No Greater Love

Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 25/08/2004
Last Updated: 06/07/2005
Status: completed

Greater love hath no one than to give one's life for another... It was the power of love, the power of sacrifice... the power Voldemort knows not.

Chapters

1. The Sacrifice

2. The Truth

3. The Beginning of Hope

4. The Promise

5. The Power

6. The Beginning

1. The Sacrifice

Disclaimer: I only own Harry Potter in my wildest dreams… In reality, everything HP-related belongs only to JK Rowling. No Greater Love Part 1: The Sacrifice

It was chaos.

Spells, curses, hexes being shouted from every direction. Bolts of light shooting out of wands in every which way.

And his scar, always the searing pain of his scar, the constant reminder that Voldemort was near, even if he couldn’t be seen.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Remus dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange, a contained but no less dangerous fury on his face and sent a silent thought of support to his former professor. Yes, Remus, avenge Sirius’ death, for both our sakes…

Avery raised his wand preparing to curse Ron whose back was turned towards him. Harry quickly yelled “Stupefy!” watching to make sure Avery was out before shouting, “Watch your back!” to Ron. Ron waved a hand in acknowledgement before following Mr. Weasley, Bill and Ginny in surrounding Lucius Malfoy.

He glanced around and felt a stab of fear. Their numbers were down; they were losing… And Voldemort was still nowhere to be seen…

He just had time to wonder where Hermione was when white-hot pain erupted in his head and Harry spun, knowing he had come. Voldemort, tall and menacing in his black robes, red eyes filled with malicious triumph at the thought that he was finally going to get to kill Harry Potter, that thorn in his side.

“So, Potter, not ready to give up yet?”

Harry stared at his parents’ murderer, breath coming fast but he didn’t rise to the bait. He needed to keep calm or he would have even less chance of surviving this than he already had.

Voldemort muttered a few words and two shadowy figures, Lily and James, emerged from his wand.

The figures of his parents held out their hands in invitation. “It’s OK, Harry, just give up now.”

Another muttered word and flick of his wand and the shadowy figure of Sirius appeared as well. “Think, Harry,” the figure said, “what hope do you have of surviving?”

Harry’s wand hand was trembling and white-knuckled from the force of his grip as he stared at the figures of his parents and his godfather saying all the same things he thought and feared in his moments of self-doubt, his breath hitching in his chest, and slowly, he started to lower his wand...

But then he heard another, a stronger, voice, Hermione’s voice, in his head. “No, Harry, don’t listen. You can do this, you can.”

The fog in his mind cleared. He stiffened, raising his wand. “No!” he exploded.

Voldemort snarled something and the shadowy figures of his parents and Sirius vanished. “So you won’t listen, eh, Potter? Foolish boy. Now I’ll just have to kill you, but first, pain. Crucio!”

Harry staggered back from the excruciating pain, as if his bones were being crushed inside him.

As if from far away he heard Hermione scream, “Harry!”

He turned to see that Voldemort had raised his wand again. He tried to stand, tried to respond but his body refused to cooperate, still in the throes of the Cruciatus so he just stared, knowing he was going to be killed. The prophecy would be fulfilled after all…

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry closed his eyes against the green light, knowing it would be the last thing he saw…

Then suddenly, he was knocked aside, out of the path of the green light. He landed heavily on his side, a weight landing on top of him.

He struggled to get up. He was alive. He wasn’t dead. Someone had saved him--

He looked-- and for a moment he could have sworn that his heart stopped beating. His knees buckled beneath him as a gaping emptiness opened inside his chest leaving him feeling hollow and dead.

It was Hermione—lying on the ground, eyes closed, skin pale. He dropped to his knees beside her, gathering her into his arms, one hand chafing her limp one in a vain attempt to restore some life to it. “No, Hermione!” he croaked, his voice not sounding like his own, “wake up. You can’t leave me. I need you. I love you.” Irrationally he shook her still form, sobs beginning to build in his chest, making it hurt to breathe. “I love you, Hermione. Do you hear me? I’m sorry I never told you. I love you…”

Her hand fell from his nerveless grasp as he stared at her through tear-blurred eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be you! It was supposed to be me; it was always supposed to be me,” he said in an agonized whisper.

He suddenly remembered the moment he’d first realized just how strong Hermione’s feelings for him were…

He remembered himself saying, “Kill or be killed, that’s my choice. I’m only me; how- what can I possibly do—”

His words were cut off abruptly because her lips were in the way. Hermione had kissed him. On the lips. Hard, fast, but a kiss.

He drew back, staring at her through wide eyes. What—

She was flushed but her voice was determined and she met his eyes squarely. “Don’t think like that, Harry. You’re going to survive. I promise you to do everything I can to make sure you do. You’re going to live; you have to live…”

He had kissed her then because he couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

That moment had changed their relationship, shifted it, to more than simple friendship but not quite actually being together. And he had finally realized that there was at least one person in the world who cared about him more than anything else, who would do anything for him…

Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Voldemort’s cold voice. “Foolish idiot girl, getting in the way like that. A touching sacrifice,” he mocked, “But stupid. You’re still going to die, Potter.”

He surged to his feet, sudden fury overtaking the mind-numbing grief. Irrationally he found himself defending Hermione even while he knew he shouldn’t take Voldemort’s baiting words.

“She wasn’t foolish; she knew what she was doing.” The words brought him up short. Hermione had known what she was doing. She had saved his life… And even if he felt he wanted to die too, to be with her, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let Hermione’s sacrifice be for nothing. He had to live.

He glared at Voldemort. “She did it for me. You couldn’t understand…”

Voldemort didn’t understand. That was the power he knew not- the power of selfless, self-sacrificing love… And he knew what to do.

Voldemort’s red eyes glowed with malice as he looked at Hermione’s still form on the ground. “An unexpected pleasure, to be able to kill your Mudblood girlfriend, Pott-”

Harry closed his mind to Voldemort’s taunt, only took advantage of Voldemort’s momentary distraction and yelled, “Expelliarmus” grabbing Voldemort’s wand as it flew toward him. “Incendio,” and Voldemort’s wand burned.

“Noo!” Voldemort shrieked madly, trying to rush forward but a quick “Impedimenta” stopped him.

“Creo Infirmus!” and a jet of pale yellow light shot from his wand, hitting Voldemort in the chest.

Voldemort gasped, eyes widening before he rallied enough to hiss, “You think you’re clever, draining my strength. But I don’t really need it; I’m still more powerful than you will ever be.”

Harry looked at Hermione again, just a glance and a thought, For you, Hermione, and then crossed the distance between himself and Voldemort in several bounds. His fingers closed around Voldemort’s neck and Voldemort screeched in pain as the skin began to burn, just as Quirrell’s had done at his touch six years ago.

Voldemort’s long, spidery fingers scrabbled madly to remove Harry’s fingers but they were jerked back as they too burned.

“But I have your blood, your protection,” Voldemort gasped out.

“This isn’t my mother’s protection,” Harry gritted out, his fingers tightening, ignoring the burning sensation in his own fingers. “It’s Hermione’s.”

One last convulsive shudder ran through Voldemort and then he went limp, his flesh beginning to corrode from where Harry’s hands were.

Harry held on squeezing tighter and tighter, vaguely aware that there were tears in his eyes. “This is for Hermione, for killing the one person who loved me and whom I loved!” His voice cracked and with a final hard shake, Harry dropped Voldemort’s body, suddenly intensely weary.

“Incendio totalus.” He didn’t stay to watch the body of his former nemesis burn.

Harry staggered over to where Hermione’s body lay, the rage that had fueled him vanishing, leaving him with the remnants of the Cruciatus and deeper, more than that, the soul-crushing sorrow.

He fell to his knees beside her, finally feeling the tears flow as he stared at her face, knowing he was never going to see her smile at him, never going to hear her voice again…

He pulled her into his arms, sobs now racking his entire frame as he placed a trembling kiss on her lips. “I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “Always. I’ve always loved you. You knew that, right? You knew everything, my Hermione…” His arms tightened around her limp form as he continued to talk to her between his sobs. “You knew I loved you, even if I didn’t say it, didn’t you? Tell me you knew it, Hermione. I need to know you knew I loved you too. Please, Hermione…” He kissed her again and again, his tears wetting her face, trying to comprehend what life would be like without her by his side. From deep within him, he felt something primitive well up, exploding from his throat in a hoarse cry, more animal than human, of a creature who’d just lost the dearest thing in life. “Nooooooooooooo!!!”

Author’s Note: *runs and hides* This isn’t over yet…

2. The Truth

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author’s Note: See, I told you this wasn’t over…

For the ever-so-brilliant Libbie, aka QuidditchMom, with thanks for all the wonderful writing, the inspiration, and the encouraging and flattering reviews. Happy birthday, again.

No Greater Love

Chapter 2: The Truth

“Nooooooooooo!!”

Harry jerked awake from troubled sleep at his cry, his heart beating rapidly as if he’d just run a marathon, his face still wet with tears and his chest heaving from the sobs. He had twisted his blanket nearly into shreds from the force of his grip.

Forcibly, he tried to calm himself, relax his fists. It had only been a dream. Just a dream, a nightmare…

He shuddered convulsively. It had been so real. He could smell the brimstone from all the curses, hear the shouts, feel the despair knifing through him…

And Hermione… He suppressed another shudder and a half-sob at the very thought of what had happened to her, what she’d done for him…

He glanced at the clock by his bed where the time read, “Time for every sane person to be sleeping” and grimaced, the odd quirky sarcasm of the Wizarding clock he usually enjoyed irritating him now.

He wiped the remaining tears from his face, grabbing his glasses and putting them on with fingers that still trembled a little. He didn’t care what time it was or that he, of all people, shouldn’t wander around the castle at night. He needed to see Hermione, make sure that she was all right. Needed to reassure the part of his soul that was still cold with horror and grief, that it really had only been a nightmare…

Never had he been so grateful that Hermione had told him the password to her room, just in case, she’d said, if he ever needed anything. He hadn’t used it before, had felt uncomfortable about doing so, but tonight, any qualms were easily drowned out by the depth of his fear, the intensity of his need for reassurance.

He entered her room quietly, trying not to make a sound, slipping off his Invisibility Cloak once inside the room. He moved silently across her room to her bed until he could see her.

She had fallen asleep while studying, as she usually did. The Last, Best Line of Defense: An Index to Defensive Spells was lying open on the bed, by her hand. She was lying on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, a slight frown of concentration on her face even in sleep.

But her breathing was deep and regular, her blankets rising and falling with reassuring steadiness.

The sight and the sound of Hermione, sleeping soundly, sent a wave of relief coursing through him, so strong he felt his knees weaken and he sat down heavily in the chair beside her bed.

He’d known it was only a nightmare but it had been so vivid, so real, it had taken the sight of Hermione alive and well to fully dispel the hard knot of fear in his belly.

Even now his heart was still pounding from reaction to the nightmare, his mind haunted by visions of Hermione lying so pale and still on the ground.

Harry sighed softly, trying to relax back into the chair. He didn’t think there was much chance of him getting more sleep that night and for now, he wanted to watch Hermione sleep, the rhythm of her even breathing like music to his ears.

He felt a surge of gratitude that it really had only been a dream; his Hermione was alive… Gratitude and protectiveness. He couldn’t let anything happen to Hermione… He knew, now, just how much he needed her, how empty he would feel without her. Knew, with a certainty that not even his terrified reaction to her lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries in 5th year had given him. It had taken this nightmare to fully impress on him that Hermione was now the person he would miss the most, was the person he needed more than anyone else. Because he loved her…

He loved her… with a depth and intensity he’d never imagined he could feel for anyone… He loved her and he was suddenly immeasurably thankful for the nightmare that had made him aware of the truth of his feelings for her. Thankful that he knew and thankful that he would now be able to tell her.

Maybe he couldn’t guarantee her safety, much as every instinct in him rebelled at the mere idea of Hermione in danger, but he could at least make sure that whatever happened, Hermione knew he loved her…

No matter what happened, a repetition of tonight’s dream would not happen. If anything happened to Hermione, and his heart clenched at the very thought of it, she would go knowing he loved her…

As much as he knew she loved him… She’d never said it in so many words but he knew she did, knew she would give her life for him without a second’s thought. It was there in everything she did: the way she smiled at him, the way she worried about him, the way she tried in so many ways, both small and large, to comfort him when he was troubled.

He didn’t know how long it had been when he opened his eyes, surprised to find that he must have dozed off after all. The sun had risen and rays of sunlight were creeping across the floor of Hermione’s room, gradually illuminating Hermione’s still sleeping face.

A slight frown gathered her brows together as she moved one hand restlessly as if to block the light. Then slowly, her eyes opened and she moved to sit up.

“Harry! What are you doing here?” she started, finally seeing him. Just as quickly, a shadow darkened her eyes. “Is something wrong?” She studied his face in the revealing morning light, frowning at the dark circles under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much at all but more than that, there was a bleakness lingering in his eyes, as if he’d seen or experienced hell, and the sight made her grow cold with apprehension.

“I had a nightmare,” Harry began, unsure how to tell Hermione what had happened in his dream. “It- you- I mean…” He broke off, looking uncertain of himself.

“What happened in the nightmare, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was gentle, even as she straightened up and her gaze sharpened.

“I- you died,” Harry said, just above a whisper, a pained expression crossing his face as he studied the Hogwarts crest on the blanket as if he expected the House animals to suddenly begin moving.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. “I… see…” she breathed unsteadily.

Harry looked up then and met her eyes, his gaze intense. His voice was low, tense. “No, you don’t. Hermione, you died to save me… You- you pushed me out of the way of Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra. I- I felt like I’d died too.” The last sentence was spoken so softly Hermione could barely hear it.

“Oh Harry…” she breathed, compassion and understanding in her voice.

“Hermione, I- would you really do that for me?” He asked the question as if against his better judgment, a note of vulnerability in his tone.

It was, she thought with a surprising sense of calm, not a question one normally asked anyone or even thought of asking. Nor was it something one normally had thought about to be able to answer it.

But then, there never had been anything normal about Harry.

And so she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have to think; she knew. “Yes, in a heartbeat.” Her voice was quiet but there was conviction in it nevertheless.

Harry blinked back sudden tears, annoyed at his emotionalism but unable to help it. “I don’t know what to say,” he managed lamely. “Just ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem like enough,” he said, with an attempt at lightness that failed rather dismally.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just-” Hermione stopped then began again. “Just remember…”

“How could I forget?” Harry’s voice was quiet.

He was silent for a moment, his fingers fiddling with the edges of the blanket, before he looked up at Hermione, reaching over to take her hand. “There’s something else I need to tell you. The nightmare- what made it even worse was thinking that I’d never said, never told you…” He paused, seemed to take a breath before continuing, “I love you, Hermione. I- I didn’t even realize how much until I thought you were gone and I hadn’t told you. I love you,” he repeated softly.

Tears were glistening in her eyes as she looked at him. “Somehow, deep inside, I think I knew… Even when I thought I’d never hear you say it, part of me knew…” She shook her head slightly, trying to smile. “I guess that sounds silly.”

“No, it doesn’t. I needed you to know.”

Another silence fell as Harry moved his thumb over her hand in an idle caress, feeling a sense of calm settle over him.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was tentative as she remembered something else Harry had said. “You said it was Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra. What happened to him?”

Harry’s hand tightened a little convulsively. “I killed him,” he said bleakly. “I’ve never felt that way- so angry and sad and, well, murderous. I used the Energy Draining Curse and then I- I strangled him. My touch burned him again; you gave me a new protection- not my mother’s that Voldemort has…” He spoke jerkily, not looking at her, until Hermione suddenly stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Protection- burning- Harry, you’re brilliant!” Her voice was suddenly excited, sure, and he looked at her sharply.

“What is it?”

“The protection that love gives you- it hurts Voldemort and it’s his weakness; it always has been.” Hermione went on, more to herself than to him, before kissing him quickly, exultantly, on the lips, as she continued. “Giving your life for someone you love gives them a protection, in their blood… how to do that, a spell maybe…”

Suddenly Hermione was all action, throwing her school robes on over her pajamas. “I’m sorry, Harry, I need to go talk to Professor McGonagall and maybe Professor Flitwick; he might be able to help.”

Harry felt a real smile on his face for the first time in a while, seeing Hermione in full bookworm mode. This was the side of her he’d gotten to know first, the one he knew best perhaps.

She bent to kiss him again, quickly, on the lips, the gesture now almost habit between them whenever they were alone since that moment when she’d first kissed him and he’d realized the depth of her feelings for him. The kisses were never much more than pecks but they had become something of a reassuring symbol of comfort, of friendship, even as the line between friendship and something more than that was being blurred.

This time, though, his hands came up to frame her face, his lips lingering on hers as the kiss deepened. He felt her stiffen slightly in surprise before she relaxed into him.

The kiss ended slowly and they parted just enough to look at each other. Hermione’s face was flushed and he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

They didn’t speak; in that moment no words were necessary.

She smiled, kissed him again, and left her room with a last backward glance and smile at him, and he knew that she’d thought, as surely as if she’d said the words aloud, I love you too.

3. The Beginning of Hope

Disclaimer: See Part 1

A/N: Sorry it’s taken so long to update this. I would love to hear opinions on my take on what the power Voldemort knows not is.

For Demosthenes- thank you for all the reviews!

~No Greater Love~

Part 3: The Beginning of Hope

There was something very surreal about having to go on with a normal routine after a night that had been both so traumatizing and so- precious.

Harry felt odd, off-balance in some way, as he made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast later.

He had lingered in Hermione’s room after she’d left, partly because he didn’t feel like returning to his solitary room – there were times when being Head Boy and having a room of his own was more curse than blessing—but also because he had simply wanted to stay. Wanted to stay in the room that, even in her absence, was somehow a place of comfort. He liked to see the stack of library books she had piled up next to the desk, the neat rolls of parchment covered in Hermione’s familiar neat handwriting. The little things that spoke of the room being lived in, her scarf hanging from a hook by the door, her open trunk in one corner. All the little things that proclaimed, especially to him who knew her so well, “Hermione Granger lives here.” So he’d lingered.

He thought he felt some curious glances as he sat down at the Gryffindor table and wondered if he looked different. Could people see that he’d had a dream that was quite literally life-changing? Was there something about him that said that someone loved him enough to die for him? It almost felt as if there should be some tangible visible sign of it. Surely such a love as Hermione’s couldn’t just leave him unchanged…

His somewhat confused thoughts were interrupted when Ron arrived, sitting in his usual spot across from Harry.

“Morning, Harry,” he said, reaching for some bacon and eggs. “Where’s Hermione?”

“She needed to talk to McGonagall,” he answered absently, his mind suddenly registering that McGonagall was absent from the Head Table.

Ron paused in the act of bringing a piece of toast to his mouth. “You’ve seen Hermione already?”

Harry blinked slightly. “Why did you ask me where Hermione is if you don’t expect me to know the answer?”

It was Ron’s turn to blink, look a little confused. “I don’t know,” he finally said slowly. “I guess it’s just habit. And then you usually know where she is, anyway, although how you keep track of her is beyond me.”

Harry shrugged slightly in response. He did usually know where Hermione was; he was just attuned to her, paid attention to her…

He glanced at the entrance to the Great Hall as the door opened to admit a group of Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaw prefect.

He wondered what Hermione and Professor McGonagall were talking about, what they would be able to make of his nightmare… He hadn’t quite understood what Hermione had meant in her somewhat incoherent explanations earlier but if there was one thing in this world he trusted completely, it was Hermione and her cleverness. She’d said she had an idea so he believed her, and believed, too, that her idea would save his life, somehow… Hermione had already saved his life so many times and she would do so again… Hermione and his faith in her, was the one constant in his life. It was what had made the nightmare so horrifically real; he knew somehow that such a sacrifice on Hermione’s part could happen. Knew it and he hated the knowledge that because of him, Hermione was risking so much…

But then almost immediately, he could hear her voice in his mind, “It’s my choice to make, my risk to take…” He sighed softly, almost as if he were already having this conversation with Hermione, responding mentally, I know it is, but I hate the idea of it. I hate knowing you’re in danger because of me. I- I don’t know what I’d do without you…

“Oi, earth to Harry!” Ron waved a muffin in front of Harry’s face and he started back.

“Huh, what?”

Ron shook his head slightly as he buttered his muffin. “What’s the long face for?”

“I- uh- Another nightmare,” Harry explained quietly.

Ron sobered. “V-V- You-know-Who?”

Harry nodded, not saying anything more. He didn’t need to say more; Ron knew how his nightmares of Voldemort tended to drain him. And this particular nightmare- he didn’t know how to tell anyone else what had happened, or even if he wanted to. It was still too vivid in his memory, too intensely personal a memory to want to share it.

He only glanced up when Ron stood, cramming a last muffin into his mouth and swallowing it with a gulp of pumpkin juice. “Come on, Harry, time for class.”

Harry had Potions first today, while Ron headed off to Muggle Studies, a class he’d finally agreed to take after much badgering on Hermione’s part and encouragement from his father.

He grimaced as he headed down to the dungeons. He really was not in the mood to deal with Snape’s dour grimness or blatant favoritism. At least, Hermione would be there. It was the only thing that kept him sane in N.E.W.T. Potions, her presence taking the edge off of Snape’s harshness.

Where was Hermione? The question repeated itself in his mind over and over again, with growing urgency as slowly but surely the time until Potions was going to begin was reached. And still no Hermione.

He saw Snape look at the empty seat beside him with a glint of quite obvious satisfaction in his eyes as he marked something down in his notebook. Harry didn’t need to see it to guess that Snape had just marked points off from Gryffindor for Hermione being late. And for once, he was too curious over where Hermione could have gone after her meeting with McGonagall to care overly much about Snape’s unhidden enjoyment of taking points from Gryffindor. Where was she? Surely her meeting with McGonagall couldn’t have gone on so long; she’d left her room more than an hour ago! But then it was as unlike Hermione to be late for a class as it would be for Ron to start singing Snape’s praises.

The door opened and he looked up, expecting to see Hermione, no doubt with some perfectly valid reason for why she was late but saw, to his shock, Dobby.

He heard the vague murmur of surprise go around the room at seeing a house-elf interrupt a class of all things and a class taught by Snape at that. But Dobby, for once, didn’t bow or greet Harry with his usual enthusiasm. He sent Harry a glance out of his big round eyes but bowed instead to Snape.

“Dobby is sorry, sir, for interrupting but the Headmistress- she asked me to bring this note to you.” Dobby held up a sheet of parchment which Snape took with a look of ill-concealed surprise.

Dobby bowed again, glanced again at Harry and then backed hurriedly out of the dungeon.

Harry’s attention was fixed on the note Snape was now reading, with a very disagreeable expression on his face. And somehow he knew that the note was excusing Hermione; he couldn’t quite explain why he was so sure of this but he was. Hermione must still be talking with McGonagall over her idea. He felt a surge of hope. They must have thought of something; nothing less significant could have induced Hermione to skip a class or McGonagall to allow it and excuse it moreover.

He remembered Hermione’s hurried words before she left- The protection that love gives you- it hurts Voldemort and it’s his weakness; it always has been. Giving your life for someone you love gives them a protection, in their blood… how to do that, a spell maybe…

Had they found a spell to duplicate that effect? Could it even be done? He was so used to thinking of his fight with Voldemort as being the last thing he did, so used to thinking he was going to die fighting Voldemort that the hope he felt, tentative as it was, felt alien and strange. He couldn’t let himself hope too much—shouldn’t let himself hope too much. His faith in Hermione notwithstanding, he wouldn’t hope too much…

“Very well,” Snape’s sneering voice cut into his thoughts, “since Miss Granger has decided there are more important things than passing her Potions N.E.W.T, we will continue without her. Mr. Potter, you will be partnered with Mr. Malfoy today.”

Harry suppressed his instinctive grimace and changed seats, ignoring Malfoy’s malicious smirk and the Slytherins’ triumph. This was going to be the longest Potions class ever.

Harry left the dungeons in a rush, partly to escape Snape’s harsh criticisms, even harsher it seemed without Hermione’s calming presence by his side to take the sting off, but mostly because he needed to know. The last hour in Potions had been an eternity; he could have sworn several times that time had simply stopped, and he’d be stuck there in the Hell that was the dungeons forever. Until finally, Snape had dismissed them with a last sneering glance at him.

Transfiguration was next after a break of a half-hour so he hurried up the stairs and down the corridors that led to the Headmistress’s office.

He panted out the password, “Josephine Damling” (the name of one of the earliest Headmistresses of Hogwarts, Hermione had told him) and then rushed up the stairs and into the office, forgetting even to knock.

McGonagall and Hermione looked up when he burst into the room and for once, McGonagall didn’t sizzle him with a reproving glance or insist he stepped outside again and entered properly after knocking. Instead she only said, her tone dry, “Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter. I’ve been wondering when you would show up.”

He flushed slightly at her tone but could only say, honestly, “Sorry, Professor, but I had to know…”

He met Hermione’s eyes and knew she understood, seeing in them also an apology for not being in Potions, knowing how much he must have hated it without her there. He smiled slightly at her before sitting down in the chair next to hers, looking curiously at the old and yellowed parchments spread out on the desk between McGonagall and Hermione. It was covered in symbols and some odd alphabet he only vaguely remembered seeing in some of Hermione’s Arithmancy textbooks and old history books.

McGonagall relented enough to nod at him. “Very well then. You do have more right to know all this than anyone else, after all.”

She paused, her gaze moving from Harry to Hermione with an uncharacteristic softness in her eyes. “You should count yourself fortunate to have such a friend as Miss Granger.”

Harry relaxed a little for the first time in Professor McGonagall’s presence, enough that he moved his hand to cover Hermione’s resting on the desk, feeling her little intake of breath at this gesture and sensing her surprise. He hardly ever initiated any sort of physical contact with people and certainly not in public; he wasn’t quite comfortable with it but somehow, at this moment, none of that mattered. Not now, not in the aftermath of his nightmare and soul-deep recognition of his feelings for Hermione. He couldn’t quite explain it; all he knew was that he could- he needed to- show some of what he felt for Hermione even through this, the smallest of gestures and caresses. “I do,” was all he said, quietly, in response. But the sincerity of his softly spoken words was clear and somehow changed the atmosphere in the office.

He saw Professor McGonagall glance at his hand covering Hermione’s and when she looked back up at them, there was a subtle difference in her demeanor, a sudden flicker of—could it be hope?—in her eyes before she resumed her usual brisk tone.

“Miss Granger was hoping that there was some sort of spell which could give you the same power over Voldemort that your mother’s sacrifice first did, the one which saved your life and made your touch painful to him.” She paused before continuing, speaking slowly and deliberately, her gaze holding Harry’s. “She suggested, and rightly in my opinion, that this power which Voldemort knows not, is at its most basic level, the power of self-sacrifice. It is the power not simply of love- as powerful a force as that can be- but the power of a love so deep and so true that a person will risk everything without a second thought for that beloved person.” She paused again, now looking at Hermione, although she still ostensibly addressed Harry, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it. “It was the power of your mother’s sacrifice in her last moment of life and it was that same feeling, the willingness to risk all which had the combined effort of sending you to the Department of Mysteries in your 5th year and which sent Sirius Black to follow you.”

He flinched involuntarily at the mention of Sirius and what had happened at the Department of Mysteries, feeling his heart clench as it always did at the thought of his godfather. Sirius…

He felt Hermione’s hand squeeze his and returned the pressure, feeling a surge of gratitude and yes, love, at this silent gesture of support and sympathy. And realized yet again how glad he was (inadequate as any words were to describe the depth of his relief) that Hermione had survived that encounter in the Department of Mysteries. Sirius’s loss had devastated him; he missed his godfather every day, missed him and mourned him. But he knew now that Hermione’s loss would kill him. There was no real life without her by his side; he needed her… Needed her as much as he needed oxygen, food, water… Without her, there was nothing; he was nothing…

McGonagall nodded at Hermione who continued, as he turned to face her, his hand still holding hers. “I thought that there had to be some way of invoking that power without the actual death of someone, some sort of spell possibly. I asked Professor McGonagall and we think we might have found something that will work. Professor McGonagall needs to look into it further and consult with Professor Flitwick and the Order but we think we’ve found something!” Her voice rose slightly at the end, betraying her own hope and excitement.

McGonagall coughed, interrupting. “Yes. However, I would caution you both not to allow yourselves to hope for miracles. This spell is not only very ancient, dating back almost to the beginning of magical times, but requires a great deal of skill and magical ability, which makes it nearly impossible for even the most highly trained wizards to perform. There has actually never been a recorded instance of this spell being performed successfully so it would not do to hope too much.”

Harry nodded almost numbly. He couldn’t quite believe it. A spell that might allow him to defeat Voldemort… He was almost afraid of the surge of hope he couldn’t help but feel. Even the stirrings of hope he’d felt before were nothing to this; they had been vague, unfocused. This was different; this was real, almost tangible. An actual spell.

McGonagall glanced at the clock and straightened, her usual crisp demeanor back in place. “For now, you both must promise not to mention a word of this to anyone else, including Mr. Weasley. We must not allow ourselves to talk of this with any certainty.” She looked pointedly at both of them, adding, “I trust you understand.”

“Yes, Professor, of course,” Hermione spoke first.

Harry nodded again. Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone about it- wasn’t sure he could. Not quite yet. The hope was still too new, too frail, to put into words.

Professor McGonagall nodded her approval and then said, briskly, “Very well then. It is nearly time for class to begin so I will see you both then.”

Harry and Hermione both stood up and were about to leave when McGonagall added, “Oh and Miss Granger, good work.” The corner of her lips twitched in what might have been called a smile.

Hermione flushed. “Thank you, Professor,” she said quietly, “but I didn’t really do anything. Harry gave me the idea for it.”

It was Harry’s turn to feel himself color as he looked at Hermione. It was so like her to disclaim any credit. For all her occasional bossiness and her tendency to think she was always right (although to do her justice, she usually was), she was also modest.

He squeezed her hand (which he still held, somehow reluctant to let go) and they left the Headmistress’s Office together.

“What did I miss in Potions today?” Hermione asked, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “Was Snape mad?”

He shrugged it off. “We covered the Feverous Potion today. He was annoyed, yes, but what could he do when you had a note from McGonagall?” There was no need to mention that Snape had seemed to take particular pleasure in tormenting him that day, seeming to know that without Hermione (and especially with Malfoy as his partner, smirking and sneering the entire time) any barbs which Snape sent his way stung all the more.

Hermione didn’t look very reassured by his casual response but refrained from commenting. He knew she was wondering how Snape had taken his annoyance out on him; she knew what Snape could be like, and he managed to smile at her.

They were silent for a moment, a comfortable silence though, until he asked, quietly, “Do you think I can do this?”

She stopped to look at him, lifting her free hand to touch his cheek softly. “I believe in you, Harry. I don’t know if this spell will be the one you end up using but whatever happens, I believe in you. And you can and you will win in the end. I believe that, above all, have never doubted it.” She spoke softly but there was a world of confidence, of faith, in her tone and in her eyes.

She believed in him. Such a powerful statement somehow. Even if he doubted himself (which he did), wasn’t sure of his own strength or his own abilities- she believed in him. And he trusted her, believed her. And that gave him more confidence in himself.

Maybe, he thought, after all, her greatest gift to him was just this: her faith in him which gave him strength and made him believe… Her faith in him that allowed him to hope…

4. The Promise

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Notes: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far!

No Greater Love

Chapter 4: The Promise

The next three weeks were sheer torture for Harry.

He tried not to wonder about whatever spell it was which McGonagall was looking into, but for the obvious reasons, couldn’t help himself from thinking about it.

What was the spell? What did it involve? Would it even work? Would he be able to perform it? Would it involve any risk for anyone else? (And that one consideration gave him considerable pause. He didn’t want anyone else to be in danger for him, didn’t want to even think about Hermione being in danger because of him. His worst fear—and the likelihood of it occurring seemed to be staring him in the face every day.)

It was made worse because he couldn’t even tell Ron, which left him with a nagging sense of guilt, as if he were somehow betraying Ron and their friendship by not telling him of something so potentially important. He still remembered Ron’s anger (mingled with horror and fear) when he’d finally told Ron of the Prophecy last year, the sense that he’d betrayed their years of friendship by keeping something so vital from Ron, that he hadn’t trusted Ron enough. It had bothered him for a while, the implication that he might not trust Ron as much as he should. But a lack of trust wasn’t the problem, never really had been. It was only an instinctive reluctance to involve Ron and Hermione further than they already were in the dangers of his life, a sense that, whatever else, this was his task to perform and his alone…

When McGonagall finally asked him, Hermione, and Ron this time too, to come to a meeting in the Transfiguration classroom after dinner, he knew something was finally happening. His heart seemed to have taken residence in his throat and he was thankful for Hermione’s steadying presence by his side, her hand slipping into his to give it a reassuring squeeze.

He opened the door and stopped short. From just behind him, Ron’s surprised cry of “Mum! Dad! What--” mingled with his own croak, “Remus!” forgetting for the first time, to call him Professor Lupin as he still did, from force of habit.

The three adults along with Professor McGonagall, who had been talking quietly, looked up and for the first time in his memory, neither the Weasleys nor Remus smiled in greeting. They looked tense, worried. Mrs. Weasley looked as if she were fighting back tears as she said, in an oddly restrained voice, “Hello, Ron, Harry, Hermione.”

“Well, come in, you three,” McGonagall’s brisk tones interrupted and somehow her crisp demeanor, as familiar as it was, shook them all out of the strange mood of vague apprehension.

He sat down in his usual seat in Transfiguration out of habit, Ron next to him and Hermione on his other side, also as they usually did in class. The tight knot of foreboding in his throat, that had eased a little, returned full-force as he looked at Professor McGonagall’s solemn expression and the worried ones of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Remus.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminably long time to him but was really only a few moments, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and began. “I asked you here because you are the people who will be most involved in the effort to defeat Voldemort. Mr. Potter, your presence of course goes without question; Mr. Weasley’s and Miss Granger’s presence is nearly as certain as Mr. Potter’s. Molly, Arthur, Remus,” she looked at each of them in turn, “you are here, as I was explaining earlier, because of your relationship to Harry, your affection for him.”

She paused briefly before continuing, speaking slowly as if she were carefully considering her words. “As some of you know, Miss Granger came to me several weeks ago with an idea that somehow a spell may be able to duplicate the protective effects of Harry’s mother’s sacrifice on Voldemort, both in making it painful for him to touch Harry but also, possibly, shield Harry once again from the Killing Curse. With Miss Granger’s assistance, I found one record of a spell that may have a similar effect and have been looking into it since then. I believe this may be the single best hope we have at this moment. Before I continue, I must explain, however, that this is both extremely advanced magic and requires not only a high level of concentration but a strength of will and of feeling to make this at all effective. The last time this spell was attempted with success was in Godric Gryffindor’s final confrontation against Salazar Slytherin.”

She paused and Harry felt the dread inside him increase exponentially at her last revelation. Not since Gryffindor himself had this spell been performed successfully! Oh God, then what chance did he have?

Beside him, he felt Ron’s tension, saw the way he began absently cracking his knuckles. On his other side, he could sense Hermione’s growing nervousness mixed with something else, something that somehow eased his own fear: trust. Trust in him. She believed, even after hearing that the spell hadn’t been successfully performed since the Founders’ time, that he could do this. She believed…

But McGonagall was still speaking. “And here is where all of you may play a part. This spell involves, at its most basic level, a transfer of magical power temporarily from one person to another, increasing the potency of any spell the recipient of that power casts in that time period. It only works, however, when the persons involved share a strong connection, when one person is willing to sacrifice everything, risk everything, for the sake of the other. Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Molly, Arthur, Remus, I believe you all are the people in this world who care the most for Mr. Potter, who would be willing to take such a risk. I must warn you that this is exceedingly dangerous for both the recipient and the giver of power and has, more often than not, resulted in either the death or complete mental incapacity of one, if not both, of the parties. Your decisions do not need to be made immediately. I can give you all a few days to consider the risk you will be taking and whether you’re willing to take it, without any guarantee of success.”

There was silence.

Remus had made a strangled sound of surprise when McGonagall explained the spell and both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had caught their breath sharply. Ron said nothing but Harry could feel the tension in him increase ten-fold. Hermione was the only one in whom there’d been no reaction, either visible or otherwise.

The silence stretched out heavily. Harry looked from his former professor, to the closest things to parents he’d known, his best friend, and Hermione, his dearer-than-friend, and swallowed hard. God, how could he ask this of them? He couldn’t let them risk so much, put themselves in so much danger just for his sake, even if the defeat of Voldemort was at stake; he couldn’t!

Hermione was the first one to break the silence, her quiet voice sounding as loud as an exploding firecracker would have been, in the tense silence. “I’ll do it.”

He sucked in his breath sharply at the certainty in her voice, filled with an odd sense of surprise even though he knew, now, just what she would do for him. She’d told him so herself, just weeks ago, that she would die for him. Why, then, was he surprised? And yet he was. As if hearing her promise before, when it had been vague, general, had somehow meant less than this certain commitment to putting her life at risk for his sake…

McGonagall showed no surprise, only nodded. And no one questioned her decision; the strength of her certainty had been clear in her voice when she said those three words, committing herself.

“I’ll do it,” Remus spoke, equally quietly, looking not at McGonagall but at Harry, with an odd look in his eyes as if he saw not just Harry but James’ and Lily’s spirits hovering behind their son. He sat up straight in his chair and for the first time, Harry, looking at his former professor, saw past the premature gray in his hair, the worn robes, the look of fatigue in his face, to the strength, both physical and mental, in Remus Lupin. And realized suddenly just how much courage and resilience it must take for Remus to have endured his transformations every month, the fear and rejection of most of wizarding society, and the loss of the only true friends he’d ever had. Remus said nothing more but at that moment, he looked what he was, a powerful wizard and a strong man with a force of will few could have guessed at— despite his usual gentle attitude and his humor.

Again, McGonagall didn’t question the decision, only nodding, and there was, in her gaze as she considered her former pupil, a gleam of respect and approval.

She looked at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and said gravely, “If you both decide you are willing, I warn you that it would be wisest for only one of you to actually perform the spell. In case something goes wrong, you have other children to think of. I cannot, as the teacher of all of your children, possibly permit both of you to take such an immense risk. It is, however, a decision you must make together. I will leave you to consider,” she finished, standing and turning to leave.

Remus, Harry and Hermione stood up automatically, going to follow McGonagall and allow the Weasleys privacy, and were halfway to the door when Mrs. Weasley spoke up.

They could hear unshed tears in her voice but her tone was sure. “We’ll do it.”

Oh God! Harry swallowed hard, feeling a rush of emotion inside him.

They all turned to look at her. She stood up straight, somehow looking dignified despite her plump figure in her shabby, everyday working robes. Her hand was on Mr. Weasley’s shoulder. “I will do it,” she repeated.

Mr. Weasley nodded, his expression more solemn than Harry had ever seen it.

Harry looked at Ron now and for a moment, their eyes met. Ron, don’t do this, he found himself irrationally thinking.

He didn’t know if he could bear knowing that everyone he cared about in the world would be putting themselves in danger for him, that their lives literally depended on whatever strength he had. Oh, no, no, no, no, no…

He didn’t even dream of trying to convince Hermione to change her mind; he knew she wouldn’t listen. He didn’t feel he could ask Remus and Mrs. Weasley to change theirs; they were older than he was, had seen and experienced so much more, and Remus was doing it not only for his sake, but for his parents, for Sirius. His throat closed at the thought of his godfather.

But Ron, the first friend he’d made… He had a sudden memory of Dobby, squealing frantically, “Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!... Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy… The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!...” And even though he knew, now, that Hermione would be what he missed most, he felt the same sheer dismay of that afternoon well up inside him. Ron—he couldn’t lose Ron… As he looked at his best friend in that one oddly drawn-out moment, memories from the past 6 years of friendship flickered through his mind. Meeting Ron on the Hogwarts Express; Ron saying, “Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go alone?” before he went through the trapdoor at the end of 1st year; Ron saying fiercely despite the strain on his face, “If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”; Ron yelling angrily at Karkaroff after the First Task, “What? Four? You lousy biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!”…

And he saw the decision in Ron’s eyes before Ron opened his mouth and said, “Me too.”

Oh God…

“So be it,” McGonagall said, with an air of finality.

He looked at these people he cared so much for, their familiar faces, these people who had just committed themselves to risking everything for his sake, and felt a surge of emotion well up inside him, closing his throat and filling his mind until all he could hear was the sound of their voices, I’ll do it… They had agreed, for him, tacitly acknowledging that they loved him enough in their own ways to sacrifice everything without a second’s thought, as Hermione had told him that terrible, wonderful dawn three weeks ago… And suddenly it seemed to him as if the room was closing in around him, stifling him with the weight of his destiny, the lives which these people had just committed to him, for his sake.

He felt himself take a step back automatically, a strangled “No, I can’t!” emerging from his stiff lips when what he meant was, You can’t. I don’t want you to do this for me. He needed to get out, get away, couldn’t bear to look at these people when all he could think of was that they had just said they were willing to die for his sake. Something inside him broke and he turned and ran, needing to be outside, needing to be away. Ran as if he could somehow outrun the weight of this destiny.

He ignored the sound of Remus calling him back, “Harry!”; McGonagall’s sharper command, “Mr. Potter!”; the appeal in Hermione’s voice, “Harry!” and ran, until he was outside of the castle, ran without knowing exactly where he was going until he found himself approaching Hagrid’s hut when he slowed down finally.

Hagrid, another friend he’d lost to Voldemort, loyal to the end to Dumbledore… Hagrid who had insisted on remaining behind, disobeying Dumbledore’s orders for the first time until Dumbledore had relented, after making sure Harry reached the comparative safety of the other members of the Order… Hagrid, who had introduced him to the wizarding world, first defied the Dursleys for his sake, told him the truth about his parents…

He took a gulping breath of the cool evening air, letting it clear his mind and forcibly trying to calm himself so he could return. He knew he had to return. Knew he had to accept that this spell was going to be attempted. He was struggling against something inevitable. He had seen it in Remus and in the Weasleys when they’d spoken, had felt it in Hermione.

But he couldn’t help the rebellion building inside him, the helpless frustration. He should be able to find some way to defeat Voldemort without involving anyone else! It was mainly because of him that Voldemort was targeting any of them, anyway; it was his fault. He should be the one to defeat Voldemort on his own.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t; he knew he wasn’t strong enough or powerful enough on his own. And he hated the knowledge, hated himself for not being able to do this alone…

“Harry.” He wasn’t surprised to hear her voice, had been expecting them to send someone to follow him. Had been expecting her because she was naturally the person he turned to for comfort and people knew it.

Somehow the warmth, the sympathy in her voice, bothered him more than anything else and he whirled on her, his hands gripping her shoulders hard. “I can’t ask you to do this for me!” he choked hoarsely. “I can’t!”

“You’re not asking. We’re volunteering,” Hermione countered, her voice gentle but firm nonetheless. “Harry, you know you can’t do this alone. We were never going to let you be alone anyway; this spell is only confirming that.”

“It’s too risky. You could die, Hermione! And I- I can’t risk losing you! You- you mean too much to me. I- I need you too much…” His voice cracked from the intensity of his emotion, his guilt, his fear. “I- you- mmph.”

She cut his words off with her lips, flattening herself against him, kissing him hard, as if she could somehow absorb all his guilt, all his fear, into herself. He stiffened then clutched her tightly, his arms closing around her with stunning force.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, eyes wide. But as she looked at him, she knew, somehow, that he was calmer now, as if their kiss had sapped him of his anger and his despair.

“We’re staying with you, Harry,” she said simply.

He allowed his shoulders to slump slightly, accepting the truth of her words. “I know,” he admitted softly. “And it tears me up inside but I can’t do this without you.”

She could see in his eyes just what it cost him to have to admit that and she felt a surge of love well up inside her, filling her heart and mind. But she said nothing more, knew he understood even without words. Instead she only said, “We should be getting back inside. They’re waiting for you.”

“I know.”

They started back towards the castle in silence and as they walked, Harry slipped his hand into hers, holding it tightly in his.

And somehow, in that moment, she knew, knew with a certainty that went to her soul and didn’t admit even the shadow of a doubt, that this spell, no matter how advanced it was, would work and it would save him. Nothing powered with so much selfless love could fail… And no power on this earth, including Voldemort’s, could stand against this, the power which Harry had in himself already and which would be strengthened further by what this spell would give him: the power that came from willingly risking everything, giving everything, for the sake of another person…

5. The Power

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author’s Note: In this chapter, I do something I’ve never actually done in any of my fics- involve the Founders. You’ll notice, also, that I’ve mentioned two Founder ships; to be honest, I don’t ship the Founders for the simple reason that I can’t ship characters who are basically non-existent in canon but I’ve written it into this fic for the simple reason that 1. I thought it’d be more dramatic and 2. that’s what my muses came up with. My muses also being to blame for the somewhat disjointed style of this chapter…

I think, at this point, there will be one more chapter and that will be it for this fic.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. And enjoy!

~No Greater Love~

Part 5: The Power

The Year 1036

They had been brothers once.

The two men so similar in so many ways, one dark, one fair, two sides of the same coin, as they had joked. They had eaten together, drank together, laughed together, grown older together, fought side-by-side… And they had created their dream together, a school to teach children the principles of magic.

The man stared broodingly out the window at the encroaching dusk, seeing not the darkness but himself, in days past, and Salazar, once his friend and brother, now his enemy.

Salazar, the pale one to his dark, whose hair had once been blond, the color of wheat and gradually, as his mind turned more and more to solitude and the arrogance that had always been his primary flaw, become paler, losing all color until it had become what it was today, so pale it was nearly white. Whose cool blue eyes also had once been alive, warm with friendship and humor and their shared purpose and now were cold, the blue of ice… Salazar had always been the proud one, the hard one, reserved, keeping his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself and sharing them only sparingly with them, his three closest friends, and with her… The one softening influence, who balanced his coolness with her warmth, softened his harshness with her understanding… Strange, that such opposites had attracted and yet fitting, too.

But that had been before… Before the beginning of the rift, the slow deepening of their fundamental difference, their polarizing opinion of the equality of witches and wizards regardless of birth or blood…

And now, he stood at the brink of the precipice. Himself on one side, defending not just his principles but the school which they had founded a decade ago… And on the other, Salazar, challenging their principles, mocking their belief in equality…

They had been brothers once… Now, enemies…

He sensed her presence before she spoke, her voice soft. “Are you indeed determined to face him then, Godric?”

His reply was brief, terse. “Aye.”

She sighed and nodded. She had known what he would say. “So be it. But as you are determined to go alone, we will assist you with what we can. You know you cannot defeat him alone. You, better than anyone, know his powers. He is as you are, equal. You cannot do this alone.”

“I must.”

She moved further into the room, putting a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he turned to look at her.

“If I fall facing him, then so be it. I would rather die at the hands of one whom I know to be my equal and a worthy foe, than long years from now, waiting for age and infirmity to overtake me.”

“You will not fall because you will not be facing him with your strength alone,” she countered. “You will be alone in body, perhaps, but not in spirit. Helga and I have prepared a spell that will strengthen you. All that we have, we will give to you.”

A frown creased his brow. “You cannot do such a thing.” There was a command in his voice.

She faced him steadily, her chin lifting slightly, her gaze unfaltering. “We can and we will. You cannot stop us.”

For a moment, their gazes clashes, two powerful wills struggling. Until finally, he conceded. “Very well.”

Her gaze softened, her hand moving from his shoulder to comb through his black hair with a gentle caress. “You are defending not just your principles but ours as well and the future of every Hogwarts student. We have the right to assist you in this cause.”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You are right.” He paused, the faintest of smiles lifting the corners of his lips. “As usual.”

She smiled and he bent his head to claim her lips, kissing her firmly, and felt, as he always did in her presence, his tension easing. She was the rational side, balancing out his impulsive nature, her calm presence of mind matching his reckless courage. Where he was weak, she was strong; where she was weak, he gave her strength. She was his friend, his true partner, his love…

It was time.

He faced them, his oldest, truest friends and partners in this school which they had founded to realize their vision.

Rowena stood tall, her brown hair pulled back, her brown eyes clear and filled with all the strength of her will. Helga stood beside her, her long light brown hair flowing loose, her blue eyes warm but also filled with her own brand of courage and determination.

His gaze paused on Helga, softening as he recognized the difficulty of her position. “I am sorry, Helga,” he said softly, “for putting you in this position, assisting me to defeat the one you love.” He deliberately used the word ‘defeat’ and not ‘kill’ although they all knew that defeat would come only with death. It had come to this. Two men, once brothers, and now neither could live while the other survived…

Helga shook her head though a flicker of pain shadowed her eyes for a moment. “No. The Salazar I knew and loved no longer exists; he has become someone else, only Slytherin, lord of his own mistaken beliefs. And so I can do this freely. If, in risking so much, I can help this school, the price will not have been too high.” She straightened, lifting her chin, adding an undeniable dignity to her still-youthful face. “What I have, I give to you.”

“And I,” Rowena declared.

He nodded, acknowledging this, his hazel eyes thanking them for what they were about to do.

Helga spoke first, her wand hand steady as she pointed her wand at him. “Begun with the love of a sister and friend… Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

And then Rowena, her eyes full of love and courage… “It is completed by the love of a life-partner… Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

He felt the surge of sheer magic enter inside him, filling him, and gasped from the power of it, opening his eyes to look first at Helga and then at Rowena, before he said the words to complete the transfer of power. “Expecto potestas.”

~*~*~*~

April 1998

It was time.

Harry stared around at the people he cared about most, wondering if he was ever going to see them again.

The atmosphere was tense. It seemed as if McGonagall’s quiet, solemn words were echoing through the air somehow, creating invisible ripples disturbing the otherwise almost deathly calm.

“You all understand what this spell entails,” she had said, her gaze touching each of them in turn. “You are transferring all your magical abilities, your special strengths, along with the not-inconsiderable force of your affection for Mr. Potter into him, thereby increasing his own innate power. But in doing so, you are committing yourself to feeling all the pain which he feels twice over.” She paused then continued. “If, for example, the Cruciatus Curse is cast on Mr. Potter, you will all feel it as well and feel it to a greater extent. This is, in fact, possibly the reason this spell has never been undertaken successfully since the time of Godric Gryffindor; suffering the agonies of multiple curses to a greater degree than what they would normally produce can very easily reduce the strongest of witches and wizards to a mindless state. And I’m sure I do not need to remind any of you that it is very likely, indeed probable, that Voldemort will inflict the Cruciatus Curse on Mr. Potter at least once before actually attempting to kill him.”

He had sucked in his breath sharply at those words, swallowing back the shout of protest that again rose in his throat at the idea of these people, of Hermione, suffering the Cruciatus on his behalf. How could he let them do it? How could he let her do this, risk so much?

And yet he knew even as he thought the questions frantically that he had no choice. He had to. They had all made their choice and even now, with the stark reality of their decision staring them in the faces, none of them flinched or looked at all less certain of their commitment.

Remus, Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Hermione… They were all pale but their expressions were set. There was a grim determination in Remus’ eyes and stance. Mrs. Weasley had tears in her eyes but there was an equally unfaltering expression on her face. Ron- Ron looked as if he were staring Aragog and all his children in the face about to enter their lair but despite the apprehension, the fear widening his eyes, there was a certain something, a look that this was something he needed to do, which told Harry just how certain he was.

And Hermione… The thought of her in pain squeezed his heart until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think except to feel horror, horror that chilled his very soul at the thought of Hermione suffering, screaming, crying… But she too was determined. There was a glint in her eyes that he recognized from long ago, the look in her eyes she always got when she was talking about issues she was passionate about, the implacable look she had had when talking about the rights of house elves… And for this, she cared even more than she ever had about house-elves and their freedom. There wasn’t a trace of doubt or uncertainty in her expression; there was only confidence and, as she looked at him, a depth of loyalty, of love, that almost took his breath away.

They were all doing this willingly, for his sake, because they- they loved him in their different ways. He heard in his mind a vague echo of Professor Trelawney’s eerie voice saying, the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… Power the Dark Lord knows not… Power…

Power. He already had some, whatever strange power it was which had allowed him to survive so far, a power he didn’t understand. And he was about to be given more power, the power of sacrifice…

He suddenly knew, knew deep down in his soul with a certainty that admitted no doubt, that Hermione had been right. This- this truly was the Power the Prophecy spoke of, this willingness on the part of these people to risk their magical ability, their sanity, their lives, everything, just for him…

He hated the idea that he needed to put these people he cared about so much at risk but again he heard the part of his mind that spoke in Hermione’s voice explaining, we were already at risk, targets simply because we were close to you. This spell puts us in no more actual danger than we already were in and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter. We would still do this, for you.

He looked around at these people again and though normally he cringed at the idea of talking about his feelings (years as the Dursleys’ personal slave hardly acknowledged to have feelings, let alone a right to them, didn’t encourage a willingness to talk about personal things), right now, none of that mattered. Saying thank you was hardly adequate for the magnitude of the sacrifice, the risk, these four people were taking for his sake. No, he couldn’t just say, thank you. What he could say, what he did say was, his voice slightly hoarse from emotion and nervousness, “I love you all, you know.”

Professor McGonagall pretended to have gone deaf, ignoring this.

Remus smiled slightly for the first time since entering the room, his gaze softening. “I know you do, Harry.”

Mrs. Weasley valiantly blinked back tears. “Of course you do, dear boy,” she said in an attempt at her normal demeanor that fell rather flat thanks to the quiver in her voice.

Ron swallowed, his face suddenly as red as his ears. His mouth opened, then closed and he shifted, looking as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

Hermione… God, Hermione… His heart clenched again with an odd mixture of love, fear, hope, dread… Every nerve in his body was screaming that he couldn’t possibly do this to her, couldn’t possibly let her risk so much because if she was somehow hurt and he survived, it would kill him. He knew it.

He felt himself walking toward her, without having consciously decided to do so, his hands taking hers, gripping them tightly. “I-” he stopped, not sure what he was going to say, what he could say right now.

There were sudden tears in her eyes which she blinked back furiously. “I know, Harry, I know,” she said softly.

And then McGonagall interrupted. “It is time. We mustn’t delay any longer.”

He gulped, his grip tightening on her hands, and then gave her a quick kiss on the lips, not even caring that everyone saw it.

It was time.

He stepped back as the others moved into their positions around him, forming a sort of circle facing him, with McGonagall standing to the side, watching.

They all knew what to do now.

McGonagall waved her wand, muttered a few words and instantly, a circle appeared on the floor, its outline glowing faintly, two lines crossing through the center of the circle where he stood and meeting the circle at 4 points on opposite ends, where Mrs. Weasley, Remus, Ron and Hermione stood. It was what was known as a Spell-Caster’s Circle, used sometimes for old wizarding rituals, creating a special magical environment to enhance the spells performed inside its influence.

McGonagall began, her voice sounding oddly disembodied from its solemnity.

“Begun with the love of a mother…”

Mrs. Weasley’s wand raised to point at him. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“Continued by the love of a father…”

Then it was Remus’ turn. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“Strengthened by the love of a brother…”

Ron, his voice oddly hoarse but unwavering for all that. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“It is completed by the love of a life-partner…”

Hermione’s voice rang out clear and sure. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

As soon as Hermione stopped speaking, light shot out from the tips of all four wands, light which hit him, filled him with something which he knew was simply magic, magic at its purest level, and he opened his mouth to complete the spell.

“Expecto potestas.”

And then staggered back a step from the rush of sheer power he felt, filling him, pouring out of him it seemed. His eyes went blank and he didn’t see their faces anymore, the room around them, didn’t feel the floor under his feet. There was only this, the magic, consuming him…

And then it was over almost as quickly as it had begun. He blinked, sensation returning, and he knew, though at the moment, he felt no different, that the spell had been a success.

And now, it was time to set in motion the plan… It was time to end this war for good.

~*~

“No! You don’t understand; you can’t! Just stop pretending that you can, will you? Just leave me alone, for God’s sake! Leave me alone! I can’t stand having you pretending you understand and that you can help me. No one can help me! No one!”

She flinched involuntarily from the harshness of his words, the coldness of his tone, even though she knew he didn’t mean it. Even knowing that this was an act, hearing him raise his voice and say such things hurt her. She’d never been so thankful that she had always been able to read his mood in his eyes as now, when his words and his eyes were at such variance with each other.

His voice was full of anger, of frustration. His eyes were warm, with a flicker of apprehension, of fear, in them, but no anger.

~*~

“We need to draw Voldemort out. No more waiting for him to act; this is our chance.” Remus said, urgently.

McGonagall nodded. “I agree. And I believe our best chance is to make Voldemort believe that Harry is completely alone and unprotected. Thus far, Harry has never been alone, never been very vulnerable, but Voldemort has been watching and waiting. So we will give him his opportunity. And that is where you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, must come in. Stage an argument between you three which you, Mr. Potter, will end by storming off in anger. Professor Snape will then relay the information that you have gone off alone, unprotected and weak because of your very anger, to Voldemort. No one except us must know the truth about the argument; to do so would be to jeopardize the success of this ploy.”

They had agreed, knowing they had no choice… And the board was set, for this, the final act…

~*~

Harry looked at Ron and then at her, their eyes meeting, for one last intense moment- for all intents as if he were biting back further harsh words, but for the truth in his eyes which only they could see. He was saying Goodbye. In that last look, his eyes said all the words he hadn’t had a chance to say before this all began, the last thank you, the last goodbye… just in case…

And then he was gone, storming out of the Great Hall, leaving behind a stunned silence from everyone who couldn’t imagine Harry blowing up at his two best friends in such a way and a nervous apprehension in those who knew the truth.

That last look had said goodbye… because he didn’t expect to be returning… And suddenly, she couldn’t bear that this was supposed to be the last time she saw him before he left; she couldn’t let him leave like this! She made a sound, half-sob, half-cry, and ran out of the Great Hall, ignoring Professor McGonagall’s sharp, “Miss Granger!” She knew she was breaking the agreed-upon plan, knew she very well might be jeopardizing things but she couldn’t help it. She had to see him one last time, to say goodbye the way it needed to be said…

Dear God, she hoped she wasn’t too late…

She ran, her heart in her throat, half-blinded by tears, until she saw him, just about to leave the front doors of the castle, and cried his name. “Harry, wait!” Thank God, he hadn’t left the castle yet; the plan hadn’t been overly compromised…

He turned to face her and she faltered slightly at the look on his face. He was so pale, his skin the color of paper, and out of his pale face, his eyes shone strangely, burning with desperation, fear, determination. His lips were set grimly, and for the first time ever, she felt fear, afraid of the power in him… This wasn’t her Harry anymore… This was a different Harry, the one who would face Voldemort and end this for good…

And then his eyes softened as he looked at her, and he was her Harry once more.

“Harry, I- I couldn’t let you go like that. I- I love you, Harry. I love you.”

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to say something but before he could, she threw her arms around him, kissing him with all the love, all the passion, all the fear she felt. His arms went around her automatically, tightening as he returned the kiss with a fervor that bordered on desperation. They kissed as if it would be the last time with the underlying, unacknowledged fear that maybe, this really would be their last kiss…

And when it ended, they knew that no more words needed to be said. The kiss had said it all.

Their gazes met and melded in one long, intense look.

“I love you, my Hermione,” he said softly, and for the first time, felt the knot of dread in his stomach loosen a little. He was doing this not for some abstract principle of justice or a vague idea of saving the world, but for her… To keep her safe, to try to end the prejudice she faced as a Muggle-born… So she would no longer have to be afraid, for her life or the lives of those she cared about… He was doing this for her, for the friendship she’d given him, the love and the happiness… For her sake… And somehow, looking into her eyes, he couldn’t believe that he might fail… He couldn’t fail with her believing in him…

A slight smile trembled on her lips, though tears still shone in her eyes. “I love you too.”

He straightened, stepping back away from her. “I need to go. This has to end now,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “I know,” she managed to say through the lump of emotion in her throat. Her lips parted again to say the last word, Goodbye, and suddenly she knew she couldn’t say the word. It was too final, too despairing, sounded too much like a final farewell as if she truly didn’t expect to see him again. Instead she said, “Be careful, Harry. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He too had opened his mouth to say, Goodbye; she could see it in the shape of his lips, the expression in his eyes, but he stopped, swallowing back the word. “I’ll be careful. And I will come back.” It was a promise, a vow. He would come back.

Their gazes met and held in one long, last look.

And then he was gone.

6. The Beginning

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, etc. I’m only borrowing her world for the fun of it, no money being made…

Author’s Note: This is the end. Finally. And just in time, as I wanted to get it done before HBP.

A little bit choppy but you should be able to understand what’s going on. Clearing up a few loose ends though the exciting stuff has already happened.

Thank you, everyone, who’s read this fic and reviewed. You guys are the best.

No Greater Love

Chapter 6

The Beginning

The Year 1136

It was over.

The ground around them was scorched in places and cleared of everything while the air was thick with haze and the smell of sulfur and fire- all remnants of the battle that had just been fought. A battle between the two most powerful wizards of the age.

Godric forced himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch, appreciating (not for the first time) the spell which Rowena had placed on it which had the sword change in length depending on its use. (He had used it as a dagger at times when a full-length sword would be inconvenient and now, the sword stretched out to become long enough to use almost as a cane.) His leg felt as if it had been sprained after one of Salazar’s spells had sent him flying backwards to land rather heavily on one ankle and his entire body ached.

But he was alive. And he knew that Helga would be able to heal him in no time.

He was alive and it was over now.

He had won. Hogwarts would continue to stand, welcoming all witches and wizards regardless of their birth.

He had won—but at what cost?

He struggled over to where Salazar was lying, putting every ounce of his energy and his will to enable him to move, and stood there looking down at the man who had once been his closest friend and almost-brother.

Salazar was dying. His skin, always pale, had taken on a ghastly shade of gray and his breathing was labored, rattling in his chest as he fought for air. Any other wizard would have died from the onslaught of pure magic which Godric had finally thrown against him but not Salazar. Not Salazar—he was too powerful in his own right and his will too strong.

But even his will could not avert death.

Godric’s eyes met Salazar’s and there was no triumph in the hazel depths. There was only regret for what he had had to do. “It’s over, Salazar,” he said quietly.

An odd grimace-like smile curved Salazar’s lips. “No,” he rasped out. “It’s not. You think you’ve won but you have not. This is greater than the two of us and this war will continue to be fought, if not through violence, in people’s minds.”

“You are wrong. This is over and your misguided notions of blood purity will fade with time.”

Salazar gave a hacking laugh that turned into choked gasps. Blood came up, staining his robes. “Always so arrogant, Godric. But you are wrong. I, and my followers, are not defeated yet.” His gaze wandered to stare off into the distance, a strange stillness coming over him.

Godric tensed; Salazar was using his not-inconsiderable talent for Divination.

“There will be another, my heir, and he will come to finish what I have started. He will come and the world will know and fear him. He will come—and not even your precious Hogwarts will be able to stand against him.”

The icy blue eyes returned to stare at Godric and he marveled that Salazar could still manage to look arrogant and supremely confident, even dying and helpless. “Yes, he will come—and his name will become so feared that no one will dare to speak it aloud.”

“If your heir will come,” Godric responded firmly, “then so will ours. No, Salazar, as long as the evil and the divisiveness which you think to bring into this world exists, there will be heroes, champions, who will arise to defeat it. And you cannot win this war.” He paused. “You are right; this war is larger than the two of us—but you still cannot win it. You will not—for there is power greater than what you know and it will always serve to defeat you.”

Salazar sneered. “Believe that if you will; you were always more idealistic than suited a man, Godric.”

Godric stilled, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve changed, Salazar,” he stated flatly and now there was a clear note of weariness and regret in his tone. “You were not always as you are now, so disdainful of what is intangible.”

“No, but I was weak then.”

“So you say.”

Godric looked down at Salazar, his eyes holding Salazar’s cold gaze—until a slight shudder passed through Salazar and his eyes closed for the last time.

Godric felt a sigh well up as he looked down at the body of his former friend and now enemy. How had it come to this, he wondered yet again. How had it come to this, that he would be forced to kill someone whom he had once loved as a brother?

But it was over. Finally.

He turned away after a last look and a last sigh and then closed his eyes to Apparate back home- to Hogwarts and to Rowena…

~*~*~*~

April 1998

Pain.

Sharp, stabbing, searing pain.

His entire body was a mass of pain—except his scar. His scar that had burned him so often these past few years, was painful no longer. There had been a last burst of intense pain, agonizingly centered on his scar, until he felt as if his head would explode from it, at the last moment—and then it had ended.

Harry struggled to open his eyes and it took every last bit of remaining energy and will power to force himself to his feet. For a moment, the world swam around him and he swayed but managed, miraculously, to stay on his feet.

He looked on a field of destruction.

It had been covered in grass when he had come, having been summoned there in a kind of forced Apparition, by Voldemort.

Now, it was bare, desolate, the grass scorched away.

He half-staggered, half-walked over to where Voldemort had been standing, looked down at the hollow in the ground, scorched black, that was all that remained of Voldemort except for the single slim piece of wood, Voldemort’s wand.

Slowly, wincing at the pain the movement caused, he bent and picked up the wand.

It was cold now, lifeless—and he somehow knew that it could never be used to perform magic again. The phoenix feather in it could no longer serve as a conduit to magic for any wizard; it had lost that magical property, forced from it through that last spell that had also separated Voldemort from the magical semblance of life to which he clung.

Deliberately, he snapped the now-useless wand in two. Even if it was useless, he would not leave it to become even a symbol for the scattered Death Eaters—the few living ones who had fled when they’d realized that their master was gone. They would have to be hunted out—but that was for the Aurors and the Order to do.

His work was done.

It was over.

He didn’t remember what spell he had used; he wasn’t sure he had ever really known it. At that last moment, when he’d been straining to maintain the connection between his wand and Voldemort’s and forced the beads of light back to Voldemort’s wand, he had simply felt words well up inside him, from where he didn’t know, words to a spell he hadn’t known but somehow was sure, at that moment, was the one spell he needed. Words to a spell he didn’t know—and for a moment, he saw a glimpse of a man, dressed in clothes from another century long ago, dark-haired, and tall and heard a voice saying, It is time to end this for good, the last defeat… You must end what I began…

He didn’t know how much time passed from the moment he shouted out the words until he realized that Voldemort was gone and it was over. It was a blur of pain, of light, of sound—of magic.

And now, looking down at the two pieces of Voldemort’s wand in his hand, he felt the beginnings of relief.

It was over and he was alive.

He was alive—although he knew, with a certainty that admitted no doubt, that he was only alive because of the added strength and power which Hermione, Ron, Remus and Mrs. Weasley had given him. It had been the power they’d given him that had made the spell effective. It had been their sacrifice that had saved him…

For the first time since leaving Hogwarts, he allowed himself to think of her, his mind filling with an image of her face- her eyes shining with tears, her lips trembling slightly as she tried to smile without quite managing it—her voice as she said, “I love you…” An odd sensation that was part gratitude, part relief, part worry—and was entirely love—pierced his heart.

He closed his eyes, one hand gripping his wand, the other holding the pieces of Voldemort’s wand, gathering the last bits of his energy, felt the tingling sensation that accompanied Apparition, and knew he was home. Home, at Hogwarts—and with her…

The distance from the edge of Hogwarts Anti-Apparition Shield around the school grounds and the castle had never seemed so long as he forced himself to continue.

He needed to get to the castle- needed to see Hermione, make sure she was alright.

He shuddered to imagine how much pain she and the others would have felt, connected as they were to him.

His steps quickened, his own pain receding from his thoughts as it was replaced by a sharp worry for those people he loved, who had risked so much for him.

He needed to see them—for he knew that if anything had happened to any of them, the price for victory would have been too high.

~*~

Pain.

Consuming her until her awareness of her surroundings vanished and all she knew was pain, burning, searing agony.

She felt blackness overtaking her mind, oblivion which would provide welcome relief from the pain—but not yet. She struggled, clinging to consciousness with everything she had in her. She needed to know; she needed to stay awake until she knew—as somehow she was sure she would—that Harry was okay and Voldemort was gone. She needed to know about Harry; she clung to that thought, that one over-riding concern, steadfastly resisting the beckoning of release from the agony. She needed to know…

And then she did.

From somewhere, some corner of her mind and heart, she knew. Maybe it was the added connection they had that told her; maybe it was just her instinctive knowledge that he was no longer in mortal danger. Whatever it was, irrational as it sounded even to her, she just knew. It was over.

She couldn’t smile, couldn’t even feel relief. She could only gasp, “Harry,” just that one word which represented the reason for everything she’d done—before she lost the battle, slipping into merciful unconsciousness.

He was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

Someone, probably McGonagall, had moved her from the “safe room” in the depths of the castle where she, and Ron and Remus and Mrs. Weasley had waited after Harry’s departure, to the Hospital Wing. Her body felt heavy and there was no pain and she knew she’d been given a Pain-killing Potion.

He was lying in the bed next to hers which someone- she guessed it had been him- had pushed up as close as possible to her own bed.

And his hand was holding hers.

She smiled through sudden tears.

It was over. Harry had done it; he had survived (she could hear his even breathing and it was, at that moment, the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard). He was safe now.

And now she felt relief, so powerful and so heady it made her dizzy for a moment. After years of worrying over Harry, her worst fears were over and Harry was safe. He was safe.

And that was all she needed to know.

She felt sleep overtake her again and let her eyes close. He was safe…

When she awoke again, it was to find him looking at her.

For a moment they just looked, letting their eyes wander over the other to reassure themselves that each was relatively unharmed and in one piece.

She was the first one to speak. “Hi,” she said softly and even that most simple of greetings somehow seemed profound in that moment of silent, powerful emotion.

“Hi.”

“How long- when did you get back?”

“Yesterday.”

The words were commonplace but they let their eyes say the rest.

I love you.

I love you. I’m so glad you’re okay.

I did it for you. I couldn’t have done it without you…

“How are Ron and Mrs. Weasley and Remus?” she asked in quick concern.

“Ron is sleeping still,” he said with a slight motion of his head to indicate a bed behind her. “Mrs. Weasley woke up and insisted on being allowed to return to the Burrow with strict instructions by Madam Pomfrey as to how often she needs to take the Potion she took with her. Remus is fine; he woke up and is meeting with the Order, despite Madam Pomfrey’s orders to rest, to talk about what to do now.”

She smiled, hearing the soul-deep relief in Harry’s tone that made his simple recitation of facts so poignant.

“Then it’s really over.”

“Yes, it’s over,” he said soberly.

And finally, knowing that nothing would ever separate them again, slowly, he bent and kissed her. Kissed her softly, tenderly, at first, and then deeper, as her hands tangled in his hair, her arms drawing him down closer to her.

Kissed her as he knew he would gladly kiss her for the rest of their lives…

And felt the last remaining traces of fear and worry disappear for good, the final shadow cast by Voldemort gone.

The war was over—and at that moment, with Hermione in his arms, his lips on hers, his last thought before all thoughts vanished in a haze of desire, was that this was only the beginning. The beginning of the rest of his life, the beginning of his freedom from a destiny he had never wanted… This was only the beginning of love, that he knew would last forever and only grow stronger and deeper with every day… Only the beginning…

The End