May 23rd, 1998
They were naive to believe the war would end with Voldemort.
When the man had crumpled to the ground, Harry had expected an irrefutable finality. The hum of tension, the hostility of war that cracked and singed like sparking wire, was supposed to dissipate the second the Dark Lord was defeated.
They had underestimated their hatred.
The Death Eaters were powerful in their numbers, and even more powerful in their united prejudice. The death of their leader had done nothing to sway their animosity towards the "dirty-blooded." They were powerful, they were armed, and in their anger, they were dangerous. They put a price on Harry Potter's head, called for the blood of his two best friends and launched a tireless crusade against his supporters.
Worst of all, people listened. The secretly bigoted - those who had not joined Voldemort's efforts but had believed every word of his followers' manifesto - were lured out of their homes, promised greater comforts under their more permissive new leader, Helena Rosier. Glory, she announced in a televised broadcasting, once her forces had usurped the media, is what awaits us all. Even the moderates were beginning to see the appeal in joining the Death Eater's ranks.
So the Order retreated. Hid. Waited to strike.
Harry hated waiting.
May 26th, 1998
They found a headquarters, to everyone's immense relief.
Hermione smiled tentatively, reaching into her bag to pull out a bandage for Dean. "It's not much, but it'll do. At least there's enough space for everyone, and it's easy enough to fortify." Ron wrung his hands anxiously. The space was cramped – that much was obvious to everyone – but they couldn't afford to be choosy.
Hermione spent the rest of the evening on the lawn with Molly, Arthur, Kingsley, and Bill, setting up wards and protective enchantments. Harry and Ron were tasked with scrubbing off mold and removing the heavy dust that mantled every surface of the abandoned cabin.
Ron cast a few clumsy cleaning spells that he had no doubt seen his mother perform countless times. He frowned as his umpteenth spell faded out without unsettling any of the grime, and Harry, kneeling on the ground, proffered him a wet towel. Grumbling, Ron lowered himself and mimicked Harry's sweeping motions.
Their portable radio managed to pick up on a Muggle frequency, and a cheerful voice began to announce sunshine and balmy weather in the capital; the city's inhabitants were beginning to crowd into amusement parks and beaches, ready to welcome the summer.
Harry felt a sudden sense of déjà vu, catapulted into his early memories at the Dursleys'. A younger version of himself, scrubbing vigorously at the countertops, the voice on the television wafting into the kitchen to inform him that there were people out there who lead much happier lives than he did. He laughed, despite the lump in his throat.
"What's so funny, mate?" Ron asked.
"I was just thinking about what Kingsley said the other day," he replied. "We really are starting from the beginning."
May 28th, 1998
"We should think of a way to let Order sympathizers find us," said Hermione. Harry could already see thousands of ideas brewing in her mind. "If they want to join us."
The rest of the group, seated around a table, seemed to consider this, but Seamus snorted rudely, cutting their contemplation short. Hermione's head snapped up challengingly. "And what? Risk giving the Death Eaters a foolproof map to our only shelter? Why not just take them by the hand and lead them here? You take Dolohov, I'll take Lestrange."
Ron let out a chuckle, which he quickly swallowed under Hermione's accusatory glare. "I mean," he shrugged, "he's right. We can't let them find us here. We'll be dead within minutes if they do. Their army has almost tripled in size in the last two weeks."
"I'm well aware, Ronald," Hermione countered, icily. "That's why I suggested expanding ours, but if you'd rather stay caged in our safe little hidey-hole, be my guest."
A short silence. Then George cleared his throat. "We left a lot of people back at Hogwarts during out escape. I know we had to get out of there quick, but it's unfair of us to exclude them from our plans after they fought beside us for so long. There's Macmillan, Creevey, Bones, Hagrid…"
"This shithole's small enough as it is, and you want to bring Hagrid here?" Seamus exclaimed. George met his eye, scowling deeply.
"Finnegan, if you're worried about something as trivial as leg space, I suggest you leave now," he retorted. There was a small sniffle from the end of the table, and everyone turned their heads to look at Parvati, who was crying quietly into a tattered pashmina.
"M-my sister," she sobbed. Hermione inhaled sharply, reaching to place a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. She wished she could draw in some of Parvati's sorrow, alleviate the worst of her emotional torment, but she didn't know how. "My sister's still out there. I don't know where she is and I hate that she can't find me even if she's trying to. I know she's trying to, I just know, and I hate-" Parvati broke off, her voice trembling too violently for her to continue. Her misery thrummed in the room, its magnitude so great that it almost felt tangible; even Seamus, wisecracker that he was, stared fixedly at a point on the wall, lips pursed into a grim line.
When George spoke again, it was slowly, deliberately, as if every syllable pained him. "We'll find your sister. If it's the last thing we do. We're all agreed, then?" A murmur of assent rippled through the group. "Good. Hermione, start thinking of ways to communicate with the outside without attracting the Death Eater's attention. Katie, help Parvati into bed. Ginny, Luna, do a quick run-through of our supplies before you go to bed."
They disbanded quickly, each Order member desperate to put distance between themselves and the room fraught with tension. Only George remained seated, pressing his palms to his eyes. Angelica wavered by the door, gently turning her lithe frame to face him. "If you want to talk about Fred-"
"I don't," he cut her off sharply, without removing his head from his hands. "Good night, Angelica."
June 1st, 1998
Bathed in the pale glow of the night, Hermione looked ethereal, like a celestial spirit trapped inside a human form. Ron felt his cheeks flame as she reached down to pull off her sweater. She had her back to him, so he couldn't see anything, really, but the moonlight spilling onto her bare shoulders was enough to make his heart lurch. He knew that she thought the boys were asleep, or else she wouldn't have undressed in front of them. War tended to erase the boundaries of nudity, rob people of their sense of intimacy (Ron had certainly felt robbed when he had had to share a shower with ten Order members), but Hermione was always a stickler for rules. He knew she would have been mortified to find out he was awake.
Before the niggling feeling of shame forced him to look away, or at least shut his eyes, there were three loud bangs on the flimsy wooden door.
Then three more in rapid succession, like claps of thunder. Hermione stifled her urge to scream with her palm, quickly yanking on someone's discarded Quidditch shirt.
Hardened by conflict and taught to sleep with one eye open, the Order members leaped out of bed, shook away their exhaustion, and withdrew their wands instantaneously.
Dean, still slightly bleary-eyed, beckoned to Hermione, pointing silently at the window. She counted five hooded figures. Death Eaters, she could tell by the way they were dressed, but she found it strange that they made no real effort to conceal themselves. Stealthily, she slipped past an opening behind a couch, followed by Harry and Ron.
"How did they break through the wards?" whispered Harry. Hermione examined the positions of the Order members as they prowled across their shared living space, careful not to be seen.
Ron swallowed thickly. "How did they even find us?"
She chose not to answer either question. "I'm going to open the door," she said, as calmly as she could.
Grabbing her wrist roughly, Ron pulled her closer to him in one swift motion. "Are you mental? Those are Death Eaters! What are you going to do, invite them over for tea?"
"If I'm right," she reasoned, "we could have access to extremely sensitive information. This could be our saving."
"And if you're wrong?" Harry asked, obviously agitated. Hermione shrugged and shook her head imperceptibly.
"Then cover me." Wrenching herself free of Ron's vice-like grip, she brandished her wand and swept across the room to the open astonishment of her fellow soldiers.
"What are you doing, Hermione?! Get down!" hissed Percy from the shadows. Hermione cast him a side-long glance.
"Be alert. Have your wands at the ready," she ordered, more confidently then she felt. She took a deep breath before she swung the door open, wand arm extended and an offensive incantation on her tongue.
"Stop! Stop!" a woman's voice cried. She dropped her wand to the ground readily, throwing her arms up in surrender. The four other figures had scuttled back, cowering in fear.
"Drop your wands and lower your hoods," Hermione barked. The biting wind sent a chill through her. Had her life not been at risk, she might have felt the need to be embarrassed about her thin, flimsy jersey, but her shrewd mind chose to focus on the task at hand.
The woman was the first one to react to the command, pulling down the hood that obscured her face. Hermione thought she looked familiar, someone she had seen once or twice, but the woman's name eluded her. She was staggeringly beautiful, with deep, expressive eyes, arching eyebrows, and an otherworldly radiance in her swarthy complexion.
Behind her, the figures uncloaked themselves. Hermione felt as though she had swallowed lead.
Narcissa Malfoy. A few paces behind her, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. The poster-boys of the Death Eaters, quaking with fear, at Hermione's mercy.
"I need reinforcement," she called. The reaction was quick, and she was pushed back against the wall by an older Order Member. She allowed herself to close her eyes for a minute, to press her temple against a windowpane, relishing how cool it felt against her skin.
Then: a shout.
Then: a spell.
Then: pandemonium.