A/N:

Inspired by Secret Steps by iamold.

This fic is set in a AU, both before the time-travel, and after it. The story is NOT prewritten and updates will be very random. The rating is for violence/heavy themes.

Lord Voldemort found Regulus Black's note.

And that was how they lost the war.

"It's over," said Draco Malfoy—Death Eater, traitor, murderer and spy.

They were in Grimmauld Place. But of course, the Order was all but gone now. The key players: Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, were all dead. Even among the younger generation, fighters were becoming scarce.

Hermione only stirred her cup of water. "He won a long time ago," she said calmly, pretending not to see the expression on Draco's face. "It doesn't change anything."

"What's the plan now, Granger?" Draco said bitingly. "Will we lick our wounds? Will we stay here, slowly choking on the Dark Lord's poison? Finding a replacement for every fallen fighter?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "We'll keep fighting." She gave him a sharp look. "You already know this."

Draco snarled. "What of our prophesied savior? The Boy-Who-Lived?"

Hermione felt a pang within her. Harry had died—his body had been desecrated by Voldemort for all to see. Neville was dead too. Voldemort wouldn't have left the other prophecy candidate live.

She ruthlessly clamped down with Occlumency, wiping away everything until she was as emotionless as ice. "I'm meeting with Ron. He'll have a plan."

"Yeah," Draco scoffed. "Is Weasley sane today?"

Her temper frayed. "Malfoy! That. Is. Enough." She dropped all pretense of aloofness and glared at him. "Make your report. Have you discovered anything else about the horcrux cave?"

Draco's eyes flashed with something resembling hatred, but he obeyed, dropping a roll of parchment onto the table. "The Dark Lord is mad, but not stupid. He will not repeat his past mistakes. And besides, he's as secretive as ever. After the failure of Regulus, Bellatrix and Fath—Lucius, he has no trust for any of his Death Eaters."

"He's upping the recruitment," Draco continued, sneering. "Half-bloods, werewolves, purebloods he wants to punish. Even sixth-year Hogwarts students are fair game. I've been ordered to head the training. Nasty little buggers."

She frowned at him.

"They're the most sadistic of the lot," said Draco. "Practically frothing at the mouth to get branded. Never mind all the efforts we made to spare them."

"When only dark curses are taught and the Cruciatus is used as a regular punishment, it's hard not to become used to violence," Hermione said blandly.

Draco crossed his arms. "I want to be assigned to Hogwarts."

"I've told you time and time again. Hannah is already our influencer there."

"Abbot couldn't influence a house-elf," said Draco, contempt in every syllable. "As each year goes by, the students become more corrupted. Face it, your campaign through her is less than useless."

She fixed him with a steely gaze. "And how do you plan on fixing that? By circumventing the Dark Lord's orders?"

"He's offered me a position there," Draco said idly, as if he was just talking about the weather and not an opportunity that could change the war. "Said he was impressed with my efforts training up the recruits."

"And you only thought to just mention this now?"

"It was recent. And besides"—his voice went cold—"I wanted time of my own to deliberate."

It was incredibly tempting to allow Draco to teach at Hogwarts. As someone the students would admire, Draco could subtly maneuver them. But if he went there, he would no longer be able to feed information about the recruits. He would have much less opportunities to search for the horcruxes.

"No," she finally decided, "the horcruxes are more important." She picked up the parchment, which no doubt contained a much more comprehensive report on plans and number and rotations. "I'll look this over and check back with you."

There was a long, drawn out silence. When Draco spoke again, his voice was tight with rage. "And your orders?"

Hermione sighed. "Continue as you have. Make alliances with the other Inner Circle members. Dolohov and Yaxley and especially."

Draco made a furious, hissing noise and shook his head. What could she do if he disobeyed? He had never done so, and she assumed it was because he knew the stakes. She needed him, as much as both of them both resented it.

"You know not what you ask of me," he bit out.

It was the exact thing Severus Snape had once said to Albus Dumbledore.

She studied him. His eyebags looked like bruises. His pale, once slick hair was ragged and tangled and his robes were stained with a thick, black liquid. His palms were streaked with dried blood and had red, finger-nail shaped welts.

"What did he make you do, Draco?" she asked, as gently as she could.

He glared at her. "I have never known you to be willfully blind, Granger."

Her heart twisted. "Draco?"

"Children, Granger. Little girls and boys. Do you know what it's like to break an innocent soul? That is the likes of the scum I am tainted with."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Draco scoffed, standing up. "Don't lie to me, Granger. We're far past that." She heard his footsteps fade and then the snap of Apparation. It wasn't until she was sure he was gone that she let the silent tears track down.

Oh Harry, she thought. What have I become?

It was late, when she went to visit the Burrow. Percy was there, as always. He smiled tiredly when he saw Hermione. His horn-rimmed glasses were smudged.

"How is he?" she asked.

"He's alert," Percy replied. "Has been working non-stop. He's afraid—"

"Is it getting worse?"

Percy nodded jerkily. "Coherence is happening less often. And when he's. . . out . . . he's less lucid. He no longer mistakes his surroundings for a memory. Now, he just stares blankly."

Hermione wanted to cry. She couldn't lose Ron, sweet Ron, her once lover and her best friend. How would she be able to continue with this war effort with both her boys gone? How long until she had nothing left to fight for?

Strong. She had to be strong. The Order depended on her. She threw her arms around Percy and buried her nose in his shirt. He smelled of familiarity—parchment and Weasley and faint musk.

"Fleur thinks he doesn't have long," Percy whispered, breathing into her hair.

Hermione hated it—the soul-crushing despair that came with helplessness. She was no healer, and the only healer among them—Fleur—had no idea how to help. She wished bitterly that Snape was alive. Perhaps, like with Dumbledore's cursed arm, he could have helped Ron.

Percy squeezed her arm. "He'll be glad to see you."

Ron was sitting on the sofa, furiously scribbling over a piece of parchment. A half-played game of chess lay near him, pieces grumbling and shuffling. He started at her footsteps and exclaimed, "Blimey, Hermione! I didn't think you'd be here!"

"Don't be silly, Ron," she scolded. "Of course I'd visit you."

"I didn't mean that," he said hastily. "But I know you're busy with the war and everything. You probably don't have time to visit useless, crippled Ron Weasley."

"Don't call yourself that," she said instantly.

"Why not?" He gestured towards his left leg, propped up on a chair. "That's what I am. A cripple."

"Being hurt doesn't make you useless."

Ron laughed rather bitterly. "You don't have to coddle me. Merlin knows Percy does enough of that already. I know I'm a liability. Someone always has to be here, to watch me when I'm loony."

"Percy stays because he cares for you," she said, "and besides, you're our strategist. We need you."

Ron looked a bit skeptical. "Really. Right now?"

Hermione never visited Ron with the solid intention of discussing Order business. She could never be certain of his mental state. As often as not, Ron would be staring blankly into space. Other times, he would have skull-splitting headaches, or would be delirious from infection.

He seemed healthy enough today. "Don't push yourself," she warned him. Ron rolled his eyes.

"The Order is becoming a weakness," he said bluntly. "We've got no forces to take action for the very little information we glean. The people are no longer against him. All we're doing is getting good people killed. There's nothing more we can do."

"So you would have us give up? After everything? What about your parents? And Ginny and—" She knew she was being too harsh. It was a low blow for her to bring up the dead Weasleys. Besides, Kingsley, Remus, even Draco also had brought up similar points.

Didn't they understand the Order was the only thing blocking Voldemort from total control?

To her surprise, Ron didn't get angry, he just sounded defeated. "Hermione, I know. Mum, Dad, Fred, Charlie, Ginny. . . he killed them all. Harry was my best mate too. But we need to start thinking of the living."

She sagged. "Maybe. But Draco told me another thing. Do you remember the horcrux cave, with the locket? The Dark Lord's building something in there."

Ron looked somewhat incredulous. "You're listening to Malfoy—"

"Draco has done just as much for the Order as anyone else!"

"Hermione." Ron held his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm not doubting him. Really. I'm just asking you to think this through. All the information proves is that Snake-face has a plan. So what? He always has a plan."

"I think it's worth checking out—"

Ron interrupted, "It's really not."

That stung. "Are you doubting me?"

Ron sighed. "I really don't want to fight, Hermione. Just—remember at Hogwarts when you used to stop us from engaging in all sorts of reckless behavior? That's what I'm doing now. Use that great big logical brain of yours and think."

"I'll consider it," she said grudgingly.

"I'll tell Kingsley," Ron said, brightening. "He's already made arrangements in the States." It was as if her idea didn't exist. She took a moment to Occlude. It would be good for the Order to have a backup plan. She wasn't infallible.

"How are you, Ron?" she said after a moment.

Ron shrugged. "The same, I guess. Nothing really changes around here."

Hermione said tentatively, "Percy said—"

"Yeah."

What did she say to someone who was dying? Wordlessly, she leaned into his shoulder. His hand wrapped around her and the other mussed her bushy hair. She swatted at it. For a second, it was just like the old times. Just the two of them, content in each other's presence.

Unbidden, her eyes strayed down to the parchment that was still lying on the table. "What are you writing?"

Ron snatched the parchment and hastily covered it. "Nothing much."

She waited. When it was clear he wouldn't explain further, she left it be. It was comfortable in the Burrow, leaning against Ron; she wanted to stay there forever. She began to get drowsy. No. That wouldn't do. She had responsibilities. With effort, she shook herself and awkwardly stood up.

Ron gave her a sad smile. "Leaving so soon?"

She grimaced. "More meetings."

"You should go. I'll just enjoy my sanity here." He reached over and patted her hand. "Love you, Hermione."

"I love you too, Ron."

There was someone following her. A shadow slipping through the fog, the sound of whistling winds.

Under her black cloak, Hermione smiled grimly. A hunter with skill and finesse—it had to be a Death Eater. But Hermione was not a frightened animal to be chased back into her den.

Hermione stopped walking and lifted her head, as if inspecting her surroundings. She waited, then—

"Sectumsempra!"

Blood sprayed. Her attacker howled, clutching at his arm. His eyes locked on her form and his expression twisted with hatred. "Avada Kedavra!"

Hermione ducked out of the way of the green light. She retaliated with a stunner, followed by a body bind, not really expecting either of them to hit.

Sure enough, the Death Eater danced away with ease. "Even a Hogwarts firstie could do better than that!" he cackled. "What, are you too afraid to play with the grownups? Crucio."

A quickly conjured slab of stone stopped the Unforgivable. She sent another Sectumsempra, and while the Death Eater was shielding, cast a spell that spun up in a whirlwind of sand. The Death Eater lashed out blindly, casting a variety of dark spells. She shielded, but froze when she recognized a familiar, purple flame.

The Death Eater noticed and sneered. "Remember this?"

Terrible, gruesome memories came to mind; sixth year at the Department of Mysteries, Dennis Creevey screaming, Ginny looking as pale as death—

Something within her snapped.

She thought of Voldemort's screaming laugh when he hung up Harry's corpse, of those times Ron was in so much pain he couldn't speak, of Neville's choked gurgle when Nagini sank her fangs—

"Crucio," she said, and relished in his look of surprised terror.

She didn't know how long she watched him, but when his screams tapered off and he began convulsing, she pointed her wand and said very quietly, "Avada Kedavra."

Remus's shocked, "Hermione?" almost made her feel guilty.

Almost.

"Security question," she reminded him, even though she was standing on the doorstep of his Secret-Kept house holding on to the arm of a bloody Death Eater corpse.

Remus grimaced, but said, "Who did I say was to take care of Teddy in the event of my death?"

"Lavender Brown," Hermione said promptly. "What is etched on my back?"

Remus watched her expression carefully before saying, "A scar of a snake and a phoenix."

She nodded in affirmation and tried to step inside but he stopped her.

"Er. . . we should take care of that first," he said, pointing at the Death Eater.

"Oh, right." Quickly, she Transfigured the corpse into a stick. She dropped the stick onto the ground and pointed her wand at it. "Incendio."

Flames sprung up, devouring the wood with a vengeance. A better end than he deserved, she thought, then flinched away. How would she know? She knew nothing of the wizard she had killed. Somewhere out there, someone was mourning for him.

Remus cast a few cleaning charms on the ground and soon, it didn't look like a scene of murder. He hesitated, then quickly cast the same charms on her, clearing away most of the dust and blood.

Right. Teddy.

"Remus?" Lavender called from inside the house. "Who is it?"

"It's Hermione," Remus called back.

Soon, Lavender and Teddy appeared. Hermione's old classmate looked well—or as well as she could with shadowed eyes and a too-thin frame. The gruesome scars left by Greyback's attack had faded somewhat. Beside her, Teddy had an air of somberness that was unbefitting of his age. Hermione noted that the six year old's hair was his natural sandy-brown.

"Hello, Teddy," Hermione said. It broke her heart to see a child so young so affected by the war.

Teddy nodded shyly. "Hi, Aunt Hermione."

"George is still working," Lavender said, eyeing Hermione with muted dislike. "He's been closeted in his room for hours. I had to drag him out last time just so he could eat. No doubt he'll be glad you're here."

We all hate being useless, she thought. Out loud, she said, "I'll try to talk sense to him." She looked down at Teddy and said, "Do you mind—"

"C'mon, Teddy," Lavender said in a falsely bright manner. "We were baking biscuits, remember?"

Teddy nodded and shuffled after her.

Remus's smile faded and he moved to the living room. "I worry about him," the werewolf confided. "After Dora and Andromeda. . . he has no social interaction with other children his age. Even Harry—"

Hermione knew. Teddy had no cousins or siblings or playmates. His mother and grandparents and godfather had been killed. All he had now was his father.

"Lavender seems to get along well with him," she said.

Remus's mouth twitched. "He's very fond of her, and she of him. If something were to . . . happen to me, she'll take good care of him."

Hermione said carefully, "You know, no one would blame you if you wanted to drop out of the fighting."

"Oh no, Hermione, I couldn't do that."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She felt touched by Remus's words, but couldn't help feeling guilty all the same. She thought about the Death Eater she had killed. He was nothing but ash on the wind now.

A warm hand was placed on her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head for no, but the words seemed to spill from her mouth. "I know it's—it's war but—it's so hard. Doing these things. Sometimes I wonder if we're still on the good side."

Remus tilted his head. "Things are not always so black and white."

"I know. But even among shades of gray, there are lines we shouldn't cross."

Remus studied her for a long moment. "What brought this on?" She knew he was too perceptive not to realize that she was talking about more than the murder.

"A slow realization," Hermione said to him quietly, "that this is what it's like to become him."

Remus didn't ask who she was speaking of. Instead, he simply said, "Sometimes, there is nothing we can do but try to do the right thing."

Hermione was saved from responding by the creak of a door. Then George was calling, "Lav? Did you save any dinner for me?"

"George Weasley!" Lavender shouted. "I cannot believe you! No!" There was the rattling of porcelain, then something hit the ground and broke.

Remus winced and rose hurriedly. "I'd best check that out."

"Oi! Is that Hermione Granger I see?" called George as he stuck his head out. "You must grace me with your presence." He raised his eyebrows impishly.

The effect was somewhat ruined, given that one of his eyebrows had been burned off. Still, she went to him with a rueful head shake.

George clamped his hands over her eyes and pulled her towards him. "Excuse the mess. Please ignore it. No, don't even look."

"What did you do to Lavender," she asked.

George snorted. "I may or may not have charmed the dishes to jump on the ground. Ah, sorry 'bout that," he added unhelpfully as he purposely bumped her hip against something hard. A moment later, there was another bump. Then another.

She finally jerked out of his grasp. "George!" she admonished, "this is no time for jokes." She immediately regretted the words.

George's constant, lurking grin vanished. His fingers began drumming. The atmosphere abruptly felt heavy.

It was minutes before George said, a bit too casually, "How is dear Ronnie?"

"Ron isn't. . . doing very well," she said, wary of his mood. "Percy says his episodes are growing longer."

George's jaw tightened. "Ah. Percy—the ever devoted caretaker. I suppose Bill has been a frequent visitor, too."

"George—"

"I get it," he interrupted. "Even you've visited him more than me. But you're an honorary Weasley anyway."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. There wasn't much stopping George from going to the Burrow, except a healthy dose of caution. She knew he had never recovered from Fred's death. Perhaps he didn't want to watch another brother die.

Changing the subject, she said, "Er. . . also, quite a few members have been hinting that. . . the war has gone on too long and that we should back off. I think it's worth considering—"

"Back off!" George spat. "Like a coward. We're Gryffindors!"

"It's not like that—" Hermione tried to protest.

"Is it? And whose brilliant idea was this anyway? Malfoy's?"

"Partly—"

"I knew it!" shouted George. "I knew we couldn't trust that slimy Slytherin—"

"Draco—"

"—once a Death Eater, always—"

"George, will you listen to me?" Hermione demanded. "It wasn't just Draco's idea. Ron and Remus want to stop too."

"Lupin?" George sneered. "I suppose he has as good a reason as any. . . "

"You'll tell him, won't you?" said Hermione, suddenly feeling exhausted. She didn't want to think about why she was telling George, but not Remus. She didn't want to see Remus's hopeful face and realize how much she'd been pressuring him. Pressuring everyone.

The anger seemed to leech from him. "Yeah," George said slowly, "I will. Does this mean you won't be needing any more products?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. There is still time, yet."

"Good." George leaned forward, and she was startled by his vehemence. "I've been experimenting with something new."

He took something out of his pocket. It was a phial, inside was a fine dust, each tiny grain reflecting a different color. He shook it, and when the powder settled, a translucent snow-white layer was left on the glass.

It was beautiful, in a forbidding, ominous way. "A poison?" she guessed.

"Not quite."

She furrowed her brow, trying to figure out what else would be useful as such a fine powder. "An explosive—like Muggle gunpowder?"

George's lips stretched into a wild smile—unhinged, almost. "Very close. Once lit, it manifests into flames. I call it White Fiendfyre."

She reeled back sharply, away from. . . it. "Fiendfyre?" she said, aghast.

"It'll be our secret weapon. Think about it. We could put caches of it in Death Eater homes—Ministry buildings, any place they might be, really, and burn them down. They'll never expect something so. . . mundane. . . and it's cursed fire, so they won't be able to put it out.

"Fiendfyre is dark," Hermione said. Her heart was hammering in her chest. "And even with a wielder, it is barely controllable." There was a reason she did not use Fiendfyre. Not even to burn the horcruxes.

"It doesn't need to be controllable," George countered. "The Death Eaters always have wards, and we could set a few extra containment ones around as well. The Wizarding public, the Muggles . . . they won't be affected at all."

"But you'll be decimating everyone inside."

George bared his teeth. "So, what? There are no prisoners anymore. Old Tommy made sure of that. Anyone found on associated properties is either a Death Eater or one of their sympathizers. They deserve to die."

Narcissa Malfoy flashed to mind, screaming and screaming under Voldemort's Cruciatus, all while trying to crawl towards the prone form of her son. Draco at sixteen—freshly Marked—looking young and terrified. How many parents were there, desperate and only wishing for their children to live?

She imagined pudgy hands grasping at larger arms with Dark Marks and those horrible, horrible flames—

"George, you're talking about murdering children!"

George's face was carved from stone. "Death Eater spawn. How many of our children have they killed? It's the only way to make sure they're gone forever."

She could only gape speechlessly at him.

"It'll work," George said. "Come. I'll show you."

He took out his wand, and quickly cut his hand. He smeared it on the farmost wall, and there was a rumbling sound. Then, the wall slowly sank into the ground, revealing a new room. A flick had the injury gone as quickly as it appeared.

Blood wards. She could feel the tell-tale humming of magic from every corner.

Near the center, a dome of pulsing energy was on the ground. George removed the ward, and took out the phial again. He poured some of the White Fiendfyre in a small pile.

She swallowed. "Is that safe?"

"Perfectly." The dome reappeared. George waved his wand in a complex motion and muttered a chant under his breath. The light seemed to snap in place and flare a brighter, gold color.

"Containment wards," George said. "Do you see the runes? Bill taught me this one. It's strong enough to hold back Fiendfyre. The goblins use it in Gringotts."

"You've used it before." His silence confirmed her words. She felt scalding frustration rise up. "How did you know it was safe, then? If you won't spare a thought for yourself, won't you at least think of others? Remus, Lavender, Teddy."

"Teddy's in danger no matter what I do," George flung back. "At least this is giving him the chance of a better future."

"I'm trying my best," she told him in a deathly low tone.

George hunched his shoulders, but his next words were as sharp as ever. "I know."

The tension was palatable. To distract herself, Hermione examined the wards more closely. "How does it activate?"

"A lighting source," George said. He traces his wand in a runic pattern on the ground. Magic flared up, lighting in the shape of the rune. Then a spark leaped up, catching onto the powder.

There was a fearsome boom, and orange flames erupted, battering against the wards in a maelstrom of fury. The Fiendfyre seemed to hiss as demonic shapes emerged, writhing. They devoured everything inside savagely and without mercy.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" George said, hunger in his voice.

"Terrible," corrected Hermione.

"Brilliant and terrible, then," George said, shrugging. "A war can't be won without bloodshed."

He sounded nonchalant, like this was an everyday occurrence. What had happened to George, who had always been so lively and carefree? But even before she voiced the question, she knew. The war had stripped him away—layer by layer—until only a bitter center remained.

They watched the Fiendfyre without speaking. It was only when Hermione couldn't bear the silence anymore, that she said, "I can't."

George turned, his penetrating gaze as hard as iron. "Can't? Or won't?"

"I can't." She shook her head, backing away from her. "I can't bring myself to murder children like that. Death Eater children they may be, but children they remain. Innocents."

"Teddy is innocent too. And so was my unborn niece—killed in Fleur's womb."

"No." Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a lone tear drip out. "My soul is stained with enough blood. Every single Death Eater manor is home to at least one family. I won't have this."

George was quiet for a very long time. "All right. You won't do it now. That's fine."

She opened her eyes. "Not now? Don't you hear me, George? I won't do it. Ever."

George was strangely calm. "I see."

"Are you going to do it yourself, anyway?" she demanded. Even she hadn't crossed that line. Once someone reached the point where they stopped listening to others, they were lost. That's how dictators like Voldemort rose—men with enough power to play God.

"No need," George said, still in that calm manner. "You can't do this now. That's perfectly understandable; no sane person could. Just wait, though. You'll reach your breaking point soon." He smiled; slow and awful. "You'll come back, and you won't hesitate to light the flame."

"I'm not listening to this." Hermione spun and marched straight out of George's room. The noises from the kitchen ceased. She could feel Remus's gaze on her. She made for the front exit and flung open the door. The blast of moist air was relieving.

"Hermione, you know I'm right!" George called after her.

She felt close to tears. "Shut up!" she screamed, whirling around. "Shut up!"

Remus now sounded visibly concerned. "Hermione! You're in no state to Apparate right now."

"Leave me alone!" she closed her eyes and pushed all the emotion out of her mind.

"Hermione!" Remus shouted.

She felt empty.

Too often, Hermione felt like she was surrounded by a circle of flames, with everyone she cared about encircling her. No matter what she did, which way she moved—someone got burned.

Draco no longer spoke to her, except to deliver emotionless, punctual reports on Death Eater activities. She couldn't bring herself to argue with him. Not when each time she looked at him, she saw the dead-eyed man she had made him into.

She missed Remus, but was afraid to go see him. Then, she would have to see George and be reminded of the White Fiendfyre. He was right—brutality was the only way to win wars. But if she did so, she would lose everything she had been fighting for.

Kingsley sent her news sparingly. His safehouses were almost ready. He was planning on moving Ron and Percy. Soon, the rest of the Order would follow and the war would be officially lost.

What was better? Genocide, or giving up? At what point did the price of the means exceed the end?

"Mistress," Kreacher said, popping in. The old elf held out a sealed roll of parchment. "Master is wanting this to be delivering to you."

The only living person Kreacher acknowledged as "Master" was Ron. Her heart stopped. "Is he okay?"

Kreacher shook his head, ears flopping. "Master is doing very badly. He is saying that when he can no longer order Kreacher, I is to be giving this to you."

"He—" she couldn't breathe. Percy would have sent for her, if something had changed. "Ron does that a lot," she managed. "His mind isn't completely whole."

Kreacher glared balefully at her. "Kreacher is knowing such things. Kreacher would not be disobeying Master Ron's orders."

"Thank you, Kreacher," she gritted out, and took the parchment. Kreacher disappeared, and she sank to the floor.

She remembered being entwined in Ron's embrace, years ago. They were both grieving then, and took comfort in each other. Ron had said, "He never got to say goodbye."

He had been talking about Harry.

"As if that would have helped!" Hermione had snapped. "Harry's gone, and he's never coming back."

She recalled the last time she had been to the Burrow—Ron had been writing then. Was he writing his farewells? Doing something he wished Harry had done for him? Her fingers tightened, crushing the parchment.

No. Ron still had time. She forced her hands to relax, and tremblingly slipped the parchment into her pocket. "He still has time," she said aloud.

She would read it. Just not today.

"He still has time," she told herself again.

Even in her head, it sounded like a lie.

It was five words that brought the end.

"The Burrow has been breached," came Kingsley's voice from his Patronus. "Do not attempt to come. Bill is attempting to bring down Anti-Apparation and Portkey wards." The lynx dissolved, leaving behind no other instructions.

Hermione's wand was out immediately. Panicked thoughts raced through her, questions and terror and the burning need to do something. How? The Burrow was Secret-Kept and there was no way—

No. Percy would never betray them. Never, ever—

A second Patronus flew in, in the shape of a bright and majestic horse. "Granger," Draco's voice said clearly, "you need to gather reinforcements now. Death Eaters are assembled at the cave and they are preparing to attack the Weasleys."

There was the crack of Apparition, and for one terrifying second, she thought Grimmauld's Place had been breached as well. Then George was there, brimming with manic energy. "Take this," he ordered, shoving a jar at her. "Take this and go!"

It was White Fiendfyre. "But—"

"Go!" George snarled. "I swear, if you balk and my brothers die, I will come and kill you myself."

Her heart hardened. She took the jar.

"You know where to go," said George. "I'm not abandoning my family this time."

Hermione nodded, and met his eyes one more time. Then she called Kreacher and ordered him to Apparate her.

The first thing she noticed was the size of the cave. It was massive, with a ceiling so high it wasn't visible. Through the thick mists, she could vaguely make out shapes, more resembling stalactites than pillars. Unearthly forms hung from the ceiling, eyes glowing Avada green. As vividly detailed as they were, they seemed to be petrified as stone.

The air was practically dripping with dark magic. She could feel the heavy, oppressive tendrils snaking around her. It was hundreds of times worse than any of the worst dark curses she had used. It whispered to her in seductive tones, begging her to give in.

She was on a little island, surrounded by a massive lake with water as smooth and polished as a mirror. It was all a facade. She knew hundreds of Inferi were waiting just beneath the surface. This was where Harry had gone on the night where Dumbledore had died.

"Mistress," Kreacher whispered. "Look."

She did. Half hidden behind the distant pillars were rows and rows white skull masks. In the center, stood a familiar figure with slitted, red eyes.

"Hermione Granger," hissed Lord Voldemort, "Potter's . . . Mudblood friend." His eyes drifted over to Kreacher, and his lips curled up in disgust. "And Regulus Black's house-elf. How . . . delightful to see you here."

"Tom Riddle," she returned evenly.

Voldemort made a sound of amusement. "As arrogant as Potter, I see. But. . . but without a prophecy to save you. Not that it helped him in the end."

"Master," one of the Death Eaters whispered urgently. "Master, don't we have a mission to complete?"

Voldemort flicked his wand, and the Death Eater toppled over, screaming. "Silence!" he hissed. "Why would we waste time on the blood-traitors . . . when we have a Mudblood right here?"

The Death Eaters leered, some laughing and pointing at her. Hermione clenched her teeth. Anything for Ron, she reminded herself.

She scanned the rows and rows of black robes and white masks. She wondered if Draco was there—if he was glad to see her come.

A lone figure Apparated in. "Master," he said, bowing low in front of Voldemort. "It is done." Right on cue, powerful wards snapped into place, the tangible feeling of magic wrapping around. Hermione froze, looking down at Kreacher, whose eyes had screwed shut in concentration.

"Kreacher?" she said.

"There is very powerful magics here, Mistress," Kreacher said, knobby fists opening and closing. "Kreacher is not being able to go through."

Voldemort laughed. The sound was high-pitched and cold. "Did you really think your creature magics could go on unopposed? After the Malfoys . . . failed so greatly . . . well. . . "

Ron's scroll in her front pocket felt hot. She sent a mental apology to him—for not reading it, and being the one to abandon him.

Hermione interrupted Voldemort mid-rant, conjuring rocks above him. Tons of heavy stone crashed down towards the masses below.

Voldemort slashed his hand down in a diagonal direction, and all the rocks simultaneously exploded mid-air. He raised his head slowly, and she could see the anger that was beginning to form.

"Now!" Hermione ordered, just a towering wall of black clouds rose and shot towards her. She cast a shield around herself, which the black clouds promptly dissolved against.

"Interesting," mused Voldemort. He seemed to contemplate something. Then, he snapped his wrist and the Death Eater from before was dragged forward.

"Rosier! What is this?"

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Rosier stammered, voice high and squeaky. Hermione suddenly realized that he was quite young—possibly not out of Hogwarts yet. "The time delay was hard to decode. My uncle—"

"Shame you don't have his skill," Voldemort said. "Crucio!" Rosier collapsed onto the ground, screaming and writhing.

Kreacher took advantage of their distraction and grabbed her wrist. Pain immediately flared up in Hermione's head. She wrenched away from him. The magic in the air had changed again.

"Kreacher is sorry," the elf muttered, cowering. "Kreacher is trying to save the Mistress."

She slowly raised her head. She knew this magic. She had seen it before. Draco had brought notes detailing Voldemort's attempts in making magic suppressing wards. The Order had been afraid of the possibility, but as far as she knew, Voldemort hadn't succeeded.

She tried to cast Lumos. She made sure to verbalize the charm, and did the movement in crisp movements.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, this time with Aguamenti.

Nothing.

Voldemort's keen eyes tracked her movement, "Tricky," he commented, and released Rosier from the curse.

Rosier staggered back from him. "My L-lord, the wards r-require a heavy amount of power. T-they won't hold for v-very long."

"They won't need to," Voldemort said dismissively.

He lifted his arms and made a grand, sweeping gesture. Power emanated from his figure, blowing out in waves and waves. The Death Eaters closest to Voldemort cowered back, some casting shields to protect them from the violent onslaught.

Nothing happened, and Hermione resisted the impulse to laugh hysterically. But then, one glowing green eyes moved. Then another. Then four pairs of eyes were trained on her, each from one of the petrified creatures hanging from the ceiling.

The serpents breathed out, and a faint green mist seeped towards her. Then a slow groaning sound started, and a section from the ceiling started to lower.

Hermione backed to the farthest area of her rocky outcropping, stopping just short of the water. There was nowhere to go.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. He'll kill me and I'll become another Inferi in the water, just like he killed all these other people—

She tried to push the thought away but it persisted, crashing through her mind in a tidal wave of fear and powerlessness.

"Kreacher," she whispered. "When I die, you are to use any and every means to escape. Then, inform either Kingsley, Remus or Percy about what happened."

"Kreacher is not doing it!" wailed Kreacher. "It was bad enough with Master Regulus, oh no! Kreacher is not abandoning his Mistress!"

"That's an order, Kreacher," she hissed vehemently. "The Order must be informed, or my sacrifice will be in vain."

Kreacher wore an expression of absolute horror. She felt a bit sick, manipulating him like this. In a way, she was betraying his trust just like Regulus had. But even that paled in comparison to what she knew awaited her. She prayed that once Voldemort had killed her, he would forget about Kreacher.

"What a sentimental display," drawled Voldemort. "The Mudblood exchanging her last words. In fact, I'll even allow the house-elf to leave. I want to see your precious Order's reaction when they realize how utterly outmatched they are."

Hermione took comfort in the fact that the Order was likely to be gone soon. The States had declared against Voldemort, and even he didn't have the power to fight another prominent country.

Voldemort tutted. "No response? Very well, then. I suppose expecting a Mudblood to engage in intelligent conversation is too much to ask. There's a reason why I separate those of Wizarding blood from dirty Muggle blood."

She spat on the ground.

Voldemort stopped back and lifted his robes delicately, like her spit could reach him from across the lake. "Of course, blood doesn't decide everything." His sharp gaze landed on Kreacher again. "Regulus Black; a pure-blood if there ever was one. But alas, he lacked the more important component—loyalty."

"You're one to talk about loyalty," she rasped. "You've no loyalty to anyone but yourself."

"I have loyalty to Wizarding kind," Voldemort corrected. He looked up and a smile began to spread.

A large basin had been lowered and was now only a few feet above her. It hung suspended in the air by thin metal chains. They looked more decorative than functional.

"Do you see this?" He gestured to the basin. "This is what accomplishments we can make without the foolish regulation of the Ministry."

With a wave of his hand, the basin went clear. Inside were piles and piles of gold sand. Each grain glimmered brightly, a stark contrast from the oppressiveness of its surroundings.

"Complicated thing, time is," Voldemort said. "There are laws to follow, but ways to circumvent those laws." He looked with a distant fondness at the sand, like an estranged uncle seeing his adult niece again for the first time since her childhood.

"Time-Turner sand," breathed Hermione, horrified.

"Very good." He looked at her with an air of triumph. "In order to generate enough power, a sacrifice must be made. A blood sacrifice. You see, death is a very powerful thing."

"And you need me for a sacrifice?" Hermione scoffed, trying desperately to stall. "A Mudblood? Surely one of your thousands of Death Eaters suffice."

A murmur went through the Death Eaters. So Voldemort had experimented with them.

"Hate, too, is a very powerful thing," Voldemort continued. "At first, I was going to use Potter's best friend, the Weasley boy. But then you came." His smile widened. "Who could hate me more than the Order of the Phoenix's Mudblood leader?"

In her pocket, the jar of White Fiendfyre sat as cold and heavy as a stone.

In a whirlwind of force, Voldemort Apparated directly in front of her. A spell she had never heard of her sent her into the air. She jerked to a stop directly above the basin. A cutting curse followed, slashing across her stomach in a jagged flare of pain.

She tasted metallic iron mixed with something salty. She tried in vain to move, but was forced to stop by the overwhelming burst of agony accompanied by nausea.

There was a furious scream and Kreacher threw himself at Voldemort. The two rolled on the ground, fighting before Voldemort finally pried him off.

"You dare?" Voldemort demanded. "You, a lowly house-elf, dares to attack Lord Voldemort?"

Kreacher's eyes flared with hatred. "That was for Master Regulus!"

Voldemort screamed with rage. "Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" He cast Cruciatus over and over again, while Kreacher writhed on the ground and screamed so loudly she thought his vocal cords would tear out of his throat.

Slicing curses followed, each more vicious than the last. Kreacher—flesh mangled and torn, tried to crawl away. Expression maniacal, Voldemort cast with a familiar movement she recognized—

With all her strength, she hurled the jar of White Fiendfyre at him. Voldemort's Blasting Curse hit it and then there was a cloud of fine, crystal-like dust. Silence. The tension built and—

The air exploded in a wave of scorching heat. Bits of molten sand were hurled upwards and embedded into her. Each shard dug into her skin like a red-hot knife. Thousands of knives, piercing into her skin, with no reprieve.

There was nothing but heat and pain. So much painpainpain—

Fire lashed out in huge wings, devouring everything in its path. The water frothed and boiled. The undead rose from their prison, eyes milky white and skeletal hands stretching. They crumbled into ashes when they reached the Fiendfyre, only for countless more to take their place.

Through the crackles and haze of steam, she heard Voldemort screaming; it sounded shrill and unnatural.

Just on the edge of fuzzy blackness, she heard a song, the crooning notes of grief. The notes grew louder and louder. And suddenly, she was floating above her body, looking over a graveyard, full of mutilated corpses watched by depraved humans.

The cleansing stroke came. A burning bird—all fierce and terrible beauty—

A phoenix.

Then she died.