Persephone Descending

Chapter 1: Sunrise

"There is a sound in the calm, someone is coming to harm, I press my hands to my ears, it's easier here just to forget fear..."---Depeche Mode,
Waiting for the Night
***********

She was walking though the darkness, her hand held out as she felt her way down the corridor. The stones were slick with moisture, and she desperately hoped it was just water from condensation causing the sensation and not anything more sinister.

Unfortunately, there were no guarantees, here.

A strange pull tugged on her stomach, as if she were traveling by Portkey. There was no rhyme or reason to the twisting path she took through the labyrinthine corridors, except that somehow she knew she'd end up where she was meant to go.

The coldness wrapped around her as she descended further, and when she finally stopped in front of the nondescript iron door, she could see her breath in the muted light from the torches mounted on either side of the door.

She reached out and pushed the door open slowly, the iron cold against her skin, and she noticed the thick black fabric falling over her hand as she did so. She stepped inside, heart pounding as a sense of dread filled her.
Within the dark chamber, a man stood waiting for her. He was cloaked and hooded, and his face was turned toward the floor. When he looked up at her, she saw his glowing red eye, and then she noticed that there was a whip in his hand. The tip of the leather brushed back and forth on the cold, stone floor in an ominous caress.

"Hello, Hermione," the voice said softly. "I've been waiting for you." The whip swished faster, back and forth, back and forth....

She walked into the room, and closed the door behind her. "I know," she said in a breathless voice. "I've been waiting, too."

She fell to her knees, and he raised the whip above his head.

She heard him laugh softly, the sound triumphant, and then the world went black as the whip descended.
****

Hermione awoke slowly, grasping the comforter of her bed and twining it in her hands, her breath escaping on a sigh. She stared up at the ceiling, willing the moonlight to be brighter in the dark room so that she wouldn't imagine shadows lurking in the corner or horrors waiting to devour her. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, and she had a childish urge to hide underneath the covers. Glancing at the clock, she inwardly groaned. Despite the fact the sun had not yet risen, it would soon be time for her to do so.

When she was in school, it had always seemed to her that the War would be something that followed closely on the heels of graduation--that when she was released into the world armed with her OWL-level education, Harry would defeat Voldemort and she would find a proper job, marry her beloved and start a family...tears threatened behind her lids, and she reveled in the luxury of permitting them to fall unchecked on her cheeks.

In the dark, she allowed herself to cry because no one was there to see the tears. Hermione did not cry in front of the others, even though she knew from their expressions--eyes darkened with a grief that would never fade--that she was not the only one who indulged in such moments of heartrending sorrow. So many had fallen, and so many remained yet to fall.

I can no longer remember the time before the War.

Hermione pushed her covers aside, stood up and stretched as she waved her wand and murmured a sleepy "Lumos", flooding the bedroom with light. As she did every morning, her eyes touched on the pillow next to hers, which remained unmarked. Even in sleep she did not rest her head upon it, as if her somnolent self remembered someone should be there, that someone else's head should rest upon that pillow. Her conscious self remembered, and thus she could never make herself fall asleep there or even in the middle. On the day she could wake up on that side of the bed, having slept a whole night through, she would know her mourning was over.

How will that happen when my grieving has yet to begin? I have no time for grief. Maybe when the war is over, if I'm not dead or captured, I'll have time for such things.

It had been three years since she'd graduated from Hogwarts, and the War was still on. Harry had not defeated Voldemort, but nor had the serpentine Dark Lord defeated Harry. It was a stalemate; skirmishes had been fought, there had been victories and losses for both sides, but they were merely pawns in the metaphorical chess game the War had become. Neither side had moved into checkmate, nor, as time dragged on, did it seem likely that moment would arrive. Hermione smiled sadly at her thoughts as she pulled a brush through her hair. The chess analogy was tiresome but remained popular with the press--and there was no denying it was particularly apt. Her eyes touched the empty pillow, and she closed her eyes briefly.

Thoughts of chess made her think of him, of Ron. Of course, thoughts of grief and sadness, which she only allowed herself during these twilight morning hours while the world slumbered, also made her think of him. Ronald Weasley, the lover she'd lost, the man with whom her youth and innocence had died. Often, Hermione found herself thinking horrible thoughts of Voldemort standing victorious over Harry's lifeless body, merely so he would kill her and she could see Ron again. She missed his loveable charm and easy smile which were nearly always evident, even in the midst of war, even seconds before some nameless Death Eater had taken his life.

Shaking herself, Hermione tugged on denims and a jumper, leaving her robe off for the moment. She was tired of living in the tiny flat, but ever since their hiding place had been breached, the Order of the Phoenix had scattered to the four winds and had to find nondescript places in which to sleep. She said "sleep" because Hermione did not consider the small flat to be the placed in which she "lived". I don't think I live at all.

Perhaps it would have been easier to deal with Ron's death if she were around friends. However, she and Ron had broken protocol by insisting upon living together, and now she was experiencing exactly what Remus had said would happen in this case.

"You'll not like to feel that horrible grief in the one place that should be sacred, your home." She had not listened to him then, although sometimes, she wished she had. The emptiness of her flat seemed worse because she remembered how well they had been able to make it a home, and how the world had seemed bright and fresh when she would awaken in his arms even in the face of the War. His death had taken that from her as well; the flat had ceased to be home when he had failed to return there.

One more death to lay at Voldemort's feet. At this point, the bodies were piled up so high, she was certain they would cover Hogwarts.

At the thought of her old school, Hermione felt a physical sense of illness and took several deep, calming breaths. No one would have foreseen the school falling to the enemy. Of course, it was but one more effect of the betrayal of Severus Snape, who had broken the Order's protective charm and led the Death Eaters to seize the castle, which resulted in the death of Ronald Weasley.

He had died in that siege, to protect his beloved Hogwarts. She was not on the mission with him, but she liked to think he died somewhere near the Quidditch pitch he loved so well. In her mind, she heard the chorus of Weasley is our King!--the chant had stuck after fifth-year--and saw him, smiling and triumphant, striding off the field from their final victory over Slytherin to win the house cup in their seventh year. Ron Weasley, Quidditch Captain, tall and lanky as he threw his arm over his girlfriend and laughed in the spring rain that fell around them. She'd smiled up at him, and even though the war lay on the horizon like some violent summer storm, for that moment, she'd been perfectly happy. That storm had come, sooner than it should have, turning the spring rain into a deluge. Unfortunately, it had not ended as quickly as did a summer storm, and she was soon soaked to the skin and feared she would never again be warm.

Hermione had her breakfast as she stared unseeingly at the Daily Prophet, trying not to read the articles. It seemed so insignificant that in a time of War, the paper still reported on such trivial matters such as concerts and book signings at Flourish and Blotts. But most people, she reminded herself, were not fighting the War, and perhaps this was the only comfort they had left. At least they have something. It was more than Hermione could claim. Such thoughts depressed her, so she found herself focusing on an article, though she immediately wished she hadn't.
There was the usual picture of Harry, with the title proclaiming, WIZARDING WORLD'S ONLY HOPE LOST! POTTER ABANDONS WAR EFFORT FOR AMERICAN QUIDDITCH TEAM!! The Prophet had become worse than the Quibbler in the believability of their articles, as was to be expected. Draco Malfoy had long ago bribed the staff, and the information contained within the paper was no longer trustworthy, if it ever had been.

They didn't know where Harry was, and Malfoy's objective at creating such a slanderous headline was simple--entice some well-meaning witch or wizard into sending in a letter that said they had just seen Harry Potter somewhere in Muggle London to avoid capture, or if that didn't work, he wanted to turn public opinion around and convince them all that Potter was a disgrace and a troublemaker. The secondary goal was becoming far more successful than any of them liked. If the War did not end soon, the public would view Harry and his supporters as some insane vigilantes and try them for war crimes. It boggled the mind, but it was not implausible. Why, Lucius Malfoy had been released from prison even though he had been guilty as sin after the raid at the Ministry.

There is no longer any justice.

The truth was, the War was dragging on, and the majority of the magical populace of Britain merely wanted it to end. Hermione began to wonder if they even cared anymore who won, as long as someone did. After the horrors of the previous hostilities, there was a terrible haze of despair hanging over the entire country, and it showed no sign of abating any time soon. The fresh-faced innocence of the War's greatest soldiers were lost forever beneath the muck and grime of fighting a brutal war. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had no innocence left to lose--those who remained of his followers did not die inside each time one of their numbers fell, unlike Harry and his supporters. Sometimes Hermione wondered if Voldemort dreamt of his fallen soldiers lying bloody in the mud, as she did with Ron--theirs was not the only side that inspired great loyalty, after all, and she Harry died a little with each reported death. Perhaps Voldemort did as well, although it seemed unlikely.

I wonder if he is even human enough left to dream, although they say even animals do so.

In the months after the siege on Hogwarts, Hermione had been determined to keep her spirits up despite Ron's death, to continue on, to fight the good fight. Necessity dictated that she not know where Harry was. It was too dangerous to keep them together and the only member of the Order she saw was Remus. Sometimes she felt as if she fought the war alone, waiting for the inevitable to happen, waiting for the bright flash of green and the quiet silence of the relief of it all finally being over, of seeing Ron again.

One night, she'd stood at the window in her tiny flat, watching the cars drive by below and thought of jumping, or of turning her wand on herself, anything to find that blessed relief of silence that death offered. Her Gryffindor pride--battered but never broken--rose up inside her and growled in protest, and she had not been able to do it. She'd thought of her parents who had long since been shipped off to Australia for their safety. They used to ship prisoners there, in the old days. And my parents are prisoners of a War they cannot possibly understand. She thought of the Weasleys, three of them gone now--Arthur, Charlie, and Ron--and of Ginny Weasley, who managed to put a smile on her face and fight with more determination than her small body could contain. If Ginevra Weasley, who had lost father, brothers, and lover to the war (poor Neville Longbottom had a misfortunate encounter with the Lestranges), could fight and not lose her mind, then so could Hermione. Her soul was bruised and battered, but she was still a Gryffindor.

She had pressed her face to the cold glass of the windowpane, and watched idly as her tears streaked a path down the dirty glass. When she had stepped back, her eyes had lost a bit of their light but she was no longer blinded by tears. I will see this through to the end. If I fall in battle, then I'll get to see Ron again. And if we succeed, I have made the world better in his name.

That night, she'd had the dream for the first time, a dream that had latched on to her subconscious and refused to let go. Her brain was notorious for doing this with puzzles and problems, and she supposed her nightmare was some riddle that requiring solving because it slumbered in her unconscious and struck viciously as she drifted off to sleep.

In this dream, she was walking through a corridor comprised of dark, cold stones and dank, slippery steps. She always ended up in front of the same door, iron and flanked by two glowing torches that seemed to glow red instead of orange. When she pushed it open, there was a figure waiting for her, shrouded in black. The only visible features were a pair of glowing red eyes. When he spoke, the hiss of his voice told her who he was.

Voldemort.

Each time, he said he her name. Each time, he told her he was waiting for her while he lightly swung that sinister whip. This scene was repeated every night, sometimes six or seven times, relentlessly plaguing her with the same series of images and the sound of the Dark Lord whispering her name in the darkness. Despite the standing rule that anyone who experienced dreams of Voldemort was to report them to the Order immediately, she had kept her council. It is only a nightmare, she told herself, and in typical Hermione fashion, she'd read book after book in order to chase these images from her sleep. It never worked, but she had begun to find a strange comfort in the dreams. They were one of the only constant in her life anymore. She had almost forgotten what life was like before them, accepting them as easily now as she did sleep.

Except tonight something had changed, and the thought brought a rush of horror she'd not felt since Remus Lupin appeared on her doorstep the night of Ron's death, his eyes filled with all the sadness of the world.

Tonight, in her dream, she'd answered the Dark Lord back. She had not cursed him or killed him, nor had she fallen under his wand and succumbed to his coldly efficient skill with the Killing Curse.

No, she had fallen to her knees and bowed her head and for the first time, answered him back.

I know. I've been waiting, too.