Based around "Wild West Show" by Big and Rich – look up the lyrics if you don't get it, and search for the word 'forgiveness'.

Chapter Eighteen

One More Time

Day seven had finally dawned.

I was sweaty, tired, beaten and bruised and dirty, and all I wanted was a nice, long bath and a cup of tea and a warm fire to curl up beside. Instead, I was shivering on a park bench in the middle of December with soft snowflakes falling around me and a bitter chill descending in the air, making me feel even dirtier than I already was and making my nose run from the cold. Huddling under the invisibility cloak, I wished, miserably, that it would just end. Struggling to my feet, I thought wretchedly, One more day. Just one more. With my wand, I disconsolately dried out my now extremely tattered robes. One more day, I thought again, trying not to turn my mind to the tiny amount of sleep I'd gotten last night, or the way my joints creaked when I moved. I thought, tiredly, of the warm fire crackling at 12 Grimmauld Place right now, Tonks and Lupin curled up by the fire, maybe Ginny and Ron playing chess, and Mad-Eye growling about "Constant diligence…" while Draco faded into the background, a better, lighter presence than he'd been before. I smiled at the thought. Perfection came in no other form for me. Enjoying the tiny moments with the people I loved was perfection.

I looked around myself at the bare trees and the gloomy grey sky, and suddenly, there were footsteps.

I straightened up, holding my wand at the ready, my eyes glaring and gleaming in a hard way. I was surprised, though, at the figure striding toward me. It was Shane Verloren, looking greyed and exhausted. I'd never noticed the wrinkles under his eyes or at the edges of his mouth, but now, with dark circles under his eyes, his dark hair limp and unkempt, his eyes blazing with defiance that he was about to lose – I smirked at this – he didn't look so impressive. His pale skin didn't glow with health; it seemed waxy, ashen, and his eyes were bloodshot. Briefly, I saw them gleam red, and I tensed. Had I destroyed his chance at goodness when I told him that I did not love him? Was rejection enough to push a man over the brink into hell? I gripped my wand a little tighter, hoping that he would pass, hoping that I would not have to face him.

He was walking toward me, though, and I knew that he must have heard me, or knew I was here. I noticed that, as of yet, he had not taken out his wand. Now his eyes were staring directly into mine, and I could not deny that he had, most definitely, seen me. I stared back into his eyes, taking in the deepness of them, and then I sighed, tucked my wand into my pocket, and took off the invisibility cloak, letting him see me for what I was. If this was going to be a personal duel between us, so be it.

-verloren's point of view-

As she easefully swept the invisibility cloak off, I took in her tattered appearance, her tired eyes as they found mine, and thought, hatefully, angrily, that she needed to suffer even more. She wasn't on her knees begging me for mercy, and I wanted her to be. For what she'd done to me, I wanted her to die a thousand deaths and never rest in peace, I wanted her to go to her grave screaming so loudly that the whole world would forever hear her cries, but here she stood, bruised but calm, waiting for me, her wand in her pocket, almost as though she didn't even consider me a threat. I swelled at the thought, drew myself up so that I towered to my full, monstrous height, and still she didn't flinch. We were a foot apart before she spoke.

"So."

I stopped dead, anger boiling in my black heart. She could bring me down that easily and then just stand there and say, "So," as though it didn't really matter, as though she couldn't have cared less, as though I never even mattered a little to her? Her eyes, gleaming with a new, hardened look, found mine, and in that chocolate, hazel gaze I found the answer to my question; I mattered, but not in that way.

"Hope you're happy," she said idly, now looking over my shoulder, sounding almost as though I'd played some immature prank on her. "Must have loved me a lot to send those idiots after me for seven days. I don't think I've stopped running since I left your study." She smiled, then, without any humour at all. Hermione Granger, muggle-born, the most intelligent witch of her age, and she seemed utterly sardonic and evil then, far from the quiet woman I'd fallen in love with.

"It's your fault," I said, and I felt even angrier when I realized that my voice was shaking.

She looked at me, that sardonic smile gone, and shook her head sadly. "No, it's not," she said, very softly. "If you hadn't done all this in the first place, none of this would have happened. What made you want to be like Voldemort, eh? He was defeated in the end, wasn't he? You'll be defeated, too, brought down just like he was. There's always a Boy Who Lived, even when the person isn't necessarily a boy who survived an Avada Kedavra curse at the age of one. I'm not afraid of you, Verloren. If I go to my death fighting you, at least I brought part of you down with me."

Rage coursed through me, because although I would never admit it, the bitch was right; if I killed her, I would never be able to entirely let go. I had to kill her, though. I had to.

I drew my wand.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be?" she asked, not even looking mildly concerned. "You think it'll be better, if you just kill me? I know that you can do better, Shane."

I stared at her for a few seconds, almost savoring the sound of her voice saying my given name. I'd always hated it, but when she said it, it sounded almost like music. Her face had softened. "I know you can do better," she repeated, quietly, and took a step nearer. I stood my ground. I wasn't going to lose my authority here; I had made my choice.

-hermione's point of view-

"I know that you aren't all evil, like Voldemort was," I said, staring hard into his eyes. I could sense something in him shifting, something clicking into place. He knew it, too. He knew that he was better, could be better, than that. "I know you can be someone better than who you think you are now. You don't even really know who you are, do you? Have you ever sat back and thought that what you're doing is a great accomplishment? Because you know it's not, you've never allowed yourself to think. Shane…"

"Don't call me that," he snarled, backing up a step.

"Why'd you tell me in the first place? Because you loved me?" I barked a laugh, for a moment quite reminding myself of Sirius Black – long dead, but still so alive. "You didn't love me, Shane. You loved the person you thought I was – quiet, intuitive, trusting Lily. I'm not her, Shane. You know that."

Anger was filling his features again. His wand wasn't shaking anymore; it was starting to become steady. I almost cursed, but fought it down.

Softly, he breathed, "Draw your wand."

I stood my ground. "I won't kill you, Shane."

"Then you'll die a fool!" he snarled, and brandished his wand, but in an instant mine was out as well, and I was countering the curse that he'd barely had time to utter. He backed away a little farther, his face now becoming a mask of stone. I'd lost him. I thought I was so close to helping him, but now…chills ran down my spine, because his eyes were gleaming with a double ferocity, and the sheen of red returned, flickering away quite reluctantly this time and lingering longer than it should have.

"Never a fool, Verloren," I said softly. "Never a fool."

We stared at one another, hard, for a long moment, each taking in the other's diminished appearance but unfazed countenance as to what had to be. I knew that neither of us truly wanted to fight, when it came down to the core of our hearts. Verloren had somehow misplaced his heart, though, and I thought that, perhaps, it was partially my fault, but by no means did the blame lie mostly with me. Finally, he gave a sharp upward jerk of his chin, a characteristic that I'd come to know over the past couple of months. I nodded back and said softly, "Your move, Verloren."

Angrily, his eyes trained on mine and blazing with hatred, he slashed his wand, shouting an indecipherable curse; I countered it, thrown a bit by the weight of the slash of purple fire, but recovering easily nonetheless. Springing forward, I snapped, "Incendio!" setting fire to the dead leaves clattering in their toneless, mocking cacophony all around us. A high wind had sprung up, and egged the flame on; Verloren doused the flames near him hurriedly, cursing. I laughed a ruthless laugh. "Afraid of a little fire, Shane?" I said mockingly, and took his distracted moment for an opportunity, dragging a heavy branch toward him with the same spell that Ron had used in first year to take away a troll's club. He managed to fend it off only just in time, and even then he was off balance.

"Levicorpus!" he cried then, almost desperately, but I knew the counter spell from sixth year and managed to get on my feet again, as he finally regained his composure and started for me once more.

"Sectum –"

"Oh no you don't!" I roared, fending off the curse.

He let out a high-pitched whistle that made me shiver for some reason and immediately I knew why. He'd called his Shrakil army; they began to appear out of nowhere, swooping down on us, but when they reached where we were duelling, for some reason, they were stopped at a partial orb that had formed around us. I was reminded, forcibly, of what Harry had told Ron and I of his duel with Voldemort the night that Cedric Diggory died.

"It's between us, Verloren," I said, quietly. "No one else."

The cold wind blew a little harder, and as the snow thickened, lightning flashed in the clouds. I looked up at the sky during a break in the fighting, praying that the weather wouldn't get much worse. Strong as the half-orb was for holding out the Shrakil, it didn't seem to be doing much to protect us from the cold air that swirled the leaves in tornadoes around us. The battle thundered on, and finally, one of his spells punched through my counters.

I cried out as the curse brushed my arm; blood seeped from the wound, and I looked up at him, biting my lip, knowing that he'd intended every bit of excruciating pain that the curse had caused. No pity, no remorse, and no regret had flashed through his eyes. Then he was truly gone.

For a moment, all was silent; even the Shrakil had stopped their dogged attempts to reach us. Then, very quietly, he pointed his wand at me and said, "Crucio."

It was the worst pain that I had ever experienced; every horrible moment of my life was combined to form surely the most powerful physical and mental pain ever endured by mankind; I heard myself screaming, but all I knew was the pain, the hell-like, unbearable pain…

Abruptly, it stopped, and for a few seconds, everything was dark; I could hear myself panting and whimpering, but I couldn't get up, couldn't move. That had been far worse than any drill that Snape had ever put me through when preparing me for this moment; there was no possible was that a human being could feel so much hate that he could cause that much pain, the unendurable pain that I had somehow, miraculously, survived…

Then his voice came again, quiet. "Get up."

Panting still, I managed to tenderly get to my feet, my wand still clenched tightly in my hand. I was drenched in cold sweat. "You dared betray me."

Still that terrible quiet voice, the voice that somehow had encompassed mockery, hatred, anger, defiance, and fear all into one tone. I looked up, into Verloren's eyes, and they were no longer the handsome black that they had been when I had met him; they were permanently a dark sheen of red, and I knew that from this moment until his death, that colour would never fade. "I never served you in the first place," I said, my voice shaking.

"You know what happens to blood traitors, don't you, Granger?"

My blood, quite suddenly, ran cold; I stared into those piercing eyes and shook my head, not in answer to the question, but in response to the fear that I could still see there. I shouted the curse that I'd never wanted to use: "Sectumsempra!"

He didn't have the time to throw it off and it was upon him; he made no sound as his chest and arms opened, and his life rushed out onto the ground and into the soil, where trees would not grow for years to come. He lifted his head, and glared at me, and snarled, "I hate you."

Softly, my voice finally steady, I said, "You are truly lost, Verloren."

I waited. I wouldn't need to use the killing curse. He could no longer make any effort to heal the wounds; his strength, finally, was failing, and finally, finally, his body fell to the ground. Still he breathed, his breath rasping out in the bleak midwinter air, and he said nothing. When I scrambled over to him, though, kneeling over his bleeding body to look into his face, he summoned his dying strength to open his eyes, grip the front of my tattered robes, pull me down to him, and snarl in my face, "In the next life, you are mine."

Then his features blurred with death, and when the last of the leaves had passed over his face, he was no more.