Alive
Summary: Before the final battle, Harry and Hermione face up to their emotions. Can be read with or without the main fic, When Voldemort Won. PG-13 for innuendo, mild language and death themes. Not a happy fic, this.
My hands are cold, Hermione thought, and leaned in closer to the fire. It was late – almost one in the morning – and the Gryffindor common room was shadowed. Hermione did not need the light to see everything in the room, however; she knew the common room so well that even with her eyes closed she could envision every detail. Hogwarts was her home.
But her home was in disrepair; the rugs were worn and stained, the comfortable old chairs ragged, in places even ripped. Even magical repair could not restore the castle to the grandeur of its youth, and Hogwarts was very old. And now the facsimile of youth that had come with the bustling studentry was gone as well – Hogwarts was practically abandoned, a castle under siege. Hermione smiled at the thought; it would be so much easier if she could just rain down boiling oil from the ramparts. Pull up the drawbridge and keep out the enemy invaders!
Nothing was that simple anymore.
Hermione had, of course, remained at the castle, even when all the other students had fled, their parents withdrawing them from the school to what little protection there was in their own homes, hoping that anonymity would save them from attack. Hermione, however, could find no such safety in her own home, and, as a friend of the boy who lived, would only bring danger to her own family. There had been no painful choice for Hermione; she could not leave Hogwarts.
These days, only one or two students came to class, and it was just as well – the professors, embattled, embittered, and exhausted, could hardly have held a normal class; these days, students read, took notes, and tried to shut out all thoughts of the outside world. Hermione wasn't even a student anymore, not really; having taken the NEWTs a few days prior – the only one to take the NEWT Arithmancy exam – she only came to classes out of a sense of habit. Otherwise, all she would do would be to sit and stare at the fire – and she already spent all of her nights that way.
Hermione was deep in her reverie when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Harry standing behind her chair, an odd look in his eyes.
Harry had been born after his two friends, but he was older than the three; though Hermione had seemed more mature during their comparatively carefree adolescence, he had been an adult in child's clothing the entire time. Harry was older than seventeen, Hermione reflected, trying not to cry.
"Hermione," Harry said hoarsely. "Hermione, I –" He shook his head, struggling for words. Finally, he gathered himself: "Hermione, I don't think I'm going to come back alive tomorrow. I don't think any of us are. The dangers are so –" He cut himself off.
"Hermione, all the times I've ever fought Voldemort, all these times I've survived – I've never known, really known, what to do – the philosopher's stone, it was an accident that I grabbed Quirrel's face, the Chamber of Secrets, he killed me but Fawkes brought me back, the graveyard … if our wands hadn't been brothers. Dumbledore saved me at the ministry, and last year – when the Death Eaters attacked the school… I couldn't even kill her, Hermione, Neville did it, Neville killed her, and I couldn't. I tried – I lifted my wand, I said the words, and with all my might – and I couldn't do it. I tried to hurt her, I used the Cruciatus Curse you know, after she killed Sirius, I tried, but my anger wasn't enough. And my anger, my hatred – I can't fight Voldemort! I have to kill him, but the spells that kill, they're his domain, his property is hatred, and I can't hate enough to kill."
Hermione stared up at Harry, and stood up slowly, letting the shawl slip from her shoulders, her hair wild and unkempt, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Harry, don't you dare die. You can't leave me. You can't –"
Harry reached out towards her and pulled back, his face anguished. "Hermione, if I don't win, nobody will, just Him… Hermione, I have to win tomorrow, but I know I'm not going to, I KNOW I'm not Hermione. I'm not strong enough! Not strong enough to avenge Sirius, not strong enough to fight Voldemort, not strong enough to admit –" But again, he cut himself off, struggling with himself, a look of obvious disgust on his face.
"Weak," he muttered, "weak."
Hermione felt anger surge up inside herself. "Don't you dare give up! Don't you dare be weak! If you are, if you let yourself, if you lose, we all do! I die, Ron dies, the Weasleys die, Lupin dies, Dumbledore dies, Seamus and Dean and Lavender and even Zacharias fucking Smith dies. You give up, you stop fighting, and we all die. You must be strong!" She felt sick. The world seemed to have soured, somehow, been poisoned; everything was shriveling up, even Harry, brave, noble, courageous Harry, who had risked his life time and time again, and knew that tomorrow would be the last time. The third prophecy.
It had been with grudging, miserable resignation that Hermione had accepted Trelawney as a seer, made all the worse by the woman's regular chicanery; but she had been privy to the divination professor's latest prophecy, and there had been an aura of truth in the woman's words:
The powers stand opposed, neither giving ground to the other; but one force must prevail. The Dark Lord in his weakness will retreat to the first of the two Old Powers, and only in his weakness can he be defeated. The War will climax as the seventh month approaches; neither can refuse the challenge, and the world shall be decided ere the seventh month arrives.
Dumbledore had agreed on its veracity, and for the past week frantic preparations had been made as Order Members and Ministry workers alike had assembled, desperately trying to keep their preparations clandestine. It was no secret that the Dark Lord had been badly wounded in an attack on the Department of Mysteries; he had attacked the locked door, and whatever power lay behind that door had rebuffed him so badly his own powers had been largely drained. The ministry had been unable to locate him, but they knew where he must go. There was only one place in Britain where he could perform the necessary healing rituals.
And now they knew the time.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Harry said, his voice cracking for the first time in a year. Despite it all – despite the lines of worry near his eyes, the weight he carried in his walk and bearing – despite it all, he was only seventeen. Almost a child.
"Damn it all. Damn it all to hell." Hermione never swore. It was as much a shock to hear the mild expletives from her own mouth as it had been to hear Harry's weakness a few moments ago, and for a moment, they stared at each other, understanding.
"Harry, I'm going to be married," Hermione said, an odd note in her voice. "Do you like my ring?" She extended her left hand, and Harry looked at it, not quite comprehending.
"That's Mrs. Weasley's ring," he said, slowly. "She gave it to Ginny when she died. I remember."
"Ginny gave it to Ron," Hermione said, smiling tremulously, tears beginning to spill out of her bloodshot eyes. "Ron asked me today after dinner, right outside of the Great Hall, while you were training with the aurors on the school grounds."
"Ron?" Harry said, slowly. "Of course … of course. Ron. I'm – I'm happy for you, Hermione. When this is all over … I suppose I'll be the best man. Unless – unless Ron wants one of his brothers…"
"Ron wants you, Harry. You're his brother in everything but blood, you know." Hermione did not follow it up with the next, logical statement.
Harry smiled a queer, twisted smile, and said, "And am I as a brother to you, Hermione? Is that what I am? Your brother?"
Hermione couldn't meet his eyes. He knew. He had to know. "God damn you, Harry, I'm getting married. Don't ask me these questions. You know I love you, as a friend, damnit. I'm your friend."
Harry turned away from her, shoving his hands into his pockets, a far-off look in his face. "Funny thing, Ron learned and I didn't. I thought he'd never figure it out after the Yule Ball, but it turned out it was me who missed the point."
"Harry," Hermione said, a warning note in her voice. "Harry, I don't want to hear this. Not now, not on top of everything else. I can't carry your burdens into battle tomorrow. I've got enough on my own soul."
"You don't love him," Harry said, his hands curled up into fists within his pockets. "Not that way."
"He loves me," Hermione said, struggling to keep her voice steady, and failing. "He loves me, and I've known him for seven years, and I'm his friend, and damn it, I'm going to be his wife."
Harry stood, silent for a moment, and then turned back towards Hermione, and he kissed her.
It was nothing like kissing Ron, Hermione reflected. And the thought of Ron made her pull back, shaking her head but unable to say no, the word catching in her throat on its way out.
"This isn't fair, Harry," she said. "I told Ron yes."
"Just once," Harry pleaded, "just once. I'm seventeen, I'm going to die tomorrow, we're all going to die tomorrow, and I don't want to die without loving you."
Hermione was crying now, the tears blurring her vision. "Don't do this to me. Harry, don't do this to me, I love you but I told Ron yes and I'm not going to do this to him. He's your best friend, Harry, you can't do this to him."
But Harry didn't answer her. Instead, he kissed her again, and it was harder to pull back this time, and when he kissed her again she didn't move away at all. Bitterly, desperately, miserably she kissed him, and when he stopped, she didn't say a word. It was Harry who spoke.
"We're all going to die anyway, Hermione. We might as well spend our last night feeling alive."