Veneficium

Saturday, May 2nd 1998

A split second was all it took for the bliss to contort into hell before their very eyes. 

The fiery red of Harry’s Expelliarmus collided in a blinding globe of golden flames with Voldemort’s acid-green Killing Curse, a bang forceful enough to shake the very grounds Hogwarts was built upon. Everyone had lowered their wands to watch the final battle between them, to witness the decisive point that would result in either a win or loss of the battle for their faction; only because of how intensely focused they were on the two men fighting did they notice something flying. The Elder Wand spun high above their heads into Harry’s hands, his quick reflexes snatching Voldemort’s wand just as the serpentine man fell to the floor. 

Lifeless. 

Just as the sun rose into the view of the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling, bathing them in a warm rose-gold light, as bright as Ron’s smile when they shared a momentary look. Hermione knew hers matched. The joy of knowing it was all finally over was so exuberant that no one focused on a lone man’s whispered curse until it was too late. It was over before they could run over and hug Harry. 

“Harry!” she screamed just as a flash of horrid green crashed into her best friend’s body, defenceless without Voldemort’s Horcrux to protect him anymore, weakened after the fight.

It was only from the corner of her eye that she saw the oddly still figure of Rodolphus Lestrange with his wand outstretched towards where Harry had stood victorious just moments earlier, before all hell broke loose as everyone realised what had just happened and the fight resumed, more vicious than ever now that both leaders were dead. 

She knew she had to fight for her life once more, for the victory of light, no matter how tired she was. It would be a while before the true shock of Harry’s death would hit her and she needed to take advantage of it before her legs gave in and she crumbled at the feet of a waiting Death Eater. Allowing herself only a brief moment to check that Ron was still by her side, they threw themselves back into the battleground, a rainbow of lights flashing dangerously past them. 

Voldemort’s forces seemed to have regained a newfound vitality following their Master’s mortal demise and they fought more savagely than ever before. The air hung thick with a dry, gritty scent that clogged her nostrils, as the Great Hall was ripped apart by the violent barrage of curses, the unmistakable stench of charred flesh and blood heavy in the chaos. 

Around her bodies fell without pause, friends and foes alike, and a scream came from her left just as Neville was killed right before her eyes. The savage who had just murdered one of her oldest friends spotted her, and he raised his eyebrows, kicking over Neville’s body to make way for her, a mockingly invite to take him on. He fought viciously, but she had a newfound demon controlling her actions. She threw an Expulso towards Thorfinn Rowle and his massive body was blasted apart from the sheer brutality of her spell. The time for Harry’s innocent Expelliarmus was over and the only way they would win was by fighting fire with even hotter fire until they scorched the enemy, up until not even their ashes remained for the wind to blow away. 

Hermione wouldn’t apologise for her actions against the men that had ruined her life, her best friend’s life, and everyone else’s life. This was war after all, and no one won a war by simply reacting; at some point, that strategy would fail.  

The castle moaned as if stabbed and Hermione was too far to do anything other than witness Professor McGonagall’s death at a nameless dark wizard’s hand. She ground her teeth painfully and forced herself to get past her mentor’s murder just like she had all the others — it was that or she would be next. Far too lost to the vindicating pull of the battle, she slashed through Voldemort’s army, too focused to notice the stone cracking under her feet, Hogwarts’ cries of agony. 

Minutes or hours could have passed without her having the faintest clue how long it’s been, everything before Harry’s death feeling a lifetime away. 

She was lifted off her feet by a powerful grip, snatched away from the heart of the Great Hall, and she tried to aim a particularly painful curse at her attacker’s back before she heard a familiar deep voice. 

“It’s me, Hermione — we must run,” Kingsley yelled as he ran with her thrown over his shoulder so fast she couldn’t see anything other than the blurry rays of sunlight cascading down on them. “We must regroup until we’ve regained our strength or else we will lose once and for all.” 

Now that he voiced it, a wave of exhaustion crashed into her weakened body like a vicious storm would a battered ship caught sailing alone at midnight. Her eyes felt heavy with salty tears but she knew she couldn’t let herself cry. Mustn’t cry at any cost. 

“I’m going to have to let go of you and you must run as fast as you can alongside me, alright Hermione?” His question came before she was prepared but she had no option but to get back on her feet instantly, catching a glimpse of Corban Yaxley as he was following them, vivid lights flashing out the tip of his wand. Eternally glad that she hadn’t fallen prey to her emotions, Hermione fought alongside Kingsley against Yaxley, throwing curses behind her as they ran further into the castle — exposing themselves outside on the grounds would be pure suicide — avoiding the Death Eater’s attacks. 

The corridor connecting the Great Hall to the Grand Staircase Tower shook as if Hogwarts were the dollhouse of a particularly grumpy Giant child, but it was enough for one of Kingsley’s spells to hit Yaxley and he dropped lifeless at their heels. 

Despite not getting very far at all from the heat of the battle, they paused for a moment to regain their breath, neither of them expected to see the sight before them. It seemed as if everyone was running out of the Great Hall, the odd one throwing a curse at the enemy but it didn’t seem as if their hearts were in it anymore. A loud groan reverberated through the ancient stone and Hermione heard the distinct crack of stone crumbling apart from the direction of the disturbance, followed by screams and shrieks. 

When they rushed out, Bill and Fleur spotted them and ran towards them, a small crowd pushed out of the way and onto the corridor as well. 

“Run!” Bill yelled, his red hair having slipped out of his usual low ponytail and was now flying freely around his face, strands sticking to his sweaty skin. “The floor — the castle is collapsing onto itself.” 

The roof gave a long, agonizing creak before crashing down in a cascade of splintering wood and shattering tiles, the sound echoing through the chaos like distant thunder. A thick plume of smoke billowed through the open doorway, swirling into the air with the sharp stench of charred wood and stone, as if the castle were exhaling its last breath. Hermione stood frozen, her eyes wide with horror, as the smoke and debris danced menacingly in the air, her breath caught in her throat. 

She quickly followed Kingsley down the hallway, eager to avoid being trampled by the throngs fleeing the hall. Among them, she spotted Antonin Dolohov and Rabastan Lestrange trailing behind Professor Flitwick and a Ravenclaw sixth-year. It seemed that even those who had been pushed to the edges of the chaos were seeking to escape rather than press further in, leaving only the seven of them racing toward the Grand Staircase.

Despite the general lack of immediate combat, the thud of the student’s body hitting the ground still reached her ears. Hermione considered casting a curse back at the Death Eaters but hesitated, wary of accidentally hitting her allies, and it was clear that the others shared her reluctance.

As they came to the landing of the great marble staircase, Hermione followed Kingsley as he ran straight towards the painting of a wizard in red robes. So close as she was to him, she just barely heard him whisper, “This password is absurd,” just in time for the portrait to swing open, a look of pure terror on the painting’s face. 

“Get in, children, I’ll keep them out,” the wizard Hermione now recognised as Percival Pratt said, gesturing for them to quickly get inside the passage hidden behind his painting. She knew that all the passages had been blocked the past year so she had no idea where this one even led, but she trusted the ex-Auror well enough to follow him further. Fleur ran in just a few moments after her, Bill stopping just enough to fire a curse above Professor Flitwick’s head at the Death Eaters. She didn’t think it hit as he dashed right in, the tiny Professor under his arm, the portrait closing behind them right in the bloodied face of Dolohov. 

“Quick, we don’t have long before they’ll follow us in,” Kingsley said, his wand out as he had cast a Lumos to light their way as they walked further in, their heavy footsteps accompanied by the wailing of the castle. “This should lead us somewhere in the Boathouse, far away for us to apparate.” 

She found her voice just enough to ask Bill, “Where’s Ron?” 

The moments kept on passing by with no response from the man. Silence wasn’t good. No, silence was the last thing she wanted to hear from her friend’s eldest brother. 

“He… The floor started to crack under You-Know-Who’s body,” Bill finally said after what must have been the most agonising minute of her life. “This hole opened up in the stone and I was just fast enough to pull Fleur back before she fell in…” 

It couldn’t be what she feared. No. No, she had seen Ron just moments before Kingsley had snatched her up… or had it been much longer and she simply had been too lost to notice? No. He was out there somewhere, perhaps he and the rest of the Weasleys were just now apparating off the school grounds to mourn Fred and patch up their wounds until the next battle. Willing herself to calm down, she pushed her friend out of her mind, knowing that Fred wasn’t the only one he would be mourning. 

“We didn’t see anyone since people started screaming and we were pushed out of the Hall,” Fleur continued once Bill’s voice trailed off, and Hermione heard her exhaustion, just barely holding on. The battle had lasted far longer than any of them had expected, and none of them had accounted for the pain and the grief before joining the fight. “We only saw —”

But what she was about to say none of them learnt as they heard a loud boom that could only mean that the Death Eaters had burst apart Percival Pratt’s portrait and they were soon approaching. 

“There's a blockage at the end of the tunnel,” Professor Flitwick squeaked weakly, though she could tell that he was trying to be strong for their sake. She wondered who that Ravenclaw was and how close Flitwick must have been to them. “I was tasked with it last summer.” 

In the end, they decided on allowing him to run ahead to clear the way, as he alone knew the counter-curse required, and they picked up the pace, Bill trying to block the tunnel behind him without crumbling the precarious-looking ceiling with mixed results. 

“At least it will slow them down a little.” 

They couldn’t hear the Death Eaters’ voices or footsteps so they must have been either far enough away or tired enough not to dash after them at top speed. Likely both. Hermione was barely dragging herself along, worried sick about Ron and all the others. As for Harry… she refused to think about him. It was far too painful. 

It wasn’t long before she heard the explosion signalling that Fliwick had blasted away the blockage, and she realised they had reached the Boathouse. 

“Up there,” Flitwick said, pointing up at a trapdoor. 

Kingsley went first to check it was safe, pulling the rest of them up, Bill needing to lift Professor Flitwick up enough for Kingsley to reach him. The Death Eaters must have realised that they would lose them if they didn’t pick up their pace for they heard swears and steps rapidly approaching. Bill had just climbed up in the Boathouse when a beam of green flew right where his feet had been moments before. 

Turning around to face the inside of the Boathouse, Kingsley’s Lumos landed upon the bloody body of Severus Snape, and Hermione gagged, remembering Nagini’s brutal attack on the Headmaster. Judging by the audible reactions of the others, she wasn’t the only one reviled. A loud bang reminded them the Death Eaters were right under their feet, though they were cautious enough not to climb up the trapdoor and expose themselves. 

“Quickly, gather here,” Kingsley said, stretching out his hands. Grabbing hold of her with one and Bill with the other, they held hands in a circle as the ex-Auror apparated them away just as the Death Eaters blasted a hole right where their feet used to be. Dolohov’s enraged grimace was the last thing Hermione saw before she was whisked away by the uncomfortable pull of her navel by the side-along apparition. 

oOo

They landed in a dusty entry hall with a crash followed by a moan of agony as Kingsley scraped his back along the edge of the console, and they struggled to get back to their feet after such an abrupt side-along apparition. As bruised and bloody as they were, in their torn-up clothing, one might mistake them for walking corpses. It was a dreadful sight. Hermione pushed herself up from the floor, coughing. 

“I’m so sorry, everyone —” Kingsley started apologising, rubbing his back, before he seemed to realise where he had brought all of them as he turned momentarily to glare at the table. “Hermione… don’t touch anything until I get it checked.” He said it with such a sense of urgency that scared her, and she found herself looking around for any glimpse of the enemy. 

“What do you mean, Kingsley?” she muttered. 

He looked apologetic, “This house… it belongs to a part of my family I am not proud of. I have reason to believe my great-uncle charmed it against witches like you.” She could tell what he meant, remembering the enchantments on certain items in Grimmauld Place. 

“Oh.”

“I’ll go check and remove any if I find them,” Kingsley promised, rushing out of the room in the sweeping of his robes. 

“Are you alright?” Fleur asked them, reaching for Bill’s shoulder, where Hermione could spot a big splotch of blood; she guessed wasn’t his given how relaxed his wife seemed about it. “Are any of you hurt —” 

Before she could finish her sentence, Bill pushed her hand aside and left through the opposite door Kingsley had gone; Hermione had a hunch that he just wanted to be alone to mourn his brother. She wanted nothing but to be alone herself, but she knew it was smarter to stay put until Kingley gave her the green light. When she had arrived at Grimmauld Place number 12 the first time around, Mrs Weasley had told her she and Sirius had worked tirelessly to rid the townhouse of any curses meant to deter any muggleborn bold enough to enter the Black ancestral home. Showing only gratitude, she had tried not to be affected by the fact it needed to be done in the first place. Some wizarding families were just… rotten. 

“Bill?” Fleur called after him, worry evident in her voice, but he paid her no mind, disappearing behind a door to who knows where. The blonde sighed, turning her attention to the other two after a few moments. “Hermione? Professor? Are you hurt?” 

“Nothing serious,” Flitwick waved her off despite the pain etched into his face, likely not wishing to distress her further, his own mind lost amidst the many losses the previous day had brought. Fleur did not look too convinced, however, given the very obviously leaking wounds on his left leg and face. 

“Nonsense,” she muttered, bending over the tiny wizard after having picked her wand up from where it had fallen at her feet. “I’ve gotten quite a lot of practice recently with Healing that I can easily mend you up, sir.” 

Hermione cringed, recalling how much she had felt like a burden during their month-long stay at Shell Cottage and how stressful caring for so many people must have been for the Frenchwoman. 

“Do you have any serious wounds?” the blonde turned her head just enough to look at Hermione, cataloguing her body. 

“No, I don’t think so,” she mumbled, hugging herself. If she did, they slipped past her notice. Without knowing how long Kingsley would need to make the house safe for her presence, her mind had little else to do other than recall the battle and all she had lost. She couldn’t allow her mind to trail down that exceptionally dangerous path without her breaking beyond repair. She was ever so grateful when Flitwick, now seated on the small couch pushed against the staircase as Fleur fussed over his leg, brought up an equally uncomfortable subject, but much welcomed under the current circumstances. It was better if they kept themselves busy by talking and the tiny Professor seemed to agree. 

“Miss Granger — may I ask what you were looking for in the Castle? Did you… succeed in finding it?” Given his tone, she guessed her old Charms teacher still had hope that they might defeat Voldemort’s dark forces through the help of some mythical weapon. Had he learned of their break-in in Gringotts? 

Plopping down on the floor at their feet, careful not to touch anything, Hermione bit her lip. How much could she tell them? What was the purpose of keeping it a secret now that it no longer mattered? Voldemort was dead, but they had ultimately failed. And what the hell was the deal with Hogwarts collapsing? Surely, someone must have exploded the Great Hall and caused it. Mass hysteria at its finest. She put her own questions aside for now, but she was determined to find out soon what had caused all this mess in the first place. 

“Does it have anything to do with that sword you brought along with the goblin?” Fleur asked as she cleaned the area around the wound. “I saw that boy with it… Neville Longbottom, that madwoman called him, non?” 

“Yeah,” she admitted through clenched teeth, remembering the fate of her old friend. It was quickly replaced by a smile as she wondered if she had succeeded in killing Rowle for it. She hoped he suffered, but if he was by some miracle still alive… she would make sure it didn’t stay this way for much longer. “Yeah, it does.” At the very least Bellatrix was gone, as far as small mercies went. “Professor, do you remember our second year, when Harry killed the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets?”

He looked alarmed at the question, and Hermione wondered how much of the truth Dumbledore had shared with the staff. “Mister Potter killed the monster? I thought it had been Lockhart — never mind. It makes much more sense than the blubbering fool,” Flitwick mumbled some rather unkind remarks about her past Defence teacher and Hermione felt a much more innocent smile brighten her face until she continued grimly. 

“Well, he used the Sword of Gryffindor to slay the Basilisk, and its venom impregnated the blade.” Glad neither of them asked how twelve-year-old Harry had managed to get his hand on the ancient relic in the first place, she wondered if either was surprised anymore. “What do you know of Horcruxes?” 

As expected, they had no idea about this most vile form of the darkest magic, and she hated having to be the one to tell them about it. Perhaps it was the fact that, compared to the rest of the past two days it wasn’t that bad, perhaps she was in a bad mood and didn’t want to be alone in her suffering, but she told them. They listened horror-struck as she explained what she had learned from Secrets of the Darkest Arts and she wouldn’t have been surprised if either of them vomited. It was a most disgusting and sacrilegious act that went against everything life was supposed to be; went against the law of life and magic. 

“C'est abominable! And You-Know-Who made seven of these?” Fleur screamed in outrage, her accent smacking them in the face when she spoke so fast. “Oh…” 

“Technically, he only willingly made six. Harry was a mistake he hadn’t accounted for until it was too late,” Hermione quietly explained, and she could see tears forming in both of their eyes over the fate of her brother in anything but blood. 

Careful not to trigger the taboo in case it was still effective, she continued. “You-Know-Who realised after we broke into the Lestrange vault that we were hunting his Horcruxes, and that is why he called for battle at Hogwarts before we even entered the Castle grounds.” She told them about them destroying the Cup and the Diadem, about Neville killing Nagini. Holding in her own tears, she explained how Voldemort’s Killing curse must have destroyed the Horcrux within Harry, and how the latter had finally managed to defeat him in the Great Hall for that one glorious moment. 

If she were to ever cross paths with Rodolphus Lestrange she would make Voldemort look like a babydoll in comparison. There were no amount of words in existence that could express the pure hatred she had for that man. 

By then, Fleur had finished mending Professor Flitwick’s wounds, and she cast a cleaning charm on the three of them to get them rid of the blood; they weren’t clean by any means, far from it, but it was an improvement. The air grew very suffocating as they realised Hermione had been overwhelmed by a wave of negative emotions. Neither of them knew what to say. She had thought that sharing all that she knew would lessen the suffering but it only made it worse — now she had extra guilt to add to the evergrowing pile of misery that was her life. 

Minutes passed in silence, all of them lost in thought. 

A door opened and a very tired-looking Kingsley entered, as battered and bruised as before, but Hermione noted that he had removed his bloody cloak. Three pairs of eyes looked up at him, but he made contact with none. 

“Where’s Bill?” 

“He went through that door…” Fleur said, pointing towards the door in question. 

Kingsley turned to look at it but decided against going in at the last moment. “Could you call him here, please?” 

Fleur sighed, but nodded, slowly getting up. She closed the door behind her, and Kingsley took her place next to Professor Flitwick. It was as if he had aged twenty years in one day. “Unfortunately, I was right about my suspicions,” he admitted, and Hermione couldn’t help but roll her eyes. 

“Why did you bring us here in the first place, then?” She knew it was bad to be ungrateful for him saving them from the two angry Death Eaters, but she was sick of it. Was it so bad that she just wanted to sleep and cry in a bed?

“Please, Hermione, I made the decision on the spot to go to the place I thought safest at the moment,” he said, running a hand over his face. “I made sure the kitchen and lounge are good for now — I’ll look into the bathroom next but Bill’s in there. I will go upstairs to sort the bedrooms up once I talk with all of you, too.” 

Before she had any chance to say anything, the door opened and Bill and Fleur came, the former with a defeated look in his eyes. She had never been particularly close to Ron’s oldest brother, but she had grown to have a lot of appreciation for the man after her stay in Shell Cottage. Knowing how close the Weasleys were, and how much they loved each other, she knew Fred’s death must be devastating. It was devastating for her, too. 

“I’m sorry, Bill, for you lost and for bothering you now,” Kingsley said, standing up to free his seat up for Fleur, but she didn’t seem to notice, clutching onto her husband’s arm. “But we need to talk.” The man nodded in agreement, and Kingsley continued, “This house, my great-uncle was rather paranoid about the sort of things he kept here, so he made it both unplottable and under the Fidelius charm. As Head of House, I am the only Secret Keeper. It’s safe.” 

“So you want us to stay here?” Bill hissed, his vicious scars giving him a feral appearance. “Not do anything? Just stay?”

“No, I don’t,” Kingsley quickly clarified himself. “I meant it, we stay here while we look for the others — don’t give me that look, Bill. You know everyone that got away is in hiding and we better hope we don’t find them easily, or else the Death Eaters will as well.” 

Hermione couldn’t help but agree with the former Auror, and it seemed as if the others did as well, given their looks, even Bill, despite the fact he wanted to protest.

“I can’t —” 

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Bill. Once we’ve slept and eaten and cleaned ourselves, we’ll go look for them. You and me, I promise,” Kingsley insisted. “There are plenty of very strong protective wards here… we’ll bring them here once we find them. I have enough bedrooms here for your family.” 

Bill pondered it for a moment. “Tomorrow we go. At sun break.”

Kingsley agreed, and the younger wizard seemed to calm down a little, his shoulders slumping down once more. “I sent the house elf to get some groceries. She’ll be back soon.” 

Once Kingsley said his piece and reassured all of them, he went upstairs to sort things out for her, and the rest of them retreated to the lounge to lie down. She could see that Kingsley had been in, as the layer of dust was uneven where he had touched things. Despite how old and dirty it looked, Hermione laid down, hugging a cushion close to her chest. It was reminiscent of the short time when it had been just the three of them in Grimmauld Place, before that damned mission in the Ministry and her accidentally bringing in Yaxley. Under any other circumstance, she would have rejoiced over the feared Death Eater’s death at Kingsley’s hands, but she couldn’t find it within her. 

Clutching the dusty cushion close to her face, she closed her eyes and tried to muffle her sobs. She didn’t wish for the others to hear her break down like this even when, if she listened close enough, she could hear Bill crying as well. 

oOo 

When she woke up, it was not on a dusty couch, but rather in a clean and comfortable bed. The heavy curtains were drawn but a flicker of sunlight escaped into the room, right over her face. Forcing herself to sit, she leaned against the wooden headboard and looked around, rubbing at her eyes. Someone must have taken pity on her sleeping on the couch and brought her here once Kingsley had made sure it was safe. 

Her head pounded and she had no doubt she had cried herself to sleep. The wallpaper was a soothing shade of blue, but her eyes were too strained and tired to properly check the room out, so she grabbed one of the pillows and pulled it over her face. 

After enough time passed that she was somewhat sure she could safely get out of bed without falling face flat, she threw the pillow away and slipped from under the blanket. Noting that she was still in her pink hoodie, she looked around for her jacket and spotted it on the back of the vanity chair. Despite it being cool enough that she would prefer having it on, she unzipped her hoodie as well and left it on top of her jacket, feeling suffocated under the weight of it. She chose not to dwell on the bloodstains that had seeped through into her t-shirt, blooming into peonies of maroon. Forcing herself away from the vanity before she caught the sight of her face in the mirror, she left the bedroom, closing the door slowly lest she wake someone else up. It could be five in the morning for all she knew. 

When she stepped into the kitchen, feeling the delicious smell of food, she discovered it was actually lunchtime. Fleur was alone with what she could only assume was Kingsley’s house elf, fussing over a pot on the stove. The blonde smiled at her when she entered, and Hermione noticed she was in different clothes than the ones from the battle. She looked more like her usual self, but she could tell her once glowing Veela radiance had been trampled. 

“Did you sleep well? I’m making some tomato soup,” Fleur said and set down her mixing spoon, the thick red of the squashed tomatoes dripping onto the counter. 

Blood. It looked so much like blood that it frightened her. 

Not baring to look at it anymore, she turned her gaze towards the opposite corner of the room. The wrinkly elf puffed, and Hermione could tell she wasn’t happy the French witch had chosen to cook instead. Had she been her normal self, she would have felt pity for the elf, but she couldn’t bring herself to care when there were things so much more important; such as not going insane with grief. Small steps. 

Sitting down on the chair closest to Fleur and consequently furthest away from the elf, Hermione shrugged. “As good as it can be, given the circumstances. You?” 

Fleur bit her lip, before taking a seat next to her. The two of them weren’t close by any means, but she knew now that the woman was a much better person than she had ever given her credit for. Better than her, even, which is why it was such a bitter truth to admit. “Not good… Bill and the other men went to look for the others, and find out what happened after everyone flew.” 

Hermione was worried sick about the news the men would bring, the worries about Ron were no longer silenced at the back of her mind. Did he know Kingsley had kept her safe, made it so she wouldn’t bring forth her own untimely demise in her blinding grief? What if he had been hurt? Killed? She couldn’t imagine a life worth living without Harry but with both of them gone? It was pointless. She didn’t even have her parents anymore, obliviated and lost amidst the crowds of Australia. How could she go forward if she was alone? It was unimaginably painful to think about such a future. But no, she and Ron would be reunited soon. 

The only thing breaking the horrid silence now was the house elf occasionally huffing and puffing as she looked longingly at the stove until Fleur couldn’t take it anymore and she ordered her to leave. 

“Idiot creature. I told her I don’t need any help,” she mumbled to herself, glaring at the spot where the elf had just apparated from with a loud pop. Hermione tried to ignore the whole ordeal. 

“What happened with that thing with Vo — You-Know-Who? Did someone try to blow up his body and it was too powerful a spell? I mean Hogwarts… Hogwarts wouldn’t have collapsed on it’s own.”

Fleur pushed a clump of silky smooth hair behind her ear, and Hermione wondered if it was her Veela blood that allowed it to look so perfect despite it having been drenched in blood and dirt only a day earlier. “No one did, not as far as I could tell. That’s the issue. Bill and I were fighting that Russian abruti right in front of that monster’s corpse and we heard this great big crack and the floor just… started crumbling until his body fell in the hole and it started to grow larger and larger,” she shrugged, no longer looking her in the eye. 

She had a very bad feeling about this. “And Harr — what about Harry’s?” 

The blonde only gave the faintest of nods, and Hermione felt as if she was going to puke. It couldn’t be. Not even a body to bury?  It was the definition of cruelty, of injustice. Deep down, she knew that even if nothing would have happened to him, the Death Eaters would have taken his body and ruined it before repair, made a mockery of his tragic passing at the hands of that barbarian Lestrange. Oh, just wait until she got her hands on him again. She would make him pray for such a quick death; she still had a few spells from Secrets of the Darkest Arts at her disposal, if all else failed. 

“Are there any more clean clothes?” she asked, wishing to change the subject, knowing she couldn’t keep going like that. She would go insane. Fleur didn’t seem to mind, telling her one of Kingsley’s cousins had left some clothes that were suitable enough, gesturing towards her own muted dress. 

Standing up, Hermione made her way upstairs to the lounge, for the kitchen was in the basement, where a pile of clothes was laid on the sofa. Shuffling through them until she found a dress she could wear, she felt a prick at the back of her neck. When she turned to check, there was no one.

It was going to be a long wait until the men returned.