"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."
― G.K. Chesterton
Hermione stared at what was behind her, a broken castle and so many dead friends, collateral from a war no one really won. No one really ever wins when war was the game. She stood on the ruined bridge and looked at her war ravaged friends.
Harry had become the figure head of a revolution that should have ended before his birth. This war had taken everything from him, his parents, his innocence, his future; he would forever be known as the boy who wouldn't die. She and Ron would be just as prevalent when they told stories about this battle. They would prop them up as war heroes and their names would be spoken of in awe and hushed tones until they faded into the history books. Their real reason for fighting would be long forgotten as history turned their story into some kind of mass uprising against the injustices of whatever struck their fancy. Nothing really changed; nothing except so many people had died, on both sides.
People would forget the war was really about two men on opposite sides of a chess board, both seeking power and knowledge to further their goals, and neither caring about the consequences of the outcome. Absolute power corrupts absolutely; in the end the desire for power brought Voldemort to his knees and Albus Dumbledore dead in a grave somewhere upon the school grounds, all at the hands of a seventeen year old boy and his two best friends.
They hadn't wanted this. At eleven years old their biggest worry was whether the sorting hat would put them into Slytherin. Over the years they'd waged a secret war alone; with only the prodding of a mad headmaster and a link to a dark lord they'd never wanted. Always alone, the only ones who'd believed Harry resolutely that he who must not be named had risen. They'd fought in the shadows, surrounded by friends who didn't really understand the toll battles like that takes on a person, on a child.
It wasn't until that night at the ministry that things became real for a select group of their friends. And it wasn't until their seventh year when Voldemort came out of the shadows and the ministry fell that the rest of the wizarding world realized what it meant to go to actual war.
Their disbelief and their ridicule had taken a toll on the boy who lived; Hermione could see it now reflected in his bright green eyes. He had seen too much of war and loss, too much of the pain and suffering seeking power could bring. He held the elder wand in his hands and she and Ron moved to stand beside him while he examined it. Turning it first this way then that.
"Why didn't it work for him?" Ron asked tucking his hand into Hermione's own cold one. She squeezed it encouragingly.
Harry looked back at them, dirt and blood covered his face, and they had been fighting so long they had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. He shrugged. "It never belonged to Voldemort. Remember what Olivander said about wands changing their allegiance?" Ron didn't but Hermione did, she nodded. "Voldemort thought if he killed Snape the wand would be his, but it wasn't ever Snape's. It was Draco who disarmed Dumbledore that night in the tower. And I disarmed him in Malfoy manner." He looked at the cursed wand. "It's mine." He didn't look very happy at the prospect.
"Blimey. What are we going to do with it?" Ron didn't look very excited at the prospect either but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down Hermione's spine.
"We?" She asked in disbelief pulling her hand from his grip. He shrugged unabashed.
"That's the most powerful wand in existence, could be useful." It occurred to Hermione her friend was still thinking in terms of a war. Safety in power. If this is what they had become she didn't want to be a part of it. She wished for a world where they'd never seen war, were Voldemort had never come to be.
Harry snapped the wand and wisps of smoke filtered in through the air. He looked back at them and sighed before tossing first one half then the other over the bridge and into the chasm bellow. Hermione had never been more proud of him. She would have told him so if a lone blue light hadn't shot out of the last piece and hit her square in the chest sending her world into total darkness.