Persephone Descending

Chapter 3: Judgment

"It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on". -Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Wrapped in a heavy nondescript hooded wool cloak, Hermione stood in the rain and stared down at the simple stone that marked his grave. Ronald Weasley, beloved son and faithful solider. The sheer increase in the amount of graves the war had created meant it was rare to even have the simplest of epithets--the engravers were busy trying to keep up with the demand. If Ron hadn't been Harry's best friend and right-hand man, no doubt his grave would have been as simple as the others in the church graveyard, bearing only name and dates.

The Romanesque-style church that stood behind the graveyard would have been lovely and quaint in a cheery summer afternoon or a warm spring morning, but in winter, it looked forlorn; the ancient stone and the small windows giving it an almost closed-in, unfriendly feeling. The graves were arranged in neat, precise rows, and she tried to avoid looking at the fresh mounds of dirt that were interspersed between the lines denoting newly-filled graves. The thought was depressing, but a small voice said in her mind, at least you don't know any of them. Of course, there was a good chance that she did. It seemed the Resistance lost more of their number in the daily attacks than Voldemort, and just the fact they were referred to as "the Resistance" was disheartening in itself.

Hermione had brought a single long, white calla lily with her to place on his grave, as she usually did when she visited. Leaning down, she placed it on the dirt and watched dispassionately as the falling rain splashed mud on the pristine white petals. The image was strangely appropriate; he was as innocent as the flower and now blanketed by the wet earth. The thought should have made her cry, though her tears would have been obscured by the falling rain, but her eyes were dry regardless.

"Hermione. I thought you might be here."

Standing gracefully, Hermione turned her attention to the woman who had stepped up beside her carrying an armful of flowers. Any other time, the profusion of colorful blossoms would have been cheerful, but their sheer number spoke of too many graves upon which they would be placed. Ginevra Weasley stood clutching the flowers in her arms, and Hermione felt vaguely guilty as she realized she had come with a flower for Ron but none for Arthur or Charlie. Ginny's bright red hair was uncovered, the color a sharp contrast to the gray of the tombstones and the clouds that hung low in the sky.

"Hello, Ginny," Hermione said softly, watching the other woman as she began to systematically lay the flowers upon the graves of her family. Hermione always hated to be here with any of the Weasleys. After that disastrous article from fourth year, Molly Weasley had never quite liked her and had seemed to feel that Hermione was settling for Ron only because she couldn't have Harry. Hermione felt guilty that her family was safe (albeit exiled to Australia) when the Weasleys had lost so many. She and Ron had never gotten married, nor had they had any children, so she often felt she was not permitted to grieve for him as strongly as the family who had lost him. You were only his girlfriend, not his wife.

Ginny finished by placing the last bunch of flowers on Ron's grave, and Hermione stifled a brief flare of irritation that her calla lily was obscured by Ginny's more elaborate bouquet. Ginny stared at Ron's tombstone for a few moments, and there seemed to be some sort of strange glow lighting her eyes from within when she turned her gaze back to Hermione's.

"It will be very satisfying when we finally win. I've promised to put flowers on their graves every day, until we can build them the monument they deserve." Ginny's voice rang with a determination that bordered on fanatical, and not for the first time, Hermione wondered if perhaps her family's deaths had not affected Ginny more adversely than anyone had previously thought.

To the outside world, Ginny had handled her family's deaths well, but it seemed to Hermione as if she had begun to become a bit manic in her devotion to the cause of defeating Voldemort. Privately, Hermione thought it had been Neville's death that had tipped Ginny over the edge from faithful soldier to fanatic; when she'd been given the news of Neville's death, the younger girl had not shed a tear, but merely laughed wildly and promised to destroy Bellatrix Lestrange if it was the last thing she did. Ginny fought with a determination praised by the Order, but it made Hermione nervous. They say Bellatrix Lestrange is crazy, but the same fervor burns within Ginny. If they are not careful, she will become as manic as the Dark Lord's most faithful acolyte.

"I think that is lovely, Ginny," Hermione said quietly, feeling awkward. The War had destroyed so many things more intangible than life, and friendship had been one of the first to go. Hermione remembered hearing some of the older Order members, who were now fighting against Voldemort for the second time, discussing the mistrust and weariness felt by every member of the magical community in the face of the Dark Lord's first rise to power. It was true; the profusion of dark magic had started to consume such things as trust and friendship, love and devotion, leaving those who fought empty shells of the people they had been before his ascent, practitioner of dark magic or no. Ginny has her devotion to our cause to sustain her, but what will happen to her when the war is over?

"You look sad, Hermione," Ginny said, and Hermione gave her a strange look.

"Aren't you, Ginny? We're standing at the graves of our loved ones. Why shouldn't we be sad?" She decided not to tell the younger woman that she felt nothing much at all anymore, except in the quiet dawn when she cried for all she had lost.

"No," Ginny said, stepping forward and grabbing her hands. She stared intently at Hermione with a wild look, her grip almost bruising. Ginny was a slightly built, wiry young woman with a strength in her long-fingered hands that was surprising. "We should be proud of them! They gave their lives for our cause, and we should sing songs of praise! Their sacrifice was for us and the Order!" Her voice had risen, and it rang out loud in the quietness of the churchyard.

Hermione laughed, the sound bitter. "Ginny, this war has to end so that we can pick up the pieces of our lives and learn to live without them. Their deaths were hardly an inspiration--they were a tragedy! How many more will die if we don't stop Voldemort and his followers? And if that happens, their deaths--" she gestured wildly towards the graves, indicating the Weasley family and all the others--"will have been in vain."

Ginny pulled away from her, turning to stare at her father's grave. "You're wrong, Hermione. Even if Voldemort succeeds, they are martyrs. Their sacrifice is noble and pure! Isn't that why you insist upon laying that single white flower at my brother's grave?"

"No," Hermione said tightly, "I do it to remember the loss of innocence and the promise of a life ended by hatred and intolerance. There is nothing noble about Ron's death, Ginny. We have to end this war before more are forced to stand in the rain, putting flowers on the graves instead of living with those they loved."

Ginny shook her head, raising her chin up a notch and hardening her voice. "I know what you are trying to say, Hermione. I spoke with Kingsley, and he said you were pushing to have Goyle and the others tortured to get information. But can't you understand that if we put them under Crucio or Imperio that we're no better than they are? Do you want to turn into some sick psycho just for the sake of a few tidbits of information that won't matter anyway?"

It was a long-standing disagreement between them, and it made Hermione's head hurt to think about it. She did not want to have this argument with Ginny for what had to be the thousandth time, especially here. "I'm not saying we should torture them. I'm saying we should not be so quick to dismiss some of the ways our enemy gathers information, just because we're afraid of it. For Merlin's sake, we are going to lose because we refuse to understand the very magic that is being used to systematically destroy us!"

Hermione drew in a shuddering breath and wished that she had kept her mouth shut, but it felt good to speak the truth, even if Ginny would never understand.

They were being exterminated, and the reason was because the Order insisted upon clinging to certain policies that would not benefit them in the slightest in the War effort. When a resistance fighter was captured by Voldemort's forces, he was tortured, broken, and killed. Voldemort's dark army was ruthless and efficient, and the Order refused to use any tactics against those that they captured in turn. Hermione didn't want to torture anyone, exactly, but there were ways of getting information--magic that was definitely dark by nature--that could have saved so many lives! If they'd only employed some of those tactics then Ron would be waiting for her at home with a warm butterbeer and a smile on his face, instead of lying cold in the ground.

"Hermione, we can't use dark magic! We'd become as vile as they are!" Ginny stared at her with something akin to hatred on her face, and Hermione felt despair wrap tight around and begin to squeeze.

"Wouldn't it be far worse to lose? Do you know what will happen if we lose this war? Have you thought about the death and destruction Voldemort will unleash upon the world? It'll be far worse than anything we've seen so far--"

'It doesn't matter!" Ginny shrieked, clenching her hands in rage. With her bright red hair wet and plastered to her face, her cheeks flushed and eyes burning, Hermione thought she looked like a firebrand, burning and deadly in her fury. "I would rather die than descend into that pit of darkness that we would inevitably be dragged into if we do what you've been advocating. And so should you, Hermione! I can't believe you would disgrace those who have died by suggesting we become no better than the people who killed them. Shame on you," she hissed, and turned on her heel, stalking through the mud towards the far side of the church. Hermione watched her progression, almost expecting flames to shoot from the petit redhead's body as she moved.

I'd welcome some of her fire, Hermione thought, shivering from a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the rain that had soaked through her cloak and had chilled her skin. Am I truly no worse than they, because I am willing to use whatever is necessary to win?

She stood for a long moment and looked down at Ron's grave, thinking hard. I just don't want you to have died for nothing, Ron. If Voldemort wins, everything we've believed in is a lie, and what would be the point? What does it matter how we stop them from fulfilling their dark destiny, so long as we do? Why is it so awful that I would rather be corrupted by dark magic for the sake of defending what is right and true, than remain pure and dying on my knees in defeat?

This War had to end, and Hermione was sick of fighting it by rules the other side refused to follow. If she could end it by turning her wand on Gregory Goyle and putting him under the Cruciatus, Hermione would do it in a heartbeat. We stand to lose so much if we lose. Perhaps I would not have "faithful soldier" engraved on my tomb like Ron, but generations of Muggleborn witches after me would survive. Surely it'd be worth it?

Her stomach churning with a mixture of dread and grief, Hermione turned and left the cemetery. She wasn't sure why, but she no longer felt worthy to stand at his grave, and in her mind, his smiling face seemed to be crying.