Obliviate -the lost week (Harmione)

December 25th

Hermione watched her corpse on the full body mirror. No divination required: the candlelight gave her skin a yellowish color, and shadows enough, and her clothes still smelled of Bathilda's. So as she stripped to take a much needed shower (one she liked to imagine would take off more than the smell), she took on the sight, trying to accept the only future the brightest witch of their age could predict. No sentimentalism involved. That is, nothing but overwhelming fear.

She could leave, disapparate to another country and hide. She could even try to return to Hogwarts. The teen knew Harry had also thought of doing so, the temptation evident sometimes in the way he regarded the map, even though it was, for him, utterly impossible. The wise girl, instead, might be protected both because of her talent and because of her friendship with him; there was no way of knowing for sure but her apparent loyalty to the new regime could be certainly used to manipulate the public. If death eaters were so politically wise, was yet to be known.

Half naked now, the enchantress absently caressed the skin of her arms, the chill making her fully aware that she was, still, alive.

Hermione could leave, but she wouldn't.

Unlike Ron.

The witch hated him so very much sometimes, the long years of friendship and the embryonic semblance of courting they had shared were forcefully kicked to the back of her mind. She couldn't believe she was still open to the possibility of loving him, of spending with him all of her nights of passion, of carrying his (traditionally numerous) kids and raising them with him and his spoony emotional depth. The girl honestly couldn't see a reason for that right now. Most warmth had left with Ron's jokes, and she was growing tired of playing Penelope.

She wondered fleetingly if the death eaters were to rape her after or before having used the forbidden courses on her.

Taking off the rest of her clothes, Hermione stepped to the shower. She only hoped she'd find something helpful in Skeeter's borrowed book.

Her fingers itched where they had touched Harry's hair, and Hermione closed her hand before taking the book in it to lay it on the table, her other hand being occupied with her tea cup. Then, the witch wondered if she must read it fully. They didn't have lots of clues as to where to go next, and they needed one badly.

The steps in the entrance of the tent surprised her.

"Hermione..." Harry called.

She turned as his hand went through his hair again. Her wand was negligently held in the other hand. The girl thought that, in his current state of mind, an entire squad of death eaters would step through the entrance of the tent without him noticing until they pushed him to the side.

"I'm... I'm not at my best... I just... I wanted to be sure... you know... those words... the... anger... wasn't directed at you..."

He stopped, his darting eyes telling her that he was terrified. Of what, she didn't know at first, but then lighting struck, and as her mind's eye saw Ron disapparating from their lives, the witch understood. How frantic he must have been, of her leaving as well. Hermione suddenly felt ashamed of herself, for not noticing that, even if she seemed to be more affected, he had also lost his best friend.

"I won't leave, Harry" she said firmly, then took some steps forward and hugged him.

A single drop fell on her shoulder, and he dried his face with his hand before hiding it in her bushy hair. 'What a pair', Hermione thought. The witch often had to hide her own feelings, for the others to remain calm, to understand reason; like minutes ago, when the girl had defended Dumbledore even though, despite the truth in her own words, she felt, once again, betrayed. It was tiring for a role, and often lead her to feel lonely and to think less of male friends who understood close to nothing. But of course they did. Half the time, she hid her feelings purposely.