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Harry grabbed Hermione’s arm and wrenched her close to him. A moment later, Reductor Curses from every direction shattered the stone wall upon which she had just been leaning. She could feel her body aching as her heart refused to beat and her lungs failed to draw breath. It had been the sixth time in an hour that she had nearly been cursed or killed.
Shaking her head to clear the heavy garlands of fear that were weighing her down, she mumbled a thank you to Harry Potter, who had already moved on around the embankment, his wand firing Shield Charms, Stunners, and counterjinxes so quickly, his arm was barely more than a blur. Hermione dimly registered a sense of awe when she looked at him, along with a tumbling feeling of pity. She had to shake her head clear again.
Rounding the stone battlements, now littered with exploded bits of wall, Hermione caught a glimpse of the twenty or so Death Eaters as they closed in. Some were prowling around, trying to sneak up on the various members of the Order of the Phoenix; others were already dueling. There on the steps of Azkaban, the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. It was the kind of place that was only a very slight step up from a graveyard.
A fleet of Patronuses encircled the Order’s ranks on the southern edge of the gloomy island, charging dementors as they attempted to spread more discord. Lupin and Wormtail, last of the Marauders, were shooting violent curses back and forth over the low gate walls, all traces of their former allegiance forgotten. Chaos was breaking out everywhere. But in the midst of it, Hermione was placated with an incredible sense of calm. The sound of screaming and taunting was little more than static in her ears, replaced by a harmonic thrumming and the unshakeable sense that the Death Eaters were not the only intruders upon the potential peace of the world. Something felt out of place. Something old and dangerous. Something irrevocably intriguing.
Without much thought in her head, Hermione slipped away from the battle. She fired a few random jinxes over her shoulder as she climbed the hill toward the fortress, pleased to hear that some of them hit their mark. The steep rocky ledge to her right separated the prison from the sea, a tightrope of stone that she moved uncharacteristically close to, somehow unshaken. No one engaged in the fight below, good or bad, seemed too troubled to see her go, nor did they appear to notice the unnerving sense of calm that had settled over the place. On and on they fought, thrusting and parrying with skill, unmoved by her absence. As if in a trance, she continued to climb, walking toward the front gate.
Azkaban had huge yawning gates that opened directly onto the frighteningly still black water. A sound like wind howling through a metal tunnel pierced the quickly falling night, as if suggesting that any foolish, lost person should stay as far away from this horrible place as possible. Hermione stood with her heels right against the edge of the retaining wall and stared up at the prison entrance. It reminded her forcefully and ominously of the deadly veil in the Department of Mysteries. It had the same haunting, beckoning quality, and the same dangerous air. Lost in her reverie, she did not start at all when a figure appeared in the shadowy gateway.
At first, she was sure it was a dementor; tall, looming, and draped all in black, it moved seamlessly, as though disconnected from the rules of gravity. But this creature was not faceless. When the last rays of the day’s sunlight hit its face, a beautiful porcelain visage appeared. Although there was not even a breath of wind”something that was incredibly unsettling here in the middle of the ocean”the creature’s cloak billowed and snapped like the sails of a dark ship. The face was pale and smooth, female but not tender. She began to descend the broken stairs, keeping Hermione keenly within her sharp blue-gray gaze, targeting her.
“Who are you?” Hermione found herself asking, knowing neither why she cared nor why everything within her seemed to already know the answer; this was an angel of death. The very air around her seemed to part and allow passage. The dread calm was coming off her like vapor.
The woman smiled, but it did not improve her beauty. Her stony features seemed ill equipped with any other emotion besides grave pity. She spoke in a low, throaty voice that made her sound not elderly, but ancient, in the way that reflected wisdom beyond her young looks. “Brave and true as you are, young witch, I seek no quarrel with you.” She paused and ran an alabaster hand along the side of her own flawless face, contemplating. “Why do the ones I crave flee from me? Why do the ones I have no use for flock to me?”
Hermione tilted her head slightly. She tried not to be offended that this strange woman had no use for her. Although she had no earthly idea who the woman was, she felt an aura of depth and power that pulsated through the very air that surrounded them both there on the steps of hell. “Please, tell me your name at least,” she requested, hypnotized by the continual movement of the woman’s jet-black cloak.
“I am Kára,” she said in her grave voice, pronouncing it with the slightest hint of a Scandinavian accent, the first syllable sounding like ‘car’ and not like ‘care.’ “Once ‘Sigrún,’ once ‘Sváva,’ I have been reborn not once but twice, to serve my king and to reap the earth of the most worthy.”
Hermione didn’t understand a word this Kára person said, but her voice was like the most intoxicating elixir, stripping her gradually of her typical need to dissect every detail. The woman took a step closer to her, and Hermione felt herself step back in apprehension. Her feet were on the very edge of the wall, a sturdy rock boundary that rose about twenty feet out of the sea. She wobbled and tried to regain her balance to no avail. At the last moment, Kára stretched out a long white hand and caught her, looking somewhat agitated.
The strangest thing happened when their flesh connected. Kára was giving Hermione a look into the world she came from. The skies were vibrantly colored, thick with roiling clouds and fading sunlight. Muted oranges and vivid pinks surrounded her as she stood on a sea of cloud with a dozen or so other women in black cloaks. They all paid Hermione very little attention, but sat mending reigns for their horses or sharpening their knives; some walked about refilling wine glasses with a rather decadent looking mulled wine the color of blood that gave off the scent of cloves.
“We,” said Kára, who had appeared at Hermione’s side in this valley of a dream, “are the Valkyries.” Several of the young women inclined their heads. No one else spoke. There was a buzzing in the air that Hermione couldn’t seem to shake. It was as though someone was speaking very quickly and very softly. Closing her eyes, she began to decipher it. The women were whispering hurriedly to each other in a quick Northern tongue, telepathically chattering about who knew what.
But moments later, the foreign language began to make sense to Hermione. She could hear distinct voices, and the phrases became as understandable as English.
“A Valkyrie is a goddess and a servant of the king,” one woman said.
“We are ghosts to your world, feasting like ravens on the blood of your wars and battles,” said another.
Another voice piped up: “For every hundred that fall, perhaps one is worthy to fight with the king in the final battle, in the last war where all shall be judged and found wanting.”
“We are doomed to serve, and doomed to build up the king’s army with fallen soldiers of valor,” said a low voice from somewhere to Hermione’s left.
“Over time, we have gone beyond our orders,” said Kára proudly. “We no longer simply wait like vultures to find the worthy among the slain. We alone sway the fates to our advantage, and select the warriors who will fall.”
Hermione smiled, dazed. The power was daunting. She was beginning to feel lightheaded from the proximity of such ancient greatness.
“It has been foretold,” Kára went on, “that a mighty prince would fall at the sunset of the last Wizarding War. It was manipulated by the women before you that this prince would die today at the hands of his enemy, and therefore be swept off to Valhalla, the afterworld, to await service in the king’s militia.”
Hermione accepted a cup of mulled wine, feeling the hot liquid buoy her up as nothing before had. The strength and authority of these women was causing a lusty greed in the pit of her stomach. She longed to be one of them. She even felt herself long to be one of the worthy dead that they carried away.
“Come, young one,” Kára said in her mournful voice. “Let us return. As night falls, we shall call home the young prince. As night falls, we shall reclaim Harry Potter.”
“No!” Hermione screamed, and instantly the pink-orange cloud scene faded away. Dusk returned in full measure along with the sounds of a battle and the scent of seawater. “Not Harry, anyone but Harry!” she pleaded, and her hands were on the Valkyrie’s shoulders, shaking her.
The cloak, that restless black cloth, fell back from the older woman’s face and shoulders, revealing a truly beautiful sight. Her hair was waist length and the color of spun gold. Her piercing gray-blue eyes looked like pools of long lost thought. The pale, marble skin descended into a heavy silken dress that was so pale blue it was nearly white. A wide belt of braided platinum with sapphires the size of eggs rounded her lean waist. Her feet were bare and tough looking, a reminder that despite her elegance and opulence she was no fairy nor pampered princess.
“His fate is not up to you, witchling,” Kára replied, allowing no emotion to cloud her stoic face. “It was foretold. And so it shall be.”
“But we have prophecies too!” Hermione pleaded, her hands still entwined in the Valkyrie’s cloak. The fabric moved in her hands like water, like wings. “It was foretold by a Seer in our world that Harry Potter would defeat the Dark Lord. Without him, our future is lost.”
“Of what significance is the rambling of some old witch who claims to See?” Kára hissed, showing a sharpness that had not been present a moment before. She shook free of Hermione’s grasp and hitched up the cloak slightly. “You do not understand. You are too young. Know this: you walk along the world today because King Odin has ordained it. You have not been sacrificed yet because we, the Valkyries have not chosen you. You stand before me, insignificant and small, crying tears because the prince we come to rightfully claim is a friend of yours. Do not lie and pretend that he has another purpose. There is no life without Odin’s rule and no honorable death beyond the blow of my sword!”
Hermione was crying quietly, still awed by the power of this towering stranger. But in spite of her sudden rush of grief, she stood still and did not move away from the goddess. “So, you will take our last hope from us?” she asked, her voice smaller, her demeanor diminished. “You will kill our hero and then lay in wait for the rest of Wizardkind to fall under the wrath of Voldemort?”
Kára flinched. At first Hermione paid this no mind. Most of the Wizarding world still had difficulty speaking or even hearing the name that had terrorized their existence for nearly two decades.
But why would a goddess fear Voldemort? A villain of his own making in a world that was deemed insignificant, he would exert no terror over such an ancient and noble creature. Right?
“You’ve heard his name?” Hermione asked, blinking the last of her tears away.
“I have. You are a fool to speak it outright! His murders have swollen the ranks of my king, but my kind has no love for him. He thinks himself above us.” Kára’s lips pursed and for the first time, she tore her eyes away from Hermione. She looked down upon the battle, her face illuminated no longer by the spent sun but by the glow of spells as they shot across the broken ground at the feet of the prison: violet, red, deadly green. “Is this evil creature, this so-called Lord here at this fray? Show me where he stands so that I may watch with joy as he is slain.”
“He’s not here,” Hermione said, a note of panic in her voice. “He is biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to kill Harry. He sent his followers, his Death Eaters here tonight to lure as many good wizards as he could. He means to have them all slaughtered except Harry. He wants to kill Harry himself to ensure his immortality.”
Kára turned her blazing eyes back to Hermione. “There is no immortality for humans!” she screeched, and in the distance a seabird squawked and took flight. The foundation seemed to shudder at her wrath and authority. “The Valkyries are the hand of death. None are excused!”
“I know,” Hermione said patiently, although before this night, she had only heard whispers of myths involving Norse gods and goddesses. If it weren’t for the fiery blue gaze of the woman before her, she may have passed these last several moments off as a vivid dream, evoked by stress or a blow to the head. But she did not doubt Kára. She believed her word and her intention. All that filled her mind was the desperation of losing Harry. She was startled to find as she searched her feelings, that while she would lament losing another friend, her main concern lay in the defeat of Voldemort. For so long, the one constant in her mind was that Harry was the Chosen One, chosen by the Dark Lord himself to serve as his downfall not once but twice and forevermore. It wasn’t even so much about the prophecy as it was about fact. There wasn’t a wizard alive who could end the Dark Lord. Except for Harry.
As she thought this, she felt the buzzing noise from inside her head again. Kára had been listening to her thoughts and was now sending some of her own.
“None are excused, little witch,” Kára repeated telepathically, although her tone seemed less hostile.
“I know,” Hermione said again, dropping the pleading in her voice and growing cold. “You were ordered to take him. Fine. But know that our world will fail without him. Darkness will win out and thousands will be lost.”
“Dark magic is no match for…for…” She stopped, her eyes widening.
“No match for what?” Hermione asked, exhausted mentally from the telepathy and physically from the ache in her heart at the thought of watching her best friend die here at the desiccated entrance of the foulest prison.
“It cannot be,” Kára said and her eyelids fluttered momentarily. The buzzing in Hermione’s head grew louder. She could hear the other Valkyries talking from their dusky orange cloud. They were saying words like “lion child” and “arm of the White Wizard,” things Hermione couldn’t understand.
“This Harry Potter,” Kára demanded, speaking over the humming and murmuring that sounded like crashing waves. “Who is his father?”
“James Potter,” Hermione replied quickly. “But Voldemort killed him when Harry was just a baby. The same night he was defeated the first time.”
“Then who raised him, who is his father now? If he is the prince, who is his master and king?”
Hermione frowned, thinking. “Well, his aunt and uncle raised him, but they were foul. He had a godfather, Sirius Black, also killed on orders of the Dark Lord.”
“Black we have,” Kára said smoothly, proudly. “He is an able fighter, however stubborn and reckless. No, who was his teacher? Could it possibly be the White Wizard himself?”
“Do you mean Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, perplexed. Kára stepped back a few paces, her hand pressed to her heart. The buzzing and murmuring reached a fevered pitch.
“He is the Lion Child, Kára!” yelled a prominent-sounding Valkyrie from the distance. “Selected ages ago by the Old Lion, Godric Gryffindor. He is descended, not by blood, but by the most ancient of magic from the Lion through the White Wizard who governs from Valhalla and from Earth. The prophecies of old are explicit and absolute.”
“He is not to be touched until the prophecies are fulfilled,” cried another Valkyrie in a high, taut voice.
“Yes, so it seems,” Kára agreed and looked to Hermione again. “You are a fortunate witchling to have had conference with this Harry Potter.”
“He is my best friend,” Hermione said quietly, eyes bright again. “And Dumbledore was the most amazing wizard I ever knew.” More buzzing.
Kára’s eyes widened and she dropped slowly to one knee. “Blessed am I this day to stand in the presence of one who knew both the prince and the king.” Hermione began to protest out of humility, but Kára caught her small hand in her powerful white ones. “This world suffered when the White Wizard was taken from it. Although he serves as a general in the king’s militia, the living world still mourns him. This is not the day to mourn your young friend.”
Hermione burst into tears, sobbing her thanks into the cool night air.
“Sing no praises to me, and reserve your love for me. I only retain my wrath this day. Afterward, I can offer no promise.”
“So, Harry will be killed when this is all over.” Hermione had always known, even if she was sickened at the thought.
“It has been foretold,” Kára said simply. Hermione looked at the ground, watching her tears splash on the stone. “And now,” Kára said in a larger voice, “for victory.” She removed her black cloak and tossed it into the air. A breath of wind caught it and the fabric shattered and tore, becoming a hundred enormous black ravens. They cawed and flapped their broad wings, flying down upon the battle like a storm of feather.
Screams pierced the night, but through the haze of wings and hasty spells, Hermione could see Harry and Ron, scuttling around the battlements, dragging a limping Lupin along with them. Several more Order members scattered to the south as Death Eaters fled to the north. The ravens fell upon Voldemort’s followers and slew nearly half of them that still stood. A rather heavy silence fell across the island’s rocky shore.
“What now?” Hermione asked timidly, as the ravens flew back toward her and Kára, weaving themselves seamlessly back into the ceaselessly moving cloak. She watched as Kára draped the bird-cloth over her pale arms.
“Now, I ride,” she said gravely, conjuring a shield and a spear from mid air. She let out a whistle and a large gray wolf appeared at the edge of the battle site. He bowed slightly to the crowd of Patronuses, showing respect and submission, and nosed the air hopefully for blood, then padded his way up the embankment to where Kára stood waiting.
“So, you’ve found a faithful warrior then?” Hermione asked, scanning the battlefield in a rather desensitized way.
“Yes, one of yours I am afraid,” Kára replied, mounting the back of the wolf with grace. “Kingsley is his name, I believe. He will make a fine soldier.” And then she was off, galloping down to the bloody field, her dark cloak and her sunny hair making a grave contrast. Bending slightly, she pressed her white hand into the immobile flesh of Kingsley Shacklebolt. A strange golden glow shone around the field and then faded, leaving only a walnut-sized orb of light hovering just above the dead Auror, which Kára plucked from the air and swallowed.
The otherworldly humming filled Hermione’s ears once more. Kára and the wolf faded into nothingness as she spoke into Hermione’s waning consciousness. “Farewell for now, witchling. Fear not my coming, but look for it soon. This war was never foretold to be a pretty one, but it was never intended to be very long. We will see each other again soon.”
And with that, the connection was broken and all ties to the ancient magic of the Norse dominion was ended. Hermione stepped carefully down the rocky steps toward the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix, all of whom seemed to be frantically searching for someone.
“She was right here a moment ago, I swear,” Ron was saying and Harry was agreeing.
“Boys,” Hermione called wearily and she waved to them when they saw her descending the hill.
“We thought you’d been carried off or something!” Ron exclaimed, wrapping his long arms around her. “Did you see those birds? I wonder who conjured them.”
Hermione shrugged mutely, feeling as though she was carrying an anvil in her chest, leaving no room for her bruised heart.
“Where have you been?” Harry asked, hugging her in his turn.
“Saving your life,” Hermione answered with a sigh. She paid no mind to his confused expression and helped him and Ron escort Lupin over to a level spot in the terrain where other Order members were Disapparating back to London. Harry smiled at her briefly before turning on the spot and vanishing. She sighed again. I saved your life, she thought gravely. For now. And after watching Ron and Lupin disappear together, Hermione spun around and left the shore of Azkaban to join them in what would be Harry’s last days this side of Valhalla.
Prolonging the Valkyries by wicked angel
Chapter Notes: Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any of these people, as lovely as that might be...
Major props to Magical Maeve for this excellent prompt. I actually had to do some research, something I haven't done since college :)