A/N: I am still writing The Devil's Tears, but this is another fic that has been festering in my files... I really love it and although it is far from being finished, I want it on here to motivate me to finish it. Do not expect regular updates! I am in school, after all. Otherwise, enjoy :)
Prologue
The End of an Era
"And you're certain they're both there?"
Hermione Granger's face was pinched into a frown and her eyes were sharply narrowed. The man who stood before her was unrecognizable from the boy she had grown up with—he was still tall, brown of hair, and blue of eyes, but he lacked all the gangly limbs and jittering nerves that were what came to mind whenever she thought of Neville Longbottom. This Neville, a man grown, did not stutter, fumble, or whimper, and had spent the majority of the last seven years proving that he was much more than what he had seemed in his childhood.
His face was pale and lined deeply around his mouth. His eyes were plagued with black bruises and a sadness that resonated whenever she met them with her own. She looked away hurriedly, avoiding the creeping doubt in her gut, and scrutinized a crease in his shirt instead.
You can do this.
He nodded, "Yes—they're there. A large escort arrived a few hours ago—"
"How many?"
"Ten, maybe twelve. Malfoy was there. And Snape."
"Fuck."
The man didn't blink when she kicked the worn desk she had been leaning against and stormed across to the other side of the room. He did not flinch or squirm. Instead, he watched her closely and waited for her to straighten her shoulders once more.
"Nagini, as well," he added softly.
"Naturally," she noted tersely, "He hasn't parted from her since the last time."
Her frown turned into a scowl and she crossed her arms. In the same motion, she began to pace around the room once more. From the way her brow was furrowed and her jaw was tensed, she was thinking of a plan—or rather the plan. It had been years since it had first formulated, and now it was finally coming to fruition.
"It's not worth the risk, Hermione."
She ignored his pleading look and the pain in her gut that reminded her of what she was going to have to face.
"It is worth the risk," Hermione said with a glare, "We've been waiting for this for years."
"Yes, but—"
She stood up to her full height. It was nowhere near enough to meet him at eye-level, but it was enough to make her feel a little more confident.
"What is there to lose, Neville?"
His face shifted for a moment and she recognized the little boy, clutching his Remembrall, and jittering as he spoke against her and her friends making the bad decisions they often made. She could see the sadness, even then, though no one else could. His life had never been what it should have been and she knew that even then he had faced darkness she would never have to. After all, her parents were already dead…
Now, today, he was standing up to his friend, still, because he was loyal and good despite the despair. But there was no determination or fire when he said it, because he knew that he wanted it all to end as much as she did.
There was no hope for happiness for him, or for her. How could there be any left, when all they loved was gone?
His jaw tensed when she was silent and he was flat-faced once more. His blue eyes grew hard, the sadness fleeing into the depths of him where they belonged, and he nodded, "Nothing to lose."
"Nothing to lose," she agreed, and set to work.
"You're certain?"
George Weasley had seen better days. His red hair was long, worn in the style of one of his late brothers, although it lacked the edge and flair of William Weasley's had. The length was the result of carelessness rather than out of fashion and had been left to fray at the ends. His freckled face was narrow—far too thin—and she wondered if he had bothered to eat at all that day. It was pushing on midnight, but he was wide awake and working when she found him in the basement, surrounded in a sea of parchment and phials.
"I am very certain," Hermione answered.
"I've got a few things that could come in handy, then," he replied, pressing the tip of his wand against his forehead as he tried to think of where exactly they were. There was somewhat of a familiar twinkle in his eyes when he then stood and headed to the corner of the cramped room.
With the loss of Severus Snape as their brewer (and spy), George had stepped in as the resident Potions Master. He lacked the same certifications and prestige, but was deserving of the title considering his great skill with concocting weapons and providing much needed healing draughts. Although he would sometimes disappear into his own mind, or the great depression that plagued most of their members, he was good at what he did… or at least competent at it.
Nowhere near as good as Snape, but Hermione didn't want to think about the traitor anymore than she wanted to think about all of his dead brothers.
Every inch of his workspace was covered in either cauldrons or vials, half-chopped ingredients, or bowls of forgotten slime. It was very dangerous to keep potions in such close proximity to each, and even more dangerous to have them within such a small space. But George was hardly one to care about whether they exploded or not. He was smart enough to at least keep the most volatile on separate ends of benches.
So…mostly good at what he did. She couldn't complain.
"There it is!" He produced a crate of potions from within. They were dusty, but appeared viable.
She grinned when she noted the labels and held out her arms to receive it eagerly.
"On one condition—" the redhead remarked, yanking the small chest back from her outstretched hands.
Hermione sighed loudly, but did not object.
"You humble me, O' Harpy," his smile widened, teasing at the nickname that the public had given her so many years ago, although it was not yet the trademark grin associated with the Weasley twin.
She began to object, fixing him with a glare more becoming of her title, "If it's anything sexual—"
"Always, Hermione," he replied with a wink, "I will hold you to your offer of sexual favors…after this whole mess is over."
"Fine—what do you really want, though, George?"
He was rummaging through the packets on his desk.
"I want in," he said nonchalantly as he lifted a peculiar looking plant. It squeaked when he dropped it hastily back in its place.
"You want in?" She asked with a blink of surprise.
He nodded absently, although his smile was slightly devilish. In moments, he was standing and searching for something once more. After shoving a stack of blueprints to the ground, his wand was in his hand. It was dusty and unused, but when he grabbed it, sparks shot off the end.
Her heart felt heavy when she realized that the wand he had been wielding when she arrived was his twin's.
"Let's get this party started."
Four hours later and a small group was briefed and ready to deploy. Hermione waited in the foyer of Shell Cottage—one of four remaining safe-houses that had once been under the protection of the Order—as the others were just beginning to wake. They had all agreed to try and get some sleep before the agreed time of departure. George had disappeared—probably to visit the graves of his family, although this was more than risky, considering they had all died enemies of the wizard that now held control of most of Britain. She noted that he had tied a letter to the foot of the ratted owl they all shared. She knew it would fly for France, sending his love to Fleur and her beautiful daughter, the only other remaining descendant of Arthur and Molly Weasley, and promising that tonight, that night, he would avenge her husband and all his brothers, and his beautiful sister, whose death had swayed the war for the worst.
If she had any graves to visit, she would go. Ron was there, but things between them had never truly started when he died. It hurt to think about all that could have been, and that was enough to keep her thoughts on the task at hand. Avoiding her emotions was the only way she could keep from feeling the fear.
Neville was the first to wake. His face was solid and unreadable when he entered the kitchen, dressed in Muggle clothes, strapped with knives and spare wands. He had not slept—no. He had merely sat on his bed and stared out the window, just as she had sat in the kitchen chair and stared at the table.
"It's nearly eleven."
"Yes."
"Should I wake them?"
She nodded. Her eyes would not meet his.
"Hermione?"
She looked up. She was gripping her wand tightly and could feel nerves gathering in her belly.
His eyes were so sad—full of grief and despair. She didn't want to feel it, like he felt it. She needed the numbness now more than ever.
"We don't have to do this," he said, "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do," she answered. She stood up and walked out the kitchen without another word.
"Waiting on you, Granger."
Hermione felt slightly agitated when she heard Pye's irritation through the mirrors she had enchanted, but did not comment back. She couldn't, actually, considering she had just finished throwing up and was furiously wiping her mouth.
"Hermione," Neville muttered, "Are you okay?"
She nodded, although it was choppy and her face had lost all color. They were standing at one of the few unblocked entrances of the Ministry of Magic, huddled into a bathroom. A Death Eater guard was laying at their feet, blood spilling from his mouth and onto his shirt. She had rushed to the next stall to hide from the evidence of what she had done and now was furiously trying to calm down long enough to push past the body and move forward.
When she emerged, she barely had it together and looked anywhere but the body crumpled on the tile. It wasn't her first kill, but the reality of it all had come crashing down on her when she had hexed him literally to the death.
"I'm fine," she said hurriedly.
Neville looked unconvinced and slightly worried. She sucked in a deep breath of air and released it—why was this any different than all the other times? Around any of the others, she could have kept her cool—would have furiously killed him and probably enjoyed it, too. If it were anyone but Neville, she would have continued on without a second look or thought about the man she had killed as she stepped over him, would have left him on display with her mark in his cheek. But around Neville…
Around Neville she felt like Hermione Granger again and that made her vulnerable.
Her mask had slipped and the look he had sent her out of the corner of his eye had been enough to send her reeling for the stall, shaking with disgust and grief.
Even after all they had been through and all he had seen, when she returned, he squeezed her elbow and gave her that familiarly meek look of his, and she was brought back to reality.
"We have to go," he reminded her.
"I know."
"You don't have to do this…" He didn't want to see her do it again, and she didn't want to do it again. But she would. They had to. She would atone for it all later, once the worst of the sins had been committed.
Her resolve returned, even as the familiar nausea swirled at the thought of her task, "Yes. I do."
Her wand was out when she stepped through the wall. His expression was quickly hardened, replaced with a solid determination.
She met it with one of her own, and then disappeared within.
"Cho's down."
Hermione cursed under her breath. Neville was at her back, saying a spell. The voice that spoke was shaky.
"Get her out."
"Can't—too many of them."
"We're nearly there—just keep—"
A spell landed at their feet and Neville pushed her out of the way, towards the door. They needed to retreat. George's distractions had only allowed them so much time and she needed to backtrack if she were going to make it through.
"Godric—" another voice, faded and weak, "—the snake is being evacuated."
Neville tensed at her back, having heard his psuedonym. She could feel the panic surge in his belly as it did in her own. They couldn't let the snake get away, not when they were this close.
"Which direction?" he spat as he ducked another spell. Hermione and he dove for the cover of a desk.
"Towards the Floo escape."
There was silence. Their enemy was regrouping. Neville's thoughts were flying a mile a minute and Hermione's too. She knew what he would choose to do.
"Hermione—"
"Go." She said with a determined look on her face.
Neville spared her a hard, sad stare, and then jumped up and ran away…
Leaving her to face it all alone.
She was stumbling down the corridor. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she could taste copper from having bit her lip. Her leg was screaming from the strain of her weight, but the adrenaline in her blood had begun to make her feel lightheaded and determined. She'd lost count of the men she had killed. Half of them had succumbed to her signature slicing hexes, and the other the killing curse, which she had mastered long ago. She had enough cold hate for it that night, but knew when she needed it most it would fail her.
To save the world, she had to kill her best friend and the thought made her ill.
She had been prepared for having to be the one—but she had not thought she would have to face both him and the dark lord. She had hoped, at least, that Neville…but he was already gone. She prayed that he had caught up to Bellatrix and Nagini… For the sake of every life in Britain, she prayed he killed both godforsaken creatures.
The corridor was empty when she arrived, but she could see the door was cracked. They were expecting her...
And there was no going back this time.
Just like Neville, Harry lacked the mannerisms of the boy she had met and known at Hogwarts. His hair was still unruly and jet black, but his skin was sickly white. His eyes, too, had changed. In the place of Harry's beautiful emeralds were a pair of glowing rubies. Voldemort's influence had robbed her of her best friend—and turned him into a willing servant.
"Crucio."
She endured the pain. She could endure it. She had to.
This was her punishment for being unable to kill him. She had tried—really, she had. But she couldn't do it. The spell merely fizzled and died when she said it… leaving her to endure the cackling laughter of Lord Voldemort himself.
But this was Harry. Her Harry. She had wasted years trying to find a way to free him, trying to find a way to redeem him from the control of the Dark Lord. But she was a failure. She had discovered, too late, that the only way he could escape his fate was for him to die...
And she was too much a coward to kill him.
The Dark Lord hovered in the background still, reveling in the taste of this sweet irony. Her capture was a dream come true for him. He had killed four of his enemies in one night and now, Hermione Granger—the Harpy—was suffering at the hand of Harry Potter.
"Can you smell it, Mudblood?" Harry said as he crouched down to her. His face was close to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek. It did not smell foul, but the coldness of it made her cringe. His hands were rough when he grabbed her by the hair and lifted her face to look him in the eye. She did not look into Harry's eyes, but those of Lord Voldemort.
"Answer me." It was the voice in the corner that spoke. She felt the chills in her bones begin to set as the effect of the Cruciatus lingered over her.
"N-no."
"No?" Harry said with a cock of his head, "I can. I can smell it in your filthy blood… it's my victory, you see. I've been waiting for your death for so long."
Hermione closed her eyes—she couldn't look at him any longer. She had been waiting for this day to come, when she could finally see the Dark Lord fall. Instead, however, she was welcoming death. She had failed for the last time and it would be sweet to finally be able to at least have some peace.
The world grew so still for a moment and she thought for sure she had died. But she was able to open her eyes and thus was alive.
With a strain of her neck, she looked around in confusion. Harry was no longer bearing over her like a phantom, but clutching his head—his scar—feet away from her. Behind him, the Dark Lord had begun to shout orders, but they were drowned by the screams of his followers. The circle of Death Eaters around them had all suddenly disappeared or fallen to the ground, clutching their throats or hearts in agony.
"Avada—" Harry was no longer clutching his scar. His blood red eyes had flashed green once more. His wand was pressed to his forehead so quickly, she hadn't seen it happen. The Dark Lord roared in fury, in anguish in the background, "—Kedavra."
The words were said and could not be undone. The spell barely flashed considering his wand was pressed deeply into the skin at his forehead. There was the barest glow of green against his ghostly skin and then, it was gone and he was falling forward.
Hermione felt her heart shatter when Harry—her best friend—sunk to the floor. His eyes were open wide, staring out at the girl who had been unable to save him. They were greener than green, the eyes of his Mother, who had died protecting him… And he had died looking at her with them.
Her eyes left his to find the Dark Lord's. He was staring at her with his lip curled in disgust, the rubies squinted into thin lines of rage.
"You filthy Mudblood. You will pay."
With the flick of his wand, she was flipped over. She landed hard on her back. Her arms were pinned to the ground and she felt her head groan in protest as it had smacked into the floor on the impact.
"If I may, my lord…"
It was a smooth, velvety baritone—familiar, the voice of someone she had once known and respected. Someone she had trusted. The bile had returned to her throat at the thought that of all the Death Eaters to survive their efforts, it was him.
She had promised to kill him first, after all. She had promised he would die and in her haste to kill Harry she had forgotten that it was his death she had wanted the most.
She strained violently against the magical bonds, but they did not budge. She could see him standing over her, his aquiline nose was pointed towards his master, giving her a view of his nostrils and curled lip. He was inches away… inches from her reach… and she wondered if he was enjoying the fact that he had finally been granted his one wish—to see Harry dead.
"You dare to defy me—"
"Quite gladly, actually," was the only reply, soft yet strong. Defiant.
"Watch your tongue, Severus!" The Dark Lord snapped.
Snape stepped over her fluidly and without fear. She was blinded from seeing anything as his robes darkened the world completely. He did adjust them to free her, but kept her from seeing the dark lord…
Shielded her from him.
"No."
"What?"
Hermione felt the object drop. It landed with a thud on her chest, directly from the hand of Severus Snape. When she saw the glimmering gold, she almost gasped.
The last time turner?
"You dare defy me? You know—"
"I know," Severus Snape spoke, "I know what measures must be taken to kill you. After all, I helped you get to this point of your immortality."
"So be it," the Dark Lord hissed.
Snape was already casting a spell by the time Voldemort attacked. His body moved with more grace than any she had ever seen. His voice commanded clear spells and deflected others curtly and carefully. The Dark Lord was visibly weakened—his favorite horcrux was miles away and his second had just been destroyed. Hermione's bonds began to weaken as his focus was drawn towards the duel.
The two circled each other around Harry's dead body in a sick dance of will and magic.
Hermione was able to move her arms and legs after a few moments. She tentatively sat up and clutched the object that Snape had dropped to her. She was tempted to use it, but something told her that it was not yet the right time.
A curse sent her rolling back to the ground. Harry had snapped her wand and so she could not deflect it except by raising her arms and ducking for cover.
"Stay back," Snape put his body in front of hers, just as he had all those years ago when Lupin had attacked. His body was spread in a way that suggested he would absorb any ill that came her way, werewolves and Dark Lords alike.
And so your loyalty was with the Order, she realized, as he kept his body between her and the circling, snakelike wizard. Either that, or he was shifting with the direction of the wind. But that would not explain how the Death Eaters had conveniently been indisposed just before Harry had…
Harry.
Snape was stepping away from her, although he still stood in front of her. Voldemort had lifted his wand and a jet of something purple shot from it. Snape deflected it with a spell of his own—spurts of lights that burnt to look at and then struck like needles being thrown. One managed to hit its mark, slashing across the pale white face of the dark lord. He didn't even feel it—he did not curl in rage or flinch, but stepped through the slicing of his skin as if it were a gentle breeze.
His eyes erupted, however, and he snapped a spell that had Snape crouching and lifting a shield.
She crawled towards the crumpled body of Harry as the shield shimmered around Snape, protecting them all from a bombardment of projectile spells. She only allowed herself the barest of moments to close his eyes and then she grabbed his wand.
The woman she had become replaced the girl she had once been and she joined the fight with a furious hex. Snape's shield finally fell, and her spell circled the surface as it fell away before it broke through a gap. It shot towards the Dark Lord and actually managed to nearly hit him.
She did not expect him to react as quickly as he did. The spell he cast was minor, but with the power he wielded was so furious she could feel the impact from feet away. Snape stepped in front of it, in front of her. The curse—a phantom sword that glowed white-hot—shoved itself into his gut and emerged out of the other side before dissipating.
His dark eyes flared and with the last of his power, he waved his wand in a grand motion. From it, a great bird sprouted. It was fiendfyre—in the shape of a phoenix, the symbol of his rebellion. It blazed across the ground, lighting the surface on fire, and dove straight for the Dark Lord. He made to deflect it, but it burned so hot and bright and furious that he was unable to. Something flashed in his eyes—fear—and then he was obscured by the all-consuming flames.
Hermione found she could not look away, even as his screams struck into her soul. The licking flames bit at him, roiled around him in a blanket of burning light, until he was a shrieking husk of charred bones and then a pile of smoking, silent ash.
She rushed towards Snape when he fell to his knees. The sword was gone, but the black pool of blood was enough for her to see that he was suffering. The fire began to die as she caught the Potions Master, swirling around into a small cyclone atop the remains of the dark lord. She lowered his heavy body to the ground, as tears fell down her cheeks. She was relieved and shattered at the same time and her body did not know how to deal with any of it.
"Professor…" She began to say, struggling to adjust him comfortably to the stone, and to gather enough wit to remember how to speak.
His dark eyes pierced hers, wide awake although a normal man would have been in shock. He struggled to speak, "Miss Granger—"
Her hands were pressing into his wounds. It would hardly held—it had pierced all the way through. He was bleeding out over her fingers and onto the ground. The only thing that was keeping him alive was the fact that he was a Wizard. The curse was meant to make him suffer and suffer he would—his magic would make sure to keep him alive as long as it could.
But the damage was irreparable.
She looked at him through a wave of tears. This was not what she had expected. This was not what she wanted. The Dark Lord was dead. Harry was dead. And now…
She was left to reap the victory alone. There was no one there to hold her hand and raise it over their heads as they cheered for the future and all it would hold.
"Why?" she asked in a half-wail.
It was a question for him, but also for whatever higher power had left her here to deal with this all alone, had left her with no hope, even as she had succeeded in the mission she had vowed to complete. She'd rather have died along with them…and could she? Would she be better off to follow them?
His hand came up and reached feebly for something, "Where is it?"
She shook her head, "What—no. I need to…" she was reaching for Harry's wand, trying to remember any sort of healing spell. Don't leave me alone. Stay. Don't die. I can't…
"It won't work," he said when she began to say one, "Stop it."
"No…" She was pressing on his stomach and crying. The blood flowed through her fingers, over her hands, as the tears fell freely and she began to stop. His eyes were pitch-black, so dark she could almost see herself in them.
"Stop." His voice was so soft, a plea, and she sucked in a breath to calm herself.
Her professor—a man she had despised… a man she had condemned…reached for the object she had abandoned.
"It won't matter," she explained, "Time is—"
"Miss Granger, stop wasting your breath and my last moments explaining such a complex topic as time travel when you could be doing something productive." It was so Severus Snape that she couldn't help but laugh suddenly and nervously. He stared at her with a furious expression when the sound erupted, causing her to hide behind her hair, which had escaped from its braid, "Are you the Harpy or aren't you?"
When she was finally able to compose herself and look at him she was saddened. She was the Harpy, but somehow being faced with him again she was the insufferable, hopeful know-it-all who she had abandoned at Hogwarts so many years ago. His face was paler, although it should have been impossible. The skin of his lips was graying and his body was shaking. Even dying, he scowled…
He took the Time Turner and forced her to remove her hands from his gaping wound. He pressed it into her bloody fingers and she stared at their hands, which were clasped unnaturally together. His skin was cold and his fingers—long, elegant, but scarred—trembled.
Hermione knew he was dying and she wanted desperately to follow him. She knew death was just another adventure—the last adventure, and she was tired of being brave and selfless.
"You must use it," he explained, "Not only to save yourself, but to save us all."
"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head. I can't go back. I can't go on.
"Stop it," he said suddenly—fervently. His eyes were swirling pools of ink and fury, "Stop thinking for a moment. Breathe."
Hermione shuddered and breathed in sharply. She had forgotten…her thoughts must be spilling out as easily as her tears. And he was a Legilimens; he had heard it, felt it. She felt ashamed and unburdened at the same time, but tried to still her mind. She could grant him that, at least, for the part he had played.
"It should have been my burden," he said tersely, grimly, when she had grown calmer and steadier. His eyes did not meet hers, "But now it is up to you. I can't deny that I am glad to die, but I would not wish this responsibility on anyone."
"Professor…"
His eyes closed briefly, as if he were trying to imagine something, "You must use it…"
"What—"
A sudden sound had her turning her head. Her eyes widened. The fire had not relented. It was rising…
"Professor—" His fiendfyre had broken free of his control when he had faltered. It had flared up from the smoking body of the defeated dark lord and begun to swirl around it wildly, vibrating with anticipation. The bird had turned into a serpent and it was hissing in their direction, twisting so quickly it hurt to look at, a whirlwind that had flattened and expanded and didn't show signs of stopping.
"I don't have much time," he said bitterly—and surprised her by smirking at the irony. He turned towards her. To her surprise, he reached out and touched her face, "Forgive my failures, Miss Granger. At least… at least it is you."
She found herself falling into his eyes—and there were flashes of memories. A boy standing in front of a girl with a crown of brilliant red hair and feeling mesmerized by the smell of her as she floated beside him, and then clinging to her lifeless body a decade later and begging to follow her. Hermione felt the same as he did, felt the failure and the need to repent in death.
She reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. It was wet with tears and she wondered if anyone would believe that she had seen Severus Snape cry and that it was a tragically beautiful thing.
"Take them," he commanded. She wasn't sure what he meant, until he had conjured a phial.
All the pain he felt was released in those tears, and she scooped them into the vial, as many as she could capture, but they were streaming so quickly down his face. His expression was slackened with the loss of them and he seemed to be almost at peace when the last of them trickled from his chin into the overflowing vial with a hiss of steam. Her own peace came from watching the tightness of his face slip away from him as she shoved the memories into her sleeve.
Dying wouldn't be so bad, if she were staring into his eyes. She had never noticed how beautiful they were, or that his nose was not quite as ungainly as it was characteristic, or that his chin was strong and his mouth quite pleasing. She hovered closer to him, trying to memorize the lines of his face and mouth and nose—trying to keep him in her memory, forever. However long that would last for her, she didn't know… but at least for that moment, she could have them.
Then the flames were closing in and she could feel the heat on their skin. Snape responded to it, as well, jerking up so that his nose was nearing hers. He was clinging to her arm and pushing her with the same motion.
"Please—take it." He shoved the object in her hands tighter, and his eyes sought the memories, and flickered with pain.
She opened her mouth to protest—she was as tired as he was. She wanted release. She wanted the peace he was feeling lingering at the edges. She wanted to see Harry's green eyes as much as he wanted to see the green eyes of his childhood friend.
He, however, lifted his hand. The last of his magic was used to create a small, quivering shield that kept the fire at bay while she hovered.
"I—"
"Use the time turner, Hermione," he begged. It was so desperate. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, and waited for him to bark at her again. Had he ever said her name before? She couldn't remember hearing him call her anything but "girl" or "Miss Granger"… "The Harpy."
She felt a hand on her cheek. For a moment, she let it stay there.
Flames licked at the edge of his shield. It wavered, and some spilled through, racing for them so rapidly she blinked and it was upon them.
He spoke quickly, now. His face had grown slack—peaceful, almost, although not quite. He wanted to meet death, she could feel the want in her own soul, but he wanted her to keep going on. How could she live while he died?
She clutched the Time Turner in her hand. She remembered Harry—that day in the bathroom on Halloween when their friendship had been sealed with fate and something else, and she knew she could not refuse a chance to see him again.
She held his gaze for a long moment, torn between trying to save him and leaving him to the roaring flames and also curling up beside him and letting them consume her, too, and wash her of all her sins. His eyes were so deep—hypnotizing and black—and she wanted to drown in them. Let the fire drown them both until they were ash in the wind.
"Go!" He roared, his face twitching into an expression of fury, stealing his beauty away. The flames had torn down the barrier and his eyes were wide and frantic, "Go, you stupid girl!"
She didn't hesitate any longer. She reached out to touch his cheek, even as the flames licked at her skin. His eyes closed as her fingers stroked his damp skin—sweaty from the heat and from the salty tears.
His eyes opened and he made to berate her again. Somewhere, however, she knew he was afraid to die alone, to be alone again. "Forgive me," she pleaded, wincing as her world burned painfully hot around her.
In the last moment, the fire that had surrounded them began to burn so hot she could hardly keep her eyes open. She did, however, and she watched as Severus Snape was consumed by the flames with a single guttural cry before time—and space—moved for her.
