We Are Angels

We Are Angels-Prologue

From the highest tower of Durmstrang School Hermione toyed with the idea of jumping. Shakily she used the side of the building to support herself. Again she considered just letting herself free fall, but then she realized how far the ground was. Tumbling lifelessly thirty leagues wasn't something she fancied doing. Her hands grasped at the wall tightly, so tightly that the wall beneath her fingers began to crumble and the rocks took the dive toward the earth.

Listlessly she pulled her thin black blanket tighter over her otherwise bare shoulders. Turning from the wall she began to pace the length of the tower. At one point her foot, in its heavy combat boot, hit her fragile shot glass and it broke sending a bath of strong whisky over the stone floor.

However, she didn't repair the shards of broken glass. Instead she bent down and picked up the tall half full bottle of whisky. Throwing her head back she tossed down several more gulps before lowering the poison and wiping the edges of her mouth with the back of her palm.

Vaguely Hermione registered how rough her palm was; a few months ago it would have been smooth save a few minor paper cuts. Now, now it was rough and course. The darkly tanned skin sliced with white scars. Calluses lined the hidden palm, patches from where her sweaty skin had gropped both the handles of wand and sword. A sadistic smile creased her face; she had killed with both of her weapons. Killers hardened with each battle, every siege, and all the pain. Lifting her tight black shirt she saw her favorite scar. It possessed no paranormal shape; it was just a streak that ran from right to left crossing her navel.

A Death Eater had made that cut, and he had become her first kill. The first notch on the shaft of her wand, and now there were hundreds. Or so it seemed, in reality it was fewer than that. But to her the pride made it seem as if she was a much more violent person.

Dropping the now empty bottle off the side of the tower and then pausing for a moment to hear it shatter on the pavement below she wondered what it had sounded like when she had pushed a Death Eater off the tower. The noise of the siege had been so impenetrable that his cracking bones hadn't been audible.

But his screams had.

Her dimples showed themselves as she reveled in the screams. Again. It seemed to her that all she lived for was the death of others. To bring the death of another was the ultimate orgasm; it flooded you in a way like nothing else could. It was mean, it was evil, but it was satisfying. And slaughter wasn't as bad if you were murdering for the greater good, right?

Hermione had to repeat that to herself. In the beginning. Now it didn't seem to matter if she served he mark or the songbird, it was all for the thrill. Reaching that ultimate ecstasy was her only motivation in life. Why bother to survive in this life, knowing what you were missing by being innocent, was a pure waste.

People had been bothered by her change, for a while. As the war raged on her army saw her as their vixen general. They welcomed any leader to herd their unrivaled hatred. If she would pull the trigger on the passion of the light with a scream of influence, and then bother to live out the battle, then they would accept her. No matter her growing addiction to the agony of others. Funnily enough the hopes of thousands were willingly placed on the platter of a slightly crazed mass murder daily.

With every battle she gained more territory. Today it was merely Durmstrang; tomorrow it might be Stonehenge, the headquarters of Voldemort's army. Shrugging she looked up at the stars. Quickly she took her mind out of the cosmos, the last time she had been in the heavens she had been with Ron and Harry.

Right before the war. Their last night together, three best friends, a crackling fire, the navy of the sky, and a bottle of the bubbly.

Now Harry championed the army, her last superior to over throw. Ron had the footprints to prove she could quickly overcome those of lesser talent and more humanity to get what she reached for. What she wanted, craved, lie at the fingertips of her once best friend. Shame he disapproved of her war tactics. They would have made such a pair. Gleaming; the Chosen and his destroyer. Too bad, he kept writing to her, telling her that she had to stop on this path to self-destruction.

Liar, she thought bitterly. This wasn't self-destruction.

After all, she wasn't gonna jump.