Please Don't Hate Me

My morality is that of the magnificent blond beast, roaming wantonly in seach of prey and victory.

-Adolf Hitler

Black.

Everything was black, from her dark silk dress to the withering roses, nigrescent with despair.

Was it truly possible that but three days before all the Weasleys had congregated at this very place, preparing for the final battle that was to take place the next day?

They had all conveyed hope and optimism in their eyes.

They had truly expected to win.

And then, just two days before the present date, it had occurred, and the great Harry Potter became the late Harry Potter as Voldemort, "The Dark Lord", gained absolute power over wizarding England.

It was at that same battle that Ginevra had been abducted, and just the day before that they had awoken to a new code of laws and enforcements, and all Weasleys but two dead.

It was now eight, and all the guests but her had already left; the raven of vesper and ominous despair had already spread her wings over the amaranthine sky.

She had not yet begun to grieve over Harry Potter, her family, and strangely the missing Draco Malfoy, and yet a new funeral had already begun.

"Would it ever end?" she pondered aloud, as she softly touched the yellow pentagram that signaled to wizarding society of her status of dirty blood.

Ron was probably asleep now, alone as she sat outside on the chilly front steps, smiling as he was murdered in his phantasm by the same masked stranger that had slain his fiercely beloved family.

He had taken Harry's death the hardest, harder than the Order's capitulation, but never had she seen him so distressed as when his little sister had been abducted; he had always felt responsible for her.

Her musings were impeded by the soft and steady sound of footsteps approaching.

Warily, she took out her wand, muttering "lumos" as a light emerged from the tip, enlightening a pair of expensive bouquets and a tall young man with hair as pale as moonlight, and eyes steel-grey and aristocratic - emotionless.

"Mudblood" he whispered, and she complied.

That night, as vesper reached it's zenith, they had writhed and moaned mantratically under tattered covers, all past, pride and prejudice forgotten by the girl as they tried their best to forget or to savor.

As she awoke, the missing wizard from before the final battle was gone, and she was silent.

And here she was, unable to bear, unable to face, unable to breathe - she had to get away, and she had to leave now.

Placing a time turner, slightly similar to her old one, around her neck, she turned it around and twisted several random knobs, not caring when and where she went so long as it was - away.

The new time turner, a prototype of her own invention, allowed the user to go to a certain time and place.

It would have been perfect, but for two small flaws that she had yet to amend; the set time limit allowed the user only several minutes, never the same amount, and the travel was memory-like, for one could not interact with the settings.

It would be the first time that a homo sapiens would try it, but she couldn't care less.

Away.

The world around her melted into a cauldron of colors as she moved back and away, in the distance she saw lightning flash, a black haired baby cry for it's mother, four best friends laughing gaily together, a blonde man and his flawless wife and then... silence.

After momentarily closing her eyes and taking a deep breathe to settle her mind, she gave the surroundings a cursory glance - she was in a bleak, grey area, encompassed by a forest of bare, snow-covered trees.

In the distance, she could discern a congregation of dire buildings fenced by sharp, ominous barbed wire.

She pondered the silence, for she could see uniformed men in her purview.

She knew that the temperature was extremely low, yet the time barrier prevented the cold from affecting her; it was just like a memory, after all.

Inside, she couldn't help but feel proud of her achievement - the machine was working, and she had always been somewhat of a - she quickly and needlessly put a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

She knew that sound only too well: it was a gunshot, the same sound that had murdered her family.

But she wouldn't think about that.

Why was she so frightened? She couldn't be hurt, after all.

Letting her innate curiosity overtake her, she walked towards the direction of the sound, and then turned a sickly shade of albescence as she stepped into a nearby clearing.

There was a ditch at her feet, and bile rose in her throat as she saw that the ditch as full of bodies; men, women and children, all with bullets through their heads.

Some were alone, all were ghastly thin and so emaciated that they appeared skeletal.

Some were with companionship even in their blissful death - a young man and woman lay bloody and pale, as contrasting as roses against a white wedding dress, as their hands interlocked; nearby, a mother's thin arms lay crudely wrapped across her child.

They were all no longer.

With grim reminiscence, she recalled a lesson from Muggle Studies, where they had learned about the evil abyss in muggle and wizard history called the Holocaust.

Often called the most evil time since Voldemort, it had only ended with the defeat of Grindelwald by the late Dumbledore in 1945.

Trying to keep the bile from rising yet again in her throat, she noticed that the gruesome massacre had not yet ended.

A Nazi officer stood above an emaciated boy of most probably nine, looking like five and yet going on fifty, a rifle in the officer's hand.

He was the last one, not yet dead and thus the greatest sufferer of them all.

The Nazi raised his rifle, and she squinted her eyes.

And then, the unexpected happened.

In an physically discrepant act, the boy rose fluidly to his bare, skeletal feet, and began running towards the forest, a look of utter determination etched upon his face.

One step.

When she was nine, she had written her first multi-chapter essay.

Two steps.

At the age of nine, she had started taking swimming lessons.

Three steps.

A look of hope, so contrasting with his hollow, emaciated face, enlightened the boy's face.

She held her breathe as the same thoughts coursed through the lad's mind - could he make it, perhaps... was it really possible?

One gunshot.

A thump as a body fell to the floor, the blood mingling with the snow and the blue numbers tattooed on a pale arm.

As a tear-struck Hermione entered the Weasley kitchen, the events occurring so suddenly she had not yet managed to digest them, a smile darkened her face as a bloody Ron Weasley graced the floor, a pale blonde hair clenched within his fist.

When Hitler attacked the Jews I was not a Jew, therefore I was not concerned. And when Hitler attacked the Catholics, I was not a Catholic, and therefore, I was not concerned. And when Hitler attacked the unions and the industrialists, I was not a member of the unions and I was not concerned. Then Hitler attacked me and the Protestant church -- and there was nobody left to be concerned.

- Martin Niemoller