Hermione held the mug both-handed. It was weak, watery tea- the worst she'd ever tasted, in fact- but it was warm, and imparted to her, when she closed her eyes, something of the comfort of home.

She kept her eyes closed, these days, as much as she possibly could.

It was easier than looking at the human- or rather, wizarding- misery all around her. When she allowed herself to look, her mind immediately went to work trying to comprehend what she was seeing and why- why?- and she couldn't. She just- couldn't- comprehend it. It was- dear God, it was a living, waking nightmare.

She lowered her face almost into the mug, allowing the steam rising from this poor excuse for tea to disguise the slow tears that were escaping her, even with her eyes screwed shut. She was trying to disguise them even from herself. Steam, that's what it was, sure. Condensation. Right.

But there was a Catch 22.

See, once she closed her eyes, it was only a matter of time before the images came flooding in- images of the "safe place" she had apparated to after losing Ron and Ginny outside of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. A location which had turned out to be anything but safe- which she wasn't sure could even really be considered a place anymore. Wreckage, that was all it had been. Wreckage and destruction and… and death. The place that had once been her home.

And here they came, of course, as she had known they would; a tsunami of images behind her closed lids- her entire street, flattened twisted wreckage, her own house no different from any of the others, smoldering, blackened, destroyed. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be, damn it- one's own home was always supposed to be the miraculous exception, that was the rule, wasn't it? She choked back a sob. That was the rule. Except, of course, the rules no longer applied to this world-gone-mad. Her safe place, her haven- there was nothing for her there. Her parents- she had had to dig and scrabble through the rubble and debris to find them, as twisted and blackened as everything else. The only thing left alive on the whole block, it had seemed, had been Crookshanks, who had been summering, as usual, at the Grangers' home. Singed and limping, he had clawed his way out of the wreckage at the sound of his mistress's sobs.

She had stayed there nearly twenty-four hours, paralyzed by shock and grief. When night had fallen she'd slept, shivering, amid the ruins of her life, her only source of warmth and companionship the large orange cat which had curled as close to her as possible, purring a low, steady rumble in what seemed an attempt to soothe her. When dawn had come at last, grey and weak, she had dragged herself into a sitting position, bleary-eyed and with her normally ebullient brown hair a tangled, matted mess about her head and shoulders. It had been time to think about what to do, where to go, next.

It hadn't taken her long to reach the conclusion that the safest place to go would be the Ministry of Magic; heavily warded, deep underground, impossible to take by force; an ideal sanctuary for the survivors of wizardkind.

Or so it had seemed until she'd arrived, using her wand to point the way to the nearest wizarding residence with a fireplace still standing, and flooing in.

The reality was that the Ministry was a sea of despair, rocking constantly on the edge of panic. She'd been surprised to arrive not in the stately Atrium, which served as a sort of entrance hall, but a small untidy room several levels down. It hadn't taken her long, Crookshanks in her arms, to discover the reason for this- many of the structure's upper levels, including the entrance hall, had been crushed from above. So much for her theory of complete untouchability- didn't really do much to inspire confidence, that didn't.

There were hundreds of refugees, with more trickling in all the time, and all confined to the lowest levels of the Ministry; small, musty, little-used rooms; a claustrophobic rabbit-warren full of miserable, exhausted survivors who, like Hermione herself, had lost everything dear- including loved ones. There was nowhere one could go and not hear sobbing, not see pale, shocked, tear-streaked faces. The place was becoming overcrowded; the air was thick and stale, they were running out of food. After a day or two- it was easy to lose track of time this deep underground- Hermione had found a sturdy box in an old office and had stuffed a protesting Crookshanks into it- she was no longer at ease with the idea of his running free because she'd caught more than one wizard staring at him with hungry, speculative eyes.

"This is not about being comfortable, Crooks," she had told the cat grimly as she'd shoved him, hissing, in. "This is about staying alive."

She kept wondering, with a vague sort of desperation, when she would wake up from this nightmare.

She had looked for Ron and Ginny soon after arriving, but hadn't found them. She didn't know whether to despair of this, or be glad for them. Perhaps there were other safe places out there, and if so, they just about had to better than this. Optimistic by nature, she had convinced herself that they were probably somewhere just as safe, and a good deal more comfortable, than the Ministry- so she was determinedly glad for them. She wouldn't wish these conditions on anyone, not even Death Eaters. Speaking of which- there were Death Eaters here, or at least, families of Death Eaters- and they looked just as lost and confused, shocked and grief-stricken, as everyone else. It appeared that Voldemort was not behind this staggering wave of mayhem and death- which made it even more impossible to comprehend, really. If not Voldemort, than who? And dear God, WHY?

Pansy Parkinson was there with her mother, and Hermione had seen a handful of other Hogwarts students, but aside from Pansy there was no one else in her year. There was no one at all she'd been particularly close to- even the fact that she and Pansy were year-mates was not enough to bridge the gap between them, especially since Hermione could hardly help resenting the fact that a cow like Pansy still had her mother with her; so the two girls barely acknowledged one another's presence. Percy Weasley was there too, alone of all the Weasley clan, instantly recognizable by his telltale shock of bright orange hair… but as the rift between him and the rest of his family had never really healed, he and Hermione had little to say to each other. All in all, Hermione had kept herself to herself.

And then Zacharius Smith had arrived, dragging behind him a small, sobbing girl just as blonde as he was. He had marched straight up to Hermione where she sat against a wall, arms around her drawn-up knees, staring into space with a very angry-sounding box set right beside her.

"Granger," he'd said, and then, when it took her a moment to bring her eyes back into focus, had repeated more loudly and insistently, "Hermione Granger."

She'd blinked up at him. "Zacharius Smith," she'd finally rejoined, at a complete loss for anything else to say.

He'd thrust the sobbing child forward, with a strange mix of brusqueness and tenderness. "This is my sister Elizabeth," he'd said, as the girl had stumbled into Hermione's lap, immediately dropping her face to Hermione's shoulder, wrapping her small yet surprisingly strong arms around Hermione's neck, and howling with the abandon that only young children possess. Zacharius had gone down on one knee and had spoken loudly so that Hermione could hear him over her sudden and completely unexpected armful of distraught little girl.

"This is my sister, Elizabeth," he'd repeated, practically shouting. "She's five years old. We just flooed here. My parents were right behind us, waiting their turn to come through, but that was twenty minutes ago and they haven't arrived. I'm going back to find them. Look after her for me, will you Granger? I won't be long." He'd leaned forward long enough to press a brief kiss on the back of the child's head and murmur something that sounded like, "I love you, Lizzie-monster," then he was back on his feet and turning away before Hermione had even managed to collect herself enough to call after him.

"Zacharius, wait!" she'd said finally, her arms coming up, seemingly of their own volition, to cradle the child against her. Elizabeth, now shuddering and gasping, was trying to speak through her tears- "Zachy, Zachy!"

"You can't leave her with me," Hermione said frantically, "she doesn't know me, she doesn't trust me! She needs you!"

"She doesn't need me," Zacharius had answered grimly. "She needs my mother, and so help me, I'm not coming back without her." And then he was gone.

He'd been as good as his word, too- he hadn't come back without his mother. As near as Hermione could tell, it had been over a week since Zacharius has left Elizabeth in her care, and he hadn't come back at all.

XOXOX

At least with the cat and the child to care for, her days had taken on something of a routine- and Hermione was a creature who thrived on routine. Her days were structured now; she had purpose and responsibility; and she was grateful for that.

A system of bells, magically amplified so that they could be heard throughout the Ministry, had been implemented to help the underground refugees keep track of time. A bell would ring at eight in the morning, the suggested time of awakening, and Hermione would rouse herself and Elizabeth, lead the little girl by the hand to the dingy bathroom at the end of the hall (with Crookshanks' box tucked under her other arm- she dared not leave him alone, even for a moment), and get both of their faces washed and their hair finger-combed as best she could. At nine o'clock a second bell would ring; this was to announce the distribution of morning rations. Having a small child in tow, Hermione was given preferential treatment. She, along with the other parents and caretakers of young children, was allowed into a separate and much shorter line, and was given not only a normal two-person ration so that she and Elizabeth could have breakfast, but also an extra packet so that the child could have lunch. As an adult, she would not eat again until dinner.

After that it was off to the lowest levels of the building for the day, to try to find a private, or at least semi-private room where she could let Crookshanks out of his box, and where Elizabeth could play quietly for the next few hours. The noon bell would ring and Hermione would give the child her midday meal. Shortly after this Elizabeth would always fall asleep, and Hermione would usually find herself nodding off as well- more so as the days went on. Her energy was lagging because between seeing that Elizabeth (a remarkably hungry child) got all she needed to eat, and feeding Crookshanks, who did not qualify for separate rations, she was really only eating the equivalent of a single ration packet per day herself. Sometimes not even that. She didn't allow herself to dwell on this fact, however- what was the point of dwelling on it when there was no alternative? She preferred to ignore the fact that she'd been feeling increasingly lightheaded for over two days now- had stumbled and fallen against the wall when she'd gotten up this morning, nearly fainting. The child's welfare had to come first, period, end of discussion. Zacharius Smith could not have chosen a better caregiver for his precious baby sister. (But then again, despite what ignorant, stuck-up Slytherins such as Draco Malfoy chose to believe about Hufflepuffs in general, Zacharius Smith had never been anyone's fool.)

Following their afternoon nap came the daily struggle to get Crookshanks back into his box before venturing once again into the more crowded mid-levels of the Ministry; funny how most people wanted to stay as high up within the structure as they could… why were the higher levels more appealing to people? What an odd psychological phenomenon. Toward the beginning of her time here, Hermione had spent the better part of a day puzzling over it. In any event, the rations were handed out on the highest usable level… perhaps that was the whole reason right there. At half-past-five the bell for evening rations would ring, and it was back into line. After dinner came the evening toiletries (finger-brushing of the teeth, rather than the hair, this time), and then the business of scouting out a decent place to sleep the night; still not too crowded an area, but not isolated either. Once the lights went out, as they did at half-past-nine every night, dousing the refugees instantly in near-total blackness, it was a good idea to have at least a few decent folk- families- nearby. As the days had dragged on, Hermione had found that some of the less savory, unattached wizards had been more and more often regarding her- rather than her cat- with that hungry, speculative look in their eyes. It made her long for more coverage than the capped-sleeve tee-shirt and lightweight, flouncy peasant skirt (both in a warm brown shade that Ron loved for how it complimented her hair and eyes) that she had been wearing that morning at Grimmauld Place- the only clothing she'd had through this entire ordeal.

Once the lights went out she would whisper fairy tales to the child until she fell asleep- that and stories of growing up in the Muggle world, which, to a young pureblood like Elizabeth, were just as enchanting as fairy stories, if not more so. She had thought she was doing a pretty good job of keeping her voice steady at these times, concealing under cover of darkness the fact that her eyes leaked a steady, slow stream of tears nearly all the while she spoke of her own childhood- until the night when the girl had reached out, unerringly in the dark, and wiped the moisture from Hermione's cheek with a tiny, gentle hand. She was a remarkably intuitive child, Elizabeth; intelligent too, which was a quality Hermione certainly appreciated. The two had bonded from the very first instant the child's arms had wrapped themselves around Hermione's neck- though the first thing Elizabeth still did when she opened her eyes every morning was look around for her family and then weep brokenheartedly for their absence. Hermione could hardly blame her for that. Not when she did practically the same thing herself.

And so had passed nearly a week and a half of her life; a refugee cut adrift from her family, friends and home; an orphan caring for an orphan- because that, she had become increasingly sure, was what little Elizabeth was.

XOXOX

Which brought her right back to this day, this moment, this quickly cooling cup of mediocre tea. Breakfast was not long past- the tea was part of her morning ration; the only part of it she had kept for herself. She was sitting slumped in a corner, and Elizabeth and Crookshanks were at the other end of the room, she knew, though she had yet to take her head out of her mug and open her eyes again- the child lying on her stomach and drawing with some parchment and a self-inking quill Hermione had purloined from an abandoned office; the cat lounging close enough to bat at the quill every now and then, making Elizabeth giggle. Otherwise they were alone in the room, which was on one of the Ministry's lowest levels. Privacy- quiet- for once. It was putting Hermione to sleep, and it was barely ten in the morning. Merlin, she was so tired now, so tired all the time. The sharp hunger pains that had plagued her for a while had gone away some days ago, thank God, to be replaced by a steady dull ache… and now, finally, even that had tapered off to just a numb sort of miserable emptiness… but she was just… so… tired.

Nonetheless, she dragged her head up, dragged her eyes open.

And screamed, dropping her tea in her lap and startling backward, only to hit her head hard on the wall she'd been slumped against.

A filthy, disembodied head hung in the air before her, right at eye-level, leering at her.

The leer split into a grin- this apparition was enjoying the fact that it had frightened her so- and just as recognition struck her and she realized who she was looking at, Mundungus Fletcher spoke.

"Hello, love," he said jovially, "I know who you are, sure enough. You're Harry Potter's little friend, that stuck-up little Muggle-born, the bookworm!" Already sitting cross-legged on the floor, he whipped off the rest of the invisibility cloak he'd been wearing and bundled it into a small pool of silver on his lap. He then continued to grin at her like some manic Cheshire cat, completely unrepentant for having scared the daylights out of her and gotten her a wet lap and a nice little lump on the head to boot.

She wanted to slap that slimy grin off his face. If only she had the energy…

Instead, "what are you doing here, Mundungus?" she asked wearily, glancing around him to make sure Elizabeth and Crookshanks were undisturbed. Elizabeth was watching Hermione over her shoulder- when she saw that things seemed all right again, she turned back to her parchment with a flip of blonde hair.

If anything, his grin broadened. "Just got in this morning," he said. "I was poking around, looking for a nice, quiet place to have a bit of a lie-down. Then I see you and I says to myself, I know that girl- it's the know-it-all! The house elf crusader! And a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you. Good to see a friendly face, you know?"

As far as Hermione could tell, her face was looking anything but friendly at the moment. Mundungus didn't seem the least bit deterred, however. He wiggled about some, apparently making himself more comfortable, pulled out a hip-flask, took a long pull, and offered it to Hermione. Whatever was inside made her nose wrinkle. She crossed her arms over her chest and merely glared at him.

"Ah well, more for me," he said cheerfully, and drank again.

"Where have you been?" Hermione asked finally, her curiosity for news of the outside world getting the better of her.

"Oh, here and there," the infuriating man answered blithely. "In and out, you know. I was here for a several days… didn't see you around, but then it's awfully crowded, isn't it? Not hard to miss a familiar face… but just lately I've been up there-" he nodded vaguely toward the ceiling- "in the woods outside Hogwarts, with…" he leaned forward, drawing it out, savoring the punch-line to his little tale- "a giant-slayer!"

He whispered the last three words just inches from her face, subjecting her to a nauseating rush of foul, alcohol-laced breath- then, (thank God for small favors), drew back once more and dropped her a cheeky wink.

It took Hermione a moment to process what she'd just heard- Mundungus' breath alone had sent her head spinning. As giddy as she'd been these past couple of days, it didn't take much. Then his words sank in and her eyes widened. "A giant-slayer," she repeated slowly, "Are you talking about a person who kills those things?"

Mundungus chuckled. "More than that, love-" (Hermione couldn't suppress a small shudder at this inappropriately intimate term of endearment- to be called 'love' by Mundungus Fletcher felt dirty somehow- like some of his sliminess was rubbing off on her. She couldn't think of anyone she'd less like to be called 'love' by… except maybe Lucius Malfoy, in his cultured voice of sleek malice. Or Argus Filch- there was a stomach-turning thought. Or that traitorous, murdering, greasy bastard Snape. But Mundungus was continuing, so she forced herself to pay attention once more)- "I'm talking about a wizard that kills those things. I watched him do it. And not just any wizard either, oh no- someone I daresay you know rather well!"

Hermione's lips parted as a sudden and wonderful thought occurred to her. "Harry," she breathed, "was it Harry? Oh, say it was Harry, say you've found him!"

But as soon as she spoke these words, something in Mundungus' expression slammed shut. His eyes went furtive and shifty, and, Hermione noticed, his hands fisted convulsively in the fabric of the cloak in his lap. "Harry Potter!" he just about yelped, "no, no, it wasn't him-"

But Hermione cut him off, her mind working feverishly now, her gaze still locked on the invisibility cloak; she was seeing it through new eyes. "Where did you get that cloak?" she asked, and her voice was low and dangerous.

Mundungus started to scuttle backward, crablike. "This is my cloak," he said defensively, "I earned it fair and square!" But his expression told a different story- guilt was written all over his face.

In a flash they were both on their feet, Mundungus backing toward the door while holding his hands out in front of him, the cloak dangling from them like a rippling, silken shield, in a gesture apparently intended to keep her at bay.

"You give me that cloak right now," Hermione said, her voice edging higher, Elizabeth and Crookshanks now turning again to watch the developing confrontation. Crookshanks' hackles were rising.

"I don't know what you're on about-" Mundungus protested, nearly stuttering now in the face of her gathering rage, reaching one hand behind himself, groping for the door handle- "but this is my cloak and-"

"You filthy, lying sneak-thief!" Hermione exploded. "That's Harry's cloak and you know it, I can see it in your face! That's Harry's cloak and he would never give it away to the likes of you, never! You tell me where he is and what you've done to him, you tell me RIGHT NOW!"

But at that exact moment Mundungus' hand found the doorknob and twisted… and then all hell broke loose.

XOXOX

There was a sudden, rising, rumbling roar from above them, as if of hundreds of pairs of feet suddenly in motion up on the more densely populated levels of the Ministry. It was startling enough to cause both Hermione and Mundungus to stop dead in their tracks, staring at each other in surprise and dawning alarm.

Then they heard the screams, and dawning alarm turned to mounting panic.

And then came the smoke, thick and yellow and noxious and clearly poisonous, pouring out of the fireplace at the far end of the room, and mounting panic was completely eclipsed by a rush of sheer, abject horror.

"Merlin's balls," Mundungus swore, his voice thick and ragged with dismay, "the bastards are smoking us out!"

"What?" Hermione asked numbly, staring from the roiling fireplace to Mundungus and back again, temporarily paralyzed by shock at this horrific turn of events- not comprehending what she was seeing; not wanting to. "What's going on?"

"The giants- they're using the floo network, don't you see?" Mundungus was gabbling, "they've discovered how it works and they're smoking us out like rats under a house, like rabbits in a warren! We can't floo out because of the smoke pouring in- and we can't apparate out because of the wards on this place! We're dead, don't you see? We're all DEAD!"

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, her eyes flying now to Elizabeth and Crookshanks, who were both on their feet, Crookshanks hissing at spitting at the offending fireplace, "oh my God, they can't- they can't, there are children down here! Mundungus, what-" but when she turned back toward him, he was gone, the door now standing ajar.

The screams and pounding footsteps were coming closer; Hermione realized that everyone must be fleeing down, down away from the smoke, which would have reached the upper levels first. In the absence of any better plan of action, she decided it seemed as good a tactic as any- perhaps there were fewer fireplaces the farther underground one got- perhaps none at the very bottom. And smoke naturally rose, so if she could find a place on the lowest level to maybe wait this out… it was a poor plan, she knew it even as she sprang into action, but it was also her only plan; a slight hope as opposed to none at all, and so she seized on it both-handed.

Crookshanks did not object to being put into his box this time, even though panic made Hermione rough. He seemed to understand the alternative- or lack thereof. With the cat safely ensconced in the box and a terrified Elizabeth firmly grasped by the hand, Hermione hurried into the corridor, already beginning to cough from the smoke that had been rapidly filling the room. It was strong stuff, too. Before she was halfway down the hall, she had to stop and lean against the wall as a coughing fit threatened to drive her to her knees. Elizabeth was coughing too, though fortunately for her, she was just naturally lower to the floor than Hermione- even Crookshanks in his box was making unhealthy wheezing, hairball-type noises… and more smoke was pouring into the hallway from nearly every door they passed.

She wondered where Mundungus had gone, under cover of Harry's invisibility cloak- whether he had had the same idea she had. And she wondered why she met so few people in the hall, when there were so very many people in the Ministry- it had sounded like thunder overhead, all the footsteps she and Mundungus had heard originally. And then it hit her- as another hacking fit of coughing did drive her to her knees- that she had started out with an enormous advantage, already being several floors below most of the other refugees… and that so few of them were making their way down to this level because they must have already succumbed to the smoke.

Grief and horror and rage washed over her in a tidal wave of emotion. She thought of the family that had slept beside her and Elizabeth just last night- a young couple who'd looked barely a day over twenty- folks tended to marry early in wizarding society- with a toddler, and another child on the way. The young woman had looked like a balloon about to burst; she wouldn't have been able to move very quickly under the best of circumstances. The sheer atrocity of this whole situation was almost too much to bear- that and the smoke and the fact that she was weak already from hunger; it was practically enough to make Hermione give up, pass out, on the spot. Her head was spinning. The whole corridor was spinning. But there was Elizabeth, now making strangled sounds of distress as she attempted to cough and cry at the same time.

Not us, Hermione thought grimly, tightening her hold on the child's hand, not Elizabeth, no! Zacharius trusted me, he trusted me and I won't let him down, I won't, I WON'T- and using the wall as support, she dragged herself back to her feet and stumbled on.

She managed somehow to get down two flights of stairs without falling again- a small miracle in and of itself- and into the lowest level of the Ministry, only to find her hopes dashed; the lethal smoke was almost as thick here as it had been everywhere else. She managed to stagger a few feet down this new corridor before her feet went out from under her, and she fell into- and then through- a nearby door. On her hands and knees she looked up, despairing- and then felt a sudden, dizzy surge of hope. A bathroom- she had fallen into a bathroom. And bathrooms didn't have fireplaces. She couldn't believe this hadn't occurred to her before.

The air in here was relatively clean- by the standards of the hallway, at any rate. Gasping like a fish out of water- but grateful, even as her head swam, for the opportunity get in a breath at all without choking on it, she pulled Elizabeth and Crookshanks, still in his box, into the room after her and shut the door.

Her relief was short-lived, however. They were trapped in here; there was nowhere else for them to go- and smoke was still getting into the room, through the cracks around the door. She had bought them time, that was all- she had bought them a slow death instead of a quick one. A lingering death in a dingy, disused bathroom hundreds of feet below the wreckage of London, the open sky. It was too awful to be borne. There had to be something she could do. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out, if she could just get it together for a minute and think things through.

Another coughing fit seized her.

Coughing so hard she was nearly retching, unable to regain her feet, weak and dizzy and at the verge of blacking out, she pulled the child and the cat to the far end of the room, away from the door. "Stay… here," she choked out, and then crawled into one of the toilet stalls. She'd just had an idea to buy them yet a little more time. Pulling her tee-shirt off over her head, she ripped it into three pieces which she plunged into the stagnant water of the toilet bowl. She would have infinitely preferred to use a sink, but didn't think she'd be able to straighten up enough to do so- and anyway, even if she managed to pull herself up for a moment, she knew that she would find the air thicker with smoke up at her standing height. It was better to stay low, and so the toilet would have to do.

Wringing out the sopping pieces of her shirt, she returned to where Elizabeth huddled beside Crookshanks' box. She wrapped the largest piece of wet fabric around the child's head, so that her nose and mouth were completely covered. "Bree- heathe… through… the shirt," she managed to say, her eyes locked on Elizabeth's until she saw that the child understood and would obey. She then yanked the lid off Crookshanks' box. The cat lay at the bottom of it, struggling to breathe. Hermione lifted his head and wrapped the second piece of fabric around it, covering it completely. Crookshanks did not resist, though whether this was because he understood her intent, or merely because he hadn't the strength left, Hermione couldn't tell. This left the last- and smallest- piece for herself. It wasn't large enough to wrap around her own face. Wadding it up, she held it over her nose and mouth, and fought to drag in a deep breath through it.

Her body was shutting down- large black starbursts blooming before her eyes, darkness creeping in on her from the corners of the room- but her mind was still working feverishly, trying to figure their way out of this deathtrap.

It was hard to keep a hold of her thoughts. Wards around this place… Mundungus had said… couldn't apparate out… wouldn't know where to go if she could… God, no, there had to be a solution, there had to be… it was dancing just out of her reach… she could feel it. Wouldn't know where to go if she could… but there was a giant-slayer out there somewhere… and something about Harry… Mundungus had said it wasn't Harry, but Mundungus was a liar and a thief… why should she believe him? Giant-slayer might be Harry… whoever it was, she would be safe if she could reach him… but one couldn't apparate to a person, only to a place… and she couldn't apparate anyway, there were wards; she'd already covered that. Merlin help her, she was going around in circles. Anti-Apparition wards in place… she'd have to break through them somehow… if she could just bring them down… even if only in this room… but how, how? And how would she find the giant-slayer once she did?

She was crying in frustration, which didn't much help her attempts at breathing through the dampened, wadded fabric of her shirt. Enough smoke had filtered in through the cracks around the bathroom door that the room was now officially just as bad as the hallway outside had been. She was running out of time. Keep thinking, she ordered herself, keep thinking, you're almost there. Something I read oncesome emergency spellthere is something for a situation like this, I know there is, if I can justREMEMBER

And then if came to her, all in a rush. A book in the Hogwarts library called… something like "Spells For Every Magical Emergency"… that may or may not have been the exact title, but it was close, and anyway, that hardly mattered now; the important thing was what the book had contained. Two spells, in particular, that could be used in conjunction with one another; the first to bring down protective wards within a very small, enclosed area, through the use of a magic circle- the second to convey the caster, and any other person or living thing the caster maintained skin-to-skin contact with, to the closest source of help, through a process similar to apparition. Or… it didn't have to be the closest source of help… it could be a particular source of help, if the caster knew what kind of help it was that she needed. If she worded the spell correctly, she could instruct it to take them to the giant-slayer.

She thought she remembered all the words, all the nuances. She had a reasonably photographic memory when it came to things she had read, combined with a pretty good track record of getting new spells right on the first- or sometimes the second- try. Of course, in this case there would be no room for second tries… and this was advanced magic, and meddling in advanced magic had some pretty dire consequences if one didn't really know what one was doing. Getting the first try wrong could very well kill them all. But not trying was certain death, and when faced with a choice between even the tiniest sliver of a chance for survival, and certain death, well, it wasn't difficult to choose her course of action.

More was the pity that in order to make this work she would have to speak a somewhat lengthy incantation… which meant, of course, removing her makeshift air filter from her nose and mouth. But it was the only alternative; she would do what she had to. This wasn't really even about saving herself anymore. It was about the child. She had to get Elizabeth out. And Crookshanks. She had to hold it together long enough to complete the incantation, that was all- and if she reached this giant-slayer, whoever he was, (Harry, her mind cried stubbornly, it's Harry, I know it is, I don't care what that filthy liar said, that was Harry's cloak and it's HARRY!) too late to save herself, so be it, just as long as the child survived. That alone would make it worthwhile.

She held the dampened shred of her tee-shirt in place for as long as she could- all the while she prepared for the spell, first pulling her wand from the waistband of her skirt (it had seen very little use over the past several days, and was positively thrumming with energy now, ready to go) and using it to create the magic circle, of cool-burning scarlet fire, around herself on the bathroom floor- then dragging Elizabeth and Crookshanks, both no better than semi-conscious by now, into it, one at a time. She left Crookshanks' box where it was; in order to take him with her via the emergency transport spell, she would have to maintain skin-to-skin, or as the case may be, skin-to-fur, contact with him.

Then she could no longer put it off. It was time to speak the spell. It was time to do or die. Or maybe both.

She took one last, ragged breath through the fabric, trying to pull as deeply as she could, not succeeding very well- and then she cast it aside. It landed with a wet, sickly plop outside the circle, on the grimy grey tile of the bathroom floor. On her knees within her magic circle, now breathing in heavy, unfiltered, sulfurous smoke, Hermione began to recite.

She had to start over twice from the beginning because her coughing was becoming so bad it that was rendering her words unintelligible- but sheer grit and determination saw her through. In her final recitation, she went slowly and deliberately, coughing in between nearly every word she spoke- but not over them. Not over them. By the end of it, when she finally felt the spell- or rather, the combination of spells- take hold, she was on her hands and knees, her head hanging almost to the floor, coughing up flecks of blood. Even so, she had the presence of mind, as she reached out to grab Elizabeth's wrist with her left hand and Crookshanks' tail with her right- to feel a brief flash of chagrin at the idea of arriving essentially topless (yes, she was wearing a bra, but Hermione was a very modest girl), practically in Harry's lap. If this elusive giant-slayer even was, in fact, Harry.

Let it be Harry, oh please, God, let it be, she prayed as the spell picked her up and whirled her away.

XOXOX

There was a rush of wind, of sound, of darkness- it felt like being inside of a cyclone, a vortex. Then she was slammed back into the ground, still on her hands and knees- well, technically elbows and knees now, as her hands were still grasping her two companions- and there was light again. She couldn't tell very much about the light, but she could tell it was daylight. Oh, thank God, thank God… daylight.

And there were shoes in front of her; battered black boots, with grungy black trousers stuffed into them. She noticed this just as the worst coughing fit yet took hold of her and she pitched to one side- the legs were bending now and before she could hit the ground a pair of strong, warm hands gripped the bare skin of her shoulders- moving quickly to grasp her by the upper arms and haul her, none too gently, onto her feet.

Which were having none of it. Her feet wouldn't support her. Her knees were buckling. The only thing holding her upright were those rough, calloused hands. And she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe at all. She was coughing, coughing, coughing out- but she couldn't seem to drag any air back in. The worst-case scenario had happened. She had made it back up to the world of fresh, clean air- it was all around her, it was everywhere- but she'd been too badly damaged by the smoke. It was too late. She was dying.

Merlin, it was just so unfair!

She wanted to scream, to beg, help me, God, help me, please, I don't want to die! But she couldn't make a sound. Her chest heaved once, twice, pulling desperately for air- it was a futile effort. She was collapsing against him, her head crashing into his chest- and even in the state she was in, she recognized that something seemed off about this- Harry was not this much taller than she- her head should be on his shoulder. Then there were arms wrapping tightly around her, lowering her back to the ground, one hand coming up to catch her head as it fell back, to ease it the rest of the way down.

He was on his knees beside her now- she could tell that much- and she could hear a voice speaking to her- shouting at her, more like. She couldn't make out the words though… her ears didn't seem to be working properly. And here was a face… coming close now, hovering over her as she arched right up off the ground in one last, frantic, useless attempt at breath, her hands fisting convulsively in the fabric of his shirt. The hair was black… she thought… black like Harry's, for sure… but there was… so… much of it… it seemed to be hanging down around her in a way that was all wrong… and the eyes… they weren't that brilliant bottle green she knew so well… they looked black too, she thought, though she couldn't be sure- everything was going hazy and black now.

She could still hear a voice far away, but it was fading more with every passing second. Those warm hands came up to frame her face now, pushing her rumpled hair back from her forehead, pinning her between them, holding her steady. They felt kind of nice, those hands. It was comforting to know, at least, that she wasn't alone. It was just too bad they couldn't save her. Nothing could.

The very last thought she had was that she didn't even know whether the others had made it- whether they'd survived. For all she knew, she had failed completely.

Then the airless, suffocating darkness took her.

XOXOX

A/N: Whew... this is a really long chapter, but I got started and just couldn't stop, lol! Don't think every chapter will be this long- that's not a fair precedent to set for Alex, and I severely doubt I'll live up to it myself! I almost chopped it up, but Alex and I really wanted to get Hermione and Severus together by the end of chapter 3. Ball's in your court again, Alex- I CANNOT WAIT to see what you do with it!