Chapter Text
Day 1198 - Hour 19:00
Beads of sticky sweat break out, gather, a drop lingers a moment before falling towards her furrowed brow. She wants to reach up— to wipe away the heat— but she's too exhausted. Her arms feel like bricks idly resting beside her. The summer days are approaching, another mark to another year.
It’s hot. Impossibly hot, and the ever-growing body count within the cramped safe house makes it nearly unbearable. They've given up on cooling charms by now. Not that they ever lasted long enough to begin with.
Faces are slicked with sweat, body temperatures rise, and so does the anger along with it. You can feel it pulsating. Throbbing. You can measure it. See it. Hear it, even. The mere emotion has somehow evolved, twisting into a raging physical force, swirling like a looming typhoon.
Destruction.
Hermione watches as life-long friendships deteriorate before her eyes. What had once been a bright and roaring flame quickly flickered, fading out into a murky liquid of vast nothingness. Smoke billows; flowers wilt; a child cries somewhere off in the distance— reaching out for the comfort of a mother who isn't even there.
The first few months were spent in a state of childish unawareness, and it was that same euphoric ignorance that gave force to the camaraderie. Soft touches, love-torn stares, comforting hugs; a mask to the impending fate.
Families were still whole back then. Not anymore. Not nearly.
War changes things. The environment, the landscape, society… people. War alters humans most of all. Changes their very temperament, the core of their self-worth. It shades their deep-held morals. Dark and light, good and evil, it all shifts, defocusing into a grey splash over their vision. It soaks into the skin, inevitably blackening everything in its wake.
There’s something disconcerting about that fact, yet comforting. Hermione doesn't know which is worse.
From the outside, it makes perfect sense. It’s only logical. But there is an abnormal uneasiness about it, too. A certain atmospheric pressure that puts one continuously on edge. You'll never rest. Not really, anyway. You go to bed feeling numb, and wake up just the same.
Despair.
She noticed the change in Ron first, and it started with his eyes. What had once been a burning passion behind tsunami blue swiftly declined, crashing to a dull (and perhaps even lifelessly still) body of water. Yet she stayed with him, holding on to that tiny slip of comfortability established from what semblance she had of a childhood.
They ate together, battled together, and even shared a bed on lonely nights. But their movements were almost inhuman, nearly mechanical-like. It was as if their bodies had been pre-programmed for the actions, with no feeling or desire pressing beneath the soft touches of padded fingertips. She hated it. She hated him, even. And despite her growing intolerance for the boy, she hated herself enough for the both of them.
Palpable.
It’s always easier to notice the ways of others, she supposes. Their deviations, however slight, simply become apparent much more quickly, hitting you like a train in the dead of winter. This happens, of course, far before the moment when you turn in on yourself and finally take a good look at who you are from the outside.
It’s a revelation a mirror can’t provide you.
A loud snap and crash startles Hermione from rapidly deteriorating thoughts, and she looks up just in time to see Seamus Finnigan’s body smash to the wall a few yards away. His spine hits the hardened concrete and he drops, groaning as his body collides with the dirtied stone beneath him. Hermione’s eyes quickly flick, landing on a weakened Lavender Brown standing just across the narrowed hallway. Eyes sullen, t-shirt drenched in sweat, the witch stands in a common battle stance; wand drawn.
“Don’t come near me again!” she sneers, voice shaking as she adjusts her shoulder, straightening the loose hanging t-shirt. She’s pale and thin, impossibly thin, sickly thin. They all are, but the heaves of the blonde’s shallow breathing jut her ribs out much more noticeably. “You disgust me,” she spits for good measure. All eyes are on the pair, but not one spectator utters a word. Hermione included.
Silence is still, the air is dry, a pin drop could echo throughout entire continents at that moment and no one would even flinch. Lavender keeps her eyes on the fallen man at her feet, backing away until her spine collides with the railing of the stairway behind her. Turning with finality, Hermione watches as the witch climbs the stairs, taking two at a time. A door slams. Seamus draws himself to his feet, muttering several creative swear words as he tries to avoid the gaze of onlookers.
Lovers turned enemies.
As if fate had planned that exact moment, a familiar hand snakes its way around Hermione's midsection from the seat beside her. Bile rises, her mouth grows metallic as she throws Ron a tight-lipped smile. She struggles to choke the lump in her throat back down as she averts her gaze.
She hates it when he touches her.
Day 1211 - Hour 04:00
Villainous cackling echoes from a distance, but Hermione is determined to stay focused as flashes of bright light fly past her head at a startling proximity. The smell of burnt hair and scorched flesh overwhelms her senses. She tugs her black bandana up over the bridge of her nose to ward off the taste, but the action hinders more than helps.
Squinting through the smoke and fog, figures fly past her as she begins to count her breathing.
One, out.
An explosion breaks out, bodies fly.
Two, out.
Three, out.
Protego, Avada, Protego, Avada.
Her moral determination to not use such spells has since passed, a silly and weak endeavor to keep her soul in one piece, she supposes. As weeks upon months upon years linger on, Hermione realises that it is merely the reality of war. Her former days spent throwing binds and jinxes were limited. It didn’t last long. Eventually she had given up, tattered and worn, and went for blood. It had only been fair, after all. No one was sending a tickle jinx in her direction.
“Sectumsempra!”
The body of a masked man falls before her, throat torn clean open upon utterance. Fresh blood saturates the soles of her boots, mingling with the mud and stone of the earth. There was once a time that metaphor would not have gone unnoticed, but she simply steps right over the lifeless form and keeps moving with barely a blink.
One, out.
Two, out.
“Avada Kedavra!”, another thump.
Three, out.
There’s no time to stop, to observe, to mourn or to cry. Action is her reality. It's everyone's. One misstep, one slight hesitation, and you were dead. And what’s the Order going to do with yet another slain soldier? The deceased don’t win wars. Once you take that last and final breath, blink, flinch— your usefulness ceases to exist, and you’ll soon be replaced and forgotten.
Truthfully, sometimes the thought doesn't sound so bad. Maybe even peaceful.
Day 1246 - Hour 19:00
Dripping. The sound is ricocheting out from somewhere behind her. It's unpleasant enough to put her on edge, to heighten her senses, but it never dawns on her to seek out the origin.
No, Hermione is too busy trying to find the light.
The scene is pitch-black in front of her, an obsidian nightmare that has swallowed her whole,like a beast feasting on its prey. Padded footsteps echo to the rhythm of the drips, but she doesn’t call out— no matter how impulsively she wants to. After all, she feels the eyes on her.
Hundreds.
Dark, absent of colour, all-encompassing, hungry. She knows nothing of what monsters might lurk just out of reach, but there is one thing that's certain... She doesn’t want to tempt them.
She's trying to settle her breathing, as it’s way too fucking loud, but her chest beats harder against her ribcage, rattling and thundering to her eardrums. If she stands completely still, she swears she can hear the blood rushing through her veins. The pressure of arteries register as crashings of a wave. It picks up even more now, torturing her, she freezes in place.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She’s scared. No— she’s utterly terrified, that much is certain. Given the chance, Hermione wouldn’t hesitate to rip the raucous organ from her own chest, stomping on it until the rhythm ceases to exist… if only she had the means.
Drip. Drip.
Time slows down, her hearing tunnels, and she squeezes her lids shut. Somehow the gesture helps. It focuses her. It's not as if she can see anything with them open regardless.
Slowing her breathing, Hermione reaches out and begins to shuffle her feet ever-so carefully forward once again. Every screaming atom in her body calms the faintest amount when her fingertips reach a flat surface, cool to the touch. She uses this to steady herself, her eyes still screwed tightly shut.
Drip.
Her feet pick up pace again as she runs her arm along the wall, feeling for a light switch in desperation. All she needs is light. A torch would do, or even the softened flicker of a match flame. Every part of her craves the light. Where is her wand?
Drip. Drip.
She’s practically running now, and she can feel the tight grip of the darkness follow. Before long, she trips, falls, and crashes to her knees. A laugh rings out in front of her; maniacal, cruel, torturous.
Bellatrix.
Her mind flickers, scrambles, and then soars— back to long battles, bodies dropping, blood splattering the back of her neck. Her world is spinning, and she might get sick.
But a part of her is confused, bewildered by being taken off guard. She is a soldier, and has been for years. It’s not as if she hadn’t heard that same bone-chilling cackle dozens, if not hundreds of times before.
It’s a sickness the masked ones had, pleased while slaughtering. A maliciousness never quite matched by anything else. She’s not even sure they were the type to go back and gather their wounded or mourn their fallen. Not that the Order did either at this point. But there's a difference. There's always a difference.
She crawls on all fours in what she thinks is the direction of the wall, and she's right. But as soon as she touches the base, the laughter halts. Everything grows quiet, the dripping comes to a halt before a flash of light makes its presence known. Bright and blinding, she squints. It dims into blackness again.
Before she can gather her thoughts, it happens again. Bright white, blackness. And again. Over, and over, and over— and that’s when the face of Severus Snape appears. She notices the familiar swish of his billowing cloak.
Right in front of her, looming, just as he had in her former school days. He's sneering at her. She does nothing but stare back into those cold black eyes. Mouth held slightly agape, Hermione’s brow dips as the lights flicker on and off around them in a frenzied rave-like atmosphere… and then they stop.
Blackness.
Silence.
“How could you do this?”
It's Ron’s voice, sullen and weak. When the lights flash once more, Hermione's heart clenches, dropping to the very pit of her stomach.
In place of where her former teacher once stood now sits a familiar ginger, his blue eyes drowned in a sea of crimson. Ron— Bloodied, disfigured, and chained to the floor before her. He has something just around his neck, a locket of some sort. The sight is gore-filled and terrifying, but for some reason, it's that little detail that draws her in; whispering sweet nothings from afar.
Dark magic. Jaded and tempting, singing songs of unattainable promises. Her mouth waters, and it takes all of Hermione's strength to tear her eyes back to his and heave herself to her feet. She stands on wobbly knees and wills herself forward.
“Ron!” she screams once, her vocal cords cracking, tearing to shreds as she rushes towards him. Before she can reach, however, the absence of light swallows her once again. She cries out, crashing back to her knees. The cackling returns, booming her ears, mocking her into madness.
“Your walls, Miss Granger.”
“Mione’, wake up!”
She’s drenched in sweat.
Day 1246 - Hour 22:00
“I don't trust it.”
“Luckily you don't have to, Potter, you've just got to take the orders.”
“But Dumbledore said…”
“Watch it, boy. Dumbledore isn't around anymore and there's no way he coulda' known what place we'd end up in.”
“We need her, though. You can't just send her gallivanting off with a shotty team and barely any—"
“Excuse me, but if you could refrain from speaking as though I'm not standing right in front of you, that would be ideal.” Hermione snaps out in a hoarse voice, dropping her previously tucked arms in a huff. Her hair is uncontrollable, her shirt is hanging too loose, and she can feel the weights under her eyes.
The argument falters for a minute, heavy footsteps soon follow. The thin door behind her crashes open, revealing a disheveled looking Ron, “What'd I miss?”
Harry's brows furrow, his mouth set into a thin line as his green eyes snap back and forth between his best friends. “Moody wants to break us up.”
"Wha--"
A heavy book drops onto the mapping table with force, the senior Auror glaring at Harry with an unspoken insult. He rips out a chair to sit. “Didja think you all would just stay together forever, jumping from safe house to safe house? Think you were gonna skip merrily around the country by day and casually risk your lives in battle by night? Well? Did ya?!”
“I—"
Slam, “We are losing a war, Potter!”
The room silences. Only the sound of Moody's enraged breathing occupies the space now. The air feels thick. The usual taste of death lingers, contaminating, mixing with a fever of helplessness. Bloodshot eyes roam.
Hermione reaches up, runs her arm along her slick brow. She doesn’t want to give away her thoughts on the subject. Doesn’t want to show how badly she wants this, to get away from Harry. From Ron. From the lot of them, really. She feels as though she’s suffocating, trapped beneath a wave of abandon, wanting desperately to shock herself back to reality.
“She’s the best strategist we’ve got,” Harry continues, his voice much more calm, yet firm. His eyes are turned towards the table in front of him, avoiding the commander’s gaze. Hermione’s heart aches for her treacherousness as well as his loyalty. If only she had an ounce of his bravery, a drop of his will power. He’s stubborn, and prideful. So very prideful, even still. She’s both awed and disgusted.
“I take offense to that,” Moody mumbles. It’s his attempt to lighten the mood. So very out of character, downright shocking in fact, but it does nothing. The statement falls on deaf ears, lingers through the air without any absorption.
“This isn’t a snap decision,” he continues, his magical eye flickering between Ron and Harry. “She’s been requested personally. While she’s a great strategist, we have many more who can get the job done. They need her at the Entrypointe. That’s final. Cry about it in your own time.”
Moody’s eye now snaps to Hermione who is chewing the dead skin beside her tumbnail, a weight lifting in her chest. “You leave in a week,” he says. Dropping her hand with finality, she nods just once before turning on her heels and exiting the room.
No one follows.