Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

Harry said nothing, just watched intently as he lit another cigarette and handed it to her. He didn't smoke himself, but he'd started carrying a packet with him sometime ago. Knew many of the refugees craved them. Knew the majority of the soldiers needed them to get through the day. Hermione was the latter.

She accepted it eagerly and took a deep drag, adding to the addictive buzz in her skull. "There was a moment when he was captured; three of them vs me and Colin. One had the artefact, one had their wand pointed at me, and the other had their wand at Colin's throat." Another pause as she took a deep breath, steadying herself for the rest of her confession. "I knew I wouldn't be able to take all three down, so I had a choice; Colin, or the Artefact."

"You wouldn't have done it," he affirmed, his brows knitting together in a reassuring way that only Harry could do, showing that he believed in her. It made Hermione's chest tighten.

"There was a second, fuck, a split second where I genuinely considered letting him die so I could take it. Kingsley did say it would change the tide of the war, swing it in our favour."

"You wouldn't have done it," Harry repeated, his voice trailing off, not sounding as confident. "I know you; you couldn't have. You would have saved Colin."

"That's the thing, I don't know anymore. I don't know me anymore. You haven't seen the bodies in the street the way I have."

"I know I haven't. I know things are different, believe me, I know. But you can't think like that Hermione. The reason I didn't want anyone killing and using dark curses is because it changes you. Dark Magic changes you."

Well, she knew that was true. She'd felt it herself. Felt that repugnant brand of magic sweep into her bloodstream the first time she'd killed all those years ago, when she was barely nineteen. It was an act of self-defence. She hadn't wanted to kill the Death Eater who'd attacked her on an evacuation mission, but it was the twenty children she was trying to rescue from Hogwarts dungeons, or the cloaked figure with the wand aimed at her chest.

She'd made the obvious choice.

Her body had moved instinctually. The curse had brushed past her lips before she'd even realized she was doing it. She'd already lost a small group a few weeks prior because she'd shown mercy to a Death Eater. That time a young girl, Alice Foster, was killed by the very assassin Hermione had spared. Then another, then another. She wasn't about to let it happen again. It had traumatized her, taking a life. Given her night terrors and panic attacks, and shackled her with guilt so heavy she could hardly breathe from the weight of it.

Ron had been there for her back then. He'd held her in his arms, kissed her face, soothed her and told her everything was going to be okay. But, there was only so much even Ron could take. Her catatonic state, her vacant stare and inattentiveness had effectively driven him into the warm, comforting arms of Romilda Vane. Or at least, that was his excuse. She wasn't sure anymore. Didn't really care.

Killing became much easier after that. Just an act of war. A battle tactic. She became strangely detached to the act, until over time, she didn't lose a wink of sleep over it. Chose to comfort herself with thinking of the lives she'd saved by sending another dark soul straight to hell. She'd probably end up there herself, when all this was over.

"I worry about you Hermione, we all do," Harry said, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly.

"You don't need to. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. You took care of me and Ron for years, honestly, I don't think we would have made it past the first year without you."

They both laughed silently, just one short puff of air, like old friends. Sort of.

"I know you hate to relinquish control, but I think you need something to distract you. Something else so you don't spend every waking hour of your existence thinking about this war."

"I don't have anything else, Harry. There is nothing else for me."

"You'd feel differently if you found someone."

Hermione snorted and shook her head. "That's your advice? Find a boyfriend? Get married? Have a baby or two? Do you think that would give my life meaning? We're in the middle of a war, and we're losing Harry, badly. Bringing a child into a world like this would be incredibly selfish and-" She winced the second the words left her mouth.

"Irresponsible?" Harry asked with a small laugh. "Yeah. I thought the same thing when I found out Ginny was pregnant the first time. But it changes you, Hermione, being a parent, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world."

"It's certainly changed Ron," she added, the acid clear in her voice as she pulled another drag of nicotine into her lungs. "He's like a different person since Romilda found out she was expecting."

Eventually, when the snow got thicker and the temperature dropped, they decided to retreat inside. They couldn't put off the inevitable anymore, they needed to prepare for Colin's funeral.

The Order had made the decision a long time ago to forgo burials. They didn't have the time or the resources for a real funeral. Shacklebolt had decreed that graveyards were too open; too risky for everyone to gather outside and 'be sitting ducks for an attack'.

They opted for pyres instead. The older, more senior members of The Order argued that it was easier this way. They could gather deep underground, at the very bottom level of their base, and say goodbye to their fallen friends respectfully. Together. The vents in the basement would suck the fumes and smoke from the tight space, and a few layers of magic could help conceal the smell.

It never worked entirely though. The bouquet of burning flesh always seemed to linger in the air. Grotesque. Vile. No one would eat for days afterward. Didn't have the stomach for it.

Hermione stared at her hands as the mist from her shower eclipsed the bathroom. Crimson. Still thick with Colin's blood. Not blood from the killing curse that should have been hers. No, this was from a different injury. A deep gash across his leg that must have happened before she found him and Seamus.

But it was still his blood, nonetheless.

She stripped quickly, threw her blood-ridden clothes into the hamper and stepped into the scalding water. She scrubbed at her arms and hands, wiping furiously to rid herself of Creevey's blood, of the evidence of her failure. But it wouldn't go away.

Why ...?

Why couldn't she fucking get it off?!

Her skin seemed to hiss in protest; the flesh raw as she scratched it with the loofah again and again and again. But she couldn't get it off. No matter how hard she scrubbed, Colin's blood seemed to be fused to her skin.