A/N: I've been thinking about this plot for a couple of days now, and it wouldn't get out of my head, so I decided to write it down. It came out better than I was expecting it too, so I figured I would post it. The words and phrases in (italics and parenthases) are just little things that I have added to make my writing more interesting. I thought it was rather dull without them. The things just in italics, though are Harry's thoughts. All right, that about sums it up.

Word Count: 971

Ship: Harry/Hermione/Ron - You can see it better if you squint. Mind you, though, that I've never written Ron/Hermione or Harry/Hermione before so... having both is rather odd for me. If you have a problem with it, I really don't care. Like I said, just a plot that was running through my head.

Bargaining

Rushed breathing, heavy arms. Whimpering and stiff limbs. Sweat and heat and the cold chill of death permitted the air; gravitation seemed to pull more than necessary, more than normal. It wasn't normal, it wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to happen! Too surreal for his eyes (his jaded sorrowful eyes that had seen so much), for his mind to catch up (his still boyish, wishful mind). He refused, denied it all. No, it couldn't happen. Not to her; she was untouchable (perfect, perfect, perfect). The smartest, the best (always the best). She was destined to do something great with her life.

But then again - this was war.

No, don't think like that! She isn't... it wasn't a green light that hit her. It couldn't have been.

Refusal, denial. First stage.

He looked at the limp body he carried. Hair flying everywhere, wild even after death (still whipped chocolate and heavy waves). Eyes glassy and fogged over with surprise (still honey, golden brown). Jaw slacked and skin growing colder by the minute (still pink and soft); colder, colder, closer to pure death (still, still...). Inescapable death. No, he wouldn't let that happen (couldn't wouldn't never).

She's not d--... it didn't hit her! It was only a stunner. Only a stunner. A simple enervate will wake her up.

He could feel it wasn't true, but the thoughts calmed him some, gave him hope where there was none (lies, lies, all of them lies). It was good, it was safe and had a falseness to it he needed, needed so desperately (oh, so desperately).

Stage two: anger.

Why didn't she just stay behind, like he'd asked (told)? Why didn't she just listen - just once (listen). But no, her stubborn temper refused to be forced to isolation while everyone else went to the ministry (of course not).

Of course not.

Why didn't she just stay? Of course not! Of course not, she couldn't do that. She always has to be there, with us. Always.

The anger bled out quickly as he hurried on along the corridors (faster, faster!). He never turned around, never looked back. Ron had him covered; he could hear his rough voice shouting curses and hexes, hear the explosions they made whether they hit the target or not (the voice that laughed with them, the explosions that shouldn't happen, ever). His arms shook as he pulled her closer (far, far too real). Their feet led them to the lift faster than though possible - they needed to hurry (quickly!). They slammed in, hitting the back, never stopped running. Ron pulled out an emergency port-key and held it out to Harry. He didn't think twice about his hate for them.

They needed to get back Grimmauld Place. They needed to wake Hermione up. They need to (she has to wake up).

With a jerk at the naval, they were back. His jade eyes looked down quickly, reassuring she was still there (still alive). They dashed into the house, never being seen. Into the kitchen, loudly. Neither heard Mrs. Black screaming, shouting.

With shaking arms, he laid her out on the kitchen table. His mind was in a mad dash, his feet led him to the library before he knew what he was doing.

"Harry!" Ron yelled, confused, afraid as much as his dark haired companion was. His pale, freckled hand gripped the cold, dead one (cold, cold, cold and oh, so soft). His momentary confusion of the happenings was assessed moments later when pounding on rickety stairs was heard. Harry came bounding into the kitchen - worn, leather book in hand.

Third stage: Bargaining.

This has to work, it has to. I'll give anything, anything! Just please, please give her back to me. Please...

He hurried to rip the book open, the flesh-like pages from a thousand years ago fluttering with urgency, feeling his need to find the page. It had to work (it has to). His mad rush stopped only moments later, the page lying open like a prayer in a bible, humming with power and faith (has to, has to). He looked at his best friend, both pale with unsettled grief. Their minds tried to work past the third stage, bargaining. But, they tried to work with it, too. They had a way to bargain - they had a ritual, a spell.

"Harry..." (skeptical)

"It'll work." (it has to)

A nod and fiery red hair flopped into place. Sapphire eyes met jade, both filled with determination and desperation. Each held one of her hands (cold, clammy, perfect hands). They chanted, long, low phrases. Some Latin, some french. Partial English, and Greek. A red glow surrounded them, engulfed them.

Bloody, enchanted, dark, dark red.

Leeching vines came from them and surrounded her prone form, circling it and wrapping around it. They tightened, like snakes sent for a kill. The boys stuttered as they felt their bodies weaken, their cores strain against the unknown force. They felt their magic depleting, rejecting the chant. They held tightly to her hands, they needed her back (so, so desperately). They gasped and fell to their knees, their mouths still moving, hissing out the final words. Collapsing, they never let go of her hands (suddenly oh so warm, brilliant hands).

Her chest lifted, her mouth widened, her lungs sucked in the air and magic around them. The bloody cords of magic sliced into her and her eyes opened. They were honey, and golden. Her hair was bushed about as she shuddered. They set their eyes upon her form, they saw her move. They caught her eyes and cried when they looked into them.

They were blank, and dull. They were dead.

They had lost her.