The door clanged shut ominously and a chill slithered up her spine. It was almost completely dark and she could hear water dripping somewhere. The wizard in black motioned for her to follow him down the stairs, with a nod and a toothless grin, and she had to force back a grimace.
No wonder they keep this place under wraps, she thought to herself. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, and followed the guard into the black.
As she followed him down the steep stairs, she thought about how hard it had been to find this place. She'd spent two days asking people, always in hushed tones or off to the side, and many claimed they didn't know what she was talking about, or if they did, where she should look.
Finally she had gotten someone to admit it existed - a former Ministry official - and told her who to talk to about arranging a visit. She met with the man in charge of the site, although he was more than a little shocked when he heard her request. He had to contact several of the sources she gave him before he decided to allow her a visit.
And here she was, on her last chance before it was too late.
Desolation Row.
The place in London, or under London rather, where prisoners were held awaiting either their trials or their sentences. No one really seemed to wonder about what the prisoners did in the meantime, they just assumed they came from Azkaban and went straight back. When she asked why it existed, the man in charge merely shrugged and said, "This allows us to keep a closer watch on the prisoners. Plus, it's not quite as soft as Azkaban." She never thought anyone would refer to Azkaban as "soft," which made her more than a little hesitant about visiting it. But she had to do it.
So she had gone in search of this place because she had to see him for herself, one last time.
"Jus' a bit farther down, Miss," the guard said, his voice cracking from disuse. She nodded in acknowledgement, and he seemed grateful for the company, so he kept on talking. "We don' usually get many vis'tors here, especially like yourself," he said, eyeing her in a way that made her feel like she'd been thrown in the mud.
Note to self, wash thoroughly when I get out of here, she thought.
She gave him, and their surroundings, a hard look for a minute, before replying, "I can see why." That seemed to stop the conversation, and the rest of the trek downward was made in silence.
At last they reached the floor, and the guard took out a ring of keys, fit a rusty black one into the lock, and opened a rotting wood door.
As soon as he opened the door, she was hit by the screams; they were almost inhuman, the sustained wails and shrieks of those were lost and knew it. She pushed down the urge to run straight back up the stairs - she had come too far now. Besides, she'd seen some pretty horrible things in her time. I can handle this, she told herself in between deep breaths.
She followed the guard down the aisle, cells protected by thick iron gates on both sides of the row. Some had people in them, some were vacant, but as she walked, she noticed they all had scratches…in the stone. The thought of someone so desperate they would try to claw their way out of here made her want to sick up.
At last they came to the end, to the very last cell and stopped. The guard waited for her to draw near, or as near to him as she was going to get, and pointed to the curled up body on the ground.
"You only get a few moments," he said curtly, and headed back down the hall.
She sighed heavily, and kneeled down, so she was almost eye-to-eye with the body on the ground. This is what I came here for, she thought to herself. For him, even though he won't understand why.
When Peter Pettigrew was awoken from his sleep by the sound of breathing, Hermione Granger was there waiting.
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"I accept."
The words were still ringing in his ears two days later. Tomorrow was the day of the execution, and Harry knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. It wasn't that late yet, but the dark night sky seemed to tease him with what was to come.
Right after he had agreed to do the job, Scrimgeour had ended the trial and summoned Harry over to where the judges sat to give him the procedures for the execution. Harry looked to Hermione to see if she was coming too, but she just shook her head in disgust, and quickly made her way out of the room. He didn't have time to feel put off by this, because Scrimgeour called his name again, so he headed to the five judges. People were filing out of the court, but they seemed to part for him as he made his way over. He was actually grateful for this, because then he wouldn't have to deal with any of the other familiar faces who had been at the trial. Hermione's disappointment had stung enough, and he didn't want to deal with anymore.
All the judges watched him curiously as he neared where they were sitting, like they were seeing something new. The only one who showed any emotion was Lupin, who looked at Harry with mingled disappointment and sadness.
Scrimgeour offered his hand to Harry, who shook it reluctantly and glanced quickly at the Interrogators, refusing to look Snape in the eye.
"Well, Mr. Potter, since you have decided to perform this task, there are a few things I need to inform you of. First off, the time: it will be held three days from now at exactly one o'clock, just as this trial was. The execution will happen in The Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries, on the ninth floor. I trust you know which room I mean," he said, and Harry could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in his eye.
The Death Chamber? Harry thought miserably. They want me to go back to where I lost Sirius for this? Is that why the call it The Death Chamber - because they used to perform executions there? Why would they make me go back?
Harry looked darkly at Scrimgeour, as he nodded. "I remember where it is."
"Excellent," Scrimgeour said happily, as if they'd just agreed on a favorite Qudditch team or something. "The doors, as you may remember, are constantly revolving, but we will have someone stationed there to guide you to the correct door. In the room will be myself, the four Interrogators, and the condemned. If you so desire, you may bring one guest for…moral support."
Harry liked the man less and less with every word, and just wanted to get out of here. "Anything else?"
Scrimgeour seemed a little annoyed to get such a short tone from him, but said, "No, just remember to be there exactly on time."
"Right," Harry said and started walking through the now empty courtroom to the door.
"Oh and Mr. Potter," Scrimgeour called out, and Harry stopped and turned. "Don't forget your wand."
Harry stared at the man for a minute before nodding and walking out.
He lingered in the hallway for a few moments, before slowly making his way back to the Atrium. He really hoped that everyone was gone, because he really just wanted to be by himself. When he finally got the Atrium, he saw the Weasley family lingering, clearly waiting for him, but a group of wizards were walking right by the stair door, so he just jumped along with them and got past the Weasleys and into the lift without them seeing him. He felt wretched about doing it, but didn't feel that he could be with anyone right now.
Since then, he'd spent the last two days in his apartment, not going out or anything. The phone never seemed to stop ringing the first day, but had tapered off a little today, and had been blissfully quiet for the past couple hours.
He'd mostly spent the days going over his decision time and time again. Pettigrew did deserve it, didn't he? Harry didn't agree with Scrimgeour that all the deaths of the war could be laid at his feet, but he certainly thought that the man responsible for killing his parents deserved to die.
But there was a voice inside of him that kept crying out that he shouldn't be doing this, that his parents wouldn't want him to, even now that he had the chance. He found it curious that the voice always sounded like Hermione's.
For two days, these conflicting parts of him went back and forth, and at this point, Harry was a wreck. The weather had stayed in a constant state of stormy grey, which had only fueled his mood. At night, all he did was toss and turn, and had barely gotten any sleep or had anything to eat; his appetite just wasn't there.
He heard the small thuds of rain falling as he sat on his couch, a small fire going, when there suddenly came a loud knock on the door. He looked at his watch, which read a quarter till nine, and wondered who it could be. He was tempted to just ignore it when the knock came again, this time louder he could hear a muffled voice say, "Harry, open the door. It's me, Hermione!"
Harry jumped off the couch and ran to the door, unlocked it and let a soaking wet Hermione in. Her hair, made lanky by the rain, was dripping and she had her cloak wrapped tightly around her. She looked pale, like she had seen a ghost or something.
"What are you doing out in this weather?" he asked, as he ran to the bathroom to get her a towel. He wrapped it around her and moved her closer to the fire and sat her down on a chair. She let out a grateful sigh as she stuck her hands out to warm them, and Harry went back to sitting on the couch.
"Well?" he said, and she looked at him questioningly.
"Well, what?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "What were you doing out in this weather?"
"You haven't been answering your phone, and I needed to see you," she answered.
"That was all you?" he asked, surprise in his voice.
"I'm not sure what "all" means, but I have called a fair few times. I know the Weasleys have been as well, because Ron called me to see if I had gotten a hold of you, and apparently Lupin's tried to call at least once."
"Oh," Harry replied, looking at the fire. "I haven't really felt like talking to anyone."
"I figured as much," Hermione said with a small smile. "When I get other people calling me, trying to get in touch with you, it becomes pretty obvious that you're not talking to anyone."
The best Harry could do was to give her a small smile in return, and then said, "Do you want some tea?"
She nodded and he went into the kitchen to fill up the kettle. "What did you want to see me about, Hermione?" he asked, although he had a feeling he already knew the answer. Maybe that was why he nearly dropped the kettle when he heard her say, "I went to see Peter Pettigrew this afternoon."
The flat was silent as Harry slowly made his way back into the living room, to see Hermione looking at him apprehensively.
"You went to see who?" he asked, still reeling from the shock.
"Peter Pettigrew," she repeated.
Harry felt numb as he sat back down on the couch. "Where?" he managed to ask in a quiet voice.
"Desolation Row," she answered and Harry looked at her questioningly. "Don't worry. A lot of people don't know what it is. It's this place underground London where they keep the prisoners whose trials are about to start, or who are waiting for their sentence."
Harry was completely dumbfounded by this. Why had he never heard of it?
As if reading his thoughts, Hermione said, "You didn't think that they just traveled back and forth to Azkaban in between did you?"
Harry shrugged and answered, "I guess I never really thought about it. What's it like?"
"It's horrible Harry. The worst kind of place you can imagine. It's way underground, and in almost complete dark. The prisoners are stuck in these little cells that they can barely stand in, and there's scratches all over the walls from people who went mad. And the screams, Harry; there's always screams. Peter said that one of the prisoners found a way to hang himself yesterday." She shivered in spite of the heat, and wrapped the towel even tighter around her.
Harry arched his eyebrow and said, "Peter?"
Hermione gave him a questioning look and said, "Yes, I told you I went down there to see him."
"Why?"
"To make sure I was right."
"Right?" Harry repeated. "Right about what?"
"That what you're doing tomorrow is wrong."
Harry felt himself getting angry, and tried to push it down.
"Look, Hermione, I know you don't approve, but I agreed to do this. I have to, and I don't need you taking Pettigrew's side on it."
"I'm not taking his side Harry! I know he's done terrible things, things that he can never erase, but killing him won't solve anything. He was a wreck when I saw him, Harry; he's completely shattered. He could barely get out a coherent sentence, and he kept breaking into tears."
Harry felt a mix of revulsion and pity was through him at the image, and pushed it aside.
"It's nothing more than he deserves, Hermione." She was about to say something, but he just kept talking. "I just told you, I already agreed. I can't go back now."
"But you can, Harry! You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do!" Harry roared, standing up, rage pulsing through him now.
Hermione stood up too, looking him directly in the eye, her voice surprisingly calm compared to his.
"No, you don't! What you need to do is get past this, and move on."
"The War's been over for months now, Hermione, and I still can't get past it. I know you know it. I've been looking for something that will fill this hole in me ever since the War ended, and maybe if I do this, if I get rid of him, maybe it will end."
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes pleading. "I know that you feel empty, but this won't help. This isn't what you want to use to fill that hole in you, because if you do, you'll never get rid of it. You can never take it back."
"Enough, Hermione!" he shouted. "I've made my decision, and I know what I'm doing! Besides, why do you care so much? It's not like you're the one who has to do it!"
"Because," she shouted back, "I will not be in love with a murderer!"
It was like he had just been slammed by a Bludger in the chest. He didn't know what to say, and just stared at her, his mouth trying desperately to form words. She just kept looking into his eyes, waiting for him to say something, when the room was pierced by a scream that made them both jump.
"The bloody tea," he murmured and retreated to the kitchen to take the kettle off the stove. He didn't even bother to pour any, but came back out to the living room.
"You're…in love with me?" he managed at last, suddenly finding it hard to look at her.
"Yes," she answered firmly, "and if you weren't so dense, you would have seen it long ago. During all our time together the past months, you've been asking me about something that I've been holding back. Well that's it; I'm in love with you," she said, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
He found himself reaching out to brush it off, but she wiped it away herself.
"Hermione, I…" he fumbled for the right thing to say, the best way to express the swell of emotions that had suddenly risen in him.
She shook her head and said, "You don't have to say anything now Harry, but you have to listen to me. I've followed you for years now, but if you walk down this road, if you kill him tomorrow, then you're going to a place I can't follow. I won't follow."
Harry just stood there at a loss. Hermione handed him back his towel and said, "You're allowed one guest tomorrow right?"
He looked at her and she shrugged, "I read it." He nodded in answer to her question.
"Then I'll meet you in the Atrium at the same time as we did for the trial." Even though it was more of a statement than a question, he nodded again.
She headed over to the door and opened it, the sound of rain filling the room. As she was about to walk out, she turned and looked at him, still standing there with her towel in hand and said, "Think about it, Harry. You've always done the right thing before. Don't stop now."
She then stepped into the night and closed the door.
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