Chapter XII
Eve of Change
Disclaimer: No house-elves were harmed in the making of this chapter.
Author's Note: According to my copy of Quidditch Through the Ages (by Kennilworthy Whisp, published by Whizz Hard Books, 29b Diagon Alley, London), "Flacking" is a common Quidditch foul that occurs when a Keeper uses any part of his or her anatomy to reach through the rear of the goal hoop and push the Quaffle out—goals must be defended from the front.
"Haversacking" is another common foul, in which the Chaser still grasps the Quaffle as they score. The Quaffle must be thrown, and any points obtained are invalidated if any part of the Chaser's fist or arm passes through the goal hoop.
I'll leave it to you to figure out what Ron's and the other Gryffindor boys' interpretations of the terms were.
Soundtrack Note: Malfoy's Mission from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack.
"Time is a brisk wind, for each hour it brings something new... but who can understand and measure its sharp breath, its mystery and its design?"
-Paracelsus
They'd had their first fight right after New Year's. First as a couple, that is; they'd fought loads of times before.
But this one felt worse. A lot worse.
He'd just been so damn persistent, couldn't face the possibility that it was all just a myth. Refused to listen to reason, listen to her, even when Ron backed her up on this…
Ron. That was another thing. She wasn't sure if he really agreed with her, or if he was just trying to make up for having skipped out on them. Whichever it was, she hadn't forgiven him yet, even though they were on speaking terms, ever since they'd just barely escaped from Death Eaters at the Lovegoods' house…
Ugh. She wished now that she'd never even brought up the idea of visiting Xenophilius, and not just because it had turned out to have been a trap. It had all been for nothing, and now… Now Harry was being ridiculous, insisting on chasing after absurd Hallows, all because of a nonsense fairy tale Mr. Lovegood had told them!
That's what they'd fought about. He'd called her desire to stick to what they knew to be true, that the Horcruxes were the key to defeating Voldemort, an obsession. An obsession, when he was the one completely fixated on a stone that would let you talk to dead people!
They'd fought, and argued, and ended up snapping at each other and storming off to opposite sides of the tent to sulk, but she was worried about him. Harry had lost a lot of people, more than most. Sirius… Dumbledore… his parents, he'd never even known them… It had been cruel of Lovegood to bring up the legend of the Resurrection Stone in front of him. It had been all he could talk about, the last few days, the Stone, about how sure he was that Dumbledore had left it to him in the Snitch, that with it he would know how to defeat Voldemort… When he'd talked about how the second Peverell brother had actually lived with a dead girl for a time, the excitement in his voice had frightened her.
She was concerned, and now he'd spent the last week brushing her off whenever she tried to talk to him about it.
Fighting with Harry wasn't like fighting with Ron. Ron and her… bickered. They'd always insulted one another, sometimes, mostly good-naturedly, and sometimes hurtfully, but even when they were positively screaming at each other, it had never hurt her feelings nearly so bad as a single dismissive glare from Harry when he was annoyed with her. It wasn't that he was yelling at her, or even saying nasty things to her… it was that he was saying hardly anything at all anymore. It was like he'd given up on trying to convince her.
The thing that hurt her the most, though, was the fact that they hadn't kissed in days. Hadn't exchanged the words "I love you" to one another since before Ron had returned. Hadn't even held hands, not since she'd blasted a hole in Mr. Lovegood's floor and dropped them to safety.
Things were not the same anymore, and she was beginning to worry. Were they still even… together?
There didn't seem to be any signs indicating that they were.
So now they sat in the tent, Harry pouring over her copy of Dumbledore's Tales of Beedle the Bard, while Ron kept the watch. Or rather, while Ron was supposed to be keeping the watch—he had a bad habit of looking over his shoulder every few minutes to stare at her or Harry, for about as long as he could get away with.
That was another thing. Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about Ron's return, exactly. She'd been furious at him, of course, enraged at his presumption, the idea that he thought he could just stroll back into their lives and pretend it had all never happened.
But it had happened, and… she was grateful for it. If Ron hadn't left—and she did believe him, when he said that he'd regretted it instantly, even if she was still narked with him—she and Harry would never have had the opportunity to come clean with one another.
So, in a way, she owed him one, for if he didn't have such a short fuse… if he hadn't stormed out… she would never have gotten to hear Harry tell her he loved her.
Add that to the fact that he had saved Harry's life the night he'd returned, and she'd been unable to go through with her initial impulse to rip her wand out of Harry's hand and cast Levicorpus at Ron and kick him in the face until she felt a little bit better about the whole situation.
The truth was, she'd been completely unprepared; she'd never expected to see Ron again, at least not before this was all over, and when she'd seen him again… she'd frozen.
As much as she hated to admit it, there was still a part of her, and not a tiny one, either, she acknowledged, that still cared about the redhead. That didn't want to see him hurt, they way she had been. She knew that whatever else had happened, he still had feelings for her; it was obvious, the way he'd looked at her when Harry had woken her that night. And when Harry told her that Ron already knew about them being together… She couldn't bring herself to rub it in his face. She knew all too well how much seeing the person you love be in love with someone else could hurt.
Ironically enough, she'd learned that lesson from the both of them. First from Ron, with the way he'd carried on with Lavender, and then from Harry, the way he'd blindsided her by snogging Ginny right out of the blue.
In any case, though, she was beginning to suspect that sparing Ron's feelings was starting to get on her nerves. And more than that, she was starting to worry that maybe it had cost her her relationship with Harry.
If only she could just sit down next to him, and place her hand in his, and tell him how much she loved him… She would be able to make things right again, ask him why they were really fighting… There was more to it than Horcruxes vs. Hallows, she knew.
Surely he couldn't think she would choose Ron over him? That couldn't possibly be why he was so upset. Surely he knew how she felt for him, how she'd always felt for him…
Ron was looking over his shoulder again, eyes trailing back and forth between her and Harry. He looked… annoyed. Since he had gotten back, he'd tried to lighten the somewhat dour atmosphere that had pervaded the tent since the night of his return, and after their too-close-for-comfort escape from the Lovegood house, she'd been at least willing to humor him some. It had been comforting, slipping back into the old banter, the wisecracks and the blunt trash-talking as reassuring as old friends. Which, she supposed, they were. Such witty (and sometimes not so witty, on Ron's part, though she had to admit, he did have his moments) repartee had colored their relationship since the very beginning, and having it around once more almost made it feel like they were back at Hogwarts, not having to worry about Horcruxes and Death Eaters and Hallows…
But while it provided a release for both her and Ron, it only aggravated Harry. He was moody and distant enough already, but anytime Ron said something even remotely amusing it would only make Harry even more irritable. Things were starting to feel like they had before the locket had been destroyed, and Ron seemed to be getting as fed up with his best mate's silence as she was.
Evidently he had finally had enough. "I'm going to go for a walk," he announced loudly, giving Hermione a pointed look. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ron grabbed the invisibility cloak from the floor and opened the flap before he could get a word out edgewise, and strolled calmly out into the snow.
She appreciated the gesture. From the moment he had returned, Ron had always been hovering around one or the other of them like a friendly Niffler. At first she had thought his behavior to be a juvenile attempt to keep her and Harry apart from one another, but now she realized that he'd just been trying to compensate for walking out on them before.
Harry sat on his bunk, glaring at the empty tent entrance where Ron had stood only moments before.
Well, she thought, it was now or never. Knowing Ron, he'd quickly come to regret stomping out into the cold, and would be hoping they'd finish making up quickly so he could come back in and warm up.
She got up and made her way to the bed in which Harry lay. He eyed her suspiciously, then moved over begrudgingly so that she could sit next to him. That was a good sign, she supposed. At least he hadn't gotten up and mov—
He started to get up and move.
"Oh no you don't!" she snapped at him, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him back down.
"I'm tired of arguing, Hermione," he told her wearily. "Can't we just pretend—"
"Do you regret being with me?"
He gaped at her. "What? No!"
"Then why—"
"Hermione! You know how I feel," he told her, the concern he clearly felt etched across his face and spilling into his voice. "You'll never be able to get rid of me, I swear."
"It's nice to be reminded every once in a while," she told him quietly, "even if we disagree about whether we should be looking for Horcruxes or Hallows."
"Hermione…" he said softly, his voice pained. "You know as well as I do that with Ron around…"
"Ron's not here right now though, is he?"
He was on her before she could even blink, his mouth pressed to hers with a hungry urgency, his tongue catching hers by surprise.
She melted into the kiss, enjoying the feel of his arms around her once more. This was where they belonged, she knew, and whatever frustration or irritation had existed between them just faded away. She kissed him back, her hands reaching up to caress his neck and slide into his messy, jet-black hair.
When finally they had broken from the kiss, Harry told her a bit breathlessly, "I love you, Hermione."
"I love you too," she replied, her hand still resting on the back of his head. They sat there, for a moment, just gazing into one another's eyes, a little smile upon each of their faces.
"I-I'm sorry," he said eventually. "I still think that the Hallows were what Dumbledore wanted me to find, but—but I should never have treated you the way I have the last couple days. I'm sorry I haven't told you how much I love you since Ron—"
"Shhh…" she whispered, leaning in to give him a peck on the lips again. "Just don't let it happen again."
"I won't, I swear!"
"And you have to kiss me like that at least once a day, promise? We've already missed our first New Year's Eve kiss together and I'm not going to stand for missing out on any more."
"Well, we—we can't just snog in front of Ron like that…"
"You leave that to me," she told him with a smile and another kiss. "You promise, though?"
"Of course I do," he said, smiling back at her.
They sat there, holding each other and kissing for a few extra moments, and then Hermione stood, straightening out her clothes and giving Harry a once-over to make sure they both looked presentable. With a no-nonsense demeanor she strode to the other side of the tent and plopped herself down in front of the bowl of bluebell flames again. Harry just stared after her, but she shot him a glare and then eyed the copy of Dumbledore's book meaningfully. He took the hint and started to read it again, or at least pretended to.
She was still waiting a few minutes later, when Ron finally did return, shivering and deliberately avoiding looking at the bunks until he caught sight of Hermione by the fire.
"How was your walk?" she asked sweetly.
"Fine," he grunted.
"See anything interesting?" she asked him in the same pleasant tone.
"Um… besides lots of snow?"
"No, I mean like… did you see any birds?"
"Birds?" asked the redhead suspiciously.
"Yeah. See any interesting birds? Bird-watching is such a fascinating hobby," said Hermione, giving him a weighted look.
"Oh!" exclaimed Ron. "Yeah, I, uh, saw a, er, Jobberknoll, I think. And maybe a Billywig?"
"Billywigs are insects," Hermione snapped, unable to help herself. "And besides, they're native to Australia."
"Oh, er, it was probably just a lark, then."
From behind his copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Harry snorted.
"Well, it sounds like you had a lovely time," Hermione said, her voice once more suspiciously saccharine, even to her own ears.
The expression on Ron's face as he warmed his rigid fingers over the fire said he clearly begged to differ, but aloud and in a rather tired tone he said, "Oh yeah, it was buckets of fun."
"That's good. I think pursuing one's interests is especially important now, what with all the stress we're under, don't you think Harry?"
Harry made a noncommittal sound and further retreated behind his book, unable to look his friend in the eye and keep a straight face at the same time.
"Er, right," Ron said, clearly aware he'd been entrapped somehow, but not exactly certain of how much trouble he was in just yet.
"Now obviously Harry and I need you here with us, to help find Horcruxes and fight back if we bump into Death Eaters, but I want you to know the two of us support your new pastime, and understand how important it is to you."
"My new pastime?"
"Oh, yes! Just think of all the exotic species you might stumble across out there! Surely it would be alright if Ron were to go on a little hike everyday, wouldn't it, Harry? Not too long, of course, it's important for us all to stick together, maybe only ten or fifteen minutes a day? He could keep an eye out for anything suspicious outside, as well."
"Well, it's not like we're really busy right now, with the lack of any leads on the next Horcrux. Why not take a whole half-hour, Ron?" said Harry, who to judge by the sound of his voice was hiding what had to be a massive grin behind his book.
"A whole half-hour? Everyday? Bloody hell, Hermione, its cold out there!" Ron protested.
"Oh, but your passion for ornithology will keep you warm!"
This time, Harry did laugh. After a moment, though, so did Ron, and then Hermione, until all three of them were wiping tears from their eyes.
For a minute, all was just like old times again.
Hermione took the next watch, allowing her to flash Harry a sly grin after Ron had gone to bed. Her ruse had fooled no one, but she'd gotten her point across without hurting Ron's feelings. More importantly, she'd scored them thirty minutes of alone time a day, and she was planning on putting them to good use.
You can fit a hell of a lot of kisses into thirty minutes, she thought dreamily.
Months passed, and never had Harry been so happy to be held to his word.
Despite their continued disagreement over whether they should go after Horcruxes or Hallows, and a decided lack of progress in either endeavor… things didn't seem so bad. And after Ron managed to get "Potterwatch" on the wireless one evening after his daily bird-watching stroll, their spirits were at an all time high. Hearing familiar voices, and learning that their friends and families were still safe, had lifted a huge burden from all their shoulders.
So naturally he would choose precisely that moment to fuck everything up.
"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—"
"HARRY, NO!"
"—demort's after the Elder Wand!"
"The name's Taboo!" Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet. "I told you, Harry, I told you, we can't say it anymore—we've got to put the protection back around us—quickly—it's how they find—"
But it was too late. A loud crack came from outside the tent, and their Sneakascope flared brilliantly and started twirling.
Through the sudden darkness caused by Ron's extinguishing the tent's lights with the Deluminator, a terrible, grating voice called out, "We know you're in there! You've got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don't care who we curse!"
Hermione took charge, and he had only a half a second's confusion to wonder why she was pointing her wand at him before her Stinging Jinx struck him full on in the face and he was flung back from her in white hot agony.
Unknown hands yanked him up roughly off the ground, and the wand that Ron had acquired for him was ripped from his pocket. His face was in excruciating pain, and felt unrecognizable beneath his clutching fingers. His glasses had been lost in the chaos, and in combination with the swollen slits his eyes had been reduced to by Hermione's spell, he could only barely make out the fuzzy forms of his friends beings seized by figures in dark cloaks.
"Get—off—her!" Ron shouted. There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, "No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!"
"Your boyfriend's going to have worse than that done to him if he's on my list," said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. "Delicious girl… What a treat… I do enjoy the softness of the skin…"
Harry felt a chill go through his veins. He knew who the man was. Fenrir Greyback, the most notorious werewolf in all of Britain.
The werewolf who had bit Lupin.
And now he had Hermione by the arm, towering over her, practically salivating at all the sick, twisted things he had in mind for her.
This was all his fault, Harry knew. He had summoned the Death Eaters, by foolishly ignoring Ron's insistence that Voldemort's name had been enchanted. By speaking it aloud, he had alerted them to the location of the tent, gotten them all caught. He was to blame for the way Fenrir Greyback was eying the woman he loved.
But it was more than having just thoughtlessly blurted out Voldemort's name, he knew.
She wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him. He'd always known that this moment would come. That eventually, he would drag her in to harm's way, that there was no way in hell she would ever leave his side, that any risk he took himself she would share in.
He had known, and he had let her remain, because of how much he loved her.
He should have left the tent when he'd had the chance, struck out on his own. Spared her, even if it meant giving up the one thing had had ever truly wanted.
"Search the tent!" said another voice.
Someone rolled him forcibly onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his face and Greyback laughed. "I'll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?"
Understanding dawned. The skin on his face was tight, puffy and swollen, as if he'd been splashed with some kind of noxious venom he was allergic to. He must look so horrible and unlike his usual self that even with the most famous face in Wizarding Britain, the Snatchers wouldn't discover his true identity.
Hermione had saved him once again. And maybe, just maybe, they might make it out of this alive, thanks to her.
He lied whenever they asked him questions, making up a ridiculous pseudonym—Vernon Dudley, it was the first thing that had come to his mind—and claiming their usage of Voldemort's name had been an accident. He told them he was a Slytherin at Hogwarts, and the little knowledge he had gleaned from his brief foray into the Slytherin common room second year apparently convinced them of this. And when he told them his father was a Ministry employee, and it turned out that there was a Dudley who worked in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes… he began to have hope.
Surely luck, his oldest companion, one who had watched out for him at least since he was eleven years old—since he'd learned of the meaning of his mother's sacrifice from Dumbledore, he refused to consider his surviving Voldemort's Killing Curse as an infant an act of luck—surely luck wouldn't abandon him now, would it?
Of course it would.
It all derailed so spectacularly that Harry might have even appreciated the irony if it hadn't meant certain death for them all. First they found Gryffindor's sword, which only raised the suspicions of the Snatchers. Then they discovered a picture of Hermione in the Daily Prophet, and uncovered Harry's glasses in the tent.
"''ermione Granger,'" one of them had said, the one named Scabior, "'the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with 'arry Potter.'"
And now Greyback had seized him by the chin and was staring closely at his inflated face, eyes locked onto the tightly stretched line of a scar pulled taut against his forehead.
"What's that on your forehead, Vernon?" he asked softly, his foul breath forcing Harry to fight against the urge to vomit.
And then his glasses were being forced on him, and they stared down at him in shock and glee.
"It is!" roared Greyback. "We've caught Potter!"
And within minutes they were forced along, Disapparated, one step closer to the Dark Lord's wrath. Beyond broad stone steps stood a massive, imposing structure, regal and sinister all at once, like an ancient villa that bizarrely reminded Harry of Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets… ornate and highly crafted, and brimming with shadows and dark forces…
Malfoy Manor.
And in what seemed to be no time at all, he stood before Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange cackling over them while Greyback and his horde stood motionless around the edge of the hall. Peter Pettigrew was also there, lurking in the corner of the hall like the coward he was.
"What is this?"
"They say they've got Potter," said Narcissa's cold voice. "Draco, come here."
Soft, hesitant footsteps stepped forward, as if he'd been forcibly compelled to move in their direction.
"Well, boy?" rasped the werewolf.
"Well, Draco?" said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"
His fate rested in the hands of Draco Malfoy. His face, distorted and engorged by Hermione's handiwork, was too unfamiliar to the adults for them to know him by it. It would require Draco's eyes, the eyes of a classmate, one who knew him better than any other Death Eater in the room, to positively identify him.
He was as good as dead, he thought.
"I can't—I can't be sure," said Draco. And the fear and reluctance in his voice left no doubt in Harry's mind that the blonde knew exactly who it was that he was being asked to look at.
Why was he protecting him?
Even when they demanded he look at Hermione and Ron, who Lucius already recognized, Draco was reluctant to explicitly confirm their names.
And then, just as Bellatrix was about to touch her finger to the Dark Mark, and call forth her master… all hell broke loose.
"Stupefy!" she screamed. "Stupefy!"
The Snatchers were no match for her, even outnumbering her four to one as they did. One by one they collapsed, all except Greyback, forced to his knees, his hands outstretched. In one hand she wielded the Sword of Gryffindor, in the other her wand, aimed directly at the werewolf's neck.
"Where did you get this sword?" she whispered, her voice the second most frightening sound he had ever heard.
"How dare you?" he snarled, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. "Release me, woman!"
"Where did you find this sword?" she repeated, brandishing it in his face. "Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!"
"It was in their tent," rasped Greyback. "Release me, I say!"
She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the sword, examining its hilt. Then she turned to look at the silent prisoners.
"If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed," she muttered, more to herself than to the others. "The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself… But if he finds out… I must… I must know…"
She turned back to her sister again.
"The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!"
"This is my house, Bella, you don't give orders in my—" Narcissa began.
"Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!" shrieked Bellatrix. She looked frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned a hole in the carpet.
She was terrified. It was unnerving, to see someone so deadly look be filled with such dread, such horror. The sword was not supposed to be here. It was supposed to be in her vault, Harry realized. The fake, the one they'd heard Griphook tell Ted Tonks and Dean about… that was the one Gringotts possessed… and the real one was in her hand now…
The sword was important to them. Important to Voldemort, he realized.
And if he knew his most loyal lieutenant had failed him, the consequences would be very… dire.
They ranted for a moment, trying to assure themselves that they possessed the sword. Bellatrix was frantic, desperate to figure out how the three had obtained what she had thought to be safe beneath a mile of goblin enchantments. And Narcissa was slowly beginning to realize how truly dire their situation was.
"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback."
"Wait," said Bellatrix sharply. "All except… except for the Mudblood."
Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.
Harry felt as if the Horcrux was around his neck again, its locket chain sinking into his flesh as it strangled him mercilessly, felt as if he were again sinking to the bottom of an icy pit… He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think…
"No!" shouted Ron. "You can have me, keep me!"
Bellatrix hit him across the face; the blow echoed around the room.
"If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next," she said. "Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet."
Only now did he begin to snap out of it, struggling fiercely as the werewolf forced them out of the room, but a sharp jab to his swollen face left him in a blaze of agony that washed away all resistance. Down a dark passageway and a steep flight of stairs they were dragged until they'd reached a heavy door. Thrown through it, the sound of it slamming shut behind them hadn't even faded away before a terrible, drawn out scream came from directly above them.
"HERMIONE!" bellowed Ron, and Harry felt a flash of something he had never felt before rip through him. A sense of helplessness, and fear, and rage, a jolt of cold, white hot fury that made his entire body shake… but those sensations were all familiar to him, and there was something else, something he hadn't known he was capable of… a blazing intensity that came from somewhere deep within, at the very kernel of his soul…
It surged across him, making the hair throughout his body stand on edge, and crackled down along his arms, and he thrust them outward, at the door. The heavily fortified wood of the cellar door buckled, groaning dangerously, and even Ron stopped his howling to stare at him in shock and amazement. Harry knew in that moment, however, that it wouldn't be enough—the wandless magic began to dissipate, and the door remained in one piece. He could have burst through it easily if he'd had a wand, or had their captors not seen fit to ward this place as a dungeon… but they had, and powerful magic constrained them, held them in this place, prevented him from lashing out and rescuing Hermione.
He collapsed, drained, unable to remain standing after such effort had been wasted. He had hardly the strength left in him to roll over, but then from above Hermione screamed again and suddenly he was sitting up and roaring out her name even more loudly than Ron, unable to think of anything else except for the fact that the woman he loved was about to die, and that he was unable to do a damn thing about it.
He saw the look in his best friend's eyes, the impotent tear-masked rage and pain he knew oh so well, and in that moment Ron Weasley had never been more of a brother to him, for he was not alone—they woman they both loved was about to die, and both of them were unable to do a damn thing about it.
Dimly he was aware that there were others in the cellar with them, Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas and Mr. Ollivander and Griphook the Gringotts goblin, but he could do nothing but listen to the ravings of Bellatrix Lestrange as she tortured Hermione.
"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!"
Another terrible scream rang out, and Harry was suddenly unable to breathe.
"HERMIONE!" bellowed Ron for the both of them.
"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"
His hands were suddenly free, and he realized that Luna had been hacking away at his restraints with a rusty old nail, despite his complete obliviousness to her presence.
"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"
Hermione's screams were worse than ever, and it ran through him like the very knife Bellatrix had promised to end her life with. He could hear her pleading, sputtering, and in desperation he searched for something, anything, that might help him save her.
The Snitch bequeathed to him by Dumbledore, useless…
His broken wand, even more useless…
Sirius' old two way mirror, in which gleamed a singular eye of purest blue…
Dumbledore.
"Help us!" he yelled at it in mad desperation. "We're in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us!"
The eye blinked and was gone.
Beside him Ron was sobbing, pounding at the walls of the cellar helplessly, still crying her name: "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"
"How did you get into my vault?" they heard Bellatrix scream. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"
"We only met him tonight!" Hermione sobbed. "We've never been inside your vault. . . . It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"
"A copy?" screeched Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"
"But we can find out easily!" came Lucius's voice. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"
Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was huddled on the floor.
"Griphook," he whispered into the goblin's pointed ear, "you must tell them that sword's a fake, they mustn't know it's the real one, Griphook, please—"
He didn't know what love was like for goblins, if they even felt the same emotions as humans did, but he begged anyway, pleaded silently, willing him to understand that Hermione was his most precious treasure… even as Draco led him away, he willed Griphook's understanding… that Hermione was more precious to him than all the gold in the Potter family vault… than all the gold in Gringott's, or the world…
A loud crack came from within their cell, and Ron, Deluminator in hand, unleashed its pent in light so that they might see what was there, but Harry was too busy listening to what was happening above, the footsteps of Draco marching Griphook to Bellatrix.
"DOBBY!" cried out Ron, and a moment later went pale white with the realization that he'd just shouted out the fact that they were being rescued to their captors.
But nothing happened. There came no shouts or running footsteps; something must have distracted everyone in the room above, for in fact there came no sound at all. Straining against the door, Harry listened desperately. A newcomer's voice was speaking, one that sounded oddly familiar to him, but that he couldn't quite place…
Ron took charge, ordering Dobby to Disapparate Luna, Dean and Ollivander to Shell Cottage and then come back for them. Harry hardly paid attention, grimacing in annoyance as their classmates protested their desire to help them… he was trying to listen, damn it…
Hermione's screams had stopped, hadn't sounded for a while, actually, and a wave of utmost dread swept through him… was she even still alive?
A loud pop that signaled the other's disappearance, and then it was just Ron and him remaining.
Both listened in utmost silence, trying to make out exactly what was going on upstairs… Bellatrix had snarled something, and the newcomer's calm, collected voice murmured its reply, but it was too soft for Harry to make out any of what he said…
Ron looked at him in shock and recognition, and opened his mouth to say something, but then the sounds of curses being fired shrieked out from above, and then there was nothing but silence.
For the longest time, silence, and then one last rushing whistle of magic, and then the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.
And then, one final scream. Hermione's scream, not of pain this time, but of utmost bereavement, the ultimate loss. There was a terrible finality to it, like the wail of a Banshee, and the sound left no doubt that she had given up on life, on going on living. She sounded as if she were being ripped in two, and Harry's heart responded in kind.
His hand thrust into Hagrid's bag of its own accord and gripped the broken shards of his phoenix feather wand, his grasp so tight he was certain it might crush the very holly it was made of to dust. The crackling force of his desperation had returned, and he focused it all into his wand hand, ripping it out of the bag and thrusting his clutched fist out at the door. The broken pieces of wood in his hand glowed with a flaring white light that revealed the bones of his hand through the dull red glow of his skin, and then the door exploded outward, blown to hell.
Ron seized him by the arm and dragged him to his wobbly legs. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, and the only reason he did not lie down again to sleep for twenty years was because of the woman about to die upstairs. Shaking the weariness away from him, or at least to the sides of his mind, temporarily, the two surged up the stairs towards Hermione, praying that were not too late.
They could not be too late.
