Chapter One: Hermione
Deep in the heart of London, far beneath the earth, there is a stone antechamber. Level upon level of stone benches rise up from the center of the room until you could have hundreds of people sitting there, all of them with a clear view of the raised dais that is located in the exact center of this circular room. But then, that dais is what this room is really all about, or more, what is located on the dais. There is a stone archway with what appears to be a thin, moth-eaten curtain falling down and blocking passage through the archway. Yes my reader, you are beginning to understand, that is no ordinary room and that is no ordinary arch. That is the Arcus de Mortuus, or the Archway of the Dead.
Some believe that if you draw near enough the arch, close enough to almost feel the nonexistent breeze that moves the curtain, you can hear voices, whispering. Others don't believe that you really can hear the whispers, but those who do say that those voices are from Beyond the Veil. Needless to say, I did not believe these stories to be true. I had even seen the Archway with its fluttering veil. I had seen a man fall through it and just vanish into thin air, but I had never once heard any voices. This was perhaps because I had never truly witnessed someone die.
I know that its all true now; every story about the dead being able to speak to us from Beyond the Veil and how it really is a gateway to the world of the dead. But then, I should know, considering that I am now one of those whisperers; one of those whose voices will be audible, but not understandable by those who can hear us. I will be there, whispering, softly, quietly, the story of my life and, eventually, the story of my death, but only after the truly important stories that must be retold or forgotten, have been shared. The dead are not supposed to be able to speak, but when there is nothing else we can do for eternity, we will tell our stories to anyone who is willing to listen.
My story begins some two hundred years ago in a small town in England, not far from present day London, but the truly important part of my life's story doesn't happen until almost twelve years later, when I was riding the train to school for the very first time. It was on that train ride that I happened into the compartment where two young boys sat. The two were about the same age, which was the same as mine, but were vastly different in appearance from the other. One of them was tall and gangly with flaming red hair; the other was shorter and scrawnier with a mess of jet black hair, emerald eyes, and an unusual lightening bolt shaped scar. Ah, you recognize this picture. Yes, the second boy is none other then Harry Potter, which makes the first his best friend, Ronal Weasley.
By this time, I'm sure you've figured out who I am, but if you haven't, I may as well tell you. I am Hermione Granger, the third member of what was referred to at Hogwarts as the Golden Trio. However, pretty soon for us, the times weren't going to be so golden. Voldemort, and he really is dead for good now, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Voldemort hadn't been killed on that dark Halloween night in Godric's Hollow and around thirteen year's later, he rose again into power. Then, a year later, the war truly began in earnest. For two long years, which is, in your history books, known as the Dark Ages of the Second War, Voldemort kept a hold of his reign of terror with an iron hand, all the while becoming more and more powerful. There was one thing blocking his way to complete power. There always had been and probably always would be unless he did something to get rid of it. And there was only one way to remove that obstacle – kill Harry Potter.
Yes, you have figured out where his is heading. You must be a Ravenclaw, that or one of those unusual Gryffindors like I was. Voldemort had to get rid of Harry and since Harry knew he wasn't ready to face the Dark Lord on his own ground, Voldemort was forced to confront Harry on his. Thus began the climax of the Second War, the Siege of Hogwarts, which is also known as the Final Battle. We knew that he was coming. Our spy within the Death Eaters was able to tell us that much before he was discovered and forced to flee for his life, which he did accomplish, but just barely. Forgive me; I'm drifting away from the story again. Have patience and please bear with me. Those of us who have nothing but time tend not to be concerned with it.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the Siege of Hogwarts. Voldemort and his Death Eaters somehow found a way around Hogwarts' defenses and were able to penetrate our outer wall and enter the grounds. After that, it should have been easy work for him to make his way to the castle and take it by force, but like I said, thanks to Draco, we knew he was coming. So, what Voldemort expected to find was a whole lot different from what he did find. What he expected was a castle full of young, sleeping, weak, partially trained witches and wizards and the few older ones that were their teachers. What he did find, however, was a group of the best trained, strongest witches and wizards who fought for the light and their teachers and every single one of them was wide awake and prepared for battle. Myself, Ron, and obviously, Harry, were among those present at the battle. Headmistress McGonagall didn't even try to argue our and most of the other six and seventh year students' presence at the battle. She knew that we needed every defender possible to protect and hold our school.
The school grounds were our battle field because even if the outer defenses had fallen, with the forewarning, McGonagall had been able to activate that castle's defenses, which were rooted in the ancient magic laid in place by the founders. Because of this, so long as one defender was still standing, it would not fall. That day was the longest and bloodiest of my entire life. I saw more people die that day then I ever thought possible. The innocent lives that I saw taken away and the blood that I saw shed were enough to last any person many, many lifetimes. Voldemort had seemed to vanish early on during the battle, leaving his generals Bellatrix and Lucius in charge. It wasn't until nightfall that the coward showed his decrepit and warped face again.
He probably came expecting to find his loyal servants moping up the last of the resistance, but again, what he found was very different from what he expected. By the time that Voldemort finally made a true appearance, both sides were exhausted and had regrouped for strength. We were sheltered by a large magical hedge that Sprout and Flitwick had charmed into existence. The Death Eaters were likewise huddled down about thirty yards away behind a hastily erected barricade of their own. Voldemort appeared with a crack in the exact center of the battle field, caught between two battling forces.
Everyone fell silent with his appearance and because of this, the attacks ceased as everyone looked on in surprise. Voldemort was furious; that much was obvious even from forty-five feet away. Time and again Harry Potter had proved too much of a problem for his Death Eaters to handle, as had Harry's friends, who stood steadfast at his side. Perhaps that was another reason that we had always been able to stand against Voldemort. We knew that true loyalty was freely given and kept by friendship, compassion, trust, not threats and fear, which was what Voldemort seemed to think, was needed to hold his Death Eaters' so called loyalty. But as I was saying, Voldemort was furious and decided that it was time for him to end it between him and Harry, once and for all. He challenged Harry to a duel and Harry, recognizing the opportunity to end this war once and for all took that chance, well aware of the danger that it presented.
Harry stepped out from behind our barricade to face Voldemort in the open. Every defending wand was focused on the Dark Lord and every Death Eater's was aimed at Harry. Surprisingly, no one, from either side cast a single spell as Voldemort and Harry faced off. Your history books are actually fairly accurate about Harry and Voldemort's final confrontation. A grand total of three spells were cast between the two of them: Avada Kedavra by Voldemort, Anamoranti by Harry and a second Avada Kedavra, but this time cast by Harry at Voldemort.
Oh, forgive me, you've never heard of the Anamoranti Shield, have you? Its origins are in the ancient blood magic that protected Harry when Voldemort tried to kill him the first time. Lily Potter's sacrifice was enough to cast a shield over Harry, a shield powered by, as cliché as it may sound, love. It was while researching that magic that I first stumbled across the Anamoranti spell. Hate's complete opposite is pure love, and in this case, opposites repel. So when the Avada Kedavra, which can only be properly cast if the castor is channeling feelings of pure hate, was the exact opposite of the ancient blood magic lain in place on Harry by Lily. The effect? Voldemort's spell rebounded on him since the love of a mother was far greater then the hate of a conqueror. So with this discovery, the Anamoranti spell came back into existence, having been rediscovered among the ancient tomes of the restricted section. So you can see how the Anamoranti Shield works, the castor creates a shield powered by true love and depending on the strength of the love, it can weaken or negate the effects of the Avada Kedavra. But I am sorry; I have once more strayed from the plot line.
Voldemort watched in triumph as his Killing Curse flew straight at Harry. Needless to say, he was surprised, to say the least, when it rebounded off of in a different direction instead of impacting Harry in the chest and killing him once and for all. Harry took that moment of distraction and stunned amazement to exact his own revenge on Voldemort and finally end the war. The Dark Lord crumpled to the ground, lifeless at last, with not chance at ever coming back. The Death Eaters went with him. There was more to their Dark Marks then just a calling card. Voldemort had bound them to himself. When he went, they went. That was how he had stayed alive so long, in addition to his horcruxes. It was a complete victory, but at a terrible cost, at least half of the defending force of the castle had been killed or gravely wounded and no one escaped without an injury of some kind.
Fate works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, more mysterious then I ever care to try and comprehend. If you remember, I said earlier that Voldemort's Killing Curse rebounded off of Harry's shield and off in a different direction. I believe it was my fate to die that day, otherwise there is no reasonable explanation as to why I lived through the entire battle, only to be killed by the last curse that Voldemort every uttered. But, maybe, that was my role. I was given the choice to remain behind as a ghost that moved through Hogwarts' halls, or continue onto the Realms of the Dead beyond the veil. I didn't know what I wanted. Leave my friends until they too joined me beyond the veil, or join them in a pathetic imitation of life and watch as they all grow old and move on without me. It quickly became apparent what I was supposed to do though as Voldemort died moments after I did. He could never again be allowed to walk the earth, even as a spirit. He must never be able to share his knowledge or ambitions with another human being. I gave up my opportunity to see my friends again and carried what was left of Voldemort's mangled, torn, and broken soul with me off to the Realms of the Dead.
They say the dead can feel no pain. I'm fairly certain that that isn't true. I cannot believe that Voldemort felt no pain when all of his deeds in his stolen life caught up to him in his death. And I know that I have felt great loneliness and sadness here, as well as happiness and joy. I was cursed to watch my friends grow old and live their lives from the other side of the veil and never be able to communicate to them. Not even when Harry returned to the Department of Mysteries, not even then could I speak to him. He couldn't hear my words, because the dead aren't supposed to be able to speak.
I apologize…again. I have once more strayed, but really, my story is drawing to a close. There is nothing more that I can tell you. Everything else doesn't matter, or you already know. The world was able to rebuild itself after the fall of Voldemort. Hogwarts became, once more, the center of magical learning and is probably one of the safest places on earth, even today. But despite the passing of the years, the passing of an age, the world forgetting the lessons of the past, as the wounds have long since healed, and the scars long since faded, the dead are still here, they never leave. We will always be here, whispering, quietly, our stories. The stories of the past. The stories of the future. The stories of our lives and death. Because when you have nothing to do for an eternity, you will whisper your stories to those who wait just beyond the veil, willing to listen.