Written for thee Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season Eight

Round : Round Three—What's Your Name, Man?

Team : Puddlemere United

Position : Captain

Task : Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)—Write about a duel or a fight.

Lyric : If this is the end of me, at least I have a friend with me

Word Count : 2335

Warnings : Harry's fake death, Fred's death, as shown in DH.

A/N: Set during HBP and DH. Platonic Harmony. Trio fluff-ish.

Together

Three times Hermione defeats Harry in a duel and one time the three defeat their greatest enemy together.

I.

The first time they duel each other—truly duel, as opponents—they are in their sixth year. It is practice for what will undoubtedly come in the future, but more than that it is a distraction. Distraction for Harry, from the information—or lack thereof—that Dumbledore is providing him, and distraction for Hermione, from all the hurt that Ron is causing her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hermione asks once they're both poised at the opposite ends of the Room of Requirement, which has turned into a huge open space, bare and grey.

Harry doesn't hesitate before nodding. Anything to get the suffocating buzz out of his head. The duel begins and ends in a flash.

There aren't too many curses in Harry's quiver, he realizes, because he has always focused on defending rather than attacking, but even with them he never stood a chance—Hermione is too fast for him, too sharp, too good. It takes them about four minutes before Harry is lying on the floor of the Room of Requirement in a sad heap, panting. His wand is in Hermione's hand and there are bruises and stings littering his brown skin. Hermione approaches him with a smirk she is trying to hide and pulls him up without comment, handing him his wand and waving her own over him.

"That was quite a sorry duel for the Chosen One, don't you think?" Hermione says as they climb the stairs to the Gryffindor tower and Harry turns red.

"I wasn't prepared for an opponent that intense," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

"Yeah, tell that to Voldemort too, won't you?" his companion laughs, poking his side as he climbs into the portrait hole, and Harry squirms before poking her back.

"I won't have to, you'll be there with me."

II.

The second time round is after Dumbledore's funeral, the eve of their departure from Hogwarts, and Ron is there with them. Harry cannot sleep, nor can anyone else, really, and after tossing and turning in his bed for longer than he'd like he climbs out and descends into the deserted common room. The Common room is cold, the fire having been put out hours ago, and the moon is crescent in the sky. It reminds him of Dumbledore, his half moon glasses, and Harry sighs, brushing a hand over his scar. He knows it really wasn't his fault—it was all out of his control, but he still feels responsible, as if somehow he could have prevented it. Perhaps if he had kept a closer eye on Malfoy …

"Harry?" Hermione's voice calls from behind him and he turns around to see her near the portrait hole, dressing gown over her nightclothes, looking at him worriedly. "What are you doing down here right now?" she asks.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replies, sinking into a couch.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, sitting beside him cautiously. "I suppose you're here for the same reason?"

Harry nods.

"I was restless so I decided to take a walk. Met professor McGonagall halfway …" she laughs softly. "She let me off without a word too."

Harry smiles as he tries to imagine the scene but the smile fades as soon as it had appeared. It isn't too long before Ron joins them too, and sits on the arm of the couch near the fireplace. All three of them sigh collectively, not really doing anything but not wanting to go back to their dorms either. It isn't as if they are going to be able to sleep anyway, and none of them want to be alone with their thoughts.

Harry leans against the back of the couch and dully stares at the crimson ceiling. It reminds him of blood, and blood reminds him of death, and before he can help it, he is doing exactly what he didn't want to do—thinking about Dumbledore, Voldemort, and the Horcruxes he has made. Dumbledore had told him some essential things, yes, but not all of them. The story his deceased headmaster had told him has gaping holes, and now there is no one who can fill them but Harry himself. Another impossible task that he had to complete. What else is new?

"I wish …" he says softly, still looking at the ceiling, and stops. Hermione turns her head to look at him. Ron puts a hand on his.

"I wish I was more prepared for it." He swallows. "For everything."

"We'll figure it out," Ron says after a small beat of silence. "We don't have too much information, but we have something …"

Harry hums, not entirely convinced, and Hermione puts a hand on his shoulder. A long stretch of silence follows.

"Let's duel," Harry says suddenly, lifting his head and Hermione looks at him with raised eyebrows.

"Right now?" she asks, surprise apparent. They've been training together, the three of them, and she has taught them both enough curses that Professor McGonagall would be both infuriated and proud. It isn't enough, truth be told, but it'll keep them alive if they ever get caught up in an ambush again.

"Yeah. We need all the practice we can get, right? And it's not as if we're getting any sleep."

"Alright," she says after contemplating for a bit.

They huddle under Harry's cloak as they start towards the Room of Requirement even though it is too small for all three of them now and it reminds Hermione of simpler times. Sneaking around has become something of a tradition for them, she thinks mildly, and the thought makes her smile.

"It's the two of you against me, as per usual," she says once the room admits them into the wide, open room.

"No training this time though, we're doing a proper duel," Harry replies, "you might want to reconsider," he adds humorously, and Hermione playfully jabs her wand in his side.

Her playful nature vanishes almost immediately though, and her jabs and thrusts become spells and curses, her smile not leaving her face as she battles the two boys almost effortlessly. Neither can truly help muttering the incantations, which gives Hermione an advantage, but her curses creep up on them with no warning—they have no choice but to be hyper aware of every single detail. Constant vigilance, as Mad-Eye Moody never failed to tell her whenever she duelled him. Vigilance would save their lives. She notices with some amount of satisfaction that they can, at the very least, defend themselves from her attacks, and if not that they evade.

She is too fast for them. Harry and Ron don't get an opportunity to attack her even together. Harry knows she goes all out when she duels them because she knows that others who lie in wait outside of Hogwarts are better, faster, crueler. They are out for blood. They do need all the practice they can get. Harry falters for one second to catch his breath but her curse makes sure that he is light on his feet. He looks across the room and catches the twinkle in her eye and his own lips genuinely curl upwards for the first time that day. Not for the first time he wonders how she came to acquire such skill in duelling. Not for the first time Hermione flicks her wand and knocks him off his feet.

III.

The third time is when they are on the run. They haven't much time to practice now—this is it, the real thing—but with Ron gone they really haven't got anything better to do. Duelling is better than brooding. It's certainly more productive. More than anything it helps distract them from the hurt of being abandoned.

They have to be careful this time to not cross the boundaries of their camp, and to avoid hitting their tent, but while duelling Harry sees Hermione's face shine the way it hasn't in a very long time. She is much tougher on him now, no holding back, no pretence of being nice.

'You-know-who and his followers won't be all nice to you," she says as she grips her wand. "So I can't be nice to you either."

And she isn't. She hurls hexes left, right, and center, showers him with curses strong enough to break through his strongest shield charm, and uses the strongest spells she knows. She's letting lose all her pent up anger, Harry realizes mildly in between dodges. He hasn't truly seen her like this before. She isn't even really duelling him, just cursing everything in sight. She's frustrated.

Harry has never been able to attack her in a duel. She is too careful and too agile for that. And normally he is too preoccupied trying to defend himself. Now, however, she has her flanks wide open. A perfect opportunity to attack. He doesn't particularly feel like attacking, because to do so right now, when she is so upset and preoccupied feels wrong, and because she herself has taught him all these tactics. He knows, however, that she'd never forgive him if he didn't use the one opportunity she had given him—probably the only one he'll ever get.

And so he sets about dodging his way to her, to get the perfect stance, find the perfect spell. He feints towards the right and goes left instead. A perfect opportunity. Pertificus—

Hermione blocks, dodges and binds him before he can complete his incantation, putting an end to the duel. He does note, however, that she is pleased when she undoes the full body bind charm.

"I didn't expect you to be able to attack," she says, grinning. "Well done!"

"It didn't work though," he replies, grimacing.

Hermione only laughs. "With time, Harry, with time."

+ I.

Hermione is well acquainted with the sick feeling of foreboding that settles in her stomach as the battle looms ahead of them. She has felt it many times over the years, getting stronger with the passage of time. She has no shame in admitting to herself that she is scared. She cannot, however, show it. They are the commanders of this troop, whether they like it or not, and their job is to raise their morale, not lower it.

She doesn't have much time to brood, however, because there is no place for emotions such as fear in battle, as Mad-Eye had taught her. There are only curses and spells and dodges. And so she does. She fights like she has never before, taking down Death Eaters with every spell that leaves her wand. This is a battle for freedom. This is a battle for life.

She nearly falters in her resolve—the Death Eaters are too many, too strong. They themselves are losing their people in huge numbers. They lost Fred, Fred. The battle doesn't stop, however, but grows in vigor. They have to find Nagini, have to kill her. No one has seen Voldemort yet, but this worries more than relieves her.

Her mind is still reeling when the battle stops, and her heart thumping away so fast she thinks it might beat out of her chest. The foreboding hits is crescendo and crashes down when she sees the bodies in the great hall all lined up. Fred. Remus. Tonks. The Weasleys are all standing around them with subdued, sobbing faces, and Mrs. Weasley is crying over Fred. Breathing is hard, the silence is deafening. She doesn't realize Harry has slipped away until after she has calmed herself and everyone else down. She nudges Ron, and his eyes reflect the alarm in her own. There is only one place where he could be. He left without them. He sacrificed himself.

She doesn't want Voldemort's voice carrying through the air to make sense to her. But it does. Harry is dead. Dead. Dead. She wants to believe he's lying. Of course he is, that's what he does. But the limp form that Hagrid is carrying is undoubtedly Harry, and he isn't breathing, and Hagrid is crying. All of it too much to deal with. It goes by in a blur.

"Submit to me," Voldemort says. "He tried to run. He's dead."

"NO!" She doesn't realize until after that the scream is hers. She is sobbing—they all are—but Neville is brave, and he has the sword, and Nagini is dead. The only glimmer of hope that she can see. Harry gave himself up for this. Someone has to kill Voldemort. Better her than anyone else.

Several things happen once she draws her wand. Harry disappears, Voldemort screams, and the battle begins again. It takes her a moment to realize what is going on. The cloak—he's alive!

"He's alive!"

Several years of constant vigilance makes it easy for her to see the trail of confusion that follows him. She is there before him before he can go any further.

"Harry!" she whispers, her eyes filmed with unshed tears, and Harry ushers both her and Ron inside the cloak just like old times.

"What did you think you were doing, you idiot," Ron berates him, eyes moist. "We thought you were done for!"

"I was …" Harry says, smiling, "but I came back. I haven't done my job yet." He turns to Hermione. "This is it. This is what it has all been leading up to … all those duels …"

"Our job," Hermione corrects him. "We're in this together, Harry. Always have been. There are going to be many duels after this one, you'll see."

Harry sighs. "He's dangerous. I am meant to die, but if either of you die too … so many others already have—"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione cuts him off. "If this is going to be the end of me, at least I'll have a friend with me!"

Ron pulls them both into a tight hug. "We're a packaged deal, Potter, the three of us. We go together."

Harry looks at the two of them silently, then sighs again. "Alright then," he says, peeling off the cloak. "Together."