Despair's Abyss
Voldemort stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the lifeless body of Harry Potter. Victory washed over him, sweet and intoxicating. But as he looked down at Harry, a chilling realization crept into his mind—a revelation that sent shivers down his spine.
"No…" he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. "it can't be."
The pieces fell into place, a twisted puzzle revealing itself in the dark corners of his mind. Harry was a Horcrux. He had known it but had refused to acknowledge it. In his pursuit of power, he had overlooked the most crucial detail—the bond that linked him to Harry, the connection forged by their shared history.
"The Order will target the snake next," Voldemort mused aloud, his voice dripping with malice. He turned, surveying the chaos around him, where members of the Order stood frozen in shock and grief.
"They think they can stop me by killing Nagini, but they're too late. They've lost their precious hero, and with him, their hope."
The weight of Voldemort's victory settled over the battlefield, a dark cloud blotting out the light. The Order was left in shambles, their hearts shattered by the loss of the Boy Who Lived.
Cries of anguish erupted as they realized what had happened. Hermione dropped to her knees, her breath hitching as the realization sunk in.
"No… no, no, no!" she sobbed, the world spinning around her.
Draco rushed to her side, the horror etched on his face as he knelt beside her. "Hermione, we have to—"
"Harry's gone!" she screamed, the agony ripping through her like fire. "We have to save him!"
But the darkness was suffocating, a heavy blanket that crushed their spirits. Voldemort's laughter echoed around them, a haunting reminder of the power he held.
As the remnants of the Order gathered, shock turned to despair. They could feel the weight of defeat settle upon them, but Hermione refused to let it consume her. She ran out onto the field shouting curses at as many death eaters as she could. She could hear Draco and Tonks shouting to stop running, but she couldn't stop, she wasn't sure she could ever stop. The battlefield was chaotic and frantic as spells clashed and voices rang out. Just when hope seemed to spark in the air, a familiar cackle echoed over the cries of battle, sending a chill down Hermione's spine. She cut one, no two death eaters down with anything she could think of besides casting the killing curse, she had vowed never again would she shout out the words "Avada Kedavra".
Then the werewolves began to circle and much to Hermione's horror, the order members were drastically disapparating. They were done fighting, but she couldn't stop. She continued to dodge spells and cast what she could, her wand was shot out of her hand but she grabbed one of her knives strapped to her belt. She stabbed the abdomen of a werewolf but not being quick enough to evade a flying curse removing the bones from her leg. Her breath hitched as she landed on the ground, No not the ground, she had landed on a body, Harry's body, oh god she had landed on his corpse. A scream began to tear out of her throat but before it could escape she felt a body collide with hers as she was apparated away.
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The world spun violently as the air twisted around Hermione, leaving her gasping for breath. Then, with a brutal jolt, the suffocating pressure of Apparition released her, and she landed hard on the cold, uneven floor of Muriel's cramped kitchen. The impact drove the wind from her lungs, and for a moment, all she could see were blurs of color and shadow.
When her vision cleared, the world around her came into sharp, horrifying focus. She was sprawled awkwardly across something solid and heavy beneath her—a body. She pushed herself up with trembling hands, her heart hammering in her chest, and then—
Oh, God.
"Harry," she breathed, the name no more than a strangled sob. She was staring down at the familiar mess of dark hair, the too-still form she had tried to deny for so long. His glasses were askew, his eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping, but there was no life in his face, no rise and fall of his chest.
"No, no, no, no!" The scream tore from her throat, raw and unbidden, reverberating off the cramped walls. She scrambled backward, but her leg—oh, Merlin, her leg—was a searing mass of pain and uselessness. She half-fell, half-crawled away, tears streaming down her face, her hands slick with blood—his blood,Harry's blood—
"Get away! Get—" Her voice cracked, hysteria rising like a tidal wave as she frantically clawed at the floor, desperate to separate herself from the horrifying reality lying before her. "No! Not him!Not Harry!"
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her back, but she lashed out wildly. "Let go of me! We have to save him! We have to—"
"Stupefy!"
The red light of a Stunning Spell enveloped her vision, and her body went limp as unconsciousness took her. The kitchen fell silent, her screams abruptly cut off, leaving only the sound of harsh breathing and the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Draco was the one who caught her as she slumped forward, his own face pale and drawn. His arms tightened around her unconscious form, his eyes haunted as he looked down at her, then back at Harry's unmoving body.
Around them, the members of the Order stared in horrified silence. Ginny stood at the edge of the group, her face ghostly white, hands trembling as if she were trying to reach out and yet couldn't bring herself to take a step forward. Her gaze was locked on Harry, her lips moving soundlessly.
"No…" she whispered, shaking her head in desperate denial. "No, this isn't real. He—he can't be—"
"Ginny," Tonks murmured, stepping forward hesitantly. Her voice was thick with shock and grief, her own eyes glassy and wide. "Ginny, I'm so—"
"NO!" Ginny's scream rang out, piercing the stunned silence like a knife. She staggered forward, falling to her knees beside Harry's body. "No, no, please, Harry, please!"
But he didn't move. He didn't stir. And Ginny's sobs filled the room, desperate and broken.
Luna stood a few steps away, her expression vacant, her gaze drifting from Ginny to the bodies sprawled on the floor—Seamus and Dean, their faces contorted in pain, their eyes staring blankly into nothing. She reached out as if to touch them, then drew back, her fingers trembling.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be," she whispered, her voice distant and dazed. "It's all wrong…"
Beside her, Tonks's shoulders slumped. She was staring at the devastation around her, at the shattered remnants of hope and bravery. Her own grief seemed muted, swallowed up by the shock of what they'd lost.
Fred and George stood off to the side, their faces unusually grave, all traces of mischief and humor gone. They didn't speak, didn't move, just watched with haunted eyes as Ginny clutched Harry's body and sobbed. Bill was beside them, his face set in a mask of agony, his arms wrapped protectively around Molly.
Arthur's shoulders sagged as if a great weight had been placed upon them. He moved forward slowly, placing a hand on Ginny's shoulder, his face drawn and lined with grief.
"We—he—" Arthur swallowed hard, his voice thick with anguish. "Ginny, we have to—"
"No!" Ginny slapped his hand away, her eyes wild with pain. "Don't you dare say it! Don't youdare!"
The sound of her sobs echoed in the silence, and the weight of despair settled over the room like a suffocating shroud.
Across the kitchen, Severus Snape stood apart from the others, cradling another lifeless form in his arms—Dumbledore's body, limp and frail. His face was an emotionless mask, but his fingers clenched tightly around the old man's robes, knuckles white. His gaze was fixed on Harry's body, dark and inscrutable.
No one dared approach him. No one spoke to him. Even in grief, there was a distance between him and the others, a gulf that could not be bridged.
And then there was Theo.
He stood in the far corner, his back pressed against the wall, his face an empty void. His eyes were hollow, staring at nothing, as if he weren't truly present in the room. He didn't move, didn't react, didn't even seem to breathe. Just stood there, a silent, unmoving shadow in the corner.
Muriel's kitchen, once a place of refuge and safety, was now a scene of desolation and loss. The weight of what had happened hung over them all, a crushing, suffocating force that threatened to drag them down into despair.
It felt as if the world had shattered.
It felt as if hope had died.
And in the middle of it all, Harry Potter lay still and lifeless.
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Hermione awoke to a world suffused with pain. At first, it was a dull, distant ache—a strange emptiness, like something vital had been ripped out of her and left a hollow, gaping wound in its place. Then the memories rushed back in a tidal wave: the battle, Harry, the lifeless bodies strewn across the field.
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a violent jerk, her chest heaving. The room around her was dim, shadowed by the early morning light filtering through the small, dirty window. She was back in Muriel's cramped kitchen, lying on a small cot shoved in the corner. The place was eerily quiet, and she realized, with a jolt of panic, that she was alone.
"No… Harry!" she gasped, scrambling to her feet despite the searing pain in her leg. Her gaze darted around wildly, searching for him. "Where is he?Where's Harry?"
Her voice rang out, high and shrill, echoing off the walls. But no one answered. Her heart pounded in her chest as she limped forward, her breath hitching painfully.
"Harry!" she screamed, staggering toward the doorway. "Harry,please!"
The kitchen door flew open, and Draco appeared, his face pale and strained. He reached out as she tried to shove past him, his hands wrapping around her shoulders to hold her still.
"Let go of me!" she shrieked, clawing at him desperately. "I have to find him! Let me go!"
"Hermione—Hermione, stop!" Draco's voice was hoarse, and he struggled to keep his grip on her as she fought him. "He's gone, Hermione, he's—"
"No!" She slapped his hands away, wild-eyed, her face contorted with agony. "You're lying! He can't be—he can't—" Her voice broke, and a raw, keening sob tore out of her throat. She crumpled forward, collapsing against Draco's chest. "Please," she whimpered, clutching at his robes with trembling hands. "Please, don't say it. Don't—don't make it real…"
But the truth was already real, a bitter, unyielding reality that suffocated her with its finality. Harry was dead. He was gone. And there was nothing she could do to bring him back.
Draco tightened his arms around her as she sobbed, her body shaking with the force of her grief. She clung to him desperately, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she were trying to anchor herself to something, anything, that could keep her from being swallowed whole by the darkness.
"Why?" she whispered brokenly, her voice barely audible. "Why him? Why not—why not me?"
Draco swallowed hard, his own throat tightening. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to answer the desperate, agonized questions tearing out of her. Because there was no answer. There was no reason. It was just… cruelty. Fate. The inevitable consequence of a war that devoured everyone it touched.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I'm so, so sorry…"
But his words were hollow, empty. They meant nothing in the face of her anguish.
Hermione was inconsolable. The days blurred together in a haze of grief and pain, her cries echoing through Muriel's cottage like a haunting, broken melody. She screamed and sobbed, her voice raw and ragged, until she could no longer make a sound. And then she would sit, silent and empty-eyed, staring blankly at the wall as if she were no longer truly there.
The others tried to help—Ginny, Tonks, even Luna—but nothing they did seemed to reach her. She was lost in her own private hell, trapped in a world of endless suffering. She spoke to no one. Ate nothing. Slept only when exhaustion finally claimed her.
The war had stripped her down to her very bones, worn her thin until she was a hollow shell of the girl she'd once been. There was nothing left of the brilliant, determined Hermione Granger. Just a broken, shattered woman, crumbling beneath the weight of too much loss.
And outside, the world was falling apart.
The reports started trickling in, each one more horrifying than the last. Voldemort had unleashed his fury upon the wizarding world—and the Muggle world beyond. He was punishing them, exacting a terrible vengeance for the resistance they'd dared to mount against him. Entire towns were slaughtered, families wiped out in a single night. Muggle-born wizards and witches were hunted down like animals, executed in the streets or dragged away to suffer a fate far worse.
Every day, new lists of the dead arrived, pages and pages filled with names—friends, allies, innocents. The newspapers were drenched in blood, the headlines screaming of massacres and atrocities. Voldemort's reign of terror was absolute, and no one was spared his wrath.
"He's killing everyone," Ginny whispered one morning, her face ashen as she stared at the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. "Every single person who ever helped us… anyone who ever defied him, even once."
Hermione didn't react. She sat on the floor, huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were vacant, staring unblinkingly at the wall.
"I can't take this anymore," Theo muttered from where he stood by the window, his voice low and strained. He looked gaunt, shadows etched deep beneath his eyes. "We have to do something. We can't just sit here while he—while this happens."
"Like what?" Draco's voice was sharp, laced with bitterness. He leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "We've tried everything, Theo. Everything. And it's never enough."
Theo turned to look at him, his gaze intense. "Nagini," he said quietly. "We go after the snake."
Draco stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Theo, we don't—"
"It's all we have left," Theo interrupted, his voice harsh. "He's killed everyone. Seamus, Dean, McGonagall… We've lost so many. And now—" His voice cracked, and he looked away, his expression twisting with guilt. "Now, because of us… because of what we did…Potter is dead."
Draco flinched as if he'd been struck. "I know," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I know."
"Then we have to finish this," Theo said fiercely. "For him. For all of them."
There was a long, heavy silence. Draco stared at the floor, his face taut with anguish. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up.
"All right," he said quietly. "One last shot. One last chance."
They were going to kill the snake.
And they were going to do it alone.