Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to J.K. Rowling, as well as a smattering of magical places, objects and ideas. All others (what little remains) and the plot belong to me.
Dizzying. Colours are fusing into one another and the faces appear all the same to her—one look, one scream—the stench of sweat and terror clings thickly in the air and it suffocates her endlessly. With maddening slowness it seems that she falls to her knees unable to continue, incapable of drawing from the strength that she knows she has.
Or thought she had...
She is surrounded by death. No amount of training could have prepared her for this. Training taught her how to kill, but they never told her how she would have to deal with the knowledge that she had taken someone's life. The guilt is immense and she wants to vomit from the invisible weight. She killed so many that she has already lost count. It is easy at first. Bring them to their knees first, they told her. Bring them to their knees and when they think that you will show them mercy, kill them.
Although she did not understand at first, she knew that her protestations would go unheeded. Harry would not have wanted this but with his untimely death, came a desperation and the need to taste blood, to see it flow as if in some sort of morbid offering to the gods that will hopefully reward them with justice that they had already sought for themselves. And now, in the middle of battle, a meadow some miles away from the quaint town she spent so many Saturdays as a girl growing up in a magical world, Hermione Granger is on her knees begging for some sort of release. Anything that will ease the emotional pain of being where she is... alone in the midst of chaos, blood on her hands and robes, the memory of all that she did and seen firmly etched in a corner of her mind.
It is coming to an end. She can hear the voices of triumph, small and almost unintelligible as her mind unconsciously seeks to block everything out. Suddenly, she feels someone grab her arm.
Ron.
She almost screams when she takes in the sight of him. Blood smeared across his cheek, robes torn in several places, but it is his eyes... pupils dilated, darting around in a mad fashion, almost delirious in their motion as they scan the remnants of what would later be known as the Battle on Verdant Meadow. The last battle of the war...
"It's over," he tells her, his voice hoarse yet tinged with excitement. "It's over, Hermione..."
Is it really?
She can feel herself being dragged to her feet and then mindlessly through the rubble by a Ronald Weasley who is half out of his mind.
"Let's go home, Hermione," he keeps repeating, though more to himself than to her. "Mum's waiting for us. She'd want to know how everything went..."
"But Ron..."
She stops in mid-speech. Perhaps it will not do much good to remind her friend that his mother has been dead for three years. This is the worse he has gotten and it scares her.
Have they all gone mad?
"I told her we'd win, though. I was so sure. I was so sure we'd win and we did win. She'd be so proud." He stops tugging on her arm. It is then that she sees the destruction that has happened. It is a wasteland... Bodies litter the ground as if they fell from the heavens, broken and bloody, the air smells of death and, for some unknown reason, of smoke as well.
How can one find victory in such a place?
"She would, wouldn't she, Hermione? She'd be so proud of us..." He holds her hand tightly, either squeezing the life out of her or infusing her with it, she is not entirely sure.
All she can think of is that they are monsters... They turned into monsters. Only monsters are capable of this this, this much devastation.
How ironic. How utterly ironic to turn into what you think you are fighting against.
"Right, Hermione? Tell me she would be proud."
Hermione does not realise that she has begun crying until she feels a cool breeze blow against the wetness on her cheek.
"Very proud," she whispers and her voice almost cracks.
Hours later, hours after leaving Ron and walking aimlessly though decidedly away from all the bloodshed and gore, Hermione stops beside a large tree whose branches provide a canopy from the dwindling sunlight. Then and only then, as she drops once again to her knees did she allow herself to truly cry.
Each sob feels like it is being ripped out of her; emotions battle their way out, tumbling over one another in the process and it all but chokes her.
This is not how things are supposed to be. But then... things rarely turn out the way one expects.
Right?
Leaning against the massive tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself and her face tilted toward the setting sun, Hermione Granger wonders if things will ever be the same again. Will she ever be the same again?
It sounds stupid but she wonders if she would still find joy in watching children play along the sidewalk by her home, or will the war have tainted her completely making her cynical and jaded. She wonders if tomorrow she will still like having oatmeal for breakfast or if she will enjoy having breakfast at all. She wonders if the rain will feel different to her, if it will feel cooler to the touch. She thinks about all these things and cries for these thoughts.
She is mourning—mourning for things she does not now understand but knows that she will eventually have to face.
"What is this?" she asks the tree softly. "Heaven? Hell?"
Though she does not expect an answer, she receives one.
"If you're going to kill me, Granger... you might as well get it done. I'm in too much pain to wait for you to make... up your... bleeding mind."
She gasps.
Author's Notes:
I've gone and started another one! I know. I'll never learn. But this practically begged to be written and I... had no choice in the matter!
I have to admit, though, that I can't wait to write more of this because it will definitely be darker than what I usually write. I like the complexities that the war can bring and how it can change the characters and their perspectives.
This is just a prologue. Later chapters will be longer.
Do review! Thanks for reading!