Chapter 3
Hermione
Back at the Order’s headquarters, Hermione’s work was interrupted by Harry’s hesitant knock. She looked up, surprised to see him standing in the doorway.
“What is it?” she snaps, trying to keep the weariness from her voice.
Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I just… I wanted to check on you. You’ve been locked in here for days."
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, though the dark circles under her eyes told a different story.
Harry hesitated. “Hermione, I know you’re angry at Kingsley and Moody. But you don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’m not alone,” she replied, though the words felt hollow. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“You’re carrying too much,” he said gently. “Let me help. Let us help.”
Hermione’s resolve wavered for a moment, but she shook her head. “I can’t, Harry. Not this time. If I’m going to make a difference, I need to focus."
Harry looked at her for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Alright. Just… don’t forget we’re here for you."
As he left, Hermione turned back to her work. She knew Harry meant well, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. The war demanded everything she had, and she was determined to give it.
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Hermione Granger had always prided herself on her ability to think, to strategize, and to solve problems before they became problems. In the heat of battle, she had been known to offer quick solutions and innovative ideas. But even she, with her endless hours of research and her unyielding drive to protect those she cared about, could not foresee the consequences of her actions when she finally pushed herself into the heart of the conflict.
It had started when Hermione had insisted to Harry and Ron that she needed to be out there with them. The war against Voldemort was escalating, and she felt as though every minute spent safe in the Burrow, or buried in books at Grimmauld Place, was another minute she wasn’t doing everything she could to make a difference. She had spent countless hours reading, analyzing, and experimenting, and she was sure that if she could be out there, on the front lines, her research and her newfound magical prowess could turn the tide of the war. The war they were losing, bad.
"I need to be out there," Hermione said, her voice firm as she stood before the trio, determined. "I can do more good on the raids than I can sitting here, reading. You saw how I did in the duels, I’m ready. I’ve trained for this, and I can’t just sit back and let others risk their lives."
Harry had been worried, of course. "Hermione, it’s dangerous out there. You don’t need to be involved in the raids."
But she had seen the look in his eyes—the same one that had appeared when they were in the Department of Mysteries. Harry always wanted to protect her, but she wasn’t some delicate flower that needed to be shielded. She was a witch, a strong one, and she was convinced that her strength could make the difference between life and death in these raids.
Ron, looking torn, had finally said, "But Hermione, we need you here. You’re too valuable to lose."
Hermione had shaken her head. "I’ll be back, Ron. I’ll be careful. But I need to do this."
Her resolve was unwavering.
The first few missions went smoothly. Hermione’s research had given her an edge in duels. She had studied every known counter-curse, every defensive spell, and every advanced offensive tactic. Armed with this knowledge, she entered each mission with a confidence she hadn’t realized she had. She quickly became a force to be reckoned with on the field, her spells hitting their marks with precision, her strategy flawless. She had always been the best at academics, but now, she was proving that she could excel on the battlefield as well.
She dueled with a calmness and effectiveness that left even some of the experienced Aurors in awe. Harry, despite being skilled in his own right, found himself constantly surprised by how much Hermione had grown in her magical capabilities. In their sparring sessions, she was often the one who emerged victorious, her extensive knowledge giving her the edge over Harry’s more instinctive style of fighting.
"Blimey, Hermione," Ron had muttered after one particularly intense training session, wiping sweat from his brow. "You’re bloody brilliant. I thought I was the best, but you’ve got me beat."
Hermione, though proud of her progress, didn’t let it go to her head. Instead, she became even more determined to prove herself. She was increasingly called upon for raids—missions that took her into the heart of enemy territory. She knew these missions were dangerous, but she had prepared for them. She had studied the spells, the terrain, and the strategies. She was ready.
It was during one such mission that everything changed.
The mission—her last mission—had been a disaster. A rescue operation to save Order members being transported by the Death Eaters had turned into a bloodbath. The plan had seemed simple enough: infiltrate their convoy, disable their guards, and free the prisoners without leaving a trace. But in the chaos, everything had gone horribly wrong.
Hermione had been the one to lead the charge. She had always been the strategist, the one who thought through every detail, the one who could always be relied upon to find a way. She understood that there was no room for error. There couldn’t be.
In the heat of the battle, with curses flying in every direction and the screams of the injured filling the air, Hermione had cast a spell she had barely tested—a spell designed to stun, to immobilize, to incapacitate the enemy. It had worked in theory. She had tested it dozens of times in the war room, refining it with every attempt. But this wasn’t a controlled environment. This was real. This was war.
The moment the spell left her wand, everything changed. Instead of the soft, shimmering glow she had expected, the magic flared violently, a wild burst of raw power. It crackled through the air, spinning out of control. Hermione’s heart lurched as she tried to grasp it, to pull it back, but it was too late. The spell tore through the air, ricocheting off walls, splitting into multiple threads of unstable magic.
She had tried to stop it.
“No!” Hermione shouted, reaching out with everything she had. But it was too fast, too powerful.
The spell struck one of the Order members, a young man she barely knew, and he disappeared not even a spec of dust to account for him. The battlefield fell silent. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t even see it happen—one second he was there, the next, he was gone. The magic had been meant for a Death Eater, but it had hit their own.
A wave of nausea hit her as she stared at nothing, there’s nothing there. She had killed him. She had killed someone. She didn’t even know his name.
Her hands trembled as she stared at the scene, frozen. The battle raged on around her, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her mind spiraled as she replayed the moment in her head a thousand times. What had she done?
“Granger!” a voice yelled, dragging her back to reality. It was Harry. “We need to move! They’re regrouping!”
But Hermione didn’t move. She couldn’t. The world seemed to stop, her body numb. She had just ended a life. She had just killed someone she was supposed to be protecting. The guilt cut through her like a knife.
“Hermione!” Ron shouted, his face frantic as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “We have to go!”
The rest of the mission was a blur. They had succeeded in freeing the prisoners, but Hermione barely remembered how it happened. Her mind was consumed with the image of the young man, the way his body had disappeared, the way she knew he was dead. She had killed him. And there was no going back.
When they returned to the safe house, Hermione immediately locked herself in her room, her heart still racing, her mind still reeling. She couldn’t face anyone. She couldn’t look them in the eye.
But she knew it wouldn’t last. She knew they would find out. They always did. She just had to live with it—live with the fact that she had crossed a line. And she would never be able to undo what had been done.
The guilt had been suffocating at first, but she had pushed it aside, telling herself that it was necessary. That it had been the only choice. That sometimes, sacrifices had to be made in war. The mission had been too important. They had saved others. The ends justified the means. But even as she told herself that, the guilt gnawed at her from the inside. It wasn’t just the act itself. It was the fear—the fear that the others would find out. That they would see her for what she had become. That they would see her as a monster, someone who had crossed too many lines to come back.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door.
“Granger, open up,” came the voice of Mad-Eye Moody. His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the urgency in it.
Hermione froze. She had been expecting this moment. She had known it was coming. She couldn’t hide forever. She took a deep breath and opened the door, meeting Moody’s one-eyed gaze.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice gruff.
She nodded and stepped aside to let him in. Moody wasted no time. His magical eye swiveled over her, scanning her with unnerving precision, before it settled on her face.
“What the hell happened out there, Granger? We’re missing a 6th year”
Hermione swallowed hard. She had expected him to be angry, but she couldn’t prepare herself for the way his gaze seemed to pierce right through her. There was no judgment in his eyes—just cold, hard scrutiny.
“I…” Hermione began, but her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and started again. “I made a mistake.”
Moody didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at her, waiting for more.
“I was trying to immobilize the Death Eaters. I—I cast a spell I hadn’t fully tested yet, and it… it went wrong. It hit one of our own.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Hermione felt her chest tighten as she spoke, the shame and guilt flooding her all over again.
“A young man,” she continued quietly. “I didn’t mean to, but… but I killed him.”
Moody’s face tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t talk for a couple of minutes. But when he did his voice was low, dangerous. “This is because you’re messing with those spells isn’t it, you killed him.” Moody swallows, “Now you can deal with the consequences.”
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to cry in front of him. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident. But I thought it was necessary. The mission—”
“Necessary?” Moody interrupted, his voice rising now. “You think it’s necessary to kill one of your own to win a damn battle? You think that makes you a hero, Granger?”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. She had no defense. No justification. She had crossed a line. There was nothing she could say that would make it okay.
“It was a mistake,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “But I thought it was the only way.”
“A mistake!” Moody barked. “You’re playing with dangerous magic, Granger. You’ve crossed a line, and now we all have to live with the consequences.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone—”
“No one?” Moody cut her off. “You killed someone, Granger. And now we’re all supposed to ignore that, are we?”
She opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, the door creaked open behind her. Harry and Ron stood in the doorway, silent. Their faces were unreadable, but Hermione could see the tension in their postures, the way they avoided looking directly at her.
“Hermione,” Harry said quietly, stepping into the room. “What happened?”
Hermione swallowed hard. It wasn’t just Moody’s anger that stung. It was the way Harry and Ron looked at her now. The silence between them was thick, and oppressive. She could feel their disappointment without them saying a word.
“I…” Hermione hesitated. “I killed him. I didn’t mean to. But I thought it was necessary. The mission was more important—”
Ron shook his head slowly, his expression tight. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes made Hermione feel like she was drowning. Like he was seeing her for who she truly was. Like she was something… other. Something dangerous.
“I thought you were better than this, Hermione,” Harry finally said, his voice low. “What happened to the girl who would never cross the line?”
Hermione felt the weight of his words like a physical blow. She had always prided herself on doing the right thing. Always. But now… now she wasn’t so sure anymore.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but the words felt hollow. “I thought it was necessary.”
But now, standing in front of them, feeling their silent judgment, Hermione realized that even if she had thought it was necessary, the cost had been too high.
Now she has truly lost everything.