AN: What if the Elder Wand hadn't just rebounded the Avada Kedavra curse on Voldemort? What if his death had been more slow and painful?

A one-shot plot-bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. In deference to Ralph Fiennes' astounding performance as the Dark Lord. And in spite of the fact that J.K. Rowling said that the only truly irredeemable character in her books is Voldemort.

Understanding sympathy

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

Logically, she knew it would only take seconds for the fate of the world to become apparent.

In spite of that it took long minutes in her mind, with both Harry and Voldemort seemingly frozen in their duelling stances, before the Elder wand seemed to wrench itself from the dark sorceror's grip. It flew end over end trough the air and her eyes involuntarily flicked to Harry's determined face. As she checked the face of his opponent as well, Voldemort's snakelike features had just started to move from chilling, snarling hatred to...maybe confusion...
surprise even?

And then, time resumed at a normal pace as she saw Harry pluck the Elder wand from the sky as if it were the snitch, his own wand still held safely in his other hand.

An inhuman wail reverberated around the courtyard.

Like everyone else, Hermione found her eyes drawn to where Lord Voldemort lay crumpled, an expression of utter incomprehension and dismay colouring his features.

She saw the expressions of dumbfounded shock on all the other faces with the notable exception of the tired satisfaction on Harry's.

And then, there was a gasping, shuddering, logic-defying movement of a black-clad chest.

Wandless, helpless and defeated, Voldemort lay gasping desperately, agonized huffs of breaths the only sound to be heard. Even Harry looked baffled now as he stared at his nemesis, his face stone-like as opposed to the stricken and pained face of his opponent.

Hermione wanted to block her ears from the horrific sound, the painful, dying sounds that escaped the once mighty Dark Lord. It was a sound that pierced her to the bone, leaving her cold and nauseated. She hadn't known a human being, even one as dehumanized as Voldemort, could be capable of converting soul-
shattering despair into sound. She never wanted anything more than she wanted for the noise to stop.

Once again looking around, she saw people shuffling, people staring, their faces varying from stone-cold determination to savage glee.

She glanced over at the contingent of Death Eaters, their faces solemn and silent, some looking relieved, others grim, most fearful, but they were sneaking glances at their opposing force, were obviously worrying about their own hide.

And through all this, Lord Voldemort still battled his greatest fear.

He turned his head slightly, looking up at his former minions from his prone position, his eyes wild and desperate, not quite pleading. He rarely caught anyone's eye and when it did happen, the person would quickly avert their gaze and take a step back.

It wasn't until Lucius Malfoy proudly straightened his back for the first time in more than a year and looked at his former master as if there was nothing but the filth and debris of the demolished castle instead of a living being, that the black-robed from contracted, his left arm curling around his stomach,
his head sinking to his chest.

A crunching sound jerked her from her thoughts and she watched Harry make his way over to them, unconcernedly turning his back on the fallen wizard.

In a dizzying moment of insight, Hermione's mind conjured an image of what an aerial view of the scene must look like: the large, ruined courtyard, a mass of black-robed and silent Death Eaters on one side, the opposing force of students, teachers and aurors on the other side in various shades of gray. And in the middle, alone in a crowd of hundreds, a solitary speck of black in a sea of cold stone, a dying man.

Like Tom Riddle, who grew up without a father, who only had a mother for the first hour of his life, who was too different to ever gain friends and too damaged to understand why he needed them. Like the teenager who decided that he had no need for other humans and who'd made sure they could never permanently harm him.

Or so he thought.

A man who had killed dozens of people, surely and without a thought. A man who never understood love or mercy or...compassion. A man whose dying moments couldn't have been a better representation of his existence.

Before she knew it, there was once again the disproportionately loud sound of someone crunching his or her way through the debris littering the courtyard.
It wasn't until she heard Ron's "Hermione, what are you doing?" that she realised it was her.
Moving away from her friends, teachers, fellow-fighters. Moving towards that solitary, miserable speck of black.

As she came closer, she could see that his robe wasn't as black as she'd thought; the battle had left large streaks of dust down the front and the edges of his sleeves were positively white with them. His chest was moving swiftly and erratically, as if breathing was a skill he was only just getting the hang of. His left arm, still curled around himself, was shaking as it pressed against his abdomen.

It was strange to see him like this. Up until a few minutes ago, she'd never entertained the thought of lord Voldemort having an abdomen. As if he somehow could have no use for something so utterly everyday and human.

Even the look of disgust and hatred he sent her from his prone position was rather lacking compared to its usual standard. She could sense his astounding fear.

She didn't hesitate as she settled herself next to him and waited.

He kept her waiting for a remarkably long time, his head straining to move upward, his gaze unflinchingly hateful on hers, the shaking of his arm subdued to trembling. Eventually he couldn't keep it up any longer: his head fell back against a piece of rock behind him, his eyes closed and tremors were wracking his body.

Without thought, her wand was in her hand. His eyes opened again, as if he sensed magic before it was released. There was a curious hybrid of anger and resignation behind them as she flicked her wand three times in quick succession.

His look changed to open disgust as he detected warming and cushioning spells on the ground and saw how his robes were once again pristinely black.

"You are weak," he hissed, even as his own body was barely under his control due to the irrepressible shaking.

"Only someone like you would consider this a weakness," the girl replied calmly, unperturbed.

"A dark wizard, you mean?" he scoffed derisively, even though his teeth wanted to chatter or grind.

"Someone who doesn't know love," she corrected him as she conjured a thick, vibrant green comforter and covered him with it.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Of course not." Still that patient tone. "Lucius Malfoy is a dark wizard, yet he loves his son more than anything. Or haven't you noticed that he spent his time during the battle searching for Draco instead of fighting for you?"

His body curled in on itself, his teeth clenching as he fought off an agonizing wave of pain. His breathing was getting more laboured and the shaking was worsening, but he refused to admit defeat.

"You're...lying..." he managed to utter in between gulping breaths, his tone utterly venomous.

"Am I?" she asked with that deplorable lack of panic and nodded her head towards his Death Eaters.

In spite of himself, he twisted his head slightly, so he could see his once right-hand-man. Lucius stood with a protective arm around the younger Malfoy's shoulder, his face contorted into a feral snarl, as if he were daring his former master to hurt his son now. After months of looking at a cowering Lucius, who was all but afraid of his own shadow, he couldn't quite force himself to look away.

How had he misjudged Lucius so hugely? Like Snape...

A touch of warmth on the back of his hand brought his attention back to the girl sitting next to him.

"Are you in pain?" she asked even as he hissed: "Don't touch me, Mudblood."

Then he felt his eyes widen in surprise as he realised what she'd asked.

"I can't infect you with something you were born with, Tom Riddle," the girl said quietly. Before his anger had a chance to erupt, she continued: "Now, are you in pain? Do you want me to perform a Numbing charm?"

He stared at her, this girl he had hated and insulted and looked down upon.

"I don't understand," he mumbled confusedly as if to himself.

"Well, you seem to be in pain..." she said, as if that was any answer to his question.

Apparently deciding to go ahead with the Numbing charm, she raised her wand.

This time, he grabbed her sleeve, staying her hand.

"Why?"

There was no longer hatred, derision or disgust in his tone, just...bewilderment.

"Because no-one deserves to die alone."

She'd said it with a finality and conviction as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He would have refused to believe her, but the fact that she was here, sitting next to him, easing his discomfort and now numbing the pain of the Elder Wand's revenge for trying to kill its true master made it impossible.

And he found himself wanting to understand for the first time in decades.

"But I've killed dozens and they all died terribly alone. If anyone deserves it, then surely..."

The girl waved her wand expertly over his abdomen and he felt the sharp, stinging, stabbing pain subside to a dull burning.

She looked down on the face of the most terrible, evil and hated wizard of their times without fear. she looked at his terrifying, snake-like face, the pale skin, the red, reptilian eyes and wasn't repulsed. Somehow she managed to just look at his features to gauge his feelings and she saw nothing but incomprehension.

"You didn't know it wasn't supposed to happen that way. Before, you didn't understand," she said soothingly, waving her wand yet again.

"You, of all people, shouldn't die alone..." He felt his upper body was being levitated. He didn't understand to what end, but he had never been more secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't be allowed to fall.

It was very strange, to feel her arm slide under his shoulders, his head coming to rest on top of her elbow. Her body was warm and soft and close and he couldn't remember anything like it. It was staggering, astounding that this girl...this girl whom he had hunted and tortured and dehumanized...that she would be the one to look down on him with a gaze clear from disgust and hatred. What was more, she found it in herself to give him compassion and tried to explain the concept to him.

He looked at the face that was bent over him as if she were a mythical, magical creature no-one except him had ever seen in real life. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair was more wild and disorganized than any he'd ever seen and there was a small trail of dried blood from a nasty-looking cut over her right eye and yet she put a unicorn to shame.

In a sudden, impulsive move, his left hand clamped around the one holding her wand and before Hermione realised what he was doing, it was pointing at her own face.

A warm golden glow blinded her for a moment and then his arm fell back to his stomach, the shaking returning with a vengeance.

Bewildered, she brought her fingers up to her brow, to find that he had healed her injury.

She smiled and pulled his body closer. He was thin and lighter than a grown man should have been and his body was getting noticeably colder.

"You understand now, don't you Tom?" she said quietly.

Instead of answering, he said: "I'm afraid."

She pulled him more securely against her, tucking the edges of the comforter around him like a mother might have done with an ill child.

"Shh," she soothed, her hand coming up to cradle his head against her shoulder, "it's alright. I won't leave you alone. You're not alone."

Finite

AN: Let me know what you think!