The life drained slowly out of her, an almost palpable flow.  Every
breath an effort, every thought a prayer.  Her body pierced and strung
up on the tree.

A terrible risk, an unsupportable venture, trusting to the oldest of
rituals and hoping.  Just hoping, because this was their last hope of
all.

Acceptance would have been easier.  Giving in, even dying, trivial.
Instead she had chosen her path.  That of discovery, to harness that
which her nemesis had gifted to her, and to find herself.

Tom Riddle's diary had been the map, this her sacrifice, would
knowledge be their reward?