Shades of Gray

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Shades of Gray

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She hasn't felt well for awhile now.

At twenty-one, she should not be having chronic headaches or get violently ill after eating a sparse meal or wake in the middle of the night, screaming as her mind explodes with vivid images of mangled bodies of people she holds dear. She should not be fighting in a War that no side can truly win, and she should not be the undefined whore that she knows she is.

The War has been raging for five long years, five years that Hermione is terrified will define her for the rest of her life. She, Harry, and Ron were never able to finish school; like the other sixth and seventh years, they had been pulled out of Hogwarts to help in the fight against Voldemort and his seemingly endless legion of allies. The Ministry had expected a quick, tidy War, which would end (inevitably) with the death of one, a regenerated Tom Riddle, and the destruction of his allies. Instead they had triggered an instant trap that sucked magic away from most fighting on the side of the Ministry, and left Hermione Granger, the supposed Healer of all in need, without magic to restore to health those in the gravest of pain.

Since then, four thousand have been slaughtered at the hands of Tom Riddle's army, many of them never to see legal age. The bloodshed continues throughout the morning until the last ray of light hits the ground, when, finally, Riddle's army can no longer fight, and instead retire to a camp untraceable until the first rays of sun strike the earth the next morning.

---

Each daybreak she wakes up to the sounds of a single wooden pipe that, even after all these years and all these deaths, Nymphadora Tonks plays on the top of the hill. Nymphadora has suffered the last five years, losing first her cousin, then her mother and father, and, finally and possibly most devastatingly, her husband. Remus Lupin had been with Hermione that day, a broken leg and a broken arm impeding his movement. He had come to rest in one of Hermione's crude medical tent when it had happened. In an uncharacteristic move, the Other Side had used mechanical weapons instead of magical ones, and a single bullet pieced Remus' taught skin, and traveled through his heart.

Hermione knew that the single, silver bullet was meant for her. She is, after all, the companion of Harry Potter, the boy whose life is the single deciding factor in the outcome of the War. She knows that her life is always in jeopardy, something she has learned to deal with, but something that has cost lives that she considered to be more important than her own. Nymphadora has never fully forgiven Hermione for the death of her husband, and neither has Molly Weasley, whose only female offspring died in Hermione's arms last winter.

---

Harry trudges into the tent, and sits down without speaking. He strips off his blood-stained clothes, and breaths heavily, groping in the dim light for the water bottle Hermione filled up that afternoon. He forces out a smile, and sits at the small make-shift table that Hermione has placed at the center of the tent. She has gathered together a small dinner that consists of a stale roll, a small slice of ham, and a single goblet that contains red wine.

They eat their identical meals in silence, neither daring to look up, for fear that they will see the same pain in the other's eyes that they feel in their hearts. Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, hesitant to speak at all, for he and Hermione have little to talk about these days that do not have a sad ending.

Harry breaks the silence and looks up into Hermione's blank brown eyes. "They have a minister flying in next week," he says as he drinks deeply from the wine glass. "He says that he can do the marriage. It won't be official until the War ends of course, but I think that it's time that we did this. That is, if you still want to."

"Of course I want to," Hermione says, absently playing with the slice of meat on her plate. She looks up, and locks eyes with Harry. "I love you, Harry. I've always loved you. You know that I would do anything for you."

He smiles, and holds her hand. "I love you too, Hermione. And I know that now doesn't seem like the best time in the world to get married, but we've been engaged for three years, and I've waited forever to make you my wife. And, when you finally are, I promise to be the best husband of all times."

"Just be the best husband that you can be, Harry."

They finish their dinner in silence.

---

She isn't quite sure what she if fighting for anymore. Is she fighting for her right to practice magic in general? Is she fighting for her right to practice magic as a muggle-born? Is she fighting for freedom from an Evil force that threatens to tear the world apart? Is she fighting for her right to live?

Hermione is very sure that she wouldn't mind giving up magic. She hasn't seen anything good come of magic in the last five years. She certainly doesn't think that all these pure-blooded wizards who fight beside Harry Potter give a damn anymore about muggles being able to practice magic; on the contrary, most probably blame 'her kind' for starting the War in the first place. She is also quite sure that Evil isn't really defined anymore, at least not for her, because she has seen both sides slaughter the innocent of the other. If the War has made one thing clear for Hermione, it is that nothing is really Good or Evil anymore, that nothing is black and white as she once perceived it to be. She knows that there are many shades of gray in the War, most of which she is incapable of defining as 'one' or 'the other'.

---

Harry walks over to Hermione's bed, and grabs her hands lightly. Despite being home for three hours now, he has failed to clean himself up, and small dirt particles create friction between their hands. He leans down to her, and captures her lips in his own, running his blood-caked fingers up her spine. She responds quickly, pulling his beaten body down on top of her own bruised ribs, and kisses him back. He moans audibly as she reaches for his draws, and she reciprocates as Harry's hand grasps at her breast.

Sex is no longer something special for Hermione. She knows that Harry needs this, knows that Harry is dying somewhere inside because he can't do anything to stop the people dying around him, so she gives in to his needs. It is not as if she does not love him, for Hermione does love Harry in every possible way, but she doesn't feel the same passion that used to flow like blood through her veins. Instead she feels hollow, an empty vessel of sorts, and she longs to feel more for the boy she should someday call her husband.

Harry kisses her after they are done, and pulls the blue sheet that she calls a comforter over their naked bodies. She breaths in heavily, calming her heart, and wraps her arms around his body for warmth. He sighs into her hair, and whispers her name one more time before he drifts off.

---

She remembers the day that Ginny Weasley was in the hospital. Ginny had been alongside her twin brothers that afternoon, on what was supposed to be a routine scouting mission, but turned out to be an all-out ambush by a legion of Death Eaters upon the Weasley youth. Fred and George had been able to avoid serious harm, but Ginny had not been so lucky. Instead of evading the attacks, she had been hit by a number of spells that not only rendered her immobile, but also left large gashes across her skin that leaked red blood to the ground.

The twins had reached Hermione minutes before Ginny's heart stopped beating. Hermione worked furiously to stop the bleeding that seemed to multiply by shoving her own articles of clothing off and placing them over Ginny's gashes, but found that there was nothing that could save the red-haired girl.

"Please," Ginny had said as she looked into Hermione brown eyes. And in the next moment, Ginny Weasley was gone.

---

Harry leaves the next morning before the sun has risen as he has for the past five years. He kisses her forehead solemnly, a silent goodbye for the day when he does not return to her tent to fetch dinner in the evening. She pretends to still be asleep as he does this, just as she has done for the last five years, and sighs heavily as she hears his footsteps in the mud outside of her door.

She spends most of her days tending to the two adjacent tents that hold those who have been seriously injured in combat. She thinks that it is ironic; the magical community is supposedly so far ahead of the muggles, yet they have to resort to the same care for those in pain as those in the muggle World Wars did.

In the two tents she has seen hundreds of people die, most of them people she never knew the names of. Most of them die from blood loss, for there is a never-ending shortage of bandages and blood that is supposed to be shipped from London frequently, but always manages to get intercepted by the opposing forces. Hermione has resorted to using her own bed sheets to clam the erratic pouring of blood from somebody's arm, but fails so often that she isn't quite sure that the sacrifice is worth it anymore.

---

Hermione finds herself alerted later that evening as footsteps approach her tent. Quickly, almost perfunctorily, she snatches her shirt from the dirt-covered floor, and pulls on a pair of pants that cover her pale legs.

"Ron?" she calls from her bed. "Ron, is that you?"

"Right in one," the red-haired man replies as he opens the door with his hand. "I'm sorry that I didn't come back last week to get the bandage changed, but Dad came back from Cambria for the week, and I wanted to spend time with him." Ron hesitated. "He didn't know about Ginny and Bill yet, and we wanted to be with him for a little while after he found out."

"Have you been cleaning out the bandage like I told you to?"

"I haven't had the time."

She shakes her head, and sighs. "Just tell me what hurts."

"My entire arm," he whispers as he unwraps the bandage around his other hand. She nods, and looks at the bright burgundy gash that mars his skin. "It was so bad this morning that I couldn't hold my bow, and I'm no better than an infant when I used my left hand."

"I don't have anymore morphine," she whispers as she holds Ron's good hand. "It was all used to comfort..." her voice trails off as she looks helplessly at Ron, who knows very well that the liquid was used to soothe the pain of death that his eldest brother felt after being attacked from behind by a Death Eater less than one week ago.

"I just need a new bandage," Ron suggests, placing the blood-caked bandage in the garbage can. The cloth collides with the steel edges, and drops to the bottom. "And maybe some triple antibiotic. I don't want to get an infection."

Hermione shakes her head and laughs pathetically, knowing full well that Ron knows that this is a cut likely never to fully heal. Ron has had this gash for many weeks now, and the cut was put there by magic, which makes the damage go much deeper than the flesh wound appears.

"You're tired," Hermione says, pulling Ron's head into her lap as she has done so many times before. "You didn't sleep at all last night."

"How do you know?" he whispers almost inaudibly.

"I can tell. You have black bags under you eyes, and you look like I did in third year, when I was dealing with the Time Turner, and scarcely had enough time to breath, let alone sleep." She begins stroking his hair as she says this, her fingertips grazing his scalp, which is hot with a slight fever that he has been running for the last few months.

"I'm a little bit of an insomniac these days. Just worried about things, I guess."

"We both know that this is deeper than that," Hermione replies.

"I guess that I've never lost hope before," Ron admitted. "I just always thought that this War would end eventually, and that we would go on with the rest of our lives. It didn't really seem real all these years. Even when Ginny passed on... it didn't seem real. I thought that maybe somebody would just pop up and say "Just joking! You're sister is alive and well, and none of this is real!" But..." he hesitated, "it isn't."

He smiles wistfully as he thinks of his mother. "Mum always reckoned that I'd be married by this point in my life. She thought I'd be a father in a year or two. She always said that I'd be a good father. I think that I would be too."

Hermione stops stroking his hair as he takes her hand. "When did you last speak to her?" she asks as his hand molds to her own.

"Last month. I don't even think she knows that Bill is gone. They stopped all owls from going to and from the Restricted Area, so Pig's been flapping around my tent with nothing to do. He's going crazy."

"We're all going crazy."

He stops playing with her hand, and sits up. "I don't know what to do, Hermione. I... don't think I can fight anymore."

"Don't be silly, Ron," she scolds the red-haired boy. "As soon as the next shipment of supplies come in, you'll be good as new. I'll just get you some stitches..."

"That's not what I mean. I mean... I don't think I want to fight anymore. I'm getting tired, Hermione. I don't have any strength left; I lost the last of it when Bill died. It's not worth it anymore. Nothing is worth this." He says this with blue tears in his eyes.

Without another word, he leans forward and kisses the brown-haired girl hard. She cradles his face with her hands, and presses back against him. This is familiar territory for both; they have comforted one another in this fashion for more than two years, and every single time Hermione feel guilty when she feels the pleasure that his body brings to her own. She knows that this is wrong, knows that she shouldn't be doing this because she loves Harry, she really does, but Harry just isn't what she wants.

Hermione and Ron fail to hear the footsteps outside of her tent, and are surprised when the flaps open, just as Hermione hand is working on the buckle to Ron's pants. "Harry!" she whispers, breaking contact with Ron. "Harry, it isn't what it looks like..."

Harry shakes his head, stopping her explanation. "You don't have to give details, Hermione. I've known."

Hermione covers up her breasts, and stands up, tears staining her face. "Harry, please..."

He holds up his hand. "There's no need to justify, Hermione. You have been nothing short of a savior these last five years. You deserve to have what you need, and if Ron is what you need, then I understand."

"Harry, I love you, I do. Nothing between us is a lie; I really do want to marry you and I want to be with you. But I love Ron too, Harry. I've always been in love with both of you."

Ron stares at the russet-haired woman before him. She has told Ron many times that she cares for him deeply, but has never before said that she loves him, much less proclaimed that love in front of another human being. He looks at her and notes that she is starting to cry, and feels a sudden urge to take her into his arms and wipe the blue drops from her eyes.

In a turn Ron does not expect, Harry steps over to Hermione and kisses her mouth fully. She squeaks lightly, and stands rigidly in his arms. He can see Harry's eyes peer into his own, and within moments, Harry's hand is waving him over to where he is kissing Hermione. Ron understands suddenly, and walks over to Hermione's back, and kisses her neck gently. She moans lightly as Ron's fingers flit across her face, and suddenly she is not worrying about what might come to pass or how she will save the next nameless victim that is brought into her tent that is becoming more like a gravesite than a hospital. She is worried about how fast she can get her clothes off and how fast Ron and Harry can accomplish the same task.

She moans one more time as Harry's hands cup her breasts, and she is guided to the bed by Ron's strong arms. After that, her voice is drowned out by the two men aside her.

---

The sky is still black when she wakes up, her body nestled, Ron on her left and Harry on her right. She notes that Ron is holding onto her waist while Harry has woven his arms around her neck. She dually notes that her body is completely devoid of any clothes, and feels the slight pain between her legs that brings back the memories of the evening before.

She knows that it is too early to wake up, but today she isn't simply another day. Today, instead of bathing herself in the cold water that pours out of her bathing bucket, a rather cruel innuendo of a shower, she grabs her soiled clothes from the ground, and throws them haphazardly on her body. She touches her neck lightly, noticing the marred skin that she is sure was all Harry's doing.

She rouses Ron by touching his shoulder with her hand. He yawns loudly, and turns over in the bed. She touches his face tenderly, and kisses his neck. Ron moves his hand to cover her own, and kisses its back.

"Why are you up so early?"

"I'm leaving."

"You have duty this early in the morning?"

"No. I'm leaving the War, Ron. I'm finished."

Ron sits up in the bed, his chest suddenly hit by the cool early morning air. "Did I miss something?"

"I'm not fighting anymore," she says seriously as she kisses his face. "And you're not either. We don't have the will anymore, and I couldn't stand to see you die, Ron. I love you too much. This just isn't worth it."

"What about Harry?" Ron asks in between kisses. "You love him too, I know that you do. If you leave, you're condemning him to death."

"Harry has already condemned his spirit to death, Ron, and I won't be around to see him killing his body in the process."

Ron asks no more questions. They pack up her things quickly and quietly, careful not to wake the black-haired boy who appears to be sleeping soundly. Ron does not even bother going to his tent, for he knows that Hermione needs to leave as soon as possible, and he does not want to hinder her movement.

Hermione fills up a water bottle and leaves it on the table, along with enough food for the next five dinners. She also leaves a single sweater that Harry gave her many years ago, because she knows that Harry is going to be cold very soon and she's sure that he has nothing to keep him warm.

Ron urges her outside, but she instead stops for a moment, and sits on the bed next to Harry, She leans down and, almost as if she is afraid that she might break him, kisses his forehead. She whispers three words in his ear, three words that Harry will remember as long as he lives, for by this time he has awoken, though he acts as if he is still asleep.

---

A brunette woman reads the daily newspaper five years later, which reports that an enormous battle had been fought inside the bounds of Scotland, without detection, for what appears to be an extended period of time. Experts are placing the length at ten years or more. The local law enforcement found nearly ninety-thousand people dead, slaughtered in inexplicable ways. Among the ruins, they found a curious bird that resembled the mythological phoenix in every way, save for that the bird was different tones of gray instead of red and yellow. The bird was found dead. No survivors were found in the area. The Scottish government is at a complete loss for explanation, but assures those who reside near the area that a detailed compilation of information will be made available as soon as new details surface.

The doorbell rings, and the woman places the paper on the table next to her black coffee, and checks her image in the hall mirror. She has unkempt brown curls, and she is slightly underweight. Her two pregnancies and coinciding miscarriages have left her cocoa eyes weary and her lovely face drawn. Still, she is a cheerful person, living with her husband of five years who she loves dearly, and who works in a leadership position at a law firm. She works as an attending in an ER, and is considered one of the most knowledgeable doctors in Britain. She has saved the lives of many who were thought to have already taken their last breath. She is known as "la salvadora", the savior, to all who work with her and to all who are in her care.

She opens the door to see tall man with messy black hair at her door. He is wearing tattered clothing, clothing that her eyes know all too well, and his hands are badly burned. His face is impassive, his green eyes sheltered in a gray fog, and his skin irreconcilably pale. This man is haunted by scores of ghosts, many of which he refuses to lay to rest. Most notably, he has lost the ability to see the world in the colors that he once could. His world now consists of shades of gray, shades that he has grown to love and hate all at the same time.

"We don't take solicitors," she whispers, tears crawling into her eyes. "You have to leave now."

"Please, Hermione," he cries out quietly. "Please..."

"Please go away."

She closes the door on him, and notes that the sky is gray that day. She knows that it has been that way for a long time because of the long winters, and she isn't quite sure that she wants the sky to be blue ever again.

---