IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ!
While I abhor spoilers, I can't in good conscience allow you to read any further without providing the following warnings:
1. Ron and Hermione will be together at some point in this story, but Harry and Hermione are endgame.
2. There will be moments of cheating in this story.
3. No matter how strongly I try to rectify this, I believe the characters will be acting in way that could very easily be considered OOC.
4. This story features an unplanned pregnancy.
5. There will be sex. Please don't read if you're underaged.
6. It is dark, it is angsty, and it is not for the faint of heart.
If any of the above points offend you, trigger you, or put you off in any way, please run away now and find something else to read. Consider yourself warned.
Without further ado, those of you who remain, let's begin into this dark decent, shall we?
Chapter 1 – Isolated, Alone, and Broken
A small clearing etched a near perfect circle within the vastness of the Gloucestershire woodland not far from a river's edge. In this clearing concealed by magical wards, Harry Potter clutched his jacket closer around his thin frame beneath an October wind as he rested against the outer, canvas wall of a tent, and leaned towards the blistering fire snapping at his black trainers. But the heat could not warm his frozen core, even as the embers licked at his knuckles and the soot coated his tongue. With a fresh, Muggle newspaper resting on his lap, his mind was at war with itself, unwilling to relent a barrage of foul, unsavoury thoughts. It had been one year, one year, nearly to the day that Ron Weasley had left Hermione Granger and him in the woods alone. The pair of them had been cut off from their world for months longer than that. They had no idea of the state it was in, or how the ones they loved faired amidst the brutal war that was raging without them. Unable to imagine anything but the worst, he could see his friends being butchered over and over, could see their lifeless bodies, could see the places he loved burning to the ground as Death Eaters whooped and hollered cries of victory into the blackness of the night. He chewed on his bottom lip while he fought to change his stream of consciousness. A heavy, gaudy locket with a golden chain dangled from his neck like a weight. Harry curled his knees up into his chest, attempting to more evenly distribute the locket's bulk before realizing it was a futile task. The real bulk was weighing in his mind.
Fabric rustled against the leaves somewhere nearby. His ears pricked up, momentarily forgetting his woes. A twig snapped from behind him, jolting him into action; he swivelled around and pointed the holly wood encased phoenix feather at Hermione's tired face emerging from the tent flap. "It's just me," she murmured, unfazed by his wordless threat.
At the sight of his most cherished friend instead of the malevolent being he'd feared, Harry relaxed, slumping back against the canvas once more. Hermione sat beside him, her bent knees nearly touching his. He stared at her, at the moonlight reflecting off her soft visage, casting gentle shadows along the wide cheekbones and beneath the honey-coloured eyes. Her delicate, pretty face stared back. A silent and strange interaction passed between them, one that only the pair of them fully understood. These were the only moments that the locket, with all of its malintent, could not touch. The scent of her flowery soap drifted in the restless wind to coat his nostrils; he closed his eyes and enjoyed the familiar scent of lavender and rose water. But his peace of mind could only last so long under the circumstances.
"It's…been a year, Hermione." His voice was a tentative whisper as his eyes peaked open; he knew he shouldn't speak of such things. He glanced down at the newspaper he had nicked from the Muggle town they had visited earlier that day.
"Yes…yes, I know." Her response was just as soft as his statement but not lacking the brooding emotion he expected. After a moment, she continued with a softer, more hopeful tone, "I hope he's okay. Wherever he is. I hope they all are."
"Me too."
A long, pensive silence stretched on, decorated by the chirping of crickets and the groaning of frogs and the splashing of fish in the river a few metres away. An owl hooted above them, and Harry thought of Hedwig with a deep and wistful sadness.
"I think it's time we went to Godric's Hollow," she said suddenly.
Surprised, he eyed her up and down. "Why's that?"
"We should have done it ages ago. All that time wasted in Albania, searching for nothing. The correlation is rather clear, wouldn't you agree?"
"Erm…correlation?" he wondered, feeling, as he often did in Hermione Granger's presence, that his intelligence was lacking.
Hermione turned her thin body towards his, crossing her legs like a pretzel. "It was Godric Gryffindor's birth place. I can't think of a more likely spot where Dumbledore would've hidden the sword."
His vibrant green eyes narrowed, the dilated pupils glinting with deliberation behind the lenses of round, black frames. "It's too risky," Harry decided. The idea of putting her in needless danger as he had already done too many times before made his stomach feel uncomfortably tight as swirling, sickening memories of their journey through Albania dried his throat. He swallowed.
"We can't stay here forever, Harry," she said, but his sight had fixed on the faint scar on her neck, beneath the unruly curls that hung in dancing spirals down to her waist. He couldn't fathom the thought of almost losing her again, wouldn't even entertain the idea. He saw the memory in his mind, saw the hungry clan of vampires they had unwittingly stumbled across, saw the pale man with long, sharp fingernails slash open Hermione's throat. It had been one of the only times in his life when his reflexes had failed him. He'd been too slow to cast a shielding charm around her, and it had almost cost him his best friend's life. He could still recall that rage as he blasted the vampires back and away from her. He could still see the terror in her eyes as she clutched at her neck and crumbled to the ground. He could still feel his panic as he scooped her limp body up and apparated them far away. She'd bled so much; his trembling hands had been drenched in it. Harry glanced down at his hands now, resting in his lap, before shaking his head.
"No," He whispered, "We can stay here forever. I'm not putting you in danger again, and I'm not leaving you alone."
"We're always in danger," she reminded him, "And what about our friends? The whole world? My parents…. We can't give up on our mission now. We're the only ones who know how to stop him."
But Harry was already shaking his head again, his chin set stubbornly as the campfire reflected inside the lenses of his glasses. "I don't care. I'll never put you through that again."
"You're being unreasonable."
"No, I'm not," his voice was raising in volume as he sat up, "I'm not being unreasonable. I can still see the scar on your neck. I thought…I thought you were going to die in my arms." His voice drifted back down to a whisper while his fingers, hesitant and gentle, stroked along the raised line that trailed from her collarbone to her jugular. She shivered; his fingers were freezing, but she leaned into his hand and caught it with her own, pressing it tighter into her neck to warm it. Where their skin touched, pulsing and tingling warmth spread.
Hermione gazed at him, eyes soft, grateful, and understanding on the surface, but beneath, her hard-headed determination lingered. "But you saved me."
"Barely." Harry's eyes tightened. The wind rustled through his hair, exposed his scar.
"It's freezing out here," Hermione commented, "Let's go inside."
"Someone has to keep watch." Harry was particularly disagreeable that evening.
"And one of us will," she promised, "After we warm up and eat some dinner."
Harry couldn't refuse food, and Hermione knew it. It was a rarity when they had anything of substance to eat. By the time they had sat at the table, she had even managed to convince him to take the locket off, and, when he'd pushed his empty bowl away from him, his mood was considerably lighter.
Hermione poked again, "Really, Harry. I think we should go to Godric's Hollow. We can't just give up, no matter how much we'd like to."
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair for several moments while he stared darkly into space. With the locket's weight gone and his belly full, it was much easier to imagine a more positive outcome. The thought of finding the sword and being rid of that damnable necklace once and for all was quite tempting. He chewed his lip once more, and Hermione could see that she was breaking through his resolve.
Hermione leaned toward him, saying, "If we could just find the sword, we'd be that much closer to finishing this. We'll be extra careful. We'll take the cloak, and we won't take it off for anything. No one will see us. We can just have a quick peak, see what we can find, and be gone. That's it. Minimal danger, no one will be the wiser."
But they had been careful in Albania. All it took was one moment in those woods, one moment to stumble upon the wrong area. The only luck they'd had was that the vampires had mistaken them for Muggles and that they hadn't bitten Hermione. Harry flinched, seeing her pale, bloody face in his mind once again, her eyes rolling back into her skull, her raspy, heavy breaths, his own horrified sobs as he held her neck closed with one hand and scrambled for the Dittany with the other. But he knew she was right. They couldn't give up. They had to keep trying to end this nightmare once and for all. Heaving a trembling breath, he said with a firmness in his voice that caught Hermione off guard, "Fine. But if anything happens, anything at all, you get behind me, and you stay behind me."
"I'm not useless, Harry," Hermione retorted, somewhat offended.
"Promise me." Harry glared at her. Of course, he didn't think she was useless. The truth was that he would be useless if he lost her.
Hermione frowned. "Fine."
The next morning, they planned and plotted, the excitement of the trip lifting their downtrodden mood a marginal degree, but the fear of Hermione getting hurt churned in Harry's stomach. By nightfall, they had planned all they could. Beneath the protection of Harry's invisibility cloak, they apparated into the outskirts of the little village in which Harry Potter had been born. They spent some time roaming the streets, stopping to investigate the pieces of his past that he'd left behind. While they wandered, they found a war memorial in the shape of an obelisk that morphed into a statue of James and Lily and baby Harry as they neared it. Then, they wandered into a graveyard where they uncovered the tombstones of the Potters' and Albus Dumbledore's mother and sister. Hermione had conjured him a wreath to lay upon his parents' grave while he wept soundlessly, before she wrapped her arms around his trembling waist. He surprised her when he clutched her tighter into him and buried his tear-tracked face into her hair. When he managed to pull himself away to continue their search, they came across the wreckage of the old Potter home. Lingering there, Harry gazed up at the remains hungrily, before admiring the sign hung on the gate to commemorate his family and him. It was there, standing in front of the destroyed cottage, where they were found by Bathilda Bagshot. Somehow, she was able to see through their cloak.
"This isn't right," Hermione whispered to him. But Harry's determination to defeat Voldemort was ignited anew after seeing the evidence of what Harry had been robbed of.
"Stay behind me," Harry whispered back.
The old, hunched woman led them silently to her dilapidated and foul-smelling home, against Hermione's better judgement. Once inside, Bathilda lured Harry alone to the first-floor bedroom, leaving Hermione waiting apprehensively in the dim sitting room on the ground floor. Her soft voice whispered, "I don't like this, Harry," as he handed her his invisibility cloak and gave her a thin-lipped smile. He convinced himself that she would be safe down there, away from this silent stranger. Tucked away and alone in a dusty, foul-smelling bedroom upstairs, Bathilda began to speak to him at last. "You are Harry Potter?"
Harry frowned. "Do you have the sword?"
Bathilda ignored his question as he had done hers, lifting her stiff and withered fingers to his forehead, pushing his hair aside. Harry flinched away from her touch, but she had seen his scar, found her wordless confirmation of his identity. She stared at him, her empty eyes unnerving and wrong. Then, her head tipped back, so far that the positioning appeared painful, before her skin grew scales, and her arms shrunk into nothing, and her body stretched and stretched and stretched. Who Harry had thought was Bathilda Bagshot was actually Nagini impersonating her. Voldemort's high, cold voice exploded into his mind, speaking to the snake, telling her to, "Hold the boy. Wait for me to arrive."
Harry recoiled in horror, raising his wand and taking aim. The scar on his forehead was searing, and the locket resting on his chest was twitching, sensing that its master was drawing near. Nagini lunged at him, her fangs sinking deep into his forearm and knocking his wand from his hand. Before he could react to the pain, her tail twisted to collide with his lower abdomen, launching him up into the air and against the far wall, so high that his head grazed the tall ceiling above. Instinctively, he tried to land on his feet, but his left leg hit first with his knee foolishly locked. He felt the sickening snap of the bone in his calf, his cry of agony reverberating off the claustrophobic walls encasing him. Nagini, unbothered by the distorted shape of his left leg, began to wrap her body around his midriff, squeezing so tight that he couldn't breathe, feeling more bones fracturing inside his chest. The locket hanging from his neck was crushed against his skin; he could still feel its cold metal beating with excitement, out of rhythm with his own petrified heart. "Yessss," the snake hissed, "Hold you." Hermione's frantic footsteps grew louder as she neared; he wanted to call out to her, to tell her to run, but he couldn't draw in enough breath under the snake's tight constriction.
Hermione burst through the door with wide, terrified eyes, releasing an animalistic groan of shock and fear, before gathering herself enough to raise her wand and cast a curse at the creature coiled around her best friend. Nagini hissed in fury, tossing Harry against the dressing table beside him like a ragdoll, his fragile, broken ribs colliding with the sharp edge of its wooden frame before he fell face-down upon the floor. The impact shot shockwaves of pain up and down his side. He coughed, and the pain nearly incapacitated him. But there, through some unimaginable stroke of luck, beside his right hand, was his wand. Adrenaline was beginning to course through his veins, dulling his pain receptors, and he scooped it up just in time to hear Hermione's blood curdling scream as the snake lunged at her. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold and in a state of paralyzed shock. He hobbled upward to stand on his right leg – he could put no weight on his left – while his eyes searched through the dark, now empty room for any sign of Hermione, heart hammering in his throat. That horrible memory of Hermione's face flashed through his mind once again, bleeding and unconscious as he had frantically dribbled Dittany onto her wound.
"Hermione?" Harry called into the deafening silence, his lungs aching in protest. But he received no answer. His hysteria grew, gasping in sharp, wheezing breaths, and he hopped forward ten centimetres, flinching as the movement drove knives through his broken leg and ribs. He fell back against the dressing table uselessly. "Hermione!"
Hermione's unscathed figure dashed back inside from the black corridor. But relief evaded him. The snake was slithering right behind her, angry and ready to strike. Harry sensed Voldemort drawing nearer, the locket twitching and vibrating against his chest, its excitement a stark contrast to his frantic dismay. But his main focus was to get Nagini's attention off of Hermione. "Diffindo!" Harry screamed through the burning in his lungs, and a stream of red light shot from the tip of his wand, slicing through Nagini's thick, green scales. The snake hissed again, blood oozing from the spot where he struck her, his attack angering her further. Passing by Hermione who was now ducking into the corner adjacent to him, the massive reptile struck him again with her heavy tail, slicing his cheek like a whip and knocking him against the window. The glass shattered, cutting into the palm of his dominant hand still clutching his wand, as he braced himself against its frame.
"Confringo!" cried Hermione, and the snake was propelled against the back wall across from Harry, the impossibly long body falling onto the bed which collapsed under her extensive weight. But Voldemort had nearly arrived; Harry could see him in his mind's eye flying through the air without a broom nor thestral, feel his eagerness while Harry's scar burned in earnest. In the Dark Lord's eyes, the little cottages of Godric's Hollow grew larger as he drew closer.
"H'mione," Harry mumbled, staggering. The adrenaline was wearing off. He could barely stand or breathe; his left leg was shooting ripples of pain, his ribs aching, his arm bleeding, his head throbbing. "We…need to…go…now!" His right knee buckled; he braced against the empty window frame, nearly collapsing. "He's coming…." Unable to draw in a full breath, he broke down into a fit of coughing.
Hermione rushed toward him, but Nagini was regaining herself, curling her neck back to strike once more. In the moment where Hermione collided with Harry, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist while unintentionally flaring up the pain in his ribs to a sickening degree, Nagini's great head lunged towards Hermione, her slitted, yellow eyes filled with rage. Nagini was striking to kill. In an instinctual moment of desperation, Harry threw his arms around Hermione, angling her body behind his and out of range of Nagini's monstrous fangs. The two teeth, large as spears sunk deep into Harry's shoulder, pumping his blood with her venom. He clutched Hermione tighter into him as he bit his lip to stifle the pain. Nagini wrenched her fangs from his shoulder, outraged that Harry had blocked her intended target. But she could see Harry beginning to crumble under his injuries, and the serpent lunged forward again towards Hermione.
"Diffindo!" Harry tried again with as much strength as he could muster just as the snake neared Hermione, the red light exploding out of his wand with more force this time and blasting against Nagini's great neck. Where his spell collided, there was a spray of blood, and the snake fell before them, dead, her head hanging onto her body by a thin mess of skin and scales. But they were too late; Voldemort had already arrived, and his towering frame was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, the momentary shock at his beloved pet's death giving Hermione the opportunity to defenestrate the pair of them out the broken window as they heard his enraged scream trailing behind them. Then they were sucked into a tube of darkness, before they landed on soft, earthy ground. They had escaped.
Hermione had taken them back to the Forest of Dean; it was the only place that popped into her mind as they hurtled out of the window towards Bathilda Bagshot's overgrown garden waiting below. There had been no time to think or to plan; Voldemort had been rushing towards them, his red eyes gleaming with fury, his long, pale fingers snatching at the air as he advanced towards them. When they landed on the gentle carpet of moss and leaves, Hermione had little time to breathe in relief as she heard a horrible gurgling coming from Harry's chest beneath her ear. She pulled back to look at him, the severity of his wounds finally beginning to dawn on her. His face was turning black and blue beneath his unnaturally pale skin. His right arm and hand were bleeding and swollen, and his left calf was bent in an unnatural way. Glass was protruding from his jumper along his right side, where pools of blood were beginning to grow along the grey, knitted fabric. And his shoulder was bleeding so badly that it was beginning to puddle onto the earth below. Her stomach lurched as she stared from where she kneeled at his side. Hermione was not trained in healing magic, and her bottle of dittany was half empty. Her panicked and trembling hands reached up to tangle in her wild, brown hair as uncontrollable gasps whooshed from her lungs. Blinking away the tears to uncloud her eyes, she mewled, "Oh my god, Harry."
But his laboured breathing was slowing, his eyes growing hooded behind his cracked glasses, his lips turning a frightening shade of blue. Her sense of alarm reared up further as she realized he was falling unconscious, from what she could only hope was pain and not blood loss. More words were slipping from her mouth as her tear-laden eyes gazed at the mess of the man in front of her, "No, Harry, don't fall asleep. Please stay awake." She was pleading with him, not because of this damn war, nor because the Boy Who Lived was dying in front of her, but because he was Harry, her partner in crime, and she couldn't fathom what she would possibly do without him. With trembling hands, she began to work on him. He was so injured she hardly knew where to start, but it seemed most prudent to stop as much of his bleeding as possible. She vanished his jumper and shirt with magic, too afraid to jostle him, and sucked a sharp breath in at the angry, purple bruises over the disfigured ribcage on his right side. From what little she knew of medicine, the break in his ribs, the bluish tint to his lips, and his laboured, gurgling breathing all indicated a punctured lung. She was trembling, her vision tunnelled, but she knew she had to pull herself together. When she had been nearly killed in Albania, Harry had kept himself calm while he healed her. It was her turn to do the same for him. He needed her help and blithering like an idiot would be of no help to him. Giving herself a firm shake, she attempted to pull the pieces of herself together, thanking her lucky stars that she had managed to escape that horrible snake unharmed. She didn't have time to ponder the what ifs that circled in her mind, forcing herself to focus instead on the task at hand. His shoulder where he'd been bitten was bleeding in earnest, the blood pooling onto the moss beneath. She dribbled a few drops of Dittany onto the wound, but it had little effect. Remembering Arthur Weasley's bout with Nagini three years earlier, she tried to recall what the Healers had done to make his bleeding stop, realizing with chagrin that he'd never told them. A despondent sob fell out of her mouth. She cleaned and bandaged the wounds, hoping to at least slow the bleeding until she could work out a solution. Then she dropped some Dittany on his cheek, forearm, and hand, breathing a sigh of relief when the green smoke billowed up from those injuries as they shrunk and scabbed.
Hermione knew the most pressing thing to heal would be his broken ribs. If she couldn't dislodge the shards of bone from his lung, he would suffocate. But she was not practiced enough with healing magic…she could make his injuries worse if she didn't perform the spells correctly, possibly even kill him. But the horrible, gurgling sound emitting from his throat reminded her that he would likely die anyway if she didn't at least try. Suppressing a shudder, she raised her wand with a trembling hand. Biting down hard on her lip, she concentrated with all her might as she whispered the spell with a shaking voice. There was a terrible crack, but his distorted ribcage smoothed back into a normal, rippled shape as she realized with elation that the spell had worked. She then hurriedly tipped the vial of Dittany into his mouth, dripping as much inside his throat as she was willing to spare. It took a moment after he swallowed, but the potion began to take effect as his breathing, still laboured, regulated, and the chilling gurgle had finally stopped. She breathed a sigh of relieved gratitude although knowing her task was far from over. Vanishing the glass sticking from his skin, she healed those wounds too with Dittany. Then, she bandaged his ribs up tight to ensure the reset bones did not shift. She looked down at his leg. The sight of it, even hiding beneath his trousers, made her feel like she needed to vomit, but she pressed her lips together and wiped the cold sweat away from her forehead with her sleeve. With an apologetic glance at his unconscious face, she vanished his trousers too, leaving him in nothing but his pants. It was outrageous, given the circumstances, that her face heated with embarrassment, but she made it a point to avoid looking anywhere near his hips and thighs.
His left calf was twisted and bent, and what she believed was his tibia was poking through his skin, oozing blood. The sight of it was sickening. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a gag, as more tears sprung in her eyes. But she knew what needed to be done; he couldn't be left like this. He'd likely never be able to walk again if she didn't try. So, same as she did with his ribs, she bit her lip and pointed her wand at the gruesome break, concentrating hard, before she whispered the spell. Another, horrendous snap stabbed her eardrums, the bone protruding from his skin sliding back into the flesh of his leg. Harry screamed, his back arching up off the ground, his eyes fluttering open. But his leg was still misshapen, and Hermione knew she needed to try again. Little moans were bubbling from his lips, and his hand grabbed at her thigh, squeezing.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she groaned, smoothing his hair from out of his face. He was barely awake, his eyes sliding open and closed, but his hand was gripping her thigh so tightly that she was sure it would leave a bruise. "I…I have to try again," she whispered, pointing her shaking wand once more at his distorted leg.
"N…no," he pleaded, his eyes fluttering closed.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again as more saline dripped from her waterline. She whispered the spell for the third time. There was another crack of bone, and this time, she noted with relief that his leg straightened, the bones finally set into, what she hoped, were the correct positions. But he was screaming again, the birds above them flying from the branches of the trees with frightened chirps, and his hand squeezed tighter around her thigh. She yelped in pain but otherwise ignored it, knowing he was too incoherent to even realize he was hurting her. She hurriedly dribbled more Dittany on the broken skin of his calf, watching with grim eyes as it sizzled green, then scabbed. She said another spell to splint his leg, knowing the bones would need time to heal and set permanently, before she searched his body for anything she could have missed. But she had treated everything except the snake bite on his shoulder, the bandages already soaked through with blood. She vanished them and conjured new ones, mentally rifling through the list of healing books she had stashed in her bag. But he was trembling. October was fading quickly into November; the air was growing quite cold.
When Hermione stood, her legs shook, but she forced herself to circle around Harry laying half-naked on the forest floor, conjuring wards of protection around them. When she finished that, she erected their tent before turning back to her best friend with lead in her belly. She had done everything she could think of, but somehow it didn't feel like enough. She crouched beside him, stroking his hair once more. He was unconscious again, breathing deeply through his nose, but the lines of pain were still set into his face. She cursed herself, wishing she still had a Pain Draught left to give him. She levitated him inside their tent and lowered him onto his cot, throwing as many blankets as she could find around him, remembering as an after-thought, the locket that still hung against his chest. Lifting the golden chain from around his neck, she tugged on it, but it wouldn't budge. She tugged again; it still wouldn't give. Pulling a third time, harder this time, Harry hissed through clenched teeth. Perplexed, she slid the blankets down his chest to where the locket rested over his heart. Upon closer investigation, she noticed with a start that it was fused to his skin. A dewy, cold sweat rose up along the back of her neck as her analytical mind raced through the implications of this. But she knew she needed to get that damn thing off him, now more than ever. The only thing that ultimately worked was performing a severing charm on the place where his skin was connected to the cold metal, the object pulling a bit of his flesh off with it. He groaned with pain, and more tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head in abject horror before throwing the thing in her bag, unwilling to put it around her own neck. It was possible that Harry's connection to Voldemort had caused some strange fusion, but she was unwilling to take the risk of it attaching itself to her as well. After using more dittany on the ovular hole in his chest, she stepped back from his cot, collapsing into the armchair closest to him, burying her face in her trembling, bloody hands. The stress of the situation finally weighed on her, the full force of it threatening to crush her. She gave into the desperation and panic and horror, weeping for an unknown span of time.
The morning light dawned outside their tent, its orange rays illuminating the tan canvas with a warm glow as Hermione blinked her tired and swollen eyes open. Outside came the sweet melody of bird song as she stared blankly at the tent flap. She must have fallen asleep on the armchair sometime during her wallowing. She chanced a glance at Harry who still slept on his cot, body still in the same position as how she had left him, chest rising and falling raggedly. She remembered the snake bite with worry, unable to believe she could have been stupid enough to fall asleep before even trying to research the issue. She rushed towards him, pulling the duvet below his shoulder. Sure enough, his bandages were soaked through with blood once again. She changed the dressings once more before planting herself on the floor beside him, beginning to read the first book on her mental list. Many hours and many books later, Hermione still had not uncovered a definitive answer, but she had dogeared a few pages with potion recipes she thought may be helpful. Harry still had not stirred, and the worrying was returning with fervour. What if…? But she didn't allow herself to carry that thought any further, deciding to take a break from her reading to retrieve some fresh water from the river not far away. Atop his injuries, she could not risk him becoming dehydrated. The riverbank was a quiet reprieve from the foreboding atmosphere of the tent, and she caught herself lingering a few moments too long on the sandy bank. But eventually, the thought of Harry lying alone on his cot had her hurrying back up the hill to the campsite.
When Hermione crossed the barrier of her wards, she heard agonized moans coming from inside the tent. Her feet faltered for one moment as she listened, a chill spreading down her neck and prickling against her skin. In the next moment, she was rushing through the flap, her anxious feet propelling her towards Harry's cot. He was writhing on the mattress, his inky black hair matted to his sweaty, sticky forehead. His skin was grey, sans for the bright red splotches of colour dotting his gaunt cheeks, while the sounds bubbling from his chattering lips were gritty and raspy. The noises reminded her sickeningly of her grandmother's pneumonia, the illness that had ultimately claimed her life. Perching on the edge of his bed, Hermione slid the thick blankets down once more, vanishing the blood-soaked bandages.
"Oh god," she groaned, her worried eyes tightening further. His shoulder was crimson and, around the two, bleeding indents, his skin had turned a violent shade of purple. It was beginning to emit a foul odour, one of decay. A stone seemed to have landed in her stomach, but she resisted the urge to be sick, swallowing thickly instead. The poison in the bite was not allowing his wound to heal and was likely encouraging infection. Harry was so thin and weak from their nomadic lifestyle over the last year, his body had little strength to fight it off. Hermione struggled to remain calm. The what ifs began to plague her once more, but she forced herself to focus. There was no time for panic. Retrieving the canteen, she poured some water on a small washcloth before laying it across his forehead, attempting to reduce the burning heat. "I'm so sorry, Harry. This is all my fault." If she hadn't suggested they go to Godric's Hollow, none of this would have happened, and it had all been for nothing. Not for nothing, a little voice in her head whispered. The snake is dead. But as she stared down at Harry's trembling, writhing body, listening to his pained cries, it was impossible to accept that the snake's death was a worthy trade for Harry's life.
Time was running thin, so Hermione did what she had always done: she read. And she read. And she read some more. Not willing to be away from him, she had curled up beside him on his little cot, careful not to jostle him. Without stopping to eat or to drink or to sleep, she continued to read, pouring through every medical book she had in her possession, both magical and Muggle. If there was anything of use in those books, she would find it. After several hours, she had accrued quite the piles of "useful" and "useless", with many of the useful books disfigured by bookmarks and dogeared when the bookmarks had run out. Occasionally, she would stop to soak the cloth on his head with water, applying cooling charms to try and break his fever, which only served to force more violent shudders from his already trembling body. Only once did she try to give him a sip of water, which ended with her cursing loudly as Harry choaked and coughed and groaned around the liquid. When she'd read every book that mentioned anything at all about healing, she poured back over her researching, compiling the data into something coherent and cohesive. But all of the remedies required ingredients that she didn't have. The only course of action was clear. It was far from ideal, but she had little choice unless she wanted to sit there and watch her best friend die.
Hermione stared at Harry for a moment as he trembled and gasped haggard, painful breaths. His skin was ghostly pale with lips that had a slight bluish tint to them. His face was swollen and bruised, one eyelid puffy, cheek still gashed. She had the blankets tucked beneath his chin to keep his feverish body comfortable, the heavy fabric covering the worst of his injuries. Hermione couldn't fathom why this had happened to him, him of all people. She wished desperately that it could have been her in that cot. After all that Harry had already been through, this fate was unacceptable. Steeling herself away from the misgivings and worries in her mind, she knew she had to leave him. If she couldn't gather the ingredients for the potions he needed, he would inevitably die. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, "I'll be right back. I promise. Please hold on for me, just a little longer. I love you, Harry." She kissed his cheek, just above the wound Nagini had left there, ignoring the strange pulsing between their skin. And she left, disappearing into the night, invisible beneath Harry's cloak. If she had stayed just a moment longer, she would have seen the cut beneath his cheekbone shrink a sizable amount, she would have noticed Harry stir beneath his blankets and begin to writhe, she would have heard his pleading moan. But she was long gone, disapparated to Diagon Alley to venture into the midst of those who would turn her over to Voldemort without a bat of the eye.