Over the Thickening Fog

She's almost dead. I know. I' m watching, but my eyes are tuned away from the body. I should help her. Do everything I can to ensure her continuing life. Justify myself in goodness of a deed. It's not expected of me, I'm not going to move.

Dusk and deep water, I wouldn't have imagined the last battle this way. Water based. Beautiful scenery, really. We're on the coast of Scotland, and on a clear day you might see the outline of Ireland in the near distance.

Mist covered now, almost night. Darkness creeping under, and over the thickening fog. Can't see much.

She's so still, like a morbid beauty, awaiting that of which cannot be avoided.

Her hair lay like a pillow, surrounding her face. The shaded brush of it, wet from recent dew, and other things preferably unmentioned. And the almost dead white skin makes her thin dark eyebrows stand out.

Shallow breathing, and there are threatening drops of red murky blood crying from the corner of her full lips. It's creepy the way I can see it seep from between her white straight teeth. Cherry teardrops.

I've come to a decision. I'm protecting her. From everything evil that might ruin a peaceful death. Excluding me, of course. Doesn't matter though, I'm sure the mudblood doesn't even realise I'm here.

She coughs, wildly wracking her fragile body. My eyes widen considerably when I notice that now she's almost foaming blood at the mouth.

There's so much blood. I turn full bodily away. Now I know she's in pain. Maybe I should help her. You know, the limp form of your classmate dying a painful death because of something she can't control? Just because she's a mudblood and against your familial cause. . . .

Ahhhhh. This is too much. I'm not made for this kind of internal debate. It should be easy. I'm the bad guy.

She's trembling now, shaking lightly, almost to a quick beat.

'Avada Kedavra!' were the only words one could hear for miles it seemed. He ducked as green light flashed faintly above my head.

I dodged behind a tree, back pressed hard against the dark trunk. So I'm a coward. Potter's probably going to in any way, and then the less people I kill, the less likely I'm to be imprisoned later. I'm a broken piece of loyalty, only to myself.

After a second, I turn to watch, there are figures standing everywhere, lying lifeless too. Thin lines of out held wands pointed dangerously.

And there's Potter. Pothead and Weasel, I can't see Granger anywhere nearby. Weasel standing at his side protecting his back, every so often throwing curses at those who dare threaten his friend.

Voldemort is there too. Facing Pothead, looking as green as ever. This scene doesn't interest me very much, it's progressing as I thought it would.

Potter steadily gaining the upper hand as Voldemort's followers and power wanes.

I walk closer to the battle, and stumble head first over something odd. Scowling as I climb to my knees, I startle as I recognise Hermione's unconscious form.

I wince in jealousy at whomever got to her first. God, she looks messed up, her simple clothing wet with her own blood I'm sure. I dimly wonder if she's dead.

She looks so broken.

I stand and take a step closer, leaning in toward her face. She opens her eyes, barely a fluttering of her smooth dark lashes. Almost honey yellow eyes stare unfocused at my face. They close again.

I think she knows, and she's waiting.

There's a shriek, a painful sound to the ears, and a blinding black flash of light, which illuminates the clearing. Everyone stops.

But I don't turn.

I want to watch her die. I want to see that moment when she stops breathing, when the darkness leaves her ruined body.

I'm waiting.

She's not moving at all now. Still as the single white flower in my mother's garden on a windless day. I bend my knees and lean down to her chest, she's still breathing. Faintly though, faintly.

They've won now. The light side. Potter and Weasley are running anxiously around, ducking down, looking briefly at people standing. But as they continue, they sadly look down at the bodies too.

You know who they're looking for. And I feel satisfaction at having beaten them to her. But they'll find her soon, and by then I want to be gone, ere I might be blamed for her rather untimely death.

Turning my head form side to side, I watch, and pumping my arms in motion, I start to run. I don't go far though. I'm planning to see their faces when they find her.

Weasel is coming closer now, walking slowly, examining ever face he passes. But then he looks at what's just twenty feet from his nose.

He sees her hair. He is running now. Running to her body. It's not Hermione anymore. Just a now empty shell. He shouts and Pothead comes running faster.

He skids to a halt and falls ungracefully to his hands and knees. He shakes her shoulder and yells in her face. Weasel picks up the remains of her wand.

More people are approaching her now. They start to form a loose circle around the golden trio. For the last time.

I cock my head indifferently.

And I can hear them crying.