If they knew what she had done, they would chuck her into Azkaban and melt the key. The Dementors would feast on her soul for all eternity.
Hermione Granger stared up at the ceiling from the edge of the cramped twin bed. Ron's lips tickled her neck while his snores softly chuffed into her ear, but her hip was dangling over nothing. She shuffled closer but the only answer was a groggy grumble.
Dust and flakes of plaster settled onto the thin sheet the as the walls above them vibrated and shook. Ginny's quiet moans echoed through The Burrow's thin wall. She rummaged the rumpled pile on the floor and slid the soft flannel nightgown back over her head. The tiny bed was barely big enough for one so she quietly settled into the pallet of blankets on the floor and stared at the tiny fissures and flecks.
The battle at Hogwarts was only yesterday. Her brain went into a tailspin every time her eyes shut. Magic rocketed and rippled as evil men murdered children. Fires licked up walls consuming priceless tapestries and burned black holes through centuries old wooden staircases. She charmed the old swords, the ones she had whetted to razor sharp, to fly silently and slice clean. Gentlemanly duels trading creative hexes never ended anything. One swift cut under the chin was the finality these animals needed.
Ancient magic demanded its recompense. The stones required payment. Soul for soul. "Whoever sheds the blood of a man, by man shall his blood be shed." She knew the words by heart. Cleansing her Alma Mater was a good and necessary work. Holy even. Pure blood, half, or muggle, the spirits didn't care so long as atonement was made. It was all right there, in the first edition of The History of Hogwarts. She knew, because they told her where to look. For twenty years Albus Dumbledore refused their terms, but like the gods of the copybook headings, the bill was still due.
Hobnail boots pinged down the stone hallway. Her own footsteps were dead silent in her soft house slippers. The swish and clank of armored cloaks and gauntlets grew closer as she slid into the darkness beside a tapestry. Black fabric billowed. She stabbed Bellatrix's wand under the silver mask and loosed a wordless Sectumsempra. The head rolled backwards off the shoulders and clopped into the circular rune carved into the floor while the body swayed forward and fell. The silver mask slid off , revealing a woman's torn face and slick, auburn hair.
A man's voice called out, "Prentice, the Squib and Puff dormitory is this way."
They didn't even deserve consideration as animals.
Footsteps grew more insistent as they closed the distance. "This way!" He was running, cloak billowing behind him and drew up hard at the body draining into the grooved star set into the pavers. His silver mask fell from his hand and he knelt beside the woman. His face was twisted with grief when Hermione blasted a Stupefy into his ear from a foot away. Without saying a single word, she swished her wand. Steel glittered in the air and his head rolled off. Warmth rippled through her magic as the crimson bathed rune drank its fill and then shared the bounty with the ancient foundations, but the thirst still gnawed.
The inbred vermin would finally contribute ! Every single one, and she wouldn't bother with all the idiocy or preamble.
The blade fluttered in the air, sloughing the slick of blood into the hungry earth. The shadows welcomed her into their busom. There would be no more of Dumbledore's overinflated sense of fair play. None of Arthur's waxing eternal on the value of even the most wretched and degenerate soul. They chose the path of depravity. They reveled in preying on the innocent and they deserved the rightful wages. Five more of the silver masked scum presented their offering as she wound her way through the hidden passages, but the ancients demanded more.
Sanguinem pecunia. Blood money. The Boy Who Lived could be purchased , but only after supplication and restitution. Her soul was cold and empty. Her footsteps silent in the pitch black dark. Sticky fingers trailed the cracks, and a red glimmer beckoned.
"Mudblood!" The portrait screeched, "I will not permit any of your..." It silenced the instant her hand smeared the crimson price across its lips. A heady breath exhaled, "Enter."
The voices in her skull whispered, leading. She found the inbred lump of a house mother cowering in a closet under a staircase. She dragged the woman by the hair to the wide stone circle in the center of the silver and green common room, stabbed the cursed blade in, and then moved on as the magic extracted its due, leaving only a shriveled husk. Ten of Slytherin, but now Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had to make their own supplication. Quid for the pro quo.
A moment of clarity gripped her at the next entrance. She folded over, begging and crying. It wasn't fair. They were innocent! Why shouldn't the Death Eaters pay? They were the guilty ones! She pressed the sword against her own neck but darkness enveloped her.
Cold sheeted her bones. The stones in the wall twisted and rearranged into an archway, and she ghosted her way out from below the double badgers guarding the cup.
A green burst flashed. Voldemort launched his Aveda at Harry, and then Tom Riddle was was dead, but she was dirty. So dirty.
The crowds hoisted them high and cheered.
Everything was so perfect, until after lunch. Harry and Ginny were off in the forest behind the burrow while she argued with Ron about her dreams. He was convinced that this was their time to ride the wave of fame and fortune. She just wanted to return to Hogwarts, graduate, and go off to college.
Then, after dinner, she got into an argument with Mrs. Weasley about the woman's place in society and the home. Why couldn't they understand that she didn't want to smash the world or change anybody, she just wanted to finish college before having a family, like her mother had.
Her mind drifted back to her time with Harry. Fear and uncertainty gnawing week after week, sleeping huddled against each in the cold. Hiding under the constant threat of death. He had been so despondent. She had to do something to drive off the darkness that plagued him. Curling into his chest, pressing kisses into his knuckles, and telling stories about living next door to each other gave him hope. It took three tries to figure out how they fit together. It burned and she bled, but the second time was better, and the third time even better than that. They had no other way to numb the constant terror of capture. No other way to find sleep. No other way to stay warm. The passion they shared gave them life, but things couldn't stay that way. They needed each other. They loved each other, but not like that.
Ron's Chudley Cannons posters vibrated again. It was no secret that Prewett women were... Um... Endowed. Ginny had filled out in the year they were hiding in the tent. Her thighs were round and muscular, her breasts large and firm, while her waist was tiny. Hermione wasn't though. She wore bras because she wasn't one of those girls, but she didn't need one unless the shirt was too thin.
She was so happy when Harry hauled Ginny into his arms. His eyes popped out of his head when she pressed her chest into his face. His cheeks burned bright red but his smile bloomed. Then the girl launched into Quidditch talk while her fingers crept higher and higher up the inside of his thigh. That was love. He needed that after being groomed as Dumbledore's next sheep for slaughter.
Ron's frown when he got her shirt off still burned. "No, sweet, they're plenty for me. More than a mouthful is a waste." But his sighs told her otherwise. It also didn't help that he mauled them. They were sore from all the fighting of the past few weeks and his day old stubble only rubbed them raw.
Her fingers absently scratched at the knobbly scab under her ear. Half an hour ago, Ron had rubbed her belly. He yawned, pecked a kiss into her cheek, and said, "Its not like you think. You'll be happy with a big family. We'll be happy."
"But I'm going back to Hogwarts in the fall."
His only reply was a silent snore.
Things would be better once everything settled down. It would be fine. Really.
A plaster flake crackled loose and tapped her nose. She had done the right thing, so why did she feel so dirty? Why did she wake up from nightmares of blood streaked hands?
Speaking of... Her fingers and neck were sticky again. Hermione slipped out the door and crept into the bathroom. She eyed the gash and closed it back up with a quick flick of her wand. Blood streaked her hands. She had to wash, to clean herself, but the stench wouldn't come out of her nose. She scrubbed until the water turned cold. She grimaced and snuck downstairs to push against her toes, stretch against the cramps in her stomach, and ponder in Arthur's big chair.
What would Ron and herself be like as parents?
A shudder rippled over her. Parents? Parents! She had forgotten about her mother and father. Now she prayed that they were exactly where she left them.
Tears dripped onto the ragged velveteen arm rest as she worried. What if she couldn't reverse the spell? What if they never remembered her? What then? St Mungo's had an excellent memory recovery ward. So did St Bartholomew's in Germany and La Hopital Sorciere in Paris.
Footsteps slinked down the stairs behind her. Ginny's voluptuous figure ghosted into the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed. Round breasts stretched Harry's white tee shirt in the dim glow of the ice box. She grabbed a banana popsicle and waved at Hermione. She whispered, "You want one?"
Hermione shook her head. "No thanks. Just thinking about my parents."
Ginny's tongue wrapped around the frozen treat and she piqued her eyebrows. "Your parents? Aren't they in London?"
"I moved them to Australia before the war."
"Gonna go see them?"
"I miss them so much."
Ginny nodded and then launched into giggles about Harry. She wiggled three fingers and perked her eyebrows at Hermione. "He's sleeping like a baby."
"So is Ron."
Ginny tilted her head and clucked. "I love my brother, but he's a git. Left you hanging didn't he?"
Hermione sighed inside her soul as she put on a mischevious grin. "I might have wound him up a mite too fast. I'm going to need to learn to pace things."
Ginny snorted and coughed out a chunk of popsicle. "You're a terrible liar. Its written all over your face. I don't want to sound like a hag, but why do you stay with him? You two are shite together. Trelawny was right, you're not a match. Even Mum knows it. That one doesn't want a bean head with more education than himself. Never has."
She shook it off. "He's such a good man, and we've been through so much together."
Ginny let out a long, slow sigh. "So, what are you going to do about your parents?"
Her stomach knotted but footsteps quietly padded behind them. Mr Weasley crept in and fixed a glass of water. His dark-ringed eyes revealed an eternity of sadness barely contained. He said, "What's up girls?"
Ginny blushed. "We were just talking about 'Mione's parents. She hid them in Australia."
Hermione was crying again as the worry mounted.
He patted her back. "The whole country is shut down for the big parade tomorrow but I should be able to arrange a Floo for a war hero early next week."
He passed her a blanket as she sniffed the words out. "No. It's ok. You don't have to."