Tears of the Phoenix

by Aradia17

They use my name in the Light rebel camps sometimes, but when they do, it is uttered as a curse, a filthy name to be spat rather than spoken: Hermione Granger, traitor to the Light side. But they don't understand. No one does. No one can. HHr

15. Promise of an Eternity

14

Promise of an Eternity

"Though this might just be the ending

Of the life I've held so dear

But I won't run

There's no turning back from here

Stand my ground, I won't give in

No more denying, I've got to face it

Won't close my eyes and hide the truth inside

If I don't make it, someone else will

Stand my ground."

--Within Temptation

Harry

I'm in a world all my own, an alternate reality of which I am the sole inhabitant. In one world, my feet may be plunging through the many feet of snow, having difficulty with each step and fighting the urge to stop then and there; my heart may be pounding and my friends may be following me to their deaths, but in my reality, I am all alone in the darkness. I'm walking and walking, just like I am in the forest of my shared reality, but instead of walking towards doom, I'm walking toward a light. Hope, maybe? Life? I don't know, but it is my drive and inspiration to reach that light, for light represents all that is good. Nothing bad can come of the light—only of the darkness.

But here, in the snowy, chilled world of the black forest, there is no light on a distant horizon, no hope or life to work for, to run toward. All that's here is darkness and death, weighing on our shoulders and hanging over our heads with each movement and each passing moment.

I'm the leader and everyone is aware of it. Even Dumbledore follows me now, which would normally be quite a cause for pondering and feeling awkward about, if it weren't for our current circumstances. They will follow me in this battle and for the rest of this night—the rest of our lives. They've placed their complete trust and faith in me by agreeing to do this my way, and they can't take it back now, whether they want to or not. I've gone from being exiled to being the leader of not one, but both groups. It is pressure unknown, pressure unheard of—but in a way it isn't so bad. It isn't like some common battle where I know their lives rest in my hands and in my every decision. Their lives are out of my hands now—I've already made the conscious decision to lead us all to a slaughter. So the pressure of wondering if my decisions in battle will lead us to our graves is off. All that can come from my screwing up in this battle will be us dying sooner. But I still feel the pressure. For we could kill ourselves here and now and do the same amount of damage as we will be should we be struck down in our first moments of battle. I'm doing this to try to make some difference, to prove that we will not back down, to kill even one of theirs. And if I don't accomplish that, I must go to my grave knowing I've failed, and that the blood of everyone I've ever loved rests on my hands.

I am numb as we walk, our feet dragging, nearer and nearer to Hogwarts. It would be easier to Apparate, certainly, but why? Walking may be more gruelling, more tiring, and the wind and snow may be cutting through our clothes and skin to the cores of our bones, but no one is opposing for one simple reason—the longer we walk, the longer we live. These are our final moments, grim and tense as they may be; why cut them short?

Silence has fallen over us all and I wonder if any of us will speak again before the battle. I don't think I could talk if I wanted to; my throat has constricted to the point that it is difficult to breathe. If I'm to be honest with myself, I'm almost anxious for the inevitable face-off. The guilt and pain and nausea can cease then, and the fact that I am starting to face now, the fact that I've been trying to ignore for two years, is that death can be no worse than this life, especially now that I have made peace with all I can. Scary though it is, perhaps that light of my alternate reality does exist here—it is simply disguised as blackness.

Hermione

Harry and I walk side by side, everyone else following in our wake. We are the front lines of our attack, the leaders, the generals. It is very imposing, I must admit, the thought that I have gone from traitor to leader in so short a time. I don't trust myself—I don't understand how they can. But it would feel terribly wrong to be anywhere other than at his side, and despite my discomfort, I don't even consider falling back.

I don't know how Harry feels about our impending deaths, but the fact is that I don't mind things the way they are. I've long since stopped fearing death—I've tried to bring it on myself a few times. If I hadn't promised Harry to stay beside him, I think I might have killed myself sooner than march into this battle. I would die either way—I simply would rather it be by my own hand then by the people who've always sworn to destroy me. I don't want to let them know that they have indeed accomplished that, after so long that I have tried to keep it from happening. But I have promised Harry, and I will not allow myself to go back on that word.

My legs ache from plowing through the thick snow, but I don't notice. Instead I look at Harry out of the corner of my eye. He seems to feel my gaze and looks to me a few moments after I have trained my eyes upon him. In the few instants that our eyes remain locked, I can see in his a tumtulous whirlpool of emotion—regret at so many things in this life he never accomplished; love for me and for all of us; guilt, for leading us into this; hatred of it all; and fear. He tears his gaze away and focuses on the snow at his feet, and I feel a tear brimming in my eye, for I can suddenly understand his emotions. I've not felt those emotions myself, for I gave up such things long ago in return for blessed sanity. But now, reading them in the boy who walks beside me—in the one person I have allowed myself to care about—I know how he feels. So many things in life have been torn from us because of Voldemort. He had to grow up without parents, but even that wasn't enough. Voldemort had to strip away his whole life—and later my whole life—and put us in this situation, taking away every last thing that remained. We will never graduate from Hogwarts, after all the effort we put in. Harry will lose the life-long war that has been waged between himself and the Dark Lord. The two of us will not get a chance to explore this new phase in our relationship. I will not survive to see the dawn I was always waiting for during my time at Puerclades. I will die in the darkness that surrounds me now, never even to see the sun once more.

A single tear rolls down my face before I again cut myself off from feeling.

Harry

I don't know how long we've been walking. The last thing I can clearly remember is looking into Hermione's amber eyes, so full of the hurt she's endured, and I regret with all my heart that I have finally gotten the chance to express my feelings for her only on our doomsday.

Since silent instant we shared, I have gone back and forth between my secret reality and the normal one—perhaps some would prefer to call it the conscious and the unconscious. I have no earthly idea what to call it, for I've never experienced such a sensation before: the need to slip into my own world, while at the same time responsibility anchors me to the one I share with everyone else. Everything's been a blur since that began. I find myself walking toward the gorgeous light that never seems to get closer, and then it blacks out and is replaced by neverending trees, only to then reappear again. Several times I am startled to find that I am still moving at all, I feel so numb both mentally and physically.

Nothing gets through to me until I feel a soft hand upon my shoulder, and hear a gentle voice murmur my name. The hand slips away and I realize, once more in a conscious state, that Hermione's hand has fallen away because I've kept moving when she and the rest have stopped. I freeze and turn to face them, confused and dazed.

"What's happening?" I ask, feeling foolish. I'm supposed to be leading them, and yet it's I who is asking them what's going on. I can only pray that Hermione has been paying better attention and focus to where we're going, though it's more likely that she has been following me as well.

However, I don't see worry or uncertainty on the faces of my followers, nor do I see them doubting my role as leader. Dumbledore gives me a sad, understanding smile. It is a hard night; they know how I feel. Perhaps some of the others are lost in their own realities at this very moment, walking toward a phosphorescent light that they will never reach.

"We can't keep walking forever," Hermione says to me softly. "If we intend to reach Hogwarts before they ambush us, then we've got to get going. Going this route will take us a week or two." I can tell she doesn't want to say these words, for saying them means that instead of our walk continuing on into blessed oblivion, we will have to actually begin aiming for where we are headed. I feel distant satisfaction at the hesitation in her voice. Yes, Hermione, it's time for someone else to make the deadly decisions, to say the words that will condemn us. I've said them enough. Instantly, I feel bad for my thoughts. I have no right to direct my anger at her, silently or otherwise.

I simply nod, not having the courage to speak.

"I shall Apparate us to the edge of Hogsmeade if it is your wish, Harry," Dumbledore speaks up from the back of the group, where he has been walking. Seeing him now, pushing onward through the cruel and driving snow, his long beard and hair blending into the white of the landscape, he looks so old and frail, as if he should be carrying a knobbly wooden cane to lean on. I've never thought of Dumbledore that way before; there's always been something strong and mighty about him, something empowering, regardless of the fact that he may look like an old man. But on this night, I can sense nothing of that about him. This is perhaps one of the hardest blows yet, the realization that Dumbledore has lost his power, seeing for the first time the weariness that is etched in his every wrinkle.

I stare blankly at a section of snow. I want this to end. I don't want to be a leader, not in this. Ron can have it, or Hermione, or Dumbledore, or anyone but me. I just don't want to have to say the words I know I must. In a twisted way, I'd like death to just come upon me now to stop all this from continuing—and yet, I want that because I don't wish to say the words that will lead us to Death's doorstep.

"Okay," I whisper the single word, choked and strained. I know that I can't be instilling hope in those who are following my lead, and I suddenly feel angry with myself. I have to do a better job at giving my companions some feeble kind of hope or else the moment we arrive we'll end up running.

"Okay," I repeat more forcefully. "Gather round in a circle and Dumbledore will Apparate us."

Silently, people begin to shuffle about, getting into the loose formation of a circle, each person touching the one on either side of them. I link hands with Hermione and Neville. I try to catch Hermione's eye as Dumbledore begins the process, but she will not comply, perhaps deliberately, perhaps unknowingly. I can feel Neville's shaking hand against my own and feel sympathy for the boy and disgust with myself. What right do I have to feel frightened and guilty? It was my decision that put us here. I respect Neville for even being able to hold up under the pressure of this situation, when he can hardly keep his head in Snape's dungeon. This whole thing has strengthened him more than I've realized. I glance at him and give him as much of a smile as I can muster. He looks slightly relieved, dependent upon my reaction to guide him. This steels my will to stop being ambivalent about my feelings. I won't let him down—I won't let any of them down.

I close my eyes, remembering Dumbledore's earlier instructions. It's hard to will myself to want to go where we're headed, but I somehow find the strength. Moments later, I feel a sharp jolt behind me and I'm suddenly hovering, completely suspended with no ground below my feet, connected only to Hermione's and Neville's hands. I keep my eyes closed, having the feeling that perhaps I don't want to see exactly where I am at the moment. Then my feet land hard on the ground, and my eyes snap open. My knees, which I locked upon impact, hold steady. Neville's buckle, forcing Fred—who stands on Neville's far side—and I to haul him up again.

Once Neville is standing once more on shaky legs, I look around myself, feeling slightly jarred to see the familiar place I stand in. It was once a place of such happiness and innocence, and it's now been reduced to a ghost town. I feel Hermione take my hand, and I don't need to look at her to know that she feels just as wrong-footed as I do. I squeeze her hand, as much to reassure myself as her. Reassure us of what, I don't know, for our feelings of dread are quite dead on; however, it's the only thing that feels right.

We stand huddled tightly in a group at a fork in the cobblestone path that leads through Hogsmeade. It's the first time we've been here since the attack upon Hogwarts. The state of the town is enough to steal what meager shards of hope I may still have been holding onto. All the shops surrounding us are closed down and dark. Many of the signs are cracked and hanging from one chain rather than two, some with holes burned through them. The windows of the shops are shattered and I see that there is up to two feet of snow covering the interiors of some buildings. The shop nearest to me is Zonko's. The door has been torn off its hinges, and the sign is hanging crookedly, blowing creakily in the wind and sometimes clunking against the brick wall behind it with a hollow, dead sound. Shelves inside have been looted or turned over, and snow covers much of what remains. It's barely recognizable as the place we all once knew so well. There is an air of defeat and pain hanging around us, and all I want is to escape this place, to go anywhere other than here. All of Hogsmeade is shattered and broken now, robbed of its perfection and innocence, no longer the same—just like us. Nothing is the same; nothing is perfect or innocent anymore. It never will be again.

"Bloody wrong, that is," George mutters angrily as he observes Zonko's along with me. I feel certain that he and Fred are taking the shop's demolition as a personal insult.

"They've ruined it," Ginny murmurs, sounding horrified.

"Just like everything else, Gin," Ron whispers, his voice tight with anger and fear. "All they do is destroy."

My feet seem rooted to the ground as I stare down the path that forks off of the main street. It is the long path that leads down to Hogwarts. Distantly, I can see the ebony iron gate that marks the entrance and exit to the grounds. It's slightly ajar, but fully intact upon its hinges. However, the hogs that had once stood so proud upon the pedestals on either side of the gate, displaying Hogwarts' pride and glory, have been smashed. Chucks of stone are missing from the one on the left, and it's cracked down the center, half hanging from its perch. The one on the right has had its head ripped from its body.

"It's better than the other gate," Hermione whispers to me. I'm startled, not having realized that she is looking down the path as well—everyone else still seems fixated with the state of Hogsmeade, likely because they are too afraid to focus on the path, knowing where it leads. I look at Hermione, silently questioning her comment. "They've replaced the hogs with snakes there," she adds.

After a few moments, I turn my attention back to my friends, many of whom are now standing alert and silent behind me, following my gaze. "All right," I say, getting everyone's full attention. "If anyone doesn't want to do this . . ."

"None of us are backing down now, Harry," Ron says firmly. "If we'd planned to take off, we'd have done it while we were walking through the forest. But we're all still here, aren't we?"

I nod, grateful for the strength and sincerity in Ron's voice. It helps me to instill some faith in my own. "I'm sorry it's come down to this. I'm sorry I had to lead us here tonight. Most of all, I'm sorry that we didn't do more with the time we had, that we didn't get more of a chance to live the lives we're about to lose. But I think we all knew it would come down to this sooner or later. We all at least knew that we didn't stand a chance of actually winning. I'm ashamed that as your leader, I didn't try to do more damage while I could. All along, we were cowards pretending to be guerilla fighters—pretending to stand for a purpose, pretending that we were doing real work. Tonight is our last chance to redeem ourselves, and prove to Voldemort once and for all that Gryffindors don't go down without a fight, that we won't make this easy on him. It's time to make up for what we didn't do before. Do your best. Everything we do here tonight is significant. You're making a difference just by being here.

"Don't follow me tonight—follow yourselves. Don't wait for my order. Whatever you want to do, do it. You're some of the bravest people I could ever have hoped to fight with tonight, and I trust you all to use this battle to make as much of a difference as you can. Try to take out some of them. If you can, go for their ranking Death Eaters, the ones it will hurt them to lose. Stay away from Voldemort, though. Fighting him will just get you killed quickly and pointlessly. If the battle seems to be going against us, if you see bunches of us falling, and if you think you can escape, do it. It's not cowardice, it's not shameful, so take the opportunity if you see it. I'd rather know that not all of our lives ended here tonight.

"Thank you for all you've done already, for being strong, for being loyal, for being brave. Thank you for trusting me." I stop talking. I don't know what else to say. I want to say something more personal, but I can't find the words. We all know this is goodbye. I can't bear to say it aloud.

My words cause an odd chain of motion throughout the group. Hermione rests her head on my shoulder, and I embrace her tightly, knowing this is the last time I will hold her so. Ron does the same with Ginny, who looks ready to cry. The twins grab their younger siblings in a rough sort of group hug, their eyes glassy and wet with unshed tears. The others turn amongst themselves, saying the goodbyes I couldn't.

Hermione and I break apart with much reluctance after several long instants. There are so many things I want to say to her, things I put off saying before in our hours together in the hideout. All that had come during that time was silence. And now, when I have so much to say, I cannot say it. Why didn't I utilize those hours—our last?

"I love you," I whisper to her, meaning these words in so many different ways.

She winces, closing her eyes and turning her face downward. She shakes her head a little bit. "Why did you have to go there, Harry?" she whispers, leaving me bewildered. "Why couldn't you leave it alone? Please don't make this harder than it already is . . . don't make me think I can't handle this." She steps closer and leans against me, saying so softly I must strain to hear her, "I love you, too."

I feel silent tears stream down my face. I lock eyes with Ron while Hermione still has her face buried in my robes. He looks away abruptly and I find myself willing him to say something. Apologize, you prat, before you have to spend an eternity never having done it . . .

His eyes flick to Hermione, and when she steps away from me, she sees him. The moment in which they stare at one another is so long, so stretched, that it feels like an hour. At long last, he takes a hesitant step forward and she takes one toward him. They hug each other awkwardly. Ron looks at her, face full of confusion.

"I—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

She shakes her head just a little and gives him a sad smile. "Don't."

I know that she forgives him—maybe not entirely, but at least enough. She knows that there's no point in holding grudges—not any longer. Ron can sense this, too. I can see on his face that he doesn't feel he's said enough, though. And now he'll have to hold his silence forever.

With Hermione standing halfway between Ron and I, and everyone else watching our exchanges with guarded eyes, I sigh and take her hand. Without speaking, I take one step down the path toward Hogwarts, and then another.

Our footsteps echo softly into the night, fading away before they've been repeated even one full time in the still air. The wind, which had been blowing so viciously earlier, seems to be holding its breath as we take step after step. I know, as I have known for quite some time, that Voldemort will likely be waiting for us. He has to know we're coming, has to be waiting for our arrival, or else he'd have attacked sooner. Perhaps he sees no harm in letting us pick the battleground and allowing us to be somewhat prepared. He knows as we do that we don't stand a chance. He's likely playing with us, allowing us to drag out our own last hours.

The path comes to an end, and we are now standing within Hogwarts's grounds. I see the lake far off, growing closer with each step I take. I pull out my wand and light it, giving the command for everyone else to do the same. My command may confuse them, but they follow it nonetheless. I am not concerned that anyone will see the light of our wands; we have nothing to hide here tonight. I want them to know that we don't come in stealth. They will know that we march forward, appearing as overly confident as they will feel the moment they see us.

We circle the iced-over lake, and I see Hagrid's old hut nearby. It's burned now, only a few charred pieces of wood sticking up from the snow, naked and alone as they face the bitter elements. Fang had died in the fire. The Death Eaters had set it ablaze as they marched up to the school that first day. Hagrid had been spared only because he'd been eating a meal with the rest of us at the time. I feel my stomach twist at the memory.

I stop us all on a long and wide stretch of grass. Our backs are to the forest, wands out to light the way as we stare at the empty expanse that will hold the Death Eaters, once they choose to arrive. We will make our stand here. Everyone senses my decision—for what other reason would I have to stop?—and they begin to shift uneasily. Hermione leans into me.

After a few moments of silence, she murmurs softly, "They've removed the magical barrier around the school that keeps people from Apparating onto the grounds. They've changed it to block only those who don't wear the Dark Mark. They could show up at any minute."

I nod. My vocal cords seem to have frozen, and I can't manage to relay this message to the others. I don't suppose they really need to know, anyway.

It's cold and none of us are comfortable, but no one tries to sit down or speak. We all know that they're tracking us, and sooner or later they'll realize that we aren't leaving here. They'll come to us and none of us intend to be caught off guard.

And come to us they do—no more than five minutes after our arrival, it happens, in a motion so swift and quick that it takes us all a moment to realize exactly what has occurred. With loud, repetitive cracks that split the night air violently, a sea of black-cloaked Death Eaters appear before us in a wave. They are standing in rows, long and wide, and they form a sort of rectangle. There must be a hundred, and more are appearing every instant, not to mention all the Death-Eaters-in-training that are sleeping within the school at this very instant. The Death Eaters all wear white bone masks, carved into the shape of grinning skulls—a preview of what awaits us. Only Lucius Malfoy remains unmasked, standing in the front row, smirking.

I try to swallow my fear and appear strong, but it's nearly impossible. We're outnumbered five to one. It seems so much more imposing now that I am faced with the enemy. My small, pathetic, ragged group that stands around me in no particular formation facing a hundred organized Death Eaters, each awaiting the order to attack. So this is what it comes down to. This is how it will end: standing on a snowy stretch of grass in the wee hours of the morning, facing Death Eaters that want nothing more than to kill me—to kill us all.

The situation grows worse with the Apparition of one last person. This crack is quiet compared to the ones that sounded moments before when the Death Eaters were Apparating as one—it is what a small tree limb cracking is to an entire tree trunk splitting. But the quiet way in which he appears is, as it always is with the Dark Lord, somehow more menacing, more sinister. He stands before us now, taller than the rest by a foot, not wearing a mask or a hood. His flaming red eyes cut the night—they stare straight at me, burning into my pupils with all the intensity of hot coals. He stands before the rest of his men, as I stand before the rest of mine. Only fifteen or so feet separate us, and I feel a sudden uprising of hatred which brings with it a certain kind of strength—just enough to offset the fear for a moment.

He laughs then—a cold, mirthless sound that resonates in the air around us. He is the king of the night, controller of the darkness; he can make it do whatever he pleases. I long for the daylight, knowing grimly that I shall never see it again.

"Harry Potter, you have been foolish," Voldemort taunts, a smile twisting his face. "Coming here to wait for me? So kind, I must admit, for it is a bit cold to be playing cat and mouse. However, I'd have assumed you would try to run from me? Are you indeed this eager for death?" His eyes are alive with morbid pleasure as he baits me.

"Running wouldn't have done us any good, as you bloody well know," I say, keeping my voice firm and strong.

His smile widens, creasing his pale face. The Dark Lord doesn't need a mask to look frightening. "So the Mudblood discovered the Tracer. Of course she would; so bright in school, isn't that right? Yet not bright enough, apparently, for it was too late by the time she discovered it. She has truly been the cause of your downfall, Harry, hasn't she? Once a friend, now she is the traitor who brought things to the way they are tonight. You never believed my words before. I tried to tell you—to tell all of you—that Mudbloods will be the downfall of decent, pureblood wizards. But none of you wanted to listen. And look where it has gotten you!"

My eyes flick to Hermione, who stands slightly behind me. I can see the shame on her face as she glances toward the ground. This is still such a sensitive topic for her, and she blames herself enough as it is. I want to tell her not to listen to him, but I force the words down. To speak such a thing now, standing before him, would show her weakness—as well as mine. That's not something I want to do, and certainly not something she would want done.

Voldemort must have read something in my expression though, for he laughs again. "So you feel something for her, do you?" My head snaps around and I glare at him. "How sweet. Despite everything she's done to ruin you, you can forgive. Love—your downfall to the bitter end. Unfortunately, I do not possess such forgiveness, and I am very much looking forward to finally seeing your end, Harry."

"Then try and do it," I growl. "We didn't come here to talk."

"So very eager. You do know you don't stand a chance, don't you?" Voldemort continues, apparently enjoying this prolonged verbal torture.

"Maybe not. But you've messed up before, so you never know," I reply coldly.

His eyes flash and I watch his smile vanish. "Not tonight, dear boy, I assure you. Your cat-and-mouse days are over. Death Eaters—go forth and finish these pathetic rebels in whatever way you see fit. But bear in mind one thing: Harry Potter is mine." As he says this last bit, our eyes meet. I see in his the morbid lust for murder that always resides there, now magnified by a tenfold. He is positive that tonight he will at long last get his chance to kill me. The saddest thing is, so am I.

And then it begins. There's no pattern to it, no technique. I can't say which side fires the first curse, and I can't say it really matters, because seconds later, the air is filled with jets of light, a deadly kaleidoscope of color. It's all we can do to dodge them. I see that our curses hit our targets much more frequently, due to the size of the target we have to aim at. This isn't a particularly encouraging fact, though, for their great size and numbers only means that we have more of them to disable. As the curses fly, our groups make slow, staggering progress toward one another, stopping to avoid curses and in our case alone, to revive a fallen comrade struck down by a Stunner once or twice. At last, with a less dramatic clash than one would imagine, our groups meet and mingle. Without much chance to understand what's happening, I am thrust into a writhing mass of bodies—the Death Eaters.

It's madness, there's no other way to describe it. People all around—shoving, hitting, grabbing, attacking anyone in their way. Arms and hands grab at me and I am being pushed from side to side on a periodic basis. I can tell that none of my attackers have even realized who I am; they're just going for anyone and hoping for an enemy.

I look around desperately for Hermione, but can't find her. It's no surprise that I've lost her in this mess, but it makes me panic slightly. She's as big a target in this as I am. I fight down the urge to run about calling her name. That would do no more than give away who I am to those who have not yet realized my identity in the darkness, and over the noise, there would be no chance of her hearing me anyway. I swallow my desire and turn to fire a few more curses.

My mind is buzzing. It's as though static fills my head, so loud it drowns out almost all other sound. I'm running on pure adrenaline and fear. I'm somewhat detached from it all, my brain's way of keeping me sane through the madness, perhaps. I automatically fire a Stunner in one direction, then turn and shoot an Impediment Jinx in another, not aiming at anyone in particular. Colors blur into darkness before my eyes. What meager light we had before is stifled in this sea of black bodies. My enemies can't even see enough to tell that I am not one of them. Though this protects me for the time being, it worries me as well; for if they cannot distinguish between friend and foe, what makes me think that I have that ability?

A violent shove from someone to my right snaps me back into focus. I realize that there is no sense in remaining here, where all reality is turned upside down. If I hope to stand a chance in this fight, if I hope to be a leader, I need to get out of here and judge my surroundings accurately. Besides that, I cannot hide in here and strike down unseen enemies, thereby leaving it up to my friends to fight the Dark Lord. That's my job, my burden, and it has been since the day I was born. I've been telling my friends what I expect of them in this battle because I've known that it will inevitably come down to a duel between myself and Voldemort on this night. To avoid it for any longer would simply be enabling him to attack my people, and with him on the offense, none of them stand a chance. I'm the only one who can hope to oppose him successfully, who can hope to cause any damage whatsoever. For years I've known it, and tonight, I must face it.

I push and shove without concern for drawing attention to myself. I don't know which way is up or down, left or right, for I have been spun and pushed to the point where all sense of direction has been lost on me. But unlike those unfortunate fellows who become trapped beneath the angry sea, I know that whichever direction I go in, I will eventually break the surface. As I fight my way through the crowd, my skull feels as if it's on the edge of imploding from all the noise. Screams of curses, and cries of pain and anger fill the air. No single voice is distinguishable in this cacophony of sound.

At last, I manage to make my way out of the centermost area of the crowd. Rather anticlimactic, actually: one more step, a shove from an unknown assailant, and I stumble through the snow, feeling the relief of having space separating me from other people. People still surround me, of course, Death Eaters on all sides, but I actually have room to move. Gasping for breath, I turn and observe the mess from which I've just escaped. Now that our two sides have merged, it's pure chaos. I can't pick out the forms of my own people—which is, I imagine, the only reason we're still alive. After being in that position, I know the impossibility that is trying to tell one person from another. Naturally, they must be having the same difficulty, and much to my surprise, our small numbers actually seem to have given us an advantage. Our people are lost within the hundred-plus Death Eaters. And they, always willing to sacrifice their own, end up shooting their own people down in an effort to get to us. They are evening the odds for us.

Though I have no idea where most of my people are—somewhere within center of the chaos, out of sight but still fighting, I pray—I can spot a few of them. Remus has a pair of Death Eaters on him, but he's holding them at bay quite effortlessly by casting a hair growth charm on himself and twitching and screaming—feigning a transformation into a werewolf. I watch him in admiration. The clouds cover the sky, preventing the Death Eaters from realizing that tonight is a night of the new moon, which would have no effect on Lupin's lycanthropy. Clearly, most of them don't keep track of lunar charts day by day, as many seem to be falling for his ruse quite well.

Two of Dumbledore's group are near Lupin, fighting four Death Eaters. Despite the fact that one has a grotesquely large nose from a spell gone awry, they appear to be holding their own quite easily.

I can see Hagrid in the middle of the fight only because he towers above those around him. From what I can tell, most of the Death Eaters seem to be rather uneager to cross him. For those few who don't harbor such a fear, they find that his giant lineage protects him from most curses. Hagrid quickly dispatches all of his assailants before they get a second shot at him.

I turn and see that George is fifteen feet away from me, locked in a vicious duel with a Death Eater twice his size. The Death Eater has his back turned to me, and I can see even from this distance that George is weakening. I raise my wand, aiming carefully at the back of the Death Eater, praying he doesn't move at the last second and unwittingly allow my spell to hit George instead. "Stupefy!" I whisper, and a jet of light lances through the air, striking down the Death Eater mere seconds later.

George watches the man fall and looks up in surprise, his eyes locking onto mine. He gives me a weary grin of thanks before turning to meet more of the oncoming forces.

I study my surroundings. I don't see Voldemort anywhere. Try though I might, I simply can't picture him in the middle of the battle. He will have separated himself, put himself apart so that he can oversee. He would wait for his Death Eaters to either do or botch the job he was expecting of them before intervening. But I don't see him. This fact frightens me far more than the sight of him ever could.

People are beginning to notice me now. I realize that more curses are being aimed at me, and I raise my wand, preparing to defend myself. But just as three of the Death Eaters bear down on me, their ghoulish bone masks leering, a soft voice somehow manages to rise above all the clashes and screams.

"Harry Potter."

These words, seemingly so unimportant in the midst of this violent battle, have the effect of turning heads. The Death Eaters that had been coming for me bow low and back away, going immediately to rejoin the raging battle.

I spin around and see Voldemort standing no more than ten feet away from me, his face twisted into an expression of terrible anticipation. His red eyes are boring into me, and I am only vaguely aware of more of the Death Eaters in my vicinity backing away slowly, leaving a clear path between myself and the Dark Lord.

"The time has come, boy," he taunts. "No more running away for you."

I don't take the bait that he has so obviously laid for me to bite. He may enjoy his verbal games and mental manipulation, but I've grown sick of taking it. I raise my wand quickly, while he is not expecting it. "Expelliarmus!" I cry, before he has time to react.

He sidesteps casually and the beam of light I fired flies past him, harmlessly disintegrating into the air. He laughs chillingly. "Come now, surely you can do better?" He doesn't raise his wand, doesn't make any move to come closer. He is waiting for me to attack.

If he wants me to make the first move, I won't disappoint him. Aiming for his wand arm, I yell, "Engorgio!"

The spell hits him in the hand, just as I'd intended. His hand should be swelling uncontrollably, but nothing happens. I stare in confusion as he raises his hand for me to see. It looks exactly as it did before my attack.

Growing frustrated with my inability to cause him any damage, I throw out every curse I can think of from my days at Hogwarts. I yell them one after another, barely stopping to take a breath.

"Rictusempra! Tarantallegra! Furnuculus! Petrificus Totalus!"

Voldemort makes no attempt to dodge any of my spells. They all hit him dead on, and yet none of the spells cause him any damage. It appears as though I am doing no more throwing harmless sparks at him. I'm getting frightened now. What's going on? How can I fight someone who is impervius to all of my attacks?

Desperately searching for something that will work, I try the last two things I can think of. "Impedimenta! Stupefy!" But even as I yell the curses, I feel a sinking certainty that they will do no good. The red and yellow beams of light disappear into the blackness of Voldemort's cloak, but he remains standing where he is, entirely uneffected. The air has grown so thick that I feel as though I'm choking on it.

Voldemort smirks at me. "Childrens' spells. You're in a man's duel now, Harry. Your father would be so disappointed—he never wasted time with such uneffective methods."

A great anger roars to life inside me, triggered by his taunts about my father. It isn't just those comments that have angered me—they have simply released an anger that I've carried my whole life, always suppressed, but always there. The man—no, not the man, the monster, the beast—that stands before me is at fault for every last bit of hardship I've had to face in my life. Now that I face him with the grim promise that I won't survive no matter how this plays out, all I want to do is get revenge. I don't care what becomes of me in the process. I have a desire to hurt him, to kill him, a desire so powerful that it scares me on every level. I've never felt anything like it before. It's so deeply consuming.

I raise my wand once more, preparing to show him what a man's spell looks like. I've never before in my life used the Killing Curse, and I've never been instructed in its use. I know it must be complex and that I haven't the slightest idea how to work it, but none of these logical thoughts stop me from yelling, "Avada Kedavera!"

I don't expect it to work, I honestly don't. I imagine that little green sparks will fly a few inches before settling upon the ground like snowflakes, and that Voldemort and his Death Eaters will laugh at my pathetic attempt. To my great surprise, a moment after the words have left my mouth, my wand releases a long green beam of light that arcs toward Voldemort. I see his eyes widen in surprise, feel my heart rise in my throat, and watch as the beam strikes him directly in the chest.

This one has an effect on him. He doubles over and cries out, piercing the silence. My mind feels as though it's shutting down. Is this even possible? Have I really killed the Dark Lord?

And then, as I watch, he rises once more to his full height. Despite the fact that he looks the same, and no light surrounds him, he positively radiates strength. His eyes and his smirk seem all the more daunting. Yes, my magic effected him, but it seems to have done no more than strengthen him. The Killing Curse made him stronger!

He laughs again, and I feel a shudder race down my spine involuntarily. My mind is spinning, and I can't seem to grasp the reality of my surroundings. "Now that is a commendable attempt!" he says haughtily. "But you can't kill me, Harry. I'm beyond that stage now. I've had enough of your futile efforts to take my life. Bow to me, boy, and I shall make your death painless. Or defy me, and I can make you yearn to die."

Many of the Death Eaters that are not in the thick of the battle have stopped to watch our confrontation, and I can hear them laugh with the knowledge that I am finished. I'm not yet so willing to allow them that pleasure. I need time to consider what I'm going to do. I don't know what good it will do me, but I know that I will not lay down and die here at his feet. He'll have a more difficult time of it than that.

My back is to the Forbidden Forest. If I can distract him long enough to escape into the trees, I might be able to grant myself a few more minutes at least. I look at Voldemort, frowning. I can't effect him with my spells. What can I do?

"Come now, boy, the choice doesn't present that much of a dilemma, does it?" Voldemort mocks. "Perhaps if you—"

From my periphereal vision, I see something move by his feet. I look down just in time to see a great section of the snow on the ground disappear entirely. Voldemort stumbles just as the snow that had disappeared moments before reappears over his head, partially burying him in white.

Voldemort screams in anger as I turn and run for the trees, not stopping to wonder who has come to my aid. I have a fairly shrewd suspicion; Fred and George always were well-known for enchanting snow to do various things during snowball fights at Hogwarts.

Voldemort yells again and I hear an ubrupt rise in the noise level. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the Death Eaters have begun firing at me and are finding fierce opposition in my friends. I turn away again and find myself plunging through the first row of trees and into the Forbidden Forest. My eyes, which have adjusted to the dim light provided by the weak, cloud-shrouded starglow, are taken by surprise at the depth of the blackness in which I find myself. I find myself pausing mid-step out of pure disconcertion.

Seconds after I have stopped, my breath still coming in ragged bursts—more from shock and horror than from an excess of physical exertion—and my mind still at an immovable standstill, someone runs into me from behind.

I hear a cry of surprse from whoever has collided with me as I find myself toppling forward; I barely manage to put my foot out in time to stop myself from falling. Once I've regained some semblance of balance, I spin around, and point my wand at where I assume my clumsy assailant stands. My mind is still working at half-speed, overtaken by too many frightening and incomprehensible thoughts, and I know without a doubt that a Death Eater has braved his fellows' dangerously arcing curses and has followed me to kill me here in this pitch-black forest. I don't waste time with lighting my wand; I open my mouth, intending to say whatever spell my mind conjures up first, when a hesitant female voice stops me.

"Harry? Is that you?"

It takes me a few seconds to realize that it's Hermione, and not some homicidal Death Eater, who has followed me into the forest. I let out a shuddering breath and whisper, "Lumos!" Indeed, it's her. She stands little more than a foot away from me, looking slightly off to my left, unsure of my current position. Her eyes fix on mine when the light sweeps over her, and the relief and desperation in those hazel eyes is enough to start me shaking. I could have killed her! I'm so entirely unstable right now that had she not spoken, I have no idea what would have happened. I'd like to think I would only have stunned her, but after my earlier performance with the Killing Curse erupting without warning, I can't say I have any faith in that. My shaking hand makes the light of the wand jittery and erratic, as frequently illuminating a random bush or tree branch as it does Hermione's face.

I know I have to get a grip on myself. I can hardly function the way I am now. I'd thought that I was prepared to face certain death—thought that I had come to peace with the fact that I couldn't defeat Voldemort. All along, I was fooling myself. I never let go of that little strand of hope that told me there was some way to be rid of him. That I would find it in time. And when that hope was ripped away, it took with it the last pillar that was holding up my ruin of a life, leaving me in the state of a terrified child.

"Harry?" Hermione whispers. She steps forward and rests a hand on my shoulder, hesitant, comforting.

Though I want nothing more than to accept her comfort, to hold her until the sun rises, I know that to do so would be to allow the last of my mental resolve to slip away, the last grain of sand to fall through the minute neck of the hourglass that has been ticking inside me—inside us all—for two years now. Much as I'd like that, my friends—the people I claim to be in charge of—are out there dying while I stand here, and that is unforgivable. With a last deep breath, I focus on Hermione.

"What are you doing here?" I ask quietly, my voice carefully void of emotion. I dare not let her know how unhinged I am by the sudden discovery of Voldemort's apparent immortality.

She nods and begins to rattle off seemingly unimportant sentences so fast that I can barely follow. "Fred or George—I'm not sure which, I can hardly tell them apart when I'm not fighting for my life—did a Displacement Charm on the snow so that you could get away and give me the time to get to you. I was watching you and Voldemort, and I realized that we were doing this all wrong! It's light magic, Harry, not dark!" She pauses for breath and watches my reaction, practically bouncing on the soles of her feet in excitement at her incomprensible discovery.

I blink, and try though I might, in my current state of mind, her words make as little sense to me as Professor Binns's lectures ever did. "What?" I demand, my voice a bit sharper than I'd intended.

Hermione doesn't appear to notice or care about my tone of voice. She shakes her head. "There's no time to explain it, Harry! All you have to know is this: You can beat him! You can beat Voldemort!" Her eyes glimmer in excitement, just like they always do whenever she has worked through some mystifying problem. It's so good to see that academically-excited side of her emerge again that for a moment I feel like grinning.

"How?" I ask, refraining from demanding an answer as to why the duel—if it can even really be called that—between Voldemort and I had made her feel I had a chance at succeeding, when all it had done for me was make me unsettlingly sure of the opposite.

"Remember these spells," she says breathlessly. "Furere Aliqua, and Adamus. Don't forget those words, Harry! Furere Aliqua; Adamus. If those don't work—which they should, but if you need a little something extra to finish him off with—use a Cheering Charm, or perhaps a Healing spell. I'd go with the Cheering Charm first, though."

I stare at her. This time I understand her words, but I have absolutely no idea as to what the reasoning behind them is. I seriously consider for a moment that perhaps she's gone howling mad. "Cheering Charms? What, do you want him to be happy and bubbly while he kills me? Did you think the whole ordeal of my death would be made a little brighter by him singing a rousing rendition of 'Zippidy-Doo-Dah'? " I don't mean to sound so cruel; I know she's trying to help. But I'm scared, and have no idea how her advice will do anything more than make our situation worse.

Hermione looks at me, pleading me silently to listen. "Harry, please, just trust me. It may be a lot to ask of you after everything, but trust me. This will work. I'm right on this, I know I am. And I'll be happy to explain it all to you later, but I can't right now!"

Despite the fact that I still have no idea how this can possibly work, I know Hermione has never steered me wrong before. She's brilliant, as she's proven countless times to Ron and I over the years, and she wouldn't be begging me to believe her as she is unless she was was almost impossibly certain of her own accuracy. So, abandoning my inherent disbelief, I nod. "I trust you. I'll do it. Furere Aliqua and Adamus, right?" I frown. "Hermione, I don't even know what those spells are, let alone how to work them."

"You worked the Killing Curse earlier tonight—which is one of the most difficult spells to perform accurately—because you had enough emotion. You can do these; they're nowhere near that hard. Just put all your force of will into wanting them to happen, into believing in them. It'll work," she said. "I know it."

"All right," I say, feeling the need to return to the battle clenching at me like an angry fist making balloon animals out of my stomach. "Let's go, then."

We're barely ten feet within the perimeter of the forest, and when we reach the treeline, I extinguish my wand. The violent fray has lessened dramatically in size. Bodies litter the ground, some wounded, some stunned, some dead. I don't attempt to study the prostrate figures hard enough to see whether they are of my own group or not; to do so would surely drive me into madness. There are more people lying on the ground than had consisted of twice our own original force, and clearly at least some of my people still hold their ground, or else there would be no more fighting. The Death Eaters struck down too many of their own in the earlier madness. We're now far closer to being equal in numbers. I think I can hear Professor Lupin's high-pitched, fake werewolf snarls over the rest of the noise, proving to me that his convincing performance is keeping people well enough away from him.

Separate from the battle, Voldemort stands yelling at the Death Eaters. I can't hear his words, but I imagine the gist of it consists of telling them to find me, to kill me. Suddenly the idea of how I'm supposed to go about instigating this second duel occurs to me. I suppose I'll just walk up to him, though the idea of my doing that is so ridiculous that it seems almost comical.

Hermione and I look at each other, our heads moving and our eyes locking in one seamless, orchestrated motion.

"You can do it, Harry. He's not immortal. He can't be," she says with a dead certainty. The quality of her voice makes me feel sure that she is basing this statement on factual information rather than just a desire for it to be true, and this heartens me.

"This'll work," I say, repeating what she told me earlier.

"It'll work," she repeats.

This time, though, our words are spoken at least partially out of hopeful desperation.

"Go," Hermione urges softly. "We can't hold out much longer."

Before I can say a word, she steps forward and hugs me. I'm grateful for her embrace. Due to the difference in our heights, I lean my head down and rest my forehead against hers for one brief instant before she pulls away. I don't want to let her go.

"I'll see you after," I promise. But even as I say the words, I understand that I have no right to promise such a thing. I have no way of knowing if there will be any such thing as after.

It's good enough for Hermione. She takes off without another word, running as fast as she can, trying to get across the open field and to the battle before someone shoots at her. I don't watch her go. I trust her far more than I trust myself, and that's why I feel comfortable following her advice. Silently repeating the spells she's given me, I walk across the open snow toward Voldemort himself, for round two of our final duel.

Voldemort notices me when I have crossed half the distance between us. He spins and his eyes fall on me, making me halt unconsciously in my tracks. His face opens in a sadistic smile and I clutch my wand desperately, not yet raising it, waiting for a moment to take him by surprise.

"Potter!" he cries, his voice full of angry mirth. "Come back to die like a man rather than a mouse, eh?"

To my right, the battle is slowing. I notice this not by sight, but by sound. As the sounds of fighting gradually diminish, I realize that my friends and enemies have stopped throwing curses at one another. They know the significance of the battle between Voldemort and I. We are the respective leaders of our groups, and whichever one of us falls symbolizes the fall of that side. The Death Eaters, of course, have no doubt in their own leader, and have simply turned to watch me meet my end at last. Perhaps my own group doesn't see the personal fight between the Dark Lord and I in the symbolic way that I do, either. Regardless of their view on the matter, I can tell they are turning their eyes to us once more, only some of them continuing to fight on.

I don't intend to waste time on petty mind games. I've resigned myself to the fact that if Hermione's spells don't work, I will die. But I will not flee from him again. Slowly, remembering Hermione's words about believing in and wanting the spells to work, I raise my wand. Trust the spells, I tell myself silently. Trust Hermione.

Voldemort laughs. "Come to throw more useless curses at me, boy? Did running restore your faith a little? Well I suppose it's only fair to let the condemned say their final words. But after this one, Harry, the game is up. After this, I kill you at long last." He watches me, his crimson eyes containing the very flames of Hell. He doesn't believe I can do this. I'll show him, I think fiercely.

"Furere Aliqua!" I yell, shouting the first curse Hermione had instructed me to use. I'm careful to enunciate it properly. My anger once again does the trick as a beam of lavender light peels through the darkness and hits Voldemort in the stomach.

This time he doesn't laugh, doesn't spread his arms and welcome my attack. I have no idea what I've done, no understanding of what the effects of the spell were intended to be, but when I see Voldemort stagger, eyes no longer dancing in wicked anticipation, serpent mouth gaping as if desperate to gain a breath, I feel a surge of hope run through me. The hope restores me, convinces me to raise my wand yet again and yell, "Adamus!"

A beam of pink light strikes him in the chest.

His fingers clutch the spot where my most recent spell has hit him. His face is turning red, coloring his pale and pasty skin with a crimson color that is almost unnatural in its intensity. His eyes are bulging, and he is gasping at the air. His wand has slipped through his fingers. He is violently scratching at the skin in the vicinity of where my spells have struck him.

Muttering breaks out among those watching. No one continues to fight. All eyes are trained on us, on the spectacle that is the Dark Lord Voldemort falling before the boy Harry Potter.

Do I dare to hope? To dream that this could actually be happening? To believe that Voldemort is actually dying before my eyes? The adrenaline racing through my veins at a high velocity answers that question effectively.

I want to raise my hand once more, to throw at him a Cheering Charm, just for the hell of it. To add insult to injury. To make a point that I'm in control now, and that not only has he failed, but that I have triumphed. But my hand doesn't seem to want to work as my brain tells it to. At the very least, I long to look over and seek out Hermione, to meet her eyes and convince myself that the promise I made to her barely two minutes ago when we broke apart is going to be one I can keep. But my eyes are sewn to the spectacle before me.

Voldemort's gaping mouth, up until this point a portrait of silence, suddenly releases an unearthly shriek that makes me want nothing more than to cover my ears and run. Instead of moving, my eyes widen as he falls to his knees, clutching his chest with his face contorted in what could only be the agony of a thousand Cruciatus Curses as he shrieks with enough ear-splitting intensity to put a banshee to shame.

And now, in a sight reminiscent of Professor Quirrell with the Philosopher's Stone those many years ago, Voldemort begins to decompose before my eyes. It starts in his hands, a gradual burning without flames. His skin turns hard, stony, blackened like charred log and soot. His eyes no longer contain Hell's fire, only the black abyss of a soulless entity as the decomposition completes, and his body begins to turn to ash.

This is the last I see of Voldemort's dying moments. My scar suddenly blazes with furious pain. I'm not aware of screaming, not aware of hearing anything besides the cries of the Dark Lord resonating within my own skull. The pain is far more intense than anything I've ever felt. I fall to my knees under the pressure of it, entirely unaware of the physical world around me. White crawls up and threatens to overtake my vision as I hold my head, trying to keep it from splitting in two as it feels so much like it's going to. I don't understand what's going on, can't comprehend the simple fact that I'm falling slowly, that blackness is washing over me now instead of white. Why is this happening? I don't understand . . .

The darkness seizes hold of me now, and the pain recedes . . . I don't hear the Dark Lord's screams anymore . . . there's nothing to feel, nothing to see, not here . . . here in the blackness that makes a hundred nights in the Forbidden Forest pale in comparison . . .

. . . here, there's just . . . numbness . . .

Hermione

The world is still.

No one moves. No one speaks. No one breaths.

We watch.

No one can take their eyes off the still and quiet form that lies in the snow, and the pile of blowing ashes that only seconds ago was a living being. Not a human, no longer capable of being defined by such means; but living, nevertheless. Two enemies long standing, long fighting, now perished in the same instant, the same action.

We're frozen.

Ron stands beside me. Moments ago we'd been standing here on the verge of jumping for joy. The Dark Lord was falling!

Then Harry fell, too.

I'm the first to break the stillness. I step forward hesitantly. It is this one movement, one extremely insignificant movement, that starts the world up again. And suddenly, all I want is to reach Harry. If I reach him, I know everything will be fine. He's fainted . . . been stunned . . . nothing worse, certainly . . . I just have to reach him, to revive him . . .

He promised me we'd see each other after.

Harry keeps his promises.

Ron gently wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me back to him. "Hermione, don't," he says. His voice is choked, restricted, and looking at him, I see the tears running down his face. His eyes are locked firmly on Harry.

"I have to go to him, Ron," I whisper, my voice containing a desperation that my body and mind don't feel in their absolute numbness.

Ron shakes his head, still not taking his eyes away from where Harry lays. "No."

I pull at my arm, trying to get him to release me. "Ron, please—"

The Death Eaters are beginning to stir beside us.

"Hermione, you'll be a sitting duck out there! They'll kill you, too," Ron says, his voice slowly dwindling to no more than a mere whisper as he says this.

I shake my head. I know Ron's wrong. Harry can't be dead. "He's fine," I whisper stubbornly. I know deep down that it's not Ron I am attempting to reassure.

Ron's hand goes slack suddenly, and I wrench my arm away. My feet move of their own free will, each step bringing me closer to Harry. I know that at least fifty Death Eaters stand behind me, that I am a perfect target while running through the open like this, but I don't care. Once I reach him, he'll be fine . . . everything will be fine . . .

My feet slow as I come to Harry's form on the ground. He lays where he fell moments ago, still and silent. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted to the side, snow speckling his hair. His right arm lays limp, his hand slightly open with his wand resting atop his palm. His scar burns red. I can't detect even the faintest rising and falling of his chest. There is not the slightest, most seemingly insignificant movement that could prove to be the difference between life and death.

I don't raise my wand. I don't whisper the reviving spell. It won't help.

He will not awaken.

This realization—something I've known from the moment I saw him hit the snow, but something I've refused to acknowledge until this point where I can deny it no longer—breaks through the wall of resistence my mind has constructed. I feel the tears stream down my face silently, each practically freezing in the cold by the time it reaches the bottom of my face.

Oh, Harry . . .

I run my hand gently over his burning scar. It feels warm to the touch. The rest of his skin is cold, not yet from the death that has claimed him, but from the chilly conditions that surround us.

You beat him, like I knew you could. But where did my plan go so wrong?

With the exception of the scar that burns that unnatural color, he looks so normal, like he could stand up and walk away at any instant. But only his body lies here. His spirit, the soul that made him Harry Potter, is gone.

Did I not think the plan through well enough? Did I overlook something?

My tears have not stopped flowing since I knelt here beside him. Until this point, they have been silent. Now my first sob breaks the silence.

You believed in me. You loved me. You saved me in so many ways.

The silence of the night is breaking along with the silence of my tears. I can hear muttering and rustling behind me, but the sound is distant, muffled by the pounding in my own head. I don't care about the people behind me enough to look around at them.

Now you're gone, just like all the others . . . just like I was afraid would happen. Why did I let myself love you?

I bury my face in his chest and let my tears continue. I want his arms to come around me again, to comfort me. I try to remember how his arms felt the last time he'd held me, maybe no more than ten minutes ago, but all I can feel is this cold embrace.

But I did love you. I let myself need you. And now I'm alone again.

I hear a definite rise in the amount of noise behind me, but nothing is understandable. To me, it's nothing more than white noise. I don't think on it.

Is it my fault you're here? Maybe . . . probably . . .

Now I can pick out faint strains of words over the din of sound. I don't know what the words are; they're mere jibberish to my unaware mind, barely distinguishable as words at all.

You promised we'd never be separated. I believed you.

Ron's voice screams louder than any sound thus far, successfully penetrating my mind enough for me to make sense of it. "HERMIONE!"

I look up, pulling my face out of Harry's shirt, which is now wet with my tears. I turn around, but I don't see anything. I don't feel anything. Ron shouts my name again, this time with even more desperation. Why is he shouting?

Harry, how could you leave me?

My tears have blurred my vision, and when my sight begins to fade into blackness, that blurriness makes it less noticeable. My ears, already muffling sound, hardly detect the rapid decrease in noise. The darkness has seeped into my body without my noticing it in the least. Now it takes over. I don't know what's happened, or why I feel the way I do, but I suspect.

I feel so weak. I close my eyes.

Harry, I'm coming . . .

I succumb to the darkness.