Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, please don't sue me.
Perhaps it was the fact that Harry's body was pressed against her, the incredible heat radiating off it making her feel faint or perhaps it was the slow, languid movement of Harry's fingers over her mouth and the suggestion that rose up unbidden and unwanted that maybe he would prefer lips to be undertaking that action. Perhaps it was because she was suffering from a mixture of exhaustion, concussion and shock. Whatever the reason Hermione could not remember anything about green blood.
Not one single thing.
She knew she had read something about it. Hogwarts had one of the most comprehensive magical libraries in the world, and during her years at the school as well as her time as a researcher for the order she had read almost every book it contained.
Particularly any book about dark magic and there was no doubt in her mind that green blood meant dark magic.
Frustration coursed through her body as she desperately searched through her memories for the information she needed . In her in her mind's eye she could picture the book that contained the details, even the page it was written on but the words continued to elude her.
Her anger must have shown on her face because she heard a soft chuckle that sent chills tap-dancing down her back. How Harry's warm, exuberant laugh had transformed into that Hermione didn't know and quite frankly she didn't want to.
Something as light as laughing should never sound so dark.
It was during Hermione's musings that Harry's movements began to change. The circles the fingers were making over the tender skin of Hermione's lips grew wider and began to migrate south. The digits danced over her chin and began to wander down her neck.
There was a moment when Hermione feared that the southward path would continue, that Harry's hand would find their way under her bedraggled t-shirt.
She believed it was an irrational fear. The same kind of alarm that makes your footsteps sound like a follower's when you're walking in the dark, a silly little throwback to days when women weren't so independent. Despite all his actions to suggest the contrary, despite the unease of her subconscious and despite the screaming of her instincts Hermione didn't actually believe Harry wanted her, not in that way.
Still it was a relief when his hand went no further than her neck.
Or at least it was a relief until he began to tighten it.
Hermione had given some thought as to how she would die, most people who dice with death regularly have. She'd always thought she'd go out in a blaze of glory, in a storm of bright flashes and sparks signifying curses and hexes. She'd always thought she'd go down fighting and she'd always hoped her death would mean something. A forlorn hope perhaps, most deaths are meaningless, but a hope nevertheless.
She'd never imagined she'd die with her back against a cloth covered wall with both hands held above her head while her ex-best friend's body was forced against hers to stop her kicking him as he choked the life out of her.
It was such a mad way to die, like something out of a nightmare. Except if this was a nightmare she would be waking up rather than going to sleep.
Hermione struggled for oxygen, her mouth gaping open almost obscenely as the room began to dim. Over Harry's shoulder she could see the moving tapestry on the opposite wall. The wizards and witches had been pursuing the muggles wildly throughout the real conflict being enacted before them. They had just caught up with the fleeing muggles when the room went black.
The moment her eyes closed and her head lolled, Harry let go of her, not bothering to catch her as she crashed to the floor. She took in a first shuddering, wracking breath as the wounds on her head began to bleed again, the red blood emanating out from her head like some kind of deathly halo.
If Harry had been watching, he would have seen Hermione's blood spread until it came close to his own emerald pools. He would have seen a curious reaction that proved all the Dark Lord's theories. But Harry had never doubted those theories, so he needed no proof and thus needed no look.
Instead, bending down beside her, he was entranced with a very different site. A necklace or perhaps a collar of purple fingerprints circled Hermione's neck, bruises blooming quickly on the pale skin even as Harry stared at her. By now Hermione's skin was an explosion of colour, there were angry red marks, faded yellow bruises, brown dried blood and there was even a faintly blue tinge to her face, a legacy of her recent lack of oxygen.
All these marks were painful but Harry delighted in each one. He stroked and petted each battle wound, crooning in his own hissing way. Intelligible words spilt out from his lips as he examined Hermione, spilt out in such a way that it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking pareseltounge or normal English.
Some time had passed before Harry had finished cataloguing the wounds on Hermione's legs, arms and head. Despite doing nothing to treat them, just looking at them seemed to put Harry in a good mood and as he got to his feet there was a small sinister smile on his face.
Stooping, he picked up one of Hermione's limp arms slinging it round his shoulder, his own arms found their way under her knees and back. He easily picked up he frail, unconscious frame and kicking open one of the oak doors, carried her into his bedroom in a grotesque parody of a bride being carried over the threshold.
The heavy swung shut by itself as Harry settled him and Hermione onto the green sheets of his bed. Ignoring all the blood and grime that covered it, he pulled her head into his lap and lay back, content to stay like that, playing with her hair and stroking the old scar hidden just below the hairline.
Meanwhile, outside in the dark and gloom of the first room the emerald blood of Harry chased the ruby blood of Hermione round and round the chamber like Laelaps and the Teumessian fox.
But there was no Zeus to interfere this time in the contradiction of the inescapable chasing the uncatchable. And in the morning all that was left was pile of ashes.
A pile of ashes floating in a pool of green blood.