Her voice faltered as Pettigrew emerged from the shadows carrying the sleeping raw form of the guest of honor. Voldemort’s frail body was lifted with a feather light flourish wave of Peter’s wand. Hermione received him in her embrace and slowly descended with him, submerging down her waist in the unperturbed blackness of the cauldron. Not a trace of heat in spite of the fire. She smiled at the small human shape pulsing in her hold. This was the first time she touched him. Him. The world ceased to exist. She no longer could hear Harry’s cries or the crackling fire. It was only her magic singing, overflowing, crashing like a wave all around her, inside and out. She let go of her embrace and watched Him sink into the pitch black substance. Wielding the dagger, she let her white dress slip off her shoulders exposing her chest  and pointed the blade at her runic scar. 