A/N: I own nothing but an over-active imagination.
Pieces of My Soul - A Wartime Dramione Story
Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations, Character Death
PROLOGUE
The world changed after the battle of Hogwarts. The light side suffered greatly, but it was Voldemort's ranks who had suffered the most casualties. Neville, the unsuspecting hero, beheaded Nagini. Hermione and Ron destroyed the diadem. Harry returned from the veil.
Voldemort was again human. He felt the destruction of each horcrux and in a moment of fear and desperation at seeing Harry still lived, immediately apparated, fleeing the battle and leaving the remaining deatheatters to scatter, living to fight another day.
The battle had ended. The light had won, but the war itself was far from over.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. And nearly a year later, death and destruction were still commonplace. The Order had nearly tripled in size. Every day young witches and wizards found their way to 12 Grimmauld Place, pledging their allegiance and their lives to the 'Chosen One.'
Harry hated it. He hated that they came to fight and die for HIM rather than The Order. Over time, he became consumed by guilt from the death that was all around him. Ginny alone was his light in an otherwise dark and violent world.
No one had laid eyes on Voldemort in months. The last of his horcruxes destroyed, he hid in the safety of Malfoy Manor, sending his followers to fight and die in his stead. But their own ranks were far from diminished. They had redoubled their own efforts; trading in on fear, intimidation, and torture.
The children of their fallen comrades were the first to be recruited, followed by nearly every student ever sorted into Slytherin. By The Order's account, the youngest deatheatter was only 13 years old, barely old enough to cast a decent stunning spell, but old enough to give his life in service of Voldemort.
Deatheatters no longer walked proudly down the street, adorned in their robes and masks. They slunk about in the shadows or hid in plain sight. It was hard to determine who was friend or foe anymore.
Ron never left Harry's side, helping to plan every strike, coordinate every attack against those who would destroy them. Witches and wizards of all ages vied for the chance to fight alongside two-thirds of the Golden Trio.
Hermione was in charge of research and reconnaissance, naturally. It was her job to keep people safe, or at least as safe as one can be while fighting in a war. It was clear Voldemort had no intention of showing himself, and every day he remained hidden more of her friends died.
Such a burden takes its toll.
She needed to find a way into Malfoy Manor, to bring the fight not only to his doorstep, but through it. But the ancient magical wards surrounding the manor were locked tight. No attack they mounted even came close to putting weakening its defenses. Still she searched and searched for the missing piece, the key to bring them down for good.
No one suspected the key would fall into their lap, or more accurately, at Harry Potter's feet.