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Could an unlikely alliance help him defeat Voldemort? After the Death Eaters win, Harry clings to life stripped of himself and terrified for the future, but determined to fight. Thank you to Antuhsa for the tireless work of beta-reading above and beyond the call of duty and for the moral support and to Sinick for pointing and laughing as this '15, words, max' story grew past 40, Yep, she told me so.

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This is for everyone presently clothed or fearless. As per title, remember that you have to die. Live life to the fullest anyway. Character deaths, not Snape or Harry. Magical slavery, not Snape or Harry. Suggestions of an off-screen rape, also not Snape or Harry. Maybe love. Rampant prompt deviation.

Miss Henry Mystery Series | Author Melanie Jackson

Canon-compliant up to most of Book 7. Voldemort wins. Ambiguously canon Snape. Magical bonds. Memory charms. Gryffindors are too stubborn to be brainwashed for good. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Biased judiciary, folks, don't do this at home. Dystopia, flangst and fairytale endings. For certain odd values of fairytale.

During the war, Naked and Afraid takes on a whole new meaning. Hermione nodded and took the last of the crisps in Harry's hand.

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Her stare turned resolute as she looked down at her wallet. Their Muggle money had long been spent. She never used the remaining galleons - it was too risky, anyone could see them - but she took the wallet out every morning to glimpse that one photograph: the Weasley family on vacation, with Ron in clear view, grinning. Whatever gave them strength these days couldn't be a bad thing. But Harry couldn't bear to see her staring blankly at that one photo of Ron, so instead, he went through his meagre possessions: a stale pack of biscuits, a knut, his Invisibility Cloak.

It's been months, maybe more since Lucius' hex took Ron down, since Bellatrix Lestrange cast the Killing Curse on Mrs Weasley, but it seemed like forever. Harry hadn't been there to see it all, just the beginning of the end: right until the Great Hall's massive doors had slammed shut as his vision swam. He had crawled through the entrance hall, over the house-elf bodies. The Invisibility Cloak clung to his blood-soaked shirt. The awful sight of the massacre haunted his nightmares still.

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And if that hadn't been enough, Hermione had relayed to him later how she had dragged Ginny away from the hall full of corpses, how they had found the teachers' passageway unlocked and escaped into the same entrance hall Harry had been in. How they had slipped away to Hogsmeade while the Death Eaters stormed the towers. They had been on the run from Hogwarts by then, the three of them.

Ginny and Hermione had to keep him from heading back to the battle. He'd heard the hexes, the shouting, the screams, and kept wondering how many had gone on a suicide mission to buy the rest time to escape. He didn't know, and that uncertainty ached deep in his chest, as deeply as only the horror of suspecting the worst can be. Only now they had come to the end of their supplies.

They hadn't seen a soul that learned their actual names or recognised their faces since that fateful night, too afraid to reveal themselves to anyone, Muggles or Wizards alike. They had tried to get lost in the city for weeks before, but even London wasn't safe. Not when the great Harry Potter Harry was a liability, and his friends would die because of him. Best they could do is to buy time or split up, but he couldn't voice that. Not when Ginny and Hermione kept on walking because he walked alongside them. They had kept their wands, though it was only a matter of time before they would have to get rid of them.

The tracking charms of Voldemort's Ministry were too strong to risk the use of spells. Yet there was a sense of safety in the fragile twigs, the memory of better days. Harry thought of a younger Hermione, always so excited about magic, and huffed his regret at all her studying not being able to help them out of this mess.

His lips were too cracked to form a proper scowl. Hermione had always been their best chance at survival but now she looked as lost as Harry. Her cheery freckles were grey, the greasy hanks of her red hair were covered with mud. She sounded as numb as they all felt. They all took turns carrying the water in a plastic bucket with a broken handle. It was half-full. The night's chill formed a thin sliver of ice around the edges as they huddled together to keep warm. Dover must've been close by. Harry checked the stained scrap of Hermione's map with its network of roads they stayed away from.

They had to get to the coast. The coast meant boats. Boats meant France, and France meant safety, away from Voldemort. No surveillance, no threat of the Ministry's Obliviators for Hermione, no threat of capture for Ginny. He had to get Ginny and Hermione out; it was too dangerous for them to stay. Harry planned to see them to safety and then, he'd go back. He'd return and figure out how to kill Voldemort, he'd mourn everything they'd lost after. That was the plan at least.

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  5. Killing that monster came first. He had no other choice. He couldn't run away from his duty. Someone had to take a stand. Someone had to stay behind and fight. He wouldn't let anyone drag him away from what he had to face, not anymore. Not Hermione, and not Ginny. Not even the ghost of Albus Dumbledore himself. They almost made it, the three of them together, with their sad bucket of drinking water and their near-empty bag of supplies.

    Harry smelled the coastline and heard the seagulls overhead and for one second allowed himself to believe in a better world, but then the cracks of Apparation sounded all around them and a stunner hit him before he could grab his wand. He fell, and his attacker tore the Invisibility Cloak out of his grasp before Harry could throw it over Ginny or Hermione, a bundle of weightless silk driven into the mud, the sight of it there stinging harder than their attacker's kick against his ribs.

    Ginny awoke with a gasp, heavy iron weighted down her neck, the rusted hinge pinched a lock of her hair. A similar weight settled around her ankle. Her entire body hurt. She tried to move. No luck. It felt as though she was chained to something. No, to someone. Long hair strands tickled her shoulder.

    Where's Harry? He wasn't at her side. Had they taken him?

    Why was I sent here?

    Was he dead? She lifted her hands to her neck, feeling around the rusty iron. It was grimy with someone else's blood. The metallic smell of it invaded her nostrils. It wasn't fresh and wasn't hers. First things first. She looked around the room until her gaze rested over the pile of rags in the opposite corner of the cell.

    Please be alive. They're watching.

    He's alive, just out of it. I can see him breathing.