For him: Arwen Sauron
Harry looked over to see his best friend, suffering. She was in pain, and she was doing it for him.
He had known he would be seeing this moment since he found out about his connection with Voldemort. And now it had come. And he had brought Hermione into it.
Oh, the beautiful Hermione. She never ceases to amaze me. I remember when she told me she loved me. But that was so long ago. She could never love me now. She's never going to graduate because of me. She must hate me. But here she is, hanging beside me on a slab of wood.
Through all the blood and smoke, I can't imagine a time when she's ever looked more beautiful. Why couldn't he just kill us, with one whip of his wand, and the muttering of a few words, and we would be gone. But he insisted on killing me the slow way. No magic. I suppose if I wasn't watching my best friend die, that this would be excruciatingly painful. But what hurts most is watching Hermione. Her hair is plastered to her face and clinging to her neck from all the sweat. She can barely breathe through all the smoke. And the flames are slowly eating away at her flesh.
I see Hermione gasping for air. She seems to be getting closer to death and farther from me every second. Her eyes, they haven't shed one tear. And me, look at me. Pleading for my life. Begging, but Hermione, she will never admit defeat. She's too strong.
My lungs seem as if to burst at any second. I think my last breath is near.
My hands are held here by sharp daggers, driven in through Voldemort himself. My feet, with rusty nails.
I have reached my final breath. Hermione knows. She is there too. Our fingertips just barely touch. I want to tell her I love her. But I have forgotten how to talk. I look over and meet her eyes for the first time in three days. She knows. I don't need to say anything. Her eyes give me a reassurance. I know she loves me too.
Harry looked over to see his best friend, suffering. She was in pain, and she was doing it for him.
He had known he would be seeing this moment since he found out about his connection with Voldemort. And now it had come. And he had brought Hermione into it.
Oh, the beautiful Hermione. She never ceases to amaze me. I remember when she told me she loved me. But that was so long ago. She could never love me now. She's never going to graduate because of me. She must hate me. But here she is, hanging beside me on a slab of wood.
Through all the blood and smoke, I can't imagine a time when she's ever looked more beautiful. Why couldn't he just kill us, with one whip of his wand, and the muttering of a few words, and we would be gone. But he insisted on killing me the slow way. No magic. I suppose if I wasn't watching my best friend die, that this would be excruciatingly painful. But what hurts most is watching Hermione. Her hair is plastered to her face and clinging to her neck from all the sweat. She can barely breathe through all the smoke. And the flames are slowly eating away at her flesh.
I see Hermione gasping for air. She seems to be getting closer to death and farther from me every second. Her eyes, they haven't shed one tear. And me, look at me. Pleading for my life. Begging, but Hermione, she will never admit defeat. She's too strong.
My lungs seem as if to burst at any second. I think my last breath is near.
My hands are held here by sharp daggers, driven in through Voldemort himself. My feet, with rusty nails.
I have reached my final breath. Hermione knows. She is there too. Our fingertips just barely touch. I want to tell her I love her. But I have forgotten how to talk. I look over and meet her eyes for the first time in three days. She knows. I don't need to say anything. Her eyes give me a reassurance. I know she loves me too.