She Hadn't Killed Him After All

Caesar was still leaning against the dust-covered workbench, almost exactly where he had been when she left.

His head hung low, thick dark-brown curls obscuring most of his face. He didn't move, like a wax figure drained of life.

The blood on him had dried and turned black. The dreadful, dark-blue cracks beneath his skin seemed to have stopped pulsing, leaving only the lifeless gray of death.

There wasn't a trace of life anywhere in the room, only the suffocating cold of death and finality.

"No... no..." Hermione choked out a broken sob. Her legs gave way, and she nearly fell to her knees. All her hopes, all her desperation, all her sins seemed meaningless now.

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

But if he was gone, what did any of it matter?

Despair swept over her like the coldest tide, drowning her in an instant.

Then, just as her eyes widened and the world was about to lose all its color, the fingers of the "body" beside the workbench twitched—ever so slightly.

It was an almost imperceptible movement. If Hermione hadn't been focused entirely on him, if the room hadn't been so silent that a pin could drop, she would have missed it.

Then came a faint, blood-flecked gasp, as if forced out from the deepest part of his lungs.

Hermione froze. Every sense sharpened to its limit. She held her breath and stared fixedly at Caesar.

His chest rose ever so slowly, so faintly it was almost impossible to see.

He was still alive!

He wasn't dead! Professor McGonagall... Professor McGonagall hadn't killed him?!

Joy burst through her like an exploding star, shattering every wall of despair and sweeping through every cell in her body.

It was a dizzying, weightless feeling, an overwhelming mix of disbelief and relief at having survived a disaster.

Tears poured down her cheeks without warning—not tears of sorrow, but a flood of overwhelming joy and released tension.

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor—not from weakness, but because the shock was too much to bear.

"Caesar..." Her voice trembled uncontrollably. She scrambled to his side and cradled his face in both hands, careful yet almost greedy to feel him.

His skin was cold, and his breathing so faint it might stop at any moment, but it was there.

He was really still alive!

Only then did Hermione notice two students curled up on the floor not far from Caesar. Both wore Ravenclaw robes.

A boy and a girl, both apparently thirteen or fourteen. Exhaustion and confusion lingered on their faces after their fright. Their eyes were closed, and their chests rose and fell steadily. They seemed to be asleep, or perhaps under a gentle Stunning Spell.

Their wands lay beside them, and neither had any obvious injuries from a fight.

They were the guards.

In the end, Professor McGonagall... hadn't killed him.

Rather than kill Caesar to put an end to the Fantastic Beasts' rampage, she had chosen to subdue him and leave guards behind while she went to "reveal the truth," hoping to redeem herself.

A deeply conflicted feeling passed through Hermione, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the more urgent question of how to save Caesar.

Why McGonagall hadn't killed him and why the two students were here didn't matter 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, she quickly examined Caesar's condition.

His life force was all but spent, his magical core in chaos and collapsing, his body severely damaged by the backlash and his injuries.

But the purest "source of creation and life" contained in the Philosopher's Stone was exactly the remedy he needed.

Hermione took a deep breath and gently placed the Philosopher's Stone over Caesar's cold heart.

She gripped her wand in her right hand, laid her left over the stone, and closed her eyes.

Her magic flowed into the Philosopher's Stone, gentle yet firm. She carefully avoided the parts corrupted by Voldemort and precisely drew out the purest essence of creation at its core.

Threads of warm, gentle energy, glowing with a faint golden light, streamed from the Philosopher's Stone like living water.

Guided by her, they flowed into Caesar's chest, spreading through his limbs and nourishing his withered magical pathways, repairing his shattered organs, and soothing the violent dark-blue cracks...

It was an incredibly delicate, exhausting process. Hermione focused with all her might. Fine beads of sweat soon formed on her forehead, and her face turned pale.

She could feel Caesar's life force slowly, ever so slowly, returning, like a tiny flame stirring back to life beneath the ice.

His body, once cold and rigid, began to regain a little warmth and softness.

At last, after what felt like ages, Hermione slowly withdrew her hands. Her wand drooped, and her body swayed with exhaustion. The Philosopher's Stone had dimmed considerably, but still held a gentle glow.

And Caesar...

His breathing was much steadier now. It was still weak, but no longer a thread that might snap at any moment.

Some of the deathly pallor had faded from his face. He was still as pale as paper, but he had a faint trace of life about him.

Most encouraging of all, the dark-blue cracks beneath his skin hadn't disappeared completely.

But they had faded considerably and stopped pulsing, as if the Philosopher's Stone's power had temporarily suppressed and sealed them away.

He was still unconscious, and his injuries remained severe. Recovery was a long way off. But at least the most dangerous moment had passed.

He had survived.

Hermione slumped to the floor, leaning against the cold workbench as she watched Caesar's chest rise and fall in a faint, steady rhythm. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks again.

This time, they were pure relief and the aftermath of fear.

The nerves she had kept taut for what felt like a century finally relaxed a little. Utter exhaustion swept over her like a tide, making even the thought of lifting a finger seem impossible.

But this fragile peace didn't last long.

Outside in the corridor, there were first a few muffled sobs and disbelieving whispers, like stones thrown into still water, sending ripples ever wider.

Footsteps grew disorderly and heavy, carrying the frantic urgency of the end of the world.

The sounds drew closer, filtering through the thick wooden door and her Protective Charm, blurred yet unmistakable:

"Professor McGonagall, she..."

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

"And Headmaster Dumbledore, they're saying the Headmaster also..."

"It was Voldemort! It had to be that monster!"

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

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

Hermione's body, slumped against the workbench, stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Tears still clung to her lashes, but the relief in her eyes froze in an instant, replaced by a razor-sharp coldness and a mind racing at full speed.

According to the "official version," Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had died fighting Voldemort's followers, sacrificing themselves to protect Hogwarts.