December 30, 1997, 15:45

Ron had run from them like a coward. Now that he was no longer under the influence of the locket, he could admit it. For days he had scoured the area for any signs of them, anything to let him know that they were alive.  He had only left when he had noticed signs of the Snatchers following him.  That had lit fire under his arse and he had gone to the only person he knew would welcome him, the only one he knew who would understand why he had left even if he never said it.  He stayed for a few weeks with Percy.  His brother was still a git, no matter that he was a git who was actively shuttling families of Muggleborns and so-called blood traitors out of the country at great personal risk.  Ron still didn’t know how he was doing it.  Percy wouldn’t tell him anything, which was just as well.  He suspected there may be some Death Eaters and the like who were helping him move the families but when he had asked, Percy had merely told him to shut it and mind his own business in his very Percy-ish  way. 

Percy had changed.  He’d become harder but more human, even though he was still a prig.  Ron could respect that, and he could respect that fact that Percy didn’t ask him why he had run from his friends.  Ron wasn’t sure he would be able to answer if Perce had.

Things had become hot for him in London and Ron had left Percy’s flat to follow Fred and George for a bit.  He had even got to announce for a few of the Potter Watch broadcasts, though he didn’t give his name and disguised his voice.  It was thrilling to know that he was so actively thumbing his nose at Old You No Poo.  Yeah, Ron had to admit that had been brilliant advert before the war, but not so helpful to the twins after it started for real.  They’d had to close shop and were on the run because of it.  They even had a bounty on their head based on that one sign in their shop.  Old Mouldy Warts didn’t possess as keen a sense of humour as your average Weasley apparently.

A few days ago he had hear that light putter outer thing speaking to him, or whatever it did.  He had heard Harry scream and then Hermione sobbing.  It was enough for him to panic and run away again, this time to find his friends.  Now, he sat near a clearing in the Forest of Dean looking on a scene of blood and gore, with two Snatcher’s bodies on the ground amidst it, and being sobbed on by a quietly hysterical Hannah Abbott. 

He still hadn’t figured out how she had killed them, or quite how she had come to be in the middle of nowhere in the first place.

As the shadows began lengthening and Ron couldn’t hold off the shivers from the dipping temperature any longer, he wrapped his arms around the girl and said, “Hannah, come on.  We need to find a place to sleep for the night.  My rucksack is just over that rise.”

Hannah gave one strangled sob and then fell silent.   Ron took that as a good sign and rose, pulling her up with him.  He had never noticed what a little thing she was, just coming up to his chin when they were both standing.  They floundered through the snow to the small encampment Ron had begun setting up before he heard the commotion.  He said, “We’ll need to move from here.  Can you get things packed up whilst I take care of...”He gave a sharp jerk of his head towards the clearing. “... back there?”

Hannah nodded dully as Ron turned back to the pink and red-tinged snow.

Hermione woke with a start, moving out from under Harry’s lightly haired arm, whilst trying not to wake him.  He gave a small moan and turned on his side, away from her, his glasses askew on his nose.  She took them from his face and then covered his naked shoulder with the thin, woollen blanket that she had brought to the seating area before...  She shuddered away the thought, feeling the hunger-loosened flesh of her belly jiggle a bit.  She cast about for her hastily discarded clothing, her mind repeating two words; oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck..., ad nauseum, forever and ever, amen.

She hadn’t meant for that moment of comfort to turn into the mad rush of passion to which they had both succumbed. 

Once she  charmed herself clean and she was more or less dressed, she busied herself in the kitchen area, made larger by her manipulation of wizard space before they left Privet Drive.  She went outside to gather some snow for the kettle and set it on the burner of the small camping stove that Harry had liberated from the Dursley’s former home.  They hadn’t wanted to use too much traceable magic in the last few months for obvious reasons.  She leaned against the small table that they had all spent hours around in planning sessions and card games before Ron left them.  She was still angry at him for that, but it didn’t excuse anything that she had done with Harry.  And poor Ginny...

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to face her only female friend once this was all over.

Guilt washed over her at the thought of Ginny’s devastation if she ever discovered what had happened.  Hermione gripped her wand tighter.  It would only take one spell to make things right for Harry, at least.  Hermione would have to live with her faithlessness to both her friend and her would-be boyfriend.  The thought of Ron brought a stab of fear to her gut along with a rush of hot fury all over her body.  He should have been there with them.  If he hadn’t left, nothing like that would have happened.  Hermione wouldn’t have seen Harry’s turmoil, his pain, his longing for something sweet in this completely desperate situation in which they found themselves.

Hermione jumped as the kettle began its shrieking whistle.  She moved to the stove and deftly flicked the kettle off the flame and then doused the fire with a flick of her wrist.  They’d need gas soon or they’d be stuck eating straight out of tins.  Hermione thought she might still have some of the cash she had taken from her bank account before they left Surrey, otherwise she’d have to transfigure wizarding currency to make their purchases.  She prepared her cup of tea, foregoing the last of the milk so Harry could have it.  He was fond of sugary, rich drinks.  She was sure it was something he had been deprived of at the Dursley’s, the vile bastards.  Hermione could drink hers plain if the tea was brewed correctly, and who was she to deny Harry the little pleasures?

She turned her mind to the question of Obliviation again. She didn’t know if she should tell Harry her plan or just do it.  Her normal mode was to do the thing for his own good and damn the consequences, but having slept with him...

Snape’s irony-tinged baritone, the sulphourous voice of her conscience for the past few weeks, interrupted her thoughts, I saw little sleeping going on, Miss Granger.  You fucked him like the dutiful little sycophant that you’ve always been, and now in your know-it-all way, you’ve decided what’s best for him.  You’ve always done that, starting with the incident with the troll... I say let him live with what he’s done... He’s just like his father, spoiled... arrogant... irresponsible because those around him don’t let him know how much they’ve been hurt by his thoughtless, grasping...

Hermione clutched her head, tears stinging her eyes as she whispered, “Shut up!  Shut Up!  SHUT UP!”

“Hermione?” Harry had come up behind her without her knowing and he spun her around, pinning her face against his chest over the spot she knew had a small scar from Dudley burning him with a lit match when he was six, the same spot that was scarred and twisted from contact with the locket.  She heard the rush-rush of his heart and knew she couldn’t do it to him, not if he didn’t want it.  His lips whispered over her hair, down her cheek and soon she was enveloped in the scent and taste that was pure Harry.  It was a sensory buffet of musk and chocolate, a rich, dark odour, earthy and secretive.  He finally broke the contact, the clear green of his eyes winking flatly behind his glasses.  “I’m not sorry.  It feels like I’m supposed to be. Like I should ask you to... phhhttt,” he moved his hand as if he were casting a spell, “... and you take it away from me, the memory, the guilt, the beauty of it... but I don’t want you to do that.  Not this time.”

“What?” Hermione pulled away, drawing him back at arm’s length. “What do you mean, ‘Not this time’?”

“I-I can’t explain it...” Harry said, sidestepping her grasp and making towards the cups.  “I just... I feel like it’s all happened before, you and me... like we’re in some kind of weird time loop, you know, like in one of those science fictions shows?  It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help but think we’ve been given a chance to... Oh, sod it.  I don’t know what I mean.  Never mind.”

 Harry busied himself with the tea, slopping a bit of milk from a tin into his cup and on the table, and then taking a slurping sip.  Hermione lifted her wand readying herself to betray another person she loved, but she stopped in mid-cast.   He didn’t want her to do it; he wanted to remember his time with her.  Did she want the same?

As if in answer to her unvoiced question, she lowered her arm, sliding her wand up her sleeve with unconscious, practiced ease.  She looked down at her filthy clothes, her ragged, chewed nails, her gaunt hip bones protruding from her jeans.  She wasn’t the warm, shining beauty that Ginny was. She wasn’t even pretty in the non-conventional sense.  Hermione had no illusions about her looks, but her sense of self-righteousness had never failed her before today.  Now she was just as human as the ragged, dirty boy standing before her.  She turned from the kitchen and pulled her blanket over her shoulders before she retreated to the small alcove that had become her room.

December 31, 1998 23:45

Ron rolled over in the sleeping bag, brushing his hand over Hannah’s soft, blonde hair as he pulled her to him.  He couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her.  She nestled further under his chin, her hair tickling his nose as she moved.  He smiled, pushing thoughts of Hermione to the back of his mind.  When the sun rose, that would be the time to feel like a cheating arse for losing his virginity with the girl that slept peacefully in his arms.  Now he just wanted to feel good.

It had been so long since he had felt that way, as if he’d had a long, hot bath and a filling meal.  But right now, even the small aches that were manifesting themselves from his recent strenuous coupling felt wonderful. They meant that he had finally done it, that he had joined the ranks of men.  He now knew what it was like to sink into welcoming softness and draw sighs from a woman’s lips as he did.  It felt like power and creation.

It wasn’t as if he wanted cheat on Hermione.  He wasn’t really cheating anyway, right?   She had decided that they didn’t need to act on their feelings whilst they were on the hunt, Ron had happened to agree to a certain extent.  Harry had enough on his shoulders without having to contend with them being all hormonal when he was around.  It was what a best mate would do for his friend, except, Hermione had carried it a little far, pushing him away when they were alone, not even giving him a feel of her breast or a quick hot, snog when they got a moment together.  She’d insisted the temptation would be too great, that they’d slip up, make Harry feel worse about leaving Ginny behind, but Ron got the definite feeling that there was more to her denial than that.

Of course, that cursed locket hadn’t helped matters any.

It also didn’t help when Hannah had started talking to Ron, really talking.  Not that blab-blab that Lav-Lav had done.  Not the down-talking, bossiness that he had come to love about Hermione.  Hannah had just talked about things. What had happened since he’d last seen her, who she had thought was cute at Hogwarts (Ron had been fairly pleased he’d been on the list), how she had learned to kill like she did (her Muggle dad’s friend was a Yank who was a Ranger, some kind of bad-arsed military bloke.  After her mum had been killed he’d taught her what she needed to do.)  It all came out in her sweet monotone, no big words, no ickle kid talk, just words that told him what he needed to know without making him feel bad about himself or his motives for being with her.  Somehow, she wound up telling him about her dad, and how he had blamed her for her mum’s death.  Things had gotten bad for her at home, and she’d fled the Muggle world, only to find that she wasn’t welcome in the wizarding world anymore.  She’d found a few other wizards and witches in a similar situation and stayed with them for a while, but decided to return home when she got word her dad had some kind of grave Muggle illness.  She came too late, arriving on the day after his funeral.  The house was sold after she’d been presumed dead too.  Her dad’s mother had kept the funds from the sale and had gone to Canada or the Bahamas with it.  She rightly feared for her life, so Hannah didn’t begrudge her that, much. Hannah’d stayed around Manchester then, learned to how to steal to buy food, but had done other things when she couldn’t lift enough from a pocket using magic and skill.

That was how the Snatchers had found her, her use of magic on Muggles.  You Know Who may have had the Ministry under his control, but the bastard hadn’t cut off the tracer spells that told when magic was done around Muggles.  Bloody hypocrite was what he was.  Ron had wanted to ask what it was like with them, the Snatchers.  He figured she’d had a rough time of it with them.  They hadn’t taken her directly to wherever it was they were supposed to take helpless little girls.  But she’d looked so miserable, he hadn’t asked anything.  He figured he could imagine plenty bad, and then he’d just make it ten times worse and he’d have his answer. They’d spent some time in silence after that.  Ron didn’t want to tell her about Harry’s role in the war, because then he’d have to tell her how he’d skived off on his best friends.  She seemed to understand in her defeated way and finally suggested that they get some rest.  She had curled up in a little ball at the edge of his ‘borrowed’ Muggle tent.  He’d told her in no uncertain terms that she’d freeze her arse off, and that’s how she ended up sharing his sleeping bag.  And, as they say, the rest was history.

She sighed against his chest, bringing another wave of gratitude from Ron.  It was nice to feel like he was the strong, brave man.  He’d had so few opportunities to feel that way before.  He kissed her hair, moved his hands further down her body.  She shifted so she was under him, her legs around one of his thighs.  “Ron...”

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” he offered, hoping that she’d let him again anyway.  His hips jerked involuntarily as he spoke.

Hannah moved against him, leaving a wet smear on his leg.  “I want to.  You don’t make me feel dirty when I do it with you.”

Ron shook his head, not really understanding, but glad just the same, “All right then...”

December 31, 1997,24:30

She had been a virgin.

That was the only thought that ran through Lucius’ head as he dealt the death blow to the young girl who lay curled in a ball before him.  Rodolphus Lestrange hissed in fury as Lucius cast the curse, the green light of it burning the man’s cadaverous, sickly features into Lucius’ retinas along with the image of the small, broken form of the girl.

“You stupid bastard, I wasn’t done with her yet.” Lucius’ brother-in-law made a grab for his arm as he tugged up his trousers with his other hand.  “I knew you were soft.  You’d have to be after spending all those years denying our Lord, Malfoy.”

Lucius stepped away from Lestrange, deftly avoiding the man’s drunken tottering.  “I suppose defiling little girls makes you a man among men, Lestrange.”

“She was an animal,” Rodolphus shot back.  “No, worse than an animal, a thief and a little whore.  Nott is well shot of her, if you ask me.  You heard how she begged for it in the end.”

Lucius reeled with the urge to destroy this man he had once called brother.  Was this what they had become?  Defilers of children and killers of innocents?  The girl had been a virgin, no more than fourteen years old, a Squib daughter that the Notts had never acknowledged publicly, but had lavished love on nonetheless.  She was younger than Draco.

He swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat.  This mayhem wasn’t the reason that Lucius had decided to follow his Lord.  He had craved the power that had been denied the pure bloods in the new wizarding world of the seventies, but this... this wasn’t power, it was perversion. 

It was made worse by the fact that the Dark Lord himself had ordered the girl’s torture and death, saying that there was no place in the New Order for creatures that would weaken the genetic destiny of their new society.  Nott had begged for the girl’s life, begged that the stunted, weakened fruit of his loins be spared.  He had offered to sterilise her, to ensure that she would never bear a child, and the Dark Lord had laughed at him.  “Beware soft sentiment, Nott.  Your son might carry the same taint as this abomination for which you beg.”

It had been those words that chilled Lucius as no others that his Lord had ever uttered could have.  When would it be Lucius’ turn to sacrifice what was most dear to him?  When would he be forced to watch as Draco or Narcissa were found wanting and given the same sentence as the little girl that lay still and cold at Lucius’ feet?

Lucius snorted derisively into the silence left after Rodolphus’ mad rambling. “Perhaps the Dark Lord would be interested in how much pleasure you took with the girl before I carried out his orders.  He might find it interesting that you have your own little Muggle collection housed in the ruins of your familial estate.” Lucius pushed at the girl’s body with the toe of his boot, letting a mask of derision settle on his features as he said, “Your lovely, mad wife has a rather low tolerance for such things as well, I think.” Rodolphus paled as Lucius ordered, “Dispose of this thing and clean its filth from your body.  We have need of an extra wand tonight.  You’ll enjoy your duties.  We’ll be torturing important Muggles.”

Lucius strode from the room, his mind on a way to get his family away from this madness so that he could strike out against the monster to which he had tied his fate.  No one would threaten the Malfoy line.  No one.