Oh Hills and Mountains Plead for Me

None of them can believe this is happening.

It seems so...archaic, she thinks, unable to think of a better word. They had thought they would be safe now. Everything was over...finally, for good, they were at peace. They were supposed to be okay. Instead...this. And for something none of them could help...it hurts her badly.

And why didn't they take them all? Why just him? She can't help but wonder, as she struggles not to cry or panic.

Is it possible that they noticed him, but not them? That she somehow escaped their notice? Or...She glances at her companion. Is he right? Are they just randomly guessing?

She doesn't care anymore. She's too busy fighting back tears. She doesn't want to lose him.

He grimaces slightly as the rough-looking man tightens the ropes. The rough hemp cuts into his wrists, but there is nothing he can do about it. And he knows it's nothing compared to what was to come.

Biting his lip against a sudden wave of pain, he struggles to straighten under the weight of his heavy load. A whip suddenly lashes out, causing him to gasp with pain as it bites into his side, and a harsh voice commands him to get moving. Staggering slightly, he complies, leaving the courtyard and progressing up the narrow streets. A sign over an arch reads Senso Doloroso.

Whose idea was it to come here? he wonders. Was it his? Hers? Or his own? Probably they had all decided together. It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters now is the crowds that have lined the narrow streets. All of them are shouting at him, jeering, hurling epithets he wouldn't have wished on his worst enemy. A handful of little boys start throwing stones at him. He ducks as one nearly hits his eye, nearly blinds him, and it instead clatters harmlessly off of his burden. The whip bites into his ankle and he stumbles, but manages to keep his feet under him and continues walking. Each step sends up clouds of dust, making him cough and clinging to the shorts he has been allowed to wear.

He ignores the crowd, focusing instead on the path in front of him. His feet hurt, his back hurts, but there's nothing he can do. As he passes under yet another arch, as he approaches the edge of the city, he sees something that takes his mind off his pain. Two familiar pairs of eyes, wide with fear and sorrow, stare at him from in front of a building.

He grips her arm tightly when he comes into view. He knows she's ready to launch herself on top of him, but that would only get both of them hurt, maybe killed. He can't let that happen.

He's losing him. He won't lose her too.

Blue eyes meet green, but neither says anything. He can only watch in agony as he trudges resolutely up the dusty path, looking like he's in horrible pain but bearing up well. He grips her tightly to keep her back, even though he wants to run out there himself.

He walks right past them, not looking at them. He understands, but she does not and grips him. "He can't see us."

"He can see us fine," he says grimly. "Come on."

He knows what is going on. He doesn't want them there. He wants them to go where they don't have to see.

He can't bear to watch, but he can't leave him behind. So, gripping her hand tightly, he pulls her through the streets, keeping as close to the road as possible, keeping one eye on him and the other on her.

She really doesn't understand. She's used to being smart, to knowing the answer to every question, to understanding concepts months before her friends. But this is something that she doesn't understand. He seems to, though. She needs to ask him, but she's too afraid to open her mouth. She follows him through the streets.

Songs she knows, songs she hasn't sung in years, run like a litany through her head. Down the Via Dolorosa...Jesus, keep me near the cross...Rock of Ages, cleft for me...With a cross on your shoulder you climbed up the hill...

She sees him stumble, fall to his knees, and suppresses a scream. One of the soldiers shouts roughly, a whip cracks out, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly at the blow he knows is about to come...

He sees the blow being aimed, and his reckless temper gets the better of him. Letting go of her arm, he darts forward and catches the blow instead. The guard stares in astonishment as he slowly raises his eyes to his friend.

"Stop that," he says, breathing hard. "That won't help. Can't you see he's hurt?"

The guard sneers at him. "Are you going to help him?"

Without answering, he kneels and puts an arm around his waist. "Are you okay?" he whispers.

He looks up with haunted eyes. "You shouldn't be here," he whispers back. "I'm fine. You've got to get back to..." He glances to the side of the street, where she stands, her fist jammed firmly in her mouth.

He swallows, helps him to his feet. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Go on. And get out of here. You don't need to see--"

But he is already scuttling off to the side, glancing worriedly back at him, as the guard orders him to get moving again.

The pain is worse now. She saw him fall. He knows that worried her more. He wishes that he would take the hint and get her out of there...but no, they're still there, by the side of the road, pushing through the crowds and keeping pace with him. He doesn't want them there, doesn't want them to see...but he knows there's no putting them off now. They've left the city, they're heading up the path...oh, God, no, he can see the hill, see the people clustering around. He knows what's coming, knows what's going to happen next.

He isn't ready yet.

She stumbles as he half-drags, half-carries her up the hill. She could ask him to slow down, but she doesn't want him to. She doesn't want to see what will happen at the top of that hill, but yet at the same she does, so badly--she wants to see him one last time, to be there at the end. She doesn't know how hard it's going to be, but she suspects she won't be able to see for crying.

She wonders how he feels about this. Does he blame himself? Suddenly a horrible thought comes to her--does he blame her? Is it her fault that this is happening? Because she couldn't stop it?

She gives a small sob and stops. He turns and looks at her anxiously, still holding her wrist. "What? What is it?"

She looks up at him, feeling tears well up in her eyes. "This is my fault, isn't it."

"No!" He grips her shoulders, staring at her intently. "No, it's not," he repeats emphatically. "None of us could have foreseen this. None of us were any good at Divination, after all." She laughs a little in spite of herself. "Please. Don't blame yourself. It's bad enough losing--him--without losing you too."

She swallows hard, then glances at him. "Oh, no. Come on, we're losing them--they're almost to the hill."

He looks around with grim satisfaction as he crests the hill. They seem to have gone. Good. He doesn't want them to see.

Suddenly he sees them push their way to the front of the crowd. Her face is pale and pinched; he looks younger than he's looked in years. He shakes his head frantically, trying to tell them to go away. He shakes his head back. They won't leave.

He tries to bear up bravely as they untie his wrists and lay the heavy burden down flat. Two guards grab him and push him onto the thing; they hold him down while the third picks up his tools. Something balances lightly on his palm; he realises with horror that it is a very sharp, heavy nail. He wants to pull away, but the men holding him down are very strong. Moreover, he sees them watching and knows he cannot show his pain. He takes a deep breath and braces himself as the man raises his mallet.

He can see his fingers curl upwards with each strike of the hammer. He can feel his own face turning paler and paler, and every time the strokes of the hammer sing out a tremor runs through her body. He holds her around the waist, supporting her and keeping her from launching herself at him, ripping the nails from his hand.

The guard tugs at his hand a couple times, then nods, obviously satisfied, crosses to the other side, and repeats the process with his second arm. He can see him struggling, struggling to get away, struggling against the pain, but it is all to no avail. The guard finishes in a matter of seconds, then moves to his feet, holds them together, balances the spike, and drives it into the feet. He can hold it back no longer and cries out in pain.

She moans and collapses against him, shaking; he holds her tightly, eyes fixed fearfully on him. The cry made it real. He really has to go through this.

He hadn't meant to cry out; he hadn't wanted to worry them, but it is too late now. He manages to keep silent as they finish driving the spike through his feet, nailing them to the wooden beam, but his hands and his feet are now so sore it is almost unbearable.

The guards start to raise him up. Before he is all the way up, one of them stops the others, then hangs something on his neck. He points and shouts, and they all laugh.

The something is a sign, hand-lettered and bearing a single word, a single, damning word. Strega--Witch.

They raise him the rest of the way up, plant him firmly in the soil, then back up. One spits at him. "Strega! Diablo! Bambino del Maledetto!" Witch! Devil! Child of the Damned!

"Vada di nuovo al vostro padrone, strega!" someone else shouts. Go back to your master, witch!

"Così sempre ai diavoli!" the head of the guard roars to the crowd, waving at him. Thus always to devils!

"Coraggio, bambino," a soft voice whispers from nearby. "Gli amici sono vicino." Courage, child. Friends are near.

He raises his head, turns towards the voice. And there they are, both of them, standing just on the other side of the guards, watching him anxiously. Neither of them spoke, but he feels better just knowing his mysterious voice was right. Friends are near.

They begging with the guards. Three hours have passed. He is getting weaker. She wants so badly to see him, to touch him, one last time before he dies. But the guards (as near as she can tell; she does not speak much Italian) are set at naught; they cannot go near him.

He begs hard. "Please...erm...per favore? He's our...I mean, È nostro...no, wait, dammit, that's not what I mean. We want to--er, noi desidera vedere...Oh, come on, can't you just let us see him?" he pleads. "He's our best friend, we deserve to see him!"

"Questa strega maledetta può parlare a nessuno!" the head guard shouts at him. "Il soggiorno indietro o esso può affliggerlo!" This damned witch may speak to no one! Stay back or it may afflict you!

"Dio Onnipotente!" Almighty God!

She clings to him fearfully and turns towards the source of the voice. An old crone hobbles up to them, shaking her stick at the guards and glowering fiercely.

The head guard laughs. "Vada di nuovo alla vostra cottura, donna anziana." Go back to your cooking, old woman.

The old woman shakes her stick again. "Lo denominate cieco, signore, tuttavia è voi che non possono vedere! Lo denominate sordo, tuttavia sembra che non potete sentirsi! Vedo che questi bambini amano quel ragazzo sulla traversa. Mi sento che il loro soltanto desiderio deve vederlo una nuova volta. Non potete vedere? Non potete sentirsi? Avete nessun cuore, il signore, che lascereste quel ragazzo morire, rifiutantegli un ultimo bit di amore su questa terra?" You call me blind, sir, yet it is you who cannot see! You call me deaf, yet it seems you cannot hear! I see that these children love that boy on the cross. I hear that their only wish is to see him one more time. Can you not see? Can you not hear? Have you no heart, sir, that you would let that boy die, denying him one last bit of love on this earth?

The guard seems uncertain. "È una strega. Li danneggerà." He is a witch. He will hurt them.

"No, nipote, non, perché lo amano e li ama," the old woman says sadly. No, grandson, he will not, because they love him and he loves them.

The guard hesitates a moment longer, then bows and steps aside. "Come desiderate, Nona." As you wish, Grandmother.

She hasn't understood a word that's been said...she doesn't speak very much Italian. He tugs her hand. "Come on," he murmurs softly. "That old woman managed to convince them to let us see him."

They move forward hesitantly. She turns and looks at the old woman. "Grazie, signora," she says in halting Italian. Thank you, ma'am.

The old woman smiles and speaks slowly. "È niente, bambino. Nient'altro del Bianco Bombo lo avrebbero desiderato fare per i suoi bambini." It is nothing, child. No more than Albus Dumbledore (she knows his name meant White Bumblebee) would have wanted me to do for his children.

He looks at her in surprise and manages a shaky smile. "Grazie, signora," he repeats.

The old woman shakes her head. "No, bambino. Denominilo Strega Nona." No, child. Call me Grandmother Witch.

They both blink in surprise, but the guards do not react. Finally, he nods. "Grazie, Strega Nona."

The old woman smiles again and leaves. He watches for a second, then grabs her hand and hurries her over to the cross.

He licks his dry lips and looks down at them in surprise. He speaks even less Italian than she does, he didn't understand anything that was said. "What are...how did you..." he says hoarsely.

He looks up at him sadly. "That woman told the guards to let us come see you."

He manages a shaky smile. "I'm glad...we've got someone on our side."

She reaches out like she wants to touch him, but stops. "Are...does it hurt a lot?"

Does it hurt a lot? he thinks to himself. No, not really, I've just got ten-inch spikes driven through my hands and feet is all...He gives her a reassuring sort of smile. "I've had worse."

She shakes her head, tears pouring down her face. "I believe you."

She is trembling madly; he puts an arm around her, comforting her, holding her close. He watches longingly, wanting to be the one holding her but knowing he would never touch her again.

Clouds are gathering overhead. He looks at him, pleadingly, desperately. "Take...take care of her for me."

"You know I will," he promises, looking intently into his face.

"Good." He manages a grin. "I'm going to miss you guys."

"We'll miss you too," he says quietly. She nods, still crying.

He looks down at her. "One last favour?"

"Anything," she promises, a sob in her voice.

He gives her the look they both know and love so well as a low rumble of thunder sounds. "Smile for me?"

She looks at him in shock, then slowly smiles through her tears. Warmth spreads through his body and he smiles back. "Thanks. I think I'll be all right now."

The thunder rolls again. He looks up at the sky and softly murmurs, "Roll of thunder, hear my cry..."

She joins him. "Over the waters, by and by..."

He joins them both, finding strength from God knows where. "Ole' man comin' down the line...Whip in hand to bear me down..."

"But I ain't gonna let him turn me 'round," he finishes in a whisper.

He has tears in his eyes now. "Oh, mate..."

He pulls her closer to him as the sky grows darker and another peal of thunder claps over them, this one louder. He gives them a loving smile. "I love you guys."

"We love you too," he chokes. "Don't you ever forget that."

He chuckles weakly. "I won't." He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "I'm not ready for this."

She finds her voice, or at least part of it; it's very high and squeaky. "What makes you think we are?"

He grips her tightly. "But we're down here. He's up there," he reminds her.

"True," she says, leaning her head on his shoulder. "But we've got to live with it."

"Hey, you'll be okay," he says soothingly. He smiles at the little picture they make. "You've got each other."

He lets his hand play over her hair. "That's true."

He closes his eyes again, grinding his teeth against evident pain, then raises his eyes to the heavens, the surrounding hills, and the distant mountains. "Oh, hills and mountains, plead for me!" he cries out.

A thunderclap, the loudest yet, sounds overhead; she clings to him tightly. All around them are whispers: "Strega...strega...strega..."

One wizened old man, leaning heavily on a cane, points a quavering finger at the now-black skies. "Sciocchi!" he shouts. "Ciò è il lavoro nè della strega nè del diavolo! Ciò è la rabbia del dio che discende su noi per il danno dell'uno dei suoi propri!" Fools! This is the work of neither witch nor devil! This is the anger of God descending on us for harming one of his own!

The old woman next to him, the woman who calls herself Strega Nona, nods sagely. "Il ragazzo è non colpevole, come Christ egli stesso era il quel venerdì santo." The boy is innocent, as Christ was on that holy Friday.

She looks at him in agony, then reverts her gaze to him. He looks at them both...and smiles...and suddenly goes limp.

"Ron?" Hermione whimpers. She reaches out and touches his feet...then suddenly crumples in half, sobbing hysterically.

Harry holds her, supports her, kneels on the ground with her and hugs her, all the while crying himself. There is another thunderclap, the rain begins to fall, but neither of them move, even as the spectators run for cover. They both remember a song they heard, barely months before: And all of heaven weeps...

Harry looks up sadly at the limp, battered body of his best friend, then suddenly stands and marches resolutely over to where the head of the guard still stands at attention. "What are you going to do with the body?"
The man shrugs. "You can have it, for all I care. Save me having to bury it." He nods to one of his guards; they march over to the cross, push Hermione out of the way, and take it down. She stares in surprise as they pry the nails out of his hands and feet, then roll the body into a cloth.

Harry comes back, his face set in a grim mask. "Come on, 'Mione. Let's get him out of here."

They bury him in the nicest place they can find, in the mountains overlooking the lake, overlooking Hogwarts. Overlooking the place where all of his family died, where their childhoods came to an end...where they made the fateful decision to leave the country, leave the memories. They cling to each other over his grave and cry.

Suddenly both of them feel warm, like they've been hugged, and a soft voice whispers on the wind. I love you guys, and I'll never forget you. I'll always be with you...as long as you don't forget me.

Never, Ron, they both promise silently, clasping each others' hands. Semper memini.