Chapter 1
Godric’s Hollow, April 1998
Harry was dying. And there was nothing Hermione could do.
She sat on the freezing ground, the snow beneath her melting and seeping through her jeans, fusing the damp fabric to her legs. It was April—there shouldn’t have been snow. The stark white of it was beautiful, pristine. Ghastly, in contrast to the deep red of Harry’s blood.
She was shaking, though not from the cold—though it was cold. Their clothes were soaked through, heavy with blood, making the chill cut even deeper. Harry’s body sprawled across her, almost in her lap, his long legs stretched out to her right. He was slumped forward, his weight pressing against her, his head cradled against her neck. His breaths came slower now, softer, fading.
One of his hands rested in hers, sticky with blood, their fingers tangled against her chest. With her other hand, she gently carded through the messy strands of hair at the back of his head.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy,” she hummed softly, the words half-remembered from a song her father used to sing changing the pronoun to fit his beautiful girl.
She held her best friend tighter. She couldn’t lose him.
Harry knew he was going to die.
Similar to Sectumsempra, the curse ravaged his body, leaving deep lacerations and profuse bleeding. But any healing spell, any countercurse, only made it worse. Hermione had tried everything. Each time she sealed a wound, the skin would knit together for only a moment before splitting open again, as if he were being cut over and over. No magic could stop the bleeding.
He begged.
Begged her to stop.
It hurt too much.
And Harry was so tired of hurting.
Tears filled her eyes as she finally nodded, pulling him close. With a desperate twist, she disapparated them to the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow.
She didn’t know why she chose this place. She hadn’t thought of it since their visit in December. It looked the same—the snow-covered ground hiding any trace of the battle with Bathilda Bagshot. But she was glad. This was the closest thing to home that Harry had left.
They had managed to escape Malfoy Manor, Hermione bearing more scars than before. She hadn’t let herself think about the torture she endured. Dobby had whisked them away just in time, saving them—giving his life to do so. But in their desperation, they hadn’t realized someone had followed.
They had been too focused on Harry, sobbing over Dobby’s dying form, to notice. His small body shuddered with his last breath—
And then came the cackle.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
She had never been known for stealth, nor for patience. But while they were distracted, she had snatched Draco’s stolen wand from where Harry had dropped it, leaving them defenseless.
“Well, well,” she purred, a sadistic grin spreading across her face. “Today just isn’t your lucky day.”
She stood before them, her own wand trained on Harry, Draco’s clutched tightly in her other hand.
Harry had gone quiet. The tears had stopped altogether as he analyzed their situation. It didn’t look good, and they all knew it.
Ron, still supporting a trembling Hermione, was shaking with rage, his grip tightening as he glared at Bellatrix. She swung her wand toward him just as he slowly let go of Hermione.
“Tsk, tsk. Don’t do anything stupid now, you blood traitor weasel,” she hissed.
Hermione reached for Ron’s wrist, trying to pull him back. Now was not the time for his hot-headedness. But it was no use.
Bellatrix turned back to Harry—
And Ron lunged.
He moved to tackle her, but she was just a bit faster.
A jet of green light struck him in the chest.
The force of it sent him stumbling forward. He collapsed against her, dead weight knocking her to the ground.
Hermione let out a broken scream, barely forming the syllables of his name. She struggled to move, her limbs still sluggish from the lingering agony of the Cruciatus.
But Harry—something inside him snapped.
His mind barely registered Hermione’s cry, barely processed the way Ron’s lifeless body sprawled atop the woman who had killed him. He wasn’t thinking. There was no strategy, no plan. There was only the roaring in his ears, the unbearable weight crushing his chest.
Before he knew what he was doing, he moved.
His fingers closed around the wand Bellatrix had dropped. His grip was iron-tight, his breath ragged, shallow. He barely felt the way his hands trembled.
Bellatrix shoved Ron’s body off her and scrambled to her feet, her expression twisting into something delighted—something cruel.
She came face to face with Harry Potter.
And for the first time, he wasn’t just a boy who refused to kill.
For the first time, he wasn’t sure if he cared.
His hand was steady. His wand pointed directly at her.
But his mind was chaos. And she could see it.
“Come now, Potter,” she spat. “You’ve lost two in mere minutes to me—do you really want to lose everyone before dying yourself?”
She flicked her wand toward Hermione.
Too close. Far too close. Hermione barely registered how near she had drifted to the demented witch.
Harry’s breath came hard and fast, his chest heaving. His frantic gaze locked onto hers, pleading—Run.
No.
Hermione’s heart pounded. He was going to get himself killed.
But he was wordlessly begging her.
She swallowed hard, giving him the slightest nod.
“Expelliarmus!” he roared.
Hermione dropped to the ground, barely dodging as Bellatrix sent a curse flying in her direction. The ground pulsed with heat where the spell struck, sand hissing into the air.
Bellatrix had blocked Harry’s spell effortlessly. Now she was on the attack, flinging curses at him in rapid succession.
Hermione scrambled, eyes darting for anything—anything—that could be used as a weapon. In any other situation, she would have tried wandless magic, but she was too drained for that. Her body was still sluggish, her limbs unsteady.
Behind her, Harry and Bellatrix were locked in a duel, spells flashing between them. He was holding his own—of course he was—but Hermione hated feeling useless.
A glint of steel caught her eye.
Dobby.
The dagger was still lodged in his tiny body.
Summoning the last of her strength, she ran for it, skidding to a stop beside her fallen friend.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, gripping the dagger as she pulled it free.
Her hand trembled.
It was the dagger—Bellatrix’s. The very one that had torn through her own flesh. Dark magic pulsed from the blade, seeping into her skin, making the fresh wounds on her arm throb with renewed pain.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the agony away. Compartmentalize.
Not now.
Harry.
She had to help Harry.
Hermione turned just in time to see a jet of red light graze Harry’s shoulder. He barely staggered, already firing off another spell. The duel was evenly matched for now, but she knew—if only Harry would use lethal curses, he would overpower Bellatrix.
He would win.
But that’s not winning, he would say.
Her stomach twisted.
So Hermione watched. Waited. Searching for an opening, a single moment of hesitation. If Bellatrix faltered for even a second, Hermione would jump.
She wasn’t sure she could throw the dagger and land a killing strike, but she would if she had to.
But that would be a last resort.
She needed to get close.
Even if it cost her everything.
Even if she died doing it.
At least then Harry would have a chance.
Harry had to live.
Steeling herself, Hermione pushed to her feet, crouching low, and crept closer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her.
Hermione—low to the ground, dagger in hand, eyes locked on Bellatrix. She was inching closer, silent, waiting for her moment.
No.
His chest clenched. I can’t lose her too.
But the moment he looked at her—**the moment of hesitation—**Bellatrix struck.
A flash of deep umber.
Pain. All-consuming, blinding pain.
Harry’s world shattered.
Hermione saw the curse leave Bellatrix’s wand.
Everything slowed.
Ages seemed to pass before it reached Harry, before it slammed into him.
Ages that she was frozen.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t stop it.
And Harry hadn’t blocked it. Hadn’t even tried.
Because he had been looking at her.
Because there had been fear in his eyes.
The moment his agonized scream tore through the night, the world lurched forward again. Everything racing to catch up—his falling body, the impact as he hit the ground—
And Hermione could move again.
She ran.
Reaching for him, reaching for anything.
No.
No.
No.
Please.
His dark skin was vanishing beneath the thick red of his own blood, pouring from countless deep cuts.
Hermione grabbed for the wand slipping from his fingers, her hands slick with his blood. She dropped to her knees beside him—one hand gripping the dagger, the other clutching his wand.
She had to heal him.
Harry couldn’t die.
“Vulnera Sanentur!” she cried, her voice shaking as she cast the counter-curse for Sectumsempra.
Nothing happened.
“No!” she sobbed.
Behind her, Bellatrix laughed.
A shrill, wild sound.
“Not working, you stupid Mudblood?”
Hermione shook, casting every healing spell she could think of. Nothing worked. The wounds wouldn’t close. If anything, it was making it worse—making him hurt more.
“No. Please. No,” Harry gasped. Blood bubbled at his lips.
His fingers twitched weakly against hers.
“Not—Not me,” he rasped, scratching at the hand she had pressed over one of his worst wounds. He wanted her to stop. Wanted her to focus on the real threat.
Bellatrix.
Behind them, the witch smiled coldly.
“No need for that,” she purred. “The Dark Lord will be here soon.”
Hermione’s head snapped up just in time to see Bellatrix press her wand to the Dark Mark on her arm.
She didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.
She threw the dagger.
It hit its mark—burying deep into Bellatrix’s shoulder.
The witch shrieked in fury—
And Hermione disapparated, vanishing with Harry before Bellatrix could recover.
Without conscious thought, Hermione found herself **here—**in Godric’s Hollow—holding her dying best friend, trying her best not to sob.
He deserved peace. If she could give him anything, it would be that.
“’Mione.”
Her breath hitched. She looked down at the boy in her arms—because that’s what he was. A boy.
They were just children. And she had forgotten.
War ages you. If not physically, then mentally.
But now, looking at him—really looking—she saw it.
He looked so much like the eleven-year-old boy she had first met on the Hogwarts Express. Messy black hair flopping over his forehead, hiding the lightning-bolt scar that now spread outward like fractured glass. Glasses still slightly askew, the brown circle frames holding cracked lenses that warped his too-bright green eyes.
His face softened as the pain faded—his body losing too much blood to feel it anymore.
Hermione brushed a stray curl from his forehead.
“Shh. I’m here.”
A tear slipped free, landing on his cheek. She brushed it away with trembling fingers.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice broke.
“’M sorry. I couldn’t heal you, Harry. I—I can’t take your pain. I—”
His fingers tightened around hers.
“That’s because it doesn’t hurt. Not—not anymore.” His voice was weak, words slow and slurred. But steady.
“It’s—It’s okay, ’Mione,” he whispered, struggling to speak. “I’m not—scared.”
“No.” Her voice broke. “Harry.”
Tears blurred her vision, and she let them fall.
“It’s—It’s okay.”
“Harry.”
“’S okay, ’Mione.” His chest rose and fell in uneven, labored breaths. “It’s okay. It—It’s perfect.”
“No!” Hermione sobbed. It’s not fair. “Please. Harry, please.”
His lips curled into the faintest, softest smile.
“I’m in the arms of my best friend. My—My family.”
Hermione leaned over him, pressing her forehead to his, eyes squeezed shut.
“You—You have to live,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. “’Mione, you—”
“Shh, Harry.” She brushed the tears from his face. She couldn’t tell which were his and which were hers.
His grip tightened—just for a moment.
“Live.”
Something small and hard was pressed into her palm. His fingers curled around hers, one last time.
“I—I love—”
The words faded.
His breath shuddered out.
And then—
Silence.
Hermione inhaled sharply, her whole body shaking.
“I—I love you too, Harry.”
The words barely made it past her lips before a sob tore through her chest.
A broken, raw scream ripped from her throat as she rocked forward over his body, clutching his hand as if she could hold him here.
But he was gone.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, holding Harry against her chest.
The sky had begun to darken. His body had gone cold. His hair was damp where she had buried her face into his wild black curls.
Her back ached from curling over him for so long.
Her tears had dried.
And inside, she felt hollow.
She had nothing left to give.
No tears.
No words.
No cries to scream into this cruel, unfair world.
Slowly, carefully, she released him, easing his head onto a pillow of soft, pink-tinged snow.
Then she sat back, pressing herself against the cold stone of James and Lily Potter’s grave, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Only then did she unclench her fingers and see what he had given her.
A Time-Turner.
Her breath hitched.
She had no idea how he had gotten it. No idea why.
No idea what he expected her to do with it.
Her fingers curled around the delicate chain, gripping it tightly.
She sucked in a breath. What were you thinking, Harry?
Another breath—sharper this time. Why didn’t you use this sooner?
Another. Why now?
Another. Why me?
Another. I don’t understand.
Another. Please, Harry.
Another. Please come back.
Her breaths were coming too fast now. Too shallow.
Her chest burned. Her head pounded. Her body tingled.
She was shaking.
Come back.
Please come back.
I can’t do this without you.
A loud crack of Apparition shattered the silence.
Hermione’s breath caught.
For the first time since Harry had died, she registered the figures before her—all cloaked in black, their presence suffocating the graveyard air.
The one in front glided forward—his movements smooth, inhuman—stopping just feet from the body of her best friend.
From the depths of billowing black robes, a pale, skeletal hand emerged. Fingers unnaturally long, tipped with jagged black claws—discolored, sharp, curling like something rotten.
The hand rose, grasping the edges of a deep hood.
The fabric pulled back, inch by inch, revealing chalk-white skin, stretched tight like parchment over bone. A face more skull than flesh.
Slitted nostrils.
Thin lips curling in cruel amusement.
And eyes like embers—burning, snake-like, red.
Voldemort.
He stood still, silent, staring down at Harry’s broken body.
Hermione swallowed, her voice steady despite the devastation choking her lungs.
“He’s dead.”
A slow, eerie smile curled across his lips.
“The Boy Who Lived, lives no longer.”
His voice was quiet. Too normal. A cold whisper against the night.
Then—
“Bellatrix.”
Soft.
But dangerous.
Bellatrix collapsed at his feet, her wild curls spilling across the dirt.
“My Lord!” she gasped. “I—I am so sorry!”
She trembled, clutching at the hem of his robes.
“I didn’t mean to— I only wanted him to suffer while we waited for you!” Her hand shot out, pointing frantically at Hermione. “This filthy Mudblood—she stabbed me! She Disapparated!”
Her voice cracked into desperate sobs.
“Please! Please, my Lord! I am so sorry!”
Voldemort watched her.
Expressionless.
Then, ever so slowly, he blinked.
His clawed hand moved—long, sickly nails scraping gently down her cheek, a mockery of affection.
A contrast of blackened claws against pale, shaking skin.
“Crucio.”
He didn’t need a wand.
He barely whispered the word.
But Bellatrix screamed.
While he was distracted, Hermione moved—silent, quick, practiced.
The delicate chain of the Time-Turner slipped around her neck, falling into place between her collarbones.
She tucked it beneath her shirt, fingers brushing over the cool metal.
Bellatrix arched backward, her scream tearing through the night as she collapsed, writhing on the frozen ground.
Voldemort let her suffer.
For minutes, he simply watched, his expression unreadable.
Then—finally—he released the curse.
Bellatrix sobbed, her breath ragged, her entire body trembling.
“Please. Please. Forgive me.”
She repeated the words like a prayer, over and over.
Hermione barely heard her.
She watched. Waited.
Her fingers curled tighter around her wand, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She pressed the Time-Turner more securely beneath her shirt.
For a moment—just a moment—a thought crept in.
Maybe I should let him kill me.
Maybe it should all end here.
She could almost see it—Voldemort raising his wand, her body crumpling beside Harry’s, sinking into the bloodstained snow.
Maybe it would be easier.
But she knew better.
He wouldn’t just kill her.
And she would rather die than endure more torture.
LIVE.
Harry’s voice echoed in her head.
Live.
For Harry.
Her grip tightened around the Time-Turner.
I can save him.
I can go back. I can save him.
Another scream ripped through the night.
Bellatrix.
She convulsed as Voldemort wordlessly continued his torture. Then, with a flick of his clawed fingers, he silenced her with a wandless Silencio.
The witch still writhed, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
Voldemort turned to Hermione.
“What a shame,” he mused. “I had hoped to kill the boy myself. No matter. No more lives need be lost today.”
For a moment, Hermione was stunned.
She wasn’t the only one.
Behind Voldemort, Dolohov had removed his hood, his sharp sneer carved deep into his face. He looked as if he wanted to protest, but the sight of Bellatrix’s crumpled, trembling form seemed to give him pause. Hermione could see it—the hesitation, the way his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to object.
But he also wanted to live.
Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Voldemort let out a low, slithering hiss—almost resembling a chuckle.
“Join me.”
Hermione stilled.
“You are a very bright witch,” Voldemort continued, his tone almost persuasive, like he were offering her a gift. “Join me, and I will spare you.”
A short, broken laugh escaped her lips.
“Join you?”
She barely recognized her own voice.
Voldemort’s red eyes gleamed. “I will not ask again.”
Hermione stood.
She refused to bow. Refused to shrink under his gaze.
“No.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then—he nodded.
Almost…disappointed.
“No.”
His gaze slid past her, scanning the battlefield like she was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Very well.”
He turned to his followers, his eyes flicking over Bellatrix, as if he had momentarily forgotten her.
With a flick of his fingers, he lifted the curse, and the witch collapsed in shuddering relief.
“Dolohov.”
Dolohov straightened.
Voldemort’s voice was smooth. Final.
“Take care of the Mudblood. Make it quick. We have lingering embers of the Phoenix still burning.”
He turned away—but just before Disapparating, he paused.
Over his shoulder, his slitted red eyes flicked back toward Hermione.
A slow, cold smile curled his lips.
“They’ll burn out soon enough.”
And then—
He vanished.
One of the Lestrange brothers—most likely Bellatrix’s husband—scooped the trembling witch into his arms and Disapparated.
The others vanished in quick succession.
In the span of a single breath, they were gone.
And then—
It was just Hermione and Dolohov.
A slow, sinister smile spread across his face as he stalked forward.
Hermione raised her stolen wand. She needed time. Time to think. Time to calculate how far back she had to go.
But Dolohov wouldn’t give it to her.
So she attacked first.
With a flick of her wrist, she silently cast Reducto.
The curse shot toward him—
He sidestepped at the last second, barely deflecting it. His sneer faltered, as if he hadn’t expected her to strike so quickly.
Then—
“Oh,” he laughed, his voice curling with amusement. “This will be fun.”
His wand whipped forward.
Hermione blocked it.
Before he could cast again, she retaliated—“Langlock!”
The spell hit its mark.
Dolohov’s mouth snapped shut, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
His eyes burned with rage.
Without a sound, he slashed his wand in an arc, sending a streak of light purple slicing through the air.
Hermione Disapparated.
She reappeared behind him, closer to the entrance of the cemetery—
Too slow.
The curse caught her left side just as she vanished.
The impact was like fire tearing through her ribs.
Pain exploded from the wound, knocking her breathless. Her knees buckled, hitting the frozen ground hard.
Darkness crowded the edges of her vision.
She gasped, pressing a trembling hand to her side. Warm. Wet. Dripping red.
Her head swam. She tried to focus, but the world tilted violently—blurred white and grey streaks spinning around her.
Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of Dolohov—staggering, spinning wildly, searching for her.
Hermione cursed under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut.
Not now. Not yet.
She forced herself to breathe—deep, steady.
When she opened her eyes again, the world was still wobbly, but no longer spinning.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed up onto shaking legs, leaning heavily against the nearest tombstone.
She had to move.
Dolohov’s eyes found her.
His lips curled into a silent snarl, rage burning in his eyes. The Langlock curse still held—he couldn’t speak—but the fury radiating off him was deafening.
He stalked forward, wand raised, movements rigid with unchecked wrath.
Another light purple curse tore through the air.
Hermione barely had time to think. To react.
Desperation surged through her, raw and unfiltered.
She raised her wand.
And she meant it.
Every ounce of pain. Of fear. Of fury.
“Avada Kedavra!”
Green light burst from her wand, hitting Dolohov squarely in the chest.
His eyes widened.
His knees hit the ground first.
Then—his body crumpled.
Hermione froze.
For a moment—just a single heartbeat—she felt something cold sink into her stomach.
Dolohov wasn’t just a Death Eater. He had been a person. And now—
Now he was dead by her hand.
But there was no time.
No time to think. No time to feel.
Dolohov’s final curse was already upon her.
She had no shield. No defense.
The spell struck her dead center, hitting the concave between her ribs.
A blinding flash of white light swallowed the world.
Glass shattered.
Metal twisted and crumpled.
And then—
A violent pull yanked her backward, deep in the pit of her stomach—
Very, very fast.