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Phials.
She had only gone back for the phials.
Hermione had always considered herself to be a logical person. She did her best to stay brave, even when the world around her was falling to pieces. Even at age twelve, she’d been awarded house points in front of the whole school for cool use of logic in the face of fire .
Strange, Dumbledore’s choice of words, given her current circumstances.
It occured to Hermione from the very second she stumbled from the burning building that she’d made a grave mistake. All her hard work… all thirty phials… all the lives she could have saved… they’d go up in smoke and ash in a matter of minutes if she did nothing.
It was an easy decision to make. There was no hesitation in her mind or heart when she strode past a handful of fellow Order members as they made their escape. One called out for her, though Hermione had neither the attention nor the patience for it.
For what she was about to attempt, she would need all her focus and her fortitude.
Flames licked at her ankles from the moment she entered Westernberg House. Rooms she had come to know over the past few months were now nothing but walls of bright fire. She ducked around familiar corners and through places she knew doorways were meant to be, the fire closing in on her with every step.
Hermione knew she only had one shot at this. She couldn’t fail. Not just to save her own life, but to save the lives of so many others. To live another day and make more antidote for the sake of so many innocents who might be put in harm’s way.
It was not the flames that bothered her first. Yes, it was hot, but she could cope with that.
It was the smoke.
Thick and black, it filled her lungs with each inhale. Any wizard or witch off the street would have told her to stop acting like a fool and cast a Bubblehead Charm, but Hermione knew better. She had to save her magic for something big. Something miraculous.
The phials were exactly where Hermione had left them, sitting in a small black case on a desk in the makeshift Westenberg potions lab. She almost breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the case sitting exactly where she left it, yet untouched by the fire. Almost—but stopped herself from inhaling deeply before she could do even more damage to her lungs.
Hermione rushed over and clutched the case to her chest. This meant thirty lives saved.
If she could find a way out.
Hermione wiped sweat from her brow as her eyes traveled around the room at a steady pace. The fiendfyre had found its way to the lab and was steadily consuming everything in its wake. Even the floor surrounding Hermione seemed to sizzle with the anticipation of being swallowed by the inferno.
A lesser witch would have panicked. Called for help. Been lost to the blaze.
But not Hermione.
This is what she’d been preparing for from the moment fiendfyre licked at her heels in the Room of Requirement. This is why she read so much, staying awake into the wee hours to plant as much knowledge in her mind as possible. The chances were slim, but there was an enchantment she’d read about in an old tome. One that might protect her from the flames. There was no guarantee, but she had to try.
Hermione got to work.
The fire was fast approaching, but it had not yet covered the entirety of this room. Surely there was some place she could hide… small enough that the enchantment could be solid and strong and keep her alive long enough for the flames to die away. Long enough to be found.
Found by the only person whose face she saw when she closed her eyes.
The wardrobe was perfect, and Hermione slipped inside, shutting the door behind her as tightly as she could. A wave of her wand and the door latched itself from the outside. It was cramped inside the wardrobe. The place was barely wide enough to accommodate her shoulders. But with flames beginning to lick at the outside, she had no time to think about such trivial matters.
This is what she had been saving her magic for.
Closing her eyes, Hermione focused every drop of energy within her into a single stream. It welled in her stomach, pooling and filling every inch of her middle. She then forced it outward and felt it trickling through her limbs, all the way to her feet and her hands and to the tips of her fingers. And when her whole body finally felt alight with power, Hermione cast the spell.
Magic pulsed all around her, and Hermione pushed it farther and farther outside of her body with each pulse. The spell ebbed and flowed as if it was a living, breathing thing, and it wasn’t until the magic reached the inner walls of the wardrobe that she realised it was pulsing with her own breath.
When the spell finally encapsulated the entire wardrobe, Hermione let out the lungful of air she had been holding in. The readings she had done were correct: this spell was draining her completely. With each second she held on, Hermione could feel exhaustion creeping into the edges of her consciousness. Her eyes drooped a little and her wand hand loosened. It was so tempting to just give in… to allow herself to slide down against the side of the wardrobe and just… fall asleep.
It was so, so warm. So comforting. Like curling into a blanket after a very long day.
And then, as though her own mind was shaking her awake, a single face burst into Hermione’s mind like a flower blooming against all odds.
“Don’t give up, Granger,” the voice seemed to say. “You’re the toughest witch I know.”
Draco.
If she made it through this, she would see him again. She could tell him how she felt… how she’d felt for some time. The fear of his rejection seemed so trivial now.
She just had to make it through.
Draco’s face at the forefront of her mind, Hermione braced herself against the walls of the wardrobe and re-focused.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
Hermione wasn’t sure how long she held on. The pulsing magic of her breathing continued to envelop her, and she lost track of all time. All she knew was that eventually, the warmth around her subsided, leaving behind a chill that seemed to soak her to the bone.
It was only when she allowed herself to shiver that she finally released the spell.
Utterly spent, Hermione collapsed within the wardrobe. She drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms.
Her breaths came in great rasps now, and all the tears she couldn’t cry in the moment came spilling out. It wasn’t until she tried to wipe them away that she realized every inch of exposed skin was covered in soot and ash.
She was dirty and exhausted and completely emotionally spent, but she had done it.
Tucked safely against her breast was the case full of potion phials.
Thirty lives saved.
A smile twitched at the corner of her lips.
Thirty more lives.
Hermione began to shake so violently that she could hardly hold onto the case any longer. When it was safely at her feet, she curled back up and allowed herself a good and proper cry.
What would Draco say when he saw her like this? He’d probably scold her.
But she’d take it. She’d take every word of the reprimand, because she was still alive with the real chance to tell him how she felt.
She’d tell him when she stopped shaking.
She’d tell him when she found the energy to stand and leave the darkness of this wardrobe.
She’d tell him when—
The door opened, letting in a light so bright it nearly blinded her. How long had she been inside the wardrobe?
Hermione squinted and turned her head only slightly to face the light.
And then she lifted her whole face when she saw the one person she needed to see the most.
He had come for her.
Draco.