A/N (7/3/23): Please note that I've made a few significant alterations to Chapter 16 ahead of this chapter's release. I realized that I had included a key character in an earlier scene involving the Black Tower despite killing them off in an earlier timeline – whoops! Nothing story-breaking, but needless to say they won't be seen again in this chapter or beyond.
June 14, 2003 (Hermione)
It wasn't until the night before the battle that Harry deigned to let Hermione in on the plan.
She felt like a child, being escorted into the conference room, where the other members of the old Order were already seated. They all stared at her as though she were an outsider, having been left out of the major strategic discussions thus far. Hermione took the one empty seat at the far end of the table as Harry stood at the front of the room to address the fighters.
"By now you should all know your assignments," Harry told the gathered crowd. "We will be split into two main groups for the initial assault; from there, it will be up to you to determine where you are best needed and help the squad whose needs are greater."
Hermione surveyed the room as Harry spoke. There were more people gathered here in one place than she'd seen in years; Bill and Charlie Weasley had arrived to join their siblings, as had a few other holdovers from Dumbledore's Army: Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, Seamus Finnigan, and even Cho Chang had risked the journey – and their lives – for the final battle. They all looked grimly determined as Harry coached them through the final steps of the war. One way or another, the fight would be over after tomorrow...either they would defeat Voldemort's army or die trying.
"Squad A will go first," Harry instructed, turning to refer to a drawing of the Black Tower on the whiteboard behind him. "We will all send up Patronuses to deal with the Dementors, then follow on brooms to breach the mid-level Atrium. They will secure the Floo Network for Squad B, who will be rushing the lower Atrium and securing the entrance of the Tower. Then both squads will meet on the upper levels to clear out the offices and deal with whatever obstacles the Ferrymen try to put up."
Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit offended as she examined the sketch of the Tower. The only reason any of them knew what was inside in the first place was from her memory of her prior incursion, which she'd given to Harry without question when asked for it. It was frankly insulting to leave her out of the planning stages of the operation when she was easily the most pivotal part of putting everything together before Harry had returned.
But that wasn't even what bothered her most in this moment. "What about the Muggles?" she asked. "Does Squad A have a plan for any fighter jets or attack helicopters they might encounter? And how will Squad B get through the foot soldiers that will be assaulting the entrance at the same time?"
"Hermione, they're Muggles," Harry said, exasperated. "We have magic, remember? Use it! I know you're precious about saving innocent lives here, but any soldiers that Beckett puts between us and the Tower is just going to be collateral damage."
"I really think you're underestimating how much damage they can do," Hermione pointed out. "Now that the American military is involved, it's going to get messy. And they won't be able to discriminate between us and the Ferrymen—"
"Enough!" Harry groaned, exasperated. "We can't plan for every contingency, Hermione. Our focus is defeating the wizards in the Tower. Until we do that, everything else is secondary."
"Fine," Hermione huffed. "But don't blame me if someone else loses an eye." She gave Ginny a pointed look at this, who, despite the eye patch, cut an imposing figure as she stood to her feet and glared daggers at Hermione with her good eye.
"Leave me out of it!" Ginny snarled. "I would've been fine if you hadn't distracted me in that alley!"
Harry placed a calming hand on Ginny's shoulder, motioning for her to sit back down. "There will be time for bickering later," he said. "We need to be on the same team tomorrow, or this will all be for nothing."
"Fine by me," Hermione muttered. "Where will you be, Harry?"
"At the top," Harry said confidently, pointing to the pinnacle of the tower. "The Dark Lord will be waiting for me there."
"How do you know?"
Harry tapped the scar on his forehead in response. "I have a direct link to his mind, remember?" he said. "He's up there as we speak, taunting me to come and find him. And I will."
"I'll come with you," Hermione said at once.
"No you won't," Harry said adamantly. "I don't care which squad you join, but you'll leave the Dark Lord to me. It's my fight, and mine alone."
Hermione could see that Harry's mind was made up and nothing she said would sway him. She had no intention of leaving him to a one-on-one conflict with the most powerful wizard in modern history, but she wouldn't argue the point there and then.
"Very well," she said. "I'll join Squad B, and make sure the Muggles don't cause us too many problems."
"Fine," Harry shrugged. "Any more questions?"
"Are we aiming to capture or kill?" asked Neville. Everyone perked up at this question; clearly it had been on their minds as well.
"Whatever is necessary," Harry said grimly. "They made their choice by working in the Tower, knowing full well who's in charge of it."
"It isn't all Ferrymen in there, though," Bill pointed out. "Plenty of office grunts have business there as well. Percy has to make a trip inside at least once a month."
"Then you'd better home he isn't in there tomorrow," Harry said shortly. The Weasleys all looked forlorn at this remark; knowing what happened to Ron, this was no idle threat.
Only Ginny seemed unbothered among the redheads. "If Percy dies tomorrow, it'll be because he's a giant prat," she said firmly. "He's made his bed; he can lie in it."
"Will there be any Healers on-hand?" asked Hermione. "In case of injury?"
Harry gestured around the room at the gathered fighters. "This is all we have," Harry said, as though that answered the question. "If we could spare a Healer, we would. I recommend not getting injured, or brushing up on your field healing spells."
"I know of a few," Krum grunted from the corner. "I vill stay late and teach anyone who needs it."
"The Muggles might have doctors at their encampment," Hermione pointed out. "That might be the best chance for anyone who does wind up hurt—"
"Again with the Muggles," Harry muttered, exasperated.
"Just in case, Harry!" Hermione huffed. "It ought to be said, if all else fails."
"I'm sure they'll welcome an injured wizard with open arms," Harry said dryly. "So sure, knock yourself out if you get a little bruise. Can we stay on topic here?"
Hermione thought it was incredibly on-topic. Harry was naive to believe that nobody would be injured in such a chaotic and potentially bloody engagement. Even if they dueled perfectly against the Ferrymen – who were fearsome foes in their own right – there would also be stray bullets and artillery fire flying at random that could hit anyone at any time. She did not regret saying her piece, knowing that it could save a life or two if the worst happened.
A few more questions were asked, as finer details were ironed out and final plans were set. The meeting adjourned at eleven P.M., with everyone separating to their own quarters to try and get some rest before the big day. Hermione paced around her office, knowing she would have no luck with sleep. She was too nervous, too terrified of what could go wrong in the morning. By this time tomorrow, the war could be over, or they could all be dead. The world may be permanently lost to Voldemort. It was all up to Harry now.
Hermione busied herself with last-minute preparations of her own. She hopped on the radio to send a final message to George Weasley at the Manchester Enclave, confirming the plan to get the children out of the country at seven A.M. sharp. She gathered as many potions as she could from her private stores and crammed them into an enchanted bag – healing draughts and other useful drinks that could save lives in a pinch. She considered her Runes project, now active and waiting many miles away, hoping that she'd made all the correct preparations. She played with the pendant dangling from a chain around her neck, running through the Arithmancy in her head, fairly certain she'd done her calculations correctly.
She eventually emerged from the office hours later to whip up some coffee and a light breakfast. She found that she was not the only one unable to sleep; several others, like Krum and the elder Weasley brothers, sat in the common room chatting idly. Hermione sat by herself in the corner, sipping from her mug, too jittery to make casual conversation. How men ever managed to be so casual and calm mere hours from their looming deaths never ceased to amaze her.
Slowly the room filled with the other fighters, looking variously exhausted and/or worried. All except for Harry, who arrived last, looking composed and ready as he strode to the front of the room. Everyone hushed as he approached, taking in his demeanor, the fierce expression in his eyes. Hermione would always admire that about Harry – his ability to rally a crowd with his mere presence, with his sheer resolve to win.
"Fifteen minutes," he announced. "Everyone ready?"
"Ready!" a few voices shouted back. The minutes ticked by in relative silence, as everyone retreated into their own heads, psyching themselves up, readying themselves for the fight to come. The fight for their lives.
Then, with about five minutes to go, odd sounds began to disrupt the silence. Distant patters of gunfire. Faint booms of explosions, accompanied by light rumblings in the ground. Hermione frowned; the enclave was situated some five miles from the heart of downtown London, indicating that the fighting was perhaps more widespread than she believed. She knew Beckett and Rodriguez must have directed their units to begin the assault right at dawn, and from the sound of it, they were making a big impact already.
All eyes turned to Harry, who appeared unfazed by the development. "We stick to the plan," he said firmly. "Four minutes."
They listened as the distant sounds grew increasingly louder and more intense. The sky screeched with screaming rockets; gunfire continued erupting in the distance in a near-constant stream. It only served to hammer home the reality of the situation, as everyone did their best to ignore the fearsome noises and focus on the task at hand.
Finally, Harry stood and announced, "Squad A, thirty seconds!" Half of the team of fighters approached, each clutching a broomstick. They each placed a hand on a small disc that Harry held out and waited. When the clock struck seven exactly, the disc glowed bright blue, and Squad A disappeared, the Portkey whisking them away to their designated starting point near the Tower.
Silence returned to the room as they waited for the next departure time. They actively listened to the sounds of battle now, straining for any sign that Squad A had begun their attack. A distant crackling noise joined the cacophony now; Hermione hoped that meant that Harry had activated his army of lightning Patronuses and they were on their way towards the middle levels of the Tower. It was an agonizing wait, when all they could do was pray for the best.
Eventually, Fred Weasley stood up and walked to the front of the room. "Squad B, thirty seconds!" he announced, his voice shakier than Harry's had been. Hermione walked forward with the rest of the fighters, placing a hand on a similar disc. She felt a trembling body beside her, and turned to see Hannah Abbott, tears running down her face, terribly afraid.
"It's okay," Hermione whispered to soothe her. "Do it for your children."
Hannah gulped and nodded. She was still devastated by the loss of half of her enclave earlier in the year. But she steeled herself and stood tall, no longer shaking by the time the clock reached their departure time. Hermione felt a yank behind her navel as the Portkey transported them into the heart of London – perhaps for the final time.
Immediately Hermione knew they'd landed in the middle of a war zone. The alleyway they'd landed in was filled with smoke, forcing them all to drop to their stomachs. Heavy footsteps marched past in the main thoroughfares, all headed in the direction of the Black Tower two blocks away. Hermione groaned; the streets of London were absolutely crawling with Muggle soldiers.
But these were not the disorganized, untrained fighters of earlier. These were professional soldiers, marching in formation, shouting commands and organizing in tight-knit groups. These must be the Americans, freshly arrived from across the pond, armed to the teeth and ready to fight back against the wizarding regime that had lorded over them for years. It was an intimidating sight, even for a bunch of witches and wizards.
"What do we do now?" whispered Fred.
Hermione hastily summoned a gust of wind to clear the smoke from around them and allow them to breathe and think in peace. This had the added effect of clearing their view up into the sky, the Black Tower looming over their heads. Everyone glanced up at it, and gasped collectively at the sight.
Harry's Patronuses were chasing the cloud of Dementors away, scattering away from the Tower. They could faintly make out figures on broomsticks high above, some directing their own Patronuses to clear the herd of black monstrosities, others squeezing through the windows to enter the Tower. But that wasn't what caught everyone's attention.
The Tower was in shambles. Entire chunks of the facade had been ripped away; the great stone columns were chipped and blasted apart. Most of the windows lining the Tower were blown out by gunfire and explosions, and debris was raining down the sides of the great structure from its many gaping wounds. Hermione knew the Tower had been enchanted to repel most magic thrown its way, but doubted that Voldemort would have thought to defend against Muggle artillery and gunfire. In fact, if the Tower wasn't supported by magic, she was certain that it would have collapsed under its own weight by now – the damage was that extensive.
Suddenly, all of Squad B flinched and ducked instinctively as there was a great roaring sound overhead. Hermione thought perhaps that a flock of dragons had entered the fray, but instead she looked up as a squadron of fighter jets screamed through the sky, flying directly towards the Tower. They unleashed their payloads at once, sending rockets and gunfire at the stone structure. The Tower was rocked by more colossal explosions; debris continued to shower the streets below, as even the Muggle soldiers ducked from the might of the military aircraft overhead.
"Blimey, how are we supposed to get anywhere near the Tower?" asked Seamus Finnigan. "We'll be ripped apart!"
"We have to fight our way through the Muggles," said Fred decisively, raising his wand as he began to move forward towards the main road.
"No!" Hermione exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "They'll turn on us and start firing immediately. We have to draw them away from the Tower some other way."
"How?"
Hermione pondered this. She doubted that this small group of witches and wizards could overpower an entire squadron of trained American soldiers. But perhaps with a show of strength, she could frighten them into a retreat, and buy them just enough time to get inside…
Hermione directed her attention back to the smoldering Tower. She aimed her wand at a section about fifty feet above ground level. A curtain of flames wrapped itself around the Tower and began to descend, down towards the street below. Hermione poured as much magic into it as she could, knowing it would be enough to do substantial damage, but hoping the sight of the flames would scare the Muggles off.
She waited as the flames descended below the sight line of a neighboring building and disappeared. Slowly but surely, she heard cries of alarm and sounds of panic from down the road. The steady march of soldiers just outside the alley halted, then quite abruptly changed direction. "Retreat!" voices echoed down from the direction of the Tower; soon, soldiers were running in the opposite direction to escape whatever Hermione had conjured.
The stream of bodies finally slowed and then disappeared up the road. "Wait," Hermione instructed as Fred stood to move forward. Seconds later, a searing wall of flame washed past them – not terribly thick or powerful, but imposing enough to send the Muggles running for fear of incineration. Once the wave passed, the streets were left empty, granting them unimpeded access to the Tower.
"Go, go!" Hermione announced; Squad B leapt into action, sprinting down the road towards the Tower. A few stray soldiers stood between them, having avoided the wall of flame, but were quickly dispatched with Stunners before they could raise their weapons in their direction. Soon they stood before the shattered front entrance to the Tower, staring into the ruined Atrium.
Fred led the way inside, cautiously stepping through what had once been a window before gunfire tore it to pieces. Bodies littered the space; the air smelled thickly of copper and gunpowder as they stepped over dead Ferrymen and other wizarding employees riddled with bullets. It was deathly silent, aside from faint groans of pain from those lucky (or unlucky) enough to survive the initial onslaught of Muggle soldiers.
"Clear the floor!" Fred announced, and Squad B fanned out across the Atrium, wands aimed for any opposition. But there was none to be found. Any defense that the Tower had once had was decimated by the Muggles. Hermione knew the Ferrymen must be dwindling in numbers with the ongoing revolts across Britain, but even she was shocked by how severely understaffed the Tower was by now. There must have been no more than three or four dozen wizards guarding the entrance, which was no match for the hundreds, if not thousands of foot soldiers swarming the city in coordinated packs.
Hermione paused, feeling dizzy from the heavy expenditure of magic the flames had cost her. She withdrew her potions kit and withdrew an Invigoration Draught, downing it in a single gulp. She felt her head clear and her magic rush back into her within seconds, grateful that she'd thought to bring plenty of the necessary concoction. Hopefully she wouldn't need many more at this rate. She stowed her bag away and moved forward to rejoin the squad.
Her attention suddenly shifted to a crumpled figure in wizard's robes, lying sprawled on the floor nearby, writhing in pain. She hurried over to the man and leveled her wand at him, ready to end his life if necessary—
"Wait!" the man panted weakly, holding up an empty hand. "Please...I have a family! Have mercy!"
Hermione paused. She really ought to dispatch with the man and be done with it, but he posed no threat to them at the moment. He possessed no wand, and his legs were mangled and oozing blood, shredded from some Muggle artillery. Furthermore, he was no Ferryman; he was an Auror, technically a member of Voldemort's regime but not necessarily a willing participant. She recognized him as Auror Hopkins, whom she had crossed paths with in the Ministry during her stealth mission all those months ago.
"My son...Calvin...he just turned four," the man stammered weakly. "He needs me. Don't do this."
Hermione knew the safest option was to just end the man's life now before he could find a wand and cause them more problems later on. But her maternal instincts were screaming at her to relent. She too had a four year old child, hidden away in Australia, whom she hadn't seen since shortly after her birth. Why should she create yet another orphan, when so many parents had already been slaughtered needlessly in this war? She couldn't bring herself to do so.
Instead, she dropped to a knee beside the man and pulled out her potions kit once more. "Drink these," she instructed, handing him a Pain Reliever and a Blood-Replenishing Potion. "This is going to hurt." She pointed her wand at the man's legs; he wailed in agony as she cauterized his wounds, searing the flesh where the worst of the blood loss was coming from. Once she was done, she summoned a fallen table towards them and positioned it in front of the man, shielding him from view from most passers-by.
There was nothing more she could do. She stood and hustled forward towards the Floo to reconvene with the other fighters. "Thank you," the man called after her in a weak voice. Hermione didn't know if he would survive the day, but she'd done all she could to prevent that four year old boy from growing up without a father.
The rest of Squad B was convening by the fireplaces, wands scanning the Atrium for more threats. But they appeared to be alone in the smoldering wreckage, the workers and Ferrymen either having fled or perished to the onslaught from the Muggle fighters.
"Anyone hurt?" asked Hermione.
"Don't think so," Fred said. Everyone looked unscathed, aside from Sadie, who had cut her hand on a bit of jagged glass while entering the lobby. Hermione handed her a pain reliever to drink while conjuring a strip of cloth to wrap around her hand and keep compression on the wound.
"Thanks," Sadie muttered.
"Any word from the other side?" Hermione asked, indicating the fireplaces that were connected to the upper Atrium.
"Not yet," said Fred. "What d'you reckon?"
Hermione glanced around the Atrium. The fighters had long dispersed from the Tower, and there was nobody left to fight down here. But the Muggles could return at any moment and open fire again, believing them to be Ferrymen, making every moment spent on ground level a risky one.
"We should head through anyway," she decided. "If Squad A hasn't sent the signal, they might need help."
"Alright then," Fred sighed, as the other squad members gathered around the grates. Hermione grabbed a handful of Floo Powder from the nearby urns and tossed them into each hearth, igniting them with green flames. With her wand ready for action, she stepped through, spinning away upwards, towards the middle section of the Tower…
Hermione was deposited in a room that looked even worse for wear than the last. The entire level had been obliterated by gunfire and artillery from the passing planes. Every window was blown out; support columns stood smoking and fractured all around them. Once again, she was certain that the floor would have collapsed by now if there wasn't magic at work keeping the Tower upright.
"Where is everyone?" Hermione asked, frowning.
"Well well, look what the cats dragged in," a voice said humorlessly. Ginny appeared from the other side of the room, looking grim. For a moment Hermione thought this was a remark at her sudden appearance. But she followed Ginny's gaze to the center of the room, where a squat figure was crumpled in a pool of her own blood. Hermione's eyebrows raised at the lifeless form of Dolores Umbridge, cut down by what looked like gunfire and shrapnel from the blast that had destroyed half the wall. She couldn't say she was sorry to see the old witch dead, and Ginny clearly agreed, rearing back and unleashing a glob of spit on the woman's body.
"Fitting, that she died to the very people she detested so much," Hermione said coldly. "She didn't deserve a witch's death."
"Still, I would've liked to be the one to do her in," Ginny said darkly. "She made my life hell in our seventh year at Hogwarts."
"All clear," announced Neville from the other side of the room. Hermione could now see that Umbridge was not the only casualty of the fighter jets; several other Ferrymen and Tower workers had been struck down, leaving very few survivors. A small group of surrendering workers sat huddled in a corner, under Bill and Charlie's watchful wands, looking shell-shocked at whatever destruction they'd witnessed before the wizards arrived.
"Why have the planes stopped attacking?" Hermione asked.
"They're moving up the Tower," Neville explained. "That's where the only fighting is taking place now."
Hermione's heart sunk at this news; it could only mean that Harry and Voldemort had begun their battle for control. "Here, take this," Hermione instructed Ginny, handing her the bag of potions. She raised her wand and conjured her Patronus, the silvery otter awaiting her command. "The Tower is secure," Hermione said. "Send your men to the Ministry." And she sent the otter off to deliver the message to Rodriguez, hoping that he and Beckett were coordinating enough to halt the assaults on the Tower. The less chance they'd be cut down by friendly fire, the better.
With this done, Hermione headed for the stairs. "Where are you going?" Ginny demanded.
"Up," Hermione said simply. And she tore up the spiral staircase, determined to reach the top – to reach Harry. Was she too late? Had the battle already been won – or lost? She couldn't bear not knowing. She had to get there before the worst could happen…
The upper levels of the Tower looked similarly ravaged by gunfire. She passed by scores of dead bodies, and the occasional live worker – in no state to fight, just huddled under their desks, mourning for their friends, crying for their mothers. She spied a handful of Squad A members securing the levels as she passed – Viktor Krum, Lee Jordan, Luna Lovegood – but they needed no assistance. They were simply the clean-up crew, left to mop up the devastation wrought by the Muggle planes, which none of them had anticipated being so effective.
Hermione heard shouting ahead of her, screams of agony from the upcoming level. She approached slowly, wand at the ready, prepared to join a fight. But what she saw instead floored her: a dozen hippogriffs, clawing and pecking at a group of Ferrymen on the ground, begging for their lives.
"All righ' there, 'Ermione?" a booming voice asked. Hagrid was standing beside the hippogriffs, egging them on to continue throttling their prey.
"I'm okay," Hermione said breathlessly. "You?"
"All under control 'ere," Hagrid said. "Brought in this lot from the Forbidden Forest just las' night."
"Good thinking," said Hermione. "Have you seen Harry?"
"He went tearin' up those stairs a while ago," Hagrid said. "You reckon he's alrigh'?"
"I'm sure he is," Hermione said placatingly, then continued her ascent up the steps. She had no idea how much higher she had to climb, but she had to be getting close. She could hear faint booms and crackling of magic in the distance; she could only imagine one source of such devastation. She increased her pace, panting heavily as she took the stairs three at a time, rushing forward towards certain doom…
Hermione came up short as she entered a room of pitch black. The place reeked of Dark magic; the walls, floor and ceiling were covered in black marble, with tall bookshelves, a sinister desk and throne chair adorning the room. This must be Voldemort's study, she realized; the books on the shelves were among the vilest she could imagine, worse even than Karkaroff's secret stash back at Krum Manor.
But she could not stop to explore the room further. She was close to the fighting now. She could hear the sounds of conflict nearby, could see flashes of light reflecting off the stairs ahead of her. She ascended the last flight cautiously, which carried her up and out of the Tower's interior and onto its roof. What she saw there caused her stomach to drop.
Harry and Voldemort were dueling. They walked in a wide circle around each other, backs to the parapets lining the circular structure, a wasteland of devastation between them. The air was thick with smoke; Hermione could practically taste the awful magic being slung back and forth between the two wizards.
She did not dare enter the battle with such chaos erupting all around them. She remained on the staircase, erecting a silent Shield Charm to protect herself, her head barely peeking out over the landing to view the duel from a safe distance.
It was horrifying and enthralling to watch. She'd never seen magic on such a scale, advanced curses and hexes she didn't recognize, cast at a breathtaking pace that few magical beings could dream of harnessing. The Dark Lord looked every bit as dangerous and all-powerful as his reputation suggested, wielding the most horrific magic that had ever been attempted and making it look easy.
But Harry looked confident, and Hermione had to admit he appeared to be on equal footing as the Dark Lord. His spell knowledge may be behind Voldemort's, but he was crafty and quick, just as comfortable with spinning away from a dangerous volley as he was batting it aside. He flung spell after spell at his nemesis, his wand a blur as it twirled and spun in Harry's hand, keeping the battle equal, preventing Voldemort from pressing any kind of advantage.
Slowly, Hermione became aware of the many aircraft surrounding the two fighters – helicopters, hovering at a distance, watching the action from afar. For a brief moment of insanity Hermione believed them to be news copters, recording the fight for the Muggle world to see. But then she realized that these were all military craft, jostling for position, waiting for an opening to strike—
"Harry, look out!" she shrieked. One of the copters had fired a barrage of rockets at the Tower. Harry saw them coming first and dove out of the way; Voldemort noticed them a second later and was forced to erect a heavy metal shield to protect himself. The rockets peppered the ground all around the Dark Lord, sending shrapnel clanging up against his shield, staggering him backwards.
Voldemort appeared unharmed, but now he was properly angry. He turned his attention not to Harry, but to the aircraft hovering around him. With a mighty swipe of his wand, a black, smoke-like whip CRACKED across the sky, striking several of the helicopters and sending them plummeting towards the ground. Hermione's heart sank as she watched them go, the Muggles inside doomed to a fiery death—
She must act. She rushed forward to the parapets, aiming her wand down at the falling wreckage of the craft, firing Freezing and Cushioning Charms to halt the spread of flames and protect the vehicle inhabitants from a violent collision with the ground. She watched as the fires dwindled and the crafts' descents slowed. She only hoped the magic would hold until they drifted all the way to the ground…
Hermione was forced into action as she sensed incoming spells from behind her. Voldemort had spotted her, and he'd fired a volley of dangerous curses at her back. She wheeled around and deflected them – barely. The speed and power behind Voldemort's casts was dizzying, and she knew she'd come within microseconds of death.
"Get out of here, Hermione!" Harry bellowed as he re-engaged the Dark Lord to avert his attention. "You're no match!"
"I can take care of myself!" Hermione protested. But she quickly realized that Harry was right. She was out of her depth; the raw speed and power of the two wizards was simply beyond her comprehension. She hadn't undergone the rituals needed to improve her body and mind. She may be a talented witch in her own right, but this was a whole other level of strength she was witnessing – two titans clashing in a battle for the centuries. She dodged one final sickly yellow curse (which she was pretty sure would have caused her internal organs to liquefy) and dove back for the relative safety of the stairs.
Harry and Voldemort were back at it again, this time unimpeded by aircraft. The helicopters that had survived the Dark Lord's initial retaliation had learned their lesson, falling back farther from the Tower and not daring to engage. They, like Hermione, could only watch, wait and see what unfolded. If the prophecy would be fulfilled. If the Boy Who Lived could become the Boy Who Won…
Harry was keeping up with Voldemort at every step, matching each of his offensive volleys with one of his own, parrying spell after spell sent his way. The air was thick with diffused magic, practically sparking with raw power as spells were flung wildly between the two arch-wizards. Using the Sight, Hermione could see the wild fluctuations of currents in the air, as magic was channeled and expelled at breakneck speeds, neither side yielding, both sides fighting to kill…
But Harry was beginning to tire. Hermione noticed a thin trickle of blood running down his right leg, whether from the Muggle rockets or some other curse, and he was limping slightly as he favored his left side. Voldemort picked up on this too, because he increased the pressure to Harry's right, forcing him into awkward, hobbled defenses. Harry's movement was no longer fluid and seamless; there were cracks in the armor now. And Voldemort was going in for the kill.
Harry fought valiantly to the end. He swatted aside two consecutive Killing Curses and redirected a Bone-Breaker Hex, but was forced to conjure a silver shield of light to block Voldemort's next spell: a burst of pure darkness aimed straight at his heart. The shield absorbed the worst of the spell, but it shattered and flickered to nothing as Harry was sent sprawling backwards from the nasty curse, groaning as he landed hard on his back.
"You are more powerful than I gave you credit for, Harry Potter," Voldemort taunted as Harry struggled back to his feet. "But you are simply no match for me. You would need many more decades to reach your full potential. But I can only grant you a few more seconds of life."
Hermione could not stand idle any longer. She rushed forward, wand trained against the Dark Lord, trembling with fear but unwilling to watch Harry die. "Hermione, run," Harry croaked as he wobbled, trying to remain upright.
"Can't do that," Hermione muttered. She was going to die; she could feel it, could see the malice in Voldemort's eyes. But she would not abandon Harry, the love of her life. The father of her child.
Poor Evangeline. Their daughter would grow up an orphan, never knowing the truth of her parents and how hard they fought to make the world a better place for her. But, with luck, she would grow up. She would be far away from the worst of Voldemort's regime in Australia. And if Hermione's Memory Charms failed with her death, she would know that her birth parents died on their feet, rather than on their knees, begging for mercy.
"How touching," Voldemort said with an evil smile. "Your little girlfriend wishes to protect you, Potter. Now you will have to watch as I flay the skin from her bones and give her the most painful death imaginable."
With her Sight active, Hermione could see the terrible magic swirling around Voldemort, building at the tip of his wand. She knew she didn't have a prayer at blocking or preventing whatever horrifying curse he sent her way. She lacked combat experience and decades' worth of knowledge about Dark magic. She was doomed.
Unless she tried something desperate.
So she latched onto the currents of magic around Voldemort's body. Grabbed hold of them with her mind.
And she pulled.
Hermione groaned with effort as she tore the magic away from Voldemort, keeping the dangerous symbols at bay, unable to reach his wand. She could practically hear the wailing of discord from her disruption of the currents, as she desperately tried to rip the magic away from Voldemort. It was as if the three of them stood in a raging current of water, and Hermione encased Voldemort in a pocket of empty air, keeping him from the streams of magic all around him.
Voldemort frowned, clearly sensing something was not right. He summoned more currents towards himself, preparing another nasty spell, wand alight with Dark magic, eyes alight with fury…
Hermione grabbed hold of those currents too. She focused every bit of energy and magic she had left into keeping them away from the Dark Lord, prevent him from casting the next spell that would cause her doom.
"What is this magic?" Voldemort asked, looking down at his wand – at himself. He could feel the change, could sense the absence of magic in the air around him. He lacked the Sight, unable to see the invisible wall of currents, the violent cacophony of symbols fighting to reach its summoner, to answer the call of his wand that so desperately wanted to strike Hermione down…
"What's happening?" Harry asked cautiously, moving closer to Hermione.
"Do something!" Hermione snapped. She could not spare an iota of her own magic to fight, to do anything other than keep Voldemort trapped within his bubble of impotency.
Harry aimed his wand at the Dark Lord. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted. The Elder Wand was ripped out of Voldemort's hand, soaring through the air towards Harry, who caught it in his free hand. But he did not appear triumphant at successfully disarming the Dark Lord. He was gaping at Hermione in awe, in abject horror at what she was doing.
Voldemort similarly looked aghast at whatever was happening to him. "I feel...empty," he said, looking down at his hands in shock. "Why can I not feel the magic around me?"
"Hermione, I don't like this," Harry said warningly, arm shaking as he kept his holly wand aimed at Voldemort's chest. "How are you doing this?"
"You've cast your last spell, Tom Riddle," Hermione panted. "Now you get to experience life like the people you subjugated all these years – a common Muggle."
Voldemort's eyes widened in shock. Of all the things she or Harry had said or done, this alone had caused a flicker of fear to appear on his face. "You dare insult the most powerful wizard alive with such nonsense?" Voldemort snarled. He raised one hand and pointed it menacingly at Hermione. She could see the dark symbols of the Killing Curse rising to the forefront of the currents, but they were kept at bay by the barrier she kept erected around Voldemort's being. He could not channel them if he tried.
Voldemort seemed to realize this himself. He dropped his arm to his side, looking bewildered. Hermione could see the parade of emotions working its way across his face – the five stages of grief.
He was the Dark Lord no longer. He was Tom Riddle, the orphan boy who had once learned he was special, now realizing for the first time that he was back where he started – an unremarkable, unmagical human being.
Tom looked up at Hermione, a new expression on his face: desperation. "Give me my magic back," he pleaded.
"No," said Hermione coldly.
"You've got to," he insisted. "It's my right."
"It's a privilege," she corrected him. "And you've just lost it."
"GIVE IT BACK!" Tom bellowed. "YOU CAN'T JUST STEAL IT, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD!"
Tom looked from Hermione to Harry, who looked just as shocked and afraid as he did. "You can't let her do this, Harry," he said, dropping back to his knees and crawling on all-fours towards Harry. "It's not her place to decide who's magical and who isn't. What if it's you she turns on next? Do you want to go back to that life, Harry? Those nasty Muggle relatives of yours? That hopeless childhood before you knew what made you special?"
"Shut up," Harry said shakily, jerking back from Tom's touch. He looked terrified, not of Voldemort himself, but of what was seemingly happening to him. Tom Riddle was now prostate on the ground, fingertips clawing at the stone beneath him, as though attempting to yank the magic from the ground by force.
"Kill me," Tom muttered quietly. Then, he raised his head again, gazing into Harry's eyes with a desperate, wild look. "KILL ME!"
Hermione watched as Harry's arm continued to tremble, wand still pointed at the old man kneeling before them. She sensed the powerful emotions coursing through Harry, a similar maelstrom of terrible symbols swirling around his person. He seemed to actually be considering it…
"Harry," panted Hermione. "I can't hold him much longer. Take this." With her free hand, she slipped a small chain over her head, revealing the pendant that had been dangling beneath her robes, and handed it to him.
"What is this?" Harry asked.
"A Portkey," she explained. "Put it around his neck."
"Where will it take him?" Harry demanded.
"Somewhere safe," Hermione said. "Quickly, please!" She could feel her core draining by the second from the sheer willpower required to keep Voldemort's magic at bay.
Harry eyed her suspiciously. But he did as he was told, approaching the kneeling man and slipping the chain over his head, the pendant resting against his chest. Tom could do nothing but watch, eyes wide as he looked from Harry to Hermione, completely at their mercy.
"Portus!" Hermione exclaimed, using the last of her magic to activate the Portkey around Tom's neck. A faint blue light radiated from the pendant, and they got one more glimpse of the terrified, powerless man before he disappeared in a swirl of magic.
And not a moment too soon. Hermione released her holds on the magical currents in the air, dropping to her knees, dizzy and exhausted from the effort.
Harry turned back towards her, but he did not look relieved; if anything, he looked angry. Threatened, even.
"Explain what you did to him," he said shakily. "Now."
But Hermione's world was fading fast. Her head felt heavy; her eyes fluttered and fought to stay open.
"I beat him," she said simply. Then she collapsed, losing the battle with consciousness and fading to blissful nothingness.
