Chapter XIII
The Sacrifice
Disclaimer: Precisely one House-Elf was harmed in the making of this chapter.
Author's Note: We've broken the 100+ review barrier! Thank you all so much for your comments and support, loyal reviewers: this chapter is for you. Hell, the whole story is for you. Apologies for the shortness of the last update; hopefully this one's length and the fact that it's up the very next day should make up for it somewhat.
We're in the home stretch now, guys. Two more chapters and an epilogue, and Time is the Fire will, like all things, come to an end.
Also, the music Harry imagined, the one he was humming along to—the Music of the Spheres, the primordial melody, the divine harmony lying behind all things, which only a chosen few have caught a glimpse of throughout the eons—it sounds suspiciously like "All Along The Watchtower."
Make of that what you will.
Soundtrack Note: Dumbledore's Foreboding from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack, and Death of Cedric from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack.
"I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it - I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you."
-John Keats
Pain.
Such agonizing, excruciating pain, the likes of which she had never felt before. Every inch of her burnt in exquisite torture; her skin felt as if it had been ripped away from her, her muscles as if they'd been stretched well past their limits, her bones as though they'd been filled with hot writhing fire.
Gradually she came down from it, which was in some ways worse than the actual pain itself. Because when she was at the very peak of it, the thin razor sharp edge of oblivion, she was beyond conscious thought. Beyond concern for the other's safety, beyond the fear of more pain, beyond all of it. Coming down from it though… that brought it all back. As she returned to sanity, she heard a terrible, agonized scream, and it was difficult for her to reconcile the sound with the fact that her mouth was open and her vocal chords were taut and hoarse.
It was her scream.
Oh. That's strange…
"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix screeched at her. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"
That terrible euphoria that comes with not hurting after having endured its excruciating embrace was fading, and the fear overtook her once more. Bellatrix held her wand at her, and Hermione began to weep, desperate to avoid further torture. "We only met him tonight!" she sobbed. "We've never been inside your vault… It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"
"A copy?" snapped Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"
"But we can find out easily!" said Lucius. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"
Bellatrix sneered, but mercifully—no, not mercifully, sadistically—refrained from further casting the Cruciatus Curse until the blonde could return with his charge.
Poor Draco, Hermione thought deliriously as he hurriedly left the hall, he looks so frightened…
This was the worst part, the part after the pain had receded, because swept away with it was her selfish fixation on her own agony. Now that she could breathe, now that she could think, it was impossible to keep thoughts of him out of her mind. They'd tire of her and her lies, eventually… they would end her. Maybe swiftly, maybe they'd toss her to the werewolf first, but either way, her life would soon be over. Her suffering would soon be over.
A similar fate likely lay in store for Ron.
But Harry…
She prayed that he would never experience this. That when they summoned Voldemort, that there would be a quick flash of green light and he would just close his eyes and come to join her… that Voldemort would not see fit to torment his helpless foe before ending the threat he posed…
It did not seem likely, though.
But a part of her still had hope. Not for herself, Bellatrix had already extinguished that. But for Harry, that somehow he might escape, might live to defeat Voldemort once and for all some other day… She wondered if the pain he would feel, living on without her, would come anywhere near how much pain she would feel, if he were dead and she had survived. She hoped that it wouldn't. That pain was far worse than any Crucio.
If Bellatrix or the Malfoys noticed her sobs intensify, no one remarked upon it. Greyback grinned at her, vilely, and Pettigrew stared at her as if fascinated, simultaneously repulsed and entranced by her suffering.
The door opened again, and Griphook entered, prodded forward by a trembling Draco Malfoy.
"You take too long, Draco!" snapped Bellatrix.
He did not dare reply.
Bellatrix looked at her speculatively. "We'll know soon enough if you are lying to me, Mudblood. Consider this but a taste of the suffering you shall know if you have indeed stolen from me. Crucio!"
Pain.
Excruciating, ecstatic pain. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her limbs twisted violently away from her, as if trying to get away from all the agony, and she began to thrash about on the floor. Such pain…Her entire being was infused with it, drunk on it, and she screamed, she screamed until she could no longer hear the sound of her own voice. Surely she had already ceased to exist; surely she'd been shattered into a thousand million pieces and scatted on the wind, never to live again…
But no. She existed. If she didn't, she would not feel a thing. What a delight that would be, to never feel a thing again… to never feel pain, or sorrow, or regret, again… surely that would be worth giving up everything else… joy, and laughter, and love… yes, more than worth it…
How sweet it would be, to just slip away from it all and die…
It ended then, abruptly, violently, and she heard Bellatrix cackling madly. Gradually she came back to herself, trembling, sobbing, snot or maybe blood running freely from her nose. Everything was fuzzy, hazy, but after a moment her sight returned to her, and she could see that even Lucius and Narcissa were looking down uncomfortably at her.
"Enough, Bellatrix." The voice was firm, and impassive, and intimately familiar to her.
Every pair of eyes in the room but hers snapped around to stare at a point somewhere behind her. Woozily, unsteadily, she was able to summon up the effort to sit up some and turn her head, to look belatedly at the newcomer that held their attention so raptly.
Harry looked strange, she thought, half beneath his invisibility cloak. She'd never seen him wear it that way before, hanging over his shoulders and tied around his neck. Surely it wouldn't hide him very well like that. She had half a mind to point out how stupid he looked, but then the rest of her began catching up and realized he was wandless, and surrounded by four deadly Death Eaters and a werewolf. He was going to get himself killed, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
Wait… no, he had gotten a wand. She wondered whose it was. Probably one of Greyback's Snatchers'. It looked good in his hand. Strong. Commanding.
"You have a lovely home, Narcissa, Lucius," he remarked politely. "My apologies if I neglected to mention that last time, I didn't exactly get a good look around..."
He looked different, she thought idly, and now the cobwebs were beginning to clear from her mind. The fear began to surge through her again, and her heart began to pound even more rapidly. He didn't stand a chance against them all. What was he doing?
"Potter," spat Bellatrix, her wand aimed directly at Harry's head, as were everyone else's. "How'd you get out?" She glared at her nephew. "Did you let him go, Draco!"
"Please," Harry said dryly, the wand in his hand held lightly, almost as if at rest, as if he was unconcerned about the deadly curses that could be rushing his way any second now. "You've done enough bullying for one night, I think. A lifetime, even."
Lestrange snarled at him, her lips drawn back, exposing her teeth in such a way that even Greyback looked domesticated in comparison. "It doesn't matter. Even with a wand, you're no match for the six of us."
Hermione noticed she'd included Draco in her calculations. In her (admittedly still foggy) estimation, the blonde looked more prepared to wet himself than actually participate in a duel. She rounded the count down to five. Even then the odds weren't good. Was Harry just stalling for time? Was Ron even now making his way around the manor, ready to leap out and surprise them from behind?
Griphook was staring at him, too, a look of the utmost bewilderment on his face. He looked as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He obviously didn't know Harry that well; it was perfectly in character for him to use himself as bait in some foolishly dangerous trap. But wasn't this cutting it a little close?
"Is—is it really you?" she asked, her voice faint and shaky after all the screaming her throat had endured.
"I am as I have always been," Harry told her softly, and the look he gave her was that familiar, intense gaze she'd come to know oh-so-well, that stare he reserved for her and her alone. "Entirely yours."
A jolt of red light lashed out at him. She'd never know who cast the first curse, but a veritable deluge of Dark magic lashed across the room from all directions, flash after flash, spell after spell, all aimed squarely at Harry.
Cries of "Crucio!" and "Imperio!" filled the air, and she was able to identify several Stunning Spells and Disarming Jinxes coming from the Malfoys, while Pettigrew cast a Confundus Charm followed by a Knockback Jinx. Evidently none of them were willing to kill him yet, as she saw no green jets of Avada Kedavra; that honor was reserved for the one they all served.
He was magnificent. Almost lazily, he brought the wand up to cast the multiple Shield Charms that deflected the first several volleys. Then he vanished, only to reappear across the room with a loud crack; by the time they'd whirled around to face him, firing off more spells, he'd vanished again and returned to his original position. He didn't bother to conjure up another Shield Charm—he merely held his wand out forcefully, and whatever it was they'd cast at him this time simply didn't work. Red and green sparks shot out from the tips of their wands, but absolutely nothing else happened. They stared in horror first down at their wands and then back up at him for a moment, but then he was slicing his wand through the air towards all of them and abruptly their wand hands were all dragged forcibly upwards, away from him. It was as though some invisible spectral had grabbed them each by the wrist and forced them up towards the ceiling.
She stared at him in awe. She'd never seen Dumbledore in battle before, but surely even he couldn't have managed such raw power, could he have?
Her mind began to race. Where had he gotten that wand?
The others were staring at him, too, shock and fear coloring their faces. "What are you?" whispered Narcissa, her voice taut with apprehension. Harry ignored her; Pettigrew was fixing him with a look of sheer terror, his big, pudgy frame beginning to shake like a leaf.
"Wormtail!" Harry called out cordially, as if he were greeting an old friend he had not seen in many years. "Forgive me, I had forgotten…"
She hadn't thought it possible, but upon hearing himself addressed by his captor Pettigrew looked even more frightened; he let out a kind of squeak, a sound more suited for the Animagus form he took than a full grown man. Hermione abruptly realized that was what he was trying to do, transform and scurry away—but Harry was stopping him, keeping him somehow fixed in human form…
"Have you ever wondered if you were perhaps missorted?" Harry asked him, his tone still light. "You are rather cowardly, aren't you… that's something you have in common with your master…"
Bellatrix began to snarl something in outrage, but they never got to hear her protests—Harry flicked his wand in her direction, and muttered "Silencio!", and a supernatural quiet draped over her, leaving her vile outburst unheard.
"That's better, isn't it, Wormtail?" said Harry, flashing Pettigrew a smile. "Where was I? Oh, yes, that's right, Voldemort—a lot of people don't realize this, of course, but he's actually an even bigger coward than you, Wormtail… you were sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, there must exist within you at least some bravery… but Voldemort, he knows nothing but fear… fear of failure… fear of mediocrity… fear of death… that last one's the saddest one of all…"
Pettigrew stared at him as if he were mad.
"Death is nothing to fear at all," Harry continued on. "Would you like to see? I can show you."
Even Greyback looked terrified of him now, and Pettigrew was jerking his body backwards, trying to get away, but he was stuck, held fast by the gleaming silver hand that rose above him, held motionless by Harry's will.
"Come now, Wormtail, you've nothing to fear from me," Harry said softly. "I only want to share the truth with you…"
He lifted his wand, pointed it at Pettigrew, and whispered, "Legilimens." The effect was immediate; Harry's eyes snapped shut, and began flicking from side to side beneath their lids as if he was dreaming. Pettigrew whimpered, and Harry's face was no longer as easy-going as it had been—his mouth was set in a taut line, and his features had hardened. He was witnessing the Death Eater's thoughts, his memories, she realized, and with a pang in her heart she knew that one of those memories would be the night that he had betrayed his parents to Voldemort.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and saw that Bellatrix was fighting whatever hold Harry had placed upon her wand hand. Hers was trembling, and Harry must have been distracted by the images he saw in Pettigrew's mind, for slowly but surely she was tugging her hand free, aiming it in long, halting jerks towards Harry's back…
Just as she turned round to scream a warning, Harry's eyes snapped open. Bellatrix's hand flew back into place, and the Dark Lord's lieutenant let out a silent shriek, for now she hovered at least a foot off the ground, suspended by her wrist. Harry gave what she could only describe as a push, and suddenly Pettigrew cried out, reeling back as if he'd been slapped. Now his eyes were closed, racing back and forth, forced to sort through all the images surging through him, and she realized with a jolt that the connection had been reversed.
Harry was barring his soul to the man.
The moment stretched onward, and Pettigrew began to weep, but still the onslaught continued. He must be showing him everything, she thought. But why?
Finally, after what had seemed to her to be a small eternity, Pettigrew's arm dropped heavily to his side, freed from Harry's hold over it. His eyes opened again, and he stared in shock first at her, then at Harry, and finally in horror at his own silver hand.
"Do you see now, Wormtail?" Harry asked him, not unkindly.
"Is it—is it really?" asked the man, his voice hardly a whisper, as if he could scarcely believe he was even asking the question. He sounded grateful.
"Yes. Quicker and easier than falling asleep, I have it on good authority," said Harry with a smile.
Pettigrew began to weep again, softly. "Th-then James? And Lily?"
"They felt no pain," her boyfriend assured him.
"I wish—I wish I had never—" choked the man.
"Do not pity the dead, Wormtail. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love," answered Harry.
"Do—do you think, that they might… forgive me?"
"The real question is, can you forgive yourself?"
The man's sobs intensified now, and he shook his head no. They all stared at him, transfixed, even Bellatrix. Hermione didn't understand. What was Harry playing at?
"If it makes any difference, Wormtail… I forgive you."
Pettigrew stared at him incredulously, the tears streaming down his grimy face, the look in his eyes one of disbelief warring with inconceivable joy.
"It is too late…"
"It's never too late," Harry said firmly. "They would welcome you with open arms, if you truly feel regret. You would have seen them tonight, anyway… will see them, one day, no matter what. All I have given you is the ability to go to them on your own terms."
"Then—you want me to—" he sputtered.
"It is your choice," Harry told him. "I will not hate you if you choose to continue on your current path, I assure you… I could no more hate you than I could hate myself. I have seen the Whole. You are no less a part of it than I… no less a part of it than her…"
Peter followed Harry's eyes to Hermione, staring at her in awe. He knew. He knew how they felt for one another.
"I have—a choice?"
"There is always a choice. Only you can make it. Only you can answer the question: were you sorted into the right House? Are you a Gryffindor or aren't you?"
Peter stared down at his silver hand for a long while then, looking like a man about to leap off a cliff. Hermione knew that something was about to happen, but she couldn't for the life of her figure it out. Harry wasn't making any sense, none of it made any sense… How had he escaped from the cellar? Why was he speaking so compassionately to the man who had been responsible for his parents' murder? For Voldemort's return? And what was this choice he was referring to?
"I choose—them," Wormtail said, and he looked up at Harry and he smiled. It looked entirely out of place on him, as though the lines of his rodent-like face had been permanently disfigured by years of fearful glances and pained scowls. Genuine happiness made him look years younger, and he stood taller somehow, his posture fully upright now. "James, and Lily… Sirius…"
"Remus will join you soon enough," Harry told him fondly. "The Marauders will ride again…"
"I would… like that," said Wormtail, and he looked… eager, now.
Eager for what? wondered Hermione.
"It will hurt," Harry said, his tone growing serious. "While it's happening. You'll probably regret your decision for a moment. But afterwards… it will be exactly as I have shown you…"
"I understand." Wormtail closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he stared at Harry with adoration, as an uncle might at a favorite nephew who'd just done something to fill him to the brim with pride. "Thank you…"
Harry nodded wordlessly, and the Animagus gave him one last smile. "You really do look just like James…"
And with that, the silver hand reached up and seized him by the throat, and began to strangle the life right out of him.
Hermione cried out, as did Narcissa Malfoy. Greyback, arm still held firmly in place right beside Wormtail, tried to pull himself as far away from the dying man as possible, as if afraid he would be next in line.
An expression of frightened pain filled Wormtail's face, and he retched and choked, his free hand throwing itself at the silver fingers wrapped around his windpipe, trying desperately to pry them loose.
"For God's sakes, help him!" cried Lucius, who stared at him with as much horror as his wife and Greyback did. Even Bellatrix looked aghast. A gagging noise sounded from behind, and Hermione knew that Draco was trying to hold himself back from vomiting.
Through it all, though, Harry did nothing. He merely stood and watched, his expression calm and impassive.
Wormtail was turning blue, and had sunk to his knees, his free hand dropping away numbly, his futile attempts to free himself over. He no longer looked frightened, however; the initial fear had passed, and now he appeared… content. His expression was tranquil, at peace. He met Hermione's appalled gaze, an almost apologetic look in his eyes, and then, as they began to lose focus, he looked up at Harry's face and nodded just slightly.
And finally, with the lightest of smiles on his face, Wormtail died, slumping over onto his side, the silver hand releasing its grip and falling lifelessly to the marble floor with a heavy clunk.
Harry moved slowly over to the body, leaned down, and bent his head for a moment, his eyes closed. Then, reaching out with one hand, he closed the dead man's eyes reverently, before turning and standing once more.
A horrified silence had fallen over the room. The Malfoys and Griphook stared at him as if he were Voldemort, their ashen faces filled with terror. Greyback tugged fiercely at the wrist of his immobilized wand hand, still held in place as if by an invisible manacle dangling from the ceiling, trying desperately to free himself, snarling like a trapped animal. And Bellatrix… Bellatrix was afraid, it was plain to see in her face, but she was also eyeing Harry appraisingly, as if she were considering switching masters. The thought made Hermione sick to her stomach.
As if noticing her for the first time, Harry turned to her, his face filled with regret. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Hermione," he said gently. "Don't be afraid. It's all almost over, I promise."
With a flick of his wand, the Silencing Charm on Bellatrix was lifted. "What are you?" she demanded instantly, a fearful edge to her tone.
"What am I?" Harry asked, amused. "I am ready."
He turned back to Hermione. "Can you stand?" he asked her softly.
She nodded, and he reached down a hand, helping her to her feet, supporting her as she wobbled unsteadily. When she'd caught her balance, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and stepped back, smiling at her warmly. "I love you," he told her.
"I love you too," she whispered back, suddenly afraid.
"It's time," Harry said with heavy finality as he turned back to face Bellatrix. "Here is my offer. I will give myself over to you, to do with as you wish, in exchange for your word: the girl shall suffer no more. You will release her, and none of you will cause her any more pain. Is that understood?"
"Harry, don't!" Hermione cried, as everyone else simply stared at him in surprise. "She can't be trusted! You can't do this!"
Harry looked at her, his expression infuriatingly pleasant. "Oh, but I can trust her. In fact, I daresay Bellatrix is the most reliable person in this room." He turned back to face the Death Eaters. "Do we have a deal?"
"Yes," snarled Bellatrix, sullenly. "We will not hurt the girl."
"Excellent," Harry said, nodding.
"Harry, please, she'll—"
"Stay strong, Hermione," he said, and the love with which he said it made her tremble inside. "Don't be afraid. Everything will turn out alright, I promise you."
And he waved his wand, releasing the Death Eaters' hands. Suddenly free, they all rolled their wrists, staring at him in anger and confusion as they raised their wands nervously.
"HARRY, NO!" she cried.
"Oh!" Harry said suddenly, as though he'd forgotten something monumentally important.
Every set of eyes was glued to him, every set of ears hanging on his next words.
"Name one of them after me, will you?" he asked Hermione, a smile on his lips. And with that, he set his wand on the floor and kicked it over to Bellatrix, who scrambled to pick it up, as if afraid he might change his mind and summon it back to him if she didn't get her hands upon it as soon as possible.
Harry can't be that stupid, Hermione thought desperately. It's all part of his plan… Ron's just biding his time, ready to strike… it's got to be a part of the plan…
But in her heart, she didn't believe a word of it.
Bellatrix looked furious, humiliated. "I'm as good as my word," she snapped. "I told you that we would release the girl, and that she would suffer no more at our hands."
Cold, heavy dread sank to the bottom of Hermione's stomach, and she knew what was coming for her.
"I'll do you one better, Potter," sneered Bellatrix, raising her wand and pointing it straight at Hermione. "I'll release her from suffering entirely! She'll never feel pain again, isn't that what you wanted?"
Fear washed over Hermione, but the love she felt for Harry overruled it. She feared for him more than she feared her own death; wandless and alone, what would they do to him, after she was no longer there to comfort him?
She stared at him, wishing she could have just one last kiss from his lips before she died. The gleam of triumph she saw in his eyes startled her; and suddenly, she knew exactly what he had come here for. Knew exactly why he had made such an absurd deal when he'd had them all right where he wanted them. Knew exactly why he'd phrased his terms so precisely, so as to goad Bellatrix into doing precisely what she was about to do.
Her mouth dropped open in horror, but it was already too late.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" roared Lestrange, and there came a brilliant flare of green light, and Harry moved with such startling speed it took them all by surprise. He leapt in front of her, and then there was a whoosh and a sudden gust of air as the curse hit him, and then he crumpled to the floor, as dead as Wormtail.
She screamed. She fell to her knees and cradled him against her, her heart torn in half. She wailed, and she sobbed, and she screamed at them all, screamed at him, furious and inconsolable and—and—
She was holding nothing but empty air. Where Harry had been but an instant ago there was absolutely nothing; he and his robes and his cloak had simply vanished, as had the extra wand in Bellatrix's hand. The others stared down in shock, but having him suddenly ripped from her arms did nothing to soothe her and she only wailed harder, crying out in surrender. She was beaten, finished, defeated. Destroyed.
How could the world keep going on, without him in it? How could she keep going on, without him by her side?
She couldn't, she realized.
She had prayed for this, only minutes ago, coming out of the agony of the Cruciatus Curse… prayed in a moment of weakness that he would fall to the Killing Curse only, that his death would be swift and painless, that he would not endure the same kind of torture she had suffered through…
She had prayed for him to just die. She would never forgive herself for that, not for as long as she lived. Mercifully, she thought, it did not look like that would be much longer.
Bellatrix, looking shaken to the core, demanded Griphook be brought to her, to examine the sword, but Hermione could not make out the words, could not bring herself to care. It was over, Harry had been killed, and she was only waiting for them to get around to finishing her off too, so that she could join him. She'd also been a rational person, hadn't given much thought to life after death except to dismiss the most obvious superstitions, but… anywhere other than here, other than this world, would be welcome to her… anywhere she might be reunited with him, even if it was just cold oblivion…
"We must notify the Dark Lord of what we have seen here this night," said Bellatrix, clearly terrified of the idea. But nonetheless she pushed back her sleeve and touched her index finger to the Dark Mark, and shivered with something vile and disgusting.
Voldemort was on his way.
"And I think," said Bellatrix, her voice still quivering a little, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."
Good, thought Hermione. The savage fangs of a werewolf would be a welcome relief, after what she had been through.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked around, shocked; she turned her wand to face Ron instead—
But another voice, a strong male voice, cried out "Expelliarmus!", and Bellatrix's wand was flung from her grasp, and then hexes and jinxes were being flung about, and Bellatrix had seized her by the arm and forced the blade of her knife to her throat, screaming:
"STOP OR SHE DIES!"
And then, both she and Bellatrix caught sight of them, and the woman holding her hostage gasped in shock…
Harry stood before them, Ron at his side, both their wands pointed directly at her.
Hermione burst into tears again, each sob pressing her firmer against the blade. No… it couldn't be… she was imagining it… a cruel trick of her subconscious mind…
And then many things happened all at once, but she was hardly aware of any of them. The chandelier dropped, right atop her and Bellatrix. Pinned and bleeding beneath the chains and broken crystals, she saw Harry—yes, it was Harry, she realized with a start—wrestle some wands away from Draco and point them at Greyback, sending the werewolf flying into the ceiling and crashing into the floor. Then strong arms were wrapping around her, dragging her out of the rubble, and she was being forced through a thin rubber tube and suddenly it was cold and her blood was dripping onto the snow…
The most beautiful green emerald eyes stared down at her in anxious panic, and that was the last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her.
He buried Dobby just before dawn, sprinkled the grave with the last clump of reddish dirt just as the first golden rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon.
The house-elf had Apparated in right behind him and Ron, Bellatrix's short silver knife emerging from his little chest, crumpling to the ground, a terrible stain emanating from his wound across his tea-cozy…
Dobby had died with his name on his lips as he'd stared down at him in horror, Hermione slumped unconscious in his arms. "Harry… Potter…"
Famous last words.
There had been nothing he could do for her; Fleur and Ron had taken her into the cottage, and he'd remained behind to bury the elf… no, to bury his friend…
After the others had said a few words over the grave, he'd stayed behind, trying to tune out the rage that echoed through his scar as he felt Voldemort punish those left behind at Malfoy Manor. The images he saw through their connection were confusing to him, but for once he was not in the mood to eavesdrop on his mortal foe; the grief he felt at Dobby's passing calmed it, overwhelmed it, and so made it so that it merely flickered at the edge of his consciousness, like a distant storm that reached him across a vast, silent ocean.
He began to carve a gravestone out of one of the large, flat white rocks arranged around the flowerbeds. Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock's surface. He thought that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, and the thought made him ache. Desperately, he tried not to think of how close he had come to losing her that night… better to think of Dobby, and the gaping hole his death had left in his heart, then contemplate what would be left of him if he ever lost Hermione…
When Harry stood up again, the stone read:
HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF
And with that all behind him, he suddenly couldn't stand the thought of being apart from her one second longer. He turned and walked away, making his way up the garden path to Shell Cottage.
"…lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe too," he heard Bill telling the others as he entered.
The eldest Weasley son looked up and saw him standing there. "I've been getting them all out of the Burrow," he explained. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target the family—don't apologize," he added at the sight of Harry's expression. "It was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood-traitor family there is."
"How are they protected?" asked Harry.
"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret-Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too; I'm Secret-Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend, Fleur's given him Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour or—"
"No," Harry said, and Bill looked startled. "I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important."
They stared at him. He knew they wanted answers, wanted to know what he was doing, how they could help, but he couldn't give them anything of the sort. Couldn't involve them. Not the way he'd involved Dobby. Not the way he'd involved Hermione.
"I'm going to wash," he told Bill, looking down at his hands, still covered in mud and Dobby's blood. "Then I'm going to go talk to Hermione, and then I'll need to see them, straightaway."
Without another word he made his way to the cottage's little kitchen, rolled up his sleeves in front of the sink, and began to wash his hands, scrubbing away the accumulated blood and grime, washing away the fear he had felt the night before. The sunrise was in full swing, now, glorious swathes of pink and gold, but he ignored it; the fear was gone, Hermione was alive, but the sense of hopelessness he had felt…
He needed to see her, needed to know she was alright.
Needed to sit with her for a while, watch her sleep, watch her breathe.
He dried his hands, and walked back into the living room; Fleur gave him a knowing look and a quiet nod in the direction of the stairs, and mouthed at him the words "On ze left." He bowed his head a little, grateful, and trudged on up the stairs, knocking on the first door on the left.
"Come in," called Ron's voice, and he opened the door to find him sitting at Hermione's side. She looked awful, but she was wide awake and had recovered enough of her strength to sit upright in bed.
She stared at him, as though he'd cocked his head and had it nearly fallen off but for a thin flap of skin, like Nearly-Headless Nick.
"I don't understand…" she whispered, but the tears that began to fill her eyes were not of sorrow but of delight. "I never thought I would see you again!"
"We were afraid we'd lost you too, Hermione," Ron told her earnestly.
"No, you weren't there, you have no idea…" she replied forcefully, and taking a deep breath, she told them everything that had happened to her after they'd been separated.
Harry's mind reeled. He didn't know what to think. A part of him knew and trusted Hermione, but another part of him thought that the strain of the torture might have gotten to her a little. For while he was more than willing to throw himself in front of a Killing Curse if it meant saving Hermione… he hadn't actually done it, that night, and so what she was saying made no sense. Especially the part about Pettigrew; he knew that he would never forgive that man for what he had done to him.
He wanted to sit next to her, to put his arm around her, to whisper his love for her in her ear and plant kisses all over her… but Ron was still there, and so he remained standing at the foot of her bed, just gazing down at her, hoping she could see in his eyes how elated he was to be with her safe and sound once more.
"You were amazing, Hermione," Ron told her after they'd sat in silence, mulling over her story, for long enough. "You never gave in, even under all that torture… I'd have confessed the whole deal right after the first Crucio…"
Hermione stiffened at his casual usage of the curse's incantation, and Ron must have noticed because he shut up abruptly after that.
For a while, at least. A few moments later, he spoke again, his tone lighter. "You look great, though, Fleur did a great job healing up all those cuts…"
Hermione raised her head up enough so that both boys could see the thin red scar that was the result of Bellatrix's cutting her with the same knife that had killed Dobby.
"Well, you know what they say, blokes dig scars…" Ron said, trying to lighten the mood.
Harry had had enough. "Ron, go get some air, will you?" he said curtly, all pretense about bird-watching forgotten. Ron looked at him, shocked, but one glance at the dire expression on his best mate's face had him convinced it would be best for his own personal safety if he complied.
He left the door open behind him when he left; Harry didn't even wait for the redhead to take two steps past the threshold before he thrust one of the wands he'd seized from Draco at the door frame and snapped "Colloportus!" The door slammed shut behind him and the lock clicked loudly.
Hopefully he'd get the message.
"Shhh… it's okay now, we're together now…" he told her soothingly as he saw her eyes fill with tears, unable to avoid thinking of the way she had cried on the night he'd first kissed her. He climbed into the bed with her, taking her hand in his and leaning in to kiss her gently on the forehead.
"We'll always be together," he said seriously. Could he ever put it fully into words, though? Ever truly make her understand, just how much he needed her in his life?
"Promise?" she asked, her voice soft and like a child's, her fingers gripping his in sheer desperation, a little too tightly for his comfort.
"I swear," he whispered, and then they were kissing, and all the fear, all the pain, all the unhappiness… it was all just swept away…
He knew that he in no way deserved someone who could make him feel so good, but he knew from her kiss, from the soft whimpers she made, from the way her fingers brushed through his hair, that she felt the same way because of him, and the thought made him brim with pride…
His own selfish need for her aside, he would gladly stay by her side for the rest of eternity, if only to make her as happy as she had made him.
He kissed her, and felt the need growing within him, felt his hunger for her rippling through him as the kiss deepened.
Somewhere, he thought madly, through the connection of his scar, Lord Voldemort must be all of a sudden looking at Bellatrix Lestrange very keenly.
Gross.
But the thought made him smile into the kiss anyway.
Finally he'd reached his breaking point and broke away from her, planting a soft peck on the tip of her nose and then another on her forehead again.
"I should go," he told her regretfully. "Bill's waiting for me, there's something I need to talk about with Griphook and Ollivander…"
"Don't leave me," she whispered. "You promised."
She looked terrible; pale and exhausted, circles under her eyes and her hair a tangled mess. But it made her seem rather primal, somehow, fierce and untamable. And the look she was giving him…
He had never wanted anything in his entire life as badly as he wanted her at that moment.
"Hermione…" he pleaded, already knowing that he would end up giving in to her. "You need your rest…"
"I need you," she breathed, and that was the end of it.
Their lips crashed back together forcefully, and she growled at him as he pinned her to the mattress, her insistent hands tugging at his back and waist until there was no more space between them. Their tongues danced, nipping back in forth, playfully at first, then more and more demanding as their desires were pushed to new heights.
Her hands slid beneath his shirt, and she raked her nails along his stomach as she slid them up to clutch at his chest. He gasped, and then broke from the kiss once more, her mewl of protest transfigured into a delicious sigh as he brought his mouth to her neck, nibbling down and around her perfect curves to worship her collarbone. He only delayed there for a moment before continuing downward, however, and somehow both their hands were tugging her shirt over her head as one…
He pulled the bedspread over them, and a throaty, female moan filled the air from beneath it.
He wasn't entirely certain how he'd been stripped of all his clothes; he remembered impatient, tugging hands, and soft breasts pressing against his chest and hastily unbuckled trousers, but it was all a blur to him. All he knew for certain is that he was laying atop her, and both of them were completely starkers except for their socks, and she was making the most sensuous panting sounds, eager and full of longing…
"Hang on a second," he huffed, and bringing his legs up he ripped off both socks and tossed them forcefully across the room; somewhere, in the back of his mind, he considered it a final, fitting tribute to Dobby…
And then all thoughts of the fallen elf were blown away, because she was grasping him there, and pulling him towards her waiting hips…
"Are you sure?" he gasped, hating himself for asking such a question but needing to know she wouldn't have any regrets later. "Absolutely sure?"
Merlin help him if she wanted to back out now…
"Yes," she told him throatily, and then their mouths were joined again, and she lined him up and the instincts of a hundred thousand generations took over and they both moved…
She whimpered, and pushed on his hips to indicate he shouldn't move just yet, and he was sure that her face was not supposed to be all scrunched up like that until later. Even when he was finally entirely within her, seeing the tears in her eyes moved him, made him kiss her even more passionately, made him lie still and give her the chance to adjust.
When they finally began again, their motions were awkward at first, raw and inexperienced, her breathing pained, his eyes wide and unseeing. They were all bony joints and sweat and tears, and minutes passed and he was beginning to worry that he'd chosen the wrong time, that this would be as good as it ever got…..
And then they moved together in just the right way, and she gasped.
"Oh!" she cried. "Like that!"
And things began to speed up. Their eyes met, and her hands slid along his back, gripping at his shoulders one moment, sliding down to pull greedily at his arse the next. He brought his own hands to her chest, cupping a perfect, shapely breast in each palm, eliciting a moan of approval from her lips, and together they rocked, reaching towards heaven together.
Their mouths locked in a frenzied kiss, their hands gripping tightly at one another's bodies, their hips bucking and thrusting, the sound of their groans and sighs filling the air with the passion for one another that simply could be contained no longer…
It occurred to him that he should have cast a Silencing Charm at some prior point, and sincerely he hoped that Ron had indeed heeded his advice and gone outside for a breath of some fresh air.
It wouldn't do for him to hear this, not at all.
Her mouth was kissing his neck ravenously, moving to lick and suck her way up until she'd reached his ear, and she moaned…
"I'm yours," she moaned as he pounded into her again and again, "Only yours," and he was pushed past the limit.
He growled as he plunged into the absolute depths of her, emptying himself within her, his eyes rolling back in his head, wave after wave of the ultimate bliss carrying him away with it, and she gave the softest of sighs, content and elated and utterly in love with him…
That was his new favorite sound, he thought, that sigh…
Slowly, he came back down to Earth, felt her beneath him, felt himself still inside of her, and she was looking at him sleepily with those gorgeous chocolate eyes of her and he knew he was quite simply the happiest man on Earth, and always would be, as long as he had her.
He tried to tell her that, tried to explain that he loved her more than words could say, that he couldn't live without her, that he never wanted to be apart from her ever again, wanted to make love to her every morning and every night and father her children and grow old and gray together with her, tried to make her understand that to him they had shared something far more sacred than a mere physical act… that she had touched his soul…
What came out instead was a loud, dorky, "Wow."
"Yeah," she said between deep breaths, and brought her head up to give him a chaste peck on the lips.
"Wow," he said again, because it would be some time before his vocabulary would again expand beyond monosyllabic utterances.
"I think," she told him softly, stretching luxuriously beneath him as he slid out of her and the two moved together to cuddle in the afterglow, "that I want to spend the rest of my life doing that with you."
He nodded his consent happily, and the two kissed again, this time slowly and tenderly.
It was a long while before he got around to speaking with either the goblin or the wandmaker, and when he finally did leave the room, shutting the door softly behind him while Hermione slumbered, Fleur gave him a knowing smile when he came down the stairs and into the living room.
He didn't care in the slightest. He had bigger concerns, now, the crushing burden of responsibility pressing down upon him, its tedious weight a familiar friend. He was almost to the end, he knew.
In the very fiber of his being he knew that Voldemort's reign of terror had to be brought to an end, that the Dark Lord had to be destroyed once and for all. Not just to put a stop to all the death and destruction and oppression, not just to restore liberty once more to the wizarding world, not just to save the lives of the Muggles and Muggleborns who would die under his tyrrany…
He would never be able to be with Hermione, really be with her, be there for her, while Voldemort still lived. He would never be able to live the life he wanted until every last Horcrux was destroyed, the last Death Eater sent to Azkaban, and Voldemort was cold and dead in his grave.
Neither can live while the other survives.
He would end it. There were a thousand reasons why, but only one truly mattered.
Her, and the life he wanted with her.
