I hope our story has a happier ending

something in your eyes says we can beat this

In the space of a heartbeat, the supernatural quiet turns to deafening chaos.

Hermione's thankful, then, that she's spent a lifetime dissociating; the battle doesn't faze her, as she tunes out the screams and destruction as easily as though it were background music in a movie.

The Order is strong—has gotten lucky, has sustained so few casualties the last few years. So much of it has only been possible because of Draco's work for the Order—or even earlier, the information and resources he'd been unofficially surviving.

Not to mention the impact of having ASA on board—instead of having half assed teenage wannabe soldiers with minimal practice, it's a legitimate legion of legitimately strong fighters who not only have gained knowledge and years of training, but also have spent those years fighting together, learning each other's fighting styles so thoroughly they move like the many parts of a single unit. It's practically second nature to anticipate each others' movements, and it makes a world of difference.

(One they hadn't had last time around, Remus has told her, when the hope is alight in his eyes.)

She doesn't want to think about how this battle might've gone, otherwise; doesn't like to consider who might be falling around her without the upper hand their actions have given them.

Neville catapults mandrakes over the castle walls, determination lining his face.

Cho stands behind him, weaving the kind of complicated charmwork she's been impressing Hermione with for years; it's not clear if Neville had asked for her protection as he worked or if she'd merely taken the role upon herself, but they make a formidable force against the horde of Aragog's descendants and Death Eaters scrambling to gain ground.

It's another advantage, the inter-house unity that's developed the last few years. The Death Eaters might have a few odds and ends from other houses scattered amongst their allies, but they're overwhelmingly from a single house—the older Order members, as well.

It keeps them from predicting movements and strategies, has already kept them from gaining any of the benefits of a wide array of allies: learning more strengths, defending your own weaknesses from opponents with different skill sets—the difference is clearer every moment.

Part of her wants to stay right where she is: close enough to the center of things to put herself to work taking critical players out, where she can see everyone she cares about and ensure their safety the entire time.

At heart she knows it's not an option; she's one of so few people who knows what they have to do—knows that they're so close to Voldemort being vulnerable enough to be killed.

(The snake. Someone has to find the snake.)

Taking a deep breath, she begins weaving through the chaos to head toward where she assumes the Death Eaters' stronghold to be.

A growl emanates from her right, and she already has her wand pulled and the beginnings of a stunner at her lips before she realizes it's Moody, mid-duel with what looks like Goyle's father.

She's never gotten along with the man—has spent most Order meetings glaring at him with derision, knows the feeling is mutual however much they may be on the same side.

But in this moment he looks—vulnerable. Everyone always mentions his age, of course, attributes his less-than-sane characteristics to it, but she's never actually considered it before; his energy and spite and acumen have always made him seem decades younger.

Now, though, his true age shows through, for all intents and purposes a tired old man whose limbs tremble and whose hearing is going; it rattles her, in a way little else has.