She Ultimately Didn't Strike the Killing Blow

Caesar was still leaning against that dust-covered lab table, in almost exactly the same position as when she had left.

Only his head was bowed low, his thick, dark brown curls covering most of his face, motionless, like a wax statue that had lost all vitality.

The bloodstains on his body had also dried and blackened, and the terrifying blue cracks beneath his skin seemed to have stopped pulsing, leaving only a dead, ashen stillness.

Throughout the entire room, not a single trace of living breath could be felt, only the thick, cloying cold of death and finality.

"No... no..." Hermione's throat let out a hoarse, broken sob, her legs giving way as she nearly collapsed to her knees. All the hope, all the madness, all the sin—at this moment, they seemed to lose all meaning.

She had defeated Voldemort, snatched back the Philosopher's Stone, and even... even stained her hands with blood that could never be washed clean.

But if he wasn't here anymore, what was any of it worth?

Despair, like the iciest tide, instantly drowned her.

Yet, just as her pupils dilated and the world was about to lose all color...

By the lab table, the finger of that "corpse" twitched—extremely faintly.

A movement so subtle that if Hermione's entire mind hadn't been fixed on him, if the room hadn't been so deathly silent that a pin drop could be heard, she would have missed it.

Then came a sound—extremely weak, as if squeezed from the deepest part of his lungs, a breath laced with blood.

Hermione froze, all her senses sharpened to their limit. She held her breath, staring fixedly at Caesar.

His chest rose—extremely slowly, almost imperceptibly—in a faint, weak motion.

He was still alive!

Not dead! Professor McGonagall... Professor McGonagall hadn't killed him?!

Joy, like an exploding star, instantly shattered all the dams of despair, sweeping through every cell of Hermione's body with unstoppable force.

It was a near-dizzying, weightless emotion, a mix of disbelief and the sheer relief of surviving a calamity.

Tears burst forth without warning—not tears of grief, but a flood of joy too intense and pressure too long held.

Her knees gave way, and she truly fell to the ground, not from weakness, but because this surprise was too heavy to bear.

"Caesar..." Her voice trembled beyond control as she scrambled to his side, her hands carefully yet almost greedily cupping his face.

His skin was cold, his breath so faint it seemed it could break at any moment—but it was there.

He was truly still alive!

Only then did Hermione belatedly notice, not far from Caesar's side on the ground, two students curled up in Ravenclaw robes.

A boy and a girl, both looking only thirteen or fourteen, their faces marked by fear-induced exhaustion and confusion, eyes closed, chests rising and falling steadily—as if merely asleep, or under a mild stunning spell.

Their wands lay by their hands, with no visible battle wounds on their bodies.

Guards.

Professor McGonagall, in the end... hadn't killed.

She hadn't chosen to end Caesar to stop the rampaging magical creatures, but instead subdued him, left guards, and gone to "reveal the truth" to try to redeem herself.

A flicker of extremely complex emotion passed through Hermione's heart, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the stronger thought of how to save Caesar.

Why McGonagall hadn't killed him, why those two students were here—none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that Caesar was still alive, and the Philosopher's Stone was in her hands!

She forced herself to calm down, though her hands still trembled uncontrollably as she quickly checked Caesar's condition.

His life force was so weak it was nearly extinguished, his magical core in chaotic collapse, his body severely damaged by backlash and injuries.

But the purest "source of creation and life" power within the Philosopher's Stone was exactly the right remedy.

Hermione took a deep breath, gently placing the Philosopher's Stone on Caesar's icy chest, right over his heart.

Her right hand gripped her wand tightly, while her left hand covered the Stone, and she closed her eyes.

Her magic, gentle yet firm, flowed into the Philosopher's Stone, carefully avoiding the parts tainted by Voldemort, precisely guiding out the most core, purest essence of creation.

Wisp after wisp of warm, soft energy, tinged with a faint golden light, streamed out of the Stone like living water.

Following her guidance, it slowly seeped into Caesar's chest, flowing through his limbs and bones, nourishing his dried-up magical circuits, repairing his shattered organs, smoothing those violent blue cracks...

It was an extremely delicate and energy-consuming process. Hermione was completely focused, and soon fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, her face growing pale.

She could feel Caesar's life force rising bit by bit, extremely slowly, like a faint spark gradually reviving under ice.

His originally cold, stiff body began to gain a slight warmth and softness.

After what felt like an eternity, Hermione finally withdrew her hand slowly, her wand drooping, her body swaying slightly from exhaustion. The Philosopher's Stone had dimmed considerably, but it was still warm and smooth.

And Caesar...

His breathing had clearly steadied, though still faint, no longer the thread-thin breath that could snap at any moment.

The ashen pallor of death on his face had receded somewhat, still pale as paper, but now faintly carrying a trace of life.

Most gratifying of all, those blue cracks under his skin, though not completely gone, had faded significantly and no longer pulsed, as if temporarily suppressed and sealed by the power of the Philosopher's Stone.

He remained unconscious, his injuries still grave, recovery far off. But at least the most dangerous moment had passed.

He had survived.

Hermione slumped to the floor, her back against the cold experimental table, watching the faint, steady rise and fall of Caesar's chest. Tears slid silently down her face once more.

This time, it was pure lingering fear and relief.

The nerves that had been taut for what felt like a century could finally relax a little. An overwhelming exhaustion swept over her like a tidal wave, making it difficult even to lift a finger.

Yet this fragile peace did not last long.

From outside the corridor came first sporadic, muffled sobs and incredulous whispers, like stones thrown into stagnant water, stirring ripples that grew ever larger.

Footsteps became chaotic and heavy, carrying a doomsday-like panic.

The sounds drew nearer, filtering through the thick wooden door and her protective spells—muffled yet distinct:

"Professor McGonagall, she..."

"No, impossible! The Deputy Headmistress, she..."

"And Headmaster Dumbledore, they say he's also..."

"It's Voldemort! It must be that dark fiend!"

"Merlin, what will become of Hogwarts..."

Headmaster Dumbledore... had also fallen in battle?!

Hermione's body, leaning against the experimental table, stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment.

Tears still clung to her lashes, but the relief in her eyes froze instantly, replaced by an icy, razor-sharp clarity that raced through her mind.

In the "official version," Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had died in fierce combat against Voldemort's minions, sacrificing themselves to protect Hogwarts.