Winter was showing its true colors – the muted grey of melting ice, the white-brown of snow mixed with the dirt of the earth. It was February's last hurrah, and Hermione dreaded the thought of the upcoming snowmelt. Even thought it will be a lot warmer, and there soon won't be any ice left for her to slip on, she knew that sunlight would turn all into water, releasing humidity in the air that will inevitably make the pains in her body – bones, flesh, muscle – far worse. She wanted to get better, but she didn't know how else. Padma's check ups were no longer something she could endure, so instead of trying to heal her body she turned her efforts to her mind. Reading was difficult and demanding, and lately she felt the urge to write things down, especially hen she found a peaceful moment outside the house now filled with constant screech of a newborn. Hermione knew Ginny was trying her best to comfort her baby as well as be attentive to James who now required a lot more care, she didn't make it easy for Hermione to help her. Hermione suspected Ginny was suffering from postpartum depression, but that knowledge didn't help in the slightest, and Hermione was the one who took the hits each and every time.

"You must be enjoying seeing me like this…" Ginny spat out bitterly, looking at Hermione while trying to feed crying Albus. She had no milk, and while Harry brought home some powdered milk for babies from time to time, it wasn't enough and, Hermione guessed, the powder had little nutritional value, leaving Albus constantly hungry. Ginny's cheeks were always marred with riverbeds of tears. Hermione understood: Ginny was defeated, she was sad, and she was angry. And she blamed Hermione for all of it.

"I don't enjoy it. I feel sorry for you. I want you to get better," Hermione answered, her voice exhausted. She was busying herself with cleaning up Ginny and Harry's bedroom which was constantly filled with things for the baby now. She gathered cups, and bottles, and little towels from the surfaces – anything to avoid Ginny's eyes. Hermione never admitted she heard Ginny and Harry's conversation the night Albus was born, but Ginny probably knew – her shouting was impossible to ignore then. And she wasn't exactly acting civil now. Hermione blamed it all on the birth and the postpartum – she didn't know how else to justify this treatment.

Albus cried louder, turning his little red face away from Ginny's breast. Ginny's face twisted with internal agony, and she collected all of that agony in the gaze that she pointed towards Hermione. "I hope you remember. I hope that you remember everything that happened. Then you'll understand…"

Hermione sighed, gathering all the things that fit in her hand, wanting to leave even for just a minute. "Maybe I will," she said sternly, but didn't believe her own words. Her recollections were there to torture her, not to teach her lessons or help her understand anything.

She turned to leave and was almost out of the room, far enough to ignore Ginny's outburst, but then she started sobbing. Not hysterically, quietly, sorrowfully. It touched a single string of Hermione's heart, a melody she hadn't heard for many months echoed inside her brain, and she turned around, putting everything down and walking back to Ginny's side. She started gently brushing Ginny's matted hair with her fingers.

"You're going to get better, Ginny, this is just a phase, but you and Albus will be alright…" she spoke words of affirmations to her. "And Harry promised to be back sooner tonight, he'll bring more of that powder milk for Albus…

Again, that hate-filled look of Ginny's. "Don't you see Harry doesn't care about me at all? He doesn't care about me, or James, or Albus!"

"Of course he does…"

"No! At first, I thought he was feeling sorry for you, Merlin knows I was! But he cares about you… He loves you more than me, I know it…"

Hermione frowned, pulling away from Ginny. "You're wrong…"

"No, he does, he loves you! All he cares about is how to help you—how to get you better—he only wants to get to the Phantom to avenge you, you don't see it, but I do! When he's here, he spends time with you, and when he's away, he's fighting in battles for you! You don't even deserve it!"

Again, there was nothing left for Hermione to do, only to blame this on Ginny's fragile mental state.

"Harry cares for me as a friend," Hermione spoke calmly, as calmly as she managed. "We've been through so much together, of course he wants to fight for me. But there never was and never will be anything remotely romantic between us, Ginny." Even saying the word romantic felt foreign on her tongue – romance was a concept war too distant for her right now. "You're his whole world."

Ginny's face twisted even more at the last words – as if she thought Hermione was mocking her. She didn't say anything else but the look she gave her was filled with enough ire for more than one lifetime.

She turned around and left the room this time without looking back. Albus was crying, Ginny was crying, and Hermione would've cried to if she could. She needed to distract herself.

She found James drawing cartoonish pigeons with colored magical pencils that made the drawing come alive, and she invited him to go through old things in the attic – this was his favorite thing to do now, and it distracted him from the birds outside. Harry didn't really approve of this activity, saying that going through dead people's stuff might bring bad luck, but these were Hermione's grandparents, and they had collected so many things throughout their lives would not get through all of them even if they sat in that cellar for a year straight.

They ascended the little stairs to the attic and opened one of the boxes at the far-right corner. There were piles of photo albums there, and James was excited to go through them. the photos were mostly from the beginning of the past century, a lot of them in black-and-white. There were a lot of people she didn't know in those pictures, and while just kept asking the names of the strangers, she didn't know what to say, but there were also at least two albums full pf photos of her grandparents in their youth, then all throughout their lives. It felt like travelling back in time with a time turner. But it wasn't distracting enough.

She stared at the blurry photo of her grandparent's wedding day – her grandmother was barely of age, and her grandfather was of the age she was now – but Ginny's spiteful words reiterated in her head. Ginny's was wrong. Harry wasn't in love with Hermione, so Ginny shouldn't feel left out. Hermione knew it. But what if Ginny thought Harry was cheating on her with Hermione? The thought alone was sickening. And then she remembered Ron and Padma, and how betrayed she felt even though she didn't feel anything for Ron for quite some time. Then, as she kept staring at the wedding picture, she remembered one summer at her grandparents after her fifth year at Hogwarts, when she told her grandmother she might be harboring feelings for Ron – something she didn't dare admit even to her mum. Her grandmother seemed satisfied that she finally found a worthy boy, but then her eyes turned sad, and she sat down next to Hermione, taking her hand. It happened twelve years ago now, but Hermione remembered how crushed her grandmother was when she told her the story of her grandfather cheating. The details didn't matter, it was the fact itself that sliced as a knife. Her grandfather cheated on her grandmother when she was pregnant with Hermione's mother. When Hermione asked why grandmother didn't leave him, she said, "Because I had nowhere else to go…"

Hermione's hands began trembling.

"Aunt Mione?" she heard James say.

Then she heard the door opening, and she thought she imagined that sound she thought that the door only opened inside her brain, but no, it was real, because the next moment, James jumped to his feet, squealing, "Daddy's home!"

Hermione followed him, feeling the tremor in her body grow, the heavy creepers of the seizure threatening to overtake her wrapping around the cerebral cortex. When they got down to the first floor, Harry was already inside and, without saying hello to him or Ron, Hermione ran out through the door he left open. She went to the woods, hoping to reach the river before the seizure paralyzed her because that's where she felt safest – unfortunately, she didn't get that far. She reached the first pines of the edge of the forest and collapsed on the ground where wet snow soaked through her skirt.

The Phantom forces her out of the cage he keeps her in. He's still faceless, still voiceless, still masked – she will never truly know him. She doesn't understand what's happening or what he's doing, but at this point in time she feels no need to ask. Whatever it is, it won't end well for her.

—glitch—

He takes her out of his home. She has never stepped foot anywhere outside. Mostly because he kept her imprisoned in one tiny space. His bedroom, the his cage have become her entire world. It feels unreal that this other world exists.

—glitch—

Apparating for the first time in two years makes her sick. she pukes out whatever she had eaten before. She sees where he took her too late for her to do something.

Her grandparents' home.

She knows what he'll do.

He drags her inside the house, and she screams, "NO!" trying to free herself away from him, trying to stop him somehow, even if her body is her only shield and her only weapon.

—glitch—

Her scream dies in her throat when he takes her to the cellar.

He won't do it.

He already did it.

—glitch—

They're dead. But before they died, the Phantom made the suffer immensely.

—glitch—

Her old, old and sweet grandparents are kneeled on crosses like the religious figure they had so much faith in. It's a mockery of belief to put dead bodies on display like that. A mockery of everything moral to torture old people who would've died soon so cruelly.

The Phantom is an embodiment of all those things.

Hermione sobs and screams, she gets to her knees before them as if she too were a believer in something higher, bigger than this. This cannot be all there is. An act like that cannot be left unpunished.

The Phantom whispers in her ear, his voice pure as sin, "You have nowhere else to go now, but to me."

The right half Hermione's face was in the muddy snow, and when she pulled her tremoring body up, the water droplets of snow in her hair fell on her open lips. Her throat contracted in panic, and her chest was so tight it felt se=he might be having a heart attack. But this pain was familiar, as was the panic. The sobs she choked out were dry as tree bark. The snow muted the footsteps, so she only noticed someone was coming her way when she saw a pair of white sneakers in front of her. Her eyes moved up tiredly – two hands, one formed into a fist, another holding a wand. Her wand.

Harry crouched down, inspecting her form. "What did you see?" he asked quietly.

Hermione opened her mouth. Couldn't force herself to speak. Couldn't force a sound out.

Harry put a hand on her shoulder. Hermione flinched away.

"He killed them," she said breathlessly. She met his ice green eyes and repeated, "He killed them. Inside this house."

Hermione was still trembling, but not from fear or panic, from rage, pure, unfiltered rage, something she never felt before. Harry could see it in her eyes.

Harry didn't question who killed whom; he knew. He reached out her wand for her. "Then you kill him. You do it, Hermione. Because that's what he deserves," he said.

Hermione tried to swallow the saliva, but her throat was too dry. She took the wand with muddy fingers. The magic didn't come alive in her as she expected. But it was fine. The fury bubbling inside of her was enough for her to do what she had to.

"I want him to suffer…" she said.

"Okay," Harry agreed.

"I want him to regret what he did to me…"

"He will," Harry assured her. "And then all of this will be over."

Hermione looked back up at him from her wand. "How can I do that?"

"I promise to show you the battlefield, and I will. I have a feeling he will show up. Then you can kill him."

Harry took her softly by the shoulders, urging her to stand up. "Let's get inside and plan what we'll do."

Hermione shook her head, twisting from his grasp. "No, I can't go back in there… I can't… I want to go now…"

Harry watched her for a moment. The nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was still outside, but now her form was wrapped in all protective gear Harry had in the house – fireproof gloves, curse-repugnant vest, and enchanted boots for faster reaction. She braided her hair in a tight braid to keep it off her face while Ron watched it all with a sceptic look on his face.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "Not only does she not know how to fight, but she also cannot use magic or her wand anymore. Besides other things. Why the hell would you think this is a good idea?" he asked Harry who was making sure that every inch of Hermione's skin was protected.

"Look at it this way, Ron. We're not going there to fight, we're going to show Hermione what this war looks like," Harry said, still focused on Hermione.

"Yeah, we'll show her while we're being attacked by Phantom's killing machines. Brilliant idea," Ron mumbled.

Harry turned to him, his back to Hermione. "First of all, luck is on our side. We have more warriors, and better warriors. And secondly, that's why you're coming with us. You'll be responsible for Hermione. you'll cover for her, while I cover for both of you. Clear?"

Ron's face twisted with dissatisfaction. "Crystal," he answered reluctantly.

Hermione liked t even less than he did, but anything was better than getting into the house where her grandparents were slaughtered. Anything.

And so, standing between Ron and Harry and taking their hands as she had done millions of times before, Hermione was apparated to the hot spot of the battle. The deafening sound hit her ears first - the air crackling with electric hum of dueling spells, each vibrant burst accompanied by the hissing curses and explosive detonations. The clash forces resonated was a discordant melody, echoing through field that left the senses tingling. It was dark, and Hermione could barely see anything, but a mass of black. Fog lingered in the middle like a pack of ghosts. There was still snow on the ground, and the icy ground was slippery. The people looked like ants. Both sides wore black, she realized upon closer inspection, so it was impossible to tell who were on which side. Or maybe it didn't even matter.

Ron and Harry tugged her to the very edge of the field. Her legs twisted and stumbled, but she managed to stay on her feet. The sound was too much, too overwhelming, she wanted to wrap her hands around herself and disconnect from everything, but she was here, and she had to stay. Harry pulled her closer to himself, shouting in her ear through the chaos of the battle, "These are ours," he gestured toward the people before them.

They wore black too, but Hermione noticed that they're faces were covered. The black fabric stretched on their eyes and noses, Hermione wondered whether they could see or breathe, or maybe, just like many other things, that didn't matter.

Then the smell hit her. The smoke and dust of the battlefield. But something else too. Blood. Rot. Decaying flesh. Bodily fluids.

"Harry…" Hermione spoke up, her voice shaky. "What are they…"

He looked at her. "My fighters," he answered cooly. His eyes slid to Ron. "Keep an eye on her. He's here somewhere."

Ron nodded, pulling Hermione closer to himself when Harry left them, disappearing in the mass of black robed decaying flesh. Hermione wondered how he managed to ignore the stench.

She turned to Ron. "What are they?" she asked, calmer this time.

If Harry's answer was vague and abstract, Ron's was nonexistent. He got up, forcing her to go with him, his eyes searching through the mass. Then he surprised Hermione by binding them together with a magical string that wrapped around her and his wrists. She wanted to oppose, but she knew it was to keep her face. There were more important things right now. So, Hermione followed Ron's gaze. She learned to differentiate the two teams. First ones were Harry's, and others looked somewhat normal, they reminded her of the captive Harry and Ron had brought with them many weeks ago. They wore black but they had faces. Although now Hermione wasn't sure where the hellish odor was coming from.

Hermione clutched the wand in her hand, her senses alert. "Harry said the Phantom was going to be here. Where is he?"

"I'm looking," Ron said. "Stay close to me."

She didn't know it would happen so fast.

A green spell hit a spot right beside Ron, capturing both of their attention. Then Hermione saw fire in the periphery of her vision, and when she turned back to the apex of the battle, she saw him. The Phantom. He followed her even here. But hie wasn't his usual stagnant self. No, he was casting curses at all sides. Then the fire emanated from his wand in ceaseless succession. The battlefield was still an indistinguishable mass of black, but he was creating way through it for himself, burning the people on the way to crisp. Even his fire was somehow different. It was bright red, and the edges of it were green. His fire melted the snow, and the water soaked the dry earth. The ice melted and the closer the Phantom got to her, the more her boots sank into mud. But he wasn't real, he wasn't there, he couldn't be. He was a ghost stalking in her nightmares. He was still as dawn, untraceable as a needle in a stack of hey.

Hermione couldn't believe what was before her, even if she saw him every day for the past few months. This was different. He was real. He was here. He came here for her.

Ron stood before her, shielding her with his body, pointing his wand at the Phantom and hitting him with a few spells. But they had no effect. He stood there, tall as a hill, and just as invincible. Hermione felt fear crawl up her throat. She didn't want to fight, she knew she couldn't win, but she couldn't run either, she was bind to Ron. The fire stopped, and the Phantom hit Ron with a flash of green lightning. Ron died before he even hit the ground. But when he fell, he dragged her with him.

Hermione stared in shock. When she got her wits back, the biding was still on, and the Phantom was too close for her to run away. The leftover magic dissipated in the next two seconds, but when Hermione tried to stand up, the Phantom gloved hand shot up in the air and grabbed her by the wrist. She met the face of his metal mask. All wish to fight abandoned her. she had a wand, but she couldn't conjure spells. Ron was dead. She lost.

The Phantom pulled her closer to himself, and she stumbled over Ron's body on the way, but he caught her.

Trapped her in his arms.

She was his captive again.