A backpack, five bottles of healing potions, two magical refilling military flasks, two bags full of magical bean rations, and matchsticks. A well-worn, walnut-covered trench coat, their sleeping bags, ragged blankets, and a small pouch containing sickles and knuts. Hermione arranges the rest of their luggage with careful precision, only taking what is useful. It doesn't take her long. Packing in a war taught her what to prioritize.

Tom watches her warily, but doesn't interfere. He packed the first half of their supplies this morning, just as precisely. Like Hermione, he knows how to travel light.

They depart in silence, walking, as there are no carriages or Thestrals anymore. Slowly, step by step, they leave the grounds of Hogwarts behind. It is slow and uncomfortable in the afternoon sun, but at least it doesn't rain. Burned soil becomes greener the farther away they get, nature uprooting the devastation brought by the war. Each blooming flower mirrors a light Hermione hasn't seen in a while. Hope - a small, barely flickering glow - sprouts inside of her.

For the first time in a long time, Hermione smiles.


Her smile didn't last long

Hermione stares horrified at the lot where the Shrieking Shack once stood. Completely collapsed; a pile of demolished wooden planks and roof tiles, dirty and forgotten. A wild boar roots around in the rubble, trying to find food buried in the mud.

Hogsmeade itself hasn't changed much. Some shop windows are barricaded, with CLOSED signs hung from their doors. Grey, stone houses string together, occasionally interrupted by a washed-out shop banner swaying in the low wind. No swarms of laughing people in the streets to give the village a lively tone. Everything looks barren. Deserted.

"Dreadful, isn't it?" Tom says, without emotion. They resume walking, in step and close to each other, as if the surrounding horror pushed them together. She can almost touch his hand if she dares to reach out. She doesn't.

"You know what I don't get? If Voldemort loves the magical world so much, why is he destroying it? Why not concentrate on the muggle world instead." She's barely whispering, afraid that her words could stir someone - or something.

"Because power breeds fear. And fear nurtures submission." He spares her a quick glance, then adjusts his backpack. "It's easier to become a tyrant when people see what you're capable of. Muggles, who can't understand what they see, seek retaliation. Wizards, who do, are instead terrified of such cruelty and stay out of its way."

Tom stops when they reach the Three Broomsticks. He opens the door, and gestures for her to enter. When she hesitates, he pushes her in and follows close behind.

Her eyes have no time to adjust to the darkness of the room before Tom propels her into one of the booths. He goes to the counter and orders two Mulled Meads - which he pays with knuts, stolen unnoticed from a man sitting on one of the barstools - and returns to push one of the warm goblets at her. He's quick with his hands. It's not the first time she notices.

The mead is thick and sweet on her tongue, tasting of too much honey. Even after swallowing, her cheeks remain coated with a cloying sweetness. Tom, across from her, licks the mead off his lips. The need to look away before the warmth of the drink bleeds into her cheeks is tremendous, she quickly turns to stare out the dirty window.

Zonko's is no longer in business. Its large entrance is boarded up, and some of its windows are smashed, spiderwebs of broken glass surrounding jagged holes. Next to it, an old wizard is flipping the shop sign from Dervish and Banges from CLOSED to OPEN. His skin looks paper-thin and ashen. All the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth speak of the dread he has seen.

"I hate how powerless Voldemort makes me feel," Hermione murmurs. Turning back to face Tom, she takes another sip of the mead, but the warmth of the beverage doesn't reach her core.

"Good. Channel that hate. It will be useful later."

Tom looks around, watchful, and when no one is looking his way, starts to move his hands under the table. Hermione can't see what he's doing, but after a couple of seconds the wooden table creaks, then clicks. After a second click, Tom's hands re-emerge with a familiar page trapped between his long fingers.

Hermione can't stop the frown creeping up her face.

"What?" Tom snaps.

"Nothing. I'm just trying to figure out why Voldemort chose these particular hideouts." Running her finger around the rim of the goblet, she catches a drop of mead before it makes its way down onto the table. "Like, the basilisk's cave, the DADA office and even the forest - all of those places seem important to him. But why here?"

Tom fidgets with the page. He looks close to saying something, but no words leave his lips. Instead, he swallows them, like the rest of his mead. They sit in silence, the air around them undisturbed.

The silence stretches for a while, before the doorbell rings behind Hermione, announcing new customers; from what she can hear, at least two pairs of heavy boots. She's about to raise the goblet to drink the rest of her mead when Tom's eyes narrow. His gaze turns darker, brows knitted, small lips set in a thin, straight line. He's making himself smaller, almost sinking into the too-large, navy sweater he wears.

"We need to go," he says, his tone absolute. He's rising from his place, grabbing Hermione's hand and tugging sharply.

"Wait, what-"

She has barely time to put the goblet down without raising suspicion. Her feet follow automatically - trained for both flight and fight.

"Come on." Tom shifts, his hand now clasped around her wrist, and pulls. Warmth bleeds into her skin where he touches her, but she barely has time to register the sensation before she's pulled around a coat rack and out of the door. She stumbles a little, her shoulder bumping into him, but he doesn't falter. He only slows once he rounds a corner on the opposite side of the road, swinging her behind him.

"What was that about?" Hermione asks, leaning against the wall behind her. She tries to tug her hand free. Tom reacts slowly, but once he registers that he's still holding firmly on to her wrist, he snatches his hand back as if burned. His hand grasps at the air, as if he wouldn't know what to do with it, until he pushes it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Snatchers," he says and the word alone is enough to make Hermione's body freeze in alarm. From their hideout, they have a clear view of the entrance to the Three Broomsticks. They don't wait. Two young men emerge after a while, magical to-go cups steaming in their hands.

Hermione can't make out their faces, but they look young. Young enough to be her age. Both have dark hair. Roughly the same height. Similar black clothes. From the distance, they look eerily identical. The only distinguishing feature she can make out is the hawk-like nose of the one on the right. She's sure she knows him, but she can't quite remember. Her inner voice associates him with the colour blue, so he might have been in Ravenclaw.

"Pesky little shits," Tom spits, pressing further into the shadows of the corner. "They're bloody everywhere. Memorise their faces. We'll see them again soon enough."

Hermione nods once, sharply. Her body vibrates, all of her senses, tingling.. Waiting for a fight. She takes a couple of deep breaths, and forces her hands still. The wand on the inside of her arm burns warm and tempting. She closes her eyes, calms her mind and waits for her body to follow.