Bitter

Bitter

By Jetsam Porridge

~*~

If I could change anything - Then I would change everything - These bitter days - Shall remain - Nine Days, 'Bitter'

~*~

Prologue

In the dim light of dawn, the stench of blood and death is almost overpowering. Hermione Granger doesn't try and stop the tears that leave clear tracks down her face. Her head aches; for the last three days and nights she hasn't slept, hasn't even stopped to eat. Her hair is matted, her entire body coated with dirt and blood and she is exhausted.

The fields before her were once covered with green grass and tiny yellow flowers. Trees were scattered here and there, flourishing in the spring, but the peace is long gone from this place. The grass and flowers have been trampled by armies and poisoned by the dead; the trees stripped bare by the deadly curses that had flown back and forth during the battle.

A cold breeze whistles past her and Hermione wraps her arms tighter around herself. In the distance, she can see the enemy's tents - blood red for the most part but one is pure white. Voldemort's, she guesses, a redundant attempt at mockery. The tents are empty now, Death Eaters' bodies scattered unmoving amongst the fields and the live ones taken into custody by the Ministry.

She closes her eyes and the memories assault her again; ropes of green light in the darkness, shouts of avada kedavra, the screams of the injured and the dying. Watching from the Healing tents as her comrades, her friends were mercilessly killed by sinister figures in dark robes and white masks. Sick terror when Ron brought a limp and pale Ginny into her tent, a gash on his head oozing blood.

She hadn't saved Ginny. Hadn't been able to help her. The cruciatus curse, Madam Pomfrey had said, had caused her mind to flee her body. There was nothing they could have done.

But that didn't alleviate the guilt. Too many were dead. And there were too many more that would spend the rest of their lives insane in St. Mungo's or trying to get by without an arm or a leg.

They had beaten the enemy but they hadn't won.

Hermione hears the swish of the tent flap behind her and steadies herself, taking a deep breath and wiping at her cheeks.

"Hermione," Ron says softly. "You need to sleep."

She shakes her head. There is too much to do. She has the injured to check on, the bodies that need to be buried or burnt. Madam Pomfrey would need her and while she worked she could watch for him...

"No one's seen him, Hermione. No one's seen him since yesterday. But you know Harry, he'll come back when he's ready-"

"What if he's hurt, Ron?" Hermione interrupts desperately, whirling around. "What if he's lying somewhere waiting for us because he can't move? What if he needs our help? If that was me out there, wouldn't you go looking? Why aren't they looking for him?"

"They are."

The tears come again, and Hermione bites her lip, frantically trying to regain control. Ron takes her by the elbow and leads her back inside the tent, where she curls up on the camp bed and sobs until she falls asleep.

Only then does Ron let himself cry.

~*~

Not far away, a small mound rises from the ground; the only place where the grass is still green and the flowers still yellow. No signs of the battle can be found here but for the body lying deathly still, white hair tussled by the wind.

Albus Dumbledore had stood on that mound for hours, magic crackling the air around him until a well-aimed killing curse from Lucius Malfoy had broken through his magical shields.

It is this that hurts the most, Harry Potter decides. All the others deaths he has seen pale in comparison to this. His mentor, his protector; the one person he knew without a doubt that he could count on. He crouches over the body, fingers reverently hovering above the closed eyelids.

He shudders violently, stands and backs away a few steps. His gaze lifts after a moment, and he sees the sprawling camp. Faintly, he can make out Madam Pomfrey bustling into the main Healing tent.

He hesitates a second, then steps down from the mound and walks away.

~*~

On the other side of the battlefields, amongst the tents that Hermione had thought empty, a tall, lanky boy of seventeen sits curled up on the ground. His eyes are shut, hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sights and sounds of the battle as he remembers it.

Draco Malfoy killed people for the first time last night.

And not even with the excuse of self-defence, as those he'd killed had. No, he had been the attacker, the predator, hunting his quarry and seeking out his enemy.

His enemy, they'd told him. The enemy that he'd gone to school with for seven years.

Where can he go? His allies are dead. He can't go to Dumbledore - how could he ask the old man to take him in as if nothing has happened? He would be taken straight to Azkaban if he tried.

There is nowhere he can go.

Draco Malfoy takes a deep breath, stands up, and runs.

~*~

In the dim light of dawn, the Order of the Phoenix mourn their dead. Mad-Eye Moody gruffly tells an exhausted Nymphadora Tonks that she will be promoted for her efforts during the battle. Pomfrey examines the wounded and Snape awkwardly tries to comfort a sobbing McGonagall. Fred and George Weasley dig a grave for their dead sister. Hermione sleeps fitfully and Ron watches over her, trying to ignore his own tears.

And in the dim light of dawn, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy slip away, never to be seen again.