I’m going to die.
The thought settled like a thick blanket over Hera’s mind, suffocating in its finality, pressing against her chest until her frantic heartbeat felt like an unbearable drumbeat, too loud, too fast, beating against her ribs almost painfully.
This is it. Everything that happened, everything I endured, was leading to this exact moment.
Hera never considered herself particularly selfish, but just this once, she wished she could be. Just this once, she wished she could reject the burden thrust upon her when she had been a child too young to make a decision on her own.
She didn’t want to be the Chosen One. Or their hero. She didn’t want to have a destiny. Or be a warrior in a war she never started.
She didn’t want to fight a wizard who was older, crueler, and far more experienced than she was.
She just didn’t want to die.
But no one had ever asked her what she wanted.
She was meant to be courageous, noble, unwavering—a Champion of the Light and a beacon of hope. She was meant to march toward death with her chin held high and her heart full of righteousness, rallying people behind her for a cause she didn’t even care about.
Instead, she clutched the Resurrection Stone like a lifeline, her fingers pressing into the smooth surface as though she could anchor herself to something beyond the inevitable. Her mother’s ghost, ethereal and gentle, smiled at her with pride, whispering reassurances of her bravery. But Hera wondered if her mother would think her a coward if she knew the truth—if she knew how badly Hera wanted to run, how badly she wanted to turn tail and leave everyone to fight their lost battles on their own.
Once upon a time, she would have given everything to see her parents again, to hear their voices and feel their embrace. But she had grown up. The wishes of a lonely child were just that—childish wishes made when the loneliness had become too unbearable. She had built a family of her own, and that family meant more than the ghosts of a past she could never truly reclaim.
But Hermione and Ron were both dead. There was no one left.
Her lower lip trembled, and she wiped at her eyes furiously, as though sheer will alone could erase the grief suffocating her. Her gaze found Sirius, the closest thing to a father she had ever known.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered, barely more than a croak. “Dying?”
Sirius’s expression darkened, his guilt plain on his spectral face, as though he blamed himself for her fate, as though he wished he could change it.
“Quicker than falling asleep,” he said, voice soft, but she could hear the sorrow beneath it.
She nodded, glancing down at her worn shoes, the dirt and scuff marks on them feeling far too significant in that moment. Then her father spoke.
“You’re nearly there, my sweet girl.”
Hera inhaled sharply, the breath rattling through her. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I never wanted any of you to die for me. I never asked for any of this.”
She looked at their faces. Her parents who had died at the hands of a madman too afraid of his own ending, Remus who had been one of the few to treat her like the child she was when he first met her, who had never asked her to do the impossible. Sirius, who, despite being in hiding for most of the time he had been free, had cared for her like his own daughter, who had been the father to her that she had never had.
“We know, sweetheart,” her mother said, and Hera’s vision blurred further. “No matter what happens, no matter what you decide, we will always be proud of you. We will always love you.”
“Even if I run?” she asked bitterly, voice cracking with emotion. “Even if I’m a coward?”
Her mother smiled, full of love and understanding. “Even then.”
Hera nodded jerkily, barely able to swallow past the lump in her throat. “You’ll stay with me?” she asked, though it wasn’t a question. It was a desperate plea, the words of a frightened child going to her death.
Her father smiled, soft and gentle. “Until the end.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. At least she wouldn’t be alone.
“And he won’t be able to see you?” she asked, needing to be sure.
“No,” Sirius said, placing a hand over his heart. “We’re here.”
Hera made a small, broken sound in the back of her throat. She looked at her parents one last time, memorizing their faces, before taking a deep breath, squashing down the part of her that was screaming for her to turn around and run and never look back.
Then she moved.
The clearing was silent as she stepped forward, her heartbeat a hammer against her ribs.
“Hera Potter. The Girl Who Lived,” Voldemort intoned, his voice smooth as silk, his wand rising ever so slightly. His crimson eyes gleamed, unreadable in the dim light of the Forbidden Forest. “Come to die.”
I always hated that moniker.
Her hands were clammy. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to flee, to fight, to do something. But she had made her choice and she would not run from it.
“My Lord,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “May I speak?”
The Death Eaters stirred at the words, murmurs of confusion rippling through the group. Even Voldemort himself seemed momentarily caught off guard. Then, curiosity flared in his eyes, and he gave her a slight nod.
Hera reached into her pocket, withdrawing a folded piece of fabric—her Invisibility Cloak. Slowly, deliberately, she held it out.
“This is my Invisibility Cloak,” she said. “One of the Deathly Hallows.”
A flicker of interest crossed Voldemort’s face.
She stepped forward, pulling the Resurrection Stone from her other pocket and placing it atop the Cloak.
“And this is the Resurrection Stone. With the Elder Wand, they make one the Master of Death.”
Voldemort’s expression darkened with desire, but suspicion lurked beneath it. “Why?” he asked, his voice sharp.
Hera looked away. “I never wanted this war,” she admitted. “I fought you because you would have hurt Hermione if I didn’t. But Hermione is dead. Ron is dead. There is no one left to fight for.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Hera placed the Hallows on the forest floor and took a step back.
The Death Eaters stilled as they watched Hera straighten herself again. Their eyes flickered from their Lord, to Hera, to the Deathly Hallows so readily given to a wizard most would claim was a madman. Seconds ticked past and the silence became deafening. Unbearable.
Bellatrix was the one to break the quiet blanketing the clearing. Her painted lips curled in disgust, her fingers tightening around the handle of her wand.
“A trick,” she sneered, taking a single step forward, the madness in her mind cloying the air around her. “My Lord, she-“
Voldemort lifted a hand, effectively silencing the mad witch instantly. Gleaming red eyes regarded the girl in front of him, suddenly unsettled by the realisation that the young witch was an unwilling participant in Dumbledore’s crusade against him. The part of him that valued magic above all else, acknowledged that Hera had been wronged by the people who was supposed to look out for her and had driven her to her death there in that forest. Magical blood wasted for nothing.
His thoughts were halted when she spoke again.
“My Lord,” she said, tilting her chin up and meeting gleaming red eyes. “Before I die, may I ask for one last wish?”
Voldemort studied her, then inclined his head. “Speak.”
She smiled, sharp as broken glass. “The world never cared for us,” she said, her green eyes almost glowing like the green of the Killing Curse. “Make them pay.”
A slow smile spread across Voldemort’s thin lips. He nodded once, as though in silent agreement and lifted his wand, aiming it at her chest.
A faint breeze stirred her hair, a feather-light caress against her cheek. The only farewell she would ever receive. The scent of pine lingered in the air, crisp and cold. A strange calm settled over her, a weightless kind of peace slowing her heartbeat.
Hera did not hear the incantation.
She closed her eyes on the world who had so cruelly abandoned a lonely child desperate for a place to belong.
A single tear fell.
The graveyard in Godric’s Hollow was quiet. Somewhere in the distance of the small village he could hear Christmas carols. The snow crunched beneath his boots, his dark robes standing stark against the white-dusted ground.
He stopped in front of a simple marble gravestone. With a whispered spell the snow that had covered the stone vanished.
Another spell. A simple wreath of white roses appeared at the foot of the gravestone.
Long thin fingers brushed against the name carved into the stone briefly before clenching into a fist at the wizard’s side.
“The world never cared for us, little snake,” he murmured, the words a gentle caress. “I will make them suffer for it.”
The Dark Lord stared at the letters carved into the stone, eyes unblinking. Then, in a rare moment of respect, he bowed his head slightly towards the grave.
The moment passed like a breath of winter air. Then, the Dark Lord was gone, leaving behind only white roses and the whisper of a promise in the wind.