Snamione One Shots

When All That's Left Is This

In the dark times after the war, three survivors struggle in a harsh world of despair, bitterness and revenge, and comfort can be found from unexpected sources.

-

The basement of what had once been Olivander's, the finest wand shop in all of England, was cold and dark when Hermione Granger reached the bottom of the dank stone staircase and pushed the heavy wooden door open. Lowering her hood, she exhaled a breath of relief at her safe return.

As the latch clicked back into place, the torches set at intervals on the walls that formed the perimeter of the room sprang to life, casting an eerie, orange light across the deserted space. She had never worked out how to stop them from doing that.

There was a fine layer of dust covering the rectangular wooden table and bench seats in the centre of the room. It didn't matter that they ate at the table every day, it didn't matter how many times Hermione swept the room clean… somehow, the dust always found its way in. She fancied if she left it long enough, the dust would swallow the entire room. Maybe it would swallow her with it.

Shrugging out of her cloak and tossing it on one of the rickety beds, she set the string bag she'd been carrying on the sideboard and took a moment to massage her temples with her fingertips; she had a splitting headache. It was almost dark outside, and her companions would be returning soon; even they weren't brave enough to carry out their work after nightfall these days. Inferi, Dementors… who knew what lurked in the deepest of shadows after dark? Those who had found out hadn't returned to tell the tale. She pushed aside the thought that one day, one or both of her companions may not return either.

With a sigh, she opened the string bag and tipped out its contents: a loaf of bread, a handful of raw vegetables and a half-eaten block of cheese with a nasty greenish tinge to one end. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers; she smiled wryly at the Muggle saying, which wasn't all that far from the truth.

It had been two years since Harry had been killed by Voldemort. The Order of the Phoenix was decimated – she and the two men who lived with her in this dingy basement were the last of the group. How they had survived these past two years, she would never know… each day that passed was a surprise, a bonus and a burden.

Hermione let her mind wander as she sliced the bread, chopped the vegetables, and swept the layer of dust from the table. Raw vegetables in a chipped china bowl – they had no means with which to cook – and bread and cheese straight on the surface of the table, she retrieved three mugs from the sideboard and half-filled each with water. One of her companions would have to venture into Muggle London one day soon to refill the dirty plastic bottles from a park, a creek or a sink in a public toilet.

She should be grateful for what they had. Food had been scarce at best; last winter there had been a disturbing few weeks when they'd been surviving on stale bread and water alone. Most of the time, they were able to steal what they needed from Muggle houses and shops in the nearby suburbs. Back in the beginning, they'd even been able to visit the Muggle markets and buy food. That novelty had lasted only as long as their meagre funds.

Sometimes her companions returned from their work with a few coins in their pockets… Sickles, Galleons, the occasional Muggle pound. But they weren't game enough to spend them now. They couldn't show their faces in public to spend them; they were wanted people, after all.

Too nervous to sit and wait for their return, she paced back and forth across the length of the room; walking past the bed, she picked up her discarded cloak and spread it out atop the threadbare blanket. It was always cold down here, and they'd need the extra warmth tonight.

He would need her tonight, too.

In some strange, twisted way, she looked forward to these nights; they were the only nights she felt… needed.