A/N: Here it is - the last chapter! Apologies for the lack of update last week; the holiday weekend was much busier than I anticipated. To make up for it, I'll be posting the epilogue right after this, so stay tuned!


"He must've stolen it after the Battle of Hogwarts," Draco says, staring at the hat. I'm sure he's right – the immediate aftermath of Harry's 'death' was such a rout that no one would have noticed it was gone. Harry cautiously reaches out and removes the hat from the shelf.

"It's definitely a Horcrux," he says, grimacing. "It's ice cold…" To our surprise, the hat starts to writhe in Harry's hands, almost like it's fighting him.

"How are we going to destroy it?" Draco asks. I shake my head worriedly.

"Bill taught me how to control Fiendfyre, but-"

"Hermione, are you insane?" Harry cuts in. "Fiendfyre?" The hat continues to fight his grip, but he hangs on.

"It's our only chance!" I cry. "We don't have any more basilisk fangs!"

"But the Horcrux is already fighting me!" Harry retorts, gesturing to the hat, which is indeed writhing all over the place. "If it fights the fire…" He trails off, but no one needs to finish the sentence. We all remember all too clearly what happened the last time Fiendfyre got out of hand.

"We might not have a choice," Draco says, but he looks just as worried.

"I don't want to risk- OW!" Harry drops the Sorting Hat and reflexively grabs his foot. Something clatters to the ground as he does so, and my eyes widen as I realize what it is.

"The Sword of Gryffindor," I breathe. "The hat wasn't fighting you, Harry – it was fighting itself." Slowly, I reach for the gleaming weapon. The blade is as shiny as ever, polished rubies glittering in the hilt. In spite of its size, I have surprisingly little trouble lifting it.

"What do you mean, the hat was fighting itself?" Draco asks as he eyes the weapon in my hands.

"A Horcrux can only be destroyed if the vessel containing it is damaged beyond all physical and magical repair," I reply. "We all know that. This sword" – I lift the blade slightly – "is the one Harry used to kill the basilisk back in our second year. The important part, though, is that it's a goblin-made blade – it belonged to Godric Gryffindor, and yet it's as beautiful now as it was a thousand years ago, because goblin-made pieces only absorb that which makes them stronger. In this case, the sword took in some of the venom when Harry killed the basilisk."

"And basilisk venom, as we know, is one of the few things that can destroy a Horcrux," Harry adds. "Extremely potent, and incredibly rare, with only one equally rare antidote."

"Phoenix tears, yes. So, the hat was fighting itself because it was trying to give you something capable of destroying it," Draco concludes.

"Exactly."

"Well, what are you waiting for, Granger?"

"Me?" I ask.

"You're the one holding the sword," Draco replies with a shrug. I shudder.

"Grab on," I say quietly.

"What?"

"Grab on," I repeat. "Destroying a Horcrux is…draining. It'll be easier if we all do it together." It seems that neither of the young men beside me can find fault with my reasoning, because they both reach out to grasp the sword, our hands tangled together around the hilt. The Sorting Hat is utterly still, almost as if its remaining sentience knows what's about to happen and just wants to get it over with. Even Voldemort is no match for artifacts imbued with the wisdom of the Founders themselves.

"On three, then. One…two…three." We lower the blade, which slices almost gently through the ancient fabric, the sound of a soft sigh echoing around us as a dark mist dissipates into thin air. I reach up to swipe away a few tears coursing lightly down my cheeks, and Harry sniffs heavily.

"Thank you, Sorting Hat," he says, though we all know words could never be enough. He picks up the hat and tucks it gently into his pocket, perhaps thinking we might be able to return it to Hogwarts someday, if only as a final resting place. He then takes a deep breath and adds, "We've got to go – Riddle will have felt that, and we need to send the signal before all hell breaks loose." I'm already reaching for my GHRS coin as he speaks, and I send the appropriate message without delay.

"Let's move."

Halfway through our lift ride, Draco hisses as his Dark Mark burns in a summons, and we hear shouting as we arrive at the atrium. Harry and I both quickly disappear, he under the invisibility cloak while I hide behind a Disillusionment Charm, and we hurry forward. The atrium echoes with the 'pop' of Apparition and spells fly in all directions, neither army waiting for an 'official' start to the battle, as it were. I skirt around the edges of the room, narrowly avoiding Death Eaters and GHRS members alike as they continue to materialize. There's no sign of Riddle just yet, but we know it won't be long.

As soon as I'm among friends, I drop the Disillusionment Charm and jump into the fray, engaging with the nearest Death Eater. In my periphery, I can see Ginny, Dean, McGonagall, and countless others fighting hard. Fleur is once again putting her heritage to good use, flames erupting from her fingertips, and Flitwick takes down three Death Eaters with one well-placed hex.

"Hermione, watch out!" One of the fireplaces explodes and I duck just in time as shrapnel flies in all directions. Bill quickly sweeps his wand in a wide arc, the fireplace bits redirecting with deadly purpose to rip into several Death Eaters where they stand. Beside him, Ginny uses the chaos to Disarm her opponent, then hits the Death Eater with a curse from both wands simultaneously. He crashes to the floor and slumps in a motionless heap.

"Confringo!"

"Bombarda!"

"Stupefy!"

"Crucio!" I turn to see one of our fighters – I can't tell who – screaming in pain as the Torture Curse hits. I snap my wand like a whip, my hex hitting the Death Eater's hand and knocking their wand aside. The GHRS member – I can see now that it's Katie Bell – scrambles to their feet and nods in my direction before grabbing the Death Eater's discarded wand and snapping it in two.

Just like the Battle of Hogwarts, the fighting seems to go on for ages, and I lose track of how many Death Eaters I take on. Neither Harry nor Voldemort have made an appearance yet, and I silently will them to hurry up as I wipe blood from my face, a shallow gash on my forehead dripping into my eyes. I stumble on the remaining rubble of the blasted fireplace and trip over a body, my heart seizing in my chest as I see who it is.

It's George.

I choke on a sob. There's no mistaking that he's dead, and I take a moment to close his eyes and drop a kiss to his forehead before returning to the battle. In some twisted way, I'm almost glad – George hasn't been the same since Fred died in the Battle of Hogwarts, the loss of his twin the cruelest thing any of us could have imagined. I hope they're together again, already scheming to raise hell for all eternity.

All at once, an explosion rocks the atrium, many of the fighters falling to their knees. When the smoke clears, Voldemort is visible in the middle of the room, his terrible, snakelike features scanning the crowd.

"Fools," he murmurs. "I have no desire to spill magical blood, and yet, you fight on. Why do you continue to resist?"

"I think I can answer that question." I snort at my best friend's dramatics as he nonchalantly removes the invisibility cloak, appearing mere feet from his lifelong adversary. I don't know when Draco was able to remove his modified glamour, but it's most definitely Harry Potter who's just appeared.

"Evening, Tom," Harry says. "Remember me?"

"Potter," Riddle spits. "How?" Harry twirls his wand between his fingers.

"Might want to keep better track of your little friends, Tom," he replies. At his words, the Death Eater closest to him removes his mask and hood, revealing the intimidating visage of Lucius Malfoy. I snort again at their impeccable timing – just seconds after lowering his hood, 'Lucius'' face begins to bubble and change, and moments later, Draco stands beside Harry, proud and arrogant as always, and more importantly, looking ready for a fight. More than a few gasps, as well as surprised outbursts of "He's alive?!" ring through the room. Quite honestly, I'm not sure which of the two young men people are more surprised to see – Harry's been back and forth between Kensington and headquarters enough that some of our later arrivals never saw him, and of course the only people who knew about Draco are Harry, Pansy, and I.

"Well, well, well," Riddle murmurs. "Draco Malfoy…" He raises his wand.

"Legilimens." I have to give Draco credit – he doesn't even flinch as Riddle invades his mind, clearly seeking answers. Either he breaks in quickly, or Draco offers up the applicable memories willingly – I'm guessing the latter; Draco is rather skilled in both Occlumency and Legilimency, and he's kept his true identity hidden from Voldemort, a master Legilimens in his own right, for over three years. Either way, Riddle lowers his wand and studies Draco with narrowed eyes.

"How…touching," he says, his tone mocking. "Bella, it seems I chose wrong when I ordered your sister's execution. Would you agree?" For the first time, I see the terrifying visage of Bellatrix Lestrange, wild black curls falling freely around her shoulders.

"Absolutely not, my Lord," she says. "That traitorous weakling is no sister of mine." Riddle's reptilian features twist into a horrible mockery of a grin.

"Very well. You may deal with the traitor, Bella," he says. "The Potter brat is mine." Bellatrix's face splits into an equally horrible grin, showing her rotted teeth.

"With pleasure."

The battle recommences with renewed ferocity, both sides throwing curses with lightning speed. Dead fighters from both sides litter the ground, and blood coats the floor. In the middle of everything, Harry and Riddle and Draco and Bellatrix are locked in the fiercest duels of all, their spell work so fast it's almost invisible. Harry's shouting at Riddle, but no one else can hear it amidst all the chaos.

BOOM!

The awful 'Magic is Might' statue explodes under the force of several spells, chunks of stone flying in all directions. A group of GHRS fighters snaps to attention, directing the broken bits into a makeshift barricade that blocks off the far corner of the room. It's not much, but it effectively creates a little triage area, where Madam Pomfrey, Lavender, and their team can work on the wounded in relative safety.

"Alright?" a voice asks. I look to my left to see Ron, breathless and sweaty, locked in combat with one of the Lestrange brothers. Antonin Dolohov joins the fight and I quickly jump in, eager for the chance to take down the bastard who nearly killed me all those years ago. Dolohov is ruthless, with a whole arsenal of nasty hexes he invented himself, but I'm not a fifth year anymore, nor am I the naïve girl who thinks that we can win this war with spells taught at Hogwarts. We trade curses in rapid succession, a nasty gash ripping open on my left thigh and a well-placed fireball leaving Dolohov with severe burns. Finally, I manage to shatter all the bones in his right leg, and he crumples, snarling in pain. I snap his wand and toss the pieces aside, then bind him in thick ropes from head to toe. It'd be quite satisfying to kill him, but I don't – after everything he's done, he doesn't deserve to get off easy.

"NO!" I turn to find the source of the cry, which is followed by a muffled thump and a shriek of triumph. A body falls to the floor, and Bellatrix cackles with laughter, the wicked sound sending chills up and down my spine. Across the room, Draco has fallen to his knees, half supported by a girl I recognize as Pansy in her Colette disguise – I belatedly realize it must've been her who cried out. Blood coats Draco's hands and the floor around him, and to my horror, I realize it's because Bellatrix's dagger is embedded to the hilt in his stomach.

No. No no no no NO.

I sure as hell don't like Draco – he's arrogant and prejudiced and mean and made my life miserable just because I existed – but he saved both my best friend's life and mine. He's the reason Harry Potter is still here, still dueling Riddle and still giving us hope. He's the reason I didn't bleed out in Westminster station. I'm not going to let him die.

Without a second thought, I race across the room, dropping to my knees and skidding the last few feet through a puddle of blood to Draco's side. Wrenching the knife out, I scramble to my feet. Bellatrix is still cackling, and the sound sends white-hot rage coursing through me.

"This is for Narcissa," I hiss. In quick succession, I hurl the dagger through the air and send a Sectumsempra after it. My aim rings true, the dagger embedding itself in Bellatrix's chest while the heart of the curse slices across her jugular. Her cackle dies in her throat as she gasps for air, the sound gurgling as blood begins to pour from the wounds in her neck, and another hex sends her crashing into a pile of rubble, where she lays still. Across the room, Neville Longbottom lowers his wand and nods in my direction. Not just for Narcissa, then – for Frank and Alice Longbottom, as well.

"Help him!" Pansy's cry brings my attention back to the blond lying motionless at my feet. Pansy's eyes are wide with terror, and I understand all too clearly the pain in her voice – it's the pain I felt all those years I thought Harry was dead.

"He's not going to die," I say firmly. We need to move quickly, though. Normally, removing the weapon from a stab wound is a big no-no, as the weapon itself will stem the worst of the bleeding. This isn't a normal situation, though, and I removed the dagger for good reason – as I found out the hard way when she tortured me at Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix likes to poison her blades. After her dagger cut into my neck, it took weeks for me to be able to swallow without pain, and that was just a shallow nick. Draco's wound is much worse, and I don't want to think about how much poison is already in his system.

"Help me move him," I tell Pansy, sparing no further thoughts for the dead woman behind me. I carefully use Levicorpus to lift Draco's body off the floor, and Pansy grabs his shoulders to help physically guide him as well. As quickly as we can, we bring Draco to the far end of the room, both of us trying to ignore the blood spattering the ground as Draco's wound continues to drip.

"Don't you dare die on me, Draco Malfoy!" Pansy snaps as we lower him to an empty stretch of floor and I grab for my beaded bag. Tears are still coursing down her cheeks.

"And…why not?" Draco replies, then coughs heavily.

"Don't talk, you'll just make it worse," I scold him. I stick my wand in the bag. "Accio bezoar."

"Why bother, Granger?" Draco asks, coughing again. "We both know I deserve it."

"Shut up," I repeat. "You don't get to save my best friend's life – and mine – and then just die, Draco. Now, are you going to swallow this yourself, or am I going to have to knock you out and force it down your throat?" Pansy saves him the trouble of answering and sends him into unconsciousness with a wave of her wand.

"Draco's a big baby when it comes to pain," she says matter-of-factly, though her voice is still thick with tears. "You might get him to swallow the bezoar, but you'll never get him to sit still long enough to stitch him up without him whining about it. And I, for one, am not going to let him leave me stuck looking like this for the rest of my life." I decide not to argue with her and set about placing the bezoar on Draco's tongue and forcing him to swallow with the aid of a spell. Apparently, Draco's disguise spell is such that even his death won't negate it, and I think I understand what she means – while her alter-ego is quite pretty, she's not Pansy. I can't imagine being stuck with a false face for the rest of my life.

"Find me a vial of blood-replenishing potion," I tell Pansy instead, handing her my beaded bag with one hand while my other waves my wand over Draco's stomach. Slowly but surely, the wound begins to knit itself together. It's not perfect, and the scar will likely be more noticeable than if a professional had seen to it, but we don't have the luxury of being picky. Scarred and alive is better than pretty and dead.

Pansy hands me the vial of blood-replenishing potion, along with a second vial she scrounged up that will fight potential infections. I use the swallowing spell again to feed Draco both potions, then look to Pansy.

"Keep an eye on him, yeah?" I say. "I don't want to wake him just yet – the bezoar will have done its job, but he's still likely to be in some pain while he finishes healing. I'd rather he sleep that off. He's probably long overdue for a solid night's sleep, anyway."

"We're not going anywhere, Granger," Pansy reassures me. She shifts her body slightly so she's seated fully on the ground and lifts Draco's head into her lap. She looks up at me, her disguise's blue eyes so unlike the dark ones I remember from school.

"Thank you, Granger," she says. "I may not be in love with him anymore, but I still love him – the way you love Potter and Weasley, I suspect. Woe betide anyone who tries to touch him now." I nod solemnly and move to stand.

"I'll leave him in your capable hands, then."

The battle actually doesn't last too much longer – I've barely rejoined the fighting when Harry finally manages to take down Voldemort, my best friend slumping to the floor in both pain and relief as his lifelong foe's body falls. It's almost anticlimactic, in a way, but I don't really care. He's finally gone. I sit beside Harry and wrap my arms around him, where he sobs unabashedly into my shoulder. Poor thing has had this hanging over his head for practically his entire life – I can only imagine what he's feeling right now.

As Harry's sniffles start to subside, I take a look around the room, surveying the aftermath of the battle. It's a terrible sight – broken bodies (and body parts, thanks to some of the nastier hexes) scattered everywhere, blood coating the floor and walls like some sort of macabre paint job, the wounded on both sides screaming for help, the remaining Death Eaters struggling against their bonds. Now that the adrenaline's wearing off a bit, I can't ignore the throbbing pain from the gash in my leg. There's still so much work to do…but I can't be bothered with any of it right now. I'm tired – so, so tired. I've given everything I have to this war – if someone approaches me right now and so much as asks for a glass of water before I get some sleep, I'm liable to hex them. I just don't care anymore. Leaning my head against Harry's shoulder, I take a deep breath and allow myself to relax just a little for the first time in years. Yes, there's still a lot of work to do…but the war itself, at least, is finally over.