Idiots. Boys were absolute idiots - and Ginny too if Hermione were being totally unbiased. How else could their obsession with the absolute death trap that was quidditch be explained? Even as she watched the game horrified, Hermione couldn't help laugh at the stupid antics they got up to in their little back garden pick-up match. Fred and George were definitely testing some nasty new products that were putting their tiny team thoroughly in the lead despite being two against three.

Hermione laughed, throwing her head back and leaning on the back steps of the Burrow to soak in the summer sun. Her eyes closed and she inhaled the stale, still air and the weight of it filled her with anticipation.

The orange tint of sun filtering through her eyelids suddenly dimmed and Hermione's eyes snapped opening. She could hear the quidditch game still going on but her view was blocked by the heavy woolen robes that Professor McGonagall insisted on wearing despite the heat. Hermione smiled up at her, shading her face with her hand as her squinted eyes began to focus on the professor's face.

The smile slipped from Hermione's face. McGonagall's face was more drawn than normal and she refused to meet Hermione's eyes. "You need to come with me, dear," she said before turning to walk back into the house.

Hermione stood, glancing back at the idiots she'd called friends laughing and joking as they hovered above the ground. Above her.

This was the beginning of the end of the war.

…

Hermione entered a heavily warded room often used for Order meetings that were above her current rank in the organization or the conveyance of sensitive intelligence or strategy. A cold chill ran the length of her spine as she passed the wards, and she couldn't help but feel some vital part of her had been stripped and left stagnant just beyond the door. McGonagall gently directed Hermione to a seat and Molly placed a mug of tea in front of her before settling into the seat beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Dumbledore took the seat across from Hermione and looked her in the eyes and she knew. She knew something was wrong. Her whole body tensed in anticipation of whatever news they were trusting with her.

So when they told her that her parents had been brutally murdered in Australia, the place they were supposed to be safe and devoid of any memories that might threaten their safety, it took her a moment to process the information. That hadn't been one of the options she'd been preparing herself for on the short, solemn walk to this little room.

Later, they'd tell her how she'd thrown things, and detail the way she'd lashed out at all of them as she cried and screamed and cried before finally exhausting herself to collapse. Even if she had no memory of it, she didn't really feel the need to be told. It was in the past, and her only concern now was what she could do in the present to plan for a future of revenge.

There was no more time for tears.

On reflection, Hermione should have been more aware of how quickly the group of adults had acquiesced to her desire to be included in strategic planning. She should have realized how they pushed her to become more violent in her plans. She should have noticed how no one, not even Ron and Harry who had been made aware of the situation, asked her how she was or if she wanted to talk. Because they didn't want to know. They didn't want her to work through her emotions.

She should have known.

But she was on the warpath. For two months, she planned attacks that she would not be allowed to participate in and she sat cloistered in the Burrow and honored Ares and Athena through her meticulous planning.

And perhaps it was them who, endeared by her silent worship, set into motion the cogs which would reveal to her the truth of her parents' deaths.

Hermione's blood lust had been waning. She was naturally a protector, and even in her rage, there were still basic moral tenets she expected would be followed. Violence was expected, perhaps even a collateral death or two, but her main concern had been information. Information on Voldemort for the Order and, more importantly, on who had killed her parents.

She was getting nothing. She wasn't allowed on patrols or ambushes, and she wasn't allowed to help interrogate the captured. Then there was the blood that she felt was practically pooling at her feet. She had heard the whispers around the Burrow about how many suspected Death Eaters - not even known, but suspected! - they had managed to neutralize. Neutralize, like some chemical reaction!

Murder.

That's what it was. The papers confirmed that. Hermione shuddered. Death was a part of war and one that she had prepared herself for. But this? Her brilliant mind was being used to mindlessly attack people who hadn't been proved criminals. A familiar sickness had started turning her stomach. It was the exact feeling she got when she spotted injustice. This was wrong. In her grief, she had convinced herself that it wasn't really her fault if people got hurt. She wasn't the one casting the curse after all. But as the grief cleared from her eyes and settled into a smaller, more stable and permanent part of her, she realized that this was not the woman her parents had raised her to be.

She needed to hurt the people who hurt her parents and anyone who got in the way. That was it. There would be other casualties, too, of course. There was still a war going on, after all, but she could deal with that. Not this mass and undiscerning carnage. If anything, it was awfully poor for future strategic plans.

Hermione had gone to the ragged but fairly large library that day to plan how she would present the importance of transitioning to a less violent, more defensive tactic. She walked slowly through the stack, savoring the peace and quiet that libraries promised. She was one stack away from her favorite writing table when she heard the half whispers of a heated conversation that probably should have been had somewhere more private.

"Harry, you have to!" That was Ginny. Hermione paused, stepping back to make sure the thick wood where two separate cases met covered the majority of her should anyone chance a glance through the gaps between the books and the shelves above them

"Gin," Harry said, sounding stressed, "I can't. Even if I could, I wouldn't. What Hermione doesn't know can't hurt her, and look at how much good she's done because of it. We need her angry."

Hermione perked up. Oh, they really should have chosen literally anywhere else to have this conversation. Hermione may not have been around the library since her parents' deaths, but surely they'd have realized she make her way back eventually. She held her breath, aware now that any noise could not only get her caught for eavesdropping but also get in the way of her learning what the two were talking about.

"Need her angry? Need her angry? Harry, she's suffering! And she trusted you!"

"I didn't give the command, Ginny, but I can't say that I disagree with it! It's sad, but it was necessary. You know Dumbledore only does what he knows is best." Hermione could hear the agitation coloring his voice.

Hermione chanced a peek through the space between the shelves and books. Harry was facing away from her, but she could see Ginny's face transition from red to a menacing sort of purple. Oh, she was very mad, and Hermione could feel her own anger rising as well. Whatever this conversation was about, it was obvious that Ginny was on Hermione's side.

"Oh, Dumbledore thought it was best, so it was okay? Okay? Well, just tell Hermione that, then. 'The Order had your parents killed, but it's okay because Dumbledore said so.' I can't believe you."

Hermione felt her entire body tingle like her leg had fallen asleep from lack of movement and then spread. She pinched herself in a juvenile attempt to wake herself from this nightmare. There was no way she was overhearing this. This wasn't some mystery film from the 1940s. People didn't just casually talk about this stuff.

But then Harry said, "What good would it do her knowing, Gin? Listen, I just told you because I found out last month, and I needed someone to talk it out with. Forget I mentioned it."

"Oh no you don't," Ginny said. "Either you tell her, or I do Harry."

Hermione watched as Harry whipped his wand out and cast a memory charm before Ginny could so much as flinch. Memory charms were complex magic, but the one Harry was doing was the most basic sort. A chunk of time, poof, gone. Ginny collapsed and Harry caught her, laying her gently on the ground and kissing her temple before leaving here there. She would tell them all that night at dinner, Hermione included, how she figured she must have tripped and hit her head in the library, and Hermione would note the tense, false looks of concern of most the people sat at the table. The people Harry had told.

The people she would destroy.