Chapter Text
5th January 2002
It was the first month of the new year, and the usual chill had settled in, but this January felt harsher and more bitter than the last. The snow descended around me, muting the sounds and wrapping my emotions in silence as I stood amidst the swirling flakes.
The fifth marked a year since that day.
A year since I spared a Death Eater, and nearly got Harry Potter killed for it. And no, I wouldn't call it a small mistake. I'd call it more of a full-blown, catastrophic fuck-up.
Nobody understood why I did it. Hell, I didn't either. It had been almost four years since the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry's inconclusive fight with Voldemort. In that time, I'd worked my way into the heart of the Resistance. They'd always valued my brain and planning skills, but I'd learned to fight as well—good enough to be shoved into the front lines.
In that time, we'd suffered the loss of numerous Aurors, Order members, and others within the Resistance. Although by nature I suppose I had always been sensitive, the war had definitely hardened me. I took great pride in my ability not to let my emotions influence my actions, retaining a composed and focused demeanour even under stress.
This transformation made me a weapon both on and off the field. I could oversee missions with a clear mind, ensuring a safe and sensible execution for each one, minimising casualties whenever possible.
Yet after the night when Harry almost got struck by the Killing Curse—the spell missing him by a fraction due to Ron's quick thinking—everything that I had built began to unravel. The impulse to save the Death Eater that day continued to baffle me, especially given the high likelihood of facing the killing curse myself if the situation had taken a different turn.
Yet despite the obvious, I still did it.
It wasn't even like I knew who the Death Eater was, either. As per Voldemort's instructions, all Death Eaters were to have their faces hidden at all times. The metallic silver masks—an ostentatiously Slytherin choice in my opinion—depicted various animals, each corresponding to a specific rank. There were three distinctive ranks in total.
The first rank was the Birds, sometimes referred to as Crows. They sported a straightforward beak design and left the lower face exposed, a telltale sign of the lower rank, or often the newcomers. I cynically referred to them as the disposables. Next were the Foxes, featuring two pointed ears, a nose, and two canine teeth that similarly left the lower half of the face uncovered. They distinguished the middle tier, individuals who were slightly more of a challenge.
Then there were the Dragons.
Their mask concealed the entire face, serving the dual purpose of protecting the wearer's identity and signalling their formidable nature. I had encountered one or two Dragons in combat before; they were highly skilled and an absolute weapon on the battlefield. Death Eaters in this rank lacked any humanity whatsoever. Their amusement echoed when Resistance members suffered torture or, tragically, met their demise. They didn't hesitate to eliminate their allies if they impeded their objectives. These individuals harboured a profound disdain for weakness and revelled in inflicting suffering upon it.
When it came to any form of mission, the last type of Death Eater you wanted to encounter was a Dragon. At that time, we were aware of potentially five suspected Dragons. Despite their being fewer in numbers, just one of them could wipe out three of our weaker team members instantly.
They were lethal.
On the flip side, the Crows, with their impulsiveness and lack of expertise in face-to-face combat, often fell into our hands easily. Their eagerness to boast about serving Voldemort made them particularly prone to cracking under interrogation. It was this easy flow of information that helped us swiftly decode the significance of the different mask ranks. Voldemort, displeased by this vulnerability, altered tactics, mandating members to switch masks regularly, causing confusion among those in the Resistance.
The constant switch-ups between Foxes and Birds added to the challenge, making it difficult to gauge the skill level of the witches or wizards we confronted. However, the most perilous scenario unfolded when the Dragons disguised themselves in Fox or Bird masks, catching the Resistance completely off guard.
Precisely as occurred on that day a year ago.
The memory of that day was still etched in my mind, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. It was an exceptionally cold night, and deep down, I had already sensed that the assignment was doomed from the start.
The Resistance maintained its central headquarters in an abandoned, castle-like manor tucked away in the north of England. Scattered across the UK were other bases—some used for extended missions that took us far from home, others serving as safe houses for families displaced by the war. These safe houses often included infirmaries with on-site healers, along with teams of Resistance members stationed to protect and assist. Additional outposts, particularly those near areas of strategic interest to Voldemort's forces, were left empty, dormant until we needed to use them.
Dark wizards loyal to Voldemort relentlessly hunted these places down, sparing no effort to destroy them, and, ideally, anyone stationed there.
This mission saw our team—me, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Neville and Luna, along with a handful of high-ranking Order members and Aurors—travelling to Dorset. We'd been using an abandoned manor there as a safe house for the last two years. But, as was often the case, its location had been compromised. The Death Eaters attacked swiftly and without mercy. Rescuing those still inside became our priority, especially for Harry, who refused to let anyone fall, not if he had the power to stop it.
Typically, these assignments were relatively low-risk, often involving a fair number of Crows and maybe a few Foxes causing chaos—blowing parts of the building up, setting things alight. Usually, those already there could defend themselves for the most part until reinforcements arrived. It rarely necessitated the direct involvement of multiple of our best witches and wizards, maybe one or two to lead a team at the most.
However, this particular site was different.
Situated in a less war-torn region and away from the turmoil, it served as our biggest sanctuary. Selected precisely for its inconspicuous status as a Muggle building, it was constantly well-warded and well-guarded. Beyond serving as an infirmary for combat casualties, the manor provided refuge for numerous witches and wizards unable to participate in the war for various reasons. But most importantly, there were the children. A lot of them. It had become considered one of the Resistance's safest sanctuaries, designed mainly for the weakest and most vulnerable, a place for those unable to engage in the war.
Upon hearing the news, Harry's inherent saviour complex kicked in. He insisted that this rescue mission demanded our most elite members, and to recognise the heightened chance of a Dragon's presence.
We couldn't afford to take any risks in such a precarious situation.
Creeping around the corner, I kept my breathing slow and shallow. A Death Eater was prowling ahead, hood drawn low, wearing the beaked mask of a lower rank. But something in me knew—instinctively, stubbornly—this wasn't just any ordinary Bird.
If it was even a Bird at all.
Harry and Ron had always said that, in a pinch, I should use the Unforgivables to protect myself or them. Once, I'd have never even dreamed of it. The very idea would've horrified me. But the war had a way of hardening you. I'd learned to steel my emotions, to accept that sometimes ugly choices had to be made if we were going to win. So yes, I considered it. Often. And in that moment, even though I wasn't in immediate danger, the thought of taking this Death Eater down crossed my mind.
Then they saw me.
Our eyes locked, and my stomach clenched. If I was right and this was a Dragon, that meant unruly, untamed, unpredictable... and I'd have to think fast if I wanted to reach the Portkey alive.
My hand went for my wand, but they moved faster, a quick knock-back jinx slamming me into the wall. The air whooshed out of my lungs in a painful grunt.
I forced myself upright, wand in hand. But before I could steady myself, they were on me. Shit. Fast didn't even cover it. I lifted my wand, lips forming the beginning of an incantation—a feint. Instead, I swept my left leg out hard and caught them off balance.
Yet this was no time to gloat. I was barely upright when they were already standing, brushing dust from their sleeves like I'd done nothing more than inconvenience them.
I raised my wand. "Confrin—"
They closed the distance before I had a chance to finish. One hand locked around my throat. Their wand pressed cold against my jugular. The other hand seized my wrist and wrenched it backwards, another inch, and it would snap.
It was a Dragon. Had to be. Nothing else moved like that. I had maybe one second. One spell. It had to count.
"I wouldn't try that if I were you." Their voice came low and rasping through the enchantment, distorted but unmistakably amused. Through the mask, their eyes found mine—sharp, predatory. A smirk tugged at their lips. "I can't wait to make you scream."
"I'd like to see you try,” I spat, and slammed my forehead into theirs.
Pain exploded across my skull. Their grip didn't falter. Didn't even loosen. Instead, their fingers tightened around my throat until black spots danced at the edges of my vision, and my wrist bent back, back, back—
The snap was sickeningly loud.
I opened my mouth to scream, but a woman's shriek tore through the air.
I knew that voice. I'd know it anywhere. No enchantment in the world could hide that laugh, that particular brand of madness. Bellatrix Lestrange. The sound still crawled into my nightmares, still made my skin go cold.
I swallowed my scream and forced myself to focus through the white-hot agony radiating from my wrist. Two Dragons in one day. Fucking typical. But Bellatrix's arrival was enough. The Dragon's grip faltered—just for a second, attention split. I twisted hard, wrenched myself free, and dropped. My good hand closed around my wand as I hit the ground and scrambled back, putting a few inches between us.
"Marigold!" My head whipped around so fast my neck cracked. Harry, sprinting toward me through the darkness. Ron was close behind, wand raised.
"Dragons!" I shouted. "Two of them!"
Green light split the night.
Not aimed at me. Aimed at the Dragon standing opposite.
It hit me then—Bellatrix hadn't realised who was under that mask. Hadn't clocked Harry or Ron either, thankfully. I suppose she thought she was clearing out the dead weight, eliminating a "lesser" Death Eater before turning her full attention back to me.
I should've run. In that moment, I should have used the distraction to escape, grab Harry and Ron and head to the Portkey.
But the Death Eater looked at me. Through the mask, their eyes found mine.
I didn't think.
I launched myself forward and slammed into them. We went down hard, a tangle of limbs and robes, the ground punching the air from my lungs. The killing curse screamed past overhead, so close I felt the cold wake of it against my spine.
I stared down at them, utterly baffled. They stared back, just as stunned.
What the fuck had I just done?
Five minutes ago, I'd been ready to end them without hesitation. And now—now I'd thrown myself between them and a killing curse without even thinking.
"Asphodel!" My attention snapped to Ron's urgent cry, and my gaze followed his gesture toward Harry. Dread coiled within me as I realised what was about to happen. I observed with a blend of horror and then relief, as Ron swiftly unleashed a potent banishing charm on Harry, propelling him away from the trajectory of the curse just in time to narrowly avoid it.
My heart felt as if it had ceased beating for a moment; the mere thought of losing Harry to the killing curse was unthinkable. The war's fate hinged on him.
Amidst Bellatrix's chilling laughter, my focus returned to the Death Eater that was still pinned beneath me. We both grasped the gravity of the situation as we stared at each other for a moment more until I finally shakily got to my feet, using the confusion as an opportunity to escape.
"Herm—Marigold, what in Merlin's—"
"Are either of you hurt?" I cut Ron off, my voice sharper than I intended.
Both of them shook their heads. Harry opened his mouth, but I didn't let him speak.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The pain in my wrist radiated through my entire body, pulsing in time with my racing pulse. I was shaking—adrenaline, shock, maybe both—but I forced myself to stay upright. Stay focused.
"Is everyone rescued who could be?"
"We saved everyone we could," Ron said, frustration bleeding into his tone. "We came back to find you. Where did you—"
"We need to retreat. Now."
They must've heard it in my voice—the edge of desperation I couldn't quite hide—because neither of them protested. They just nodded.
I grabbed their hands, gritting my teeth against the jarring pain as we turned on the spot. The world compressed, twisted, and spat us out near the Portkey.
The journey back to base was a blur of Portkey nausea and Harry's careful silence.
I tried to explain once we were through the wards. Tried to tell him I hadn't meant it—that I'd lost control, that the curse wasn't supposed to come anywhere near him. The words came out wrong, tangled and desperate.
Harry nodded. At the time, he understood, but his eyes didn't quite meet mine. Ron, however, wouldn't even look at me. Not then. Not for a week after.
I told myself it was fine. That they'd come around. That we'd been through worse.
If only I knew how wrong I was.
Things had already been shifting between us—the so-called Golden Trio. The deeper we got into our search for the Horcrux, the more friends we lost, every mission that went sideways... it changed us. It changed all of us. But after that night, something broke that couldn't be fixed.
Since that day a year ago, the composed exterior I once took pride in had cracked. What was left was this vulnerable version of myself, one I barely recognised, and honestly, despised.
There were other incidents after that night. Smaller ones, but enough, and so the decision came down quietly. No formal announcement. Just Kingsley pulling me aside one evening, his tone gentle but firm.
"You're too valuable to lose, Hermione. But right now, you're a liability in the field."
I understood. Even agreed. But it still felt like failure.
So I stepped back. Took on healing duties at Headquarters, threw myself into research—experimental charms, advanced field medicine, anything that might give us an edge. I was good at it. Better than good, in fact.
But Harry and Ron were gone more often than not, pairing up for reconnaissance missions I wasn't invited to. When they came back, they didn't seek me out. Kingsley stopped inviting me to tactical meetings. The other Order members were polite but distant, and I barely saw Ginny or Luna as they were always stationed elsewhere or out on assignment.
Then the restrictions came down. I couldn't leave the base without supervision. At first, it chafed. Then I leaned into it. Spent longer hours in the infirmary, buried myself in research notes until my eyes burned.
I told myself it was enough. That I was still contributing, still useful.
But the uselessness gnawed at me anyway, constant and corrosive. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, replaying that moment over and over.
The cold bit through my cloak, sharp enough to sting. Snow crunched under my boots as I stood in front of my parents' gravestones, my breath misting in the frozen air. My fingertips went numb, and every breath sent a sharp ache through my chest, yet I stayed rooted in place, ignoring the faint warmth calling me back.
A single tear slid down my cheek before I even realised I was crying. I wiped it away, angry at myself for the weakness.
Harry Potter—the one person who had to survive this war, the only one who could end it—had nearly died because of me. Because I had a moment of weakness and saved a Death Eater.
Pathetic.
The word tasted bitter, but it was true. I'd spent my whole life priding myself on logic, on control, on being the one who thought three steps ahead. And in one moment of blind instinct, I'd thrown it all away.
For what? A stranger in a mask?
A voice cut through my thoughts, but I kept my eyes on the names carved into stone.
"Thought I'd find you here."
I looked up to find Ginny watching me, her brown eyes warm despite the cold.
"Do you think we can ever truly deserve happiness?" I asked quietly. "With all the blood we've spilt?"
She was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I try not to think about it too much. Those thoughts just... they drag you down."
I nodded, pulling my coat tighter.
"Last week was the anniversary, wasn't it?" She gestured toward the graves.
I buried my face deeper in my scarf, not trusting myself to speak.
Her footsteps crunched closer on the frost-covered ground. "Come on, let's head back. Kingsley's been looking for you—I covered, but only because I knew where you'd gone." She paused. "You're not supposed to leave the base alone anymore. And it's freezing out here. You don't want hypothermia on top of everything else."
The attempt at a joke didn't quite land, but I appreciated it anyway.
"Look, I know it's frustrating. But you know as well as I do that it's not safe out here alone these days—regardless of whether you're cleared for field work or not.” Her smile was tired but steady. “Come on, let’s head back. I have to leave in a few hours.”
I sighed. Although our friendship had begun to fade over the last year due to us barely seeing each other, I was glad she still looked out for me.
"Okay," I said quietly. "I'm ready."
With one last glance at my parents' graves, I turned away from the snowy stillness and followed Ginny back toward the base, the cold bitterly biting at my heels.