THE RAVELLER

rav-el: v. trans. 1. (ravel something out) untangle or unravel something: Dacy had finished raveling out his herring net. figurative sleep raveled out the tangles of his mind. 2 confuse or complicate (a question or situation). n. rare a tangle, cluster, or knot: a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers.

- ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense 'entangle, confuse'): probably from Dutch ravelen 'fray out, tangle'

From the Oxford American Dictionary 2001 pg.1414 Edited by Elizabeth J. Jewell and Frank Abate

His neck was so thin one of her hands nearly encircled it on its own-- it was almost frightening, how small he was. How pale he was, how wide his eyes were, blue, dark, liquid--especially now, running rampant with rage and surprise and fear, but he was strong for his size. Stronger than he should've been. He shook in her grasp, twisted, struggled, flopped like a hooked marlin. His face was blush red as though he'd gone out and got a bit of a sunburn and he was c-- he was...

Radiating energy. She could feel it, like the gust that'd knocked her wand out of her hand when she'd pointed it at him. Hesitating, like an idiot--like a weak idiot because he was so young, because his face was so round and he was so, so small, and his eyes, so large and curious, like a child's. Like a regular child's.

But no regular child would have known she was there. No regular child would have known that her wand was something dangerous and not just a stick. So much power. Even at this age.

She used both hands and held tight, til his thrashing slowed to a pathetic wriggling. Til his face turned purple and his eyes dimmed and she was sure-- absolutely sure-- and then long after that. Her fingers were rigid around that scrawny neck of his, holding up his limp form, so heavy then, though she barely noticed.

She didn't let go until every hair on his head was still. Until she noticed that it was her own hard breath that was making it move.

Then her arms wrenched apart awkwardly, moving from the elbows outward-- her fingers were still curled and stiff, hands retaining their shape though his neck was no longer between them.

And he fell. He crumpled, his skull connected with the street and the resulting CRACK hit Hermione like a tap to a tuning fork. Her whole body shook with the sound-- her face felt numb from her eyes to her chin and it took her a while--a long while to realize she was crying.

As she clubbed the tears from her eyes, she realized she couldn't even tell whether they were out of relief or remorse--she almost didn't even care.

It was the end.

Finally.

Or it should have been.

O

When they told me Harry was going to die I didn't know what to do. The best healers were on the job, trying to save him-- the best Aurors. I was there every day by his bed as he got weaker and weaker, thinner and thinner. By the end of it there was barely anything left of him but skin taut over bones. He knew his time was up and that I was the only one left to see him off.

He called me and his voice was so faint I had to lean in close to hear him. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was afraid. He was my friend, and I loved him, but he looked like a ghoul then--his face was so sunken his glasses looked enormous on his nose, which was pinched, and over his cheekbones that jutted like cliffs. Literally like that. He said, "Under my pillow."

I looked at him, not understanding, so he said it again, "Under my pillow," more insistently this time.

"Oh, Harry, I can't..."

"Under the pillow." --he just kept saying it.

So I lifted his head as gently as I could and felt around underneath. There was a scroll case there, plain and brown--I'd had no idea that was there. I had no idea what it was or why it was so important.

Then he told me:

"It's the only way". He said, "I'm sorry, Hermione. It's the only way."

And that was all.

O

Somehow she'd thought that once she killed him she would appear in a brilliant flash of light, back in her own time, with everything restored properly. Harry would be alive. Ron would be alive. Ginny, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid. The lot of them, standing around her and clapping or rubbing their eyes as though they'd all been asleep for a very long time.

But nothing happened. The world didn't swirl around her or fade out or break down into specks of color. The body was still in the alley. She was still standing in front of it, behind the orphanage. She was still trembling.

Everything around her was grey and brown, bleak under a cloudy London sky save for one striking thing--black hair, pale skin. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself against a cold that she realized probably wasn't even external at all. She felt her stomach twist and knot and flop--her breathing quickened.

Before she even knew it, she was running. Feet hitting the pavement, arms pumping wildly. She stumbled over cracks in the street, recovered. One of her shoelaces came undone; she didn't stop to fix it. She needed to do anything--anything at all to put distance between her and-- and...

O

It was simple to figure out. Dumbledore had meant for Harry to use it, so there were detailed instructions to go along with the scroll. Harry had obviously decided that it would be too risky and set it aside as a last resort-- this sort of thing was unprecedented after all, and the implications...

Going back in time. To assassinate someone. Who had ever heard of such a thing except in science fiction novels? I hadn't. The implications were astounding-- if people could do things like this. If people did do things like this...

I didn't decide right away. That may seem odd: all hope was lost, exponentially more people were lost than had been before Harry's death. Every day we buried at least five, sometimes more. I could've died so many times. I should've died. It was the last resort. The only thing, just like he'd said.

Still, it was a difficult decision to make. As a matter of fact, I don't think I would want to meet anyone that could so cavalierly go back and just...

But I made the decision. I did. And what I did may have been horrific, but...

It was the only thing.

O

--someone screamed behind her. She could hear it. Far off, because they must've found him. It wasn't as though she'd made any effort to hide him. Anyone just stepping out would've seen... did see.

She collapsed against a building, breathing hard and ragged. I'm going to be arrested--they're going to put me in prison forever, she thought. But that was irrational--she was being stupid, there was no way they would ever find out it was her. She had no file in this time--no fingerprints. She hadn't even been born and... Oh God, I'm trapped--

--she couldn't think that way. She had to slow down. Breathe. She inhaled deeply, feeling her heart thump in her ears, concentrating as the air tried to escape from her lungs in short bursts; she kept them in, kept them measured. Then exhaled, long and slow, paced until all the air had gone out of her. Repeated the process, shut her eyes.

The scroll was in her back pocket. She pulled it out, held it in front of her, and read.

O

Even then, even with that...

I should've known better.

Notes:

So this is the HEA rewrite. No experience with HEA is required, since the writing in that story is crap. In fact, I suggest you NOT read it, if you still haven't because, I mean, why would you do that to yourself? Read it, I mean. The rewrite is astronomically better--and you're already reading it! So um, just stay here. Unless you think it sucks. Then tell me so and move on if that would make you happy.