Chapter 11: Never Let Me Go
"Sorry I'm late," was the first thing Draco uttered.
Hermione found herself so torn up between hexing his eyebrows off and hugging him so tight his little ferrety eyeballs popped out that the curse that sizzled past her ear very nearly singed it off. He was a mess, it was true, and looked, quite frankly, exhausted. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and he was coated in grime, but he was here, and that was really all that mattered.
Hermione snapped out of her surprise when the rest of the room did, it seemed. There was a flurry of activity, people rushing forward, wands held high. Avada Kedavra was like some sort of twisted harmony in the manor, all of the curses aimed at one Draco Malfoy.
The damned idiot merely grinned.
"Hello, hunny," he called to Hermione, where she stood, gaping at him, and winked. "I'm home."
Hermione jumped to her feet, ready to defend him. The crowd surged with her. She was half way to where he stood, fists clenched tightly together, when he shot her a sharp look, his features draining of any ounce of humour, threw up a barrier around himself, and shouted, "Kill him!"
"But –" she began helplessly.
"He's the one holding the wards!" he snapped. "Do it."
Could she do it? Could she kill Dolohov?
She rocked back on her heels as a hex narrowly missed her nose. To an outsider, the whole thing probably appeared ridiculous. She was Hermione Granger. She'd fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. So many of the curses she'd thrown in that battle must have killed.
But this was different. This was killing with intention. This was pointing your wand at somebody and whispering those words, words that slipped through like a curse word, forced between gritted teeth.
Who would have known that, of all things, Hermione Granger was scared to death of facing her on problems, head on?
Draco.
She looked up at him. He was alone, only one man, one wizard, against all those wizards. A curse would hit him eventually. He would die, and it would be her fault. She thought of holding him as that last breath escaped his lips, his eyes wide in shock, his skin and hair filthy with muck and grime, and her gut twisted with apprehension.
He'd still look beautiful, she thought ironically, even in death.
He doesn't have to die.
Hermione gripped her wand tighter in her fist. Deflecting a killing curse with a brisk flick of her wrist, she began to sprint towards the very base of the room where Dolohov stood, surprise on his fleshy face. His lips were still turned up in a smirk, however; like he found this all very amusing, like he was watching dogs fight in a ring.
And then she knew she could do it.
She could kill him.
She knew it because when she looked at that face, the way his nose was thrust out in arrogance and his lips were pursed in amusement – she hated him. She hated him with every atom of her being. She wanted to wipe that stupid smirk right off his face. She wanted to watch him burn, as he'd made her burn.
He looked up, catching her gaze through his swarm of solemn-faced bodyguards, and smiled.
Like he'd been waiting for this.
Like he was ready.
Good, she thought grimly. So was she.
Dolohov's guards threw each other startled glances as the wizard pushed his way through them. They looked between Hermione, wand held high and chin thrust into the air, and then back to Dolohov.
And then...to Hermione. Back to Dolohov. Hermione-
"Uh, sir –" somebody began.
"Let me," Dolohov proclaimed, aloof. "Let me be the one to kill Hermione Granger."
He pushed the guards roughly out the way and stood before her, leering. There was something about his gaze – something cold and unfeeling, and yet strangely compassionate. Even evil men had compassion, she thought. They had compassion for the wrong things. They craved to create pain and death, like an artist might want to paint the perfect picture.
Furiously, Hermione swung back her wand hand before thrusting it forward, crying a shrill, "Avada Kedavra!"
It was a petty attempt, she knew. But if he wasn't going to engage combat first, she wasn't going to wait around for him to decide he was comfortable.
She'd had enough. That was it. She simply couldn't take it anymore. The suspense. The worry. Sitting up alone waiting for deep burns to heal and wishing the wounds inside were easily as fixed. The burning pain ofthe Cruciatus curse, the burning ache in her chest as Draco spat insults at her.
That was what it came down to, in the end. One of them had to burn.
It wasn't going to be her.
There was silence then. Hard, ringing silence. All fighting ceased. Everything ceased. Every man and woman in the manor turned to stare at the girl-child and their master in a fight to the dead.
And it was, indeed, a fight to the dead, without a doubt. It was perhaps one of the most legendary of history. The onlookers watched this duel, struck. Who would take on such a powerful wizard so eagerly? Was she insane?
Dolohov held no wand. He merely raised one worn, calloused hand and pointed a claw-like finger at the little witch. Purple fire exploded from him, shooting across the room in a flurry of crackling power.
She's dead, the crowd seemed to murmur in unison. She has no chance.
Hermione Granger did not die. Far from it, in fact.
She held up her wand, and, her lips moving – in silent prayer or spell, who knew – sent back her own curse to counter it.
The explosion of the two magics meeting was one that could only be rivalled by The Boy Who Lived and Voldemort's own duels. It sent onlookers flying back, so stunned that they forgot about the Malfoy boy, who was, too, stunned – quite a sight to behold, and a rarity at that. They all blinked white spots from their eyes, collective breaths coming out in short gasps.
She's dead, the gasps said without really saying. She has no chance.
As the backlash from the collision cleared and the onlookers could see once again, they saw two figures standing in the very centre of the hall, only a shy five metres between them. Their master looked furious, his face red and tight with anger, his hands fisted at his sides. Hermione Granger's face was impassive, and she stood in a way that was almost relaxed, almost daring.
Come and get me, her eyes whispered.
Dolohov's guards surged forward, ready to defend their master. The wizard shook his head impatiently, shooing them back like a man might shoo his dogs away. Fine, Dolohov's expression growled. Fine.
His lips moved in a silent curse. He slashed his hand down in a curve, and purple fire burst from his hand, propelling him backwards with the sheer force of it. The onlookers stared, enraptured, full of both fear and pride. Of course their master could not be beating by a girl so young. Antonin Dolohov was untouchable.
Dead, they muttered to each other.
She's as good as dead.
Hermione Granger raised her hand.
She surely stands no chance.
And flicked the fire away in one simple, brisk gesture.
Dolohov furiously threw the curse again, and the Granger girl once again countered it.
"Mudblood," he spat viciously, almost to himself. "You must have a weakness. Everybody has a weakness." He paused at that thought. "Except me, of course."
Hermione's eyes tightened around the edges, as if she was praying desperately that he did not figure it out. Dolohov was a smart man, however, and one could not distract a man forever, not even a crazy one.
This battle of magics continued for a time that seemed to stretch out impossibly, but could, in truth, not have been more than a minute. The onlookers began to shift uneasily, wanting to defend their master, while at the same time being disappointed that a man they put so much trust in was being defeated by such a young girl.
Dolohov, who seemed to realise his mistake, his end, to see that failure could only come of this, finally stopped, his breath coming out in pants.
"Fine!" he yelled, his voice sending reverberations throughout the manor. "If that's how you wish to play. "Fine."
Hermione Granger raised two delicate eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"Fine," Dolohov repeated, and, shifting so fast that even the onlookers could not keep track of how fast the leaping flame moved, disarmed the girl. Granger's wand clattered to the ground, and her eyes widened, like she knew what was coming but knew she'd never be able to reach her wand in time.
Dolohov raised his head, hair falling away from his face, and claimed one last smug smirk before he pointed his finger, so much like a hawk's long and wiry claw, at Draco Malfoy.
The boy's eyes flicked up, meeting Dolohov's. He spun around, his wand shifting hands. He would not be able to move fast enough. He stood defenceless, wand as useless as a limp stick facing a newly-sharpened sword.
And then the incredible happened. The impossible. The implausible. Later, shaken onlookers would sit in cold metal chairs, dosed up on Veritaserum, and whisper, "It wasn't possible for a girl so young. It wasn't possible – for, for anyone."
But it happened. That was one thing they could not deny. It truly happened.
"No!" Granger screamed, throwing up her hands. The Mudblood, the ex-Death Eaters and rebels of the Ministry and the young descendants of the rich and the powerful would think, smug and proud, is as good as dead.
You would have thought they'd learned the first few times, Hermione thought grimly.
Which is how the impossible happens.
Orange flames, pirouetting through the air, flying so fast no eye could follow the movement, collided with Dolohov's spell mid air. It pressed against the purple flame, propelling it back and encircling it until it was nothing but a thin stream of violet fire amidst a river of orange. Dolohov opened his mouth to scream, but the scream never escaped, for the orange fire engulfed him.
When the onlookers blinked, a pile of ash stood where their master once had.
Many things happened at once. The crowd let out horrified screams and yells of fury and fear, turning on their neighbours and their friends, ransacking the manor. The wards fell with an incredible roar, swarms of Aurors infiltrating the Manor with inconceivable speed.
And, finally, Hermione Granger, at the very center of all this mess, fell to her knees, letting out the sound of a kicked puppy, and collapsed in on herself.
Somewhere among the chaos, Draco Malfoy let out a strangled cry.
.
A/N: The good news? I updated! Yeah! The bad news? This chapter's really short. The other good news? I promise the new chapter won't be a stupid amount of months coming!
*cringes* I could go on for ages explaining why this took so long, but I would bore the hell out of you. Let's just go with, I had end of year exams, entered a story competition, and got obsessed with Supernatural/Sherlock.
I love your feedback beyond measure, and, well. Type to you soon. (promise! *edges away slowly*)