AN: Hi! I have this story cross-posted to AO3 (you can find me there under the same username, hellvwng). I am able to respond and engage much more easily and freely there and I LOVE chatting with readers and discussing with them, so please read and comment over there if you'd like! Thank you to everyone that has commented already: I read each and every review and I'm eternally humbled that people are enjoying my story. mwahhh

"What would you sacrifice to win the war?"

Snape's question echoed through her mind, hours after their conversation had ended. Like a drop of water falling to the surface of a pond, it rippled outwards in waves. What hadn't she sacrificed in this war yet? It was an all-consuming, demanding beast. A void that she poured everything she had into, but it was never enough. The war was insatiable and demanded more: she needed to be faster, stronger, smarter. It was no longer enough to be good, because wars weren't won by goodness. They were won by cruelty, cunning and ruthlessness, and she hadn't yet allowed herself, pushed herself to become exactly that. The last few threads of hesitation and hope bound her to her morals and ideals, but the tapestry woven from her wholesome childhood, from Dumbledore's words, from the joy and love and goodness she had felt was fading every day. Every death she encountered, every injury she healed, every Insurgent fighter she couldn't save and had to stand by and watch die before her very eyes, was grinding her down and wearing her thin.

"What would you sacrifice to win the war?"

His quiet, silky voice bridged the gap between them, a question disturbing the stillness of their potion brewing. Hermione paused in her counterclockwise stir over a cauldron, momentarily stunned, before resuming slower than before. She turned the question over and over in her mind, like sliding a rock in her palm. She had never considered the limit of what she was willing to give up before, when every day a little bit of her was being chiselled away.

"Why- .. why do you ask," she responded, hesitantly, uncertain, before looking up and catching Snape's eye. He stared back, his hooded gaze deep in thought, his eyes unfathomably dark. There was no hint as to what he might have been thinking, and a silence stretched out slowly between them again, with no end in sight.

His brow furrowed and he seemed to be picking at his words carefully, before speaking again. The steam and smoke from his cauldron had floated throughout their dimly lit dungeon room, obscuring him slightly from view, as if he was suddenly some distance away.

Hermione felt her throat close up, and the beginnings of panic making its way into her chest.

"I want you .. to consider my question carefully," Snape drawled out slowly, his voice seeming to come from further away than he really was. "Take care to think it over."

She paused again, before nodding hesitantly and resuming her potion brewing. They worked in silence once more over their separate workbenches, punctuated by frothing, hissing, and steaming of their respective brews. Whereas the silence before his question had felt like the comfortable, amiable, agreeable, affable silence between- .. colleagues? Hermione wasn't sure what to call their working relationship anymore, when he was so many things to her now - teacher, confidante, mentor - the silence that stretched on now was tense. Her entire body felt pulled taut by the unexpected exchange, and her hand shook slightly from her growing unease as she worked.

Eventually, the distillation bubbled to completion and she began to bottle the Essence of Dittany into small flasks, labelled and carefully arranged into storage shelves, before making her way out of the dungeon. As she walked through the door, she paused and glanced back at Snape, who was hunched over his own cauldron still, deep in thought and looking troubled. Hermione left quietly without another word, her own brow furrowed and her gaze distant at the sense of rising dread she felt. Her inability to answer the morally ambiguous question without hesitation had left her reeling.

"This meeting of the Insurgency is called to order," thundered out Moody over the drone of the room. Dozens of voices soon fell silent as they turned their gaze to his lined face. Small torches cupped in metal brackets lined the stone wall of the dungeon every few feet, casting ominous, flickering shadows onto his lined face. His electric blue eye spun rapidly in its socket, never focusing on one person for more than a few seconds.

"The recent skirmish and losses at Brighton underscore the desperation of our situation," he growled out. "We cannot afford to keep pulling our punches - this is *war*. You are hereby authorized to use Dark Magic whenever necessary, there is no honour in dying." His frustration was apparent and bubbled to the surface, as each word became more forcefully spoken than the last.

A sinking sort of dread began to collect in Hermione's chest at his words. She knew they, the Insurgents, were steadily being bled dry and had sustained losses for some time now but the authorization to use Dark Magic ... it frightened her. She was no stranger to the magic itself, but the explicit consent from the top of the chain of command, all the way down? Condoning and encouraging Dark Magic to win in this war of ideals?

Hermione could feel Harry fidget in his seat next to her and begin to raise his hand, but she reached out quickly and grabbed his arm before he could make a move. She glanced over and found him glaring at her, frustration and betrayal evident in his apple green gaze, before she gave him a quick shake of her head and sharp look in response. He huffed but did not protest further, breaking eye contact and looking away from her.

They had had this argument before, many times. It had been a common occurrence too in the closed door meetings between him and the higher-ups in the chain of command, most notably Moody and Shacklebolt. Both men were pragmatic strategists and while Shacklebolt did not necessarily agree with Moody's means to the end, he acquiesced regardless to give broader freedoms to the Insurgency.

"Which brings us to our next topic of discussion." Hermione flicked her gaze back to the front of the room, where Moody stood at his podium. It would've been slightly nostalgic if the situation weren't so dire, to see him echoing the same teachings of constant vigilance as he had during his time at Hogwarts.

"The High Reeve has been spotted again in the area. Many of you have lost friends and loved ones to him. Do not engage with him, I don't care how good you think you are - you're not," barked Moody. "None of you are to engage with him, at any cost. This is a blanket order: if you see him on a mission, you are to retreat immediately. No excuses. Do not stare him down, do not make eye contact. He is an exceptionally skilled Legilimens and capable of performing Imperius non-verbally during battle."

Hermione swallowed thickly. She had indeed lost friends during this war to the High Reeve, had seen them turn on each other during battle with faces blank and eyes lowered, seemingly in a dream-like state while they cast Dark Magic at one another. There were never any survivors; the High Reeve did not make mistakes in battle. While she had never encountered him personally before, she knew from counter-intelligence gained by the Insurgency that the High Reeve was a General and Voldemort's right hand man.

"He can be distinguished from the other Death Eaters by his armour and mask," Moody continued tensely. His voice had gained another decibel in noise level, perhaps to make clear to the room the seriousness of the situation. "He does not wear standard robes but instead full body armour crafted from Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon leather, and dons a blood red mask."

Moody gazed around the room. Whereas the mood before the meeting had started was chatty, it was now dead silent and sombre. Many members were now lost in thought at this new reminder of exactly how the war was progressing.

"You are dismissed and this meeting is adjourned."

Chairs scraped as members got up and slowly made their way out, few words spoken. Hermione watched as Harry got up and left without a word, not looking at her again. She sighed under her breath before getting up and walking towards the door, nodding politely to Snape and Moody on her way out. The two men were talking quietly, Moody's electric blue eye following her movements interestedly.

A far cry from the Order of the Phoenix that had been born of Dumbledore's morals and unquestionable ethics, the Insurgency had formed from the ruins of the Order after the untimely death of Dumbledore. In a desperate move wholly unexpected by any of them, Draco Malfoy had cast the Killing Curse at Dumbledore during the Start-of-Term Feast, and disappeared in the ensuing chaos. At the exact same time hundreds of miles away, Rufus Scrimgeour had been murdered in his office while Death Eaters stormed the Ministry. By daybreak the next morning, the Daily Prophet had announced the new Minster for Magic, Pious Thicknesse, and various other new department heads. The coup was incredibly efficient in its clinical violence: dissenters were rounded up and executed publicly, entire families shackled and chained in a line while a Death Eater strode past and cast Killing Curses at each person. When the dust had settled days later, the Daily Prophet crooned praise for the new Minister's cleansing of the population ("a healthy tree needs pruning, and are we, as Wizards, not duty-bound to exercise our might and ensure our future for generations to come?").

The Order of the Phoenix had never stood a chance. Without warning of the coup, and with Dumbledore dead and members scattered, it took weeks before communication channels were established again. By this time, the public opinion had already been swayed by propaganda and false flag attacks. Voldemort had been thorough in planting the seeds of doubt, sowing them through the already terrified and confused society, and reaping the rewards after. Saint Mungo's Hospital had been bombed, various small villages burned to a crisp, and a dozen Muggle sympathizers and Order members were detained under suspicion of terrorism. A caricature of a trial was held by the Wizengamot, with each of the accused brought up and their alleged crimes read aloud. Most looked terrified, sporting missing fingers, broken limbs, and clear signs of having been tortured. There was no need for a jury to convene, declared the Chief Warlock, and all were sentenced to death by public execution.

The Daily Prophet was ecstatic in the Ministry's strong anti-terrorism stance and quickly rebranded the Order under a new name: The Insurgency. Entire page spreads were dedicated to the crimes committed by the Insurgents, their motivations for terrorizing wizarding Britain, and the dangers of their radical extremism. And soon enough, the public began believing it and the collective mood changed. No longer was the Order considered a force of good ("their morals died with Dumbledore," Rita Skeeter declared on the front page) but rather, the bane of wizarding society.

Moody and Shacklebolt pivoted and did their best to cobble together a semblance of a resistance with of-age students from Hogwarts and sympathetic acquaintances, Halfbloods and Purebloods, but the damage had been done: the Order was dead.

That had been three years ago and they were no closer now than they were then at overthrowing Voldemort. Rather, it seemed that wizarding society had adjusted to the abrupt regime change. Humans were rather flexible and did well under pressure, and Voldemort stepping into the public eye after installing his own government was a supreme example of that. No longer were there whispers of malcontent and dissidence; that had been thoroughly stamped out in the violent coup. Life continued but things were bleak, and deaths and terror became the new normal.

Hermione laid awake in bed, contemplating Snape's question over and over. What would she sacrifice to win the war? What hadn't she sacrificed already, she mused. She saw death every day. She woke up every morning with the knowledge that there would be more deaths today. It was no longer a stranger to her, a novel anomaly in her life like the death of her first pet, or the death of her frail grandmother. No, death was now completely familiar to her, and the familiarity bred contempt. She was so weary of it, exhausted and worn down to the bone by it.

Anything. Everything.

That was what she was willing to sacrifice, she realized. The void and the infinity of the universe, and the endless stretch of everything in between. She was willing to give up anything and everything and to sacrifice it all, to win the war. Salvation came at a steep price, she knew this.

Slowly, she pushed the covers back and checked the alarm clock on her night stand. Someone in the shared dormitory was snoring a few beds over, and the air was heavy with sleep and the warmth of the summer night. Despite this, she felt chilled to the bone as she quickly dressed, picked up her wand and made her way to the dungeons where she knew Snape would be working away in despite the late hour.

"Anything. Everything."

He froze in his work over a cauldron before snapping his gaze up to her. His dark eyes glittered momentarily and his brow creased, before it smoothed over again. Hermione met his gaze with a measured one of her own, despite her pounding heart and the roaring in her ears. Time seemed to slow as he stared on at her, seemingly appraising her.

"Alright. We begin tonight."