Perturbo Aetas

Author: Aeryn's Last

Summary: It's not the Last Battle, but it's just as intense, and they're just as unprepared. They're dieing. And then, something amazing happens…Your typical Hermione sent back in time story? Maybe…but not quite. SB/HG

PART ONE

When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle -Edmund Burke

Sacrifice

She'd never believed that darkness could be so absolute. Even when she was younger, scared of the night, she'd always known that there would be a light in the hall; one that told of her parents and that daylight would come. And as she grew older, she'd always had her wand. In darkness, Lumos could be used and there would be light.

She had her wand with her now. It was in her hand, rough and hot from the Curses she'd used, flaked with dried blood that she wasn't entirely sure was her own. It was there, so close to her, but she couldn't feel a thing. She couldn't raise it and lift the darkness.

For once, Hermione Granger was helpless.

There was a tilt to the world that spoke of endless falling, a silence of suppressed noise, such agony that ripped something from her throat – a sound? But no, she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't think…she didn't know. She didn't know at all.

Reality slammed back into her, shattering all breath behind her ribs, choking her. Hermione moaned quietly, curled on her side, bruised and battered and trying desperately to regain a sense of the world, of herself, of the situation. A sense of all. Her eyes fluttered, precariously close to that same darkness that beckoned to her, sang to her, called her name with lilting tones of old. Hermione…Hermione…Hermione…Hermione…get up, Hermione…Get up…

"Get up," she echoed under her breath, the breath that was stolen and seemed so far away. "Get up."

She blinked and she was on her knees, crawling away from her fallen spot, ignoring the screams of those around her, the flashing beams of Curses and Death. She blinked again and she was on the ground, twitching, the remains of a Curseclinging lovingly to her body. Hermione swallowed, closed her eyes, and pushed herself painstakingly to her knees again.

"Get up, Hermione, get up," she repeated like a mantra. "Get up, Hermione. Get up."

But now it wasn't just her voice. Another's twisted with hers and bloodied hands found her arms and Hermione stared numbly into the eyes of a girl, not that much older than her own eighteen years, a girl with no name and no life but for this one moment when she stopped to helped Hermione to her feet. There was a pause as they stared at each other, the elder girl's hand wrapping around Hermione's right to tighten her hold on her wand. And then there was a blaze of green, and the girl's body was at her feet, the person who had cast it long gone, lost in other enemies, lost in themselves.

Hermione couldn't even find the strength to wince.

"Get up, Hermione," she whispered to herself. "Get up."

There was something…so futile about it all. It had to be done, she knew that; Voldemort had to die. Had to be destroyed, at the price of their own destruction. And so they worked at it, planned, brought down all those around him, stopped attacks in some desperate hope that people would see that he could be stopped. But Voldemort simply turned to another part of England and unleashed a hellish ice and fire. He needed no planning, no working. He simply looked and struck and by God Hermione had thought that would be his downfall. If they planned enough, his spontaneity would not be able to keep up.

How wrong she had been.

They planned, they worked, they rid themselves of everything that they had been to learn what was needed to take him down and stop him once and for all…and all Voldemort did was close his eyes and lazily point in a direction, and that Direction would be Death and Fire in moments. And there was nothing they could do about it, except regroup and plan some more.

"Get up, Hermione, get up."

She had lost sight of Harry as soon as the battle had begun, watched him be whisked away by Advanced Aurors just like every battle, hoping against hope that this time Voldemort would show himself. Ron had taken her arm to keep her close as witches and wizards pushed passed them, determination in every step as they met the enemy head on.

Hermione couldn't remember much after that.

Lost in the movements of her wand, the Spells burning on her lips as she mouthed them, silently trying to stay one step ahead of her opponents, lost in the blood and bodies that fell like toy soldiers, blank eyes searching for something she couldn't give.

She couldn't even hate them. Because to hate…hate would mean she was murdering these men and women. And she didn't believe she was a murderer. Couldn't believe it. She was simply doing what she saw as right, just like they were. They were sacrificing each other for ideals.

Someone slammed into her shoulder and she spun, unbalanced, eyes unfocused, to settle on bright red hair. She blinked.

"Ron…?" she murmured, and stepped forward, absently casting a Shield spell, rebounding the darker Curses sent her way. The boy was a blur of colour and sweat, blood and green and carrot top hair, blazing blue eyes and a wand that trembled in his grasp. He was being forced step by step into a retreat, spells wild, yelled at the top of his voice until she could hear the crack of panic, a splinter in china, so close to breaking. "Ron!"

But her voice, too, was breaking. Losing control. She watched with something torn in her expression, trying to get closer to him and touch him, because he was real and he was there and damn it why did the air feel like tar, so thick and black and clinging –

A blast of red and Hermione stumbled, eyes going wide as she saw Ron echo her fall, landing hard on his shoulder but having no time to even grimace in pain, trying to roll and aim another Hex at his attacker…

"Ron," she murmured again. "Ron, Ron, Ron."

Hermione wondered if she'd really thought that repeating his name would bring him back.

A Curse hit her, slicing through her leg, a stinging pain that should have made her wince, at least, but she was numb. So, so numb. She drew in a breath and held it, carefully turning her head until her cheek was pressed into the cold, icy grass. The frost cut into her cheek, crept into her eye, and she wondered if she was be cold and cruel like the ice, like in the story, The Snow Queen, to sit on winter throne and bask in blinding white, waiting for the hero to come and melt that ice.

Hermione wondered where Harry was.

The breath shuddered in her lungs and out of her mouth, bitter and twisting, forcing her to take another and another, reminding her that she was still alive and she needed to fight. Needed to live. This wasn't the Final Battle. She couldn't die until the Final Battle. That was the way the story was told.

"Get up," she choked. "Get up, Hermione, get up."

Get up!

A moment in which she breathed, waited for that Killing Curse to come in dazzling green, the colour of Harry's eyes, and then she dug her fingers into unforgiving concrete-like soil until the nails chipped and bled, began to drag herself forward until she could almost touch Ron, if she just reached out that little bit more…

"Mobilicorpus," she said, once to the DeathEater approaching her, throwing him quite heavily into a nearby group, and then again to move Ron towards her, fingertips touching his palm, then his shoulder, moving to his nose, his lips, his ears – the ears that turned so red when she came near him – his lips again, fingers trembling, his neck, his chest, the hip bones that stuck out – like a girl's, she'd always teased – and his palm again, brief, flitting touches that made her choke all over again and try to cry, try to be hot with tears, try.

On her knees, Shocking whoever came too near, Hermione stared.

"Harry, where are you?" she asked quietly. "We need a hero, Harry, a hero. Where are you?"

But he wasn't there. She couldn't see him. Only nameless bodies that cursed and cried and killed and hurt and were killed and were hurt. They were so vulnerable. So easily destroyed. How could hordes of easily killed bodies even think to defeat someone as powerful as Voldemort? Someone as immortal as he. Someone…something inhuman.

"Hermione!"

A voice broke through the haze of brutal thought, caused her to reel back and snap to the side, searching for the one who knew her name in bodies of the nameless.

"Hermione! GET DOWN!"

She frowned, confused, complex. "But everyone keeps telling me to get up. Get up, Hermione," she said to herself. "Get up."

Fingers bleeding, blood not all her own, corpses at her feet and colours in the air, Hermione pushed carefully to a crouch, rocking on her heels, then straightened, crumpled paper unfolding, cautiously, so not to tear.

"HERMIONE!"

She only managed to get halfway there, poised precariously with her knees bent, hunched, hand outstretched to keep her balance, wand tucked neatly in the curve of her waist. She didn't see the red, but felt something distort the air around her, her view of it. The world began to tilt again, ageing, cutting at the edges until black bled across her vision.

Something was touching her deep inside, something insidious, cold, touching what no one should ever touch, the most primitive and precious part of her. There was no sound, no hope to scream, no voice to fight back, only that leisurely stroke of unwanted fingers that had plunged deep into her very being and began to twist, savagely.

Hermione thought she found a voice to shriek something unnatural, inhuman, an animal wail, but she couldn't be sure. It was pain, and yet it wasn't. It was a violation, a bottomless fear, a panic and hopelessness all in one. An agony that went beyond what she'd ever felt. It clung to everything warm inside and burned an icy-heat, and when it stopped, she knew it would never leave. It would always be there, a taint on her very being, haunting her and lounging inside so smugly, saying I have you now, you'll never be rid of me.

She lay shuddering on her front, face pressed into the cold ground once more, legs ungainly huddled beneath her. A dry sob forced its way to tremble on her tongue as she rolled onto her side, curling up, and began to scream. It was too awful, too awful, no no no no never again don't let me feel it I don't want to no –

And then again, those clawing fingers that touched what shouldn't be touched, and she screamed screamed screamed.

She'd seen the Crucio so many times, had even in the deepest, darkest parts of her subconscious scorned those who sobbed like children and screamed their surrender. She was stronger, cleverer, she would never give in.

Oh sweet, sweet ignorance.

"Hermione, Hermione, you have to get up, get up, wake up, you have to move, we need to leave –"

Someone was shaking her, dragging her, desperation their drug. Remnants of the Curse held her mercilessly in its grasp, unwilling to let its victim go, and Hermione sighed in its embrace and thought I can't get up anymore. Hermione can't get up. Don't make me.

She sagged against the body hauling her – female, she noted dully – feet clumsy and uncooperative. Fellow witches and wizards were running backwards, firing Curses left and right, to the front, and beyond the deafening silence in her ears Hermione caught the distant howling of creatures. She moaned.

"Get up, Hermione," she mouthed to herself. "Get up."

When she fell, taking her rescuer with her, she wasn't surprised. Unable to see or hear, tongue sluggish and thick in her mouth, Hermione felt like a corpse. She felt…she felt unable. Empty. She found the word couldn't and tasted it in her darkening mind and knew it encompassed everything she was in that moment. She closed her eyes and repeated it until her dry and cracked lips were forming the sounds and then her tongue was moving and soon the word was her mantra, echoing over and over and over and over until she opened her eyes and looked.

"I tried," Susan Bones said, her hair clumped with blood. She was crying, but there was something devastatingly resigned in her expression. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

Hermione couldn't say what happened next. The world was full of colour again and pain and hazy hands that ripped through her body, and she could see Susan Bones screaming in another's hold, one perfect blue eye burst and running down her weathered skin, and then Hermione couldn't see her anymore as more DeathEater's crowded around and she wished desperately Harry, where are you? You're supposed to be the hero come and save us it's not supposed to be this way.

Something snapped inside of her. She bucked, shrieking, voice breaking and wavering and starting again, wand clutched so tightly in her hand that they couldn't get it off her, Curses and Hexes and whatever came to her mind erupting from acid-tipped lips and causing chaos around her.

Someone hit her, and then the pain was back. All knowing, all destroying. Third time's the charm, she thought, thinking of the Longbottom's. Three times and you're out. Three times and you're crazy.

She didn't have the strength to scream this time. Only to cry wretchedly, pressed into the cold and unforgiving winter grass and wish that she could sink away into oblivion, into the earth. And on the edge of her consciousness, she felt anger, pure and destructive, primitive. So raw and painful that she wanted to shy away, but in her state could only observe unresponsively.

And as the world tilted once more, unnatural, the pain stayed with her and the soulless fingers clawed deep inside, the breath ripped from her as darkness closed in, just as unforgiving of her weakness.

To be continued...