Forged

*3 Years After the Battle of Hogwarts*

Hermione woke to the sound of wailing. Each of her senses made a slow return to her body. One by one. Despite the crescendo of sound downstairs, her sense of smell demanded the most attention. Something smelled horrible…musky, metallic, and acrid all at once.

She blinked slowly trying to adjust her eyes in the darkness. The woman cried out again so loudly that she could hear it from her bedroom several stories above the main floor of Grimmauld Place.

She slowly closed her eyes again and listened, but didn’t move an inch. A shrill scream reached her again and Hermione felt an ominous sense of dread flood through her.

She knew that sound.

It was a cry born from grief so strong that nothing could relieve it. She’d heard that sound many times in the recent months, but something in her gut told her that this would be different. Perhaps it was that she recognized the woman’s voice. Perhaps it was the empty hole in her heart that she could already feel growing. Either way, she knew there was no fixing whatever was waiting for her downstairs.

It was better to collect these few moments of blissful ignorance. They were like the last grains of sand falling through an hourglass. So precious and few.

She lay still for a few more minutes in the dark. She focused on the feel of the wind through her open window, knowing its dance on her exposed skin would never feel the same.

She could hear the footsteps of others rushing down the stairway to observe the chaos below. All of them were so eager to learn of the terrible things that waited there. What was the point in rushing into hell? Was the pain of not knowing worse than the pain of discovery? Hermione wasn’t sure. When she was sure the entirety of the inhabitants of Grimmauld place had passed her door in their dash to the commotion, she decided she could not delay any longer. Inch by inch she pulled the covers off of herself, then slowly swung her legs to hit the floor. With measured steps, she walked to the door.

Steeling herself, she took a deep breath. Slowly, she turned the doorknob and stepped into the hallway. More voices joined in the cries of the crowd below. Some she recognized, others she didn’t. Each layered atop the other. Gasps and moans and screams all sewn into a haunting melody. It didn’t matter at this point. She knew what had happened. She wasn’t sure how she knew… but she did. Her soul already privy to something her mind had yet to accept.

Each step down the stairwell echoed in the old house. She gripped the railing until her knuckles turned white. She willed the stairs to continue forever so that she would never reach the bottom. Alas, magic had to be more than wished into existence. As she hit the first floor landing below, silence greeted her. The group must have heard her coming. Half of the heads turned and looked at Hermione with bated breath and solemn eyes. They formed a loose circle around a figure on the floor. The other half soothed red-haired figures scattered across the room in varying states of distress.

Suddenly, Hermione felt very, very sure that she might not survive what undoubtedly sat in the middle of the circle. Her heart was racing as she prepared to flee back up the stairs.

A sharp inhale to her right drew her eyes away from the obscured figure on the floor. Harry stood a few feet away in his night clothes and a robe. He stood so still that Hermione wasn’t sure if he was breathing.

After a few beats of silence, he slowly turned and looked at Hermione. His green eyes slammed into hers with so much understanding that the breath knocked out of her.

He knew. Just as surely as she had known from the moment she heard the wails of Molly Weasley and had faintly smelled burnt flesh wafting through the house. He had probably felt the gaping hole in his soul just as starkly as she had. Three parts no longer whole.

And if he knew, then she could no longer pretend.

This must be hell, Hermione thought. Didn’t hell smell like this? Sound like this? Maybe she had died and was finally paying for her sins. Merlin knew there were many.

Tears welled in her eyes as Harry reached out to her with his hand. She shook her head at him weakly and took a step backwards.

“Hermione,” he said, voice cracking.

“Harry,” she pleaded… for what she didn’t know.

He just stared and left his hand in the air.

It was the resolution in his eyes that made her take it. Tears immediately slipped down his cheeks as they intertwined their fingers. He looked at her as if asking a question. She knew what he meant immediately and nodded her head.

Yes. They would do this together. The three of them. One last time.

Slowly they walked hand and hand into the circle of crying witches and wizards. The group stepped almost reverently out of their path. No one dared to make eye contact.

When they reached the middle, Hermione forced herself to look immediately, for fear she never would if she let herself wait.

On the floor, burnt beyond recognition was Ron Weasley. There was no question that he was dead.

As soon as Hermione saw him she broke. Wails as profound as Mrs. Weasley’s filled the air. She had known, but seeing is different than knowing.

She dropped to her knees next to him and screamed. Harry hit the ground next to her, hand still entangled with hers.

Distantly, she heard Harry ask someone, “Who did this.”

Hermione could hear the murder in his voice. No one answered and she knew why. The rational part of her in some dark, distant corner of her mind secretly hoped no one would tell him, for she knew he would never stop once he had a name. But she was beyond reason, and that voice in her head was effectively silenced by her more imminent emotions. As she wiped her eyes to get a better view of the damage, her heart split more in two.

How could she say goodbye like this? It wasn’t even Ron. It was just a body that had failed him. Failed to protect his laugh and smile. Failed to bring him home. Failed to shield him from pain.

Suddenly enraged, she turned in the general direction Harry had spoken and snapped, “Tell him!”

A faint voice whispered tentatively, in a tone of fear that she could not tell whether was incited by herself, Harry, or the name it bore. She didn’t care either way.

“Draco Malfoy.”