Chapter One

“Choose,” Rookwood hissed. The
Death Eaters crowded behind him, every scar, every malicious grin on
their faces visible in the fading moonlight.

Harry struggled against the bonds
shackling him in place, but the curse was too powerful. His body
ached with the heavy effects of the Cruciatus Curse, not to mention
the numerous gashes and wounds Macnair had gleefully given to him
during the interrogation. He stared helplessly into the faces of the
escapees, wishing with all his heart for reinforcements, but he knew
there would be none. No one left to save him. No one left to think
him gone.

“I. . . won't,” He spit, knowing
full well what was coming to him. Sure enough, the grinning face of
Walden Macnair loomed out of the crowd. He stepped forward, fingering
his stringy hair. “Y' won't, now will yeh?” He snarled.“D'yeh
need persuadin'?” He must have seen Harry flinch at the sight of
his hand creeping toward his wand, because he laughed. “Scared,
we've made'm.” The other Death Eaters joined in his laughter. Harry
grit his teeth.

“The Order's. . . coming,” He told
them, but the threat seemed weak and feeble even to him, more like an
attempt to convince himself, rather than the others. At the sound of
the Order's name, Macnair abruptly stopped laughing and bared his
teeth like a wolf. “No they ain't, you foolish boy,” He growled,
and before Harry could brace himself, he drew his wand from its
scabbard and aimed. “Crucio!”

Then the pain, the terrible, terrible
pain—Harry was watching Sirius float into the veil; he was watching
the light leave Dobby's eyes; he was seeing Lupin in the Forbidden
Forest, among the dead and gone; his mother was screaming; Someone
hissed, “Kill the spare!” and a flash of green light; Snape was
crying over Lily's body in the Pensieve; and then Death Eaters, Death
Eaters everywhere, swarming Grimmauld Place, swarming him and Ron and
Hermione, laughing at their screams, laughing at their pain, the
terrible, terrible pain—

Rookwood uttered something sharply
under his breath, and suddenly, everything stopped. Harry panted on
the floor, the bonds seeming tighter than ever around his lungs, he
couldn't catch his breath. The Death Eaters were closing in, forcing
him to his feet, pushing him along, around a corner and through a
wide corridor, until they stopped at a heavy iron door. One of the
Death Eaters, Travers, Harry thought, stepped forward and waved his
wand in a complicated little motion. With a clang, the door swung
open. Harry caught a glimpse of two figures, one male, one female,
struggling against invisible bonds similar to his, before his head
was yanked down again and he was brought to his knees by a sharp kick
to the back.

“My fellow Death Eaters,” Said
Rookwood, who seemed to be leading the pack. “While the Dark Lord
may not be alive with us today, he has given us the greatest gift
from Beyond—freedom. Freedom, and Harry Potter.” Hisses followed
Harry's name. There was a crack and a bursting pain from Harry's left
shoulder—Macnair had shot another curse. He could tell from the
warm, sticky substance trickling steadily down his arm that the wound
was deep this time.

“We, the survivors of a legend, are
pureblood folk. If we choose to break somebody, we choose to do it in
a kindly fashion.” There were sneers at this. “Therefore, we have
here today two of Harry Potter's closest companions, whom have helped
him to thwart us on many an occasion. Being the well-mannered people
that we are, we are going to give Potter a choice, of which one will
live. And which one will die.”

Harry's blood turned cold as he
realized what the Death Eaters were going to make him do. So this
is their revenge, he thought.
They're going to kill me by making me kill somebody else. And he
knew they were going to do it, too. In the past he'd always had help
in the nick of time, but it wasn't going to work out so smoothly
anymore. The Wizarding World was still recovering from the shock of
the battle last May. They still expected its heroes to be recovering
as well. Nobody would bother to look for them. . . because nobody
would realize in the first place.

“Look up. All of you.” Harry raised
his head as the other two did, too. He caught sight of the
horror-struck faces of Ron and Hermione, and his stomach lurched. One
of them was going to die. Because of him.

“Now, Mr. Potter,” Rookwood said,
striding toward him. “Choose, and I promise the other will be left
to live. I would make the Unbreakable Vow, but it seems your hands
are a bit tied at the moment.” There were titters from the crowd.

“I. . . can't,” Harry said. “I
won't do it. Kill me instead.” Rookwood's face soured as he
fingered his wand, bending down to one knee and looking Harry in the
eye.

“Now, Mr. Potter, you know that's not
what's going to happen. See, we've heard tell that the Killing Curse
is actually quite an easy transition for those who are subject to it,
and I'm afraid we don't think you deserve to have it so easy, not
after you killed the Dark Lord. So I'm sorry, your request has been
denied. Choose, or you will see both of your friends killed before
your very eyes. But come now, we're not unreasonable people. We'll
give you time to talk it over.” Rookwood straightened and retreated
to a corner of the room, his eyes on Harry with a sneer on his face.

“Harry.” Ron spoke. His voice was
raspy and shaky, his face pale and bloodless. “Harry, you have to
kill me.” Harry's eyes snapped to Ron's face and he shook his head
violently. “No, Ron, no, I'm not going to kill any of you, we'll
get through this, the Order will come—” He trailed off at the
look on Ron's face.

“No,” Ron replied determinedly.
“The Order isn't coming. You have to kill me, you have to let
Hermione live.” It was now that Hermione looked up. Her eyes had
the glazed look of a madwoman, but they cleared as realization dawned
on her face.

“No,” She said. “No, no, no, Ron,
you're not dying for me, Harry, kill me, you know you want to, Ron's
your best friend, please, Harry, kill me!” Harry looked at her,
horrified. A sick part of him, deep down, knew Hermione's words were
true. Ron was his best friend. More than Hermione, anyway.

“I—Ron—” He said pleadingly,
unable to finish his words, but the message was there. What do I
do? Do I kill Hermione?

“Mate,” Ron
said, looking him square in the eye. “I would die if Hermione
didn't make it. I would have nothing. Not even you. Hermione, she'd
be all right, in the end.” Hermione screamed in protest, but Ron
ignored her. “No, you know it's true, she'd be okay. She'd. . .
she'd come to terms with things. She always has.” Harry saw tears
in his eyes, and as something wet trailed down his face, he knew
there were tears in his own eyes, too. Hermione sobbed, barely able
to make out the words, but he knew she was telling him to stop, Ron,
you're not going to die.

“I can't kill
you.” Harry's voice shuddered. Death Eaters were laughing, Rookwood
was starting toward him, but he didn't care. “I can't kill any of
you, I can't do this, I want to die, I want to die right now!”
Macnair said something to the crowd, something like, “Happy to
oblige,” but Rookwood held up a hand and silenced him.

“Choose now,
Harry Potter.” Rookwood growled. “We're done with this
melodrama.” Harry couldn't draw breath. He looked at Hermione, who
seemed on the verge of madness trying to tell him through her tears
to kill her now, her voice totally lost. And then he looked at Ron,
resolute and unflinching, staring at him in the face, giving him the
message loud and clear. Ron gave the tiniest of nods, and Harry took
a gulping breath, nearly collapsing from the effort.

“Don't make me do
this,” He gasped, half to Rookwood, half to Ron. Rookwood held up
his wand menacingly, but at that moment, Ron spoke, quietly and
evenly.

“It's what
friends do, mate.”

Harry felt the
weight of the world crushing him down, forcing him into silence for
one eternal moment, and then forcing him again, this time to speak.
Three words.

“I choose Ron.”

There was a flash
of green light, Hermione's screams, and Harry's own tears, which all
but obscured him from the final view, the image that would be seared
into his mind for the rest of his life.

Ron, enveloped in a
thread of green, nodding to Harry one last time, before he sank to
the floor and was still.