She half-woke to the sound of booted feet and for a moment felt frozen with terror. They had found the castle. They were dragging people out to be lined up and shot. Her breath quickened. They were going to burst into the room any second now and drag Oliver away to be questioned, tortured and killed. She stifled a shriek and all that came out was a small gasp.

Beside her the covers upheaved and suddenly Oliver was standing in the middle of the room, eyes searching for anything out of ordinary, every line of his body taut and ready for battle. He padded around, checking the closet, the window, the door then came back to the bed. "Hermione? What's wrong?"

She swallowed her fear, her heart returning to its normal pace. "I'm fine. Just a bad dream. I thought I heard footsteps."

He rubbed his hands over his face and listened for a moment. "There's nothing," he said finally, reaching out to take her hand gently. "Lie back down. I'll stay up until you fall asleep."

She snuggled back down against him as he slid into bed and closed her eyes. She was safe…

She woke again to the sunlight streaming in from the windows and Oliver dressing by the wardrobe.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked, his brow wrinkling in concern.

She shook her head sleepily. "No. I should get up anyway." She slid out of bed and put a robe on, walking towards the window. "It looks the exact same yet I know that it's different. It feels as if Harry and Ron are going to zoom by the quidditch pitch at any moment or walk down towards Hagrid's hut… But I know they're gone." She swallowed back her tears.

He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "They fought very bravely."

"I know," she replied softly. "I was there."

"So was I."

Oliver watched the death eaters surround The Burrow. He wanted to throw himself into the middle of them, wanted to curse the smirks and sneers off every last one of their faces. But he couldn't. He had to wait for back up. The resistance had just started. They were slow to react to anything. They only had so many people and some things were more important than others. He snorted softly to himself. Whatever excuse they could use to not have to get into danger, they would. He swore to himself when he joined that when, not if, when he was a higher up (and he was going to be, he determined), that would all change. They would be a lot more offensive. None of this defensive garbage. Voldemort was not going to stop. He had to be stopped, pushed back, and destroyed.

He looked down and realized that he'd just shredded an entire branch of a tree with his bare hands. He needed to calm down before he did something that would get him caught, or worse, killed.

"Voldemort!"

He looked up. Harry Potter had stepped out the front door. By Gods, the boy was courageous. Oliver wished that he could be half as much. Time and time again Harry had gone up against Voldemort, and time and time again, he'd triumphed. But luck did run out, even for someone as lucky as Harry. And it looked like now was that time. Maybe not though. As the circle of death eaters closed around Harry and Voldemort, Oliver slid down the bluff, hiding behind the shed. He clenched his jaw. Now was the time that he would show how courageous he could be. He was about to lunge towards the circle, wand raised, the beginnings of a curse on his lips, when a hand grasped his upper arm and yanked him back down. He struggled in their grasp and turned to see Alastor Moody glaring down at him from his one eye.

"Now's not the time, boy."

Oliver tried to pull himself away but Moody's grip was like steel. "We have to help," he whispered vehemently.

"We can't," snapped. "He's lost."

"I don't accept that." He clenched his jaw. "We can't just leave him here."

"There are two others in the house. You want to wait for Voldemort to kill them too or get them out now?" Moody growled. "You get them, I'll help Potter. Go." He pushed Oliver back and stood up. "Voldemort!" he bellowed.

Oliver watched as he stumped towards the circle, hand tightly grasping his wand, back straight. He realized that that was what heroes looked like. Harry Potter, standing still, face pale and drawn but jaw clenched and wand at ready, and Moody, dark and foreboding, battle scarred and battle-weary, coming in as reinforcements.

"This is all you have Moody?" Voldemort cackled. "A boy too young to realize the powers at stake and an old man, too old to do any good?"

"Young enough for you," Moody growled back.

"Very well…"

Oliver watched in horror as the three battled. He clenched the dirt hard in his fingers, ripping up clods. But he could do nothing. He had to help whoever was in the Burrow, Ron and Hermione, he assumed. He willed his body to move, willed it to get up run towards the circle and curse Voldemort until he was writhing in pain and covered in his own blood. He breathed deeply. He had to move. Not towards the circle and the mangled bodies of the defeated heroes trying vainly to gain ground on the darkness and failing, but to the house. Had to get Ron and Hermione out.

He got up and stumbled towards the side entrance of the house, crashing into the door. He froze for a moment, hoping against hope that none of the death eaters had heard the sound and would come to investigate. He breathed slowly, listening.

Nothing.

Then he felt it. The feeling of a very strong, very powerful spell about to be unleashed. He ducked down as a shockwave of power echoed in the clearing, the windows above him shattering and showering him with glass. He sat for a few minutes to get the ringing out of his ears and took gulps of the night air. Harry and Moody were dead. He was sure of it.

"Weasley!"

His head snapped up. That voice. He hated that voice. That voice had plagued his nightmares for years. Since the day that father and son had burst in on the Wood family while they were sitting down to dinner. A way of getting to Oliver. He'd been far away, safe, yet he'd heard their screams in his mind. He'd felt their fear, their pain, their death. He could hear the laughter of the Malfoys as they destroyed everything and anything to do with Oliver at all.

He stood up and threw himself through the door. Fighting through the dark, stumbling over furniture, he blindly went towards the screaming. Hermione's screaming. Ron's screaming.

Silence.

He crashed into a wall and stopped, breathing heavily and listening for something. Anything.

Nothing. He threw himself through the doorway and surveyed the scene. Ron Weasley was lying on the ground, broken and bloody. Above him was the tall form of Draco Malfoy holding Hermione in one arm, his wand in the other hand.

"Goodbye, Weasley. Hermione and I will have a wonderful life, if you were wondering at all. But, of course, it won't matter in a few seconds anyway…" His voice was full of malice, his face twisted into a sadistic smile.

Ron gurgled and struggled to move, failing miserably.

"And so the trio is defeated…" Draco quipped, raising his wand. "Avada Keda-"

"Malfoy!" Oliver yelled.

Draco looked up, startled. "You."

Oliver straightened and looked him in the eye. "Me."

Draco snorted. "Any other ministry whelps with you?"

"No."

"Well, that is too bad. And I was so looking forward to wiping you all out…" He flicked his wand casually at Ron. "Avada Kedavra."

Oliver lunged. "No!"

"Too late. And too late to save the girl as well, Wood. Until next time." One last smirk and he disaparated.

Oliver threw himself to Ron's side, already knowing it was too late…He closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for Ron's spirit then moved to the door to look out. What he saw made him retch. He threw up in the bushes then moved closer to the mangled bodies of Harry Potter and Alastor Moody. They were dead, ripped apart as if by animals. He retched in the bushes nearby again, feeling the sharp metallic taste in his mouth and sank to his knees.

What were they going to do?

"Oliver?"

He shook his head to clear the memory. "Yes?"

"I want to see Draco."