Notes: This will be a dark work. Please be wary as I will not be placing trigger warnings throughout the chapters.
Fields of Fire
...
Hermione Granger had never been the intuitive type. Divination, in her personal opinion, was complete rubbish. It was smoke and mirrors—trickery at its core—and she wanted nothing to do with it. The intention of taking action based on a feeling had always rubbed the young witch the wrong way.
It was guessing and to the studious witch, who found research and learning a crutch in a world that was so completely new to her, guessing was hazardous.
Over the years, the young witch had gotten used to ignoring things. She had learned early on to ignore the sneers from her classmates at her muggle schools, and the whispers to "stay away from the Granger girl", followed by the hissed "freak" as she passed.
Then it became "mudblood" that was spat towards her, which just as quickly became something she barely registered. Something easily tucked away, ignored.
She ignored the echo of numbness that had never truly left after she was cursed that horrible day at the ministry. She ignored the sporadic hint of pain that thrummed through her scarred body, even though it often caused her to flex her fingers into a fist just to relieve the phantom sensations.
Throughout the war, she had ignored the bent heads of her boys who whispered in earnest when they believed she wasn't watching.
It hurt a little, the witch decided one lonely night as she watched the stars outside that stupid tent: the way Harry looked at her as if she was fragile; the fact that Ron rarely smiled her way anymore. It crept on her nerves and made her twitch with the need to get away from their protective gaze. To escape somehow.
It had made her nervous to be seen as delicate during such a dangerous time. And, if she was being honest, she despised it. So much so that when her vision began dimming at the edges, Hermione didn't mention it. When she began forgetting what she was doing only a moment earlier, she kept it to herself. When she woke up to her own screaming, she learned to strengthen her silencing charms-always hoping that after the war it would get better. It had to get better.
By the autumn of 1998, five months after the battle at Hogwarts, Hermione had to admit to herself that it wasn't going to get better.
If anything, it had gotten worse. The paranoia seeped from simple nightly terrors to form into a shadow that hovered over her daily reality. Sometimes it was screams reverberating through her beloved school's halls and into her ears when she was sitting in classes. No one else seemed to hear the crack of hexes continuing on, so the witch had to surmise that it was only in her head that the war continued.
Other times it was the feel of the cruciatus curse running its fingers down her body during dinner, leaving the young witch gasping in fear at an unknown enemy and unable to eat.
These things, at first, made the witch want to hide from the world, to hide from herself. She'd lock herself in her dorm room, missing classes and study groups while she waited for the horrors to stop.
But, it didn't and Hermione was tired of ignoring things.
The witch realized that the fear was controlling her and she determined not to allow those fears to mark her as a coward. The silencing charms stopped, much to the displeasure of her dorm-mates, but Hermione didn't care. She'd had enough of others controlling her life. If she had to suffer the effects of being a child-soldier then the world that formed her, the world that pretended like nothing had happened, and those around her would have to suffer along with her.
As far as she was concerned it did. Her grades slowly fell below passing marks, along with it the weight that she had barely clung onto throughout the war itself. She became a wraith that wandered the halls, one that was avoided by other students and eventually the teachers as well.
The witch barely registered it, and when she did she didn't care. In fact, she enjoyed it. Let them see the reality of it all, she rationalized her actions one day as Headmistress McGonagall droned on and on about Hermione's responsibility as a returning seventh year, as a hero. The older witch's tone was one of disappointment, but Hermione didn't feel guilty. In fact, deep below her mask of apathy she was enraged.
How dare the witch tell her how to deal with her trauma. How dare they expect her to continue being a role model after everything that had happened to her.
Thus, during the days leading up to Samhain, when Hermione intuitively felt that something was horribly off, she simply relished in the awful prickle that pooled in her stomach.
An action Hermione found surprisingly easy. So easy, in fact, that when she received a letter from Harry asking her to attend a small get together for the holiday the witch had scribbled back: of course, see you then and determined that this time she would go.
Hermione's fingertips followed the thick edges of the letter, her gnawed off fingernails bending and warping the corners, as she walked to the apparition point just outside of the castle. It had been weeks since she had spoken to either of her boys, not due to any lack of their trying. Their letters piled up underneath her bed, where she had flung them, unopened and unanswered.
It was only because that bloody owl Errol, fluttering around her until she opened the letter, that she even read it.
Thinking about Harry and Ron was difficult. While she had settled on finishing her education; Harry and Ron decided to pursue careers as Aurors. They seemed fine, as if nothing had happened, and it made her feel numerous things she didn't want to confront just yet. At that moment it was mainly resentment. Shame that she had pushed them out, and resentment that they had allowed her to do it. That they hadn't tried harder to keep her.
They didn't need her anymore and that knowledge taunted her.
With a sigh, the witch stuck the letter in the pocket of her dark traveling coat and apparated a mile from the Burrow. Underneath the cloak, Hermione still wore her new school uniform. Albeit somewhat wrinkled, she still made sure she looked smart in a clean shirt, sweater, and tie, and skirt and tights. To be truthful, it was the only clothes she had that fit her bony frame anymore.
And, what was the point in getting new clothes, anyway. It was not like she went anywhere off the school grounds, usually.
After the ground solidified again underneath the witch, it took a moment for her to regain her bearings. Hermione could make out the lit windows of the Burrow in front of her. It would take her twenty minutes to get there. More than enough time to prepare herself to face the suffocating atmosphere that she knew would press into her once she entered the misshapen house.
With a resigned sigh, the witch took one step forward just before a dim blinking drew her attention away from the Burrow and towards her left.
She couldn't make out exactly what had drawn her notice. It was another light-not the cool light of a house-but something hot and out of place. Turning her body, Hermione made her way towards it, curiosity easily outweighing the dread of being in the Weasley home.
The closer she got the clearer it became that what she was looking at was a fire.
Was it a bon-fire?
Hermione began to suspect that it wasn't a stacked pile of wood burning, but rather the field itself.
Speeding her pace up, the witch stumbled through the tall weeds to ascertain the situation. If it was a truly a burning field, then there was no doubt in her mind that it would spread towards the Burrow. Her heart beat in her throat as she stood in a whirl of smoke, her suspicions confirmed as fact. The field burned in small clumps that unfurled to connect with each other. This was bad-she had to do something now or it would get even more out of control.
Before she was able to make a decision on her next action, just a little farther away, the witch spotted the silhouette of her two wizards back to back. They stood as they had always practiced during their make-shift DADA lessons. One holding up a shield from the fire and the other scanning the field.
Just like old times.
She sped up, waving at her friends. The last few months melted from her mind; this was what I've been needing, Hermione realized, this is what was missing.
This is the cure.
"Harry, Ron!" Her voice rang louder than the cracking of the burning brush as she rushed forward, hopping over torched ground and sparking grass.
The figures turned abruptly toward her as she got closer, making unease suddenly haze her mind as she realized something wasn't right. They were taller than she remembered, imposing figures that made her heart speed up. Those weren't her wizards. She skidded to a stop, and as a flash of fire erupted in front of them the witch saw a wand extended towards her.
A sting erupted in her arm and Hermione flew backwards to the ground, the impact making her wand fly across dirt and sooty weeds. The figure who had been scanning the field drew towards her, the silver designs of his mask suddenly clear from the flickering lights.
This isn't real, the witch tried to tell herself, they don't exist anymore. This is just some horribly vivid dream, a delusion.
It had to be a delusion.
Still, panic tumbled through her body as he stomped closer, before crouching down to rip the cloak from her body to throw it at the Death Eater behind him. He pulled a knife from his side and before Hermione could move away, the very real wizard roughly grabbed her hand to bring the blade to it.
"Don't do that!" Her scream echoed as she kicked at his body. Unperturbed, the Death Eater cut open her palm. The sudden pain bringing tears to the witch's eyes.
"Cras ac nocte tempus-" Droplets of blood fell to the dirt as the wizard whispered, the words becoming white noise to the witch as a sudden dizziness took her over.
Seemingly finished, the Death Eater dropped her hand to stand up, and the witch scooted backwards. Through the smoke, just beside her, Hermione saw her wand. Grimacing at the pain that stung her arm, she crawled towards it.
With the wood clutched in her good hand, Hermione turned to curse him, but stopped. Light brown hair and grey eyes met hers. His cruel eyes crinkled as he looked at her tentatively, as if waiting.
Waiting for what?
Shaking the question from her head, Hermione brought up the wand, the words of the curse on her lips. Before she could say them, the words melted on her tongue as the world began to fade.
The smirk that took over the Death Eater's face brought a cold wash through her body as everything she knew finally dissipated into darkness.