A Fate Worse Than Death

A Fate Worse Than Death

I hate all of them. I wish I could Crucio every single one of them, watching their limbs writhe helpless as they have made mine do, laughing at the pathetic sight. But, most of all, I wish I could Crucio myself for the rest of time to make myself pay for what I've done to her. Her, with flowing brown waves of hair and eyes that used to sparkle with joy and determination. With supple curves that I once held and delighted in. But now, I am far from that life - a life where I envisioned a future for us, one of a family of Quidditch-playing bookworms and a house with a pretty lawn next to Ginny and Neville's and Ron and Luna's. It would have a sign saying "The Potters," and sparkle with life. Just like we did. Now, all of that is just an impossible fantasy. Ron and Luna, and Ginny and Neville are all dead, killed by Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolohov. And Hermione's fate is worse than death.

We tried to hide the truth as long as we could - that she was no "Mudblood," but the last surviving descedent of Rowena Ravenclaw. During the Horcrux Hunt, she touched the diadem, and we knew that, as always, Dumbledore was right. Only the last living direct descendent can touch Ravenclaw's diadem without dying - or losing their intelligence and lapsing into madness. And, as soon as we knew, we grew even more afraid. Ravenclaw's last descendent was the key to securing the diadem, the lost Horcrux, and thus the key to winning the war. And, as soon as Voldemort knew Hermione's true identity, he would focus all his energy on getting her.

That night, we huddled by the fire, I promised her two things: that we would win the war, and that we would have our first time together. Neither came true.

He knew my weakness - saving people - too well. He captured Neville, Ginny, Ron, and Luna, knowing that I would go to save them, and that Hermione would, as always, come with me. And so we came. And then, I did something I will forever regret. I left her with them.

She urged me to leave her to defend herself, she pleaded, saying her life was not worth that of four others - it was, and is, worth that much and more - and told me to go, but that means nothing. I left her. With ten Death Eaters. She was disarmed an hour after I left. I made the decision to abandon her to that fate, and, for that, I am no better than Voldemort himself.

I returned 2 hours later in a mire of despair, tears, and anger. I had seen my four closest friends - they were more than friends, they were my family - die before my eyes, as I was put in a full Body Bind, helpless. Watching. Watching Luna and Ginny's rapes, Ron and Neville screams, and the horrible green light that engulfed them all. And Voldermort's taunting. "Your Mudblood is quite pretty, Potter. I have heard Lucius talk about exactly what he wants to do to her. Although, perhaps I will give her to Dolohov...he's been quite enamored of her since that bit of fun at the Department of Mysteries...But enough chatter about them, Potter. We must return to see your delicious mudblood. I wonder what excitement she's been involved in while we have been away." When he apparated me there, my scar burning out of my skull the entire way, I saw her struggling in Malfoy's as he lasciviously liked his lips.

But Voldermort did not pay any attention to that, and instead Summoned Hermione.

"My faithful Death Eaters, we are at the precipice of victory," he triumphantly hissed. "Yet one question remains to be answered: why the Mudblood Lucius holds at this moment can be so proficient in magic. And now, we will see if my theories are correct."

With that, he Summoned Ravenclaw's diadem, and thrust it at her. She instinctively cradled it. And then, laughing in triumphed, he shouted, "It is as I though! The Mudblood has been pretending this entire time! She is the last living descendent of Rowena Ravenclaw! We have won!"

At that moment, I gave up. Bound in unbreakable chains, guarded by Death Eaters at all times (including Snape, who enjoys tormenting me by recounting every detail of Dumbledore's death), I am helpless, trapped in my own personal hell. But all of this is nothing compared to the pain of seeing Hermione with that rat bastard of a man everyday. She agreed to marry him in exchange for my life. With his restored body, I can see why he was thought to be devastatingly handsome in his day. Ah yes, as I sit in my dungeon for eternity, praying for death's sweet release, I see, for a daily fleeting moment that is both my greatest joy and my greatest pain, the psychopathic murder who calls himself Lord Voldemort and his consort. She may be called Lady Voldemort by all, but, in my mind, she will always be what I whispered to her every night while she slept - Hermione Potter.