Chapter 4

08 August 2000

"Are you sure, Miss Granger?"

"Do you believe me not fit for the job?"

Hermione folded her hands neatly in her lap. Kingsley Shacklebot sat across from her, expression thoughtful but gaze stern. Hermione noticed the deepened lines around his eyes, the subtle hint of gray beneath his purple cap. The war had aged everyone prematurely and Shacklebot was no exception.

He let out an easy chuckle. "On the contrary. If anyone is up for the task, it is you. I only ask because this would take away from your time on the field."

"I understand," Hermione said—and she did. She came here today to ask Shacklebot for access to the stone so that she may uncover its properties and potential uses. While she felt a duty to help strategize various missions and as well as participate in combat with the opposition, she also knew there were several problems she needed to investigate.

The black stone she recovered remained a mystery. Why were the Death Eaters in possession of so many and what were they planning to do with them? Other members of the Order didn't seem to think the presence of the items was anything significant, opting to focus on finding Voldemort, recover Nagini, and eliminate (or disrupt) as many Death Eater plans as possible. Don't get her wrong, fighting remained an important task. However, she felt there were few members of their little resistance that had the time or faculties to dedicate in additional research. St. Mungo's was under the control of Voldemort's side and so Healers were few and far between. Those who did not fight studied Healing, since serious injuries were aplenty in the war.

Over a year ago when Arthur Weasley had returned from a skirmish with his scalp and skull split open thanks to Corban Yaxley, it was a newly-trained Luna who performed a hasty stitching treatment that ultimately saved Mr. Weasley's life.

In the last six months of the war, there were also an alarming number of cases that involved unknown hexes, curses, and spells. The most recent grisly incident being Seamus.

Hermione learned from another resident healer, Hannah Abbott, that one of the reasons it was so impossible to heal him and stop the bleeding was because the spell was unknown. Without any starting point, the Healers could only attempt as many clotting spells and administer related potions to quell the problem. In the end, Seamus Finnegan bled out just an hour after they returned from their underground mission.

Such happenings brought to mind that strange spell Bellatrix uttered right before the Death Eater's apparent demise. So many mysteries surrounded that night. Hermione found it difficult to shake the incident from her forethoughts.

Everyone told her she was lucky to have escaped healthy and alive, yet Hermione did not feel luck was necessarily on her side. The foreign stirrings in her mind she experienced the day Crimble House fell unsettled her. Hermione thought about the push and pulls happening in her thoughts, the distant feeling of notions being unattached to her, of her own thoughts getting muddled with something else entirely, hiding somewhere in the ether. And what could she say of the random images flashing in her mind, of vague figures and slate irises?

Unconsciously, she brought a hand to her neck, where she recalled the vision she had right before she woke from her two-day slumber. The coldness of the hand at her neck, holding her windpipe in a vice—so real and visceral, she thought she would suffocate. Then there were the flashes in her vision, the ones that came after her panic attack at the Burrow. The silver-gray in the mirror, the voices in her head...That was another mystery entirely that she couldn't even begin to wrap her head around.

It reminded her of when Harry experienced visions through Voldemort, a result of being connected to him as a Horcrux. This did not make sense in her case.

For one, Bellatrix, who would have been the one performing such an act, was dead. There would be no visions to deliver.

The other choice would be Draco Malfoy, since he was also present before she blacked out. But as far as she knew, he hadn't killed anyone that night.

Thus, she didn't dare say a thing about it until she knew more. She couldn't risk looking like a madwoman, not when there was so much at stake.

The Order needed to finally get a step ahead of the Death Eaters. For no matter how many disruptions or hostages they took, none of it brought them any closer to Voldemort. The Dark Lord, in all his glory, seldom made public appearances, often leaving the Ministry to be run by Pius Thicknesse as a front. And when Voldemort did show, he was always flanked with all of his finest generals.

Hermione tugged at her cardigan's sleeve, the fabric slightly itchy against her raised scar on her left arm.

"Very well," Shacklebot said. "Tonks will lead you to where we've kept the item."

"Thank you," Hermione replied, relieved. She knew it went without saying that the stone could very well contain dark magic and that she had to be exceedingly careful when handling it. She'd have to make some arrangements for a space to experiment with it. She was sure that, if Shacklebot hadn't known she, Harry, and Ron were hunting for Horcruxes on their own when they were teenagers that he would be less likely to trust her with an endeavor. As it was, she now would have the stone in her possession and she would do everything she could to solve the secrets it held.

"I must ask something before you leave," Shacklebot said, causing Hermione—who already began to rise out of her seat—to sit back down. "I take it from the report I received that no vital information was gained from the interrogation with Theodore Nott, Jr?"

"As far as I know, that was the case," Hermione answered, not sure why him asking about that particular subject spooked her. Of course he would ask, it happened mere days ago and cost them a hostage that they essentially traded Seamus's life for.

"I heard you were one of the interrogators."

"Only briefly," Hermione sighed, disappointed in herself. "I wanted to ask him about the stone."

"Bill told me they already questioned Nott prior to your arrival. Yet you found it prudent to go there yourself and seek answers."

"I am aware," Hermione said, trying to explain herself. "I guess, I wanted to ask him...myself."

Shacklebot nodded. "And you learned nothing at all from this encounter?"

Hermione paused for a moment, hoping Shacklebot would interpret her silence as thoughtfulness. In reality, her mind kept wandering to the voices and the visions. Below the table, she felt the sting of the phantom burn over her ankle.

She commanded herself to put it away for now. It just wasn't the time. Besides, it didn't feel like the answer Shacklebot was looking for.

"Well, he did confirm something we've been theorizing for a while now."

"Which is?"

"That Death Eaters are often subject to torture themselves by their very own. So much so that it assimilates them to pain almost. It makes sense as to why they're not more susceptible to the conditions we put them through when we capture them. They're almost always rather or kill themselves than reveal anything. Which is interesting considering how even a few of the original Death Eaters from the First Wizarding War were more than happy to give up names in exchange for lesser sentences."

"And they're not now because?"

Hermione paused, not sure how to word it without offending Shacklebot. But when she looked at him, this man who had been leading the Order in Albus Dumbledore's stead, who quite possibly might be just as powerful as her fallen Headmaster, she knew that she could only ever get away with telling him the truth about this.

Hadn't the likes of Theodore Nott explained it well enough the other day? You're not going to win , he had said.

He might be right.

"We don't have mercy to offer them. Death is better than risking being a sneak only to fall back into You-Know-Who's hands. Because...well it's looking bleak, isn't it?"

He assuredly knew the answer, maybe he just wanted to make sure she would say it.

"Indeed, Miss Granger," Shacklebot agreed. "Support for this dark regime ever grows in the Wizarding World. Do you believe we should resort to more intense forms of maltreatment when it comes to our enemy? To maybe give them something to fear that even You-Know-Who cannot instill?"

"Maybe."

Hermione supposed she should've been shocked at Shacklebot's question and shocked even more so at her own answer. While she wasn't sure exactly why he asked this, it did make sense that Shacklebot posed this notion to her and not Harry. She tried imagining him asking Harry such a question and how awfully that would go. But Hermione, as lionhearted as she could be, was logical. Her thirst for knowledge had never been solely for seeking intellect. It was one of the reasons the Sorting Hat did not place her in Ravenclaw. No, when Hermione Granger sought knowledge, she sought answers to anticipate and combat the unknown.

Harry represented everything Voldemort was not. He shined where only darkness dwelled in his prophesied enemy. Harry was devoid of deep cruelty. He chose the righteous path, chose bravery, chose selflessness. And it took a selfish person to manipulate others, which sometimes went hand-in-hand with winning.

At her heart, Hermione's practices reflected those of her parents. Yes, they were kind and patient and loving, but they loved the clinical, the scientific. They had a reasonable answer for everything. It was why Hermione chose for them, erasing herself from their lives because that was the practical thing to do. No matter that she took away their agency, since she didn't tell them she'd be doing it and didn't even try getting their approval. To keep them safe, this was the logical step.

She wondered vaguely if Shacklebot thinks that at least one of the Golden Trio would need these characteristics. If having this in his arsenal might come to benefit him in the future.

It seemed they had a personality trait in common.

"I'm not sure," Hermione continued, "if more violence is necessarily the answer. I just know that something has to change."

Shacklebot watched her contemplatively, as if considering exactly where she fit in the puzzle of all the possible ways the future could go.

"Perhaps you did learn something when speaking to Nott," Shacklebot said, his melancholic conclusion not lost on her. Dejection sat deep in his expression, however, regret did not reside there alongside it.

"I suppose," Hermione said. "But I haven't a clue what to do with that knowledge."

Tonks led Hermione to a room down the corridor of Shacklebot's safe-house. It was so much more bare and minimal compared to the Burrow—comparatively not as bright and lacking windows, too. The space reflected Shacklebot in a way. Though he was not outrightly severe in disposition (on the contrary, he could be quite approachable and friendly), he was rather bold and stern. It made sense that his environment would suit as such.

"Here we are," Tonks said, opening a door into a smaller room. When Hermione entered, she immediately clocked the Sword of Gryffindor mounted behind protection charms on a wall. She tried her best not to gawk at it as the metal gleamed brightly even in the dark.

Soon, a metal protective box was being placed in Hermione's hands. "The box is more for you than it," Tonks confessed. "I'm sure you've felt how weird it is holding that thing."

She had. Hermione did not particularly like the faint feeling of sadness and doom that filtered its way into your mood when you held it. She's glad she wasn't the only one who noticed. It was, after all, a product of Dark Magic.

That night, Hermione went straight to work.

Upon returning from her meeting with Kingsley, she'd spent the better half of the afternoon mulling over how to proceed.

She didn't have a hundredth of the resources she might need to take on this task, but she was determined to start any way and figure it out from there. With the few books she had on magical artifacts, she read each section carefully so as to not miss any small detail that could point her in the right direction.

Earlier today, Ron commented on how important the stones could possibly be if there were so many. He pointed out the fact that when it came to items like the Philosopher's Stone or the Resurrection stone, there was one of each. When Hermione found the trunk during their mission, there had been dozens.

She didn't disagree with his point entirely. Still, it meant something, she was sure of it.

Hermione read tirelessly into any other stones or gems that had magical significance, but couldn't really find information that described anything close to the stone in her possession.

In appearance, she'd never heard or seen anything like it. Primarily black, it also had gray cobweb marbling throughout, like veins spidering into random sections. It fit into your palm and was rough, solid. Then there was the fact that it definitely could invoke certain emotions when in direct contact with your skin.

As such, she made sure to touch it as little as possible. If you weren't careful, you might easily lose yourself in the darkness of the empty void it summoned.

Harry even made the mistake of grabbing it from the metal case. And before Hermione could bat his hand away, he was already in the process of putting it back down gently, as if spooked.

She sighed. It was already a little past dinner time and she knew that Ginny would probably come back up and knock a third instance (Molly most likely threatened her daughter of repercussions if Hermione didn't come down and eat).

Hermione got up, needed to move her restless legs so that her restless mind could channel doing something else for a second. She paced back and forth for a bit, trying to clear her mind of all the jumbled information she obtained in the last five hours.

And a few minutes later, just as expected, Ginny came rapping at the door.

"You know Mum will kill me if I can't convince you to come down," her muffled voice said through the door.

Hermione halted her pacing abruptly, dangerously close to making herself dizzy.

Maybe she should get something to eat.

She opened the door to find an expectant looking Ginny. "I relent," Hermione said.

Ginny smiled good-naturedly. "Finally."

With that, Hermione trailed after her as they made their way down the stairs.

Just as she was about to land on the third step, out of nowhere, an invisible force shoved Hermione aside and she slid down a few steps. Hermione's sudden loss of balance scared the living daylights out of not only Ginny, but everyone else who was at Dinner.

Luckily, Ginny's fast reflexes as an excellent quidditch player and soldier came into play and she caught Hermione before she could topple all the way down.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked, bewildered, rushing to the stairs. He and Ginny led her down to the living room where she asked to sit on one of the cushioned seats.

"I'm fine," she told them. "I slipped."

She chose to leave out the fact that when she fell, a brief image of emerald green jewels flashed before her mind's eye and it came with the faintest impression of metal colliding with her chin. She rubbed her face where the impact would have been, though she knew nothing actually hit her.

She tried relaxing at the dinner table, to keep her mind off of all the mysteries she couldn't even begin to solve. All jokes of her being a perceived know-it-all aside, she truly did get anxious when she did not know what lay ahead.

After eating, she walked over to the sink to put away her dishes. Mindlessly, she began cleaning them without magic before Ron stopped her.

"Why don't you just use your wand?" he asked, perplexed.

"Oh. I didn't even realize," she said, staring at the dish soap and water covering her fingers. "I guess sometimes my default is the Muggle way. I might as well finish it like that."

Ron just nodded as Hermione finished washing her plate.

"Listen, can I talk to you about something?" Ron said.

"Go on," Hermione said as she placed the plate on the drying rack.

"Can we go outside?"

Ron led them a little ways around the corner from the back door. Hermione braced herself against the wall, arms folded over her chest as if anticipating the worst from Ron.

She wasn't necessarily wrong.

"I know that the last mission didn't go so well—"

"They never go well, Ron."

"Yeah, but you know what I mean…with what happened with you," his eyes went dark as the unpleasant memory from that night appeared to replay in his mind. "And then…what happened with Seamus…it got me thinking. About how much he won't get to do now but also how he was the kind of bloke that lived life to the fullest no matter what, yeah?"

Hermione agreed. It was one of the many unique traits their late friend possessed and she would miss that liveliness of him dearly.

"I realized I didn't want to wait anymore."

"Wait for what?"

"Us."

The humid summer air became frigid in an instant.

"Us?" Hermione repeated, making sure she heard it right, making sure that this is what he wanted to talk about now.

"I think we should get married."

Hermione couldn't believe her ears. "Excuse me?"

"Not now!" he exclaimed. "Like, later. We should be engaged, for now."

"Ron…" Hermione held her hands up to the sides of her head, not sure how they got to this topic tonight. She turned away, unable to look him in the eye. "I don't understand—where is this coming from?"

"Hermione, it was always going to happen. You and me. I know you wanted time and you needed space but don't you see? We don't have to push it away anymore. Getting engaged would give us something to look forward to when the war is over."

She couldn't believe her ears.

Her thoughts ran straight to all the times she thought she'd made it clear that she couldn't be any more than a friend to him, couldn't bring herself to be in a relationship with so many atrocities happening around them, to them.

When they returned, battered and bloody from the last fight, the last thing on her mind was marriage.

"There won't be anything to look forward to when the war is over," she said, eyes averted from meeting his gaze.

"What—what do you mean by that?"

She'd done it now. She knew Ron well enough when he was on his way to anger before even he knew it.

"You know what I mean," she insisted.

"You think we're going to lose."

Hermione faced him now, unable to keep it in any longer.

"If we don't find a way to get the upper hand, eventually, we will lose."

"Where is this coming from?" He echoed her question back to her, his volume rising as he went on. "Have faith in us! Have faith in Harry! What's the matter with you?!"

"It's not just about Harry anymore! Don't you see? We are fighting an uphill battle. We thought with most of the Horcruxes gone, that Voldemort would fall any moment now, but he's still out there, he's still alive. It's been two years!"

Ron was fuming, clearly hurt by her insinuation. "You're always being so cynical!"

"And you're being naive."

The air tightened. She knew she might've gone too far but she needed Ron to realize the truth. The truth even Kingsley Shacklebot himself admitted to her.

"So what? That's a no, then?"

Hermione let her shoulders drop, too bone-weary to be cautious now. "We weren't even together in the first place."

Silence fell like a hammer swung in the air—right before it descended upon glass. Hermione detected the fragile ties between them—the ones that leaned heavily on their shared lives, proximity, and genuine care for one another—finally shatter into a million pieces.

Ron's blue eyes were the most distant she'd ever seen them. An angry hurt that she recognized would not go away with the tight embraces and careful words she usually bestowed upon him when things like this escalated between them.

"I see."

Without another word, he marched away, retreating into the house and slamming the backdoor behind him.

Hermione did not follow. At least not for a long while.

When she finally retired to bed and put all her books away, she swore a whisper caressed her thoughts, seeping into her subconscious whether it belonged there or not.

Soon, it told her. It has to be soon.

09 August 2000

It was tranquil and sunny the day of Seamus' wake, almost as if the young man himself was beaming down on them from some celestial afterlife. Only earlier at dawn, it had been raining.

Hermione squinted out the window of her bedroom at the sun shining over the hills. She was currently sitting on her bed, stacks of what few possibly helpful books she had surrounding her. She didn't get much sleep that night. Between anxiety over what her mind was doing to her and inability to find anything helpful on the stone, she wasn't in the best mood.

Nostalgia flowed through her, reminiscing the days Harry and Ron would try helping her in her research. Admittedly, even if she was the one who did most of the leg work, she enjoyed freely sharing thoughts and information. But the two of them were on assignment soon and they needed all the prep they could get. Plus, it wasn't like she could just tell them she was hearing voices, too. Seeing things.

She checked her watch. Shit , how long had she been sitting here? It was nearly time to go. Quickly, she changed into appropriate funeral attire, enchanting the sleeves of her black dress to be a little shorter, considering the heat. She looked into the full length mirror, straightening her old dress out. She'd lost count how many times she'd worn it in the past couple years.

She glanced down at her right ankle, which had stung so awfully the day the Death Eaters took Nott back. What she saw was the olive complexion of her unbothered flesh. The choking, the emerald eyes, the chaotic panic she felt the morning before she went to Crimble House—the more these instances took place, the more she would have to begin looking into it, possibly overshadowing her research on the stone.

Another unknown, another hyper-fixation she needed to solve.

A knock at her door came.

"It's open!"

Ginny swung the door open and stepped into the room. "Are you ready? The portkey's outside and everyone's down there."

The ceremony would take place outside in a clearing protected with wards and disillusionment charms. The Order didn't want to risk the location of the Burrow, so anyone attending had to Apparate or use a portkey to arrive at the location.

When they arrived at the forest clearing, Hermione saw that some people had come early to set up tables and benches and a canopy, much like the ones at Fleur and Bill's wedding, but much smaller.

All in all, it was as lovely as they could make it and the air was warm. It was not a huge gathering, with less than twenty people there.

Seamus' mother, escorted by Dean and Kingsley Shacklebot all the way from Ireland, arrived at the service early. Molly welcomed her with warmth and compassion, something the Weasley matriarch never seemed to lack, no matter how many of their dead loved ones they had to bury.

Mrs. Finnigan wanted to bury him in Ireland, in their little hometown, but wanted the wake hosted somewhere he also considered home.

She was a small woman, with the same freckled and pasty complexion as her son, though her hair was a lighter brown and her features more delicate. When she took out an old photo (a still one, a Muggle one) of Seamus' dad when he was younger, the resemblance was uncanny. "So handsome like his father," Hermione heard Mrs. Finnigan tell Molly. "At least they're together now. Probably waiting to pull one of their pranks on me when it's my time. The little gits."

Dean gave a eulogy, his eyes already bloodshot before saying a word. After his speech, he stepped down, Mrs. Finnigan walked up to him and enveloped Dean in an embrace.

"He blames himself," Cho told Hermione later when the food was put out. "For Seamus. For not getting enough information on Theodore Nott. I'm worried for him."

One look at Dean's sorry state—his eyes vacant and his attention never really present—and Hermione could hardly disagree with Cho. She spotted him across the table, chatting with Ron (who still had not said a word to her). When Dean looked up, he and Hermione made eye contact and Hermione felt goosebumps with the way his sadness turned into coldness.

Everyone was crying after that, if they weren't already. Hermione hoped no one caught on that she couldn't bring herself to feel that same emotional release. Her eyes stayed dry, her heart unmoving and numb. She hated herself for it.

As the afternoon darkened and gave way to evening, people sat in their small groups, reminiscing about their Hogwarts days, swapping stories about Seamus. They all involved pyrotechnics in one way or another.

Hermione found herself sitting quietly, slightly removed from the circle.

When the air got a little too stuffy and the stories started getting a little too sad, Hermione excused herself to get some air. Really, she wanted to walk. Her legs were restless and her mind preoccupied with figuring out her predicament. She couldn't help thinking about when she first woke up from the mission at the underground tunnels. The cold vice around her throat that had her gasping for air. Then her mind wandered all the other psychological stirrings she had yet to tell anyone about.

Such as yesterday's tumble down the stairs and the lie she told in haste.

"You shouldn't wander too far," someone said.

Dean was leaning against one of the trees, a wine bottle in his hand.

"If you go outside of the protection wards, who knows who'll come to get you."

Hermione took in the sight of him. His eyes, still red though less puffy, were watching her almost vacantly.

"You should probably stop drinking," Hermione advised, her high heels digging into the soft soil.

"Yes ma'am," Dean muttered in a mocking tone. He tried to gesture some sort of sarcastic salute but it came off sloppy and aimless.

She remembered Cho's words earlier and tried to grab at something compassionate to say. Seamus had been his best friend after all. How would she behave if it had been Harry or Ron? What do you do when someone you've known for half your life was suddenly not in it and you were left to live on when they couldn't?

So she said, "It's not your fault. Seamus. He died protecting his best friend."

"Gryffindor to Gryffindor, Hermione? That's bullshit. He died because he got killed and that's that."

Hermione very rarely saw Dean get uncontrollably angry. Ginny used to vent about their fights and his temper, but it must have been something he only reserved for the very few people closest to him. "I could go with you," she offered. "We can go back inside if you want—"

"What I want," Dean interjected, his voice agitated. He was drunk and understandably upset. However, she got the feeling that some of it was directed at her. "Is to get a fucking Death Eater and beat him to a bloody pulp. I don't care who it is! I don't care who has to pay." He brought the bottle to his lips once more. "Someone has to."

"That's why Luna was there, wasn't it?" Hermione asked, although she knew it was more of a statement of fact than a question at this point.

"Luna—what?" Dean said, catching himself on the tree as he almost wobbled forward.

"Tell me why was she there in the first place, Dean."

Dean remained stoking in his anger and inebriation.

"She had to heal him constantly, didn't she?" Hermione pushed. "Because you tortured him so badly."

An unpleasant smile came over Dean's features, one she'd never seen on him before. One she didn't think he was capable of.

"Stubborn bastard he was," Dean spat. "I made sure he paid. Over and over again, I made sure he'd pay."

He looked at her expectantly, as if she'd scold him, condemn him. And that he'd be ready to laugh in her face if she did.

"And did it help?" Hermione chose to say instead. "Because it looks to me that Seamus is still dead and you're still angry and we have no answers. You wasted Luna's time—did you not see how exhausted she was? All so you could exact revenge with nothing to show for it."

Dean's eyes lit with a rage ready to be released, stifled only slightly now because of Ron's sudden appearance.

"Oi! Dean, Kingsley's looking for—" Ron emerged from the tent and paused upon seeing Hermione. "Alright you two?"

"Hermione here," Dean said, a drunken smirk plastered across his face. "Was just about to give me a lecture." He lurched forward, but Ron caught him.

"What's what?" Ron asked, his glance darting between his two friends.

"That's how bad it was, wasn't it?" Hermione's voice was grim. "You beat him and they just had to heal him over and over again—"

"It's not fair," Dean said.

"Losing a loved one is never fair."

"Shut the fuck up! You—you—" between his inebriation and anger, Dean only sputtered words.

Ron pulled Dean up and tried to turn him toward the tent. "Mate, let's get inside—"

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" Dean screamed at Hermione, pushing Ron off of him and stalking towards her.

"Dean!" Ron pulled him back, but Dean had gotten close enough to be right in front of Hermione's face.

"How did they find us?!" he cried. "How—"

Hermione just stood there, frozen on the spot.

"It's not—it's not—" Dean wailed, his eyes pooled with tears and anguish. "How did they fucking find us—" He fell slumped down, falling out of Ron's grasp and hitting the forest floor on his knees.

"Mate, stop, I know it hurts, but Seamus wouldn't want this," Ron tried to comfort him, propping Dean up as best he could but the man could hardly keep himself together.

"Someone had to pay…" he said senselessly.

"Someone did pay," Hermione reminded him, her own voice cold now. "Goyle died. Nott didn't kill Seamus and no amount of torture was going to bring Seamus back."

"Hermione!" Ron hissed. "That's not helping—"

"I noticed, you know," Dean accused, his voice raw and dry. "I noticed you didn't shed a tear. Not once today. When did you become so cold, Hermione?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Even Ron couldn't find something to say. Those inside must have caught onto what was happening, because suddenly more faces were emerging from the tent.

Cho ran to Dean's side, gazing up at Hermione confused. "What's happened?" she whispered.

Before Hermione could explain, Dean spoke again, the righteous anger from his voice gone, replaced with something that made him sound so young, confused. "How is it that you got to come back safe and sound while Seamus bled out in the next room?"

Hermione blanched. He was right. It wasn't fair.

The world became a hazy mess, every little footstep, breath, and word suddenly much too loud. Hermione turned her heel and began walking away.

Somewhere far, far away, she could hear the broken sounds of her friends calling after her. At some point she was running. And she kept running—right through the protection wards, the sound of Apparation echoing in the tranquil forest.

Notes:

Thank you for anyone who has happened to come across this little fic 3