It must be the short breaths that escaped her body that was keeping her from running further. Beads of sweat were falling from her face and her hair a tangled mess as it flew behind her as she continued to dash within the depths of the forest. She looked up and saw the lines of the branches sketched on the sky. The clouds were gray and the indigo painted half of the sky like there was a coming storm when the night finally arrives. Distracted, she tripped and her gaze returned on what seemed like a never ending road of the unknown by the forest before her body hit the muddy ground and her vision blurred.

She cursed, pushing herself up with her bruised and filthy hands. Removing her coat, Hermione pulled her wand out of the pocket and muttered a charm. Fire erupted on the coat as she hopelessly sighed. Thunder roared above. Flinching, Hermione looked at the material that laid burning in front of her once more before turning around, quickly apparating to the place she knew oh-so-well: The Burrow.

With a flash of light and a sudden jolting sensation, Hermione, hair disheveled and mind slightly malfunctioning, fell face first on the muddy ground. She groaned and lifted herself up with her scratched elbows and muddy, bloody hands.

She froze.

Mudblood.

She gritted her teeth as the simulacrum of them came into her mind once again. There was still that empty feeling in her chest, but she chose to ignore it, deciding that it was for the best.

Is death really the best solution to all problems? Her thoughts made it even more complicated for her to decide.

She focused her attention to the unsturdy-looking house that was held by magic. It was the same as it had been before, except for the lack of cheer and joy that radiated off its house walls. The house was quiet and it seemed like no one was planning to break the unavailability of sound. No one even came out to greet her.

Hermione sighed. Now was not the time for her to reminisce.

She cleaned herself with a Scourgifying charm and pocketed her wand inside her jeans, before heading off towards the entrance to the Weasley home.

She knocked, biting her lip impatiently. Someone should answer. Anyone should.

And they did. The door swung open to reveal the face of the tired-looking boy who had the famous scar given to him by the evilest wizard of all time.

Harry Potter was not a regular boy if one knew his story—which everyone knew. With parents murdered by the giver of his scar, he had been taken and sent to the relatives of his deceased mother, still a small, innocent infant who had no idea who he truly was until he had received the letter from Hogwarts that he, Harry Potter, was a wizard like his parents before him. Even if Harry didn't admit it, Hermione knew that it still awed him that he was not like his round Uncle Vernon and cousin Dudley. Or even his Aunt Petunia who always seem to be mad at him. The thought had always made Harry smile, she knew. His eyes would somehow light up in the most random moments and she would wonder, that was until she sorted it out.

However, there was no trace of joy in Harry's face. With his black hair disheveled as if it had not been combed for days, bags underneath his emerald eyes that only seem to grow, lips that were pulled into a small frown, and a complexion similar to corpse, Harry looked rather dead to Hermione.

He smiled forcibly at her, wrapping his arms around her small frame as he did. Hermione stayed still, not doing anything as The Boy Who Lived tried his best to give her comfort when it was he who needed it the most.

He kissed her head and Hermione wanted nothing but to tell him, and yet the words were trapped in her throat. She couldn't breathe.

His arms loosened around her and Hermione took the opportunity to break free from him as the silence consumed them.

"Harry, I—" she started but stopped as a terrifying amount
of concern clouded his face.

She couldn't do this. He has too many problems to deal with and one of them is ending Voldemort. Too much burden for him to carry that he was exhausted to even stand straighter.

"I'll be in Ginny's room," uttered Hermione, making her way to Ginny's room upstairs.

"Hermione," said Harry, voice barely a whisper, and yet she heard him, making her stop. "It's going to be okay in the end, right?"

Will it really? She wanted to say but the look on his eyes were fragile. She could see the uncertainty in them, the smudge of fear evident like lines of brokenness on a glass that was prepared to fall apart.

"Yeah," she said, tone indifferent. It cracked. "It will."

With that, she disappeared, dubiety following her close behind as she concentrated on one thought:

He didn't ask her to continue.

"You're doing it again."

He didn't glance at the dark-skinned boy who was towering him as he sat alone. The temperature outside his room was freezing, considering that it was positioned at the highest tower of the Malfoy Manor, giving him the best view of the land that surrounded the building and the perfect setting for the cold. It was enough for Draco not to freeze to death, but not enough to make him feel numb.

"I never knew my father assigned you to be my guardian." He laughed hollowly. "How amiable of him."

Blaise Zabini breathed out a sough, allowing his breath to be visible in the cold. He gritted his teeth and inspired a voluminous measure of air into his lungs, only to release them once again.

"You should really stop," said Blaise, watching the red contrast his skin. It was tainting that ivory skin Draco had always been so proud of since his Hogwarts days. He remembered bragging his perfection and blood line to almost everyone, despite being a first year, earning him a thick face and a reputation of an arrogant prat.

Draco shook his head, eyes not leaving the skull and reptile that had been inked on his arm, as it was accompanied by the blood that was pouring out of his flesh. It was beautiful. The way he uttered one simple spell cut his flesh open, welcoming the beauty of blood into the world he was in. The world he loathed, the one he wished would disappear into pure nothingness.

"Sectumsempra." The words rolled off his tongue like the ones in a song. The pain was unbearable and it was almost impossible of him not to flinch. More blood came out near his Mark and his eyes grew wide masochistically.

"Draco, quit it!" Blaise made a move to grab his wand out of his hands, but Draco was faster. With a flick of his wand, Blaise Zabini rocketed a few feet from him, groaning as he hit the floor.

Draco immediately stood up. He did not feel regret as he watched his fellow Housemate try to stand up as blood poured out of his shoulder. Blaise sent him a glare, taking out his wand from his pocket robes, he exclaimed, "Expelliarmus!"

Draco dodged the spell, rolling over his back before standing up again, blood continuing to cascade down his arm, staining his perfect face.

"My blood is pure!" screamed Draco, shooting Blaise another spell. Anger coursed through his veins as he continued, "I'm fucking pure! I should be proud!"

But I'm not.

Blaise's face contorted from anger to disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm pureblood too, you bloody git!"

He swished his wand in an attempt to control Draco, but Draco was still faster than he was.

He shouldn't have done it. He couldn't turn back time.

"Crucio!"

And he was drowning in regret as he listened to his friend scream in pain.