Out of Time

Chapter 59

The dragon roaring makes her lose her nerve. She was almost ready to do it, had almost gathered the courage... and now she cowers in place with her hands over her head, stifling a shriek at the roar wreaking havoc in her ears.

It's immediately followed by flame, which Hermione innately assumes is aiming for them. She simply hunkers down and waits for sheer immolation.

It doesn't come. Why doesn't it? She finally peers through a crack in her forearms to see the dragon facing outward. When had it moved so close? She can't possibly stay this ignorant to her surroundings and survive this. She knows it but her mind is a whirl, a sheer scramble of what to do next and how to do it.

With the dragon's recent participation, she's begun to sweat. It's not helping. Her palms were already clammy. Now they're also slick and she wraps her second hand around her first to steady it. Her thumb presses next to her wrist bone and she pretends it's Draco's thumb, lending strength.

She stands upright again, blocking out everything else. Is this wise? Probably not, but she can't juggle more than this one monumental thing.

Pointing her wand at Harry with both hands, arms outstretched, Hermione feels rather like the Muggle police aiming a gun at a suspect. She's seen it on the telly at her parents, but she can't think about her parents right now, either. Her heart hammers away unchecked. The air around her feels too thin.

What if she's wrong?

What if she's wrong?

Harry just lies there, semi-conscious. He's murmuring slurred words while his shaking hand tries to find his forehead, but he misses most of the time. It makes Hermione's heart ache. This can't go on and she knows what's wrong and she knows how to fix it. She's the only one who can.

Well, that's not true. Anybody could kill Harry, really (although her mind recoils from the thought), but Hermione's the only one who can do it with full knowledge of what she's doing. What she's risking. And she's the only one who can do it with mercy in her heart.

Does it have to be the killing curse? She doesn't know. She doesn't have time to weigh alternatives. Nothing sounds worse than slicing him open to bleed out. Everything she knows about the killing curse is that it's otherwise immaculate. No injury. No outward signs at all. That's what she wants for Harry, even if it slices her soul in two.

She has to mean it.

She has to mean an Unforgivable Curse. She can't do it by halves. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and she inhales deeply, trying to stave off the trembling in her hands.

"'Mione, what are you doing?"

She can't listen to Ron. She can't argue the point. They might not have time. No; they definitely don't have time. Some part of her hears Bellatrix Lestrange cackle in the distance (but not too distant, her brain screams in writhing panic) and she forces these memories out.

If she shakes too badly she'll miss. She'll miss and this will be for naught.

She has to mean the curse, must have all her intent behind the spell, and she gathers her knowledge of the incantation and magic behind her fingers.

Harry won't hurt anymore. His headaches will be gone. No more visions, no more nightmares, no more driving misery and agony and guilt. No more pain. No more hiding it from them, or trying to. No more smothering it down on anybody else's account. Hermione can make it go away, forever.

And if Harry dies, too?

The lump in her throat stops the words from leaving. No, no, no! She can't baulk now. She has to mean it, and she does. She doesn't want to lose Harry this way, but if it ends his misery and suffering... she knows in her heart that Harry would volunteer for this. He would do it himself if he could, if he understood, and...