Chapter 1
Act I: The War Begins
Hermione
May 2nd, 1998 Hermione has never been one to deem life impossible. Sure, it may be hard and challenging, but impossible? Not a chance.
So why?
Why?
June 1st, 1998
They’re back at the base again. Hermione thinks, possibly out loud, as others start to look at her. She shakes her head and straightens her posture, brushing away the exhaustion that threatens to weigh her down. There’s no time for weakness, not now. Not ever. She looks around taking a head count.
He’s alive.
The thought echoes in her mind, not as a harbinger of doom but as a challenge. If Voldemort has returned, then she’ll ensure he’s defeated—properly this time. She won’t allow herself to crumble. She won’t allow herself to stop.
My parents are dead.
Fred’s dead.
Everyone is gone.
But the Order is still here. And as long as they’re here, there’s hope.
“Hermione!” Harry’s voice breaks through her thoughts. She looks up, her expression sharp, focused.
“What? What is it?”
Harry exchanges a glance with Ron, who sits slumped in a chair, his head in his hands. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and maybe he is. Hermione feels a pang of sympathy but pushes it aside.
“We… we need a plan,” Harry says hesitantly. “Things are falling apart. Morale is low. We need… something.”
Hermione nods, already pulling out parchment and a quill. For now, she will focus on what she is good at, planning. “Alright. Let’s start with the basics. We need to secure our position here. Reinforce the wards. Set up a rotation for patrols. We’re stretched thin, but if we work smart, we can cover more ground.”
Ron lifts his head, his eyes red-rimmed. “What’s the point, Hermione? He’s just going to come back stronger. He always does.”
Hermione’s eyes flash. “Then we’ll be ready for him. We can’t afford to think like that, Ron. If we start doubting ourselves, we’ve already lost.”
Ron scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy,” Hermione snaps. “It’s necessary. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you should step aside and let someone else take charge.”
The room falls silent. Harry looks between them, unsure of what to say. Ron glares at her for a moment before standing abruptly and storming out of the room.
Hermione exhales slowly, turning back to the parchment in front of her. “We don’t have time for this,” she mutters. “Harry, help me with this list. We need to identify who can take on leadership roles. If Ron needs time, we’ll give it to him, but we can’t wait for him.”
Harry hesitates but nods. “Alright. What do we need?”
“We need fighters, strategists, and people who can keep morale up. And we need to figure out who is alive. We need to plan for the long term, not just the next battle. And we need to make sure everyone here has a purpose. If people feel useful, they’ll stay strong.”
As the night stretches on, Hermione works tirelessly, drafting plans, assigning roles, and mapping out strategies. Her mind races with possibilities, calculations, and contingencies. She knows she’s pushing her feelings down, but she doesn’t care. This is what needs to be done, and she’ll do it.
The next morning, she approaches Moody a former Auror who has taken a leadership role within the ranks. “We need to start training everyone in Occlumency,” she says. “Voldemort has spies everywhere. We need to protect our minds.”
Moody raises an eyebrow but nods. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Of course I have,” Hermione replies. “If we’re going to win this war, we need to be smarter, stronger, and more prepared than ever.”
As the days turn into weeks, Hermione becomes the backbone of the Order’s efforts. While others falter under the pressure, she steps up, pushing herself harder than ever. Her determination is unshakable, her focus razor-sharp. She knows the cost of failure, and she refuses to pay it.
____________________________________________________________________________
July 15th, 1998
The sound of voices raised in heated debate echoes through the war room of the Order’s headquarters. Hermione stands at the center of it, her knuckles white as they grip the edge of the table. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s calm but firm tone cuts through the clamor.
“Hermione, you’ve done incredible work for us while the rest of us were out, but leadership decisions need to be made by those with experience. Moody and I have this under control.”
Hermione’s jaw tightens. “With all due respect, Kingsley, ‘under control’ isn’t good enough. We lost five people last week because YOUR plan was rushed and poorly coordinated. That’s not acceptable.”
“And what do you suggest?” Moody growls, his magical eye swiveling to focus on her. “That we let you take charge of every operation, an inexperienced child?”
“I suggest we start listening to ideas that actually work,” Hermione retorts, her voice sharp, looking to Harry for support. “I’ve been researching hexes that could incapacitate Death Eaters more effectively. If we adapted our strategies to include them, we could reduce casualties.”
Moody slams his fist on the table. “We don’t have time for experimentation! What we need is discipline and hard work, not untested spells.”
Hermione’s cheeks flush with frustration and anger. “We need innovation. Sticking to the same methods has only gotten more people killed.”
The room falls into an uneasy silence. Hermione’s gaze sweeps across the faces of her comrades, searching for allies, but most of them avoid her eyes. Even Harry looks conflicted. Kingsley clears his throat.
“We’ll consider your suggestions, Hermione,” he says, his tone dismissive. “But for now, stick to your research. Leave the fieldwork to us.”
Hermione doesn’t argue further. She knows it’s pointless. Instead, she turns on her heel and storms out of the room, her mind racing. If they won’t listen, she’ll focus on what she can control.
The weeks that follow see Hermione retreating into her work. She spends long hours in the library, poring over ancient texts and experimenting with new hexes and wards. She becomes a ghost in the headquarters, rarely engaging with the others except to present her findings. Her dedication pays off; she develops a hex that causes temporary paralysis passing through many shields, without permanent harm, a spell that could turn the tide in skirmishes. But when she presents it to Moody, he brushes it off.
“Too risky, it is untested,” he says gruffly. “We’ll stick to what we know.”
Hermione’s patience snaps. “Riskier than sending people out with inadequate protection? How many more have to die before you’re willing to try something new?”
Moody’s only response is a dismissive wave of his hand. Hermione storms out, seething.
August 3rd, 1998
The latest raid ends in disaster. Three members of the Order return to the base, battered and broken, carrying the bodies of two more who weren’t so lucky. The air is thick with grief and tension as Hermione stands in the corner, her fists clenched. When Kingsley and Moody gather the survivors for a debrief, she can’t hold back any longer.
“This is on you,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “They died because you refused to adapt. Because you refused to listen.”
Kingsley’s expression hardens. “That’s enough, Hermione.”
“No, it’s not enough,” she snaps. “Every decision you’ve made has cost us lives. If you’d given me the resources I asked for, they might still be alive.”
Moody growls, “Watch your tone, girl.”
“Or what?” Hermione fires back. “You’ll ignore me some more? Pretend that I don’t know what I’m talking about? Fine. Do what you want. But don’t expect me to sit by and watch you get more people killed.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. She storms out, her heart pounding with a mix of anger and despair. She knows she’s burned a bridge, but she doesn’t care. She’s done trying to reason with people who refuse to listen.
Hermione throws herself into her work with renewed intensity. She isolates herself, spending days in the workshop she’s set up in an unused corner of the base. She experiments relentlessly, creating spells and devices designed to give the Order an edge. She trains herself physically as well, practicing dueling techniques and endurance spells late into the night.
The others notice her absence, but no one approaches her. Even Harry seems hesitant, his attempts at conversation faltering under her cold determination. Hermione doesn’t mind. She’s not doing this for them. She’s doing this for the people they’ve lost—and for those who still have a chance to survive.
We have to survive. Then it will be worth it.