The sun had barely begun to set, casting an eerie, blood-red hue over the battlefield, Hogwarts a once magnificent thousand-year castle had fallen. Ash and smoke filled the air, choking the life out of the once vibrant land; the school no longer held an air of wonderment instead it had been replaced by a hollow shell filled with despair and the blood of the children it was built to protect. The remains of the fallen lay strewn across the ground, a grim testament to the brutal reality of war. The broken bodies of the Order the last fighters of the light decorated the battleground. Among the chaos stood Hermione Granger, her heart heavy with despair.
Hermione had always believed in hope, in the possibility of a brighter future, one where she wouldn't be hunted because of her blood, a world where people like her would be welcomed and celebrated, for the magic they brought into the world. It had always confused Hermione how Purebloods believed Muggle-born's stole their magic from Squibs.
Mostly, Hermione had hope that one day, all this fighting would be over, and she would be able to find peace.
Hermione had once loved Magic. Learning new spells and seeing the effect they had on the world around her had filled her with wonderment. As a Muggle-born, the impossibility of Magic had never really worn off for her, something that made her question everything when she was younger. But as she looked around the battlefield the school had become, she couldn't help but hate Magic and all the damage it could cause, the lives it could so cruelly take with a flick of the wrist and a muttered incantation.
Magic had taken away her family, the one she found and built, and had turned her parents into cruel monsters who could not understand their odd daughter and had made them send away the one person who had loved her. Magic gave mad men like Voldemort the ability to slaughter thousands of people just based on their blood status and his need for control. Looking at so much death she struggled to remember the positives and bright moments of magic.
Hermione had fought with unwavering determination alongside her friends, the people she had come to see as her family. But now, as she looked around at the lifeless bodies of those, she loved and those she had grown up beside. She felt her hope that they could win this war had begun to flicker out.
Her best friend, Harry, lay motionless near to her. His body was long forgotten as Voldemort began his final brutal assault; not satisfied with just killing Harry, he wanted to wipe out any chance of future opposition in one devastating battle. Hermione felt her throat tighten at the sight of Harry looking so broken, his limbs bent unnaturally, his eyes gouged from their sockets.
Harry, the Champion of light who had been prophesized to triumph over the darkness, the one in whom everyone had placed their hope for victory, was gone. Hermione made her way across the short distance between them, mindless of the destruction she caused with a flick of her wrist of the array of colours as spells where cast around her. Once she had reached him, she dropped to her knees, her fingers trembling as she touched his cold, lifeless hand.
Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the dirt and blood that covered her skin. "Harry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You promised we'd see this through together. You promised..." A sob got stuck in her throat, and her heart felt heavy with the weight of her loss; as Hermione into the mutilated face of her best friend, she could only think one thing
They Had Lost.
It hurt for Hermione to admit, but she had always been a realist, and deep down, she knew this was coming. The Order had been lost without their Leader following Dumbledore's Death, and with no real sense of direction, they placed all their hope on Harry, the boy who had been prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord. Hermione snorted at the thought of grown adults placing so much faith in some gibberish spouted off by that fraud Trelawney. Because of the failure of the adults in her life Hermione may never see her nineteenth birthday, and Harry would definitely never see his eighteenth birthday.
Hermione loved Harry wholeheartedly, but she knew he was not strong enough to defeat Voldemort; he couldn't do what was needed to root out the evil that was the Dark Lord; there was only so far, an Expelliarmus could get you in war. And Harry had only ever wanted to be a normal boy. Lessons with Dumbledore had given Harry the false hope that the monster Tom Riddle had become could be defeated with love and not true power. Hermione knew this wasn't true; love didn't win wars. War was the destroyer of all things that were loved, Love is the ultimate weapon was nothing more than the motto of a doddering old man. Hermione knew that power and a willingness to get things done is what won wars, things that Voldemort had in spades.
Hermione loved Harry wholeheartedly; he would always be the brother she had always wanted. He helped her fill the void she had always felt and gave her the first feeling of belonging in the magical world. Harry didn't want to be some big hero; Harry just wanted to be Harry and have a family. That hope drove every reckless decision he made leading up to walking into the forest to meet Voldemort, wandless and without any form of backup.
As Hermione knelt there, numb lost in her despair, she barely registered the Death Eater's approaching, the cheers of their victory. Rough hands grabbed at her, yanking her to her feet and away from the boy she had once called a brother. She didn't resist she didn't feel like she had the strength or even the will anymore. The Death Eater's mocking laughter filled the air as the unknown Death Eater bound her wrists.
"Look, if it isn't Potter's Mudblood, pretty little thing, isn't you" A hand travelled roughly to her breast, pawing at the clothed flesh, Hermione felt a hot flush of disgust fill her stomach, and she tried to move away from the groping hand, horror gripping her heart. She could feel the hot breath of the Death Eater in her ear as he pulled her closer to his body, causing her to stumble.
A wave of laughter rang in the air. "Captured like a lamb to the slaughter."
Hermione stared ahead; her eyes vacant. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear. She was marched through the crowd of celebrating Death Eaters and Dark creatures, past the bodies of the dead. Every step was a reminder of what she had lost, of the futility of their struggle, and of the reality of her future. The celebrating laughter and taunts were a cruel backdrop to the scene of devastation.
Hermione was pushed into the centre of the crowd and stood surrounded by her fellow captured Order Members. A flicker of relief filled her when she spotted her best friend Ron's signature red hair. He was sporting a large head wound, but she was glad to see him alive, however brief it would be.
There were others, too, that had survived. Bill was sporting a deep slash across his wand arm and leaning heavily into his French wife, who didn't look much better. Ginny was huddled close to Ron; her eyes were unfocused, and her wand arm was missing; someone had managed to cauterize the wound crudely, saving her life; what life that would be, Hermione dreaded to think. Dean, Kingsley, McGonagall, and Flitwick were some that she recognized, but some scattered members that Hermione didn't recognize.
Ron's eyes widened as he saw her and rushed to her side. "Hermione," he whispered, his voice filled with relief and sorrow. "I thought you were gone too."
Hermione looked at him, her expression blank. "Maybe I should be," she replied, her voice hollow. "What's the point in fighting anymore, Ron? We've lost everything." Ron opened his mouth to respond most likely to fight her statement, but a loud cheer from their right stole their attention.
"Ah, so kind of you to finally join us, Mudblood." Hermione felt her stomach clench and her heart thud as the cold voice cut across the cheering crowd; her brown eyes followed the voice and found the figure of her nightmares. Lord Voldemort stalked closer to the assembled Order; his snakelike features were twisted into a sadistic smile. His voice rose to address his followers: "Make them kneel before their Lord, the one true Leader of the Wizarding world. "Death Eaters pushed Hermione and the others to their knees, their hands bound behind their backs with the rough casting of an Incarcerous. Hermione winced as the rope dug into her flesh, but she refused to cry out. She would not give them the satisfaction.
"Behold," Voldemort began, his voice carrying over the assembly, "the remnants of the resistance. You fought bravely but foolishly. You clung to your morals, your ideals, and now look at your reward, slaughtered and butchered following a child and foolish old man's belief that the Greater good will win."
The Death Eaters around him cheered, their eyes filled with a passionate light. Hermione felt a surge of hatred rise within her, but she forced herself to remain calm. She didn't want to garner further interest from Voldemort, and she felt he would not hesitate to make a painful example of her to satisfy his bloodthirsty minions.
"We have won," the Dark Lord continued. "We will lead a new world where only the Purest will have power. We will reclaim our rightful place in the Wizarding World. Those below us, the Mud blood's and blood traitors will become our slaves. They will serve us, and we will ensure that they never rise again." His crimson eyes scanned the remaining Order, the sadistic joy evident in his snakelike features.
His words were met with more cheers and applause, and shouts could be heard through the crowd, taunting what they would like to do with Potter's pet Mudblood and Blood traitor whore. The Death Eaters being particularly brutal in their descriptions of what they would do to the blond Veela, bleeding heavily on her knees. Voldemort basked in the crowd's delight before again silencing the assembly with a hand raise. Next to Hermione, she could see Ron's Jaw clench in silent fury, his face reddening in his anger, and before Hermione could stop it, his voice rang out across the crowd, "We will never serve scum like you! You think you have defeated us, but the good will always conquer the dark!"
"Ah, you must be Weasley, Potter's sidekick! Where is your Leader now, boy? Where is the so-called chosen one?" Voldemort stalked closer to the captured Order; his ruby eyes fixated on Ron. The dark aura of his Magic became suffocating, and the darkness seemed to seep from his very being. A cruel smile appeared as he leaned closer to the bound wizard. "That's right, he is dead, "the Dark lord leaned closer until he was talking directly in Ron's ear,
"Do you think that I cannot control you, boy? Soon, you will beg to serve my army and me and feel blessed to be allowed the pleasure of breathing our air. "Before Ron could respond, Voldemort turned his gaze to Hermione, a glint of interest filling his eyes.
Voldemort, despite himself, could not help but be intrigued by the Mudblood. He had heard stories from the younger Malfoy and Snape about her intelligence and magical prowess, which were further proven when the chit survived Dolohov's signature curse. Voldemort had seen powerful grown men fall victim to the devastating purple flames, yet a near slip of a girl survived.
As the Dark Lord scanned the bloodied young woman, he found her lacking. Touching her Magic with his, he could feel that it felt broken and blocked as if the girl had attempted to suppress her natural gifts. Her brown eyes showed no sign of fight or anger, and he wondered if Bella had broken the girl more than she believed.
"And look at this one," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, the look of interest replaced with sadistic joy. "Hermione Granger. All brains. Let's see how well those brains work after you become my Death Eater's plaything. So many have begged to put you in your place."
He stepped closer, his gaze locking with hers. "You, Mudblood, will never have a place in our new world other than serving your Pureblood Masters. You are lesser, born of filth, and that is something that no amount of intellect can change. Soon, Mudblood, you will be nothing but a hole to serve your Masters, and you will be grateful for their Pureblood touch."
Hermione shifted her positioning, her hand creeping down to her boots.
Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, her anger boiling over. But she kept her expression neutral; her mind was racing, but she knew better than to show any hint of emotion to the Dark Lord.
Hermione knew she needed to find a way to turn the tide, to escape and buy herself and the people she cared for some time to think of a plan; she needed to find a way to avoid the tortures Voldemort had promised her future. Death would be preferable to being a plaything of sadists. Hermione knew she had one shot at escaping; the knife that had been used to carve the horrid slur into her arm lay hidden in her boot; she had liberated it from the still-cooling body of Dobby before he was placed to rest at Shell Cottage.
Ensuring to maintain her neutral expression, her shaking hands reached to grasp the black ebony hilt, steadily lifting and exposing the cursed blade. Hermione's heart stuttered as the Death Eaters cheered for their Dark Lord. Slowly, Hermione began to work on the bindings covering her wrists.
Voldemort turned his back to her, continuing his speech to his manic followers, his dismissal of her clear; he had dismissed her as a threat. He believed she was broken, defeated. He was wrong. Hermione knew that he was mortal; she and the boys had travelled throughout the country to find the man's blasted Horcruxes; if she did not take the opportunity to strike now, he would indeed create more ties to the mortal world, he would build up his walls and be impossible to strike down.
As Voldemort spoke to his adoring followers, Hermione's fingers worked at the rope binding her hands, finally freeing her wrists. Her small hand wrapped around the cursed blade, securing it fully in her hand, knowing this would be her last chance to be effective. After this, she expected to be gifted to the Death Eater hoard, who would fill her last moments alive with pain and torment.
With a surge of adrenaline, Hermione sprang to her feet and lunged at Voldemort's turned back, startling the Death Eaters behind her. Her knife clutched tightly, she drove it into his back with all the strength she could muster, feeling the blade sink into his pale, waxy flesh.
Voldemort gasped, his eyes widening in shock. He twisted in her grasp, attempting to turn to see who had dared to strike him, but Hermione twisted the knife, driving it deeper. "This is for Harry," she whispered, her voice filled with venom.
For a moment, Hermione felt triumphant, that the loss of life that the light had suffered could have meant something because the monster that had been a dark shadow over their lives had finally died, with no way of returning to cause more misery with his pathetic existence, Hermione should have known it wouldn't have been that easy, that the monster would not go quietly into the abyss.
Suddenly, his body began to bubble, his flesh turning a sickly shade of dark grey. Most chillingly to Hermione and the stunned crowd, Voldemort began to laugh, a horrible, gurgling sound that sent chills down Hermione's spine. "You think you've won," he rasped, his voice growing weaker but filled with triumph. "But I've already won."
Hermione stepped back, watching in horror as the Dark Lord's body disintegrated, his flesh dissolving quickly into a thick, black smoke. The smoke billowed out from his body, spreading rapidly across the battlefield and covering everything in sight, Hermione attempted to make her way back to her friends, but her body was locked in place, trapped in the suffocating black smoke. Hermione tried to shield her face, but the smoke was everywhere, choking and suffocating, almost forcing her to her knees.
It disappeared as soon as it arrived, sinking into the muddied Earth. Hermione could hear the unrest of the Death Eaters surrounding her. Whispers filled the crowd and the uncertainty that followed the unknown curse Voldemort had released filled many with dread. Hermione's eyes flickered to Ron; the tension apparent on his freckled face. Hermione's hazel eyes scanned the assembled crowd, and she noticed the people falling around her, their bodies going stiff before they dropped like marionettes with cut strings.
Hermione's eyes were drawn to the remaining Order, their faces twisted in panic as they scanned the rapidly thinning assembly of Death Eaters. Then it happened, Ron's body stiffened, and blood began to pore from every orthosis; he choked for a moment, blood spilling from his mouth before he, too, fell. Hermione wanted to run to him, but her legs felt like lead, and taking a step caused her to stumble to her knees. She slowly crawled her way to her fallen friend. Distantly, she could hear Ginny's sobs until they were cut off with a heavy thud.
"Ron," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Hermione's stomach churned, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to scream. Tears blurred her vision as she forced herself to look at him again, her heart breaking at the sight. Ron may have had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but he was one of her closest friends, someone she saw as family. To see him reduced to this was more than she could bear.
This was Voldemort's final, terrible weapon—a curse that spared no one.
Everyone was dead. No matter their gender, their age, or what side they were on, they had fallen to the ground and bled from all their orifices, and then they had died. Everyone she cared about was dead. Hermione was alone, and she couldn't understand why.
Surrounded by death. It didn't take her long to notice that she wasn't as alone as she initially thought. On the surrounding edges of the fallen, the Dark Creatures that had bulked Voldemort's army seemed unaffected by the cursed smoke. Some of Fenrir's wolves had somehow transformed without the moon's light; their bulking frames were hunched over the closest Death Eaters and were beginning to devour their fallen comrades; the giants were scratching their large heads and using their boulder-sized mallets to poke at the Death Eaters half expecting them to spring up. It was only the witches and wizards that we were dead, it seemed.
As if noticing her presence, a large grey wolf began to move towards her, its scarred muzzle covered in blood, and its gleaming teeth shone ominously under the dying light. Hermione's eyes returned to Ron's as she reached out, her fingers brushing his cold cheek. "I'm so sorry, Ron," she whispered, her voice choked with sobs. "I shouldn't have done it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." With one last look at her, the field of the dead Hermione quickly moved to her feet and spun on her heel.
She managed to take one step into the Black Estate before she collapsed into a broken heap on the floor. Her sobs rocked her small frame. Her mind couldn't stop thinking about the dead, so caught up in her grief that she didn't notice that her body was glowing. She also didn't notice Mrs. Black's racist slurs or the bowing house elf in the corner.