AN: Well. Hi! This is my gift for Lia, as part of the last dmhgficexchange on livejournal. The posting of it has been overdue for a while now, as I've wanted to go through it once more before I posted it here. Just to repeat: this story is complete, I just need to go over it a bit more because it became a little confused towards the end. Of course, I decide that the time to post it is about three days before I get to watch the last film. Guhh.

My prompt:

Would you prefer an art or fic gift? Fic.
Preferred rating: T-MA
Describe what you'd like in as few words/keywords as possible: Something dark, set immediately after the war.
Optional: Song, Poem, or Quote (title/original creator): Quote - It is not only the living who are killed in war. (Isaac Asimov)
Dealbreakers (absolute no-no's): No extreme kinks, PWP or fluff.

Disclaimer: This is a purely fictional work based off of the equally fictional characters by JK Rowling.
I must give thanks to my lovely beta, toxicjericho, who whizzed through the story for me at an amazing speed because my entry was overdue *-*

Part 1.

It seems timed. Planned. She isn't there to see it, but she hears afterwards that it is spectacular.

The Dark Lord is taken down in a flood of brightest light.

All Hermione does know is that when she next turns around, Harry is standing alone. A line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. She slashes her wand, sword-like, and the spell hits the Death Eater she is duelling hard enough to slam him off of his feet. She runs toward Harry so fast she stumbles; for a moment she is scrambling to him on all fours before she is close enough so that she can fling her arms around him.

"Harry," is all she can say.

His arms are limp, his mouth slack. There is shock written on his face, but as she stares into his eyes, she sees the beginning of a smile as well. Then Ron is there, a grin splitting through the exhaustion on his face, and he crushes them both to him. For a moment, it is just the three of them again, and Hermione can almost imagine that she is back at school. There is sun, and laughter, and the cotton of school uniform scratches at her neck and none of the past six years -

Then the rest of the world catches up to them, and it breaks. Sound roars to her ears. Frantic shouts die down as realization spreads like a plague. Heads rise, towards them, like plants towards the sun. It begins as a small rumble, becomes a deep hum, then it erupts into an earthquake of voices and feet and in seconds they are engulfed. When they are forced apart, when she is forced to let go of Harry and Ron because the crowd pushes too hard, the reality of what has just happened hits her. However, in Hermione's mind, it comes out not as a victorious cry, but a disbelieving question.

It's finished?

.

They regroup soon after. The remaining Death Eaters scattered after it was evident that Voldemort's downfall had not been a trick of the light. It takes only a few hours more to salvage what they can from the site, repair major damage and heal those who had already been injured before port-keying back.

The safehouse is small, crowded. Everyone seems slightly breathless, slightly beyond words. There is the occasional sound of pain. A voice finally breaks through the cloying silence, a strangled cry, and they turn to see Arthur Weasley striding towards them. Something about his face makes the crowd part, and when he is close enough he crushes Ron to him. Hermione watches, her smile fierce and her tears true. Almost six years of warfare has seen the Weasley clan cut down to half their whole. With the news of the Darkness coming to an end, there had clearly been no one Arthur could rely on to report the wellbeing of a single soldier.

Drinks are brought, and food. Hermione pushes Harry towards them while taking only a sandwich for herself. Harry seems to relax a little, but he is one of the first to stop eating. His expression tells Hermione exactly what he is tending to do. Gentle murmurs caress him as he makes his way to the centre of the room. Others quickly turn their attention away from the food as well. Hermione's eyes are half-lidded, and there is a faint smile on her face. Harry hates big speeches, but he is getting a little better at delivering them. Still, the majority of them fell well within the five minute mark.

"Friends," he says simply. "Our time and our blood, our sweat and our tears, our courage and our loved ones… All were spent for this day." He pauses, and expels a large breath. "This day, we won."

There is a ripple, a rumble through the small gathering. Hermione's small smile grows, and she raises her glass. Others catch on to her movement, and the gesture repeats around the room. Some glasses chink. Harry raises his glass in return, before stepping back towards Hermione. Ron does too, his father still following closely. There is a moment of content between them, before Arthur speaks up.

"Kids," he says, more out of habit than anything, "I've been talking with a few of the others, and we think it may be a good idea that for the next few days, you three should take a break. Just a day or two of quiet. Harry looks dead on his feet, and Ron is slurring his words." A hand touches her chin, makes Hermione look up. Arthur smiles kindly at her. "And Hermione looks as though she is asleep all the time, so she can focus all her energy on thinking."

Hermione had thought that in an established world that had thousands of years of history and culture, when it came down to a war there would be an equally established process, and hierarchy. The first few months of warfare had wiped that impression clean from her mind. Trying to create a functional army had been a challenge she did not see being surpassed by anything in her future. The Auror Office had been the only Ministry department that had been remotely helpful, and from then on she had been lucky to stumble across individuals who had a proper combination of good sense and intellect to be of much use. All in all, it is exhausting work.

Harry still tries to complain. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Weasley, but we don't have time. Tomorrow – tomorrow we need to go after Yaxley, and recheck the wards on the Withero house. Then there's the damage the giants have done to Burnside, and the nest of Dementors that are getting close to Hogsmeade -"

"I'm planning the raid on the last Carrow house," Hermione argues as well, "Logistics won't let me just up and leave them now." (Don't leave)

They turn to Ron, expecting his piece. To their surprise, the redhead's smile is placating. "I agree with dad."

Harry stills; Hermione raises her eyebrows. "What?"

Ron takes a deep breath and turns to Harry. "You want to stay, you want to see it all end, help make it end. You're right too; we still have our work cut out for us. But you're setting yourself up to take a worthless fall. Right now, while the Death Eaters regroup, so can you. Without a leader, without an organized hierarchy, they're most likely in chaos. Harry, please take this time to rest, even just for a little while. We will strike, but you don't have to lead every charge."

He takes Harry's lack of response as a positive one, and so turns to face Hermione. Ron had learnt over the years to only fight her with good sense, and she knew that there was a fairly good chance that a lot of what would be coming would make sense. She feels herself recoiling, while her mind bubbles hurriedly with excuses. However, Ron's actual argument is a little different from what she expects.

"Hermione, you haven't been sleeping well. We haven't been asking, but it's becoming very noticeably serious. I know that you sometimes don't sleep at all. Please take this chance to rest."

His sincerity startles her into silence, while Harry looks both alarmed and horribly guilty for not noticing. No one else protests to the idea of locking the three of them in a small, confined space. A few were surprised that they would be leaving so soon, but most nod and agree that they need the rest. Even Harry eventually relents, and despite disliking being cooped up with little contact with the outside, Hermione soon stops protesting as well.

They follow Arthur to the safehouse. It's a space that does not seem to have any doors, and when she brushes her hand against the window pane, the tingle against her palm tells Hermione that the room does not have any real windows either.

"We thought that if you had a few uninterrupted days of rest, it would help," Arthur mutters. "Merlin knows what you three have been through, this is the least we could do…"

"Thanks Dad, I think this is just what we need." Ron seems cheerful, but his voice is hoarse. Harry nods absently.

The other three Aurors in the room Hermione recognizes by face but not by name. When she notices that Arthur looks inches away from hugging and crying and kissing them all, Hermione feels herself backing away, murmuring her thanks before allowing Ron to comfort his father and leaving Harry to stand by and look sympathetic. The obvious tiredness around the boys' eyes, their figures, their magic, whispers to the weathered part of her that is so used to looking after them. It urges her to take both their hands and tell them to sleep, sleep deep, perhaps after taking a Dreamless. After all, they do not need their reality chasing them into their subconscious, a place where the mind should be able to rightfully heal in peace.

That is what this room symbolizes, Hermione thinks to herself. They want our fragile, fragile bodies to heal in peace. A sleep chamber. Well, I could think of another name for tha -

A flash of nothing appears behind her eyes, and she clutches her hand to her chest.

Ron is suddenly behind her. "Hermione?"

She turns her face towards him. "Hey Ron. Is your dad okay?"

He places a hand on her shoulder. It is big and warm. Familiar. "Yeah, he'll be fine." He fidgets. "Are you okay?"

Hermione turns and sees Harry talking to Mr. Weasley, but when she catches Harry casting them a fleeting look she knows that he is just playing the distraction. "What do you mean? I feel fine Ron."

"Well, it's just…" He shrugs uncomfortably, and his eyes are not quite able to keep her gaze. "I've been watching you, Hermione, I don't understand what I'm seeing. But we haven't had time to do anything about anything, take time out. Now we… are you sure you're okay? I was thinking maybe we should get a Healer to take a look at all of us."

"There's nothing wrong with us," she insists angrily. There's nothing wrong with me.

(It's finished?)

He does not believe her, but he also does not insist. Hermione walks away. She suspects that in the last few weeks, Ron has been feeling something inside and he has recognized it in her as well, but he is just like her and does not know what it is. Probably just nothing, probly just post stress. Prolly just -

She walks close to the wall, lets her fingers trail against the plaster as she etches the room to memory. There are two distinct spaces. Both are low ceilinged and have cream walls, furniture placed close enough to give the beginning impressions of clutter. The first space, the one they all stand in, represents a living room, with a corner set aside as a small kitchen. The rest of the space is all plush couches and armchairs as well as an oak table too big for the three solitary chairs placed around it. A bookshelf stands against a wall. The decor is all earthy reds and browns and oranges, with undertones of forest and sunny highlights. The rug is thick enough that she imagines that she can push her toes in deep but she is not barefoot and cannot try. (It's finished?)

The next room is only just big enough for the three beds placed along three sides of the wall, with decorative pot plants in two corners as well as a coffee table in the middle. There are no fake windows in this room; the walls are threaded instead with tapestries depicting historical tales that she does not recall. Hermione briefly wonders why they are given separate beds but not separate rooms.

There is one more door that she does not explore, as she expects to find only a bathroom behind it. Instead she slides out of her robe and slips off her shoes and climbs into the bed in the left corner. Voices still issue from the living room, but the weariness she began feeling hours ago has grown into an abyss. Sinking into the darkness, she reaches for her covers and her sleep, and calls impatiently for oblivion to take her. By the time Harry and Ron come searching for her, she is gone.

.

The first year had seen a massive amount of time being spent on cobbling teams together: scouts, medics, Auror teams and so on. The weeks they had wasted before they had begun to start working smoothly had cost them not only the time, but lives and allies as well. Jobs that had been haphazardly assigned were later taken over by those who proved to be more suitable, but the reassigning again took more time and effort. During the time that British wizards took to arrange themselves for war, Voldemort's battle ready army gained ground fast.

Of course, Harry's 'job' never changed. He spearheaded the hunt for Voldemort, always insisted to always be there too. On good days he brought back invaluable information, sometimes even a Death Eater or two. His leadership skills were innate, his spirit infectious. On bad days, Harry was utterly reckless. He launched himself blindly into unfamiliar territory, barely escaping by the skin of his teeth, always returning with a major injury. His bad days gave her nightmares; Hermione could only wonder what Harry dreamed about.

Ron was no different. He went where Harry went, a personal protective shadow. His vigilance and aptitude surprised everyone, except for Hermione and Harry. Very rarely did Harry return from a mission more injured than Ron, and it made Hermione's heart simultaneously break and swell with pride. She and Ron had not decided whether they wanted their relationship to become serious. They had instead expressed, almost wordlessly, that at that moment neither had felt the need for their platonic relationship to develop into something else. It isn't a decision that she regrets, though Hermione finds that sometimes her hand lingers over him, especially when he returns to her bleeding. She herself has also had her share of mortal wounds, but it was Gryffindorian to disregard them. Compared to the boys, she had a stronger sense of self preservation, but she had ultimately been chosen for the red and gold for a reason too.

.

It is the sound of crying that rouses her, but when she opens her eyes, Hermione knows that she is not awake.

She opens her eyes to a wasteland. Thick clouds boil low in the sky. They blacken the landscape. The trees that dot her vision are dead, and a few of the bushes that clump by them are on fire, and from them spiral black smoke clouds that joins the frothing mass above her. There are branches that stick unnaturally up from the ground, some also on fire, and Hermione cannot make sense of what she is seeing until she realizes that they are not branches but the remnants of tents. Something tweaks by her leg, and she looks down.

There is a dog by her feet, slathered so completely in mud and filth that it is impossible to tell what colour its pelt had originally been; blood and meat well out of a gash in its side, presenting to the world, its body acting the foul platter. The dog stares up at her, the whites of its eyes showing. When she kneels down, it begins keening, breaking off too sharply because the creature can't get enough air. The horribly human sound stirs a sense of déjà vu inside her. Hermione looks up, and scans her surroundings again. Recognition curdles in her stomach. She has been here before. She stands, and leaves the dog behind.

She isn't out of earshot as she hears it die.

As she walks, Hermione tries to fight back the crippling memories so she isn't driven to her knees (it's finished?). She remembers why the dog was what stood out from this particular disaster. For a second it had been Crookshanks lying in the mud, broken and dying, her parents lost somewhere and in no condition to look after a housecat. She remembers standing by the creature's side, and not being able to do anything to help it. She remembers leaving the dog in a pool of its own blood and vomit and wondering what else she was leaving behind. When she next looks up, there is a figure standing in front of her. All she can see is his back.

She closes her eyes, but when she opens them again it is to earthen walls and warm beds. It takes Hermione a moment to realize that she is awake. She lies between the sheets for a moment, feeling raw. Her fingers creep under her pillow. Only when she finds the familiar wood does her heartbeat slow.

"Hey. How are you doing?"

Ron's voice doesn't sound much different than the day before. He walks closer to sit on the bed and takes her hand. When she turns to face him she finds that he doesn't look much different either.

"Hey," she replies, equally softly. "Bad dream. I'm alright. Did you get any sleep?"

He gives her a wry smile. "Last night? It's only been a bit over two hours since you two fell asleep." He gestures to the black mop of hair visible on the bed beside hers.

A habit they had developed over the years is to never ask about nightmares. Throwing their subconscious nightmares into reality, they had decided, was too much; having to talk about real and subconscious horrors was too much. Harry, of course, was the exception to the rule, his prophetic dreams frequently being subjected to the fiercest scrutiny.

Hermione rubs her eyes and sits up. The stiffness she feels tells her that it is impossible that only two hours have lapsed, that she has surely been asleep for at least half the day. Ron turns aside, and leans over Harry. Harry moves around as he sleeps, and makes strange noises. Ron whispers to him too.

Hermione gets out of the bed and pads quietly to the living room. She finds that aside from sleeping, and possibly reading, there isn't much to do. She tries to distract herself by making a drink, but she stops in front of the cabinets. She doesn't know which one to open for a mug, and which one to open for tea. When Ron steps in a few minutes later, she is still standing there.

He reaches out and shakes her gently. "Hermione?"

She jerks and turns around. "Do you know where the mugs are?"

He wordlessly opens a top cabinet that reveals more cups three people should be allowed to own, and fetches a teabag as well. She stands in the way, her wand held loosely in one hand as she watches him move around.

"Have you slept at all?" she asks again, realizing that he never answered her.

Ron shrugs without looking at her. "I tried."

Hermione spells water into her cup, and uses a heating charm to boil it. Ron drops in the teabag and takes a seat at the large table next to her. The silence penetrates slowly. It is a real silence, not one induced by a spell or a charm. Hovering with it is a crushing desire to be unconscious, but also a hint of needing to scream. In their roughly cobbled world of urgencies and painful mistakes, the silence is unnatural. Hermione doesn't remember the last time they could sit like this, with a silence that was not wasteful (not natural).

Ron does not move, even when she begins sipping her drink. Her eyes flicker to him over the rim of her cup. His face is tense, and devoid of emotion. He hardly blinks, and his breath comes so quietly she feels like she needs to check it. It is a state that she recognizes, and it gives Hermione chills to see it here, where they should be safe, should be able to relax and sleep. That is the whole point, isn't it? She places a hand over his. His hands feel icy against hers.

"Ron, it's okay now." She tries to get him to meet her eyes. "It's over." (It's finished)

There is a masked intensity in his eyes, a hidden watchfulness that worries her, almost scares her. She changes tactics. Hermione sets down her mug and kneels in front of him.

"Ron, I'm here now. Go to sleep, I'll take your shift." They could heal later. Now was time for rest.

She almost thinks that it won't work. She hopes it doesn't work, she hopes that he is just daydreaming. She knows that he has something else to say to her, but can't quite remember what. He looks so tired and his eyes are glazed over. However, after a few seconds Ron does stand and head toward the bedroom, his lips moving soundlessly to himself. She waits for him to pull himself into bed before walking over to sit by him. His body faces the wall but he turns his head towards her. Hermione opens her mouth, but cannot find words.

Ron waits for her to say something, and she waits for words to come to her.

She sits on his bed, and she waits.

.

They find that the rigidity of routine, just like everything else, has carved its way into their lives, and Ron is not the only one to show signs of it. Though they could be awake at the same time, they are never asleep at the same time. After the first day, it begins grating at her. Harry sleeps more than she or Ron can, but his sleep is always more fitful than theirs. Hermione sleeps the least, but the longest. When she asks, Ron and Harry tell her that she is quiet while she sleeps, and she wishes silently for the dreams she dreams to be quiet too.

The food is also interesting. The selection they find stashed is small, though most is instant, and some require only a heating charm. Hermione tries to get the others eating more than bits of fruit and tea, but she doesn't provide a very good argument when she finds herself not eating much else either. She feels an edge of exhaustion that seems to have only been sharpened ever since coming here.

Tonight, Ron and Harry are both asleep, and for once both quiet. She fully intends on breaking their (silly) habit of sentry tonight, but still there is a niggle in the back of her mind, the remaining thread of what Ron had felt more strongly than she. Not safe stay gotta keep -

Halfway between sheets, Hermione thinks about more clothes. It had indeed been a bathroom behind the door on the right, and they had shed their soaked, battle worn drabs as soon as they had found the change of clothes stashed under the sink, but she had no pyjamas. If closure is what her subconscious needed, she thought that regaining the simple luxury that allowed a distinction between night and day clothes would be a good place to start.

She opens her eyes to find herself standing in the centre of someone's kitchen. Because she is expecting it, Hermione sifts through her memory and locates what she is standing in. The dream (there is no other explanation for where she is) is so vivid it makes her freeze as she allows herself to process it, separate it from reality.

She steps past the broken glass, and ignores the crimson slathered across the white tiles and the stench of much worse. The living room is not much of an improvement. Hermione closes her eyes, opting to use the wall to guide her out of the house. She didn't want to see what – who – was lying on the floor. Not again. A special brand of terror grips her, lashes on tight as the fear of tripping over a dead body and into who knew what almost liquefies her legs. Hermione turns to press herself against the wall, and opens her eyes.

Right in front of her is a bloody handprint. It had been smudged as the hand's owner pushed off from the wall, but the imprint of the digits had been smashed into the wall with disturbing detail. Hermione knows that her breath is sobbing in and out of her, and she also knows that, dream or not, if she did not get out of here she would lose it. What it was she was not exactly sure of, but it would probably be something important. Especially if she didn't get out of here out of here right -

She wrestles with the knob on the front door and almost falls face first out onto the porch when it gives way unexpectedly under her fumbling hands. In the strange way dreams did, the well lit indoors led to a grey dusk outside, the last of the colour bleeding quickly from the sky. There was no hint of the sun, save for a glow along the edge of the horizon.

Only now does Hermione allow herself to turn back and look at the house. She would've said that it was her first murder scene, but she had no idea if it was true. There had been so many. The first time just did not stand out anymore, especially since it had not been the worst. Even from the outside it was clear what had happened within. Her teeth come down on her bottom lip so hard it draws blood, but it makes things even more surreal when she doesn't jerk awake from the pain. The white picket fence sags, as if a giant had come along and sat on it. Windows hang out of their frames, and there are even holes in the roof. The dim light paints everything over in blue steel and Hermione feels herself backing away.

Right into a solid someone solid standing behind her. Breathing hands lash down trap –

"Hermione!"

Her screams lasts just long enough for her to realize that she is the one they are coming from before she quickly snaps her jaw shut. Her eyes are so wide they hurt, but Hermione doesn't know how to close them. Familiar green eyes float in front of her vision.

"Hermione," Harry calls again, gentler than before but just as urgent.

She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe evenly. She can feel her magic plunging around her, and when she finally opens her eyes she sees that Harry can feel it too.

"Bad dream," she finds herself saying again. She finds that his gentle eyes are probing her for more answers, and sighs. "It was Hannah. Hannah Abott."

He doesn't let go of her shoulders, but she doesn't say anything else. She can almost hear what he is thinking. Everyone knew about the disaster the Abott rescue had been, but only a few people knew how personal it had been for Hermione. It is not the first time she had dreamed about it… but even as the details bled from her memory, Hermione knew something had been distinctly different.

The boys' sleep had been getting more and more peaceful, the calm and serenity of the safehouse finally beginning to work its magic (literal or not – she wasn't sure), but for some reason, she couldn't say the same for herself. Out loud, Hermione said very little, but her dreams were getting… not worse, but more frequent. It had not escalated to the point that the other two were openly scrutinizing her, but she could see they were beginning to worry. They had been through too much together for her to be able to hide much for long. Is this something to hide they need to know or

"What happens now?" Ron seems to be addressing the room in general. He sits at the dining table, and they can see him from the bed. Hermione looks up, and neither she nor Harry asks him to clarify. "I don't think we should stay in this place much longer," he continues, a little grimly.

"It feels like isolation," Hermione murmurs to herself.

"Limbo," Ron agrees.

"If we were constantly sleeping, like they probably assumed we would be, the days wouldn't be dragging out like this." Harry pointed out gently.

"Day," Hermione corrects quietly. "It's only been a day."

"That is exactly my point," Ron argues. "It feels like… it feels a lot longer."

Hermione sits back, sighing, and lets the silence hang for a while. In their world, they could literally make time pass more slowly. They had not been told, but it was just the sort of ridiculously dangerous magic that George would insist that his father try for them.

She looks between Harry and Ron. There was something she wanted to try, something that may snap her out of her dream state… maybe. She knows that from the moment Ron had first hugged them that he had conquered this feeling, but Harry may still understand what she would say.

"Harry," she says tentatively, waiting for him to turn around so she could watch his reaction. She has to fight her inflection, eradicating the interrogative from her voice. "It's finished."

She has been fighting herself to say it for a while. The two words feels infected inside of her, she needs them out. She waits for him to smile, to agree, relax, anything, but in the second when he doesn't, Hermione knows that this feeling hanging inches from her face is not one she is experiencing alone.

"You too, huh?" It comes out a little bitter.

"One more day, and we'll be out. Direct contact with the outside world will probably get rid of it," he mutters.

Ron rakes a hand, claw-like, through his hair. He had watched their exchange silently, not confusion on his face but a little… a little worry, possibly even pity. Then he shakes his head, and walks over, smiling at them. It is a clean smile, one that reminds Hermione of fresh things and new beginnings. "Harry. You did it mate. You did it."

Hermione watches Harry close his eyes, and fight the big monster they had within them; the one that whispers look behind you during the night, the one that jabs you in the throat as you sleep, the one that leers when Snatchers are close. The one that, at the end of a bone breaking day, cackles like a Death Eater, right into your ear.

Harry reaches out to grip both their hands. "No, Ron. We did it. We all did."

When he opens his eyes and there's a smile there to match Ron's, Hermione knows that Harry has conquered his monster. They both have.

She turns her gaze inwards and flinches.

Is it my turn now?

(It's finished)