When the World Breaks
There's somethin' in the water, I can taste it turnin' sour
It's bitter, I'm coughin', but now it's in my blood
Change - Lana Del Rey
May 2nd, 1998
Battle of Hogwarts
It was silent and still for a moment, shock coursing through both sides as the boy who had spat in the face of death did so for the last time. The gods looking down upon their battlefield had looked away for a mere second before Mortality viciously swooped in for the ultimate feast.
Fury rose from their side, streaks of green light shooting toward the crowd in uniform black. The dam of restraint had broken, their only hope was lying dead on the ground, and there would be no more mercy. In reckless grief and crazed elation, battle resumed.
Sounds of war—of death were ringing in Hermione’s ears. Her heart broke as she kept her focus on her opponent, not knowing if Ron was still behind her. If he was still alive behind her.
The nameless Death Eater was laughing, almost dancing as he dodged her curses. “Little mudblood isn’t so high and mighty now, is she?” he taunted. With a grin of rotting teeth, he said, “Ol’ Antonin’s got dibs on you when we’ve rounded your lot up, but I reckon he’s generous enough to let me have some fun.”
The insinuation was there, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel shaken by it. People like him, people who are merciless in power and resort to the lowest form of violence cannot be spared, cannot be exempt from consequence. There could be no redemption. With that thought in mind and a flick of her wrist, the final curse left her lips with the strongest conviction.
“Avada kedavra! ”
He fell with his mouth still in a sneer.
Surveying the rest of the scene as she ran, it was clear that they were losing. Badly. Their dead, some unrecognisable, laid bloodied and filthy on the ground. Those still locked in battle were fighting valiantly, but they were losing steam with Death watching so closely. She tamped down the panic rising in her throat, the fear threatening to paralyze her, and kept moving.
Hermione’s eyes found Harry, as they always tended to do. His body had been kicked over in the chaos of battle, glasses now lying broken a few inches away. She turned away sharply and tried to suppress the urge to lie down with him and let herself be engulfed by sobs; to weep for it all. She still didn’t know where Ron was.
With her back pressed against a wall, she fought to catch her breath as her eyes and ears remained vigilant. In the inner pocket of her jacket, her old DA coin began to heat up. Neville had redistributed them to all that had passed through the Room of Requirement, including those in the Order. It pulsed three times.
Fall back. Safe houses. Now. - M.M.
Professor McGonagall was right, Hermione knew she was right. Continuing to fight would only lead to more death, and its appetite never seemed to end. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried not to think so much for once in her goddamn life. To stop trying to be a bloody hero and just run because heroes always died and they never did it with dignity.
The coin burned insistently.
She apparated, leaving the crumbling school behind.
***
Hermione’s legs gave out when she appeared in the little cottage. Her whole body hurt with the recognisable ache that only multiple attacks of the Cruciatus Curse could induce; it seemed that they all liked to play with their victims.
In the sudden overwhelming silence, the reality of the situation and complete uncertainty of what would happen next slammed into her. Her mind was moving too fast. Just minutes before, the only thing she had to focus on was surviving and making it to the next moment.
She couldn’t breathe. It was too quiet.
Ron’s supposed to be here too, why isn’t he here? He was assigned to this house, with me and Harry and Professor Lupin and Tonks and—
She couldn’t breathe. She didn't—she couldn't—they were supposed to—
They’re all dead. They’re all dead.
“No,” she moaned, weakly slamming her fist into the floor. “No…no…no…no.” Great wracking sobs erupted from her throat in between soundless screams as she finally gave into her earlier wish.
***
Hermione awakened in the sun-filled foyer five hours later, still alone in the cottage. The light cut through the dark wood floor and revealed the dust motes floating through the air. It set a peaceful scene and made Hermione feel wrong, like she’d been thrust into a simulation somehow. Her mind, however, was thankfully quiet enough to allow her to mechanically heal the cuts and scrapes that littered her body.
After taking a hot shower and changing into clean clothes, she brewed a cup of tea and sipped at it periodically, her appetite not having recovered from her months on the run. The food in the pantries and Muggle refrigerator would remain fresh for a year under the Stasis Charms anyhow.
Miraculously, it seemed, her tear ducts refused to produce during the day, subtracting one less companion to her still aching heart. As it was simply not in Hermione’s nature to do nothing while she waited for communication (and she had to believe that there would be communication), she busied herself in the modest library by pulling volumes that would be of use or of interest. Though its selection was by no means unworkable, Hermione found herself wishing for the hundreds of thirty-foot shelves the Hogwarts library had to offer.
She nodded approvingly at how there seemed to be just as many history books as there were defense and spellwork. Being well-versed in the past was shrewd with history having a set of favourite tropes. It would be even more important to study the coup d'états of yesteryear if they hoped to rise again. Surely, the lost battle would not mark the end of a decades-old war. They just needed to regroup, was all.
Hermione shoved away the sardonic voice in her head that told her that perhaps there was no one left to even regroup, but the pit in her stomach widened still.
***
The DA coin burned again that evening with another message from Professor McGonagall.
Destroy coin. Blown. - M.M.
Hermione’s heart leapt as the coin turned matte, knowing that the message implied that there were other survivors that had made it to their safe house. It would mean that they would rise again. She just had to wait.
***
May 5th, 1998
There hadn’t been another correspondence, and Hermione hadn’t slept since. For the majority of time, she paced the length of the living room, unable to stay still or focus on any of the words she attempted to read.
A loud crack of Apparition sounded from the backyard. Hermione’s head whipped toward the screen door before she cautiously made her way to the yard, her wand held out fiercely in front of her.
In the dimming sun, it was quickly revealed that it was Ron who laid unconscious in the grass, his chest falling and rising shallowly. Hermione nearly collapsed at the sight of him, but recovered to immediately run to his side and summon the large medical kit from underneath the sink.
Blood was oozing out of the deep slashes that covered his body, the colour stark against his pallor. Her eyes stung with unshed tears (crying would not do them any good) as she repeatedly murmured “Vulnera sanentur,” and traced her wand over the worst of the wounds.
***
Three weeks later
Ron did not care to talk about what had happened to him. Only once prompted by strong pain medication did he slur in delirious speech, “‘Mione, they’re all dead. I saw ‘em. Gin, Fred, George, Perce, Charlie, Bill. They’re all dead. Can’t save anyone, ‘Mione.”
He did not say much of anything at all, really, and spent most of his time sleeping. There was a small part of her that felt envious of his ability to sleep and escape from their reality.
Hermione left him alone for the most part, not attempting to push him into conversation or to elaborate on his drug-induced statement—to be entirely truthful, she did not want to know the details anyway. How he arrived and what he said had revealed enough to make a rough sketch.
In his waking hours, he had taken to exercising in the backyard, muttering something about wanting to be ready. Hermione often joined him, partly because it was indeed a good idea to maintain a certain level of stamina, but mostly because she was afraid he’d be too demanding of his still recovering body.
It soon became clear that exercise would not be enough to distract Ron. He was getting increasingly restless, pacing around the cottage like a caged lion. Hermione tried her best to occupy him with busy work—asking him to chop the vegetables or assist in her research, but the small cottage seemed to only shrink more with each passing day bringing disappointment as no correspondence arrived.
Sat at the kitchen table with heavy volumes stacked high, Hermione rubbed at her tired eyes. “Ronald, can you read chapter fifty-three and summarise it for me? I believe it’s on the Coup of 1298, when the High Clan of Athens—“
“How do you do it?” he asked quietly from the window, cutting her off.
“Do what?” She kept her tone even.
His jaw clenched. “Sit here and read like it’s going to save the world. Everyone we know is dead—“
Hermione cut him off sharply, slamming the book shut. “We don’t know that.”
“They’re as good as,” he said stubbornly. “C’mon, Hermione. We haven’t heard from anyone, and it’s been three weeks. If they’re not dead, they’re captured and might as well be.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek hard and tried not to see reason in his words. “Professor McGonagall said the coins were blown. That has to mean there are others that made it to their safe house. She will send word when it’s safe. You know this. The procedure hasn’t changed.”
He stayed silent for a long time before he finally muttered. “We’re not doing enough.”
Hermione felt stung by that, irrationally perhaps. “What do you suggest, then?”
Squaring his shoulders, Ron looked resolute as he said solemnly, “We prepare for Plan Z.”