Of Which He Knows Not: Among a corpse-strewn battlefield, a head of brown hair lies tangled with orange... and blood. Angst/Action. After-Series, AU, Ficlet. HMS Pumpkin Pie. HMS Fire and Ice supporting.

Abstract. After observing Hermione's death as she protected an injured Ginny during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry recaptures the castle ground floor and assaults Voldemort's position on the Astronomy Tower. Draco joins Harry after finding Ginny's body, and Ron runs after the two of them to claim their revenge.

Author's Note I. This is a narrative exercise with limited exposition and no concrete resolution - just a little something to collect a bunch of darker ideas while working on a couple of romantic comedies. It's pretty short, too. It's not even very good. It's not even beta-read. Read it if you must.

Disclaimer. The Harry Potter universe and everything in it is property of J. K. Rowling. Some of the text in this fan fiction is directly quoted from her books.

Draft. He watched from afar as her soft brown hair collided with the wet rocks. A look of surprise lit her face as she performed a half-twirl and crumpled onto the body which she had been defending with her last breath. A detached, shellshocked survivor would later say that she shouldn't have been surprised – after all, she was the last person breathing on that hill. Her wand fell separately, clattering down the rocky slope, and losing itself among the bodies of her company. It wouldn't be found until weeks later.

He barely noticed his own body was moving. Nor that his right flank was on the verge of toppling, held together only by the valiant effort of his second in command. He was dimly aware that he had dropped into a low crouch, from which he sprung with all his might into an all-out run. Daring the surrounding battle to drown out the sound of his voice, he screamed her name-

"Hermione!" he shouted in surprise as she wrapped his arms around him.

"Harry – you're a great wizard, you know."

"Of course not. Not as good as you," he said into a curtain of brown hair. She let go of him, flushed.

"Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things..."

Like courage, bravery, and not leaving the ones you love to stand alone when the entire world had turned against them. That was what he told her, the other night. When Ron and Hermione had convened with him for the last time, to discuss the assault that would make or break the wizarding world. They had spoken of many things, but he had refused to speak of death. He would not hear of it. He would protect them, and they could come to no harm.

They had taken heart at his words. Major Ronald Weasley took leave of his commanding officer and best friend with a handshake. Firm, warm, and trusting. More than the fate of the world now rested in his hands; it was now joined by the fate of Ron and the remnants of Alpha Company, 2nd Auror Battalion, their lives signed away with a smile.

She was left in the tent with him. She was anxious. Anxious and small. He had tried to keep her at the command post on the hill behind his center position. It was likely the only safe place left in the entirety of England – and even then, due to the highly mobile nature of the wars of wizards, not safe at all. She had refused, of course, and vehemently. She hadn't wanted this war. Nobody did. But she had helped him rebuild the standing wizard army from the ground up – the first such force established in many centuries, and a logistics miracle worked by her cleverness. She had done it, knowing it was the last chance they had. Voldemort had taken her parents as well. It was her war as much as his. He nodded his consent. There was always a certain point beyond which he could not dissuade her.

He reached out to comfort her. She could stand tall and proud, and command respect among those serving under her. But to him alone would she show this side of herself. Her position on his makeshift transfigured bench was almost fetal. By no rights should she be here, but there she was, looking up at him as he pulled her to her feet. Their last kiss was desperate and hungry. They both sought to comfort the other, sensing that they might not be there to do so in the morning. For lack of a solid structure for support, they pressed the entirety of their bodies against each other, willing themselves to meld together, but knowing that they would have to pull apart.

And with that, they said good night. Not goodbye, because that would mean that they were leaving each other. They were crying. He was crying. There wasn't much else he could do, not when faced with those eyes. The ones that had looked into his for over seven years now, and could recount almost every tale that his own had seen.

It was their third year.

Harry moved his head over on the pillow. In the bed to his right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling across her bed. Her eyes were open too. Seeing that Harry was awake, she pressed a finger to her lips, and then pointed that finger to the hospital wing door.

It was their seventh year.

Harry moved his head over on the pillow. In his bed to his right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling across her ruffled nightrobe. Her eyes were open too. Seeing that Harry was awake, she pressed a finger to his lips and then traced that finger down his jaw.

But those eyes were gone now, instead replaced by two unlighted brown orbs, staring sightlessly at a fixed point in space. How far? He didn't know. Two hundred, maybe five hundred meters away, but not at him. They couldn't see him, though he stared down back at them. He gave an anguished yell as he fell to his knees, which chilled the bones of the foes he had sent into headlong retreat with his one-man charge. Hismind was oddly silent. He recalled, faintly, a similar scene-

"HERMIONE!"

He had fallen to his knees beside her. He barely registered Neville falling to the ground, his wand broken, as Dolohov advanced. Dolohov made a demand and Harry yelled an automatic response. He had one hand on Hermione's shoulder, which was still warm, yet he did not dare look at her properly.

'Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead...'

But this time, her shoulder was cold. Freezing cold. Her left arm lay across the orange-haired girl she had been protecting, and her right arm pointed in the direction her wand had fallen. She had taken multiple flesh wounds, from small scrapes, to shrapnel-induced gashes. Her robes and left arm bore burn marks from twenty minutes before, when a powerful incendiary spell swept across her dwindling company. Her blood pooled underneath her body, mixing with that of Captain Ginevra Weasley. Both would posthumously receive the Order of Merlin, Second Class.

It was an overcast day, he noted, as he looked up at the sky. Everybody dies on overcast days. He turned to face the castle. He would have cried his heart out, cried until his body ached for water, if not for something else. Some other emotion which was flooding his mind and inching out to grasp every square inch of his body. Pure, unadulterated anger.

Behind him, Captain Draco Malfoy reached the summit, flanked by three aurors and a handful of students. Once at the top, he took one look at the scene and froze. Then slumped down beside the body of the redheaded girl. His face was expressionless, but when he placed his hand upon hers, it trembled. He would not cry. Draco Malfoy was never one to cry. He had learned to steel himself against such emotions over years of practice. Troublesome, they were. But there were some things he could not ignore. He whispered something to her, though she could no longer hear. He would pay his respects later, he promised. He reached over to her neck and snapped off a dog tag. As an afterthought, he reached over and took one from the bushy haired girl as well.

The sky was growing dark with clouds that flew with an unnatural haste. They moved at the beck and call of the figure that was steadily advancing down the hill, murder written in his green eyes. His wand was clenched tightly in his hand, which was threatening to crush the bit of wood into splinters. It probably wouldn't even matter – with the potency of the emotions swirling in his head, he assumed he might not even need it.

He paused for a moment when something metal and cold was pressed into his hand. It was Hermione's tag. He looked up at the blonde captain, and saw the kindred fire in his eyes. He nodded coolly in understanding, and they resumed their march. In proportion to the swelling flames that enveloped their hearts, the march turned into a lope, and then broke into an all-out run. Their enemies had begun to retreat the moment they saw what had taken place at the top of the hill, and sent the inferi to hold them back. These were swept aside like leaves before a hurricane.

A flash of green sparks to his right told him that the 2nd Aurors had thrown off their attackers and were joining the charge. Their numbers seemed to have been bolstered by members of the American 1st Auror Battalion trickling in from the mop-up in Hogsmeade. Damn them. Damn them for being late.

Two hundred meters to go. One hundred. Fifty. And then he screamed in frustration. The enemy had fled into the castle, but he had forgotten about the castle itself. Its heavily enchanted stone walls and bolted wooden doors dwarfed his puny form. Haughtily, they challenged him to show them his best shot.

He glared at the cinderblock he was supposed to be reducing to dust, affronted. It stared back mockingly, showing no signs of even chipping. His stomach grumbled. It was lunchtime. They were in McGonagall's classroom, practicing the spells Hermione had researched for him in preparation for the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Harry," she said teasingly, taking his wand arm in her hands, and adjusting its position. "You're trying to destroy the cinderblock, not tickle it. Your stance has to be more aggressive, like this." Her grip softened, as she let her hands linger. "Try it again."

He moved his wand forward.

And whispered, "Reducto."

There was a massive groan as the castle's enchantments strove to hold the stone together, but it was succeeded by an inward blast, as his anger threw down the many tons of masonry. Before the cacophony had died down, before the dust had settled, and even before the last stones had fallen to the ground, he was leading what remained of the army she had assembled for him in a headlong charge. They sprinted forward, destroying everything that resisted their movement – Death Eaters, inferi, dementors, acromantulae, and the castle itself.

That is how three men came to stand at the base of the Astronomy Tower. A fair-haired captain, a redheaded major, and their commander – no, rather, an old rival, a best friend, and a boy-who-loved. They will presently begin the climb to the top, and unleash upon the Tower's captor a blazing anger: a fury the likes of which he knows not.

Word Count. 1792

Author's Note II. This actually came from an idea for a war-based fan fiction that I was writing. I was like: hey, what if she, you know, died? And this happened. :(