Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, then I would be on a beautiful beach right now, but I'm not…which is sad, so sad.
War.
The large blazing letters were the precise shade of cooled blood, seemingly trickling sinisterly down the page followed by a definition illustrated in a similar fashion.
War, it read, a conflict carried on by force of arms, as between parties within a nation, by land, sea or air.
Oh, please.
Hermione Granger snorted angrily at the Ministry's sad attempt at an informative pamphlet that in reality was nothing but a load of propaganda rubbish.
Her breath was visible in the frosty night air, and she violently shoved the pointless piece of paper back in her black wool jacket, pulling it tighter around herself as she did so. Ignoring the stupid thing once it was tucked out of sight, her eyes flitted routinely up and down the empty muggle street, senses on high alert as she kept her hand firmly on her wand.
A conflict? That made it seem as though Harry and Voldemort were merely arguing over whose legs looked better in pumps. What were these Ministry fools playing at? Blithering idiots, the lot of them.
Not only was this war much more than a mere conflict, indeed carried on by force of arms, as between parties within a nation, by land, sea, or air—it was strictly between two particular parties, the Light, and the Dark, fought not only by land, sea or air but by body, mind and soul. It was clear-cut, black and white, etc.
Not that anyone in the wizarding—or muggle world, for that matter—needed a stupid piece of paper to inform them that two opposing powers were currently at war.
One only need look at the drawn faces of the children, the once bustling streets of Diagon Alley that now were empty, the dilapidated houses of the previously respected Wizarding families, the mistrust harbored in one's own flesh and blood, the many massacres of both muggle and wizard alike.
Struggling to clear her black thoughts, she attempted to recall a passage from one of the countless books she had ever read, as she often did when her reflections on the war troubled her.
The mirror of Erised, sometimes referred to as the 'Mirror of Dreams', had been kept in the room of requirement since 1891. The inscription upon the mirror's edge reads " Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi." Backwards, it states, "I show not your face but your heart's desire" she recited out of memory, the familiar act of being knowledgeable making her feel somewhat better. Knowledge, and books always had a way of quieting her unease, as her days in Hogwarts no doubt portrayed. She had, after, practically slept in the library for 6 years.
Turning down empty another street, she glanced at her watch that proclaimed it to be only 9:23p.m. Why were the streets this empty so early? It truly wasn't that late, she thought, and normally it would still be quite busy… she eyed her surroundings sharply, her chest constricting with worry.
Worry.
It seemed to be the only emotion she was capable of feeling anymore. At this moment in time, she had absolutely no idea where her two best friends, Harry and Ron, the Weasleys, or her family was, or if they were even alive.
Normally, Hermione might scold herself for thinking such dark thoughts but she found that she needed no false assurances any longer—they very well could be dead, and there'd be nothing she could do about it.
Depressing? This is War.
After all, it had been well over a year since she had seen her very best friends, almost two since she had reluctantly sent her parents away in the care of the Order; It wasn't that she doubted their capability to keep them safe, at least in the beginning, but now…
To put it rather bluntly, the Order of the Phoenix was in shambles; with its original leader, and creator, Dumbledore gone, temporary leaders had come and blundered along until they stepped down or were replaced. It didn't help matters any when members had started disappearing more and more frequently, those who didn't reemerge eventually pronounced dead. Morale was at an all time low, and fear and desperation couldn't have been higher.
Stop it, she scolded internally, angry with herself for continuously dwelling on these depressing thoughts. She knew it wasn't healthy, but she found that she couldn't help herself whenever she was patrolling for the Order. It always came rushing back, leaving hurt, and pain in its wake.
Three years. Three long, arduous years the war had raged on, with no sign of ever relenting.
Everyone, she included, had thought that the Battle of Hogwarts would be the end of it, the end of all of this suffering, misery and woe. But they were wrong.
When that blinding flash of bright green had clashed against red, and the snake had fallen, they had all cheered, and they had celebrated because they had all thought it was over. Their journey had proved successful, they had destroyed all the horcruxes, and the Wizarding and Muggle worlds could finally be at peace.
If only it had been that simple. If only it had been that easy.
Not even Dumbledore had foreseen this, and without him, what had transpired that day on the battlefields of Hogwarts was only blind guesswork, but the most plausible explanation was that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had not discovered and destroyed all the Horcruxes. He must have made more. There was no other conceivable method (that the Order knew of) that allowed Voldemort to have come back whatsoever, least of all so quickly.
And now, now it seemed as if War was all they'd ever known in their lives. It seemed like it would be all they would ever know at all.
The incantation required to produce a Patronus charm; 'Expecto patronum' literally translates to "I await a guardian" in Latin she listed dully, knowing that her mind would shift to them eventually, but wanting to delay the inevitable.
Her friends.
It was painful to recall, to say the least, and she idly wondered where they were tonight; Harry and Ron had set out 7 months ago in a valiant (yet poorly planned, in her opinion) scheme to continue searching for the newfangled horcruxe(s) while also evading Voldemort and his Death Eaters, who now hunted for Harry with a fresh vengeance, determined to exterminate him before he exterminated their master, again.
Why was she here, then? Why was she not out with them?
Oh, that was the big question, she scathed, that had been on the tips of everyone's tongues that moment they left without her. Harry, and Ron, had politely requested that she remain here to help the Order. They said it was better, that she could do more good here, and while true, all three of them knew it for what it really was.
They had absolutely no idea what they were doing, where to start, what to look for…and they wanted her to think otherwise. So, being their very best friend, she had let them go.
Of course, she had been completely furious when they had first told her, she wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she hadn't and she argued fiercely, pointing out every single error with their request, every single one, pointblank. She had even flat out refused to let them leave, but yet, here she was doing her nightly task of patrolling.
Because, the absolute truth was, she could do more good here, than sticking it out with those two in the wilderness while they blundered and got nowhere. She still researched for them, and sent all her diligent notes through the Order's top ranks if she thought of any information they might need to know but for now, she remained here.
Alone.
It was utterly and unbelievably arduous at times, when she saw the bright faces of the light's warriors, inquiring how the duo was, but she merely smiled, and told them they were fine, closer to finding what they were searching for everyday. It hurt, to see each asker's face light up at the news, but she very well couldn't tell them the truth. She just couldn't.
She tried to keep her shoulders dependably straight, and to embody the Gryffindor courage and bravery that everyone seemed to look to her for but it was becoming more and more problematic. Her go-to Gryffindor optimistic attitude had made way for the go-to realistic survival attitude that was serving her much better in these times of war.
All she sincerely comprehended nowadays was the accustomed ache that had settled long ago in her chest when she envisioned all of the murders, the deaths, and how none of it could be solved by her old Hermione Granger standby of burying her nose deep in a textbook or answering a question correctly.
The real world had taken its toll on her. War had taken its toll on her.
And merlin, she felt cold. The English elements really weren't in a forgiving mood tonight. She was quite positive that this night couldn't get any worse even if she had somehow wanted it to.
Absently, she made to readjust her coat for the second time tonight and—CRACK!
Diving in an alleyway as her training kicked in, she whipped her wand out and pushed all her feelings aside; the streetlamp a couple lanes down had went out unexpectedly, too suddenly, and much too loudly, for it to be a simple coincidence.
She had long been taught not to believe in coincidences, anyhow.
Crouching behind some black rubbish bins, she carefully maneuvered so as to see the street, which appeared to be as empty as before. That didn't mean it was, though, so she waited, patient and prepared for anything.
Or so she thought.
The lamps, which lined each side of the cobblestone street, began following suit, and like the first one, each went out like candles extinguished by a gust of wind.
The darkness left in their wake was chilling, raising the curly little hairs on the back of her neck, and she tried to calm herself while reasoning this through.
The Death Eaters had just attacked Bristol days ago, so their forces, and most of The Order's for that matter, had been deployed there. So why would any rogue Death Eaters be here, in a random muggle city? It wasn't particularly important, and she was more than certain that the Order had sent her here to patrol because they hadn't needed her elsewhere. Which was stupid, but she digressed.
Eyes sweeping the area, she slowly hunkered down and waited for what seemed to be hours, when in reality was probably no more than 10 minutes, but nothing happened.
This was beyond stupid. So a couple lights went out? She scowled, thinking she needed to get a grip. The wards around the city were still intact, and any wandering Death Eaters had no reason to be here so she shouldn't wait any longer—
"Stupefy!" a rough voice shouted from opposite of the burned out lights, surprising her from behind. She lunged into the street, crawling around the rubbish bins on hands and knee, using them as cover. Throwing a random spell over top of the bins, she was more concerned with seeing whom her attacker was.
Her bright purple spell was blocked by the man, who was wearing the standard Death Eater wardrobe; black cloak, black robe, silver mask. Shit.
Needed to get a grip, my arse.
Where there's one of these bastards, there's usually more—before she can even finish her thought, four more masked foes exit their respective hiding place and start joining the first one in throwing curses and hexes her way.
Five? Seriously? Give me a break!
As quickly as possible, she tested to see if she could apparate, but unfortunately, remained in her low position behind the bins, cursing their readiness; an anti-apparation charm had been set up right under her nose, and she had nowhere to run.
Flinging nonverbal spells with abandon now, she shut her panic down, and tried to think straight; why would Death Eaters be here in a muggle city if not for an planned slaughtering? There was only one answer that made sense; Her. They were sent to retrieve her. This was a trap.
Well they can bloody well try, she sneered harshly, eyeing all possible escape routes. She wasn't going to—what was the phrase? —'come quietly'.
Stunning one attacker, she backed up rapidly, coming to the conclusion that she couldn't fight off four by herself. She was good, but not that good. She would have to run.
"Bombarda!" she yelled, twirling her wand at the rubbish bins from earlier, not waiting to watch them explode but turning and sprinting down the nearest narrow side street.
Just run, just find somewhere to hide, and then stay calm. Concentrate.
She had figured the explosion would hinder them at least long enough to turn down one more street, but she was mistaken.
As she neared another side street to turn down, she heard a loud cry, and shot a shield charm behind her blindly in defense. It stopped what seemed to be two of the more serious hexes, but she felt something warm hit her legs. Caught off guard, she had no time to catch herself as she thundered towards the ground via a well-placed tripping jinx.
Her left shoulder and forehead found the ground first, whacking loudly against the corner of the sidewalk and the street. She hissed as black dots swarmed in front of her eyes, trying to ignore that and what she thought might be the low pop! of her shoulder dislocating.
Clambering around on freshly scraped hands, she reached with her good arm to retrieve her dropped wand, hearing loud footsteps almost directly behind her as her fingers wrapped around the warm piece of wood.
"Stupefy!" she screamed just as the first Death Eater reached her position, surprising him enough when I flipped over to take him down. Scrambling unsteadily to her feet, she dizzily dodged two more spells while unsteadily roaring down the alleyway to the left. She had to find somewhere to hide before she passed out.
Turning into another alley, and then three more so randomly to the point that she wasn't quite certain where she was anymore, she slid down the rough bricks and positioned herself behind some boxes stacked up against the wall for the time being.
Her head swam, the world spinning enough to make her nauseous, and she gripped her wand to attempt a healing spell on her hands, and shoulder. Unfortunately, they were shaking so profusely that she could barely hold onto her wand at all.
"What?" she spluttered quietly, trying again and failing, much to her immense confusion. She eyed the large amount of her blood that had dripped onto the ground, becoming a little shaky the longer she stared at it, gathering steadily; her blood—her dirty, muddy blood.
Mudblood.
That's undoubtedly the only reason the Death Eaters were after her tonight. It didn't matter that she was one of Harry Potter's best friends, or that she was in the Order of the Phoenix, no, all that mattered to them was her blood.
Something she had completely no control over.
She hated this! She was bloody sick of all the fighting, of all the death, of the bloodshed. Killing, even for such a cause as survival, had not come any easier to her, and she fought against the onslaught of horrible images her fuddled mind brought forth.
Blank, unseeing eyes stared up at her from each one of her reluctant but necessary kills, taunting her and reminding her of her unspeakable crimes. War spared no one.
Tears filled her eyes, and she felt herself sliding down to rest entirely on the ground, her face aimed skyward.
What was the point of trying to be brave? Why did she have to carry on and fight?
She couldn't remember, and the blackness of despair that reached out to her at that moment seemed much more welcoming than it should have.
Wouldn't it be easier to give up? She had nothing to live for anymore, anyways.
She vaguely registered something tugging on her chin, forcing her to peer up into the face of the darkness, which was fine with her. Let's get it over with.
Through the blackness unexpectedly came light, white light so bright that she squinted, thinking that this was one cliché she could do without.
White light? Check.
Inadvertent Blindness? Check.
A roar, of sorts, brought her out of her reverie sharply, and squinting once more, the light took shape. It was not, as she had somewhat foolishly thought, the vivid silvery light of paradise, but rather that of a creature she couldn't quite make out. It had huge wings, she noted dazedly and it flew past, seemingly chasing something.
As it left, she noticed that she no longer felt quite as forsaken, and that welcome warmth crashed upon her body in waves that felt beyond incredible against the earlier glacial temperatures.
Then, despite her exhausted brain, it clicked; the bitter cold, the way she had been forced to recall some of her worst memories, the overwhelming despair that was followed by her decision to give up, the way the white light had set everything right once more...of course!
Dementors!
Why hadn't I thought of that? She rebuked herself, cursing her idiocy and vowing to never be caught in such a life-threatening situation without at least keeping her head and wits about. Although, she suspected her earlier injuries might have had a part in it, and as she struggled to stay conscious, she ventured that maybe it wasn't all her fault, though she really was lucky she wasn't dead.
Remembering the Patronus, she weakly attempted to stand, but soon found that her limbs were unresponsive and wobbly to the point of immobility but the person she had trying to see stepped squarely in front of her struggling form. Stopping her feeble attempts to control my muscles, she focused my gaze on the figure in front of me.
Broad shoulders, thin, long but still strong legs, and a tall yet muscular build lead her to believe that this person was definitely male—or an overly masculine female. She was inclined to believe it was the former, but hey, you never know, right? She didn't want to be rude if it was a butch female—she was also slightly inclined to believe that her blood loss was making her a tad slaphappy.
Ignoring her silent appraisal, the man flicked his wand at the Death Eater that flew around the corner rapidly, stunning him before he could even raise his wand, and did the same to the one closely following. He turned, and started towards her, keeping his wand out just in case.
Normally Hermione might be more wary of a stranger, but he had just saved her life twice, (or was it thrice?) and she wasn't exactly in any position to put up a fight. She couldn't even move.
Bending over her, she dizzily studied his face as he carefully but quickly picked her up; his medium dark brown hair fell over sharp cheekbones, and his large dark blue eyes stared at her dispassionately, his full mouth set in a straight line. She was sure she didn't know who he was, yet something trickled in the back of her mind…
Stepping towards the solid brick wall, which probably should have startled her, they both slipped through what must have been a disillusionment charm, and he turned them both towards the alleyway as footsteps made themselves known.
"Did you see where she went?" a wheezy voice that she recognized with a jolt from her third year asked loudly, " The mudblood? The Dark Lord will be furious to know she has escaped! His plans—"
"Wormtail, you insolent fool! You dare speak of his plans," another voice practically shrieked, this one, chilling her blood completely, "after he has foolishly entrusted them to you? Hold your tongue, and keep what little honor you have left!"
Both figures could be seen through the disillusioned wall, and she felt her mounting fear claw at her insides as Bellatrix's eyes slid over the section of wall that the strange man and her were behind. Please, just let them leave.
"Madame LeStrange, Wormtail," a third voice, this time unknown to her, spoke swiftly, "the anti-apparation charm is still active, and is set to remain so. The girl must have escaped on foot. The Dementors, and the rest of our party are still searching. We will not rest until we find her."
"Very well, Brams," Bellatrix breathed, "but you will find her, or I'll be most delighted to personally ascertain if the whispered speculations concerning your blood and status are genuine. The dark scarlet will look quite pleasant smeared across the cobblestones, no?"
Wow, Hermione had almost forgotten how crazy the overgrown bat was. Merlin.
"Ma'am," the man whispered in what she assumed was agreement, and then three sets of footsteps could be heard retreating. She breathed a sigh of relief, not noticing that the man carrying her still was moving once more.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked softly, still shocked that Voldemort's right hand woman was combing the streets for her. When she got no response, she shifted her head (even though it was painful) to gaze up at the man, still not recognizing whom he was. But why did he seem familiar then? "Answer me!"
Her impatience flourished as they climbed a long set of stairs, and although she was sure he wouldn't hurt her earlier, doubts began clouding her mind again; who was he? Why did he help her? Where were they? Where were they going? Gah!
He didn't reply to her rude demand, but his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit at the corners, a half-smirk, and once again a thought in the dark recesses of her brain stirred, but she failed to grasp it.
Just as she was about to command he give her at least one answer, a door became visible at the tops of the stairs, and pulling out his wand with difficulty because of her body weight (she probably should lay off the nutella) he twirled it at the door, and it flew open to reveal a small apartment.
Setting her somewhat hurriedly on the couch, he went back to the door, and shut it, performing what she hoped were the regular protection and concealment charms. Turning back around, he grabbed a bottle of something dark, and turned to her, raising an eyebrow expectantly. What? She wasn't a mind reader here!
"I asked if I could see your hands," he repeated calmly, his voice deep and smooth, surprising her enough to comply with his wishes. He squeezed several drops of the liquid on her hands, and I glimpsed the bottle labeled 'Essence of Dittany' before the steam rising from the scrapes made her hiss.
"Brace yourself," he warned, his face very close to her own. She noticed his hair was slowly changing color, implying the use of polyjuice potion or a concealment charm, and didn't process what he had said until his hand was firmly grasping her arm.
"What—ahhhh!" she yelped as he performed a spell to pop her dislocated shoulder back into place, and she fell back on the sofa as his hand let go of her arm rather abruptly. This caused the agony in her head to triple, and she bit her lip without thinking, probably drawing blood. She wasn't sure if he did this on purpose, or if he truly didn't know about the injury.
"Who are you? Why did you help me?" she gasped, not as interested in the answers as she was in distracting herself from the throbbing in her head.
His shaggy hair was now rapidly loosing its brown color, fading to a startlingly beautiful white blonde, and she watched curiously as his eyes lost their blue tint, transforming into a remarkable glacial gray.
He smirked once more, and she felt all the remaining blood leave her face; blonde hair, grey eyes, tall build, classic smirk… oh, merlin's bikini-cut knickers, no!
She reached hurriedly for her wand, slapping her pockets that were empty in anger. No!
"What's the matter, Granger?" Draco Malfoy asked mock-innocently, twirling her wand between his long, thin fingers with a serious face, "Miss me?"
Be it a cruel twist of fate, or maybe a welcome mercy, it was at this moment that her body chose to pass out.
And she had thought that the night couldn't get any worse? Ha!