No Greater Love by Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 25/08/2004
Last Updated: 06/07/2005
Status: Completed

Greater love hath no one than to give one's life for another... It was the power of love,
the power of sacrifice... the power Voldemort knows not.




1. The Sacrifice
----------------

Disclaimer: I only own Harry Potter in my wildest dreams… In reality, everything HP-related
belongs only to JK Rowling. No Greater Love Part 1: The Sacrifice

It was chaos.

Spells, curses, hexes being shouted from every direction. Bolts of light shooting out of wands
in every which way.

And his scar, always the searing pain of his scar, the constant reminder that Voldemort was
near, even if he couldn’t be seen.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Remus dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange, a contained but
no less dangerous fury on his face and sent a silent thought of support to his former professor.
*Yes, Remus, avenge Sirius’ death, for both our sakes…*

Avery raised his wand preparing to curse Ron whose back was turned towards him. Harry quickly
yelled “Stupefy!” watching to make sure Avery was out before shouting, “Watch your back!” to Ron.
Ron waved a hand in acknowledgement before following Mr. Weasley, Bill and Ginny in surrounding
Lucius Malfoy.

He glanced around and felt a stab of fear. Their numbers were down; they were losing… And
Voldemort was still nowhere to be seen…

He just had time to wonder where Hermione was when white-hot pain erupted in his head and Harry
spun, knowing he had come. Voldemort, tall and menacing in his black robes, red eyes filled with
malicious triumph at the thought that he was finally going to get to kill Harry Potter, that thorn
in his side.

“So, Potter, not ready to give up yet?”

Harry stared at his parents’ murderer, breath coming fast but he didn’t rise to the bait. He
needed to keep calm or he would have even less chance of surviving this than he already had.

Voldemort muttered a few words and two shadowy figures, Lily and James, emerged from his
wand.

The figures of his parents held out their hands in invitation. “It’s OK, Harry, just give up
now.”

Another muttered word and flick of his wand and the shadowy figure of Sirius appeared as well.
“Think, Harry,” the figure said, “what hope do you have of surviving?”

Harry’s wand hand was trembling and white-knuckled from the force of his grip as he stared at
the figures of his parents and his godfather saying all the same things he thought and feared in
his moments of self-doubt, his breath hitching in his chest, and slowly, he started to lower his
wand...

But then he heard another, a stronger, voice, Hermione’s voice, in his head. “No, Harry, don’t
listen. You can do this, you *can*.”

The fog in his mind cleared. He stiffened, raising his wand. “No!” he exploded.

Voldemort snarled something and the shadowy figures of his parents and Sirius vanished. “So you
won’t listen, eh, Potter? Foolish boy. Now I’ll just have to kill you, but first, pain.
Crucio!”

Harry staggered back from the excruciating pain, as if his bones were being crushed inside
him.

As if from far away he heard Hermione scream, “Harry!”

He turned to see that Voldemort had raised his wand again. He tried to stand, tried to respond
but his body refused to cooperate, still in the throes of the Cruciatus so he just stared, knowing
he was going to be killed. The prophecy would be fulfilled after all…

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry closed his eyes against the green light, knowing it would be the last thing he saw…

Then suddenly, he was knocked aside, out of the path of the green light. He landed heavily on
his side, a weight landing on top of him.

He struggled to get up. He was alive. He wasn’t dead. Someone had saved him--

He looked-- and for a moment he could have sworn that his heart stopped beating. His knees
buckled beneath him as a gaping emptiness opened inside his chest leaving him feeling hollow and
dead.

It was Hermione—lying on the ground, eyes closed, skin pale. He dropped to his knees beside her,
gathering her into his arms, one hand chafing her limp one in a vain attempt to restore some life
to it. “No, Hermione!” he croaked, his voice not sounding like his own, “wake up. You can’t leave
me. I need you. I love you.” Irrationally he shook her still form, sobs beginning to build in his
chest, making it hurt to breathe. “I love you, Hermione. Do you hear me? I’m sorry I never told
you. I love you…”

Her hand fell from his nerveless grasp as he stared at her through tear-blurred eyes. “It wasn’t
supposed to be you! It was supposed to be me; it was always supposed to be me,” he said in an
agonized whisper.

He suddenly remembered the moment he’d first realized just how strong Hermione’s feelings for
him were…

*He remembered himself saying, “Kill or be killed, that’s my choice. I’m only me; how- what
can I possibly do—”*

*His words were cut off abruptly because her lips were in the way. Hermione had kissed him. On
the lips. Hard, fast, but a kiss.*

*He drew back, staring at her through wide eyes. What—*

*She was flushed but her voice was determined and she met his eyes squarely. “Don’t think like
that, Harry. You’re going to survive.* I *promise you to do everything I can to make sure you
do. You’re going to live; you have to live…”*

*He had kissed her then because he couldn’t think of anything to say in response.*

That moment had changed their relationship, shifted it, to more than simple friendship but not
quite actually being together. And he had finally realized that there was at least one person in
the world who cared about him more than anything else, who would do anything for him…

Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Voldemort’s cold voice. “Foolish idiot girl, getting
in the way like that. A touching sacrifice,” he mocked, “But stupid. You’re still going to die,
Potter.”

He surged to his feet, sudden fury overtaking the mind-numbing grief. Irrationally he found
himself defending Hermione even while he knew he shouldn’t take Voldemort’s baiting words.

“She wasn’t foolish; she knew what she was doing.” The words brought him up short. Hermione had
known what she was doing. She had saved his life… And even if he felt he wanted to die too, to be
with her, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let Hermione’s sacrifice be for nothing. He had to live.

He glared at Voldemort. “She did it for me. You couldn’t understand…”

Voldemort didn’t understand. That was the power he knew not- the power of selfless,
self-sacrificing love… And he knew what to do.

Voldemort’s red eyes glowed with malice as he looked at Hermione’s still form on the ground. “An
unexpected pleasure, to be able to kill your Mudblood girlfriend, Pott-”

Harry closed his mind to Voldemort’s taunt, only took advantage of Voldemort’s momentary
distraction and yelled, “Expelliarmus” grabbing Voldemort’s wand as it flew toward him. “Incendio,”
and Voldemort’s wand burned.

“Noo!” Voldemort shrieked madly, trying to rush forward but a quick “Impedimenta” stopped
him.

“Creo Infirmus!” and a jet of pale yellow light shot from his wand, hitting Voldemort in the
chest.

Voldemort gasped, eyes widening before he rallied enough to hiss, “You think you’re clever,
draining my strength. But I don’t really need it; I’m still more powerful than you will ever
be.”

Harry looked at Hermione again, just a glance and a thought, For you, Hermione, and then crossed
the distance between himself and Voldemort in several bounds. His fingers closed around Voldemort’s
neck and Voldemort screeched in pain as the skin began to burn, just as Quirrell’s had done at his
touch six years ago.

Voldemort’s long, spidery fingers scrabbled madly to remove Harry’s fingers but they were jerked
back as they too burned.

“But I have your blood, your protection,” Voldemort gasped out.

“This isn’t my mother’s protection,” Harry gritted out, his fingers tightening, ignoring the
burning sensation in his own fingers. “It’s Hermione’s.”

One last convulsive shudder ran through Voldemort and then he went limp, his flesh beginning to
corrode from where Harry’s hands were.

Harry held on squeezing tighter and tighter, vaguely aware that there were tears in his eyes.
“This is for Hermione, for killing the one person who loved me and whom I loved!” His voice cracked
and with a final hard shake, Harry dropped Voldemort’s body, suddenly intensely weary.

“Incendio totalus.” He didn’t stay to watch the body of his former nemesis burn.

Harry staggered over to where Hermione’s body lay, the rage that had fueled him vanishing,
leaving him with the remnants of the Cruciatus and deeper, more than that, the soul-crushing
sorrow.

He fell to his knees beside her, finally feeling the tears flow as he stared at her face,
knowing he was never going to see her smile at him, never going to hear her voice again…

He pulled her into his arms, sobs now racking his entire frame as he placed a trembling kiss on
her lips. “I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “Always. I’ve always loved you. You knew that,
right? You knew everything, my Hermione…” His arms tightened around her limp form as he continued
to talk to her between his sobs. “You knew I loved you, even if I didn’t say it, didn’t you? Tell
me you knew it, Hermione. I need to know you knew I loved you too. Please, Hermione…” He kissed her
again and again, his tears wetting her face, trying to comprehend what life would be like without
her by his side. From deep within him, he felt something primitive well up, exploding from his
throat in a hoarse cry, more animal than human, of a creature who’d just lost the dearest thing in
life. “Nooooooooooooo!!!”

Author’s Note: *runs and hides* This isn’t over yet…



2. The Truth
------------

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author’s Note: See, I told you this wasn’t over…

For the ever-so-brilliant Libbie, aka QuidditchMom, with thanks for all the wonderful writing,
the inspiration, and the encouraging and flattering reviews. Happy birthday, again.

**No Greater Love**

Chapter 2: The Truth

“Nooooooooooo!!”

Harry jerked awake from troubled sleep at his cry, his heart beating rapidly as if he’d just run
a marathon, his face still wet with tears and his chest heaving from the sobs. He had twisted his
blanket nearly into shreds from the force of his grip.

Forcibly, he tried to calm himself, relax his fists. It had only been a dream. Just a dream, a
nightmare…

He shuddered convulsively. It had been so real. He could smell the brimstone from all the
curses, hear the shouts, feel the despair knifing through him…

And Hermione… He suppressed another shudder and a half-sob at the very thought of what had
happened to her, what she’d done for him…

He glanced at the clock by his bed where the time read, “Time for every sane person to be
sleeping” and grimaced, the odd quirky sarcasm of the Wizarding clock he usually enjoyed irritating
him now.

He wiped the remaining tears from his face, grabbing his glasses and putting them on with
fingers that still trembled a little. He didn’t care what time it was or that he, of all people,
shouldn’t wander around the castle at night. He needed to see Hermione, make sure that she was all
right. Needed to reassure the part of his soul that was still cold with horror and grief, that it
really had only been a nightmare…

Never had he been so grateful that Hermione had told him the password to her room, just in case,
she’d said, if he ever needed anything. He hadn’t used it before, had felt uncomfortable about
doing so, but tonight, any qualms were easily drowned out by the depth of his fear, the intensity
of his need for reassurance.

He entered her room quietly, trying not to make a sound, slipping off his Invisibility Cloak
once inside the room. He moved silently across her room to her bed until he could see her.

She had fallen asleep while studying, as she usually did. The Last, Best Line of Defense: An
Index to Defensive Spells was lying open on the bed, by her hand. She was lying on her side, one
hand tucked under her pillow, a slight frown of concentration on her face even in sleep.

But her breathing was deep and regular, her blankets rising and falling with reassuring
steadiness.

The sight and the sound of Hermione, sleeping soundly, sent a wave of relief coursing through
him, so strong he felt his knees weaken and he sat down heavily in the chair beside her bed.

He’d known it was only a nightmare but it had been so vivid, so real, it had taken the sight of
Hermione alive and well to fully dispel the hard knot of fear in his belly.

Even now his heart was still pounding from reaction to the nightmare, his mind haunted by
visions of Hermione lying so pale and still on the ground.

Harry sighed softly, trying to relax back into the chair. He didn’t think there was much chance
of him getting more sleep that night and for now, he wanted to watch Hermione sleep, the rhythm of
her even breathing like music to his ears.

He felt a surge of gratitude that it really had only been a dream; his Hermione was alive…
Gratitude and protectiveness. He couldn’t let anything happen to Hermione… He knew, now, just how
much he needed her, how empty he would feel without her. Knew, with a certainty that not even his
terrified reaction to her lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries in 5th year
had given him. It had taken this nightmare to fully impress on him that Hermione was now the person
he would miss the most, was the person he needed more than anyone else. Because he loved her…

He loved her… with a depth and intensity he’d never imagined he could feel for anyone… He loved
her and he was suddenly immeasurably thankful for the nightmare that had made him aware of the
truth of his feelings for her. Thankful that he knew and thankful that he would now be able to tell
her.

Maybe he couldn’t guarantee her safety, much as every instinct in him rebelled at the mere idea
of Hermione in danger, but he could at least make sure that whatever happened, Hermione knew he
loved her…

No matter what happened, a repetition of tonight’s dream would not happen. If anything happened
to Hermione, and his heart clenched at the very thought of it, she would go knowing he loved
her…

As much as he knew she loved him… She’d never said it in so many words but he knew she did, knew
she would give her life for him without a second’s thought. It was there in everything she did: the
way she smiled at him, the way she worried about him, the way she tried in so many ways, both small
and large, to comfort him when he was troubled.

He didn’t know how long it had been when he opened his eyes, surprised to find that he must have
dozed off after all. The sun had risen and rays of sunlight were creeping across the floor of
Hermione’s room, gradually illuminating Hermione’s still sleeping face.

A slight frown gathered her brows together as she moved one hand restlessly as if to block the
light. Then slowly, her eyes opened and she moved to sit up.

“Harry! What are you doing here?” she started, finally seeing him. Just as quickly, a shadow
darkened her eyes. “Is something wrong?” She studied his face in the revealing morning light,
frowning at the dark circles under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much at all but more
than that, there was a bleakness lingering in his eyes, as if he’d seen or experienced hell, and
the sight made her grow cold with apprehension.

“I had a nightmare,” Harry began, unsure how to tell Hermione what had happened in his dream.
“It- you- I mean…” He broke off, looking uncertain of himself.

“What happened in the nightmare, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was gentle, even as she straightened
up and her gaze sharpened.

“I- you died,” Harry said, just above a whisper, a pained expression crossing his face as he
studied the Hogwarts crest on the blanket as if he expected the House animals to suddenly begin
moving.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. “I… see…” she breathed unsteadily.

Harry looked up then and met her eyes, his gaze intense. His voice was low, tense. “No, you
don’t. Hermione, you died to save me… You- you pushed me out of the way of Voldemort’s Avada
Kedavra. I- I felt like I’d died too.” The last sentence was spoken so softly Hermione could barely
hear it.

“Oh Harry…” she breathed, compassion and understanding in her voice.

“Hermione, I- would you really do that for me?” He asked the question as if against his better
judgment, a note of vulnerability in his tone.

It was, she thought with a surprising sense of calm, not a question one normally asked anyone or
even thought of asking. Nor was it something one normally had thought about to be able to answer
it.

But then, there never had been anything normal about Harry.

And so she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have to think; she knew. “Yes, in a heartbeat.” Her voice
was quiet but there was conviction in it nevertheless.

Harry blinked back sudden tears, annoyed at his emotionalism but unable to help it. “I don’t
know what to say,” he managed lamely. “Just ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem like enough,” he said, with an
attempt at lightness that failed rather dismally.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just-” Hermione stopped then began again. “Just remember…”

“How could I forget?” Harry’s voice was quiet.

He was silent for a moment, his fingers fiddling with the edges of the blanket, before he looked
up at Hermione, reaching over to take her hand. “There’s something else I need to tell you. The
nightmare- what made it even worse was thinking that I’d never said, never told you…” He paused,
seemed to take a breath before continuing, “I love you, Hermione. I- I didn’t even realize how much
until I thought you were gone and I hadn’t told you. I love you,” he repeated softly.

Tears were glistening in her eyes as she looked at him. “Somehow, deep inside, I think I knew…
Even when I thought I’d never hear you say it, part of me knew…” She shook her head slightly,
trying to smile. “I guess that sounds silly.”

“No, it doesn’t. I needed you to know.”

Another silence fell as Harry moved his thumb over her hand in an idle caress, feeling a sense
of calm settle over him.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was tentative as she remembered something else Harry had said. “You
said it was Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra. What happened to him?”

Harry’s hand tightened a little convulsively. “I killed him,” he said bleakly. “I’ve never felt
that way- so angry and sad and, well, murderous. I used the Energy Draining Curse and then I- I
strangled him. My touch burned him again; you gave me a new protection- not my mother’s that
Voldemort has…” He spoke jerkily, not looking at her, until Hermione suddenly stiffened, sucking in
a sharp breath.

“Protection- burning- Harry, you’re brilliant!” Her voice was suddenly excited, sure, and he
looked at her sharply.

“What is it?”

“The protection that love gives you- it hurts Voldemort and it’s his weakness; it always has
been.” Hermione went on, more to herself than to him, before kissing him quickly, exultantly, on
the lips, as she continued. “Giving your life for someone you love gives them a protection, in
their blood… how to do that, a spell maybe…”

Suddenly Hermione was all action, throwing her school robes on over her pajamas. “I’m sorry,
Harry, I need to go talk to Professor McGonagall and maybe Professor Flitwick; he might be able to
help.”

Harry felt a real smile on his face for the first time in a while, seeing Hermione in full
bookworm mode. This was the side of her he’d gotten to know first, the one he knew best
perhaps.

She bent to kiss him again, quickly, on the lips, the gesture now almost habit between them
whenever they were alone since that moment when she’d first kissed him and he’d realized the depth
of her feelings for him. The kisses were never much more than pecks but they had become something
of a reassuring symbol of comfort, of friendship, even as the line between friendship and something
more than that was being blurred.

This time, though, his hands came up to frame her face, his lips lingering on hers as the kiss
deepened. He felt her stiffen slightly in surprise before she relaxed into him.

The kiss ended slowly and they parted just enough to look at each other. Hermione’s face was
flushed and he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

They didn’t speak; in that moment no words were necessary.

She smiled, kissed him again, and left her room with a last backward glance and smile at him,
and he knew that she’d thought, as surely as if she’d said the words aloud*, I love you
too.*



3. The Beginning of Hope
------------------------

Disclaimer: See Part 1

A/N: Sorry it’s taken so long to update this. I would love to hear opinions on my take on what
the power Voldemort knows not is.

For Demosthenes- thank you for all the reviews!

**~No Greater Love~**

Part 3: The Beginning of Hope

There was something very surreal about having to go on with a normal routine after a night that
had been both so traumatizing and so- precious.

Harry felt odd, off-balance in some way, as he made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast
later.

He had lingered in Hermione’s room after she’d left, partly because he didn’t feel like
returning to his solitary room – there were times when being Head Boy and having a room of his own
was more curse than blessing—but also because he had simply wanted to stay. Wanted to stay in the
room that, even in her absence, was somehow a place of comfort. He liked to see the stack of
library books she had piled up next to the desk, the neat rolls of parchment covered in Hermione’s
familiar neat handwriting. The little things that spoke of the room being lived in, her scarf
hanging from a hook by the door, her open trunk in one corner. All the little things that
proclaimed, especially to him who knew her so well, “Hermione Granger lives here.” So he’d
lingered.

He thought he felt some curious glances as he sat down at the Gryffindor table and wondered if
he looked different. Could people see that he’d had a dream that was quite literally life-changing?
Was there something about him that said that someone loved him enough to die for him? It almost
felt as if there should be some tangible visible sign of it. Surely such a love as Hermione’s
couldn’t just leave him unchanged…

His somewhat confused thoughts were interrupted when Ron arrived, sitting in his usual spot
across from Harry.

“Morning, Harry,” he said, reaching for some bacon and eggs. “Where’s Hermione?”

“She needed to talk to McGonagall,” he answered absently, his mind suddenly registering that
McGonagall was absent from the Head Table.

Ron paused in the act of bringing a piece of toast to his mouth. “You’ve seen Hermione
already?”

Harry blinked slightly. “Why did you ask me where Hermione is if you don’t expect me to know the
answer?”

It was Ron’s turn to blink, look a little confused. “I don’t know,” he finally said slowly. “I
guess it’s just habit. And then you usually know where she is, anyway, although how you keep track
of her is beyond me.”

Harry shrugged slightly in response. He did usually know where Hermione was; he was just attuned
to her, paid attention to her…

He glanced at the entrance to the Great Hall as the door opened to admit a group of Hufflepuffs
and the Ravenclaw prefect.

He wondered what Hermione and Professor McGonagall were talking about, what they would be able
to make of his nightmare… He hadn’t quite understood what Hermione had meant in her somewhat
incoherent explanations earlier but if there was one thing in this world he trusted completely, it
was Hermione and her cleverness. She’d said she had an idea so he believed her, and believed, too,
that her idea would save his life, somehow… Hermione had already saved his life so many times and
she would do so again… Hermione and his faith in her, was the one constant in his life. It was what
had made the nightmare so horrifically real; he knew somehow that such a sacrifice on Hermione’s
part could happen. Knew it and he hated the knowledge that because of him, Hermione was risking so
much…

But then almost immediately, he could hear her voice in his mind, “It’s my choice to make, my
risk to take…” He sighed softly, almost as if he were already having this conversation with
Hermione, responding mentally, I know it is, but I hate the idea of it. I hate knowing you’re in
danger because of me. I- I don’t know what I’d do without you…

“Oi, earth to Harry!” Ron waved a muffin in front of Harry’s face and he started back.

“Huh, what?”

Ron shook his head slightly as he buttered his muffin. “What’s the long face for?”

“I- uh- Another nightmare,” Harry explained quietly.

Ron sobered. “V-V- You-know-Who?”

Harry nodded, not saying anything more. He didn’t need to say more; Ron knew how his nightmares
of Voldemort tended to drain him. And this particular nightmare- he didn’t know how to tell anyone
else what had happened, or even if he wanted to. It was still too vivid in his memory, too
intensely personal a memory to want to share it.

He only glanced up when Ron stood, cramming a last muffin into his mouth and swallowing it with
a gulp of pumpkin juice. “Come on, Harry, time for class.”

Harry had Potions first today, while Ron headed off to Muggle Studies, a class he’d finally
agreed to take after much badgering on Hermione’s part and encouragement from his father.

He grimaced as he headed down to the dungeons. He really was not in the mood to deal with
Snape’s dour grimness or blatant favoritism. At least, Hermione would be there. It was the only
thing that kept him sane in N.E.W.T. Potions, her presence taking the edge off of Snape’s
harshness.

Where was Hermione? The question repeated itself in his mind over and over again, with growing
urgency as slowly but surely the time until Potions was going to begin was reached. And still no
Hermione.

He saw Snape look at the empty seat beside him with a glint of quite obvious satisfaction in his
eyes as he marked something down in his notebook. Harry didn’t need to see it to guess that Snape
had just marked points off from Gryffindor for Hermione being late. And for once, he was too
curious over where Hermione could have gone after her meeting with McGonagall to care overly much
about Snape’s unhidden enjoyment of taking points from Gryffindor. Where was she? Surely her
meeting with McGonagall couldn’t have gone on so long; she’d left her room more than an hour ago!
But then it was as unlike Hermione to be late for a class as it would be for Ron to start singing
Snape’s praises.

The door opened and he looked up, expecting to see Hermione, no doubt with some perfectly valid
reason for why she was late but saw, to his shock, Dobby.

He heard the vague murmur of surprise go around the room at seeing a house-elf interrupt a class
of all things and a class taught by Snape at that. But Dobby, for once, didn’t bow or greet Harry
with his usual enthusiasm. He sent Harry a glance out of his big round eyes but bowed instead to
Snape.

“Dobby is sorry, sir, for interrupting but the Headmistress- she asked me to bring this note to
you.” Dobby held up a sheet of parchment which Snape took with a look of ill-concealed
surprise.

Dobby bowed again, glanced again at Harry and then backed hurriedly out of the dungeon.

Harry’s attention was fixed on the note Snape was now reading, with a very disagreeable
expression on his face. And somehow he knew that the note was excusing Hermione; he couldn’t quite
explain why he was so sure of this but he was. Hermione must still be talking with McGonagall over
her idea. He felt a surge of hope. They must have thought of something; nothing less significant
could have induced Hermione to skip a class or McGonagall to allow it and excuse it moreover.

He remembered Hermione’s hurried words before she left- The protection that love gives you- it
hurts Voldemort and it’s his weakness; it always has been. Giving your life for someone you love
gives them a protection, in their blood… how to do that, a spell maybe…

Had they found a spell to duplicate that effect? Could it even be done? He was so used to
thinking of his fight with Voldemort as being the last thing he did, so used to thinking he was
going to die fighting Voldemort that the hope he felt, tentative as it was, felt alien and strange.
He couldn’t let himself hope too much—shouldn’t let himself hope too much. His faith in Hermione
notwithstanding, he wouldn’t hope too much…

“Very well,” Snape’s sneering voice cut into his thoughts, “since Miss Granger has decided there
are more important things than passing her Potions N.E.W.T, we will continue without her. Mr.
Potter, you will be partnered with Mr. Malfoy today.”

Harry suppressed his instinctive grimace and changed seats, ignoring Malfoy’s malicious smirk
and the Slytherins’ triumph. This was going to be the longest Potions class ever.

Harry left the dungeons in a rush, partly to escape Snape’s harsh criticisms, even harsher it
seemed without Hermione’s calming presence by his side to take the sting off, but mostly because he
needed to know. The last hour in Potions had been an eternity; he could have sworn several times
that time had simply stopped, and he’d be stuck there in the Hell that was the dungeons forever.
Until finally, Snape had dismissed them with a last sneering glance at him.

Transfiguration was next after a break of a half-hour so he hurried up the stairs and down the
corridors that led to the Headmistress’s office.

He panted out the password, “Josephine Damling” (the name of one of the earliest Headmistresses
of Hogwarts, Hermione had told him) and then rushed up the stairs and into the office, forgetting
even to knock.

McGonagall and Hermione looked up when he burst into the room and for once, McGonagall didn’t
sizzle him with a reproving glance or insist he stepped outside again and entered properly after
knocking. Instead she only said, her tone dry, “Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter. I’ve been wondering
when you would show up.”

He flushed slightly at her tone but could only say, honestly, “Sorry, Professor, but I had to
know…”

He met Hermione’s eyes and knew she understood, seeing in them also an apology for not being in
Potions, knowing how much he must have hated it without her there. He smiled slightly at her before
sitting down in the chair next to hers, looking curiously at the old and yellowed parchments spread
out on the desk between McGonagall and Hermione. It was covered in symbols and some odd alphabet he
only vaguely remembered seeing in some of Hermione’s Arithmancy textbooks and old history
books.

McGonagall relented enough to nod at him. “Very well then. You do have more right to know all
this than anyone else, after all.”

She paused, her gaze moving from Harry to Hermione with an uncharacteristic softness in her
eyes. “You should count yourself fortunate to have such a friend as Miss Granger.”

Harry relaxed a little for the first time in Professor McGonagall’s presence, enough that he
moved his hand to cover Hermione’s resting on the desk, feeling her little intake of breath at this
gesture and sensing her surprise. He hardly ever initiated any sort of physical contact with people
and certainly not in public; he wasn’t quite comfortable with it but somehow, at this moment, none
of that mattered. Not now, not in the aftermath of his nightmare and soul-deep recognition of his
feelings for Hermione. He couldn’t quite explain it; all he knew was that he could- he needed to-
show some of what he felt for Hermione even through this, the smallest of gestures and caresses. “I
do,” was all he said, quietly, in response. But the sincerity of his softly spoken words was clear
and somehow changed the atmosphere in the office.

He saw Professor McGonagall glance at his hand covering Hermione’s and when she looked back up
at them, there was a subtle difference in her demeanor, a sudden flicker of—could it be hope?—in
her eyes before she resumed her usual brisk tone.

“Miss Granger was hoping that there was some sort of spell which could give you the same power
over Voldemort that your mother’s sacrifice first did, the one which saved your life and made your
touch painful to him.” She paused before continuing, speaking slowly and deliberately, her gaze
holding Harry’s. “She suggested, and rightly in my opinion, that this power which Voldemort knows
not, is at its most basic level, the power of self-sacrifice. It is the power not simply of love-
as powerful a force as that can be- but the power of a love so deep and so true that a person will
risk everything without a second thought for that beloved person.” She paused again, now looking at
Hermione, although she still ostensibly addressed Harry, her voice gentler than he had ever heard
it. “It was the power of your mother’s sacrifice in her last moment of life and it was that same
feeling, the willingness to risk all which had the combined effort of sending you to the Department
of Mysteries in your 5th year and which sent Sirius Black to follow you.”

He flinched involuntarily at the mention of Sirius and what had happened at the Department of
Mysteries, feeling his heart clench as it always did at the thought of his godfather. Sirius…

He felt Hermione’s hand squeeze his and returned the pressure, feeling a surge of gratitude and
yes, love, at this silent gesture of support and sympathy. And realized yet again how glad he was
(inadequate as any words were to describe the depth of his relief) that Hermione had survived that
encounter in the Department of Mysteries. Sirius’s loss had devastated him; he missed his godfather
every day, missed him and mourned him. But he knew now that Hermione’s loss would kill him. There
was no real life without her by his side; he needed her… Needed her as much as he needed oxygen,
food, water… Without her, there was nothing; he was nothing…

McGonagall nodded at Hermione who continued, as he turned to face her, his hand still holding
hers. “I thought that there had to be some way of invoking that power without the actual death of
someone, some sort of spell possibly. I asked Professor McGonagall and we think we might have found
something that will work. Professor McGonagall needs to look into it further and consult with
Professor Flitwick and the Order but we think we’ve found something!” Her voice rose slightly at
the end, betraying her own hope and excitement.

McGonagall coughed, interrupting. “Yes. However, I would caution you both not to allow
yourselves to hope for miracles. This spell is not only very ancient, dating back almost to the
beginning of magical times, but requires a great deal of skill and magical ability, which makes it
nearly impossible for even the most highly trained wizards to perform. There has actually never
been a recorded instance of this spell being performed successfully so it would not do to hope too
much.”

Harry nodded almost numbly. He couldn’t quite believe it. A spell that might allow him to defeat
Voldemort… He was almost afraid of the surge of hope he couldn’t help but feel. Even the stirrings
of hope he’d felt before were nothing to this; they had been vague, unfocused. This was different;
this was real, almost tangible. An actual spell.

McGonagall glanced at the clock and straightened, her usual crisp demeanor back in place. “For
now, you both must promise not to mention a word of this to anyone else, including Mr. Weasley. We
must not allow ourselves to talk of this with any certainty.” She looked pointedly at both of them,
adding, “I trust you understand.”

“Yes, Professor, of course,” Hermione spoke first.

Harry nodded again. Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone about it- wasn’t sure he could. Not quite
yet. The hope was still too new, too frail, to put into words.

Professor McGonagall nodded her approval and then said, briskly, “Very well then. It is nearly
time for class to begin so I will see you both then.”

Harry and Hermione both stood up and were about to leave when McGonagall added, “Oh and Miss
Granger, good work.” The corner of her lips twitched in what might have been called a smile.

Hermione flushed. “Thank you, Professor,” she said quietly, “but I didn’t really do anything.
Harry gave me the idea for it.”

It was Harry’s turn to feel himself color as he looked at Hermione. It was so like her to
disclaim any credit. For all her occasional bossiness and her tendency to think she was always
right (although to do her justice, she usually was), she was also modest.

He squeezed her hand (which he still held, somehow reluctant to let go) and they left the
Headmistress’s Office together.

“What did I miss in Potions today?” Hermione asked, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “Was
Snape mad?”

He shrugged it off. “We covered the Feverous Potion today. He was annoyed, yes, but what could
he do when you had a note from McGonagall?” There was no need to mention that Snape had seemed to
take particular pleasure in tormenting him that day, seeming to know that without Hermione (and
especially with Malfoy as his partner, smirking and sneering the entire time) any barbs which Snape
sent his way stung all the more.

Hermione didn’t look very reassured by his casual response but refrained from commenting. He
knew she was wondering how Snape had taken his annoyance out on him; she knew what Snape could be
like, and he managed to smile at her.

They were silent for a moment, a comfortable silence though, until he asked, quietly, “Do you
think I can do this?”

She stopped to look at him, lifting her free hand to touch his cheek softly. “I believe in you,
Harry. I don’t know if this spell will be the one you end up using but whatever happens, I believe
in you. And you can and you will win in the end. I believe that, above all, have never doubted it.”
She spoke softly but there was a world of confidence, of faith, in her tone and in her eyes.

She believed in him. Such a powerful statement somehow. Even if he doubted himself (which he
did), wasn’t sure of his own strength or his own abilities- she believed in him. And he trusted
her, believed her. And that gave him more confidence in himself.

Maybe, he thought, after all, her greatest gift to him was just this: her faith in him which
gave him strength and made him believe… Her faith in him that allowed him to hope…



4. The Promise
--------------

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Notes: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far!

**No Greater Love**

Chapter 4: The Promise

The next three weeks were sheer torture for Harry.

He tried not to wonder about whatever spell it was which McGonagall was looking into, but for
the obvious reasons, couldn’t help himself from thinking about it.

What was the spell? What did it involve? Would it even work? Would he be able to perform it?
Would it involve any risk for anyone else? (And that one consideration gave him considerable pause.
He didn’t want anyone else to be in danger for him, didn’t want to even think about Hermione being
in danger because of him. His worst fear—and the likelihood of it occurring seemed to be staring
him in the face every day.)

It was made worse because he couldn’t even tell Ron, which left him with a nagging sense of
guilt, as if he were somehow betraying Ron and their friendship by not telling him of something so
potentially important. He still remembered Ron’s anger (mingled with horror and fear) when he’d
finally told Ron of the Prophecy last year, the sense that he’d betrayed their years of friendship
by keeping something so vital from Ron, that he hadn’t trusted Ron enough. It had bothered him for
a while, the implication that he might not trust Ron as much as he should. But a lack of trust
wasn’t the problem, never really had been. It was only an instinctive reluctance to involve Ron and
Hermione further than they already were in the dangers of his life, a sense that, whatever else,
this was his task to perform and his alone…

When McGonagall finally asked him, Hermione, and Ron this time too, to come to a meeting in the
Transfiguration classroom after dinner, he knew something was finally happening. His heart seemed
to have taken residence in his throat and he was thankful for Hermione’s steadying presence by his
side, her hand slipping into his to give it a reassuring squeeze.

He opened the door and stopped short. From just behind him, Ron’s surprised cry of “Mum! Dad!
What--” mingled with his own croak, “Remus!” forgetting for the first time, to call him Professor
Lupin as he still did, from force of habit.

The three adults along with Professor McGonagall, who had been talking quietly, looked up and
for the first time in his memory, neither the Weasleys nor Remus smiled in greeting. They looked
tense, worried. Mrs. Weasley looked as if she were fighting back tears as she said, in an oddly
restrained voice, “Hello, Ron, Harry, Hermione.”

“Well, come in, you three,” McGonagall’s brisk tones interrupted and somehow her crisp demeanor,
as familiar as it was, shook them all out of the strange mood of vague apprehension.

He sat down in his usual seat in Transfiguration out of habit, Ron next to him and Hermione on
his other side, also as they usually did in class. The tight knot of foreboding in his throat, that
had eased a little, returned full-force as he looked at Professor McGonagall’s solemn expression
and the worried ones of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Remus.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminably long time to him but was really only a few
moments, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and began. “I asked you here because you are the
people who will be most involved in the effort to defeat Voldemort. Mr. Potter, your presence of
course goes without question; Mr. Weasley’s and Miss Granger’s presence is nearly as certain as Mr.
Potter’s. Molly, Arthur, Remus,” she looked at each of them in turn, “you are here, as I was
explaining earlier, because of your relationship to Harry, your affection for him.”

She paused briefly before continuing, speaking slowly as if she were carefully considering her
words. “As some of you know, Miss Granger came to me several weeks ago with an idea that somehow a
spell may be able to duplicate the protective effects of Harry’s mother’s sacrifice on Voldemort,
both in making it painful for him to touch Harry but also, possibly, shield Harry once again from
the Killing Curse. With Miss Granger’s assistance, I found one record of a spell that may have a
similar effect and have been looking into it since then. I believe this may be the single best hope
we have at this moment. Before I continue, I must explain, however, that this is both extremely
advanced magic and requires not only a high level of concentration but a strength of will and of
feeling to make this at all effective. The last time this spell was attempted with success was in
Godric Gryffindor’s final confrontation against Salazar Slytherin.”

She paused and Harry felt the dread inside him increase exponentially at her last revelation.
Not since Gryffindor himself had this spell been performed successfully! Oh God, then what chance
did he have?

Beside him, he felt Ron’s tension, saw the way he began absently cracking his knuckles. On his
other side, he could sense Hermione’s growing nervousness mixed with something else, something that
somehow eased his own fear: trust. Trust in him. She believed, even after hearing that the spell
hadn’t been successfully performed since the Founders’ time, that he could do this. She
believed…

But McGonagall was still speaking. “And here is where all of you may play a part. This spell
involves, at its most basic level, a transfer of magical power temporarily from one person to
another, increasing the potency of any spell the recipient of that power casts in that time period.
It only works, however, when the persons involved share a strong connection, when one person is
willing to sacrifice everything, risk everything, for the sake of the other. Miss Granger, Mr.
Weasley, Molly, Arthur, Remus, I believe you all are the people in this world who care the most for
Mr. Potter, who would be willing to take such a risk. I must warn you that this is exceedingly
dangerous for both the recipient and the giver of power and has, more often than not, resulted in
either the death or complete mental incapacity of one, if not both, of the parties. Your decisions
do not need to be made immediately. I can give you all a few days to consider the risk you will be
taking and whether you’re willing to take it, without any guarantee of success.”

There was silence.

Remus had made a strangled sound of surprise when McGonagall explained the spell and both Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley had caught their breath sharply. Ron said nothing but Harry could feel the tension
in him increase ten-fold. Hermione was the only one in whom there’d been no reaction, either
visible or otherwise.

The silence stretched out heavily. Harry looked from his former professor, to the closest things
to parents he’d known, his best friend, and Hermione, his dearer-than-friend, and swallowed hard.
God, how could he ask this of them? He couldn’t let them risk so much, put themselves in so much
danger just for his sake, even if the defeat of Voldemort was at stake; he couldn’t!

Hermione was the first one to break the silence, her quiet voice sounding as loud as an
exploding firecracker would have been, in the tense silence. “I’ll do it.”

He sucked in his breath sharply at the certainty in her voice, filled with an odd sense of
surprise even though he knew, now, just what she would do for him. She’d told him so herself, just
weeks ago, that she would die for him. Why, then, was he surprised? And yet he was. As if hearing
her promise before, when it had been vague, general, had somehow meant less than this certain
commitment to putting her life at risk for his sake…

McGonagall showed no surprise, only nodded. And no one questioned her decision; the strength of
her certainty had been clear in her voice when she said those three words, committing herself.

“I’ll do it,” Remus spoke, equally quietly, looking not at McGonagall but at Harry, with an odd
look in his eyes as if he saw not just Harry but James’ and Lily’s spirits hovering behind their
son. He sat up straight in his chair and for the first time, Harry, looking at his former
professor, saw past the premature gray in his hair, the worn robes, the look of fatigue in his
face, to the strength, both physical and mental, in Remus Lupin. And realized suddenly just how
much courage and resilience it must take for Remus to have endured his transformations every month,
the fear and rejection of most of wizarding society, and the loss of the only true friends he’d
ever had. Remus said nothing more but at that moment, he looked what he was, a powerful wizard and
a strong man with a force of will few could have guessed at— despite his usual gentle attitude and
his humor.

Again, McGonagall didn’t question the decision, only nodding, and there was, in her gaze as she
considered her former pupil, a gleam of respect and approval.

She looked at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and said gravely, “If you both decide you are willing, I warn
you that it would be wisest for only one of you to actually perform the spell. In case something
goes wrong, you have other children to think of. I cannot, as the teacher of all of your children,
possibly permit both of you to take such an immense risk. It is, however, a decision you must make
together. I will leave you to consider,” she finished, standing and turning to leave.

Remus, Harry and Hermione stood up automatically, going to follow McGonagall and allow the
Weasleys privacy, and were halfway to the door when Mrs. Weasley spoke up.

They could hear unshed tears in her voice but her tone was sure. “We’ll do it.”

Oh God! Harry swallowed hard, feeling a rush of emotion inside him.

They all turned to look at her. She stood up straight, somehow looking dignified despite her
plump figure in her shabby, everyday working robes. Her hand was on Mr. Weasley’s shoulder. “I will
do it,” she repeated.

Mr. Weasley nodded, his expression more solemn than Harry had ever seen it.

Harry looked at Ron now and for a moment, their eyes met. Ron, don’t do this, he found himself
irrationally thinking.

He didn’t know if he could bear knowing that everyone he cared about in the world would be
putting themselves in danger for him, that their lives literally depended on whatever strength he
had. Oh, no, no, no, no, no…

He didn’t even dream of trying to convince Hermione to change her mind; he knew she wouldn’t
listen. He didn’t feel he could ask Remus and Mrs. Weasley to change theirs; they were older than
he was, had seen and experienced so much more, and Remus was doing it not only for his sake, but
for his parents, for Sirius. His throat closed at the thought of his godfather.

But Ron, the first friend he’d made… He had a sudden memory of Dobby, squealing frantically,
“Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy and take his Wheezy back from the
merpeople!... Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy… The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!...” And
even though he knew, now, that Hermione would be what he missed most, he felt the same sheer dismay
of that afternoon well up inside him. Ron—he couldn’t lose Ron… As he looked at his best friend in
that one oddly drawn-out moment, memories from the past 6 years of friendship flickered through his
mind. Meeting Ron on the Hogwarts Express; Ron saying, “Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let
you go alone?” before he went through the trapdoor at the end of 1st year; Ron saying
fiercely despite the strain on his face, “If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”;
Ron yelling angrily at Karkaroff after the First Task, “What? Four? You lousy biased scumbag, you
gave Krum ten!”…

And he saw the decision in Ron’s eyes before Ron opened his mouth and said, “Me too.”

Oh God…

“So be it,” McGonagall said, with an air of finality.

He looked at these people he cared so much for, their familiar faces, these people who had just
committed themselves to risking everything for his sake, and felt a surge of emotion well up inside
him, closing his throat and filling his mind until all he could hear was the sound of their voices,
I’ll do it… They had agreed, for him, tacitly acknowledging that they loved him enough in their own
ways to sacrifice everything without a second’s thought, as Hermione had told him that terrible,
wonderful dawn three weeks ago… And suddenly it seemed to him as if the room was closing in around
him, stifling him with the weight of his destiny, the lives which these people had just committed
to him, for his sake.

He felt himself take a step back automatically, a strangled “No, I can’t!” emerging from his
stiff lips when what he meant was, You can’t. I don’t want you to do this for me. He needed to get
out, get away, couldn’t bear to look at these people when all he could think of was that they had
just said they were willing to die for his sake. Something inside him broke and he turned and ran,
needing to be outside, needing to be away. Ran as if he could somehow outrun the weight of this
destiny.

He ignored the sound of Remus calling him back, “Harry!”; McGonagall’s sharper command, “Mr.
Potter!”; the appeal in Hermione’s voice, “Harry!” and ran, until he was outside of the castle, ran
without knowing exactly where he was going until he found himself approaching Hagrid’s hut when he
slowed down finally.

Hagrid, another friend he’d lost to Voldemort, loyal to the end to Dumbledore… Hagrid who had
insisted on remaining behind, disobeying Dumbledore’s orders for the first time until Dumbledore
had relented, after making sure Harry reached the comparative safety of the other members of the
Order… Hagrid, who had introduced him to the wizarding world, first defied the Dursleys for his
sake, told him the truth about his parents…

He took a gulping breath of the cool evening air, letting it clear his mind and forcibly trying
to calm himself so he could return. He knew he had to return. Knew he had to accept that this spell
was going to be attempted. He was struggling against something inevitable. He had seen it in Remus
and in the Weasleys when they’d spoken, had felt it in Hermione.

But he couldn’t help the rebellion building inside him, the helpless frustration. He should be
able to find some way to defeat Voldemort without involving anyone else! It was mainly because of
him that Voldemort was targeting any of them, anyway; it was his fault. He should be the one to
defeat Voldemort on his own.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t; he knew he wasn’t strong enough or powerful enough on his own. And
he hated the knowledge, hated himself for not being able to do this alone…

“Harry.” He wasn’t surprised to hear her voice, had been expecting them to send someone to
follow him. Had been expecting her because she was naturally the person he turned to for comfort
and people knew it.

Somehow the warmth, the sympathy in her voice, bothered him more than anything else and he
whirled on her, his hands gripping her shoulders hard. “I can’t ask you to do this for me!” he
choked hoarsely. “I can’t!”

“You’re not asking. We’re volunteering,” Hermione countered, her voice gentle but firm
nonetheless. “Harry, you know you can’t do this alone. We were never going to let you be alone
anyway; this spell is only confirming that.”

“It’s too risky. You could die, Hermione! And I- I can’t risk losing you! You- you mean too much
to me. I- I need you too much…” His voice cracked from the intensity of his emotion, his guilt, his
fear. “I- you- mmph.”

She cut his words off with her lips, flattening herself against him, kissing him hard, as if she
could somehow absorb all his guilt, all his fear, into herself. He stiffened then clutched her
tightly, his arms closing around her with stunning force.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, eyes wide. But as she looked at
him, she knew, somehow, that he was calmer now, as if their kiss had sapped him of his anger and
his despair.

“We’re staying with you, Harry,” she said simply.

He allowed his shoulders to slump slightly, accepting the truth of her words. “I know,” he
admitted softly. “And it tears me up inside but I can’t do this without you.”

She could see in his eyes just what it cost him to have to admit that and she felt a surge of
love well up inside her, filling her heart and mind. But she said nothing more, knew he understood
even without words. Instead she only said, “We should be getting back inside. They’re waiting for
you.”

“I know.”

They started back towards the castle in silence and as they walked, Harry slipped his hand into
hers, holding it tightly in his.

And somehow, in that moment, she knew, knew with a certainty that went to her soul and didn’t
admit even the shadow of a doubt, that this spell, no matter how advanced it was, would work and it
would save him. Nothing powered with so much selfless love could fail… And no power on this earth,
including Voldemort’s, could stand against this, the power which Harry had in himself already and
which would be strengthened further by what this spell would give him: the power that came from
willingly risking everything, giving everything, for the sake of another person…



5. The Power
------------

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author’s Note: In this chapter, I do something I’ve never actually done in any of my fics-
involve the Founders. You’ll notice, also, that I’ve mentioned two Founder ships; to be honest, I
don’t ship the Founders for the simple reason that I can’t ship characters who are basically
non-existent in canon but I’ve written it into this fic for the simple reason that 1. I thought
it’d be more dramatic and 2. that’s what my muses came up with. My muses also being to blame for
the somewhat disjointed style of this chapter…

I think, at this point, there will be one more chapter and that will be it for this fic.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. And enjoy!

**~No Greater Love~**

Part 5: The Power

The Year 1036

They had been brothers once.

The two men so similar in so many ways, one dark, one fair, two sides of the same coin, as they
had joked. They had eaten together, drank together, laughed together, grown older together, fought
side-by-side… And they had created their dream together, a school to teach children the principles
of magic.

The man stared broodingly out the window at the encroaching dusk, seeing not the darkness but
himself, in days past, and Salazar, once his friend and brother, now his enemy.

Salazar, the pale one to his dark, whose hair had once been blond, the color of wheat and
gradually, as his mind turned more and more to solitude and the arrogance that had always been his
primary flaw, become paler, losing all color until it had become what it was today, so pale it was
nearly white. Whose cool blue eyes also had once been alive, warm with friendship and humor and
their shared purpose and now were cold, the blue of ice… Salazar had always been the proud one, the
hard one, reserved, keeping his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself and sharing them only
sparingly with them, his three closest friends, and with her… The one softening influence, who
balanced his coolness with her warmth, softened his harshness with her understanding… Strange, that
such opposites had attracted and yet fitting, too.

But that had been before… Before the beginning of the rift, the slow deepening of their
fundamental difference, their polarizing opinion of the equality of witches and wizards regardless
of birth or blood…

And now, he stood at the brink of the precipice. Himself on one side, defending not just his
principles but the school which they had founded a decade ago… And on the other, Salazar,
challenging their principles, mocking their belief in equality…

They had been brothers once… Now, enemies…

He sensed her presence before she spoke, her voice soft. “Are you indeed determined to face him
then, Godric?”

His reply was brief, terse. “Aye.”

She sighed and nodded. She had known what he would say. “So be it. But as you are determined to
go alone, we will assist you with what we can. You know you cannot defeat him alone. You, better
than anyone, know his powers. He is as you are, equal. You cannot do this alone.”

“I must.”

She moved further into the room, putting a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he turned to look at
her.

“If I fall facing him, then so be it. I would rather die at the hands of one whom I know to be
my equal and a worthy foe, than long years from now, waiting for age and infirmity to overtake
me.”

“You will not fall because you will not be facing him with your strength alone,” she countered.
“You will be alone in body, perhaps, but not in spirit. Helga and I have prepared a spell that will
strengthen you. All that we have, we will give to you.”

A frown creased his brow. “You cannot do such a thing.” There was a command in his voice.

She faced him steadily, her chin lifting slightly, her gaze unfaltering. “We can and we will.
You cannot stop us.”

For a moment, their gazes clashes, two powerful wills struggling. Until finally, he conceded.
“Very well.”

Her gaze softened, her hand moving from his shoulder to comb through his black hair with a
gentle caress. “You are defending not just your principles but ours as well and the future of every
Hogwarts student. We have the right to assist you in this cause.”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You are right.” He paused, the faintest of smiles
lifting the corners of his lips. “As usual.”

She smiled and he bent his head to claim her lips, kissing her firmly, and felt, as he always
did in her presence, his tension easing. She was the rational side, balancing out his impulsive
nature, her calm presence of mind matching his reckless courage. Where he was weak, she was strong;
where she was weak, he gave her strength. She was his friend, his true partner, his love…

It was time.

He faced them, his oldest, truest friends and partners in this school which they had founded to
realize their vision.

Rowena stood tall, her brown hair pulled back, her brown eyes clear and filled with all the
strength of her will. Helga stood beside her, her long light brown hair flowing loose, her blue
eyes warm but also filled with her own brand of courage and determination.

His gaze paused on Helga, softening as he recognized the difficulty of her position. “I am
sorry, Helga,” he said softly, “for putting you in this position, assisting me to defeat the one
you love.” He deliberately used the word ‘defeat’ and not ‘kill’ although they all knew that defeat
would come only with death. It had come to this. Two men, once brothers, and now neither could live
while the other survived…

Helga shook her head though a flicker of pain shadowed her eyes for a moment. “No. The Salazar I
knew and loved no longer exists; he has become someone else, only Slytherin, lord of his own
mistaken beliefs. And so I can do this freely. If, in risking so much, I can help this school, the
price will not have been too high.” She straightened, lifting her chin, adding an undeniable
dignity to her still-youthful face. “What I have, I give to you.”

“And I,” Rowena declared.

He nodded, acknowledging this, his hazel eyes thanking them for what they were about to do.

Helga spoke first, her wand hand steady as she pointed her wand at him. “Begun with the love of
a sister and friend… Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

And then Rowena, her eyes full of love and courage… “It is completed by the love of a
life-partner… Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

He felt the surge of sheer magic enter inside him, filling him, and gasped from the power of it,
opening his eyes to look first at Helga and then at Rowena, before he said the words to complete
the transfer of power. “Expecto potestas.”

~*~*~*~

April 1998

It was time.

Harry stared around at the people he cared about most, wondering if he was ever going to see
them again.

The atmosphere was tense. It seemed as if McGonagall’s quiet, solemn words were echoing through
the air somehow, creating invisible ripples disturbing the otherwise almost deathly calm.

“You all understand what this spell entails,” she had said, her gaze touching each of them in
turn. “You are transferring all your magical abilities, your special strengths, along with the
not-inconsiderable force of your affection for Mr. Potter into him, thereby increasing his own
innate power. But in doing so, you are committing yourself to feeling all the pain which he feels
twice over.” She paused then continued. “If, for example, the Cruciatus Curse is cast on Mr.
Potter, you will all feel it as well and feel it to a greater extent. This is, in fact, possibly
the reason this spell has never been undertaken successfully since the time of Godric Gryffindor;
suffering the agonies of multiple curses to a greater degree than what they would normally produce
can very easily reduce the strongest of witches and wizards to a mindless state. And I’m sure I do
not need to remind any of you that it is very likely, indeed probable, that Voldemort will inflict
the Cruciatus Curse on Mr. Potter at least once before actually attempting to kill him.”

He had sucked in his breath sharply at those words, swallowing back the shout of protest that
again rose in his throat at the idea of these people, of Hermione, suffering the Cruciatus on his
behalf. How could he let them do it? How could he let her do this, risk so much?

And yet he knew even as he thought the questions frantically that he had no choice. He had to.
They had all made their choice and even now, with the stark reality of their decision staring them
in the faces, none of them flinched or looked at all less certain of their commitment.

Remus, Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Hermione… They were all pale but their expressions were set. There was
a grim determination in Remus’ eyes and stance. Mrs. Weasley had tears in her eyes but there was an
equally unfaltering expression on her face. Ron- Ron looked as if he were staring Aragog and all
his children in the face about to enter their lair but despite the apprehension, the fear widening
his eyes, there was a certain something, a look that this was something he needed to do, which told
Harry just how certain he was.

And Hermione… The thought of her in pain squeezed his heart until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t
think except to feel horror, horror that chilled his very soul at the thought of Hermione
suffering, screaming, crying… But she too was determined. There was a glint in her eyes that he
recognized from long ago, the look in her eyes she always got when she was talking about issues she
was passionate about, the implacable look she had had when talking about the rights of house elves…
And for this, she cared even more than she ever had about house-elves and their freedom. There
wasn’t a trace of doubt or uncertainty in her expression; there was only confidence and, as she
looked at him, a depth of loyalty, of love, that almost took his breath away.

They were all doing this willingly, for his sake, because they- they loved him in their
different ways. He heard in his mind a vague echo of Professor Trelawney’s eerie voice saying, the
Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… Power the
Dark Lord knows not… Power…

Power. He already had some, whatever strange power it was which had allowed him to survive so
far, a power he didn’t understand. And he was about to be given more power, the power of
sacrifice…

He suddenly knew, knew deep down in his soul with a certainty that admitted no doubt, that
Hermione had been right. This- this truly was the Power the Prophecy spoke of, this willingness on
the part of these people to risk their magical ability, their sanity, their lives, everything, just
for him…

He hated the idea that he needed to put these people he cared about so much at risk but again he
heard the part of his mind that spoke in Hermione’s voice explaining, we were already at risk,
targets simply because we were close to you. This spell puts us in no more actual danger than we
already were in and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter. We would still do this, for you.

He looked around at these people again and though normally he cringed at the idea of talking
about his feelings (years as the Dursleys’ personal slave hardly acknowledged to have feelings, let
alone a right to them, didn’t encourage a willingness to talk about personal things), right now,
none of that mattered. Saying thank you was hardly adequate for the magnitude of the sacrifice, the
risk, these four people were taking for his sake. No, he couldn’t just say, thank you. What he
could say, what he did say was, his voice slightly hoarse from emotion and nervousness, “I love you
all, you know.”

Professor McGonagall pretended to have gone deaf, ignoring this.

Remus smiled slightly for the first time since entering the room, his gaze softening. “I know
you do, Harry.”

Mrs. Weasley valiantly blinked back tears. “Of course you do, dear boy,” she said in an attempt
at her normal demeanor that fell rather flat thanks to the quiver in her voice.

Ron swallowed, his face suddenly as red as his ears. His mouth opened, then closed and he
shifted, looking as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

Hermione… God, Hermione… His heart clenched again with an odd mixture of love, fear, hope,
dread… Every nerve in his body was screaming that he couldn’t possibly do this to her, couldn’t
possibly let her risk so much because if she was somehow hurt and he survived, it would kill him.
He knew it.

He felt himself walking toward her, without having consciously decided to do so, his hands
taking hers, gripping them tightly. “I-” he stopped, not sure what he was going to say, what he
could say right now.

There were sudden tears in her eyes which she blinked back furiously. “I know, Harry, I know,”
she said softly.

And then McGonagall interrupted. “It is time. We mustn’t delay any longer.”

He gulped, his grip tightening on her hands, and then gave her a quick kiss on the lips, not
even caring that everyone saw it.

It was time.

He stepped back as the others moved into their positions around him, forming a sort of circle
facing him, with McGonagall standing to the side, watching.

They all knew what to do now.

McGonagall waved her wand, muttered a few words and instantly, a circle appeared on the floor,
its outline glowing faintly, two lines crossing through the center of the circle where he stood and
meeting the circle at 4 points on opposite ends, where Mrs. Weasley, Remus, Ron and Hermione stood.
It was what was known as a Spell-Caster’s Circle, used sometimes for old wizarding rituals,
creating a special magical environment to enhance the spells performed inside its influence.

McGonagall began, her voice sounding oddly disembodied from its solemnity.

“Begun with the love of a mother…”

Mrs. Weasley’s wand raised to point at him. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“Continued by the love of a father…”

Then it was Remus’ turn. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“Strengthened by the love of a brother…”

Ron, his voice oddly hoarse but unwavering for all that. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

“It is completed by the love of a life-partner…”

Hermione’s voice rang out clear and sure. “Expecto piaculum devoveo.”

As soon as Hermione stopped speaking, light shot out from the tips of all four wands, light
which hit him, filled him with something which he knew was simply magic, magic at its purest level,
and he opened his mouth to complete the spell.

“Expecto potestas.”

And then staggered back a step from the rush of sheer power he felt, filling him, pouring out of
him it seemed. His eyes went blank and he didn’t see their faces anymore, the room around them,
didn’t feel the floor under his feet. There was only this, the magic, consuming him…

And then it was over almost as quickly as it had begun. He blinked, sensation returning, and he
knew, though at the moment, he felt no different, that the spell had been a success.

And now, it was time to set in motion the plan… It was time to end this war for good.

~*~

“No! You don’t understand; you can’t! Just stop pretending that you can, will you? Just leave me
alone, for God’s sake! Leave me alone! I can’t stand having you pretending you understand and that
you can help me. No one can help me! No one!”

She flinched involuntarily from the harshness of his words, the coldness of his tone, even
though she knew he didn’t mean it. Even knowing that this was an act, hearing him raise his voice
and say such things hurt her. She’d never been so thankful that she had always been able to read
his mood in his eyes as now, when his words and his eyes were at such variance with each other.

His voice was full of anger, of frustration. His eyes were warm, with a flicker of apprehension,
of fear, in them, but no anger.

~*~

“We need to draw Voldemort out. No more waiting for him to act; this is our chance.” Remus said,
urgently.

McGonagall nodded. “I agree. And I believe our best chance is to make Voldemort believe that
Harry is completely alone and unprotected. Thus far, Harry has never been alone, never been very
vulnerable, but Voldemort has been watching and waiting. So we will give him his opportunity. And
that is where you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, must come in. Stage an argument
between you three which you, Mr. Potter, will end by storming off in anger. Professor Snape will
then relay the information that you have gone off alone, unprotected and weak because of your very
anger, to Voldemort. No one except us must know the truth about the argument; to do so would be to
jeopardize the success of this ploy.”

They had agreed, knowing they had no choice… And the board was set, for this, the final act…

~*~

Harry looked at Ron and then at her, their eyes meeting, for one last intense moment- for all
intents as if he were biting back further harsh words, but for the truth in his eyes which only
they could see. He was saying Goodbye. In that last look, his eyes said all the words he hadn’t had
a chance to say before this all began, the last thank you, the last goodbye… just in case…

And then he was gone, storming out of the Great Hall, leaving behind a stunned silence from
everyone who couldn’t imagine Harry blowing up at his two best friends in such a way and a nervous
apprehension in those who knew the truth.

That last look had said goodbye… because he didn’t expect to be returning… And suddenly, she
couldn’t bear that this was supposed to be the last time she saw him before he left; she couldn’t
let him leave like this! She made a sound, half-sob, half-cry, and ran out of the Great Hall,
ignoring Professor McGonagall’s sharp, “Miss Granger!” She knew she was breaking the agreed-upon
plan, knew she very well might be jeopardizing things but she couldn’t help it. She had to see him
one last time, to say goodbye the way it needed to be said…

Dear God, she hoped she wasn’t too late…

She ran, her heart in her throat, half-blinded by tears, until she saw him, just about to leave
the front doors of the castle, and cried his name. “Harry, wait!” Thank God, he hadn’t left the
castle yet; the plan hadn’t been overly compromised…

He turned to face her and she faltered slightly at the look on his face. He was so pale, his
skin the color of paper, and out of his pale face, his eyes shone strangely, burning with
desperation, fear, determination. His lips were set grimly, and for the first time ever, she felt
fear, afraid of the power in him… This wasn’t her Harry anymore… This was a different Harry, the
one who would face Voldemort and end this for good…

And then his eyes softened as he looked at her, and he was her Harry once more.

“Harry, I- I couldn’t let you go like that. I- I love you, Harry. I love you.”

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to say something but before he could, she threw her arms
around him, kissing him with all the love, all the passion, all the fear she felt. His arms went
around her automatically, tightening as he returned the kiss with a fervor that bordered on
desperation. They kissed as if it would be the last time with the underlying, unacknowledged fear
that maybe, this really would be their last kiss…

And when it ended, they knew that no more words needed to be said. The kiss had said it all.

Their gazes met and melded in one long, intense look.

“I love you, my Hermione,” he said softly, and for the first time, felt the knot of dread in his
stomach loosen a little. He was doing this not for some abstract principle of justice or a vague
idea of saving the world, but for her… To keep her safe, to try to end the prejudice she faced as a
Muggle-born… So she would no longer have to be afraid, for her life or the lives of those she cared
about… He was doing this for her, for the friendship she’d given him, the love and the happiness…
For her sake… And somehow, looking into her eyes, he couldn’t believe that he might fail… He
couldn’t fail with her believing in him…

A slight smile trembled on her lips, though tears still shone in her eyes. “I love you too.”

He straightened, stepping back away from her. “I need to go. This has to end now,” he said
quietly.

She nodded. “I know,” she managed to say through the lump of emotion in her throat. Her lips
parted again to say the last word, Goodbye, and suddenly she knew she couldn’t say the word. It was
too final, too despairing, sounded too much like a final farewell as if she truly didn’t expect to
see him again. Instead she said, “Be careful, Harry. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He too had opened his mouth to say, Goodbye; she could see it in the shape of his lips, the
expression in his eyes, but he stopped, swallowing back the word. “I’ll be careful. And I will come
back.” It was a promise, a vow. He would come back.

Their gazes met and held in one long, last look.

And then he was gone.



6. The Beginning
----------------

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, etc. I’m only borrowing her world for the fun of it, no
money being made…

Author’s Note: This is the end. Finally. And just in time, as I wanted to get it done before
HBP.

A little bit choppy but you should be able to understand what’s going on. Clearing up a few
loose ends though the exciting stuff has already happened.

Thank you, everyone, who’s read this fic and reviewed. You guys are the best.

**No Greater Love**

**Chapter 6**

The Beginning

The Year 1136

It was over.

The ground around them was scorched in places and cleared of everything while the air was thick
with haze and the smell of sulfur and fire- all remnants of the battle that had just been fought. A
battle between the two most powerful wizards of the age.

Godric forced himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch, appreciating (not for the first
time) the spell which Rowena had placed on it which had the sword change in length depending on its
use. (He had used it as a dagger at times when a full-length sword would be inconvenient and now,
the sword stretched out to become long enough to use almost as a cane.) His leg felt as if it had
been sprained after one of Salazar’s spells had sent him flying backwards to land rather heavily on
one ankle and his entire body ached.

But he was alive. And he knew that Helga would be able to heal him in no time.

He was alive and it was over now.

He had won. Hogwarts would continue to stand, welcoming all witches and wizards regardless of
their birth.

He had won—but at what cost?

He struggled over to where Salazar was lying, putting every ounce of his energy and his will to
enable him to move, and stood there looking down at the man who had once been his closest friend
and almost-brother.

Salazar was dying. His skin, always pale, had taken on a ghastly shade of gray and his breathing
was labored, rattling in his chest as he fought for air. Any other wizard would have died from the
onslaught of pure magic which Godric had finally thrown against him but not Salazar. Not Salazar—he
was too powerful in his own right and his will too strong.

But even his will could not avert death.

Godric’s eyes met Salazar’s and there was no triumph in the hazel depths. There was only regret
for what he had had to do. “It’s over, Salazar,” he said quietly.

An odd grimace-like smile curved Salazar’s lips. “No,” he rasped out. “It’s not. You think
you’ve won but you have not. This is greater than the two of us and this war will continue to be
fought, if not through violence, in people’s minds.”

“You are wrong. This is over and your misguided notions of blood purity will fade with
time.”

Salazar gave a hacking laugh that turned into choked gasps. Blood came up, staining his robes.
“Always so arrogant, Godric. But you are wrong. I, and my followers, are not defeated yet.” His
gaze wandered to stare off into the distance, a strange stillness coming over him.

Godric tensed; Salazar was using his not-inconsiderable talent for Divination.

“There will be another, my heir, and he will come to finish what I have started. He will come
and the world will know and fear him. He will come—and not even your precious Hogwarts will be able
to stand against him.”

The icy blue eyes returned to stare at Godric and he marveled that Salazar could still manage to
look arrogant and supremely confident, even dying and helpless. “Yes, he will come—and his name
will become so feared that no one will dare to speak it aloud.”

“If your heir will come,” Godric responded firmly, “then so will ours. No, Salazar, as long as
the evil and the divisiveness which you think to bring into this world exists, there will be
heroes, champions, who will arise to defeat it. And you cannot win this war.” He paused. “You are
right; this war is larger than the two of us—but you still cannot win it. You will not—for there is
power greater than what you know and it will always serve to defeat you.”

Salazar sneered. “Believe that if you will; you were always more idealistic than suited a man,
Godric.”

Godric stilled, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve changed, Salazar,” he stated flatly and now there
was a clear note of weariness and regret in his tone. “You were not always as you are now, so
disdainful of what is intangible.”

“No, but I was weak then.”

“So you say.”

Godric looked down at Salazar, his eyes holding Salazar’s cold gaze—until a slight shudder
passed through Salazar and his eyes closed for the last time.

Godric felt a sigh well up as he looked down at the body of his former friend and now enemy. How
had it come to this, he wondered yet again. How had it come to this, that he would be forced to
kill someone whom he had once loved as a brother?

But it was over. Finally.

He turned away after a last look and a last sigh and then closed his eyes to Apparate back home-
to Hogwarts and to Rowena…

~*~*~*~

April 1998

Pain.

Sharp, stabbing, searing pain.

His entire body was a mass of pain—except his scar. His scar that had burned him so often these
past few years, was painful no longer. There had been a last burst of intense pain, agonizingly
centered on his scar, until he felt as if his head would explode from it, at the last moment—and
then it had ended.

Harry struggled to open his eyes and it took every last bit of remaining energy and will power
to force himself to his feet. For a moment, the world swam around him and he swayed but managed,
miraculously, to stay on his feet.

He looked on a field of destruction.

It had been covered in grass when he had come, having been summoned there in a kind of forced
Apparition, by Voldemort.

Now, it was bare, desolate, the grass scorched away.

He half-staggered, half-walked over to where Voldemort had been standing, looked down at the
hollow in the ground, scorched black, that was all that remained of Voldemort except for the single
slim piece of wood, Voldemort’s wand.

Slowly, wincing at the pain the movement caused, he bent and picked up the wand.

It was cold now, lifeless—and he somehow knew that it could never be used to perform magic
again. The phoenix feather in it could no longer serve as a conduit to magic for any wizard; it had
lost that magical property, forced from it through that last spell that had also separated
Voldemort from the magical semblance of life to which he clung.

Deliberately, he snapped the now-useless wand in two. Even if it was useless, he would not leave
it to become even a symbol for the scattered Death Eaters—the few living ones who had fled when
they’d realized that their master was gone. They would have to be hunted out—but that was for the
Aurors and the Order to do.

His work was done.

It was over.

He didn’t remember what spell he had used; he wasn’t sure he had ever really known it. At that
last moment, when he’d been straining to maintain the connection between his wand and Voldemort’s
and forced the beads of light back to Voldemort’s wand, he had simply felt words well up inside
him, from where he didn’t know, words to a spell he hadn’t known but somehow was sure, at that
moment, was the one spell he needed. Words to a spell he didn’t know—and for a moment, he saw a
glimpse of a man, dressed in clothes from another century long ago, dark-haired, and tall and heard
a voice saying, It is time to end this for good, the last defeat… You must end what I began…

He didn’t know how much time passed from the moment he shouted out the words until he realized
that Voldemort was gone and it was over. It was a blur of pain, of light, of sound—of magic.

And now, looking down at the two pieces of Voldemort’s wand in his hand, he felt the beginnings
of relief.

It was over and he was alive.

He was alive—although he knew, with a certainty that admitted no doubt, that he was only alive
because of the added strength and power which Hermione, Ron, Remus and Mrs. Weasley had given him.
It had been the power they’d given him that had made the spell effective. It had been their
sacrifice that had saved him…

For the first time since leaving Hogwarts, he allowed himself to think of her, his mind filling
with an image of her face- her eyes shining with tears, her lips trembling slightly as she tried to
smile without quite managing it—her voice as she said, “I love you…” An odd sensation that was part
gratitude, part relief, part worry—and was entirely love—pierced his heart.

He closed his eyes, one hand gripping his wand, the other holding the pieces of Voldemort’s
wand, gathering the last bits of his energy, felt the tingling sensation that accompanied
Apparition, and knew he was home. Home, at Hogwarts—and with her…

The distance from the edge of Hogwarts Anti-Apparition Shield around the school grounds and the
castle had never seemed so long as he forced himself to continue.

He needed to get to the castle- needed to see Hermione, make sure she was alright.

He shuddered to imagine how much pain she and the others would have felt, connected as they were
to him.

His steps quickened, his own pain receding from his thoughts as it was replaced by a sharp worry
for those people he loved, who had risked so much for him.

He needed to see them—for he knew that if anything had happened to any of them, the price for
victory would have been too high.

~*~

Pain.

Consuming her until her awareness of her surroundings vanished and all she knew was pain,
burning, searing agony.

She felt blackness overtaking her mind, oblivion which would provide welcome relief from the
pain—but not yet. She struggled, clinging to consciousness with everything she had in her. She
needed to know; she needed to stay awake until she knew—as somehow she was sure she would—that
Harry was okay and Voldemort was gone. She needed to know about Harry; she clung to that thought,
that one over-riding concern, steadfastly resisting the beckoning of release from the agony. She
needed to know…

And then she did.

From somewhere, some corner of her mind and heart, she knew. Maybe it was the added connection
they had that told her; maybe it was just her instinctive knowledge that he was no longer in mortal
danger. Whatever it was, irrational as it sounded even to her, she just knew. It was over.

She couldn’t smile, couldn’t even feel relief. She could only gasp, “Harry,” just that one word
which represented the reason for everything she’d done—before she lost the battle, slipping into
merciful unconsciousness.

He was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

Someone, probably McGonagall, had moved her from the “safe room” in the depths of the castle
where she, and Ron and Remus and Mrs. Weasley had waited after Harry’s departure, to the Hospital
Wing. Her body felt heavy and there was no pain and she knew she’d been given a Pain-killing
Potion.

He was lying in the bed next to hers which someone- she guessed it had been him- had pushed up
as close as possible to her own bed.

And his hand was holding hers.

She smiled through sudden tears.

It was over. Harry had done it; he had survived (she could hear his even breathing and it was,
at that moment, the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard). He was safe now.

And now she felt relief, so powerful and so heady it made her dizzy for a moment. After years of
worrying over Harry, her worst fears were over and Harry was safe. He was safe.

And that was all she needed to know.

She felt sleep overtake her again and let her eyes close. He was safe…

When she awoke again, it was to find him looking at her.

For a moment they just looked, letting their eyes wander over the other to reassure themselves
that each was relatively unharmed and in one piece.

She was the first one to speak. “Hi,” she said softly and even that most simple of greetings
somehow seemed profound in that moment of silent, powerful emotion.

“Hi.”

“How long- when did you get back?”

“Yesterday.”

The words were commonplace but they let their eyes say the rest.

I love you.

I love you. I’m so glad you’re okay.

I did it for you. I couldn’t have done it without you…

“How are Ron and Mrs. Weasley and Remus?” she asked in quick concern.

“Ron is sleeping still,” he said with a slight motion of his head to indicate a bed behind her.
“Mrs. Weasley woke up and insisted on being allowed to return to the Burrow with strict
instructions by Madam Pomfrey as to how often she needs to take the Potion she took with her. Remus
is fine; he woke up and is meeting with the Order, despite Madam Pomfrey’s orders to rest, to talk
about what to do now.”

She smiled, hearing the soul-deep relief in Harry’s tone that made his simple recitation of
facts so poignant.

“Then it’s really over.”

“Yes, it’s over,” he said soberly.

And finally, knowing that nothing would ever separate them again, slowly, he bent and kissed
her. Kissed her softly, tenderly, at first, and then deeper, as her hands tangled in his hair, her
arms drawing him down closer to her.

Kissed her as he knew he would gladly kiss her for the rest of their lives…

And felt the last remaining traces of fear and worry disappear for good, the final shadow cast
by Voldemort gone.

The war was over—and at that moment, with Hermione in his arms, his lips on hers, his last
thought before all thoughts vanished in a haze of desire, was that this was only the beginning. The
beginning of the rest of his life, the beginning of his freedom from a destiny he had never wanted…
This was only the beginning of love, that he knew would last forever and only grow stronger and
deeper with every day… Only the beginning…

**The End**



