Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings
Author's Note: You will all think I'm horrible. That's okay; I probably am. This was the original ending, however I added another chapter for the sake of tying up loose threads.
Thank you everyone! You are all fantastic!
c:
VI
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The small shack looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Not one particle of dust misplaced; no signs of life. For a moment, Hermione Granger pursed her lips as she assessed the scene in front of her.
"Robert, you said there was a trace leading here?" she asked, her eyes flickering over the dust covered floors. The man, Rob, only shrugged.
"It wasn't much of a trace, but there was a weak signal of magic in here—whether small it may be. It might lead us somewhere."
"And you found no reason to call in an Aruor escort?"
Robert snorted. "For what? Scared, Miss Granger?" he teased.
Hermione only rolled her eyes as she took out of wand, flicking it out in front of her. No on was in the house.
But—
Her eyebrows furrowed.
She felt it—
—there was something—
—something that was calling to her.
"Did you at least call in a Curse Breaker?" Hermione questioned him once again.
"If I was out with Angus, yes; I would have. But I'm here with you. Unspeakable and Curse Breaker in one, you are."
Hermione would have smiled to that, possibly throw a playful retort at her partner. But not today; not now. She turned to him and frowned. "Something doesn't feel quite right."
All the mirth and playfulness from Robert had evaporated and then he nodded. He always trusted the judgement of one Hermione Granger. "Perhaps I should call Mr. Potter?" he suggested, but Hermione quickly shook her head.
"No, Harry has enough to worry about."
"I'll call Angus then, and get someone from the Aruor department."
When Rob had stepped out, Hermione turned back to the small shack.
—Whispers of her death; poisoning her dirty veins.
—Promising anguish, torture.
—Kill, Kill, Kill—
But there was one small, little voice— Please.
Perhaps it was because of her blasted bleeding heart that she stepped forward. Perhaps it was because of her stupid pride that she stepped forward. Perhaps she wanted to prove that voice wrong of her 'dirty veins' that she stepped forward.
There was just so much dust that it clung desperately to everything and anything, refusing to move. There was an unexplainable pressure inside—one that almost felt familiar—
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Harry Potter was livid.
Absolutely seething.
Inside, he was panicking.
"What the hell happened!?" he roared at Robert, who was looking pale, red eyed, and completely guilty.
"I—I don't know! I stepped outside to call Angus and then I hear—I hear her screamin' and I ran as fast as I could. . ." Rob gulped. "She was just layin' there. Nothing was around; I pulled her out and immediately came here."
Emerald green eyes pierced through Robert's, glaring as if he hoped to incinerate him. In all reality, he knew he shouldn't be mad at her partner, nor at Hermione for being so incredibly dumb for someone who was supposed to be bright. The brightest. But in hindsight, he knew just who to blame.
If something happened to 'Mione, Harry would never forgive himself.
He hadn't felt anything in years. He thought everything was over. He was so sure—everyone was. And now this had happened.
His scar itched.
She looked as if she was asleep. So peaceful and elegant; perhaps like she had fallen asleep reading. Yes. That was what she looked like.
Ron Weasley burst through the doors of St. Mungo's, immediately catching Harry pacing in front of Hermione's treatment room.
"How is she?" Ron asked after he caught his breath. As soon as Robert had sent his patronus, the red head dropped everything and quickly flooed over. Sweat coated his brow as he straightened his Auror robes. "Why the hell wasn't there a bloody Auror there? Nor a Curse Breaker? Was she completely mental?" Ron spat incredulously. He started to grumble, soundly suspiciously like 'ringing Rob's neck.'
"Robert is over there with a whole team, searching the place. I've better get down there too." Harry took one more longing look at the door. The Healers haven't let him inside to see her once. Not even if he was Harry Potter and she was Hermione Granger.
"Don't worry Harry, I'll watch her till Mum gets here, then I'll be there."
"Thanks, Ron."
"Don't mention it. But if it's true, and that fucking bastard comes back, I want his head on a stake."
It had been one week.
Seven days without Hermione.
She still laid in St. Mungo's, still breathing, still sleeping, and still completely unresponsive.
Harry often noticed, every once in a while, she twitched.
His scar burned every time she does.
On day eleven without Hermione, they had found it.
Perhaps if she was around, they would have found it eleven days earlier.
"That bloody fucker—" Ron hissed.
Harry stared at it. Stared with hatred. Stared with sadness.
"Let's get the sword and finally end this," Ron grounded out. But instead, Harry shook his head.
"What if she's in there, Ron?"
The red head looked up towards his best friend with scrunched eyebrows and shocked blue eyes.
"Inside. . . inside that thing?"
Harry nodded.
"I think—I think I can feel her fighting."
On day fourteen, Ron believed Harry.
They had came up with a system.
Watch Hermione. Sleep. Watch the horcrux. Sleep.
Repeat.
It was Ron's turn to watch the cursed object when he noticed it.
Wand out defensively, he leaned in closer. The horcrux made another sickly snap and he gasped.
"Bloody hell."
The horcrux was cracking.
On day seventeen, Hermione's reports were still the same.
She was still breathing, still sleeping, and still unresponsive.
Most of all, she was still healthy.
On day twenty three, Hermione had a seizure.
"Get her stabilized!" The Healers barked at each other, pouring potions down her throat.
It was a frantic blur of white robes as Ginny Weasley had pinned herself against the wall; wide, panicked eyes trained on Hermione's convulsing body.
On day twenty three, the horcrux was shattering.
Ron and Harry were staring at it; wide, panicked eyes trained on the crumbling horcrux.
"Come on Hermione," Harry whispered.
That was when Ginny's patronus showed up, frantically crying.
Hermione's heart was failing.
On day twenty three, Hermione's heart stopped.
On day twenty three, the horcux decayed into nothingness.
There.
She could see it from her spot, the thing that had caused the magic signal—the thing that called to her.
A familiar haze loomed over the room and Hermione lifted her lit wand out in front of her. The horcrux will not intimidate her. She had destroyed plenty and faced all seven. But this—
—this was an unofficial horcrux. Shuffling her feet ever so slightly, disturbing the dust particles, Hermione peered closer at the object.
It was so unremarkable, she would have over looked it, even if she was searching for it. But one doesn't quite forget the trademarks of Tom Riddle's horcrux. It was a simple glass paperweight. Clear, and solid.
The glass was still whispering, hissing, horrid things, but there was that dominate voice—please, please, please—
—her magic spiked in warning and she lifted her wand defensively.
Darkness suddenly bloomed around her and Hermione let out a shriek. The light from her wand was cut off and she couldn't see a thing, except that the ink blackness was some how darker in front of her, the shape of a male body, reaching his hands out—
—he grabbed her—
Please.
And then she was falling.
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Tom Riddle Jr desperately wanted to die. It seemed like such a childish, ignorant fear when he was alive. . .and not just endless rotting emotions. Dying was a release, peace, and finally time to rest. But he had made sure that wouldn't happen to him. Locking away the years from the day he was born, to the day of his last blasted horcrux, he relived his days, constantly. Over, and over again.
He probably didn't deserve release.
He had seen his older body.
Her had seen what his heartless body did.
He had seen what his cruel body had done.
And it had all started with fear.
Perhaps not so, Tom had certainly tried to not dwindle on such a thought all of these years.
Suddenly, there was something—
—something different—
—something alive.
He could barely see her. A witch; wand lit, endless dust, and the most wildest hair.
If only he could touch—
"Please, come closer."
It did not work; it wasn't like she could hear him. But there was nothing else to do, was there?
"Please, the light. Bring it here." It has always been so drab; endless darkness.
If only he could reach—
If only—
Darkness swirled around him and it sounded like the glass had shattered. He saw the fear suddenly etched on her face and the startled shout she emitted.
"Please, don't be afraid."
Tom reached his hand outwards—
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It was time to let go.
He knew that.
The loneness inside of him was filled, and he felt something that he hadn't felt in a long time—
—warmth.
It was a foolish thought; to keep her. It wasn't like he had any control of the horcrux power, whisking her away before his emotions could ever solidify.
But slowly watching her fade with worry and constant desperation, he knew he had to let her go.
Not even the warmth she had gave him, but escape. Sweet, bitter escape.
He knew he had to end it.
"I'm so sorry."
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Hermione Granger's eyes snapped open with a loud gasp.
Sweat trickled down her neck and temples.
Her body was shaking.
There was a constant ringing in her ears. Everything around her was just blurred shapes.
"Miss Granger! Miss Granger, can you hear me?"
Mutely, Hermione turned her fuzzy vision towards a Healer in white robes, twirling their wand around her in vaguely familiar patterns.
"Hermione!" Harry and Ron had burst through the door, much to the Healer's dismay. She felt them take each her hands, tears in their eyes, whispering to her over and over that she had done it.
She had destroyed the last, and final horcrux.
But Hermione knew.
She had done no such thing.
"He's gone, Hermione. Voldemort is gone."
She dully stared at them—her two best friends.
Voldemort had always been gone.
A tear managed to roll down her cheek.
But now Tom was too.
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