It seemed that the world would never run out of things for them to see, for a very long time.

Hermione was sitting with her legs crossed on her bed, browsing through old-fashioned photo albums that she had insisted on making. Her mother had had tons of them, neatly shelved on the large bookshelf in the living room; fat volumes of glassy pictures glued on yellowing, thick pages, with a few handwritten notes nested between them. The albums were dutifully arranged in a linear chronologic line, from the oldest to the newest; there had been a special one named Hermione, that the young girl had adored looking through with her mother explaining things she had forgotten or was too young to remember.

Tom had played along with a fake annoyed scowl, and she'd even, once, caught him looking through the albums; mostly scenic sites, a few more intimate, in the cosiness of a living room or a study. Them looking up at the camera after a raging war in grand strategy video games, with two computers side by side in one of their houses, dark circles under their eyes and coffee cups littering the desks, Hermione scowling and being a sore loser, Tom grinning victoriously. It was her favourite because it had been Tom who had insisted on taking it, making the instant the first one he had deigned to immortalise. Then, Tom had it enlarged and framed, and it hung proudly in one of the living rooms, and it resisted every attempt from Hermione to set it on fire. They were not pretty in this photo, knackered after two dozen hours of quasi-non-stop playing, but they radiated some kind of domestic happiness that endeared her to the picture despite her efforts in claiming she hated it.

There was the dark photography, alone on the right of an otherwise blank double page; there was no date and no note underneath. Two robed figures under the moonlight were chanting, hands joined, next to a smouldering fire. It had been a dark wedding ceremony he had insisted on doing for years, and she had finally caved in because the man couldn't shut up. She had surprisingly enjoyed the secrecy of the night, the arcane, forgotten chorus they had sung with the moon as a sole, silent witness.

Their excellent years were depicted in those loving glances, the casual stroking of a hand, and the proud smile on Tom's face as they posed under a glaring sun. They went back to space, a few times, and there were incredible photos of that, too.

Hermione didn't feel anything as she finished flipping through the album, save for a crushing, desperate longing for this time back.

Her eyes caught on the Stone of Resurrection next to her, and she resolutely looked away, waving for another photo book to float its way to her extended hand.

She could see, in their timeline, signs of unhappiness; a strained smile after an inane row. She wasn't sure now who had started the hostilities, but there were times when they couldn't even stand being in one another's presence, and still the feeling was suffocated with toxic, heavy love, confusing their thoughts and twisting their words. Cruelties had been exchanged, peace treaties had been signed; separation had happened, a few times, never for long. Idleness had crawled back to them every time, and with it the blinding rage at being alive, that she was now intimately familiar with.

The blinding self-hatred, that targeted everyone else, because to target oneself meant death.

Meant the end of things.

Meant leaving the other behind.

Hermione had, some time ago, looked in the mirror and recognised with sullen resignation the woman she had met, so many years before; the other self that had scared her and that she had privately vowed not to emulate, ever. The rigid setting of the mouth; the cruelty simmering in the eyes, laced with sadness and hopelessness; even the bizarre-sounding accent was now intertwined with her speech.

That only made her angrier still. Tom had stopped trying to understand, as he had stopped trying to understand his own bouts of anger and destructive impulses. They just did their own thing, brooding for one, and setting things on fire for the other.

Sometimes they bonded over releasing destructive energy on sterile worlds, but even that was rarer and rarer.

But still, Hermione stalled.

She carefully closed the photo album and put it aside on the nightstand, sighing deeply. She stared at the Stone for a long time, before plucking it up from its nest in the covers and holding it in her hand, its long ago inflicted scar running through what had been the Wand in the symbol engraved on the smooth surface of the pebble. She traced it with her finger and, with long-practised ease, turned it thrice in her palm. It was time to say goodbye.

Nothing but silence answered her call, and she felt her heart rate pick up in a way unfelt for years. "Death!" she snapped into the empty bedroom.

Death took their time to come, during which Hermione had tried summoning her friends three times more, to no avail. She was furiously casting analysis spells on the Stone with her Elder Wand, to inconclusive results.

"Yes?" The entity asked, drifting into the room.

"The Stone. It's stopped working," Hermione said in a slightly rising, slightly cracking voice. "Fix it. Please."

Death didn't move and didn't say a word.

"Please," Hermione said again. "Why is it doing that? Death?"

Death was still unmoving, and Hermione's heart felt like it was hammering against her ribs. "Death," she said in a softer voice. Death, tell me. What happened?"

Death sighed softly and sat on a conjured armchair. "Hermione," they started slowly, and Hermione sat very still, dread pooling in her belly. "He did something."

Hermione nodded tersely, prompting Death to continue.

"He traced back your original reality and killed your original foe in nineteen seventy-nine. On the nineteenth of September, to be precise."

Silence stretched between them, infinite and devastated. Hermione understood the implications, she thought. "Is it fixable?"

"No. You're too deeply connected now. The reality you came from lives on, of course, but you can't access the Stone. The link was severed by his intervention."

"There should have been a split," Hermione insisted. "There has to be a way for me to say goodbye."

Death mutely shook their head, and Hermione nodded as she tried not to cry.

"Leave, please," she said, as pleasantly as she could, which was not very. "I will see you soon."

Death inclined their head and sighed again, before obeying and leaving Hermione alone.

Hermione set the photo albums on fire.


The first thing she did was something she had delayed doing for a very long time; go and see her much, much younger self to set her on the path she had been set on centuries before. She had rationally known that her time was coming, but that was the impetus that made her finally take that step. It felt final and bitter.

But it also helped to mitigate the anger that raged in her mind, and when she finally confronted him about the whole debacle, she felt calm. Sad, but calm.

He watched her come in with almost malevolent eyes. The house was dark, the sun was set, and their furniture – once chosen with great care and taste – looked bleak. She sat on the sofa, facing him, a low coffee table the only obstacle between them.

Hermione stared at Tom. Tom stared at Hermione.

Neither wanted to be the one to talk first.

"Tom," Hermione caved.

The word was simple, without intonation, and he blinked.

"I'm not happy anymore," she said just as plainly.

His mouth took a bitter twist, briefly, as he pinched his lips together to hide his hurt. Predictably, anger replaced it, contained still.

"I don't think you are, either," she said in a softer tone this time. Empathy. What they had lacked for so long.

Could they remember how to be empathetic for one, last time? she wondered.

"I didn't get to do everything I thought I would," he said eventually, slowly, tasting the words. "Just like in our experiments. You contained me."

"You contained yourself," she countered without viciousness. "Don't use me as an excuse. This was better, and now it's gone. At least, you have a choice, and maybe will not be taken down like in so many other realities."

He conceded that point by inclining his head slightly. "Would you be the one to take me down?" he asked.

There was a bizarre inflexion that sounded horrifyingly like hope.

"No," Hermione said with all the conviction she didn't feel.

She didn't trust herself to elaborate and lie further. He had always been good at telling when she lied, but she had learned.

She hoped it would hold.

"No?"

"I'm tired. I just want not to be anymore. And I don't want to have to destroy you just to be able to rest."

And she knew the words rang true, because they were.

"I –" Tom began.

– am scared, Hermione finished for him in her head.

She took his hand and squeezed his thin, pale fingers she knew so well. "I've loved you –" more than I could say, more than anything, more than I'm comfortable with – "so much."

Their eyes met and she was astonished to see tears clouding his blue gaze.

"I've loved you enough to wish I had met you as a Muggle," he said in a low, almost-broken voice. "Living a normal life. We'd have made it extraordinary."

She didn't smile, and neither did he.

"Have you loved me enough to die after a long, complicated and extraordinary life with me?"

He shrugged and sniffed, the moment broken. He took his hand back and rubbed his nose, leaning back into his own seat.

"I wish you'd kill me instead of telling me to commit suicide," he said softly when she had almost been ready to just go.

"I can't rob you of that choice. Do you remember? You said that for me, it might be worth it to go quietly. The choice is yours."

She got up, and he didn't look up to her as she did.

"Goodbye, Tom," she said.

She left at that very moment, decision made but so fragile, and didn't look back as she was whisked away.

Tom considered breaking down, but sighed deeply instead, laying on the sofa. He tilted his head back and glanced at his Death hovering behind him.

"Well?" Death asked.


Hermione faced Death in the void that had been deprived of everything. Gone was the setting sun, gone were all her constructions. Gone, the soft grass she had made out of memory and boredom.

"Is that the way you look when you take mortals with you?" Hermione asked.

Death tilted their head to the side. "No."

"Will you change your appearance for me, too, then?"

Hermione imagined a wry smile under the dark, eternal hood as Death shook their head. "No."

"Worth a try," Hermione beamed. "Did you enjoy our punishment?"

They once had a heated discussion about the Three Brothers and the deal they struck with Death. Hermione had wanted to know if it was damnation disguised as a gift.

Death had never wanted to admit so without ever denying it, which had driven Hermione crazy.

"Very much so," Death replied honestly.

"Well then."

Silence stretched between them.

"Is there someplace you'd rather be just before we go?" Death asked.

"That's very considerate of you."

The entity shrugged.

"I'm comfortable here," Hermione decided after a while. She tried to smother the apprehensive feeling in her gut. She had nothing left to fear. Nothing left to see. She got to choose, and she got to do it all, and she would not be scared or utter a complaint.

This is good, she firmly told herself. This is being at peace.

Without looking, she stretched her arm behind her, fingers extended. As Death took her hand, she realised that it was the very first time they physically touched. Death's bony hand was cold, unreal and rock-hard, and oddly comforting.

It was the last thing she thought about before fading away into nothingness.


So, this was a journey.

Writing the whole thing before posting was hard, but I'm glad I did in the end. There are a lot of various inspirations in this. Death is supposed to look like their counterpart in Netflix's the Sandman when they're accompanying humans, but declined to do so for Hermione. They are also very invested in the telenovela that is their companions' life.

It's not a punishment, it's an experiment, but Death likes to fuck with Hermione, so. Also, Hermione feels she needs it to be a punishment, if that makes sense? Death entities are affected to each dimensions but somehow never, ever meet. Make with that what you will.

The Roman Emperor that sends Hermione on Tom's tracks is loosely based on Kaamelott's sixth season's Pierre Mondy's. He was a brilliant actor, and his scenes with Arthur are beloved favourites of mine. Aconia Minor is, too, from Kaamelott, though I decided against writing an encounter and wanted to wrap this arc up. I just didn't want to leave her out entirely.

The choice in the end to face their own demise is something that I shamelessly pulled from The Good Place and made with it what I imagined for these two.

I loved writing this. I hope this is enjoyed by whomever lays their eyes upon it. This once was a three-part ficlet that felt unsatisfactory and desperately needed editing, so I thought I'd rewrite it and now it doesn't resemble much its previous version.

You might have noticed that Tom doesn't get an ending. This is on purpose. Hermione doesn't know if Tom crosses with Death and that's the entire point. Making sure he did would have meant the whole operation was pointless.

Do you think he went through with it?

I like to think he did, but even I am not sure.

If you enjoyed reading this, I'd love to read your thoughts! Thank you for accompanying me.