Chapter 2
August 3rd, 1998
Hermione worked late into the night, the faint glow of her enchanted lamps casting long shadows across the workshop she had claimed as her own. Parchments covered in her meticulous handwriting cluttered the desk, diagrams and notes interspersed with smudges of ink and hastily jotted corrections. The air smelled faintly of burnt metal and old parchment, a testament to the countless hours she’d spent here.
Her latest project—a hex designed to incapacitate multiple opponents in a single burst—required an infusion of power beyond the ordinary. She adjusted her wand’s angle, focusing the incantation onto the prototype rune-etched crystal before her. The crystal glowed briefly, then shattered with a sharp crack. Hermione sighed, running a hand through her unruly curls. It wasn’t enough. Not yet.
A knock at the door startled her. She stiffened, instinctively reaching for her wand, before Moody’s gruff voice called out.
"Granger, open up."
She hesitated, then waved her wand to release the wards she’d placed around the room. Moody stepped inside, his magical eye swiveling to take in the chaos.
"You’re going to burn yourself out," he said, his tone somewhere between reprimand and concern.
"I’m fine," Hermione replied curtly, turning back to her work. "Did you need something?"
Moody’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he cleared his throat. "Kingsley wants an update on your projects."
"Tell him he’ll get it when it’s ready," she said, not bothering to look up.
Moody’s jaw tightened. "Hermione, we’re all fighting the same war. You don’t get to play the lone wolf."
She turned to face him, her eyes blazing. "Am I? Because it feels like every time I try to contribute, I’m dismissed. My ideas are too risky, my methods too unconventional. Meanwhile, people keep dying. So forgive me if I’m not eager to waste time on another pointless meeting."
Moody’s expression softened, though his voice remained firm. "We’re trying to protect you, Granger. You’re valuable to the Order."
"I don’t need protection," she said fiercely. "What I need is for people to trust me to do what I’m good at."
Moody studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Just don’t forget we’re on the same side."
He left without another word, and Hermione returned to her work, though her hands trembled slightly as she picked up her quill. She hated the isolation that her role demanded, but she hated the thought of more senseless deaths even more.
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Draco
Across the battlefield, Draco Malfoy sat alone in his dimly lit command tent, the flickering light of a single lantern casting deep shadows on his weary face. His once-pristine robes, which had once been a symbol of his family's wealth and status, were now stained with mud, blood, and the wear of prolonged conflict. The polished veneer of the life he'd once known had long since been shattered, replaced by the cold, brutal reality of survival. His silvery blonde hair, once carefully groomed, now hung in unruly strands around his face, and the sharp, aristocratic features of his youth were now lined with exhaustion, the weight of the war pressing down on him.
Draco’s fingers drummed absently on the edge of the table as he surveyed the maps spread before him, each one a grim reminder of the stakes at play. His mind raced, calculating the best course of action for the next move, but there was a gnawing feeling in his chest—a tension he couldn’t shake. The war had taken more from him than he was willing to admit, and yet, here he was, General Malfoy, standing at the head of a force that had once been his greatest fear. But the choice had been made for him, his survival depending on his ability to adapt, to embrace the ruthless tactics of the Dark Lord, and to lead men who had no qualms about shedding blood to achieve victory.
A voice from the entrance of the tent broke his thoughts. “General Malfoy,” it called with a tone that was both respectful and urgent.
Draco looked up, his grey eyes narrowing as he took in the figure of the scout standing in the doorway. The man was tall, his shoulders broad with the build of someone used to physical labor. His face was weathered, and his eyes were hard with the kind of resolve only found in those who had seen too much bloodshed.
“The scouting party has returned,” the scout reported.
“Send them in,” Draco replied, his voice sharp, betraying none of the fatigue he felt.
Moments later, the entrance to the tent was filled with a group of Death Eaters, their faces drawn and tense. The leader, a wiry man with a jagged scar running across his cheek, stepped forward, his boots echoing on the ground. His eyes were clouded with the kind of grim determination Draco had come to expect from those who had survived the most recent skirmishes.
“Report,” Draco ordered, his gaze unwavering as he studied the scout leader’s face for any sign of weakness.
The man’s eyes flicked briefly to the floor before he spoke. “The Order’s base is heavily fortified, General. The order captured two of our men.”
Draco’s jaw tightened at the mention of casualties. The loss of men was always a bitter pill to swallow, especially when it was due to insufficient information. He had no tolerance for failure, but he was also pragmatic enough to understand that the nature of war meant that sacrifices would be made. He nodded curtly, giving the man permission to continue.
“Did you learn anything useful?” Draco pressed, his fingers curling into the armrest of his chair.
The scout’s face became even more solemn. “They’re experimenting with new hexes. There’s a witch—Granger, I think—who’s leading the effort. She’s… dangerous.”
Draco’s mind clicked into motion at the mention of Granger’s name. The name was familiar, of course. Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all from Hogwarts, the girl who had made his life miserable with her incessant questions and her unyielding righteousness. He remembered her from the old days—her bushy hair, her determined face, her constant need to one-up everyone with her superior intellect. He had once seen her as little more than a nuisance, but now, in the context of the war, her name carried weight.
Dangerous. The word echoed in Draco’s mind.
The idea that Hermione Granger had become a key player in the war, leading efforts to create new hexes and magical innovations for the Order, surprised him. But it also intrigued him. He had never considered her to be particularly powerful in the way that some of the Dark Lord’s followers were—her magic had always been more academic than practical, more about theory than execution. But the war had a way of changing people, of forcing them to grow in unexpected ways. Perhaps Granger had done just that.
“What kind of hexes?” Draco asked, leaning forward slightly, his interest piqued despite himself.
The scout leader shook his head, his expression frustrated. “We couldn’t get close enough to find out. But whatever she’s working on, it’s causing problems for our side. Her efforts are disrupting our plans. We know that much.”
Draco’s mind raced with possibilities. If Granger had truly developed a new line of hexes—ones powerful enough to disrupt their forces—then she was no longer just an annoyance. She was a threat. He had been tasked with weakening the Order, with finding ways to dismantle their efforts and turn the tide of the war. But this… this was different. A new player had entered the game, someone who wasn’t just fighting back with brute force, but with knowledge, innovation, and strategy.
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the armrest as he processed the information. He had grown accustomed to seeing the Order as a disorganized, reactive force, but Granger’s involvement suggested a shift in their approach. She was smart, resourceful, and driven—qualities that Draco had always recognized in her, even when he had been too stubborn to appreciate them. The fact that she was now using those qualities in the war against them made her a much more formidable adversary.
“Double the patrols around their base,” Draco ordered, his voice cold and commanding. “Find out everything you can about Granger’s work. I want to know what we’re dealing with.”
The scout nodded, his expression resolute, and turned to leave. As the door of the tent flapped shut behind him, Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the map before him, though his mind had already drifted far from the battlefield. A part of him wondered how Hermione Granger had come to be involved in such dangerous work. What had happened to the bookish, rule-abiding student he had known? What had driven her to develop new hexes, to risk her life and the lives of others in the service of the Order?
It wasn’t the first time Draco had found himself contemplating the choices of his former classmates. The war had forced them all to make decisions, to take sides, to figure out who they were in a world that had been torn apart by darkness. But Granger’s path, from what he knew of her, seemed especially unexpected. She had always been the moral compass of their little group, the one who abided by rules, who believed in the power of knowledge and logic. What had changed? What had pushed her into this new role? These were questions that hung in the air, unanswered, as Draco continued to stare at the map.
The war was a game of strategy, he knew. A game of power, manipulation, and control, a game he WAS good at. And Hermione Granger had just become a key player. The idea that someone who had once been his intellectual rival—someone he had always underestimated—had become a force to be reckoned with, complicated things. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistakes he had made in the past. If Granger’s new hexes were as dangerous as they seemed, then he would have to take her seriously. He couldn’t afford to underestimate her again.
If he wanted to win this war, he would need to outthink her. He would need to be smarter, more ruthless. He couldn’t afford any more distractions, any more emotional entanglements. This was a war, and in war, there was no room for sentimentality.
But as Draco stared at the maps, the flicker of a memory surfaced in his mind—of Hermione Granger, standing tall and unwavering in the face of his ridicule, her eyes fierce with defiance. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would be like if they weren’t on opposite sides of this war. If, instead of enemies, they could be allies—two forces of intellect, two minds working together to change the world. But that thought was fleeting, quickly banished by the harsh reality of the present. In war, there was no room for such idealism.
Yet, as he turned his attention back to the task at hand, a small part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that the game had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.