The sound of the Killing Curse filled the air, but then there was nothing. Hermione could feel pain in her left side from where she had slammed into the floor, and she could feel Harry's fingers digging into her, and the slight rise and fall of his chest, and she was filled with relief because that meant he was alive.

But there were no curses, no shouts, no sounds or smells of dueling. She heard only the swishing of robes and, unbelievably, the chirping of birds outside the window.

And then—

"Harry!" Hagrid yelled, and she felt Harry being swept up and away from her forcefully, before she, too, was enveloped by the groundskeeper. "Harry, are yeh all righ'?"

"M'fine," he tried to say, but the sound was muffled because Hagrid was clutching them both tightly to his chest.

"Hermione?" Hagrid asked.

She tried to speak, but couldn't, so she nodded her head. Hagrid set them on the ground but held onto them, and Hermione was glad because now that it was all over, she felt shaky and lightheaded and realized just how much pain had been inflicted from the battle. She wasn't sure she could stand without Hagrid's help.

She blinked as she looked around. Crouch was lying on the ground, his face fixed in a look that she could only describe as maniacal glee, Neville's wand still clasped firmly in his hand. He was very dead. She heard herself whimper.

Her eyes sought Harry's—needed the visual confirmation that he was okay—and the way Harry was looking at her—so intense, so acutely aware of her reactions—was something else. He looked concerned, and Hermione guessed maybe she looked a bit wild-eyed. She felt wild-eyed.

"Neville?" Harry asked, turning to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was kneeling over Neville, his face grim and resolute.

"He's alive," Dumbledore said shortly, and Hermione nearly burst into tears from relief.

There was a swishing of robes behind them and a squeak, and then Professor Flitwick appeared. "Albus, I heard the ruckus—what happened?" he asked.

Dumbledore turned to Harry and Hermione. "Do you know what spell was used on him?"

Harry shook his head. "He didn't say an incantation," he answered. "But there was a purple light."

Dumbledore and Flitwick exchanged a grave look. "I'll take him to Poppy," Flitwick said, levitating Neville and ushering him out of the room.

"These two should get to the hospital wing, too," Hagrid said.

"I'd like to speak to them first," Dumbledore disagreed, and his tone left no room for discussion. Hermione got the feeling that he didn't want them in the hospital wing when Madam Pomfrey and Professor Flitwick were working on Neville.

Hagrid hesitated, looking at Crouch, and then looked down at Harry and Hermione. "I can stay with the body, if yeh wanna take 'em to another room," he said.

Dumbledore nodded, and looked at his watch. "Fred and George Weasley will have gotten to Minerva by now, so she should be along shortly," he said. "Tell her to search the room." He then turned to Harry and Hermione. "Come with me."

Hermione didn't really want to move—didn't want to do anything. Her head hurt painfully, and she felt disoriented. But, after Hagrid finally released them—despite the fact that them leaving had been his idea, he didn't seem to want to let go—she shuffled out after Dumbledore and a limping Harry anyway.

Luckily, they didn't go far. Dumbledore took them to an empty classroom, then conjured up three armchairs that they could collapse into. Dumbledore eyed them carefully before wordlessly taking care of the worst of their injuries.

Still, Hermione felt fuzzy, wishing only to know that Neville was okay and then to sleep for a week. She didn't want to relive what had just happened—didn't understand much of it herself. She had been Imperiused and half of the afternoon consisted only of fragments of memories, like she had pieces from two different puzzles and she was trying to jam them together to make a whole.

"I know that the last thing you want to do is talk about this," Dumbledore said with a kind expression on his face. "But the sooner we know what happened, the better."

And so Harry told the whole story—how they'd seen Moody coming out of Snape's office, how Snape had accused Harry of stealing the boomslang skin, seeing Moody buying that in Hogsmeade, and so they'd theorized that he had been the one to put Harry's name in the goblet of fire. He told Dumbledore about the map showing them Barty Crouch's name.

"We were coming to get you," Harry said, "but Crouch already knew that we knew. And he put Neville and Hermione under the Imperius curse, so I went with him to buy time, and slipped Fred and George the map."

At that, Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, that was an ingenious little plan, Harry," he said. "Did Crouch let on how he knew?"

"Because of his foe-glass," Harry said miserably.

Dumbledore nodded and Harry told the rest.

"And then you came in," Harry finished simply. He shook his head. "How did Crouch die? I didn't hear you use any spells."

"I didn't have time to," Dumbledore answered. "Crouch used the Killing Curse on himself."

What?

"Is that even possible?" Hermione asked.

Dumbledore leaned back. "The only true requirement for the Killing Curse is intent," he said. "You really have to mean it. So it's rare for someone to be able to use it on himself, but it is theoretically possible."

Hermione shook her head, which only caused the pain to flare more painfully. "But he wasn't suicidal," she said.

"No, he wasn't," Dumbledore agreed.

Harry's brow was furrowed, and he stared intently at Dumbledore. "He didn't start using lethal force until he saw you," he said, looking at Dumbledore. "I didn't see that look in his eyes until he saw you. But he didn't even try to fight you."

"Which likely means Crouch was more afraid of being captured than killed," Dumbledore said.

The man had spent time in Azkaban. Had he thought death better than a lifetime with the dementors? Hermione shuddered at the thought of spending even five minutes with them.

"He—he told me that the Dark Lord's plans weren't for me to know," Harry said slowly. "But he didn't deny that Voldemort had a reason for putting my name in the goblet of fire, and for Crouch helping me with the tasks. He didn't try to hurt me—he kept trying to neutralize me. Maybe he was worried…that if you captured him, you'd force him to give up the Dark Lord's plans for me."

"Veritaserum," Hermione said automatically, like they were in class, discussing theoretical scenarios.

Dumbledore smiled at them, a proud gleam in his eye. "Precisely what I was thinking," he said. "Barty Crouch Jr. appears to be one of Voldemort's truest believers. And we know he knew of Voldemort's plans—possibly even his whereabouts. He would not want to give that away."

"So dying was a better option than letting Voldemort's plans get foiled?" Harry asked incredulously.

Dumbledore took off his glasses, wiping them, before putting them back in place. He smiled sadly. "I know it seems unfathomable to you," he said. "But the level of devotion that Voldemort achieved from his followers during the war was almost unmatched in its intensity. Those who managed to escape Azkaban seem to have moved on—more concerned with living their lives than finding their old master. But there are some who would not hesitate to give their life to Voldemort's cause. Barty Crouch Jr. is apparently one of them."

"But with Crouch gone, isn't whatever he has planned for the tournament over?" Harry asked.

"I would think so," Dumbledore said. "But I will personally see to all of the details of the third task to ensure Crouch didn't do something to tamper with it."

"But why does Harry have to compete at all?" Hermione asked impatiently. "There's proof now that he didn't put his name in the goblet of fire. Doesn't that nullify the magical contract?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said sadly.

"But You-Know-Who wants him to compete," Hermione kept arguing. "It's not safe for any of the contestants."

"Unfortunately, they're all magically bound," Dumbledore replied. "But we will do everything to ensure their safety."

There was a knock at the door, and then Professor McGonagall entered. She eyed Harry and Hermione, a misty expression on her face.

"We found the real Alastor Moody locked in a drawer in his trunk," she said. "He's alive. I've taken him to Poppy."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a confused glance. If the real Moody had been there, why hadn't he shown up on the map?

"How's Neville?" Hermione asked, searching Professor McGonagall's face for a reaction.

"Did you see him when you went there?" Harry added.

McGonagall nodded. "He's resting now," she said. "It will be awhile before he wakes up, but he should make a full recovery."

Harry visibly slumped with relief at her words, and Hermione's own emotions mirrored his.

"These two should get to the hospital wing, now," McGonagall said, and Dumbledore nodded in agreement. Hermione was ready for the hospital wing—was ready for a dreamless sleep where she wouldn't have to see Crouch's frightful, lifeless face staring up at her.

It was bright out when she woke up, and Hermione wondered if it had been several hours or several days. She was lying in the hospital wing, and someone had put her into her pajamas. She stretched her toes and wiggled her fingers—she still felt a bit sore, but she knew she should feel a lot worse.

She blinked and turned to the side—Harry was laying in the bed next to her, staring at her. He shot up when he saw her open her eyes, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and walked over to the chair beside her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"All right," she replied, sitting up in bed. "How long have I been out?"

"It's Tuesday afternoon. I just woke a little while ago," Harry said. "Madam Pomfrey went to go get Professor Dumbledore."

"Is Neville awake?" she asked.

Harry shook his head, looking down guiltily. "Madam Pomfrey isn't sure when he'll wake up."

"Harry—"

But she was interrupted when the door to the hospital wing opened, and Dumbledore stepped inside.

"Good, you're both awake," he said, conjuring a chair for himself next to Harry. "How are you two feeling?"

"We're fine," Harry and Hermione said.

But Hermione considered that answer. Physically, she was feeling much better. Mentally, she was experiencing a flood of memories, those puzzle pieces from when she'd been under the Imperius curse. It hadn't felt unlike the time she'd had a molar removed, and then she and her mum had watched Alice in Wonderland while she was still high on painkillers.

She wasn't someone who dealt well with loss of control, and while the Imperius curse enveloped you in a cocoon of bliss, there had been a part of her that had felt how wrong it was, that had rebelled against the orders and fuzzy way the curse made her see the world.

But it hadn't been enough. She'd seen Crouch and Harry arguing, seen them begin to duel, but she had been powerless to stop it—powerless to do anything but sit there and drink lukewarm tea loaded up with brown sugar—which she didn't even like. But he'd ordered them to put sugar in their tea and drink it, and so she did.

She'd vaguely heard Harry defending her—his utter faith in her that she could break the Imperius—but it was like an echo, a whisper of something, and she'd felt like a failure, like she was letting him down by not immediately being able to do it. If their places had been exchanged, he would've been able to break free.

And that had just made her feel worse—failure was her greatest fear after all, and it tried to coax her back into the false bliss that Crouch had offered. But when she'd seen Crouch advancing on Harry, the desperate look in Harry's eye as he reached for his wand, something inside of her snapped. He had needed her, and she had refused to fail him.

And yet, she was still in a bit of shock that she'd actually done it.

She looked up, and saw Harry and Dumbledore watching her intently.

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"Where's Moody—the real Moody?" Hermione asked, as she looked around and realized he was not in the hospital wing.

"He's been taken to St. Mungo's," Dumbledore said. "Hopefully, when he wakes up, he'll be able to shed more light on Crouch's plan."

"Do they know how Crouch escaped Azkaban?" Harry asked.

"The ministry sent aurors to the Crouch family home," Dumbledore said. "Barty Crouch Sr. was gone and the house was deserted."

"Do you think he helped his son?" Harry asked.

"I think it's likely he helped him escape, yes," Dumbledore said. "The ministry exhumed Barty Crouch Jr.'s grave yesterday and found the remains of his mother. It seems likely that she somehow traded places with her son when she and Barty Crouch Sr. went to visit him. I don't see how she could have done it without her husband's help."

"Winky might know," Harry responded. "She was their house elf for years."

"I suspect she does know, at least part of it," Dumbledore responded. "And, indeed, I tried to question her. But Winky is a free elf—I cannot command her to tell me the truth, and she has chosen to keep her former master's secrets."

"Can't you give her veritaserum or something?" Harry asked impatiently.

"That particular potion is only for wizards," Dumbledore replied.

Harry and Hermione considered everything he'd said.

"Do you think Crouch helped his son with this plan?" Harry asked.

"No," Dumbledore said. "I've known Barty Crouch Sr. a long time. He would not willingly help Voldemort. And with his disappearance this year, I think it much more likely he was killed or imprisoned—perhaps put under the Imperius himself."

"He would've been under the Imperius for months," Hermione murmured.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed.

"Professor," Hermione started to ask, and then stopped herself, not sure how to ask what she wanted to.

"Yes?" Dumbledore asked.

"How—how is it that Crouch Sr. could be under the Imperius for months, but Neville and I broke it in an afternoon?"

Crouch was a far more skilled wizard than they were—it didn't seem possible.

"What do you know of the Imperius curse, Miss Granger?"

"What Crouch told us in class—that the only way to break it is with your own strength of character." She'd tried to research it more after class like she did with every subject, but all of the books on the Unforgivable Curses had been in the restricted section.

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Yes, I asked Professor Moody—Crouch—to give the fourth and fifth years a rudimentary knowledge of the Unforgivables," he said. "Which means what they look like, and in the case of the Imperius, how to fight against it. But had you taken a N.E.W.T. level class, you would have learned that there are a great many factors that go into a successful Imperius."

"Like what?" Harry asked, leaning forward.

"The inner strength of the person being cursed is indeed what is most important," Dumbledore said, "and age and skill has nothing to do with that. But you must also consider the skill of the person casting the spell; how much intent they've got behind the curse; and how many people they have under the Imperius. You see, when you hold someone under the Imperius, you must maintain a connection with them. This isn't a conscious connection—if you hold someone for weeks or months, you still must be able to sleep and go about your life—but the more connections you add, the more potential there is to weaken one of your holds.

"There's also the mental state of the caster," Dumbledore added. "When Voldemort was at the height of his power, he held dozens under the Imperius with ease. But that only came after a great deal of practice. What has Crouch been doing all of these years? If, indeed, his father helped him escape Azkaban, it also seems likely that he locked his son up somehow—which means he was out of practice when it came to magic and holding two people—possibly three, if that's how he subdued Alastor Moody—would've been mentally exhausting. And, if Crouch Sr. used the Imperius to hold him, it's possible Crouch Jr. was under the Imperius for more than a decade. Even if he broke free, that would affect his ability to maintain an Imperius on someone else."

Dumbledore looked at Hermione intently. "There's also, of course, the situation you're in," he said. "As I understand it, when Crouch used the Imperius on you all in class, Harry was the only one to break free."

"Right," Hermione said. "Neville and I couldn't do it then."

"But you also didn't have a reason to," Dumbledore countered. "From what Harry told me, you broke free when you saw that he was in trouble—your connection with him was strong and enabled your inner strength to fight back. In Neville's case, Crouch ordered him to jump out a window, an order that would cause all but the most weak-willed of people to fight back. They may or may not succeed, but it's a situation that would at least jump-start Neville's will if he hadn't been fighting the curse already. Add in the blow he suffered when he was banished, Crouch's mental exhaustion from maintaining multiple Imperius curses and his battle with the two of you, and the jolt Neville would have received from seeing Barty Crouch Jr. alive—it's not really a surprise that he'd be able to break the Imperius in this instance."

In this instance…

"So, you're saying that even though we've broken the Imperius once, it doesn't mean we'll automatically be able to do it again if someone else tries it?" Hermione asked.

"Exactly," Dumbledore said gravely. "It'll be easier for you to throw it off because your brain has a roadmap now—but if the caster were powerful enough, that could mean very little."

Harry furrowed his brow. "So it's sort of like a Patronus then?" he asked. "Even if you've conjured it before, whether you can do it again depends on how happy a memory you have, how many dementors there are, your mental state before the dementors attack…"

"An apt analogy," Dumbledore agreed.

They talked for a while more—Dumbledore told them that while the rest of the school more or less knew what had happened, the hospital wing was on lockdown for now. He also assured Harry that he'd arrange for a visit with Snuffles soon—once ministry officials stopped coming and going from the castle.

When Dumbledore left, Harry stood up and paced in front of Hermione's bed.

"What's the point of all of this?" he fumed. "Why would he send someone here to enter me into the tournament, then help me with the tournament, and then not try to kill me when he had the chance?"

"I don't know," Hermione said slowly, twisting her blanket around in her hands. "We don't have the bigger picture—but we do have to be even more careful with the third task."

"Dumbledore said he'd make sure Crouch didn't tamper with anything," Harry said.

"Even still," Hermione argued. "The task will be dangerous enough as it is. And You-Know-Who has three months to come up with a Plan B."

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, clearly still aggravated, turned to pace again, and stilled when he saw Neville's bed. Neville was lying there, looking quite small, his face both bruised and pale. Harry stiffened, then plopped down on the bed next to Hermione, defeated.

"It's my fault," he rasped, never taking his eyes off Neville, not looking at her. "What happened to both of you. I should've listened to you."

Hermione shifted closer to him, studying him, though all she could see was his profile. "You did listen to me, Harry," she said. "How could we have known that he saw you in the foe-glass? It's nearly impossible to control a gut reaction like that."

Harry was quiet, considering that. "I just wish he'd wake up," he said, and Hermione slipped her hand into his.

They spent days in the hospital wing sitting by Neville's bedside. Madam Pomfrey eventually transfigured the armchair next to his bed into a sofa so they'd both have somewhere to sit.

On their first night sitting vigil, Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's once more. It felt solid and safe, and as they spent their days sitting side by side, it became something of a habit. It was a gentle reminder that they were each still there and, quite frankly, it seemed to help calm their nerves. Madam Pomfrey kept insisting that Neville would be fine, but every day that he stayed sleeping just made them more jittery. Holding Harry's hand gave her something to do, and when they broke apart, her own hand felt empty and cold.

Hermione also had a lot of time in the quiet of the hospital wing to piece together what had happened, replaying that Sunday afternoon in her mind.

When she had been Harry's hostage in the second task, she had felt something she couldn't quite identify, elated by the thought that she was the person he would sorely miss.

And yet, this was something entirely different. It was their connection with each other that enabled her to throw off the Imperius curse. And while Harry didn't say it in so many words, she'd been able to piece together what he'd been thinking when he threw himself on top of her: Crouch was going to use the Killing Curse, Harry didn't believe Crouch would use the curse on him, and Neville was unconscious on the floor, so the only logical person Crouch would try to kill was her. And Harry had thrown himself in her way.

Hermione had seen that look in Crouch's eyes too, but she'd been frozen in fear. And Harry hadn't even hesitated to protect her.

This felt different than it had in the past—Yes, Harry had always been someone who tried to save everyone, but Avada Kedavra wasn't the possibility of getting hurt or killed like the troll had been; it was instant death if it hit you. The fact that he had done that for her scared her—what if he had been hit—but it also shook her to her very core when she realized just how much he cared.

She didn't know what that sacrifice meant, didn't know how to try to talk about it with Harry until she understood what she was feeling herself, but she knew that calling him her "best friend" felt silly and superficial compared to the bond that they shared.

When she wasn't examining what had happened, she was busy doing work. Every day, Professor McGonagall delivered their assignments to them and notes from class that their fellow Gryffindors had volunteered. Hermione couldn't believe that only a few short days ago, she was worried about facing Snape in class. And now, she wasn't even going.

While they dutifully did their homework, Hermione spent most of her time devising a timetable for the spells Harry would learn for the third task. She couldn't believe that Harry still had to participate, but it was more important than ever that he be prepared. If Crouch was willing to die rather than risk being captured by Dumbledore, it meant that he thought You-Know-Who's plan was still salvageable.

Physically, both Harry and Hermione seemed healed, but Madam Pomfrey didn't release them—whether that was because she was fretting about them in the aftermath of what happened or Dumbledore wanted to shield them from the school, Hermione couldn't be sure.

Of course, he couldn't shield them from everything. A few days after they woke up, an owl delivered the Daily Prophet to Hermione—and on the front page was an article about Harry written by Rita Skeeter.

They had been expecting it.

"What does it say?" Harry asked warily.

While the Triwizard Tournament is known for being a dangerous event, students are supposed to be safe when they're attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But due to Albus Dumbledore's astounding lack of judgment and competence, Barty Crouch Jr.—a known Death Eater who was sent to Azkaban for life for torturing Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, and who was believed to be dead—imprisoned and impersonated ex-Auror Alastor Moody for months with no one being the wiser.

No one, that is, except Harry Potter. Upon finding out that his teacher was a Death Eater, the boy who defeated You-Know-Who as a baby proved his mettle by taking on the Death Eater singlehandedly, a battle that ended in Crouch's death.

Harry was stunned. "Is she actually trying to make people think that I killed him?" he asked.

"Apparently so," Hermione said.

"I'm surprised she didn't try to turn it around on me," Harry replied. "Harry Potter Goes on Killing Spree at Hogwarts."

Hermione smiled grimly. "I suppose it was too hard to make a Death Eater the victim, even for her," she said. "She might have soured on us, but Boy-Who-Lived Defeats Death Eater is something people will eat up."

"What else does it say?"

"It goes on like that for a while," Hermione murmured. "She mentions Neville. 'In a fitting bit of symmetry, Harry Potter's actions saved the life of Neville Longbottom—the very boy who tragically lost his parents to insanity due to Barty Crouch Jr.'s actions all those years ago.'"

Harry looked at Neville compassionately. "Everyone will know about his parents now when he wakes up," he said.

Hermione shook her head angrily. "As if he didn't have enough to deal with," she responded. She honestly didn't know how he was going to react to everything that had happened.

"Does the article mention you?" Harry asked.

"No—it probably doesn't fit her narrative to have you saving the deceitful harlot who's sneaking you love potions."

"Well, what kind of wizard can successfully kill a Death Eater, but can't handle a 15-year old?" Harry snarked. "Sort of makes the hero of her story look like a bit of an idiot."

Hermione grinned.

"And then there's this bit at the end about Crouch Sr.," Hermione continued, furrowing her brow. "She blames Dumbledore for being incompetent for not uncovering Crouch Jr., but she also makes it seem like Crouch Jr.'s whole plan was a ministry cover up—like his dad was in on it. 'It, of course, cannot be a coincidence that the last visitors Barty Crouch Jr. received in Azkaban were his parents—and his mother was found in his grave. It cannot also be a coincidence that Crouch Jr. managed to install himself at Hogwarts the very year Barty Crouch Sr. spearheaded the effort to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, ensuring he had a foothold at the school. And just where has Crouch Sr. run to now? It seems Cornelius Fudge has a lot to answer to for keeping such a dangerous wizard in such a high-ranking position."

Harry was quiet for a moment, and then said, "Better Fudge than me."

And then they'd settled back into their sofa, waiting for Neville to wake up.

They'd gone on like that for days, sitting quietly, diligently doing their work, debating which spells Harry should learn first. And then finally, one rainy day, she felt Harry's elbow gently nudging her in the ribs, waking her from a nap.

"Hermione, c'mon, get up," Harry whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and the room was sideways—she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder. She shifted to sit up and looked at Harry. He was smiling, and jerked his thumb toward Neville's bed.

Hermione turned and grinned as Harry said, quite unnecessarily at this point, "Neville's awake."