CERTAIN SACRIFICES
It was a gloomy place, this, all dark wood and damp stone, candles guttering weakly in pools of their own wax. They cast dingy, flickering shadows on the mold streaked walls, adding only to the decrepit, almost dungeon-like, feel to the place. At one time, the place had been grand and opulent, even arrogant, lording above the lesser homes beneath it. But now it was a ruin. Where there was once a proud mansion with jutting spires and arching balconies, there was now a sagging wreck far past its prime.
It was the Riddle house, it always would be. And like the bloodline that it was named for, it no longer basked in the glory it once had. The last surviving son had renounced the Riddle blood in his veins, thus ending a once powerful and far-reaching family.
It was here that he walked, with icy dread gripping his every step.
Mysterious messages were never good omens. Especially when they summoned the recipient to the former stronghold of the most evil wizard alive. But Harry had recognized the handwriting on the letter, or he thought he did, and if it really was her… He had had no choice but to come. The note, written in that familiar, cramped hand, flashed into Harry's mind once again, as it had so many times since he'd received it.
iLittle Hangleton, the Riddle House, basement. Hurry./i
And that was it.
His heart thudded painfully fast in his chest and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his fist around his wand. Harry dared not light it, and instead strained his eyes to see in the murky, clinging darkness. His dragon-hide boots, his trainers having been destroyed some time before, made no noise on the floor with each slow and wary step. If this was a trap, then he knew he was walking right into it, but there was no other choice. If she was here, he had to come.
He slowed, for ahead one of the gloomy stone rooms was alive with light, the source impossible to determine. The candles were not any brighter, yet the cavernous space was nearly blinding. And there, in the center of the room…
i"Hermione,"/i he breathed. No longer caring about traps or ambushes, Harry ran forward, his heavy boots now pounding on the damp granite. "Hermione. Hermione!"
For one terrible moment, he knew in his heart that she was already dead. She lay peacefully, as if she were sleeping, with both legs straight and one arm crossed over her stomach, in a pool of darkening blood. Her hair, that unruly bush of brown, was sticky with it, her Muggle clothes of jeans and a hooded jacket soaked. There was no wound. Just so much blood. And then she stirred, faintly, but she did, her right hand clenching and unclenching slightly at the sound of his voice. "Harry…" she muttered.
"Hermione. I'm right here." His boots slipping in the blood, Harry leaped to her side, frantically trying to remember any spell or first aid lore he might have heard once. But nothing came. Instinctively, however, he gently hooked his arm under her head, flinching at the feel of the sticky, cooling blood in her hair. "I'm right here."
"Harry… You came. I'd… hoped you would," Hermione continued, her voice tight and hollow in the echoing vault. But it steadied as she spoke, and she blinked as if waking from a deep sleep.
Harry nodded, even though he barely heard what she was saying. "Hermione. I can heal this. It'll be okay, I promise, I can heal this," he babbled, as a spell for staunching minor wounds finally came to him. He didn't know how much it would help, or if it would at all, but he lifted his wand anyway.
"No." Hermione grabbed his wrist before he could say anything, her grip shockingly strong. "Harry, I know what the last Horcrux is."
Irrationally, Harry suddenly felt angry. Who cared what the last Horcrux was? He had to stop this bleeding, had to help somehow. He tried to tug his wand-arm away, but Hermione clung all the tighter when he tried. "Let go!" he growled, putting his other hand on top of hers and trying to pry her fingers from his wrist.
Oddly, she only smiled, tiredly, but she did. "Harry, you know it's no use. It's not really even that bad, you know… I'll be a hero, or heroine actually." She felt his hand relax, slightly, reluctantly. She couldn't really see his face that well. The world seemed to brighten and dim randomly, but she could still feel his hand on hers. His skin was warm, so warm, and she was so cold… and so tired. It didn't hurt so much anymore, just a dull ache, she was just tired. But Harry had to know. "It's his wand, Harry. Voldemort's last Horcrux is his wand. I figured it out… Spells as powerful as that leave echoes. But there were-were wards against… against people looking f-" She swallowed hard, swallowed back something that Harry fearfully suspected was blood, before continuing. "For what I sought…"
Harry could only nod, blinking as his eyes burned. He tucked his wand back into his belt, turning his hand so that his and hers were palm to palm. "Hermione…" His voice trailed off. He had no words, didn't know what he could, or should, say now.
"You have to win, Harry. Even before the prophecy I knew it had to be you…" Hermione's voice started to get a little fainter, a little shakier. It was the tiredness. She just wanted to close her eyes now, even though she knew what would happen when she did. "Tell Ron, will you? And… and my parents?" she whispered.
"Don't." He could think of nothing else to say. Holding her hand, Harry shook his head even as the tears threatened to fall. "Don't. Please don't."
Her words came on a sigh now, nearly inaudible. "Goodbye, Harry."
"I won't say it. I won't say it. I won't." Harry's sobs shook his sides now. He didn't even notice as the tears began to break, dripping from his chin and down onto her shirt. He rocked back and forth, tightly hugging the body of one of his oldest friends. Shifting, Harry cradled her, one hand still interlaced in hers, drawing her tight against his chest, as if to protect her. But her head was already so heavy on his shoulder…
"Goodbye, Hermione."
How long he had stayed like that, Harry didn't know. Eventually, the tears had stopped, and there had been complete silent in that dark basement room, save the rasping sound of his breath. His fingers grew stiff with the dank chill, his limbs with stillness. Finally, he stood, lifting her; his breath coming out a gasp when he felt how light Hermione was in his arms. The life had spilled out of her, left her weightless.
He had to take her back, back to her parents. Back to Ron. And, oh God, back to her parents. Cradling her close, Harry closed his eyes. There was the pressure, the sensation of being forced into a very tight tube, air roaring deafeningly in his ears.
A scream. Harry had materialized in the Burrow, and even in the wizarding world it was a shock for a man to suddenly pop out of nowhere, cradling a blood-soaked friend in his arms. Harry hadn't known where else to go. He did not know where Hermione's parents lived. Numbly, he realized that Mrs. Weasley was staring at him, shock and then stunned pain showing in her eyes. They flickered behind him and he saw Ron standing behind him, his face pale beneath his flaming hair. Harry's oldest friend stumbled forward, a terrible moan wrenched from his throat.
THE FUNERAL
The funeral was hard. Hermione's parents had wanted her buried in a family plot, with her grandparents, in the grave her mother had expected to use herself. Harry had felt strange in his dark suit, watching as one of his dearest friends was lowered into the earth. It was odd too, how many wizards and witches had attended, dressed inconspicuously in their somber Muggle clothes. Ernie Macmillan, his scarred face lowered; Neville Longbottom, his empty coat sleeve pinned up so it didn't flap in the crisp winter breeze.
All of the Weasleys were there as well, save two. Ginny leaned heavily against her mother and would not look at Harry. Ron, of course, and Bill and Fleur; Mr. Weasley, looking far older than he had just a year ago; Charlie, walking with the aid of a cane; and Fred, looking strange and forlorn without his twin. They had flatly refused Percy's request to come, for they knew he had not asked because of any real grief for Hermione. And they would not allow Rufus Scrimgeour to turn her death into more war propaganda. Looking at them all, Harry realized how much they had all lost. Hagrid, George, Professor Moody—and Hermione's words echoed in his mind as he stepped forward, beside her parents, and dropped a rose into the soil, watching as it gently landed on the coffin.
He would win this. For Hermione, for Sirius, for his parents. Staring down into the grave, Harry promised her that.