Title: Faith No More
Author: Savage Midnight
Rating: PG-13 (for mild sexual content)
Disclaimer: They be Rowling's.
Summary: This is the day her faith failed her, the day it shattered and splintered like a frail glass child.
Author's Note: This is for Hannah, for being the most awesomest beta ever, and for amusing me no end with her long-ass comments, and for letting me squee about Dark-Hunters, Acheron, and the Vampire Diaries. This is for you, my darling. Angst, angst, angst, as you requested.
WARNING: Character death.

--

She can explain it to you step-by-step if that's what you require. A detailed account of cause-and-effect, choices and destinies, with a underlining tone of rhyme and reason that will paint a pretty picture. And you will nod your head and accept it, because she'll just be that persuasive.

But that's not the way it goes. The picture isn't pretty, but a dark, abstract creation that even she doesn't understand. And somewhere along the way, the story defied the laws of logic, leap-frogged over it entirely, and carried on its path to the tangled conclusion. This was where faith came in, propelling her forward, because there was no turning back.

And this? This is the day her faith failed her, the day it shattered and splintered like a frail glass child.

It's funny, because it was the only day she ever really needed it.

--

"A mole? You're sure?"

A shrug. Nonchalant but heavy with the burden of knowledge. "It's the only explanation. It explains how they found us, how they--"

A swallow, thick with grief and anger, because they had lost too much already. How cruel to lose so much more when they had barely survived a war.

A nod. Acceptance. Logic made sense here, and he... well, he never argued with her logic. It had saved them too many times. Maybe not all of them, no, but enough... enough for them to keep fighting.

"Then we need to figure out who it is. Have them--"

"I already know who it is."

Silence. The thumping of her pulse, because she knew, and he knew she knew.

"Then handle it."

Faith. Faith that she was right. Faith that she would do the right thing, that her morals hadn't withered under her thirst for vengeance.

But Hermione Granger knew how fickle faith could be. If only he did.

"It's done."

--

The sunset was slow and languid as they watched, sitting on the roof ledge of her building with their legs dangling over the edge. Their magic made them fearless, and the first time they had done this... well, she had found it exhilarating. He'd merely had a lazy, smug smile on his lips.

Tonight he was sitting closer to her than normal, a sign that something had shifted in their relationship in the last few weeks. And it had. Choosing to make a future together had that effect. Now there was a relaxed air to him, his usual intensity having melted into a comfortable acceptance of who he was, where he stood, and how he fit into the dark mess that was her life. His face was soft despite the strong, sharp line of his jaw, and she watched him, one leg bent to his chest as he took a deep draw of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke and dispelling it into the air.

A nasty Muggle habit. He'd picked it up sometime after the war, during the years he'd dropped off their radar completely. He'd returned... different. Quieter, sharper, angrier. A warrior to their cause four years too late. It seemed it had taken him all that time to find the back-bone he hadn't possessed at Hogwarts.

They had taken him in. Sheltered him. Allowed him to help them. And in exchange for the knowledge he'd possessed, the skills he'd garnered, the Death Eaters he'd tracked and captured, they'd chosen to overlook the boiling hatred within him, the venom of his tongue, the bloodlust that lingered not far from the surface. Some of them knew what it felt like to be constantly riding the killing edge, to have that anger be the only thing standing between them and insanity, and maybe they never said it out loud, but it was there all the same.

So they ignored it, and somewhere along the way, she'd learned to accept it.

Her mistake. One she had paid for. Not with her blood, no, but there were others who couldn't say the same.

"Why am I here?"

It was a question born of necessity, not anger, but years ago she would have said it was both. She'd learned to stop being offended eventually, once she realised that it was his simple need to understand the motivation of others, the reason behind their actions, that made him ask. He didn't like the fact that he couldn't read people and he'd grown tired of mind games after Hogwarts. She knew that much about him, at least.

"Nostalgia," she said. "You kissed me here once."

The first time. Yes, she remembered. And she also remembered how she'd sworn it would be the last.

He tilted his head towards her, and she could see the grey of his eyes behind the haze of smoke. They were usually the soft, flat colour of slate when he was bored or indifferent, but sometimes they would flare into a sharp silver that settled into a smudged charcoal whenever he satiated his bloodlust... or his lust. Now they were trained on her and she wondered if she would ever miss them when he was gone.

"I've kissed you in a lot of places," he responded flatly, and turned back towards the sunset.

Yes, and somewhere along the way I stopped feeling guilty about it, she thought. I stopped feeling like a traitor to my husband's memory, because you convinced me you were letting him go.

Her mind flittered to the wedding band buried in her underwear draw and she closed her eyes, wondering if Ron would ever be able to forgive her for what she'd become, for what a lot of them had become. Who knew the years after the war would be harder to fight through than the war itself had been? But Ron had to know, had to understood, because he'd been one of many to see their glory turn to ash.

Yes, victory, like revenge, was bittersweet, but they fought for it all the same because it was all they had.

She exhaled loudly, suddenly exhausted. She didn't want to fight for her peace tonight. Because that's all they ever did. They danced around each other with words and barbs and pointless questions that led to pointless answers, and all so they could take comfort in the lull that followed. For someone who didn't like games, he sure did like to play them. And usually, so did she. Their battles never left her bleeding and broken, never left her missing a vital part of herself, and each time something always seemed to shift between them. He'd been back five years, and it had taken them almost three-and-a-half of those to admit that, just maybe, they were going somewhere. And she knew, tonight, it was going to take a while before he looked at her with anything other than indifference. It was his default mode, after all.

"Go home, Draco," she said softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She didn't want to do this tonight, didn't want to do any of it, and she wondered how much her delay, her hesitation, was going to cost her. If he wasn't going to allow her to do this the easy way, then she was just going to have to do it the hard way. There was little choice in the matter. She needed him to let his defenses down, to let her in, to trust her, but as always, she was having to fight for it.

She waited for him to leave, gaze fixed on the sky, mind flickering through her options. None of them she liked. But then she'd never liked endings, mostly because it meant beginning again.

It took her a moment to notice that he wasn't leaving. No doubt her refusal to play their usual game had piqued his interest. At least something had.

"You started all of this, you know," he murmured. "You pretend that having me in your bed means nothing. And you expect me to give you everything when you refuse to pay me the same courtesy. Tell me that's something worth fighting for, because I'm tired, too."

She shook her head, because that was something he would never understand. That all she had to give him, however lacking he believed it to be, was all she had left. She'd given up the rest for the sake of her sanity.

She turned towards him, gaze trained on a face that she had come to care for, despite her best efforts. She raised her hand and brushed the hair from his eyes, and watched as they flared silver.

"Kiss me," she whispered, leaning in close. "Kiss me and I'll show you what it's worth."

And she saw him hesitate, a bare fraction of a second, before his lips brushed against her own, whisper soft and fleeting. He did it again, and again, and it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth, ready to protest, but then he moved and kissed her bottom lip, tongue sliding against her own, rendering her silent. His hand came up to rest against her throat, fingers curling around her jaw and tilting her head up so he could kiss her deeper. She felt her breath catch, felt her pulse throbbing beneath his fingers, and wished, not for the first time, that he didn't affect her like this.

There was a loud crack and she opened her eyes to find them in her room. She barely had time to ground herself before he was kissing her again, hand buried in her hair, the other resting against the small of her back, pressing them together. He slid a thigh between her leg and pressed up, and Merlin's beard, it was just right, just right. A moan rent the air and he responded, moving them towards the bed. He settled himself on the edge, pulling her with him until she was straddling his lap, arms curled around his neck. His hand was back in her hair, the other sliding to the front of her jeans, popping open the button and sliding the zipper down. His fingers brushed against her stomach, then down further, beneath the elastic of her panties until they were settled between her thighs. And then, before her anticipation even had the chance to build, he slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep.

And it was too much. This and them and what they had become. So she moved, and those beautiful fingers slid out of her, and the loss, the emptiness, almost made her gasp. But she choked it back and moved to slip his coat off, hearing the clack of his wand as it fell from his pocket and hit the hard wood of her floor. His shirt followed, and then she was pushing him up and back until his head was finally resting against her pillows. She smiled down at him, and he must have caught the sadness that lingered there, because he suddenly paused, concern softening his eyes.

"'Mione--"

She pressed her finger against his lips and shook her head as she felt the invisible chains snake around his wrists and ankles. Her command had been silent, at least to him, and already she could see the questions beginning to form behind his eyes. He needed answers. A motivation. A reason. Draco couldn't read people and that weakness had cost him dearly.

He didn't struggle, not that she expected him to. He'd learned patience in the years that had passed. He knew to conserve his energy and fight when he needed to fight. And right now, he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere.

Her hand slid down, beneath the mattress, and she curled her hand around the dagger she found there. She drew it out and Draco's eyes narrowed when he saw it.

"This is what it's worth," she said softly. "The death of my husband. The deaths of my friends." She paused, swallowed heavily. This was harder than she thought it would be. Something was breaking inside of her, though she'd once thought that there was nothing left in her to break.

"The death of a traitor," she whispered, and pressed the blade to his throat. She could see the realisation begin to build in his eyes and blinked back tears. She wanted anger, fury, maybe even heartbreak, not this quiet understanding. It wasn't enough. It was too much.

"You think it was me," he said quietly, unafraid despite the dagger pressing against his skin. Fearless to the end. He'd once told her that after Hogwarts, after spending so long afraid, of Voldemort, of his father, of his own cowardice, he was done. He'd never be weak again. And even now, he wasn't.

"I know it was you. Maybe you weren't the one to slide the dagger home, but you were responsible. You sold us out."

Anger flared then, turning his eyes a liquid mercury that she'd never seen before. This was the fury she wanted. After this came fear, because he would never have the chance to satiate his rage, to control it, to channel it. She'd rendered him powerless and he didn't like it.

"Now you know how it feels," she told him. "To have fought for so long only for it to have meant nothing. To be slaughtered in the shadows, not even given the chance to fight, to defend yourself. They were heroes and you didn't even have the respect, the honour, to look them in the eye before you killed them. Because you're still a coward, Malfoy, and you always will be."

And suddenly, those silver eyes turned dark, the rage fading until there was nothing but quiet indifference and a kind of acceptance in them.

It angered her, and she raised the dagger high above her head, hate filling her, twisting her mouth into a snarl. This was her revenge and she was going to take it, no matter how bitter, no matter how little it would help. It wouldn't save Ron or Luna or Neville, no, but it would save those they had yet to lose, and that would make it worth it.

Her grip tightened and she felt the intent tense her muscles, felt her breath catch in anticipation, and then--

"If that's what you believe, then do it," he said, and she hesitated, frozen. "If five years hasn't shown that I'm one of you, that I've been fighting to make it right, that I've been fighting for you, then finish it. Because it was worth everything, Hermione. Everything."

He fell silent, and she stared, lost, confused. Her arms shook and her fingers loosened, her palms slick with sweat.

And this was the moment, the moment she needed her faith more than she ever had. She needed it to override the logic that she'd crafted a life from, built a family upon, fought a war with. But it never came. There was only the silence and the emptiness within her, only him and her and the dagger aimed over his heart. There was no belief, not in him, in his words, in what they had shared. And that was the biggest loss of all.

"It was worth nothing," she hissed, and the dagger slammed down, hitting home and drawing a ragged gasp from him. His eyes flared silver for the last time, and then dimmed to a soft, flat grey.

"It was worth nothing," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

--

"Is it done?"

A nod. "It's done."

"What will you do now?"

A broken smile. "Carry on. The way we always have."

A sigh. "Hermione--"

"Don't. It's done and we're safe. That's all that matters."

"Is it? We all need something more to believe in. It keeps us going."

A hard stare. "No, it doesn't."

The sound of footsteps, a door slamming. Silence.

"Yes, it does," Harry Potter whispered.

Because faith, more than anything, was the biggest loss of all.