A/N: We are getting so close to the end! So far, I'm thinking it's going to be about three more chapters.

I wanted to thank everyone for their patience with the new posting schedule (which is to say, no schedule at all) and tell you how much I appreciate your reviews and follows. I know I didn't reply to many reviews last chapter, but I read every single one of them and they give me the kick I need to sit down and write.

Thanks as always to Iwasbotp for her beta read. Much love!

Chapter Twenty-One: To Move Forward

May 2005

Hogwarts

Hermione let loose a wracking cough, her ribs creaking. There was rubble in the corners of her eyes and clogging her nose. It tickled her ears as she moved her head. Was she lying on a boulder?

"Hermione!"

"G-George?" she coughed.

A bright red patch of hair entered her vision, followed by the grinning face of her friend. The last thing she remembered was the dizzying realization that the Order was going to lose. There was no hope, no future, and the generations of witches and wizards to come would bear the burden of their failure. It crashed over her like a wave, and she felt the static energy of her thoughts crackle down her arms just before she blacked out.

"Nicely done," George chuckled.

"I didn't mean to," Hermione complained.

George gasped. "Don't say that! When the destruction is this magnificent, one always takes credit."

There was a crowd gathering.

"Magnificent destruction?" Hermione repeated miserably as George pulled her upright. Every bone was cracked; she was absolutely certain.

He nodded and pointed upward with his finger. There was a large hole in the side of the Astronomy Tower. It leaned precariously towards the earth, rocking gently as if it couldn't decide whether to fall or not. Hermione assumed it was being held up by a quickly cast spell. What had she done? The tower was destroyed.

"Never did like that tower," George observed.

A laugh burst from her throat, followed by a cough. After Dumbledore's death, nobody but Hermione spent any time in it and even then it was only to escape the oppressive presence of well-meaning friends.

"Me neither."

Draco found himself in Hermione's quarters, sitting by her bedside and watching her belly rise and fall. The wounds on her torso from Lovegood's claws were resistant to healing spells, so it was being treated with bandages and an acrid poultice. The bandages were replaced every few hours as Hermione's blood seeped through the thin cotton wrapping. Draco would stand back and watch as Pomfrey and Narcissa lifted her from the bed with their wands, unwound the soiled cloth and replaced it with one that was bright and fresh. The sight bothered him in ways he couldn't articulate.

Draco's head was pounding with his heartbeat. The hit from Lovegood had broken two of his ribs, and the impact against the ground had knocked him out. He felt no small amount of guilt that he had been unable to help recover Neville and that both Hermione and Pansy had been injured while he was unconscious. It had taken a single blow from Lovegood's tail to render him useless in battle. When he woke, his ribs had been quickly repaired, and his skull mended, but the sting of shame remained acute.

There was fear hanging heavy in the halls of Hogwarts, for the Order's most potent weapon was an empty shell. Besides her physical wounds, Hermione's magical core - the wellspring from which all of her power flowed - had been nearly depleted. Neville Longbottom, who was a well-respected leader and a powerful ally, had been taken as a prisoner. Harry Potter was days from death. Nobody wanted to mention that both Bellatrix and Lovegood in their alternate forms were far more deadly than a small, pearl-colored Welsh Green and a thin, flameless Peruvian Vipertooth. If Hermione was unable to fight, then they were outnumbered, outmatched, and leaderless. With the enemy at the gates, the fight seemed doomed before it could even begin.

Draco chose to focus on Hermione. He cocooned himself in one of her blankets, awash with her scent and watched her stomach rise and fall, rise and fall. People came and went, but he paid them little attention. Twice before he had found himself in a similar situation. This time, there was no snow or flying objects, no frozen cemetery or sad witch with long, curly hair. There was also no way to reach her. It was as if her mind was empty, and her body left behind.

How many more times would he find himself like this? She would always offer her safety and well-being for the protection of others. He knew that she didn't plan on surviving the upcoming battle, and her indifference to her own life infuriated him. He was tired of watching her spend herself to near death, tired of standing to the side while she fought her way back. He was fucking exhausted by the sick feeling of helplessness that stole over him every time he reached out to her with his magic and encountered nothing but blackness. He would be terrified if not for the thin golden thread connecting them, and the smooth movements of her rib cage that indicated his beautiful dragon-witch was still in there somewhere.

Hermione's dragon form had stunned him. He had seen it once before, but only briefly when he had followed her into her meditative space. The first experience had stolen his breath. Seeing her in the flesh, all shining stormy blue scales and midnight-sky wings, long, white teeth, and azure spikes, had nearly driven him to his knees. It had been second nature to don his own scales and stand next to her, ready to battle. The Dragon had exulted in the opportunity to fight for her. He had reveled in the rage vibrating off her body and the scent of the fire burning in her throat.

Now his dragon was very still, lurking in the back of his mind. Ever since the ritual, he had acted like an unobtrusive guest. It was unsettling. The beast should have been clawing at him, demanding that he take action, roaring for Draco to transform, take Hermione into his claws and fly away somewhere safe. It was something the human side of Draco had considered several times in the last twenty-four hours. Instead, his dragon sat silent, waiting and watching.

There was a very simple explanation for the change in Draco's beastly guest. The connection to Hermione was tenuous, and Draco worried that going too far from her might snap the cord, and he would lose her. He had left her side only briefly to check in on Pansy, before following the thread of their bond back to her bedside. The Dragon must be feeling much the same fear. They both observed the shining link carefully, cultivating the delicate magical filament as if it were the only thing keeping Hermione alive.

With a grimace at his own fanciful thoughts, he finished off his cup of tea, leaving Hermione in the care of Weasley and she-Potter to check in on his oldest friend. He refused to believe that her hold on life was so fragile, or that it relied entirely on him and the beast living in his skull. It was habit that kept a part of his mind focused on their connection, but it made him notice the sensation of Hermione's breathing, flowing through the bond like gentle waves. It gave him the strength to walk away, if only for a few moments.

Pansy had broken several bones when she fell. After an excruciating round of Skele-Grow, it had taken a Calming Draught to keep her from flying into the enemy camp and laying waste to every living creature within. It had been administered forcefully, while she kicked and screamed and threw magic from her fingertips. Draco had been with Hermione at the time, but apparently, it had taken four people to keep her contained. Theo and Blaise were in the hall as Draco left Hermione's room, both bruised and scratched.

"It's a bit safer now," Blaise offered. "She's slept for a bit."

"Is she more reasonable?" Draco knew better.

"No," Theo confirmed, fingering a scratch that looked newer than the rest.

Blaise narrowed his eyes at Theo, who promptly stopped picking at his wound. "She wants to attack."

"She's right," Theo growled, his temper bubbling to the surface. "We need to destroy them."

"We will." Draco clapped him on the shoulder. A silent agreement passed among the three of them, to either bring Neville back home alive or avenge his death. The man had become one of them, and not just because Pansy had claimed him.

Persia and Narcissa bustled about the small room, folding clothes and tidying the few things Pansy had collected during her time at Hogwarts. His fiery best friend was lying on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling, with her long, black hair forming a halo around her pale face. Draco didn't ask how she was doing when he sat beside her on the bed, only wrapped his fingers around her arm.

"Do you think he's dead?" she croaked.

"I don't know." Draco knew platitudes wouldn't help.

"I hope he's dead," Pansy whispered, a tear sliding down her temple.

The old Draco would have agreed; death was preferable to the kind of pain and humiliation Alecto and Bellatrix would wreak. The new Draco understood the value of saving a life, even if it meant crawling out from a bottomless pit of darkness.

"Do you think she killed him?" she repeated unevenly.

"I don't know, Pans."

"He'll be broken. Like Lovegood." She sucked in a breath. "That bitch!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Persia broke in, she folded the edge of Pansy's sheet back, then smoothed it. "They won't break him."

"They likely won't have time," Narcissa interjected reasonably. "The battle is imminent. Not even Alecto can destroy a person in only a few days."

"He's a strong boy," Persia continued. "These Gryffindors can withstand horrors none of us can even comprehend."

It was the most profound statement Persia Parkinson had ever uttered, besides being uplifting and insightful. It didn't matter that Draco and Pansy knew better. They knew what Neville faced; they had both seen what was left of prisoners being carried out of the basement of Lestrange Manor in bags. Pansy patted her mother's hand, briefly stalled by her mother's unexpected sensitivity.

"You're right," she lied.

The two women left a moment later, Persia to procure some food from the dining hall and Narcissa to look in on Hermione.

"I can't bear it." Pansy had her hand pressed against her ribs, trying to stifle a pain that was far from physical. "How did I let this happen?"

"There was nothing you could do," Draco offered, though he knew she wouldn't believe it. "It took us all by surprise."

"Not that." she hiccuped. "How did I let myself fall in love?"

Draco jerked away, shocked. "You're in love with him?"

A sad chuckle from Pansy, and another tear. "It's not a dirty word, Drake."

"The hell it isn't!"

The two of them had decided long ago that romantic love was a weakness. Love your friends, love your House, love your successes, but never give your heart away.

"You're not in love with Hermione?" It sounded rhetorical, but it caused a hiccup in his heart.

"I -" Draco stumbled. "I - Hermione is -"

"Merlin's balls, don't hurt yourself." She wiped the moisture from her face with a grimace.

He shook his head. "There's this - thing - between us," he tried to explain. "It's different than anything else I've ever felt."

The admission was painful.

"It's love," she argued. "It's hard to recognize for cold-hearted reptiles like us."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that word."

"I've said the word before, you arsehole."

"To Neville?"

Silence.

"I should have said it," she whispered after a moment. "He was right there, practically shouting it out and I brushed him off."

Draco could hear her heart breaking with every word. He sighed and squeezed her arm, unsure of what to say.

"You should tell her," Pansy said suddenly, turning to him.

Draco recoiled. "Stop it, Pans."

"You love her," she continued, despite Draco shaking his head vehemently in denial. "Besides, weren't you just talking about claiming her or some such nonsense? Good luck with that, by the way," she muttered, lying back down with a sigh.

Love was just a vehicle for pain and loss. What he felt for Hermione was entirely different. She belonged to him. The Dragon nodded in agreement. Pansy couldn't possibly understand, and Draco wasn't going to argue with her.

"She's a good person," he said lamely. It sounded pathetic.

"Neville's more than that." It came out quietly and slightly slurred. She was falling back under the weight of the Calming Draught. "He's like the sun."

It was a silly statement, and definitely drug-induced, but it made perfect sense to Draco. It was no coincidence that the colors of Gryffindor house were red and gold, colors of blood and life and riches. Much the same way that the colors of Slytherin were those of rot and death and cold, lifeless coin.

Hermione was still asleep when he returned to her room. Weasley and Potter's wife had gone, leaving Narcissa seated next to the fire, sipping tea. Draco sat next to her in silence. Hermione shifted, sighed gently, and rolled over. It was the first sign of consciousness she had evinced in nearly twenty-four hours. Draco closed his eyes and tested the bond shining between them. It was almost tangible in its strength. A sigh tumbled from his mouth as a band of pressure loosened from around his chest.

"She's getting stronger," Narcissa said over her tea cup. "She'll awaken any time now."

The only sound in the room was the clink of her cup and quiet sipping.

"When are you going to forgive me?" she asked into the silence.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to stifle the anger her words provoked. To an outsider, their interactions might appear usual, if a bit formal and stilted. Between Narcissa and Draco, however, a silent war was waging.

"You knew," he growled. The Dragon lashed his tail.

"I did."

He wanted to roar. He wanted to spit fire and taste blood.

"How many times? How many times did you see me and not reveal your knowledge? How many times did you speak to me and lie?"

"You're being overdramatic." She sipped her tea.

"You should have told me!"

"Telling you would only have accomplished satisfying your need for revenge," she argued. "And he was not expendable. Not like the others you removed."

Draco felt his shoulders stiffen.

"You think I didn't know?" she continued with a grim smile. "Lucius liked to lay claim to the Dancing Death, but in truth, the poison belongs not to the Malfoys, but to the Blacks."

The malicious gleam in his mother's eye made the hair on his arms rise. "And as it is a favorite of my family, I'm not the only one who noticed your games."

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. He had been so careful.

He shook his head stubbornly. "He should be dead."

"Yes," she sighed. "But justice rarely favors the just."

Draco chuckled humorlessly. "In what kind of world are we on the side of the just?"

"In this one, apparently."

"Tell me what you know." The anger was clawing at his gut. It was no longer aimed at his mother, but he needed to know. He needed to protect Hermione.

Narcissa sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders. "No."

"Tell me what he did to her."

"I won't, and not just because it is a betrayal of Hermione, who would tell you if she wanted you to know." Draco looked away, shamefaced. "But because I don't know everything. I only know what rumors I heard and what I saw the night I healed her. But my mind can illustrate the rest, just as yours can."

Draco thought back to the scar on Hermione's arm, a red, raised line dissecting the slur carved into her flesh by a magic blade.

"She tried to kill herself," he said, the realization sweeping over him.

Narcissa swallowed.

"You healed her."

She didn't respond, determined to keep her silence, but Draco had put the pieces together.

"Thank you." The desire to punish his mother drained away. All that was left were the banked embers of revenge.

"Don't thank me," she swiped her hand angrily through the air. "If the Order had not raided the Manor a few days later, she would have been back in his grasp. There were many times in the intervening hours when I wondered whether I had done the right thing. I know she certainly didn't thank me for saving her." A dark chuckle. "She told me to fuck off."

A sad smile tugged at his mouth. His beautiful dragon warrior.

"Draco," she paused and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were glinting with some unidentifiable emotion. "That monster deserves every moment of pain you bring to him."

It took two days for Hermione to awaken. The wounds on her belly were mostly healed, and though she was shaky and weak, she managed to get out of bed without collapsing to the floor. After a meal and a bath, she felt almost well again. The long period of rest had done her some good, and after determining that she hadn't completely drained her magical core, she trooped down to the Potter's house in the village for a war council.

While she had been recovering, the army of the Order of the Phoenix had assembled the last of its far-flung soldiers, collected every wand that could be found, and had spent hours arguing over what to do next. Kingsley's death had thrown them into a sea of confusion and uncertainty, with no small amount of blame landing on the doorstep of the former members of the Legion. It took the combined reassurances of Ron, Harry, Ginny and George to keep the six of them out of the dungeons.

Harry was in his bed, his face devoid of color. The center of operations had moved to his bedroom, which had been magically expanded to accommodate several of the Order's highest ranking officers. A long table featured a magically created topographical war map of Hogwarts grounds and the surrounding territory. Hermione stood in the rear of the room with her back against the wall. She had a good view of the map and could listen to the rumble of argument and counterargument.

Hermione had been worried about the vacuum Kingsley death would cause within the Order, but in the aftermath of the failed ritual, Ron had stepped forward and to take the reins. It had been completely accidental, according to Blaise and Theo, but he had done such a good job keeping the peace and organizing the soldiers in the resulting chaos, that it had seemed only natural to look to him for leadership. The former Slytherins had some doubts about his ability to lead, but Hermione wasn't worried at all. When it came to battle, Ron was ruthless and smart.

The Order would do just fine without Kingsley Shacklebolt, she thought to herself.

Though Ron was their new General, it was George who took the spotlight at this meeting, having surprised all of them by demonstrating a keen mind for tactics. He was as good or even better than Ron, and he was far less likely to succumb to his temper. With waxy skin and dark craters under his eyes, George looked haggard but completely sober. The former prankster was almost unrecognizable with his somber demeanor and ever-increasing confidence.

Hermione was glad that he had stopped his self-destructive behavior, and it was a relief to realize she wasn't needed for anything other than using her teeth and claws to destroy Bellatrix. That particular job was hard enough on her nerves, not to mention the fact that it would be difficult to lead from the sky.

It was also an effort to focus when despair was washing over her in waves. One moment, she was calmly discussing the likelihood of a Legion attack, the next, her stomach would cramp, and she would feel a wave of electricity tumble down her arms. There was a space around her, a bubble of safety between her rogue magic and the others in the room. It would not surprise her to discover that they had erected personal wards, just in case. Truthfully, Hermione was surprised at the level of control she was exhibiting. The last time she had been this upset, she had destroyed a tower.

Draco slid into the room, causing a short pause in the conversation. As the rumble resumed, he made a straight line to Hermione, settling next to her against the wall, their shoulders touching.

"How's Pansy?" she whispered.

"She's Pansy." He shrugged, passing a searching glance over her face. "She's sniping at everyone and generally being a bitch."

The panic stole over her again, and she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. She had allowed Neville to be taken by a monster. They all had. Sparks rolled across her fingers, jumping to the man standing next to her. Draco flinched but didn't move away. Instead, he subtly rested his hand on the small of her back, his thumb moving in small circles. He didn't offer platitudes of comfort or look at her with pity in his eyes. He focused on the conversation in front of him, completely unaware that the touch of his hand had untangled some of the knots in her stomach.

"When was the last time you ate?" he murmured.

Hermione thought back on her day. Breakfast? He didn't wait for her to answer, but instead pulled a small apple from his coat. Before handing it over, he took a bite, consuming nearly half of it in the process. When she raised her eyebrows at him, he shrugged.

"I'm hungry too."

"You're always hungry," she muttered.

He gave her a lopsided grin that made her pulse speed up before returning his attention to the room. Hermione took a bite from the apple and followed suit.

"How can we even be sure where they're located?" Seamus was demanding.

"We can't be sure, but Lovegood landed somewhere outside the wards in the vicinity of Hogsmeade.," George said, indicating the small, abandoned village. "If there's one camp, there's sure to be many surrounding the castle."

"Find anything this morning, Titus?" Harry asked a young scout, his voice strained.

"I didn't see anything, but that doesn't mean they aren't there," Titus replied.

The Animagus was the best scout they could drum up, for in his sparrow form, he could fly through Hogwarts wards with no harm and watch the enemy without being spotted. Unfortunately, he had found nothing on his daily scouting trips. Hermione wasn't surprised. If there had been any holes in the Legion's wards before, they would be fixed now that Luna was among them. The witch had a keen eye for invisibility spells.

"Why are they just waiting?" Cho wondered, scratching idly at her prosthetic leg. "They could have started their attacked days ago and had the wards down by now."

"They have no reason to attack." George's voice was rough with fatigue. "They can wait us out. We've eaten through all of our supplies in preparation for battle, and they've locked us down with Anti-Disapparition Spells. We can use our Portkeys, but it won't be long before they find those locations. We're trapped here. The only way to leave is to fight our way out."

An ominous silence followed his words. Harry met her eyes, and they shared a moment of sad wonder at George's sudden turnaround. As much as she would like to take credit, Hermione wondered what else might have spurred this change in her friend. It seemed impossible for someone to go from passively suicidal to accidental general of the Order of the Phoenix overnight. Perhaps escaping certain death had made him realize how much he valued his life.

"We need to do this right," Ron said. "This is a win or die situation."

"The Legion of Blood is an infection," Hermione said slowly. "It started with blood purists, then came the Death Eaters, and now the Legion has taken over the whole Wizarding World. It's been killing us slowly over the years, but now it's time to fight back."

"If we don't purge every one of Bellatrix's generals, the Legion will just reincarnate once more," Ron added. "Bellatrix especially must be killed."

"We need a way to make sure she's on the battlefield," Oliver said.

"She'll come for me," Hermione announced, her heart thumping. It felt like the evil witch was waiting for her to make a move. "When she does, Draco, Pansy and I will handle her."

"And Lovegood?" Oliver asked.

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance. More guilt, pricking at her heart. "She's an unexpected problem. Two of them against three of us may be too much."

"She's vulnerable to spells," Draco said. "We may need to take her down with wands."

There were nods all around.

"So what's the plan then?" Harry asked in his deathly quiet voice.

All eyes turned to George, who cleared his throat before sitting up straight, a determined slant to his brow.

"We lure them in," he began, waving his wand over the magically altered table.

Many exhausted hours later, the meeting was over and Hermione lay with Draco in her bed. All of her limbs were buzzing pleasantly and she knew she had a silly grin on her face. Draco was on his belly next to her, one arm slung casually across her stomach and one leg tangled with hers. She tried not to focus on the fact that she was naked, all her scars out in the open. It didn't really matter anyway; there wasn't a single inch of her skin that Draco had yet to explore.

"You okay?" he mumbled into her neck. "I didn't wear you out did I?"

A blush of satisfaction and bashfulness heated her cheeks. The man's arrogance was irritating, but perhaps it was warranted in at least one area.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked more seriously, raising his head. "You kept pretty quiet during the meeting. You didn't once try to make a list."

He was teasing her, but she realized that he was right. Only a few weeks ago, she would have easily stepped in and taken charge. She hadn't felt the obsessive need to organize everything, to keep everything within her grasp and she didn't feel it now. How strange.

"I need to stay focused," she told him.

"You're the most focused person I know," Draco pried. "Except for me, of course."

Hermione was searching her mind, trying to find a reasonable explanation.

"I was trying to do everything," she said slowly. "I needed to be a dragon, and protect George, and save Kingsley. Neville was taken right from under my nose. All these years, I've been holding the Order up on my shoulders and I wasn't paying attention to the monster Luna had become. Five years and I never realized. Or at least, I never wanted to admit what I suspected."

"You can't be responsible for the world."

Hermione nodded.

"Say it," he entreated playfully. "Say 'you were right Draco.'"

A laugh escaped her as he tugged her closer, nibbling at her ear. "You were right, but so was everyone else. I never listened."

"It's not much, but I'll take it," he announced smugly.

Hermione sobered, thinking about what lay ahead.

"I'm going to kill Bellatrix. And if that is the only thing I accomplish, I will have done enough."

The sick feeling returned. It was one big, messy ball of apprehension about the upcoming fight, misery over the probable fate of Neville, terror at the thought of losing Harry, and regret about all the things she hadn't done.

"We are going to kill Bellatrix."

Draco's words instantly calmed the rising fear. She rolled them both over and snuggled on top of him, needing to feel as much of his body as possible. The scent of his skin made her want to purr. She set her ear against his heart. The steady thumping called to her own heartbeat, and the two organs synchronized. She wondered if he felt the same squeezing pain in her chest that she did.

"What is it?" He wrapped his arms around her.

"I thought was ready," she whispered. "To lose them."

"Lose who?"

"All of them. Any of them. I was going to see this until the end, even if I was the last one standing. I'm not ready for this battle."

"Nobody is ever ready for war," he agreed. "But we have the dragons to help us win. Every single soldier in the Order is worth ten Legion soldiers. You're ready."

"My body is ready," she conceded. "It's my heart that's the problem. If wish I could cut it out. Then I wouldn't be so afraid."

"Don't wish for that. Your heart is what makes you different. It makes you . . ." he trailed off shaking his head. He reached up and took a curl between his fingers. Emotional. Compulsive. Foolhardy. "You."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fantastic."

"It's a good thing," he laughed gently.

"If you say so." She impulsively pressed a kiss to his breastbone, causing his fingers to tighten on her back. "But I don't think I can completely trust your judgement. I mean, look at that awful tattoo on your arm."

It was meant to be lighthearted, and Draco smiled for a moment before his face sobered.

"Why don't you hate me?" he whispered.

Hermione blinked, startled by the sudden change in his demeanor. She hid her face against his skin and considered.

"I'm not sure." The answer was tangled and confusing. It had something to do with their shared past, and everything he had done for her and the Order. A substantial part of it was also due to how he made her feel and the strange bond they now shared. She was a spinning vortex of pain and dangerous magic, but he walked right into the storm without fear. "But I know I've never hated you."

He grunted in acceptance, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. After a moment, she raised herself up so she could look at his face.

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

He quirked a platinum eyebrow at her questioningly.

"Everyone else is scared of me and my wild magic. They're worried I'll hurt them or destroy something. But not you. Why not?"

She didn't realize how important the question was to her, or how raw and open it felt, until it left her lips and she was stranded, staring down at him.

"I am afraid of you," he answered with a lopsided grin before turning serious. "You scare the hell out of me."

He wasn't talking about her magic. The words struck her like a blasting spell. Or rather, it was the unspoken words, and the glittering in his eyes as he looked up at her that clogged her throat and made her silent. After a moment, his eyes shuttered, and she knew she had missed an important opportunity. She kissed him instead and reveled in the feel of his short moan against her mouth and his hands bracketing her hips.

"I've never hated you," she repeated. "Even when we were kids, neither of us had much choice. You're the only one -" she hesitated, trying to find words to explain how he had changed her. Words that weren't pathetic, that wouldn't chip away at her remaining pride, "the only one who makes me feel whole again."

She hadn't quite made a declaration, but then again, neither had he. It was impossible to say the words, especially since Hermione couldn't work out exactly what she was feeling. Something was waiting for them, something enormous and profound, but in that moment, Hermione chose to kiss Draco instead, and let her body speak for her.

George studied the magical hologram of Hogwarts for the hundredth time. The small table in his room made the details hard to work out, but he could watch the battle take place with several possible outcomes. He ran through all of them repeatedly with Ron, grasping for some certainty in the face of terrible odds. His plan would work, he reassured himself. It had to.

The need for a drink was scratching up his insides. The last seven years had been awful, but George knew for a fact that he hadn't felt this kind of fear since before the Battle of Hogwarts. Most of that was due to the steady supply of drugs, alcohol and adrenaline he had consumed to chase away the memory of his brother's death. Keeping away the despair had also succeeded in keeping away the terror. Now he was steeped in it. His pores were sweating fear and doubt.

"You did well, brother mine."

Fred sat in the chair next to the fire and stared at him, unblinking, offering encouragement laced with just enough irony to make George think he wasn't trying to be encouraging at all. The lack of his usual chemically-induced equilibrium also revealed just how fucked up his mind had become. How long had he been talking to his dead brother? A year? Two? Now he was hallucinating a figure who looked and acted like him, and appeared to be very real indeed.

"Go away," George muttered.

George was fairly certain that Fred wasn't a ghost, for he appeared completely solid, even corporeal. If he'd had the nerve, he could reach out and touch the thing sitting in that chair to find out once and for all if his hallucinations had some grounds in reality. He didn't want to know. What if Fred really was sitting there? Would he encounter the same cold flesh he had felt the last time he had embraced his brother, or would Fred be warm and alive?

"Well done," Ron echoed Fred unknowingly. "I think we stand a chance."

"Do we?" George snapped. Bloody hell, he wanted a drink. "We're still vastly outnumbered."

"We'll do okay. It's like you said, we don't have to kill every Legion soldier, they're mostly conscripts anyway. We just have to take out the important ones."

Why was anyone listening to him in the first place? George didn't know a damn thing about troop movements or battle tactics. Except, when he watched the stick figures play out a fight on the Hogwarts table, it had seemed like a puzzle waiting to be put together, the pieces so obviously meant for each other. He hadn't been able to stay quiet. Now he was chiefly responsible for the fate of the Wizarding World whether they won or lost.

"Do they know they're following the advice of a drug addict?" Fred giggled, enunciating George's thoughts.

"Just shut up!" George pleaded. He realized he had been speaking out loud when Ron reared back, his face turning red. "I didn't mean that. Sorry, mate, I'm just bloody tired."

"You alright, George?" Ron asked, his eyes worried.

George wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry.

"I'll be fine."

"No you won't," Fred sang. "I'm here for you George, but you just won't listen to me."

A chill went down his spine. He turned his back on his dead brother and tried to focus on the one who still had blood pumping in his veins.

Suddenly, the door to George's room slammed open and Seamus burst through, breathing heavily.

"The centaurs," he gasped. "They appeared at the edge of the Forest. The want to talk to Hermione."

Ron and George exchanged an excited look. Maybe things weren't as dire as they appeared.

A/N: I love you guys!