𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀

☾ Chapter 1

☾

March 9th, 2001

"Stick together," Ginny exclaimed, holstering her bloodied combat knife back into her leather waistband, "We're going into the base for Leanne, and coming right back out. I expect no commotion, no speaking, absolute silence. Got it?"

Fred, Hermione, Luna, Parvati and Neville all nodded in agreement, wands ready in case of an unpremeditated attack.

That was how the rest of their division had gotten killed. Leanne was the only one left. The Order, despite multiple pleads and counter arguments from Hermione had continued to send the halved group out on assignments.

Whether it was as small as foraging for extra food, or as risky as rescuing a fellow classmate, she was surprised she hadn't been killed yet.

Hermione was in no means grateful to be alive.

War on the losing side was a place she didn't want to be, but others relied on her skill. She wasn't allowed to take her own life. It'd be too selfish.

Despite nearly three years having passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, the deaths of both her best friend and boyfriend at the time stung her bones. The loss of Ron had been a deep gash in her heart that had yet to heal, Harry's execution only prying it wider.

Hermione was unsure how she'd made it so far.

She was the only one left.

Bravery and self righteousness had gotten the two Gryffindor boys killed.

With the wits to outsmart death itself, the strength in her muscles to run as fast as a fox, the ability to blend into her surroundings with a twist of her wand, she was sure her house had changed.

She no longer carried the pride Gryffindor house had given her.

It was buried deep inside.

They began to hike against the whipping tall grasses, wind cascading through her wild curls before tying it into a low bun, so she couldn't be grabbed.

They were at the summit of a nearby mountain, Hogwarts' crumbled ruins twenty miles in the foggy distance, the base camp of Lord Voldemort's army sitting snug against the mossed boulders, small cabins puffing smoke from their chimneys as tortured screams echoed through the valley below.

Hermione had grown accustomed to the base camp. Male captives wore white shirts with white trousers, while the female captives wore long, sheer, Victorian style dresses, also in a creamy white shade.

In white, the death eaters' brutality could ooze through the cotton fabric in shades of maroon, staining their gowns with blood, like red wine to a drunk man's carpet. The bloodier the dress, the more disobedient you were.

It was their little game.

Hermione had grown to dread the color white. She'd promised herself she would never wear one of those rags; and if she ever did, she swore to the gods she would stain it completely scarlet by the time they decided to kill her.

They'd approached a weak spot in the base camp by now, only two death eaters standing next to the barbed wire fence, half of it having had collapsed in on itself, providing a small hurdle.

Magic would be detected, setting off an alarm that would immediately blow their cover.

She had done this before.

Nodding to Ginny, they took their combat knives from the leather waistbands, avoiding crumpled leaves on the valley floor from the previous autumn, having been buried underneath the melting winter snow.