Chapter Text
Civil war had been declared. The phrase repeated like a mantra.
She’d read hundreds of books about civil wars fought by Muggles; now she was standing at the starting line of one.
The Ministry still denied even the possibility of Voldemort’s return – a decision likely to doom them all.
It had already doomed Dumbledore.
The smell of singed hair and sweat dominated the room.
Dirt ground into her pale skin, itching like thousands of ants were marching across her chest.
The injured being rushed to the common room made her hands knot.
After hours of chaos and noise, Gryffindor Tower was finally quiet. The smell of rich iron still clung to the air.
Dumbledore had been killed. With that single action, a war had begun.
Thirty minutes – and one death – to reshape the world.
A humourless laugh escaped her lips.
Hermione flinched as Ginny’s hand wrapped tightly around hers.
The younger girl sat opposite her on the bed, tears streaking her face. Her narrow shoulders slumped, eyes downturned, studying her stained hands.
She hadn’t uttered a sound, merely grunting a greeting when she’d sat down twenty minutes earlier.
A knot formed in Hermione’s throat, pressure building behind her sore eyes.
Dried, flaking blood covered Ginny’s arm and face.
A small smile spread across Hermione’s lips – Madam Pomfrey had done a wonderful job healing the nasty wound Ginny had earned in the battle.
Hermione hoped she wouldn’t return to the fifth-year dormitory tonight. The thought of being alone made her want to scream.
She couldn’t be alone.
Not today.
Ginny gently squeezed her hand, trying to convey something for which there were no words.
Hermione squeezed back.
They had survived together.
A hollow smile formed on Ginny’s face; her eyes, usually sparkled with mischief and warmth, were dimmed.
Ginny drew a ragged breath, grinding her teeth.
“Hermione?” she whispered, like a child apologising to their mother.
Her eyes widened, heart pounding. “Yes?” she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking.
Hermione steadied her breathing. Ginny trembled, gripping her hands for dear life.
Ginny opened her mouth and snapped it shut, brows pinched together. “Do you think we’ll be okay?” she mumbled. “I mean… he’s dead… He – he – he…” A sharp intake of breath punctuated the sentence.
“What’s happening, Hermione? He killed him, didn’t he? What’s going to happen now? And – and –”
“It’ll be okay,” Hermione hurried out.
Ginny heaved a deep breath.
Hermione reached out and squeezed her friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t enough, but what else could she do?
Ginny jerked back, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. “Malfoy let those Death Eaters into the castle!” Her fists clenched, shaking at her sides.
Hermione nodded, her face twisting into a foul sneer, as if she’d smelt something truly rancid.
The betrayal from one of their own was a hard pill to swallow, even if it was Malfoy. He was still one of them.
Ginny reddened, her chest heaving. “People were killed,” she spat. “Ten first-years. Malfoy is responsible.” Her voice vibrated with rage.
Her swollen cheek twitched.
Hermione’s stomach dropped. She had spent the better part of the year defending him to Harry and Ron, who were convinced he was a Death Eater.
Hermione had been worried about him. His gaunt, lifeless expression haunted her.
Once pristine and almost handsome, now his tie was never straight, his shirts crumpled.
She had hoped he was redeemable – nothing more than a product of his upbringing; that, when it mattered, he would make the right choice.
But he hadn’t. He’d become exactly what the world expected. That broke her heart a little. No one was born with that much hatred.
A sudden pity snagged her chest. It was undeniable: Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. That snide, spoiled child had grown up to be just like Daddy.
“Who lets a group of murderous snake-worshippers into a school full of children?” Ginny raged.
Ginny spoke rapidly, her words crashing out of her mouth with a life of their own.
“During breakfast and just… just…” She hiccupped, drawing a shaky breath as her words caught up with her brain.
Her eyes blazed with fire – and something Hermione had never seen on Ginny’s face: hatred. Ginny looked ready to leap into action, muscles tensed, but she remained still.
“Opens fire?” The tears she had fought to hold back rushed down her cheeks, wave after wave racking her body.
“It was a bloodbath,” she shouted, snorting air through her nose.
Hermione’s face fell as she recalled the first scream. “It was. No one was expecting it.” She paused. “The teachers didn’t even react. They fell back to Dumbledore. That Hufflepuff gave the order to evacuate the students.”
Hermione didn’t know her well. She’d been around in the DA but wasn’t inner circle – mostly sticking with Terry Boot and Susan Bones. She’d even run a few sessions, but Hermione couldn’t remember her name. Not very chatty.
Hermione admired her now. During the chaos, she had managed to organise a plan – directing the older students and shaming the teachers into getting the younger students out of the hall.
The smell of burning wood and cries of terror rang in her ears, the memory crushing her. She and Ron had their own group of students to evacuate.
Her eyes welled, and her breath caught. The tiny first-year boy floated into her mind. Despite their best efforts, he was killed before they could reach safety – his bright green eyes listless as he crumpled to the floor.
She had been astonished at how much blood could fit into such a tiny boy. It soaked the flagstone floor, running through the valleys of the stone, forging a brutal river that stole his life.
By the time she saw the Death Eater, it was too late. He’d raised his wand, slicing the boy’s throat with chilling efficiency.
If she’d been faster – if she’d moved first, fired a binding charm a second earlier – that little boy would be alive.
She reached out and hugged Ginny, pressing her face into the crook of her neck, fighting to take slow, shaky breaths.
Both girls held each other and cried, struggling to breathe.
Hermione began tracing small circles on Ginny’s back.
“I hope we’ll be okay,” Hermione mumbled into Ginny’s shoulder. She fought back muffled cries. “I hope we make it through this,” she said, her voice tapering off at the end.
“But I’m not sure we will.” The rest of the sentence slipped out before she could stop it.
Her neck was slick with sweat. She bit her lip, the pain grounding her for a brief moment.
Ginny was starting to calm, her breathing becoming steady. Hermione continued the rhythmic circles, making soothing noises.
Ginny, mostly composed, sat back on the bed.
“I am a Muggle-born witch. Famously so.” The words were nearly inaudible – more a reminder to herself.
“I couldn’t hide it even if I tried. I’ll have to fight and hope for the best.”
Her voice grew louder as she met Ginny’s eyes, determination mirrored in both their faces.
She sounded composed – braver than she felt.
She was somewhat capable in a duel, but the DA had not prepared them for this.
She had only just come of age, had limited experience, and couldn’t take people alone. That inadequacy had cost a young boy his life.
Hermione took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes. “Where do you think we’ll go now? I mean… they can’t keep Hogwarts open after this, can they?”
Ginny responded matter-of-factly, almost as if inviting Hermione to a summer sleepover. “Well, I suppose we’ll all go back to the Burrow.” She rubbed her forehead. “You and Harry can’t go home – not to your Muggle family.”
She mourned what could have been: an evening filled with laughter, eating too many sweets and staying up too late gossiping.
Would she ever do that again?
Her mouth twisted. Panic washed over her.
She could not go.
She had to stay.
She had to Fight.
—————————-———
The next few days passed in a blur – mundane and terrifying.
Classes and exams had been cancelled; all anyone could do was sit around, think about the battle, pack their things to go home, or sit in silence with friends.
Hermione focused on the final details of her backup plan.
It was simple enough: she was going to Obliviate her parents. Remove herself from their memories. Erase herself.
Bile surged up her throat, erupting into a coughing fit as she fought it down.
She knew it was the best way to keep them safe; they would never remember the little things – her bedroom, dancing in the kitchen, cooking together, going on hikes, or sitting by the fire at home watching films and eating snacks.
Her heart slammed into her throat, burning, trying to rip itself from her body.
She had spent weeks talking herself in and out of this solution – wondering what life might have been if she’d never been born with magic, if Voldemort hadn’t risen to power.
The ghosts of memories haunted her dreams: graduating from Hogwarts, finishing university, completing a mastery in the magical world.
She watched herself achieve her goals and desires; her parents fighting tears of pride – but they always vanished, pulled from the dream screaming her name.
The window for fixing a spell like this was narrow.
She’d promised herself she would do it if open warfare broke out – that she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
Well, that bridge had come crashing into her life.
The enormity of her promise came into sharp focus; it was no longer an abstract question of ethics.
It was becoming increasingly necessary as time marched on. She had to do it. It was now or never.
Nothing would stay still for long. The next move was coming. Once it did, her movements would be closely monitored.
She wouldn’t be able to go home, and her parents would be sitting ducks.
They had to survive this – even if they never remembered her. It had never been their fight.
Eighteen months was the maximum timescale to restore their memories. Every day after that, the chances of recovery decreased.
Hermione knew eighteen months was nothing in the grand scheme of a war.
Her eyes swelled with tears, losing the fight to hold them back.
No one would notice.
It was, unfortunately, common to see children and adults openly weeping in the corridors.
Before, the halls had been filled with bright laughter, boisterous pushing, play-fighting, shrieks of delight.
Now, every corridor was cold and quiet.
The silence stole the end-of-term joy. She wanted nothing more than to go back – to the sunshine, the laughter, the end-of-year hijinks.
A bitter taste coated her throat; vomit crept up. She pushed it down, making her way into the hall, wiping tears from her cheeks and schooling her features.
A cold draught billowed through the hall. Faces were blank and drawn. Groups huddled together, whispering and glancing around.
Even the Slytherin table looked forlorn. Hermione scanned the faces – Draco was not among them. She already knew he wouldn’t be, but every morning she checked.
She had seen him every day, three times a day, for six years.
Now he was gone.
His friends sat huddled together, scheming.
Hermione noticed the Hufflepuff and, to her shock, she was seated at the Slytherin table.
Hermione’s face twisted into a disgusted sneer. How could she align herself with those people?
She was a member of the DA. Her quick thinking had probably saved countless lives.
How could she sit with them so casually? It was their fault they were all in this mess.
She clenched her fists, her arms shaking with the pressure.
The Hufflepuff-turned-Snake looked up and met her gaze – smiling.
Hermione turned away sharply, her face flushing red. How dare she smile at her? As if they were on the same side at all.
The familiar sight of the Gryffindor table grew closer. She let out a shallow breath, calming her nerves.
She waved limply at her friends, striding over to them.
Nev sipped his steaming tea. Dean and Seamus quietly nibbled their toast, casting anxious looks at each other with every bite.
She swung her leg over the long bench and plopped down next to Nev, opposite Ron, who was unashamedly shoving sausages into his already full mouth.
Hermione grimaced, dragging her eyes away from the disgusting sight.
No one greeted her. Everyone wore morose smiles, none reaching their eyes.
Hermione busied herself making a strong cup of tea and taking two boiled eggs and some toast.
As she stirred her tea, Harry burst into the hall, the sudden noise making more than half the group jump and reach for their wands.
He waved a letter high above his head, wielding it like a trophy. He was grinning – a rare sight these days.
“Morning, Harry,” Ron grunted around a mouthful of sausages. Hermione scowled at the display. She always did – but it never stopped him.
Harry’s smile didn’t waver. His green eyes swollen and red. “Morning, guys,” he said, swinging his leg as he sat beside Ron.
Seamus raised a single brow. “What you got there, Harry?”
Harry smirked, clutching the mysterious parchment tightly. “Oh, this? Just the letter they sent to our parents… after Dumbledore. You know?” He stammered his words, steadying his breath.
He rubbed a hand through his thick, messy tangle of black hair. Hermione noted that the motion had become something of a self-soothing habit for Harry as of late.
The group stared at him as he cleared his throat and glanced around, clearly enjoying the attention.
Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but for the first time since the Headmaster’s death, she smiled.
“Dear parents…” Harry began, pausing for dramatic effect.
Ron’s face flushed deep crimson, fists balled at his sides. “Oh, come on, mate. Get on with it. Breakfast’ll be over before you finish,” he groaned, gesticulating wildly. Half the hall turned to look.
Seamus, Harry, and Dean burst into laughter, while Ron stared intently at his plate, picking up his fork for the first time since Hermione had sat down.
Harry steadied his breathing, fighting the last of his laughter away.
“We regret to inform you that, due to a recent security breach involving unauthorised guests on the school grounds, adjustments have been made to the summer-term schedule. Following an unexpected realignment of school leadership and a modest reduction in the first-year population, the school will now close early. During the breach, Headteacher Albus Dumbledore gave his life bravely in defence of staff and students. If you would prefer your child to remain at Hogwarts over the summer, please notify the school secretary. At present, plans to reopen in September remain in place.”
The group sat in stunned silence, staring at Harry.
Dean spluttered on his tea. All eyes snapped to him.
“Harry, there’s no way they’ve sent that letter to everyone’s parents,” he said, almost frantic.
Seamus barked out a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s one way to say it.” He nudged the other boy’s hand, squeezing his little finger.
Neville leaned into the group, a wicked glint in his eye.
“Well, what was the alternative? ‘Sorry, everyone. We need to close the school because Bellatrix Lestrange broke in with a known kiddie-fiddler and a random assortment of Death Eaters to murder the Headteacher in front of the entire school during breakfast. Ten first-year students died.’”
Hermione almost choked on her tea and dropped the cup, flinching at Neville’s casualness about the dead first-years.
She wanted to snort. To shout.
But instead, she came to a horrific realisation.
She would need to become more casual about death.
Death was clearly coming.
“‘But don’t worry. They were let in by a student. We had no idea the means of entry used existed. But it’s fine now; we burnt it. To top it off, we’ve lost the student who let them in. But please don’t worry. He too is a marked Death Eater, which we also had no clue about – so sorry.’”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess the letter is better than that,” he said sheepishly.
Real laughter broke out among the group.
Dean smacked Ron on the back as he choked on a wayward piece of bacon.
Hermione couldn’t shake the sickness knotting in her stomach. How were Muggle parents supposed to make head or tail of that letter?
Wizarding families might read between the lines.
But how many Muggle families would suffer because they didn’t fully understand the situation?
For a brief moment, Hermione almost felt normal, visualising them all sitting around her dining-room table after graduation – celebrating the start of their new lives.
It was likely not all of them would make it.
Would it be her? Harry? Ginny? Ron?
The sick feeling in her stomach disappeared.
Her guilt remained.