This is, in fact, the sequel to When It's Over? It will have a very different beat, plot and show a different and more dark side of Harry along with Hermione. I'm not one to write Hermione/Harry ships, but seeing as Malfoy's untimely demise seemed to permit this, I intend on at least beginning with it. Who knows? Maybe he'll make another appearance...only placed in the Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger because that was where the original was, and it is subject to change. This way it has more of an accessibility to others who have read the original.
On the battlefield Hermione was the polar-opposite of what she once was. She recalled with perfect clarity her time in the musty little cell, her thin body caked in dirt, the rags that dared to be addressed as 'clothing' fell loosely from her emaciated body. She was weak. She was alone. Now, she was not.
Hermione was a warrior. She stood intimidatingly, despite her small breadth. There was something wild in her amber eyes, something wild. She was like a valkyrie, ready to take flight at any given moment, ready to kill. Whatever modesty she held for Avada Kedavra had long since dissipated. She could not afford to hesitate, the enemy didn't.
Despite her ever-watchfulness, she never noticed the eyes of her love, constantly fixed upon her figure. Harry watched her carefully, almost covetously, as though she were not already his and his alone. Well, she was averse to the phrase, but that's what he secretly referred to her as.
His, his woman, his Her-my-oh-knee. There was something in the name, something that fit her since the earliest of their acquaintance. At first it had been something negative, book-wormish Her-mee-own, or something like that. But now it was exotic, his beauty, his warrior.
It would have been something to see her in facial paint, streaks of red and gold across her face as she battled, killing any unfortunate Death Eater to cross her path. Some sort of war-cry, anything to make her raw and inhuman. He liked her best when she was like that, not his superior but an equal. An animal, just like him. Calm and composed Hermione opposed to full-fledged warrior princess...there was no comparison.
"For Dumbledore!' She shrieked, her voice piercing the air as she delivered the killing blow to some nameless evil that attempted to kill her in vain. She did not humor it, for this creature was so lowly that it was without a gender.
The surrounding allies whooped as she ended it's pitiful life, her eyes alight with fire. Harry joined in the cheer, knowing full well that they were winning this battle. It took only minutes for the others to vacate the premises.
She smiled at him, a full and wide grin as she seized him by the robes and kissed him fiercely. He tasted blood, dried but existent nonetheless. "We did it, Harry! We've done it." She said with such giddiness that he hated to deflated her hopes.
"It's just a single battle, we have not won the war."
She was undeterred, wonderfully blissful. "With each battle we win the war creeps nearer and nearer to an end! And when it's over, we'll never have to do this again." She kissed him once more for good measure before retreating to the injured to work her literal magic.
Harry, suddenly businesslike, approached Dean with complete severity. "Losses?" His friend was startled by the sharpness in his tone, but he was quick to respond.
"None." There was a glint of pride in his eye that he made no pains to conceal. "There are some eighteen injured, but we made off better than the others. At least ten of theirs were dead, a good chunk exterminated due to you and yours." The vague reference had been noted without confusion. There was a sort of hierarchy that could not be prevented in war. Only slightly beneath Dumbledore was Harry, Hermione and, for the most part, Ron. They were the edge of the sword.
Harry was not so easily appeased, "This was a mild battle, Voldemort is sending mere peons. I did not recognize a single one of our friends amongst the ranks." He said the word with bitter resentment.
Dean smiled without much cheer. "You've done most of them in, haven't you? If we're lucky next fight we'll be able to take down one of the others." Harry had no pain in admitting the fact that the death of Bellatrix Lestrange would be most welcome to him.
"Yes, let them come to us, we need the upper ground. A few more of these spectacular wins and I'll be a bit more secure." Harry said with utter finality that signaled Dean's departure. In Hogwarts, things were run differently. Dean never would have accepted Harry's unquestionable authority, but many had to. It was simply the way of life.
Harry whirled around, his raven hair fluttering up the nape of his neck as he did so, his eyes searching the crowd for Hermione. He found her almost immediately, crouched down and healing a young woman not much older than her. She tended to her quickly, healing the abrasions with ease before finding the next injured person.
With perseverance she moved along, quickly and effectively taking care of those around her. She would have been a brilliant healer, and this Harry acknowledged fully. Would he have resented taking a back seat to her career? Not even he could determine that. Maybe she could train, when this was over with. Or maybe she wouldn't. He turned away , not wishing to reminisce on a past long gone, yet not forgotten.
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She never slept soundly. In Hogwarts she could sleep for up to eleven hours, as still as a rock. Not even a tornado had the power to awaken her from her slumber brought on by hours and hours of hard work, but after vacating the castle that was once a home and then a prison, she had been incapable of sleeping pleasantly for a single night without magical aid.
Hermione had been lying still in bed for nearly three hours before she felt the mattress shift and warm arms wrap around her abdomen out of habit. She smiled, biting her lip as his chin rested on the curvature in her neck, nuzzling her. Harry was asleep far before she.
Far away, though not as far they would have wished, the enemy did not sleep. It was a clichéd happening that the 'bad guys' would not sleep as the good ones dreamt of sugarplums dancing over their heads. But Voldemort needed no sleep, and his followers would not tuck themselves into their comfortable beds while the Dark Lord stayed conscious.
He paced, another chestnut the author felt the need to polish, his black robe billowing up behind him like a corporeal cloud of smoke. "Have any others been captured, dear Macnair?" He questioned mockingly, his red eyes alight with the fire that dwelled inside him.
His peon stuttered, a sign of weakness that the Dark Lord was merciful enough to blessedly ignore. "We have taken three whom we suspect, mmm…mm my Lord. They are currently being…taken care of, or so to speak, by dear Bella. One of them is used beyond repair, and they will be disposed upon your order." His knees ached, this kneeling growing tiresome.
Voldemort's eyes flashed brilliantly, the mere rage in them nearly destroying the man whom knelt before him. "Three? Months ago we had nearly four times that number taken and most of them eliminated. Now you are here to tell me that we have such a small number, meaning that we have even less means for invasion and intimidation?" He asked, the fire flaring in the pits of his stomach reflected in the bright and fascinating orbs that glared down at his follower.
He said nothing in response, simply genuflected and backed away timidly. Happy with this reaction, Lord Voldemort walked away, his robe swishing on the smooth floor, heading directly toward his own personal pensieve to bask in his own brilliant thought process.
Harry was no insomniac. He was not guilt-racked due to bringing the shortstop and sudden drop of his archrival since before puberty, Malfoy. He did not sleep poorly; wake up with nightmares, or horrible and sudden spurts of despair. He had squared with the fact that he was a killer long before, perhaps even before he had ended the life of his love's old beau. But the jealousy still existed, buried not so deeply inside him. It was very fortunate indeed that she seemed to want to forget the entire ordeal just as much as he did, and never mentioned the dreaded name.
Harry could not help but realize the weight of what he had done. It was heavy on his shoulders, knowing that at any moment the truth could be revealed, that a simple delve into his psychosis would reveal more than mere guilt could tell. What would Hermione do? How would she look at him if she knew that he had been the one, who had killed Ginny? If Ron realized that his anger was pointed in the wrong direction, that vengeance had not been had. The killer was still out there and was lying in bed with Hermione Granger.
He hated to imagine her crying buckets of salt over the fact that her ex-lover was not quite as bad as he appeared. Quite being a relative term. He was a traitor and he would have killed both Ron and Harry with the blink of an eye. He never deserved Hermione; he never deserved to even touch her. Even when Harry was not in love with her he was in love with her. They had something more than her and Ron's old couple-like bickering, than Ron's bitter jealousies. They had trust; they had something that no one else could quite compare to, even if they tried…except for Draco fucking Malfoy.
She wasn't asleep, not quite asleep. Her breathing was gentle, but not the shallow and light inhalations that he knew signaled her slumber. His arms tightened around her waist and she unconsciously leant forward, as though trying to secure her own independence. He pulled her backward tenderly and waited for her to sink into his arms. It happened…eventually.
I will get more into the action later on. My beta has not returned my e-mails, she's probably busy with finals, so I'm sorry if there are any errors. Suggestions are wanted, and reviews, flame or not, are always welcome. Once again, this is in HG/DM for no other reason apart from this is where the original was in, and the undertones are going to be strong, as well as many dreams.