The Scenery is Burning Me

In the dead, heavy atmosphere hung the stench of death. On the cold, lifeless ground lay the vision of death. In Hermione's torn, broken heart grew the pain of loneliness, the type of pain that was instant and all-consuming and that never left you, the type of pain you suffered when you found yourself without love.

Of course they had all been warned this may have happened. They were all forewarned of the dangers these evil times might bring. When the wizarding world had finally seemed to register that conquering Voldemort was not going to be as easy as, "send Harry and Dumbledore out there to deal with him and we'll all be okay," it had already been just a little bit too late. Far later than was safe.

First of all, Dumbledore had died. Killed in an accurately-placed ambushed by Death Eaters. Hermione remembered how affected Harry had been by all of this.

"Hermione, what do we do now? What happens to us all? They've killed our only chance!" There had been panic in his eyes as he had spoken, and she remembered so clearly how he had taken her shoulders and shaken them. Hermione this isn't fair! This isn't right! They've ki... they've ... taken away our only hope!"

And Hermione remembered how she had turned around to him and said what, at the time, she had thought had been a wise comment. Something that would have reinforced Harry's belief in life, but what she felt sure now had been the thing that wrecked him completely.

"Harry, you're our best hope!"

Eugh. Wise Hermione. Clever Hermione. Idiotic Hermione! It wasn't many times that she spoke before she thought, but that had been one of them. She had somehow thought that by telling him he was their best hope he would gain more confidence. Well, he certainly gained something, but it wasn't confidence. It was a fierce determination to prove himself. Hermione had always sensed that he pushed himself ... wanted to prove himself to the world ... just as she had, for a long time. But she had never seen anyone try so hard, yet accomplish so little, in such a short time.

Voldemort had never been one for honour. If his opponent was tied down onto the floor, or extremely weak at the time of attack, he only felt it made his victory more sure. If Harry had been on the verge of death Voldemort still would have killed him. He didn't have qualms about attacking mindless children, or defenceless people while asleep, like most people would have. So on that night, when suddenly Harry had completely lost it, somewhere deep down in Hermione felt like she knew how this was going to turn out.

"I'm going to find him, you guys. I want you to come and back me up, if you will." Hermione could still visualise the wild look in his eyes. All that green fire...

"Harry you can't!" Ron had shouted. "That's crazy! You're crazy ... you can't possibly go..."

"What? Don't you think I'm strong enough?"

More fire. Burning her ... reaching into her and hurting her

"No!" she had screamed senselessly. "No Harry, you're not strong enough! You've run yourself down into the ground with concerns that this is all down to you! Well Harry it's not. It's not all down to you. It's one group effort. You, me, Ron," she signalled to Ron to back her up. Not just because he was her boyfriend, but because what she was saying was common sense.

"Sirius, Remus, Arabella..." Ron had added.

"The whole fucking Order wants to help you survive," she had pleaded with him. Held his hands and implored with him with the look on her face. "We want you to live through this ... but all you're asking for is certain death." Now the fire was gone and there was only ice in his eyes.

"What I want is just revenge." he had said, and left. Just left. So quickly. Everything had been quick after that.

The fight, on the hillside. So quick. The deaths ... all the deaths. So quick. Even in Hermione's mind a five minute torture scene was reduced into one terrible scream, replayed and re-experienced and re-despised inside her head. The explosion - of which she still didn't know the cause - so quick. She had looked to see what had become of Harry, and Ron, and everyone else she knew who was fighting. Harry's body was not hard to see. It was already mangled, and soon the Death Eaters would have done even more things to it that Hermione knew she did not want to know about.

Ron ... he was harder to find. She found Arthur Weasley sitting with the body of his dead son. He was far beyond tears, but just shivering, sitting there, holding Ron close to him. Hermione wouldn't have been surprised if she found out Arthur Weasley had perished after she saw him. His previous losses of Molly, George, Charlie, Percy and Ginny were too much to live with.

But Hermione walked on, because now was a time to think of yourself, and only yourself. The Death Eaters were dissipating one by one. Potter was dead along with nearly all the other powerful influences there had been. They had other things to carry on with, and they didn't need to worry about this last sorry clutch of do-gooders, most of whom hadn't actually been fighting, but standing at the edge like cowards.

Hermione saw a tree. Sanctuary. It was situated at the top of the hill and cast nicely in shadow. She set her weary form down on the ground, or rather she fell. She did not have the energy nor wilfullness to sit. The scene cast before her like some apocalyptic film ending. Blackened corpses ... smoke ... and the stench of death.

She saw a figure appearing. There were dark slashes ravaging his face, accentuating his prominent cheekbones and creating harsh shadows. His usually white-blond hair was a complete jumble and his eyes seemed sunken and tired. As he came closer to Hermione their eyes locked in a gaze that was neither friendly, nor filled with hatred. The gazes did not falter until he suddenly brought his eyes away and looked at the battle scene. He spat menacingly on the ground.

'It looks like we lost,' he said, and Hermione could detect a slightly fanatical chuckle in his tone.

'This is nothing to joke about, Malfoy,' she said, picking a leaf from the ground and beginning to divellicate it fervently.

'Did I sound like I was fucking joking?' he said, his tone becoming more savage.

'I don't know, you tell me.' And then, on another note. 'It looks like your father should have stayed where everyone thought he belonged anyway. He'd probably be better off than he is now.'

'Go on,' Draco said daringly, 'go on Hermione, I dare you to say it. Tell me my father's dead. I don't care! I don't care about anything!' he laughed again, but without humour.

'Don't...' she said, 'don't badmouth your father now, Draco. It's already too late, and too many people badmouthed him before they knew. I always wondered why Snape treated you so nice. In the end I came to the conclusion that it was because he was scared of you, and what your father might do to him, as an ex-Death Eater. But to find out your father was the one spying for us ... I almost didn't believe it when I saw the words coming out of Dumbledore's mouth.'

Draco was shaking his head, but not in a disagreeing fashion, more in a way that meant in a tragic way, he agreed. 'The only thing my father did wrong,' he said, 'was to be too good at his task. Even when people found out his true identity they didn't believe him. In the end no one was sure what side he was really on, even after they saw him kill Lestrange in front of their eyes. But that's gone,' he said, now looking at the sky, and something glinting in his eyes. 'That's gone, and it's too late.'

For a while no one said a thing, and the only sounds audible were not registering properly in Hermione's brain. The only thing she heard were her own thoughts, and Draco's soft weeping.

'At least you still have your parents...' he said, giving Hermione a side glance.

'At least you still have love,' she said back to him.

Draco turned and came and sat next to her. He took the leaf from her hands. She torn and squeezed it so much that her hands had become green and stained with chlorophyll. He took them with his own hands, and together the shook. And together they calmed. A little. And together they reached a mutual understanding by form of thought that they were somehow in this together. And that they would not surrender, and that they would survive, for the sake of surviving.

And isn't it funny, Hermione would contemplate to herself later that night, how situations could throw people together? Blood was nothing to an unspoken bond. Ron had been her only love, and even though she knew that if she survived she may love again, she knew she would never love another as much as him. But after that night on the hill something had changed between her and Draco. She did not love him, she didn't even think about him in that way at all. But there was a connection between them now, and whether it be through soul or through magic, not even wise Hermione knew.

But she knew that without the blond-haired-boy, she would never find herself again.