Harry gazed out dully from within the confines of his prison. His wrists hung flimsy over the two metal bars that crossed lengthwise, conveniently placed at about shoulder-height for him. Dozens of similar, black rods dropped the ceiling to the floor, the only thing separating him from the outside world. Behind him he could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of water leaking in from the ceiling someplace. He hardly cared anymore. There were no windows in this dungeon, just row after row of cold, gray stone, each block more identical than the next. The whole place carried the stench of death, sewer, and rotting garbage. The room was scarcely larger than the cupboard under the stairs where he used to live, and that made the horrid odor worse. Dead rats littered the floor of the passageway outside; this he knew from the Death Eaters that came in every now and again to feed and water him. Little by little he was starting to lose his humanity, and instead felt more like cattle, kept alive only for his meat.
His raven-black hair had always been impossibly untidy, but now it hardly looked like hair at all. It had grown slightly shorter than shoulder length, and resembled the end of a mop that had been used to scrub the floor, wrung out, and plopped on his head. Someone-he couldn't remember whom, through all his feverish dreams-had taken his glasses, but he was almost glad for this. He had no desire to see the real wretchedness of this place, this Stone Hedge of Death Eaters. Harry had also never been particularly well built, but his stay here had only worsened his figure. Now he was nothing more than a lifeless layer of skin that had been stretched over a skeleton.
Days, weeks, years he'd been here; he wasn't even sure anymore. He had stopped counting long ago. He'd stopped thinking he was going to be saved not long after. For the first short while of his capture he had cried endlessly. Now he was completely drained of tears. He wasn't angry, upset, or depressed anymore. He had passed through all the stages of death: disbelief, anger, sadness, depression. Now he had reached acceptance. He was going to die; in fact, it was all he wanted. But Voldemort wouldn't even give him that. For a fleeting moment he wanted to join the Death Eaters, anything to escape this hell. But he wouldn't allow it. Harry knew his fate-he was to rot away down here, alone, abandoned, until the last bit of his life was drained from him.
The fact that he no longer had any friends wasn't Voldemort's fault, really. Ron Weasley, his very best friend from school, had taken a job at the International Ministry of Magic. This caused a bit of a rift between them. They had drifted apart, as childhood friends very often do. Harry hadn't spoken to him since graduation two years ago. In his sixth year at Hogwarts, he had fallen deeply in love with his other best friend, Hermione Granger. However, a couple months before his capture, she had broken up with him. The conversation had been playing in his mind like a broken record ever since it had happened.
"Harry, I need to talk to you."
"Sure love, what's on your mind?"
"No, no stop calling me that. This is serious."
"But I always call you that."
"Well, stop. It's only making things harder…"
"Oh my god…Hermione, you're not…not breaking up with me…are you?"
"I-I'm sorry, Harry. I have to. It's…I just can't see you anymore. Oh, it wasn't supposed to start like this. Harry, you know I still love you. I always will. But…you know how You-Know-Who has had it in for you ever since you were barely a year old. Four times he's tried to kill you. And four times he's very nearly succeeded. You're a strong wizard, but you're not omnipotent. You-Know-Who…well, he's hardly even human anymore. I don't want you to die, Harry, but…but if you do, I don't think I can take the heartbreak. If you die, it'll be easier for me to deal with if-if I'm not in love with you. Being in love with you…god, that'll kill me. I honestly think it will drive me to my grave if I'm still dating you when you die. I'm sorry, but this is how it has to be."
Great Merlin, how he'd cried after that. She left before he could get over the shock. Which was probably best, because once it had sunk in, he had the biggest fury of hysterics of his life. He screamed at every little thing that upset him, driving Hedwig out of the house at the noise. He hadn't seen Hermione since.
Her attitude seemed to be the attitude of the friends he had left as well. All were terrified of getting too close to him; fearful it would break their hearts too much to lose him. Yet ironically, this was when he needed them most. He could understand where they were coming from. If he knew that Hermione wasn't going to live for long, or that Voldemort was after her, he'd probably do the same as she did. But not for very long. No matter how he might try to change his heart, it is virtually impossible to intentionally change how one feels about a person. Yes, it would be murder to his soul to let her die, but he couldn't force himself to fall out of love with her so it wouldn't hurt anymore. No, he wouldn't do that. Rather, he'd risk his life to save her, so that as much as it would hurt, at least he wouldn't have any feelings of helplessness. He had tried, and knowing that might be what would help him heal.
But enough of the suppositions. He wasn't in that situation, and he had lost the last shred of hope that he would ever see his Hermione again. He was going to die down here, alone and friendless, simply because he was Harry Potter. He released a slow, agonized sigh. It wasn't the stone and metal that imprisoned him. It was his very own name.
From a little down the way he heard the click of heels against the smooth stone floor. It was probably just another Death Eater, come to play cruel games with him before he was fed. He felt no dim trace of pain on his scar, so it was more than likely a new member of the hideous cult. When it was Voldemort who came, his scar burned; when it was an old Death Eater, the burning was mitigated. The older the member, the more intense the pain. He didn't bother to lift his head up to see if he was right. It just wasn't worth it. The most comforting thought he had at the moment was, maybe they've come to finish me off at last.
The figure, clothed in dusty black robes from head to toe, stopped at his cell. A hood covered its face, and the robes were so long that when it stuck out its wand, its hands were covered as well. It looked almost like a dementor, which it very easily could have been, except that it carried no foul odor of death. If anything, a rather pleasant, familiar aroma emanated from the creature. This puzzled Harry, but not enough to concern him. He stepped wearily back from the iron grating to allow the creature entrance.
"Finally come to kill me, have you?" he said in a broken voice. "Well it's about time, you know."
The creature hissed. "Sh, Harry, don't talk like that!" it whispered. The voice was soft and feminine. An electricity of recognition shot down his back, temporarily paralyzing him. He could hardly believe his ears. Her voice was unmistakable, and yet…he shook his head as though trying to force the thought from his mind. No, it's impossible. You've been in here far too long. You've started to hallucinate again.
"Wh-who are you?" he whispered back. Quiet as he was, his voice broke the silence of the echoing passageway. The figure paused and tilted her head slightly to the side.
"You don't remember me?" she replied, almost brokenheartedly. She held her wand between her clenched teeth, grasped the hems of her hood with both hands, and pulled it back. Tight ringlets of sandy brown spilt down her shoulders, and amber-colored eyes sparkled mischievously at him. Everything-her petite nose, her kissable lips, her soft smile-seemed like that of an angel. An angel of mercy. Harry hadn't experienced the sight of anything so sweet in such a long time that he began to weep. He reached his hands through the bars, framing her beautiful face in his rough, worn hands. Her skin felt simply too silky to be allowed.
"Hermione?" he choked out, his voice thick with the tears he was still trying to restrain. God, she was beautiful. She nodded and pressed her own hands against his, as though trying to keep his hands right there on her cheeks. He was so cold, but through his hands he could feel her warmth flowing right into him, warming every part of him. He didn't deserve anything as good as this.
She allowed him a moment or two to savor their reunion, and then gently pulled his hands away from her. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask her, a thousand things to say, but he knew she had something to accomplish first and had to let her do it. She glanced warily around her lest someone discover she wasn't what she said she was, and pulled her hood back up.
"Yes, now, Dumbledore and I have been working on a countering spell for these bars, based on the spells used in Azkaban. Now I think…if I try…" she trailed off, and began muttering her thoughts out loud to herself. Harry sniffled, refusing to get his hopes up too high. As much as he loved her and wanted desperately for it to work, it was doubtful the magic of a 19-year-old witch could surpass that of an ancient evil. Still, whatever she did was worth a try at least. She ran the tip of her wand along the smooth, even metal, murmuring a series of complicated spells Harry had never heard of before. He would have gladly helped, but when he was visited, the Death Eaters said the spell in a tone so low he couldn't make out a word. But he had seen the wand movements, and kindly walked Hermione through those.
"When the Death Eaters come in every once in a while, they streak their wand down this bar…right here…yeah…like that…and run it like this across the bars…that's it…" Not for nothing, though, did she graduate at the top of her class. Suddenly the bars began to glow a brilliant, blinding shade of green. A trail of scarlet formed in the rugged shape of a door, and this quickly melted away. The coloring subsided, leaving the way clear for her to enter or him to exit. His heart pounded so loudly in its cavity, he wondered at the fact that no one had yet heard it and found them out. Hermione's hand was quivering, clear evidence that she hadn't really expected it to work. For a moment they stood there, just looking at each other, marveling in their success and disbelief.
The electricity that had Harry momentarily paralyzed faded away. His muscles were weak, but somehow he found the energy to run to Hermione and throw his arms around her, collapsing into her arms at the same time. He held her so close to him that she nearly couldn't breathe. In his rash excitement, he almost brought her to the floor. She stumbled, but kept her footing. In fact, she couldn't help laughing at the thrill of seeing him again, of being so close to him. Her hood toppled back off her head, but she didn't bother to fix it.
"Oh Hermione, you don't know what it's been like, lying here day after day, wondering if I'll ever see you again…I was so convinced I'd lost you forever…" He knew he should have kept his voice down in case they found him here, escaped, but he couldn't help it. All of his weariness, his pain, had subsided the moment he saw her face again. Now all that pain was nothing but sheer ecstasy. Still, there was a thought that lingered, one question that stood out prominently from the rest. He pulled himself away from her enough to give her a bewildered look. "But Herm, why? I thought you said you didn't want to be with me anymore. I'm going to die, Voldemort is going to kill me, there's no doubt of that…it's not fair for you to stick around and watch me die. So why did you come back?"
Her eyes glistened, swimming in a reservation of tears. She shook her head stubbornly. "No, it's not fair, but not for me. I was the one being unfair. I was the one being greedy and cruel. I realized it a couple weeks after I left you, but I was too afraid to admit it. I wasn't giving you the benefit of the doubt. You're a strong wizard, Harry. Half a year you've been here, and you're still alive. Most who are brought here die within days. You have a sort of magic that certainly rivals You-Kn-I mean, Voldemort's." She shuddered at the sound of the name, but he was relieved to hear it. For ages he'd been trying to convince her to say it, same as Dumbledore had been trying to convince the rest of the wizarding community. "I believe now that you can survive him if you truly try. And besides, what if he does kill you? Don't you deserve to experience love the same as everyone else? More so, really. The real tragedies lie in those who die unloved. I don't want you to die unloved, Harry. I love you. I came to tell you that. If we don't make it out of here, that's all right, because at least I'll have told you that."
This was quite a mouthful for her to say, but he was glad she did. A strange warmth overcame him, unlike any he had ever experienced. It was quite indescribable. The closest he could come to explaining it was like a whole pack of butterflies had just been plunged to the very pit of his soul, fuzzy butterflies that gave him this strange sensation in every part of his body. It forced him to smile so strongly it hurt his cheeks. But he couldn't resist. This was by far the best feeling he had ever had, made a thousand times better by all the time he'd spent in the dark, dank dungeon. You have to know the truly bad before you can experience the truly good. He had his Hermione back. That was all that mattered now.
"Hermione, I-I love you too," he replied. He leaned in to kiss her, but he had hardly gotten a taste of the beauty he had so longed for when there came a crashing at the end of the passageway. Hermione slipped her fallen hood back up and turned to run, but it was too late. They had been discovered. A group of about 20 or so Death Eaters, all robed the same as she, charged noisily into the passageway. They were led by one particularly tall figure, with a wand in the aged white hands that protruded from his sleeves, and fiercely glowing red eyes. Harry swallowed hard. Voldemort was coming, and he was without his wand, the only thing that had kept his life separated from his death. When he discovered that Harry had escaped…realization flooded over him like a bucket of cold water. Even if he started now, there was no conceivable way he would be able to flee successfully. He was going to die. And he was going to die now. Maybe he would tease him a little, play with him, torture him, but there was no doubt in his mind that he would be dead before nightfall.
He turned toward Hermione, his beloved, and embraced her, holding her as close to him as he possibly could. "I love you so much, Hermione Granger," he whispered comfortingly in her ear. She had been stiff with uncertainty when he'd hugged her to him, but the reality of it began to sink in and her muscles eased. She wrapped him lovingly in her arms as much as she could, closed her eyes tightly, and said, "I love you too, Harry Potter." Her voice was shaking with fear, and he could hear her whimper softly. But he felt curiously calm about the whole thing. He drew away from her, cupping her chin in his hands.
"Don't be afraid, my pet," he said, soothingly tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "It'll be okay. I'm here. We're in this together, remember? If I can't save you, then I'll go with you. I won't leave your side. Ever. It'll only be for a moment, and then it'll all be over. Just stay by me. Okay?" Tears had started to trickle down her cheeks. She was terribly afraid, and understandably so. After all, she had never had to face death before. But she nodded, struggling to accept her fate. He gave a smile more heartfelt than any he had ever given, and gently kissed the trails of tearstains just below her eyes.
"That's my strong girl," he said quietly. Then he placed his lips softly on hers, and allowed her the most intimate kiss he had ever had. Her tongue ran curiously along the seam of his lips, and this time he opened his mouth and allowed her to taste the sweet inside. They remained locked like that, tongues dancing, bodies heated, until they heard the footsteps halt. It was time. Harry pulled himself slowly away from her lips, winked, and turned to face his enemy.
"I see you've found a way out of your little prison," said Voldemort, his voice like black silk. "Very good, Potter, though now I'm afraid we can't simply put you back in and lock the door. You're far too clever for your own good. Oh, how ironic. The one thing that saved you is the very thing that will destroy you."
Harry stepped protectively in front of Hermione, shielding her with his torso, arms, and legs. He felt her cling tightly to his upper arm. His light emerald eyes met his enemy's blood red ones. Voldemort gave a cold, cruel laugh. "How romantic. You think you can protect the girl same as your parents protected you. Unfortunately Potter [he spat out the name like it had a bad taste], you had defensive powers around you that this girl does not possess. Those are gone now. But don't worry. You'll be together. Forever, in fact. Now what greater gift could I give you?" Behind him, the group of Death Eaters laughed at his sadistic joke. Harry remained unresponsive. He didn't smile or frown. He simply stood, waiting patiently for what he knew was coming.
Sure enough, Voldemort pulled out his wand and pointed it squarely at Harry's nose. He hardly blinked. He wasn't nervous, or angry, or even afraid. He just took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"Avada Kedavra."
Harry saw a flash of green light through his closed eyelids, and felt something like a 600-pound deadweight slam into him. He was on the floor in seconds. He didn't die right away. He was too strong for that. Instead, as he began to swirl into the blissful abyss of unconsciousness, he heard Hermione scream from somewhere far off. It sounded like they were standing on opposite ends of a Quidditch pitch; her voice came from so far away. Death reached out her icy grip for him, but he clung to life just a little longer, wanting to know if he had been able to sacrifice his life for Hermione, wanting to know if she survived. He heard the curse repeated, felt rather than saw the flash of green light, and heard the dull sound of a body hitting the floor. Voldemort had been right-he hadn't succeeded. But at least, he thought as he allowed himself to slip away from life, or rather life to slip away from him, neither of us will have to deal with the pain of losing the other. At least we still have each other.
~