A/N: Hello, hello! It's been a while since I posted anything. In honor of Back to Hogwarts Day, I give you This I Swear By the Stars, a story I've been working on on & off for several years now. It's finally complete, so here we go. I'm posting the prologue and first chapter today; the rest will follow in weekly updates. This is a war story (rated M for language and violence) told from Hermione's perspective, and is canon up until Harry walks into the Forbidden Forest during the Battle of Hogwarts. As the title suggests, I got the inspiration for it while listening to "Stars" from the musical Les Misérables - this story is (very) loosely based on that plot, and chapter titles come from songs in the show. The story is mine, the rest isn't - I think we all know by now that JKR owns all things Harry Potter, and Les Misérables is the work of Victor Hugo (original book), plus Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg (the musical). Enjoy!
Three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, six minutes, and fifteen…sixteen…seventeen seconds.
I hate that it's one of those days when my count makes little sense at first glance – after all, thirty days usually constitutes a month, so shouldn't it be three years, four months?
No, it shouldn't. I count my months by the date, not by how many days have passed – tomorrow is the second, and so tomorrow it will become three years, four months. Not today.
I roll over on my cot to glance at the old-fashioned alarm clock perched on the little stool beside it. The clock's face is scratched, and the exterior has more chips and dings in its surface than I can count, but the thing still works, and that's good enough for me. 6:21 am. Yes, my mental calculations were correct – they always are.
The alarm isn't switched on – it almost never is – so I just stare at the clock for several more seconds (three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, six minutes, and thirty-six seconds now) before sitting up and scooting towards the end of my bed to pull on my shoes. The day's briefing will start at seven on the dot, so I might as well make myself useful and help with breakfast while I wait.
"Morning, Hermione," Bill Weasley says in greeting as I make my way into the kitchen. It looks like whoever's on food duty this time has managed to get us some eggs – breakfast will be worth it this morning.
"Hey, Bill," I return. I scan the worn copy of the Daily Prophet that lies open on the rough wooden table, but nothing catches my interest. I'm not surprised, as the paper is nearly a week old and I've read it cover-to-cover six times already. It's the same old drivel, really – Voldemort reigns supreme, this Death Eater successfully suppressed another suburb while that Ministry official was 'replaced' – the same rubbish the Prophet's been spouting ever since Voldemort took over the paper almost two years ago, but we still snag a copy when we can. We never know when the editors might print something they think is innocuous but is actually valuable information for the Resistance.
The Resistance – or perhaps more accurately, the GHRS, 'grrrrs' if we're being phonetic (or particularly affectionate). It was Luna Lovegood, of all people, who coined the phrase – we'd been in a meeting one day early on, deliberating what to call ourselves now that spouting phrases like 'the Order of the Phoenix' and 'Dumbledore's Army' was akin to strapping a neon target to your back, when Luna had turned her head skyward, closed her abnormally large eyes, and murmured, "God help our restless souls". Nobody really knew for sure what she meant, but the phrase utilized the initials of the four Hogwarts founders (yes, we firmly believe all four are necessary to come out of this war on top) and sounded particularly poetic, so we'd adopted it without further discussion.
"Toss me that serving bowl, would you?" Bill asks, gesturing with his head towards the dish in question. I comply, and the tantalizing smell of scrambled eggs fills the room. Within seconds of the bowl hitting the table, people are making their way into the kitchen for the morning meal, their faces looking happier than I've seen them in a while at the prospect of a decent breakfast – it's amazing what food can do for a person's morale. I gaze fondly at the familiar people situating themselves around the table, but I don't smile, and everyone around me knows why. I don't smile because despite the faces surrounding me, one very familiar one is missing.
Three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, fifteen minutes, and forty-seven seconds.
I never count anything so closely, and yet this is a number I can't get out of my head, ever.
It's been three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds since my world imploded and everything went to hell.
It's been three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-five seconds since my fellow rebels and I began the cause we still haven't completed.
It's been three years, three months, thirty days, four hours, and sixteen minutes since Harry Potter died.
