Hermione trembled above the lifeless, still-warm body of Pansy Parkinson.

The witch had spent too many of her days in the remote parts of the English countryside reading about dark curses to prepare herself against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and to learn more about the man himself. She never thought she would be considering using one of them. Especially this one.

She tentatively reached forward, combing the dark hair in front of the young girl's face. Although they were never friends in school and were on opposite sides of the war, Hermione felt nearly broken when she came across her dead form. Almost everyone she knew had died, and the addition of anyone else to that list was cause for heartache, not celebration. Especially when the death counts didn't matter anymore since everyone had stopped counting.

The war was over. It had ended sometime that night—there had been no sun since the last skirmish, but Hermione couldn't say with certainty how many hours had passed. What she did know was that she was running out of time. Soon they would capture her, and torture her endlessly or kill her. Every key member of the Order, every Weasley, and nearly ever Gryffindor was dead. She knew that for a certainty. As for the rest, it was unclear. But there wasn't enough to fight back. Not tonight, anyway.

She remembered the particular curse that was on her mind not because she had planned to use it, or believed it would ever be used against her, but because she found it so disturbing. It could swap the appearances of two people—permanently—but some of the each other's soul would intermingle with the other. It didn't say how much; she doubted it had exactly been measured. But it sounded like less than half, but enough to notice.

Could she live with having a small part of Pansy Parkinson within her? And with losing part of herself? But another voice in her mind asked: could she live if she didn't do this? There was nowhere to hide. The anti-apparition wards were up; her beaded bag was long gone; and the forest was largely burned from several uncontrolled Fiendfyre curses. She was a sitting duck.

Hermione swallowed, struggling to remember how to perform the curse. She would not give up; she would not be killed or captured. This was not the end for Hermione Granger, even if it was some sort of end for Hermione Granger as she existed right now.

Hermione wasn't even sure if it would work. The book had two documented cases of performing the ritual with the dead—but each body had been dead under an hour. She had no idea how long Pansy had been laying there.

Again, Hermione reminded herself that this was her last option. Tears forming at her eyes, she used a slicing hex on her forearm, and then performed the same action on Pansy. You're desecrating a dead body, a panicked voice in the back of her head nagged at her.

She began to chant quietly in Latin, grateful for learning the dead language long before she had attended Hogwarts. It took all of her strength to keep her voice steady as she felt what could only be described as a violent pull on her person despite the fact that she was perfectly still.

Toward the end of the curse, she felt a violation—something moved inside her that should not have been there as surely as if it were solid. She felt bile rise up in her throat, but she ignored it, continuing to chant.

As she finished, she broke down, sobbing over a dead body that was now a reflection of herself—or rather, her former self.

Her practical side forced her to continue, however, as she healed the wounds from the slicing hexes. She couldn't be too careful; someone might suspect her crime.

Hermione continued to cry, leaning against a tree branch to distance herself from her vile act, but unable to leave the scene completely. Something tethered her there, and it was a strange comfort to be near herself when she kept looking down and feeling shocked by her newly pale skin, the straight dark hair occasionally falling into her vision, and her slender frame.

She heard footsteps but didn't dare look up.

"It's Potter's Mudblood," she heard someone exclaim, the voice wild with glee and reverence. It could have only belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix kneeled over her body, curls intertangling with curls, while Hermione sat silently, unable to speak. Bellatrix threw her head back and cackled. As she did so, she finally noticed Hermione sitting there.

"You're the Parkinson girl, aren't you?"

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Did you kill the Mudblood?"

Hermione hadn't thought about that; and what of the person who had killed Pansy? She brushed the thought aside; she could worry about that later. Besides, that person was likely dead themselves.

Hermione nodded slowly, deciding taking credit would be the best option.

Bellatrix closed in on her and stroked her face. Hermione struggled not to scream; her touch and proximity reminded her too much of the woman in front of her torturing her at the Manor, but there was another sense of warm familiarity that Hermione realized must have been coming from Pansy.

"Such a good girl," Bellatrix cooed. "Our Lord will be pleased with you. Come, let's get you cleaned up. You will celebrate with us at dawn."

Hermione allowed herself to be dragged, trying to keep her crying quiet as she moved through the destroyed forest.