A/N: Counting down.
Oh, but Tome Raider has made my day with this one. I was so worried about this chapter, but she put me at ease. Thank you, thank you!
Everyone and anyone who read, reviewed, and recommended this fic to their friends… you have my sincerest gratitude. You've been excellent readers.
More to come after this chapter, but the next post may very well be my last for this story, since I'd likely release chapter 40 and the Epilogue together. Now, go read this chapter while I go over to that corner ::points:: to cry.
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter rating: R
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Chapter Thirty-ninth: Death
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The scenery shifted, and Harry felt the wind buffet them from all around. Swirls of colors wrapped around and flowed through them like liquid silk.
Voldemort's ghostly claws clamped down on Harry's phantasmal wrists, twisting so that Harry would let go.
They flew apart and Voldemort's howl of outrage pierced Harry's ears.
Harry saw a curse come his way and he threw up a powerful shield, the curse bouncing off the shield's surface and sending it careening to parts of the ballroom, blowing it to bits.
He shot forward, casting a spell that shot right through Voldemort's shields. It caught Voldemort dead center, and the ensuing explosion sent Harry hurtling away.
Harry was slammed back into his body with such painful force that he actually skidded across the debris-strewn floor and crashed against a pile of rubble.
He groaned and rolled over sluggishly, willing himself to move quickly in spite of the pain shooting through his body and up his broken arm. He forced his eyes open, his vision spinning as he hastened to make himself alert and aware of his surroundings. His vision was alternating between normal and magical, and right now it was very confusing.
Voldemort wasn't where he used to be, and alarm spiked through Harry.
He scrambled to get to his feet, frantically searching for Gryffindor's staff as he held his arm as immobile as he could. He had just spotted the staff a few meters away when he heard another moan, distant and miserable. As Harry picked up the staff, his gaze fell on the dark figure rolling over about several meters from where he was. The pasty white hand thrown carelessly over could have been Voldemort, but Harry wasn't sure.
It occurred to him that he was standing, and while his legs felt weak, even sore, he could walk. Carefully, he made his way to the spill of dark robes that was supposed to be Voldemort. He clutched Gryffindor's staff tightly as he inched closer and stopped when he realized exactly what was so wrong.
Voldemort shifted gracelessly on the floor, and his wheezing breath filled the silence of the room. He literally looked like a skeleton. With his bleached skin stretched over him, bones jutting starkly and his teeth and eyes practically popping out of his skull, he looked less human than ever. His spindly fingers looked longer, attached to what appeared to be a shrunken hand.
Harry was not the least bit thrilled. He wanted to double over and vomit. He knew he had caused it; knew that he had taken something from Voldemort. Harry had had to kill before, often in the heat of battle, but he'd never had to mutilate anybody. Not like this.
Voldemort shifted again, and Harry saw that Voldemort's other hand clutched a wand.
Harry acted quickly, raising a protection charm and readying himself for a counter. His heart raced. He didn't have the strength for another fight; he felt weak and drained, barely able to stand without wobbling, but to his utter confusion Voldemort struck somewhere else, and Lucius Malfoy was jolted from his enchanted stasis.
Harry immediately dove for cover, biting back the electric pain that his broken arm brought him. He threw an Expelliarmus at Voldemort's wand arm as he ducked, preparing himself for a worse onslaught from Lucius.
The wand flew, Voldemort gave an amazingly frightening wail, and Harry aimed his staff at Malfoy.
Malfoy bolted from the floor, rising to a crouch in panic. He shuffled around for his wand while looking wildly around him, his long blonde hair a tangled mess.
"Malfoy!" rasped Voldemort. "Help me!"
Malfoy whirled in his place, his eyes widening as they fell upon Voldemort's inhuman form.
Harry rose from his hiding place and threw a binding hex.
Malfoy gave a yell of surprise but managed to duck. The ground where he previously stood exploded and sent bits of marble everywhere.
Harry swore, feeling his magic go out of focus. He aimed at Malfoy again, but Malfoy had scrambled away to the same exit Snape had taken. Harry didn't follow after him. He couldn't. His legs felt weak, and he knew his magic wasn't going to work the way he wanted it to. He could see it. His magic was a tangled mess, and he was feeling a heavy weight descending on his body.
He dropped to his knees on the floor.
I shouldn't have thrown that hex, he thought wearily. Malfoy wouldn't have hurt me. He was too scared to try anything…
Harry looked at Voldemort.
Voledmort was still breathing, but the red from his eyes had dulled to a maroon sheen. "Potter!"
Harry's eyebrow arched inquisitively. What could Voldemort possibly want now?
"I will destroy-"
Harry shook his head, tired of it-tired of everything. "Stop it. Just stop it. You're not better than me. You're not better than anyone. Nobody stayed for you, Tom. Nobody's here. I'm alone because I chose it to be that way. You're alone because you have no friends. No one is loyal to you. Everyone who has ever worked for you did so because you promised them power and wealth. You lie, and you know that they were lying right back at you. And when all's said and done, they followed you out of fear, and while I'm sure you like that, it doesn't do you much good when the shit hits the fan. Bellatrix is the closest thing to a truly loyal follower you have, but honestly? She only follows you around like a dog because she's a crazy bitch. She's over there in the corner, sticking around. 'Course, she's also weak and incapacitated, so it's not like she had a choice. You're mortal, Tom, at least until the vampire blood you drank turns you-"
Voldemort made a sound of disgust. He murmured something under his breath, and it sounded soft and weak.
The voice of a dying man.
Harry swallowed, shocked at the weight of guilt, and the whisper of murder, in his heart.
He'd only ever had to kill in self-defense before, and perhaps he had merely ignored the fact that it still meant he'd taken a life. But now, faced with the end of all that, this final death on his hands, he realized that the burden of all those lives he took would be on him forever.
"Never a vampire," Voldemort said. "Something older. Human, but better…"
Voldemort's voice faded, and the light left his eyes.
One last thing…
Harry took Gryffindor's staff, gripping it tightly. He did have hate, and anger. It was not something he lived on, but he had felt these emotions; knew them, and remembered. He needed to let it go; needed to relinquish it, and he gathered it as he raised the staff.
He stood over Voldemort's motionless body, and swung.
One last time…
The Sectumsempra bit into the lifeless skin of Voldemort's neck.
The magic sang as it hit flesh, stone, and then wind. Voldemort's head rolled away and Harry noticed there was hardly any blood.
Harry looked at his handiwork for a blank moment before he picked his way through the debris. He needed to put a distance between them, and he could see, through his magical eyes, that his soul had ceased to reach for Voldemort, and that there was nothing but a black void over Voldemort's body.
Harry tossed the staff away and it hit the ground, rolling on its awkward angles. Doubling over, Harry vomited. There were thousands of things he was feeling right now, the least of which was triumphant. He'd fought too long; shed too much blood; and while Voldemort's death brought promise of better things, he was going to remember this day as the day he peered into another man's soul and tore it away.
When he was done expelling the meager contents of his stomach, he clumsily walked a few feet more. He found a relatively clear patch of floor and stumbled to his knees on it.
I feel weak. So weak…
He was on the floor. He couldn't even remember if he had laid himself down, or if he'd simply toppled over. He felt a throbbing pain on his head.
Definitely toppled over.
His vision rippled, the magical lines crisscrossing the room less complicated than it was before. The ballroom began to waver, and it wasn't resplendent anymore. What once made it so rich was now a tumble of decay and destruction.
Riddle house is changing back…
He turned over on his side and saw Voldemort's severed head.
He's dead.
He saw his hands, the glow surrounding it thickening.
No, not thickening. It's your soul. It's leaving.
Leaving?
You're dying…
He closed his eyes. He was dying. Snape said the potion would work, but he didn't know for how long, whether the cure was permanent, or whether it merely bought him time.
Harry smiled in spite of it all.
I'm not afraid to die… I am not afraid.
And it was true. He wasn't afraid in the least.
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Hermione didn't so much land as she did crash. She spilled gracelessly on the southern Azkaban shore, a tangle of feathers, hair, limbs, water, and sand. The crashing waves of saltwater that entered her mouth was unceremoniously spat out even as she flailed about to find purchase. The aches on her body flared with pain as the adrenaline left her. The force of the ocean was not making things any easier.
The water receded, only to crash upon her again. She wasn't nearly off-shore, and all she really had to do was straggle a few feet and she would be able to get away from the violent waves. But her wings made many things awkward.
She struggled, exhausted. Morphing took a great deal from any vampire, more so because she was so unused to it. She hadn't morphed since the first time she ever did it, and that was almost five years ago, shortly after she began training with the Coven.
The signs of the ability had been there, and Yasmin knew it before she did. Hermione's sudden non-fear of heights, her ability to spring higher than most vamps when she jumped, and perhaps even the twinges of pain she felt every now and again on her back, just between her shoulders. Yasmin had pushed her and pushed her to vamp fierce and hard without telling Hermione why, until one day, driven by so much vamp adrenaline, the wings sprouted from her back.
Hermione had thought it was horrible. Feeling those feathers and being all too aware of the inhuman appendages on her back had driven her to a temporary breakdown. Morphing was a brutal reminder of the reality of her situation, that she was a misshapen, inhuman monster. She already knew she was a vampire-fancied that she had accepted her fate, but being so depressed that she had to leave Harry and Ron behind for it, the morphing was like pouring acid on her wounds.
After morphing that first time, she had withdrawn into herself, refusing to speak and refusing to show emotion when she was in the presence of others, but in her solace, she wept and promised that she would never morph again. She had kept that promise, even after she grew weary of her own depression.
The thing about her depression was: it was bad enough that she wasn't suicidal by nature, what made is worse was that it was just so much harder to kill one's vampire self, mentally and physically. She supposed she could have handcuffed herself to the roof of the Coven mansion, waiting for the sun to burn her to ashes, but there was always something that kept her. A little reason here and there, that if she had really wanted to kill herself, she could have easily shrugged those reasons off and done the deed. But suicide was never Hermione's thing.
And so she was stuck with the ability to morph, she was depressed, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it except live.
Yasmin had merely pointed and laughed, thinking her entire plight amusing, and perhaps slightly annoying. And even after years since Hermione "recovered" from her hyper-separation-anxiety, Yasmin apparently still considered it a big joke. When she gave Hermione the Oracle's message to deliver to Harry, it hadn't escaped Hermione that the silverwork on the vial had been modeled after her morphed appearance.
Well, ha-ha bloody ha, she thought miserably as she rolled over on her chest, grimy sand against her lips and cheek.
Gasping as she folded her wings, she lay on the small patch of shore, craggy rock all around. It was strange that she felt no blood lust after morphing. She was just tired, the way a human was too tired to eat; too tired to do anything else but sleep.
She twitched, and she realized that she was shaking her wings and preening them.
She groaned. There was no time for this.
Reaching within her, she retracted her wings back into herself, moaning at the pain it induced.
I have to get back to Harry.
She needed a wizard to Apparate and she had to do it soon.
Pushing herself off the sand, she scrambled up the rocks, and as she worked her way farther from shore, she began to hear the sound of wand-fire and the screams of battle.
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Ron ducked behind a rock and shielded himself from the rain of pebbles, just as the overwhelming glow of blue light flashed from the top of Azkaban's highest tower.
He grabbed Tonks's and Solomon's coats to get their attention amidst the chaos of battle. "Did you see that?" he shouted above the din. "Did you see that light? What was that?"
"I saw it!" Solomon yelled back.
"It looked like an activated Portkey," Neville cried, ducking even lower as another hex connected and exploded near them. Aurors, and werewolves were attempting to break through Azkaban's doors, and Dementors were swooping down on many of them. There had been several Patronuses already, and many of the Dementors had flow away for cover, but Ron had to keep Solomon back, threatening to put him in a full body-bind if Solomon dared to push back his protective robes.
"We have to go," Solomon said. "It's the perfect time. People are too busy defending themselves. No one's going to notice us!"
Ron frowned. "We have to wait until the last Dementor has been cleared out, and we have to storm in with the rest of the unit. Settle down!"
As soon as Ron said that, a werewolf's howl pierced the night air, signaling that the area was temporarily cleared of Dementors.
Vampires rose from the rocks, springing and scrambling for enemy blood.
"Go!" Tonks cried, hitching herself out of the rock while firing hexes and protecting herself as she went. Neville followed close behind her, protecting her as she protected him.
Solomon and Ron spilled out of their hiding places, staying close to one another. Everyone was paired off. Everyone had someone guarding their back, and there were plenty of them to lay the siege.
The Death Eaters posted to guard the facility weren't many, but they were well sheltered behind Azkaban's walls and lower battlements. If the Order and its allies breached Azkaban's front gates, that was half the battle won.
Vampires began to crawl up Azkaban's stonewall. It was one the scariest things Ron had ever seen, but he ran and ducked in sync with Solomon, throwing protection wards over them as hexes came at them from above.
Not all of them made it to Azkaban's gates, and most of them were injured from the run.
Ron's arm felt bruised all over when a hex caught it. He wasn't even sure what the hex was, but he was whole and able. He could dwell on the details later.
He joined the other wizards who were throwing hexes and charms at the gates while Solomon went shoulder to shoulder with the werewolves, slamming the battering ram on the hard wood.
The loud groan of splintering wood and crumbling stone broke through the milieu, and screams erupted from inside and out.
Wood and stone flew everywhere as wizards hexed them out of the path, and as soon as the hole was large enough, the Order stormed in.
Death Eaters scrambled for cover as werewolves and vampires broke through first. Screams erupted from Death Eaters being bitten and mauled.
Ron fought back the rising nausea from the gruesome sprays of blood. He followed behind Tonks and Neville, guarding their flank with Solomon while several other wizards and witches spread out to secure the area. Tonks went straight to the docking-station where they accosted a Death Eater hiding beneath the desk.
She was bound and held while Tonks slid a regal-looking ring in a slotted hole and turned it. The box made a humming sound before the entire panel seemed to unravel. There were odd keys of various colors and make lined up all over the box, each of them slotted through what looked like ancient keyholes. Tonks began turning every single one of them.
The sound of slamming dungeon doors echoed through Azkaban, and when the last key was turned, Tonks ordered the units to go.
Groups of wizards and witches slipped through the entryway, bloodstained wolves and vampires joining them. They separated into several groups through the many hallways of Azkaban.
Azkaban's layout was large and intricate, but there were hardly any rooms to hide in. Most of Azkaban was comprised of large caverns and cells. Everything else were cells converted into offices, which meant its cell-doors were still charmed to respond to Azkaban's central controls in case of a lockdown, the box of which could only be opened by any of three things: The willing-not Imperiused or forced-hand of Azkaban's warden, the willing hand of the Minister of Magic, and the ring of Her Majesty the Queen of England.
Lockdown prevented prisoners from leaving and hiding. It also neutralized wands when used from inside a cell. The emergency measures were there precisely because it prevented criminals from having access to blind corners where they could jump at a prison guard and hurt-possibly even kill-them.
The lockdown mechanisms hadn't been used since Dementors were first posted to guard Azkaban.
Because of the lockdown, most escapees converged in the southeastern wing. It was dangerous place with many alcoves and caverns to hide behind. The shadows didn't help, either, but at the very least, enemies were easier to round up in that enclosed space.
Tonks turned her attention to the last remaining group of Aurors. "The lifts in the southeastern wing heading to the tower have been locked, but the stairs are accessible. Don't let anybody get to the stairs. The wards at the top of the tower have been deactivated. They can Apparate from there and Death Eaters from the outside could get in by Portkey. Secure the area."
The Aurors sped off, a few more vampires and werewolves following at their wake.
Ron impatiently nodded in the captured Death Eater's direction. She was pale and shaking, mostly because Solomon was staring her fiercely down. It was no joke, to be stared down by a disfigured vampire. "Tonks, ask her if she knows where the prisoners are."
The Death Eater's lips pursed nervously. Her body language suggested she knew something. "I can't tell you where they are. I don't know."
Tonks frowned, brows knotting. "Tilt her head back."
The Death Eaters eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare… I have rights!"
"That you do," said Tonks, producing a vial from her robes. "But we've got people to save."
Ron swallowed. He always said he never wanted to get on Tonks's bad side.
The Veritaserum was administered and seconds after she ingested the potion, she began to answer their questions.
The "Mudblood" had gotten transported out of Azakaban not long ago. She was not set to come back.
Ron gripped his wand tightly, his tension mounting. Solomon didn't look so good, either.
"And the other prisoner?" Ron asked. "The one that came in a little more than a week ago?"
"I don't know."
"Fat lot of help this one's been," Solomon muttered.
"Has she been moved out of the facility?" asked Ron, insisting.
"I don't think so."
Tonks asked her a few more questions, like how many Death Eaters were in the fortress, how many of them were human, vampire, or werewolf; where was the warden. Most of these questions were answered and Tonks relayed them on her communicator to her lieutenants.
"We'll need a few people to conduct a search," said Ron. "Yasmin's somewhere in this castle."
"Gather from teams 3 and 4 outside. Make sure you leave a considerable number for look-out," said Tonks.
Ron nodded and gestured for Solomon to follow him. They were just about to leave when a vampire approached them.
"Hi Solomon!" she cried cheerfully, bouncing as she followed them. Her short bob-cut hair bounced with her, and she would have looked terribly cute if she wasn't soiled with blood. "Where you going?"
"We're busy, Caitlin," Solomon said hurriedly.
"Sure looks like it! So where are you going?"
"Cait…"
"Just want to know for sure. Are you going to look for Yasmin?"
Ron shot Solomon a look, and Solomon made a dismissive gesture.
"Yes, and we're going to need some help, so Ron and I are going to try and get it. I'll talk to you later, alright?"
"Ok. But just so you know, Ambrose is coming over here. Someone told me earlier that you said Yasmin was here, and so I told Ambrose about it, because I figured he'd want that sort of information. He's coming over here."
"That's great, Caitlin. Now, if you'll just-"
"He's not coming alone."
"I'm sure." Solomon turned to leave and Ron motioned to follow him.
"You don't get what I'm telling you," said Caitlin, grabbing Solomon by the arm. She still smiled like a child and stood bouncing in place, but her eyes were eerily serious. "He's not coming alone."
At that, Solomon stared at her, curiosity filling his expression.
Ron didn't know why, but he began to feel nauseous. Or at least, more nauseated than he was to begin with…
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Yasmin opened her eyes, feeling the presence of mortals, werewolves, and vampires assaulting her senses.
She saw Dendera turning casually to the door. She had sensed it too.
"They're going to find me," said Yasmin. "I'm quite sure Hermione has put out the word that I've been missing. The vamps are going to want to get me out of here. At least those of the Coven would."
Dendera looked unconcerned. "None of them could get past me. You know this."
Yasmin gave an annoyed snort. "And to what end would killing them off, do? You'll only be digging yourself into a deeper hole. I might not be as ancient as you, Kalfani, or Nekhbet, but you all know how important I am to our society. Without me, none of you could sit as pretty in your unreachable little thrones."
Dendera smirked. "Just so you understand, I of all people acknowledge your worth. You wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that. Kalfani and Nekhbet are the ones who have shown concern for the power you've gained. They're feeling a bit threatened."
"Aren't you?"
The flicker of offended pride in Dendera's eyes was most satisfying to Yasmin.
"I understand what power you have," said Dendera, severely. "Now I need for you to understand the powers siding with me could give you. I have no dreams of running Vamp-Europe the way you do. Like you said, I like to sit pretty."
"And so I run things the way I want to, but only if you approve of it from behind the curtain. Is that it?"
"Essentially."
"And why should I do it your way?"
"Because I can destroy you otherwise. One word to Kalfani and Nekhbet and all three of us can crush you like a bug."
"That's assuming they'll think you're in the right. I doubt that, Dendera."
"When they see the power this project of mine will give vamp-kind, they'll see it my way. Just think about it, child. We don't have to sleep in the day anymore. We don't have to be afraid of the sun. Isn't that lovely?"
Yasmin frowned. "It can't be as simple as that!"
Dendera's eyebrow arched. "It isn't. I've waited over twenty years for this to happen. Sure, I've lived almost a thousand years, but twenty is twenty. It doesn't feel faster just because I can live longer."
Yasmin had to admit that was true. Immortality meant one hardly had a deadline, but it didn't mean spending twenty years in jail, or something equally as tedious, felt any less like twenty years. Everyone, even vampires, lived on a day to day basis.
"Is this how you convinced Janus to do your bidding?"
"I did not have to convince him. I invoked Blood Will. He couldn't disobey even if he wanted to."
Yasmin scoffed. "That's a myth."
"Is it? Janus does what he likes, but when I ask him to do it, he does it. He took my blood willingly during his turning. It's true and you know it. Why do you think Henry's so eager to do everything you tell him to do?"
Yasmin didn't reply, and she loathed the fact that what Dendera had said about Janus seemed true enough. Janus listened to no one. He took orders from no one. But in the last five years, he'd claimed to have a master.
Maybe he always had a master.
That was slightly disturbing.
Oh, who am I kidding? It's bugging the hell out of me.
"So all this time, he's been taking orders from you?" asked Yasmin irritably.
"Goodness, no. I hardly ever ask him to do anything for me. In fact, I hadn't been so much a master as I've been mothering him in the last four hundred years."
Yasmin snorted. "Please. I'm five hundred years old. The last time a mother admitted to shagging her son, she was immortalized in classic literature as belonging to the second circle of hell. So don't you be pretending he's your son and you're his mum."
Dendera's laugh was melodious. "Ah, Semirhage… now she was a true Nympho. But we digress. So what if Janus and I fucked a few times? That's beside the point. He'll do what I tell him to do."
Yasmin shook her head. "And Voldemort? Do you think he'll do what Janus tells him to do just because he'll be taking Janus's blood willingly? You don't even know if Voldemort would get turned. You don't know if what he becomes will be in any way affiliated to our kind!"
"Again, that's beside the point," insisted Dendera. "The Oracle promises that the curse would be broken. It will happen whether Voldemort wants it to or not. In the end, if we can't control him, we'll kill him. All I need is your support. Nekhbet and Kalfani don't like changing things around, but they warm to new things when they see how it helps them. At present, I cannot do this alone. I need your help to make this work in the end."
The sound of an opening iron door shrieked through the cavern from the top of the winding stairs. "Hello! Anybody down there?"
Dendera said nothing, arcing her eyebrow at Yasmin.
Yasmin sighed, rolling her eyes. "Don't look at me. You're over there and I'm over here. Do the math."
"You do not care if I kill the human?"
Yasmin was truly offended. "Why the hell would I care? Honestly, there's no need to resort to insults!"
Dendera shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. You seem to have warmed to them these last few weeks. I do not wish to be doing anything that would antagonize, you."
"You kidnapped me, so I'm afraid it's too late to worry about antagonizing me."
"So have you?"
"What?"
"Warmed to them?"
Yasmin crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't shit where I eat. You might want to remember that, too. They're handy words to live by."
Dendera shot Yasmin a look of annoyance.
"Hello!" cried the human again.
Dendera stood and yelled right back. "Over here!"
Several voices followed, and soon, Yasmin heard the shuffling footsteps of humans.
Walking into the den of a lioness…
Yasmin sighed, rolling her eyes. This was not going to be pretty.
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There was a clamor at the door, people struggling through the wreckage and scrambling around importantly.
Ron turned at the sound, curious of the commotion. First there was a werewolf. The werewolf had sandy blonde hair, his fangs half drawn and his snout half-formed. He walked with a werewolf's slouch, and his claws were considerably sharp, even if they looked more like hands instead of paws. He was followed by a vampire, or perhaps two; one vampire holding on to another for support.
Ron winced when he saw the tattered and battered vampire being ushered in, but he was filled with horror when he realized who it was.
"Hermione! Mother fu-who-" Ron didn't bother to finish his questions. He rushed towards her, grabbing a chair to let her sit.
He could hardly see any wounds, but she looked positively awful. Her clothes were torn and stained with what looked like old blood, her face was gaunt, and she was soaking wet, her brilliantly curly hair plastered flat on her in limp ringlets. Solomon dropped to her side as Tonks yelled for a medic.
"What happened? We thought you were at the Riddle house," said Solomon.
"Janus and I got Portkeyed back here… Harry and Viktor-" She gasped when Solomon's hand touched the tender flesh of her back.
Solomon did not apologize, but his frown was filled with anxious curiosity. "Where's Janus?"
"Dead. I killed him."
Ron noted the bloodthirsty satisfaction Hermione's voice had taken when she said it. Solomon seemed surprised, probably not by Hermione's tone, but by the news itself.
"You-you did?" Solomon asked.
Hermione scowled at him. "I morphed, Sol. I had to…"
Ron wasn't sure what "morphed" meant to Hermione, but Solomon seemed to understand, and the sympathetic look in Solomon's eyes made Ron wonder just how bad "morphing" was. Tonks certainly thought morphing was a good thing.
After a heartbeat of silence, Hermione grabbed Ron by the sleeve of his coat. "I need you to Apparate me back to the Riddle house. I have to get back to Harry."
Ron had every intention of going to the Riddle house, but he hadn't planned on bringing Hermione with him.
Perhaps she realized what was on his mind by the expression of his face because she glared at him fiercely and stood. "Do not give me grief right now."
Still as impossible as always! He was more than ready to give "grief." "Oh, it's all fine and dandy for you, because Harry can't stay mad at you for very long, but he'll be furious when he finds out I let you go with me! I'll be the idiot who found you, out of the frying pan and helped you jump right back into the fire!"
Hermione's eyebrow arched. "What, are you trying to beat me into submission with metaphors, now?"
Ron felt his face go warm. "I tend to use 'em when I get upset, but that's not the bloody point. You know what I mean!"
"You listen to me, Ron Weasley," she hissed. "If you don't bring me, I'll force someone else to do it for you. I'm not going to let you stop me, and you should've known this before you tried to bite my head off with your stupid metaphors!"
"Oy! They're not stupid!" was all Ron could say.
Solomon groaned. "So agree already! You're both wasting time!"
Ron hated it whenever someone pointed that out. He threw up his hands and shook his head, beginning to walk away to head to the southeast wing. "FINE then. After all these years, you're still a nightmare!"
"Shut-up!" Hermione hissed, following after him and ignoring Tonks's protests.
Solomon gave a weary sigh as he followed them both.
"No, you shut up," Ron spat back at her. "We're going to the southeast wing so we can head back up to the tower. I want you to stay close to me and Sol-"
She was going to protest, but he cut her off.
"I mean it, Hermione. The castle hasn't been completely cleared of Death Eaters, and I reckon most of them are hiding out in the southeast wing. The only reason we got this place so easy is because there weren't that many of them here in the first place, but we don't know if someone called for backup. Anything can happen-"
"Alright already! Merlin fuck me, I didn't lose my brain morphing, you know! God!"
Ron broke out in a sprint. He did not want to have this conversation with Hermione. He pulled out his wand and braced himself for battle. Behind them, he heard approaching footsteps in a hurry. Ron tensed and realized that there was nowhere to hide, but he soon saw that the approaching group were Aurors, and behind them more vamps and werewolves.
"Southeast unit called for backup," said one the Aurors hurriedly as he ran past them. "Death Eaters have commandeered the area and are going to fight for passage to the tower."
Ron hastened to follow after them, but found that he was being held back by Neville.
"I received a message-spell from Ginny," he said.
Ron felt a clutch of fear in his stomach and Hermione's brows knotted with obvious worry.
"Is she alright?" Hermione asked.
Neville nodded grimly. "She sounded alright. Things are shaky at Hogwarts, but she said the Centaurs have gotten in on the fight. One of their own got done in by one of You-Know-Who's giants. Centaurs didn't take it well at all. But…"
"Oh, Merlin, it's Dean, isn't it?" Ron asked. He swore he felt his heart stop. His relationship with Dean hadn't really changed much since their days in Hogwarts, but he supposed having Dean as his sister's boyfriend developed some sort of closer kinship. The hardest part was seeing Ginny brokenhearted. He didn't think he could cope with any more tragedy in his family's lives.
Neville shook his head, his eyes going liquid. "No. Dean's alive, but it's-it's Seamus. He's gone. She wanted you to be the one to tell Harry."
Ron closed his eyes for a brief moment. "How's Dean taking it?"
"Terribly, I'd imagine. But Ginny's with him. She'll take care of him. I just thought-I just thought you should know as soon as possible, seeing as Harry isn't here." Neville's eyes flickered to Hermione, as if he suddenly realized that she was there, and that she was Harry's best friend, too. "I thought you should know, too. E-Either of you could-"
"It's alright, Neville," she said, sounding astonishingly gentle. "I haven't been around much. You don't have to explain. Now, if we want to round up those Death Eaters, we better hurry and get to the southeast wing. We can worry about telling Harry later."
Neville nodded, and Ron let the way down the barren hallways. As they got farther into the castle, they began to hear the sound of wandfire and shouts.
There were two pathways going to the torture chambers, and smoke and debris was billowing out of it while people and creatures ran back and forth to cope with Death Eater forces.
The Death Eaters were moving back, but they kept persisting, especially since the Order had the stairwell to the tower blocked off.
"We have to get to that stairwell!" Hermione said.
Ron nodded. It was going to be a bit of a problem crossing the distance between where they were and where they wanted to be. The seemingly vast expanse was riddled with hexes, perhaps even an Unforgivable Curse or two. It wasn't going to be a walk in the park.
Hermione, Ron, and Solomon ducked behind an archway.
Ron had his wand out. Solomon had unsheathed one sword while he held his wand in another. He gave Hermione spare guns.
"Go! I'll cover you!" Solomon said.
Solomon emerged first. Ron and Hermione immediately followed.
Ron realized he was running, dodging and firing between the two vamps. Solomon was shielding him against the worse of wandfire, but Hermione-though on the less embattled side, looked to be exerting supreme effort fending attackers off.
She looked absolutely exhausted, but Ron couldn't very well chastise her for pushing herself. She was immortal. She could afford to take Unforgivable curses. He, on the other hand, can only take one.
All three of them ducked into a roll as an Avada Kedavra flew above them.
Immortal or not, Ron was sure neither Solomon nor Hermione wanted to get knocked out by the curse's effects.
The stairwell wasn't far, so they ran and dodged most of the remaining way.
The Aurors let them through and Solomon motioned for them to go ahead while he stayed and helped defend.
Ron hustled Hermione up the stairs, not that she was showing any signs of giving in to her exhaustion without a fight. He was mostly fit and conditioned, but stair-climbing at top speeds was no joke. But the time they reached the tower, he was ready to collapse and she looked about ready to pass out.
"Apparate now, Ron!" she cried.
Panting, he shot her a glare and tiredly motioned for her to step closer to him.
Destination, determination, deliberation…
Hermione frowned. "Are you thinking of the three Ds again?"
"Shut it, you. Do you want us to get there or not?"
"Alright. But hurry up! Too freaking long…"
"I ought to splinch your tongue behind."
Hermione's vicious reply was drowned with the pop of Apparition.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Viktor felt the flare of his Dark Mark shooting pain through his entire body. He was weak enough; tired enough. Walking had brought enough pain, his lungs bursting from the effort of trying to breathe evenly through what felt like a high fever.
He stumbled to the ground, crying out as he did. He pressed his arm to himself, somehow hoping it would staunch the pain, but the pain persisted, until it decided to wane by itself.
When finally, the pain had been reduced to a dull throb, he looked at his mark and saw that while it was still there, he knew that it was no longer alive.
He looked up as he sat at the foot of the hill, the Riddle House unchanged in its decrepit appearance, even as he felt every single ward around the house go down.
The prickle of tears was a shock. He was not a weeper. He was Viktor Krum, and yet faced with the overwhelming truth of Voldemort dead, and the growing reality that he might some day be able to go back to the life he had thought had been left behind forever, weeping was all he could do.
He swiped away the tears, pushing himself to his feet. He had to see if Harry Potter was alright. He had to see if Harry Potter survived Voldemort.
He was clumsily ambling up the hill when he heard the loud pop of Apparition. He turned, wand out and ready. But his vision swam, and his balance failed. He was just about resigned to the fact that he might yet still perish when he heard the voices.
"Viktor!"
They were like a harmonic chord, the voices of a man and a woman. And for a moment, he thought maybe he had changed back to his real form, for how else would these strangers know him?
But then his eyes fluttered, and he saw the bushy brown hair, pushing aside the blur of red.
"Her-my-own," he whispered, smiling. She was a sight to see, even looking so battered and worn.
"Viktor, where's Harry?" she asked urgently.
Some of his smile waned for a heartbeat. "Inside. I am trying to get back to him…"
He felt a masculine hand grasp him by the arm and hoist him to his feet. Ron Weasley held him up, the large man's strong hold propping him on his feet.
"We're going into the house," Ron said. "Can you lead us to him?"
Hermione's scowl was fierce. "He's hurt, Ron!"
Ron was about to respond when Viktor cut in. "I will lead."
And with that, Viktor steeled himself and pulled himself away from Ron. With each step heavier than the last, he began to walk up the hill.
Without another word, Hermione and Ron followed him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pain waned, and Severus thought, for a split-second, that when he looked at his arm, the Dark Mark would be gone.
He looked. It was still there.
Of course it would be, he thought derisively.
He heard the distant sound of sobbing through the trees. The infuriating wail of a man who had no idea what he was going to do next.
Wonderful. Why did I have to be the one to find him?
Snape shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He stamped the dead leaves and twigs from the knees of his robes. He shook off the forest's bracken and pushed back stray branches. The moon was high but lighting was bad. The forest, though not very vast in the way that urban reservations tended to be, was thick with foliage. Snape could hardly see.
Taking his wand, he cast a Lumos to light his path and surroundings.
Following the sound, he came upon Peter, curled up on the ground and crying.
"Hello, Peter," said Snape, lip curled, gliding up beside him, wand clutched in his hand.
"S-Severus!" Peter gasped. He blinked up at Snape for a heartbeat before hastily wiping the tears away and then reverting to a rather surprising smile. He looked rattier than ever, as if he hadn't completely left his Animagus form behind. "Fancy meeting you here, all the way in the woods. It's a pleasant surprise!"
"Indeed, because I always invoke pleasant things."
"Always, Severus. Always."
"And what, may I ask, are you doing here?"
"Oh… just getting some fresh air."
"Of course, because rats like the fresh, open air. Did you happen to notice the little pinch of your Dark Mark a while ago?"
Peter's face tensed, and he seemed to be giving his reply some thought. "Yes, I did notice that pinch."
"And you know what it means, of course."
There was a noticeable pause before Peter replied. "I… could guess."
"The Dark Lord is dead." The straightforward statement did somewhat rob the color from Peter's face, though his expression did not look any worse than it already was. "You are, once again, without your betters to make use of you."
Peter swallowed thickly and gave it a thought. "I can find another master. One, perhaps, who is brilliant with potions…"
Snape's eyebrow arched. The idea was most definitely tempting.
Perhaps sensing that the suggestion was being considered, Peter went on. "I am a loyal servant when I put my mind to it, and I ask very little in return. Hardly anything at all, except a roof over my head, and food, and promises of something great and wonderful…"
Snape sniffed, forcing himself to think of his fate. It was inevitable, of course, that he would be tried and convicted for Albus Dumbledore's murder. Whether or not he did it under Dumbledore's orders mattered little. He had taken a life. He had used an Unforgivable Curse. He would have to go to Azkaban on principle alone. The prospect of being incarcerated in the notoriously mind-damaging prison was the stuff of nightmares: No books to read, no potions to brew, no human contact for months except for the daily meals that were said to be shoved through a tiny slot under the door of one's cell… Snape was quite sure it was a place he would give anything not to be sent to. And yet, the reality was, if he gave himself up to the Order, he was going to Azkaban. His punishment would be mitigated of course, but hadn't done quite enough to exonerate himself in the last five years.
It had been easy to think himself a spy, keeping his arse safe while he devised ways to "help" the cause, the way he figured Dumbledore meant for him to help, but too many things-unforgivable things-had happened between murdering Dumbledore and assisting Harry Potter in defeating the Dark Lord.
He was going to jail and he didn't want to, so indeed, the prospect of escaping and disappearing forever had crossed his mind, even if his existence from thereon would be quite miserable. He didn't have a fancy vault in Gringotts to run to, unlike some people, to make his post-Voldemort life comfortable. No, he would live a rather impoverished existence, mostly because trying to gain himself some sort of wealth would lead everyone who ever hated him right on his doorstep. For him to risk having a comfortable life, he would have to move out of Europe; live in Asia, probably?
Or- ugh, America.
And he would have run away right this minute, if he hadn't come across Peter, and if he didn't have to face the moral dilemma of letting Peter-murderous, scheming, lying, treacherous, once-secret-keeper of Lily Potter-go about his merry way, as if they hadn't seen each other, to turning Peter, and inadvertently himself, in.
A moment's thought was all he needed, and the Slytherine in him kicked in. "I think maybe your coming with me is not such a bad idea, Peter."
Peter rose from the ground, a delighted grin on his face. "Of course it isn't! You'll need someone to assist you in your daily habits, Severus. Someone to buy ingredients for you. Someone to fetch your groceries. Someone to clean your house. I will be useful to you!"
Snape sniffed, expression unchanging. "If I wanted someone to fetch my groceries, buy my ingredients, and clean my house, I'd find me a House Elf." He brought out his wand.
Peter saw it coming, trained as he was to known an attack when he saw it, and run away before it could hit him. He proceeded to turn, preparing for his escape.
Snape whipped his wand. "Petrificus totalus!"
Peter didn't stand a chance. He stiffened, teetered, and fell with a dull thump on the forest floor. His body seesawed a bit, his behind having landed on an exposed root of a tree.
"Honestly, Wormtail," said Snape with utmost disdain. "Look at you. You are nothing without your precious Dark Lord. You are a simpering, pathetic leech living off the scraps of better men."
Peter was silent. Of course he would be.
Lip curling in a sneer, Snape waved his wand again and levitated Peter's body from the ground. "You will be pleased to know that you will be useful to me in a very profitable fashion."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco Malfoy sat in the office of one Proudlip the Severe, at the Gringott's Wizarding Bank. He had, since he arrived, been engaged in tense, clipped conversations with Goblins regarding his mother's estate. Several times, they had gotten interrupted, and Draco was losing patience. He wanted to yell at them and say that he didn't exactly have all the time in the world.
He was just about to get up and start throwing a royal fit when Proudlip walked through his tiny backroom door.
Grunting, the Goblin climbed the steps of his office chair and sat behind the desk, twiddling his fingers as he affixed Draco with a piercing stare.
Draco found himself fidgeting, hating the fact that Goblins were notoriously powerful in their own right. "Well?" was all Draco could say.
"We have it under authority that the Dark Lord has been… liquidated."
Draco's eyebrow arched in surprise. He took a moment to absorb this before he came to any clear conclusions.
Son of a bitch… Potter did it! Potter killed the mother-"And that means what, to me?"
Proudlip shrugged nonchalantly. "It is news that affects us all, particularly impacting the financial trends of our world and… yours."
Draco frowned. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Mr. Lucius Malfoy is presently at the front desk, asking to be given access to your mother's vault. Given the circumstances at present, we thought maybe we'd consult you on the matter. Mr. Malfoy has no official right to your mother's Black family vault. However, you might be… generous about letting your father into the vault, at least."
Draco took a moment to puzzle out exactly what Proudlip was trying to say. The fact that his father was in the bank, at the same time he was, had thrown him for a loop. Emotions were wreaking havoc on his mind, and right now, all he could think of doing was running out to the front desk, grabbing his father by the neck, and hexing him point-blank. He wanted revenge, plain and simple, for his mother's death.
The urge took over, and he rose from his seat, heading for the door. When he reached it, he found that the door was locked. He turned, furious, and glared at Proudlip. "Open the door this instant or I'll-"
"We at Gringotts make it a point not to interfere with family affairs, particularly when it comes to post-mortem assets, but we find that it is to our great advantage that we keep one important client's interests when we couldn't keep two. Mr. Lucius Malfoy will take the money, go into hiding, and possibly get caught while escaping. Whatever happens, whether he is caught or not, we shall lose his…"
"Money?"
"…business. You, Mr. Draco Malfoy, whose business is as important to us as every generation of Malfoy that crossed our vaults, can still seek, and shall receive, our services, once you have-shall we say, settled accounts with the Ministry and its agents. I always believed everything in life is negotiable, Mr. Malfoy. Contracts, selling prices, ones circumstances with the law… there are many things in this situation that could help you mitigate whatever issues certain legendary scarred individuals may have about you, and possibly his clout might help you live a life more savory than forever running away from the authorities who would be obligated to hunt you down…"
Draco stared at him, processing everything he said. "Are you sure you didn't go to Hogwarts, Mr. Proudlip? You would have made an excellent Slytherin."
A frightening, Goblin smile spread his lips. "I shall take that as a compliment, as I know full well that you mean it to be that way."
"Lead my father to my mother's vault," Draco said. "And maybe I'll meet him there. Maybe I won't. I probably won't, but I may change my mind. I do admit, the thought of going into those vaults… always scared me. There have been stories of vault-visitors accidentally getting locked in."
"Oh, that is a possibility, of course. Old charms, older facilities. Sometimes these are things we cannot control."
"Understandable. I think maybe I'll just go to my mother's vault later, but feel free to let my father into it. Right now, I think maybe I'm not quite in such a hurry anymore. Is there a place here I can… wait, and perhaps read a few magazines?"
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. We have a waiting room, and there are a few things there that would occupy your time while you wait. In the meantime, I shall entertain your father and his demands."
"Thank you. I always appreciated Gringott's impeccable customer service."
"We aim to please, Mr. Malfoy. Now I entreat you to sit back and relax. You have absolutely nothing to worry about."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonks felt a bit dazed after she and the Order started gathering surrendering Death Eaters. After the wave of flaring Dark Marks hit them, many of them had cried and wailed like banshees, shouting that something had happened to the Dark Lord. A few kept fighting, but a great many of them began to give up their wands.
It gave Tonks much satisfaction, rounding them up, but she wasn't quite ready to rejoice just yet. Nobody was.
When they began to regain control of the southeastern wing, Tonks immediately checked with the other units in Hogwarts, St. Mungo's, Beauxbaton, and the Ministry.
The reports were not good. While it was true that many Death Eaters believed that their Dark Lord was dead, or dying, some of them went on a rampage, while many simply chose to keep fighting. They were prepared to take everyone down with them, and they weren't abating their attacks anytime soon. The Order had certainly gained a distinct advantage, but the battle wasn't quite through. Another thing were the vamps and wolves. None of them cared if Voldemort was dead. They had orders and they intended to carry it through.
There was absolutely nothing to rejoice about. She was worried for Harry, Ginny had reported more deaths, Remus had gone werewolf, and people were missing. Humans, werewolves, and vampires were running all around her, frantically doing their duties, so she couldn't exactly ignore the fact that all this was just the beginning of the end.
"Tonks!"
She started at the sound of the voice and saw Neville. He looked like he had been calling her for quite some time now, the way his eyes were wide with frantic impatience. Her brows knotted. "Problem, Longbottom?"
Neville nodded. "Something's wrong in the Eastern-most dungeons. People are screaming down there and the two vampires we sent down haven't come back out. There's something down there."
Her lips pursed. Of course there is…
She strode past Neville with brisk efficiency, barely tripping over her robes.
People were gathered around the perimeter of the area Tonks assumed was the problem-dungeon.
Solomon was right at the mouth of the entrance, blocking everyone who might attempt to pass.
"You do not want to go down there," said Solomon. "I smell blood and death."
"Do you have any idea what's down there?" Tonks asked.
"Something bloodthirsty."
Tonks rolled her eyes. "Real helpful, Solomon. Well, we're going to have to flush it out, won't we? Fire ought to do it-"
"That would not be advisable."
It was an alien voice, extremely bossy, and absolutely without place in her ranks. Tonks turned, immensely annoyed, though her sense of authority wilted ever so slightly at the sight that met her.
Tonks recognized two of the vamps immediately. Ambrose and Gabriel were hard to forget, being two such gorgeous men, but the rest of the pack were unfamiliar to her. There were at least twenty more of them clumped as a group, but it was the two heading the congregation that had Tonks staring.
Quite simply, they looked like Egyptian royalty, tall, svelte, and extremely regal. They exuded power and beauty like they'd been doing so…
Well, like they'd been doing so in the last one thousand years.
The woman, her long inky hair and amazingly almond-shaped golden eyes, shimmered in her beady, crystalline, barely-covering-her dress. Her smooth arms and legs were decorated with henna-tattoos. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured. Her jewelry was oddly understated, except maybe for the tiny diamond stud on the side of her nose. A quick inspection told Tonks that the woman wasn't really tall, but the heels of her expensive footwear were about a mile high. The richly-jeweled scimitar on her hip was terribly intimidating.
The man, by contrast, was all about earth colors. He wore a dark beige, red, and orange tunic that showed the contours of his body. He was trim and shapely, the yellow-gold of his jewelry bright against his dark skin. There were beads on his floor-length kilt, too, though not as intricate as the woman's. His feet were in sandals, though Tonks was not inclined to laugh at this sandaled man, not if he knew how to use the huge sword strapped to his back.
Tonks stood there a moment, perplexed. Should she bow? Pay homage? Prostrate herself at their feet? She was never the type to kneel for anyone, but these beings exuded an aura of greatness that couldn't be ignored.
It was the man who spoke earlier, and he wasn't going to be bothered by her confused expression.
"If you try to flush her out with fire," said the man. "That would only anger her, and she would kill everyone in this dungeon."
There were at least sixty members from Tonks's unit in the area, not counting the Death Eaters.
Her eyebrow arched in disbelief.
None in the man's entourage looked like they were going to take what their boss said back.
"She is a thousand years old," said the woman in a hypnotically soothing voice. "She can kill you all, and you wouldn't even know what hit you. Kalfani and I will see to this affair. All you need do is wait here."
With that, she swept past Tonks, the man she called Kalfani following after her. They descended the steps of the dark stairwell, and moments later, they heard the dull thud of an iron door being shut.
After a moment's silence, Tonks-wanting to feel angry-whirled on Solomon, demanding what the hell just happened.
Her anger waned a bit when she saw that Solomon looked pale enough to go on cardiac arrest. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak, and he didn't look eager to say anything anyway; none of the vampires and werewolves were. They all seemed to shrink within themselves, looking both nauseous and awed all at once.
Gabriel, though looking a bit out-of-sorts himself, cleared his throat. "That was Kalfani and Nekhbet. Two-thirds of the Most Ancient Ones of our society. They are powerful and revered. They know our history; lived it. They are wise and ruthless. They do what is best, but they can also do what they please."
"In other words," said Ambrose. "No one fucks with these fellas."
Tonks, for some reason, felt something clench in her stomach. "Two-thirds, you say? Where's the third one at?"
Gabriel and Ambrose's eyes swerved to the dungeon Kalfani and Nekhbet had disappeared to.
She swallowed. "And you say this third-"
"Dendera," said Ambrose.
"Dendera… you say she could have killed us all? By herself?"
"Yes, she could have. You were very lucky, Mrs. Lupin, that Ronald Weasley and Solomon happened to report that Yasmin was on this island, or else we might not have reached this place on time."
"So they came for Yasmin?" asked Tonks, confused.
"Yasmin is a powerful vampire and Master of the Coven of Isis. One just couldn't kidnap one such as her, unless she was taken by someone better than her, and only three vamps could be better than Yasmin, one of which had been missing from their ranks since Yasmin's disappearance. Nekhbet and Kalfani were quite sure Yasmin and Dendera could be found together. Either Yasmin kidnapped Dendera, or Dendera kidnapped Yasmin. Either way… it means someone wants to hog all the power and that simply wouldn't do, not when there are two other perfectly powerful vamps who don't like being less powerful than others. So the Most Ancient Ones had taken it upon themselves to… fix whatever needs fixing."
"Fix?"
"Kill."
Tonks didn't know what to say but she heard Solomon's breath catch, which was the oddest thing, since vampires, in general, didn't breathe.
"Kill who?" Solomon asked.
Gabriel's brows knotted momentarily. "One of them."
Ambrose nodded. "Or both."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione saw the grand doors down the ruined hallway. The carpet, once thick and resplendent with color, was now worn and blackened with mildew. There was no softness beneath the soles of their shoes, and the jarring hardness of the wooden floor was muffled by dampness.
The house creaked, groaned, and dripped. Nothing about it was reminiscent of the grand ballroom Hermione had earlier found herself in.
Viktor was still bleeding, his wounds looking raw and painful. He held his arm close to him, but he walked quicker than she expected of him. It was taxing him. The paleness of his face was most unnatural and he was breathing through his lips. Ron had tried to help him walk-twice. Viktor refused help the first time. The second offer was accepted, and he leaned on Ron who was strong enough to heft two of him.
She pursed her lips when the urge to tell him to get to a healer became overwhelming. She had no time to argue with anybody right now. Harry needed her. She felt it.
"There," Viktor said, pointing to the doors.
Hermione didn't even wait for them. She broke off in a run, noting that there were no wards on the door as she went. She could kick the door down and nothing would stop her.
When she reached the doors, she pressed her palms to it, pushing them apart. They gave easily enough, and Hermione began to search frantically through the horrifying rubble. She saw the bodies, saw Bellatrix, but she stumbled when she saw what looked like a robe in the darkness.
She hurried to it frantically, only to halt with a violent lurch, her face twisting in disgust as she saw Voldemort's desiccated, bleached husk, mouth wide open in a silent scream and eyes empty of life.
"Harry!" she cried out hysterically "Harry, where are you? Harry!"
There was a soft moan behind one of the pillars and she knew it was him. She scrambled to reach the sound, found out where he was, and she saw him sprawled on the floor, hidden by the shadows.
She stifled a cry. His arm was broken, he was bleeding in parts, and he had a few apparent bruises. Other than that, she couldn't tell where else he was hurt, but he didn't look good in the least.
"Ron, get help!" she yelled, an unbearable sting burning her eyes. She had to take in air to stifle the tremble in her voice. "Now, Ron!"
She didn't know if Ron heard her, but she knew her voice had carried. Gently, she touched her hands to Harry, checking for whatever else that might be broken, determining if he had any life threatening injuries.
He stirred, his eyes opening a crack. "Hermio…"
"Harry!" she hissed, scooping him in her arms. "Where does it hur-"
"I killed him," he whispered. "He's dead."
She nodded, smiling amidst her worry. "He's gone. He's finally gone."
He smiled back, raising his good arm to touch her face. "I love you…"
Alarm bells rang in her head, and her stomach gave a turn. "I love you, too, Harry, but we'll talk about that later-"
"I love you," he insisted. "Did it for you… Hermione…"
"Harry," she said in a warning tone, tears squeezing out of her eyes. "Stop it. Stop talking like that! You're not going to die. You'll be fine! Do you hear me? RON! CALL FOR HELP-"
"I am! I'm trying, dammit!" came Ron's voice from the door as he awkwardly held up his communicator. "There aren't any magical frequencies… Merlin damn it all, I'm sending a messenger spell! Wait here!" He deposited Viktor on the floor and rushed off.
Hermione frantically turned back to Harry. "Ron's going to go for help. You're fine, Harry. You're alright-"
"Dying."
"Oh, God," she choked. She held him, her hands pushing his hair back from his forehead. She felt no scar, but instead of rejoicing, she began to cry. "Ron!"
"He tries!" Viktor hissed. "No one responds! No one…"
"Harry, no…" she wailed. "You can't die on me now. Harry, please…"
He stared back at her with his watery gaze, his eyes filled with a wordless apology. He took her hand and put it on his heart.
She began to sob when she felt it beating slower than it should have been beating.
"I can't watch you die," she whispered. "I can't. You have to hold on."
"Soul won't hold on," he said softly.
Fury flared; at the fates, at Snape, at herself, and everyone who brought Harry to this point. The angry tears spilled, her fist curling on his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said to him. "I'm so sorry…"
He smiled, eyes fluttering slowly at each dying breath he took. "Why?"
"Because"-she choked as his heartbeat slowed even further.
He wasn't going to make it. Not if the Mediwizards came right that second. Not if Madame Pomfrey came to treat him herself.
The rest of her life; the eternity she would live without him, flashed in her mind, and she saw that it would be filled with empty, hollow days. She knew he'd want her to be happy, and she would be doing him a great injustice if she chose to live miserably in the grief of his loss over the possibility of finding something worth living for, worth continuing for, but she could not fathom anything beyond him at this point. She couldn't see past his death, and all she knew was that it would be a hundred times more painful than leaving him all those years ago.
"Because I can't let you die," she continued. "I can't. I'm sorry…"
She pulled him close into her arms, pressed her lips to his neck and bit him.
He let out a small moan and she drank just a tiny bit of his blood. She wasn't going to take a lot. He was dying fast enough as it was.
When she drank enough, she pulled away, pushing back the overwhelming ecstasy of having his blood inside her.
Sobbing as she fought to keep her senses, she leaned him against her, and picking a random shard of something from the ground, she slashed her wrist and pressed the gash to his lips.
She heard him swallow, and she wept as she whispered, over and over again in his ear, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" even as the sharing of her blood brought her to highs she was only now feeling.
It was amazing, to be sharing something so profound, yet so vampiric, with the man she loved. It was intimate, and sacrificial. It made her want to sink to the ground and stay that way forever.
She felt the gentle rasp of his tongue on her wound and heard the moan that left his throat, just before he pulled her arm away, leaning up against her with his breathing labored and his body limp against her.
His lips and teeth, red with blood, glistened in the moonlight, and as their eyes met and the blood of each other seeped into their bodies, Hermione felt a blast of magic slamming in through her eyes.
She fell back, panic suffusing her. There was no pain, but she hadn't expected it; hadn't been told to expect it. This wasn't natural; this wasn't something vampires experienced at the turning.
For a moment, she thought she had gone blind, and she gave a cry of alarm, but then colors began to swirl in her vision; lines of glowing rainbow colors interlaced with ribbons of ethereal silver and gold. She saw it all around her, wrapped around her body, and wrapped around his. She saw tendrils of orange phantasmal light connecting her and Harry.
Don't be afraid… said Harry's voice in her head.
It was unbelievable, that he should be the one to tell her this.
There was a sound at the door; like the flutter of wings, followed by the piercing quality of what sounded like a divine choir. It threw the entire landscape of magic into a radiant shade of red and gold, approaching them in a blinding glare.
Hermione shut her eyes, holding Harry close. She was frightened, and confused, and she couldn't understand.
A heartbeat later, a drop of silver magic touched Harry and exploded in a brilliant light, colliding with his glow and hers.
She gasped at the flare of warmth and magic suffusing her. A blue glow settled on her body, pooling down to the pit of her stomach where she felt a dizzying yank.
She cried out as a dark, grimy mist seemed to leave her body, the ripping sensation inside her dull and without pain.
Staring wide-eyed at the play of magic, she saw that the entity was connected to a long, smoky chord, its origins unseen. It left her, speeding out of the room like it was being pulled away and summoned, like a living thing fleeing for its life. She looked at herself, and saw her body shimmering pure aquamarine, Harry a lovely film of purple in her arms.
Exhaustion slammed into her system and she heard a scream, maybe Ron's, or Viktor's. It was hard to tell, as everything inside her head was swimming, like she was submerged under water. She felt Harry's body tensing and she struggled to hold him as his back bowed painfully from some silent agony, but unable to fight the heaviness in her limbs, eyes, and mind, she found herself succumbing to the darkness that had suddenly enveloped her consciousness.
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A/N: And remember all those promises I made about the state of Hermione's vampirism and Harry's… humanity? Those promises still hold. Nothing has changed.
::sobs::