If it had only been Ginny

by Indygodusk

If it had only been Ginny, he might've tried to save things like decency, morality, and softness. He might've tried. But it wasn't only Ginny. (AKA Dark Harry Possessive Trope Trash)

AN: I wrote this in an attempt to get over my writer's block. I was aiming for a drabble. Obviously I failed. It wasn't supposed to be this long, but that's the story of my writing life. I get neurotic about editing and the word count grows and grows and grows. The working title was, "Dark Harry Possessive trope trash," so make of that what you will. There's not a lot of action (somehow despite the word count), but there is graphic violence at the end and Harry definitely goes DARK along with being possessive. Hopefully you'll enjoy it! If you don't, no need to tell me, just back-click and walk (or electronically surf) away. Have fun!

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If it had only been Ginny

By Indygodusk

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Sharp. Glittering. Bright. Painful. Harry would close his eyes against the sun, but he couldn't move his body, much less blink. The light felt like it was burning him from the inside out, but that probably had more to do with the lack of air. Magic held Harry suspended and drowning.

Hair floated around his head and against his cheeks, catching in his eyelashes and making him desperate to blink or flinch away. If things had been less dire, he might've wondered how the bubbles escaping from his mouth sank down and nestled in the sharp runes carved in the stone beneath his back instead of floating up to the surface. The liquid over his head had gained an oily, iridescent sheen after the coven-leader had uncorked a vial and poured a purple-black potion into the small pool she'd created. It felt wrong to be surrounded by rainbows when you were dying.

Blurred figures moved around the rim of the pit they'd filled with barrels of potion to make an artificial pool for this Dark ritual. They looked down on him with cruel delight as they chattered and wove their Dark magic.

A small group approached and dropped a limp body to the ground near the rim of the pool. Dismayed, Harry could just make out red hair and an awkwardly bent arm. The water pressing down on him felt even more oppressive after that.

The coven's chanting was muffled, each sound slowed and deepened as it moved through the surrounding potion to scrape against his ears. Despite that barrier, one sound still made it through clearly enough to pierce him like a blade to the heart—the screams of the woman on her knees haloed by the sun like a fallen angel.

Harry's muscles strained and his magic thrashed, but the liquid remained undisturbed. Not even a fingertip twitched. He couldn't break free. Harry was powerless to stop the Dark magic from crawling down his throat and filling his lungs. It dug into his head, ripping through his mind (he fought against it, slowed its progression, but couldn't stop it), and circled his soul, staining everything in shades of green—the colors of death magic and decay. (The color of new growth creeping up through the detritus and decaying ashes to unexpectedly sprout and tear his enemies into gibbering chunks and leaving him victorious.)

This Dark coven of witches were young, but they had studied Harry's history. He'd only gotten more dangerous with time. They knew he might be captured through force, but only at great cost—a cost they didn't want to pay. After all, why risk their lives when they could risk someone else's? So instead they found and used the triggers he'd been programmed with with more skill and subtlety than they could ever dream of having. They tugged at the leash knotted around his neck called duty, sacrifice, and greater good and he came running to their heels, even knowing the pain that awaited him.

They'd hurt Ginny. They'd taken the girl he'd once shared a sweet and soft love with, a girl he would have married if she hadn't gotten cold feet after he'd slipped up too often and been a little too honest, accidentally revealing that his softness was only surface deep and that a rumbling inferno with flames of pitch still smoldered deep in his gut. He didn't blame her for her confusion and doubt (or her fear), nor for leaving him. Deep down he'd always known that it was his natural state to be left behind, unwanted because he wasn't good enough to keep, that he only had value when he was useful and stayed inside the lines of people's expectations, a value that always came with an expiration date. Only one person had ever proved themselves an exception to that, staying loyal and still wanting him near no matter how high or low the broom ride of emotion took them, through both joy and pain.

Only one.

As an adult, he could look back and see things more clearly. When people spoke of him being a torch for the Light, they meant the handle they could use to illuminate their version of the truth, preferring him to act as the static wood that burned and then sloughed away in the wind. They didn't want his scalding fire or the risk of his sparks setting ablaze something outside of their reach. Like smoke and ash, he was discarded in the light of dawn except for when it was useful to point to the dark smudges or banked coals to remind them that they'd survived the night and could rekindle the fire as needed, though of course torches were only needed for the dark. In the light of day, carrying one around became a burden. Harry knew he was a burden, especially the brighter things became for others or when he inadvertently cast someone else into the shade (like people in authority, the government, or even (especially) Ron).

Whatever the case, he had once loved Ginny and been loved in return when everything around him had seemed so dark. At least she had still wanted to be friends after, willing to enjoy his company in safe doses and distances. They'd shared a beautiful dream together once and for that, he would always cherish her.

It was what it was.

If it had only been Ginny, his rescue plan would've worked. They'd released the rest of the hostages as soon as he'd agreed to their deal. Harry had thought he'd known what to expect when he'd marched himself into the coven's grasp, thought he knew who was and was not there and what he was sacrificing by giving in, thought he could twist the situation to his advantage and that both Ginny and he would escape or that at least she'd escape and he'd find a final rest. He'd been confident that he'd planned for every contingency.

He'd been wrong.

If they'd only kidnapped Ginny, he'd still have fought just as hard to get her free (but maybe not as viciously). If they'd stunned Ginny and threatened to do worse, he'd still have given in and let himself be disarmed, stripped, and cast into the pool to keep her safe. The coven still would've cast their Dark spell and he still would be facing having his mind shoved to the side to make way for the personality they'd constructed to make people believe that Voldemort had returned and was using the body of his greatest enemy to rule once more, a personality enslaved to the coven's will.

Perhaps if it had just been Ginny and himself at stake, he would have succumbed to the death of personality and let his body become the coven's slave. Others could rise up to fight this darkness and win the day for the Light side this time. Harry had forgotten what it felt like to not be constantly hurting. He was rather tired—both jaded and exhausted.

After all, the promises made to him about the glories to be found in a world without Voldemort had proved to be… lacking. What was a return to normalcy for a child soldier? What was peacetime when all your future potential had been chipped away with painful blow after painful blow to forge you into a weapon of war? What did it mean when you were never enough in the before and that you were too much in the after? When you finally had answers but no one cared about the questions? When you were finally alone (in both your home and your head) and it felt…unnatural?

If it had only been Ginny, maybe he would've accepted his death after telling himself he'd tried his best. (Though would death even take him? Or would Dumbledore or someone else appear to block his way with another task or emotional manipulation gift-wrapped as something for his own (really meaning the greater) good?) If it had only been Ginny, maybe Harry would've tried to finally find some sort of rest.

Or maybe not.

This Dark coven really wasn't as smart as they thought they were. They were actually rather sloppy. He'd gotten lazy after the war. (That or just stopped caring.) This coven had cut corners, stumbled into a convenient kidnapping instead of executing a diabolically clever plan, and used cliche threats to capture him instead of taking any big risks. It was a bit embarrassing really that he'd let himself be manipulated and taken down by people like this.

Even their spell, which was currently working to throw Harry's personality away like an old sock, just left it up to chance what happened to that soul the second it had been cut free and discarded. Remove one personality and then shove in their newly constructed one into the empty real estate, a Frankenstein creation of a dozen hands that seemed based on a bullet-point list of traits cribbed from the front pages of the Daily Prophet and written in scroll margins by bored Dark witch wannabes—all Dark Lord from the propaganda and no Tom Riddle, barely even much authentic Lord Voldemort (which was almost insulting).

Instead of at least using a human mind to power their twisted personality, they'd decided to create a personality from scratch and anchor it with the soul of a snake, perhaps trying to make sure their seeming of Lord Voldemort could speak parseltongue or at least hiss authentically. (Though really, who besides Harry was capable of actually double-checking parseltongue grammar?) It was stupid.

To maintain the human aspect of the personality, the magic couldn't function without the habits imbued in Harry's human body, which made the magic fumble ever so slowly to completion as it fought against itself to both discard his spirit and keep his personality around as the ritual progressed. As if that wasn't enough, they'd decided to make building their Dark Lord easier by using links to the coven member's minds to fill in the personality gaps, links that would have to be constantly maintained to keep the personality from collapsing. The minute someone screwed up or fumbled the link, the spell would collapse and so would Harry's corpse.

Very shoddy and shortsighted spellwork, if anyone cared to ask him.

(They didn't.)

The chanting sped up and the sun gleamed off a bared blade. The athame had a black handle that sucked in the light, making everything around it look dimmer. Magic jolted through the pool at the rise and fall of the athame.

A silent scream built in Harry's throat as he felt it. Something had just died, but he couldn't tell what (or who) it was. If they'd killed HER… his insides turned to jagged shards and something inside him heaved. He would kill them for this—kill them torturously slow and with as much pain and humiliation as possible. His vision went razor-sharp and despite the spell his hand twitched.

Before he could figure out how to do it again, a mound of green and white feathers was shoved into the pool and sank out of view behind his head trailing a wispy red cloud from the stab wound. They'd killed some poor feathered creature, not her.

Not her.

Harry's relief distracted him from whatever he'd done to get himself free and he found himself once more paralyzed. Another splash broke the surface of the pool. The long sinuous body looked like a snake. It sank down by Harry's feet. The water churned as it writhed and fought to swim back to the surface, slapping against Harry in the process. Unlike the first body, this creature wasn't dead.

Yet.

Sort of like Harry. It wasn't that Harry really cared that much about living anymore (the war and what came after had made him too cynical and jaded), it was more that he'd hate to give anyone the satisfaction of killing him. He hadn't survived this long by ever accepting the inevitability of defeat. It may be immodest, but even if they'd only threatened Ginny, Harry probably would have still survived this somehow. After all, he had quite a track record of overcoming magical attacks and not staying dead. He was only this badly off now because of complacency.

At the bottom of the pool, the snake's thrashing became even more violent. It whipped painfully against Harry's skin as it drowned, leaving what would be welts and bruises if he actually survived this. All too soon the snake's movements slowed to weak twitches. It convulsed a final time before going still in death.

Harry felt the snake's spirit unmooring from its now-dead body. Ripping free, it started wiggling out and away to the afterlife, only to be surrounded by the magic in the potion and tendrils of Dark magic lancing down from the chanting coven. The snake spirit fought to escape its fate, smacking against Harry's soul several times with painful jolts of shrieking tingling that reminded him of the time he'd accidentally touched a live electrical wire left dangling from the wall after Dudly had broken off the plug cover and Aunt Petunia had ordered a young and ignorant Harry to fix it before Uncle Vernon got home or else.

The snake was just another victim in all of this. Harry felt pity and compassion. '~Begone,~' he thought at it in parseltongue as loudly as he could, instinctively following the wave of those electrical jolts with intent and his magic. '~Go!~'

The snake's spirit jolted in response, reinvigorated as it jerked free from the Dark magic and shot towards the light to escape. Harry felt a curl of satisfaction, only to be crushed a second later when the snake's soul bounced off the oily surface of the pool and back down as if it had hit a solid ceiling instead of just a permeable membrane between water and sky.

The coven's chanting rose to a fever pitch as the coven leader leaned over and uncapped a new vial, pouring it into the pool and mixing it in with a series of wand swirls that looked vaguely familiar from Potions class years ago. The rainbows disappeared and everything seemed to be holding its breath (even the drowning Harry). Then between one second and the next, the artificial personality meant to supplant Harry unfurled into the water like the explosive deployment of an airbag in a car (Aunt Petunia had broken her nose and sported two black eyes after that accident) pushing everything else to the side and Harry realized that he'd underestimated things once again (or overestimated himself).

The magic pressed against Harry with suffocating force, reminding him of how long it had been since his last gasp of air. The snake's soul had no chance of resistance. It was flattened against the bottom of the pool as if by a giant hand before being jerked up, straightened out, and slotted into the center of the personality like a magical core being crudely shoved into the center of wand wood.

Nothing Harry did made a lick of difference in getting himself free. His resistance was as useless as the snake's. All he could do was watch as the potion and coven's chanting combined to rip everything that made Harry Harry out by the roots—an agonizing process that made him scream in a burst of bubbles and thrash beneath the surface of the pool, breaking through the restraining magic for just a moment once again.

As the bubbles exploded from his mouth and continued defying gravity by rolling down his cheeks and chest to join the ones already tickling the back of his neck and shoulders, he noticed that the bubbles were slowing down. They moved slower than honey and then slower still. He should be seeing black spots or having tunnel vision, but instead, everything looked supernaturally crystal clear. His perception of time slowed to a stand-still as he teetered on the cusp of destruction—of death.

It felt familiar, enough to give him some control as he evaluated his options. He could let himself just end and cross over to the other side to finally rejoin his parents and lost friends—a strong temptation—or he could scoop up what few embers of self that he could salvage from the wreck of this situation and do something insane in order to rise again and save the day.

Only one of those options let him keep her.

If it had only been Ginny, he might've chosen to focus on their soft memories and surrender to the sweetness of death… or maybe not. No matter how much he lied to himself and others (so many lies), and no matter how much Dumbledore had once manipulated him into giving in and letting himself be killed to take out Voldemort in the process, he'd always been a fighter, stubborn to a fault and never knowing when to stay down. Soft and sweet had never come naturally, always taking effort. He'd never been good at denying his true nature for long, though Merlin knew he'd been turning himself inside out for years, trying to deny his dark impulses and sharp edges, trying to tame himself into something palatable and meant for peace (it had been a long time since he'd been either).

Fundamental parts of Harry had permanently broken when he'd realized how Dumbledore had been manipulating him, and he'd broken even more when he'd forced himself to stop fighting and accept his role as a sacrificial lamb and let Voldemort kill him according to Dumbledore's grand plan, no matter what was won in the process (he might not have gone along with it at all if he hadn't seen what the war was doing to her). Harry didn't think he could fight against his nature and stop fighting like that again, especially not for such a weak reason as merely wanting to rest.

Besides, the coven was unlikely to keep their word despite his cooperation. Even if it had only been Ginny, he probably would have fought to stay alive to both save her and save himself, a habit he'd never learned to break. If it had only been Ginny, he'd probably be worrying and fighting, but he wouldn't be twisting his thoughts up in such knots to avoid thinking about the truth of the situation.

What good had the truth ever done for him? What good had lies? Neither ever made him truly happy for long. Only one thing—one person—ever had.

A cloud passed over the sun, the shadows dimming the pain of the stabbing sunlight just enough to give Harry the room for an epiphany.

There was something he could still try… but just because he could didn't mean he should. He didn't know if it would serve the greater good, didn't know if this was a good idea at all. (It probably wasn't.) The definition of good for Harry had become rather flexible over the years. Harry was tired of his current life and the expectations of service. He hated giving in meekly. Maybe he should try it. Though if this did work, and after the dust had settled, would he even be a good man anymore?

Did it matter?

Floating on the cusp of annihilation, Harry realized that the answer was… no. He didn't care if he wasn't good anymore after this. Not if it meant paying such a high cost (the cost he'd been doing his best to avoid even thinking about). Maybe this was what he needed to finally get rid of the things (excuses) holding him back from being true to himself (being selfish). To finally claim what (who) he really wanted (needed).

He could still see the mound of Ginny's stunned body as the ritual tightened its hooks and chains around him. With the sun about to reach its zenith in the sky, Ginny would soon be whisked away to safety by a portkey. He'd planned ahead to make sure of that, tying her life to the promise of the light. At least he'd done one thing right in all of this (though with what he knew now he'd have made a different—a better (for him and her)—choice).

Harry had rarely been the smartest or the strongest person in a fight growing up, but he had always survived because he was stubborn, lucky, secretive, and useful. (A tool's just a tool until it wields itself.) People (both friends and foes) insisted on underestimating or misunderstanding Harry no matter what he said or did. Necessity had forced Harry to rip that sharp barb from his flesh before it crippled him and twist it outward into a strength.

A lot of painful things in Harry's life were like that.

For instance, the coven had forgotten to take into account (or much more likely never known about) Voldemort's little souvenir: the distended pocket behind the scar on his forehead, a space on the spiritual plane Harry had carried within himself for too long for it to disappear even once it was empty of Tom Riddle's soul piece.

The cloud passed and the sunlight once more sliced through the water mercilessly, illuminating all of the things Harry usually kept hidden away (sometimes (often) even from himself).

His forethought with the portkey would save Ginny.

But not HER.

Magical core heaving, Harry's attention moved inexorably away from his looming enemies and the sprawl of Ginny's body to finally center on the woman he'd been trying and failing not to fixate on. She was restrained on her knees at the edge of the water, her taut body gilded by the sun's rays and her expression veiled by shadow. Having her here, in danger like this, terrified him like nothing else. He was helpless. Useless. Nothing in the light would save her.

He had to save her.

That realization foamed through his veins like a corrosive, scouring away everything except the essential. In the face of that, Harry couldn't worry about doing the right thing no matter the cost or about goodness or light. Some prices were too high to pay. Over the years, Harry's priorities had narrowed down to just one person.

Hermione.

They'd secured her hands behind her back, forcing her straining elbows out to the sides like broken wings as she fought to wrench free, a fallen angel crying his name, fiercely demanding they let him go, threatening them with blackmail and pain, and—when that failed—brokenly begging to take his place or join him down below. Perfect, loyal, beautiful Hermione. She was radiant—magnificent—and yet so fragile, like translucent porcelain teetering on the edge of a table.

How had he for so long missed her vulnerabilities? Overlooked how much she needed him to survive? Not seen how she'd never be truly happy unless she was his? (And if that was a lie he would make it into a truth.)

The coven's Dark spell encircled his soul and squeezed ruthlessly, crushing everything he was down—like a boa constrictor preparing to feed. It wasn't as foreign a feeling as he might expect. He'd spent his whole life being crushed down so others would find him more palatable to be around and easier to swallow, in the process learning to stuff himself down to make others more comfortable. It had become second nature to invest all of his energies into acting like the hero and good man his allies expected him to be.

No more acting.

As always, if he wanted to stay alive he was going to have to save himself. He'd always been expected to stand on his own and solve his problems with as little support as people could get away with. Only a rare few had ever fought to help him more instead of less.

Harry knew what he had to do. There was no other choice if he was going to save her and save himself (save her for himself). He didn't know enough about the other side of death to know if he'd be allowed to keep her after they both died or if some other spirit would whisk her away from him (they could try). He didn't know if he'd have any influence over there or if he'd be just as powerless as the Harry who used to live in the cupboard under the stairs. He couldn't risk it. He had to keep them both alive on this side of the veil.

It seemed paradoxical, but to keep her alive he must embrace his relationship with Death. Time was running out. It was now or never. Harry pictured the symbol of the Deathly Hallows—wand, ring, and cloak. Even though he'd never called upon them like this before (too afraid of what he'd do and become), he'd instinctively known that he could. He didn't need the items in hand as long as he was still their only master. Just the intent was enough to reach the power. He only had to reach out and take it.

So he did.

The magic pounded over and through him, icing over his core like a Dementor's inhale and rewriting (revealing) his new (true) nature. He didn't fight the change and, in giving in, found both power and freedom—the power to free her (to free himself).

Focusing, he twisted his soul away from the serpentine magic of the pool trying to devour and destroy him, magic that seemed to be moving as slowly as the suspended bubbles, and darted over to the disgusting alcove that had once housed the Horcrux of his worst enemy. Ignoring how it was the farthest thing from a comfortable, inviting space, Harry braced himself and dived inside.

Or at least, he tried to.

It didn't work. Just like the snake trying to escape the pool, he bounced back out. Harry's soul was too big.

There was no time to panic. He'd just have to revise his plan and sacrifice even more than he'd intended. Typical of his life and luck. The pocket in his head that had housed Voldemort's filthy, perverted Horcrux for so many years had only ever carried a remnant of Voldemort, not the full breadth of a soul. Harry's soul wouldn't fit.

At least, not all of him.

Triage. That's what she would've called it, trying to create some sort of positive spin. It didn't matter what he called it, just that it had to happen if he wanted to keep her safe (which meant by his side, because without her he wouldn't be safe for anyone on either side of the veil). Not allowing himself to flinch, he carefully whittled away at the edges of his soul to try and make himself fit, discarding everything that didn't seem necessary and doing his best to ignore the excruciating pain.

If it had only been Ginny, he might've tried to save things like decency, morality, and softness.

He might've tried.

But it wasn't only Ginny. It wasn't only Ginny the coven had taken and threatened to kill. And it wasn't Ginny's cry of pain that had snatched away victory from his grasp and made him go limp and agree to do anything to make them stop forcing that sound from her throat.

It was Hermione.

Harry would have given himself up to torture for Ginny's sake. He would have died to save her life if necessary and Ginny would've mourned him and been both guilty and grateful for the remainder of her days. Unlike Harry, Ginny had a job she loved and a happy life with so many friends and family who adored her. She didn't need him, not really. It would've been a fair trade. Harry could've been content to say goodbye for Ginny's sake and let himself die.

But not Hermione. From the beginning, even when he'd been too blind to see it, Hermione had been his to keep. Death could not (be allowed to) separate them. Nothing could. The man he was could never leave Hermione behind. Nor could he ever let her go.

Not unless she wanted him to, that is. He couldn't lie to himself and think he'd ever take that well (a gross understatement), but he respected her too much to ignore her wishes. (Respected sure, but allowing it to happen without a fight to change her mind that included every weapon he could bring to bear (no matter how unethical or manipulative) was an entirely different question that it was just as well he'd never been forced to answer because while he liked to think he would never cross certain lines, he wasn't actually sure.)

Luckily worrying about something like that was pointless. Sacrificing his life to keep Hermione alive and happy just wouldn't work in the long run. He'd learned that after the final battle with Voldemort. Not only did Hermione not want him to die for her, but he'd discovered that she wouldn't—couldn't—accept his death without losing something vital within that made Hermione Hermione. Harry's death would destroy her and he refused to let that ever happen.

Not again.

He'd never forget what she'd been like when he'd finally reunited with her after he'd been hit by the Killing Curse in the Final Battle and everyone had presumed him dead. He would have walked right past her like she was a stranger if he hadn't caught sight of her distinctive curls out of the corner of his eye. She'd been standing off to the side with her arms hanging limply by her sides, a broken and almost dumb look on her usually animated face as slow tears trickled down her ashen cheeks and dripped off her chin in complete silence. Her blankly staring eyes were practically screaming in pain, like a sickening personification of the Shrieking Shack. Grabbing her hand felt like plunging his fingers into a snowbank. She hadn't reacted to the touch, staring right through him like he wasn't even there.

It had terrified him, just when he'd thought that nothing else would ever scare him again after confronting Voldemort and being killed, followed by his unexpected resurrection. He'd been willing to sacrifice everything he had and was to get rid of Voldemort for good, but he had not and never would have agreed to sacrifice her. Voldemort and Dumbledore had taken everything else away from him. He would not let them take her.

Harry had grabbed her tightly by the shoulders and pulled her close, shaking her and calling her name. Eyelashes fluttering, she'd slowly focused on his face and moved her lips in the soundless syllables of his name before life had abruptly flooded back into her eyes and she'd thrown herself into his arms. He'd felt her desperation in the way she'd wound herself around him like a second robe, breath hitching against his throat as she dug her fingers into his skin and shivered like she'd just been rescued from a plunge in a frozen-over river. He'd buried his face in the fall of her hair to hide the wretched sobs of relief and exhaustion punching out of his chest and gripped her back just as tightly. Neither of them had apologized for the bruises or the tears.

Harry couldn't do that to her (to either of them) again. Hermione deserved better. (She also deserved better than him, but he was going to ignore that and lie to himself about it from now on). He wasn't sure she'd survive losing him again. (He knew he wouldn't survive losing her. He refused to lose her.)

Over the years he'd tried so hard to be a good man for Hermione, tried not to take too much from her or hoard her all to himself, tried to hide his hunger for the scent of her skin and the sound of her voice and resist the need to possess her completely. He'd never expected to have someone like Hermione in his life. Even though he'd tried to keep her as safe as possible by settling for friendship (instead of asking for more, instead of taking everything he could get and then demanding even more), he'd gone wrong somehow and hadn't restrained himself enough. Somewhere along the way she'd started to need him around to thrive and be happy. He'd failed (succeeded). They'd become too intertwined.

Harry felt bad about that.

(That was a lie. He didn't feel bad at all. He felt good. He liked that Hermione couldn't live without him, just like he couldn't live without her, or maybe he could, but he didn't want to, and wasn't that the same thing? The important thing?)

As long as it wasn't hurting her (and he went to great lengths to hide his darker impulses to make sure he didn't hurt her) it was fine (probably). After all, he hadn't set out to make her dependent on him. He didn't have any idea how it had happened in the first place, but once it had… well, he hadn't fought it much either (hadn't fought it at all).

Hermione was the only person who'd ever promised to stay with him and never broken her promise. Impossible as it seemed, she loved him whole-heartedly and without reservation, even when he made her angry or was getting on her last nerve, especially when he made her beam and laugh with joy or held her close and guarded her dreams. It was simultaneously terrifying and awe-inspiring. It was everything.

She was everything.

It was past time to stop holding himself back. No more hesitation. Hermione was meant to belong to him and it was time to claim her the way he should have years ago. If she was a reward from fate for his many sacrifices, he should stop dragging his feet and accept the gift gracefully. He was never giving her up or letting her go after this. Never. Not even to death (his or hers), even if he had to take up the mantle of Master of Death now to do it.

If it had only been Ginny, Harry might've surrendered his body to a natural death (to peace)… but for Hermione, he would do everything in his power (natural or not) to live. He would fight for her and for himself, no matter the collateral damage (to him or anyone else). If Hermione saw him die again (if he didn't come back again), there wouldn't be a Hermione anymore (not the Hermione he so adored), just a crumbling monument dashing herself to pieces to escape the pain in her quest for justice and revenge. He couldn't be responsible for that. He had to protect her. (He had to protect himself.)

Everything dimmed and chilled as if he was being shrouded by a Dementor's cloak. The veil between worlds ripped open like a mouth and gobbled up the pieces of soul he'd shaved loose with long-anticipated relish. There was no getting those back on this side, but he found himself not caring as much as he probably should.

Perception shivering (perhaps in shock, perhaps in anticipation), he tried to maneuver his smaller soul into the alcove to hide. He almost fit, but he was still just a little too big. Steeling himself, he cut off more pieces to throw away.

Harry wondered if what he was doing was any different from Voldemort. At least the only person Harry was hurting by splitting his soul was himself. There'd be no Moaning Myrtles or orphaned toddlers from his actions. That was the difference between them. Voldemort had always used the death and suffering of others—never himself.

Even so, Harry should be unnerved and disgusted by the parallel. Wizarding Britain would be appalled that The-Boy-Who-Lived would go to such lengths to stay alive. Then again, they were the ones who insisted on that ridiculous nickname. They had only themselves to blame for what he did with it and the lengths he'd go to live up to it (for her and for himself).

The coven had decided to make Hermione watch him drown from up close. Harry wasn't sure who it was supposed to punish more—him or her. Probably both, considering how much damage they'd done to the coven before being forced to surrender. Hermione hadn't been easily captured in the first place, much less subdued for the second time after Harry had arrived and temporarily freed her. He recognized the injuries on half of the still-standing witches as caused by Hermione. Several more were barely staying on their feet thanks to Ginny. They'd whittled down their numbers, but not enough.

They'd gotten so close to escaping. The three of them had almost fought their way free of the trap. Then Ginny had fallen to a stunner. The coven had still needed her as leverage against Harry or it probably would've been something more fatal. Hermione had gone back for Ginny and it had all fallen apart. They'd gotten the drop on Hermione and done something that had made her scream in pain before they'd swung her around to face him while jabbing a wand into the soft flesh beneath her chin hard enough to divot her flesh and rip whimpers from her lips.

At that point, Harry had had no choice but to surrender. The coven hadn't wasted any time after that before immobilizing him and tossing him into the pool of potion along with the sacrificial snake, drowning them together so the spell could destroy Harry's soul and overwrite his personality.

In retrospect, Harry wished he'd have used more lethal spells during that battle and whittled their numbers down more instead of leaving enemies behind to be revived to ambush them. He'd foolishly worried about how Ginny would react to seeing him kill. Hermione probably wouldn't have approved either out of principle, but she also wouldn't have been that shocked. There was a deeply practical streak in Hermione. She'd always seen him clearer than anyone else. Better disappointed than dead. She'd have gotten over it eventually and, more importantly, she'd have been alive and safe (with him).

At least the coven didn't know about the portkey he'd slipped inside Ginny's robes and up against her skin when he'd first arrived, set to whisk her away to safety with or without him as soon as the sun reached high noon (any minute now based on the piercing angle of the sunlight). He'd felt so smug about that portkey. It was such a heroic and good thing to do, ensuring Ginny would be saved no matter what happened to him.

Of course, that had been before he'd realized it wasn't only Ginny he needed to rescue. Harry hadn't known about Hermione being captured until it was too late to prioritize her instead (to downgrade the importance of being good). He would risk a lot for Ginny, up to and including his own life, but Hermione was more important than Ginny. If he was being honest, Hermione was more important than anyone. (Harry was rarely honest. He lied to others almost as much as he lied to himself, but he wasn't lying about putting Hermione first. If anything, he was understating his feelings on the subject and the lengths to which he'd go to keep her happy and safe.)

As Harry pushed through his current agony (calling upon the lessons of a lifetime) to continue cutting off pieces of his soul to make it fit, he noticed the bubbles in the water starting to move again. Time was starting to speed up. He wasn't working fast enough.

How long had it been since the spell had scooped Harry's soul out of his body? How long since air had stopped escaping his lips? Too long. His body should be dead by now, but Dark magic and the potion were keeping his body alive so the construct of Voldemort's personality could slip him on like a glove and take over with barely a blip.

At least that had been the plan. Harry was doing his best to subvert that now. Because his body was being kept on the cusp of in-between, his soul and magic should be able to find a way to come out on top.

Should be didn't mean would. Harry buried that thought as quickly as possible. He was going to beat this. (It wouldn't be a lie if he made it into a truth)

Up above, Hermione still hadn't given up on him. (Harry couldn't overstate how much it meant to him to have at least one person who never gave up on him.) She was desperately offering the coven anything and everything if they'd save him, switching from bribing to begging them to please just stop and let Harry breathe and, when that didn't work either, jumping to threats of dire vengeance, detailing the disturbing and horrific spells she'd secretly read about in the Black Family library despite Molly Weasley's best efforts to hide the worst of the books in Grimmauld Place, promising them in thundering tones that they'd beg for the mercy of death before she was through with them if they didn't stop immediately.

Harry really did adore her.

Unfortunately, the coven kept ignoring her. Taking a deep breath, Hermione abruptly surged to her feet and screamed his name as she lunged forward and tried to dive into the pool, only to be cut off mid-shout as a witch in a green corset backhanded Hermione hard enough to spin her in mid-air and send her slamming down on top of Ginny's limp body.

Harry would kill green corset for that.

The witch kicked Hermione over and wrenched her bound hands higher up her shoulders, forcing her to cry out in pain as she was bent almost double over Ginny's legs with her face practically touching the surface of the water. Blood beaded up ruby-red, gathering on the plush curve of Hermione's lower lip and mixing with her saliva and tears before falling in a series of sparkling drops to pitter-patter onto the surface of the pool. It was an innocent and sweet sound, a categorical opposite to the descant of Dark magic threading through the pool and trying its best to murder Harry—sort of like the effect of Hermione in Harry's life.

To Harry's disembodied senses, the drops shone with the purity of Hermione's magical essence, something he'd become intimately familiar with after years of friendship and then sharing her wand while on the run. The taste and power of it suffused through the potion, sliding across his skin and over his tongue, moving down his throat into his core, and mixing with the serpent and death magic into a new whole. Such a small amount of blood altered the balance of magic in the pool only slightly. No one but Harry seemed to notice or care.

Like he'd said before—sloppy. Professor Snape would've both taken house points and verbally cut a student off at the knees for such an oversight, especially when the victim was someone with a reputation like Harry Potter. After all, all three elements—serpent, death magic, and Hermione—were predisposed to obey his commands. All three would give in to Harry's possession, he just had to find the right moment to state his demands.

Until then, he had to preserve what he could of himself and pray that the right moment wouldn't come too late.

The artificial personality was digging itself into his body and starting to take over. There wasn't room for both of them, despite Harry's soul doing its best to stubbornly hang on. The pressure was almost overwhelming and he still couldn't fit behind his scar. There was no more time for delicacy and precision cuts, especially since the Dark magic might overcome him at any second, stealing Hermione's fate from his hands.

Harry had tried his best to do things the conventional way, and then if not conventionally at least carefully, but unfortunately, his best hadn't been good enough. He hadn't been good enough. Not as he was.

If he didn't hurry up, he really would die and then Hermione would die (or he'd have to wait for her to die) and there was no guarantee he'd even be able to see her once they were both on the other side of the veil. After all, why would anyone in death respect his wants and needs when he couldn't remember anyone in his life, except Hermione, ever bothering to put him first? Even his parents, as much as it pained him to admit it, couldn't be counted on. Sirius had inadvertently dropped the bombshell that they'd planned on taking Harry abroad to keep him safe after learning about the prophecy, only to choose to listen to Dumbledore instead and stay in Britain, prioritizing their ability to continue fighting against Voldemort and running missions for the Order of the Phoenix over taking Harry out of that madman's reach. If Dumbledore had really wanted to keep Harry safe after that he should have, at a minimum, made himself the Potter's secret keeper since he was the only person who'd successfully dueled Voldemort to a stand-still, versus going along with the choice of a boy only a few years out of the schoolroom (a boy terrified for his life and already under the sway of Voldemort).

It was time for Harry to stop worrying about being good. Time to stop worrying about anything other than getting results. He had to save Hermione, which meant saving himself while he still had the chance—no matter what that self ended up looking like. There was no time for sentimentality or mourning (tomorrow he might not even mind the loss). He was being too timid. Harry gave up on caution and tore into himself, ripping off chunks.

Pared down to bare essentials, he jammed the bloody stump of his spirit into the dark and jagged cave behind his cursed lightning-bolt scar, wedging himself in just enough to fool the magic into thinking it was free to take over. If it had only been Ginny… maybe losing those pieces would feel like more of a sacrifice and less like cutting loose the anchors holding him down. It was past time to accept the truth that he'd been made for the dark, made that way by the machinations of Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Fate herself. Railing against it was pointless.

Besides, what he felt for Hermione was not rooted in light. It wasn't bright or soft or sweet. It wasn't (he wasn't) safe. If he had tried to hold onto her the way he'd always wanted to—the way he hungered to—he would have bruised her with his grip and bloodied her with his need (would have looked at the marks left on her skin and would have liked it). His desires weren't safe when it came to Hermione and so he had hidden any hint of his desire. He'd told himself that what they already had was enough. He'd made sure it was enough as long as she kept herself close, even if only in the name of friendship (and she did keep herself close). She was as much his as it was safe for her to be, as much his as he'd let her be, protecting her even (especially) from himself. As a good man should.

But staying safe about Hermione took constant effort. When others hurt her, when they made her cry and bleed, his sanity fractured, his morals crumbled, and he… slipped. The cost of keeping her safe from himself sometimes meant that others became unsafe. Nothing was free. Everything had a cost. At least he'd managed to keep his retaliation against other students mostly proportional and anonymous. Draco was still alive, wasn't he? And even Ron had never quite guessed it was Harry who kept hexing and sabotaging him over the years every time he made Hermione cry.

Tears, however, were different from blood. Harry didn't know how to stay a good man when it came to the spilling of her blood.

No one knew quite how open Harry's link with Voldemort's mind had gotten in those final years. He'd lied about it to himself just as much as he'd lied about it to others or been lied to. (Maybe if Dumbledore hadn't lied to Harry so much it could've been different. Or maybe not. He'd never know now.) Harry didn't want to have a mental link to Voldemort, but if life had taught him nothing else, it had taught him how to endure and make the best of a bad situation.

No one knew that after Hermione had been slashed open at the Department of Mysteries, Harry had one day pushed Voldemort's frustration with Dolohov into a burst of anger that led to Voldemort binding the other man in his chair, picking up a dinner knife, and slash, slash, slashing until there were more ribbons of blood than strands of fabric or flesh left on Dolohov's chest.

And no one knew that Harry had spent so much time vengefully imagining Bellatrix in agony after she'd killed Sirius and then tortured Hermione at Malfoy Manor, pushing those dark feelings towards that not-me shadow in his mind, that it had seeped into Tom's daydreams and led to him dragging Bellatrix into a spare room and spending an afternoon splattering her blood, vomit, and urine all over the walls and floor, just to scratch the itch.

Harry hadn't enjoyed their pain (not like Voldemort's twisted pleasure), but he hadn't felt bad about it either. They'd deserved it for hurting Hermione. Knowing that they'd been punished for that was… quite satisfying. Even with all of his lying, he knew that there was probably something wrong about that, or at least wrong with him, but there was no point in telling anyone about it when he didn't have any intention of changing.

Dumbledore thought that love was the power that Voldemort knew not, speaking of love as something pure and buoyant, something of gentle light that would float Harry out of the dark and up to victory. It was a beautiful fairy tale. It might've even been true. After all, Harry had thought of his gentle and sweet love of Ginny during those final moments before dying fighting Voldemort and he'd been grateful for having had it.

Harry had benefited from loving and being loved by others in his life, but upon reflection (and with Ginny as one of the few exceptions), that love had very rarely been gentle. His mother's cataclysmic love had clawed him free of a killing curse, burned the possessed Quirrell to death from the inside out whilst he was still alive, and charged the protective wards that had kept him safe from Death Eaters but trapped living in hell for years (at Dumbledore's insistence) with the Dursleys. His godfather's love had been wild eyes and bruising hugs, with extravagant promises of better days and little to no follow-through (too broken by life to help anyone, even himself at the end, though that didn't make Harry's shattered hopes and dreams any less painful or his affection any less real). Although Ron's friendship had at times been a lantern, brightening Harry's life and keeping back the worst of the night, that relationship flickered with every hardship and inconvenience, requiring Harry to shrink himself small and accept blisters and burns to keep the inconsistent flame from guttering out.

As for Hermione, her love was almost impossible to categorize or define. It shaped his life like water cut canyons in rock and polished edges off glass, by turns a soft rain blooming flowers in the desert and a tsunami devastating the shoreline and washing debris out to sea. Her friendship was one of the greatest gifts of his life. When asked about Hermione by others, he always boasted about how absolutely amazing she was (truth) and that he was content with their close friendship (not exactly a lie, but definitely a mistruth representing the mere tip of the iceberg). He hadn't wanted to push for more from her than what they already had for fear of losing everything. She'd always seemed happy with things as they were. (Didn't she? Or was that another lie? It was possible that she wasn't content either, but was respecting his unspoken wishes (fears) and holding her tongue.) She'd never pressed him for more (though sometimes the pull of unspoken words in her eyes made him think she was just waiting for him to understand an answer she'd already figured out ages ago).

Why had he resisted for so long? Why had he been so afraid? He wanted more of her and she wanted more of him. Maybe it was time to respect her right to choose, even (especially) if that choice was him. He should indulge her needs (and indulge his own). If she really did want him, shouldn't he give himself to her?

Because he was hers, all he had, has, or ever will be, until the end of time.

If he could, Harry would cut open his chest and wrench wide his ribs to tuck her in safely next to his heart to keep her with him always. He would bring her books and treats and cultivate her smiles, making of himself a greenhouse to shelter her from the storms of life and grow her happiness. And as needed he'd grind her enemies into dust and send them to the void to never be heard from again. For Hermione, he would do anything. Risk everything.

And the beauty of it was that she would do the same for him. She had proved that multiple times over the years. When under the weather from sickness or sorrow, she always showed up for him and brought light, comfort, and hope with her. Hermione was everything.

Harry could see it all so clearly now.

Up above, Hermione lifted her head and bared bloody teeth. Glaring at her captors, she tried to rise again. He couldn't make out her words, but the ragged pitch of her voice went up in both anguish and rage. He could feel her pain. It made him vibrate with the need to act, but he had to be patient for just a little longer if he was going to turn things to his advantage.

Green corset waved the athame in Hermione's face threateningly and, when that didn't get the response she wanted, used her other hand to fist Hermione's hair and wrench her head down and around until she was looking straight into Harry's glassy eyes beneath the water. No more bubbles were escaping his lax lips and his skin had taken on a faint, iridescent green glow. He must look dead.

Eyes hard and bright, green corset put her mouth next to Hermione's ear. Harry couldn't hear whatever cruel words were spoken, but he didn't have to. Their effect was immediate. Hermione's bloody lips trembled and then contorted as her expression fell in defeat and abject misery. Collapsing over Ginny's legs, leaving torn strands of hair dangling from her captor's still-clenched fingers, she pressed her face to the earth and broke down.

Green corset looked at her and laughed. Sitting down on Ginny's back as if she was a stool, the witch crossed her legs and picked free the torn hair tangling about her fingers. When Hermione's sobs turned into wails that threatened to drown out the chanting, the witch used the flat of her blade to slap the back of Hermione's bowed head hard, momentarily silencing Hermione's cries. Green corset tossed her head and grinned.

At the first opportunity, Harry was going to take that athame away and carve a red grin across green corset's throat. How dare they use him to hurt Hermione. Harry would destroy them for this, all of them. He would take Hermione back and dry her tears with his lips and make sure that the only cries she made from now on were screams of pleasure. He was going to make her his. From now until the end of time.

At last, the sun reached high noon, stabbing directly into Harry's unblinking eyes. The portkey activated. Ginny disappeared, sending both Hermione and the witch sprawling. Green corset squawked in shock and dropped the athame to catch herself from face-planting on the dirt.

The two women ended up face to face. Hermione reacted first. Flipping over onto her bound arms, she quickly wiggled backward, pushing with her feet until she was on top of the dropped athame and grabbing it as best she could with her bound hands.

Eyes going wide, Green corset rolled up onto her side and drew her wand, frantically turning it on Hermione to cast a spell.

Instead of trying to cut herself loose or dodge, Hermione rolled into her enemy, catching the other woman by surprise. As she rammed into the witch's shoulder, the spell went shooting over Hermione's shoulder to hit one of the other members of the coven. Someone screamed and several voices dropped out of the chant.

The Dark magic surrounding Harry wobbled, the pressure becoming uneven.

As Hermione kept rolling over her opponent towards the brandished wand, the small, razor-sharp athame in Hermione's bound hands cut through the green corset and sank into the witch's gut as easily as a spoon into pudding. It wasn't clear whether Hermione had even noticed.

Cries muffled by either pain or the weight of Hermione on her chest, the witch struggled to fight back. Bending her elbow and wrist, she didn't even try for magic, instead jabbing at Hermione's face with her wand. The tip glanced off Hermione's cheek and gouged a furrow in her skin, barely missing her eye. Dropping her chin with a snarl, eyes showing too much white, Hermione sank her teeth into the witch's wrist, making the fingers spasm and drop the wand. Hermione finished rolling off the witch's body, ripping the now-bloody athame out of the witch's side.

Landing on her belly, Hermione lunged forward and scooped up the wand with her teeth. Blood was smeared across her mouth and cheeks. She rolled several more times before landing on her back and wiggling frantically from side to side, obviously trying to cut herself loose.

The coven was slow to react, too busy focusing on the end of their ritual. Too slow.

Hermione didn't hesitate. The second she'd unbound her hands, she dropped the athame and surged up with forearms covered in red slices, spitting the wand out into her hand and casting curses indiscriminately in all directions.

Unlike the coven, who were clumped together to watch Harry drown and birth their new creation as they chanted, Hermione didn't have to worry about hitting an ally. She was alone up there. The witch who reacted first didn't realize the danger, casting a clumsy cutting curse at Hermione that went wide and took out at the knees (literally) the two witches trying to attack Hermione from behind. Multiple screams and shrieks filled the air overhead.

Magic boomed, sending out a scythe of light. The liquid in the pool churned and the chanting faltered. Harry could barely see through the froth. The shadows overhead were fighting. Hermione's shrieks sounded unhinged, her sanity on the cusp of shattering as she fought. A body flew overhead and hit a clump of figures like a bowling ball. The head of the coven wheezed as an elbow landed in her throat and for a few seconds—the chanting stopped.

The magic in the pool faltered.

And the previously unrelenting pressure… relented.

If Harry had been in control of his body, he would've bared his teeth in a vicious smile. He didn't need a bloody engraved invitation. The only blood in the water from here on out was going to be the blood of his enemies. Soul stripped down to bare essentials, Harry prowled out of his hiding place.

The chanting overhead restarted, fervent and loud but with fewer voices and a more ragged intonation. It wasn't going to be enough. The coven was doomed. The spell they'd created didn't have a way to recover from that hiccup, though it might've been fine if the magic had been given a chance to recover. Harry wouldn't give them that chance. He was already out and swinging.

Like most people, they'd underestimated him. Like he'd said before—sloppy. It was going to get them all killed.

Good.

Harry seized that moment of weakness and pitted his will against the magic of an entire Dark coven. There was no possibility of failure because he wouldn't allow it. There was only victory and death.

Their deaths.

Ramming against the artificial personality invading his body, he knocked it down, put a boot to its metaphorical throat, and thundered in parseltongue flavored with death magic, "~GET OUT!~"

The personality matrix shattered and the snake's soul slipped free. Harry instinctively tugged on his new powers over death and the veil ripped open like a maw beneath the feebly wiggling soul of the snake. There were things waiting on the other side, happy to gulp it down. Harry let the veil slide shut but left the space between worlds thin. After all, there would be more souls crossing over before the day was done.

With the personality routed, it took minimal effort to reclaim his body for what remained of his soul. There was a lot more space than he was used to filling. He'd made sure to shelter everything about Hermione deep in the most protected center of his soul before starting the necessary triage. A cursory look, however, led him to believe that he'd lost most of what had once made him (want to be) soft and good.

The light of a spell shot over the surface of the water. One of those witches had aimed it at Hermione, trying to hurt her. Harry didn't need softness to deal with that. He didn't need restraint. There was no good in the world—greater or otherwise—to balance out damaging or destroying Hermione Granger.

We are what we must be. Nothing was ever free of consequences and every gift had a hidden price. If he wanted something, it wasn't just going to fall into his lap. If he wanted something, he had to fight to take it. Struggle wasn't bad or good. Neither was power, passion, or hunger.

It simply was what it was.

Harry flexed his magic and muscles. His head broke the surface of the water with a quiet ripple. Everyone was too distracted fighting to notice. Air filled his lungs and he exhaled.

Everything felt new. Sharp. Glittering. Bright. Painful… for his enemies at least. It felt magnificent to be in control again, able to blink his eyes and turn away from the light. He'd gained a new appreciation for shadows. Harry had never realized how gorgeous the world could be when you didn't have to worry about things like regret. Dignity. Appearances. Morals. He was still alive and wearing the mantle of the Master of Death. He would get vengeance on his enemies and make Hermione safe.

Hermione was and forevermore would be HIS.

Hermione had taken out three more of the coven while he'd been distracted, but they still had the advantage of numbers. She blocked two spells from the front, only to be hit in the back by a streak of red light from the wand of a blond girl who looked like she should still be in the schoolroom. Hermione collapsed.

She didn't get up again, didn't even seem to be moving.

The light dimmed, the air quaked, and countless hungry mouths pressed against the veil, willing to feed until Harry's pain was sated (they'd be feeding forever). They'd been drawn close by the Dark magic of the coven's ritual, though none of the coven members seemed to have noted their presence. Perhaps he should change that—part the veil and let them come through to pick off the coven one by one. Of course, getting them to leave after that might be a problem… someone else's problem.

Before Harry could do something violently cataclysmic, a thread of sanity shoved to the forefront of his mind and stridently pointed out that she wasn't dead. Harry shook himself and realized that not only did he not feel her soul currently unmooring and crossing over, but he knew that red spell. It was a Stupefying Charm. Hermione wasn't dead, merely stunned.

Harry forced himself to breathe and push back the ravenous hordes, thickening the barrier between them. It was difficult. He could tell that they didn't want to go and would hover nearby in case he changed his mind. He didn't force them to go far. He'd be sending over a few snacks in just a moment anyway.

The young blond who'd stunned Hermione grinned in triumph and relief, bouncing on her heels. An older blond witch that looked similar enough to be a relative clapped her on the back. The older woman wiped away a trickle of blood from her nose. She waited for a nod from the coven leader and then moved over to Hermione's prone form. The younger blond moved out of her way with a quick smile and bowed head, stepping backwards, putting her close to the pool. And closer to Harry.

Everyone was focused on Hermione with cruel anticipation. Nothing that happened next was going to be nice.

For them.

Lifting himself up and out of the pool, Harry extended his hand and tugged on thin air even as he strode forward. The Elder wand dropped into his palm. Scooping up the blood-stained athame off the ground in his left hand, unbothered by the shock and panic on the nearest faces at finally noticing his dripping form, he moved without hesitation and shoved the athame into the blond girl's back, sliding it between her ribs and into her heart. He twisted the blade before ripping it back out just to be thorough. She wouldn't be stunning anyone ever again after that.

Not waiting for her body to fall, reacting on pure instinct, he looked up and locked eyes with a brunette with her wand pointed at him and her mouth open on the first syllable of a spell. He'd last seen the hard-eyed brunette when she'd been digging her wand into Hermione's throat hard enough to make her whimper in pain, a successful bid to force Harry to surrender himself to the coven. He didn't hesitate, just raised his wand. He both was and was not surprised to see the green of an Avada Kedavra shoot from his wand.

The green light zipped past the older blond witch, who was half-way through casting a spell on the defenseless Hermione at her feet. Not waiting to see if his spell hit true on the brunette and not willing to risk taking the time to bring his wand around for the blond, Harry jumped forward, pivoted, and sliced the athame across the older blond's throat, ending her spell mid-word.

He could feel the three witches all dying within seconds of each other. Their souls had barely unmoored from their bodies before they were slurped through the veil and pounced upon by the hungry horde. The old Harry would be horrified. It should probably bother the new him too.

It didn't.

After all, soon there'd be more than just three.

Needing a free hand, he threw the athame at the coven leader, who'd made the mistake of moving and catching his attention. Luck more than skill had the athame hitting blade-first instead of handle-first. Harry had always been lucky. The athame sank into the witch's upper chest. He couldn't tell if it was fatal or not. She staggered and dropped with a cry. There was no time to follow-up.

Harry dropped to one knee and used his now-free hand to grab the shoulder of the witch with the sliced-open throat, lifting her up and using her as a shield over Hermione's body and for himself against the spells now being hurled at him by the remaining members of the coven. He could feel several spells hitting the body, causing it to almost jerk out of his hold.

He could also feel Hermione's breath on his wet skin. It felt nice, a sweet reassurance that she was still here with him.

A spell sliced across his outer thigh. It hurt, but wasn't debilitating. Nevertheless, it made him mad. More mad. Harry turned his wand on his enemies, spitting green sparks to remove them as quickly and efficiently as possible from the playing field. The spell came much easier than he'd expected. That didn't bother him either (the parts of him that would be bothered were already gone).

The coven leader was down but not dead. Rising up on her elbow, she lifted a shaky wand in his direction, only to falter as she started coughing up blood. Unable to aim her wand, much less speak, she dropped her wand and fell back down onto her side. A rattling wheeze left her mouth as her fingers weakly scrabbled at the earth.

A branch snapped. Harry looked up to see the fleeing back of a witch gulping down sobs as she tried to run away into the trees. Maybe she was too lazy, stupid, or young to have learned how to apparate away. She'd never get the chance to change that now. Harry hit her in the center of the back with a killing curse and turned away, dismissing her from mind. There were no attackers left.

Harry checked on Hermione again, straightening out her limbs so they looked more comfortable. The action left smudges of blood on his hands. He frowned. He didn't like seeing Hermione's blood, nor proof of her pain. He didn't like it at all (major understatement). Her head slipped sideways, sending curls over her eyes. Licking her blood absently off his fingers, he paused for a moment to savor the idea that he was probably the only person alive who knew how she tasted. Only him, no one else. Lips crooking, he indulged himself by smoothing the curls back off her face.

A sound made him turn back towards the coven leader. She was still alive, along with Green Corset. Neither was a threat anymore. Harry's lips slipped down into a frown as he decided what to do with them.

He could kill them, but that seemed too easy (for them). The coven leader should see the bad consequences of her leadership and choices. She should regret what she'd done and wallow in the bitterness of failure. If she'd only taken Ginny, he still would have wanted to see her punished, but he would have been content with an arrest and stint in Azkaban. However, she never should've taken Hermione and she especially shouldn't have used Harry to hurt Hermione or vice versa. That had sealed her fate. The resulting slaughter of her young coven was just a natural consequence of that. She'd turned him into someone who killed without remorse. She had made him do this. It didn't matter what or who he'd have chosen to be otherwise. This was what life had made him—what she had made him.

All choices had consequences.

Crouching down next to the coven leader, he put his elbows on his knees and waited. The barely scabbed over slice on his thigh started seeping blood again. He'd deal with that later. Face twisted with bitterness and pain, the witch gave a pitiful snarl and ripped the athame from her chest, perhaps intending to attack him with it. Harry didn't bother reacting. Her actions merely hastened the inevitable as bright blood gushed rapidly from the wound. Blade and hand dropped. Her breath rattled and the light had faded from her eyes for good. Her soul hadn't even fully detached from her body before the creatures she'd inadvertently summoned with her hubris surrounded her and started ripping off chunks as they dragged her through the veil.

Sighing, Harry stood up and looked around for any loose ends to deal with before he could move on to the next chapter of his life—the chapter featuring Hermione. A whimper reminded him of the witch in the green corset. Without some sort of medical intervention, she would almost certainly die. The stab wound in her side looked and smelled like it had ruptured her intestines at a minimum, causing it to leak stomach acid and fecal matter inside her body. It was possible she might die of blood loss first, but it was just as likely that she'd spend a couple days in extreme agony as infection and acid ate away at her from the inside out before she succumbed to death.

When he'd seen her hurting Hermione earlier, he'd vowed to cut her throat the first chance he got, but to be honest, he'd already done that to someone else and it hadn't been all that satisfying. Besides, by all rights she should be Hermione's kill, not his. However, once he revived Hermione he doubted she'd have any interest in finishing the job.

On the one hand, a quick death would be merciful. On the other hand, all of Harry's mercy had been destroyed in that watery pit.

Nevertheless, he should still leave her alive. It was only pragmatic. That way, if anyone ever asked, he could honestly say that Hermione hadn't killed anyone and that he hadn't killed the entire coven either (word choice was important when truth serums were involved), and that he didn't know what had happened after he'd escaped with Hermione. Better to keep them both safe than have to say sorry (to Hermione) for killing a bunch of Aurors and Ministry officials for sticking their noses into his and Hermione's business.

After checking Hermione again, he walked over to green corset, who was slowly trying to crawl away into the forest. That or she was aiming for the dead witch so she could get her hands on a wand. Either way, Harry wasn't going to allow it. Using magic, he jerked her to her feet and bound the alternately crying and cursing witch hand and foot with first magic and then several lengths of ropes left over from tying up Hermione. Blood from the gut wound had stained the bottom half of the witch's green corset a muddy brown.

The thought of mud gave him an idea. Going over to the pool he'd just almost died in, he removed all of the potion and vanished it, returning it to an empty pit. That done, he started searching the bodies. It only took a couple of minutes to remove all of the wands and magical items. He returned Hermione's wand to her wand holster and tucked his old wand into his pocket as a backup. The Elder Wand would insist on being his primary wand from now on.

Finding Essence of Dittany was good luck. He gently rubbed it over the cuts on Hermione's arms and plush lips, happy to see the wounds immediately growing new skin and looking much better. If he spent more time than necessary checking her for unseen wounds or slid his open mouth across the newly healed lines of petal-soft skin on her arms and cheek to reassure himself that she was alright, if he buried his face in her cloud of curls and just breathed her musk in in an attempt to find some emotional equilibrium, well, no one was there to judge him for it or make him stop. He wanted more of her, but decided regretfully that she should be awake for that part and that a clearing full of dead bodies probably wasn't the best place to start advancing their relationship. He perfunctorily smoothed some dittany over the slice on his thigh and a few other cuts and bruises before capping the bottle, not wanting to distract Hermione with his wounds once she was awake again. That done, he put everything into a bag and tucked it into her larger-on-the-inside robe pocket.

He'd prefer to leave with her now, but it felt too risky to just disappear without doing a thorough job cleaning up. Harry had a lot of experience with cleaning, even if not exactly in cleaning up a bunch of dead bodies. The basic principles still applied. It didn't take long to levitate the dead witches one by one along with all of their trash and dump it into the muddy pit with the body of the dead snake. Even with all of them, there was still a lot of room left.

Harry turned to look at where he'd left the bound witch in the green corset. She swore at him and tried to hawk up a glob of spit, only for the strain on her belly to cause her to curl up with a harsh grunt. The glob of spit slid down her cheek and matted in her hair. He couldn't summon up any pity. She would've done worse to Hermione. She and her friends had tried to do worse to him. Nevertheless, he still wasn't going to kill her. He may not have any mercy left, but that didn't mean he was cruel. (A lie, but a self-indulgent one he might trot out for Hermione if necessary. He had no illusions about the kindness of what he planned on doing next. It was more cruel than just killing the witch outright. She deserved it.)

Eyes hard as he remembered the witch backhanding Hermione and then fisting a hand in her hair to force her to look at Harry's lifeless body, purposely trying to break her spirit, he didn't bother being gentle as he used his magic to jerk green corset up into the air and sent her flying up over the pit. Despite panting from pain, the witch managed to gather enough breath to swear crudely at him. Raising one eyebrow, he responded by moving his wand delicately back and forth to send her floating higher up into the air. It made him think fondly of little first-year Hermione Granger pretentiously teaching Ron how to pronounce, 'Wingardium Leviosa.' Some days he could almost thank Voldemort and Quirrell for sending that troll into the school and kick-starting his friendship with Hermione.

Once he judged that the witch was high enough up in the air, he unceremoniously ended his spell. Green corset shrieked and dropped like a rock into the pit, landing on the bodies of her dead friends with a sickening crunch. With her arms and legs bound, she would be stuck in whatever position she'd landed in. At least she'd be able to blink her eyes and turn her head. That was more than Harry had been able to do.

For a few seconds all was quiet and then a pained whine sounded. The fall hadn't killed her. Tough luck. Harry wasn't going to kill her either. He'd let the gut wound do that. He'd heard that it was a terrible way to die. Pity. (Not that she'd had any pity for others before or he had any left for her now.) Maybe if she was really lucky (for a given definition of luck), a wild animal would follow the smell of rot and eat her first. Either way, she'd have a lot of time to regret her actions and suffer the consequences. That was the important thing.

Showing that he could be magnanimous, Harry covered the top of the pit to keep the sun from hurting the witch's eyes like it had tormented his. And then, good will exhausted, he cast an illusion on the cover so no one would notice that it wasn't just another patch of forest floor and try to save her before nature could take its course.

The forest glade now looked peaceful, empty except for the beautiful girl sleeping on the grass. If Harry hadn't just almost died in that hidden pit, he'd think nothing bad had ever happened here. Good.

Kneeling down by her side, Harry cupped Hermione's cheek in his hand. A drop of water fell from his hair and landed on her skin, acting like a magnifying glass for a smattering of freckles. He loved her freckles. Smiling crookedly, he wiped away the drip.

A tremor of nerves bubbled up unexpectedly. What if she didn't like the new Harry? Nibbling on his lower lip, he traced the shell of her ear and tugged gently on her earlobe. It was so soft, soft like Hermione's heart. He shook his head sharply. Out of everything in his life, she had always been true. Even when they disagreed, it wasn't because she didn't care for him. It wasn't because she wasn't trying her best. She didn't deserve his doubt. He would trust in her still, trust that she'd gracefully accept the new changes just like she'd done each time he'd returned to her after summer break or a traumatizing encounter with Voldemort. When he had nothing else, he had his belief in Hermione. She'd always fought for and believed in him. She wasn't someone who changed her mind easily. Now was the time to act and throw his doubts by the wayside. She was his and he was hers.

Pressing a kiss to her freckled cheek, Harry breathed her in and then sat back just enough to cast the Reviving Spell. Hermione's eyelashes trembled against her cheeks, but she didn't open them right away. Perhaps she was afraid of who or what she'd be waking up to. Perhaps she thought Harry's hand on her cheek mere wishful thinking. If she'd let him, he'd make all her wishes come true.

"Hermione, wake up for me," Harry crooned.

A tremor went through her body and her eyes squeezed shut. Then, as if ripping off a bandage, her eyes popped wide open. She jerked and immediately zeroed in on his face. Her hand shot up and grabbed at his shoulder in a too-tight grip as her eyes traced over his features with yearning hope mixed with fearful suspicion.

"Is it really you?" she asked in a small, raspy voice.

"Yes." He gave her a gentle smile. (All his gentleness was reserved for Hermione now.)

Lips pressing tight, she swallowed and dropped her eyes. "What's my favorite color then?"

"You tell people it's red."

She nodded slowly, shrinking in on herself and going pale, hand falling from his shoulder. Harry continued, "You say that because you're afraid people will think you're silly or indecisive if they find out that it's really rainbow. You don't think you should have to limit yourself and you decided that rainbow is more exciting and pretty at the age of four and refuse to ever change your mind."

Gasping wetly, she surged up and threw her arms around his neck in a desperate embrace that felt like home. "It is you! Oh Harry, I thought you were dead! I thought—'' Cutting herself off, she buried her face in his shoulder. He could feel the buzz of her lips chanting his name against his throat.

It made him have to swallow hard and blink a few times to clear his throat and eyes. Dear, sweet Hermione. "Shh, I'm here. I've got you and I'm never letting you go. Never." Voice touched with gravel, Harry stroked his hands up and down her back, reveling in the feel of her body pressing close to his. She was so warm, so alive. He would do everything in his considerable power to keep her that way and near him always. "We're together now. You're safe."

Abruptly Hermione pushed away from him. Harry wasn't expecting it and didn't have time to tighten his hold before she was jumping to her feet and drawing her wand. She spun to stand over him protectively and growled, "The coven!" Moving her head from side to side, she searched the glade, obviously ready and willing to defend him from all comers. A muscle started jumping in the corner of her jaw as she ground her teeth, obviously thinking about the recent trauma.

"Hey, we're fine. It's all taken care of," Harry soothed. He looked up at her with a besotted smile. He thought about telling her that they were mostly all dead, but wasn't sure that would make her happy. Hermione deserved to be happy. Standing guard over him, she looked so fierce and cute. Delectable.

Admiration turned to hunger. He wanted to close his teeth around that throbbing muscle in her jaw and leave a mark. If she let him, he'd put his mouth on her and mark a lot of things. Everytime she looked in the mirror, he wanted her to see evidence of how much he wanted her and that she was adored. He wanted everyone who looked at her to know that she belonged with him—that they were a matching set. He would start with a ring. Yes, Hermione Potter had a lovely ring to it, though marriage (both magical and legal) was only the beginning when it came to binding her to his side (and binding her to what remained of his soul). He really had gotten lucky with her. (Maybe later—maybe soon—they'd both get lucky together.)

Hermione shook her head and frowned, not willing to be placated yet. "What about Ginny? She disappeared."

"I gave her a timed portkey. It whisked her away to safety. There's nothing left to worry about." Harry realized that he was actually glad instead of irritated that he hadn't had time to give the portkey to Hermione instead. If he had, she wouldn't be here with him now.

Hermione's shoulders went down a hair but she still looked too keyed up. She circled him, keeping herself between him and any perceived danger as she continued scanning the clearing. It was too much distance right now after everything that had happened. He needed her closer, needed to touch, needed that connection.

As she passed in front of him Harry reached out and touched her leg. "Hermione." She immediately stopped and looked down at him with a crease between her brows. "I took care of it." He squeezed once and rubbed the back of her thigh with his thumb before letting his hand drop.

Biting her lip, Hermione looked away over her shoulder and then back down at Harry. "But they…."

As friends, Hermione often touched Harry, grabbing his arm to drag him around, hugging him in excitement, and leaning against him as she read. Harry always welcomed her in his space (reveled in it), but he rarely initiated touch. He hadn't trusted himself to know when to stop, had been afraid his fingers would linger and that people would see and make (accurate) assumptions. That was then, not now. He wasn't afraid anymore and he didn't care about other people. He only cared about Hermione. He was going to take care of Hermione.

"I took care of it," he repeated evenly. "Now let me take care of you."

Curling a hand around her ankle, Harry slowly rose to his feet, keeping contact with her warm curves the entire time. Eyes going dark, Hermione's lips parted and she shivered beneath his touch. Harry's fingers dragged over her knee and up her strong thigh, across the gentle roundness of her hip, and dipped into the indent at her waist. Ignoring how perfectly his hand slotted into place like a key in a lock, he twisted his wrist and lightly traced the back of his fingers up her quivering side and along the soft, outer swell of her breast. Pink suffused her cheeks. Not allowing himself to linger, he caressed across her shoulder and finally reached warm, bare skin as he slid his fingers up the column of her throat. It sent a spark up his arm and down to his belly.

Harry could feel her swallow and start to pant. His respiration rose in response. Licking his lips, he took her chin in hand and lightly traced his nail along the curve of her lower lip. He could write sonnets and arithmancy equations dedicated to that curve. Hermione gave a shaky exhale that feathered across his fingertips .

"B-but they…" she trailed off with a mumble, breath hitching when he pressed a thumb against her mouth.

"Shhh…."

Her wet tongue glanced off the pad of his thumb and Harry's stomach clenched. He wanted to press his thumb inside her mouth and see if she'd try to stop him… or if she'd instinctively suck—but no. Not here. She couldn't relax here where the memories were still so fresh. Soon though. Soon.

"You don't have to worry about them anymore. Just about me." Heavy-lidded, Harry indulged himself by rubbing his thumb back and forth across the seam of her lips. Her eyelashes fluttered and she swayed towards him unconsciously. She didn't even realize how tempting she was… or that he was no longer a man willing to resist temptation.

Crowding close and sliding around her body, keeping in constant contact, he molded himself against her back with a pleased hum and moved his hand down to wrap around the vulnerable line of her throat, covering her jumping pulse with the press of his thumb. He wanted to merge their heartbeats, to become the blood pulsing in her veins, to have her in his heart and warming every corner of his body with the pleasure of having her forever near.

Unable to help himself, Harry pushed up on her jaw, making her neck arch and quiver with strain as he tipped her head back until it rested on his shoulder. Turning his head, he ran his lips over the newly healed wound on her temple and breathed in the scent of her skin. Delicious. He could stay like this forever. He wanted to crawl inside her skin and never come out.

"H-Harry?" Hermione's voice quivered uncertainly. In contrast, she had relaxed into the pull of his body, not fighting his possessive touch. The hands by their sides brushed. She turned her hand, hesitated a moment, and then intertwined their fingers with a sense of entitlement. Good. Friends didn't press close and hold hands like this. Anyone looking at them would assume them to be lovers.

"Harry…" she sighed sweetly, closing her eyes trustingly and resting within his embrace. The sun kissed her upturned face, highlighting her with a heavenly glow. He wanted to kiss each of those freckles just as worshipfully.

Oh how he loved her with every piece of his remaining soul. His heart sang in delight. One day he might even find it in himself to thank the coven for today's work. First he had to explain to Hermione what had happened to him though.

Later. Much later.

For now, he had much more enjoyable plans.

"Hermione," he breathed just for the pleasure of saying her name. "My Hermione. Mine." Turning his face into the shadowed fall of her hair, Harry smiled and apparated them both away.