Author's Note: It's a one-shot I wrote a few nights ago, just for the hell of it. The pairing will become obvious within the story. I repeat, it is a one-shot. Just thought I'd re-clarify that. Reviews are, as always, appreciated. Forgive any typos, this has not been beta-approved.
"It's alright," he said in a quiet but firm voice, doing his best to hold off his tears. "It'll be fine. Everything will be alright."
It wouldn't, of course, and he knew that. But as she lay, shaking, in his arms, he felt that he needed to say something, give her some words of comfort she would never remember. He was almost certain that she could still hear him; he doubted, however, that she could understand.
"Soon, it won't hurt anymore. Won't that be wonderful?" This time, he was telling the truth. Soon, it would all be over. She was shaking terribly now, a sign that the poison was nearing its goal. He tried even harder to keep his tears hidden, but one escaped despite his efforts and slowly fell down his cheek. He held her tighter.
She was sweating furiously; her entire body was soaked, he could feel it through both of their clothes. Part of him wanted to strip off her clothes, cool her down, but he knew it wouldn't work, and he didn't want to disrespect her.
He had given up any hope of not crying in front of her by now; he knew she was too far gone to know the difference, anyway. He wiped off her face with one sleeve, still holding her with the other arm, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
Tears falling freely, he wondered if she had known what the poison would do to her. Of course she had. He wondered why she had chosen such a horrible way to go. It would have seemed virtually painless in comparison if she had waited and let the Dark Lord kill her. She must have been punishing herself for something when she chose it, though he couldn't for the life of him imagine what. She had done little wrong in her life, certainly nothing to deserve this caliber of punishment.
He remembered how his father had reacted, after his first year, when he found out that he had been bested by a Muggleborn. He remembered hating her for making his father disappointed in him. He also remembered silencing the part of him that admired her for it.
He remembered wishing, in his second year, that she had been killed by the creature in the Chamber of Secrets, rather than petrified. He remembered fighting the thought that it would have been better had she not been attacked at all.
Her breathing became more rapid now, though the shaking began to subside. Not long now.
He remembered when, in their third year, she had slapped him. Nobody had ever dared lay a hand on him before that. Again, there was fury, but he hadn't been able to entirely silence the admiration this time. He acted as though he had.
She was so hot it burned him to even touch her. He knew the pain he got from contact with her bare skin was nothing compared to hers. He wiped her face once more, and stroked her cheek softly.
He remembered their fourth year; it had been particularly eventful. First at the Quidditch World Cup. The Death eaters had been torturing muggles, and he knew that muggleborns and half-bloods would be next. The part of him he hadn't been able to silence made him warn her. And at the Yule Ball –
He stopped his thoughts. She was no longer shaking. Her temperature had dropped suddenly to something near normal. He knew she had anywhere from five to ten seconds left. The one respite the poison offered – a few moments, right at the end, with a clear head.
Weakly, she smiled at him. "Thank you," she said – barely a whisper, but he heard it as clearly as if she had shouted it.
She twitched once, a sudden spasm. She was gone. He held her even more tightly than he had been before, and he cried. Not just tears this time, but huge, gasping sobs. He sat for a minute like that, but a minute was all he dared. Carefully, he laid her down on the small bed in the room and pocketed the letter on the nightstand. He leaned over her body, her sweat-soaked clothes and bright red face, and he saved the image in his mind as the last time he would ever see her.
He wiped the tears from his own face, cleared his throat, and left the room, turning the light off behind him. Nobody would know he had been there, and nobody would know she killed herself. She had wanted it that way.