"Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."
trans. "Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy steadfast love; according to thy abundant mercy blot out my transgressions." Psalm 51
"Because I killed Ron by saving Draco."
The white cold heat in her chest is brilliant in its precision.
Harry looking on her in surprise, in confusion.
Hermione turning away from him then, turning away, and leaning her head against the cold glass once more.
Remembering.
The smell of blood.
The smell of burnt trees. Of burnt grass.
The sound of screaming.
Flashes of spells, of people dying about her.
Insanity. In the air she breathed, in the way it burnt her lungs, her throat. Even if she had wanted to, her screams would have been lost. Lost in the destruction happening around her.
Dying about her.
Breathing it in. The stench.
And her focus arrested on the wizard who stood across from her, eyes focused on her eyes, making them out, even across the field from her.
Draco standing behind Harry, who was facing the Dark Lord, Voldemort.
Facing him and battling him. Though it all took place within their minds.
Between them, inside of them, and Hermione could not tell what was really taking place.
Only knowing it was taking place. Finally.
Just.
Finally.
Taking place in the field that she and Draco maintained. A focus, grey eyes and brown meeting over the distance, their wands trembling outwards, under the strain, under the reek of war.
And she remembers.
How Draco's magic felt about her, and how her magic responded, even as people fell about them. Even as Severus, as Ron, as Tonks, Minerva, so many others, fought about them, protecting them, somehow still feeling a level of comfort, of safety, of hope, in their magic.
In the field that they created.
And the coldness, the frigid nature of the spell wrapping around her. She felt it, their binding, like coming home, a wonderful peace throughout her being, through her magic.
In their magic. Her and Draco's.
Even as people died about her.
And the look between them, speaking so much, volumes of words never spoken, of the night they spent together, of a future they believed they would never get to share.
Even as people died about them.
Even as she saw a slashing spell against Tonks, even as she saw Fred go rigid in death, falling to the ground.
Even as blood wept, fell to the earth, and soaked the ground in red.
Looking out the window ten years later, she places her hand against the glass and she tells Harry at that moment, she was ready to die, she was alright with it.
Because she had been. A sacrifice like those sacrificed around her, around them, a greater purpose, and suddenly just then it was alright, just then, everything made sense.
Logical.
A clarity. Blinding in its beauty.
Sharing it with the man who was connected with her, with her magic, with her mind, with the history between them, and only then did she feel a stab of sorrow to know too late what she felt for him, to know that it was too late.
And he had smiled, across from her, had smiled amidst the death about them, and in his smile she saw joy.
Saw joy.
For a moment.
Love. In the lines of his face.
Hermione had closed her eyes then, giving herself up to what would be, allowing her magic and his to fill her, a swirling of colours, brilliant even in their darkness, brilliant even in their intent, and she felt it swirling up in her.
Not noticing when a stray spell cut through her arm, slicing it, not feeling another catch her on her shoulder, not realising that she had fallen to her knees.
Maintaining a focus. On her. On Draco.
And opening her eyes to see that Draco had also been hit, somehow, somewhere, and he was also kneeling on the ground, one arm useless at his side, shirt in strips about his person, but his wand steady.
His wand steady, pointed towards her, just as hers was pointed towards him.
Another curse.
Another slice of pain across her back.
But they had a greater purpose. A greater purpose.
And they maintained the focus.
A slash across Draco's face, his cheek, blood coursing down the white skin.
And still they maintained a focus.
Sharing in the moment. Sharing in the knowledge that finally, just finally, they were doing what was right, true.
A bigger moment.
And they would die together.
Hermione knew it even though he never said the words. Knew he would not live because she would not live.
And it ached at her heart.
And glowed brilliant.
Clarity.
Even as the sky lit with green, with yellows, with purples. The colours of death. Spells cast about them.
Sharing.
Until Harry stumbled back. One step, another step, and suddenly their focus was on him, on the Boy-Who-Lived, on the hero, a focus.
Her arm wavering, strength leaving, seeping away under the stress of the magic, under the effort to keep her mind off the pain moving through her body. Watching in wonder, in hope, as Harry took another step back, another step back, her gaze moving to the evil in front of them, seeing it, seeing Voldemort's magic falling away, seeing it, the darkness falling away under Harry's light.
The moment. Emblazed in her mind.
The moment that Voldemort fell and screams filled the air. Death Eaters clutching at their arms, their person.
The moment that everything became even clearer. More brilliant. Magnified.
In slow motion.
Seeing Draco across from her. Seeing the blood against his face and thinking it looked black even in the light of day. Watching as he lowered his wand. Felt it as she lowered hers. Watching. Waiting. Meeting his eyes. Seeing pain there, his hand coming down to the mark at his arm.
But he had not looked away. Not looked away from her.
Redemption.
Everything in slow motion.
Remembering how his eyes had turned to quicksilver, soft, gentle; even from where she knelt, across the space, she could tell their colour. How his hair had looked almost the same colour of silver, catching the light from the spells cast about them still.
Remembering.
How the pain had come then. How suddenly, just then, she could feel the blood running down her back, down her arms, and how she knelt on the ground, a ground soggy from melted snow, soggy from blood.
Noticing, slowly, that Death Eaters were dying now, fighting, dying, or falling to their knees themselves. Turning her head to see Severus, wary, a tall form with slouched shoulders, but still casting spells, seeing Ron next to him, brilliant red head amidst the darkness.
Seeing Minerva. Remus. Tonks.
Standing.
But others were not. Others on the ground.
Death. Soaking the ground. Soaking the earth.
Death.
And turning away, as if in slow motion. Turning away to look back to Draco. To share with him the moment. To smile. To give him something of herself.
Turning away, but seeing out of the corner of her eye, seeing a Death Eater clad in black, mask still in place, seeing the Death Eater raise his wand. Pointed at the brilliant red head of Ron. Ron who was turned the other way, fighting a different Death Eater.
The wand pointed at the back of Ron's head.
Slow motion.
Moments.
Seeing it. Raising her wand.
A shielding spell. The words on her tongue.
And then.
Slow. Slow.
The scream. Inhuman. A soulless being. The feel of the world narrowing to a single point, the chill, forbidden chill.
And looking up.
Slow motion.
Slow.
Slow.
Looking up and seeing a dementor.
One of the last Dementors, falling, falling, swiftly, and seeing.
Seeing.
Slow. Moments.
Seeing that Draco would not be able to get his wand up in time. Would not be able to stop the dementor, seeing it.
Moments.
Without thought.
Without thought.
Her Patronus had shot from her wand, her mind screaming, body screaming, even as it erupted, so strong, so complete, stopping the Dementor.
Destroying it.
Only to have the light fade away.
Only to have her look then. Just then.
And see a red head. A red head against the dark earth.
Motionless.
And something breaking. Something shattering as the realisation of what she had just done, of what her actions meant, falling through her, dropping her wand. Seeing. And not wanting to. Understanding but not wanting to.
Please. No. No. Gods no.
Please.
Please. No.
Stumbling to her feet.
No. No.
Stumbling to her feet, falling to her knees, legs not able to hold her up, pushing herself up, crawling, through mud, through blood.
Gods no.
Struggling to her feet again.
Falling.
And a scream.
Tearing through her gut, out of her throat, but no sound, no sound had came, and she hadn't been able to get to him. His fallen body.
Seeing, even as Severus moved to stand above the body. Still cursing Death Eaters, standing over, protecting.
Hysteria tearing at her, clawing at her. Because she didn't understand why Severus would be protecting him. Why?
Because he was dead.
He was bloody dead.
And she couldn't get to him. Couldn't get to him.
Body not moving. Not responding.
Pain. But it didn't matter. Didn't matter.
No.
Around and around in her head. Over and over again.
Seeing. Not seeing.
Feeling. Not feeling.
The spells dying about her. All the dying.
And the smell of death.
And the feel of death.
Red against the dark mud.
And the sudden silence. The moment after battle. The barest second of time when the war is done, when all is accomplished.
Silence. A mere breathe of silence.
And she was on her knees.
On her knees. Head bowed.
Tears falling.
And a hand. A hand, a magic, pulling her, about her, a magic. Falling into a chest, into arms, into coldness. Seeing. Not seeing. The pain making everything hazy, her mind not making sense, her thoughts not making sense.
Seeing, not seeing.
Hearing as someone said something. As someone answered.
As people moved about her.
As another pair of arms replaced the first. As she was lifted. Unable to think. Pain. So much pain.
Seeing. Not seeing.
As Arthur found Ron, as Molly started screaming, first Fred, then Ron.
Screaming.
Like Hermione wanted to.
Closing her eyes and letting her head fall on a black clad shoulder.
And as Harry went to his best friend, stumbling to his best friend's body, his cry of protest rising to the air, as Molly lamented over the death of her children, as the living Death Eaters were arrested, carried off, as people mourned and wailed, as the dirt soaked up the blood of the battle.
As Severus carried Hermione off the battlefield, Draco stumbling alongside of them, two wands in his hands, blood pouring down in his face.
As Hermione let the pain fall over her in a sheet of darkness, knowing, then, just then, that nothing would be alright ever again.
Snow began to fall.