Chapter Text
Smoke drifted through the courtyard in thick, choking clouds, turning the air metallic with blood and ash. Spells still echoed faintly in the distance, but the battle was over. Voldemort lay defeated. The war was won.
But Harry Potter was dead.
Hermione’s knees hit the stone beside him before she’d even registered she was moving.
“Harry,” she whispered, pushing back his messy hair with shaking fingers. “Harry, wake up. Please—wake up.”
His glasses lay cracked beside him. His face was too still. Too pale. Too wrong.
Ron hovered near Hermione, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His voice cracked.
“He’ll be okay. He survived worse, didn’t he? He—he always comes back.”
Hermione didn’t look up. “Not this time,” she said, barely breathing the words. “Not this time, Ron.”
“What do we do?” Ron whispered.
Hermione drew in a sharp breath, eyes hardening as she looked at the objects Harry had fought so long to unite. The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Cloak.
“Harry didn’t want them used again,” she said. “No one should ever wield this kind of power.”
Ron nodded quickly. “Right. So let’s break ’em. Chuck ’em into the lake. Burn them.”
Hermione lifted the Elder Wand. Even touching it felt wrong—cold, heavy, ancient.
“I’ll destroy them,” she murmured. “For him.”
Ron took a step back. “Be careful, Hermione. Please.”
Hermione placed all three Hallows in a circle before her and raised her wand.
“Finite Incantatem—”
The ground trembled.
A wind roared around them, swirling the Hallows off the stone floor. Hermione gasped as they rose into the air, spinning like they were caught in a vortex.
Ron shouted, “Hermione, move!”
The Hallows ignited into silver-white mist, a brilliant storm of magic that wrapped around Hermione’s arms, her chest, her throat—every inch of her.
Her scream tore through the courtyard as the magic carved its way into her.
Ron lunged forward, catching her by the shoulders. “Hermione! Talk to me! What’s happening?!”
She collapsed against him, eyes glowing an unnatural, shimmering gold. Shadows rippled beneath her skin—alive, moving.
Finally she looked up at Ron, chest heaving.
“The Hallows didn’t break,” she whispered.
“They chose me.”
And then she fainted into Ron’s arms, the mist still sinking into her like ink.