A/N: I am so sorry for taking so long to upload this chapter. I hope you like it though, and I'll make sure to upload the next soon!
"Do you remember everything?"
"Kreacher remembers, Little Mistress," confirmed the house-elf while securing her beaded bag around her waist so it wouldn't get in her way during the ritual.
Silence fell in the room, and Hermione looked for the rising moon outside the window. She should have already started, but she was scared and the guilt of not being able to say goodbye to the paintings was weighting on her shoulders. Something silly, she was aware of it. Paintings were just someone's magic put on a canvas, none of them would be sad of resentful after she left. Yet, they had all taken a part in her upbringing and leaving without so much as a goodbye felt wrong to her.
"The Mistress is proud of the Little Mistress," suddenly declared Kreacher, knowing her well enough to be past the need of legilimency to read her mind.
She wasn't sure if he was only saying it to appease her or if it was true, but she offered him a beaming smile nonetheless. Despite his nickname for her, she wasn't his master; it was probably the last time she saw him too and she wouldn't ruin it with an argument on his interpretation of Walburga's feelings. They already had too many of those through the years.
She wanted to ask him to come and visit her, but they both knew she couldn't. Kreacher knowing where she was would only be an opportunity for Black and the Order to come after her. As his master, the animagus would be able to ask Kreacher for the truth and the house-elf wouldn't be able to lie, no matter how much he wanted to.
"The Little Mistress could do it another day if she wants to," suggested Kreacher, when she kept watching through the window instead of walking to the centre of the circle of runes.
"No," refused immediately Hermione. "They will send me somewhere else before the end of the month, I can't wait until the next full moon."
Displaying what she hoped to be a look of bravery, she grabbed the potion the elf was offering her and drank it in a swift motion. She immediately felt her magic wavering inside her and was glad the wards keeping anyone from entering the room were set by Kreacher and not her.
"What is it like, outside?" The question was just a way for her to find some motivation. No matter his answer, she had wanted to see the outside world for a long time and would do it. She didn't have much of a choice anymore anyway.
"Worth it."
She took her shirt off, shivering when the cold air touched her skin and placed herself at the middle of the circle as the house-elf went as far from it as he could. She saw him offer her a crooked smile from the corner of her eyes and took a deep breath before starting.
She chanted the incantation while carving runes on the candles displayed around her, focusing on her breathing to avoid thinking of the growing pain in her chest. As soon as all the candles were carved and lit, she felt both the wards of Grimmauld Place and her magic wavering.
Trying to keep her cool, she placed a silver plate in the middle of the smallest circle of runes. She filled it with powdered unicorn's hoot, trying to avoid thinking of what Kreacher had to do to obtain the rare ─ and illegal ─ product. She added three drops of thestral's saliva before making a small cut in her finger, letting seven drops fall. She mixed the three ingredients, still chanting the incantation. By the time it became a brownish paste, the wards surrounding the house were shaking, giving the impression the walls were moving too. She heard agitation in the staircase and someone shouting about being under attack but ignored it all, focusing on her task.
"It's her! She's doing it, I'm telling you!"
Hermione had to resist sending a glance towards Kreacher when she heard the voices approaching. She had to trust Kreacher's wards would keep them out. Using her fingers, she took as much paste as possible and used it to draw a rune between her breasts.
The voices were on her floor by now, and she heard the door of her empty bedroom slam before a loud bang resonated on the door of the room she was in.
"Hermione what the fuck are you doing?" asked Black in a loud, angry voice, still pounding on the door.
Finally stopping her incantation, she took the small bottle of potion waiting next to the largest runes circle and looked at Kreacher for comfort. While the feeling in her chest was painful, it was nothing she couldn't manage. This part, however, was the part that would truly hurt and yet, she had to drink every drop of it if she wanted it to work. The house-elf's face was as neutral as ever, but Hermione could see the way he was clutching her shirt in his hands and knew he was as afraid as her, maybe even more. He had begged her, when she had asked his help and describe the ritual. Hermione hadn't understood, the house-elf crying incoherent words about Regulus and doing it again. He had changed his mind, when she had told him she didn't have any other choice and needed his help. She supposed she could have convinced Harry to do it, with more time, but time was the exact thing she didn't have anymore, and she knew her elf would be able to keep his cool during the whole process.
Sending him what she hoped to be a smile but probably looked more like a grimace, she raised the bottle to her lips and started drinking. As soon as the liquid passed her mouth, her magic started burning. There was no other word for it. Her magic was part of her, present in her whole body, and it was burning.
She didn't realise the screams she was hearing were coming from her mouth until she felt the bottle slip from her fingers and had to make use of her blazing brain to force her fingers to help the bottle to the floor to make sure she would not break. She fell on her knees, too weak to support herself through the pain. Her nails were sinking into her flesh, clawing to let the fire out of her body as she kept screaming.
She faintly heard the pounding intensifying against the door and her name being called frantically by different voices, but nothing mattered beside her excruciating pain and the fire who was destroying her from the inside. She saw the form of Kreacher appearing in front of her behind her tears and felt him push the bottle back against her lips. More potion entered her mouth and her first reflex was to spit it, but the hand of the house-elf was on her throat in a second, massaging it to make her swallow.
The fire intensified again, stronger than ever. It was everywhere, reducing her to ashes as she cried for help. She didn't know who she was calling or what she was asking for, only conscious enough to know she was begging, imploring, anything to stop feeling her body being destroyed. She wasn't even conscious enough to realise Kreacher was still feeding her the potion between her screams, whispering encouragements and sweet nothings she couldn't hear with a quavering voice. She kept screaming long after the last drop of potion had been swallowed, for what seemed like an eternity but really was a couple of hours.
When she finally regained conscience of her surroundings, Kreacher was waiting next to her, cheeks covered in tears and a bottle of water in his hand. He helped her drinking, her arms being too shaky to carry the bottle to her mouth.
"I did it," she said in a small, croaky voice.
"It is not over," reminded Kreacher. The noise coming from the other side of the door was almost entirely covering his voice, but she could still hear the dread in it.
"I will be okay."
"Kreacher wants to help the Little Mistress," finally cried the elf. "Kreacher is so sorry he can't help!"
"You're already helping me more than anyone ever could." She slowly raised her hand, hissing under the effort until she reached his face. For the first time in her life, she was thankful the house-elf was so small, as she didn't have to raise her arm too high to touch him. "I should be the one apologizing. I know you didn't want to do this."
Exhausted, she closed her eyes for a moment, thankful for the dark provided by her eyelids. She was fine, she knew, or at least she would be. Still, she could feel her magic burning, not destructive anymore but present enough to hurt her wounded body and everything around her was overwhelming, from the sounds to the light, as well as the contact of her back against the floor and the elf's face against the palm of her hand. Reopening her eyes to prove she wasn't dying to the elf, she locked eyes with him, trying to dry his cheeks with her fingers but only managing to spread out the tear stains in the process.
"I never thanked you, have I? For looking after me all these years."
"Kreacher doesn't need a thank you." The house-elf was finally coming back to his senses, and his voice was full of indignation at the idea of receiving a single proof of gratitude for his work.
"I know." She let out what would have been a chuckle, had her throat not been so dry, but only came out sounding like a cough from an old smoker. "I should have said I love you more, though. You really are the best in this world."
"The Little Mistress doesn't know the rest of the world," he replied with a voice full of emotions. "She can't know that."
"Except for a handful of people, the rest of the world let me stay here as a missing child. And the rest of the world didn't raise me despite me being a brat sometimes."
"The Little Mistress wasn't always obedient or careful," conceded Kreacher. "But she had her moments."
Turning her head towards the window, she estimated the time to be around four in the morning. She couldn't afford to lose any more time.
"Are you ready for the last part?"
"Is the Little Mistress?"
She would never be, she knew, and so only took back her hand and turned to offer him her back, squealing when the place between her breasts where the rune had been drawn touched the hand she was using to support herself while moving. She only casted a glance it's way, not wanting to linger too long on the angry red mark she could see where her skin had absorbed the paste.
"Kreachy? Can you sing the song?"
On any normal day, Kreacher would have scolded her for using the ridiculous nickname she had come up with when she was three before ranting about teenagers being to old to be sang lullabies to, no matter the state of injury. It wasn't any normal day, and the sound of his raspy voice singing about unicorns in a field of poppies made the tears come back to her eyes.
She heard him catch the knife while singing and even the song wasn't enough to keep her from tensing up.
As soon as the knife pierced through her skin, her screams drowned his song. She was holding on to the ground's irregularities to keep herself from moving from him, her fingers so tight against the wood blood escaped from them. The pain was unbearable, and she kept passing out, only to wake up to more pain as Kreacher carved the runes along her spine.
By the time it was over, she couldn't feel her body anymore. On the edge of consciousness, she felt her shirt being magically draped around her before a hand grabbed her wrist. She felt a tug in her navel, and everything went black.