I've wanted to write an AU where Voldemort wins for quite a long time. It's almost finished, so I'll try posting it.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. It is all the property of JK Rowling or of others otherwise stated.
...
The flesh surrendered, cancelled,
The bodiless begun;
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse
And leave the soul alone.
- Emily Dickinson
...
They were dead.
Every. Last. One.
Hermione was sure of it.
As she lay on the ground, looking up at the low, dingy ceiling, she mentally recited the list of names. She had started it a long time ago. How long, she did not know, because there wasn't any way to mark the passing of time in here.
But she had started after the first death. Dumbledore's.
And as months went by and the world got darker, the list grew.
Bill Weasley.
Mad-Eye Moody.
Fred and George. (They had gone together, Fred only a few minutes after George. They came into this world together and so they had left it.)
The entire order had grieved after that. Headquarters (wherever they were situated at the time) had lost some of its light. No one laughed at night any more, or tried to ease the tension with jokes or pranks.
Hagrid.
Minerva McGonagall, as proud and fierce in death as she had been in life. A true Lioness, until the end.
And others, so many others.
...
After their defeat (she refused to think of it as Harry's death) the sprit had gone out of the Order. The Dark Lord had won. Even in her mind she dared not call him by his true name. She had learned quickly that such small fights were futile.
The Order became the Rebellion, and a small and pitiful rebellion it was. She didn't hear much about it, prisoner as she was, but it was still out there, she knew. She had to know.
When she was captured, it was almost a relief. She thought she would be killed, but it seemed they thought she might still be useful to them. And she was a prize.
The Dark Lord reminded her of the Muggle psychology books her parents used to send her, to help her keep in touch with her heritage. (the notion almost made her chuckle now.) In that last happy year, they had, unknowing of the danger their daughter was in, sent her books about Muggle serial killers. She had learned that they kept trophies of their victims, to remind them of their... exploits.
The Dark Lord hadn't been able to keep his greatest trophy. She was glad for it. But everyone and everything else he kept.
She had been put on display at first, to shatter the sprits of the Rebellion and to feed the conquerors' pride and self-importance.
The step from trophy to prisoner was not so great. She had betrayed the Rebellion, of course. Everyone did in the end. She did not doubt she had caused many deaths and hastened the inevitable. At least she was not the only one.
Most were still alive. The wizarding population was not so large it could take the losses of more than half of its people, dirty blood or no. And the Purebloods had to be served by someone.
The cells next to hers emptied one after the other. Slaves were given out as rewards to begin with. She brandished her famous intellect and knew it was only the start. With no ties to bind him, the Dark Lord would undoubtedly turn to richer pickings among the Muggles. Nothing like power to further degenerate an already degenerated mind.
She could do nothing but wait for her turn. So she stared up at the ceiling and recited her list, over and over.
...
behind fleeting breath is greatly inspired by the works of Emily Dickinson. Poems at the beginning of chapters are by her, unless otherwise stated. The title is also from one of her poems. I have a list of other inspirations I will post when the fic is finished.