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English
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Published:
2025-10-06
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1,088
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Her Words

Summary:

As the dust of the final battle settles, Harry finds a letter.

Notes:

This is an idea that's been kicking around in my head for a little while.

My thanks to Seekerofknowledge3119 for shaking it loose with their Drabble today.

Work Text:

Hogwarts stood resolute; cracked but not broken in the wake of battle. It was quiet now, though quiet was far too kind a word. Even the forest was unmoving. It wasn’t peaceful. The stillness was aggressive. Harry tried to steady his breathing as it pressed in on him; jagged and broken, the sort of silence born not from peace but from too many voices being stilled at once. Smoke curled over rolling hills and shattered stone; the air carrying an acrid mix of blood, soot, and dust. 

Some would call it a victory, but not Harry. He’d stood in the ruins of the Great Hall as people clung to one another; as names were whispered and counted, as friends and family searched for each other. 

As those who remained wept over those who didn’t. 

But Harry hadn’t cried. 

He hadn’t wept. 

He hadn’t even screamed to whatever gods would hear him when he saw her. 

Hollow, gripping, numbness was all he’d known from the moment he learned Hermione was not among the survivors. 

He had not allowed himself to stop moving until now. He had stayed on his feet while the sun rose, while the wounded were carried to beds, while the dead were laid in rows. He had spoken when people needed him to. He had nodded when others looked to him for strength. He’d served his purpose. But now, finally alone in the wreckage of Gryffindor Tower, he climbed to her dormitory and sank to his knees next to her bed, where a familiar beaded bag remained. 

A bag that belonged to the only purpose he’d ever given himself. 

It looked impossibly small and ordinary, lying where she’d left it, as though she might walk in any moment and scold him for rifling through her things. His throat closed. His fingers shook as he reached for it, feeling the subtle stretch of the charms as he drew it open. Books, vials, a folded jumper, the endless assortment of practicalities that were so Hermione. And then, tucked in the side pocket, an envelope that somehow drew him to it, an envelope with his name written in her neat, steady hand.

“Harry.”

The sight of it stole his breath. He broke the seal with trembling fingers. The sensation of her familiar magic made the hair on his arm stand on edge. 

Inside was the last gift she’d ever give him. Her words.

 

 

Harry, 

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it. If I did, then stop reading this instant, because these words aren’t for you if I’m still around. 

I don’t know where to start. You’ve always drawn a certain confidence from the depths of me, and the more I think about it, the harder it is to keep writing. 

Just know that I hate leaving you like this. It’s not what I had imagined for us. I know it may be presumptuous of me to claim your forever, but I was ready to give you mine. I am sorry that things didn’t go our way. 

I don’t like the thought of you alone, carrying yet another weight you never should have had to bear. I wish more than anything that I could have stayed by your side, but if I’ve fallen, please remember: I didn’t regret a single step. Not one.

Loving you was never a question, never a risk, never a mistake. There are times I think it was barely even a choice. That’s how I felt with you. When we were together, I felt more like myself than I did on my own. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. 

Being with you was the most certain thing I have ever known. You gave me more than I could ever put into words. More than books, more than cleverness, more than plans and victories. You gave me us. Even in the cold tent, in the fear of solitude, in the nights when we thought we’d never see the end; you were my warmth, my courage, and my home. 

I know you, Harry James. And I know what you’ll do if I’m gone. You’ll try to take the blame. You’ll carry my absence like a punishment, as though it were your fault, as though you somehow failed me. Don’t you dare let my absence become another scar you wear as guilt. Don’t you dare.

Harry, listen to me. If you take anything from this letter, let it be this. You did not fail me. You could never fail me. My choices were mine, and I would make them again and again, if it meant even one more moment fighting beside you, loving you.

So promise me this, Harry. Do not let my death be the thing that breaks you. Don’t let it be the end of you. Carry me, yes, but don’t chain yourself to my ghost. You’ve always lived for others, Harry. Please, do me a favor and live for yourself too. Laugh again. Rest. Let yourself be happy, even if it isn’t with me. That’s what I want most.

And my parents—if you can, find them. Find them and tell them their daughter was brave, and that she loved them dearly, even if she couldn’t always say it. Tell my dad that I’d found my Sam, and that it was you. They’ll know what that means. 

Tell Ron…tell him I forgave him, even if I never said it to his face. Tell Ginny she was braver than she ever knew. 

And for you, all that’s left to say is this. I loved you with all that I am. That doesn’t end here.

No matter what, I am with you. Always.

Hermione

 

 

The parchment slipped from his fingers, falling with a faint ruffle to rest on the bed next to her bag. For the first time since the battle started, the tears came, violent and unrelenting, tearing through the deadening numbness he’d worn like a shield until he folded in on himself in the ruins of their tower. He pressed his face into her crimson comforter, breath shuddering, as though grief itself might hollow him out completely.

Her voice was gone, but her words clung to him, as stubborn and steadfast as she had always been.

Don’t let it break you.

Harry’s sobs shook the silence, raw and ragged, but beneath them—buried deep—was the smallest spark of something else. Not peace. Not even strength. Just the knowledge that for her, somehow, he would have to try.

Always.