No Great Victories
By: BookyJuliet
It was all silent. The only sound audible was the rustling of the grass as the summer breeze whipped through the clearing the survivors all looking as haunted and alone on the ground blood stained and battered sat Hermione Granger, exhausted and broken. He was dead sure, but it wasn't over. "There are no great victories" she murmured as she stared at her bloodied hands, her wand forgotten the attention of Ron Weasly and Harry Potter had been caught by her words and they all three wished someone had warned them.
Hours later, the encampment of young adults, children and teens all worked busily to clear the area, bodies to burry, wounds to heal, it was never ending. Hermione blinked back tears for the hundredth time, refusing to the be the only one who couldn't handle it all as she murmured the same healing spells under her breath that she'd been saying for the better half of the day.
It was only her patients that were different, prejudice seemed stronger here in this place, in the aftermath, she didn't understand it. She looked into the faces of the Slytherin students and didn't seen enemies or Death Eaters. All she saw were emotionally dead and blood stained faces with eyes looking at her as haunted as she was sure her own were. And she tended them. Saying soft words of comfort as she went offering nearly nonexistent smiles as she accepted thanks from people she knew, some she didn't.
As she neared a group of Slytherin boys she knew all too well she couldn't help but to think that everything she'd fought so hard for the last seven years of her life was for nothing, no. There were no great victories. They had all lost, this was a generation of perpetual losers; it would never be looked on as a victory, because not one person had escaped this war without scars. Without loss and pain; but that was the sacrifice, no one said this would be easy.
She offered her tired barley-there smile as she sat in front of Theodore Nott, he didn't speak, just stared at her in mild shock, even as his eyes remained glazed and his stare empty. "He's got a few broken bones, I think. And he's bleeding pretty badly in the torso region."
Hermione nodded thanks at Blaise Zabini, the Italian wizard looked exhausted, looked broken. Looked haunted like every other face she'd seen and she wondered how she would ever survive this camp. How she'd ever make it to see the rebuilding stage. This was a win; Voldemort was gone for fuck sake! So why did she feel like they'd lost more than they had gained?
After healing the boys wounds, conjuring a sleeping potion and setting his broken leg, they'd run out of the potion, and making sure he was covered and resting peacefully she turned to the wizard who'd remained quiet through it all, her chocolate devastated eyes searching his form for injuries she could feel herself loosing grip. She was cold, exhausted, depressed and still covered in the blood of her friends and family, the disgusting substance long since dried making her feel sick.
"Thank you for caring for us, Hermione." Blaise stood, though with effort, it seemed he too hadn't escaped without being damaged, but he gently grabbed hold of her, motioning for Draco to help her stand, and the blonde did so without question. "I think it's our turn to help you" the Malfoy heir said softly, his usual malice gone. Zabini nodded his head once, and set to work, cleaning the blood from her clothing, skin and hair. When he was done, he removed his outer robe, she was in Muggle clothes and was visibly shivering, the night was freezing and draped it around her shoulders, the flash of his initials embroidered with silver thread flashing in the suns setting light.
Hermione didn't bother with questions as the boys sat again, and she walked to Blaise and knelt in front of him scanning his body with her wand for injury, healing what she could, offering him a potion for pain for what she couldn't. "I'm so tired" she whimpered, feeling pathetic admitting this to the Slytherins before her. "So tired, and…" she couldn't find the word, but the emotion in her eyes said it all before she leaned her head in Blaise's lap, her arms encircling his legs and hugging them as tightly as she dare, her eyes falling closed.
"It's okay, Hermione…rest, no one here is so close to death that you can't sleep for a while." The boy shared a look with his friend and the blonde nodded, casting a warming charm on the cloak around the girls gently shaking shoulders as she silently cried. In the most comforting manor he could muster, Zabini allowed his hand to rest on her head, his fingers teasing the smooth curls as Draco started to hum a song to himself absent mindedly, a lullaby all pure-bloods knew.
There were no enemies amongst the faces left. Only survivors, just other people like herself that had fought so hard for something that felt like it would never come, and now that it had, wondered what it really was they'd fought so hard for. And as the former Prefect, Gryffindors prince and one third of the golden trio couldn't help but to think bitterly again as she silent mourned the loss of her family and friends, that there were no great victories, no glorious battles and breathtaking victories. Because the battles were remembered by their survivors; and anyone who thought this was glorious had obviously not been there.
To the tune of Draco's song and the soft feel of tentative fingers playing with her hair she finally drifted into a heavy sleep, sheer exhaustion claiming her. Not long after, Harry tried to remove her from her place clinging to the Slytherin's leg. When she refused even in her sleep they'd all shared a bitter-sweet chuckle allowing Draco to coax the sleeping girl to lie next to Theo as they all looked at each other in a new light.