ihopeour

by alissa.mellie

d

3. 3

When they show up at Dumledore's office with the memory, he's entirely unsurprised, and doesn't look especially impressed or pleased that they've managed to procure it—just smiles, casually, and opens the doors that hide the pensive.

(Unbothered that he encouraged teenagers to emotionally manipulate a professor, however necessary.)

Something about this meeting feels—different, though.

(Like something big is about to happen.)

The weight of it all, the anticipation and mounting pressure, it crashes over them as they fall into the memory, the very air electrified.

The beginning is the same; the end of a potions class, Tom approaching Slughorn with a dazzling smile.

But this time, when he asks about horcruxes, instead of the warped scream, Slughorn's expression grows worried. "That's dark magic, m'boy. What on earth would you want to know about those for?"

Riddle plays it off, of course, citing intellectual curiosity and a need to be prepared; Harry's clutching at Hermione's hand as Voldemort's child self charms his way into seeming innocent even as he inquires about the darkest of magic.

And Hermione's confused, because the questions he's asking Slughorn are clearly distractors, things he already knows—she can see a book about dark magics in his schoolbag, making a mental note of the title.

And then he asks the question he really wants to ask, and the pieces fall into place as she sucks in a gasp of understanding.

"Seven?" Harry demands in a whisper beside her.

(Seven pieces of his soul—six horcruxes.)

The diary and ring are gone, of course, and they have the locket and diadem in their possession, but that leaves two others—the snake, as they'd established last year, and god only knows what the last one could possibly be.

(Two final horcruxes they have no idea how to track down.)

The memory ends, and they're spat back out onto the cool tile of Dumbledore's office, all silent for a moment as they process their shock.

"Is it possible? Could a person survive splitting their soul that many times? We're sure he carried out that plan?" she asks the Headmaster, looking to him for information for perhaps the first time in her life.

"While a very intelligent individual, Tom Riddle's weakness has always been his attachment to significance," Dumbledore says grimly, with a slight shake of his head. "Having been treated so horribly for so long, he became obsessed with feeling like he belonged in the magical world, and proving it. Seven has historically been seen as a powerful magical number—if he fixated on it for something as important as his soul, I doubt he would've been able to focus on anything else until he had succeeded in doing so."

"But what that would do to a person…" Hermione shudders instinctively.

The older man nods, though he doesn't look nearly as disturbed; unfortunately, he's rather unsurprised. "I agree, it is likely the root of the loss of his sanity and humanity, so fractured is his very core. Given the way he produced a new body without the use of any horcrux, it's arguable that the being he is now is entirely soulless, though I'm not sure about the technicalities of such a thing."

They're all quiet, for a moment, taking it in—really, truly attempting to fathom the implications.

"You understand the role you must play in this?" Dumbledore asks, gaze darting between them. "For the remainder of the year, the three of us will attempt to track down and/or destroy the four horcruxes still in commission, but beyond that it will be up to you."

Harry's brow furrows, because while they'd already assumed as much, it seems unlike Dumbledore. "What do you mean?"

He sips from a goblet slowly, holding up his injured hand. "My health is ailing. And when the war is in full swing, I will be needed at Hogwarts, to defend the fortress. This is where the battle will come. You two—and Mister Weasley—must find and destroy the horcruxes that remain, or we will have no hope of defeating him."

Hermione nods, for the first time feeling as though she and Dumbledore are on the same wavelength.

(Have the same understanding of where things are heading.)

"We understand, sir."

(So many years, they've been tiptoeing; so careful, thinking they knew the game.)

(Really, it's only just begun.)

/

"Do you really have the time to be taking that kind of extracurricular reading onto your plate right now?"

Ron's voice is completely serious, and when Hermione looks up at him he's leveling her with a disproving stare. "The bags under your eyes are already out of control, Mione. You need rest, not another project. If you don't take care of yourself you're going to fall apart, and then where will we all be?"

Harry's grinning behind him, of course, because she always gives him grief when he fusses over her not taking care of herself.

"This isn't recreational, unfortunately." She rubs at her temples as if the motion alone will reduce her headache as she marks her page and closes the book to show it to them.

Harry pulls in a breath of surprise at the cover. "Isn't that—"

Hermione nods grimly. "The book on horcruxes Riddle had in his bag—Aunt Andy made some trips to Knockturn to get ahold of it for me. I figure we need to know as much about them as Voldemort does."

"It's cute, how she finds ways to excuse all the ways she doesn't take care of herself," Pansy comments to the others with an eye roll. "Necessary or not, you have too much on your plate, Hermione. You won't be able to relay any of the information in that book if you collapse, first."

Harry's grinning at the way they're all ganging up on her till Pansy and Ron's gazes both swivel to him.

The Slytherin raises her eyebrows. "What are you laughing about, idiot? You do the same shit, with your savior complex and inability to ever consider your own well-being. I swear one day I'm going to slip the both of you sleeping draught and keep you knocked out for a week just to keep you functional."

Draco chuckles faintly, though his attention is mostly on the calculations he's doing on parchment before him, planning for the Death Eaters' invasion of Hogwarts.

He's had the gist of the plan for ages, now, but has refused to leave anything to chance, devising and triple checking every detail of every possible turn of events.

(Fixing the vanishing cabinet. How to keep the rest of the students safe. How to alert the Order and have them come defend the castle without being suspected or anyone being caught in the crossfire.)

And he's been sleeping even less, having to keep a stock of Polyjuice that Hermione and Pansy have both offered to brew for him but he's refused to let anyone else do, knowing they're both already stretched thin as it is.

(Not to mention brewing is…one of the only times he can breathe, these days.)

(His mind is such chaotic hell that he doesn't truly feel like a person most days, except when he's brewing, or drinking firewhiskey in the Room of Requirement with all of his clandestine friends, losing himself while fucking Hermione, both of them desperate to feel anything but the numbness and remind the other that they're so very loved.)

So he brews it himself, though Ginny's the one to procure different hairs for him to use each week, much more adept as she is for being able to strike up conversations and deftly slip strands into the pockets of her robes without the other parties being any wiser.

And Crabbe and Goyle take it, under the impression that they're "standing guard"—not that he needs such a thing, but their involvement is a good alibi, two good death eater spawn who will confirm for the Dark Lord just how much of himself he's devoted to the task at hand.

It doesn't feel like enough, but—it's as much as he can do, right now.

(It has to be enough.)

The door swings open, slamming with the force only Ginny uses, and they all meet her grim expression expectantly.

"We're needed on the grounds," she declares, then makes a face at both her boyfriend and Draco. "Not you two I suppose, that would be too suspicious, but—everyone else."

Harry scratches the back of his head. "Can we have, like, a half of a detail of explanation, please?"

She grimaces, looking rather less than excited to give details. "Hagrid's—spider—friend died."

"Aragog?" Ron shudders at the memory. "Good riddance, that. Bloody menace."

"You knew an acromantula?" Draco demands with wide eyes. "How do you even get wrapped up in these things?"

"I don't know if I would use the word knew so much as he attempted to eat us, once, during second year," Harry says, making a face. "But Ron's dad's enchanted muggle car saved us from him and his hundreds of giant spider children, so that was good."

Blaise shakes his head in disbelief. "Is there any being that has ever been on Hogwarts grounds that hasn't tried to kill you?"

"Get back to you if I ever find one, but as of yet I think they're all in this room."

"Anyway," Ginny continues, ignoring them all, "He was apparently his first…creature, or friend or ally of any sort, and the only one who was there for him after…" she swallows heavily at the thought of Tom, memories icy splinters up her spine.

(Cold whisper in her mind, body moving without her control, waking up with no memory of the night before and blood on her hands—)

Blaise is at her side instantly, linking their fingers together for her reassurance that she's not there, anymore.

(Not coming any closer because he knows she can't bear to be touched, when she gets like this.)

"All of which to say," she stresses, "that he is understandably very distraught, right now. He needs us."

"Of course." Hermione gets to her feet immediately, helping Ron and Pansy stand as well. "Should we stop by the greenhouse on the way for flowers, or something? To pay our respects?"

She doesn't say what they're all thinking—the thing that makes her, Harry, and Ginny lock guilty, knowing eyes.

(That the person best suited to comfort Hagrid right now is Luna, the only other person who's ever understood his love for magical creatures.)

(How fucked it is that she's not here for him, now—that it'll hurt her too, when she hears, and can't even write him with her condolences.)

(Because he believes her to be dead. Everyone does.)

So the rest of them disillusion themselves, Harry throwing on the Invisibility Cloak, so they can go out to Hagrid's cabin despite the hour; Draco forces a smile and a wave as they leave, but Hermione can see how far away he truly is, lost inside what the weeks to come mean for him.

Hagrid is surprised to see them—warmed by their presence, despite the pain of the reasoning behind it.

And it's—none of them have been around much, lately, busy as they've been; and then, the wrongness of going out to the forest without Luna.

But the gamekeeper doesn't seem to begrudge them any of that; understands, perhaps even more than they do, that love covers time lapses and absence and pain-driven avoidance, because that's what friendship is.

(What family is.)

And he sobs, as they do the attempt at a ceremony, opening up to them all about his youth more than he ever has; his mother never being around, but his father loving him so much he never noticed, because he had such a happy and loving childhood, despite the racism and discrimination he faced all throughout the wizarding world.

Losing his father, the loneliness and isolation—a kid that didn't fit in and looked the wrong way during an unforgiving time period; friendless, but able to study magic the way he never thought he'd be able to, and so some semblance of happy all the same.

Finding an egg, all alone, in the wrong conditions; knowing if he didn't help the acromantula inside would die before ever getting a chance to live. And so he took care of it, ensuring warmth and darkness and all of the things necessary, until Aragog was there—and finally, he had a friend of sorts.

(An odd alliance, to be sure, but—someone to talk to for the first time since losing his dad. Someone who trusted him completely.)

And then, the Slytherin Prefect and gem of the school, beauty and authority and righteous charm, telling Dippet he was the one hurting others.

Hurting muggleborns.

(As though he of all people would see the only other people hurting like him as enemies.)

(As though he of all people didn't know well what it was to be seen as lesser in the wizarding world.)

All hope being lost, having no idea where the fuck he could possibly go, just thirteen and completely alone with no light in sight, and then, as he finished packing his trunk through silent sobs, Dumbledore at the door—and a lifeline.

He could stay in the magical world—could stay at Hogwarts.

(Home.)

And better yet, could work with magical creatures, even without his wand; could love and protect them.

"I know Dumbledore's not perfect—maybe he's even corrupt," Hagrid says at one point, having consumed enough ale to be completely honest about his feelings on the matter. "He's done aa lot of things wrong; still does, all the time. But he was—the only one that cared, then. The only reason I'm still alive, y'know? It's—it's hard not to feel like I owe him everything. Hard to look at him and see past that moment, thirteen and hopeless planning to live on the muggle streets, and him offering me—everything."

Hermione understands him better than ever, just then; the complicated mess of emotions that comes with someone pulling you out of your own personal hell.

(Wonders what she would do if Sirius hadn't been a good person when he'd done so for her; if she'd have been able to stand against him when he did wrong, after everything.)

But Harry's own thoughts drift to Voldemort, as they so often do; wondering how he, too, could have been similarly plucked from a shitty home, and yet never develop the same idolization for the headmaster as so many have initially.

And how Dumbledore can have given Hagrid another chance, been so willing to go the extra mile to make sur he was okay; and yet never gave eleven year old Tom a sliver of a chance.

(Might things be different, if he had?)

Either way, Tom is responsible for the damage he's caused; no one should've been expected to save him, love him away from the path to destruction.

But at the same time…Dumbledore is a teacher. Along with that comes a certain responsibility, a certain power. Such blatant cruelness and disdain for a student from day one, as a child, from the very people intended to care for you…

(It doesn't excuse Voldemort's actions, but it feels like a crime of its own to commit.)

Pansy and Ginny take the lead with a lot of the comforting, knowing Ron is absolute shit and putting feelings into words and Harry and Hermione would just crack horrible jokes because that's the only way to deal with pain.

(Not to mention they've spent the most time with Hagrid, recently, having taken to coming down to visit with him and Grawp at Luna's behest even after Umbridge's departure, all throughout the previous term.)

At the end of the night, they're singing ballads, and Ron's put on tea for everyone because he turns into his mother whenever he's not sure what people need, and it's—a complicated, beautiful and sad moment.

And for it to be Aragog, arguably one of the first victims of Riddle's treachery so many years ago, now, just when the bastard has more power than ever and the entire feels tenuous enough to shatter—

(There are so many funerals still to come; it feels like only the first in a line of dominos.)

But they make the best of it all the same, among friends as they are.

Ginny's regaling them all with a horrid rendition of a drinking song that makes Hagrid smile; head on Pansy's shoulder, Harry's own fast asleep in her lap, Hermione makes a point to cement the memory in her mind.

(A moment of love to cling to.)

/

They haven't gone home for the Easter holidays in years, as busy as they've been, but—

Something feels different, this year.

(Like hair standing on end, a revving car engine—like soon, things will change irrevocably.)

And the time home has been—tense, in a way, but also so incredibly grounding.

Hermione forgets, sometimes, how badly she needs them all in her life, Sirius and Tonks and Ted and Andy and Sofia, and even Remus, who she sees all the time at school, but—it's different, in the safety of their own place.

And Teddy—merlin, does she love her little godson more than this entire planet; she spends hours upon hours just watching him look at the world around them with wonder, cuddling and singing to him and generally just attempting to show him every ounce of love she possesses.

And Luna's there, of course, which sets Harry's frayed nerves a bit more at ease, though seeing her life in hiding visibly hurts him; Luna doesn't seem bothered much, always having been one who's okay with solitude, happy to be able to do research and mourn and remember her father in her own time.

The only part she appears troubled by is the idea that her death has caused their friends grief; she's clearly guilty at the thought of them all hurting because of her, though she doesn't regret the article or the situation at all, is even more adamant than older Order members that her being in hiding is necessary.

(If Voldemort's failure to kill her is revealed to him, his wrath will be taken out on others—and they might not be able to mitigate those consequences.)

They're at the burrow for Easter Sunday Brunch; it's the first time all the Weasley siblings' soul mates have been in one place, plus the Black/Lupin/Tonks family, so it's just—chaos.

(A dark voice inside Hermione wonders if this will be the only time they'll all ever be in the same place—how many members of this chaotic, wonderful, loving family will be lost to the war ahead.)

Sofia is sitting with Fleur while she mumbles to Teddy in French, the little boy clapping with glee at his aunt's strange words while his father are Susan are in deep conversation about politics and the current tone of the ministry.

Meanwhile, Tonks is morphing her hair and features to do a spot on impersonation of Snape that has both Blaise and Daphne bursting into laughter, the twins visibly gaining respect for her at the display. Oliver and Ginny are having a loud and passionate argument about Quidditch strategies that has Harry looking on with interest, while Ron, Bill, and Sirius discuss rock bands, both wizard and muggle.

Arthur's positively captivated by everything Charlie's muggle boyfriend has to say, Ted playing mediator and attempting to translate the meanings of unknown muggle terminology, and vice versa, while Charlie himself just listens along.

And it's just—perfect. Everything about it is so positively wonderful and wholesome and the slice of happiness they all needed, right about now; Hermione can see Molly misty eyed at the head of the table, happy just to look on, and—she's not the perfect woman, by any means, but in this moment it's so tangible that the only thing in the world she cares about is her family being okay and happy, and the sight before her is—everything she could ever hope for.

Fleur eventually hands her Teddy, knowing the delight her future mother in law takes in her first grandchild, and comes over to join Hermione and Remus.

" 'Ow are you, mon amie?" she asks, pressing kisses to Hermione's cheeks. "And you, Remus?"

"I'm not your love too?" he asks drily, earning laughter from both women. "I'm very well, Fleur. How've you been?"

"As well as can be expected. It is not ze best time for my legislation—ze people currently in power obviously are bigots, so a lot of my work won't be able to go to ze Wizengamot till after ze war. But we've gotten several more donors, and we're 'aving success distributing Wolfsbane to several packs regularly and establishing ze organization's trustworthiness, so—I count it as progress! And wedding planning is a nice—silver lining."

Her gaze lands on Hermione expectantly, and the younger brunette sighs, knowing to lie would be useless. "I'm…okay. It's been a very rough year, and it's looking like things are only going to get harder, but…I'm very lucky to have such good people around me. The best support system." She nudges Fleur's shoulder with her own, earning a soft smile and hand squeeze of love from the older woman.

"Viktor mentioned in his most recent letter you invited him to the wedding—it'll be so good to have everyone together again."

Grinning, Fleur claps her hands together lightly. "Yes, I am so excited! It will be…right, to 'ave everyone I care about in one place, at least once before everything in the world…what is zat phrase Ginny is always using?"

Remus groans, having overheard the words muttered in class enough times to know what she means, while Hermione lets out a giggle. "I believe you mean 'before everything goes to shit'."

Fleur and Hermione both snicker at his world-weary expression at the expression, as though his husband isn't one of the most profane people in the country.

Fleur kisses them both again as she glides away, citing a need to remind Tonks and Fred about a bet they'd made; Harry's usurping the place she'd been sitting moments later.

"Having a good time?" Hermione asks him with a smile; his eyes are wide with exhilaration, though she knows as much as he loves being around the family the crowd is also overwhelming for someone who spent his entire childhood alone in the cupboard.

"Definitely. I really like Daphne, you know? Not that I ever haven't, but—the more I talk to her, the more glad I am she's stuck with us."

His sister nods. "I think her and Fleur have a lot in common, in some ways. The way they're perceived, at least." At Harry's questioning glance, she explains, "People automatically assume they're both—bitches, you know? Daphne is quiet and doesn't really initiate things, which people take as her being mean or rude, when she really just has such bad anxiety, especially in social settings. And Fleur—people see how beautiful, and how aware she is of her own brilliance, and take it as arrogance when she's just—confident, and knows her own worth, her own strength beyond looks."

Humming with understanding, he looks between the two with a thoughtful expression. "I'd never thought of it like that."

Later in the evening, back at Tonks manor, most of the guests and siblings with places of their own have left, with the exception of Tonks and Percy; Sofia'd been knackered and gone straight to bed when they arrived home, so now they're sitting around playing a card game with Harry, Andy, and Sirius, while Hermione and Remus sit on the floor beside them, having fun entertaining their mutual godson.

The game wraps up, and they all sit down for a bit of the cake Harry had made for the occasion; it's the night before they return to Hogwarts, though, so the conversation grows somber.

"We finished reading the book, by the way," Sirius comments, gesturing to himself and Tonks.

(The horcrux book, he means; Hermione had given it to Remus to read as soon as she was done, and he'd grimly passed it along so they could all put their heads together before going forward.)

"We need to figure out what the last one might be, before anything else," Harry says with a frown. "The diadem ruins our Slytherin-theme theory."

"But not the potential for them all being founder-based objects," Remus postulates, face pinched in concentration even as he pats Teddy's back, the little boy fast asleep in his arms.

Tonks shovels a bite of cake into her mouth before speaking. "Gryffindor's only associated artifact was the sword, but given that you stabbed it directly through a basilisk's mouth and it didn't disintegrate, it's pretty safe to say that wasn't one."

"Goblin made objects only take in that which makes them stronger," Hermione recites instinctively. "A piece of his soul wouldn't strengthen the metal."

Harry's eyes go wide. "Basilisk venom though…do you think?" He meets her eyes. "Is it possible?"

Her eyes make it clear she thinks so, but she turns to Remus to concern, him being the expert in the field.

"Yes, that sounds…very plausible," he sighs. "Which seems dangerous to just be sitting around in Dumbledore's office, now, but if we ever run out of the fangs Hermione salvaged it's good to know we have a backup option for destruction without having to resort to fiendfyre."

"So a Hufflepuff object, maybe," Tonks muses, reaching to take her son from her best friend as he moves to get a cup of tea. "Harder—Helga had several artifacts and trinkets she treasured."

"We'll have to attempt to track them all down," Sirius says with a grimace, moving to pull his hair into a bun and get it off his neck. "Hopefully it'll have the same stain of dark magic and we'll be able to tell…although the book mentioned horcruxes being connected to each other—linked, somehow—so it's possible we might be able to use one of the others to figure out what it is, where it is."

"Still have to get the snake," Harry reminds them. "I mean—we are sure that's one, right? Because of the visions fourth and fifth year?"

There are murmurs of agreement, and the conversation keeps moving, but—

(But.)

Hermione's never been able to shake the feeling that something about that is off; they've never actually been clear on why Harry's able to see into Voldemort's mind, or Nagini's.

(It doesn't make sense.)

She'd like to push it out of her mind, but the last time the pieces didn't fit this much…

(was when the pieces said Sirius wad a Death Eater and a traitor.)

(she knows to trust her instincts, when they're telling her facts don't line up.)

But what could the truth possibly be? There's no explanation for Harry's connection to Voldemort and his snake that makes sense.

And she's still bothered by the way he didn't feel anything out of the ordinary when wearing the diadem, despite how clearly wrong it had been to the rest of the others—why would the horcrux not affect him the same way? Not affect him at all?

Such a thing shouldn't be possible, unless—unless what?

(She can't figure it out.)

Something is off, something Voldemort's done affecting Harry; their mind link, the snake, no impact from the diadem, even his knowledge of parsletongue—a genetic ability none of his ancestors are recorded as having, but Tom Riddle does?

How is it possible for him to have Voldemort's genetic ability?

And the way his scar always hurts—

(A connection to Voldemort.)

"Oh, god," she whispers, feeling all the blood rush out of her face as she puts the pieces together. "Fuck. Oh, god."

("You're like him, you know. So, so much like that other boy. In more ways than you know—more ways than you've ever possibly imagined," Helena had said.)

("Out of your control.")

("I hope the good in you wins out.")

The good in him.

Because the bad is in him, too.

(The diadem not affecting him because a horcrux already is.)

"Mia, what's wrong?" Harry asks, voice gentle.

He's instantly at her side, as always, eyes immediately wide with concern for her well being—because of course he's worried about her, kindhearted boy that he is, thinking she's the one that's in danger right now, when all along—

She's numb, though distantly she can feel tears sliding down her cheeks. "It's not possible," she whispers hysterically. "Harry, it's not possible, but—"

(But his mother had just been murdered, and murder is all it takes, murder and an aimless fragment of soul and some sort of vessel—)

"I—god, Harry, I'm so sorry. But I think," she swallows heavily, trying to hold back shaking and sobs and anger, because this isn't about her. "I think you're a horcrux."

/

The revelation changes everything—and yet also nothing.

The more they consider it, the more research they do, the more comparison to the horcrux text itself, the more everything fits together; Remus speculates that even Voldemort himself doesn't realize it.

(His unintentional seventh horcrux.)

But they have hope; normally objects have to be destroyed, to eradicate the piece of soul they hold, but it's different with a person—a living being with a soul of its own.

Andy and Sirius dedicate themselves to going through every Black possession and text that could possibly have useful information on the subject, reaching out to less savory contacts about illicit texts in the hopes that something horcrux related might turn up.

Tonks does the same with Department of Mysteries contacts, though much more carefully, knowing if word gets out that Order members are looking into horcrux info they're completely fucked.

And Harry…well, he's doing a good job of seeming unaffected and unsurprised, but—

(Hermione knows her brother.)

He says they'll worry about it once they've finished dealing with the other six and the man's corporeal body itself, that they have plenty of time to figure out how to destroy the piece of Voldemort's soul inside him.

(But she knows if it comes down to it, he'll fall on his own sword to end the monster, to protect them all; will let Voldemort take him out if it makes it possible for everyone else to take him down.)

So there's nothing more important than making sure it doesn't get that far; making sure they figure out how to destroy it before things get to that point and he can attempt to sacrifice himself.

(She knows they'll face loss in this war, knows it's going to hurt, and there will be a cost to win, but—)

Harry is a price she refuses to pay.

Several weeks later, it's almost the end of term, and Harry comes into the Chamber where Hermione and Draco are doing homework before the ASA meeting, trepidation in his face.

"What's happened now?" Hermione asks, instinctively reaching for her wand.

"Nothing yet." He tugs at his hair, angst and tension riddled through him as he sits down beside them. "Note from Dumbledore—lesson next week." He meets her eyes, jaw tight. "We're leaving the grounds, for it. He said to dress for terrain. And to brace ourselves."

Her neck cracks with speed her head shoots upward. "You think he found one?"

"Can't imagine anything else so dire."

They're quiet for a moment, before Draco speaks. "That night, then. I'll do it that night."

"You mean—let the death eaters into the castle?" Hermione clarifies, reaching to stroke a thumb along the inside of his arm, knowing how much he hates to talk about it all.

(How much he hates himself for having to do it.)

"Yes. Dumbledore being gone will prove I have intel and make it an ideal circumstance for them all to sneak in, but also will be a good reason for there to be extra precautions, and the rest of the staff on high alert. That way they don't suspect a mole."

It's ideal, honestly; the end of year is far too near for him to put it off any longer.

(Doing so would only make things more volatile.)

"Okay. Right." Harry blows out a deep breath. "Here we go, then."

"Things are going to change," Hermione murmurs quietly. "But it's time."

Draco gives a perfunctory nod, anguish exploding in his every cell.

In a week's time—everything changes.

(The war begins in earnest.)

Other students trickle in a bit later, and they go through the motions, even though it feels impossible for things to be normal right now with what's coming.

(The air seems to crackle, and the three of them carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.)

Notes:

chapter title from warrior by demi lovato

There have been so many new readers the last few chapters—welcome!! thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. so glad to have you on board!

all my love

Chapter 36: I saw you in the water

Notes:

some exact lines from HBP in here bc fleur is a bad bitch and queen of my heart

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They spend the entire week before preparing; stressed and too anxious to sleep, the nervous anticipation ripples around them.

(It's visible, how on edge they all are.)

Hermione meets with McGonagall early in the week—careful, so careful about what she says.

"Our informant has reason to believe the Order should be on standby next Sunday—but they mustn't know we know about the invasion." Her eyes beg her head of house to understand—to know that if anyone suspects they were warned, her soulmate's life will be the price. "The headmaster will be away from Hogwarts that night; Order members should all be informed that they're merely on call in case anything happens to go wrong in his absence."

McGonagall nods in agreement, even as she begins to jot down a list of the strongest members in a duel, all of whom she'll send missives to in a bit. "I expect I won't be able to keep you and Mister Potter from the fight even if I try?"

Hermione's lips twitch. "Naturally. Well, Harry will be with Professor Dumbledore, actually; but yes, I intend to help protect the castle. I will also be informing ASA members of the situation, when the time comes, so that they too may defend their home if they wish."

The older woman raises her eyebrows, disbelief coloring her expression. "Albus is taking him off grounds, and you're not demanding to join them?"

"The situation is…delicate." Hermione scowls. "The mission they're going on—Dumbledore believes protective enchantments will dictate only one wizard may enter."

"Ah," McGonagall nods with understanding. "And you're of age."

"Exactly. Although…truth be told, I'd prefer to be here anyway. As much as I love Harry and want to be there with him, this is one night I think I'm needed at Hogwarts."

(They don't mention what they both know—that she doesn't just mean for the sake of the battle.)

/

Watch for the mark, Draco had instructed, and so she does; stares up at the sky relentlessly, getting up to face before being so anxious she can't help but sit back at the windowsill.

(Harry's been gone for an hour, now.)

Harry's half of the communicating mirror set Sirius had gifted his son is in the hand not gripping her wand; Luna's on the other end with Sirius, actively watching her skin for any word from Harry should things with Dumbledore go south.

(It's unlikely anything too bad could happen, but—)

(They're not willing to take any chances.)

The sky is full of dark clouds, like nature itself knows what's coming, wind speed steadily rising along with Hermione's blood pressure.

And it kills her to wait, to know what's coming and not be able to stand at the ready, but—

(To prepare would be to compromise Draco.)

Even if she were able to bear such a thing—to be like Cedric, strong enough to value the good of the many over the love of her life—the reality is that Draco being a double agent truly has saved so many lives—will only continue to be more and more crucial to saving others as the war grows.

(It's imperative for the good of the Order that no one suspect him.)

So she watches the sky, grinds her teeth and clenches her fists on the edges of the mirror as the storm swirls before her.

A crackle of thunder, and then lightning throws light over the whole sky, and then—

(She'd almost mistake it for another flash of lightning, if she weren't paying attention.)

But it's just a bit off—

And then she's looking up at the astronomy tower where they'd watched the twins stunned a year ago, where they'd broken out a convict that would become the only parent they'd ever known, where they'd smuggled a baby dragon at age eleven—

(Fate—it always brings them back to that tower.)

And there it is, grim and ghostly.

(The dark mark ripples as it moves through the air.)

/

Ginny hadn't questioned it when Hermione asked her to host an ASA open study hall that night—just be in the Chamber, hanging out with any members who wanted to hang out and revise or play drinking games or anything else under the sun.

(She knows Hermione well enough to know the look of urgency she gets—to trust her judgement implicitly, even when she doesn't have the details, yet.)

So when there's rapping on the door until one of them moves to open it from within, Harry being gone and Aaliyah spending the evening in her own House's common room for once, she's not all that surprised to find Hermine with her hair pulled back tightly, the way she only ever does it when she means business.

"Death Eaters in the castle," Hermione says firmly, eyes wide but expression fierce as she braces herself for battle.

Ginny just nods once; beside her, Pansy tugs up her own sleeves in preparation, both of them needing nothing further to follow their friend's lead.

"Who are we telling?" Ginny asks.

Making a face, Hermione only hesitates for a moment. "Everyone deserves to know. But the younger ones need to stay here till someone comes to give them the all clear—only OWL year or older should fight, and only if they want to."

She descends into the main hall of the Chamber, where beanbags and couches and tables are currently arranged, countless students lounging about, all doing their own thing.

(It pains her, having to be the one to destroy this moment of peace—to bring this darkness into their sacred space.)

But this is what it is to protect those you love—to tell them the hard truths. To stay strong and impenetrable even when your own world is crumbling.

(This is the good part of what it is to be a Gryffindor.)

And so she tells them; stares down Dennis Creevey and his Ravenclaw best friend when they demand to be allowed to duel.

"Part of being brave means accepting when a fight isn't yours," Hermione tells her younger housemate, voice gentle but unwavering. Then, more loudly, to the room she says, "ASA has always been about preparing for this day—and all the days after. And if you are fifth year or older and want to stand with us, I would be nothing short of honored to have you at my side.

"But," she continues, eyeing them all. "We are all students—this is a fight that should never have become ours in the first place. If you don't want to fight, or if you're scared, or if you have family on the other side and won't be safe if you're seen standing with the light—that's okay. And it doesn't make you any less one of us. Any less family."

Dennis opens his mouth like he's going to argue some more, and she holds up a finger to shush him. "And if you're younger, and angry, because it feels unfair that you have to stay behind. Or because you feel guilty hiding in safety while everyone else is in danger." She shakes her head, and it's only when she feels something on her chin that she realizes tears have begun to run silently down her face. "Know that your safety is why we fight—because you shouldn't have to. Know that unfortunately, there probably will come a time when you do have to, and us not letting you do it now is not because we don't trust you, but because we want you to survive long enough to win when you do have to fight. Because if you're in the fight, we'll all be so worried about making sure you're okay we won't be watching our own backs. I need you to trust me when I say that you staying behind is what will keep all of us as safe as possible."

Ginny and Pansy flank her, and even without looking she knows they're glaring at anyone sending her dirty looks, stopping any arguments before they even begin.

"I've already sent for the—organization of resistance fighters Dumbledore leads. They'll be here as well, doing the brunt of the fighting, but—if you intend to fight…we leave now."

/

There's not time to question exactly how they're atop the tower; Dumbledore is keeling over, and then Harry is immobilized beneath the invisibility cloak, the door is slamming open, and Draco is bursting out onto the brick, out of breath and eyes wild.

Draco had been reluctant when Hermione forced a vial with the last drops of her felix into his hand, but in this moment, when it very likely will mean the difference between life and death for him…

(He loves his soul mate, so much.)

His gaze darts around the scene before him, to Dumbledore, standing as serene as though he weren't on the verge of collapse moments prior, looking down on him as though he can see into his soul—as though he's not worried at all, despite Draco's wand pointed at his chest.

"Hello, Draco." The familiar way he addresses him—

In a way, it almost hurts, that this man he hates, this man who doesn't know him at all can see through his evil act—and yet the rest of the world is so ready to assume the worst.

"Stay back," Draco commands, wand arm steady even as his voice shakes.

"You don't have to do this, Draco," Dumbledore says gently.

More of a formality than anything—it seems clear they both know Dumbledore won't walk away from this night.

"You have no idea what I do and don't have to do," Draco bites out, anger spiking through him for the briefest of moments. "I don't have a choice."

He searches for any distortion in the air, knowing Harry must be nearby beneath the invisibility cloak; he's been listening for the telltale open and shut of the door behind him as his friend leaves, but he doesn't appear to be going anywhere.

(Why isn't he running to help the rest of ASA? He knows they're fighting, knows he's supposed to go to them—why isn't he sticking to the plan?)

Whatever the reason, Draco knows him better than most people in this world—trusts him enough to know there must be a good reason he's staying up here with them.

He needs to do it, he knows, and yet—

The felix tells him to wait—just a moment more.

Then the door does fly open, but instead of fading the sound of footsteps comes closer; Amycus's gait is singular enough his identity is obvious even from beneath his hood, which means the other is Alecto, of course.

Uncle Severus is right on their tails, though, and he doesn't even spare Draco a glance—just waves him to the side before facing the headmaster himself.

"Severus," Dumbledore says, voice tired.

(Just this once, he almost looks his age—faint, and small, no trace of the most powerful wizard alive.)

(Just an old man who's lived too long, fought too hard, seen too much loss—he's done so many things wrong, and yet in this moment Draco can't help but feel overwhelming sorrow on his behalf.)

He meets Snape's eyes again, holding up his injured hand in a pleading gesture. "Severus, please."

Only a lifetime of closely watching his godfather lets Draco see it—the flicker of remorse and dread in the set of Snape's jaw, the millisecond he waits to raise his wand.

But he does—Draco tears his gaze back to the headmaster as his godfather begins to speak the killing curse, and just before the body falls he catches it.

(In Dumbledore's cruel blue eyes—there's relief.)

His heart is thundering louder than anything else, and in the beat before any of the other Death Eaters move he hears the faintest of steps.

(Harry, just now escaping to join the fray—)

(as though perhaps he couldn't, before. Body bind, maybe.)

It's—all Draco can think about is that it's done.

(The task that's consumed his year, the act he'd done so much to avoid—)

(Despite all his best efforts, it happened anyway; the leader of the resistance. Gone.)

The anxiety of the year begins to abate even as the horror of a world without Dumbledore's implications begin to settle onto him

/

Even with a year and a half of extra dueling practice, fighting the Death Eaters is…

(Countless near misses.)

It's only luck they've all managed to dodge avada's thus far; a few are stunned, Pansy has a nasty cut bleeding profusely, and Hermione hears an awful thud of Padma's body being slammed against a brick wall, but—

(Alive.)

(They're all still alive.)

They're not making much progress taking out Voldemort's minions, but—they're holding them off, stalling until the Order arrives, and maybe that's enough.

(It has to be enough.)

It's the Department of Mysteries all over again, and Hermione's chest tightens at the memory—the visceral pain of her own injuries, Harry and Draco both almost dying.

She's firing off spell after spell, as is everyone around her, but they're working so hard to defend themselves they don't have the energy to go on the offensive—

And then the door slams open and Fleur is there, blonde hair gleaming like a beacon of hope as she charges into the corridor, taking out two Death Eaters with a singular wave of her wand.

It's Bellatrix who turns her wand on her, then, and they're locked in the most lethal of duels, twirling so deftly it would be a beautiful dance if not for the green jets of light that keep singing each other's robes.

Other Order members rush in behind her, Bill and Cedric taking over where Neville and Ginny have been battling the Carrow twins; the two ASA members lean up against the wall, panting, at the reprieve, before attempting to jump back in.

One of Neville's eyes is blackened, so his depth perception is off, but he keeps fighting nonetheless. At his side, Ginny fires off hex after hex; they're both in front of Ron, who'd been taken down by a reducto.

(They'd checked his crumpled form and found a pulse, if only a faint one.)

Hermione shields from a slicing hex sent from across the room, chills climbing up her spine at the sound of Cho's hiss of pain when a crucio hits her in the back while distracted. Tonks is there instantly, though, taking out the Death Eater responsible—

(And watching her duel, the skill with which she strategically plows through every dark cloak in her path—her prowess as an Auror has never been more clear.)

She's taking them out, sending them flying straight into each other so that they crash to the floor like dominos; just behind her, Sirius fights like a madman, a stealthy chaos they never see coming until it's too late.

(Two Black tempers, with auror training and a personal itch for vengeance at the group that's already threatened both their children's lives—)

(They leave nothing but destruction and collapse in their wake.)

The twins are there too, and Hermione keeps spotting various ASA members and Hogwarts staff in between casting.

But there's one face that should be there—one that's nowhere to be found.

(Where the fuck is her brother?)

She knows Harry wouldn't want her to try to fight him when she could be there, protecting the others, but she'll never forgive herself if something's happened to him.

Harry'd given her the map, so if she can just get away from the commotion for long enough to find him on it—surely he and Dumbledore must be back by now.

They have the upper hand, but then the lights flicker, and more death eaters arrive on the scene.

(Reinforcements Voldemort hadn't bothered to mention to Draco.)

And then it's all they can do to stay afloat—they're overwhelmed, and the Order fighters are stronger but the other side has numbers.

There's a guttural male scream, at one point—and then, even worse, it abruptly cuts off.

(Bill.)

There's not time to worry about it now—all there is is trying to keep fighting long enough to take them out.

Lavender's sobbing, then, and Parvati attempts to stun Greyback where he sinks his fangs into her girlfriend's skin; when the stunner only forces his knees to bend, she goes full muggle, launching herself at him and physically removing him from Lavender's now still form.

(He's growling, and she'll probably die in a moment, but all she can feel is her girlfriend's blood soaking the floor beneath her.)

Greyback howls, and then Parvati feels all of her senses go white—and then pain—

(His foot shattering her femur.)

Then his claws are nearing her throat, and it's all she can do to hope what she's done is enough to give the rest of ASA a chance, enough to keep Lavender breathing long enough for Madam Pomfrey to save her—

But someone's roaring "No!" and then Greyback is being thrown from her.

And it's Remus—Remus is there, pitching himself at the older werewolf with a lifetime of resentment and rage and hatred.

"You turned me," Remus bites out, flicking spell after spell nonverbally at the alpha who bit him so very long ago. "You've terrorized families for decades. You turned a little girl who is now my daughter."

Another wave of his wand and Greyback cries out, blisters popping up all along his skin as the Charms professor's magic burns every inch exposed.

"But you will not hurt anyone else ever again." Remus's eyes are stony, jaw set in steel, but it's not vindictiveness that drives him.

He swallows, sadness churning with relief as he quietly says, "Avada kedavra."

(After so long, the monster from so many nightmares falls.)

It feels as though the battle picks up pace, then; Greyback's death makes the Order's chance at winning feel tangible, almost.

(And makes the Death Eaters realize they too might be taken out—they're riskier, spells darker and stronger.)

Hermione shudders at the scene around her, holding back sobs as she steps over Lavender's body, firing off curses even as she wonders whether her roommate is still breathing.

(Stay alive.)

(Just keep breathing.)

She hisses as a slicing hex flies across her ribs, as a flying brick breaks her fingers, as a brief crucio singes her nervous system.

(Pain's nothing new to her, after all.)

She can still feel the adrenaline of it all, but the stress, the fight—all of it's catching up with her.

(Instead of a bust of energy the hormone just has her hands shaking, now, weight behind her eyes heavy.)

They're starting to gain on the Death Eaters, again, but the exhaustion is taking its toll, and she's just so tired—

"Hermione!"

She has to blink, for a moment, as Harry appears beside her.

(Her heart feels right, when he's there; her natural state is when she's fighting right beside him.)

They take out another masked Death Eater, and then Harry's eyes are wide and pleading, staring into her soul. "I need to find Snape."

"Harry, what? Why—"

"I can't—" His lip trembles, gaze darting back and forth before he grabs her arm, and they hazardously race out toward the first floor corridor.

"We have to find him, Hermione."

His expression is crazed, but—her brother has only ever felt this strongly with good reason.

"Draco was supposed, but then—he couldn't, and then—it seemed—but it wasn't—and then he—he did it. Snape, Snape did it, and then he was falling and it—I just—I don't know what—"

"Harry." She grabs his shoulders, grip gentle but firm. "I need you to breathe, and then tell me exactly what happened."

(The terror in his face is palpable at the notion; he's in shock, and even still she can feel that something is very, very wrong.)

"Harry, whatever it is, I will believe you. I will be right beside you. Just tell me, and we'll get through whatever this is, okay?"

He forces out a shaky breath. "Snape—he killed Dumbledore. Draco was there, but he couldn't, and then—Snape did. I was under a body-bind, so I couldn't—"

"Oh, Harry," she reaches to smooth back his hair, the way she always has when his anxiety ramps up. "Harry, I know you'd do everything you possibly could. This isn't your fault."

"I have to find—I don't understand. Because it was supposed to be Draco, but not Draco, and—I know we don't—I mean, didn't—like Dumbledore, but he's supposed to be on our side, so if Snape killed him he can't be on our side, right? But Draco knows him best, and he said he was, so I just…" he trails off, chest moving rapidly with the racing of his heart. "Draco didn't have to do it, though. That's good, right? He did everything else so he should be okay?"

"I hope so," Hermione whispers. "I don't know, Harry, I don't—I don't know what any of this means. All I know is I'm glad you're okay. The rest we will—figure out, somehow. Your dads will know what to do. Snape…Harry, I know you want answers now, but I think going after him now will only make things worse. If he is a traitor, he'll fight back, and even if he's not we could expose him, or he could have to do something to hurt you to maintain his cover. That could be what killing Dumbledore was about in the first place—proving his allegiance, same as Draco. I—I worry that if we try to do anything now we'll but them both in danger."

(As desperate as he is to make sense of it all, Draco's his sister's soulmate. Family.)

(Putting him at risk isn't an option.)

Harry rubs at his eyes, nodding. "You're right. I…okay. We should—go back to the battle, I guess."

She nods grimly, before reaching to gently squeeze an arm around him. "I'm sorry you had to see it, Harry. "

"Yeah, me too," he whispers with a snort.

They're quiet for a beat, and then he's laughing—just, out of control, chaotic laughter, because of fucking course this is where they are.

"I can't believe I just watched our headmaster die," he says, shaking his head with disbelief. "Why the hell not."

Hermione's lips twitch upward with humor. "It is pretty fucking typical, the way our lives have gone. Never a dull moment."

They keep laughing for a beat, just overwhelmed, and weighed down, and on the verge of a psychotic break, and so they—of course they laugh.

(What else can they do? How else can all of it possibly be bearable if they don't laugh about it?)

They hurry back to where the fighting is taking place, but it's almost over, now; some Death Eaters taken out, others having scattered, recalled to Voldemort's side.

It's nearly empty—Neville and Cho are already attempting to clear up some of the debris, and Hannah's walking around checking on everyone and distributing waters and blood replenishing potions, Astoria protective at her side.

Neville comes up to make sure they're both okay, looking exhausted but okay. He gives a half-hearted smile. "Glad you're okay, Harry. Hermione, an honor to fight with you—again, I guess."

"Back at you," she replies, reaching to gently squeeze his arm. "No one I'd rather have at my side for prefect patrol or a battle for our lives."

Harry's quiet—in shock, still—but Neville doesn't push, just nods with understanding. "I think most of the Order is in the hospital wing; Pansy went to keep Gin company."

Hermione thanks him, and she and Harry both quickly make their way in that direction, knowing better than to ask any follow up questions.

(If the worst is true, they can't handle hearing it there, in the midst of everything.)

They're quiet as they race through the halls, both shutting down to avoiding feeling it all, going numb so they don't have to think about what they might be walking into.

(Dissociation's gotten them this far in life, after all.)

They can hear Molly crying quietly when they come in, but Percy's ranting about something, which—seems like a good sign.

Bill's in a hospital bed—skin horribly distorted and scarred, but breathing; Fleur's expressionless at his side, even as Molly dabs at his skin from the other.

Lavender's there, too, but already conscious, and on the other side of the wing with Parvati and Professor McGonagall beside her; Hermione can spot the muffling charm thrown up between them, that the Order members not be overheard.

"—can't believe you didn't even call to give me the chance to—"

Tonks scoffs at him from where she's laid up in a hospital bed. "Percy, you know you're shit at dueling, if you'd come I'd have to have been watching your back the whole time, and my ability to fight would've been completely compromised." She brightens as she catches sight of Harry and Hermione entering. "Oh, thank merlin! I'm so glad you two are okay—come make this worrywart leave me alone, would you?"

Sirius moves to hug them both, relief visibly coursing through him; Remus smiles, clearly trying to give them some space, but they both catch the way his gaze carefully catalogues their bodies for injury.

(Knowing they won't have said anything if they're injured—won't bother anyone to heal them, even if they need it.)

"Hermione, sit so I can heal you. Harry, take at least two invigoration draughts."

She makes a face. "I'm fine, really, Remus, I—"

Sirius levels her with a glare, taking a beat and noticing exactly what his husband had. "Let him set your dislocated shoulder and the broken ribs or I'll cut off your muggle ice cream supply."

"Mia!" Harry says disapprovingly in between downing the vials as directed. "You really weren't going to say anything?"

"Oh, shut up, you've done just as bad," she mutters, not meeting his eyes as she climbs onto the bed beside Tonks; the motion jostles her bad shoulder and she has to hold back a wince lest she prove them right.

She knows Remus sees through her, though, and he gives her a look as he waves his wand over her.

Molly's sobs grow just a bit louder as she dabs at Bill's face, stroking back a lock of hair. "His looks don't mean anything, of course, it—it doesn't matter. B-but he was always so handsome…such a beautiful boy…and he was g-going to be married."

Harry reaches for Hermione's hand, body going tense, and she looks up to meet Cedric's eye across the room—only the three of them realizing exactly how bad this is about to get.

"Excuse me?" Fleur's voice is but a whisper, but she gains volume at a steady pace as she continues speaking. "What do you mean by zat? What exactly are you trying to say, 'e was going to be married?"

Molly looks surprised at the outburst, stricken expression unsure of where this is going. "I—well, I—"

"You think Bill will not wish to marry me anymore? That because of 'is attack, 'e will not love me?"

Arthur looks worried, but Ginny's grinning wickedly from where she sits, sandwiched between Pansy and George.

(She loves her mother, but after a lifetime of dealing with her outdated notions, the judging and hatred of women who don't conform to what she expects, or make the choices she would—)

(Well, her mother needs to be called out, sometimes.)

Fred, having a good friendship with his future sister-in-law, looks similarly entertained; it's not just the current drama, but the self-righteousness his mother always espouses—and not just her, but so many of the families on the light side, all the way up to Dumbeldore.

(They think they know best because they're on the "right" side—but how can a side that claims to be about support and inclusiveness and love spread such judgement and hate? It's—exhausting, all of it, and it's about time someone said something about it.)

"No, that's not what I—" Molly backpedals, clearly trying to defuse Fleur's anger before she can truly lay into her.

"It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill loving me!"

The older woman sighs, pursing her lips. "Well, sure, that might be true, but I thought perhaps—given how—how he—"

Fleur's nostrils flare, and she has her tongue in cheek to keep herself from biting out the plethora of angry retorts she itches to lob at the woman who raised her soul mate—the woman who never gave her a chance; and now, when everyone should be coming together to care for and support their fallen, is instead making this night that's already horrible and difficult even worse, starting a fight and weaving passive aggressive insults into her comments that show exactly how little she thinks of Fleur.

(Because of course, instead of considering Fleur's own concern and grief for her fiancé, Molly's using the moment to make it clear that she assumes the worst of her.)

But Fleur's used to this—has lived through a lifetime of her family being discriminated against, a lifetime of being assumed shallow and stupid because she's beautiful, a lifetime of being dismissed and watching her work and accomplishments be overlooked, every moment of success and support assumed to be rooted in her looks by every outside on the planet.

(A mother in law thinking she's superficial is fucking annoying, but truly the least of her problems.)

"You assumed I would not wish to marry 'im? Or per'aps you 'oped?" Fleur crosses her arms, planting her feet firmly on the floor. "Non. What do I care 'ow 'e looks? Such things mean nothing—and even if zey did, I am plenty good-looking enough for both of us!"

She gives a bitter laugh as she shakes her head at the older woman. "I did not agree to marry Bill because 'e was sexy—which 'e still is, thank you very much. But I fell in love with 'im as a school girl, getting messages all along 'er arms and ankles from a boy in England who just wanted to make 'er smile. I fell in love with a man who started learning French so 'e could write good morning on our 'ands in my native language, who could tell when I was upset and knew I didn't need 'im to fight my battles for me but always offered to be my second in a duel should I need one. I intended to marry 'im long before I ever knew 'e was ze most beautiful man in my world."

Fleur snatches the ointment from the older woman, eyes only on Bill. "And 'e still is. All ze scars show is zat my 'usband is brave—and zat I am lucky to 'ave 'im. Zey show zat I am marrying a courageous man who will always fight at my side to defend our 'ome, to fight for what is right, to protect those we love. Zese scars only make me love 'im more."

They're quiet, for a moment—everyone is.

Ginny has a hand clamped to her mouth, and she turns to press her face into Pansy's shoulder, the way her shoulders shaking giving any onlookers the impression she's crying—

But Pansy meets Hermione's gaze with an eye roll that confirms the redhead is, in fact, laughing her ass off.

"Remind me to send her flowers," Tonks whispers to Hermione, quiet enough that no one can hear. "Excited for a lifetime of Christmases at the table with that one."

After a few more moments of silence—of Molly watching Fleur deftly tend to her fiance's wounds, face expressionless again, but eyes narrowed with worry, and love—

(It's the face of someone staying strong for everyone around them—someone keeping it together because they know they can't afford to fall apart, focusing because their feelings matter least, all that matters is that the people they love are okay.)

(Because their worst fear just flashed before their eyes and they can't bear to consider what might've happened if things hadn't worked out the way they did.)

And Molly swallows heavily, because that expression—

(so, so very familiar.)

(It's all she's ever done—conceal her fear, her anxiety, her sorrow.)

(Tamped down her grief over the baby they'd lost the pregnancy after Charlie because you can't mourn when there are two little boys who need you.)

(Hidden the way she cried from post-partum after Ron's birth because even at her lowest, their comfort came before her, and being a mother means nothing in this world matters but if your children are okay, even when being alive is hard and it hurts to breathe—)

"Our Great Auntie Muriel," she says quietly, tentatively taking a step closer to her future daughter-in-law. "Has a very beautiful tiara I believe I can persuade her to lend you for the wedding. It would look lovely with your hair."

And it doesn't feel like enough, but it's one of the only family heirlooms they have—the only physical thing she can offer, the only possession of value they have that might convey a welcome to the family.

(She's never been much good at putting aside her pride, or apologizing, but—she wants to try. Knows this matters—knows she fucked up.)

"Thank you." Fleur's visibly tense, but she doesn't throw the offer back in her face, which—feels like progress. "I am sure zat will be lovely."

Her mother in law takes another step closer, and Fleur watches the way she worriedly stares down at Bill.

She's been unfair to Fleur, but—odds are Molly assumed she would only use Bill and flounce away to someone more in her league, appearance wise and leave him heartbroken.

(It's not right, but all she's ever wanted is her family to be safe and happy; it's visible in her face, that it's the only thing in the world that matters to the older woman.)

And Fleur hasn't exactly been herself when people she loves are on the line—memories of setting Triwizard judges on fire come to mind.

(Lashing out at people with the potential to harm your family…well, that much Fleur can understand.)

She reaches out a hand, and Molly's own shakes as she reaches to take it—

And then somehow they're hugging, quietly crying, no words spoken but the language of emotions and understanding and pain, the language between women that requires no translation.

The others begin to speak amongst themselves, attempting to give them some semblance of privacy, and Hermione forces a half-hearted smile as Harry sits at her bedside. "We've really got to stop ending up in here."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I mean…"

He trails off, but she knows what he wants to say—that by virtue of them going on the run next year, they'll finally manage a term without one or both of them landing in the hospital wing—because of course that's what it would take for such a thing to happen."

Ron sleepily comes to in the bed between Tonks and Bill, making a face at the bickering between Tonks and Percy. "What in the bloody hell are you two on about now? Where's Teddy?"

"With my parents," Tonks says cheerfully. "Never bring a baby to a battle."

"Or your significant other, apparently," Percy mutters, "Even if they're your soul mate and the father of said child."

"It would've just made you worry unnecessarily, and put us both in more danger. Besides, even if you weren't shit in a fight we should never both go into a fight at the same time anyway—do you want to leave said child an orphan? Kid already has Black blood and Weasley genes, he doesn't need one more thing against him."

Percy pulls at his hair, throwing her a scathing glance. "I really and truly hate you sometimes."

"Good thing you love me more." When his expression doesn't change, she sighs reaching for his hand. "If I agree to marry you will you stop being mad?"

He flicks her hand, but his lip curls upward despite himself. "Perhaps."

She smiles, shifting her hair bright golden. "I'll marry you, then. Where's my ring?"

"What, after a year of me proposing and being shot down you think you can just change your mind one day and I'll happen to have it with me?"

His soul mate raises an eyebrow. "Percy, love, I would be willing to bet the entirety of my Gringotts vault that you haven't gone anywhere without it since you bought it. I know you have it on you, you heathen, hand it over."

Percy rolls his eyes even as he can't help but smile. "Don't know why I put up with you." He reaches into his pocket, reversing the shrinking spell he'd placed on the velvet box before popping it open and proffering it to her.

She smiles—genuinely, no teasing this time. "It really is beautiful, love. And I can't wait to marry you."

"Wouldn't know it after the twelve rejections," Percy mumbles, but he's smiling too, and it's—as much as they tease and squabble and disagree, they both love it.

(They're the perfect opposites.)

"Well, put it on me then, lover boy!" She wiggles the fingers of her left hand at him, earning a fond snicker as Percy acquiesces, sliding the band so silver it's nearly white onto her ring finger, where the three yellow gems shine.

The other Weasleys all clap and cheer lightly, earning winks from Tonks and causing Percy to blush bright red.

"Can't believe you're bringing a Puff into the family," Fred teases.

Cedric snorts, arms crossed across his broad chest. "Probably not the best thing to say when two of the best fighters in the room are Puffs, mate.

Fred opens his mouth to retort, but before he can the door swings open, and McGonagall is there, flanked by Moody and Kingsley, all of their expressions grim.

Harry's smile fades, expression going dark.

(Only one thing could put that expression on their faces.)

(He'd almost managed to forget, for a moment.)

"Albus…" McGonagall clears her throat, visibly shaken. "Albus is dead."

/

He slips through the hallway with the rest; they didn't even realize he was nowhere to be seen during the battle, don't pay much mind to his presence on the wrong side of the castle, now.

(But then, they've never noticed him much, have they?)

The only time anyone paid him any mind was ages ago, when he'd been the only one with the guts to call Potter out on his bullshit, and somehow they'd all thought him in the wrong.

(Sheep. They'll see who comes out of this war on top.)

Months of watching, and waiting

The Dark Lord had made his instructions clear—had told him to strike tonight, when his actions are to be lost amidst the chaos of Dumbledore's initial absence, of Death Eaters in the castle.

(The Granger mudblood won't realize he's sabotaged her until it's too late.)

It's not his house, but no one questions his presence—why would they?

(he's just a Hufflepuff, after all. Harmless.)

(Everyone believes them too focused on rainbows and harmony to cause harm; they'll learn how very wrong they are about him, eventually.)

There are offhanded smiles in his direction once he enters Gryffindor tower, no one paying him much mind. He hides by the staircase, waits for the right person to walk by—then casts an imperius.

Romilda's expression goes blank as she follows his direction, up the staircase he can't climb. She quickly makes her way into the dormitory beside her own, the target in question's chambers, doing as he orders.

When she returns to the entryway, he lifts the curse without a trace; she slips back into consciousness without suspicion.

Blinking, she smiles at him. "Oh, hi Zacharias! Good to see you."

He nods, and she's walking away, and he's leaving Gryffindor tower.

The damage is done, with no one the wiser.

(he's just a Hufflepuff, after all.)