They criss-crossed the Castle using the mirrors trying to hit and run to avoid those Death Eaters Hermione knew they couldn't take. Appearing suddenly as reinforcements for beleaguered defenders seemed to work. She passed out refreshments and wands and emergency medical attention. Moppet shot Mulciber off a fourth floor staircase. The protective spells that would've caught him had failed when the wards crumbled. Colin Creevey threw up when he saw the result as Cathal pulled him into cover.
She dragged the boy into the Great Hall, ordering him to stay there to defend Madam Pomfrey. The school matron didn't even blink when Hermione handed her a caddy of potions though she did ask what the purple liquid was when she noticed the Head Girl gulping it. Energy drinks got passed around too.
Marcus Flint grabbed two bottles and fed one to a recumbent Oliver Wood as the latter waited for the skin on his legs to heal from charred black to scarred pink. The Slytherins exchanged a speaking look as Rosier handed over an oak wand to replace the Gryffindor's burned one. Wood, away with the fairies courtesy of a double-strength pain potion, invited her to their wedding.
Hermione didn't look at the rows of bodies at one end of the Great Hall. She couldn't help but think of them as failures on her part. She'd known and she hadn't saved them. Moppet took her hand, steering her out of the chamber. The house elf had meant to find them a quiet place where her friend could catch her breath. What they found instead was a pack of werewolves.
Fenrir Greyback had been generous with his gift. The marginalised and disenfranchised and power-hungry had swelled his packs. They had little of the traditional culture of the skin-changers, not that much of it had survived the pogroms post-Statute of Secrecy. They were shock troops and they were flooding into Hogwarts already half-morphed.
"There's so many of them." The statement ended in a gulp. Hermione pivoted to stare at the witch suddenly at her elbow. Lavender Brown, smoke smeared and resolute. She was shaking but she had come out to stand guard over the impromptu infirmary. "Confringo and hope for the best?"
"I need you to cast your hair change charm." Granger had been reluctantly impressed when her dorm-mate had devised an improved tinting spell for hair that actually changed the texture and hue. Although Cathal knew now how she'd done it she still considered the charm itself innovative. It altered the structure of the hair shaft follicle by follicle. "Get as many of them as you can, as strong as you can do it."
"If you say so." The bubbly blonde's face showed clearly she thought the Slytherin was raving but Rosier was a madwoman with a plan so she went along with it.
They cast in tandem, Hermione piggy-backing a transmutation spell onto the hair charm. It was fiddly and she could do it only because after years of sharing a dormitory she knew Brown's magic by feel well enough to blend their workings. If McGonagall had been marking they would've scraped in with an EE but it did the trick.
The werewolves screamed as their hair turned to silver. Not just the colour or the bright sheen, the metal itself grew from their skin. Embedded in their flesh, linked to their blood by the vessels feeding the growing follicles, Selene's steel as pure as only magic could make it.
The weakest dropped from anaphylactic shock. It was an allergic reaction after all, though wizarding medicine didn't refer to it as such. The tougher, or more likely those far away on bloodlust, chemical joy, or wolf mind, kept coming. They tore their own skin open as their silver hair dug like splinters of unquenchable fire.
"Hair growth charm?" Lavender suggested, eyes burning bright.
"Everything you can think of." Hermione gripped the wand at her lower back to sustain the Shield Charm she cast over the three of them. "Polishing charms, Moppet. Keep the silver from oxidising in their blood." The house elf nodded as the lupine charge broke and faltered. "Medusae Comam!"
Lavender's honed talent for cosmetic charms showed in her finesse. Anyone could change a single target. Most could affect under half a dozen simultaneously. The Gryffindor tagged and altered the full two dozen charging through the courtyard towards the entranceway. Her magic stuck, giving Hermione the channel to modify.
The werewolves' hair grew into long, lustrous tresses, the weight of it pulling the strands straight until the Slytherin's spell hit. The Medusa hex did not work as well on metal so the transfiguration into snakes wasn't complete. The writhing, tangling, serpentine strands didn't need to bite their victims. Tripped up and bound, the silver burned until even the most bloodthirsty were howling in pain.
Then the trio switched to Blasting Curses to finish off their foes because they weren't going any closer to the lycanthropes then they had to. In the distance, someone howled. Fenrir Greyback. Hermione couldn't have said how she knew other than the instinctive memory of prey. She was sure it was him and she was sure he'd seen them.
"Inside!" Hermione pushed Brown, who clearly meant to stand her ground. "He's true-born, more resistant. We need back-up!"
A strategic retreat sat better with the Gryffindor, who legged it inside. Moppet and Hermione were right on her heels. Part of that was wanting to keep Brown from being alone with her potential murderer, and part of it was wanting to get Greyback inside the Castle itself not just the grounds. The witch had a plan for the werewolf.
Moppet veered off with Lavender, using elf magic to hide their scent. Once they were out of sight, Hermione slowed. Greyback had covered the distance in a frighteningly short time. He hesitated when he reached the doors suspecting an ambush. So she taunted him, which Hermione admitted to herself likely won the gong for Stupidest Thing She Had Ever Done.
"Slipped the leash, mutt?" She bared her teeth in a deliberately provocative gesture and added a flaunting shimmy just in case he had any scruples about attacking a nominal ally. The lycanthrope's interactions with Cathal had been tense. He'd been warned away from her several times. Yaxley had once drawn a wand on him to add a curse for emphasis.
They were alone. She could sate several of his appetites. Hermione was already turning to run when he snarled in response to her jibe. Her flight was the last lure; he'd never be able to resist running prey. Not that she looked behind her to check he was pursuing. She had to reach the dungeon stairs before he did. It was literally a matter of life or death.
Her plan wasn't to fight him. She and Brown had been lucky with the pack; newly turned and caught between forms the werewolves hadn't been at their best. It took years to adjust to a body. Cathal knew that personally. Greyback had had those years and all the right instincts and the peculiarly human viciousness beyond even rabid animals. He struck where he knew it would hurt most.
Hermione was confident her trap would've worked. She could feel the thrum of the Castle in her bones. Her locus mark on the steps would have given her the control boost she needed to close the corridor behind her. Right behind her. She had her intention sharp in her mind; squishing Greyback between the walls like paté. Not even a werewolf could survive that.
So intent on her goal, Hermione ran right past the dark figure. She registered his presence only when her hindbrain recognised the pattern of movement that meant 'drawing wand'. The automatic reaction of dodging away almost bowled her off her feet. She had her own wand up though, and casting a Shield Charm as the flash of green light lit the Entrance Hall.
Fenrir Greyback was dead before he hit the ground.
"Filthy." Antonin Dolohov spat. He gave the werewolf no more consideration than that. He turned to face her, incongruously holding out a hand to her as though offering to escort her home. "Are you hurt, Miss Rosier?"
"Ah, no." Hermione fancied she could hear her mental gears grind. "He didn't touch me."
"I could skin him, if you like. A wolf hide rug as a memento." The Death Eater smiled sheepishly at his awkward joke. She realised with astonishment that he was trying to flirt.
"No, thank you." Dropping her Shield Charm against all instincts, Hermione assayed a laugh. It echoed hollowly. "He probably has fleas."
"I do not doubt it." Dolohov chuckled. He twitched his arm, the chivalrous gesture more imperious now. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You should..."
Hermione never got to hear what he thought she should do. Dolohov cut himself off, twisting and lashing out with the purple flame curse with which she was intimately familiar. Paranoia or excellent hearing had warned him of the rapid approach of an enemy. She hadn't heard them over her own heaving breath and pounding heart. Fear was said to sharpen the senses but for Hermione it filled her head with white noise.
Or maybe it was the purple curse. The witch felt her heart race. She was standing so close to Dolohov she could smell him; tobacco and leather and clean male human. He pushed her behind him, shielding her as he slashed his wand. He was very good with Dark Magic. Brilliant, really. He had created many of his own spells, including the curse that she could feel burning under her skin even in a second body.
That was psychological trauma, Hermione rationalised even as she drew one of her nasty surprises. She dropped the grenade at their feet. Thin white smoke billowed as the volatile Draught of Peace vaporised on contact with air. It engulfed them both but Dolohov didn't have a Bubble-Head Charm enchanted into his headgear. He staggered, she didn't. His body was already drooping like a wet noodle when she opened his neck with a slicing hex.
"Weeks, you bastard." Hermione hissed. "Dozens of potions for weeks. Food tasted like ash and I couldn't sleep and it ached so badly I thought I'd never be rid of it." She kicked him onto his back, hopping away from the spraying arterial blood. Her spell had cut vertically along the carotid, so close to him she could place it precisely, and he bled out before the Draught could slow his heartbeat.
"Miss Rosier." Details like the identity of Dolohov's foe intruded on her revenge.
"Professor Lupin." Hermione blinked. She'd saved his life. The realisation made her grin. "Lovely to see you."
He frogmarched her back to the Great Hall and made her sit down, waving Madam Pomfrey over so she could examine the Slytherin witch. Lupin had evidently assumed her delight in his presence was the lingering after-effect of a Confundus or more likely given the source a Dark compulsion charm. Her former teacher hovered as the matron cast diagnostics.
"Nothing." Madam Pomfrey said after two minutes of concentrated work.
"Nothing?" Remus Lupin raised both eyebrows in frank surprise.
"Nothing beyond the usual, which I can't do anything about and Miss Rosier wouldn't consent to undo, I wager." The older witch fixed a heavy stare on the younger, who shook her head. When Cathal had begun her unofficial apprenticeship in the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey had diffidently offered to help her with the blood magic, what little she could do anyway. Hermione suspected Hogwarts had used something akin to Siglinde's protections as there were only so many ways to stuff a spirit into a body. She politely refused the offer. She didn't want to be cut loose before she could finish her mission.
"I am naturally this quixotic, Professor." Hermione lied because it seemed the moment to do so. "Chalk it up to adrenaline." She chuckled, infinitely relieved she was alive. "Or maidenly scruples. Dolohov was courting me."
"Do you need anything?" The matron asked in coded language. She'd had to ask too many of her students that question. Miss Rosier's firm negative was a relief. "I have to see to the wounded, excuse me."
"What was that thing you dropped?" Remus asked, his tone insistent.
"Modified potion." Hermione hooked a thumb in her bandoleer to bring it to his attention. A gentleman and married, he had not been looking at her chest. "I know what I'm doing, Professor. I'm no threat to you and yours." His courtesy was limited. He couldn't hide his scepticism. "Bellatrix Lestrange personally promised the Dark Lord she would, I quote, 'prune her family tree'. I think you should find your wife."
The best Defence Professor she'd ever had studied at her with misgiving. He looked more rubbed at the edges than usual, restive too. His wolf didn't like uncertainty. She met his gaze for a moment challengingly then let her eyes slide off his face, turning her head away to bare her neck. If he couldn't bring himself to trust her at her word perhaps she could convince him another away.
"You don't smell of fear." Remus didn't like to bring attention to his nose. Sniffing people was what animals did. "Not nearly enough. Not nearly enough wolf either, to be as angry as you are." He leaned close, caught by the ghost of a scent. Something familiar but too distant to place. "What are you?"
"Finally, the flesh reflects the madness within." Hermione quoted. Those words had stuck with her indelibly. Most of that evening was branded on her mind, as was the regret they hadn't killed Pettigrew then and there. "I'll explain everything, Professor, but not now. Go protect your wife."
He hesitated but he went. He didn't trust her but the guilt of not trusting Sirius, of thinking him a murderer and condemning a friend to prison, compelled him to take the chance now. Hermione watched him go. Perhaps he wanted to believe those beyond the Veil had sent help. She hoped he wasn't disappointed with the truth.
"Damn it." The witch sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. Her eyes were gritty. Her chest ached.
"Yous knows worse words." Moppet appeared at her shoulder, offering an energy drink.
"Sugar and food colouring. Nectar of the gods." Hermione twisted the lid and gulped. "Thanks."
"Moppet tidied up." The house elf quietly passed two jars for her witch to stow in her pack. "But thems in the courtyard is too much mess."
"The silver will inhibit their being raised as Inferi." She said then considered her own grammar. Should it be 'them'? Her phrasing had been clumsy. She was tired. Hermione finished the drink then offered her right hand to Moppet, who clasped it in hers. Magic flowed between them warm and welcome.
Oh how nice it would be to stay here, just we too, safe in each other's company, Hermione thought as she drifted with the last of the energy as it equalised between them. They could tuck themselves into one of the bolt holes and sleep through the worst of it. Surely they had done enough.
If she did that, she would never forgive herself. Granger wouldn't. Cathal certainly wouldn't. Hermione sucked in a deep breath heavy with blood and dust. She patted herself down, settling her wands and checking her pockets. Vials clinked. Little jars rattled. She reloaded her bandoleer and handed Moppet a restock.
"Do you have any bruise paste?" Susan Bones inquired as the redhead limped over to them. "You look like a tinker who's pinched an apothecary."
Hermione mutely handed over a small purple pot with a lid embossed with two raised dots; colour coded and shaped so she could identify it by feel. The Hufflepuff slumped down beside her and unaffectedly hitched up her skirt. An impressive contusion the span of two hands spread out from her swollen left knee.
"Try this instead." Hermione swapped the paste for her spray, demonstrating its use with a pass over the reddest part.
"Sugar!" Susan bit down on an obscenity at the sudden coolness then accepted what looked for all the world like a Muggle perfume bottle. The sort you could buy in a not very posh chemist. It was purple too, she noticed as she sprayed liberally.
"That's not curse damage." The bruise pattern was different, too irregular. Hermione dug out a coagulant 'candy' and handed it over. "For the internal bleeding." She was obscurely relieved when Bones popped the lozenge into her mouth without suspicion. "Suck don't swallow."
"Heard that before." The redhead's attempt at a saucy wink was ruined by a wince as she tried to straighten her leg. "No, I fell down a flight of stairs. Was blasted right off my feet. My Shield took the brunt of it." She eyed Rosier's knee guards. "Got any spare?"
Hermione used a doubling charm on her protective kit, functionally strapping up Bones's knee. The spray had done a good job of stopping the spread of the bruising but the swelling would remain for an hour at least. In ordinary circumstances, Madam Pomfrey could have charmed it away but under triage the walking wounded were left to mind themselves.
Voldemort called truce just as Bones was getting to her feet. The Hufflepuff swayed, sagging against the Slytherin. Moppet hopped up too, ready to catch the witch if she fell over but after a shudder Bones righted herself. She straightened her tied in an automatic gesture then laughed at herself before removing the potential garotte.
"We have to go out. For the wounded." Susan grimaced up at her feudal overlord and saw Rosier looked like she felt. "The dead..." She faltered. The taller girl nodded. "Is it wrong of me to not want to see them?"
"I don't think so." Hermione marshalled herself. "It doesn't get any easier."
They went out and back eleven times within the hour given them. They conjured stretchers for the wounded who couldn't bear the touch of magic in the wake of curses. Moppet Vanished swathes of masonry because the Castle resisted human spells. Bones reassured and consoled and directed until the words lost all meaning. Rosier emptied her pockets of medical supplies until she was down to aspirin and chocolate, the last of which she and Susan finished before dragging themselves out to begin the twelfth.
Harry Potter is dead!
The echo distorted the cheer but Hermione had heard that exultation in her nightmares for years. The Death Eaters flanking Hagrid as he bore his burden into the Castle took up the chant. It spread along the ranks of the dark mob, reminding Hermione of football hooligans though she couldn't for the moment think of any teams with solid black kit.
She went out with the rest of the defenders, seeing the shocked horror on her own face mirrored in theirs. Granger was shaking and even the memory of that anger was enough to jolt her into awareness. Hermione moved to stand next to Malfoy. He glanced away from his parents, dully recognised her then looked back. His hand twitched reaching for her almost of its own accord. She caught his fingers and he clung.
"Harry Potter is dead!" The Dark Lord Tom 'Voldemort' Riddle stood like a prophet proclaiming the apocalypse under a Dementor blackened sky. He said more but Hermione wasn't listening. She studied the ranks of the Death Eaters, picking out faces, picking out targets. She didn't have many tricks left but by the Furies she had enough to make sure the worst of them didn't walk away.
"Draco!" Narcissa Malfoy's siren call jerked her son out of his stupor. He stepped forward, pulling Cathal with him until she dug in her heels.
"If you give me nothing else, give me this." Hermione invoked the bond between them. "You owe me fealty, Malfoy. You will stand with me now."
"I can't." Draco said wretchedly, wrenching his hand away from her.
He crossed the courtyard but this time Voldemort did not embrace him. The Dark Lord was looking at her, a faint smile on his face as he caressed his wand with long taloned fingers. Hermione fought not to shudder. Even twisted in a fraudulent, cobbled together body, Tom Riddle had charisma. He was mad but he had power. So much power. She wanted him dead.
"Come, Cathal." He beckoned with a dancer's gesture. "Honour your father's sacrifice."
"Burn in Hell." Hermione snarled and activated the loci she had drawn in the courtyard. She'd been obsessive about this place. Fortunately Fate had set the battle in the same location otherwise she'd feel a bit of a twit. Shimmering barriers bisected the cobbles, rising up beyond head height to box in the combatants and cut off the Dark Lord from his enforcers.
"Potter, now!"
Later, she would be fairly sure she had shouted the call to arms. Perhaps it had been Narcissa Malfoy. Possibly the words were a mangled war cry as both sides surged forward; the Light flooding into the courtyard to rain spells on Voldemort while the Dark lashed out at the iridescent wall separating them from their master.
Hermione was on her knees from the drain of the magic when Harry rolled out of Hagrid's arms. The battle was in earnest now; a frantic final push. At sight of the Chosen One reborn, Death Eaters fled. The fanatics stayed of course. There was nothing else for them. Someone hooked her under the arms and hauled her back up the steps. A woman screamed.
When she blacked out, Hermione thought that was it, all done and dust to dust. She woke suddenly a scant moment later when icy water splashed over her face, abruptly cut off as a familiar and much welcome voice scolded Aquarius for their overzealous application of Aguamenti. Sliding sideways, Hermione fell into Moppet's arms.
"Shit." The witch groaned, rather letting down literary convention. Hermione hoped that wasn't her last word. She'd be rather embarrassed to go out on a dazed obscenity.
"Let go the shields!" Moppet commanded frantically. "Is too much out!"
Hermione clumsily closed the conduit between herself and the conjured barriers, the connection snapping back with force enough to make her body seize. Through their bond she felt her friend's worry and tried to reassure Moppet it would be alright but she couldn't find the words. Or her tongue to shape them. Or her lungs to breathe.
She felt as though she was unravelling, unwinding all of a sudden like a snapped elastic or cut puppet. Hermione fought with her eyes to keep them open, to see Moppet but the world as white at the edges. The reservoir broach burned cold against her skin. This was nothing like she had expected and Hermione feared it would get worse; that she would come apart like the frog she had dissected in science class.
Her world went red before it stopped.
