A/N: Some of you might recognise this as an improvement (hopefully) of my previous D/Hr work, Charms and Charisma. But then again, some of you may not, as it was an abysmal failure that nobody read. Don't get me wrong; I write for myself. However, I publish for you and for my ego, both of which were not all too impressed the last time around. So here I go again. Lay on, Macduff!

Pairing: Romantically, I've decided to pair Draco and Hermione. It's a tad more complex than that, and it's not all that apparent here, but you'll see. If you don't ship Dramione, then go ahead and read anyway; you might have some sort of epiphany. Although maybe not, depending on my skills as an author. Which, by the way, may be lacking.

Rating: M. This chapter/prologue deals mostly with mature themes, but later on, things get pretty sexual, and, for the record, fucked up. There. I said it. First curse word of the story. Which is why this is rated M.

Betas: Nobody likes me enough to edit my stuff. If you do, by all means, email me or leave a review and I'll love and be indebted to you forever.

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Sex and grief. That's all war really is.

And it's always funny how things work out. It was probably about a year ago now that things began to end. It's the well-known paradox that every end has a beginning and every beginning an end. The beginning of that particular end began picturesque enough–well, as picturesque as that gruesome ending could have begun. It was before he came back into their lives, before families had been devastated by loss, and it was before the final, cataclysmic battle. People still had the old hope.

The old hope was in Hermione Granger. Everyone knew it. There was a war outside still raging, but there was a glow about her that just screamed "everything is wonderful in my life." Soon to be the newest Mrs Weasley–although she was not all too eager to take on that dreadful name–at a mere 21 years of age, she would follow in Fleur's rather dainty footsteps.

The proposal went a bit like this: They were talking one evening over a couple of butterbeers, and Hermione noticed Ron's face turn a shocking shade of green. He barely said a word the whole night until he choked on his third, managing to utter a quick "sorry" before letting Hermione commandeer the conversation with her boring gossip of Ginny's friend's turnabout with something or other; he wasn't paying attention in the slightest bit, and Hermione could tell in an instant. "Ron, you're looking positively awful," she noted, knowingly. He mumbled something or other and then the pale green hue of his cheeks turned a familiar red. "Crookshanks got your tongue?" The look she received in return was anything but amused, so she sighed deeply. "What is it?"

It took him nearly an hour to spit out "I... uh... I'm..." with various gulps and sighs in between, and then he was looking quite flushed and droplets of perspiration formed at his brow. Still as boy-ish as ever, despite his telling red stubble and defined features, he gulped again before digging into his robes and pulling out a quaint wooden box, and that was when Hermione knew. "Oh Ron, of course I'll marry you!" And she gave him a quick peck on the cheek so that they turned even redder before snogging him full-on, right in front of everybody in The Three Broomsticks.

The news was well-received at home, especially by Mrs Weasley–the oldest one–who immediately thereafter began the chapel arrangements and, much to Hermione's dismay, the wedding gown search. Every aunt the woman had owned some rancid hundred-year-old dress that was bound to make even the most strong-stomached of wizards hurl, let alone Hermione's muggle relatives who would hopefully attend. After nearly a week of bloody hell, Hermione politely informed her mother-in-law-to-be that her own mother had just called with news of her old wedding dress, and she thought it was only respectful to use just that. Meanwhile, she giddily shopped with Ginny on her own. Everything was as she'd imagined since she'd been a child, wrapping pillowcases around her head and marching down makeshift aisles with longtime muggle friends.

If everything static was not to be admired, Hermione didn't want to hear a word of it. She loved nothing more than to make list after list, whether it be shopping-related or one of potential guest records. Wedding plans brought order to the war for her. It was something she could organise, something she could control, something to which she was accustomed. All her friends were waiting for the proverbial knight in shining armor to sweep them off their feet and carry them horseback to some impromptu wedding, but as far as Hermione was concerned, Ronald Weasley and his family's traditions would do just fine. She'd had enough excitement for ten knights in shining armor over the past years.

And anyway, marriage was about stability. It wasn't that they didn't love each other passionately–because they did, and more than anything in the world–but if Hermione Granger had to choose order over passion, there was no question as to which one she'd pick. It was almost as though the fact that she loved him endlessly was a mere convenience. Marrying Ron was smart. There would be no surprises, and they'd be able to win the war as a team, bound by the covenant of marriage. She needed to be part of a team. She needed that support.

Ron seemed excited about it all, too. Although that was a bit of an understatement.

The rest of the Weasleys faced graver issues. Percy died in the second wave of attacks without ever a reconciliation with his family. The months later hardened Arthur's stern gaze; he'd seen far too much death in his time and knew that more was to come. For a brief time he'd been promoted to Assistant Minister of Magic after the suicide of Amos Diggory, but was forced to step down to his former position as Head of Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects in a humiliating resignation following incidents involving a mass muggle genocide by the Dark Lord and, of course, various mistakes made proceeding Percy's death. Again and again Mr Weasley found himself face to face with evil, and it was growing ever harder to protect his children and those they loved in such a dark world.

And, speaking of those they loved, Harry had grown into a dashing wizard of amazing ability. As an auror, he'd faced Voldemort twice, nearly killing him each time and in the process destroying at least two more Horcruxes. He still required guidance, however, and with Dumbledore long dead there was only one wizard to whom to turn–Severus, as he'd grown to call him–and the two learned to set aside their past differences to join forces in concealing Snape's true identity and protecting Harry from various assassination attempts. Snape may have treated Harry and his friends less than amicably during their Hogwarts years, but he was far from being any sort of bumbling idiot, and knew that his assistance was crucial to the Order's successes. He, after all, was now the most powerful wizard of the counter-revolution–second only in skill to Voldemort himself, which probably accounted for his fruitful treachery of the Dark Lord that still continued. The occlumency, however, was becoming far more difficult against He-Who-Was-Now-Often-Named, as the Dark Prince in his final hours began to suspect those who were close to him first. Snape knew that one of them would die very shortly. He needed Potter to hurry the bloody hell up.

But with Harry's maturity came his insecurity, and he was turning into a Hamlet of sorts right before the Order's eyes. He'd once been so sure...

"Ron?" He asked one evening in front of the fireplace, unnerved. He seemed oblivious to the fact that his best friend of such a long time was fast asleep. Ron emitted a groan and then uttered some inaudible rubbish. Harry didn't seem to notice. "I wasn't meant to do this, old git. I wasn't cut out for this. I'm not the wizard I thought I could be." Ron snored boisterously, catalyzing Harry's drawn-out sigh. "Sometimes I even wonder if my mum would have even cast that bloody charm on me if she'd have known how I would struggle–if she could've seen it. Oh, it's foolish, I know. So damned foolish. I just wonder, sometimes." Ron snorted. Harry seemed to have been comforted by his friend's lack of any sort of attention span, or consciousness. "I've killed wizards, Ron. I'm only 21, and I've killed men. I've killed people who'd whole families, with children--the children I'd like to have someday--all with the flick of a wrist and a thought in my mind."

"Harry." The familiar sound startled him before he recognized it as Remus'. "Harry, you know damned well why you've done these wretched things. To be remorseful is only human. Cut yourself a break."

Harry stared coldly at his closest mentor, neglecting the kind air in which the man meant his message to be taken. He lifted his frills above his hairline, clearly motioning to his scar. "You may turn a nasty colour on certain nights, but you'll never have to live with living, Lupin. It all rests on me--"

"–It shouldn't!" Remus interrupted.

"But it does! And the only fucking thing I can do is to win!" Harry nearly screamed at the man, through clenched teeth. Surprised at his own outburst, he receded and rested his head in his hands for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being such a prat. You don't deserve this." Lupin patted his best friend's only son on the back.

"Nor do you, my boy."

And that's sort of how the beginning of the end began, with sex and grief.