One
Hour: One
When does war begin?
Hermione thinks she could probably trace it back to her first year at Hogwarts, because a war began then, when Harry first met Voldemort as an opponent rather than a child. Or, perhaps, it was when Hermione first received her Hogwarts acceptance letter; when a young girl saw her world change, and the wizarding world saw another Mudblood. Or maybe it was when Dumbledore was murdered on a tower, in a structure of what was to be a haven for the Light.
Maybe it is bigger than just them though. War. Perhaps the first war just never really ended. Maybe it began with the start of time and the first Muggle-born. Tonks will tell her, days and days from now, that war just never stops - it builds, climaxes, ebbs, and builds again. But Hermione is not the sort of person who can believe in a world that can find no peace.
She watches the spirals of smoke, the wreckage of buildings, the blank air for a Dumbledore that is not there, the useless healer squad, the fires that climb the sides of the shops and homes until that is all you see, and then the team of Aurors that have come too late. She watches the Mark, bold and ugly above the chaos, and Moody's face grave and lined and spoiled with the acid of battles and hardships.
Ron's fingers are twisted in the fabric at the back of her shirt, and Harry stands just ahead of them like the last solid structure in the entire city.
And Hermione knows, with Lavender muffling her cries behind the scarf she has found under ash (Parvati... Parvati... Parvati, she says over and over again), that this is the start of war.
Day: 14; Hour: 8
It is over two weeks before the Ministry declares war. The Minister's voice is low and pressured, even when he tries to sound uplifting. Ginny sits and squeezes the carpet between her toes, and it is the only sound in the stillness of the room besides the crackle of the Wizarding Wireless Network and the rustle of Harry's clothes as he places his head in his hands.
Day: 24; Hour: 9
They have been in an Auror training program for ten days. Harry excels, Ron is easily frustrated, and Hermione is scared - though no one knows it.
The beginning is a period of confusion, and mixed up opinions that begin to erode and whitewash, until everyone is very unsure of where beliefs have taken everyone around them.
Hermione stands with Harry and Ron, with the Order, because this is where she belongs - but it still surprises her to watch some of the faces of friends and enemies come and go as they decide where it is they belong as well.
Day: 35; Hour: 7
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" The words are hissed and furious, and spit flies into his face.
Malfoy is in a rage as well. At first, he had been calm and unaffected, as if he had been relaxing on holiday instead of undergoing an interrogation. Once they realized the strong, burly looking Aurors weren't going to crack him, they brought in two men with a little more attitude. A little more of an anger problem.
Malfoy obviously doesn't appreciate the total lack of respect for him, his family, his person, or his space. His body has begun to tighten, the muscles pulling and contracting. It progresses, until his face has become hot red and his veins are throbbing green and blue on his neck, and his knuckles are white in their clutch to one another.
"We've got your little whore girlfriend with her arse up in the air a room over, begging us to fuck her for a pardon. I've heard how much you like cock, Mal-fuck, but you won't be getting off so easy. You'll be taking it like a bitch for your fellow Death Eaters in Azkaban by the end of the night instead." It is whispered in phlegm-cracked vowels in his ear, breathing spittle on his skin, the rage like a palpable storm around the three men.
The other Auror grins and leans back over, an inch away from his face, and sneers. "Unless you want to give us the information we want. Then we'll just let your inbred daddy have at your lily-white arse-"
"Get the fuck out of my face," Malfoy seethes, jerking forward just enough to hit his nose off the other man's.
It is the first time he has spoken in two hours, and his voice trembles with all the emotions that look as if they are trying to claw their way out of his skin.
"Oh," the Auror pulls back, laughing. "Thought of daddy's cock gets you a little excited-"
A trail of milky white, tinged with red, glides down the Auror's face in a sickly trail of phlegm and blood. There is a second, a pause of still air, where a person can swear the world has paused and is now free floating in time. Then, like glass breaking or a building exploding, the moment is thrown back into animated life.
Rapidly, Malfoy and the chair he is bound to are thrown backwards to the ground, and then the first Auror is throttling him. Big, scarred hands are wrapped tightly around that structured column of muscle and delicate bones, cutting off Malfoy's air supply. Blood froths at the corners of his mouth, and though his face is even redder from lack of oxygen, he looks pleased. That is until his cheekbone is shattered under those huge, imposing knuckles. Then he is back to being angry, but with no way to move his body to do anything about it.
The second Auror is yelling obscenities and Malfoy slander, but moves not an inch to mend the situation. Hermione is standing from her seat without realizing she is even doing so, her eyes wide and trained on the blond, because she is somehow sure that this will be the last anyone sees of him alive.
Then the door breaks into the room, and there are several men and then several more. Malfoy is dead, she thinks, his eyes shut and black rimming his neck. The first Auror, with the spit still trailing down the side of his face, has taken to attacking the wall when he is forced to stay away from the blond. The second is still, but eyes the rushing crowd with the floating son of a Death Eater as if he might Avada them all.
"Well," Hermione hardly hears over her own bewilderment and the surprised rush of her breath, but she manages to turn her eyes back to Kingsley, "I believe this went fairly well until the Auror lost control."
Hermione agrees. Ron is laughing at her side. Neville is in a slow state of shock to her right. Behind her, several more friends and allies in training who breathe in the same bit of silence.
"Why didn't they just use Veritaserum?" Neville whispers.
"Because of you lot. You're going to have to know how to interrogate without having truth serum on hand. We wanted you to see a real interrogation, and considering how long it may be before we get a..." Kingsley pauses as Moody stepped into the doorway of the other room. "Briefly - we decided to forego the potion, so you have a better understanding on tactics."
"That is really the best sort when it comes to the ferret." Ron grins and snickers into his hand.
Hermione sends him a sharp look, because this is far from a joke or a Hogwarts rivalry. This is real. This is life and death for another person, and it isn't anything to laugh about, no matter who the person might be.
"Timsfield is bound to be suspended without pay now. Not unless our lives are in danger are we allowed to attack a suspect or a prisoner. We must always maintain our self-control, even if other people or the situation is out of control. That goes with everything. As new members of the Order, you will be forced into situations much worse than this. Never. Lose. Control."
Day: 35; Hour: 8
There is a line through the world, she knows. She thinks this is clear now, though training and past experiences with Snape have told her that this line is not so easily defined.
Malfoy is the first she has seen from the other side that she both knows as a person, and knows that he did not come from in between but from the side of his father. She does not think she should have been surprised to see him there, but she had been. It has not been long since the last time, but she spent so much time looking at him for change, because so much has happened since. He has done so much since.
Ron is lighthearted because he knows Azkaban and torture stories, and repeats them out loud with Malfoy as the main character. Harry is quiet in the armchair, and it is with anger that he contemplates what he would have done had he been with her and Ron during the interrogation. Hermione is afraid of his anger, because it will grow, and there is already too much rage inside of him.
Day: 42; Hour: 1
Ron is the first to go fight, and all by chance because he was at the Ministry when the Aurors received the alert. Arthur said he had been excited to go, and would return in a few short hours.
Ron is gone for two days, and it is on the third day that he comes back to the Burrow. His feet are heavy and his voice silent, and the door to his bedroom clicks behind him before he answers any of them.
He does not come out for four days.
Day: 51; Hour: 9
The first time she had seen him in the cell had been the most surprising. They had been down at the holding cells to learn procedures, and how to handle prisoners, when Lavender had seen him. Most of their group consisted of ex-Hogwarts students or alumni, and 'Draco Malfoy' wasn't some thrown together mental image of a male with blond hair and a lot of arrogance. Rather, they knew him in the flesh, and could easily recognize him, even behind bars and prison grime.
He had sat, silent, even when Ron walked past the cell like he were parading his freedom. Hermione hadn't even looked, despite her overwhelming curiosity, and had thought she would do the same on the way back out. There had been a noise though, a scruff of clothing against cement, and she blamed it on that. Though it could have been just in her nature to look.
It wasn't remarkable. He had been a little dirty and unkempt, but it wasn't like he was sitting in his own filth and banging his head against the wall. There was nothing mind blowing about his actions at all. He simply sat there, and in her recollection, he hadn't even met her eyes. He had been reading something, pretending as if their presence was below his notice despite it all - perhaps he still felt it was.
It was just the fact that was the most jarring. Malfoy was behind bars. Was locked up. Was imprisoned in the Ministry on charges pending. Despite what she knew of him, it had been so shocking to look through thick metal poles and see a face she had seen a thousand times in corridors and packed classrooms. This was war, it told her.
The second time had been to escort the Auror taking her own prisoner down into the cells. Well, it wasn't so much her prisoner as a joint capture, but she was the only one who saw it through to the end, and the little man with no big part in Voldemort's circle had seemed like such a big deal at the time. She had been proud of herself and a bit smug walking that concrete line.
She had passed by so close he could have merely stuck out his hand and grabbed her by the arm. She was jerked to the left instead, and when she turned her eyes to where the Auror was staring in accusation, she met Malfoy face to face. His long, browned fingers were wrapped around the dark grey bars, and his face was smudged and mocking. Yet there was something very haunted about him, some characteristic to his expression that chilled her bones, but that she couldn't place. All she knew was that it scared her wits from her, and she only stood and stared for countless seconds that gaped and gaped the lines of endlessness.
He looked as if he were literally biting his tongue. As if there were a million things he wanted to say to try and devastate her, but that he knew he was in absolutely no position to say. Instead, he gave her one of the ugliest faces she had ever seen - an expression that needed no words at all. Her stomach rolled and acid burned the back of her throat.
It was the first time, looking back; she would realize that she always had the biggest reactions to Malfoy. The most intense responses to his actions, and sometimes for what seemed like no reason at all. They were good, or bad, or tremendously horrible, but always the most intense with him.
But for now, all she would realize was the boy in the cage. All she would see was the glint of desperation in his eyes, the tightening of his fingers, the sway of his body forward. She would feel fear rise up and prick her skin in a rush of waves, and have to battle to not step back.
He was a stranger, she saw, and remembers now, as she stares at the empty cell he had been inside. She could swear that she had never seen him before in her life. A stranger. And it had made her feel more cold and more afraid than she had ever felt over anything important so far.
Day: 59; Hour: 9
It is Harry's birthday, and the Burrow is packed with sound and people. Harry is laughing, and when he pulls her up from the couch as Fred puts on some of the worst music she has ever heard, she does not care that she is not a great dancer and will step on his feet - neither does he.
Day: 78; Hour: 8
She has seen Grimmauld Place before, which houses only a few members of the Order. The rest of the rooms are left for offices, emergency guest rooms, or meeting places. Besides a short one-night stay there with Harry and Ron, she has slept at the Burrow since leaving Hogwarts.
Her parents are somewhere that even she does not know the location to - the Order told her that it was crucial for her parents to be safe and hidden as early as possible. There are also Ministry-approved wards for her other family members, which is the best the Order could do as means of protection for them. With nowhere to stay in the Muggle world, and the need to be in the wizarding one to fight, her most obvious choice had been the Burrow.
The lopsided and dirt-stained siding of the house in front of her is the first bit of evidence she has seen that there are other Order shelters in England. Inside, it radiates starkness. There are no pictures, knick-knacks, or scattered notes on the latest Weasley twin invention. There are no holes or marks on anything that comes with a story, or the smell of a home-cooked meal from the kitchen, or warm colors and soft smiles. There is white, and ugly worn brown, and more white. It is empty, save a purple couch in the living room and a small fireplace. There are shelves that line the hall, but nothing on them, and she meets no other sign of life until the kitchen. There, she finds a table and mismatched chairs, a sliding glass door to the backyard, and a few sorted items that let her know people are here.
"Ah, Lupin. I was wondering when you were going to show." A man stands from the table, worn and hard, and reaches out to shake his hand.
"We had some new information we had to check out first."
"Right. I've got it locked in my room, if you want to follow me..." The man makes his way around the table, not sparing her a glance.
"Hermione, just stay here a moment?" Lupin's fingers squeeze her shoulder warm, and though she is beyond curious as to what the mystery item they are retrieving is, she nods.
She watches the wind blow the branches of a tree from the glass doors, and the howling it makes whipping around the house. There is something about the place that creeps her out, and she thinks she may have gotten too used to the home and comfort of the Burrow. This was more like war, here. Stark and empty. This place houses the people quick on the run or to hide, who had no time or care to bring the small comforts of home with them. She imagines what it must have been like; to leave home, arrive in a place like this, and know that this is the beginning.
"Ready?" She turns, her eyes automatically following to his hands, though they are empty.
"Yes." She follows Lupin's lead back out of the kitchen, and there is a slight thump when he passes the hallway.
It is his turn to not spare a glance to the unimportant faces, but Hermione does. Draco Malfoy, and Pansy Parkinson directly over his shoulder, peer back at her. Her heart stops, hammers twice quickly, and starts in on an excited pace. She aligns the clean, scowling, questioning face with the mental picture of a dirt-streaked, scowling, desperate one, and it shakes her a little.
They both genuinely seem as surprised to see her as she is them, though Malfoy less obviously. His stance is protective, and she knows this because she has seen Harry and Ron do it countless times in front of her. He is tense and braced, and she is unsure whether he plans on attacking or being attacked.
She has passed, though, after that briefest second of a glance, and she refuses to look back over her shoulder at them. It is better to pretend they are just as meaningless as Lupin had made them out to be by ignoring them.
She, however, does not ignore their presence once the door is shut and it is just Lupin and her back out on the porch. "Why are they here?"
He sighs, a little weary. "Several reasons, I'm sure. I'm not in the know on all matters, but I would guess it has something to do with what Malfoy was offering."
"Offering?"
"Funding. They gave him Veritaserum, I know that much. He's not after anything but a little peace maybe."
"He doesn't deserve peace." Hermione's voice is harsh and quick, and she feels her cheeks warm with anger and conviction.
"Maybe. The point though, is that they are after bigger things than young Malfoy. They can make an example out of him, or they can use him. It's far more rewarding to our side to choose the latter. I'm sure, if his presence here tells us anything, it is that the Order is now making up for all those money shortages we've been so worried about by having access to a few packed vaults at Gringotts. I'm also sure all this new information being processed at Headquarters is from Malfoy, as well as the three feet of parchment on my desk about how to de-ward the Malfoy Manor."
"So..." Hermione shakes her head. "So, he just gives them some money and he's an Order member now? Meanwhile he killed-"
"No, no. He's been granted immunity. Which means if he doesn't screw up even marginally, he gets to stay in that lovely little house until the end of the war. No more jail time, and no more watching his back for angry Death Eaters."
"The Death Eaters are angry with him? I-"
"Well if they weren't before, I'm sure they are now."
"It doesn't matter, Lupin! He-" He turns, his expression stern.
"I know what he did, Hermione. Trust me, the only thing I want to do when I see him is..." Lupin shakes his head, regaining something Hermione does not have at the moment. "There are other reasons that the Ministry must have. Yes, he broke Death Eaters into the school, and yes, he attempted murder. I don't know why that's not worth a prison sentence now, but it will be worth something later - do you understand?"
"It doesn't make sense for him-!"
He smiles, like she was a child, and she is offended. "Most things in life don't, Hermione."
Day: 103; Hour: 5
In war movies, depending on the uniforms, she always wonders how they could tell between friend and foe. It is always portrayed as the simplest, most basic thing in a battle, besides perhaps 'duck and shoot'.
However, it is a lie. It is one of the worst lies of all.
She can hardly tell the difference at all. Some she can see their hoods, pointed and telling. Others, she can see the patch of orange on their robe sleeves that let her know Phoenix. But the vast majority stands in black and black, in rows and crowds of people she cannot identify. It is the most confusing, frustrating, damning group of billowing black that she has ever seen.
She has shot four people from the Order, including Justin Finch-Fletchley, with Stunning spells. She is only glad that they do not use the Unforgivable Curses. Even if they did, she now could not trust herself to. There are only two Death Eaters that are stunned from her wand, and only one that she had been positive was actually the enemy.
There are figures approaching and fighting around and toward her, and she stands in the middle, helpless and lost. Her hand is shaking just barely, but her shoulders are trembling. Her trainers slip and sink in the mud, and her eyes are useless in the smoke and the dark. There is a shadow coming at her from the corner of her eye, and two more to the right, another in front of her, and she does not know.
Friend, foe, friend, foe? Friend or foe... friend or foe... Panic seizes her, and her breath is gasping into her lungs more heavy than air should ever be. She cannot feel her heart, but she can feel the brutal ache from the force with which it pounds. Sweat is running down her neck and back, and making the grip on her wand looser than it should have been. Frantically, her wand flies to the left, the right, and she circles round and round, and thinks to scream. To scream and cry, and then the least brave thing that she has ever thought suddenly slams itself into the forefront of her terrified mind.
She will hide. She will pretend as if she was hit by something, and she'll lie on the ground, and pretend to be dead. Play dead. Play dead, that is what she will do. Suddenly, there is nothing in the world she wants more than to bury her face in the mud and not look up or breathe until she can hear no more.
She hates herself for the thought. It makes her sick, and she screams and screams inside her head, because she is not that person. She is not the scared coward in the mud, and this is her war. This is her war, and she won't give them the satisfaction.
She is lost, though. Hermione is so completely lost, and her hand is shaking uncontrollably as she swings her wand back to the left. She slides in the mud, almost trips, and it forces her to gasp and vocalize her fear. The figure to the right pushes closer, and she knows she will Stupefy them despite not knowing who they are for. Because this is life and death, she knows. Because these are Death Eaters (possibly, possibly), and they do not Stupefy. They do not.
There is a flash of yellow and it misses her hip by just an inch, halting her heart. Her stomach caves in with the air choking out from her tight throat, and she's crying. She's crying without meaning to, or even really noticing, but she is. Because she does not want to die. She is eighteen, and scared, and she does not want to die.
Her throat clicks wetly as she tries to force that hard knot back down into her gut, and she is certain of her actions as she points her wand to the one responsible for that jet of yellow.
"Stup-" She is falling then, forward, frozen.
She has seen no color, but there was a burst of pricking warmth at the center of her back. Her bones are locked, muscles stilled, and she topples like a mannequin. The mud is wet and cold and thick, and the irony over being face down in it now is not lost on her. It makes her want to cry harder, could she move the necessary parts to do it. Instead, she watches blackness and tries to breathe, but the mud is thick in her mouth, and blocks the oxygen from her throat and lungs.
Please, please, please, she cries in her head, pushes all her magic and power behind trying to unlock herself.
There are screams and yells, and the sounds of the battle she has heard for an hour now. She feels strangely detached now, though, and thinks she will die here. She will die here, in the mud for the Mudblood, and she will never see the sun again. There will only be clouded shadowed figures, fear and heartache, and then this grave of mud and rainwater.
There is a hand, then, as she laments, and the grip is almost painful as it throws her onto her back. She is expecting a mask, or a familiar Slytherin face, keen on mocking or torture. Instead, it is only Neville standing above her, digging mud out of her throat with a trembling hand as he sobs his apologies.
Day: 123; Hour: 11
"Can't you feel it? It's like it's... like it's in the air. I mean, it's happening. Really starting to happen." Ron looks up from a corner-tattered copy of some Quidditch magazine he's read a hundred times over, and looks first to Harry.
Because Harry can feel it and he knows this. Because Harry has felt it for years and years, exactly as they feel it now, and there is no one who understands that hollow ache in your gut more than Harry does. There has been a lot of fear now; it surrounds them like a wet, suffocating cloth. They feel as if they've lived with it for the longest time, but not quite like this. The most fear is in the unknowing. In letting one's mind wonder at the possibilities.
But they are brave. They are Gryffindors, and they are friends, and they cannot afford to be afraid now. Especially for Harry's sake, if not the whole world. He is greatness in this room. Larger than life, and yet the smallest boy she has ever seen. His destiny has outweighed his heavy head.
"All it means is that we won't be the only ones trying to fight him now. Voldemort's stronger now, and now we have more help to defeat him. It's just like it has been though." Hermione tells them, because she knows it's important that Harry thinks it doesn't get even worse than it already has been.
He has lost too much already.
Ron's bright, painful blue eyes meet hers, and they dig down for purchase in her conviction. He knows it is not like it has been, and Harry probably knows this as well. She also knows that Ron is the sort of friend who will tell Harry the full truth of the world as he sees it, and perhaps this is why Harry sees him as the better friend. But Hermione still knows what's best for him anyway. At times, we need to hear the lie to keep living the truth. That is the world.
Ron falls into a moment of understanding that she does not take for granted, because it could pass as easily as the sun behind a cloud. But he understands, and nods, and returns to his magazine while she gropes for a different subject.
"I think we should drink tonight. Ron, when do your parents leave for that meeting they were talking about?" Harry is tinged with mischievousness, and it thrusts back into her face that he is only nineteen, and they are still just children yet.
Ron's eyes dart the room with the excitement of possibilities, as if there were people lurking in the corners, and he stares at Hermione for several seconds. She thinks to say a lot of things, but instead she only smiles and shakes her head, and he grins in the way that used to break her heart.
They would be all right. They were one, two, three and together, and they would be all right.
Day: 131; Hour: 17
"Team A will come in here, B here, C down and up, and D along this route. Do not separate from your team! When you are at your destination, alert the other teams by way of the coin as we've done the past two months. When all teams are at their designated areas, you attack as a unit- What, Thomas?"
"Well, do we just... just full out charge or-"
"I'm getting to that. Pay. Attention."
"Sorry, sir."
Moody isn't in that great of a mood today. He isn't most days. His eye rolls, and he wipes the sweat from his temple, scowling and fierce. He turns back to the complicated map at the front of the room, retracing routes with his wand again. He takes a few seconds to collect himself before explaining the rest of the mission.
Hermione is attentive; despite that she knows it won't be that hard. She has learned to tell such things by who was in the room with her. Despite the presence of a handful of Aurors and senior Order members, it was mostly younger, more inexperienced fighters sitting around the meeting table now.
So when Ron jokes about how twitchy Dean is, or mocks Lavender for trying to see her reflection in the table surface, she pays attention to him and laughs a little too. Because it's nice not to be so swept up sometimes. Because she thinks she might just break and crumble under everything if she doesn't smile at how immature Ron can be, or how quirky her friends were.
However, that night, Luna Lovegood dies across the room from her, and eight more are injured badly. Hermione learns to never judge difficulty level by who is going in. It is war, and people die - in small battles, or big battles, or brushing their teeth in the morning. No one is safe anymore.
She cries herself to sleep for days.
Day: 140; Hour: 4
She walks onto the Malfoy Manor yard, and raises her chin up so high she might begin to float.
She has an appointment with Tonks here today, in one of the many rooms that have been put to use as offices. The rest are used as boardrooms, tactic rooms, and living quarters. A fallout shelter was created in the dungeons, and the entire West wing is used as an infirmary and lab for potions. It serves the Order well.
Tonight, she will go back to the Burrow for her birthday celebrations. Though Tonks offered to reschedule for tomorrow, Hermione insisted on the original date. It is a gift in itself to know that she can now walk on what used to be a Death Eater stronghold.
Every step of her feet on that protected Pureblood-supremacy grass makes her lips form a smirk worthy of a Malfoy.
Day: 144; Hour: 12
Ron and Harry both look up at her with wide eyes, clutching their stomachs and participating in some melodramatics. Hermione sighs and tries to ignore them, even though she knows it's of no use. Knew it was of no use the moment they asked.
"I can't cook that well."
"You can do everything well." This is Harry's way of buttering her up.
"Except flying, or not talking or something." This is Ron's way of being Ron.
"What is this for? Food? 'Cause I'm hungry too!" Terry tosses in after an uneventful trip to the pantry.
"I can't be the only Muggle-born here-"
"You are-" Ron starts.
"Or the only one awake." Harry gives her his innocent smile, even though they both know better.
"And since we're not allowed to use magic here for some reason-"
"Because-" she tries.
"Right." Terry nods, though he hasn't known her long enough to be able to cut her off like that, so she glares extra hard at him.
Ron laughs, Harry grins. "I know how to cook a little, but I burn things."
She personally thinks Harry is lying through his teeth. "So do I-"
"Please, Hermione! I'm starving! We're dying! We only want some food." Ron is seconds away from panting and licking the tabletop by the looks of him.
Hermione sighs, glancing at the clock that tells her Tonks won't be at the shelter house for another four hours at least. Which means she could sit and wonder more about where Tonks is supposed to take them after this, or she can make breakfast and get her friends to shut up.
"Fine, but if I burn down the house, we're blaming it on Ron."
"Hey!"
Day: 147; Hour: 16
Her alarm tells her it's half past four in the morning, and some Moody-sent Auror will be at the house to greet her in forty-five minutes. She has winded down the stairs, crossed the kitchen, and put on her coffee before she even really notices the three people sitting at the table. It isn't Neville, Lavender, and Justin like she thought, but Malfoy, Parkinson, and the plump man she faintly recalls seeing Lupin shake hands with.
"Miss Granger." He deems her important enough for recognition now.
"Sir," she croaks, nods.
Parkinson looks at her briefly, and Malfoy is busy trying to light the table on fire with his glare. She blinks and thinks, staring at the coffee maker, and tried to make sense of their presence. Perhaps their location had been found out somehow, though it would be impossible without a leak from the inside. She thinks of what she can say to properly convey how she feels about them (him) being there, but is coming up empty.
"What the hell are they doing here?" Justin, from somewhere behind her.
She opens her mouth to say something scathing, but only says, "I don't know."
"I'm here to transfer. Are you Blackwood?" the man spoke up.
"I'm Finch-Fletchley. Transferring what?"
"You're not at liberty to know."
"Not at liberty to know? Not at... You bring a Death Eater and his little-" Malfoy's full attention is now directed at Justin, his palm braces against the table, and his body is tight and waiting.
"Justin-" Hermione whispers.
"No. No. You bring that fuck here, then you're going to tell me I can't know why? That Death Eater elitist piece of shit, contaminating my air with his-"
Malfoy shoots up, the table popping and scraping, and Parkinson is up directly after him. "Draco."
She reaches out a hand to calm, but it's batted away with a hard smack. "Perhaps your shortage of brains is the reason Pureblooded elitists think Mudbloods like yourself-"
"Draco-"
"-are useless pieces of scum and dirty flesh. I'm not a fucking Death Eater-"
Justin is rushing toward Malfoy now, and Malfoy is yelling to be heard over Justin's inarticulate screaming. The portly man is standing and blocking, screaming back at both of them.
"Touch him and it's over, Draco! Touch him and it's fucking over!" Parkinson is frantic, hoisting herself up and clambering over the table as Malfoy attempts to get around the bigger man.
"You want to attack me! Come on! Come on, you sick piece of shit! You scum! You fucking... fucking... dick. You mother fucker! You Narcissa fucking mother fucker!" Justin is screaming, and on the verge of crying, clawing at the man to try and get to Malfoy.
It is the accumulation of years of withstanding prejudice and Malfoy's sneering face. It is the outcome of a war fought over these same prejudices. It is the breakdown of a man who faces the hooded, masked figures of racism over the bodies of his friends, and remembers Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy, who had been screaming so hard his face and neck were red and his tendons were bulging, is silent. Who had been shoving and squirming and stepping quick on his feet to try and bypass the man he had come with, is now still. His shoulders and chest rise and fall quickly with his labored breaths, and he is calming, while Justin just grows more frantic.
He yells something about a bathroom, and then a desk, and then parchment, then a noisy stair (or perhaps nosy stare). He has reached hysteria, and it is ugly, and powerful, and raw, and Malfoy only stares in the wake of it. Can only stand and watch, and listen to the madness on the other side of the human wall. The color has drained from his face, and he's so still it's painful, and he does not look away from Justin's wet eyes for a second. Parkinson is standing on the tabletop and staring too, and Hermione cannot find the will to tear her eyes away.
"Justin." She says it, and it makes her come to her senses a little more, so she repeats his name again.
He doesn't listen, though she expects as much, and so she goes to him. Her grip is pushed off of him twice, and then he's yelling in her face and shoving at her, but only until he realizes what he's doing. Then, he is on his knees, and his head is bent, and his whole body shakes with the force of his crying. Words are muttered with no sense, wet and desperate like broken prayer.
Hermione follows him down and clutches at him, and her own eyes are tearing up, because she feels the waves of what he feels like something bruising and poignant.
"Get them out of here!" she yells. "Get them the hell out of here. Now!"
They have no right to see this. They are the reason for it, and they have no right to see him lose it like this over what they did. You don't show your enemy the pain they have caused you; the weakness that they inflect.
"Now!" Hermione screams, and there is movement finally, and it is not long before they are gone from the room.
"I just... I just..." Justin cries, and rocks, and shakes his head.
"I know, Justin. I know," she whispers, smoothed his hair, tries to lend the comfort she does not feel.
Day: 156; Hour: 1
There are twelve people sitting around the table at Malfoy Manor. At first, she thinks the low number is cause from people wandering and exploring the decadence of the Manor (much like she had done her first time here, as much as she tried to disguise her awe). However, it is now seventeen minutes into the laying out of the plan, and no one else has drifted through those heavy doors.
It was a plan that required at least double their current number. It was a dangerous mission even with the extra people. Hermione honestly can't see how they plan on keeping their force down so low.
She raises a hand, more timid than her school days but demanding all the same.
"Granger."
"Sir, is this it?" She waves a hand around the room.
His eyes follow the half-circle of heads in front of him before looking back to her. "It is."
"Sir, I... It just seems a little-"
"We're at a shortage, Granger. We don't have enough people for everything we have to do. This mission can be completed with twelve people. You'll make it work - do you understand?"
She doesn't. "Yes, sir."
Day: 169; Hour: 10
She heard through word of mouth that Malfoy has taken to fighting now, and it is something she very much does not understand. Though she knows that they have a shortage of people at times, she also has become the sort of person with him that does not want to give him the chance to redeem himself. The price they paid to even have him was too great.
Parkinson, it is said weeks later, has taken to fighting as well. Hermione is both unsure and unsettled with the news, but her life is busy, and she often forgets until she sees them in different places and realizes why they are no longer stationary in the house with empty walls.
Hermione herself does not understand why she pays so much attention to them. At first she thinks it is the same as everyone else; her eyes, ears, and mind are tracking them for the sake of her paranoia. Then, it is something more - a curiosity melded to her personality that she has never been able to shake. She watches them because they are different. She pays attention because the strangeness of their lives is a reprieve from her own. She is simply very aware of them, and is unsure if she is too aware for it to be normal.
Day: 180; Hour: 11
Twigs snap under their feet, but they are far enough away from any known danger to not be too worried over it. Exhaustion piled on top of hunger can make people have a strange and dangerous carelessness when it came to the world around them. They are focusing completely and single-mindedly on one task - getting to the camp Kingsley and Tonks had set up.
"It's should be just over this hill."
"They wouldn't put it at the bottom of a hill, Ron," Hermione pants out, swinging her bag back off her shoulder to adjust the weight.
"Why not? It's good for blocking."
"It's horrible for blocking! It would give anyone a perfect vantage point to spy on us."
Ron groans. "Well, whatever, Hermione. It's up here soon."
"I hope so," she mutters, because she is tired, worn, and it's easy to be afraid when dark hits.
It is just the two of them now. Harry is being kept safe by keeping him out of the missions until all the Horcruxes are found. A nasty arm injury scared the Ministry bad enough to want to pull him from anything that dangerous anymore. Harry was pretty upset over the whole thing, but settled once they put him on the Horcrux Retrieval Squad.
Hermione knows that Harry still hates being there when his friends are here, trampling through the woods without him. She also knows that Ron hates being here, instead of with Harry. At times, she thinks the only reason Ron is even still with her and not Harry is because they are afraid to leave her alone. Part of this is paranoia, but part of it is truth as well, and she isn't sure if this knowledge bothers her more than being alone would.
They rise over the hill, empty at the bottom. The decline is sharp and steep, and Ron grabs her hand before they descend. She thinks of pulling away, but he is warm and a friend, and she doesn't mind as much as she should.
Day: 193; Hour: 7
She has seen him many times now, in different shelters as she travels. It is the first time she has seen him less than brooding. Really, the first time she has seen him sleeping at all. His head is on Parkinson's shoulder, and there are bandages peeking up from beneath his shirt.
It is hard on him, Lupin has told her. They all want a piece of him to destroy.
She can't say she cares all that much, because it is hard on everyone. Because he has made the choices he made, and he has to accept the consequences of running around and trying to be a Death Eater when he was sixteen. Even if he were only sixteen at the time. If Harry had died fighting Voldemort at sixteen, he would have had to accept that damning consequence as well. Malfoy didn't get to get away with anything. He didn't get her pity.
Parkinson smiles, as she is in love with Malfoy, and always has been. Anyone with eyes at Hogwarts would have been able to tell you the same thing. Parkinson would have given her life for Malfoy in the blink of an eye, and would have married him even quicker. Malfoy's affections are a little less known, but only in the way that he likes to shag other girls, but he likes to sleep in the same bed with Parkinson. Or something to that extent. Hermione doesn't pretend to know their relationship, but she tries to guess at it when she has nothing else to do. She does know that in Hogwarts, while Pansy was making big eyes and warm smiles, Malfoy was busy getting blowjobs in the supply closets. Perhaps he was just the cheating, unfeeling boyfriend. Or maybe Pansy was just in love with a man who took what he wanted, and accepted nothing that would grieve him - like love.
She does think that Malfoy took a pain relief potion by the looks of the bottle rolling in Parkinson's hand, and happened to pass out unexpectedly. Hermione doesn't really take him for the type that would allow himself to sleep unprotected in front of people who are his allies, but, yeah, sort of his enemies too. Pansy looks as if she is thoroughly enjoying the peaceful moment, and Hermione lets her.
There will be time later to tell her that she'll be leaving with her in the morning.
Day: 206; Hour: 20
"Ron, my leg is fine. Completely healed."
"I didn't say anything about that."
"Oh. You were looking at it strange."
"I was thinking."
"Oh."
"New concept?" Seamus grins.
"What?"
"That he thinks."
"Piss off, Finnigan," Ron bites, and it's a lot angrier than she expects from him over something so small.
She waits until Seamus glares and leaves, and leans forward over the chess game sitting between them. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he snaps, pushes his chair back hard enough for it to knock over, and nearly storms from the room like a two year-old.
"Ron!" Hermione stands, and he stops, his back to her.
His head is lowered, and he's rubbing his hands on his pants like he does when he's nervous about something. Her heart counts the seconds, because she knows this is important and that it will not be good.
"I'm leaving."
It takes her a second to remember how to push a voice out. "What?"
"I'm..." He turns back to her, because he was never that weak of a person to not look someone in the face, no matter what he was saying. "I'm going, Hermione. To Harry. I'm going to be with Harry."
She stares, and blinks, and stares more. They haven't even been able to find out Harry's location for months now. Ron hasn't even mentioned wanting to leave her. Here. Leave here.
"You're... why?" She shakes her head, swallows dry air.
"I don't know. Lupin knows I wouldn't mind... really, and I guess Harry needs someone there, or something." Ron shrugs, a blush on his cheeks, and he's concentrating so hard on being the delicate one for once in his life.
Because Harry wants him. A friend, and it's him, and she'll be the one left behind here. They both will have gone and left her here, alone now.
"Oh."
"Hermione, I..." He steps forward. "I asked if you could come, but they weren't for it. I mean... I... he needs someone. Or else I would stay. But I can't just leave him - he's alone."
He is. She is. They all are a bit, right at that moment. Trapped in personal space.
"It's fine, Ron."
He knows it's not, or should at least, but he leans his head forward in that cute way of his that means he's buying it. "You sure?"
"Yeah." She shrugs, because she has always been self-sacrificing, and Harry matters more than she does now.
He always has, really. He is the Destined One. The boy who is supposed to save them all. Ron is the best friend. She is the girl who... well, she doesn't really know. She doesn't really have a clue what her title or position is, but she knows she loves them both, and she would rather be alone than let Harry be alone. He needs everything the most. She has always been willing to do her best to give that to him. To give both of them whatever they need.
His clothes are a little cold, and he smells like grease and mint, but it still feels good. He is both hard and soft, and feels odd pressed against her, though she can remember a time, just barely, in the past where it used to be the best thing in the world.
"You need to take a shower," she mutters against his chest, right next to his armpit.
She feels the muscle tense and then he pulls her tighter, until she can barely breathe. "Do I smell?"
He doesn't, at least not like anything bad, and she gives this away when she wraps her arms around his back. "Yes."
"Good. I'll linger after I leave then." He lets her go, because he is touchy but doesn't like to seem too affectionate.
She almost gets sappy and tells him he'll linger always, stench or no, but decides that there is enough sadness in war to not bring in anymore. "When are you leaving?"
"A few hours."
She nods, pulling her gaze up from the carpet. "Okay."