Disclaimer: I do not possess the fine assortment of cast members, except for the Storyteller in the beginning. Alas, only J. K. Rowling has that distinct pleasure.
A/N: This is my first fanfic, although I've been reading a lot of them. It'll probably be a pretty long story, and lots of background and build up in the beginning before any real action, but I expect to cover the entire seventh year and final battle so hang in there, and review please!
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"They say that in this age, there are no heroes. Only the taunting, endless quests for something elusive. The grand finale slips through our hands like wisps of once-whole dreams, now fragmented by violence into shreds, ghosts of the past. Some are of power, of wealth, of glory. Others, the longings of adolescent girls, whisper of romantic liaisons and beautiful children."
The Storyteller looked at his enraptured audience, and knew she had them. In a time where magic no longer pulsed through the veins of the earth and into the people inhabiting its surface, any lore of magic was enough to draw many listeners into the weave of her tapestry of tales. Anything to forget, for a moment, the utter darkness that cradled and engulfed them all, those who should have had magic and knew that there was a missing element in their bodies. Anything to forget the earth's rejection of her children.
She continued. "Once, in this world, these dreams were a glorious cascade. The visions were butterflies, fragile and fleeting, but alluring. One of these butterflies, scarlet and blue and silver and yellow, perched in the hollow of my soul, and I Heard.
This is the story the butterfly told me…"
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"Could you be any more obvious, Harry?" Hermione poked her black-haired friend in the shoulder. Hard.
"Ouch! That hurt! And I really don't know what you're talking about, Hermione," Harry protested, rubbing his shoulder. Hermione tilted her head up—when had he and Ron gotten so tall?—and smiled innocently, a smile that instantly put both boys on guard. Hermione's "innocent smiles" usually foreshadowed something unpleasant or embarrassing, just as certain as a Slytherin's smirk.
Hermione, the picture of naivety, murmured, "Well if you really don't know what I'm talking about, you must have been even more engrossed by the sight of Pansy's behind than you already seemed to be." Harry immediately turned as red as the infamous Weasley hair, and one of the aforesaid Weasleys cracked up, laughing uncontrollably at his best friend. Hermione merely blinked, her mouth still turned up in the slightest ironic—in fact, one would say almost Slytherin-ish—smile.
Ron's gales of laughter led Ginny straight to the compartment they were in. The Hogwarts Express chugged doggedly away, bearing its burden of students once again to the famed school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ginny peered in, throat tightening unexpectedly as she did. There was her brother, rolling on the floor in stitches, and her two best friends in various stages of emotion. Well, just Harry. Hermione was a different story all together. Ginny didn't know where she had learnt such brilliant acting skills, but over the summer before her seventh year, Hermione had definitely revealed some interesting facts about her life.
Facts didn't change the overall course of things. This was the year. One of her best friends would face down evil incarnate and either kill or be killed. The other two would be in the fray, backing him and protecting him. And she? Despite her mother's desire that she stay home safe, she had no intention of doing so. She was no longer the eleven-year-old, longing to be noticed, easily manipulated by talking diaries and shadows. This summer had seen the leaders of DA—Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville—in intensive training in defense and offense of the dark arts. She wasn't ready to die yet, but she was ready to fight.
"Hey guys." Ginny strolled in.
"Hi Gin! Have you seen any of the…others?" Hermione beamed at the girl, all business now that her wisecrack had borne fruit.
Ginny lowered her voice. "Neville and Luna should be here at any minute. We need to do what Miner- what Professor McGonagall reminded us to do." Over training, McGonagall—along with several other faculty members teaching them—had given them permission to use their first names, as long as it didn't slip once they reached school. The training had been in secret, held at Hermione's very well warded house.
Or mansion more like. Hermione Granger was very well off, the sole heiress of the estates her mother's family line had passed down since being awarded it by the King of England for a huge service rendered to him. Hermione grimaced. She hated being known for her wealth. It was why she had sworn Headmaster Dumbledore to secrecy before she agreed to attend Hogwarts. It was the same reason her parents had chosen to work as dentists, as common and as close to normalcy as they could find.
Hermione brought herself out of her musings abruptly, realizing that the others were looking at her expectantly. "Yes, once Luna and Neville get here we'll have a short debriefing, and then you guys can start the recruitment process okay? Make sure to be subtle. I'll find you guys after I'm done with my Head meeting. Don't do anything…rash." Her eyes locked with Harry's reminding him of promises made over the summer. Ron opened his mouth, and if Hermione wasn't mistaken he had been about to hurl an attack on Hogwarts being under the control of Voldemort, but closed his mouth again. She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. They had all learnt over the summer to keep their tempers mostly under check, or suffer the consequences. Raging emotions in an unguarded area, with Death Eaters floating around on the train, was not a good idea.
As Luna and Neville slipped in and Hermione raised her wards to protect their conversation, she thought, this is what Hogwarts has come to. Run by the murderer of the previous headmaster, and by Death Eaters assigned to discipline the students and scare the muggle-born. Voldemort doesn't have quite enough control to completely turn us out, but he can make life as hard as he can for us.