Red and white, shattering my innocence
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Hermione stood over the bodies –so mangled, so disfigured even their own mother wouldn't recognise them–, and watched with perverse satisfaction how their blood seeped out of them and painted the snow around them red.
A beautiful red; the kind of red that meant that she would live for one more day.
In what felt like another life altogether, she would have been scared and saddened to see four dead bodies lying on her feet; but these were Voldemort’s Trackers, Death Eaters sent to find her –the last survivor of the Golden Trio– and punish her for having the gall to be alive still.
If any of these men ever caught her, killing her would be the most merciful thing that would happen to her. So, it wasn’t any wonder how she felt something. The closest thing to joy she had felt during these last three years.
One for Harry.
One for Ron.
One for Ginny.
One for Severus, and all the rest.
Four bodies, badly mangled; one for each person Hermione mourned every day she was on the run. It wouldn’t bring those people back to her: not Harry and Ron, her boys, her brothers through thick and thin. Not Ginny, her confidante, her best friend.
Not Severus, the man who had fooled everyone as to where his loyalties lie and ended up being bitten by Nagini for blatantly trying to save the boy he hated the most. They had left him on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, the light in his eyes dimming as the three of them rushed out one final time, sure that they’d win. How delusional they all were…
Since then, Hermione lived half a life, running away for her life, seeking shelter with the few who managed to escape Voldemort’s clutches. Scared, alone, hardened by the horror. No wonder she felt satisfaction, knowing there were four less of those bastards alive –even though she wasn’t the one who took them out.
The wind picked up, messing Hermione’s messily chopped hair as she stood over the bodies, grinning perversely at their fate. She wasn’t bothered; not by the cold, not by the metallic scent of blood, not by the flurries of snow that danced around her as she half-grinned, half-sobbed; for everything she had lost, everything she was still gaining by staying alive.
In the stillness of this moment, she heard a faint rustle. Pulled out of her spiraling thoughts, she pulled out her wand quickly; maybe she was found, perhaps this was a trap to get her–
And the witch, before losing consciousness, the last thing she registered was a shock of long, black hair getting blown by the cold wind.