Captured

Chapter Forty-Two: Survive

Luna was dead.

Tonks was dead.

Lupin was dead.

Draco was dead.

And now Harry... Harry was dead.

Because that was his body being carried in Hagrid's large arms, cradled like a child.

Hermione didn't feel the tears spilling down her cheeks like rain, didn't feel the warmth of the rising sun, didn't feel the pain ricocheting through her body from the injuries she'd sustained throughout the night.

She didn't see the vicious, serpentine smile of triumph on Voldemort's cruel face, didn't see the rose and tangerine hue cast on the broken castle with the rising dawn, didn't see the Weasleys breaking next to her.

She didn't hear the cries of mourning breaking through the mist, didn't hear the jeers of the approaching Death Eaters, didn't hear the protests of disbelief from those who couldn't accept it.

She felt nothing else.

She saw nothing else.

She heard nothing else.

Nothing but him.

Everything narrowed to Harry's form, being laid at Voldemort's feet. As if he was nothing.

It was over.

It was all over.

The snake lived. It writhed around Voldemort's shoulders like a perverted necklace, a trophy that represented nothing but their failure. Maybe... maybe she could get to it, somehow. Maybe she could survive long enough to kill it. She clenched the last Basilisk fang, still in her pocket, tightly.

She would not let all that death be for nothing.

Even if she went down trying.

Even if she didn't live to see their victory.

Ron would still be here, would know what to do, would know it meant that Voldemort was finally, finally human enough to kill.

She took a step forward, analysing every face on the other side of the divide in the courtyard, looking for any weakness.

Maybe she could imperio someone to kill the snake for her.

But it was a living Horcrux – would the normal means of destruction apply to it? Or would it survive even the killing curse? Voldemort had...

But before she could think of a next step, Neville was moving forward.

"And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?" Voldemort's voice was as soft as a whisper, though it carried through the now silent courtyard. Hermione's heart stopped. Neville, kind, sweet Neville, was facing the most powerful dark wizard of their age.

He would never survive.

Bellatrix's high, cruel giggle tinkled through the cool air before she answered her master in a mock whisper, "It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember." Voldemort surveyed Neville's dirty, bruised form limping towards the centre of the divide between the Death Eaters and those against. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?"

"So what if I am?" spat Neville, more vicious than she had ever heard him.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."