Pendulum of Tears

Author's note:

I expected to be posting a lot sooner, but circumstances beyond my control have left me feeling like a knarl trampled by a hippogriff. First, I was faced with a crushing work schedule, culminating in my working through the entire Labor Day weekend. Just when I thought things would get back to normal, my hard drive decided to throw a tantrum, necessitating its replacement. Fortunately, my critical files are on another drive, so I didn't lose any of my stories. One way or another, I was determined to put something up after the holidays. By stealing moments between work and sleep, I've done my best to edit the bugs out of this story to make it post-worthy. I think it's finally ready. As usual, the readers will be the final judge.

As a point of interest, this is not the story I was planning on posting upon my return. I like to interspace one-shots with multi-chapter fics, and since my previous post was one-shot, I wanted to follow up with a medium-length fic in my typical short-chapter format (much easier to edit). But as that story was entering the final proofing phase, an idea popped into my head that simply refused to go away. It consumed me to the point that everything else was pushed aside until that notion became a full-fledged story. The posting below is the result.

Appearances to the contrary, this is not a sequel to By Whatever Means Necessary. That story was based on an element of fancy that has very little likelihood of being borne out in the final book. By contrast, this story toes a strict canon line until the end, drawing its conclusions from established facts which are thrown into a new light. That is not to imply that I don't believe for a moment that there are certain aspects of HBP (and, indeed, OotP) that are highly suspicious and in need of closer scrutiny. There are a lot of questions waiting to be answered in Book 7. But my speculations along those lines are not addressed here. I have a novel-length story in the planning stage that I hope to begin in earnest very shortly, and I will expound my theories there. For the present, I think there is ample evidence in the existing six books to justify my ending here. If my reasoning is biased, that's not to say that my conclusions are any less valid. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter was created by J.K. Rowling, who owns all rights pertaining thereto. This story was written without intent to infringe, nor to secure any profits.

The door of the small antechamber burst open suddenly. A haggard figure staggered over the threshold, precipitating Ron from his chair with a startled cry.

"Harry! What the bloody hell?"

Harry swayed unsteadily for a moment before lurching forward on stiff, wooden legs. He essayed perhaps three halting steps before falling unceremoniously into Ron's arms.

"What are you doing here?" Ron croaked as he eased Harry into the chair he had just quitted and dropped to one knee beside him. "You should be in bed! Do the Healers know you're here?"

Harry shook his head slowly, instantly regretting the action as his temples began to throb. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

"Took...wand..." Harry grunted, clutching his head with shaking hands. "Used...Confundus..."

In spite of everything, Ron managed a feeble grin.

"Nicked one of the Healers' wands, did you? Probably Augustus Pye's. With that distracted look he always wears, you could pinch his knickers and he wouldn't miss them until the next morning."

Ron's thin humor evaporated as Harry snatched his glasses off, baring his teeth as he winced in response to the waves of hot pain surging through his temples. He fought the onslaught with short, gasping breaths, covering his eyes with his hands as if trying to push the pain away from his optic nerves. When his breathing finally slowed to something resembling normalcy, his companion found a new emotion rising inside him, making his freckles burn like pinpoints of simmering coals.

"Have you gone off your trolley?" Ron demanded angrily, his fingers digging into Harry's shoulders as he held him upright. He resisted the urge to shake his best mate violently, knowing that would only serve to rekindle the pain still evident in Harry's eyes. Instead he channeled his fury into a verbal fusillade that was no less volcanic than its physical counterpart would have been. "You're in hospital for a reason, you great prat! You're in worse shape than my old wand was in second year, and that's saying a bit. Right, I'm taking you straight back -- "

"No!" Harry growled. He lifted his head painfully and replaced his glasses. But where Ron expected Harry's smoldering emerald eyes to fix piercingly on his own, instead they focused on a point just over Ron's left shoulder. Turning his head instinctively, Ron allowed his own gaze to fall on the closed door standing opposite the open portal through which Harry had entered. Ron sighed heavily, a deep ache echoing in the back of his throat.

"There's nothing you can do for her, mate." He hesitated before adding desperately, "There's only one person who can help her now."

Harry's eyes now found and held Ron's in a grip of iron.

"It's true?" he rasped. "I heard Smethwyck talking -- but I didn't believe -- "

But Ron knew that Harry had believed. What else could have compelled him to leave his sickbed now, risking his recovery at this critical stage?

"He's the only one who can help her," Ron said, his voice dull and leaden, as if he shared Harry's abhorrence even if he, unlike Harry, had come to accept it.

"Not him," Harry grunted. "Someone else -- "

"There's no one else who can do the job," Ron said. "The skill required to -- "

"Bugger that!" Harry spat. "There has to be someone! I don't trust him!"

"I do," Ron said simply. "And even if I had your reservations, he's the only one qualified. Anyway, it's already done."

"Done?" Harry gasped, his eyes blazing.

"All but the last step," Ron said.

"Then I can still stop him," Harry said. He attempted to rise, but his legs folded under him and he sank back down into his chair with a moan born of more than physical pain.

"No," Ron said quietly but firmly, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders more fervidly. "Everything is in motion. I'm warning you, Harry, if you try to stop it -- "

Harry gave another desperate lurch. Ron pressed him back into his chair with little effort, so weak was Harry.

"No," Harry moaned. "You can't let him. You can't!"

"He's her only chance," Ron said. His voice fell to a dry whisper as he repeated, "Her only chance."

Harry was about to open his mouth to protest further when a black shadow filled the open doorway. Harry and Ron both turned to behold the figure glowering down at them, his cold, cruel eyes fixed above a long, hooked nose between curtains of greasy black hair. The newcomer's lips curled in disgust, as if he had just swallowed a draught of some exceedingly loathesome brew.

"Nothing has changed since Hogwarts, I see," Snape sneered with undisguised revulsion. "You still quarrel amongst yourselves while others lie suffering around you. You all deserve each other -- and that is not a compliment."

"Do you have the potion?" Ron said curtly, restraining Harry effortlessly as his eyes transfixed Snape's black pools.

"It is not on my person, if that is what you mean," Snape said with his usual air of condescension. "I have just removed it from the fire. It must now cool for precisely one hour, being stirred every ten minutes."

"Then why aren't you stirring it?" Ron demanded sharply, rising to his full height, which was several inches above Snape's lanky stature.

"The hospital Potions Mistress is more than capable of performing that simple task," Snape replied tartly. "The final phase remains to be executed, which duty I can not delegate. Of course, if you doubt my qualifications in this regard, you are at liberty to proceed without me."

His black eyes burning defiantly into Ron's, Snape curled his lip triumphantly at the silence that met his challenge. Striding past Ron and Harry without a backward glance, he set a claw-like hand to the door handle. But before he could enter, his forward motion was arrested by a sharp declaration from behind him.

"We're going in," Ron said in a tone that brooked no refusal. Snape turned slowly to find Ron and Harry both standing, the latter leaning heavily on his friend for support.

"As you prefer," Snape said icily. "But I warn you both, this is a very delicate procedure I am about to initiate. If either of you makes the slightest sound to disturb my concentration, the result could prove disastrous. So if Miss Granger's life has any meaning to either of you, I would strongly advise you to remain silent. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Ron answered hotly, his cheeks burning. When Snape's black eyes shifted to Harry's face, he received an answer no less clear than Ron's in Harry's steely gaze.

"Very well," he nodded. He spun about in a whirl of black robes and entered the room, Ron following with his arm firmly locked around Harry's back. Harry held himself as erect as he could, refusing Snape the satisfaction of seeing him in a position of utter helplessness. He caught the door frame a moment before he would have slipped from Ron's grasp. Ron quickly dragged Harry inside and pushed the door closed with his foot.

"Harry," Ron hissed, "you can't go on like this."

"You're right," Harry gasped. "Ennervate me."

"Harry," Ron protested, "you're in no state -- "

"There's no time for debate," Harry grunted, eyeing Snape balefully through pain-laced eyes. "Do it."

Balancing Harry with one arm, Ron drew his wand and muttered under his breath, "Ennervate!" The pain left Harry's eyes at once, and he disengaged himself from Ron's supporting arm and stood on his own, looking defiant. In truth, the extent of his injuries was such that, even energized by Ron's spell, he was still weak as a baby knarl. But the pain that had hampered his movements was gone, and he had strength enough to stand on his own. He knew that he would pay a heavy price for this artificial invigoration when the spell wore off, but that was a concern for the future. All that mattered to Harry now was that he be awake and alert so he could watch Snape as closely as he would an adder -- for, of the two, Snape was unquestionably the deadlier by far.

As Ron and Harry glided soundlessly to Hermione's bedside, Snape seated himself in a chair positioned on her left. Hermione lay pale and unmoving as a statue, her arms lying at her sides atop her blanket. She looked to be sleeping peacefully, her face wearing an expression of deceptive tranquility. Ron saw a pain in Harry's eyes beside which his earlier physical agonies paled. Ron understood what Harry was feeling all too well, having experienced much the same agony when first he had set eyes on Hermione after she was carried in from the battlefield. He felt his insides writhe now as they had then, with a sickening mixture of misery and anger, and a torturous sense of frustration at being unable to do anything for the woman he loved. But now, thanks to Snape, maybe there was a shred of hope, a feeble light in the all-pervading darkness. He prayed with all his heart that this hope would not prove forlorn.

Ron and Harry watched in silence as Snape sat perfectly still, his black eyes seeming to bore into Hermione's through her closed eyelids. Harry suspected what Snape was doing. He was using Legilimency on Hermione, probing into her mind, sifting through her thoughts, though for what reason Harry knew not. The tension in the small room was palpable, and Ron quivered with anxiety as minute followed minute like a procession of crawling slugs. Harry appeared to have turned to stone, save only for his eyes, which burned with green fire behind his glasses.

At last Snape moved, and Harry and Ron came instantly alert. Snape reached out and took Hermione's left hand in his, folding his claw-like fingers around her pale knuckles. Harry gave a massive lurch, and it was all Ron could do to hold him back (though he secretly wanted to tear Snape's arm out of its socket). He flashed Harry a warning with his eyes, and Harry subsided, though his hands twitched as if he longed to curl them into fists. The image of Harry caving in Snape's greasy head like a melon was not altogether unpleasant for Ron to envision, and went far to holding his own rage in check.

As Ron and Harry watched intently, Snape extended his other hand and placed the tips of his fingers upon Hermione's brow. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and Hermione's face, heretofore unmoving, twitched slightly. Ron felt as if a jolt of electricity had entered his body. He heard her murmur, and this sound was answered by a similar outcry from Harry, whose hand now seized Ron's arm convulsively. Glancing over his shoulder, Ron saw Harry's jaw clenching against the outcry hovering on his lips. Like Ron, Harry remembered Snape's admonition against interrupting the ceremony. Steeling his own determination, Ron turned back to watch the scene unfolding before him, feeling the intensity of Harry's gaze over his shoulder like the eyes of a basilisk.

As Snape sat hunched over Hermione, his narrow shoulders tense with concentration, her features began to change. Her docile, expressionless mouth turned up at the corners until she was wearing a gentle smile. Ron and Harry leaned closer, each careful to make no sound. They held their collective breath, concentrating on Hermione's newly altered aspect with curious wonder. As they watched, Hermione's smile broadened. It was as if she were laughing deep inside, though she uttered no sound. Color appeared on her ivory cheeks, and though her quivering eyelids remained closed, her two watchers would not have been surprised if her eyes were shining underneath with the light of happiness.

So intent were Ron and Harry on Hermione's new aspect that neither noticed Snape's hand withdraw from her brow and plunge into the depths of his black robes. It re-emerged in an instant, darting back to Hermione's face. But instead of returning to her brow, it began to dab lightly at her cheeks. Harry and Ron came alert as one, but where Harry looked on in confusion, Ron's face reflected understanding -- and more, hope. Harry leaned closer, seeing at last what his friend had already spotted. Snape was holding a tiny ball of cotton wool, applying it to Hermione's cheeks with utmost care. It was then that Harry saw that Hermione's face was shining with wetness. She was crying.

Snape's hand drew back now, the cotton ball held delicately in his long, thin fingers. Releasing Hermione's hand, he dipped into his robes and produced a small crystal phial into which he plunged the damp cotton. He sealed the phial with a wave of his hand and, turning around smoothly, thrust it at Ron. With shaking hands, Ron took the phial and stared at it for a moment. Harry stared as well, his eyes following the small object as Ron slipped it into his own pocket and turned back to Snape. An unspoken communication passed between the two, and Ron nodded.

Harry watched with increasing confusion as Snape produced a handkerchief from mid-air and proceeded to wipe Hermione's face dry of tears with uncharacteristic tenderness. It was only then that Harry saw that all trace of Hermione's bright smile had faded. Her face was once more pale and expressionless, resembling that of a peaceful corpse awaiting interment. His task completed, Snape vanished the handkerchief indifferently and bent once more over Hermione. As he had done before, he took her hand in his and touched the tips of his fingers to her brow. Harry trembled slightly as he wondered what would happen next. For his part, Ron knew what was to come, and that knowledge inspired a trembling even more pronounced than Harry's.

Snape was again concentrating, his onyx eyes burning like black fire into Hermione's thoughts. Almost at once, Hermione cried out weakly. Harry and Ron started as if electrified. As they watched, Hermione's tranquil expression melted away. But this time, it was replaced not with happiness, but with unmistakable torment. Her lips drew back, exposing clenched teeth through which labored breath hissed. Her face tensed, twitching from one moment to the next as from the prick of invisible needles. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she were fighting against waves of nameless agony. Harry wanted nothing more in that moment than to surge forward and grab Snape by his bony shoulders and hurl him away from Hermione. Seeing the intent in Harry's eyes (as well as the hands now rising up, fingers curled in an attitude as if to snap Snape's neck like a twig), Ron stepped quietly between his friend and the object of his intended mayhem. This action, accompanied by an understanding and compassionate look from the tall redhead, stayed Harry's intended act. Harry's hands fell away, and Ron turned back to witness the conclusion of Snape's action, Harry's eyes following a moment later.

In stark contrast to her earlier, silent laughter, Hermione was now crying out in mute agony. Her mouth was open, her lips forming words that none of the watchers could interpret. Tears were spilling from her eyes, painting her cheeks a wet crimson. As he had before, Snape hastened to catch up Hermione's tears and seal them in another phial. Ron took this item as he had done the first, placing it in his pocket with a reverence as if it were a holy relic. Snape was now drying Hermione's cheeks again, the action seeming almost blasphemous to Harry, who had never seen the sallow-faced wizard express any emotion save hatred in the seven years of their stormy acquaintance. When Snape's hand withdrew at last, Hermione was again as she had been when the trio had first entered her room. Vanishing the second handkerchief as he had the first, Snape pushed his chair back and rose to his full height. He turned smoothly and regarded Ron with a hard, challenging look.

"Are you prepared for the final step, Weasley?"

"Yes," Ron said evenly. Harry thought he detected a trace of uncertainty in Ron's voice, and Snape's expression seemed to imply that he had observed the same tiny quaver as had Harry.

"Do I need to remind you of the delicacy of this procedure?" Snape said. "The potion I have brewed, while critical, is only the first phase. I have just completed the second step. The final outcome now rests with you. Do you understand me?" Ron nodded, and Snape's black eyes narrowed accusingly at this wordless response. "I would strongly advise you not to take my warning lightly, Weasley. Miss Granger's life hangs in the balance. The pendulum could swing either way. So I ask you again -- are you absolutely certain of what you are about to do?"

"Yes," Ron said more firmly.

"Let it be on your head, then," Snape said. "I shall visit the Potions Mistress one last time, to see that the potion has cooled properly. Once I have given my approval, I will bring the result here to you. I will then take my leave of you, and I trust we shall not see each other again."

Ron nodded, his eyes fixing Snape's unflinchingly. Apparently satisfied, Snape turned to Harry, who was momentarily startled by this unexpected address and retreated a half-step out of habit. Snape regarded Harry with an accusatory look, and Harry instantly bristled.

"If you have something to say to me," Harry said truculently, "say it and be done."

"I see that recent events have not changed you, Potter," Snape said with cool distaste. "I had hoped that your brush with death would have instilled in you at least a small measure of humility, but clearly I was wrong in this supposition. Even now, with barely enough strength to stand unaided, the inward swagger you inherited from your father remains undiminished. The wizarding world again hails you as the destroyer of the Dark Lord, heaping undeserved glory on your overinflated head. But before you think of posing for a statue in the Ministry Atrium, I would remind you that you did not achieve your victory alone. Everyone in this room contributed to the final outcome," he said tersely, the flint in his eyes making it clear that his own role in his former master's fall was not to be dismissed lightly, "as well as many others who -- "

"I know that," Harry cut Snape off sharply. "I never claimed otherwise. So what's your point?"

"You are a consummate meddler, Potter," Snape said. "You cannot refrain from putting your hand in where it is neither wanted nor needed. You would do well to resist that temptation here. That which has been set in motion on Miss Granger's behalf must proceed without interference. Therefore, if her life is as important to you as I have been led to believe, I would strongly advise you to do nothing to disrupt this ceremony. Do I make myself clear?"

"Why would I do something to endanger Hermione's life?" Harry returned hotly.

"It would not be the first time," Snape responded icily.

Harry made a lunging move toward Snape, but caught himself.

"You have nothing to worry about," Harry said, keeping his voice steady with an iron will. "Nothing is more important to me than Hermione's well-being. Despite what you believe, I would never do anything to hurt her. If you're looking for an excuse to crawl away without fulfilling your bargain with Ron, you'll get none from me. Knowing what Hermione is going through -- and knowing that she did it on my behalf -- is causing me more pain than you can imagine. By helping Hermione, you're also helping me. If you can live with that irony, then I certainly can."

"Very well," Snape said. Turning to Ron, he commanded, "You will wait here for my return. I suggest you use that time to prepare yourself. Any error on your part will undo all -- and you will get no second chance. Are we clear on that?"

"Perfectly," Ron said. "I'll be ready when you get back."

With a curt nod, Snape turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving the door open behind him. Ron spared no glance after him, but turned to look down on Hermione. His hand slid into his pocket and emerged with the two phials containing Hermione's tears. He stared at them for an undetermined time; when he lifted his eyes, he saw that Harry was staring at the phials with equal intensity. The two friends exchanged a wordless glance, and Ron replaced the phials in his pocket and nodded toward the door. Harry walked out into the antechamber, and Ron followed, closing the door behind them.

Seeing that Harry was growing unsteady on his feet (the restoration spell could only accomplish so much against the extensive injuries he knew Harry had suffered), Ron seated himself, gesturing for Harry to follow suit. The two sat in silence for a minute, Harry waiting patiently for his friend to find the words to reply to the unspoken questions hovering in the air between them like an electric charge. Ron heaved a weary sigh and regarded Harry through heavy, sleepless eyes.

"How much do you remember about the final battle?" Ron asked.

Harry paused thoughtfully before answering. "It's all kind of hazy," he said. "It's almost funny, really -- everyone says I destroyed Voldemort, but I don't even remember how I did it." To Harry's surprise, Ron did not flinch at the sound of Voldemort's name. He merely looked grim as his eyes seemed to look back to the events that had led them to this place and time.

"Do you remember the three of us fighting together on the Hogwarts grounds?"

"Vaguely," Harry said. "I remember we got separated at some point. I got past a bunch of Death Eaters and was going after Voldemort. Spells were flying everywhere. And -- " Harry paused, closing his eyes as he, too, turned his sight back to the battlefield that had been the peaceful grounds of Hogwarts. Very slowly, he said, "I remember bits of it. I was being attacked from three sides, and they were closing in to surround me and cut off my retreat. I didn't know which way to turn. I thought sure I was for it. Then, suddenly, Hermione was there. I didn't see where she came from. She was just there, protecting my flank so I could go after Voldemort. And then -- "

Ron looked at Harry eagerly, his blue eyes blazing with desperate entreaty. But Harry shook his head slowly.

"I don't remember. When I woke up in hospital, everyone said I'd done it, I'd destroyed Voldemort. But -- I can't remember anything..."

"That's not surprising," Ron said as he eased back to a normal posture in his chair. "If it was me, I'd want to forget everything. Who'd want to carry that around for the rest of his life?"

"But what happened to Hermione?" Harry said desperately. Ron sighed heavily.

"I got the story from a wounded Auror who was brought in after I was."

"You were hurt?" Harry started. "You never said -- I never thought -- "

"It was nothing," Ron shrugged. "Got hit with a Stunner some other bloke ducked, and when someone tried to Ennervate me, they saw I'd hit my head on a rock or something when I fell. They reckoned they'd better bring me in and let a proper Healer sort me out. Didn't want to cause more damage by trying to do something they weren't trained for."

Harry felt a twinge of guilt at not having asked his best mate about his own status following the conflict. But that was quickly pushed aside in favor of the question to which he still had not received answer.

"What did the Auror tell you?"

"Well," Ron said, "he told pretty much the same story you did. One of the Curses flying about had hit him a glancing blow and knocked him out of the fight. He was lying on the ground, his legs useless, his wand gone. All he could do was watch what was happening and hope someone came along to carry him off. You know Aurors can enchant emergency portkeys when they're injured, but without his wand, all he could do was wait for one of his mates to find him and send him off. While he was hanging about, he said he saw you and Hermione fighting off You-Know-Who's lot. He couldn't see your faces clearly, but a black-haired wizard and a bushy-haired witch -- I mean, it's not like that combination turns up every day, right? He said they were coming at you from all sides, but every time a Death Eater drew a bead on you, Hermione spotted him and Stunned him. He said a lot of others were going all fancy with showy spells, but Hermione knew better. The bigger the spell, the more magic it takes, and the quicker you get tired and lose your edge. Hermione was using easy spells that did the job without taxing her reserves, so she was able to carry on where others would have snuffed it."

Ron said this last with unmistakable pride in Hermione. Harry could see the love and admiration in Ron's eyes shining like a beacon.

"Anyway," Ron resumed, "he was getting dizzy from the pain, this bloke was -- funny, I just realized he never told me his name, and I never thought to ask. But before he passed out on the grounds and woke up in the bed next to mine, he saw something weird."

"Weird?" Harry repeated with a touch of dread.

"Yeah. He said that a bunch of spells came at the two of you all at once. Hermione raised her wand and started waving it about, and there was this big flash of light all of a sudden right in front of her. And she just sort of collapsed. He said it didn't look like any of the spells hit her -- she was using a Shield Charm -- said he saw spells bouncing off her. One minute she was standing there, and the next she was down. That's all he saw before he passed out himself."

"But what happened to her?" Harry demanded. "Doesn't anyone know? I mean, how can Snape be doing whatever he's doing if no one knows what happened?"

"They know a bit," Ron said. "After I spoke to the Auror, I asked the chief Healer. He didn't want to tell me at first, but I convinced him." There was a hard look in Ron's eyes now, and Harry did not doubt that the Healers, seeing that unbending determination in those glinting sapphires, would have been only too eager to comply with Ron's request.

"What did Smethwyck say?" Harry asked.

"To begin with, he examined her straightaway -- she was brought in by portkey the same time you were, along with some wounded Aurors. He said it looked like she'd just gone to sleep, only they couldn't wake her up. There were no marks on her -- a few scratches, but nothing serious -- and there was no internal damage, like when Dolohov got her that time at the Ministry. They said they'd never seen anything like it. They used every diagnostic spell they knew, but it was no good. So they experimented a bit, tried to treat the symptoms, but without knowing exactly what had happened, there was nothing they could do. Treating her blindly, they might have done more damage while trying to help her. In the end, they had to leave her to work on the other casualties they could help."

Ron was now blinking his eyes furiously. He covered his face with his large hand and spoke with a forced calm.

"I went straight to her bedside the moment they released me. I saw her lying there -- like she was sleeping -- I told her to wake up -- I -- "

"When did Snape come into it?" Harry asked, his voice hard and businesslike. As he hoped, this forceful directive swept through Ron's despair and restored the greater part of his inner control.

"I dunno who told him about Hermione," Ron said dully. "But as soon as he heard, he came straight in and told the Healers that he knew a potion that might work. He said it was something they wouldn't know about -- I heard some of the trainee Healers chatting afterwards, saying he'd learned it from a forbidden book he inherited from his mum. He was almost boasting, they said, telling Smethwyck that she made certain improvements on the original that might help Hermione, and, well, I don't have to tell you how gifted she was at potions, do I?"

That was an understatement. Having got hold of Snape's old Advanced Potion-Making textbook in his sixth year, Harry had dazzled Snape's replacement Potions Master, Professor Slughorn, by employing the copious notes inscribed in the book by its former owner. Harry further suspected that much of Snape's inspiration had come from his mother, Eileen Prince, from whom a portion (though not all) of her son's scribbled notes were copied from essays dating from her own days as a top Potions student. The combination resulted in Snape raising the art of potion brewing to a pinnacle not seen in a century. Harry could imagine mother and son poring over forbidden books of Dark magic, divining new combinations of ingredients, intuiting fresh applications of old formulae, with startling (and sometimes frightening) results. By the end of his tenure at Hogwarts, Snape must have known more on the subject of potions than the Ministry examiners who awarded him the same Outstanding N.E.W.T. they had given his mother years earlier. Little wonder that, when Horace Slughorn went into seclusion following the first fall of Voldemort, Dumbledore immediately approached Snape to assume the vacated position of Potions Master. Loathe though he was to admit it, Harry was forced at the last to agree with Ron. If a potion were wanting in Hermione's salvation, he could ask for no more skilled maestro than Severus Snape.

But there was still the matter of trust. It would take more than his acknowledgment of his former Potions Master's professional acumen to override Harry's personal experience with Snape's treachery.

"What does this potion do?" Harry asked.

"It's kind of tricky to explain," Ron said. "It's called the Pendulum of Tears. I reckon you saw what Snape did with Hermione just now. After the potion is brewed, it -- " Ron hesitated, fumbling for a way to describe Snape's technical explanation to him in a more common speech that he could in turn relate to Harry in terms they could both comprehend. "You remember I said that the Healers tried to wake Hermione, but nothing worked. The spells that hit her -- they -- " Ron again found himself groping for words. "The Healers think that Hermione's own defensive spells mixed with the attacking spells, forming a kind of -- what was the word they used -- a matrix. It must have been a one in a million combination -- you remember how we all jinxed Malfoy and his mates on the train that time, and the result wasn't pretty. All those spells the Death Eaters hurled were trying to do something different, catch her off her guard. Only they didn't reckon with who they were dealing with. Apparently, Hermione was just able to get off the counter-spells, but there were so many, and coming so fast, that everything kind of got jumbled up, and when the spells all clashed at the same time, everything just -- imploded. It was kind of like being caught in the eye of a storm, and the Healers reckon that the only way Hermione could protect herself was for her magic to turn inward. They said it looks like her shield sort of soaked into her skin and went right to her center, where it hardened into a protective shell that nothing could get through. But it works both ways, see? If nothing can get in, then nothing can get out, either."

Cold dread was scintillating in Harry's eyes. "Are you saying," he said as calmly as he could, "that Hermione is a prisoner inside herself?" Ron nodded.

"Normally," Ron said, quoting the Healers' explanation from memory, "all spells wear off in time -- unless they're systematically replenished with fresh magic. And that's what Hermione is doing. The barrier is so deep inside her that it's become a part of her. Her body is continually re-energizing the magical wall, keeping her sealed off. It's not a conscious act, but a natural function, like breathing, or her heart beating."

"And there's no way to break through?" Harry said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

"There is, and there isn't," Ron said. "Smethwyck explained it this way. Imagine someone is locked in a cell, and you try to get to them by knocking down the wall from the other side. The stones collapsing inward would crush the person you're trying to rescue. Like you said, Hermione is a prisoner inside herself. If we try to get her out by breaking through from the outside, her magic will keep increasing the barrier until we end up crushing her from inside. It'd be like squeezing an egg with an iron glove. Whatever tries to break through Hermione's magical shell will crush her inside it."

"So we have to get Hermione to break through from her side?" Harry said, picking up on Ron's thread.

"Well," Ron said, "that's almost as dangerous, according to Smethwyck. Using his metaphor, he says that breaking down a wall from either side is never the best way to enter a room. The best way in or out is to go through the door. But this door is locked from the inside. What we need, then, is something that will make Hermione put the key in the lock from her side and come out on her own."

"And Snape's potion will do that?" Harry said, his hopes rising. But Ron responded with a look of dread in his pale eyes.

"That all depends on me."

"What do you mean?" Harry said. "I thought you said that Snape just did the last part."

"He did his last part," Ron said. "But the final stage is down to me."

Ron dipped into his pocket once more and held out the two phials containing Hermione's tears, cradling them with utmost care. Harry stared at them for a moment before lifting his eyes expectantly back to Ron.

"Like I said," Ron began, "the only way to bring Hermione back is to make her want to come back. And that's where things get a bit -- dodgy."

"What do you mean?" Harry repeated. "Why wouldn't she want to come back? You said she was trapped inside herself, right? So all we have to do is -- what did you say? -- have her turn the key from her side and open the door."

"But what if she doesn't want to open the door from her side?" Ron said grimly.

"What?" Harry said. "Why wouldn't she want to come out? You said it was all an accident, right? You said Hermione's magic acted on its own to protect her from all those spells. It wasn't something she did on purpose."

"That's how it began," Ron agreed. "But once she was locked away in that safe place inside herself, something happened that no one reckoned on."

"What happened?" Harry demanded.

"According to Smethwyck," Ron said in a hollow voice, "Hermione is hiding."

"What do you mean, hiding?" Harry asked sharply.

"She's hiding inside herself," Ron said. "Whatever the two of you went through facing You-Know-Who, Smethwyck reckons it triggered something in Hermione's subconscious. You remember I mentioned Dolohov before. That was a close thing, you know, when he hit her with that Curse in the Department of Mysteries -- she nearly died. If she hadn't taken his voice away so he had to use a non-verbal spell -- "

Ron shivered as his own voice choked off abruptly. He swallowed hard and continued.

"The Aurors in the ward backed up what Smethwyck said. They told me they'd all faced moments like that, when they felt death tugging at their sleeve -- well, you know what that's like, don't you? You nearly snuffed it when You-Know-Who came back at the end of the Triwizard Tournament."

It was now Harry's turn to shudder. Ron nodded understandingly at the haunted look that passed momentarily across his friend's eyes. Over the course of the preceding year, he had discovered a new respect for Harry to add to an admiration that was already without bounds.

"The bloke who portkeyed Hermione in said that, once something like that happens, it stays with you forever. From that moment on, the fear of death becomes a part of you. You can pretend it's not there, but it never really goes away. All you can do is learn to deal with it. If you don't, it'll eat you alive like a bellyful of flesh-eating slugs."

Again, a wordless communication passed between Ron and Harry. Harry's eyes grew hard in response, and Ron took a slow breath and continued.

"I dunno about you," Ron said, "but there were a few times that day when all I wanted to do was turn about and run as far away as I could, as fast as I ruddy well could. I mean, people were dying all around us, and who was to say that the next spell wouldn't have one of our names on it, you know? When I told my hospital mate that, he laughed and said it happens to him all the time. He said there's a moment of decision that comes when you have to choose between standing your ground and doing what needs to be done, or tucking your tail between your legs and running away. It's not a matter of courage. It's an inner war between common sense and insanity -- I mean, only a nutter wants to die, right?"

Harry felt a small tick flutter in his facial muscles for a moment. It passed quickly, going unnoticed by Ron.

"So," Ron said summarily, "things being what they were, it stands to reason that anyone with a bit of sense was scared right down to their shoes -- and I don't have to tell you that, when it comes to plain common sense, Hermione has half again as much as you and me put together."

The two friends shared a rare smile as their eyes flickered toward the door behind which Hermione lay in her enchanted sleep.

"Common sense is what keeps us from doing something stupid," Ron said, one eyebrow raised meaningfully. "Like jumping off a cliff without a broomstick -- or insulting a hippogriff to its face."

Ron's eyes hardened in concert with his smile, and Harry suspected that he was remembering the incident in Care of Magical Creatures class when Draco Malfoy had insulted Buckbeak in defiance of Hagrid's warning, receiving a slashed arm as his reward.

"But," Ron went on, his smile retreating as quickly as it had come, "there are times when insanity is the only course. I mean, anyone would have to be mad to go up against You-Know-Who, right? But it was something that had to be done, and common sense be damned. Ever since last year, you were determined to go face-on with You-Know-Who, and there was no way that Hermione and I were going to let you do it alone. But when the time finally came, I got knocked out before I found myself looking straight into his eyes and had to make that choice whether to stand or run. There's no way I can know what you and Hermione went through, but I don't need Hermione's brains to know how mad it must have been, having to face that moment at last. According to my hospital chum, that's when an Auror has to find a reason not to listen to his common sense. He needs something to hold onto -- an anchor -- something to keep him from giving in to his fears when common sense tells him to run away and save his own life. Well, I reckon I know what kept you going, don't I?"

Again, Harry did not reply in words. The shadow that clouded his emerald eyes for a flickering heartbeat needed no embellishment.

"I dunno what it was that kept Hermione going when she felt like doing a runner," Ron said. "For me, it was Ginny. She'd already been used once by You-Know-Who -- you only just stopped him from killing her when he came out of that ruddy diary Lucius Malfoy stuck in her cauldron back in her first year. Whatever it took, I wasn't about to give either of them a second chance at her."

Once more, Harry and Ron exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Hermione never had anyone she loved attacked by You-Know-Who like you and I did," Ron said. "But something kept her going -- kept her from giving in to her fears. Whatever it was, it must have been really powerful. But that doesn't mean those fears weren't there, tearing at her insides like a nest of doxies. Like the rest of us, she had to fight every moment to keep from going round the twist. She couldn't let her guard down for the blink of an eye, because if she did, she might find herself giving in to that bugger-all common sense of hers and running away. And I reckon that's what did her in."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"She was faced with two choices," Ron said, "both of them impossible. She could either leave you to face You-Know-Who alone, and probably get yourself killed -- or she could stay and die with you. Well, the first choice was never an option, was it? I mean, there's no way she'd let you go off and face You-Know-Who on your own. That meant she had to accept the possibility -- maybe the inevitability -- of her own death -- again. And I reckon it was just too fine a line to walk. So, somewhere along the way, her subconscious mind found a third alternative. If she couldn't stay, and she couldn't run, she had to find a way to do both at the same time. The only way she could do that was to go inside herself. I dunno what triggered it, but Smethwyck reckons it must have happened when all those spells hit her at the same time. The wall holding her fears at bay crumbled. She tumbled back through her inner door and slammed it shut. It wasn't something she intended to do, but when it happened on its own, the part of her that was looking for that third option acted instinctively. All she knew was, she was suddenly in a place where nothing and no one could hurt her. And that's where she'll stay until we can convince her that it's safe to come out again."

Ron's eyes involuntarily swung toward Hermione's door before returning to Harry. He sighed heavily, his shoulders dropping slightly as if under the pressure of a tremendous weight.

"Smethwyck said that Hermione is suffering from something called regression. In her subconscious mind, she's like a frightened child who's hiding from the monsters in her closet. I think it's more like when you hear a crash of thunder in the middle of the night, and straightaway you dive under the covers where it's safe -- I shared a room with Fred and George for a bit before Bill left, and they used to take the mickey out of me no end when I did that on stormy nights. I reckon that's what Hermione did when those spells burst around her. They cut the tether keeping her fears in check, and her instincts smothered her reason, making her run and pull the covers over her head. But however you tally it up, the answer is still the same. If Hermione is hiding in the dark -- which is to say, hiding from her fears -- the only way to bring her back into the light is with a force more powerful than the one holding her prisoner. That's what the Pendulum of Tears is all about. But..."

"What?" Harry said, the hesitancy in Ron's voice filling his belly with ice.

"The potion works," Ron said, "by setting up a balance between the forces of darkness and light -- yin and yang, I once heard Hermione call it. Once that's done, the third and final element is introduced -- that's the one that will tip the balance, one way or the other."

"And the pendulum could swing either way," Harry recalled Snape's warning to Ron. "So you have to find a way to make it swing toward the light side in order to bring Hermione out of the darkness."

"Right," Ron nodded. "But that's not the dodgy part. Everything hinges on the balance of the two opposites, darkness and light. The balance has to be absolutely precise, and if you remember weighing potion ingredients on our scales in class, you know that isn't as easy as it looks. Try doing it with the human mind and you compound the problem a million times."

"We know that the dark side is Hermione's fear," Harry said. "All you have to do is -- I dunno -- add something -- happy to balance it out."

"Sounds simple, doesn't it?" Ron said, his shadowed eyes grimly contrasting the thin smile on his face. "But like I said, it's not like weighing boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn. Where the human mind is concerned, you can't muck about, adding this and taking away that until the arrow points straight up. The balance has to be exact to the finest degree. Trouble is, we don't really know the exact nature of Hermione's debilitating fear. We have a good guess, but that's all it is. According to Snape, without knowing the precise degree of Hermione's fear, we can't supply the exact balance required by the potion -- and anything less than perfect balance will turn everything arse over kettle. What's the answer, then? How do we achieve the exact balance we need to set things in motion when half of the equation is a virtual blank?"

Harry stared at Ron intently, his apprehension growing as he braced himself for the answer that he knew his friend was about to disclose.

"Hermione told me that the yin and yang are two halves of the same whole," Ron said. "That's how they maintain their perfect balance. You can't achieve that balance from without. That's why there's no such thing as a 'perfect match' between two people, she said. Introducing an outside element will always create an imbalance, and where we're concerned here, even the tiniest deviation will bring everything down quick as yanking the support from under a house of Exploding Snap cards -- and with the same destructive results." His eyes boring into Harry's, Ron swallowed the slight tremble in his voice and said, "That's where the potion comes in. We're going to use it to create our own yin and yang inside Hermione. That way, we'll be able to achieve the balance we need to proceed to the next step."

"And how do you do that?" Harry asked.

"By replacing Hermione's fear with another, stronger one," Ron said.

"But how can that help?" Harry said in confusion.

"Because we'll be supplanting Hermione's original, undefined fear with one of our own creation," Ron explained. "By creating the whole and then splitting it in two, we'll create our own yin and yang, establishing the balance we need to carry on to the next step."

"And the potion will do that?" Harry said, his hopes rising.

"Yes," Ron said. "But there's a catch."

"What?" Harry said, a sense of dread leaping up abruptly to gnaw at the edges of his hope.

"There are rules in nature that even magic can't circumvent," Ron said. "The only way to overcome a force is with a more powerful one. That's why I said we have to replace Hermione's fear with something stronger. You don't need a dozen ruddy O.W.L.'s to know that if you and Crabbe stand face-to-face and trade punches, he'll knock you flat. It's the same principle here, but with a catch."

"What catch?" Harry asked, dreading the answer.

"The fear that's keeping Hermione prisoner is powerful," Ron said, "but it's basically benign. It won't let her go, but it won't actually hurt her, if you get my meaning. If we do nothing, it'll just carry on as it is, and Hermione will just stay as she is forever, just being -- nothing."

"But the other fear?" Harry said, his body suddenly going cold. "If the potion goes wrong -- " Harry could not continue, but Ron did not need Snape's mind powers to answer his friend's unfinished question.

"Hermione will die," Ron said. "That's the choice we had to make -- the choice I have to make. Do I leave Hermione as she is, to live out her life as an unthinking vegetable? Or do I risk everything trying to bring her back? That's why Snape warned me that I had to be absolutely certain about what I wanted, because once we've set things in motion, there's no turning back. There's no gray area here. Either Hermione lives -- or she dies. Put another way, I either save the woman I love -- or I kill her."

Harry's thoughts were turning over and over in his head until they were roaring like an avalanche down a mountainside. Ron's words thundered through the corridors of his mind, with one echo reverberating over all: The only thing that can drive out a fear is an even stronger fear. Harry's reason seemed to be turning inside-out. What could be more powerful than the fear of one's own death? Harry's confusion was painted across his face, etched in lines and shadows Ron could not fail to read as easily as words on parchment.

"You see now why the potion is so dangerous that it was outlawed," Ron said. "And with the changes Snape and his mum made, even the Healers were hesitant to authorize its use. But in the end, they agreed there was no other way. There's nothing they can do on their own. Desperate situations call for desperate measures, they said. But in the end, it's all down to me. I'm literally holding Hermione's life in my hand."

Ron fell silent as he regarded the phials cradled in his palm, their featherweight seeming more ominous than the bulk of a mountain threatening to crush him under a thousand tons of stone.

"Here in my hand," he said, "is the distillation of those opposing forces -- the two extremes that will make up the pendulum. What I do with them will determine whether Hermione lives or dies." Lifting his eyes until they were level with Harry's, he essayed a hard smile. "You never asked me, Harry. With all the talk about darkness and fear, you never asked me what the other force is -- the one that can break through Hermione's fears and bring her back to us."

Harry blinked once. No, he hadn't thought to ask Ron that question. But from Ron's preamble, he realized there could be only one answer.

"Love," he said.

Ron nodded slowly, once more cradling the phials containing Hermione's tears with a tenderness that should have been alien to such large hands, yet which seemed a natural companion to the fragility mirrored in his pale eyes.

As he stared at Ron's hand, Harry felt as if a ghostly counterpart of that appendage were reaching inside him to squeeze his chest with invisible fingers of chilled steel. The sensation was only marginally removed from the omnipresent tightness resulting from the internal trauma he had suffered in his frantic battle on the Hogwarts grounds. As the twain slowly merged in the core of his being, he suddenly saw the face of Albus Dumbledore floating before him, his tranquil blue eyes burning sagely into Harry's over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, silently repeating his mantra regarding the means by which the "Chosen One" would ultimately triumph over the Dark Lord. The power he knows not.

Why can't I remember? Harry's silent scream echoed yet again in his brain. What did I do -- what didn't I do that I should have -- to leave Hermione like this?

Shaking himself mentally, Harry again regarded the phials in Ron's hand. Seeing this, Ron closed his fingers around the two smooth, elongated objects and raised them to within a centimeter of his lips.

"You saw Hermione's face when Snape was going inside her head," Ron said. There was no query in this statement, and he did not wait for Harry to reply, but went on. "And you heard what Snape said to me just before he left. He said the pendulum could swing either way."

Recalling Snape's admonition to Ron, Harry's mind instinctively wedded this statement to Ron's description of the potion -- the Pendulum of Tears. A pendulum was an apt description of the vastly different expressions displayed in succession on Hermione's face. The first had been an almost indescribable happiness, the other a misery beyond imagining.

"Love and fear," Ron said almost philosophically. "The two strongest emotions. They go head to head like -- like mad dragons, each trying to win out. All too often, fear wins. It definitely has the edge. It takes a lot to knock that dragon out of the sky...sometimes more than a bloke can manage."

"When Snape went inside Hermione's head," Harry asked in a quiet voice, "what did he do to her?"

Smiling thinly, Ron said, "You probably know he was using Legilimency on her. When a Legilimens isn't available, other means have to be used to dip into the subject's mind. Spells, amulets, even potions. But those are all dodgy, being as they're all artificial and harder to manage. Legilimency is smoother, one mind touching another. Smethwyck said it's like when a fly lands on your nose -- it's better to swat it with your hand than a sledge hammer. Same principle as with Hermione's dormant state -- better to turn the key in the lock than try to force the door. That's why Snape said he was uniquely qualified for that step. Dumbledore could have done it, of course, but..."

Ron's voice trailed off into a poignant silence. Harry was still waiting for a response to his question. It was requiring all of the mental discipline forged over his year of chasing down Voldemort's Horcruxes to keep Harry's from seizing Ron by the shoulders and demanding an answer. He knew Ron was waging a battle deep inside, but his own inner turmoil was such that he could not endure another delay of any duration. When Ron finally recovered enough to continue, Harry came fully alert (as much so as his magically energized mind and body could manage -- Ron's spell was rapidly losing its battle against the severe injuries that had nearly killed Harry in his encounter with Voldemort, and the equally drastic measures employed by the Healers to counter those traumas). He sat on the edge of his chair, his senses tuned to Ron's every word.

"Snape explained that different emotions affect the chemistry of the body," Ron said, "including the composition of human tears. The difference between tears of happiness and tears of sadness are like wine versus vinegar. When Snape went into Hermione's mind, he reached into the dream center of her brain. With her resistance down to nothing, it was easy for him to plant a suggestion in her mind -- a command, really."

"What command?" Harry asked.

"He told her to reach inside herself," Ron said, "as deep as she could go, and imagine the happiest moment of her life. We're talking the absolute pinacle here -- something so fantastic that the image filling her mind would make tears of happiness spill out of her like water from a tap."

"What did she imagine?" Harry said wonderingly.

Ron shrugged uncomfortably. "That's the question, innit? What would Hermione's happiest thought be, the emotion that could knock over her fears like tenpins and send her out the door. It's not like we could wake her up and ask her -- I mean, if we could do that, we wouldn't need to know, would we? But we did need to know, and we couldn't afford to guess. It was up to us to tell her what to see and think and feel, and we had to be spot-on, because that answer was the key to both swings of the pendulum -- yin and yang. We were working backwards, see. In order to create the fear we needed to be getting on with, we had to start with the opposite. The human mind is too full of monsters to be mucking about half-arsed. We had to start with the light side so we'd have something to keep the darkness in check. So that brings us back to it. What would Hermione's happiest thought be? That's what Snape asked me, what he needed to know so he could plant the thought in Hermione's head. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I couldn't afford to be wrong -- only one chance, Snape said. So while he was fussing about with the potion, I went off to get some advice from the one person I knew I could trust to tell me the truth, no matter what. My mum."

An expression crept over Ron's countenance that Harry could not identify. He had never seen such depth of emotion on his friend's face, which had ever been an open book almost from the first moments of their seven-year acquaintence. Harry's analysis was still inconclusive when Ron spoke again.

"Hermione and I didn't talk about the future much," Ron said in a distant voice. "I mean, we didn't know if any of us would even have a bloody future with You-Know-Who looking to do us in, you know? But I remembered things she said when we were alone...about what she wanted to do when we'd finally destroyed the last Horcrux and you'd sorted out You-Know-Who for good. She didn't come right out and say it, but I think what she was looking forward to most was her wedding day. So that's what I told Mum."

"And what did she say?" Harry asked, the eagerness in his eyes shining through his slightly smudged lenses.

"Well," Ron said, "she got this kind of funny look on her face for a moment, like she was seeing something far away, you know? And then she smiled at me and said that, speaking for herself, the happiest day of her life was when she and Dad got married. She reckoned that it was the same for any woman who had any love at all in her -- and we all know that there's no lack of love in Hermione. Bloody hell, when you look back on it, everything Hermione did, whether trying to free house-elves, or working to save Buckbeak from Macnair -- even nagging you and me to do our bloody homework -- it was all an act of love. So when the time came for me to tell Snape what to plant in Hermione's head, I told him what my mum said, and that was that. When we watched him go into into her mind a bit ago, he just sort of reached into her thoughts and told her to imagine her wedding day. He told her to take the bloke whose face was in her heart and imagine herself standing beside him, promising to love him forever. From the smile she was wearing -- you saw it same as I did -- I reckon Mum was right. Hermione's happiest thought, marrying the wizard of her dreams..."

"Marrying you," Harry said encouragingly.

"That took care of the forward swing of the pendulum," Ron said in a slightly strained voice, his eyes not quite meeting Harry's. "That only left the back-swing, which was just as important to the spell as the other -- the fear even greater than the one holding her prisoner. Well, it stood to reason that if marrying the man of her dreams was her happiest thought, then the worst thing she could imagine would be to lose him forever. So Snape -- "

"She dreamed that you died?" Harry blurted out in mild horror, imagining in his own mind how Ron's death (which had nearly come about more than once in their year-long search for Voldemort's Horcruxes) would have slashed him like a metaphorical Sectumsempra Curse. Had he looked in a mirror at such a moment, he might have seen etched into his own face a misery equal to that which he had seen stamped on Hermione's features less than an hour ago. But his mate gave his head a brief shake.

"No," Ron said, his smile growing more strained. "I thought the same thing until I talked to my mum. According to her, a woman can bear losing the man she loves to something as inevitable as death. That's something she can understand, even though it tears her heart out -- you remember how she was when Dad was bit by You-Know-Who's snake and we didn't know if he'd make it. I never saw her in such a state. But she said that was nothing to how she'd feel if the day ever came when Dad told her he didn't love her any more. She said it would be like getting hit with a Cruciatus that would never end. She said that's the risk everyone takes for daring to love someone with all their heart."

"But Hermione knows how much you love her," Harry said. "Just like your mum knows your dad loves her."

"What the mind knows is different from what the heart fears," Ron said, sounding in that moment more like Remus Lupin, or Albus Dumbledore. "Love is an emotion of the heart and soul. It isn't fueled by logic and reason -- those things come from the head, not the heart. Mum says that love is a two-sided coin, with heartache always waiting on the other side. All you can do is toss it in the air and hope it hands right-side up."

Ron cradled the phials in his hand again, sighing deeply.

"What happens when Snape brings the finished potion?" Harry asked. "You have to add Hermione's tears to it?" Ron nodded without looking up. "What happens then?" Harry pressed.

Looking up again, Ron said, "You remember Snape said that the pendulum could swing either way -- that the only one who could determine which way it goes is me." Harry responded with a slow nod. "After I add Hermione's tears to the potion," Ron concluded, "I have to add the last ingredient -- my own tears."

"And that will complete the potion and bring Hermione back?" Harry said excitedly. To his surprise, Ron stood up and began to walk the length of the small antechamber slowly, crossing back and forth in front of Harry. He stopped at last and turned to look down his long, freckled nose at his oldest friend, his blue eyes clouded darkly.

"You're not listening," Ron said quietly, his soft voice smiting the air like the blow of a hammer. "I said it could go either way." Pausing to draw a long, labored breath, he explained, "When I add Hermione's tears to the potion, they won't mix with each other. Even blended together, they'll remain separate. Kind of like adding carrots and potatoes to a stew -- they're both in the pot, both part of the stew, but not a part of each other. Then, when I add my tears, the potion will catch hold of them and draw them to one of Hermione's two sets of tears -- only one. Do you understand what that means?"

Harry responded with a shake of his head. In truth, he understood the implications of Ron's question too well, but his mind seemed to want to close itself to such considerations until confirmed by Ron. That confirmation was swift in coming.

"The last set of tears will seek out their counterpart and bond with them," Ron said. "Which of the two they bond with will determine whether Hermione lives or dies. If my tears join with Hermione's tears of happiness, the potion will be transformed into a powerful restorative. It'll creep into the pleasure centers of her brain, shattering her fears and replacing them with happiness and hope. She'll break through her protective shell like throwing off a blanket and wake up as if she'd only been having a little kip after dinner."

Harry did not want to ask what would happen if the other of the two scenarios was realized. But Ron answered without prompting, though it pained him to the heart to speak the words.

"But if my tears bond with the other tears -- the tears of fear -- "

Ron caught hold of himself, drawing a breath and holding it for long moments. When he let it out, his whole body seemed to deflate.

"Hermione's in a prison cell," Ron said, speaking almost as if Harry were not present. "Her fears are her jailer. If I go ahead with this, I'll be replacing that jailer with a -- monster. It won't just keep her locked away. It'll kill her. It'll be the mountain troll in the loo all over again. But I won't be able to save her with a simple Wingardium Leviosa this time."

Harry felt as if he should say something, anything, to take the weight of fear from his friend's eyes. But though he tried several times to speak, no words came, leaving him to close his mouth in sorrowful defeat. Apparently lost in his own dark musings, Ron surveyed the twin phials with an appraising eye.

"The potion adapts to the body chemistry of the one whose tears are added first," he said, brandishing the phials in emphasis of his statement. Regarding Harry from the corner of one eye, he murmured, "I've already told you what will happen if the pendulum swings our way. If it goes the other way -- " His voice choked off. He swallowed hard, his eyes closing heavily. "If it goes wrong, the potion will turn into...into poison. Snape promised it'll be quick and painless, like blowing out a candle flame. I w-won't even have time to tell her I lo -- "

"What if you don't add Hermione's sad tears," Harry said desperately, his tongue stumbling numbly over his words, "but just the happy ones? That way the potion can't -- "

"No good," Ron said, his deep reverie snapping with the force of a quiet explosion. "It's all about balance, remember. The slightest deviation would be disastrous. One reason the potion was banned by the ICW is that, without the tears, the primary ingredients are poisonous in themselves. Even a sip would send the drinker into convulsions, followed by a prolonged and painful death. And there's no antidote. There'd be no popping a bezoar down Hermione's throat like you did for me last year."

Ron took a few paces around the chamber, his steps jerky and nervous, before he stopped and faced Harry again, his eyes once more hard and clear as the gems whose color they effected.

"In the old days, Dark wizards used the original potion as a form of torture -- that's what Smethwyck said, anyway. It was only later that its other uses were discovered. Supposedly, some bloke was about to be poisoned ages ago, and just as he was about to drink, his captors told him they'd changed their minds and decided to let him live. He was so happy, he cried, and the tears fell into the goblet. Then the sadistic buggers said they'd changed their minds again, just to enjoy seeing his hope destroyed. He broke out in fresh tears, and these ran into his mouth as he drank. Everyone was surprised when the potion had no effect. The second set of tears on his tongue, added to the first set already in the goblet, neutralized the poison -- yin and yang, two halves of the same whole. That's where it all started, with potion brewers testing new combinations over the years, leading ultimately to the discovery of the properties we're using here. But one thing is the same now as then. Unless both sets of tears are added, the potion remains deadly. If I added only Hermione's happy tears, putting my own in would do as much good as -- as adding a pinch of salt to a goblet of nightshade -- speaking of which, did you know that the two elements salt is made of are poisonous?"

The unexpectedness of this question left Harry gobsmacked. Ron's tense face stretched into a thin, brittle smile.

"Hermione told me that once when she was helping me with a Potions essay. Funny, my remembering that now. She said that salt is made up of sodium and chlorine. They're both poisonous, see. Can you fancy that? Take either one on its own and you'll snuff it. But together, they make a spiffing seasoning for a boring roast beef. Fascinating, really, innit? I mean, the things Hermione knows..."

This rambling discourse touched Harry's spine with icy fingers. A moment later, Ron's smile faded, and he looked at Harry with eyes brimming with anguish.

"You see what I'm saying, Harry? The first two sets of tears added to the potion render it harmless. You could drink a cauldronful of it and nothing would happen. But that wouldn't help Hermione, would it? When I add my tears to the mix, one of two things will happen. Hermione will wake up and be perfectly normal -- a bit weak from her ordeal, but otherwise okay. Or -- she'll die. Oh, it'll be quick right enough, and there won't be any pain, not like the original potion would have done. But she'll die all the same, won't she?"

Harry was stunned. He wanted to rise and grip Ron by the shoulders, demand to be told that this was all a cruel joke, or a delirium dream brought on by his injuries. But he discovered in that moment that he could not so much as rise from his chair, his magically-induced vigor seeping from his limbs as Ron's energizing spell slowly dissipated. And it would have changed nothing in any case.

"What if you don't give her the potion at all?" Harry asked defeatedly. "I mean, what do the Healers reckon the chances are that she'll wake up on her own?"

"Next to none," Ron said. "The real bugger is, Hermione is being damned by her own magic. If this were someone else -- Parvati or Neville -- or me -- there'd be a bit of hope to cling to. But Hermione is such a powerful witch, there's just no breaking through. Unless something is done to bring her out on her own -- "

"Did anyone ask Hermione's parents about this?" Harry said desperately, grasping at moonbeams in his anxiety and frustration. "I know she's of age, but since she isn't awake to make such an important decision..."

"I went to them myself," Ron said despondently. "I told them everything. I told them what I just told you, that there was no hope of Hermione waking up on her own. And they agreed that they didn't want her to lie in bed like a statue for a hundred years or more. They said that wasn't living, it was just existing, and Hermione deserved better than that. They said they'd rather she went quickly than hang on like that, being neither dead nor alive. I almost wish they hadn't said that."

"Why" Harry asked.

"Because it's all down to me now, innit?" Ron said, stifling a sob. "Even though she's lying there like a sack of turnips, not knowing if it's day or night, not feeling cold or hungry or anything at all, she's still alive! The moment I add my tears to the potion, I could be signing a death sentence for her. My tears might as well be drops of poison! And I couldn't bear living another day if I was the one who killed Hermione!"

"You won't!" Harry said loudly. "You couldn't!"

"Tears of love," Ron murmured, wringing his large hands together in child-like anguish. "That's what'll save Hermione. But -- " Ron's throat tightened. "What if..."

"What?" Harry demanded. "What if you don't love her enough? That's rubbish and you know it!"

Ron seemed to be fighting against the onset of the tears that he dreaded would spell Hermione's end rather than her salvation. He stiffened, his teeth clenched behind thin-stretched lips, forcing his eyes to remain dry.

"You want to know something?" Ron said unexpectedly, biting his lip through a quivering a half-smile. "When I got back from the Grangers', I asked my mum if I ought to use Hermione's mum's tears instead of mine -- you know, have Snape make Hermione dream that You-Know-Who had broken into her house and either killed her parents or they'd got away, and her mum's tears would swing the pendulum the right way and bring her back. I mean, Hermione's an only child, isn't she? And who loves you more than your mum, right? And you'd have to be right sod not to love your own mum, wouldn't you? Even Draco bleedin' Malfoy wasn't that big a rotter -- I bet even You-Know-Who loved his mum's memory once, if only for a bit, even if he hated his Muggle dad enough to kill him.

"But Mum said it was no good. She reminded me that she lost her own parents -- they both died before I was born -- and her brothers were both killed by Death Eaters -- the same bugger who tried to do in Hermione at the Ministry -- that was why she was so keen to join the Order of the Phoenix when Dumbledore started it up again. She said that nothing is as strong as the bond between a husband and wife -- and Snape said that only the most powerful force could smash Hermione's fears and bring her back.

"I told Mum what Smethwyck said about regression, and she agreed straightaway. She said we all have a child inside us that never quite grows up -- with Fred and George, she reckons they went a bit beyond their allowance -- even Dad has a bit more than she'd like -- but it's there inside all of us. Maybe that's why I acted the childish prat for so long. Dunno why Hermione put up with me as long as she did..."

Ron tried to smile, but the effort withered on the vine before bearing fruit.

"Anyway," he resumed, "Mum said that no matter how much Hermione loves her parents, that sort of love is rooted in the inner child, not the adult. When that kind of love comes up against fear, it can't win. It takes a stronger, more complete love to sweep those shadows away. A mature love, rooted deep in the heart. So here I am, literally with Hermione's life in my hands -- " The crystal phials clinked delicately as his fingers caressed them. "And I don't mind telling you, I'm scared, Harry. I love her too much to be the one who kills her! I -- think I'd do myself in if that happened."

"It won't happen!" Harry said firmly, struggling through his encroaching infirmity to sit up defiantly straight in his chair. "You're going to save Hermione. You're the only one who can." When Ron did not reply, Harry sought a more concrete topic to ground their discourse. "How will Hermione take the potion? She can't drink it if she's asleep, can she?"

"It doesn't have to be drunk when it's used like this," Ron said. "When I add Hermione's tears, it'll give off vapors that I'll have to waft under her nose straightaway so she can breathe them in. The effect lasts for only a few seconds, so I'll have to make sure she takes a good breath before they dissipate. Once she does that, there's no turning back. The changes will have taken hold inside her. The pendulum will be in place. All that remains then is the final step." Ron closed his eyes for a moment, turning away from Harry before speaking again. "When I add the third set of tears," he said, "the potion will change violently again. I'll have to hold the goblet under her nose and see that she breathes the fumes. The potency doesn't last long, so there'll be no sitting there with my ruddy thumb up my arse." Ron choked back a short laugh. "And while I'm doing that, I'll have to be sure not to breathe in any of it myself."

"Is it dangerous?" Harry said reflexively. Ron barked another hard laugh.

"Well, that's the question, innit?" Turning back toward Harry, he said in a controlled voice, "Snape said the potion goes through three stages, each one distinct. In its original state, it's acrid -- I mean, it's ruddy poison, innit? The fumes alone won't kill, like drinking it will, but they'll do a job on your lungs, so Smethwyck advised me not to breathe it in if I could help it. And I'll be sure to keep it away from Hermione until I add the first set of tears. Once that's done, the original poison is neutralized and it goes odorless. If I couldn't see the fumes, I wouldn't know they're there at all. Then, when I add my tears, the chemistry changes again, but the fumes remain odorless, so I won't know how it's changed until..."

"How will you know when it's safe to breathe again?" Harry asked, his flesh prickling from the implications Ron's silence implied.

"Easy enough," Ron said at last. "It's only odorless during its potent phase, and that lasts only a few seconds. Once it can be smelt again, its past using and anyone can breathe it harmlessly. By that time, of course, it's already done its job. One way or another, the waiting will be over."

A melancholy silence fell over Ron like a shroud. Then, to Harry's surprise, his companion suddenly stifled an eerie laugh deep in his throat.

"I just thought," Ron said in a hollow voice. "In that first Advanced Potions class, Professor Slughorn asked Hermione to identify all those potions, remember? When she got to the Amortentia, she told him it was the most powerful love potion in the world. But that's not true, is it? This," he declared with a violent shake of his fist, "is the most powerful love potion. That other stuff just makes you act like a berk -- well, I should know that as well as anyone, after I ate those ruddy Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda Vane sent you -- it's just rubbish -- it -- it c-can't..."

Harry stared as Ron fell silent once more, his eyes as blank as two chips of empty sky. Not knowing what to say, Harry sat in silence, listening to the labored beat of his heart, though whether its hammering was inspired by his weakened physical state or his tumultuous thoughts, he could not say.

Ron stood staring into space for a long span before he jerked his head erect and slipped his hand into his pocket, caressing the phials containing Hermione's tears with tender reverence. Drawing a cleansing breath, he said, "I can't wait here for Snape. I'll go nutters if I have to stand here outside Hermione's door. I'm going down to see about the potion."

"I'll wait for you," Harry said, his voice sounding weary. His body's many injuries were asserting themselves with renewed determination, and Harry's will was insufficient to defeat this faceless foe as he had the Dark Lord.

"See you," Ron said, and he exited the antechamber, closing the door behind him.

Harry sank back in his chair, feeling weary in both body and mind. He could not comprehend the full scope of the drama playing out before him. He could not imagine a world without Hermione Granger. And that she should die because of him -- though he could not remember the details of that final encounter with Voldemort, it was clear that Hermione had been fighting at his side in her final moments -- according to the Auror in Ron's ward, she had fallen defending him, Harry, from Death Eaters, making herself a human shield -- a target to draw attention from Harry onto herself. Ron's soul was weighted down with the burden of holding Hermione's salvation in the palm of his hand. But it was Harry's fault that Hermione was facing this crossroads at all. If she died, how could he live with himself?

As the remainder of Ron's energizing spell drained off, Harry felt the last of his strength drain away with it. A great weariness assailed him. He felt his eyes slide out of focus. Darkness closed in on him and he knew no more.

Then, suddenly, he was awake. More than that, he was alert. The weakness had left his body, and his mind was sharp as the edge of Godric Gryffindor's sword. He looked around and saw that he was in a corridor with rough walls of dank stone. There was something oddly familiar about this place. A moment later, he saw it: a doorway filled with roaring purple flames! He was in the corridor under Hogwarts leading to the Sorcerer's Stone! And just beyond that fiery curtain was Snape's potions chamber!

Realizing that he must be dreaming, Harry stepped closer and held out his hand, palm out. Sure enough, there was no hint of heat coming from the purple fire. Harry walked through the flaming barrier without hesitation. As he entered the potions chamber, he was not surprised at what met his eyes. He and Hermione were standing at the potions table -- Merlin, had the two of them really been so young then? As he watched, Hermione explained which of the potions would enable them to move forward or back, respectively. Then, suddenly, Hermione sprang forward and hurled herself at her 11-year-old companion, flinging her arms around him. The older Harry gasped. He had completely forgotten about that. Moments later, Hermione drank deep from the round bottle at the end of the table, shivering as its icy magic flowed through her. She turned and moved unhesitatingly toward the crackling purple flames. Harry looked at the calm resolve in her face with an appreciation his younger self could not have managed under the circumstances. Even then she had been so poised and confident. Her face was glowing from more than the reflected fire. An aura of enchantment seemed to surround her quite apart from the magic she shared with every other witch and wizard at Hogwarts. Harry watched as she walked through the purple flames and out of the chamber, feeling an admiration for her that warmed him in such manner as the dark fire, had he been able to feel it, never could have managed.

Curiously, Harry was torn now as to what course to pursue. Part of him wanted to follow his younger self through the black fire ahead, to witness from this dream-perspective his first encounter with Lord Voldemort. But another part of him was tugging him back the way Hermione had gone. He wanted to follow her, to watch her revive Ron and lead the two of them back the way they had come. He wanted to witness with his own eyes what he had not been able six years ago, to watch every nuance of Hermione's take-charge mode in what was undoubtedly its finest hour to date.

But before he could take a step toward the purple flames, they suddenly vanished, along with the potions chamber. Harry blinked in surprise to find himself in one of the familiar corridors of Hogwarts. But not just any corridor -- Harry recognized this as the corridor leading from the Great Hall to the library -- Merlin knew he had trod it often enough in Hermione's company in their seven years at Hogwarts.

Spurred suddenly by a desperate impulse he could not identify, Harry bolted forward, not knowing why, only knowing that he must hurry! He rounded the right-hand corner sharply and cried out. Slithering along the corridor not ten feet from him was the long, thick, slimy body of the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets! And Harry realized with a sudden thrill that if the serpent was heading toward the library, it was only seconds away from running into --

"Hermione!" Harry cried. His outburst did not echo from the corridor, as it would have were this other than a dream. Its throbbing reverberation was relegated to the catacombs of his brain as he called out more desperately, "HERMIONE!"

Racing along the corridor, Harry felt a thrill of fear as he streaked past the poisonous green flanks of the basilisk. Merlin, how could something so large move so swiftly? With a desperate lunge, Harry hurled himself forward. The serpent was only inches away from the left-hand bend beyond which lay the entrance to the library. Harry flung himself forward into the path of the basilisk, his arms outstretched to block the way. He stared into the unblinking yellow orbs, half expecting to feel his body seize up in the cold grip of death, as had Moaning Myrtle more than fifty years ago. The serpent reared, tossed its head as if in annoyance, and abruptly turned away. Exulting in his triumph, Harry lowered his arms. As the scaly green tail disappeared around a far corner, Harry turned around -- and let out a strangled gasp.

Two figures lay on the stone floor, their limbs frozen as if in death. One of them was Penelope Clearwater, a fifth-year prefect. And the other --

"Hermione!" Harry sobbed.

Hermione lay exactly as Harry remembered her, though then she had been lying in a bed in the hospital wing. She lay now on the cold stone floor, her face almost indistinguishable from the chill surface supporting her motionless form. Her eyes, now as then, were open and glassy, seeing nothing. A small mirror lay on the floor near Hermione's left hand. Her right hand was folded into a fist, and Harry could just make out the edges of the page she had torn from the book she had so recently been reading in the library -- the book on dangerous magical creatures wherein she had confirmed the identity of the monster from the Chamber of Secrets -- the very monster whose deadly gaze, reflected from Penelope Clearwater's hand mirror, had petrified both girls into a state resembling death.

Harry felt his chest tighten as he stood helplessly over Hermione. No matter that she would eventually be revived with no damage done, or that the monster that had left her in this state would soon lie dead in the bowels of the Chamber from which it was spawned, its foul life extinguished by Harry's own hand. The sight of Hermione's cold, colorless cheeks were too much like the aspect of the Hermione who was now lying in a bed much like the one this Hermione had occupied so long ago.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to endure the sight any longer. When he opened his eyes again, he found he was surrounded by darkness. He wondered for a moment where he was. Looking around, he saw the familiar outlines of the Hogwarts grounds. These were easily discernable in the brilliant glow of the full moon shining overhead like a great cyclopean eye. And as Harry stared up at that swollen moon, he realized precisely where -- and when -- he was.

Harry felt an icy sensation in the pit of his stomach as a distant howling echoed from the branches edging the Forbidden Forest. He knew it was all in his mind -- this was only a dream, after all -- but that did not make his feeling of dread any less terrible.

The bright moonlight was glimmering on the dark mirror of the lake. And reflected on its glassy surface, moving like ghosts in the darkness, were hundreds of dark, eerily drifting horrors -- dementors! They were all around him. And if they were here, then two others must also be here.

And there they were, standing on the edge of the lake -- a skinny 13-year-old boy and a girl with wild, bushy brown hair. The dementors had cut off their escape, were hemming them in against the shore. The dark-haired boy was pointing his wand, waving it back and forth before the ring of dementors. His mouth was moving soundlessly in the distance. Harry could not hear the words with his ears, but they echoed clearly in his memory.

"Expecto patronum! Expecto patronum!"

The dementors slowed as the boy's wand expelled a feeble wisp of silver mist. The formless cloud of the abortive Patronus hovered for a moment, then dissipated like fog and was gone. The boy was on his knees, his mouth still chanting the useless incantation. Harry's chill deepened as a dementor bent over his younger self and tilted his head up to administer its fatal kiss. He jerked his head away from that chilling sight, only to cry out as if he had been pierced by a dagger of ice. Another dementor was bending over Hermione! It was turning her face upward, lowering its hood as it bent to suck her soul out through her mouth! Harry hadn't known! How could he, with his own life about to be snuffed out like a candle flame by another of those malevolent creatures? But it only stood to reason that if the dementors, in their unrestrained lust for human souls, were in the process of disposing of Harry and Sirius, they would not spare the only other human at hand from their foul orgy.

When the Patronus -- the true Patronus conjured by Harry following his and Hermione's backward journey by means of her Time-Turner -- appeared and drove the dementors away, Harry fell to his knees in relief. It had been so close! He cared nothing for the agony of reliving his own brush with oblivion. But to know that Hermione had likewise been only moments away from being reduced to a soulless shell --

In the back of his mind, a thought anchored not in the stuff of dreams, but of reality, erupted with stark resolve. Hermione was now facing a similar fate to that Harry had just witnessed. Had the dementor completed its grisly task, Hermione would have been diminished from a vibrant, thinking being to a husk devoid of mind or heart. That was not a knarl's whisker removed from her present dilemma. Would it be better for her to die quickly rather than exist decade after decade as a soulless husk of insensate flesh?

Harry pressed his face into his hands and screamed soundlessly. He felt his forehead press into the dewy grass, which moisture was also soaking through the knees and elbows of his garments. He flung his head up, prepared to howl at the cold, sightless eye of the moon even as Remus Lupin was doing at the moment in the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

But the moon was no longer there. Nor was the gleaming surface of the lake, nor the dark outlines of the forest. His dream-heart pounding, Harry unfolded himself and made to rise into a standing position -- only to discover that there was no solid surface beneath him on which to stand. He was surrounded by a chill, clammy darkness that was unbroken by moon, stars or clouds. He lifted his hand to brush his sodden bangs out of his eyes, and he gasped soundlessly to see that there was a fine membrane stretching between his fingers. Seeing this, he also understood why his outcry had produced no sound. He was surrounded by water, broken at intervals by clusters of weeds whose crowns waved sluggishly at the behest of rippling currents. There was no question as to his whereabouts. Whereas a moment before he had been standing next to the Hogwarts lake, he was now in the lake.

Obeying a whispering voice in his mind (or was that merely the rush of the dark water passing over his ears?), Harry struck out, kicking with his feet, which were bare and webbed as were his hands. He shot through the water like a projectile and burst out into a vast open space. Looking down into a broad, flat depression on the floor of the lake, Harry saw that which his memory had prepared him for. At the center of a cluster of undersea dwellings was a gigantic statue of a merperson, hewn from some greenish rock. Lashed to its polished flanks were four persons: Ron Weasley, Cho Chang, Gabrielle Delacour -- and Hermione.

Harry remembered vividly the dread he had felt when he had come upon this scene in reality more than three years ago. The sight of the hostages hanging insensate, bubbles trailing from their mouths, had filled him with an unearthly fear. Few things inspired horror in the human mind to equal the prospect of drowning. Looking on this scene now with a calm reason of which he was incapable then, Harry understood why he had panicked at the sight of his friends -- and of the tiny child who was Fleur Delacour's sister -- languishing in that fearful setting, seemingly only minutes away from a horrible death.

Even as he thought this, he saw a dark shape flash across his line of sight. It was, he knew without looking, himself, dashing forward to complete his portion of the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. Launching himself toward the stone statue, Harry felt a vicarious thrill as he watched his younger incarnation struggling in the grip of the merpeople. They were trying to prevent him from saving the hostages, whose own champions had not yet appeared. Even as he thought thus, Harry saw another shape streak through the water. It was Cedric, his head distorted by the refractive qualities of the magic bubble he had conjured to allow him to breathe under water. Cedric drew his knife, cut Cho free, and swam away with her.

As the young Harry broke free of his captors, another shape appeared, its head grotesque even from a distance. It was, of course, Viktor Krum, badly Transfigured into a humanoid shark. The older Harry's blood ran colder than the water surrounding him as he saw Krum's monstrous head attempting to bite through Hermione's bonds in his desperate efforts to free her. Merlin's beard! Those misshapen teeth were sharp as razors -- if they came an inch closer to Hermione, they would bite her in half! Swimming closer, Harry shared his other self's relief when Krum took the sharp stone offered by his opponent and cut Hermione free.

But then Harry experienced a new emotion, one he had not felt when this drama was unfolding in reality. He saw Krum loop his arm around Hermione's waist and pull her close to him. It was like an obscene parody of a lovers' embrace, and it sent a rush of anger through Harry. He had been too occupied with the remaining hostages to spare more than a cursory glance at the retreating figures of Krum and Hermione. But the tense atmosphere of desperate urgency surrounding the younger Harry held no sway on his older counterpart. He wanted to shoot up through the water and tear Hermione from Krum's grasp. How dare he, Krum, treat Hermione with such -- familiarity? They had known each other barely two months, having scarcely exchanged so much as a greeting before pairing up at the Yule Ball the preceding December. Harry and Ron had been her closest friends for more than three years, and they had never taken such liberties with her! What right had Krum to appear at Hogwarts with no warning and insinuate himself into the circle of their comradery without so much as a by your leave? Hermione did not belong to Krum! She was their friend, his and Ron's! If anyone had earned the right to court Hermione's favor, it was them!

But this thought sent a chill through Harry that extinguished his rage like icy water on a fire. It was Ron who had won Hermione's favor. He, Harry, had no part in that aspect of their shared friendship. But then why --

The scene around Harry again shifted without warning. He was no longer floating. His feet (which were now shod once more) were standing on a solid floor. He was in a room -- an office -- and he was not alone. A black-hooded figure lay virtually at his feet -- a Death Eater! Harry realized with an electric thrill where he was -- the Department of Mysteries! A second Death Eater was lumbering toward him -- no, not toward him, toward the people behind him. Harry took a step back, turning as he did so. He saw himself and Hermione -- but neither of them appeared to have spotted the advancing Death Eater, who was now bringing his wand to bear!

"Hermione, no!" Harry cried out. But there was nothing he could to in this dream to prevent what had already happened two years ago. The Death Eater, whose voice had been silenced by Hermione's quick spellwork, made a slashing motion with his wand. A streak of purple flame flashed across the room, just touching Hermione as it passed. Her eyes went wide for a moment, then rolled back in her head as she collapsed like rag doll and lay still. Stunned by the impact of reliving this, one of the most terrible memories of his life, Harry stood rooted as his younger self dropped beside Hermione, protecting her with his body from further attack from the wizard who had just discarded his Death Eater hood -- Antonin Dolohov. This was the moment which, according to the Healers, had planted the seed of Hermione's fear of death, which had grown into a strangling monster more terrible than the Devil's Snare they had faced on their way to safeguard the Sorcerer's Stone. Had Harry somehow been able to prevent this from happening -- blocked Dolohov, perhaps, or in some other way misdirected his wordless spell by a fraction of an inch -- Hermione would not now be lying in her present state, her life balanced precariously on the edge of oblivion.

As he watched the familiar images repeated as they had been so often in the dreams he suffered in the months following that terrible day -- the day Sirius had died -- Harry felt a misery welling up inside him, mingled with shame. He would never forget the desperate plea that raced through his head as he hovered protectively over Hermione, his hand clutching her shoulder.

Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead...

Harry felt sick with self-revulsion. My fault if she's dead? You selfish, arrogant prat! One of the most important people in your life might have just died in front of you, and your only thought is for the burden of guilt you'll have to carry? Snape was right about you! All you ever think about is your own arse! Did you consider how full and rich your life has been because Hermione was a part of it -- and how empty and barren your existence would be without her? No! Better that Dolohov's wordless Curse had killed you rather than harm a hair on her head!

Harry jerked his face away from the unmoving form of Hermione. His eyes were burning. Could people cry in dreams?

But before he could so much as blink, blackness suddenly covered his eyes. The pervading darkness soothed his eyes, driving the painful images from his mind. He turned about, squinting into the lightless void. But no, not lightless. A tiny yellow flame appeared, followed by another, and still another. They were forming into a ring just overhead -- and he now saw that they were not stationary, but had begun to move around and around in an endless circle of motion. In fact, they no longer resembled flames so much as --

Birds!

Harry's heart grew heavy as his eyes now fell on the figure sitting just beneath the ring of circling birds. It was Hermione. She was sitting on a teacher's desk in an unused classroom. Harry remembered that day well. He would never forget it. Hermione had fled from the sight of Ron devouring Lavender Brown's face in front of the assembled residents of the Gryffindor common room. He, Harry, would come up on her shortly, having left the celebration to look for her. But though he looked upon her now much as he had then, this was different. This being a dream, he was not truly here with her. Sitting alone in this somber venue, Hermione was awash in misery, her emotions unleashed without need for disguise or explanation. As Hermione's suffering washed over him like a dark, cold wave, Harry could not endure to look at her strained face as she fought desperately not to dissolve into tears. Every twitch of her mouth, every controlled breath she took, reached into Harry's chest with icy fingers and tore his heart out. He wanted to go over and sit down next to her, wrap his arms around her and comfort her. He knew he could not. He was less than a ghost to her; did he attempt to place his hand on her shoulder, it would probably pass right through her, like the true ghosts inhabiting Hogwarts. In any event, the time for giving comfort was long past. This moment had come and gone more than a year ago. Any solace Harry might have offered was long past giving.

Harry felt his stomach clench with a misery equal to that shining upon Hermione's face. Why had he not given her the comfort she so obviously needed when it had been in his power to do so? When he had come upon her, his first thought was to marvel at her spellwork! Granted, he had always been impressed with Hermione's skills as the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. But when that unconscious response had run its course, why had he not done then as he wished now? Why had he not sat down beside her and drawn her to him -- given her of himself as she had so many times given him comfort in his times of trial? What kind of friend was he? Was he truly her friend at all? Surely a friend would have done all in his power to take her pain as his own, lent her his strength at a time when hers was faltering. Instead, he had stood staring foolishly, had stumbled over his own tongue speaking words offering no comfort, gaping stupidly at her emptiness while doing nothing to fill it up.

Harry turned away in self-disgust. He did not want to remain to witness his other self's arrival. The sight of his feeble attempts at communication would sicken his stomach, providing a fitting companion for his thoroughly sickened soul.

Then, without warning, the classroom was gone. The hard stone floor was become soft and springy underfoot. Looking down, he saw he was standing on grass. Its color implied that it had only recently been lush and verdant. Now, it was broken and crushed, its blades torn and stained darkly. Harry knew what that dark stain was, and with that realization a vast panorama erupted around him. He was on the Hogwarts grounds, and all around him was pandemonium. He heard shouts and cries. Streaks of colored light lanced the air in every direction, accompanied by screams of pain or, chillingly, hard, cruel laughter. He was surrounded by figures wearing black hoods -- Death Eaters. One of them was pointing his wand at Harry, and Harry saw the Dark Mark shining blackly on the man's forearm where it was exposed by his torn sleeve. The wand in his hand spat a burst of red light that slashed painfully across Harry's face, missing his throat only because Harry had instinctively jerked his head back at the last moment. But --

Pain? But it wasn't possible to feel pain in a dream, was it?

Harry felt wet heat on his cheek. As he lifted his left hand to wipe the blood from his face, his right hand lashed out in the direction of his attacker. It was then he saw that he was holding a wand -- not Augustus Pye's wand, but his familiar holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. And he realized with a thrill that this was not a dream, as the other scenes had been. This was a memory! And before he knew it, he heard his voice call out, "Sectumsempra!

The spell had not been aimed at the man's face, as the attack against Harry had been. Instead, it slashed across his wand arm, which erupted in a fountain of blood. The man howled in pain, his wand flying from his spasming fingers. Harry deftly plucked the soaring wand from the air with a Summoning Charm and snapped it in half with his thumb. Tossing the splinters aside, he barked a triumphant laugh at his attacker.

"That the best you can do, Avery?" For the Death Eater had torn his mask away in his agonies, revealing one of the faces Harry had seen in the circle surrounding Voldemort in the cemetery where Harry's blood had helped return the Dark Lord to his body three years previously.

But even as Avery fell away, clutching his bleeding arm, three black-hooded wizards took his place. At the same moment, two more appeared on his right. Harry backed away instinctively, only to hear three faint pops on his left, signaling the Apparation of more Death Eaters. They were encircling him, closing off his retreat.

Unlike his foes, Harry could not escape by means of Apparation. The Death Eaters had found a way to circumvent the protective wards surrounding Hogwarts and its grounds by the judicious placing of hundreds of magical objects all around the castle. Buried secretly over the preceding year by enslaved house-elves, these objects acted as mini-portkeys by which Voldemort's followers could move about at will by means of sympathetic amulets worn on their persons. They could thus appear and vanish at any point where one of the buried objects was located. They alone, of course, knew where these objects were secreted. Using this knowledge, they had carefully herded Harry to a place where they could surround him.

Knowing he must now make a stand -- perhaps his last -- Harry positioned himself to mount a defense, determined that, if worst came to worst, he would sell his life dearly before he fell. As he turned this way and that, presenting his foes with no clear target, he became aware of numerous sharp pains and dull throbs coursing through his body. In the brief duration of the Death Eaters' surprise attack on Hogwarts, Harry had given a good account of himself against overwhelming odds. But in the end, the numbers -- not to mention the skills -- of Voldemort's army had proven more than a match for his limited prowess. "Chosen One" or not, he was still only a seventeen-year-old wizard with very little practical experience against the forces of Darkness.

At Hermione's urging, Harry had never been without a small phial of a special energizing potion, which he'd learned to brew himself in Professor Slughorn's Advanced Potions class. Its potent magic surging through his veins had helped him to ward off the effects of spells that had otherwise left him a husk of his former self. But the potion's effects were fleeting, diminishing in proportion to his increasing labors. In addition, his body invariably paid the price for its temporary invigoration. Nothing in life came without cost, nor could that universal rule be circumvented even by magic. With the expiration of the potion, scores of slumbering torments awoke with vengeful wrath, leaving Harry to feel as if he'd tumbled a thousand feet over a precipice onto a bed of dull-edged knives. He had been carrying on over the last quarter hour on will power alone, but that could not long prevail against such odds as he now faced. Ignoring the stabs of pain under his ribs, he raised his wand, sorting through his jumbled brain for appropriate spells even as his eyes sought likely targets for his attack. But before he could choose a course of action, he heard a sudden cry from his left, ending in a strangled note as if it had been cut off abruptly. The eyes of the Death Eaters turned as one, and Harry, following their glances, grinned fiercely.

"Sorry I'm late," Hermione said as she stepped over the twitching body she had just Cursed. "You didn't start the party without me, I hope?"

"Spot of bother, then?" Harry said coolly as his eyes again sought out the milling ring of Death Eaters.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Hermione said with a hard grin.

Despite the dire circumstances surrounding them, Harry found that he could not take his eyes off Hermione. He had never seen her look more radiant, with her bushy hair cascading around her shoulders as it tossed in the wind. Her eyes were hard as mahogany, her jaw firm, her stance graceful as a cobra poised to strike. She was beautiful beyond words, like an elemental spirit wrapped in human flesh. The hint of a smile touched her lips as she brandished her wand with a confidence exceeding her years. All this Harry noted in a few fleeting seconds before he returned his gaze to the hooded figures milling around them.

The Death Eaters had recovered from their shock and were now leveling their wands at Harry and Hermione. Acting in perfect tandem, the young witch and wizard circled with their backs to each other, giving their opponents no unguarded angle of attack. Spells exploded in a cacophony of sound and light, filling the air with a resounding clamor. Often as not, the criss-crossing spells glanced off one another, threatening their conjurers more than their intended targets. Others missed completely, coming closer to striking a black-hooded figure than the pair at the center of the maelstrom. Harry and Hermione deftly deflected the remainder, enjoying the chaos among the ranks of their enemies. But their sentiments were not shared by a Death Eater whose voice was no more disguised by the concealing mask than were the ash-gray eyes raking Harry and Hermione with waves of living hatred.

"No, fools! You attack like children! Coordinate your spells!"

The Death Eaters now began to circle Harry and Hermione slowly. The speaker, whose voice identified him unmistakably as Lucius Malfoy, muttered instructions to them as they moved.

His back now pressed against Hermione's, Harry hissed through unmoving lips, "Second on Malfoy's left, our right. Limp."

"Tallest one behind you," Hermione said quietly. "Shoulder."

The pair moved apart, their wands waving before them threateningly. The Death Eaters came alert, lifting their wands defensively.

"Now!" Harry grunted under his breath. Faster than blinking, he and Hermione spun as if on an invisible axis, exchanging positions so quickly that their foes scarcely had time to gasp in surprise. Harry instantly spotted the tall Death Eater Hermione had referenced. His shoulder was sagging, as if he had been injured by a spell he had been unable to avoid. In a blur of motion, Harry pointed his wand and cried, "Impedimenta!" Surprised by his opponents' sudden shift of position, the man could not compel his injured arm to lift his wand in time. He screamed as Harry's spell hit him, flying back and landing with a hard thump. At the same moment, Harry heard Hermione cry, "Tarantallegra!" The man with the limp screamed as his wounded leg was twisted about by Hermione's spell. Harry did not doubt that the man had dropped his wand and was now writhing in pain, effectively removing him as a threat.

"Clever, Potter," Malfoy drawled from behind his mask. "You and the Mudblood make a good team. Pity you both have to die."

Not wasting breath on taunts, Harry jabbed his wand at Malfoy, who conjured a magical shield in an instant. But Harry's arm swung sharply and caught the wizard on Malfoy's right off his guard. The man fell to the ground, writhing and jerking as his mouth flew open soundlessly. The Death Eaters cringed at what they perceived to be the Cruciatus Curse. In fact, Harry had combined two simple spells by wordless command -- the Silencing Spell, and the Tickling Charm. The voiceless Death Eater's howls of incapacitating laughter were only marginally removed from true pain as he twitched convulsively at his comrades' feet. Employing his foes' momentary distraction to his advantage, Harry exercised another wordless spell with a sharp flick of his wand. A Death Eater fell heavily and lay still as death. Not recognizing the silent spell as a simple Stunner, the hooded figures recoiled uncertainly. But one of their number burst forward, eyes blazing.

"Potter! You've killed him! You've killed my Rodolphus! I'll kill you for that! Avada -- "

"No!" Malfoy shouted. He knocked the Death Eater's wand aside, sending the emerald death-beam harmlessly skyward. "Have you forgotten our master's orders? None but he must kill Potter!"

"Then," the other replied, "I will kill his friend -- the Mudblood. Avada Kedavra!"

Harry's blood ran cold as the air was filled with a great rushing of wind. He jerked Hermione out of the path of the green beam of death just in time. The Death Eater's mask was jerked off by a claw-like hand, revealing the jubilant face of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Can you save her the next time, Potter?" she challenged, waving her wand threateningly.

"I can step in front of her," Harry countered. "You think Voldemort would like it if you killed me against his orders?"

"Harry, no!" Hermione said, but Harry merely held her more firmly behind him. He did not need to look around to know that she was watching the ring of Death Eaters closely.

"I said no!" Lucius repeated. "The master placed me in command. Do you spit on our lord by refuting his will in this matter?"

"No," Bellatrix said grudgingly. "My master's will is mine."

"Then follow my orders," Lucius said. In a soft, deadly voice, he added, "Besides, where is the sport in simply killing them? Do you not think it would be more satisfying to capture both of them alive? We could then torture the Mudblood in front of Potter. I can ask the master to bestow that privilege on you. Would you like that?"

"Very much," Bellatrix said as she stared avidly over Harry's shoulder at Hermione.

Lucius said no more, but resumed whispering instructions to his followers. The Death Eaters removed from the fray by Harry and Hermione were ignored by their companions, their lives meaningless now that they were incapable of serving their master. The wizard whom Harry had attacked with the Tickling Charm was now unconscious. For all his comrades knew, he was dead. For her part, Bellatrix spared no slightest glance at her fallen husband, her attention fixed solely on Harry. He reflected that this was no more than could be expected from the witch who had tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity without the slightest remorse. Having seen Harry strike her husband down with as little apparent mercy as she herself ever showed another, she did not react as one who had lost a cherished companion. The face she presented to Harry was twisted with rage, her eyes blazing with hatred and a lust for vengeance. That was all. How touch the heart of one who had no concept of love? Were she not so contemptible, he might have pitied her. Even as he thought thus, Harry felt Hermione press her back against his as they maintained their defensive posture, and he turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes on his foes all the while.

"You shouldn't have said that, Harry," Hermione said. "I don't want you dying for me."

"You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?" Harry countered. Hermione said nothing. "Get ready," Harry said.

Hermione moved away from Harry, and they began to circle once more, searching for points of attack. Harry could see glints of light that indicated the presence of magical shields between him and the Death Eaters. Neither side could attack while these lingered. No doubt Hermione was thinking the same as he: they would have to wait until the Death eaters attacked before making their move. It would be a close thing. They were vastly outnumbered, and their opponents were all skilled wizards with a command of the Dark Arts surpassing his and Hermione's. The realization hit Harry that their lives might well be measured in minutes, if not seconds. And there was something Harry needed to do -- to say -- before he died.

"Hermione," Harry said in a strangely pained voice. "Have I ever told you..." He choked on the final words, but Hermione replied without hesitation in a soft, reassuring voice:

"Every minute we've been together."

Harry wanted to say more, but there was no time. The Death Eaters moved as one, their wands rising before them like the crest of a wave. Harry saw the glimmer of light on the magical shields wink out, and in the instant before the hooded figures moved, he acted.

"Stupefy!" he cried. He had feinted at Bellatrix, whose ego supposed that she alone must be Harry's primary target. Instead, his beam hit Malfoy, whose eyes rolled back as he collapsed without a sound.

Without their leader to hold their reins, the remaining Death Eaters sprang into action spontaneously, spurred by their own desires. Emitting a shriek, Bellatrix sent a lance of fire at Harry -- it seemed that she was taking to heart her master's command that Harry not be killed, but that did not preclude subjecting him to grievous injury. Harry deflected the flaming spell at a wide angle, which served the dual function of reducing the impact on his arm, and sending the flame at one of the Death Eaters. It caught the wizard on the arm, and the sleeve of his robes burst into flames. He reeled away with an inarticulate howl, and the wizards on either side of him fell back to avoid being burned. Harry dispatched one with another silent Stunner, but the other moved toward Harry in concert with three of his fellows.

Behind him, Hermione was gasping as she deflected spells aimed at her from every angle. She had no time to unleash any spells of her own. Harry moved to his left, expecting Hermione to do the same, but she seemed rooted to the spot. Knowing he had only moments to act, Harry threw his wand arm up in a great arc, whirled around and cried, "Avada Kedavra!"

The Death Eaters panicked en masse. The spells assaulting Hermione ceased, and he heard her laugh.

"Good one, Harry," she tittered. She knew as well as Harry did that neither of them had ever used the Killing Curse successfully. Chanting the incantation was not enough to enforce the spell, and neither of them could summon the inner resolve to take a human life in so callous a manner. The Death Eaters, however, being well versed in this darkest of the Dark Arts, expected nothing less from their enemies than they themselves dealt out with careless abandon. Their hesitation was momentary, but that moment was all Harry and Hermione needed. When the hooded figures saw that none of their number had fallen dead -- indeed, that there had been no flash of green light, nor the accompanying rushing of wind -- they realized that they had been duped and raised their wands.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry and Hermione cried together. The Death Eaters standing directly before them suddenly found themselves wandless. The others turned to the attack, but too late. Harry felled those to his right with a series of simple spells. Hermione did the same. When they turned around to find themselves virtually alone, they were neither one of them unduly tired. The common spells they had used had required very little of their magical reserves. They were as fit as they would ever be to carry on against Voldemort.

But as though the mere thought of the Dark Lord's name had been a summons, a high, cruel voice called out smoothly, and Harry turned with the suddenness of a mongoose, his wand before him.

"Excellent, Harry! I commend you and your Mudblood trollop!"

"DON"T CALL HER THAT!" Harry shouted. He could not see Voldemort anywhere.

"Am I wrong?" Voldemort said innocently. "Has she not trifled with more than one heart with the careless indifference of a gutter whor -- "

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Harry roared.

"Yes," Voldemort purred as if to himself. "Yes. I think I will enjoy seeing you suffer before you die, Harry. Lucius, for all that he is a fool, was right. Only I will reserve the pleasure of killing the Mudblood for myself. I will place you under the Imperius Curse and force you to watch as I extinguish her life like a candle flame. Take them."

This last was spoken not reflectively, but with imperious command. In an instant, Harry found himself confronted by a fresh horde of Death Eaters, their wands all pointed at him.

"A thousand Galleons to the one who dispatches Potter," Voldemort crooned. "But do not kill him. That is a privilege I reserve for myself alone."

Harry lifted his wand to erect a protective shield around himself, but before the thought could crystallize in his mind, Hermione whirled around to stand before him. He tried to cut her off, but his sudden movement sent a lance of pain through him that arrested his motion for a split-second, and that instant allowed Hermione to interpose herself between him and the Death Eaters. Before Harry could so much as draw a breath, either to cry out in protest or speak an incantation, a flurry of spells burst against the shield Hermione had erected in front of them. The spells, all of a different variety by their color and aspect, flared like a miniature sun as they exploded against the protective barrier. Harry threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. When he lowered his arm a moment later, he cried out as if pierced through the heart. Hermione lay at his feet, her wand held limply in her outstretched hand. He stared for long moments, desperately willing her to move, to display some sign that she was still alive. But as moment followed moment in a virtual eternity, Harry could detect no slightest movement. Hermione's bosom was perfectly still, giving no indication that she was breathing.

"NO!" Harry cried, tears burning his eyes.

"Yes," came Voldemort's silky voice from the ether. "Yes. I was correct. I knew that the Mudblood was the chink in your armor, the means by which I would destroy you. Lord Voldemort sees. Lord Voldemort knows. She is a part of you, Harry. Destroy her and I destroy a piece of you. I can feel your pain, Harry. I can taste your misery -- and your hatred. Delicious."

A red rage overcame Harry. His eyes lancing the ring of wizards -- whose actions seemed to have been arrested by the sound of their master's voice -- Harry lashed out with a fury such as he had never known. In a blur of motion, he slashed the air repeatedly with his wand, and with each whip of his arm, a Death Eater fell, his robes slashed and bloody. It was over in seconds. The ones who had killed Hermione lay in twisted heaps on the bloodstained grass. Their moans of pain filled Harry's ears like music; the smell of their fresh-spilt blood was perfume in his nostrils.

"Splendid, Harry," Voldemort's silky voice purred, sounding coolly indifferent to the carnage Harry had wrought among his loyal followers. "You are as formidable as your father was. And your mother, Mudblood though she was, fought no more bravely than your companion, nor with more skill. There is much to compare between you. And you will shortly be sharing one more aspect with them. They both fell in the end to the power of Lord Voldemort -- as will you."

Harry was not listening to Voldemort's pronouncement. The fury that had consumed him so completely was flowing from him as quickly as it came, leaving him cold and empty. He stared blankly at the mayhem he had wrought. What good had it done? Hermione still lay where she had fallen, her face turned upward, pale and lifeless. With a wretched sob, Harry sank to his knees and touched Hermione's face. He lifted her gently and cradled her to his bosom, burying his face in the tangle of her bushy mane. From his invisible vantage point, the Dark Lord laughed with cold, inhuman amusement.

"Do you want to kill me, Harry?" Voldemort said.

Harry did not answer, so immersed was he in his grief. Either the Dark Lord's voice did not register in his numbed brain, or if he heard, he deigned no reply. Unperturbed, Voldemort repeated his question.

"I said, do you want to kill me, Harry?" This time the grieving wizard raised his head.

"Yes," Harry rasped.

"Then here I am."

And he was suddenly there, with no sound to announce his coming. Lord Voldemort approached with his wand held lazily before him. A shadow seemed to follow in his path, but Harry's focus was centered on his most hated enemy.

"Do not expect anyone to come to your aid, Harry," Voldemort said. "I have surrounded us with a barrier that naught but the most powerful Dark magicks can penetrate. I doubt that even the most tested Aurors have the skill to breach it."

"Hermione got through," Harry said with bitter triumph.

"That is true," Voldemort conceded graciously. "A shame I cannot ask her how she did it. You are fortunate, Harry, to have such powerful allies -- or I should say, you were fortunate. I cannot count how many times I might have killed or captured you were it not for your many protectors. But where are they now, Harry? Who will save you from me now?"

Holding Hermione to his bosom with his left arm, Harry pointed his wand at Voldemort. The Dark Lord did not flinch, but continued to regard Harry with a detached boredom Draco Malfoy would have envied.

"I don't expect anyone to save me," Harry said, his eyes fixing Voldemort's red slits unwaveringly. "If I had a reason to live before," and his eyes fell onto Hermione as his fingers tangled in her wild brown mane, "you took that from me. It doesn't matter if I die now, as long as I can take you with me."

"You believe you can kill Lord Voldemort where so many have failed?" Voldemort said. "You believe that you are the One prophesied as the conqueror of the Dark Lord? It is true that you came as close as any ever has to destroying me. Do you believe that you can succeed now where you failed before? Ah!" Voldemort's crimson orbs flashed with amusement. "You believe that, because you have found and destroyed my Horcruxes, that I can now be killed like an ordinary wizard? But have you destroyed my Horcruxes, Harry? Have you destroyed all of them?"

The resolve in Harry's eyes flickered for a moment, and Voldemort laughed softly.

"I knew you were seeking my Horcruxes, Harry," Voldemort said. "How, you ask? Very simply. The fragments of my soul which I imprisoned in my Horcruxes were still a part of me. Did you stop to wonder over the preceding months what happened to my soul-splinters when you destroyed each Horcrux in turn? No? Then I shall enlighten you. They returned whence they came, Harry. Each liberated fragment of my soul returned to me when you destroyed its receptacle. I will admit, to you and you alone, Harry, that I did not realize what was happening at first. I experienced a strange sensation each time a soul-fragment returned, but I did not understand the nature of these sudden changes in my state of being. When I realized at last what you were doing, I allowed you to continue. Did you not wonder how you and your companions were able to succeed time after time with so little difficulty?"

In truth, Harry had wondered why he and his friends had enjoyed such repeated success in their ongoing quest to locate and destroy the Horcruxes. Seeing the comprehension in Harry's eyes, Voldemort smiled.

"I knew that you would become more sure of yourself with each success, Harry. Your increasing overconfidence would become a tool which I could wield against you. It would draw you to me, emboldening you with every step you drew nearer to the web wherein I would at last ensnare you. You would ultimately come to believe that you could finally destroy me, as the prophesy has led you to believe is your destiny. And if, indeed, you had destroyed all of my Horcruxes, you might at least have had a chance to test your belief. But while you were seeking and destroying my old Horcruxes, I was busy creating a new Horcrux!

Again Harry's eyes flickered, and again Voldemort laughed.

"I would have preferred to create more than one Horcrux," Voldemort said. "Unfortunately, there was insufficient time. The Horcrux spell is extremely complicated, involving many steps. It took me many years to create the Horcruxes which you systematically destroyed over the past twelvemonth. But for my present purpose, one Horcrux was all I needed. In the unlikely event that you succeeded in killing me, I would not die. Indeed, I have taken safeguards to ensure that the fate that befell me that night in Godric's Hollow will never be repeated. I shall nevermore be cursed to exist as a bodiless vapor, inhabiting snakes and willing myself to continue one agonizing moment after another. No, Harry. Even if you succeed beyond your wildest imagination, I will not die. Lord Voldemort can never die!

"But you, Harry...you can die. And so you shall."

Though Voldemort was the prince of all liars, Harry knew that, this time, he had spoken the truth. There was a gloating certainty in Voldemort's voice that removed any doubt. Harry was going to die. And, strangely, he found that he was not afraid to die. But it went beyond simple resignation and tranquility of spirit. Harry realized as he cradled Hermione's body against him that Voldemort had spoken yet another truth apart from his Horcrux revelation. A part of Harry had died with Hermione. It was as if he, like Voldemort, had lost a piece of his soul. But there was a vast difference between the two. With the destruction of the Horcruxes, Voldemort's splintered soul had been reunited once more into the whole it had previously been. But with Hermione's death, Harry's soul had been shattered beyond repair. And unlike Voldemort, Harry realized that he could not go on with only part of a soul. That portion of his inner being that had died with Hermione was gone forever. The only way Harry's soul could be made whole again was to join it once more to Hermione's. And if he could not do that in life, he must do it in death.

A strangely contented smile played over Harry's face as Voldemort stared down at him. The Dark Lord regarded Harry curiously.

"You are ready to die, Harry?"

Looking up, Harry said, "Yes. I'm ready to die. But I'm not going alone. I'm taking you with me."

Harry held out his wand -- the wand that shared its common phoenix-feather core with Voldemort's. The tip of Harry's wand began to glow -- and at the same moment, a kindred light appeared on the point of Voldemort's wand. A look of surprise appeared on Voldemort's face as he stared past his glowing wand into Harry's eyes. His surprise increased when he detected no fear in Harry's hard, unblinking emeralds, but triumph.

"Our wands are brothers, Voldemort," Harry said. "They can't be made to work at cross-purposes. It's like trying to walk forward and backward at the same time. The harder you try to do both, the more firmly you remain where you are. Hermione taught me that. Clever witch, Hermione. But you admitted that, didn't you?"

Voldemort's eyes were now fixed on his wand. His snake-like brow creased, and Harry knew that the Dark Lord was concentrating on breaking the bond between his wand and Harry's.

"It's no good," Harry said. "I've commanded my wand to explode -- got the idea from that time when Ron's wand blew up in the Chamber of Secrets. But this will make that one look like the popping of a wizard cracker. When it goes, there won't be enough left of me to fill a tea strainer.

"Odd thing about wands. The wand chooses the wizard, you know. Over time, it becomes a part of you -- a part you never knew you were missing. But our wands are also a part of each other. So, thanks to the connection I've set up between us, whatever happens to my wand will also happen to yours. And there's nothing you can do to break the connection. You tried that before, remember? I may not be as powerful as you as a wizard, but my wand is every bit the equal of yours. And that's what will do you in."

Harry's wand was growing brighter by the moment, and as its luminescence increased, so Voldemort's wand glowed with increasing intensity. The Dark Lord made as if to release his wand, but his bony fingers remained locked fast about the shaft of polished yew.

"It's no good," Harry repeated, his smile growing harder. "Your wand is bonded to your flesh. You can't release it until I let go of mine -- and I have no intention of doing that while I'm alive. And it doesn't matter if you Disapparate. You can fly to the moon if you want. It won't matter. Distance isn't a factor in this kind of magic. Wherever we are in respect to each other, the connection can't be broken. When my wand goes, so does yours -- and we both go with it.

"And if you're thinking that a personal shield will protect you," Harry said, seeing a glimmer of defiance in Voldemort's crimson orbs, "remember your wand is now an extension of your body. Any barrier you erect will automatically encompass your wand, containing the explosion and magnifying it. I've considered every factor -- done my homework, you might say -- something else I learned from Hermione," he added with an edge in his voice that companioned the steely glint in his eyes. "Like I said, I'm ready to die. Are you?"

"Your will is strong, Harry," Voldemort said in a voice like oiled silk. "Stronger than I gave you credit for. But you are no match for Lord Voldemort."

"There's only one way to stop me," Harry said. "Kill me. Use the Killing Curse you used on my mum and dad -- the one that failed to work on me the first time. You won't even have to aim -- our wands are already connected -- all you have to do is say the words and the Curse will travel straight to my wand and into my body. The moment I die, the connection between our wands will be broken."

Voldemort was staring alternately at his wand and at Harry. Very slowly, the serpentine face smiled.

"You cannot block your thoughts from me, Harry. You have been practicing Occlumency diligently, as Dumbledore urged you so many times before his -- tragic end. But you are not yet skilled enough to close your mind to a truly accomplished Legilimens -- and there is none more adept in the world than Lord Voldemort. I can peel back the layers of your mind and see what is written there as if it were inscribed on parchment. And I see that you are not as certain as you would have me believe that the destruction of your wand will accomplish what you claim it will. But -- if I do as you suggest -- if I use the Killing Curse on you by means of our connected wands -- you believe that the force of the spell will cause it to rebound along its original path, killing me at the same instant it kills you. An interesting notion, Harry -- a noble one, to be sure -- it might even work. Let us test your theory, then, shall we? Let us see if the power of Harry Potter is stronger than that of Lord Voldemort."

His inhuman eyes blazing like fiery coals, Voldemort stabbed his wand at Harry and screamed triumphantly:

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Green light erupted all around the two warring wizards. Harry felt a searing pain in his forehead, blinding him. As he fell back and landed heavily on the ground, a terrible scream filled his ears. Was it his voice that cried out? Struggling up onto his elbow, he forced his eyes open and beheld a sight that sent an icy chill rippling along the length of his spine.

A figure lay on the ground before Harry. It was difficult to determine if it were human, or something from a nightmare. It resembled a man in shape, having what appeared to be arms, legs and a head. But there the resemblance ended. Instead of flesh, it was composed of black ash, looking like a wooden icon charred in a conflagration. But the most horrible aspect of the not-quite-human thing was that it was moving! Its claw-like hands were clutching at the broken grass, seeking purchase by which it might achieve locomotion. The withered head turned this way and that, as if its black, sightless eyes were searching for something. A thin gash that might have been a mouth was working soundlessly, as if mockingly pantomiming human speech. In the end, it was more than Harry could bear. But strive though he would, he could not tear his gaze away -- but he knew he must or forfeit his sanity.

When he finally succeeded in wrenching his eyes away from the inhuman thing in front of him, Harry was suddenly filled with a new wonder. Why was he, Harry, still alive? He reached up by sheer instinct to touch his scar. He quickly snatched his hand away. His head was pulsing as if his flesh had been laid bare. That agony alone was proof that he still lived. But he was at a loss to explain why. He realized that the hand he had lifted to his head was shaking. Furthermore, it was empty. His wand had fallen from his fingers. It lay before him, showing no sign of damage. He had supposed that something about the two brother wands had unexpectedly protected him -- but if that were the case, would not his wand have suffered the damage intended for its owner? This supposition was further reinforced when Harry spotted a thin, black object just beyond the reach of the hand of the devastated figure that had been Lord Voldemort. Like its owner, Voldemort's wand was seared black. It looked like it could crumble to ash at any moment - as, indeed, did the one who had formerly wielded it. Why was Harry's wand not in a like state? Indeed, why was not Harry himself blasted to oblivion like the Dark Lord? What was the answer?

A deathly silence hung over all, unbroken since Voldemort's terrible scream had rent the air. Now, another sound clove the stillness, one that was, if possible, more horrible than the sound that had preceded it: laughter.

"Harry!" came the cracking voice of the caricature that had once been Lord Voldemort. "Again you triumph! But as before, your victory is only fleeting. For Lord Voldemort still lives!"

A great weariness settled over Harry. If he were not dead, then neither was Voldemort. And that was not victory, but defeat. What matter if he, Harry, still lived if the Dark Lord remained as well? As well to lie down next to Hermione and join her in the peaceful oblivion of death.

"I do not know why my Curse rebounded yet again," Voldemort croaked faintly. "But I am not now as I was that night in Godric's Hollow. Though I am sorely distressed, I still have my body. And when my loyal servant bears me away, I shall be restored to my former glory! He should have been at my side before now -- no doubt he is cowering behind a tree, whimpering in fear when he should be serving the master to whom he swore everlasting obedience! Wormtail!"

"I -- I am here, Master,"

Harry's heart gave a sick lurch. He remembered the shadow he had seen following Voldemort, and he knew now to whom it had belonged. Peter Pettigrew appeared, looking much as Harry remembered him. The rat-faced wizard approached his master fearfully, his small, watery eyes glazed with horror.

"There you are, Wormtail," Voldemort rasped. "Hurry and bear me away. You must prepare the ceremony that will restore me to my former vigor. Haste, for the barrier separating us from our enemies grows weaker, and I have little strength to maintain it."

"No, Master."

Harry did not know who was the more startled by this response, himself or Voldemort.

"What did you say, Wormtail?" Voldemort demanded in his feeble yet imperious voice.

"No, Master," Wormtail repeated. "I will not do as you command."

"Coward!" Voldemort screamed. "Do you even now fear Harry Potter more than you fear your own master? Am I not still Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes, Master," Wormtail said. "But it is not for fear of Harry Potter that I do what I do now."

Harry tried to focus his blurred eyes on the sniveling wizard hovering at Voldemort's side. What did Wormtail mean? What was it he intended to do?

Harry's question was to be answered in terrible fashion when Wormtail, his hand shaking, drew his wand from a pocket of his robes. Harry stared at the hand holding the wand. It was not composed of human flesh, but of a silvery metal. Harry had seen Voldemort conjure that hand from mid-air and affix it onto the bleeding stump of Wormtail's arm. Wormtail had sacrificed his natural hand in the resurrection of his master three years ago, slicing it off and casting it into the cauldron into which Harry's own blood would soon be added. Lord Voldemort had emerged reborn from that cauldron in the cemetery in Little Hangleton. Though clinging to a thread of life for thirteen years, the Dark Lord had not succumbed to death, but had endured unto that moment when his body was finally restored to him. He had not died, Harry had learned only a year ago, because he had split his soul into fragments and hidden the shards in receptacles thereafter designated as Horcruxes. So long as a single piece of his soul remained earthbound, the Dark Lord could not suffer the sting of final death. Now, though his body was nigh destroyed by the spell that had mysteriously rebounded from Harry a second time in seventeen years, he was poised yet again to be resurrected, the flame of life flickering still in the form of the last, newly-created Horcrux of which he had boasted.

Harry knew he was powerless to move so much as a finger to prevent Voldemort's flight. A lone figure was left to stand between Voldemort and his ultimate rebirth. But what could Wormtail do against his master? Even if he extinguished the last spark of life from the crumbling husk lying at his feet, Voldemort would simply bide his time until he could build a new body on the foundation of his hidden Horcrux, after which he would exact a terrible vengeance against his betrayer, as he had done against so many before him.

As Harry stared, Wormtail shifted his wand from his right hand to his left. The sniveling wizard trembled as he raised the wand and pointed it not at Voldemort, nor at Harry, but at himself.

"You gave me this hand, Master," Wormtail said in a hesitant quaver, "to replace the one I gave to restore you to your body. I no longer wish to keep it. I -- I return it to you."

Harry let out a weak cry of horror as Wormtail swept his wand up across his right wrist. A thin, red beam extended from the wand-tip, severing hand from wrist as keenly as a knife-blade. Wormtail cried out as his severed hand hit the ground. He dropped his wand and immediately grasped his right wrist, from which blood was pouring in an unending river.

"Wormtail! You fool! What have you done?"

Harry's mind was screaming the same question that Voldemort had just voiced. Wormtail turned his back on his master and walked over to Harry. His legs shook as he moved, and he sank to the ground, still clutching his bleeding stump. He stared at his right wrist, then up at Harry, a thin smile struggling through his pained grimace.

"I have much to say before I die, Harry," Wormtail sobbed. His voice was trembling from more than pain, Harry sensed. His agony seemed to come from deep within.

"Why?" Harry stammered.

"It is the only way," Wormtail said. "Did not my master tell you that he created a new Horcrux in which to hide a piece of his soul?" Harry nodded. "Have you not guessed where that fragment was hidden?"

Harry gaped, and Wormtail's smile broadened, revealing teeth clenched in pain.

"You of all people should appreciate the irony, Harry," Wormtail said. "Your parents chose me as their Secret Keeper over Sirius because no one would suspect such a valuable commodity would be entrusted to one so weak. My master chose me for the same reason. I was to be his new 'Nagini.' I would remain at his side, where he could maintain an unwavering scrutiny on his newly-created Horcrux to ensure that he was safe from death. Though the process of implanting the soul-fragment was excruciating, I agreed because I knew that my own life would thus be assured, for my master would never thrust me in harm's way so long as I held his survival within me. I need nevermore fear for my safety, knowing that my master would hold my life as dear as his own, in that it truly was his own."

"Then why are you doing this?" Harry choked, his eyes unable to tear away from Wormtail's bleeding stump.

"I was once a good friend to your parents, Harry," Wormtail said. "But I was weak, and I betrayed them to their deaths. That act of cowardice would have caused your death as well had fate not intervened. I have never forgiven myself for what my weakness wrought that night. Years later in the Shrieking Shack, Sirius remarked that it was a poor testimony if I made a better rat than I did a human being. He was right. Even though I continued to await word of the Dark Lord's return so I might rejoin him, I knew that I was a vile creature for what I had done. I knew it every moment I served my master following his rebirth. Yet through it all, I had not the strength to defy him, to make amends for what I had done. Not -- not until this moment."

"Why now?" Harry asked.

"Because of you," Wormtail answered weakly. His body was gradually slumping to one side as his life flowed from him with the blood now oozing sluggishly from the stump of his wrist. "You -- and her." Wormtail nodded at Hermione, who lay at Harry's left hand, having slipped from his grasp when the failed Curse sent him reeling. "When I saw you together, opposing my master, it was like seeing James and Lily again. My master spoke truly when he said that your friend shared much in common with Lily -- I thought much the same myself in the years I spent at Hogwarts as your friend's pet -- and I have never been able to look at you, Harry, without seeing my old friend James. I was wounded to the heart. I knew that my master was about to kill the two of you as he had your parents, and I wept for that I had not the strength to stop him.

"But when I saw his Curse rebound from you, saw him fall as one dead, I knew that I must act now or live with my own brand of curse forever. When -- "

Wormtail's eyes fluttered, and Harry thought the wizard's death was upon him. But with a great lurch that must have cost him his last gram of strength, Wormtail sat up again.

"When my body dies," Wormtail said wearily, yet happily, it seemed to Harry, "I will no longer be my master's Horcrux. The soul-fragment residing within me will rejoin my master. Thus, when he dies, there will be no resurrecting him as before. This -- " Again Wormtail nearly faltered before drawing a long, ragged breath. "This I do willingly -- happily. I have at last redeemed some small portion of the evil I wrought so many years ago."

Wormtail grimaced again. Harry could see that he was clinging to his last moments of life only by the greatest of efforts. But death was approaching swiftly, and Wormtail struggled to force his voice to speak before his last breath escaped his laboring lungs.

"M-my master asked me why I am doing this. He asked if it was because I feared you. But it was not fear that moved me, Harry. It was love. James and Lily were my dearest friends. And when you were born, though they named Sirius your godfather, none loved you more than I. But though I betrayed them to their deaths, you did not kill me when it was in your power to do so. Though I made you an orphan, you spared my life. I was not then deserving of your mercy, nor am I now. But now, at last, I can make amends. Thus, as I returned my master's gift to him," his eyes fell grimly on his encrimsoned wrist, "so I r-return yours. I give you back the life you gave me that night in the Shrieking Shack, for I am not worthy of it."

Wormtail turned his watery eyes skyward, lifting his trembling head with a supreme effort.

"James..." he gasped. "Lily...Sirius...forgive me."

Wormtail now turned his fading eyes on Harry.

"Can you forgive me, Harry?" he whispered.

"Yes," Harry said, his voice weighted with sorrow. "I forgive you. And -- " Harry's eyes fell onto the still form lying next to him. Reaching out to touch her hand, he said, "And I know Hermione does, too."

"Thank you, Harry," Wormtail wheezed. "Th-Thank -- "

Wormtail's eyes glazed over. He slumped onto his side and lay still. Harry saw that the stump of his arm no longer oozed blood. It had all been spilled on the grass, along with his life. Harry's eyes lingered for a moment on Wormtail's face, which, though ghostly white from loss of blood, was strangely serene. Then he turned to regard Voldemort once more.

"I said I'd gladly die if I could take you with me," Harry said. "Your followers are all dead or captured. The only ones coming to carry you away will be the Aurors. If you die or live on as you are now, it doesn't matter. I've won. We've won," he amended, his eyes falling onto Hermione.

Harry felt waves of darkness closing in on him. He slumped down beside Hermione, still holding her hand in his with his last ounce of strength. The last thing he saw as his eyes fluttered closed was Hermione's face. She looked totally at peace -- he even thought to see a faint smile on her pale lips, as of contentment. Then his eyes closed and he knew no more.

A tall figure was standing over the unmoving forms of Harry and Hermione, casting no shadow on the bloodstained ground. The observer dropped to his knees and reached out toward the witch whose face had been Harry's last sight ere his memory was swallowed in darkness. The hand halted, hovered for a moment a centimeter above the moon-pale cheeks, then slowly withdrew.

"I thought you were dead," Harry said, speaking to Hermione even as he regarded his memory-self from the corner of his eye. "I told Voldemort the truth. I would rather have died than live without you. And I think -- I think that's what saved me."

Harry eased around until he could look upon Hermione's face. He longed to touch her, but his hands remained at his sides.

"Dumbledore said I had a power Voldemort couldn't understand. I could love. I thought it was all rubbish at first. But now I understand. My mum died to save me. Voldemort couldn't kill me that first time because I was surrounded by her love, which was stronger than even the Killing Curse. She left that protection in me, like a piece of herself living on after her death."

Harry reached up to touch the scar underneath his bangs.

"Dumbledore used that protection to keep me safe at the Dursleys. The spell he cast on me stopped working when I turned seventeen, but the magic -- my mum's magic -- was still inside me. I never knew it was there because -- because I never really knew what love was. I couldn't feel it because I never knew what it was like to really love someone. I never loved Cho. I acted the right berk because I was dazzled by her pretty face, but I found out over time that she wasn't nearly as pretty on the inside as she was on the outside.

"Ginny was different -- she was everything a bloke could ask for in a girlfriend -- smart and pretty and fun to be with. But what I felt for her wasn't love. I only ever fancied her is all. I must have known that inside, because in all the time we were together, I never once told her I loved her. A lot of blokes might have said it just to make a bird smile, or to have their way with her, but it never entered my mind. If I didn't feel it, I could never say it.

"It wasn't until now -- here -- that I discovered what real love feels like. It's like -- like being a part of someone -- like something inside you is missing, and suddenly the missing piece is there, and you're complete. More than that, it's like, when you're together, you're -- well, you're greater than the sum of the parts -- better than you ever thought you could be. That's the way it's always been with us. Whatever I was missing, you were always there to supply it, whether it was helping me with my homework, or helping to save the Sorcerer's Stone. It didn't matter if we didn't mesh perfectly, like that yin and yang you told Ron about. If anything, those rough edges made us stronger, because we each did our best to mold ourselves into something better, something that the other would approve of. In the end, those jagged edges smoothed out until we fit together in a way that was so natural that neither of us even realized it. Or maybe you did. It took me a bit to catch up. That's the way it's been with us from the start. You always started out every year smarter and better than anyone, but when it was all done, somehow we were side-by-side, standing on even ground. Or it might be more accurate to say we ended up on a summit, apart from everyone else. It wasn't where we chose to be, but we carried on as best we could. It's like we always knew that we'd never fit in as smoothly as we might, but that was okay, because we always fit together somehow.

"Right up to today, Snape never missed a chance to accuse me of being an arrogant prat, but inside I've always known that, whenever someone talked about the 'Great Harry Potter' and all the marvelous things he's done, I'd never have managed half of them without you. When we were down in the potions chamber, trying to save the Sorcerer's Stone, you told me I was a great wizard. If I became a better wizard than I might have done, it's because of you -- but even more, you helped me to become a better man. Everything I am is because of you. I was too thick to see it at first. It took the two of us standing here, facing Lord Voldemort, and the likelihood of our own deaths, to open my eyes.

"The magic that saved me from Voldemort's first attack seventeen years ago came from my mum. But the magic that saved me this time came from you. Dumbledore said the magical protection my mum gave me was in my blood. It was always a part of me. Voldemort never thought when he took some of my blood to restore his body three years ago, he was taking some of that magic inside himself -- the same force that destroyed his original body the night he tried to kill me. He never recognized it, because, like me, he never knew what it was. It was a form of love, and that's something Voldemort never knew, from the day he was born. It lay there inside him all this time, unsuspected, like a volcano waiting to erupt. The power he knows not. And that's what did him in. When our wands connected, we became a single unit. When I felt Voldemort's evil creeping into me through the connecting spell, I was able to push it away. Just like the first time he tried to kill me, I was surrounded by a shield he couldn't penetrate. But Voldemort couldn't withstand my power. All I ever needed was a trigger to release my mum's magic inside me -- a catalyst that would wake it from its dormant state and turn it loose in an irresistible tide. Dumbledore's spell did something like that when I was at the Dursleys, but even then, the real power remained dormant, waiting for the key that would finally release it from its prison and set it free -- set me free. And that key -- that key was you.

"I love you, Hermione. I've always loved you. Looking back, I think I'm the only one who didn't see it. Krum spotted it straightaway. So did Cho. And the way Mrs. Weasley acted during the Triwizard Tournament, I think she must have known, too.

"You're my missing half, the part that makes me complete. If our halves don't fit together exactly -- well, that's what love is, isn't it -- the glue that fills the gaps to make a seamless whole. Perfection doesn't need anything to be complete. It doesn't need love and trust to become something more, something better. It's our flaws that make us who and what we are, and Merlin knows I've got enough of those to stretch from the tip of the Astronomy Tower to the depths of the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort saw those flaws as weaknesses he could exploit. He never realized that humanity's flaws are its greatest strengths, because when someone comes along and fills those places inside us with love, we become a hundred times stronger than we would have been without them. When Voldemort attacked me, he never imagined that I was protected by an armor that went beyond mere magic. Ron was wrong when he said you didn't know what it was like to have someone you love attacked by Voldemort. It was me. That's what kept you going -- that's why you wouldn't let me go off and face Voldemort alone -- and in the end, that's what did him in. It was your love inside me that stopped Voldemort's Curse from killing me and turned it back on him. It was our love, forged over the last seven years, that created a shield that stopped the one unstoppable spell with a power Voldemort couldn't fight because he never understood how powerful it is.

"And I know now why I couldn't remember anything that happened here. When those spells exploded around you and I thought you were dead, and I didn't want to go on without you. I couldn't bear to live in a world that didn't have you in it. In a way, we both went off and hid in the darkness. The Healers were wrong. It wasn't only your own death you feared. Ron wondered what it was that kept you going for so long -- what was the voice in your heart that spoke over the one in your brain that kept screaming for you to do the smart thing and save your life. You stayed because of me. You were more afraid of my death than your own. That's why you jumped in front of that fusillade of spells -- you'd rather have died protecting me than save yourself while letting me die."

Harry bent his head, feeling hot tears painting his cheeks.

"Don't die, Hermione! Please don't die! I thought you were dead in the Department of Mysteries -- I thought the Death Eaters had killed you here -- I can't bear to lose you again! I can't! Please, Hermione -- please come back. Please let Snape's potion work -- please let Ron's tears bring you back. Please...please..."

Harry's face was in his hands. He was sobbing like a child -- but no, that wasn't right. Those tragic sounds were coming not from his own throat, but from a short distance away --

Harry snapped awake. He blinked a few times, feeling his eyes leak wetness onto his cheeks. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and he heard again the sound from his dream -- only it wasn't a dream. Someone was sobbing, sounding as if his heart was being torn from his chest.

RON!

Harry's limbs felt like lead weights as he struggled up out of his chair. The door to Hermione's room was ajar, and he fell against it lumberingly, clinging to the handle to prevent himself from falling on his face.

Ron was sitting in the chair next to Hermione's bed. His face was pressed against her bosom, his hand covering hers much as Snape's had done. Harry's heart nearly stopped. Had the potion failed? Was Hermione dead?

Stumbling forward, Harry was suddenly assaulted by a pungent odor permeating the room. He swept the lingering fumes away from his face and staggered toward Hermione's bed. The perfumed air grew thicker, and Harry saw that it was coming from a crystal goblet sitting on Hermione's night table. The potion filling the goblet was nearly transparent, and Harry noted three objects at the bottom that could only be the cotton wool containing Hermione's tears -- and Ron's.

Harry's strength was faltering as he fell to his knees at Ron's side. He gripped his friend's sleeve, but Ron seemed not to notice, nor even be aware of Harry's presence. Harry jerked harder, and at last Ron raised his head. His face was red and streaked with tears, and there was an anguish in his blue eyes that pierced Harry to the heart.

"I've lost her, Harry," Ron said in a haunted voice. "Oh, God, I've lost her..."

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed fearfully. "She's -- the potion -- "

But at that moment, a soft murmur kissed Harry's ears like an angel's song. He jerked his head about and saw Hermione smiling as if she were basking in the glow of a sweet dream dancing just behind her closed eyes. Her cheeks were no longer porcelain-white, but a healthy pink. Harry looked at Ron uncomprehendingly.

"Hermione's alive!" Harry gasped. "You did it, mate! You saved her, just like I said you would!"

"No," Ron said with a heavy shake of his head. "I didn't."

"What are you on about?" Harry said as he smiled down on Hermione's peacefully sleeping face, knowing that she was now truly sleeping, from which slumber she would soon awake to rejoin the world she had helped save. "Look at her! The potion worked! You added your tears to it and brought Hermione back!"

But Ron continued to shake his head, looking as if he were drunk or suffering from a blow to the head.

"Ron!" Harry demanded. "What is it? What's wrong?"

His shoulders slumping heavily, Ron said, "There's something I didn't tell you, Harry -- when you asked me about the potion and how it worked."

"What are you talking about?" Harry said, looking thoroughly bemused.

"Snape warned me," Ron said, "that the final ingredient depended on Hermione's dreams. You remember he warned me at least twice before he left, asking me if I was sure about what I was about to do. You remember?" Harry nodded mutely, and Ron responded with a shake of his head. "He said that Hermione would have two dreams -- she'd dream she was with the one she loved, and she'd dream that she lost him forever. You remember?"

"Of course I remember," Harry said with growing impatience. "But what -- "

"Who was she dreaming about those times, Harry?" Ron asked suddenly.

"What?" Harry said in surprise. "What kind of question is that? She was dreaming about you, of course." But Ron shook his head again.

"That's what I wanted to believe. But you remember I told you when Snape went into Hermione's head, he told her to imagine herself marrying the man she loved most. Why didn't he just tell her to imagine she was marrying me?"

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out, prompting him to close it again.

"Snape's a Legilimens, remember," Ron said. "He can see things inside us that we don't let others see -- things we don't even know are inside us sometimes. That's why he wanted me to be absolutely sure about what I was going to do."

"What are you talking about?" Harry said, his patience wearing thin.

"I'm saying that Snape warned me that there was more than one way for the potion to kill Hermione. I told you the first way -- if the third set of tears bonded with Hermione's fears, the potion would become poison and kill her almost instantly. But there was another way to turn the potion into poison -- and that's by adding the tears of the wrong person."

"What do you mean, the wrong person?" Harry asked.

"You asked me before if I was afraid I didn't love Hermione enough," Ron said. "What I was really afraid of -- what I couldn't bring myself to say out loud -- was what if she didn't love me enough? What if she was dreaming about someone else? That was what Snape was warning me about when he said I had to be absolutely certain. He told me that Legilimency can't make someone go against his inner nature, like the Imperius does. It just opens a door to the mind and allows thoughts to flow freely. When he went into her head, he simply planted the image of her wedding in her mind. The rest was up to her. You see what I'm saying, Harry? Everything hinged on who was standing next to her in her dream. If someone other than the one she was dreaming about added his tears to the potion, it would turn into poison and kill her at once."

"But the potion didn't kill her!" Harry said. "It saved her!"

"That's because I didn't add my tears to the potion," Ron said, the words burning his tongue like acid. "I added yours."

"WHAT?" Harry burst out. "Are you mad? You could have killed her!"

"But I didn't, did I?" Ron said, his voice precariously close to insane laughter.

Feeling his last ounce of strength ebb away, Harry sank down until his face was leaning against the side of Hermione's bed. His brain was swimming from more than the encroaching exhaustion from his injuries. He couldn't have felt more addled had he been clubbed in the head by a mountain troll.

"When I returned with the potion," Ron said, "I saw you sleeping in your chair. I decided not to wake you -- there was nothing you could do -- and I didn't want -- " Ron's throat seemed to tighten, and he had to force the next words out. "I was about to go in, and then -- I heard you talking in your sleep."

Harry lifted his head, and the pain in Ron's eyes burned through him like an Incendio spell.

"You were talking about Hermione," Ron said. "Talking to her -- begging her not to die -- telling her that -- that you -- "

Harry struggled to rise onto his knees. He had to catch at the bedclothes for support, and as he sought for purchase he felt the soft warmth of Hermione's hand where it lay atop her blanket. He pulled his hand away quickly and turned to stare at Ron, balancing himself on unsteady legs.

"Out there -- I was dreaming about -- about Voldemort -- about that day -- I remembered everything -- I -- "

He could not bring himself to say more. For Harry had only just realized the other reason why he had blocked out those terrible events before and after Voldemort's destruction. It was true that he was immersed in sorrow over what he believed to be Hermione's death. But if that were the only reason for his amnesia, why had his memories not come flowing back when he learned from the Healers that Hermione was alive? It was because he knew he could never again repress his feelings for Hermione now that they had been awakened -- and to do otherwise would have meant destroying Ron's chance for happiness. How could he look his best mate in the eye and wish him and Hermione a happy life together, when his soul was aching to take Ron's place at Hermione's side -- and in her heart?

But Ron seemed to be reading his thoughts now as smoothly as Snape or Dumbledore -- or Voldemort -- ever had.

"I knew all along that you loved her," Ron said. "Even if you didn't know it yourself. And Hermione always loved you. I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at you, every time she said your name. Why do you think I was so jealous of all the time you and Hermione spent together? That's why I was so chuffed when I got the prefect's badge. I didn't care about the power, like Percy did. And frankly, I hated the duties, especially when they interfered with Quidditch practice. I'd have gone straight to Dumbledore and chucked you the badge in a second except for one thing. That badge meant that Hermione and I could finally share something that you weren't a part of. Finally it was just the two of us -- it was the chance I'd been waiting for to -- to take your place in her heart. I'm not saying she never loved me before -- but it wasn't the same. There was always something special in her eyes when she said your name -- a light that wasn't there when she looked at me. She tried to hide it, but Hermione was always too honest to be a good liar, even to spare someone she cared about from being hurt. I'd have given anything for that light to shine for me -- for a while there I really thought it could happen -- but in the end, I knew it was no good. It was always you, Harry. And that's why it had to be you who saved her. I mean, that's what you do, innit? Save everyone? First Ginny, then my dad, then me -- I mean, Hermione was next in line, wasn't she?"

A manic quality had crept into Ron's voice, and he suppressed it with a supreme effort of will, his jaws clenched almost painfully, before resuming in a calmer tone.
"Snape saw it inside both of us -- Hermione and me, I mean. He didn't say anything, but I could see it in his face -- reckon he's not as good an Occlumens as he fancies himself, eh?"

Ron laughed bitterly, and Harry felt his skin prickle.

"Up to the last moment, I wasn't sure what I'd do," Ron said. "If I wasn't certain, I could just dump the potion and the cotton wool down the loo, leave Hermione as she was. I mean, she'd still be alive, right? Better that than doing her in.

"But even if Hermione was dreaming about you and not me, I didn't know if I could bring myself to do it. Even using your tears instead of mine, there was still a chance it wouldn't work."

"What?" Harry said in a strained voice that seemed to come from a great distance.

"Hermione's dreams were about two opposites, remember," Ron said. "A pendulum swinging between two extremes. On the one hand, she fancied herself marrying the man she loved more than anyone else -- you. But we already agreed that Hermione has more than enough common sense to be getting on with, and that common sense told her that, in all the years we've all known each other, you've never given the slightest hint that you returned her love. Me, I never missed an opportunity to act the berk over her, did I? But you? When did you ever look into her eyes and feel your face get hot all over, or try to say something to her from deep in your heart and suddenly feel like you'd eaten one of Fred's and George's Ton-Tongue Toffees?

"You see what I'm saying, Harry? Even though nearly everyone in or out of Hogwarts knew you loved Hermione on some level, you still hadn't said anything -- you never told Hermione you loved her, in words or any other way that a girl expects from a bloke who supposedly fancies her. I dunno how many times I saw her looking at you, as if trying to see inside you for some sign that you felt the same way about her as she did for you. After so long, she gave up looking. What was she to do? I mean, if she hadn't seen anything in all that time, she had to reckon there was nothing there to see, didn't she? So she gave up on you and turned to me, and I was so high for a bit, I thought someone had cast a levitation spell on me when I wasn't looking.

"But I never fooled myself that there wasn't a bit of you still in her heart. Blimey, she loved you so much that she told Ginny to have another bash at you, for Merlin's sake! And when you and Ginny finally paired up, was anyone wearing a bigger smile than Hermione? She wanted you to be happy, even if it couldn't be with her. If that isn't love, I dunno what is. So, with all that, how was I to know that adding your tears to the potion wouldn't kill Hermione rather than save her? Even if I knew where her heart was, it still takes two to waltz, and you'd already chosen your dance partner, hadn't you? But that's where it unraveled in the end. It was obvious that you never fancied Hermione the way you did Ginny. But fancying a girl isn't the same thing as loving a woman. It's like Mum said, childish love versus the real thing. But even knowing that, I still couldn't take the chance. Not yet."

Ron placed a finger on the goblet from which delicate fumes still wafted, his eyes sliding back to fasten on Harry's.

"Snape said that the chemical balance in our bodies changes with our feelings and emotions. That's why Hermione's two sets of tears were so different, acting as potion ingredients. It's no different with the third set. Remember, there was no middle ground where the potion was concerned. The pendulum was primed to swing to either extreme, whether love or rejection. Even if you did love Hermione on some level, you never allowed those feelings to surface, did you? As far as the potion was concerned, it was the same as if you'd never loved her at all. That being so, your tears would have bonded with Hermione's fears instead of her hopes, and the result would have killed her as surely as driving a dagger through her heart. That was a chance I couldn't afford to take. Even if I believed I wasn't the one Hermione dreamed about when Snape opened her mind, there was nothing else for it. All I could do was add my tears to the potion and hope -- I had to hope that my love for her was strong enough -- I had to hope that her love for me was strong enough to overcome the feelings she never stopped harboring for you. I mean, even if it was your face in her dreams, maybe I was still in there somewhere, and that my tears could find that place inside her where our love was still real and not just a -- a shadow. It was a slim hope, but it was all I had. My only other choice was to chuck it all and let Hermione lie in that bed forever, praying every day that she'd eventually wake up on her own, no matter what the Healers said.

"But when I heard you talking in your sleep, saying her name -- saying you loved her -- I knew you'd finally pulled your head out of your arse and seen what was there all along. And that meant there was a chance that Hermione knew, too. I mean, I dunno what happened when the two of you were out there playing 'Dodge the Quaffle' with You-Know-Who, but if there was a chance that she saw the truth -- even if it was only in your eyes -- I heard some of the Aurors saying that facing death always brings the truth out of hiding. Blokes confess things to their chums, ask for forgiveness, all that sort of rubbish. It doesn't even have to be in words. Sometimes a look is enough to say it all. That's one of the reasons I asked you what you remembered about that day. When you said you didn't remember anything, I was back where I started, not knowing which way to turn. But then when I overheard you out there a bit ago, I knew what I had to do. So I took the cotton wool I was going to use on myself and used it on you instead."

Harry unconsciously lifted a hand to his face. His cheeks were still damp with the tears he had been crying when his dream dissolved around him and he found himself back in the anteroom -- the tears of love that Ron had used in place of his own to bring Hermione back from the edge of the abyss. Looking up, he saw Ron smiling at him over freckled cheeks glistening with his own tears. In that moment, Ron's blue eyes resembled none so much as Dumbledore's, reflecting an overpowering amalgam of age and agelessness that was startling, coming as it was from the face of one so young.

"I had to be careful not to wake you," Ron said. "I'd have a bit of explaining to do, wouldn't I? The moment I popped it in the goblet, even before Hermione took her first breath, I knew I'd done the right thing. And when I could smell the fumes again, they confirmed it. According to Snape, if it had gone wrong, the fumes would have been bitter, like the original potion -- but the saving fumes would be sweet. Well, you can smell it all around you, can't you?"

Yes, Harry could still smell the sweet fumes of the potion permeating the air, filling Hermione's lungs with the after effects of their saving magic.

"If I'd been the selfish berk I was for so long," Ron sighed with a kind of emotional shrug, "I'd have said, 'Bugger it all, I'm not giving up the woman I love to a prat who didn't have the brains to see what was right in front of him.' I'd have gone ahead and added my tears to the potion -- and I'd have killed her. I'd be no better than a Death Eater."

"You could never have done that," Harry said. "You love her too much. You'd give your life for her."

"Just like you would," Ron said. "We both love her, just as she loves both of us. But there was never any doubt which one of us she loved more -- which one she dreamed of spending her life with. I knew what I had to do. Even if I lost her forever..."

Ron turned to caress Hermione's sleeping face with his eyes, blinking as he fought a resurgence of tears. He wiped his face, thereafter rubbing his fingers on the front of his robes in the most Ron-like gesture Harry had seen in a seeming eternity. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or begin crying again himself.

"What happens now?" Harry asked, feeling numb in both body and mind.

"Well," Ron said as he rose from his chair and stretched his long legs, "I dunno about you, but I'm off for a long holiday. I mean, saving the ruddy world takes it out of a bloke, dunnit? Far as I'm concerned," he said with a wink, "you can have it, mate. Too much bloody work -- I'll take prefect duty any day. Now Fred and George, they have the right idea, you ask me. Don't take things too seriously, that's their motto. Life's too short to waste on regrets. Always look ahead. Embrace the inner child as long as you can. Good advice, that. You know, I might just pop in on them for a bit -- only I reckon I could use a few laughs about now, you know?"

Ron helped Harry up and into the chair. He stood for a moment, then bent and placed a gentle kiss on Hermione's smiling lips. Her smile grew wider, and Ron choked, knowing that smile was not for him, but for another. A tear fell from his eye onto Hermione's cheek, and he brushed it away.

"Don't want these anywhere near you, luv," he chuckled thickly. "Poison, they are. Do you in faster than you can say -- " He paused for a moment, then said resolutely, "Faster than you can say, 'Voldemort.'"

"Ron," Harry said, withholding his own tears with an effort, "I don't deserve a friend like you. You're the best mate a bloke ever had."

"You remember that when it's time to choose the Best Man, eh?" Ron grinned painfully.

"What do you want me to tell Hermione when she wakes up?"

"Tell her -- " Ron said slowly, his voice growing thick, " -- tell her I love her."

"She already knows," Harry smiled.

Ron walked unhurriedly toward the door. He stood for a moment, turned and smiled at Hermione. "Have a good life, luv." He shifted his eyes to Harry and added, "Both of you."

He left the room, closing the door behind him. Harry stared after him for a moment, turning abruptly when he felt the bedclothes shift under his hand. He let out a strangled sob when he saw Hermione open her eyes and smile up at him.

"Harry," Hermione whispered weakly. "I was having the most wonderful dream. You were in it."

"Have I ever told you," Harry choked, his tears now flowing freely, "that I love you."

"Every minute we've been together," Hermione said softly.

Harry took Hermione's hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it.

"Now," he said with a smile, "you want to tell me about this dream you were having?"

"Why do you want to know about a silly old dream?" Hermione countered, her eyes drooping wearily again.

"Because," Harry said as he stared into Hermione's dark, fathomless eyes, feeling his heart swell in his chest, "we're going to make it come true."

Harry lay his head on Hermione's shoulder, and they fell asleep together, the twin smiles on their lips hinting that they were each having the same dream -- a dream as sweet as the potion fumes wafting on the air, filled with laughter, and promises. And the most powerful magic of all: love.

Postscript:

The first draft of this story was less than half as long as the final result above. It was conceived as a short, direct story addressing the change wrought in Harry following the destruction of Voldemort. But the more I progressed, the more I came to realize that Harry's transformation would lack credibility if the events that re-shaped his thinking were not presented in detail rather than simply referenced in passing. That meant that I had to devise a canon-friendly way to kill Voldemort and present it in a manner consistent with J.K.'s blueprint. Welcome to fanwriter hell. How can we poor amateurs hope to devise an end for the Dark Lord that will be a patch on whatever J.K. has in store for the final book? Having committed myself, I did my best to fashion a mosaic composed of key elements referenced in the books. Again, I didn't want to impede the story by overcomplicating things. If Voldemort dies in Book 7 in any way resembling my vision here, no one will be more surprised than I. But as Shakespeare said, "The play's the thing." I presume that applies to fanfiction, too. Here's hoping.

I'll see about finishing that multi-chapter fic as soon as I can. Until then, thanks for reading.