A/N: Surprise, surprise—the canon-only shipper comes out with a Dramione. Oh well. If only canon ships were half as entertaining to write as this.
This fic will last more than a few chapters, I hope, because I actually have a storyline prepared. Some of the events in this first chapter won't make too much sense to the unfortunate reader who hasn't opened up Half-Blood Prince, or rather to any reader. Since this is not a one-shot, everything will be explained sometime in the next chapters. For now, enjoy—by the way, Harry Potter dies. Yep. Way, way in the beginning of the story, too.
I do not own anything created by JKR, which is, in essence, pretty much every character and setting.
Somehow she noticed the single wand amidst the tangled curses and fleeting spells.
She stumbled over a body that looked curiously like Vincent Crabbe (poor man was absolutely devastated by Gregory Goyle, although at the moment she was beyond the inclination to regret their tragic, mildly repulsive relationship) and stepped in a collection of near-dry blood. Colin Creevey's twitching fingers grazed her heels.
And none of this terrified her. Hermione Granger was a bit occupied with a wand connected to an arm connected to a smirk.
"Fifth Mudblood today."
She should have known; who else would have the wand capped in silver, for Merlin's sake (And who else could possibly maintain such hair during this ultimatum duel, a scandalized woman in her remarked)?
She considered a scathing reply, but suddenly the only thing she could come up was a Muggle proverb akin to counting chickens. Her store of satirical literature and brilliant witticisms escaped her for a moment, when faced with the prospect of cutting ferret-boy onto his knees.
Suspension of disbelief aside, Hermione was speechless not with fear or even with reproach, but paralyzed with the idea that nothing, nothing could ever be said to possibly shame a man who left his addled mother, used his father for leverage—literally, she remembered, when he stepped on Lucius's chest to gain higher ground—after freeing the man from prison, and turned Neville Longbottom into a blithering creature not much better off than his parents.
So the drama rolled, with Draco Malfoy sticking a wand up her arse for all she could care and Hermione Granger waiting for her brain to call up something from Shakespeare, when wizarding libraries failed her. Both flinched at the sound of a crash overhead followed by an agonized shriek; they dared each other to react. A body flew by, ruffling the consummate villain's hair for a moment. Hermione, in a better time, would have made a comment about insufficient hair gel. Draco, in an earlier time, may have spared a hand to smooth over his hair.
It was this particular time, though, that Voldemort and Harry chose to tumble off the roof and together crash in an unforgivably hard spot of the grounds very nearby.
Draco pressed the cold silver to the junction between her neck and shoulder quickly before walking away towards the settling dust. Hermione watched him collect with the remaining Death Eaters around the scene, and she was left with the realization that her best friend was now facing either death throes or Death Eaters.
"Harry!" she shrieked, gaining enough presence of mind to run after Draco.
And there was Harry, and there was Tom, and there was Draco (although Draco really had more to do with her than with Harry), standing around with dust swirling, motion picture-perfect, around them. Hermione had run toward the circle with every intention of pulling Harry away and possibly cursing Voldemort in the process, but upon her arrival she realized that she was an inconspicuous speck, a part of the narration to come and the very dust still fighting for elevation.
For a moment she wondered if she stumbled upon a clever use of a Time-Turner. No one seemed to be moving; in the corner of her eyes, in the near distance, she noticed Ron swaying slightly in horror. Draco had turned an interesting color between pale-ish and sallow. Severus, who placed a quivering hand on Draco's shoulder, was turning red, and everyone else held their breath.
Hermione inhaled sharply, too, for she managed to avoid actually looking at Harry until that instant. The dust finally cleared by the time she turned to the epicenter of everything, of everyone.
Voldemort was not much taller than Harry. Adolescence and years of stretching for the Snitch had taken care of that. He was, however, emanating something that could be called nothing less than triumph.
Voldemort (she barely marveled that she would be a primary source, and so contribute to molding the young minds of the future) laughed. "The theatrics of our entrance have dissipated, Harry."
Harry smiled thinly in reply, blinking off blood trickling down into his eyes. "Go on with it, Tom."
Hermione was struck with a brief spell of pride. Only Dumbledore had ever called Voldemort by his given name to his face, and now Harry was filling in those large shoes with utmost composure and dedication. A tear almost welled in her eyes, somehow squeezing itself out even after hours of witnessing deaths and torture and grief.
But before she could blink back the tear and force her brain into thinking of something that would keep her from being so idle, she heard the rustle of gasps rush through the crowd. Confused, she lifted herself up to her toes and willed the stupidly fat boulder, blinking stupidly and swinging his arms back and forth stupidly, to shrink.
Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—
Hermione's lips trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her arms around him.
"Hermione!"
"Harry—you're a great wizard, you know."
"I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him.
"Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and—oh Harry—be careful!"
Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—
"Yeah, I saw him," said Harry slowly. "But . . . maybe I imagined it . . . I wasn't thinking straight . . . I passed out right afterward . . . ."
"Who did you think it was?"
"I think—" Harry swallowed, knowing how strange this was going to sound. "I think it was my dad."
Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—
"Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have," said Hermione nastily, picking up her quill again.
"She was the one who started it," said Harry. "I wouldn't've—she just sort of came at me—and next thing she's crying all over me—I didn't know what to do—"
Merlin, please—
"We'll be there, Harry," said Ron.
"What?"
"At your aunt and uncle's house," said Ron. "And then we'll go with you wherever you're going."
"No—" said Harry quickly; he had not counted on this, he had meant them to understand that he was undertaking this most dangerous journey alone.
"You said to us once before," said Hermione quietly, "that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?"
"We're with you whatever happens," said Ron.
Hermione saw Harry searching for something in the crowds in the painfully slow seconds she would remember for the rest of her life. He found it—his eyes met hers and her eyes couldn't help but slide down and she closed them when a green eruption flashed and everyone screaming and someone pushing her and someone taking her hand and pressing her to a wall and covering her vision and body and
"Noo!"