View Cart. Pressed on limited edition green marble vinyl, exclusive to Zavvi. Track Listing: A1. Prophesy A2. Gassed A3. Attestupan A6. Ritual In Transfigured Time A7. Murder Mystery B1. The Blessing B2. Chorus of Sirens B3. A Language of Sex B4. Fire Temple. Sweat is running down her neck and back, and making the grip on her wand looser than it should have been.
Frantically, her wand flies to the left, the right, and she circles round and round, and thinks to scream. To scream and cry, and then the least brave thing that she has ever thought suddenly slams itself into the forefront of her terrified mind. She will hide. She will pretend as if she was hit by something, and she'll lie on the ground, and pretend to be dead.
Play dead. Play dead, that is what she will do. Suddenly, there is nothing in the world she wants more than to bury her face in the mud and not look up or breathe until she can hear no more. She hates herself for the thought. It makes her sick, and she screams and screams inside her head, because she is not that person. She is not the scared coward in the mud, and this is her war.
This is her war, and she won't give them the satisfaction. She is lost, though. Hermione is so completely lost, and her hand is shaking uncontrollably as she swings her wand back to the left.
She slides in the mud, almost trips, and it forces her to gasp and vocalize her fear. The figure to the right pushes closer, and she knows she will Stupefy them despite not knowing who they are for. Because this is life and death, she knows. Because these are Death Eaters possibly, possibly , and they do not Stupefy. They do not. There is a flash of yellow and it misses her hip by just an inch, halting her heart. Her stomach caves in with the air choking out from her tight throat, and she's crying.
She's crying without meaning to, or even really noticing, but she is. Because she does not want to die. She is eighteen, and scared, and she does not want to die. Her throat clicks wetly as she tries to force that hard knot back down into her gut, and she is certain of her actions as she points her wand to the one responsible for that jet of yellow.
She has seen no color, but there was a burst of pricking warmth at the center of her back. Her bones are locked, muscles stilled, and she topples like a mannequin. The mud is wet and cold and thick, and the irony over being face down in it now is not lost on her. It makes her want to cry harder, could she move the necessary parts to do it. Instead, she watches blackness and tries to breathe, but the mud is thick in her mouth, and blocks the oxygen from her throat and lungs.
Please, please, please, she cries in her head, pushes all her magic and power behind trying to unlock herself. There are screams and yells, and the sounds of the battle she has heard for an hour now. She feels strangely detached now, though, and thinks she will die here. She will die here , in the mud for the Mudblood, and she will never see the sun again. There will only be clouded shadowed figures, fear and heartache, and then this grave of mud and rainwater.
There is a hand, then, as she laments, and the grip is almost painful as it throws her onto her back. She is expecting a mask, or a familiar Slytherin face, keen on mocking or torture. Instead, it is only Neville standing above her, digging mud out of her throat with a trembling hand as he sobs his apologies. Day: ; Hour: 11 "Can't you feel it? It's like it's I mean, it's happening. Really starting to happen. Because Harry can feel it and he knows this. Because Harry has felt it for years and years, exactly as they feel it now, and there is no one who understands that hollow ache in your gut more than Harry does.
There has been a lot of fear now; it surrounds them like a wet, suffocating cloth. They feel as if they've lived with it for the longest time, but not quite like this. The most fear is in the unknowing. In letting one's mind wonder at the possibilities.
But they are brave. They are Gryffindors, and they are friends, and they cannot afford to be afraid now. Especially for Harry's sake, if not the whole world.
He is greatness in this room. Larger than life, and yet the smallest boy she has ever seen. His destiny has outweighed his heavy head. Voldemort's stronger now, and now we have more help to defeat him. It's just like it has been though. He has lost too much already.
Ron's bright, painful blue eyes meet hers, and they dig down for purchase in her conviction. He knows it is not like it has been, and Harry probably knows this as well. She also knows that Ron is the sort of friend who will tell Harry the full truth of the world as he sees it, and perhaps this is why Harry sees him as the better friend.
But Hermione still knows what's best for him anyway. At times, we need to hear the lie to keep living the truth. That is the world. Ron falls into a moment of understanding that she does not take for granted, because it could pass as easily as the sun behind a cloud. But he understands, and nods, and returns to his magazine while she gropes for a different subject.
Ron, when do your parents leave for that meeting they were talking about? Ron's eyes dart the room with the excitement of possibilities, as if there were people lurking in the corners, and he stares at Hermione for several seconds. She thinks to say a lot of things, but instead she only smiles and shakes her head, and he grins in the way that used to break her heart.
They would be all right. They were one, two, three and together, and they would be all right. Do not separate from your team! When you are at your destination, alert the other teams by way of the coin as we've done the past two months. When all teams are at their designated areas, you attack as a unit -- What, Thomas? He isn't most days. His eye rolls, and he wipes the sweat from his temple, scowling and fierce.
He turns back to the complicated map at the front of the room, retracing routes with his wand again. He takes a few seconds to collect himself before explaining the rest of the mission.
Hermione is attentive; despite that she knows it won't be that hard. She has learned to tell such things by who was in the room with her. Despite the presence of a handful of Aurors and senior Order members, it was mostly younger, more inexperienced fighters sitting around the meeting table now. So when Ron jokes about how twitchy Dean is, or mocks Lavender for trying to see her reflection in the table surface, she pays attention to him and laughs a little too.
Because it's nice not to be so swept up sometimes. Because she thinks she might just break and crumble under everything if she doesn't smile at how immature Ron can be, or how quirky her friends were. However, that night, Luna Lovegood dies across the room from her, and eight more are injured badly.
Hermione learns to never judge difficulty level by who is going in. It is war, and people die - in small battles, or big battles, or brushing their teeth in the morning. No one is safe anymore. She cries herself to sleep for days. Day: ; Hour: 4 She walks onto the Malfoy Manor yard, and raises her chin up so high she might begin to float.
She has an appointment with Tonks here today, in one of the many rooms that have been put to use as offices. The rest are used as boardrooms, tactic rooms, and living quarters. A fallout shelter was created in the dungeons, and the entire West wing is used as an infirmary and lab for potions. It serves the Order well. Tonight, she will go back to the Burrow for her birthday celebrations. Though Tonks offered to reschedule for tomorrow, Hermione insisted on the original date.
It is a gift in itself to know that she can now walk on what used to be a Death Eater stronghold. Every step of her feet on that protected Pureblood-supremacy grass makes her lips form a smirk worthy of a Malfoy. Day: ; Hour: 12 Ron and Harry both look up at her with wide eyes, clutching their stomachs and participating in some melodramatics. Hermione sighs and tries to ignore them, even though she knows it's of no use. Knew it was of no use the moment they asked. Ron laughs, Harry grins.
I'm starving! We're dying! We only want some food. Hermione sighs, glancing at the clock that tells her Tonks won't be at the shelter house for another four hours at least. Which means she could sit and wonder more about where Tonks is supposed to take them after this, or she can make breakfast and get her friends to shut up. She has winded down the stairs, crossed the kitchen, and put on her coffee before she even really notices the three people sitting at the table.
It isn't Neville, Lavender, and Justin like she thought, but Malfoy, Parkinson, and the plump man she faintly recalls seeing Lupin shake hands with. Parkinson looks at her briefly, and Malfoy is busy trying to light the table on fire with his glare. She blinks and thinks, staring at the coffee maker, and tried to make sense of their presence. Perhaps their location had been found out somehow, though it would be impossible without a leak from the inside.
She thinks of what she can say to properly convey how she feels about them him being there, but is coming up empty.
She opens her mouth to say something scathing, but only says, "I don't know. Are you Blackwood? Transferring what? Not at You bring a Death Eater and his little--" Malfoy's full attention is now directed at Justin, his palm braces against the table, and his body is tight and waiting. You bring that fuck here, then you're going to tell me I can't know why?
That Death Eater elitist piece of shit, contaminating my air with his--" Malfoy shoots up, the table popping and scraping, and Parkinson is up directly after him. I'm not a fucking Death Eater --" Justin is rushing toward Malfoy now, and Malfoy is yelling to be heard over Justin's inarticulate screaming. The portly man is standing and blocking, screaming back at both of them. Touch him and it's fucking over!
Come on! Come on, you sick piece of shit! You scum! You fucking You mother fucker! You Narcissa fucking mother fucker! It is the accumulation of years of withstanding prejudice and Malfoy's sneering face.
It is the outcome of a war fought over these same prejudices. It is the breakdown of a man who faces the hooded, masked figures of racism over the bodies of his friends, and remembers Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy, who had been screaming so hard his face and neck were red and his tendons were bulging, is silent. Who had been shoving and squirming and stepping quick on his feet to try and bypass the man he had come with, is now still.
His shoulders and chest rise and fall quickly with his labored breaths, and he is calming, while Justin just grows more frantic.
He yells something about a bathroom, and then a desk, and then parchment, then a noisy stair or perhaps nosy stare. He has reached hysteria, and it is ugly, and powerful, and raw, and Malfoy only stares in the wake of it. Can only stand and watch, and listen to the madness on the other side of the human wall. The color has drained from his face, and he's so still it's painful, and he does not look away from Justin's wet eyes for a second.
Parkinson is standing on the tabletop and staring too, and Hermione cannot find the will to tear her eyes away. He doesn't listen, though she expects as much, and so she goes to him. Her grip is pushed off of him twice, and then he's yelling in her face and shoving at her, but only until he realizes what he's doing.
Then, he is on his knees, and his head is bent, and his whole body shakes with the force of his crying. Words are muttered with no sense, wet and desperate like broken prayer. Hermione follows him down and clutches at him, and her own eyes are tearing up, because she feels the waves of what he feels like something bruising and poignant.
They are the reason for it, and they have no right to see him lose it like this over what they did. You don't show your enemy the pain they have caused you; the weakness that they inflect.
I just I know," she whispers, smoothed his hair, tries to lend the comfort she does not feel. Day: ; Hour: 1 There are twelve people sitting around the table at Malfoy Manor. At first, she thinks the low number is cause from people wandering and exploring the decadence of the Manor much like she had done her first time here, as much as she tried to disguise her awe.
However, it is now seventeen minutes into the laying out of the plan, and no one else has drifted through those heavy doors. It was a plan that required at least double their current number. It was a dangerous mission even with the extra people. Hermione honestly can't see how they plan on keeping their force down so low. She raises a hand, more timid than her school days but demanding all the same. His eyes follow the half-circle of heads in front of him before looking back to her.
It just seems a little--" "We're at a shortage, Granger. We don't have enough people for everything we have to do. This mission can be completed with twelve people.
You'll make it work - do you understand? Though she knows that they have a shortage of people at times, she also has become the sort of person with him that does not want to give him the chance to redeem himself. The price they paid to even have him was too great.
Parkinson, it is said weeks later, has taken to fighting as well. Hermione is both unsure and unsettled with the news, but her life is busy, and she often forgets until she sees them in different places and realizes why they are no longer stationary in the house with empty walls. Hermione herself does not understand why she pays so much attention to them. At first she thinks it is the same as everyone else; her eyes, ears, and mind are tracking them for the sake of her paranoia.
Then, it is something more - a curiosity melded to her personality that she has never been able to shake. She watches them because they are different. She pays attention because the strangeness of their lives is a reprieve from her own. She is simply very aware of them, and is unsure if she is too aware for it to be normal.
Day: ; Hour: 11 Twigs snap under their feet, but they are far enough away from any known danger to not be too worried over it. Exhaustion piled on top of hunger can make people have a strange and dangerous carelessness when it came to the world around them. They are focusing completely and single-mindedly on one task - getting to the camp Kingsley and Tonks had set up.
It's good for blocking. It would give anyone a perfect vantage point to spy on us. It's up here soon. It is just the two of them now. Harry is being kept safe by keeping him out of the missions until all the Horcruxes are found. A nasty arm injury scared the Ministry bad enough to want to pull him from anything that dangerous anymore. Harry was pretty upset over the whole thing, but settled once they put him on the Horcrux Retrieval Squad. Hermione knows that Harry still hates being there when his friends are here, trampling through the woods without him.
She also knows that Ron hates being here, instead of with Harry. At times, she thinks the only reason Ron is even still with her and not Harry is because they are afraid to leave her alone. Part of this is paranoia, but part of it is truth as well, and she isn't sure if this knowledge bothers her more than being alone would. They rise over the hill, empty at the bottom.
The decline is sharp and steep, and Ron grabs her hand before they descend. She thinks of pulling away, but he is warm and a friend, and she doesn't mind as much as she should. Day: ; Hour: 7 She has seen him many times now, in different shelters as she travels. It is the first time she has seen him less than brooding. Really, the first time she has seen him sleeping at all. His head is on Parkinson's shoulder, and there are bandages peeking up from beneath his shirt.
It is hard on him, Lupin has told her. They all want a piece of him to destroy. She can't say she cares all that much, because it is hard on everyone.
Because he has made the choices he made, and he has to accept the consequences of running around and trying to be a Death Eater when he was sixteen. Even if he were only sixteen at the time. If Harry had died fighting Voldemort at sixteen, he would have had to accept that damning consequence as well.
Malfoy didn't get to get away with anything. He didn't get her pity. Parkinson smiles, as she is in love with Malfoy, and always has been. Anyone with eyes at Hogwarts would have been able to tell you the same thing. Parkinson would have given her life for Malfoy in the blink of an eye, and would have married him even quicker.
Malfoy's affections are a little less known, but only in the way that he likes to shag other girls, but he likes to sleep in the same bed with Parkinson. Or something to that extent. Hermione doesn't pretend to know their relationship, but she tries to guess at it when she has nothing else to do.
She does know that in Hogwarts, while Pansy was making big eyes and warm smiles, Malfoy was busy getting blowjobs in the supply closets. Perhaps he was just the cheating, unfeeling boyfriend. Or maybe Pansy was just in love with a man who took what he wanted, and accepted nothing that would grieve him - like love. She does think that Malfoy took a pain relief potion by the looks of the bottle rolling in Parkinson's hand, and happened to pass out unexpectedly.
Hermione doesn't really take him for the type that would allow himself to sleep unprotected in front of people who are his allies, but, yeah, sort of his enemies too. Pansy looks as if she is thoroughly enjoying the peaceful moment, and Hermione lets her. There will be time later to tell her that she'll be leaving with her in the morning. Day: ; Hour: 20 "Ron, my leg is fine.
Completely healed. You were looking at it strange. She waits until Seamus glares and leaves, and leans forward over the chess game sitting between them. His head is lowered, and he's rubbing his hands on his pants like he does when he's nervous about something. Her heart counts the seconds, because she knows this is important and that it will not be good. To Harry. I'm going to be with Harry. They haven't even been able to find out Harry's location for months now.
Ron hasn't even mentioned wanting to leave her. Leave here. Lupin knows I wouldn't mind Because Harry wants him. A friend, and it's him, and she'll be the one left behind here. They both will have gone and left her here, alone now. I mean Or else I would stay. But I can't just leave him - he's alone. She is. They all are a bit, right at that moment.
Trapped in personal space. He always has, really. He is the Destined One. The boy who is supposed to save them all. Ron is the best friend. She is the girl who She doesn't really have a clue what her title or position is, but she knows she loves them both, and she would rather be alone than let Harry be alone.
He needs everything the most. She has always been willing to do her best to give that to him. To give both of them whatever they need. His clothes are a little cold, and he smells like grease and mint, but it still feels good. He is both hard and soft, and feels odd pressed against her, though she can remember a time, just barely, in the past where it used to be the best thing in the world.
She feels the muscle tense and then he pulls her tighter, until she can barely breathe. I'll linger after I leave then. She almost gets sappy and tells him he'll linger always, stench or no, but decides that there is enough sadness in war to not bring in anymore. Back to index. Day: ; Hour: 18 Hermione has developed a system. It is not the best system, and some might say it is the worst system, but it is hers and it works most the time.
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