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Her arms cover her face moments after seeing the man's mouth curl up. She is lost and no one is going to save her now, she knows it; and her body, understanding her fatal destiny, fills her lungs with oxygen with what would be her last breath of life.
And she waits. She waits for death with fear and anguish, because, although she always knew how her life would end, she never imagined that she would actually die that day.
The red light slips through her half-opened eyes and blinds her. She prepares to suffer the worst pain of her life, but when the curse hits, it is not she who screams.
It’s he.
His howls of pain echo through the lonely alley, overpowering the screams of struggle coming from the surrounding area.
Hermione holds her breath. She doesn't understand what is happening.
Her arms pull away from her face and her eyes widen, dumbfounded, at the sight of the petite, trembling figure her pursuer has become. He cries and moans as his arms and legs writhe erratically. His small eyes spill blood and tears as he looks at her, but before his mouth could beg for mercy, the killing curse strikes him and his lifeless limbs sprawl on the stone floor.
“Imbecile.”
It takes only an instant for surprise to turn to horror. Her body goes numb with fear, and her limbs (exhausted and frightened) refuse to make a last effort to look up. Her time has come and, disarmed and exhausted as she is, she has no way to shake it off.
“Hermione.” There is no hesitation in her tone, just as there is no threat or hatred. It sounds like a correct and sincere greeting, but even the inoffensiveness of his speech fails to reassure Hermione's agitated heart. “Are you all right?”
She approaches and her footsteps on the stone are heard as if it were the countdown of the clock claiming the seconds left to live. Without her being able to predict it (because she is blindly confident that her body will experience the horrors of the Cruciatus curse) a pale, slender hand reaches out before her. Her wand is held by those long fingers and Hermione thinks about the possibility of taking it and trying to escape, though deep down she knows it is an impossible plan to pull off. She was always superior, a prodigy, and, according to the rumors that are reproduced in the kingdom, the war has only increased her abilities, her power and also put an end to her scruples.
But Hermione is from Gryffindor, from the land of the noble of Godric; and just like Harry, just like Ron, just like Ginny and the rest of her companions, she cannot die without having put up a fight.
Her hand rises and tries to take the offer of a fight, but before her fingers can pry her wand from the other's hand, it falls and Hermione is lifted off the ground by someone who has always been stronger than her.
Bellatrix Black.
When her eyes see her, her mind is taken back several years, to the times when all was bliss: when a war had not yet broken out that forced them all to choose sides. Bellatrix smiles as she straightens her on the floor and her features soften with that gentle gesture she has always reserved for Hermione. Only for her.
It is inevitable for Hermione not to remember the escapes from protocol and boring dinners that preceded that smile, as well as the fun times they shared under the sun that covered the valleys of Godric. She remembers with nostalgia the stolen kisses, the secrets and the promises they made to each other. But that was before, she tells himself so as not to get lost in the memories of the good times, that was long before the woman in front of her eyes became a murderer.
Why is it so surprising to her that things ended up that way? Why is it so hard for Hermione to accept that that was always Bellatrix's true nature?
"Hermione." She calls out to her again. Her tone of voice is firmer now, but she has no hatred or desire to intimidate. "Are you okay?"
Not of course not.
“You saved me,” she says, trying hard to hide the note of panic in her voice. Her body trembles as her eyes fall on Bellatrix's beautiful, serene face. “Why? Why did you do it?”
Her lips (red as the blood trickling down her left cheekbone) curl into a smile that gives him goosebumps. Hermione swallows saliva and tries to take a step back, but her legs are so firmly planted on the floor that it gives the impression they've turned leaden.
“I haven't forgotten you, love.” Bellatrix lifts her pale hand and gently and carefully brushes Hermione's cheek. “I want you there when the war is over, when I win. Whether at my side or at my feet... that's up to you.”