Chapter Text
The war was ending, but not the way it was meant to. In the broken courtyard of Hogwarts, fire danced along the stones, and ash clung to every breath. Screams rang out in every direction — and in the center of it all, Harry Potter fell to his knees. He had just hurled himself between Neville and the killing curse.
Voldemort's face twisted in rage as the spell meant for another struck Harry square in the chest. It was fast. No grand speech. No final words.
Just a flash of green. And silence. Hermione screamed, but her voice was lost in the chaos. Ron caught her by the arm before she could run to him — maybe to protect her, maybe to shield her from the truth neither of them wanted to face.
Neville didn’t even hesitate. He pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the rubble, a wild sort of grief in his eyes, and lunged. The blade caught Voldemort in the side, a lucky opening, a miracle — the final Horcrux already gone.
The Dark Lord died not by prophecy, not by fate, but by fury. The courtyard stilled.
Bodies littered the stone like discarded memories. And at the center, untouched by fire, lay Harry.
His glasses were cracked. His hand was open. His chest no longer moved.
And Hermione, shaking Ron off, finally dropped to her knees beside him.
Ginny arrived seconds later.
Her boots skidded over bloodied stone as she ran, red hair flying like a banner of war. When she saw him — really saw him — her breath caught. Not a gasp. Not a cry.
Just a soundless, soul-breaking stillness.
“No,” she whispered.
Her knees hit the ground beside him, and she gathered him into her arms like she could warm him back to life. “No, Harry, come on—wake up, okay? You did it. It’s over. Please…”
She kissed his forehead. Rocked him. Wept.
Around them, the survivors began to gather. Some cheered. Some collapsed. Some simply stared.
Hermione didn’t move.
She stood a few feet back, a single hand pressed to her abdomen. Silent. Pale. Broken, but holding. No one noticed her.
Ron had gone to check on George. Kingsley was issuing orders. Professor McGonagall had her hand over her mouth as she took in the loss of her student — her boy.
But Hermione stood very still, because she couldn’t cry. She couldn’t scream like Ginny. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.
Because inside her, under her ribs and behind her sorrow, was a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.
A tiny, stubborn echo of him.
The Great Hall was turned into a sanctuary. Rows of candles floated just beneath the rafters, hundreds of them, their flames soft and golden. Someone spelled lilies to bloom from the cracks in the stone. There were speeches. Silences. So many tears.
And Hermione helped with it all. She charmed chairs into neat rows. Brewed tea when Madam Pomfrey couldn’t stop shaking. She carried blankets to those who hadn’t slept, sat beside a trembling first-year until he dozed off. She even helped Hagrid draft the words for the memorial stone, her hands steady while her soul unraveled. She didn’t cry. Not once.
Ron hovered near her constantly, always watching. He offered to carry things for her. Gently asked if she’d eaten. Once, he reached for her shoulder—but she stepped away before his fingers touched her.
“I’m fine,” she said, eyes on her work. “I just need to finish this.” He didn’t try again. Later, in the quiet before the vigil, Hermione found Ginny sitting in a window seat, looking out at the cloudy sky. Her red dress robes were too bright for mourning, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Hermione sat beside her. “He would’ve hated all this,” Ginny said softly. “The speeches. The flowers. People trying to make it pretty.”
“I know,” Hermione answered. “He always hated attention.”
They sat in silence for a while. “I thought we’d get more time,” Ginny whispered. “We’d been fighting a lot. I thought we’d make it through and… talk. Figure things out.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not without lying, not without breaking. Ginny leaned into her shoulder for comfort. Hermione didn’t move away.
She could give her this. One small piece of him. Just this once.
*******
The castle slept. Lights dimmed. Footsteps faded. The mourning quieted into a hush too heavy for dreams.
Hermione walked the halls barefoot, the stone cold against her skin. She didn’t know where she was going — only that her body wouldn’t let her lie down. Not yet. Not while the world still spun without him.
She ended up in the Astronomy Tower, of course it was the Astronomy Tower. The wind bit at her arms as she stepped onto the balcony, but she didn’t care. The night sky stretched above her, wide and pitiless, full of stars that hadn’t blinked when he died. She clutched the edge of the stone railing, and only then did her knees give out.
She sank down, slow and shaking. Her fingers gripped the fabric at her stomach. That small, secret place.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. “I’m so—so sorry.”
The words poured out, choked and trembling.
“I should’ve told you sooner. I thought I’d have more time. I thought we would—”
Her voice broke.
“We were supposed to have years, Harry. We were supposed to fight and win and be together. And now—now you’re gone and I’m still here, and I don’t know how to do this without you.”
Tears streamed down her face in silence. No sobs, no gasps. Just the steady, shattering collapse of everything inside her.
She curled up where he once kissed her under the stars. The wind swept through her hair like a phantom touch.
And she stayed there for hours, guarding the only truth that still mattered —that he lived on, inside her. Even if no one else ever knew.
******
The funeral was held on the grounds, where the battle had ended. The sky was overcast, like the heavens couldn’t quite bring themselves to weep. Chairs had been set in rows on the grass, and Hogwarts students — survivors, soldiers — filled them in stiff silence. Black robes. Pale faces. Eyes too old for their age.
A white shroud lay over Harry’s body, the edges rippling in the breeze.
Hermione sat in the front row beside Ron and Ginny. Ron’s knee bumped hers, but she didn’t flinch — she simply didn’t feel. Her fingers were laced in her lap, and she stared straight ahead, never blinking, even when Ginny began to cry beside her.
Inside, she was somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere warm. Somewhen safe.
The last time they spoke was two nights before the battle.
He had knocked gently on her door in the middle of the night, his voice low and hoarse when she opened it.
"I can't sleep," he’d said.
"Neither can I."
They sat on the common room couch, wrapped in a blanket like it could ward off the war waiting outside the walls. He’d held her hand without asking. She’d rested her head on his shoulder like it was always meant to fit there.
Then, in the quiet, he whispered something she’d never forget:
"If anything happens to me—"
"Don’t," she’d said quickly, her voice fierce, pleading.
"Listen to me," he insisted. His hand was warm around hers, trembling slightly. "If anything happens, you have to promise me something."
"Harry—"
"Promise me you’ll live." His eyes were searching hers, brilliant green even in the dim. "You’ll keep going. You’ll love again. You’ll have the life we talked about. Even if it’s not with me."
She had kissed him then, soft and furious and desperate.
"I’ll never love anyone like I love you."
Now, in the real world, someone was speaking. Kingsley, maybe. Or McGonagall. Words about courage and sacrifice and hope for the future.
Hermione heard none of it.
Her fingers found the small charm at her neck — Harry’s. He’d given it to her that night, slipping it into her hand as if it would mean more than words ever could. And now it rested against her chest like a heartbeat, quiet and constant.
She placed a hand on her still-flat stomach.
A promise made. A future still beating.
She didn’t cry. Not now. Not here.
Because the world was saying goodbye to a hero.
But she was still holding on to the man she loved.
The Burrow was loud.
Too loud.
Molly was bustling between kitchen and sitting room, trying to get Ginny to eat something. Ron was pacing. George sat in the corner, hollow-eyed. Fleur murmured soft condolences. Chairs scraped. Dishes clinked. The fire crackled like it didn’t know how to be quiet.
Everyone watched Ginny. Everyone worried about Ginny.
And Hermione sat alone in the room at the very top of the stairs — the one Harry always used when he stayed.
The bed was still unmade from the last time he’d slept there. A spare jumper of his hung on the back of the chair. His trainers were tucked by the dresser like he might come back for them.
Hermione curled up on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, her face pressed into the pillow that still smelled faintly like him.
No one had followed her. No one had noticed.
And maybe that was better. Maybe it would break her, if anyone tried to be kind.
Her hand found the chain around her neck again, she pressed it between her fingers, then to her lips.
She hadn’t said a word aloud since the funeral, but now, in the hush of his old room, she whispered.
“I’m so sorry.”
A breath.
“I lied. I promised I'd live. But I don’t know how.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and silent. Her breath came in small, trembling gasps.
“I need you. We need you,” she whispered, barely audible. Her hand drifted to her stomach. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
A sob escaped, raw and sharp.
She didn’t try to stop it. Didn’t try to be strong.
Here, in this small, creaky room above a house that wasn’t hers, Hermione broke.
She wept into the mattress like the storm she’d held in for days had finally cracked her open.
Below her, the world fussed and consoled, comforted the girl they thought he loved.
But here, in the silence, was the truth.
The real goodbye.
The real love.
And the real beginning of something fragile, and secret, and waiting to be born.