I had long since last count of how many hours I sat in the deepest corner of the library, scouring every last tome I could get my hands on. The outside world, with all of its problems and cruelty, melted away as my eyes devoured the text laid out before me. Books were simple. They did not breathe as I did, but none the less they were able to speak of such beautiful things. It was this sanctuary of dead trees that I surrounded myself with when the order would stumble through the doors of the castle like newborn pups, blind and clumsy. I cared not to hear their lies of their great victories against the imposing deatheaters, or their ill-fated plans that were improbable to say the least.
They had fire, that I would grant them, but upon Dumbledore's death they were lost in a sea of hallow speeches and babe faced wizards. I would sneak away from the prying eyes of others for fear that I might stop biting my tongue and speak my mind. I wanted to badly to correct Lupin as he stood before the dining hall proclaiming the old age saying of how the good guys always win. Nothing could be farther from the truth, had he ever read a Shakespearean novel? I had read and memorized most novels available in both the wizard and muggle world alike. I had analyzed the characters in each story a thousand times over, memorized every possible outcome, weighed the options carefully in my head before settling upon any solid conclusion. I hated to inform my former professor that to bet upon a protagonist's success was a rather rash and illogical decision. No one liked a story filled with roses and rainbows, people wanted to read about tragedy and death, it was more realistic. Even I myself enjoyed stories in which the cliché mold was broken, and the main character fell to his knees before his daunting foe. There was an air of truth wedged beneath the binding of such tomes.
As the months past, they pushed their campaign even harder. I hated the way their echoing, moronic cries of promise rang through the library walls invading my every sense. They did not discuss what we had lost, only a fool would draw attention to where that had failed. They knew that sheep would not overthrow their shepherd, it was not in their nature. The order was supposed to be the 'good' side, but what good was done by sending children to their deaths? Perhaps they thought by filling their heads with thoughts of victory would give them enough bravado to face death as an equal than to cower beneath its caress. I, myself, did not fear death anymore. It seemed a moot point, it was inevitable. I accepted that the moment I saw Harry dragging himself to the top of the same tower that Dumbledore had fallen from. He was a shadow of his former self. His clothes hung loosely off of brittle bones that pointed at such peculiar angles.
I did not move from my perch as harry dropped to his knees before the broken balcony. His cries filled the crisp, winter air biting at my already blistering skin. There were not any words that I could offer that would alleviate the sadness in his soul. His whisper, too quiet for me to hear, fortunately was carried by the wind.
"I wish I could join you," it was simple, but beautiful in its contrast with the warming lights of the city below. In that moment I too felt an impulse to join Harry, but it was not my place to encroach on another's suffering. These moments were fragile, and private. If our lives had been a book this would've been the moment that I knew the side of 'good' was doomed. It seemed strange from the outside looking in to put such faith in a boy that was already so broken inside. I stayed silent as Harry stood before his own mortality, it was at that moment that I too accepted my fate. We were children thrown into a war, it was foolish to think that any of us would survive.
I, Hermione Granger, was never one to give up, but I knew which battles were worth fighting. As for my life, well I knew that was going to end on the battlefield, but I was determined to kill as many deatheaters as I physically could. Kill…it was such a final word, the ending to an uneasy story. They taught us to stun our enemies, or dress them in funny clothes, but that was child's play. In the real world you have to survive by whatever means necessary, if it came down to it I would pick my life every time. I had never killed before, and I hated to admit it, but the thought filled me with a strange fascination.
As fate would have it the first person I killed, I use the term loosely, was Fenrir Greyback. It was easy enough, I suppose, maybe easier than I had been expecting. I did not feel anything as the flames tore through his mattered fur. A strange sense of peace, something I had not felt in nearly two years, settled deep into my bones. So enveloped was I in what I had done to the murderous creature that I failed to hear the deatheater behind me mutter a spell, until it was too late. I had never thought that arrogance would be my downfall.
The first thing I could feel was the sensation of rusted metal digging into the surface of my pale skin. They were thin, but oddly heavy. My sight remained elusive, my eyes unwilling to open and let me take in the death that clung to the air. A sudden gurgled cry caught my attention it was not more than five feet to my left. It was an unforgettable sound they had no doubt been left to choke on their own blood. Still my body would not listen to my commands, it refused to listen to anything other than the withering screams around me. How long had I been blissfully floating in that dark abyss? Hours? Days? A pang of annoyance hit my chest at being taken so easily, but in the grand scheme of things it was a bit selfish.
I think somewhere buried in the depths of my chest I was disappointed to even wake up. How had the others been able to welcome death so easily? I felt as if my flesh had been torn from the bone, the fire flared like a unwavering drum, but still my heart beat even faster.
"Do you hear them, Granger?" Draco Malfoy's voice was not the last voice I wanted to hear before I died, but then again who really gets to sit and make demands of the grim reaper. I had been expecting Draco and his family to run like scalded dogs when the battle intensified, but if anything they fought harder than before.
My crusted eyes gave way slightly, but just enough. Blood fresh and old blurred my vision, but still I could see flashes of light atop the hill. Flashes of red and green set the once beautiful forest ablaze. Snap! The crushing of bone sounded in my ears as his boot landed squarely on my back, breaking everything it came into contact with, but still I watched. The pain roared through my body sending a course of adrenaline pounding in my veins, then they finally emerged. The screams around me ceased as Harry stood atop the hill, his clothes were tattered and marred with blood. This wasn't supposed to happen, I repeated the mantra in my head as if somehow it had the power to make things right. We were not taught to lose, that thought now seemed beyond any possibility. We had Harry, we had the key to our victory. That same key now lay bloody and unmoving at the bottom of the lake, we were all fools. Voldemort cut through Harry's withering form with ease, his lifeless body flew effortlessly into the black lake. It was painfully poetic.
"My lord, I have a gift for you," I did not fight Draco as he grabbed my shoulders and picked my broken body up from the mud. Voldemort's snake like form slithered over to us a look of curiosity was plastered on his serpentine features.
"How is it you are here?" there was a softness in his voice that took me off guard. For a moment I could of sworn I saw something akin to fondness flash through those dead eyes, but the blood loss was making it difficult to concentrate on much of anything.
"Let me kill her for you my lord, let me prove my loyalty," I could not fight the smirk that made its way to my lips. Draco's grip was unforgiving, and I could feel my arm already bruising beneath his grasp. Voldemort's eyes flickered to the youngest Malfoy, before falling back on me with a curios expression.
"Is the prospect of death funny to you?" I was expecting some sort of insult at the end of his question, but there was none to be found just honest curiosity. I was far too tired, to be afraid of anything anymore.
"It is neither funny nor serious to me. The only thing I find funny is Draco's lapdog like behavior. I would expect more from a pureblood than to be your bitch, my lord," I spat with as much hatred as I was able to muster in that moment. Draco's hand shut into the air, but I braced myself for an impact that never came. Instead Voldemort's robe now brushed the bottom of my feet his hand was over my head, blocking Draco's from making contact. The shock was written all over Draco's face.
"If you have given this creature to me as a gift, Malfoy, it would be rude to then damage it. Would it not?" Draco opened his mouth to object, but no sound came out. The tension in the air was palpable as he slowly released his grip on Draco's arm who in turn stumbled back as if he had been burnt.
"Ms. Granger and I have much to discuss when we return to the castle, until then I think it wise you rest," he spoke to me in almost a whisper, a surprisingly intimate gesture. I could not shake a sense of familiarity with something deep in his voice. I did not have time to think much more on the topic as a dark haze lulled me back into a state of unconsciousness. There was such bliss in the eternity of nothingness that surrounded me.
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