A/N: I think this is the most nervous that I've ever been to release a chapter. It's probably because I've been thinking about this scene for far too many years. I hope that it lives up to your expectations, if not your hopes.

Hermione and Harry whirled through the air, the wind whipping around them with such fury that she could barely draw breath. After what seemed like forever they finally dropped from the sky, landing in an uncoordinated tangle of arms and legs.

Harry rolled to his feet, looking tremendously confused. "Hermione, what the–-"

"Harry, it's a trap," she blurted out, probably unhelpfully. "This was all part of their plan. We need to get out of here!"

She looked around frantically, trying to figure out where they might be. Rows of squat marble tombstones, interspersed with yew trees, surrounded them on nearly every side. There was a church off in the distance. A cemetery, then.

Harry groaned in pain. He had sunk to his knees, his hand pressed tightly to his scar. She rushed to his side, not knowing how to help but still needing to comfort him.

"He's here," Harry said, with a dread that could only mean one thing. "He's here, somewhere."

She surveyed their surroundings again, and found that they were no longer alone. A short, hooded figure carrying a large pack was shuffling down a row of graves, heading directly for them.

Most of her brain was still spinning from the night's events, and her worry for Harry occupied the rest. She froze. She had to do something to defend them both, but suddenly all she could think of were the names of those stupid goblin generals from her exam that morning. Merlin, she needed a spell, she needed a spell now!

"Tarantallegra!" she stammered, too panicked to aim properly. The jinx sailed harmlessly over her target's head, allowing them to slash their wand through the air.

Out of sheer luck she managed a Shield Charm, but it was no use. Something grabbed her neck from behind, hoisting her a good five feet off of the ground, and for the second time that night she lost her grip on her wand.

She squirmed mightily, trying to wrest herself free, but to no avail. She looked to Harry, but he was faring no better. A claw-like tree branch gripped him around the base of his neck, and his wand lay in the dirt under his feet. She had failed him. Whoever had first planted Harry's name in the Goblet, they had outmaneuvered her - outmaneuvered everyone - at every turn. And then she had had another chance, which now felt like her last chance, and the best she had managed was a Dancing Jinx. A Dancing Jinx, of all things. What was the point of all of her knowledge if it vanished from her mind when she needed it most?

Their captor lifted his hood, revealing the tangled, ratty hair and beady eyes that lay below, and surprise displaced her frustration. Peter Pettigrew? That didn't make any sense. How could he have been the architect of all this? How could he have infiltrated Hogwarts for the entire year? Wouldn't Harry have seen him on the Marauder's Map sometime before he had lent it to Professor Moody?

"Very good, Wormtail," said a high, trembling voice that seemed to come from the air. "Now take their wands."

It was his voice, she realized, as Pettigrew put down his pack and shambled towards them. A cold shiver ran down her spine. Her previous thoughts on Pettigrew now seemed so irrelevant.

"You. I saved your life!" Harry fumed, one hand still holding his scar. "You betrayed my parents, and then after I spared you, after you got a chance to start again, you ran right back to him. Coward!"

Pettigrew ignored Harry, stooping down to collect the fallen wands. "My Lord," he said, not yet rising, "what should be done with the girl? His Mudblood friend."

"How dare you call her that!" Harry spat, straining even harder against the tree's grip. His scar gleamed with sweat. "How can you stand there and speak of blood, when you turned traitor against your only friends and then against their only son? You, who sold out the closest thing you'd ever have to relatives, you have the nerve to talk of dirty—"

Pettigrew drew a long knife from within his robes. He took a step towards her, and Harry abruptly ended his tirade.

"Leave the girl, Wormtail. I will deal with her myself, after the ritual is complete. She will serve as an excellent reminder for my Death Eaters."

"Of course, my Lord," said Pettigrew, stowing the knife. Then he left, walking toward the church on the far side of the graveyard.

As scared as she was, she was even more frustrated with herself for not having gotten to Harry sooner. How many seconds had she spent in fear of that Boggart? How many more had she wasted foolishly trying to remove the liquid from that corridor in the maze? If she had been smarter they would be sitting in the common-room right now, relieved by their near-miss, rather than dangling like Christmas ornaments from this accursed tree.

"Why did you chase after me?" Harry pleaded, his voice low. "This is my fight. You shouldn't be here."

The words came to her easily. "You're not alone in this, Harry. There aren't any black flames keeping us from going with you anymore, and we're not just going to sit back and hope for your safety. Not Ron, not Neville, not Ginny, and especially not me."

She spoke quickly, before he could object, telling him as much as she could about what had transpired after he had entered the maze. The one thing she couldn't bring herself to mention was what her breaking of the Imperius Curse had done to Filch. That was her burden to bear, and the last thing she wanted was for him to feel responsible.

"You broke the law for me," he said, sounding mildly surprised.

She flushed red, ashamed of far more than just that. "I didn't think I had any other choice."

"I wish you hadn't," he said. "I should never have let you get so close, never should have put you into such a dangerous situation. I'm not worth it."

"Harry, it's sweet that you worry, it really is, but you didn't allow me to get close, and you didn't put me into anything. I chose this – I chose you – and even now you're worth every branch digging into me. You're the best friend I've ever had, and I'm not letting you die on me. We'll find a way. We'll get you out of here if I have to break every law that the Ministry ever made."

Harry nodded, not quite managing a smile.

She had spoken with more confidence than she felt, but what else was there to do? They couldn't give up, not now, not after fighting through so much to be with each other, not when she knew they still had so much happiness still ahead of them. She just wished she could reach his hand.

Pettigrew reappeared from behind the church, wheeling what she thought for a delirious second was an old tyre. He set up the cauldron no more than ten feet from them, filling it with water from his wand and lighting a fire in the grass beneath it.

"Faster, Wormtail! I have waited long enough for this reunion."

A flash of horror washed over Harry's face, and in an instant she realized why. The voice almost seemed to be coming from Pettigrew's pack, the very pack that he was now reaching for. If You-Know-Who was – was somehow inside that pack, if he had been reduced to a thing that had to be carried around…

Bile climbed up her throat, but she couldn't look away. Pettigrew rose, tentatively clutching You-Know-Who in his arms like it was a manic cat. A hairless, wrinkled ghoul of a cat, pale as bone, with a gaunt face that was at once wizened and child-like.

Harry screamed, his hand clasped to his scar. In the moment before Pettigrew placed his master into the cauldron, Hermione could have sworn that a sick, miniscule smile defiled its face. Harry's screaming stopped once it was underwater, although his breathing remained heavy and ragged. She was powerless to help him.

Pettigrew removed a small vial from his robes, unstoppering it with a shaking left hand.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son." He upended the vial, and a burst of white powder fell into the cauldron.

Pettigrew returned the vial to his pocket and retrieved the long steel knife. He held it in his left hand, which was now trembling so strongly that she was amazed he didn't drop it.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly g-given, you will revive your master."

He stood over the potion, his eyes closed. Then there was a flash of silver, and his right hand tumbled into the cauldron, streams of blood staining the grass around it.

They were beyond screaming now, her and Harry both. A potion brewed with bone and flesh. This was Dark magic, Darker than anything that even the Restricted Section could contain, and the mix of terror and revulsion paralyzed her thoughts.

Pettigrew approached them again, his wand in what was now his only hand. He tapped a tree branch, and it swung down to seize Harry's right arm, immobilizing it. Another tap, and Harry was lowered nearly to the ground. Stowing his wand, Pettigrew grasped the knife once more, and her frozen nerves instantly shattered.

"No! You can't! I'll–-"

Her head swung around as she panicked, and a flash of brown caught her eye. Her wand. It sat, along with Harry's, in an outside pocket of Pettigrew's robe, now only a few feet out of reach. A crazy idea popped into her head, displacing her fright.

Wandless magic. In theory a wand was only a focussing device, not a power source. Magic came from within oneself. In theory. She'd read all about it.

"Accio!" she said. "Accio, Accio, Accio!"

Her wand twitched briefly, she was sure of it. But then Harry gasped, and her attention snapped back to him.

She was almost relieved to see that Pettigrew had only drawn his knife in a line across Harry's palm. Holding the knife between his teeth, he collected drops of Harry's blood in a fresh vial. Once the vial was full he summoned a gag for her and Harry alike, shooting her a toothy grin.

The trickle of blood slowed, but didn't stop, as Pettigrew walked back to the cauldron.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe." After a moment's hesitation he poured Harry's blood into the potion, which immediately caught fire.

Pettigrew staggered backward, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the dazzling light. Before long he sank to his knees, prostrate before the cauldron.

The fire raged more fiercely than any natural blaze, sparks flying off of it in every direction. Its raw heat threatened to scorch her face as swell after swell of hot air crashed against her.

Then it was extinguished, as quickly as if somebody had slammed a lid on top of it. Had the potion gone wrong? For a second she wondered if the incompetent Pettigrew had forgotten to stir, or to cool, or to add some vital ingredient.

It's amazing what people will think in order to feel hope.

The smoke billowing from the cauldron was as black as coal. It must have been heavier than air, for it sank almost immediately to the ground next to the cauldron. It began to look oilier and oilier as it accumulated, and Hermione realized with horror that it was forming the shape of a tall, thin man.

Finally the smoke ceased to flow. There was no liquid left in the cauldron. Hermione could feel her heart pounding in her chest, every drop of adrenaline in her body screaming at her to run, to fight, to do anything but watch the smoky outline harden.

She counted seven heartbeats before the smoke shattered, cracks appearing all through it like an eggshell, and drifted to the ground like black snow.

Harry pounded his feet against the trunk of the tree in clear desperation, but all he accomplished was to send himself swinging.

A statue emerged from the shell, as pale and smooth as alabaster. "My wand and my robe," it spoke, the voice somehow unchanged.

"Yes, my Lord," Pettigrew said. He rose, stumbling quickly to his pack once again. He withdrew a long, silky robe that was hastily cast around his master's shoulders, and a thin wand, the same bright white as his master's skin, that was immediately plucked from his hand.

You-Know-Who turned the wand over in his hand, holding it almost gingerly. "Evanesco."

The gag vanished from her mouth even before he finished the incantation, but it brought her no relief. She had an awful feeling that she knew the reason for this seeming mercy.

"Oh, how I've missed this. I think a little practice is called for before our audience arrives. Wouldn't you agree, Wormtail?"

Pettigrew stammered, no doubt searching for a suitably spineless, acquiescent reply.

You-Know-Who – no, V-Voldemort, her fear of his name seemed utterly pointless given his presence in the flesh – turned to face her and Harry. It was immediately apparent that while the potion might have given him a humanoid body, it had not restored his humanity. His face was unnaturally smooth, almost waxy, highlighting the veins that ran just beneath his near-translucent skin. They all seemed to merge behind his eyes, which were coloured in swirls of red with only a narrow slit for a pupil.

"Crucio!"

It was worse, much worse, than she could have imagined. She convulsed as the pain rose and rose like an endless staircase, and try though she did, frantic screams escaped her lips. Just when she began to think the agony would split her in two, it ended abruptly. Shuddering, she opened her eyes and saw him smiling at Harry.

"It was very kind of you to bring me a Mudblood, Harry. Is she a peace offering?"

Harry tried to reply, but all that penetrated the gag was a high-pitched growl.

"Nothing to say?" Voldemort asked, smiling. "I hope you find your tongue before our other guests arrive. Speaking of which…"

He strode over to Pettigrew, his bare feet barely seeming to touch the ground. The servant kneeled once again, extending the remainder of his left arm like an offering.

"My Lord?"

"Not yet, Wormtail," Voldemort laughed, reaching for Pettigrew's other arm and yanking him roughly to his feet. "It is good that a follower should suffer a while for his Lord, that he should bleed for the crusade he aspires to join. This pain will only strengthen your devotion."

With a single vicious motion he tore the sleeve of Pettigrew's robe, revealing the Dark Mark that lay on the skin below. He ran his finger down its length and the tattoo came to life, slithering in a twisted figure eight. Wormtail gasped. Voldemort released him abruptly and turned away, facing back towards the church.

"It has been fourteen years since they last received that call," he declared. Pettigrew looked around nervously, still clutching his wounded arm. "And now we will learn who has not abandoned the faith, who has not truly renounced the path they once followed me down."

Taking advantage of their lack of attention, Hermione very quietly returned to her attempts at Summoning her wand. "I don't have a plan," she confessed to Harry in a whisper between incantations. "Even if this works. But maybe we still have a chance."

With a loud crack the first two Death Eaters appeared at the edge of the graveyard, wearing silvery masks that concealed their identity. Then there was another crack. And another.

Her wand twitched again. She poured every ounce of her focus into the charm, praying that Pettigrew wouldn't notice.

Just as it seemed her wand might tip out of Pettigrew's pocket, the sounds of Apparition stopped. She glanced up to see that the graveyard had filled with Death Eaters, standing in rows in front of Voldemort like students in a class. She could scarcely believe how many of them there were. In all of Britain there couldn't be more than perhaps twenty thousand witches and wizards, and she had assumed that nothing more than the tiniest percentage of them would have subscribed to the hateful philosophy of the Death Eaters. She had been wrong; the graveyard now held perhaps sixty masked figures who had responded to Voldemort's summons, and this was only his innermost circle, his trusted lieutenants. For every man and woman here, were there five more in the country who sympathized with their cause? Ten? Fifty? The thought was sickening.

Yet as large as the crowd was they made not a sound, and their masks hid any expressions of shock or surprise at the rebirth of their leader. She didn't dare return to Summoning, not with so many eyes looking in her direction.

"My servants," Voldemort intoned, finally breaking the silence.

They knelt, speaking as one. "My Lord." They remained kneeling as Voldemort began to walk down the middle of their formation.

"Fourteen years ago, there were over two hundred Death Eaters in my service. Each and every one of them swore an oath. Fealty to me, and an unquestioning commitment to our mutual cause."

"Yet clearly," he said, gesturing to gaps in their ranks, "there are far fewer of you here tonight. Yes, some of your brothers and sisters have left this world behind, and some still patiently wait in Azkaban for the day we will break them free. And one, my most faithful servant of all, will soon eliminate the final obstacle standing in our way. But for each of those Death Eaters who remained loyal to the end, there are two who have reneged on their word. They have foolishly abandoned me, either out of cowardice or greed. Those who now work at Hogwarts, Durmstrang, or the Ministry itself, and who have refused my summons tonight, have forgotten that I am still the true source of power in this world. They will die for their short-sighted betrayal."

As Voldemort spoke, Hermione began to understand how he had become so feared. It wasn't just the torture, the murder, the terror. Grindlewald had done all of that, she had read, yet even at the apex of his power wizards still spoke his name freely. No, there was something different about Voldemort. His rhetoric was clever and complex, and so she found herself hanging on his every word, but he was not charismatic. His facial expressions were out of sync with his words. He would laugh seemingly at random. His tone was unchanging, almost robotic. He was an empty casket, a shadow of a man, a twisted, perverted interpretation of what it meant to be human.

As his speech carried on, Hermione decided that she had to risk trying to Summon her wand again, before it was too late. With any luck, Pettigrew's attention would be on his master.

"All of you who have returned here tonight have made a wise choice. Yet the less intelligent among you may still hold doubts about your decision. You might have a comfortable job paying plenty of Galleons, you might have children who are young and cheerful, and your spouses may still be attentive and delightful. And yes, your Lord has called, but even if he lives, you think he must be weak, he must be in no condition to return to the fight that once defined your lives."

"You think wrong."

Without so much as looking, Voldemort flicked his wand in the direction of Pettigrew. A silvery liquid flew from it, landing where his servant's hand had once been. He swirled his wand once, twice, and the liquid flowed into the shape of a new hand, hardening slowly. Pettigrew looked at it in amazement, tentatively flexing his new fingers. In spite of everything, Hermione could only look on in awe. It was magnificent magic, the kind she would have believed only Professor Dumbledore capable of.

"It is possible," Voldemort continued, having returned to the front of the graveyard, where he stood next to the tree from which she and Harry were suspended, "that some of you do not recognize our guest of honour. This, my Death Eaters, is Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The hero of Muggle-lovers and fools. Many years ago, I separated Harry from his weak father and his Mudblood mother. Tonight I have brought him to Godric's Hollow, so that I may reunite them at last!"

"But first, an important reminder. Tonight, we are unexpectedly joined by one of Harry Potter's Mudblood friends."

Jeers came from the assembled crowd, among them both names she had heard before and a few that she hadn't.

Voldemort eventually raised his hand, silencing the mob. "Wormtail tells me she's spent the last half hour trying to Summon her wand, and in all that time it hasn't moved a hair's breadth! Such is the magic of the Mudblood. Weak, diluted, useless. They are only the slightest step removed from Muggles. It is revolting that we waste our time on educating them, at the expense of our own true children."

He gestured with his left index finger. Hermione's wand flew swiftly from Pettigrew's pocket into his hand.

"No, there is only one thing," he said, "to be done with a Mudblood." In one smooth motion he snapped her wand in two, dropping the pieces to the ground. His message was abundantly clear. Losing her wand seemed the least of her worries.

The Death Eaters roared, and something deep inside of her splintered. Was there truly any hope? Not just for her, but for her world? How could they fight against this much power, against this much hatred? And if she died here tonight – if she abandoned her friends before their darkest hour – if she abandoned people like Colin, poor innocent Colin…

She looked over at Harry. He was suspended from a tree, gagged, and still bleeding from Pettigrew's cut. He had been forced to watch the monster who had murdered his parents and forever altered his life return to the world. But even now, as he faced the same fate as her, there was still fight in his eyes. He refused to give up, he refused to be defeated, and that resolve rekindled a flicker of hope within her. They weren't dead yet.

"And now," Voldemort continued, "it is time for this story to end. Release them both, Wormtail. And give him his wand. Let us all see how weak he is, with no mother to die for him."

"Relashio," Pettigrew muttered, after shoving Harry's wand into his free hand. The pull at her back vanished, and she and Harry crashed to the dirt below.

"Just stay behind me," Harry whispered, his gag finally gone. "He's trying to put on a show. Maybe – maybe there's some way we can take advantage of that."

He extended his hand to help her up, and didn't let go. "And Hermione, thank you. For everything. You've meant so much to me over the years. And these last few weeks, they've been the best–-"

"You will die alone, Harry Potter!"

They were thrown apart in a flash of white light. Laughter broke out from the Death Eaters. She clambered to her feet and saw that they had moved to form a large circle around her and Harry, blocking off any path of escape. Worse, Voldemort now stood between them, looking down at Harry with a warped smile.

Harry rose to his feet, his wand hand steady. "So will you. Stupefy!"

Voldemort deflected the spell without so much as moving.

"Petrificus Totalus! Everte Statum! Expelliarmus!"

The spells had no effect, even as Voldemort turned his back on Harry to face her instead. She ducked behind a gravestone without even thinking. Fat lot of good it was likely to do, the morbid part of her thought.

A split second later, his Body-Bind Curse caught her in the very top of the head. She fell face-forward, bashing her nose on a large stone.

"Have you ever seen somebody die, Harry? Oh, your filthy Mudblood mother, of course... I'm sure you don't remember, though. There's something so beautiful about it."

An orange glow blossomed in the corner of her vision. Waves of hot air rushed over her back.

"No Harry, you're going to stay right there and watch her burn. You're even going to fan the flames. Imperio!"

For an interminable moment there was dead silence. The ground beneath her was growing steadily hotter. Fear clawed at her from the inside, a caged beast fighting for air. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, but she resisted the urge to close her eyes. Not like this. Not like this. Please, Harry…

His voice crashed through the silence.

"No. I. Won't." he grunted. "Finite! Accio Hermione!"

She skidded across the ground, doing her best to keep her limbs away from the flames, and came to a stop by his feet.

Voldemort scowled. "Enough playtime. Avada Kedavra!"

She yanked Harry down, and the green bolt passed harmlessly over their heads. Voldemort launched another curse at them, and this time Harry was the first of them to react.

"Avada – Expelliarmus! – Kedavra!"

Jets of red and green slammed together with a sound like a thunderclap. A spray of golden light emerged from the collision point, rapidly forming into thin wires that enclosed the two wizards in a shining, cage-like dome.

What in Merlin's name… this was unlike any magic she had ever heard of.

The Death Eaters began to close in. One ran right up to the golden mesh, but was forcefully repelled by a burst of light. His mask was blown clean off, revealing a face that, together with his long silvery-blond hair, was unmistakable. Evidently Lucius Malfoy wasn't one of the Death Eaters who had renounced his past deeds.

"Stay back!" Voldemort yelled, his voice becoming distorted as the dome solidified. "They are mine!"

She stood just behind Harry, getting as close to the magical barrier as she dared. He said something to her, but the wall between them muffled it beyond comprehension.

The beam connecting his wand to Voldemort's began to shake, oscillating rapidly back and forth. Sweat dripped down his face, despite the cold, but he stared resolutely at Voldemort.

It soon became clear that Voldemort was struggling far more than Harry. Both hands held his wand, and they were starting to quiver ever so slightly. Then suddenly he winced, the look of pain out of place on his ghostly face. A light grey cloud burst from his wand, rapidly coalescing into the shape of an elderly man that Hermione didn't recognize. Shortly afterward, another emerged, this time in the form of a middle-aged woman with wire-framed glasses and a messy bun.

There was a pause, a long one, where the only sound was the nervous chattering of the Death Eaters. She looked over her shoulder and immediately regretted it; a group of perhaps a dozen of them stood not five paces behind her, obviously eager to grab her if Voldemort gave the order.

She turned back just in time to see yet another shadow materialize. This one was a young woman, with a kindly face and piercing eyes. She was followed almost immediately by a man with messy hair and glasses almost identical to Harry's. He smiled at her as she took his hand, and she realized that they must be Harry's parents. His mother's - Lily's - mouth moved, and then James spoke as well, but Hermione couldn't hear either of them.

Harry nodded, saying something in return. They talked for a few moments more, and then without warning he flicked his wand upward. The golden wires vanished instantly and he sprinted past her, bowling over the two closest Death Eaters.

"The Cup!" he yelled as she desperately tried to catch up with him. "Where did it go? It's our only chance of getting back."

They weaved in and out of rows of tombstones, searching frantically, as curses whizzed past them. Hermione snuck a glance behind them and saw that the apparitions had swarmed Voldemort and the Death Eaters, slowing their pursuit.

Where had they first landed? She had become hopelessly turned around during the fight, and the whole graveyard looked the same.

"Accio Triwizard Cup!" she tried, but nothing happened. It must have been enchanted.

"Get them!" Voldemort shrieked.

The ground in front of Harry collapsed, crumbling away into nothingness. She grabbed his arm just before he would have plummeted into the chasm, pulling him back to safety.

"Impedimenta!" he yelled, aiming blindly at the crowd that must be right on their tails.

They turned another corner and suddenly there it was, lying gently on its side. The Triwizard Cup.

"Confringo!" screamed Voldemort.

Something slammed into Hermione, sending her flying backwards. An instant later, a massive explosion consumed the space where she had been standing. The shockwave rushed past her, and the world went silent.

A towering ball of flame.

Something splattering onto her legs like paint.

Harry – Harry – Harry!

High above the fireball, a spinning globe of metal and glass reached the apex of its flight and began to fall. One of the Triwizard Cup's handles had been blown clean off by the Blasting Curse. The other dangled by the thinnest strand of glowing metal.

She didn't see the point in reaching for the Cup.

It landed squarely on her chest. Twisted and broken. A jerk in her stomach.

A high, cold laugh. "Harry Potter is dead!"

And then she was spinning – spinning – spinning away from the graveyard and all the souls that there lay in rest.