I apologize for the lengthy delay – but here I am again. Slowly the Alliance grows into a formidable adversary against the Ministry. Hermione tries to get her bearings and makes a huge decision. Warnings for mention of character death and…oh, the dream sequence is rated M for gratuitous sex. That's all! Enjoy. Oh, and thank you everyone! I always love your comments and reviews - no matter what. Keep them coming. :)

LCailan

There was one last snowstorm before cruel winter relinquished its hold on the Welsh countryside. The storm was a fierce one as if Mother Nature knew that it would be the last of the season. The snow piled high along the sloped hills that led to the misty, gray seas. The banshee wind roared high outside the cabin, rattling the windows and whistling an angry, tormented song. There were moments when Hermione would gaze out of the window and it seemed to her that the world was tilted - the huge, swirling snowflakes whispering against the windowpane and blowing nearly sideways making her dizzy. The wild snow blinded but it was a trickster, using every illusion it could command. Winter was deception in a white, pristine cloak.

Life in St Davids had fallen into a comfortable routine though Hermione had started to itch for more.

Neville, who had taken to spending some evenings with her playing round after round of wizard rummy and sharing with her what was going on at the Clinic. He was more attentive than Hermione thought he needed to be, but then again, it was Neville. Ginny had taken the children back to where she had come from, promising to return. But the coolness in her expression had broken Hermione's heart. Seamus had gone with her, taking his laughter with him. Charlie was busy with Alliance duties and was away from the cottage nearly as often as he was there, leaving Hermione, Angelina and little Roxanne to fend for themselves.

The days weren't bad. Hermione spent waking hours acquainting herself with the WERA and how she would eventually join them. She knew that the baby was of paramount importance but once he or she was born…

I can't just shun my duty!

That stubborn, determined part of her that had been buried deep inside was starting to struggle and cry out weakly. She wanted to help; she wanted to be useful. But most of all, she wanted to prove to those that had tried to destroy her that she was a force to be reckoned with. She had a child now, someone that needed her, but she would not turn her back on the greater cause.

Sometimes, when everyone else was asleep, Hermione would sneak out of her bed and pad across the room to the closet where she had hidden a small lockbox. There lay several objects – the necklace she had worn to the Lestrange's wedding party, her thin, gold wedding band and, at the bottom, her wand. She would run her fingers along the thin, smooth surface, and indulge in the feeling of…electricity that seemed to run through her.

My wand.

Her wand; it was no one else's and one day, she'd be able to use it. She'd lift her hand against those who had so easily hurt her in the past. That little, black wooden object would be the vessel by which she would get her justice, whatever it might be. But Hermione knew, big or small, she would do what she had to for freedom. Not just for herself but for the other Muggle-borns. Those moments in the middle of endless, wintry nights were what got her through the days. The belief that one day she'd be strong enough to stand against the opposition. She would face the Ministry and win. In those same moments she would feel a flooding of guilt and fear because she knew to face the Ministry she would be facing against the man she loved.

But, no, he's not with them anymore. He's not on their side; he's on mine. He has to be, I know it.

When she wasn't getting her bearings within the WERA, Hermione spent her hours keeping house. Luckily, it wasn't a strange thing for her because of what she had been made to do at the Malfoy Estate in Kensington. Angelina feigned strength she did not have, and Neville had told Hermione in very few words that Roxanne's delivery had taken much out of Angelina and it would be months before she was strong and healthy again. The black woman did what she could but it was Hermione, now in her fourth month, who bore the weight of the housework.

She spent hours preparing meals for herself, Charlie and Angelina. She washed clothes and scrubbed, floors, walls and ceilings. She did dishes and hung linens. Days were busy ones. When the weather was fine Hermione didn't have time to think about her future; she didn't have time to think about her past. She simply was.

The nights, however, were the hardest.

When Hermione crawled under her down comforter, exhausted from her day's work, she found her mind wandering. And she missed him. The weight of her sorrow was her own to bear for Hermione could not share with anyone the truth of her condition and of how she had gotten where she was. There had been the possibility that her closest friends and those she was living with might understand, but after Ginny's reaction, Hermione feared that she wouldn't be able to share the truth with anyone. Their prejudice was too real. It hurt too much.

Some nights, especially the cold, bitter ones, as Hermione lay under the comforter warming her feet and hands, she would indulge in recollections of his warm body next to hers. Always on the right side of the bed, she mused. Always warm, much too warm. She would breathe deeply and the scent of cigarettes and mint would mingle with the faint scent of cedar and the soap she used to wash the bed sheets. She would see his beautiful, gray eyes in her mind's eye and the still vivid memory of his smile. The need to touch him, to run her fingers through silky, white-blond hair was often overwhelming and it made Hermione whimper.

How did I so quickly get used to having him next to me?

The thought left her both amazed and shamed.

I used to be just fine on my own! I can't possibly need him to survive, do I?

Tears would burn her eyes and she would fall asleep alone in her misery, fighting the urge to think of him and yet unable not to. The dreams on those nights would leave her wanting more…

They'd been together that morning; they were together every morning now, from the moment Astoria left the house to do whatever it was she did, until the moment he would drop her off at the edges of the alienage…

His presence, the thought of him, left Hermione distracted, almost unable to do the job for which he had hired her.

"Please, don't look at me like that," she managed as the duster flew across the multitude of books that lined the walls of the rather large library.

"How can you possibly know how I'm looking at you, Granger?"

His voice was velvet. Perhaps it was satin. Sweet Lord, Hermione realized. His voice was every indulgent thing she would ever imagine.

The duster stopped as she felt a shiver run up and down her spine.

"Because I know how you look at me!"

Her voice had grown husky, thick with the desire she felt for him since the first time they had been together. He was the only man – now and before – that had made her feel desired. Like a woman and not just-

"Pray tell, how do I look at you?"

There was laughter in his rich voice.

"It's not like I can see it myself, now can I?"

He was teasing her now, and reluctantly, Hermione found herself resuming the task at hand. That was until she felt the warm heat of his mouth on her ankle. Then the back of her calf. Her thigh.

Gods, she nearly went weak in the knees, the shiver of pleasure rushing through her and tightening the most secret parts of her body.

"Like that."

Her voice was breathy, uneven. He laughed and she couldn't recall a sexier sound.

"You're not helping, Granger."

His lips found purchase on the back of her thigh, making their languorous way north, up under the hem of her skirt. Hermione moaned.

"You're not helping either," she managed, her eyes closing her breaths coming faster. Somewhere in the back of her suddenly fevered mind there was the idea that she should have been doing housework. "I'm supposed to be dusting."

"The housework will be here tomorrow, yes?"

His hands, the warm, calloused palms against the softness of her bare thighs created a terrifying magic that left her dizzy with need.

"Y-yes."

"Me now, housework later?"

His mouth was upon hers, seeking, licking, nipping, diving. The idea that anything besides the way he made her feel existed seemed preposterous.

"Draco, I can't-"

Her protestations were silenced when his hand reached down and under her skirt, cupping the warmth between her legs in a move that was both possessive and sensual. His eyes were a deep, molten silver as his mouth, tongue seeking the soft lines of her neck and collarbone. She was already wet.

"Seems to me like you can."

His fingers moved against the silken, slick folds of her most intimate places.

"You know everything you do makes me crazy," she managed to mutter, her lips crashing against him with the force of her desire.

"So why must you argue?"

The look in his eyes was one of victory and Hermione realized she didn't even want to argue with him. What she wanted only he could give her. Their passion burned all else away until she thought she would die from her desire for him.

"Now?" she managed, clawing with desperation at the neatly pressed and freshly starched shirt he was wearing.

She successfully undid several buttons with trembling fingers to reveal her true desire – the lines of his perfect, lean chest. Without thinking, Hermione's mouth was against his flesh, tasting with wanton abandon, breathing in the warmth, the scent that was singularly Draco – a hint of smoke, a dash of mint and the musky scent of his aftershave.

"I need you."

The choked utterance made him come undone.

"The chair," he said huskily.

They stumbled, backed against it as Hermione reached for his slacks, undoing the buckle and pushing them down with frenzy.

"Now. Now, Draco, now."

She clumsily pushed up her skirt and pushed down her knickers and lowered her desperate body onto his hard, waiting shaft and sank down on him completely with a guttural cry. Nothing was as exquisite, nothing even close to the mind-blowing reality of being so roughly joined with him, penetrated so wholly by that thick, hot part of him.

Hermione groaned, pressing her open mouth against his neck, rocking her body against his cock, moving slowly at first and then faster, faster toward that very necessary precipice of pleasure…

She would awaken after such dreams, sweating and wet for him, the tears she had cried before sleep dry upon her cheeks and her body clenched in orgasm. Such dreams were shameful but just as difficult to stop. Hermione knew that at some point she would have to let go of him, to move on, to stop thinking and tormenting herself in such a way. But how?

Too many nights would lighten into mornings and she would still be thinking of him, and she could not stop.

The snow tapered off after two days of relentless assault and the first morning following the storm, Hermione awakened to the sound of Charlie working on the clearing outside. Slipping on a heavy, winter cloak, she left the chilliness of the bedroom and started a fire in the kitchen hearth before opening the wooden door to the front porch. The sun was shining brilliantly in a sky that was a shade of exquisite blue. Charlie stopped working when she stepped outside.

"Wotcher, Hermione…go back inside, you'll catch your death of a cold."

His hat had come off halfway and Charlie's red-gold hair gleamed against the morning sunlight, his cheeks flushed with exertion and cold.

"Good morning," she replied. "I can't sleep. Started a fire to warm up the place and I'll make you something to eat. Angelina and the baby are still sleeping."

"Aye, let them sleep. God knows she needs her rest."

A flicker of concern tainted his earlier smile.

"She'll be fine," Hermione assured him quickly. "She just needs rest. You heard Neville; the baby took a lot out of her."

Charlie nodded.

"Get inside, you."

She paused, pulling the cloak more tightly against her body to ward of the winter morning chill.

"I'm fine," she said.

Charlie studied Hermione thoughtfully without saying anything. She stood rather small in the huge cloak, lustrous coffee-cinnamon curls lying in haphazard array around her shoulders, still mussed from sleep. She was thin – too thin – he thought but at least there was life in her now. It hadn't been there when he had picked her up from the train station. That Hermione Granger had been all but dead – both physically and emotionally, he feared.

Ron had called her brilliant, stubborn, tenacious, bossy, but big-hearted. Neville spoke of her self-sufficiency in a crisis and her unholy ability to reason and use logic. Both had spoken of a woman who gave first without taking, someone who cared for others before herself.

Neither had spoken of the dull girl that he had first seen months before. He could only hope that her stay at St. David had at least begun the healing process for her.

Hermione gave him an affectionate eye-roll but she retreated back into the cottage dutifully, leaving Charlie alone with the snow and sun. He stared out at the empty hills and glimpsed the sea down in the distance, a frown marring his rugged, freckled face. It was still early morning but he felt a sense of weariness that would not let him be. The news from town that early morning had been tinged with anxiousness – Death Eaters had invaded Wales to the east. The attack had not been at random and, unfortunately, the Alliance had not been expecting it. Though the Alliance had taken a hit and the casualties were more than just one or two, the news trickling in via Floo was positive.

The Death Eaters had taken a much greater loss and they had not been able to accomplish what they had set out to do – invade Wales.

Charlie had never deeply entrenched himself in war and politics but he knew what the Ministry wanted and that was full control of as much of Britain as possible. Ireland, too.

God help us.

The Ministry's losses had been great; Charlie had heard about a multitude of casualties, the need to retreated and regroup. He knew they would eventually strike once again but at least there was the hope that as the Alliance grew in strength and numbers the Ministry would eventually be unable to invade further.

Still, the positive news wasn't enough to shake the heaviness on Charlie's heart. He knew it what such battles meant – too many wounded, too many sick and hungry, too many innocents dead. Neville would be knee deep in patients. There would be more refugees, those who had undoubtedly already lost their homes and livelihoods. Hermione had been their only house guest for months but he predicted that soon it would no longer be the case.

Charlie wondered if Angelina's strength had been replenished enough to face the coming weeks. Hermione, although nearly halfway through her own pregnancy, seemed more than willing to help. In fact, her determination seemed relentless, as if sometimes driven by a madness no one could understand. He feared she was becoming restless for something more to do.

When Charlie finished clearing the paths around the cabin he finally reentered the now warm cabin. Hermione sat alone, sipping tea from a large mug and looking wistfully towards the windows. The sunlight painted honey highlights throughout her messy curls.

"Angelina still sleeping?"

He moved to grab himself some of the tea in the kettle. There was a steaming pot of porridge bubbling next to it.

"She is."

Though spending time with Hermione was never an awkward thing, Charlie also knew that she was mum about anything in her past, choosing either to speak in generalities or not speak at all. So it was that morning. He decided that telling Hermione about the news from the east was the best thing – she was strong enough to handle it.

"Hermione, there's been fighting to the east."

He noticed the sudden pallor that washed over her as she stared at him, mid-sip.

"W-What?"

Yes, she was terrified. Charlie understood the terror – Hermione had first hand seen what the Ministry was capable of.

"Fighting. The Ministry attacked the Alliance."

Her brown eyes seemed nearly black against the whiteness of her face.

"Is…what…happens now? Are they c-coming? Will I have to-?"

Charlie saw Hermione's hand snaking across her growing belly. Her fingers were trembling. He reached over, his large, heavy hand covering hers for a moment.

"No," he said firmly. "We held them back!"

Her body went stiff, eyes widening and jaw setting in shock.

"W-what?"

"The Alliance held the lines, Hermione! The Death Eaters weren't able to break through…many have fallen. Ours too, I'm sad to say, but this is the first time that we can honestly say that the Ministry faces formidable opposition!"

The words came tumbling out of Charlie in his growing excitement and Hermione felt the life draining from her, leaving behind a shell of nothingness. A terrible thought struck her and she worked feverishly to push it away.

No. He's not with them. He's not one of them. He's safe. He's safe. He's safe. He's-

It did not stop her heart from hammering or her fingers from going icy.

"The Death Eaters…"

It was all she could speak.

No, he wouldn't have gone back to them…would he?

It seemed impossible to believe such a thing but he had gone back to London! He had gone back to face his punishment at the hand of the Ministry and what if they had forced him back-

No. There was no reason to believe he had been fighting, no reason to panic that he might be dead.

Draco.

He's safe. He's safe. He's safe.

Over and over she told herself this, forgetting she wasn't alone in the room, not seeing Charlie's growing worry.

"Hermione?"

Charlie's utterance was a mere whisper for her face had gone a shade whiter than gray. It looked like she would be ill. Her fingers were gripping the wooden tabletop, the tea forgotten and her eyes gleaming feverishly.

"C-charlie? Are there names?"

"Names?" he echoed watching her with concern.

"Names of the dead," she spat, her voice catching. "W-who…the dead, how many? Who?"

"Hermione-"

"Charlie!"

The gaze she gave him was nothing short of murderous.

"They say dozens," he told her with hesitation. "Lines of them, faceless, nameless Ministry supporters, some lower level Ministry officials…"

The chair she had been sitting on scratched roughly against the floor as Hermione shoved away from the table, getting to her feet abruptly. He swallowed to finish what he had been about to say.

"They suffered a huge loss, Hermione. Their Commander of the Executioners is dead. Shacklebolt killed him."

She stared.

He's safe. He's safe. He's not with them. He's safe.

But she had to know; she would have to find out.

"I can't stay here anymore, Charlie. I have to go."

Hermione had never been more serious. After all, there was no other choice.

Ministry of Magic

London, England

Antonin Dolohov was dead.

With his death came a crumbling of one of the Ministry's inner circles. None of them were willing to put their fear into words, but fear was there nonetheless. It was a deep-seated emotion, eating away at the edges of conscience and possibilities, an irrefutable presence among them and a force to be reckoned with.

Just like the growing Alliance.

Could it be true? Was the Ministry growing weak against what they had believed unworthy opposition?

The battle had been brutal. Even those well trained and uneasily scared had been shaken. It should have been easy, a sneak attack on an unsuspecting line of defense on the border of the Welsh countryside. It should have been Voldemort's first victory in expanding his line of control. To control Wales would mean an easy, direct route to the English Channel and the possibility of expanding control to the Irish Ministry of Magic.

Instead, they had been sent on retreat, licking their gaping wounds.

Antonin was dead at the hand of a disgusting blood-traitor. They had not allowed said traitor to live, not after what he had done to Antonin. Yes, Dolohov was dead but so was Shacklebolt – murdered because he had dared to murder one of their highest military officials.

But Shacklebolt's death had not righted the crippling blow against the Ministry. Without Dolohov's staunch leadership, the Executioners had faltered in battle. The unbreakable, tank-like line of undefeatable dark magic had been cracked by Dolohov's death, allowing the Alliance to penetrate and savagely cripple what had already been a faltering Ministry retreat. The Alliance had been able to take down several higher-ranking officials, including Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange and two others. No one within the Ministry knew where they were being kept but one thing was for certain.

The Ministry could no longer underestimate the Alliance. Never again would they go into battle with confidence.

Fear itself had managed to entwine its icy, hard fingers into the very souls of those working within the dark, shadowed walls of the Ministry. Everyone was on edge, everyone wondered what the next step would be – what their Lord had chosen to do. Silence rained cruelly upon those who had survived the brutal battle, a greater and more hopeless presence than that of even the Dementors.

And in the bowels of the damned building, screams could be heard.

"MY HUSBAND!"

The screech was relentless, echoing against the walls of the dungeon courtrooms.

"THEY HAVE MY HUSBAND!"

Bellatrix Lestrange fought against the men who held her elbows in vice-like grip. Even though she was strong, the Executioners holding her were stronger and they remained staunch and unmoving. The only others in the room were lines of heavily clad men that had survived the first major Ministry defeat. They said nothing as Bellatrix screamed.

"THE SHAME!"

She growled like an animal fighting against its chains.

"TO BE BEATEN BY BLOOD-TRAITOR FILTH! THE SHAME!"

Her eyes were trained to the corner of the room, where a large, high-backed chair sat and in it, the man she believed she was in love with. The man who was leader of all.

"It is quite the shame, Bellatrix."

His high-pitched voice had once been a dulcet tone to her ears. Now she heard only dismissal, indifference and a man who cared nothing for human emotion. Had there been any emotion in that voice, it was long gone leaving in its wake a gaping, black emptiness. The sound echoed terribly through the room.

Bellatrix stopped fighting against the Executioners as if all her strength were gone and for a few moments the only sound in the torch-lit room was her heavy breathing. Her heartbeat was erratic, a heavy thing, like a booming drum.

Was he even a man? Did she understand this…this…monster-like creature that she called her Lord? What was it she felt for him as she stared at the back of his gray-white head even as he did not give her the courtesy of his gaze? She trembled against her captors willing him to turn, but he did not and when she spoke, her voice was weaker than she wanted it to be.

"They have Rodolphus."

"So you have said."

Her mouth was dry and her long, wild hair had fallen into her face in the most irritating fashion. She had no way to brush it from her flushed, clammy face.

"My Lord, I beg you-"

No. That sounded too weak, too…emotional. There was no place for emotion now, she knew. It had been years since she had even considered something as unimportant as emotions. There was no room in the world for such rubbish! And he would not have it; he would not allow her to be so weak. He would not allow her to feel.

Closing her eyes, Bellatrix tried once again, her voice lost for a few moments but she willed herself to feel nothing.

My husband.

What sort of monster would be indifferent towards a woman's pain at losing her husband?

No. No, I feel nothing. I feel no pain.

And yet-

"He…he is necessary, my Lord. Necessary to our cause! What happened today, it…it is not good for the Ministry-"

He turned fluidly, moving with a feline-like grace. He watched her curiously, with a cold inhumanness, bone-white fingers linking together in a most casual stance. Bellatrix thought he should have been more furious at the blatant defeat that had come upon him- his Ministry really – but he seemed only…calm.

"Ah, but I know it."

He moved towards her, down several stone steps so that they would be eye to eye. Bellatrix gazed at him unflinchingly, having taught herself never to shirk before anyone – be it slave, master, friend of foe. Never show fear – even if it exists.

But gazing on him this time was different than all those other times. She couldn't remember a time before when she had felt the need to speak back to him, to question his orders, to consider what he was saying. She had supported him. She had fought for him. She had worked with fever and madness to be at his right side. Nothing had mattered more – no one had her mind and heart the way this monster did.

He was a monster. And she loved him.

Rodolphus was her husband, but he was a man who could never have offered her the things she had wanted – power and control over all others.

The man staring unfailingly back at her - his animal-like eyes glowing inhumanly in the dim lighting and the thin, lipless mouth pulled back into a frightening grimace – he was the one that she had believed could offer her the things most dear to her blackened heart.

If ever Bellatrix had loved – it was the man before her. Some may have called it madness but in the end it did not matter. For him she would have done anything.

"Bella."

There was a way he had with words, reminding her of the man he had been at one time. The syllables both enticing and frightening coming from his mouth. His long-fingered hand reached towards her even as she was rooted to the spot. Bellatrix no longer struggled. She knew that she would not leave this place; she would do anything he required of her.

"Come," he said.

She watched as he walked, his long, black robes sliding along the floor like a silent, satin waterfall. He moved as if he were a ghost and not human at all.

If he ever had been.

She followed and he moved towards the shadows turning only when they were alone.

"You understand more than anyone what it is I need."

Bellatrix only stared, her mouth hanging open just slightly – as if she was seeing one of the world's greatest wonders and not the soulless monster that was truly there. Somehow in this place and before this man, she could hardly remember the horrid battle that had just ensued. Her husband had been captured by the Alliance, taken away kicking and screaming. Rodolphus gone, Rabastan with him. Many others fallen and the Ministry tattered.

"My Lord?"

Her whisper was one of adoration as she watched him with baited breath. His pale, gray hands tightened around the wand he held.

"We will be victorious, you understand. How can it be that I, Lord Voldemort, faced my enemy and rose above him? I have defeated Harry Potter."

He leaned towards her.

"I will live forever. And along with me those who have been my closest advisors."

He swept his hand towards those who waited behind them.

"You will regroup, my Bella. Lord Voldemort is merciful and I will understand this…failing."

He offered a smile that was really more like a grimace.

"I will not punish them for failing me. I will give them time to regroup and we will attack once more. We will not stop until they have all been squashed like the insignificant insects that they truly are!"

And so it would be, she knew. The Ministry would not fail – they could not. After all, there was no other choice.

Hermione stood facing Charlie and the look she gave him was relentless and stubborn. She did say another word at the news of the invasion and her emotionless reaction was more frightening than if she had broken down in wails or screamed out in anger.

But she had not. There had been simple, silent acceptance. And now this.

Charlie wished that she had remained silent.

"I won't let you go."

"I will."

She spoke as simply as possible but each word dealt a blow.

"Hermione, you're mental!"

He glared at her sharply and would not let her interrupt.

"No one in their right mind would let a pregnant woman anywhere-"

She would not be deterred, brown eyes locked with his in an undeniable way.

"I will go! See if I don't. If you won't help me, I'll find my way alone."

He gaped at her.

"I'm only trying to protect you! Do you know how angry Neville's going to be if I send you to Cardiff in your condition?"

There was a slight hesitation but she quickly steeled herself against Charlie's obvious concern.

"He'll understand. Don't you see? I don't belong here! I need to be useful! I want to help, Charlie! Neville will need all the help he can get, won't he? Once all those from battle come seek him out."

There was no way Charlie could argue with that. He took a breath.

"Hermione, if you would only wait just a few more months. I'm sure…this-this isn't over. This whole mess – the war – these battles won't end, at least not yet!"

She had been clinging to the tabletop. Lord, help her. What if she never found out where Draco had gone? What if he died in one of those battles and she never knew? Her eyes watered.

"I know! When the baby is born I'm going to join them!"

The horror was evident in Charlie's eyes.

"You'll have a child!"

"I know that, but it won't stop me! This war isn't just for men and women who have no one waiting for them at home! What about Remus? Tonks? What about your parents, Charlie? I have a purpose! I have goals and I have dreams!"

There were tears that glimmered in the depths of her eyes, and she began to cry. She had her dreams, yes. Her dreams of finding Draco and uniting her family. Just like thousands of others. Just like Blaise and Lavender. Just like-

Charlie's eyes watered too and then he thought of his family. Brothers and sisters who had given up everything – a father who had been brave, a mother but also a martyr.

He would not argue with her again. How could he?

"All right."

His jaw trembled.

"Just remember you have family here. You're my family. And you're Ginny's family."

Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"I know it," she whispered moving to hug him closely for a few moments. She took a breath and let go.

"Thank you."

Her face was a portrait of sincerity.

"Thank you for understanding. For knowing that I can't hide forever."

She turned quickly towards the direction of her room.

"I ought to pack. I won't waste time now that the snow is gone."

Charlie watched her go, a troubled expression on his face. Somehow it seemed too soon to watch her leave; it was too soon to have her fully entrenched in the Alliance especially with the growing turmoil. Not while she was pregnant and not in full condition of battle. And the fact that she had no wand-

She was gone.

In the small bedroom, Hermione was on her knees and the small lockbox on the floor before her. The lamplight glittered off of the jewels that studded Draco's necklace and then she clutched the wand tightly in one hand, her eyes closing.

He's safe. He's safe. I know it, I just know it! But even if he's not, I'll find him. Somehow, I will. I can't stay here; this isn't home. Home is where he is and I can't stay here and wonder.

It had been something Charlie had said that morning, something about those who were fighting and those who had fallen. She had known in that moment, upon walking back into the cottage that she could no longer stay there. She was needed elsewhere; she would go to Neville, who needed her.

And when her baby was born and safe, she would fight.

Her fingers tightened around her wand.

This is my chance.