have been extremely proud of you. And the same goes for Lily, and for me. I love you, kid.” He breaks away from me, tears running down his face.

“Thanks,” I say, a tear leaking out of my eye. “For everything.”

He nods and looks like he wants to say something, but breaks off, probably to conceal a sob. He turns and walks back to the other side of the circle. “Dumbledore, let’s go,” he orders gruffly.

I stare at him, feeling the loss already. I study each bit of him, from his now cleanly-cut black hair, to his pale and slightly gaunt face, and his deep-set eyes that still hold within them the shadows Azkaban put there. I try to engrave a picture of him in my mind. I feel Hermione’s hand on my arm and I look down at her. She still looks ashamed, and she spreads that feeling to me when I realize I’ve temporarily forgotten all about the revelation of a few moments ago. She pulls me back a few steps so that the circle can close again without us. After a few moments during which I stare at Sirius from outside the circle, all of them vanish in one swift, silent motion, leaving Hermione and I quite alone in the middle of the dark, frigid, winter forest.

“Goodbye, Sirius,” I whisper, letting the lonely words fall on the deaf ears of the trees and fade away into the blackness.

Hermione rests her head on my shoulder. She isn’t tall enough for it to be lying flat on the top of my shoulder, so instead it rests vertically on the side. I look down at her, another tear falling. “Are you going to be okay?” she asks me.

I nod, my throat constricted. “Yeah. I’m just glad he’s safe.” I look at her. “What about you? Are you okay?”

She shrugs slightly, not looking at me, her feet shifting the snow around them. “I feel awful,” she murmurs. “I’m supposed to be the brilliant one. I’m Hermione Granger, the know-it-all, the mental library of books and tactics and spells and I couldn’t even consider the possibility that they’d try something like this. Lucius must have done it earlier in his office. If they’d had it on me before, they would have tracked me sooner. A skilled wizard can embed a simpler spell such as a Tracker in a different, more powerful curse so both hit at the same time. Lucius, awful though he is, has the skill to do it. He probably placed it within one of his blasted Cruciatus curses, just in case something happened and I should get away.”

I shake my head a little. “You were under a lot of stress when we were in his office, and afterward. Anyone who blames you for not being smart enough to see something that most people without telepathy couldn’t have caught isn’t worth considering.”

“I guess there’s nothing to do about it now. It’s over and done,” Hermione says, but I know she’s saying this to end the conversation. She still holds guilt.

We’re quiet for a while in the ebony night. We cannot see one another very well from the dim light of my wand. Finally, she speaks again.

“He was right, you know,” she whispers. We do not move, still standing oddly still.

“About what?” I question, my eyes still fixed upon the spot where Sirius had stood moments before.

“About you being brave,” she says. “Everything you’ve done . . . for me and for your cause . . . what you’re doing tonight . . . proves just how much you deserve the status of a Gryffindor. And he was right about your parents being proud of you. I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t be.” She sighs, shifting a bit. “I wish I could say the same for me about someone . . . about anyone.”

“Hey, don’t start that,” I say. “You deserve just as much respect as I do. You sacrificed everything to protect Ron and I. You suffered more than I can imagine just trying to keep that façade up. Sure, it didn’t work out like you planned, but things don’t always. If everything had worked out the way I planned, we wouldn’t be here tonight. Hell, as far as that goes, if my life had gone the way I’d planned, Voldemort wouldn’t exist, all of our parents would be alive, nothing bad would have happened to you, and we’d all live in peace and harmony. Things never go the way you want them to. But you tried, just like I did, to keep things right, and protect the people you cared about. And again, it didn’t work out. But you tried to make it work out. And that’s all that counts.”

She shakes her head. “How could anyone be proud of me? Most people are too busy hating me for letting Voldemort into Hogwarts and effectively letting him commit genocide and destroy the wizarding world. Now I’m responsible for the deaths of all of you, since I led him here. I can’t even say my parents are proud of me—I got them killed, remember?” She looks down. “Sorry. You don’t need this tonight.”

“Good intentions, bad action plan,” I sigh. “It’s happened to me before. And there is someone who’s proud of you: I am. And I always will be.”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “For what? Being a royal screw-up? For letting Voldemort trace me here and putting us all in the positions we’re in?”

“No,” I reply. “For everything I just said and more. I care about you for the same reasons.”

Our eyes are locked for a few instants, and then she looks away. She sighs and walks over to a nearby rock, sitting down. “I suppose we should talk about what happened earlier, right? Before Ron came? It’s not a favorable topic of conversation, but our time is running short, and this is likely to be the last time we’ll ever have together, just you and I. Might as well get the issues cleared up rather than take them with us to the grave.” I shudder at the blunt way she puts it.

She looks at me again, and I wait for her to say something. After a long silence, she does. “I know I reacted oddly when you kissed me. I hope you didn’t take that as a sign that I was angry with you for doing it. Did you?”

“Kind of,” I admit, shifting awkwardly and wishing there was something I could sit down on as well.

Hermione shakes her head. “Well that’s not it. I . . . I felt scared. The fact that you were kissing me was a clear sign that you cared about me. And the fact that I enjoyed it was a clear sign that I cared about you, too. Harry . . . I’ve hurt all the people I’ve cared about. My parents, my friends, you. I couldn’t bear the thought that I was going to hurt you again. And then when I thought, ‘hey, maybe that phase of my life is over,’ I also thought that Voldemort was never going to let us be. I’ve grown so accustomed to living in misery and having everything that makes me happy taken away that I just knew that the same would happen again. I didn’t think I could stand losing something else I loved.”

I try hard to conceal the surprise I feel. I hadn’t previously considered her feeling anything like this. “Oh,” I say, knowing how lame it sounds, but I am unable to think of anything else.

She doesn’t seem to notice as she continues. “But now, everything is coming to an end. We’re going to die. So why not let it all out? He’s already going to succeed in doing what I knew he would—taking us away from each other, leaving me alone and miserable again.”

I shake my head rigorously. “No,” I say firmly. She looks up at me, confused. “I do care about you, Hermione. More than I can say. And yeah, we’re going to die. But I promise you, here and now, that Voldemort will never take me away from you. I’ll always be with you, no matter what happens. I swear it.”

She watches me carefully for a few moments. When she speaks, her voice is heavy with resignation, but I wonder if I have heard a distant tint of hope. “I don’t know how you intend to pull that off, Harry, but it sounds a lot nicer than saying we’ll be separated for eternity. So why not take a walk on the optimist’s side for once? I promise to stay by your side for as long as I can.”

“We started it together, we’ll end it together,” I assure her.

She buries her head deep in my shoulder and embraces me. I don’t say anything. I don’t feel I need to. We pull apart, and I lean in to kiss her again, this time less self-consciously. The kiss is brief, but it lasts just long enough for me to feel happiness at the fact that she does care for me the way I do for her; along with it though, is disappointment. We finally confront and realize these feelings on the eve of our deaths. How romantically ironic.

We are still kissing softly when a loud crack sounds from behind us, making us jump apart and pull out our wands. My heart has leaped into my throat and I am prepared for my final battle when I see that it is only my friends returning. I lower my wand, letting out a shaky sigh of a breath that I had been holding. I notice that the group is stronger by better than nine people. Sirius, of course, is absent. I’d half hoped that he would return, so I could see him one last time and prove that things aren’t always as you expect. But it is better this way, I tell myself firmly.

Dumbledore steps forward toward us. “The matters have been taken care of,” he assures us. “Twelve of the eighteen people there wanted to help, but I only allowed ten to come. There are nine people left at headquarters now, including Sirius. Everyone is equipped with a wand.” Dumbledore motions toward the new people, who have clustered together in a group. “These are my people. Many of them are Ministry officials, and old contacts of mine. Valerie Vector is among the group with Sirius, but Sibyll Trelawny is joining us tonight. Sibyll?”

Much to my displeasure, I see Professor Trelawny step forward from the crowd. She looks just the same as ever: cloaked in a crimson shawl, her hair done up in a bun, donning spectacles that magnify her eyes to a grotesque size.

“Professor,” I greet her, as respectfully as I possibly can. I’m not in the mood for pleasantries, and besides that, it’s always been fairly difficult to even pretend to possess a smidgen of respect for Trelawny. Morbid and cruel though it may sound, I must express my disappointment in the fact that she survived rather than someone more worthy and more useful, like McGonagall. It is a true example to the fact that life is not fair. But then, my entire life has been a fair example of that.

She clasps her hands together before her face and inclines her head slightly in greeting. “Welcome, my children,” she murmurs in her signature, mystically whimsical voice. “You may wonder what I am doing here; you most likely feel I would be more use to the group who remains. I see that as well. My Inner Eye could be of great use to them. However, I must follow what I see, and I did indeed observe myself earlier coming here with all of you. And so I do.”

I’ve had enough already. My patience is at zero. My mixed feelings about Hermione and I, the empty, churning feeling in my chest from Sirius’s departure, and the very thought at what we are about to do is taking it’s toll on me. I have a horrible, sinking feeling that time is running out, and my adrenaline is beginning to flow again, leaving me with a nauseous desire to keel over and heave up the meal we just ate.

“Not to be rude or anything, but we don’t have time for this. We have to get going. We’re not safe here, Voldemort could pop up at any minute,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

Dumbledore nods. “Of course,” he agrees. “But before we set out, I must inquire as to whether or not Sibyll has any last minute predictions to bestow upon us about the nature of what awaits us beyond.” That old twinkle of his is dancing once again in his eyes.

Professor Trelawny looks as though Christmas has arrived. “Why, as a matter of fact, I do!” she cries.

I work hard to suppress a groan. Unable to help myself, I ask, “Let me guess—it involves my dying, right?” It is a weak joke, as it is already an accepted fact that we will all be dying tonight. Sadly, in the long run, Trelawny’s predictions of my death were true. But then, eventually, under any circumstances, they would have been anyway.

In spite of the dire circumstances and the fact that everyone knows the things I was just thinking, I see Ron snort and looks of amusement cross the faces of Dumbledore, Lupin, and most of the others.

Trelawny gives a huffy sigh. “If you dare to be so disrespectful to the powers of the fates, then their wisdoms shall not be lost upon you!”

I see Hermione, whose never had patience with Trelawny, roll her eyes and smile sweetly. “How thoughtful of you.”

Trelawny gives Hermione a look of superiority. “You never were open-minded enough to listen to what can be heard without ears. Perhaps had you done so, you could have divined what your future would hold. However, Miss Bell, Miss Spinnet, and Mr. Longbottom always tried their best, and for their sake, I shall pass on the message the fates have sent me.”

“Of course you will,” Hermione mutters so only I can hear. She is burning red in some combination of humiliation and anger due to Trelawny’s last comment to her. “Can’t pass up a chance to be the center of attention . . .”

Trelawny begins moving her hands in a complex pattern that I can’t help but think makes her look stupid. She takes on her mystical tone, her eyes wide behind her spectacles, making them look grotesquely misproportioned. “I have seen, my dears, what this night shall hold! Upon a snowy battlefield, we all shall meet, and all will appear lost. But—” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “—I saw within my tea leaves the unmistakable shape of a grim holding a serpent in its teeth! Death shall conquer the Dark Lord, my dears! We have nothing to fear!”

“Of course not, because that time you saw the Grim in Harry’s tea cup—well, he died right off, didn’t he?” Ron said sarcastically, his eyes narrowed. “Glad we have something to put our faith in now.”

Trelawny let out a small hmph! and turned her head away. “You shall see, and perhaps then your faith will be restored.”

“Didn’t realize you could restore something that didn’t exist in the first place,” Hermione says, not bothering to be quiet.

Ron gives Hermione what looks like a slight smile from where he stands. She cautiously returns it, and for a moment, something of what once existed between them is reincarnated in that instant, and though it passes in the blink of an eye, it is an important step. More than Trelawny’s words, more than my own plan, this is what I place my trust in—my best friends’ unity.

Trelawny looks ready to retort, but Dumbledore coughs softly and all eyes turn to him. “While this is undeniably interesting, Sibyll, and while I love to hear what the fates have to say as I have not the diving power myself, is it perhaps possible that we have stayed here a bit too long?”

I nod briskly. “Yes, let’s focus. Is everyone armed?” I ask, feeling my heartbeat increase. There are murmured affirmative answers, and I nod briefly. “You all understand what we’re doing tonight? You know that this is not a battle where we’re evenly matched, or even a battle that we have a chance of surviving. You understand that we are making one final stand now, and you are still willing to follow?”

The answers are firmer this time, and I feel slightly heartened by that. Hermione grabs my hand and I squeeze it. As I speak, I force myself to sound the part of brave, willing leader, instead of the scared kid that I am. “Okay, then. It’s time.”

And it is with those last, ominous words, that I take the first step in the direction of Puerclades.

A/n: And there ya go, the full version of chapter thirteen! Hope you all enjoyed it. One more chapter and the epilogue to go. I might post the next chapter today, or perhaps both tomorrow. I’m not sure, depends on how much time I have. I have three and half days left of school, and my teachers seem to favor killing us rather than the easier option of letting us slide for a few days. So I’ll do my best!

16. Promise of an Eternity

A/n: I have to let you know that there is a character death alert for this chapter.

~~ 14 ~~

Promise of an Eternity

“I watch the heavens and I find a calling,

Something I can do to change this moment.

Stay close to me while the sky is falling,

Don’t wanna be left alone.”

--Sarah McLachlan

*Harry*

I am in a world all my own, an alternate reality of which I am the sole inhabitant. In one world, my feet may be plunging through the many feet of snow, having difficulty with each step and fighting the urge to stop then and there; my heart may be pounding and my friends may be following me, but in my reality, I am all alone in the darkness. I am walking and walking, just like I am in the forest of my shared reality, but instead of walking towards doom, I am walking toward a light. Hope, maybe? Life? I know not, but it is my drive and inspiration to reach that light, for light represents all that is good. Nothing bad can come of the light—only of the darkness.

But here, in the snowy, chilled world of the ebony forest, there is no light on a distant horizon, no hope or life to work toward, to run for. All that is here is darkness and death, weighing on our shoulders and hanging over our heads with each movement and each passing moment.

I am the leader and everyone is aware of it. Even Dumbledore follows me now, which would normally be quite a cause for pondering and feeling awkward about, if it weren’t for our current circumstances. They will follow me in this battle and for the rest of this night—the rest of our lives. They’ve placed their complete trust and faith in me by agreeing to do this my way, and they can’t take it back now, whether they want to or not. I’ve gone from being exiled to being the leader of not one, but both groups. It is pressure unknown, pressure unheard of—but in a way it isn’t so bad. It isn’t like some common battle where I know their lives rest in my hands and in my every decision. Their lives are out of my hands now—I’ve already made the conscious decision to lead us all to a slaughter. So the pressure of wondering if my decisions in battle will lead us to our graves is off. All that can come from my screwing up in this battle will be us dying sooner. But I still feel the pressure. For we could kill ourselves here and now and do the same amount of damage as we would be should we be struck down in our first moments of battle. I’m doing this to try to make some difference, to prove that we will not back down, to kill even one of theirs. And if I do not accomplish that, I must go to my grave knowing I did not.

I am numb all over as we walk, our feet dragging, nearer and nearer to Hogwarts. It would be easier to Apparate, certainly, but why? Walking may be more grueling, more tiring, and the wind and snow may be cutting through our clothes and skin to the cores of our bones, but no one is opposing for one simple reason—the longer we walk, the longer we live. These are our final moments, grim and tense as they may be; why cut them short?

Silence has fallen over us all and I wonder if any of us will speak again before the battle. I don’t think I could talk if I wanted to; my throat has constricted to the point that it is difficult to breathe. If I am to be honest with myself, I’m almost anxious for the inevitable face-off. The guilt and pain and nausea can cease then, and the fact that I am starting to face now, the fact that I’ve been trying to ignore for two years is that death can be no worse than this life, especially now that I have made peace with all I can. Scary though it is, perhaps that light of my alternate reality does exist here—it is simply disguised as blackness.

*Hermione*

Harry and I walk side by side, everyone else following in our wake. We are the front lines of our attack, the leaders, the generals. It is very imposing, I must admit, the thought that I have gone from traitor to leader in so short a time. I don’t trust myself—I don’t understand how they can. But it would feel terribly wrong to be anywhere other than at his side, and despite my discomfort, I do not even consider falling back.

I don’t know how Harry feels about our impending deaths, but the fact is that I don’t mind things the way they are. I’ve long since stopped fearing death—I’ve tried to bring it on myself a few times. If I hadn’t promised Harry to stay beside him, I think I might have killed myself sooner than march into this battle. I would die either way—I simply would rather it be by my own hand then by the people who’ve always sworn to destroy me. I don’t want to let them know that they have indeed accomplished that, after so long that I have tried to keep it from happening. But I have promised Harry, and I will not allow myself to go back on that word.

My legs ache from plowing through the thick snow, but I don’t notice. Instead I look at Harry out of the corner of my eye. He seems to feel my gaze and looks to me a few moments after I have trained my eyes upon him. In the few instants that our eyes remain locked, I can see in his a tumultuous whirlpool of emotion—regret at so many things in this life he has not accomplished, love for me and for all of us, guilt, hatred of it all, and fear. He tears his gaze away and focuses it on the snow at his feet, and I feel a tear brimming in my eye, for I can suddenly understand his emotions. I’ve not felt those emotions myself, for I gave up such things long ago in return for blessed sanity. But now, reading them in the boy who walks beside me—in the one person I have allowed myself to care about—I know how he feels. So many things in life have been torn from us because of Voldemort. He had to grow up without parents, but even that wasn’t enough. Voldemort had to strip away his whole life—and later my whole life—and put us in this situation, taking away every last small thing that remained. We will never graduate from Hogwarts, after all the effort we put in. Harry will lose the long-lasting war that has been waged between himself and the Dark Lord. The two of us will not get a chance to explore this new phase in our relationship. I will not survive to see the dawn I was always waiting for during my time at Puerclades. I will die in the darkness that surrounds me now, never even to see the sun one more time.

A single tear rolls down my face before I cut myself off from emotion once more.

*Harry*

I know not how long we have walked. The last thing I can clearly remember is looking into Hermione’s amber eyes, so full of the hurt she’s endured, and I regret with all my heart that I have finally received the chance to express my feelings only on our doomsday.

After that silent instant we shared, I have gone back and forth between my secret reality and the normal one—perhaps some would prefer to call it the conscious and the unconscious. I have no earthly idea what to call it, for I’ve never experienced such a sensation before—the need to slip into my own world and at the same time the responsibility anchoring me to the one I share with everyone else. Everything’s been a blur since that began. I find myself walking toward the gorgeous light that never seems to get closer, then having it black out, replaced by trees, only to have it reappear again. Several times I am startled to find that I am still moving at all, I feel so numb both mentally and physically.

Nothing gets through to me until I feel a soft hand upon my shoulder, and a gentle voice murmur my name. The hand slips away and I realize, back once more in a conscious state, the Hermione’s hand has fallen away because I have kept moving when she and the rest have stopped. I freeze in my steps and turn to face them, confused and dazed. “What’s happening?” I ask, feeling foolish immediately. I am supposed to be leading them, and yet it is I who is asking them what is going on. I can only pray that Hermione has been paying better attention and focus to where we are going, though it is more likely that she has been following me as well.

However, I do not see worry and uncertainty in the faces of my followers, as I had expected to, nor do I see the doubt in my role as leader. Dumbledore gives me a sad, understanding smile. It is a hard night. They know how I feel. Perhaps some of the others are lost in their own realities at this very moment, walking towards a phosphorescent light that they will never reach.

“We can’t keep walking forever,” Hermione says to me softly. “We’ve not a destination, and if we intend to reach Hogwarts before they ambush us, by this route it should only take us a week or two.” I can tell she doesn’t want to say these words, for saying them means that instead of our walk continuing on into blessed oblivion and eternity, we will have to actually begin aiming for where we are headed. I feel distant satisfaction at the hesitation in her voice. Yes, Hermione, it’s time for someone else to make the deadly decisions, to say the words that will condemn us. I’ve said them enough.

I simply nod, not having the courage to speak.

“I shall Apparate us to the edge of Hogsmeade if it is your wish, Harry,” Dumbledore speaks up from the back of the group, where he had been walking. Seeing him now, pushing onward through the cruel and driving snow, his long beard and hair matching it in color, he looks so old and frail as if he should be carrying a knobby wooden cane to lean on. I’ve never thought of Dumbledore that way before; there’s always been something strong and mighty about him, something empowering, regardless of the fact that he may look like an old man. But on this night, I can sense nothing of that about him. This is perhaps one of the hardest blows of the night, the realization that Dumbledore has lost his power, seeing for the first time the weariness that is etched in his every wrinkle.

I stare blankly at a section of snow. I want this to end. I don’t want to be a leader, not in this. Ron can have it, Hermione, Dumbledore, anyone but me. I just don’t want to have to say the words I know I must. In a twisted way, I’d like death to just come upon me now to stop all this from continuing, and yet I want that because I don’t wish to say the words that will lead us to Death’s doorstep.

“Okay,” I whisper, the single word, choked and strained, ringing through the darkness and sounding distinctly out of place. I know that I can’t be instilling hope in those who are watching me for how to react, and I suddenly feel angry with myself. I have to do a better job at giving my companions some feeble kind of hope or else the moment we arrive we will end up running.

“Okay,” I repeat more forcefully. “Gather round in the circle and Dumbledore will Apparate us.”

Silently, people begin to shuffle about, getting into the loose formation of a circle, each person touching the one on either side of them. I link hands with Hermione and Neville. I try to catch Hermione’s eye as Dumbledore begins the process, but she will not comply, perhaps deliberately, perhaps unknowingly. I can feel Neville’s shaking hand against my own and have sympathy for the boy and disgust at myself. What right do I have to feel frightened and guilty? It was my decision that put us here. I respect Neville for even being able to hold up under the pressure of this situation, when he can hardly keep his head in Snape’s dungeon. This whole thing has strengthened him more than I’ve realized. I glance at him and give him as much of a smile as I can muster. He looks slightly relieved, dependent upon my reaction to guide him. This steels my will to stop being ambivalent about my feelings. I won’t let him down, or any of them for that matter.

I close my eyes, remembering Dumbledore’s earlier instructions. It’s hard to will myself to want to go where we are headed, but I somehow find the strength. Moments later, I feel a sharp jolt behind me and I am suddenly hovering, completely suspended with no ground below my feet, connected only to Hermione’s and Neville’s hands. I keep my eyes closed, having the feeling that perhaps I don’t want to see exactly where I am at the moment. Then my feet land hard on the ground, and my eyes snap open. My knees, which I locked upon impact, hold steady. Neville’s buckle, forcing Fred—who stands on Neville’s far side—and I to haul him up again.

Once Neville is standing once more on shaky legs, I look around myself, feeling slightly jarred to see the familiar place I stand in, once a place with a feeling of such happiness surrounding it, now reduced to one of bleak loneliness like that of a ghost town in the in the black night. I feel Hermione take my hand, and I don’t need to look at her to know that she feels just as wrong-footed as I do. I squeeze her hand, as much to reassure myself as to do so for her. Reassure us of what, I do not know, for our feelings of dread are quite dead on; however, it’s the only thing that feels right.

We stand huddled tightly in a group at a fork in the cobblestone path that leads through Hogsmeade. It is the first time we have been here since the attack upon Hogwarts. The state of the town is enough to steal what meager shards of hope I may still have been holding onto. All the shops surrounding us are closed down and dark. Many of the signs are cracked and hanging from one chain rather than two, some with holes burned through them. The windows of the shops are shattered and I see that there is up to two feet of snow covering the interiors of some buildings. The shop nearest to me is Zonko’s. The door has been torn off its hinges, and the sign is hanging crookedly, blowing creakily in the wind and sometimes clunking against the brick wall behind it with a hollow, dead sound. Shelves inside have been looted or turned over, and snow covers much of what remains. It’s barely recognizable as the place we all once knew so well. There is an air of defeat and pain hanging around us, and all I want is to escape this place, to go anywhere other than here. All of Hogsmeade is shattered and broken now, robbed of its perfection and innocence, no longer the same—just like us. Nothing is the same; nothing is perfect or innocent, not anymore. It never will be again.

“Bloody wrong, that is,” George muttered angrily, staring towards Zonko’s as I am. I feel certain that he and Fred are taking the shop’s shabby state as a personal insult.

“They’ve ruined it,” Ginny murmured, sounding horrified.

“Just like everything else, Gin,” Ron whispered, voice tight with anger and fear. “All they do is destroy.”

My feet seem rooted to the ground now as I stare down the path that forks off of the main street. It is the long path that leads down to Hogwarts. Distantly I can see the ebony iron gate that marks the entrance and exit to the grounds. It is slightly ajar, but fully intact upon its hinges. However, the hogs that had once stood so proud upon the pedestals on either side of the gate, displaying Hogwarts’ pride and glory, have been smashed. Chucks of the stone are missing from the one on the left. It is cracked down the center, half hanging from its perch. The one on the right has had its head ripped from its body. I notice the stone head, somehow still intact, lying next to the path in some hedges.

“It’s better than the other gate,” Hermione whispers to me. I had not realized that she was looking down the path as well—everyone else still seems fixated with the state of Hogsmeade, likely because they are too afraid to focus on the path, knowing that what it leads to is the end of everything. I look at Hermione, silently questioning her comment. “They’ve replaced the hogs with snakes there,” she continues.

After a few more moments of staring, I turn my attention back to my friends, many of whom are now standing alert and silent behind me, following my gaze. “All right,” I say, getting everyone’s full attention. “If anyone doesn’t want to do this . . .”

“None of us are backing down now, Harry,” Ron says firmly. “If we’d planned to take off, we’d have done it while we were walking through the forest. But we’re all still here, aren’t we?”

I nod, feeling gratitude for the strength and sincerity in Ron’s voice. It helps me to instill some faith in my own. “I’m sorry it’s come down to this. I’m sorry I had to lead us here tonight. Most of all, I’m sorry that we didn’t do more with the time we had, that we didn’t get more of a chance to live the lives we’re about to lose. But I think we all knew it would come down to this sooner or later. We all at least knew that we didn’t stand a chance of actually winning. I’m ashamed that as your leader, I didn’t try to do more damage while I could, and I’m ashamed that because of that, we’re facing this night. All along, we were cowards pretending to be guerilla fighters—pretending to stand for a purpose, to actually be fighting for something. Tonight is our last chance to redeem ourselves in our own eyes, and prove to Voldemort once and for all that Gryffindors don’t go down without a fight, and that we won’t make this easy on him. It’s time to make up for what we didn’t do before. Do your best. Everything we do here tonight is significant. You’re making a difference just by being here. This will sound odd, but there’s no pressure in this battle. The outcome is already pretty much decided. The constant tension of ‘will we live or die’ is off. Now all we have to do is make use of our time.

“Don’t follow me tonight—follow yourselves. Don’t wait for my order. Whatever you want to do, do it. I won’t stop you. Just try to be courageous, and try to show them that they don’t control us. Thank you for all you’ve done already, including things that may seem insignificant now.” I stop talking. I don’t know what else to say. I want to say something, thank them for being my friends, but something stops me. We all know this is goodbye. I can’t bear to say it aloud.

My words cause an odd chain of motion throughout the group. Hermione rests her head on my shoulder, and I embrace her tightly, knowing this is the last time I will hold her so. Ron does the same with Ginny, who looks ready to cry. The twins grab their younger siblings in a rough sort of group hug, their eyes glassy and wet with unshed tears. The others turn amongst themselves, saying the goodbyes I couldn’t.

Hermione and I break apart with much reluctance after several long instants. There are so many things I want to say to her, things I put off saying before in our hours together in the hideout. All that had come during that time was silence. And now when I have so much to say, I cannot say it. Why didn’t I utilize those hours—our last?

“I love you,” I whisper to her, meaning these words in so many different ways.

She winces, closing her eyes and turning her head downward. She shakes her head a little bit. “Why did you have to go there, Harry?” she replies, leaving me bewildered. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone? Please don’t make this harder than it already is . . . don’t make me think I can’t handle this.” She steps closer and leans against me, saying so softly I must strain to hear her, “I love you, too.”

I feel silent tears stream down my face. I lock eyes with Ron while Hermione still has her face buried in my robes. He looks away abruptly and I find myself willing him to say something. Apologize, you prat, before you have to spend eternity never having done it . . .

His eyes flick to Hermione, and when she steps away from me, she sees him. The moment in which they stare at one another is so long, so stretched, that it feels like an hour. At long last, he takes a hesitant step forward and she takes one toward him. They hug each other awkwardly. Ron looks at her, face full of confusion.

“I—” he begins, but she cuts him off.

She shakes her head just a little and gives him a sad smile. “Don’t.”

I know that she forgives him; maybe not entirely, but at least enough. She knows that there is no point in holding grudges—not any longer. Ron can sense this, too. I can see on his face that he doesn’t feel he’s said enough, though.

With Hermione standing halfway between Ron and I, and everyone else watching our exchanges with guarded eyes, some having just finished their own brief ones, I sigh and take her hand. Without speaking, I take one step down the path toward Hogwarts, followed by another.

Our footsteps echo softly into the night, fading away before they’ve been repeated even one full time in the still air. The wind, which had been blowing so viciously earlier, seems to be holding its breath as we take step after step. I know, as I have known for quite some time, that Voldemort will likely be waiting for us. He has to know we were coming, has to be waiting for our arrival, or else he’d have attacked sooner. Perhaps he sees no harm in letting us pick the battleground and allowing us to be somewhat prepared. He knows as we do that we do not stand a chance. He’s likely to be playing with us, allowing us to drag on our own last hours.

My foot hits the snow as the path ends. We are now standing within Hogwarts’s grounds. I see the lake far off, growing closer with each step I take. I pull out my wand and light it, giving the command for everyone else to do the same. My order may confuse them, but they follow it nonetheless. Holding my wand forward in perfect sight of anyone who may happen to be watching, I continue on. We have nothing to hide here tonight. I want them to know that we do not come in stealth. They will know that we march forward, appearing as overly confident as they will feel the moment they see us.

We circle the iced-over lake, and I see Hagrid’s old hut nearby. It is burned now, only a few charred pieces of wood sticking up from the snow, naked and alone, facing the bitter elements. Fang had died in the fire. The Death Eaters had set it ablaze as they marched up to the school that first day. Hagrid had been spared only because he’d been eating a meal with the rest of us at the time. I feel my stomach twist at the memory.

I stop us all on a long and wide stretch of grass. Our backs are toward the forest, wands out to light the way as we stare at the empty area of grass that will contain the Death Eaters, once they choose to arrive. We will make our stand here. Everyone senses my decision—for what other reason would I have to stop?—and they begin to shift uneasily. Hermione leans into me.

After a few moments of silence, she murmurs softly, “They’ve removed the magical barrier around the school that keeps people from Apparating onto the grounds. They’ve changed it to block only those who don’t wear the Dark Mark. They could show up at any minute.”

I nod, unable to respond to her, or to relay the message to the others.

It is cold and none of us are comfortable, but no one tries to sit down or speak. We all know that they are tracking us, and sooner or later they’ll realize that we aren’t leaving here. They’ll come to us and none of us intend to be caught off guard.

And come to us they do—no more than five minutes after our arrival, it happens, in a motion so swift and quick that it takes us all a moment to realize exactly what has occurred. With loud, repetitive cracks that split the night air violently, a sea of black-cloaked Death Eaters appears before us in a wave. They are standing in rows, long and wide, and they form a sort of rectangle. There must be a hundred, and more are appearing every instant, not to mention all the Death Eaters in training that are sleeping within the school at this very instant. They could appear at any time. The Death Eaters all wear white bone masks, carved into the shape of grinning skulls—an omen of what awaits us. Only Lucius Malfoy remains unmasked, standing in the front row, smirking.

I try to swallow my fear and appear strong, but it is so difficult. We are outnumbered five to one. My small, pathetic, ragged group that stands around me in no particular formation is faced with a hundred Death Eaters, each awaiting the order to attack. So this is what it comes down to, this is how it will end. Standing on a snowy stretch of grass in the wee hours of the morning, facing Death Eaters that want nothing more than to kill me—to kill us all.

And then the situation grows worse with the Apparition of one last person. This time the crack is quiet compared to the loud unison one moments ago—it is what a small tree limb cracking is to an entire tree trunk cracking. But the quiet way in which he appears is, as it always is with the Dark Lord, somehow more menacing, more sinister. He stands before us now, taller than the rest by a foot, not wearing a mask or a hood. His flaming red eyes cut the night—they stare straight at me, burning into my pupils with all the intensity of hot coals. He stands before the rest of his men, as I stand before the rest of mine. Only fifteen or so feet separate us, and I feel a sudden uprising of hatred which brings with it a certain kind of strength, just enough to offset the fear.

He laughs then, a cold, mirthless sound, and it echoes around us in the night in a way our footsteps along the path had not. He is the king of the night, controller of the darkness—he can make it do whatever he pleases. I long for the daylight in that instant, knowing grimly that I shall never see it again.

“Harry Potter, you’ve been foolish,” Voldemort taunts, a smile spreading across his features. “Coming here to wait for me? So kind, I must admit, for it is a bit cold to be playing cat and mouse on this night. However, I’d have assumed you’d have tried to run from me? Are you indeed this eager for death?” His eyes are alive with morbid pleasure as he baits me.

“Running wouldn’t have done us any good, as you bloody well know,” I say, keeping my voice firm and strong.

His smile widens, creasing his pale face. The Dark Lord doesn’t need a mask to look frightening. “So the Mudblood discovered the Tracer. Of course she would; so bright in school, isn’t that right? Yet not bright enough, apparently, for it was too late by the time she discovered it. She has truly been the cause of your downfall, Harry, hasn’t she? Once a friend, now she is the traitor who brought things to the way they are tonight. You’ve never believed my words before, Harry. I tried to tell you—to tell all of you—that Mudbloods will be the downfall of decent, pureblooded wizards. But none of you wanted to listen. And now look where it has gotten you!”

My eyes flick to Hermione, who stands slightly behind me now, but still very close. I can see an expression of shame on her face, as she glances toward the ground. This is still such a sensitive topic to her, and she blames herself enough as it is. I want to tell her not to listen to him, but I force the words down. To speak such a thing now, standing before him, would show her weakness—as well as mine. That’s not something I want to do, and certainly not something she would want done.

Voldemort must have read something in my expression though, for he laughs again. “So you feel something for her do you?” My head snaps around and I glare at him. “How sweet. Despite everything she’s done to ruin you, you can forgive. Unfortunately, I do not possess such forgiveness, and I am very much looking forward to finally seeing your death, Harry.”

“Then try and do it,” I growl. “We didn’t come here to talk.”

“So very eager. You do know you don’t stand a chance, don’t you?” Voldemort continues, apparently enjoying this prolonged verbal torture.

“Perhaps not. But you’ve messed up before, so you never know,” I reply coldly.

His eyes flash and I can see his smile vanish. “Not tonight, dear boy, I assure you. Your days of living to evade me are over. Death Eaters—go forth and finish these pathetic rebels in whatever way you see fit. But bear in mind one thing: Harry Potter is mine.” As he says this last bit, our eyes meet. I see in his the morbid lust for murder that always resides there, now magnified by tenfold. He is positive that tonight he will at long last get his chance to kill me. The saddest thing is, so am I.

And then it begins. There is no pattern to it, no technique. I can’t say which side fires the first curse, and I can’t say it really matters, because seconds later, the air is filled with jets of light, a deadly kaleidoscope of color. It is all we can do to dodge them. I see that our curses hit our targets much more frequently, due to the size of the target we have to aim at. This isn’t a particularly encouraging fact, though, for their great size and numbers only means that we have more of them to disable. As the curses fly, our groups make slow, staggering progress toward one another, stopping to avoid curses and in our case alone, to revive a fallen comrade struck down by a Stunner once or twice. At last, with a less dramatic clash than in Muggle movies, our groups meet and mingle. Without much chance to understand what’s happening, I am thrust into a writhing mass of bodies—the Death Eaters.

It is madness, there is no other way to describe it. People all around—shoving, hitting, grabbing, and attacking anyone in their way. Arms and hands grab at me and I am being pushed from side to side on a periodic basis. I can tell that none of my attackers have even realized who I am; they’re just going for anyone and hoping for an enemy. It is too dark to identify anyone; we are all blind men in a fatal struggle.

I look around desperately for Hermione, but can’t find her. It’s no surprise that I’ve lost her in this mess, but it makes panic rise within me. She is as big a target in this as I am. I fight down the urge to run about calling her name. There would be no sense in it. It would do no more than give away who I am to those who have not yet realized my identity in the darkness, and over the noise, there would be no chance of her hearing me anyway. I swallow my desire, and turn to fire a few more curses.

My mind is buzzing. It is as though static fills my head, so loud it drowns out almost all other sound. I am running on pure adrenaline and fear. I’m somewhat detached from it all, my brain’s way of keeping me sane through the madness, perhaps. I automatically fire a Stunner in one direction, then turn and shoot an Impediment Jinx in another, not aiming at anyone in particular. Colors blur into darkness before my eyes. What meager light we’d had before is stifled in this sea of black bodies. My enemies can’t even see enough to tell that I am not one of them. Though this protects me for the time being, it worries me as well; for if they cannot distinguish between friend and foe, what makes me think that I have that ability?

A violent shove from someone to my right snaps me back into focus. I realize that there is no sense in remaining here, where all reality is turned upside down. If I hope to stand a chance in this fight, if I hope to be a leader, I need to get out of here and judge my surroundings accurately. Besides that, I cannot hide in here and strike down unseen enemies, thereby leaving it up to my friends to fight the Dark Lord. That is my job, my burden, and it has been since the day I was born. I have been telling my friends what I expect of them in this battle because I have known that it will inevitably come down to a duel between Voldemort and myself on this night. To avoid it for any longer would simply be enabling him to attack my people, and with him on the offense, none of them stand a chance. I am the only one who can hope to oppose him successfully, who can hope to cause any damage whatsoever. For years I’ve known it, and tonight, I must face it.

I push and shove without concern for being noticed as out of the ordinary. Here, pushing and shoving seems to be the order of the day. I don’t know which way is up or down, left or right, for I have been spun and pushed to the point where all sense of direction has been lost on me. But unlike those unfortunate fellows who become trapped beneath the angry sea, I know that whichever direction I go in, I will eventually break the surface. As I fight my way through the crowd, my skull feels as if it is on the edge of imploding from all the noise. Screams of curses, and cries of pain and anger fill the air. No one voice is distinguishable in this cacophony of sound.

At last, I manage make my way out of the centermost area of the crowd. Rather anticlimactic, actually: one more step, a shove from an unknown assailant, and I stumble through the snow, feeling the relief of having space separating me from other people. People still surrounded me, Death Eaters on all sides, but I actually have room to move, even though this only makes the risk factor greater. Gasping for breath, I turn and observe the mess from which I have just escaped. Now that our two sides have merged, it is pure chaos. I cannot pick out the forms of my own people, which is, I imagine, the only reason we’re still alive. After being in that position, I know the impossibility that is trying to tell one person from another. Naturally, they must be having the same difficulty, and much to my surprise, our small numbers actually seem to have given us an advantage. Our people are lost within the hundred-plus Death Eaters. And they, always willing to sacrifice their own, end up shooting their own people down in an effort to get to us. They are evening the odds for us.

Though I have no idea where most of my people are—somewhere within center of the chaos, out of sight but still fighting, I pray—I can spot a few of them. Hagrid towers over the people around him, making easy work of all those who dare come after him. Dumbledore is in an articulate duel with Lucius Malfoy in the more sparse region of the battlefield. Remus has a pair of Death Eaters on him, but he is holding them at bay quite effortlessly by casting a hair growth charm on himself and twitching and screaming—feigning a transformation into a werewolf. I watch him in admiration. The clouds cover the sky, preventing the Death Eaters from realizing that tonight is a night of the crescent moon, and therefore would have no effect on Lupin’s lycanthropy. Clearly, most of them don’t keep track of lunar charts day by day, as many seem to be falling for his act quite well.

Two of Dumbledore’s group are near Lupin, fighting four Death Eaters. Despite the fact that one has a grotesquely large nose from a spell gone awry, they appear to be holding their own quite admirably.

I turn away and see that George is fifteen feet away from me, locked in a vicious duel with a Death Eater twice his size. The Death Eater has his back turned toward me, and I can see that George is weakening, even from this distance. I raise my wand, aiming carefully at the back of the Death Eater, praying he does not move at the last second, unwittingly allowing the spell to hit George instead. “Stupefy!” I whisper, and a jet of light lances through the air, striking down the Death Eater mere seconds later.

George watches the man fall in surprise and looks up, his eyes locking onto mine. He gives me a weary grin of thanks before turning to meet more of the oncoming forces.

I study my surroundings. I do not see Voldemort anywhere. Try though I might, I simply cannot picture him in the middle of the battle. He will have separated himself, put himself apart so that he can oversee. He would wait for his Death Eaters to either do or botch the job he was expecting of them before intervening. But I don’t see him. This fact frightens me far more than the sight of him ever could.

People are beginning to notice me now. I realize that more curses are being aimed and me, and I raise my wand, preparing to defend myself. But just as three of the Death Eaters bear down on me, their ghoulish bone masks leering at me, a soft voice somehow manages to rise above all the clashes and screams.

“Harry Potter.”

These words, seemingly so unimportant in the midst of this violent battle, have the effect of stopping nearly everyone and making heads turn. The effect is like a wave, gently moving from one end of the battle to the other until all but some fighting has ceased.

I spin around and see Voldemort standing no more than ten feet away from me, his face twisted into an expression of terrible anticipation. His red eyes are boring into me, and I am only vaguely aware of all the Death Eaters in my vicinity backing away slowly, leaving a clear path between myself and the Dark Lord.

“The time has come, boy,” he taunts. “No more running away for you.”

I don’t take the bait that he has so obviously laid for me to bite. He may enjoy his verbal games and mental manipulation, but I’ve grown sick of taking it. I raise my wand quickly, while he is not expecting it. “Expelliarmus!” I cry before he has time to react.

He sidesteps casually and the beam of light I have fired flies past him, harmlessly disintegrating into the air. He laughs chillingly. “Come now, surely you can do better?” He doesn’t raise his wand, doesn’t make any move to come closer. He is waiting for me to attack. A silence has fallen upon the entire field now as they wait to see what is to come of our duel.

If he wants me to attack him, I won’t disappoint him. Aiming for his wand arm, I cry, “Engorgio!”

The spell hits him in the hand, just as I’d intended. His hand should be swelling uncontrollably. But nothing happens. I stare in confusion as he raises his hand for me and the rest of his Death Eaters to see. It looks exactly as it did before my attack.

Growing frustrated with my inability to cause him any damage and with his nonchalant attitude as he stands there and allows me to hit him, I throw out every curse I can think of from my days at Hogwarts, one after one, barely stopping to take a breath.

“Rictusempra! Tarantallegra! Furnuculus! Petrificus totalus!”

Voldemort makes no attempt to dodge any of my spells. They all hit him dead on, and yet none of the spells cause him any damage. It appears as though I am doing no more throwing harmless sparks at him. I’m getting frightened now. What’s going on? How can I fight someone who is impervious to all of my attacks?

Desperately searching for something that will work, I try the last two things I can think of. “Impedimenta! Stupefy!” But even as I yell the curses aloud, I have a sinking certainty that this time will be no different from the times before. The red and yellow beams of light disappear into the blackness of Voldemort’s cloak, but he remains standing where he is, entirely unaffected. The silence around me is so dense that it feels as though I am choking on it.

Voldemort smirks at me. “Children’s spells. You’re in a man’s duel now, Harry. Your father would be so disappointed. He never wasted time with such ineffective methods.”

A great anger roars to life inside me, triggered by his taunts about my father. It isn’t just those comments that have angered me—they have simply released an anger that I’ve carried my whole life, always suppressed, but always there. The man—no, not a man, a monster, a beast—that stands before me is at fault for every last bit of hardship I’ve had to face in my life, and now that I face him with the grim promise that I won’t survive this night no matter how it plays out, all I want to do is hurt him. I don’t care what becomes of me in the process. I have a desire to hurt him, to kill him, a desire so powerful it scares me on every level. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

I raise my wand once more, preparing to show him what a man’s spell looks like. I’ve never before in my life used the Killing Curse, never been instructed in its use. I know it must be complex and that I haven’t the slightest idea how to work it, but none of these logical thoughts stop me from yelling, “Avada Kedavera!”

I don’t expect it to work, I honestly don’t. I imagine that little green sparks will fly a few inches before settling upon the ground like snowflakes, and that Voldemort and his Death Eaters will laugh at my pathetic attempt. To my great surprise, a moment after the words have left my mouth, my wand releases a long green beam of light that arcs toward Voldemort. I see his eyes widen in surprise, feel my heart rise in my throat, and watch as the beam strikes him directly in the chest.

This one has an effect on him. He doubles over and cries out, piercing the silence. My mind feels as though it is shutting down. Is this even possible? Had I really killed the Dark Lord?

And then, as I watch, he rises once more to his full height. Despite the fact that he looks the same, and no light surrounds him, he positively radiates strength. His eyes and his smirk seem all the more daunting. Yes, my magic effected him, but it seems to have done no more than strengthen him. The Killing Curse has made him stronger!

He laughs again, and I feel the shudder race down my spine involuntarily. My mind is spinning, and I can’t seem to grasp the reality of my surroundings. “Now that is a commendable attempt!” he says haughtily. “But you can’t kill me, Harry. I’m beyond that stage now. I’ve had enough of your futile efforts to take my life. Bow to me, boy, and I shall make your death painless. Or defy me, and I can make you yearn to die.”

The Death Eaters alongside me have begun to mutter amongst themselves, clearly feeling that I have met my end. I’m not yet so willing to allow them that pleasure. I need time to consider what I’m going to do. I don’t know what good it will do me, but I know that I will not lay down and die here at his feet. He’ll have a more difficult time of it than that.

My back is to the Forbidden Forest. If I can distract him long enough to escape into the trees, I might be able to grant myself a few more minutes at least. I look at Voldemort, frowning. I can’t effect him with my spells. What can I do?

“Come now, boy, the choice doesn’t present that much of a dilemma, does it?” Voldemort mocks. “Perhaps if you—”

From my peripheral vision, I see something move by his feet. I look down just in time to see a great section of the snow on the ground disappear entirely. Voldemort stumbles just as the snow that had disappeared moments before reappears over his head, partially burying him in white.

Voldemort screams in anger as I turn and run for the trees, not stopping to wonder who has come to my aid. I have a fairly shrewd suspicion; Fred and George always were well known for enchanting snow to do various things during snowball fights at Hogwarts.

Voldemort yells again and I hear the battle begin once more. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the Death Eaters have begun firing at me and are finding fierce opposition in my friends. I turn away again and find myself plunging through the first row of trees and into the Forbidden Forest. My eyes, which have adjusted to the dim light provided by the weak, cloud-shrouded star glow, are taken by surprise at the depth of the blackness that overcomes me suddenly. I find myself pausing mid-step out of pure disconcertion.

Seconds after I have stopped, with my breath still coming in ragged bursts—more from shock and horror than from an excess of physical exertion, because I’ve run only a short distance—and my mind still at an immovable standstill, someone runs into me from behind.

I hear a cry of surprise from whoever has collided with me as I find myself toppling forward; I barely manage to put my foot out in time to stop myself. Once I’ve regained some semblance of balance, I spin around, and point my wand at where I assume my clumsy assailant stands. My mind is still working at half-speed, overtaken by too many frightening and incomprehensible thoughts at once, and I know without a doubt that a Death Eater has braved his fellows’ dangerously arcing curses and has followed me to kill me here in this pitch-black forest. I don’t waste time with lighting my wand; I open my mouth, intending to say whatever spell my mind conjured up first, when a hesitant female voice stops me.

”Harry? Is that you?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize that it is Hermione, and not some homicidal Death Eater, who has followed me into the forest. I let out a shuddering breath and whisper, “Lumos!” Indeed, it is Hermione. She stands little more than a foot away from me, looking slightly off to my left, unsure of my current position. Her eyes fix on mine when the light sweeps over her, and the relief and desperation in those hazel eyes is enough to start me shaking. I could have killed her! I’m so entirely unstable for rational thought right now that had she not spoken, I have no idea what would have happened. I’d like to think I would only have stunned her, but after my earlier performance with the Killing Curse erupting without warning, I can’t say I have any faith in that. My shaking hand makes the light of the wand jittery and erratic, as frequently illuminating a random bush or tree branch as it does Hermione’s face.

I know I have to get a grip on myself. I can hardly function the way I am now. I had thought that I was prepared to face certain death--thought that I had come to peace with the fact that I couldn’t defeat Voldemort. All along, I was fooling myself. I never let go of that little strand of hope that told me there was some way to be rid of him. That I would find it in time. And when that hope was ripped away, it took with it the last pillar that was holding up my ruin of a life, leaving me in the state of a terrified child.

“Harry?” Hermione whispers. She steps forward and rests and hand on my shoulder, hesitant, comforting.

Though I want nothing more than to accept her comfort, to hold her until the sun rises, I know that to do so would be to allow the last of my mental resolve to slip away, to allow the last grain of sand to fall through the minute neck of the hourglass that has been ticking inside me—inside us all—for two years now. Much as I’d like that, my friends—the people I claim to be in charge of—are out there dying while I stand here, and that is unforgivable. With a last deep breath, I focus on Hermione.

“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly, my voice carefully void of emotion. I dare not let her know how unhinged I am by the sudden discovery of Voldemort’s apparent immortality.

She nods and begins to rattle off seemingly unimportant sentences so fast that I can barely follow. “Fred or George—I’m not sure which, I can hardly tell them apart when I’m in a stable frame of mind—did a Displacement Charm on the snow so that you could get away and to give me the time to get to you. I was watching you and Voldemort, and I realized that we were doing this all wrong! It’s Light magic, Harry, not Dark!” She pauses for breath and watches my reaction, practically bouncing on the soles of her feet in excitement at her incomprehensible discovery, nervous uncertainty about what is going on behind her, or some combination of the two.

I blink and try though I might, in my current mind state, her words make as little sense to me as Professor Binns’s lectures ever did. “What?” I demand, my voice a bit sharper than I’d intended.

Hermione doesn’t appear to notice or care about my tone of voice. She shakes her head. “There’s no time to explain it, Harry! All you have to know is this: You can beat him! You can beat Voldemort!” Her eyes glimmer in excitement, just like they always do whenever she has worked through some mystifying problem.

“How?” I ask, refraining from demanding an answer as to why the duel—if it can even really be called that—between Voldemort and I had made her feel I had a chance at succeeding, when all it had done for me was make me unsettlingly sure of the opposite.

“Remember these spells,” she said in a breathless low tone. “Furere Aliqua, and Adamus. Don’t forget those words, Harry! Furere Aliqua; Adamus. If those don’t work—which they should, but if you need a little something extra to finish him off with—use a Cheering Charm, or perhaps a Healing spell. I’d go with the Cheering Charm first, though.”

I am staring at her. This time I understand her words, but I have absolutely no idea as to what the reasoning behind them is. I seriously consider for a moment that perhaps she’s gone howling mad. “Cheering Charms? What, do you want him to be happy and bubbly while he kills me? Did you think the whole ordeal of my death would be made a little brighter by him singing a rousing rendition of ‘ Zippity Doo-dah?’ ” I don’t mean to sound so cruel; I know she is trying to help. But I’m scared, and have no idea how her advice will do anything more than make our situation worse.

Hermione looks at me, pleading me silently to listen. “Harry, please, just trust me. It may be a lot to ask of you after everything, but trust me. This will work. I’m right on this, I know I am. And I’ll be happy to explain it all to you later. But I can’t right now!”

Despite the fact that I still have no idea how this can possibly work, I know Hermione has never steered me wrong before. She’s brilliant, as she’s proven countless times to Ron and I over the years. And she wouldn’t be begging me to believe her as she is unless she was almost impossibly certain of her own accuracy. So, abandoning my inherent disbelief, I nod. “I trust you. I’ll do it. Furere Aliqua and Adamus, right?” I frown. “Hermione, I don’t even know what those spells are, let alone how to work them.”

“You worked the Killing Curse earlier tonight—which is one of the most difficult spells to perform accurately—because you had enough emotion. You can do these; they’re nowhere near that hard. Just put all your force of will into wanting them to happen, into believing in them. It’ll work,” she says. She looks at me hard. “You said you loved me earlier. Did you mean it?”

I am taken aback by the sudden change in conversation. “Of course I did, how can you even ask that?” I answer, dumbfounded.

“Then use that emotion, Harry. Put it all into those spells, use it to the fullest extent that you can. And you will beat him,” she says, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I know it.”

“All right,” I say, feeling the need to return to the battle clenching at me like an angry fist making balloon animals out of my stomach. “Let’s go, then.”

We’re barely ten feet within the perimeter of the forest, and when we reach the tree line, I extinguish my wand. The fray in which I’d been trapped when the battle had first begun has formed again. There are less people now. Bodies litter the ground—some wounded, some Stunned, some dead. I don’t attempt to study the prostrate figures hard enough to see whether they are of my own group or not; to do so would surely drive me into madness. There are more people lying on the ground than had consisted of twice our own original force, though, and clearly at least some of my people still hold their ground, or else there would be no more fighting. The Death Eaters had struck down too many of their own in the earlier madness. We’re far closer to being equal in numbers. I think I can hear Professor Lupin’s high-pitched, fake werewolf snarls over the rest of the noise, proving to me that his convincing performance is keeping people well enough away from him.

Separate from the battle, Voldemort stands yelling at Death Eaters whose faces are shrouded by the bone masks. I can’t hear his words, but I imagine the gist of it consists of telling them to find me, to kill me. Suddenly the idea of how I’m supposed to go about instigating this second duel occurs to me. I suppose I’ll just walk up to him, though the idea of my doing that is so ridiculous that it seems almost comical.

Hermione and I look at each other, our heads moving and our eyes locking in one seamless, orchestrated motion.

“You can do it, Harry. He’s not immortal. He can’t be,” she says with a dead certainty. The quality of her voice makes me feel sure that she is basing this statement on factual information rather than just a desire for it to be true, and this heartens me.

“This will work,” I say, repeating what she had told me earlier.

“It’ll work,” she repeats.

This time, though, our words are spoken at least partially out of hopeful desperation.

“Go,” Hermione urges softly. “We can’t hold out much longer.”

Before I can say a word, she steps forward and hugs me. I am grateful for her embrace. Due to the difference in our heights, I lean my head down and rest my forehead against hers for one brief instant before she pulls away. I don’t want to let her go.

“I’ll see you after,” I promise. But even as I say the words, I understand that I have no right to promise such a thing. I have no way of knowing if there will be any such thing as after.

It’s good enough for Hermione. She takes off without another word, running in a mad dash to get across the open field and to the battle before someone shoots at her. I don’t watch her go. I trust her far more than I trust myself, and I know that is why I trust her advice. Silently repeating the words she’d told me, I walk across the open snow toward Voldemort himself, for round two of our final duel.

Voldemort notices me when I have crossed half the distance to him. He spins and his eyes fall on me, making me halt unconsciously in my tracks. He face opens in a sadistic smile and I clutch my wand desperately, not yet raising it, waiting for a moment to take him by surprise.

“Potter!” he cries, his voice full of angry mirth. “Come back to die like a man rather than a mouse, eh?”

To my right, the battle is slowing. I notice this not by sight, but by sound. As the noise gradually diminishes, I realize that my friends and enemies have stopped throwing curses at one another. They realize the significance of the battle between Voldemort and I, just as they did last time. We are the respective leaders of our groups, and whoever between us falls symbolizes the fall of that side in the battle. The Death Eaters, of course, have no doubt in their own leader, and have simply turned to watch me meet my end at last. Perhaps my own group doesn’t see the personal fight between the Dark Lord and I in the symbolic way that I do, either. Regardless of their view on the matter, I can tell they are turning their eyes to us once more, though a good deal of the fighting continues this time.

I don’t intend to waste time on petty mind games. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that if Hermione’s spells don’t work, I will die. But I will not flee from him again. Slowly, remembering Hermione’s words about believing in and wanting the spells to work, I raise my wand. Trust the spells, I say mentally. Trust Hermione.

Voldemort laughs. “Come to throw more useless curses at me, boy? Did running restore your faith a little? Well I suppose it’s only fair to let the condemned say their final words. But after this one, Harry, the game is up. After this, I kill you at long last.” He watches me, his crimson eyes containing in them the very flames of Hell. He doesn’t believe I can do this. I’ll show him, I think fiercely.

“Furere Aliqua!” I yell, shouting the curse Hermione had spoken first, praying that by telling me of it first rather than second, she had intended to convey the message that it is the more powerful of the two. I am careful to enunciate it properly. This time, however, it is not my hatred but my love that succeeds in sending a beam of lavender light peeling through the darkness. I focus on Hermione’s face in my mind, on the faces of Ron and Ginny and Fred and George, of all my friends—but mostly, of Hermione. As I look on, the spell hits Voldemort in the stomach.

This time he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t spread his arms and welcome my attack. I have no idea what I’ve done, no understanding of what the effects of the spell were intended to be, but when I see Voldemort stagger, eyes no longer dancing in wicked anticipation, serpent mouth gaping as if desperate to gain a breath, I feel a surge of hope run through me. The hope restores me, convinces me to raise my wand yet again and yell, “Adamus!”

A beam of pink light strikes him in the chest.

His fingers clutch the spot where my most recent beam of light has hit him. His face is turning red, coloring his pale and pasty skin with a crimson color that is almost unnatural in its intensity. His eyes are bulging, and he is gasping at the air. His wand has slipped through his fingers, which are violently scratching at the skin in the vicinity of where my spells have struck him.

Muttering breaks out among the watchers of the battle. No one continues to fight. All eyes are trained on us, on the spectacle that is the Dark Lord Voldemort falling before the boy Harry Potter.

Do I dare to hope? To dream that this could actually be happening? To believe that Voldemort is actually dying before my eyes? The adrenaline racing through my veins at high velocity answers that question effectively.

I want to raise my hand once more, to throw at him a Cheering Charm, just for the hell of it. To add insult to injury. To make a point that I am in control now, and that not only has he failed, but that I have triumphed. But my hand doesn’t seem to want to work as my brain tells it to. At the very least, I long to look over and seek out Hermione, to meet her eyes and convince myself that the promise I made to her barely two minutes ago when we broke apart was actually something I could keep. But my eyes are sewn to the spectacle before me.

Voldemort’s gaping mouth, up until this point a portrait of silence, suddenly releases an unearthly shriek that makes me want nothing more than to cover my ears and attempt to outrun the sound if only I could move from my frozen position. Instead of moving, my eyes widen as he falls to his knees, clutching his chest with his face contorted in what could only be the agony of a thousand Cruciatus Curses as he shrieks with enough ear-splitting intensity to put a banshee to shame.

And now, in a sight reminiscent of Professor Quirrell with the Philosopher’s Stone those many years ago, Voldemort begins to decompose before my eyes. It starts in his hands, a gradual burning without flames. His skin turns hard, stony, blackened like charred log and soot. His eyes no longer contain Hell’s fire, only the black abyss of a soulless entity as the decomposition completes, and his body begins to turn to ash.

This is the last I see of Voldemort’s dying moments. My scar suddenly blazes with furious pain. I’m not aware of screaming, not aware of hearing anything besides the cries of the Dark Lord resonating within my own skull. The pain is far more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. I fall to my knees under the pressure of it, entirely unaware of the physical world around me. White crawls up and threatens to overtake my vision as I hold my head, trying to keep it from splitting in two as it feels so much like it is going to. I don’t understand what’s going on, can’t comprehend the simple fact that I am falling slowly, that blackness is washing over me now instead of white. Why is this happening? I don’t understand . . .

The darkness seizes hold of me now, and the pain recedes . . . I don’t hear the Dark Lord’s screams anymore . . . there’s nothing to feel, nothing to see, not here . . . here in the blackness that makes a hundred nights in the Forbidden Forest pale in comparison . . .

. . . here, there’s . . . just . . .

. . . numbness . . .

****Hermione****

The world is still.

No one moves. No one speaks. No one breathes.

We watch.

No one can take their eyes off the still and quiet form that lies in the snow, and the pile of blowing ashes that only seconds ago was a living being. Not a human, no longer capable of being defined by such means; but living nevertheless. Two enemies long standing, long fighting, now perished in the same instant, the same action.

We’re frozen.

Ron stands beside me. Moments ago we’d been standing here on the verge of jumping for joy. The Dark Lord was falling!

Then Harry fell, too.

I am the first to break the stillness. I step forward hesitantly. It is one movement, one extremely insignificant movement, that starts the world up again. And suddenly, all I want is to reach Harry. If I reach him, I know everything will be fine. He’s fainted . . . been stunned . . . nothing worse, certainly . . . I just have to reach him, to revive him . . .

He promised me we’d see each other after.

Harry keeps his promises.

Ron gently wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me back to him. “Hermione, don’t,” he says. His voice is choked, restricted, and looking at him, I see the tears running down his face. His eyes are locked firmly on Harry.

“I have to go to him, Ron,” I whisper, my voice containing a desperation that my body and mind do not feel.

Ron shakes his head, still not taking his eyes away from where Harry lays. “No.”

I pull at my arm, trying to get him to release me. “Ron, please—”

The Death Eaters are beginning to stir beside us.

“Hermione, you’ll be a sitting duck out there! They’ll kill you, too,” Ron says, his voice slowly dwindling to no more than a mere whisper as he says this.

I shake my head. I know Ron’s wrong. Harry can’t be dead. “He’s fine,” I whisper reassuringly. I know deep down that it is not Ron I am attempting to reassure.

Ron’s hand goes slack suddenly, and I wrench my arm away. My feet move of their own free will, each step bringing me closer to Harry. I know that at least fifty Death Eaters stand behind me, that I am a perfect target while running through the open like this, but I don’t care. Once I reach him, he’ll be fine . . . everything will be fine . . .

My feet slow as I come to Harry’s form on the ground. He lays where he fell moments ago, still and silent. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted to the side, snow speckling his hair. His right arm lays limp, his hand slightly open with his wand resting atop his palm. His scar burns red. I can’t detect even the faintest rising and falling of his chest. There is not the slightest, most seemingly insignificant movement that could prove to be the difference between life and death.

I don’t raise my wand. I don’t whisper the reviving spell. It won’t help.

He will not awaken.

This realization—something I’ve known from the moment I saw him hit the snow, but something I’ve refused to acknowledge until this point where I can deny it no longer—breaks through the wall of resistance my mind has constructed. I feel the tears stream down my face silently, each practically freezing in the cold by the time it reaches the bottom of my face.

Oh, Harry . . .

I run my hand gently over his burning scar. It feels warm to the touch. The rest of his skin is cold, not yet from the death that has claimed him, but from the chilly conditions which surround us.

You beat him, like I knew you could. But where did my plan go so wrong?

With the exception of the scar that burns that unnatural color, he looks so normal, like he could stand up and walk away at any instant. But only his body lies here. His spirit, the soul that made him my Harry, my best friend, is gone.

Did I not think the plan through well enough? Did I overlook something?

My tears have not stopped flowing since I knelt here beside him. Until this point, they have been silent. Now my first sob breaks the silence.

You believed in me. You loved me. You saved me in so many ways.

The silence of the night is breaking along with the silence of my tears. I can hear muttering and rustling behind me, but the sound is distant, muffled by the pounding in my own head. I don’t care about the people behind me enough to look around at them.

Now you’re gone, just like all the others . . . just like I was afraid would happen. Why did I let myself love you?

I bury my face in his chest and let my tears continue. I want his arms to come around me again, to comfort me. I try to remember how his arms felt the last time I’d seen him, maybe no more than ten minutes ago, but all I can feel is this cold embrace.

But I did love you. I let myself need you. And now I’m alone. Again.

I hear a definite rise in the amount of noise taking place behind me, but nothing is understandable. I hear nothing but indefinable sound. I don’t think on it.

Is it my fault you’re here? Maybe. Probably.

Now I can pick out faint strains of words over the din of sound. I don’t know what the words are; they are mere gibberish to my unaware mind, barely distinguishable as words at all.

You promised we’d never be separated.

Ron’s voice screams louder than any sound thus far, successfully penetrating my mind enough for me to make sense of it. “HERMIONE!!!!”

I look up, pulling my face out of Harry’s shirt, which is now wet with my tears. I turn around, but I don’t see anything. I don’t feel anything. Ron shouts my name again, this time with even more desperation to his tone. Why is he shouting?

Harry, how could you leave me?

My tears have blurred my vision, and when my sight begins to fade into blackness, that blurriness makes it less noticeable. My ears, already muffling sound, hardly detect the rapid decrease in noise. The darkness has seeped into my body without my noticing it in the least. Now it takes over. I don’t know what has happened, or why I feel the way I do, but I suspect.

I feel so weak. I close my eyes.

Harry, I’m coming . . .

I succumb to the darkness.

A/n: There ya go. End of chapter. The epilogue will be up . . . not tomorrow, I’m busy all of tomorrow, but it will be up Tuesday, count on it. I hope you enjoyed it, I spent months writing this chapter, getting it right to the best of my abilities. I did my best to give the justice it deserved. Please comment.

17. Epilogue

~~ Epilogue ~~

“I’m still here, you’re still gone

Nothing I say will make you come back to me

So I’ll carry on, as you would have done.”

--Artist Unknown

I don’t think anyone can deny that this is the nicest day we’ve had in a considerable stretch of time. People have been talking about it inside the castle, and now I can see what they mean. The sun, normally quite well hidden behind a shield of gray clouds, is showing itself again. While the clouds still drift about in the sky, hovering near their newly released captive as though waiting for the right moment to reclaim it, they are easy to write off. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen the sky primarily blue rather than gray. To top all that off, it’s actually somewhat warm, at least by our recent standards—it’s probably a solid forty degrees or so. Anything that gets us above freezing is considered warm lately.

The birds are celebrating over my head as I walk slowly across the sloping grounds of Hogwarts castle. My eyes wander upward and I watch their playful games in the trees. Most of the snow has melted, and I can see patches of grass showing through in some areas. There aren’t many yet; the snow was very deep, and while some of it has cleared, there are still sections that are three feet high. It’s wetter now, though, that’s for sure. I nearly lose my footing several times in the slush as I trudge my way casually along, letting the soft sun touch my face. I am in no particular hurry.

But as it is with most things, whether you make your way leisurely or quickly, you’ll still get there eventually. After not too long I come to a stop, and I peel my eyes away from the sky and look downward at the memorial which lies at my feet. It is no coincidence that this particular area is devoid of snow; I’ve kept it that way since the funeral a month ago. A grave guard, I guess you could call me. A weather guard, at least.

I kneel down so that I am closer to the stone memorial before me. For a gravestone, it’s pretty nice. It’s a large, rectangularly cut slab of shimmering black stone—obsidian, I think—that is set into the ground. The writing on it was engraved with a wand, each letter the color of deepest gold. I run my fingers gingerly over the inscribed patterns that run on either side of the gravestone—on one side, broomsticks and snitches; the other, books and quills. It probably costs more than all the money I’ve had in my entire life collectively. Dumbledore arranged for it. He sorted out the other one as well, the one which now lies in the Great Hall. That one is different, though. It’s just as nice, but not in the same way. It’s generic, in honor of all the people who died in the second war against Voldemort. This one is specific, which is why I suppose I like it better. My friends deserved something like this—something all their own. They didn’t deserve to be thrown into some overall honorable mention in which their own names were never even mentioned.

I decided upon its location. Sirius was against it; he thought Harry would prefer to be buried with his parents, but I knew better. While that spot wouldn’t have been objectionable, I remember Harry’s last words to us as we plunged into what we thought was to be our last battle. He’d chosen Hogwarts for a battleground because he wanted a part of us to always be with this castle. Now a part of him always will be. He is buried on the spot he fell that night, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest and halfway between the lake and Hagrid’s newly built hut. Hermione is buried right next to him, in the grave which was made wide enough to fit the two of them side-by-side. No one argued that that would be where she would want to be placed. So now they share a tombstone, eternally locked together physically, and—I would like to believe—spiritually.

I don’t feel right, narrating this story. It’s not my place. I am reminded of this more strongly than ever as I stare down at the headstone. This was their tale to tell. I feel like a thief, stealing the end from them. Perhaps such emotions are unfounded—it’s not like they’re capable of telling the end. Regardless of that, I can’t banish the feeling. At one point in time, I guess the job of finishing this would have been given to me without question—at the time when the three of us were the best of friends. I don’t think I’d have felt so awkward about it then. But we’ve been broken apart for so long, I no longer feel as though I hold that right. I can’t just let this go without an ending though; that would be much worse than my taking the narration from them. Harry and Hermione died for this end, and it will be told.

As my fingers run over the smooth obsidian, I feel the familiar knot in my stomach forming. We came here that night assuming that we would all meet our deaths. I suppose the fact that only six of us—including my two friends, three of the Ministry men from Dumbledore’s group, and Katie Bell —were killed is a good thing. But I can only feel some unexplainable guilt about living while the two of them have died. If I am to be honest with myself, I still often think that I would rather have died beside them than be the only one of our trio remaining, the only one left to shoulder the weight of the loss. When the sun rose the day after the battle, and the Death Eaters had fled, I began to understand what my mind had been too numb up until that point to register: my best friends were dead. I have lost so much to this war—my parents and Percy, so many friends that didn’t make it out of Hogwarts, my whole life and my home . . . but I can honestly say that I never reacted quite so badly to any of it as I did to this revelation. With my parents’ deaths, I’d been numb for so long that by the time I started feeling it, it was not so hard to deal with. That had been difficult, I can’t deny that, but I still had Fred, George, and Ginny to help. I had Harry. He was always there. I guess I thought he always would be. But that night on the snowy grounds of Hogwarts, that belief broke into a thousand shards of black glass. Harry and Hermione weren’t just my friends; they were a part of me, as ever-present and necessary as my lungs or heart. They were pretty much all I had left. Even Hermione, whom I’ve hated for so long, I still care for deeply. I never stopped caring, which is what has made me bitter. When they were torn away from me, I honestly wasn’t sure that I could go on. Sometimes, I’m still not sure.

I didn’t understand what had happened until hours after their deaths. Harry had been winning; I’d seen it in his eyes, as well as in You-Know-Who’s. I didn’t see how it could have backfired so horribly. Dumbledore had explained it to me, though my grief-numbed mind hadn’t processed it fully until days afterward. I remember his words with a painful clarity.

“Every human being is made up of components of good and evil. No one can exist without at least a small portion of each. But Voldemort, after years of attempting immortality in various ways and becoming so lost within his own Dark prison that he could never hope to once again see the light, became something less than human. An entity so full of darkness that no other emotion was welcome. Love was the thing that, above all, Voldemort could not understand, could not handle. Love was to him as water is to fire, something that holds the prospect of pure destruction,” Dumbledore said.

“But what does that have to do with Harry?” I asked.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “What Miss Granger understood last night was something we’d all overlooked. Love was the only thing that could destroy Voldemort. The Killing Curse and other offensive curses only served to strengthen him. Harry has forever been Voldemort’s rival, his equal; if not in power than in emotion. Harry was full of love, making him a great danger to Voldemort. Lily Potter’s gift to him upon her sacrifice made him just as full of love as Voldemort is of hate. Hermione had him cast love spells on Voldemort that night. The process would likely not have worked had the spells been performed by anyone other than Harry. They would have damaged him, but not destroyed him. Harry succeeded because of the love he had—for Hermione, for you, for all of us. His emotions were strong that night, as were all of ours’. Unknowingly, he transferred his love into the spells, strengthening them by an unspeakable margin. Voldemort, an entity of nothing but darkness, was overcome by his power.”

I shook my head. “That’s all well, but I still don’t understand how he. . . . What happened to. . . .” I couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

“What Miss Granger did not know—what she could not possibly have foreseen—was the fact that Voldemort had transferred a part of himself to Harry the night he tried to kill him as a baby. Harry was a Parseltongue because of the connection created in that instant. The Sorting Hat considered placing him in Slytherin for the same reason. Other small things became a part of Harry as well, things that never would have been there had that night not occurred. The love spells rebounded upon Harry because of that connection. It should not have harmed him, but the bits of Voldemort that had become a part of Harry were targeted by the spell. Perhaps Voldemort even projected his conscious state into Harry in those last few instants; we have no way of knowing. But one or both of these things overcame Harry. The spell was too strong. He perished alongside Voldemort. . . .”

Dumbledore had gone on for some time after this, but I had tuned him out. I understand now what happened. An unfortunate accident . . . a last act of malevolence by the Dark Lord . . . a tragic wand malfunction . . . all of these are things I’ve heard Harry’s death described as. But his death is not accurately stated by any of these. It was fate’s sick joke. Harry had to be attacked as a baby to gain his mother’s love protection and the power to defeat Voldemort, but by being attacked, he’d also gotten just enough of the Dark Lord so that by killing him, he would kill himself in the process. A twisted destiny of epic proportions.

A lot of the days following their deaths are a blur to me now. I’ve blocked a lot of it out. Most of my memories after that night start up again about five days later, the day of the funeral. I guess you could say I went, but I didn’t show up until the very end, after all the speeches and mourning and lowering of the caskets were done with. I was supposed to give a speech; I never did. I showed up when the wizards had already re-formed the ground atop their caskets and placed the tombstone above them. There were only a few people standing around when I got there; I didn’t bother to take notice of who they were. No one had seen me since the day after we took back Hogwarts except the house-elves that brought me food, and Ginny, whom I’d spoken to a few times. I stood there above their memorial, until the gray day passed into ebony night and invisible snowflakes chilled and numbed my body and made it almost as cold as those that lay beneath my feet. Finally, when I could no longer even see the headstone in the darkness, the fact that it was reality began to sink in. I sobbed alone for the longest time. To this day, I do not know for how long. All I know is that I cried for my friends, and myself, and everything that’s been lost until I had nothing left but a dull, hollow feeling that I knew would never fully go away. Afterwards, no one mentioned my absent speech or late arrival. In return, I never mentioned that day again. But I still remember it. I always will.

A lot of people tiptoed around me for a while, as though expecting me to fly off the handle any minute. I never really gave them any reason to think that, but I let them because it isolated me from people, and I needed that. Now, looking back on it, I figure they all thought I was probably some revenge-crazed lunatic. How Lucius Malfoy died was well known by that time. I killed him, that night. It was he who had fired the fatal curse at Hermione. Despite the fact that I’d never before used an Unforgivable and that I was hardly trained in their usage, my anger was powerful enough and my desire to kill strong enough that it worked, just as they had for Harry. The two words left my mouth, echoing the ones Malfoy had spoken moments before that had struck down my friend, and the last thing I remember seeing of him—the image of him that will stay with me for the rest of my life—was his shocked look as he fell, never to rise again. It was as though I’d only stunned him, as I’d already done to so many others. I felt nothing; I just stared. I stood unmoving as my comrades—those who remained—chased away the Death Eaters that were still around, the ones that hadn’t fled the moment Voldemort was vanquished. Curses flashed past my head but I never saw them, I never felt them. I felt no guilt about Malfoy’s death, but contrary to what I’d believed when I said the curse, I felt no relief either. He didn’t matter to me anymore. All that mattered was the image of my friends dying. The image of Hermione collapsing atop Harry without a sound, and of the life going out of her in one swift and silent motion that if I had not been looking, I would not have even noticed. Her limp body had crashed down just as the first touches of dismal dawn began to paint the horizon, and later in the process of the sun’s rising, the sky would turn a deep crimson, stained with the blood that my fallen friends had not spilled upon the pristine snow that night.

Dumbledore took care of the legal implications of my usage of the Killing Curse. It didn’t take much; no one wanted Lucius Malfoy around anyway, and everyone was willing to look the other way on it. People have gone so far as to congratulate me on killing him, on “avenging” Hermione. I wish they could understand that I have no right to avenge her, for it was my own stupidity that helped get her killed. She shouldn’t have had to die. We know now that Harry’s death couldn’t have been helped, awful as it was. Voldemort had to be destroyed, and in order to do so, Harry had to die as well. But Hermione was innocent. She should have lived. If I’d only held onto her for a little longer. . . . At first, I’d refused to let her run to Harry. Then I just let her go. Why didn’t I keep her close? Why didn’t I watch out for her, or look around once in a while? I never even got the chance to tell her how sorry I was. I waited too long, and when I tried, she cut me off. She hugged me, sure, but that doesn’t mean she forgave me. She didn’t know what I was sorry for, so how could she? How could she just forgive me without hearing me after I’d been so awful? She never knew, and now she never will. Harry was right. I should have told her that night in the cabin while I had the chance. But it was my own thickheaded desire to maintain my pride that kept me from doing it. Harry told me straight out that there were no guarantees that there would be another chance. I didn’t want to believe that, and so I didn’t. And now I’m here, and there’s no taking it back.

The war is pretty much over now. The Death Eaters are lying low, for the most part. Naturally, the more loyal and vivacious ones are still causing trouble, but that’s being dealt with slowly. Azkaban has been reclaimed. The dementors are being done away with; as Dumbledore has said for years, they’re too unpredictable and their loyalties too flexible. Some are being kept around, just to keep the Death Eaters under control, but they are under the close scrutiny of watch wizards around the clock. It’s getting to be very full. We’re catching as many of the Death Eaters as we can, and those that don’t die at the hands of an Auror or aren’t executed for crimes against humanity immediately are locked up in there.

The Ministry is still somewhat in shambles. So many have died that most of those who were once in charge are gone. Those that fled to other countries are returning, but slowly. Naturally, no one is anxious to come back unless they’re sure without doubt that Voldemort is truly gone and the situation under control. Some people have been here in England all along, as slaves of the Death Eaters in one way or another, but not a great number. Many of the other wizarding ministries are sending help, and we have a temporary Minister, due to Fudge’s demise. Elections for the next Minister will be in a month or two, whenever they can get themselves stable enough and find people willing to run. Despite the fact that Horace Harshreuff—at one point the Head Obliviator—holds the title of Minister for the time being, it is Dumbledore who is doing all the real work. Stationed here at Hogwarts, he is commanding the regrouped Aurors, and taking care of much of the political and economic difficulties. He’s sent out teams of wizards to rebuild homes, and is allowing families who lost their houses to stay in Hogwarts until his team gets around to rebuilding them. Some cities are doing okay again, and more are very near to being back to stability.

Dumbledore must also contend with the unforeseen issue of Muggle relations, both inside and outside England, for our existence is no longer a secret. Too many know of us now for us to just send out the Obliviators. We’ve revealed ourselves to them; we had no choice. Within England alone, many issues have arisen. The simple fact that we are coming out after mass genocide by wizards against Muggles is not exactly an embracing fact. The Muggle population seems to be predominantly decided that we are evil. I suppose I can’t really blame them. Voldemort did horrible things to them, just as he did to us. It will take time to convince them that a different set of people are in charge of our world now, and things won’t be the same. Some of them are still calling for war, and we can only pray they don’t agree to it, for we’re not in a stable condition for such a thing right now. Besides that, we’d have to defend ourselves, which would do no more than prove to them that we’re as evil as they think we are. So far, though, our governments are attempting to straighten things out peacefully. Only time will tell what is to come.

Hogwarts itself has been purged of Dark Magic and all that relates to it. The common rooms are being redone, particularly Gryffindor, which was pretty much in ruins. I don’t see how anyone lived in there. We have about sixty families in residence currently. More come and leave as they return from hiding or depart to new homes. The teachers that are still alive are here, and Dumbledore sits high and proud in the office where he—and no one else—belongs. Hogwarts will go back to being the school it was intended to be soon. Lists of students who will be enrolled here are being made up. Right now, they aren’t particularly long, but more people are coming back every day, and more students added. We still have a good six and a half months to get more names. In September, regardless of numbers, the school will begin again, one more step toward the normalcy that for two years has been sacrificed. Dumbledore is determined that life go on, and hard as it is, we don’t have much choice but to live with it.

One would think that in the wake of the ending of such a great and terrible disaster, I would be content to look into the future with an optimistic eye and a sense that nothing that is coming could be as horrible as what has been left behind. Maybe that’s how I should feel. But looking into the future does no more than shake into my very bones a fear that freezes my spirit as surely as the ice traps an unfortunate fish. I see no bright horizon, no dawning day, no brilliant display of hope. I see only a black abyss, as dark and foreboding as the deepest of nights. It all comes from the simple knowledge that I am to be very alone in any new world that is coming. For now, the numbness is a salvation. It’s a state in which I don’t have to grasp the harsh realities facing me. But once life begins to resume pace, and once I am forced to fall back into step with it once more, I’ll have to deal with the fact that everything I once knew and relied on is gone. One could argue that I’ve already faced this dilemma; after all, Voldemort’s triumph over Hogwarts and England must have had a similar effect on me, right? Truthfully, though, it was easier to deal with then. Because then, nothing was normal. It was all mayhem and chaos, and we weren’t supposed to have a place. We were supposed to be lost and drifting with nary a thing to cling to. It was okay; it was right, perhaps not in the moral sense, but in the sense that no one could expect it to be any other way. Now, life is being restored to its natural order, and I’m coming to realize that my place in this world, my little nitch in the grand scheme of things, is no longer where or how I left it. And the only people I ever had to share it with have been lost as well.

Despite all the times that I argued with my brothers and my parents, all the times I told Hermione to shove it, all the times I was jealous of Harry, I always needed them. Some people can meet friends and give them away without much damage being done, but the relationship I shared with Harry and Hermione was far deeper than that. I depended on them to help me through this world, to fill in the pieces of me that I was missing on my own. I’d like to think they depended on me in the same way. Hermione was the logical one, the voice of reason, the one who thought things through with intellect when sheer brawn and bravery wouldn’t get us through something. She saw the things Harry and I were simply too thickheaded to notice. She tagged along with us on all of our possibly suicidal adventures, even when what we were doing went against everything she desired, purely because she cared about us. We never would have figured out the mystery of the Basilisk or made our way to the Philosopher’s Stone without her. Much as I hate to admit it after all the rude remarks I gave her about nagging me so much, the fact is that without her, I probably wouldn’t have passed most of my classes. Doing so certainly would have been harder by at least a tenfold. And most importantly, she was a good friend. Loyal and dedicated, despite what I have thought of her over the last two years. She never abandoned Harry and I, even when we (or I suppose I should say ‘I’; Harry never was one to get on her nerves too much) gave her plenty of reason to. She gave up her whole life because she thought it was in our best interests.

And Harry. The boy who just happened to sit by me on the first train to Hogwarts and rarely left my side thereafter. He was just as much a brother to me as any of my redheaded siblings. He was the brave one, the strong one, the one who held the three of us together. The boy was almost mad with a deep-rooted desire to do the right thing, but not to the point where it became annoying. He was always as willing as I to break the rules that stood in our way, thereby sharing with me a bond that Hermione and I didn’t have. He made my life more interesting than I ever could have dreamed. There were times when I treated him awful, when I was jealous of him for reasons that he couldn’t have helped any more than the average Muggle can help their lack of magical talent. He had every right to never speak to me again, but he forgave me. And in the end, he died for me—for all of us, so that we wouldn’t have to end up buried right alongside him.

I can’t remember a time when they weren’t at my side. I can’t imagine a future where they aren’t there still. I don’t know if I can make it without the two of them to set me straight when I’m being a fool, and without my family to love and support me. I’m terribly afraid that I can’t. I know for certain that I’ll never find friends as good as Harry and Hermione. Maybe I never even deserved to have their friendship in the first place. Because along with the fear comes the aforementioned guilt. I was so horrible to the two of them so many times throughout our seven years of knowing one another. I can’t push away the feeling that everything should be opposite of how it is; that I should be lying in a box under the earth with the two of them standing above me. The two of them died so that I could live, but the problem is, I don’t feel as though I deserve that right. I don’t even want to go on half the time. It’s not right that they should give up their lives in return for my ungratefulness. Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me going; the fact that if I give up, their efforts will have been in vain, at least as far as I go. Maybe it’s selfish to think that they sacrificed themselves for me. Maybe they couldn’t have cared less about me, but did it for the good of everyone overall. But I still feel I would be lessening a part of their victory by giving up. They were brave enough to die for this world I now have the privilege of living in; the least I can do is make my way through it.

I’m not sure where I’m going. I’m stumbling blindly in the dark for a light switch that may or may not even be there. For now, sitting at Hogwarts and helping rebuild it is good enough. But in the long run, I know that it won’t be. Some people can go back to their lives after the devastation. They can rebuild and continue. But even if I were capable of picking up the pieces, I’m not sure I’d want to live the life that ended in my fifth year. It was good enough for me then, and I am not capable of denying that it was a wonderful life I’d had. However, I’ve been through so much more now, seen and done more than I’d ever dreamed, and lost more than I had ever imagined possible. To go back to my mundane existence . . . I just can’t. It’s not enough.

I watch as a silent tear that has escaped my eye rolls down my nose, falls the short distance to the ground, and splashes upon the obsidian stone next to Hermione’s name. I sniff and hurriedly wipe my eyes. I trace the minute letters of my friends’ names before slowly rising to my feet. I need to return to the castle and help Dumbledore with the repairs and work. My feet don’t move, though, and I can’t pull my eyes away from the headstone. I’ve been three people in my almost-eighteen years; I’ve lived three lives. Two of those lives are buried along with my friends, though the headstone says nothing of the first two phases of Ronald Weasley’s existence. The third phase is the one in which I am now. Admittedly, I don’t know much about this new world, or about how I intend to survive in it. All I know is that I’ll have to create a new place for myself to match the new world in which I live. It won’t be easy, and I don’t know if I’ll succeed.

But at least I have a chance.

A/N: And there we have it, the finale to my most recent and favorite Harry Potter fanfic. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s been fun, and I’m glad to see that people support this story. Thank you for spending your time reading it, and if you’re interested in reading other things by me . . . well, I don’t have much, I guess. On FanFiction.Net, under the screenname DarkWolf24, you can find me. I have the Destiny Trilogy, which isn’t as well written as this, for Harry Potter. I’m currently returning to working on Destiny’s Shadows. I’m not sure if I’ll post it here, because the beginning of Destiny’s Path, which I wrote when I was twelve, requires major editing. Considering I wrote it at 12, it’s pretty good. But looking back on it at 15, it’s not so good. I like Destiny’s Shadows, which is more recent, but the trick to that is that you have to read Destiny’s Path to get it. So that’s my profile for anyone who cares. :-)

Thanks everyone, and goodnight!