-Prologue-

You Could Almost Taste Freedom

A/N: Reworking of Beauty in the Wild. Smut with PLOT. With capital letter. Pairing is H/HR, as it always is.

For those who want to see the prior version, search for it in my profile. Although that version will be discontinued.

Disclaimer: I love doing fanfiction for this site. Enjoy.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward.

"You've not seen the end of me, Harry Potter," Riddle rasped with the last of his breath. Pitifully, the dark wizard's body did not even twitch in order to launch at his enemy his trademark baleful glare. Instead he laid, at the wait of death, just like he should have all those years ago in Godric's Hollow, after his Killing Curse had bounced off the infant he was trying to murder in cold blood.

But Harry was not fond of Tom's promises of death. In fact, he was almost sure he'd had enough of them from Trelawney in Divination and he would not give Voldemort the satisfaction of eluding the inescapable at the nick of time.

Finally.

"Goodbye, Tom," Harry muttered and uttered the final spell which would put down the inhuman being who'd done his best to take his life.

Voldemort exploded into pieces of gore. Without pause, Harry showered the remains with green fire, in hopes that no one would ever come up with the thought of resurrecting the dark tosser from the dead.

For a moment, everything was still. The subdued Death Eaters, the Aurors, his friends, his allies stared as Harry looked up to them, green shining just as bright on his face as the sun.

Then the world exploded into cheers and everyone smiled.

"We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one. And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!" Peeves sang over the noise of congratulations and relieved sobbing.

Because the battle was over. They had won against Voldemort's dark forces.

Harry Potter stood victorious over the corpse of his worst enemy. He who represented the evil of wizardkind—the head of the snake they'd submitted to their will—no other than Lord Voldemort had died at the end of Harry Potter's wand.

It was over. They were free from the threat of Lord Voldemort! Lord Voldemort who also had proved to be a sham. Lord Voldemort whose other name was no other than Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort, whose half-blooded life ended with the nightmare.

Potter's done it! Everyone was celebrating the death of the Dark Lord.

Well, almost everyone. Harry almost didn't notice Malfoy coming from behind. It was merely a passing glance, but just like that, it was obvious to him that Malfoy was at the end of his tether. Tired and trembling from magical exhaustion as he was, Harry knew then that he shouldn't let his guard down.

He'd expected the attack. And sure enough, like a traitorous viper, Draco struck.

His mother, seeing this, gaped in horror from the sidelines.

"DRACO, NO!" she yelled.

"SANGUINEM FERVENTIS!" (1) he roared.

Too late. The spell missed, went well over Harry's head and all but struck another target, one kneeling Lucius Malfoy, much to Harry's confusion.

A nasty smirk marred his rival's face. "You'll pay for humiliating my family like this," Malfoy seethed forebodingly.

"I must say, Malfoy, your aim hasn't gotten any better," Harry retorted back, the grip on his wand tight.

"Ah, but," Draco sneered, "you weren't my target, Potty."

Alarm rang loudly in his head. He was about to retaliate, when a startled yell reached his ears, "Harry, watch out!" And someone blindsided him from behind. Harry Potter hit the ground on his back and wheezed in surprise at the sight of his attacker.

His mind stuttered. There, no other than Lucius Malfoy stared back at him with eyes so dark that rivalled those of the void. In a face that was so pasty white in a typical day, Harry felt like he was staring right at a Lethifold of a rare variety. Then Malfoy just had to prove him wrong and opened his mouth, exposing the sharp fangs that hid the true nature behind that arrogant sneer.

Harry's perception got wonkier from there.

All he was aware of was of Ripper chewing on his insides, Voldemort having a field day with his Unforgivables and Fenrir Greyback sinking his teeth on his neck. Not in that specific order—and Harry wasn't sure if any of that happened at all.

Lucius Malfoy bit him and suddenly, he felt like he was dying.

Harry tried to pull away from the Malfoy feasting on his flesh, to no avail. Already, his sight had darkened considerably, spots appearing in his vision and all coherent thought flew out the window as he felt the beginnings of torture.

Harry knew then—he was dying.

No Elder Wand was going to save him here. No Deadly Hallows would work against death. Harry understood now with terrifying clarity.

And Harry howled.

Finally, someone shoved Malfoy off him, but the damage was already done. Harry Potter's body was tearing itself apart—he could feel it giving on him, and the liquid cursed fire which licked his veins—it spread with a mind of its own—gorged through his organs like they were made out of parchment. Thousands of needles were searing at his skin, like lava scorching him alive and a gutting him mercilessly over and over— from his arm to his torso and abdomen and lower and higher.

Harry convulsed and gurgled out blood. The myriad of smells around him made him retch violently to the side as well, but they paled in comparison to the other physical sensations he was experiencing.

"HARRY!" A bushy mane was all he could grasp onto now and he could practically feel the scent of the person flowing freely into his nostrils, his body trembling in both unthinkable pain and physical ache for that particular aroma—it masked the others, thank Merlin. It was vastly more pleasant than the smell of shite and gore that fouled the air.

He was not letting go.

Harry breathed it in greedily. He still hurt and screeched uncontrollably, but he could admittedly say that it felt better being embraced by this person than being confined to suffering alone on the ground.

"What's happening to him!?"

"I don't know! Harry! Harry, can you hear me? Say something, please!"

Mum. How he wished she was her. It was her. His mother was screaming at him and holding him in her arms. But it didn't matter, did it?—he was dying. Or was already dead and something had gone wrong when he was crossing over. Maybe his soul hadn't made the trip safely and now he was no better than the soul pieces—those blasted Horcruxes Voldemort had placed about the country. The very real possibility made him shudder. Sure, he'd wanted to die and meet his mum some day, as he did Sirius and his dad, but not in this way!

Lucius Malfoy's teeth bit down—

There was Fiendfyre in his blood.

Harry moaned. Make it stop! he wanted to beg. But the garbled words made no difference—no difference at all.

His mother tightened her grip on him and for that reason alone, Harry was assaulted by the inane urge of biting her. Then the pain reclaimed his attention and his thirst was buried six feet under as he fought to stay conscious.

"We're losing him!"

A kneeling man, who couldn't be any older than he, smacked his cheek repeatedly. He carried a sword, of all things, in his other hand.

"Shite, Hermione! We've got to get the venom out of his system!" he said.

"Do you know the venom purging spell, Neville?" his mother asked frantically.

But the man was already shaking his head. "We've got to reach Madam Pomfrey," he said.

Now Harry was sure that his imagination was running wild. Lily Potter was not Hermione. His best friend was not a redhead and her curls were in a right state last time he saw her in the battlefield. This woman overlapped and went against everything he knew of Hermione Granger—he'd even go as far as to say she was heavenly and his best friend was certainly not that. He hadn't allowed himself to think of her that way after Ron admitted to having feelings for their female best friend. This Neville was probably not real either.

Confronted with hard evidence of his delusions, Harry was now mildly aware that his mind was playing tricks on him, wandering and conjuring images that had nothing to do with the situation.

And so he watched with fuzzy eyes as Voldemort's head exploded into bits of grey matter— and just like that Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. was dead at his feet and Harry was left soaking wet. His clothes, drenched and sticky, were exactly the hue of Voldemort's eyes.

Similarly, he watched as the real Hermione Granger almost dropped dead in the Department of Mysteries, which in turn reminded him of other things he'd rather forget.

The Death Chamber, for one. That was a nightmare by itself.

A vision of Bellatrix cackling maniacally danced in front of him as Harry's eyes rolled back on the back of his head. The witch licked her lips and rolled her disgusting tongue at him in a parody of a tease as she mouthed words that smelled of spoiled honey and rotten eggs.

For some unfathomable reason, a tape recorder played and rewound in the background. On repeat, Sirius fell back into the veil in slow motion, and then— Harry blinked and Sirius was back on his feet. The cycle began again. Sirius Black all but miraculously came back into the world of the living, the arch spitting him out again and again as Sirius tempted Death with his soul with absolute carelessness. He had this big fat smile on his face—and Harry wanted nothing more than to curse it off his godfather's face so badly. He screamed himself hoarse while trying to prevent another fall, another taunt delivered directly from his tortured mind.

His hands turned claw-like. They wore down the dirt obsessively as they scratched.

Sirius' unending cycle of rebirth didn't last long, as his godfather was soon pushed back by the undeniable light of the Killing Curse everyone knew and feared. A grieving Grim jumped immediately after him, to be swallowed by the veil.

They wouldn't come back out.

"SOMEONE PUT THAT THING DOWN!" a man barked.

"Ron, behind you!"

"Bloody fucking hell, sod this! Diffindo!"

There were two separate drops, one heavier than the other.

A woman shrieked inconsolably, "YOU! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HUSBAND!?"

"Weasley, you murdered my father! I'll kill you!"

"You did this! I'll be the one to kill you, Malfoy!"

A wave of further pain hit and Harry screamed bloody murder. He clutched at his mother's arm, as if Lily Potter held the secrets of the universe and she was capable of saving him, her son—why wasn't she doing anything!? Wasn't she supposed to care about him!? Didn't she know he was in desperate need of her help!?

"Mu-!" Harry howled and arched his back with his teeth biting down. Blood dripped, but in the midst of the horror he was suffering through it was an insignificant detail he missed.

Someone cursed loudly in the distance. Droplets of something cold and salty descended over him, rolled down his face and into his mouth.

"Harry! Hang on, Harry!"

The voice was different. No longer did she sound like his mother, but she sounded no less desperate than she'd been in her last moments.

Startled by the abrupt change, Harry managed to squint for a split of second. His sight was blurry and he had trouble adjusting without his glasses—he didn't have the presence of mind to worry about those—but luckily he'd recognize her flustered face anywhere.

Harry inhaled sharply and cried out when his body protested.

Hermione? Not Lily. Never Lily.

His head swam.

She wasn't looking at him and her complexion was quite pale from fright. Her arms were covered in scratches and one side of her face was terribly bruised, as if someone had backhanded her. It took a while, but he finally realized with some difficulty that she was shielding him from something, making sure to put herself between him and the danger. Her arms held him close to her, close enough for his ear to catch the way her heartbeat was beating erratically in her ribcage. A magical cage shone around them for good measure.

She'd never been more breath-taking in his eyes.

The ground trembled beneath them as something exploded. Screams of agony and growls of an animal followed the mayhem and started tearing at his eardrums viciously.

"I can't believe it," Hermione whimpered, another small tear sliding off her face. "How could I not see it? That monster—they were his own followers!"

Harry moaned in confusion, which made her look down and smile weakly at him.

Uneasy with what he was seeing, his eyes started to darken rapidly at the sight of her resigned gaze and his chest began hissing uncomfortably with each mouthful of air he took.

Hermione, even now, had a penchant for sensing his distress. Her eyes went wide with realization and then grim acceptance. "I'll spare you the pain of the transformation, Harry," she murmured softly, voice like healing balm to his ears, and she pointed her wand at him. In spite of her inner resolve, her hand was shaking something fierce. "I'll endure for the both of us," Hermione promised him.

Protesting was hardly an option. But how he wanted to. He really wanted to.

"Stupefy!"

The last thing Harry saw was the red tip of her wand before all went black.

(1) Blood Boiling Curse