Hermione sat back with a sigh. The sky was already black as night - it had been so all day, even though it was the height of summer. The occasional flash of bright light glow streamed in through the window, filling the room and reflecting off of her Head Girl badge. Outside, she could hear screams and yells. At the beginning of the war, the cries had mostly come from unsuspecting Muggles, but by now they knew better than to go outside in the dark, for fear of being waylaid by a rogue wizard.
She closed her eyes and wished that sleep would claim her. In the first week or so, she rushed outside at every scream, hoping to help the victims, but by now the yells had become a background noise that she simply filtered out. Tiring herself out like that wouldn't help in the long-run. She had to conserve her strength to take down the big prey, or else Harry's forces would stand no chance.
Harry's forces...It felt so strange to be calling them that. It wasn't an official title, of course, and Harry wasn't officially their leader, but everyone took it for granted that he was in charge. He was the one issuing orders. He fought longer and harder than everyone else, throwing himself into battles day in and day out, on the streets and in the ministry headquarters. It was as if he wanted to die - but the good forces couldn't afford to lose him, not until he had taken on (and hopefully defeated) Voldemort. It was the unspoken thought at the back of everyone's mind - when would Harry finally meet the man who murdered his parents, for the last time? The war had stretched on for months now, battles raging on all over the country at all hours of the day. Neither side could afford to maintain such losses for much longer. The Death Eaters had been decimated, but the Order of the Phoenix had lost most of their members as well. Reports of new deaths flooded in all the time - only yesterday word had reached them that Moody had finally met his end at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione clenched her fists and offered a silent thought that no more of her friends would fall.
It also grieved her that it had taken the war to finally reveal the presence of wizards to the Muggle world. That whenever Muggles thought of wizards, they shook their fists in anger but inwardly were trembling with terror. Voldemort and his troops were responsible, the sensible part of her brain told her, but she still couldn't help but feel guilty. Maybe if Muggles had been informed before of the possibility of the war, they could have protected themselves better. Instead, hundreds had lost their lives to stray spells. She wasn't sure that the two worlds could ever reconcile, even if Harry won the war.
The door creaked and she jumped to her feet. She was staying in a small flat not far from the Order headquarters. She had simply wanted some place where she could be on her own, to think, and Harry had more than enough gold to afford to rent a place for her. But there was always the worry that someone would find out the location and sneak in while she was sleeping...Maybe it wasn't quite so good as killing Harry Potter, but no Death Eater would turn their back on an opportunity to kill one of his famous friends.
She slipped out her wand and held it out nervously in front of her, but a harsh voice sounded that quelled her fears. "It's only me, 'Mione." She relaxed, allowing her arms to droop by her sides. Of course it was only Ron. He, Harry and Remus were the only ones with keys to the flat, but Ron was the only one who ever came to visit her. Remus was busy with the werewolves, and Harry had far too much work to do to spend time with his friends anymore.
The red-hair walked into the room and offered her a small smile, which she weakly returned. She took up her place by the window again as he perched on the bed. He came over to visit regularly. They shared a drink and exchanged the latest news, but most of their time together was spent in silence. She kept her eyes focused on the window outside, training her eyes on the green glow that would periodically bathe one of the streets across the town. Neither of them knew what to say. They both knew how they felt about each other - it had been painfully obvious for years. But neither Ron nor Hermione had been brave enough to accept those feelings until it was too late. With a war on, there was no time to embark on a romance. She already didn't know how she would cope if he were to be killed - how much worse would the pain be if she knew for certain how deeply he cared for her? At least this way she could pretend that her love was unrequited, and maybe if that tragic day ever came then she would be spared some of the grief.
She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, engraving each strand of hair into his memory. Steeling herself, she twisted her head so she could look back at him. She wasn't prepared for the stab of love and fear that assaulted her heart as she met his eyes, and she almost turned away again...almost, but not quite. She knew that despite all of their pretences, that if he did die then she would no longer be able to cope. She forced herself to keep looking at him, as if to burn the memory of his face into her mind. But still, she didn't make a single move to reach out and touch him, or to speak. Instead, she hoped that he could read her thoughts through her eyes.
Hermione fervently wished that Harry would hurry up and win the war. Each day brought new losses, and she dreaded the day when it was Ron's name that was added to the lists of the dead. When peace came, maybe then she could finally start living her life again.