As a girl, Hermione had enjoyed fantasies of Australia. She had read a book on its majestic natural beauty at the age of eight, pleasing her parents with her voracious appreciation of their birthday gift. Since the book had only four hundred and sixteen pages, she had gobbled it up in no time at all. This experience had left Hermione’s mind spinning with breathtaking images of mountains like jagged promontories in a waving sea of green. Picturing the vastness of the landscape had filled Hermione with solemn contentment. For months she had chattered”much to her parents’ amusement”of becoming a tree-dwelling hermit, immersed in the solitude of the untamed wild.
Those dreams seemed infinitely far from Hermione’s mind now: living in Melbourne in a sea of people among whom she did not belong filled her with a desperate loneliness and a potent fury at the pointlessness of her displeasure.
Hermione had never minded living among Muggles before. Though she was not truly one of them, she felt an affectionate connection to them, as if they were all childhood friends with whom she had long since separated. In a way, this was an accurate view of her neighbors, as she had grown up among their kind and fiercely defended their wellbeing among a people entirely unknown to the average Muggle.
Times had changed, and Hermione had, too. Expulsion from the wizarding world had made her a misfit by all counts. Australia, England, Argentina… it didn’t matter where she settled down. She was an unwilling outcast and no change of scenery could change that.
She was, however, also a secretly plotting outcast, in whose chest beat a rebel heart.
She taught English to teenagers in a local private school. Often she sensed her students’ uneasiness at her fiery gaze during discussions of Macbeth. She did not care; if they noticed her simmering rage at the murder of the rightful king and the rise of the usurper, it mattered not.
Her job should have stimulated her intellectual side, but it merely appeased her tumultuous temper. Magic occupied her thoughts, all of which blazed with an unwritten manifesto of rebellion. Students with a merely mild interest in the devastating power of words could only supply her with a small amount of consolation or satisfaction in her reduced state. Her greatest joy at her desk was in slashing through poorly written sentences and covering the pure, white paper with a crimson scrawl of abuse.
Grading papers could only occupy so much of Hermione’s “free” time, but she assigned as many written projects as her students could complete without a legion of vociferous parents breaking down her door. Hermione only avoided such confrontations because she knew they would only result in underscoring her powerlessness and frustration. There was nothing to be done.
“There was nothing to be done,” she said pointedly to her mute students. “Caesar would not heed the warning of the prophet. How does the text illuminate his impending doom, class?”
Hermione waited impatiently. How frustrating it was to let others answer the questions when she knew they would fall short!
Owens, a sharp but impertinent boy, tried an answer: “He ignored all the warnings and walked right into the trap.”
Hermione looked unblinkingly at the boy. “Evidently. That much we have already discussed. But can you tell me, Owens, what led Caesar to ignore his wife’s dream and the beggar’s cry?”
“Deafness?” Owens said in a falsely serious voice. A suppressed chuckle circulated the room.
“That is incorrect. Caesar clearly acknowledges and rejects all warnings,” Hermione explained flatly. She sighed inwardly before continuing, “No, class, let us examine Caesar’s fatal flaws, the faults in his character that led to his downfall and that of his society: his arrogance and misplaced trust. Note the tone of his fearful wife Calpurnia: “Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. Do not go forth to-day.” And of course, Caesar met his doom at the hands of his fellows. He blindly assumed that no ill would come of his decision and disregarded all evidence warning him of danger.”
“At least he didn’t live to see it play out,” Owens suggested.
Hermione silenced him with a glance. “An accurate statement,” she coolly affirmed. “Let us examine the death scene more closely””
But at that moment, the bell rang, and Hermione’s students closed their books with a collective snap and began to shove their things into their bags. Hermione watched them file out dispassionately. Her mind had already drifted to a more engrossing discussion she had had the day before over the phone. Penelope had delivered some upsetting”though not altogether unexpected”news: Neville had been arrested. As she locked her classroom and made for the parking lot, Hermione recalled Penelope’s words.
“It seems they finally got wind of his undocumented work,” she had reported gloomily. “I’m guessing something minor tipped them off, and the investigation team stumbled upon his whole network of ex-wizard communications.”
“I do hope they handle him gently,” Hermione had commented anxiously. “I would hate for him to be harmed on our account.”
The traffic on the highway was light. Hermione was grateful to finish teaching early on Thursdays, for the premature end to the school day meant time left to spend scheming about her future. Her current project entailed helping Penelope in her personal endeavors. She had other projects, of course, but her progress had long since come to a standstill. After all, Hermione’s kind neighbors the Wilkinses were no nearer to regaining their old identity than she.
Moving into the little house across from her bewitched parents’ had been a masochistic move. Hermione sighed as she contemplated the truth of the matter. Without a wand, Wendell and Monica Wilkins’s belief in their identity was unassailable. An emotional confession on Hermione’s part would do nothing; only magic could reverse the work she herself had done.
At least I get to have dinner with them once a week, Hermione reflected sadly. A torrent of emotions always accompanied thoughts of her parents. In hindsight, she knew she had made the right decision to alter their memories”she had done so for their own protection”but that knowledge did not spare their daughter’s crushed spirit.
Despite all the misfortune in her life, Hermione never ceased fanning the rebellious flames in her heart. They would not die.
Penelope wanted to see her daughter Olivia, a seven-year-old she had known but for a second. Contact with Neville had helped her sneak messages to the girl, but the whole business had been unsafe and unreliable and therefore infrequent. With Neville out of the picture, Penelope needed a new plan of attack.
Hermione forced herself to fixate on thoughts of Olivia as he arrived home, not permitting any glances across the street. Once inside, she checked the clock. Good, she thought. She should be awake by now.
Penelope picked up almost instantly. Hermione supposed this expeditious response grew from her friend’s lack of people with whom to correspond.
“Glad you called,” Penelope said, not waiting for an introduction.
“I just got home,” Hermione said warmly. “I hope you’re doing well.”
“All right. Still worried about Neville,” Penelope admitted.
“Yes, I know,” Hermione sighed sympathetically. “But he can take care of himself. Let’s hope.” She knew Neville would do his best, and after all, there was always a certain degree of sacrificial protection keeping him safe. Hermione hoped with a pang that such protection was acting on another of her former classmates.
Ron. The burning in her heart grew unbearable. She forced herself once more to focus on the conversation.
“Agreed,” Penelope was saying. “I’m just glad I have you to talk to. Otherwise I’d go mad.”
Hermione sighed again and chuckled lightly into the phone. “Likewise,” she assured her, praising the day she had gotten into contact with her fellow exile.
“If only you were still in England with me…” Penelope said wistfully. “But I understand. I just wish you could help me draft this letter.”
“Letter?” Hermione inquired.
“Well, with covert means gone, I’ve decided to launch a personal campaign against the Ministry to get permission to see my daughter,” Penelope said in a firm tone.
“I see!” said Hermione. “I wonder if they’ll even read it.”
“I plan to send a fair few,” Penelope confided conspiratorially. “And I hope they’re listening as we speak. With Neville taken in, I suppose there’s no need to disguise our words.”
“Agreed,” Hermione said, an idea forming in the back of her mind. “I may write some letters of my own.” How ideal it would be to gain permission to have a wizard undo the spell on her parents! It was worth a try.
“Excellent. In the meantime, would you mind helping me arrive at the proper phrasing?” Penelope asked.
“Of course,” said Hermione. “Proceed.”
* * * * *
“I’m so sorry, Ginny,” Hermione whispered, wrapping her arms around her old friend. “Fred was a great wizard.”
Ginny nodded, face hardened as she watched George bury his face in his twin’s shoulder. Hermione stroked her hair, wishing there were other words of comfort she could offer, but though she searched, none came to mind.
Everything had spiraled out of control. Harry had retrieved Snape’s memories, but where he was now Hermione could only guess. Most likely he had taken off for Dumbledore’s office, but he had done so in such a quiet fashion that Hermione had not seen him slip away. She hoped he would garner useful information from Snape’s convoluted mind. Hermione wanted nothing more than a swift conclusion to the destruction.
After a time, Hermione extricated herself from her friend’s cold arms, taking a step away from the Weasley huddle. Neville came by to pat Ginny’s shoulder with somber formality. His forehead was lined, but not merely with sorrow: Hermione detected a fierce streak of defiance in his expression. She hoped he would not do anything rash.
Hermione strolled silently away from her friends, taking stock of the dead and wounded. Voldemort’s ceasefire was temporary; this she knew. Even if the battle did not last much longer, Hermione could sense that the assault would continue elsewhere in a different form. If the fight didn’t end tonight, Hermione could not guess as to how far into the future the struggle would extend. This thought depressed her profoundly. They had pushed themselves to follow Dumbledore’s clues, searching for Hallows and Horcruxes in a tireless frenzy, only to arrive unprepared at the most important battle of her time.
Oliver Wood pushed past Hermione, heading outside to collect more bodies. Hermione stepped out of the way, finding herself up against a wall. Though she knew she should seek out Madam Pomfrey and offer her assistance, she found she had no energy left in her body. A wave of lethargic stupor had washed over her limbs, and even though her mind urged activity, Hermione felt her legs bend as she slid down the wall into a seated position, her right shoulder leaning heavily on the sturdy wall of the Great Hall.
She studied the ancient stones. They had been placed artfully, interlaced with spells cast by wizards she had studied and even worshipped since she had first learned their names: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. She wondered if they had known even then, those omnipotent four, that the seeds of centuries of strife had been woven into the very spells they had cast. The battle today was a mere continuation of the doom put in place by those four”particularly by the two latter.
How disconcerting, disappointing, and depressing. Hermione raised her left hand to touch the stones. She wanted to reassure herself that the beatified founders had implanted wisdom in the walls, too. For many minutes”she knew not how many, for the time seemed to slip away as she sat there, a lone stationary figure amidst the bustling activity”she did not move from her place on the floor, examining the stones closely, tracing the patterns around their edges.
An unexpected announcement jolted her back into the present. The voice of Lord Voldemort, boomed over the grounds, echoing off the high ceiling of the Great Hall: “It is done. The battle is over. Brave rebels, come out. The fight has come to a true end. Your leader has surrendered. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”
There were audible gasps all around the room. Hermione herself could not believe it. She took a heavy breath and pushed herself to her feet.
“Harry Potter came to me, like a coward, and gave himself up,” the cruel voice announced. “As I promised, I will be merciful. Come outside, and I shall spare the deserving. Submit yourself, and you shall be rewarded.”
Hermione walked quickly towards Ron, her thoughts in a confused jumble. Had Harry been captured? What had happened with Snape’s memory? Was it true? Was everything lost?
Ron materialized beside her as the crowd began to push toward the doors. She grabbed his arm, eyes searching his.
“I didn’t see him,” Ron said quietly, moving forward with the crowd in exodus.
The reluctant masses buzzed, an electric current running around the group. Was it a trap? They had no choice but to file out onto the grounds. Ron and Hermione found themselves near the front of the group as they fanned out before the growing delegation of Death Eaters. Hermione searched the cloaked group carefully, looking for what she feared most to see.
“No!” shouted Neville from behind them.
Hermione gripped Ron’s arm, fearing he would explode as he too yelled, “No!”
Harry stood, head high, at Lord Voldemort’s side. The pair, framed by a host of Death Eaters, regarded the rebels silently. The cruel victor stood tall, an icy smile on his face as he surveyed the mass of students, teachers, and other resisters arrayed before his eyes. At his elbow was Harry, whose face was surprisingly stiff. Hermione could detect no signs of magical influence on her friend. She suddenly understood: he had made this choice of his own free will. This was no trick.
A wail rose from the crowd, followed by several angry yells. The Death Eaters raised their wands and cast a series of Silencing Spells. Voldemort waited until the last dissenter had been quieted.
“Here he is,” Voldemort proclaimed. “Harry Potter has abandoned the fight. You, too, must succumb. There is no future for your resistance.” Nagini hissed in agreement, slithering into sight at Lord Voldemort’s feet.
Hermione felt a punch in her shoulder as Neville burst past her, launching himself at his enemies. A trio of Death Eaters descended on him, disarming him. They forced Neville to the ground before Lord Voldemort with a thud. He remained there, struggling and panting furiously.
Lord Voldemort sniffed. “And who is this?” he whispered. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”
Bellatrix took a step toward her master, laughing darkly. “It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”
Hermione gave Ron a frightened glance. He looked at her, speechless. Would they kill him? The two could not intervene without support.
“Ah, yes, I remember,” Voldemort stated. “But you’re a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”
Neville staggered to his feet, glaring. “So what if I am?” he countered.
“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom,” Lord Voldemort said. “Harry here would love for you to join him.”
“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville. “I will never betray Dumbledore’s Army!”
Ron joined in the cheer, only to be silenced quickly. Hermione shifted her weight impatiently. There had to be some way to regain the upper hand…
“Very well,” said Voldemort, displeased. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head be it.”
Before Voldemort could gesture to his minions to force Neville to his knees, a sound of shattering glass pierced the night. Hermione watched in awe as the Sorting Hat found its way to Neville.
“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” laughed Voldemort. “There will be no more houses, only Slytherin. Such a noble symbol should serve for all. Am I correct, Harry?”
Harry flinched but did not answer.
“He agrees,” Voldemort announced. Hermione watched in confusion as Voldemort waved his wand, placing the Sorting Hat on Neville’s head, freezing his captive with a Body-Binding Curse. Voldemort paused, saying, “Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.”
Without warning, pandemonium erupted on the grounds. Neville’s hat erupted with flames, though most of the crowd did not notice: centaurs and house elves flooded the scene, as Death Eaters scattered, yelling to one another. Hermione jerked Ron’s arm and pulled out her wand, preparing to jump into the fight.
Suddenly, Neville’s limbs jumped into action. Hermione could barely glimpse him through the panicked crowd, but before she could figure out what had transpired, Neville discarded his flaming hat and unsheathed the sword of Gryffindor, sweeping it around and decapitating the unsuspecting snake at Voldemort’s feet.
Ron pulled Hermoine to the left, pushing for an escape, but she resisted, straining to see Neville. Voldemort let out a shriek, screaming over the noise to his uncoordinated supporters.
“Come on!” Ron cried.
“Wait!” said Hermione firmly, holding her ground. As she watched, Lord Voldemort turned to Harry, gesturing wildly. Harry snatched the Elder Wand and shot a spell at Neville, sending the sword flying. Hermione gasped. Neville stumbled as Harry descended, pushing his old friend to the ground and point the Elder Wand at his own throat.
“STOP!” roared Harry’s voice, magically magnified. “STOP!”
In the sudden dip in noise, Voldemort yelled to his supporters, who swiftly formed a perimeter around the captives, disarming as many as were within their range. Goyle hunkered around, collecting fallen wands and transporting them to his master.
“Do not move or I will kill Neville!” Harry called, his voice deadened.
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. This must be a nightmare. Bellatrix disarmed her as she hesitated. She cackled and moved to her next victim.
The house elves and centaurs did not halt, yelling wildly as they raced towards the trapped rebels. Voldemort let out a shriek from his position, and a wave of Death Eaters turned and simultaneously shot bright orange hexes in the direction of the approaching attackers. A translucent wall formed within an instant, cutting off both groups deftly. The first wave of centaurs and elves did not have time to slow before they crashed into the wall, crumpling against it as if it were made of unyielding iron. As the rest fell back, Death Eaters aimed curses through the wall, taking down any unlucky enough to be near the front. The rest fell back, howling in a panic.
“Do not move!” Harry called in the same toneless voice. “I will kill him if anyone so much as lifts a finger.”
Shocked silence descended over the rebels as their rescuers ran, repelled by the sudden counterattack.
“Good,” Harry said at last, releasing a sigh. “Now listen. The battle is over. Your wands are in the Dark Lord’s possession. Please do not attempt to resist again, as I do not wish any of you to be harmed.”
Voldemort nodded to his new second in command, and Harry returned the Elder Wand, helping Neville to his feet and giving him a light push towards the rest of the group. Hermione stepped forward and held out her arms to catch him as he stumbled towards her.
“Excellent, Harry,” Voldemort said, regaining his composure. “The fight is truly over. Bellatrix, assemble a team to pursue the half-breeds.”
Bellatrix saluted and motioned to those nearest her.
Voldemort pointed the Elder Wand at his own throat and spoke, “No more. You have tested my patience enough. My supporters will incarcerate you until Harry and I can organize a proper system of punishment. Once again, I urge you not to disobey. That is all.”
Hermione steadied Neville on his feet. She turned to Ron. “Stay with me,” she said urgently to him.
He took a step closer to her and nodded. Rookwood appeared before them, smiling evilly at Ron. “Sorry about your brother,” he said, laughing to himself.
Ron bristled, but Hermione restrained him. “Not now,” she begged as Rookwood trained his wand on them.
“Yes, listen to your girlfriend,” Rookwood advised. “Let’s move. You’re headed for the dungeons.”
With Rookwood driving them, Ron and Hermione entered the castle and descended into its depths. Rookwood pushed them in the direction of one of the Potions classrooms and opened the door with a flick of his wand. “Get in,” he commanded.
The pair obeyed, wondering what would become of them. The door closed firmly behind them, making Hermione jump slightly. She looked around the classroom and was relieved to find that they were not alone.
Percy sat on a desk, rubbing his temples, as George worked to remove Ginny’s magical bindings. They did not give, though he tugged with both hands. “Nobody has a wand?” Hermione asked rhetorically. George grimaced and gave up.
The newly-imprisoned troop wandered listlessly around the dungeon. Mostly used to store broken cauldrons”those rendered useless by burns, bursts, or melting”it reeked of abandonment. Hermione resumed a seated pose, her hands limply in her lap. Their captors had not deemed it necessary to bind them”or perhaps they had not thought of it”and opted instead to herd their prisoners to holding cells in small groups. Despite the freedom of her arms and legs, Hermione felt as though her hands were tightly tied.
“I don’t believe it,” Ginny said at last. “This wasn’t meant to happen. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
Once again, no one replied. They had all been mulling over the same thought, and hearing it out loud did not bring any more clarity to their minds.
“Did he make a speech?” Ginny asked loudly.
“Who?” Ron said.
“Harry. Our savior. The Chosen One,” Ginny responded scathingly.
Percy endeavored to explain”albeit confusedly”how Harry had been presented, how Voldemort had revealed his surrender… how Harry had come walking out to stand beside the Dark Lord, announcing that the fight was over, urging everyone to obey. To Percy’s complete shock, his sister laughed loudly at his words.
“So he walked freely forward? Unbound?” she said, eyes flashing.
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, unsure as to Ginny’s point.
“How odd. Why only a moment before, he was tied as securely as I am, lying flat on the floor next to me,” she said mockingly.
“What do you mean?” Hermione said sharply.
“Harry didn’t just surrender,” Ginny said sarcastically. “No. I was caught by a couple of Death Eaters, so I saw it all firsthand. He was working on cornering Voldemort, showing him that in surrendering his life, he simultaneously placed protection over us all. Then everything went wrong.” She frowned, not certain of her own assessment.
“Go on,” Percy urged. He, Ron, George, and Hermione had crowded around her, listening intently. “So he gave himself up. Surrendered. We know that much.”
“Well, you can probably guess what came next: a few threats, the usual,” Ginny said, trying for an offhand voice. “And of course, Harry wouldn’t have that. Naturally, he threw caution to the winds, and even though they couldn’t hurt me”even then””
“What?” George cut in.
“They tried the Cruciatus, but I barely felt a tingling in my toes,” Ginny relayed.
“I see,” Hermione said seriously. Her mind was working at lighting speed. “Go on.”
“Harry lost all control,” Ginny went on bitterly. “He forbid Voldemort to hurt me. And Voldemort started to look all pleased with himself, so he said they could strike a bargain.”
“What kind of bargain?” Hermione probed.
Ginny sighed. “An Unbreakable Oath.”
Ron groaned. “How could he? I explained about them before, so he must have known””
“Oh, he knew,” Ginny interrupted. “He chose it freely and wholeheartedly. Thinking Voldemort would keep up to his side of the bargain”which was never a part of the Oath”Harry vowed never to cross him. Ever.”
“But how could he?” lamented George. His face was anguished.
“He believes he’s saved us all, for the time being,” Ginny said darkly. “Maybe he thinks Voldemort will just keel over one of these days. And I can’t believe how well it played out. He just walked out like he’d decided not to fight and recommended that everyone else ought to do the same? Voldemort must have taken Felix Felicis this morning.”
“He can’t just keel over,” Ron pointed out. “He’s got Horcruxes, remember?”
“Horcruxes?” Percy said, horrorstruck.
Ron and Hermione summarized their quest for Voldemort’s secret tools of immortality, detailing sinister lockets and swords imbibed in basilisk venom.
“And once you kill all the bits of his soul he chopped off, the only part left is inside of him. Ta da! He’s mortal,” Ron explained.
Ginny shifted uncomfortably. “It appears you left something out.”
“Really?” Ron said skeptically, clearly regarding himself as the expert.
“Harry mentioned something”before when we were locked in here,” she began slowly. “How said there was a bit in him, too, but that he had destroyed it.”
Hermione gasped audibly. “Now it all makes sense!” she cried. “He literally surrendered his life, and consequently the Horcrux in Harry was destroyed, allowing him to persevere! The protective magic Ginny mentioned should work just like the one Harry received from his mother, but on all of us who resisted, not just one particular person.”
“Blimey,” muttered George.
“But the job’s still not done!” Ron moaned. “You-Know-Who himself is still out and about.”
“Too late,” Ginny said flatly. “In case you haven’t noticed, the man for the job just quit. And I don’t want to know what’s to happen to all of us.”
“Not much, I think,” Hermione shuddered. “They can’t kill us… at least not easily or by their usual methods. They can only enslave us.”
“Superb,” said Ron theatrically.
“He did say he wanted us purebloods to be a part of his world,” Percy mentioned. “That probably means they won’t strip us of our wands permanently.”
“Unfortunately, some of us aren’t purebloods,” Hermioen said softly.
“At least you’re genuinely untouchable,” Ginny offered.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Ron mused, “I wonder why they could touch us at all. Harry said his mother’s sacrifice prevented You-Know-Who from even doing that.”
“Well, obviously those circumstances were very different,” Hermione stated in a matter-of-fact voice. “The issue was purely between Harry and Voldemort. In this case, the protection covers hundreds of people”maybe more, I really can’t know its full extent… perhaps only those who rebelled are truly protected”and, on top of that, our protection acts against a large pool of enemies.”
“That’s bound to have an effect,” Percy agreed soberly. “The magic must be diluted. If only such deep, ancient power had been studied and explained… At least their wands can do no harm. Ginny said she barely felt tingling when they tried the Cruciatus on her.”
“Then that’s that,” Ron said.
“Yeah,” said George in a bitter voice. “I just wish Harry had turned himself in a little sooner, to save Fred.”
The others sat quietly for a few minutes, not looking at one another. The presence of the people lost seemed to fill the room, making the prisoners feel uncomfortably crowded. Hermione wished there were windows, to create even the illusion of free, open space.
George spoke at last, his voice resigned. “Well, in Fred’s memory, I swear I have no intention of giving up now.”
“Me, neither,” Ron said forcefully. “Harry shouldn’t have made that Oath, but Merlin’s Beard”I’ll swear one of my own.”
“There’s no need to make it official,” Ginny snapped.
“We’re wandless, anyway,” Hermione reminded them.
Percy nodded. “All the same, though… We know the truth. That has got to count for something. Fighting back is going to be nigh on impossible, but we’ll find a way.”
“We have to,” Ron agreed. “And I think Harry knows that. No matter what happens, he still believes in the DA. Even if he can’t fight back himself.”
“It’s all right, Ginny,” Hermione said gently, noting the scowl on her face. “Whether or not it was right, it’s done now.”
“They don’t appear to be coming back any time soon,” Percy said. “Perhaps we should try to sleep? It’s been a while since any of us has closed their eyes.”
The others murmured their assent. Silence covered the group like a blanket of fog, hovering all around and preventing them from speaking any more. As they sat or lay down to wait, their exhaustion crept out from its tucked-away place and pulled them under until, one by one, they were all asleep”except for Hermione.
She sat stiffly against the smooth stones of the dungeon wall, thinking. She knew her future was bleak: as a Mudlbood, nothing was guaranteed. She might be subjected to the Dementor’s kiss, but at the very least, her wand would likely be broken. She was exactly the sort of person who was unfit to live in Voldemort’s Utopian society. They would surely dispose of her somehow.
Her knowledge kept her awake long into the night. She stared at the ceiling, watching the torchlight dance sporadically across the ancient but resilient stones.
The Dunnest Smoke of Hell by Scarlet Crystal
Chapter Notes: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."
--Julius Caesar