She Never Had a Choice

Immediately after.

There was no sound, yet it felt as though a soul-shaking "hum" exploded in the depths of everyone's heart.

The cocoon of light, along with the two people inside it, vanished into thin air.

Not the crack of Apparition, not the spinning pull of a Portkey, not even any known form of spatial jump with magical traces.

They simply—driven by that power of purest "love" and "protection," woven from blazing white and golden red—

Were completely "erased" from their current spatial coordinates, or rather, "transferred" to some unknown dimension or corner that even Dumbledore's magic could not yet trace.

Inside the stone chamber, the lingering radiance of the blazing white light slowly faded, leaving only the residual warmth and purifying sensation in the air that made the soul tremble.

And on the ground, a large pool of still-uncoagulated, shocking blood—dark red interwoven with silver-blue—left behind by Caesar.

At the center of the bloodstain lay a small pile of gray-white powder.

That was the final remains of the One-Winged Bird Necklace, after it had completely exhausted its power, completing its last resonance and protection.

Dead silence.

Then came Voldemort's roar of extreme fury, mixed with the unhealed pain from the scorching light burns and his craving for that mysterious power, along with Dumbledore's heavy, mountain-like sigh.

But all of this was no longer relevant to Hermione and Caesar.

They had been carried by the ancient and powerful magic that erupted from love, toward an unknown torrent of fate.

The only thing certain was that the necklace's ashes, which had once served as a bond and ultimately burned out in the blazing heat of love, testified to the end of some connection.

Perhaps, also, the beginning of another, deeper, more inseparable bond.

The cold air, carrying the scent of gunpowder and the sweet, metallic tang of dark magic, rushed into the abandoned corridor.

Hermione could barely feel her own legs moving; all her senses were focused on the body on her back, growing heavier and heavier, its life force draining away at terrifying speed.

Caesar's head hung limply against her neck, his faint breath brushing her skin, each breath lighter and colder than the last.

The front of her robes had long been soaked through with his blood, that scalding stickiness now turning icy, as if it wanted to freeze her heart along with it.

Behind her, from the direction of the castle's main battlefield, came deafening explosions, the roar of collapsing structures, mixed with the terrified screams of students and the wild whistles of dark wizards.

Voldemort's roar, infused with magic after breaking free, still seemed to echo through the corridors: "Crush them! Make Hogwarts history!"

Then came more cracking sounds, eerie howls, the dull thud of wings beating the air from all directions of the castle.

The main force of Death Eaters, along with dangerous creatures summoned or tamed by darkness, was launching a full-scale assault on this ancient fortress.

Hermione rushed into an abandoned Potions classroom, locked the door behind her with her wand, and cast the most complex protective and confounding charms she could think of.

She carefully lowered Caesar from her back, letting him lean against a dust-covered workbench.

Caesar's face was ashen, like a ghost; the icy blue cracks under his skin, temporarily frozen by the blazing white light, began to pulse and spread again restlessly, their edges turning an ominous purple-black.

His body twitched uncontrollably, each spasm draining the last trace of color from his face.

"Caesar! Hang on, look at me!" Hermione knelt beside him, futilely trying to wipe away the blood frothing from the corner of his mouth, her fingers trembling violently.

The surging, torrential magic within her, unleashed by extreme emotion, still roared and raced through her veins like a breached flood.

It made her feel unprecedentedly powerful, but also brought a panic of losing control.

She could clearly "sense" the fierce magical collisions all over the castle, lives fading, darkness growing.

Caesar struggled to lift his eyelids. Those once deep and sharp eyes were now cloudy and unfocused, yet they still precisely caught her face.

His gaze slid over Hermione's tear-streaked and smoke-stained cheeks, past her heaving chest from labored breathing.

Finally, it seemed to "see" the uncontrollable, dazzling torrent of magic inside her.

A faint, almost imperceptible complex expression flickered in the depths of his eyes.

The "ancient magic of love" rune that the system had originally gifted him was engraved in Hermione's necklace.

But he hadn't expected the effect to be so violent. Hermione's magical power now far exceeded the limits of the original story.

So this was the so-called "protagonist's" potential?

But this wouldn't do. It was too clean.

The eruption was so pure, born of protection, ending in salvation.

She still had a way back, still harbored lingering attachment and illusions about the order of light.

Caesar had to make her stain herself with indelible blood, so that her protection, her power, her "love"—

Would be completely bound to the ruins of Hogwarts, to the unavoidable sins. She must have no path of retreat.

"Her... mione..." Caesar's voice was hoarse and broken, like the last gasp of a cracked bellows, yet it carried a strange, undeniable clarity.

Hermione quickly leaned in: "I'm here! I'm right here! You'll be fine, we'll go find Madam Pomfrey, or... or beg Dumbledore, there must be a way..."

Caesar shook his head extremely slowly, with a barely perceptible motion. This action seemed to drain the last of his strength.

He struggled, raising his still-intact left hand, his index finger trembling, pointing at Hermione's forehead.

His fingertip was icy cold, stained with his own blood, tracing an infinitesimally small arc in the air—one that instantly made Hermione's soul shudder.

"It's... no use..." Every word he spoke brought more blood frothing out. "Without the Philosopher's Stone, I... won't last much longer..."

His fingertip gently touched Hermione's brow.

No light. No ripple of a spell.

But a stream of consciousness—ice-cold, piercing, yet brimming with boundless information and unyielding resolve—stabbed into Hermione's mind like a venom-tipped icicle!

It wasn't words, but images and knowledge branded directly:

—The Philosopher's Stone pulsed within Voldemort's twisted body, like the core of a dark heart.

—The stone's pure life and transformation power was being madly corrupted, twisted, and extinguished by Voldemort's evil will and black magic.

—Seize it! Not for Voldemort, not for Dumbledore or Hogwarts, but to save him!

Only that object could reverse the collapsing magical structure inside him, offset the ancient backlash, and pull him back from the brink of utter annihilation!

—How to approach? How to identify that single "essence"? How to snatch it from the enraged Voldemort and the chaotic battlefield?

A rapid succession of tactical fragments—extremely risky yet logically precise—flashed by, carrying Caesar's signature cold calculation and sharp style.

The moment the information transfer ended, Caesar seemed utterly drained. His arm fell limp, his eyes half-closed, his breath so faint it might stop at any second.

"No... don't..." Hermione's tears burst forth, a mix of fear and a fury born of being cornered.

She knew this could be a trap, further exploitation, a chain binding his survival to even deeper sin around her neck.

But... looking at Caesar's rapidly fading face, feeling the cold plan in her mind that pointed to the only "way out"—

She had no choice.

Never, when it came to Caesar.

Had she ever truly had a choice.