The Ashes and the Flame

The Ashes and the Flame

Part I: Nadir

Five years ago the snow fell, just as it falls tonight: cold, relentless, and uncaring. Every so often the wind unleashes a frustrated howl and I shiver, huddling closer to the smoking, inadequate fire I've lit in our hideout deep within the Forbidden Forest. As shelters go, it's not much, just a little crack in a hillside that's unworthy of being called a cave. But it keeps out the worst of the weather and hides us from our enemies. We have many of those, ever since Hogwarts and the Order fell to Lord Voldemort like so many fragile, frozen flakes.

To this day I don't know why Voldemort spared my life that cruel December morning. Perhaps he thought I would've preferred to die. (He was right.) Perhaps, as the enslaved best friend of his arch-nemesis, I served as a powerful symbol of his absolute victory. (He was right.) Perhaps he thought that survivor's guilt would gnaw away at my spirit, until the Muggleborn witch who'd excelled at magic (Divination does not count!) faded from existence.

He was wrong.

You see, in my mind, the war is still raging. Well, maybe not raging, precisely, but working to overthrow the reign of the Death Eaters has given me a focus, a purpose in life. One day soon, Voldemort will regret making me live.

My companion - I do not know what else to call the strange, still man who once taught me, then held the chains of my bondage, and now forms the other half of our little resistance movement - mutters underneath his breath. Undoubtedly it's some sort of complaint, but it distracts me from my melancholy thoughts. As far as I can recall, he's never been happy, unless you count the few hours long ago when he thought he'd get the Order of Merlin for capturing Sirius Black.

"Blasted weather. Miss Granger, the next time you have an urge to do something that will result in a need to evade authorities, do consider selecting a time other than the dead of winter," he repeats a bit more loudly when I don't respond.

"The next time I see Lucius Malfoy standing over your helpless form, you can be assured I shall," I retort smoothly.

"It was certainly your foolishness that got me into that mess to begin with."

"Oh, be quiet and get some sleep. We need to be well-rested tomorrow."

He's silent for a moment, his dark eyes glittering in the smoky firelight. Briefly, I wonder if he's worrying about the same things I am: how to hide from Lord Voldemort, how to get money, how to find and contact potential allies, how to procure a hot bath. Evidently that's too much to hope for. When he opens his mouth, it's to complain.

"Too cold."

I sigh. I'm suspicious of what he's wordlessly suggesting, but he does have a point. We daren't use much magic, not this close to Hogwarts, so Warming Charms aren't really an option unless there's an emergency. But given the ferocity of the harsh Scottish winters, we might never wake up in the morning if we're not careful. After a moment I pick up my own pile of blankets and layer them over his. Then I crawl under the covers to join him.

"Better now?" I inquire snidely.

He says nothing, only wraps his bony arms around my equally bony shoulders. It's strangely comforting. I watch our shadows flickering on the shelter walls, darkening and fading as the embers of the campfire smolder and die down. Slowly we stop shivering, and eventually, we drift off to sleep.

We soon discover that building (or even rebuilding) an organization to fight Voldemort isn't easy. Almost everyone from the Order of the Phoenix is gone: Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, Emmeline Vance, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and of course, Ron and Harry. My mind, usually so good at memorizing lists, always falters at this point, and though there are many others who have given everything, I cannot go on.

The Defense Association would've been another logical place to start, but its ranks have been decimated as well. While the remaining members are generous with their sympathy and aid, they are less than enthusiastic about participating in the action. And they are very, very careful to avoid being branded as radicals.

Those disappointments are still vivid in my mind. I recall the January afternoon I spent with Lavender Brown in her dilapidated London flat. Premature streaks of grey run through her hair now, and she looks like she's forgotten how to laugh. But she seems genuinely pleased to see me, and makes me a lovely lunch before we sit down on her sagging sofa to talk.

"I can't believe you've been shackled to Snape all these years," she says. She doesn't giggle, like she would've done in school. "Why on earth didn't you just run away? The Muggle world would've been a logical place for you to go."

"It's hard to explain," I agree. "At first I could scarcely think, much less plan an escape. I didn't have a wand, I didn't have any money, and with my parents dead, I didn't have anywhere to go. So I didn't even try. By the time I thought about it, I'd discovered the purpose of this."

I push up my sleeve so she can see the blurry numbers tattooed on my upper arm. All Muggle-born witches and wizards have them now. It's an obvious, permanent mark of our second-class status, but it also allows our pureblood masters - in my case, Professor Snape - to control us more easily. It's far from the Imperius Curse, but it certainly weakens the will.

"Since I couldn't leave against his wishes, and since it would've been fatal for Professor Snape to let me go, I stayed." I smile wryly. "Ironically, the spell used to bind us is similar to the one that binds house-elves to their masters. But he didn't give me clothes to free me - he gave me his wand."

Lavender makes an odd little gurgling sound. Either she's amused, or she's choking. I add hastily, "It wasn't as bad as you might think. I was able to keep learning - why, I'd be a Potions Mistress by now, if the Wizarding Heritage Protection Act hadn't been passed."

"You mean the Pureblood Employment Bill?" Good, she wasn't choking. A glint of anger is flashing in her eye. She's of mixed parentage herself, so she isn't eligible for the best jobs. I hear she's putting her Divination skills to rather poor use as a weather forecaster. "Only you, Hermione, could manage an education out of this."

I smile and steer the conversation back to the reason for my visit: the Order. She nods as I talk about the importance of the cause. When I ask for her help, though, she jolts away as if burned. Her eyes widen; her nostrils flare; her pupils dilate. She whispers, "Haven't you heard how the Lovegoods died?"

I haven't. She tells me in hushed tones, her eyes darting around her living room as if someone might hear and report her for sedition. The details are horrific. The Quibbler staff had showed up at work one day to find the newsroom demolished. Her father's corpse was propped up in his office, while Luna's nearly unrecognizable body was discovered beneath the ruins of a press. Both displayed liberal application of the no-longer-Unforgivable Curses, as well as cruder forms of torture straight from Muggle history books. They must have suffered for hours.

My stomach roils and I have to close my eyes. Words abandon me. Finally, I croak, "This is why we must fight. How can we live in a land where this sort of thing can happen?"

Lavender only shakes her head sorrowfully. She blinks furiously; her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "I know, Hermione. But leave me out of it. Please understand. I can't end up like her. I just can't."

You could anyway, I think, but I can't say it aloud. I leave her flat feeling like I could've done more to convince her. But how, I don't know. Over time I've learned to appreciate the subtle art of manipulation, and Voldemort is a particularly skilled master. My impassioned rants are nothing compared to his powers of persuasion, and I can tell that Lavender is lost to me.

My visit with Ernie MacMillan is just as unpleasant, though in a different way. Given his commitment to the D.A. in school, I expect his whole-hearted support. But he only looks at me as if I'd transformed into a particularly dense troll.

"Look around, Granger," he says in his pompous manner. His arm sweeps out to indicate his comfortable parlor and the well-kept garden outside the window. The walls are papered in a lovely blue shade, and I'm sitting on silk cushions. Two blond-haired boys grin and wave at me from their photos on the mantelpiece. "I have a wife and two children now, y'know? I'm happy. I don't mean any disrespect, but living under the Dark Lord isn't bad, as long as you mind your own business. Why should I risk everything for a lost cause?"

Even now, my fists clench up in anger at his selfishness, so perhaps my subsequent cruelty isn't so surprising.

"Only because it's the right thing to do," I respond icily. "Only because we both had friends who were targeted and murdered because they were born to the wrong parents. Only because one day it could be you they decide they don't like."

He huffs, "Look here, I'm just as sorry about Harry as anyone else, but it's really not my fight anymore!"

"I'm sure Hannah Abbott understands," I sneer, reminding him of his Muggle-born best friend who died in the attack on Hogwarts.

Ernie visibly flinches. A rush of blood colors his face. "How dare you!"

"No, MacMillan," I say coolly, rising and moving toward the door. Before I sweep out in a dramatic swirl of robes, I send a parting shot. "How dare you not?"

He doesn't join us, either.

In the end, only a motley handful of misfits enlists in the newest Order: Neville Longbottom, Angelina Johnson, Eloise Midgen, Professor Snape, and me. I'd hoped for more. But Tonks has disappeared and is presumed dead; Charlie, the last of the Weasley clan, is allegedly hiding somewhere in Eastern Europe; Remus Lupin has been caged in a Dark Zoo. In our private, grimmer moments, we call ourselves the Ashes of the Phoenix.

By the time April rolls around, we're all eager for action. Liberating Remus, we decide, would be an appropriate first mission. Instead, it turns out to be a poorly considered fiasco. The protective wards around the zoo are too complex for us to break, so we have to bail out mid-rescue. We have a heart-stopping moment when Eloise gets entangled in one of the protective spells, but luckily Neville's able to free her before the guards arrive.

Afterward, security's tightened everywhere, and in any case we're pretty shaken by our close call. With so few of us in the resistance to begin with, these grand undertakings begin to seem rather foolish. Instead, we decide we're better off challenging Voldemort's regime from behind the scenes.

Once again, reality intrudes. Since the Quibbler was destroyed, there have been no voices of dissent. Nor are we well connected enough to spread discontent among the rich and powerful: Professor Snape and I are fugitives, Angelina bartends at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, Eloise is a beautician, and Neville tends the Malfoy gardens. We content ourselves with dropping leaflets in Diagon Alley and scrawling incendiary graffiti under cover of darkness.

Down with Voldemort!

Death to Death Eaters!

The Order of the Phoenix shall rise again

Mudblood Power

Bella + Voldy 4ever

Alright, I'll admit our slogans aren't particularly creative, and the last one is downright childish. That doesn't stop our gleeful sense of poetic justice when we defile pureblood bastions with red Muggle spray paint. There's so little joy in our lives as it is: it feels good to be able to laugh. Even Professor Snape's mouth twitches a little when he sees our final touch, though he still sneers at Angelina's suggestion that it will undermine the enemy's frightful image.

"The Dark Lord is not a boggart to be ridiculed out of existence, Miss Johnson," he says disdainfully.

But we do so desperately need something to laugh about. Though no one wants to admit it out loud, there's a general sense of futility about our goals. Neville and I have known about the Prophecy since sixth year, and we told everyone else: Harry Potter was the only one with the power to defeat Voldemort. If he's dead, well, doesn't it seem a bit hopeless? A lost cause, Ernie called us. He's probably right, but at least we have to try.