This was written for the Spring Forward With Draco and Hermione Fic Exchange. The requester wanted comfort, fluffy pillows, and an unredeemed Draco.

Draco cradled her weightless, starved frame against his chest and set her gently against the soft pillows. Once golden brown curls now tumbled in a torrent of waves of such dark brown they were nearly black. Brown skin had paled to bleak, lifeless porcelain and her lips were as white as marble. Her body was utterly defeated. He’d have to wait for her to wake up before he found out whether her mind and spirit had suffered as much.

Even so near death, so gorged with pain and hunger, Draco found her devastatingly beautiful.

Draco stepped back from the bed. She was skeletal thin beneath his T-shirt, which was so big on her it reached to the tops of her thighs. Her ribcage was clearly visible, pushing against the soft cotton. Draco ached to see her this way; a picture of woman tested, tortured, and cursed beyond endurance. She had been worn down to her most basic parts: skin, bones, hair, and the slimmest of muscles to hold on to what life was left. He still felt the possessiveness gnaw at him. She belonged to him and this is what it brought her.

He wanted to hold her until she became a part of him.

Hermione woke up in a comfortably sized, richly furnished room. The walls and curtains and canopy were all warm, dark, earthy browns, like the blood-soaked ground of a forest at midnight. The pillows beneath her were full and fluffy, encasing her in soft warmth she hadn’t known for more than a year. She was cleaner than she could ever remember feeling. There hadn’t been such sweet, enveloping sensations since the end of her final year at Hogwarts. But she was still weak and overwhelmingly hungry.

She squinted at the edge of the bed. There was someone there, waiting in the dark. Her heart skipped a beat for a moment before she remembered that there was nothing more they could do to hurt her, except perhaps torture and kill her parents.

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the shadows. Hermione frowned. She hadn’t seen him since before everything. She hadn’t remembered he existed. “Feed me,” she begged. He swept a plate of cookies off the bedside table. They were still warm. They looked perfect. Hermione took one. “Where have you been?” Hermione asked as she began stuffing cookies into her mouth, one after the other.

“Waiting.”

Hermione vaguely wondered at such a strange answer. “For what?”

“For you to give up.”

Hermione laughed shortly. “Well, there’s nothing for me to give up on anymore.” Draco’s hair looked longer than it ever had in school. He had grown it out like his father. Hermione suddenly remembered the events from earlier that evening. “Your father, the Death Eaters, they – ”

“Shh…” Draco said, pressing a finger to her lips and scooting across the bed. “I stopped them. You’re safe now.”

“Safe?” Hermione asked, beyond amusement or surprise, doubting whether she knew the meaning of the word anymore. She popped another cookie in her mouth. She must have devoured half the plate in a matter of seconds. “I’m so hungry,” she said, barely able to keep her voice from hitching. “I’m always so hungry.”

Draco stared at her with fierce understanding. He pulled her into his arms. Hermione couldn’t resist – she was so sick with hunger she could barely move. His hands moved up and down her back, over the ridges of her bony shoulders and ribcage. Hermione started sobbing. She cried into his shoulder for a long time. She hadn’t been able to do much crying while she was hiding, not when she had younger wizards and witches to look after. “I’m the last one left. There’s no one.”

Draco lifted her chin up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Everything will be fine. You’re with me now. It doesn’t matter.”

Hermione let out another short, nearly insane laugh. “You’re right. None of it matters. I’m so hungry I can’t even think of them. Don’t you have anything that will satisfy me?”

Draco nodded and smiled. “Me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kiss me and find out.”

Hermione stared at him in surprise. Had he always been this way? She could hardly remember anything before the taste of those sugar cookies. His lips were pink and full, everything that hers no longer were. They looked kissable enough. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, intending to draw back immediately when she felt a wonderful, warm, filling sensation in her middle. She kept her mouth near his.

His mouth had parted. His breath was quick and shallow, hitting her face in soft little puffs. Hermione could hardly stand it. She kissed him again, more forcefully this time. She could feel her strength returning.

Draco’s arm tightened around her, pressing her to him. It was painful. Hermione hadn’t thought there was any other way for her to be broken, but she felt as though she would be snapped in two. The only thing to do was tense up and pull herself closer to him.

Hermione realized that somehow, Draco was right. He was more satisfying than a year of rabbit stew, or any sugar cookie. She was finally getting what she needed, but she was still hungry. Maybe she just had to… Hermione let her head drop and began nibbling at Draco’s neck. His constricting grip loosened and his head fell back; he liked it. Hermione could feel something, something from his soft, smooth, and slightly salty neck drift down to her gut, filling it, heating it. She widened her jaw and clamped it down on his jugular, counting on a solid chunk of flesh. She was ravenous.

But he pulled away before she could do much more than break the skin. “That’s not how it works,” Draco said, amused. “If it worked that way, you would have been digested long ago.”

Hermione frowned at him, hardly knowing what he was saying. She pulled herself close to him again, and then relented as he removed the cotton T-shirt she’d never even been aware of wearing. She knew her body was revolting; there was not a bit of cushion on her and she was bony as an insect, but she didn’t care. There was no time to worry about it because Draco was worshipping her like she was the most beautiful, desirable being under the stars.

His mouth and hands moved over her body, teasing her small breasts, petting her sunken belly, running up and down her thin thighs. Hermione felt like a glutton, reveling in each sensuous stroke, sighing with satisfaction and lust. She sensed that he wanted to sink his teeth into her as much as she did him, but he restrained himself.

She forced his hands away when he drew near the place they both wanted him to be. She had to swallow up every bit of him first. It was rather like eating the cherry before you got to the ice cream; not the main attraction, but a pleasure all on its own. She pulled off his dark shirt quickly, letting him deal with his trousers as she ran her tongue over every bit of him she could reach, letting whatever it was fill her up.

His skin was soft and pale. His body was leanly muscled, like a cat. Except he wasn’t hairy. His chest was smooth and soft as the rest of him, but for some coarse hair, starting just below his belly button. Hermione pressed him back into the bed. She kissed his neck and shoulders, his hands, his chest. She flitted her tongue down the midline of his body, between the subtly muscular ridges of his belly and down that patch of pale hair. She took him in her mouth, without confusion or hesitation. He was more hot and salty there than anywhere else.

But Draco pulled her away and rolled her over on the bed. He pressed down into her. Hermione gasped and squirmed at first, but then met him with every thrust. She rose up again and again, lifting her hips off the bed. It seemed to last hours before they both reached the end. Hermione felt fire shoot from her center up to the pit of her stomach. Warmth, comfort, and the end of something terrible was drifting lazily throughout her body, to the tips of her fingers and toes.

She collapsed on the bed, sweating, exhausted, and full enough to burst. She fell asleep immediately, and dreamt of things that had passed.

Eggs

Life got a lot more difficult after Ron and Hermione’s trip into the Muggle world. Someone had seen her in that little village. Now their enemies knew there were still wizards out there that had been loyal to Harry and Dumbledore. They knew the pitiful remains were hiding out in forests, living like animals. And so the hunt began.

Unfortunately for Hermione and the rest, it was more like a game. They were being picked off one by one, starting with the younger students. So they’d moved. And moved. They moved around so much that even Hermione had lost track of where they were.

Their existence was miserable enough without dealing with the loss of one of their number every two weeks. They were in the full of winter and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find food. Hermione was starving. She didn’t know why, but none of the others seemed as bad off. She had dwindled down to practically nothing and it seemed all she could think about, day or night, was food. She felt guilty when every night she would go to sleep fantasizing about toast, or pie, or – oh, Merlin – cookies. She should have been mourning for all the friends she’d lost, but she couldn’t bring her mind to focus on them.

Everyone had lost hope for the future of the wizarding world. There were less than fifteen of them left now. The only hope was for the Muggles to resist the Death Eaters. But after Ron died – the last of the Weasley sons – Mr. Weasley had lost all faith in Muggles. It was hard for the band of escapees not to feel the same discouragement as their leader.

Luna was the first of the older students to fall victim to the hunter. No one could figure out how it happened. She was always in the center of camp, smiling, cleaning, giving hope to everyone with her constant flights from reality. Then, one night, she disappeared. Hermione should have heard her go, for Hermione had slept little and very light since the battle last spring, but she hadn’t heard a thing.

Ginny was next. She’d been out gathering wild carrots for her stew and never came back. Some of the younger students, who’d been gathering nearby, said they heard her scream. It tipped Mr. Weasley over the edge to hear of it. He disappeared into the woods, determined to fight whoever it was who was picking them off one by one.

Hermione waited two days, but they’d had to move on without him. She was the oldest now, and she wasn’t even nineteen. Sometimes she wondered what Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or Lupin, or Harry would have thought of the pathetic resistance against Voldemort. More often, she wondered about when they could scrounge up enough food to satisfy her never-ending hunger.

They survived through the winter somehow, all ten of them, thanks to Hermione’s magical fires and transfiguration skills. They’d been warm but never had enough to eat.

But when spring started again, so did the game. For two months, she lost only two a month. But in May, she lost three. That left her with two. She loathed letting them out of her sight even for an instant, but it was impossible not to separate on occasion. She would have to chase a rabbit, or they would have to pick some berries, and each of them wanted some privacy every now and again.

And then, one morning, she woke up, and they were gone. That was it, the last of anyone from Hogwarts. She was completely alone. Nothing was holding her to the forest except self-preservation, and she had hardly any of that left. All she wanted now was food.

She reentered the Muggle world with no money, no friends, and no idea which town she was in. Night had fallen before she’d made her way out from deep in the forest. It was unfortunate that only small towns sat next to wooded areas. Hermione would have felt much more comfortable in a big city, where someone as bedraggled as her wouldn’t be as noticeable.

She wandered through the empty streets looking for anything. There were silent houses looking down on her, frightening in all of their comfort and convenience. She knew that even the Muggles must have known something was going on by now; the Death Eaters had not been quiet after their victory. She needed to find a restaurant with some semi-fresh food in the dumpster. She didn’t care. It would taste like heaven.

When she finally did find what she was looking for, a dark figure stepped out of the alleyway. “Well now, I thought you had died long ago.”

He had been the cause of Ron’s death, Hermione was sure. She suddenly forgot her hunger and launched herself at him with a snarl. Two more figures materialized out of the dark, shoving Hermione away. She landed hard on the pavement. It was slick with evening mist and Hermione had to scramble to get to her feet. She grabbed her wand out of her pocket but it was too late. One of them clamped a meaty hand around her wrist and plucked the wand from her hand. He broke it in two.

Hermione turned to run but the other one grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back to him. “Do what you will,” said the Death Eater. “I won’t waste any more time around this filth.”

Pop! He had disapparated. Hermione was alone with the two thugs. They did not have any objection to the way she smelled or looked or to the origin of her birth. She could feel her clothes being ripped off quickly by two idiot wizards who should have known it would be easier to use their wands. She tried hitting them, clawing, spitting, but one of them grabbed her hands while the other finished tearing off the same clothes she’d worn for over a year now.

She could feel herself fading fast. She wondered whether she’d have been able to reach her parents if she hadn’t been so set on food. God, she was hungry.

She could only make out the outline of the hulking wizard in front of her, but she heard the thump of his heavy robes as they hit the ground. She felt thick fingers pushing her thighs apart, and then, pain, such pain.

She lost consciousness wondering whether they’d feed her when they were through.

Butter

Hermione had managed to get her hands on a local newspaper that must have been left behind by a backpacker from the village nearby. The headline read Gas Station Owner Loses Cat in Close Call:

“Frank Bryant, 65-year-old owner of ‘The Gas/Pub’ was nearly killed yesterday by a strange man wearing a cloak. The man, obviously a foreigner, had long, white-blond hair and difficulty converting his currency into pounds. He became frustrated trying to calculate the exchange rate, slid a dagger from his boot, and held it to Bryant’s throat, demanding a drink. ‘He was completely nutters, mumbling some nonsense about nuts and sickles,’ says Bryant. Bryant managed to pour the foreigner his drink but as the man finished, he threw his knife at Bryant’s cat, Annie, who had been asleep on the counter.

“This is not the first incident of strange foreigners throughout the country. There are no reports yet as to where they come from, but they are always armed and extremely volatile. Be advised to call the police if any strangely dressed, oddly behaved people appear.”

Hermione shared the article with the rest of the group. Mr. Weasley looked serious and thoughtful. “They’re out to defeat the Muggles next. They don’t know what they’re getting themselves into,” he said with a soft smile.

Hermione felt a thrill run through her. No one had spoken that hopefully in a long time. She rubbed her thin hands together. “Maybe we can warn them.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea, but how?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione said. “It’s time one of us went down into civilization anyway, pick up some supplies, see what else has been happening. This town seems quiet enough. I doubt Lucius will be back. I can sneak down and say a few things, drop a few inconspicuous hints about how they should beware of people in cloaks.”

The rest of the students held their breath, amazed at the idea that someone could actually leave the group.

“Ron, you go with her,” Mr. Weasley said, and within the hour, Hermione and Ron were heading downhill, through the forest, into town. It was the first time in a long time that any of them had risked such a venture. They were all too afraid of what might happen.

Hermione’s stomach rumbled as they walked down into town. She still hadn’t gotten used to being constantly hungry and in all honesty, she was more concerned about food than protecting the Muggles from the Death Eaters. It was nice to be looking forward to a meal where she could eat as much as she wanted. They would have to go to some restaurant first thing. Hermione sure was glad she’d had some Muggle money in her jeans pocket on that last day of school. She intended to blow half of it on food.

Hermione was surprised by how small the village was. It was unusual for a town so small to have its own newspaper. But she was happy to see that the size only made it easier for her to spot a little diner. “Come on, Ron, we’re going to eat!”

“Are you sure we should do that, Hermione? We need to get back as soon as possible and I’d feel b – ”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Hermione said hurriedly. “We’ll bring them leftovers, won’t we? And we’ll get groceries.”

The door to the diner jangled as they stepped in. Hermione pulled Ron to a seat quickly, before the Muggles could take in their scraggly appearance for too long. A waitress arrived and Hermione ordered two separate meals and an appetizer to start. Ron ordered his lunch and launched into the speech he’d thought out on the walk down. “Hey, have you read about that funny man in the cloak?” he asked the waitress.

“Are you kidding?” the waitress asked. “All of us here know Frank. He told us all about what happened.” She shook her head sadly. “There are some crazies out there. Frank used to take Annie into the diner sometimes. It used to drive me nuts, that cat getting hair everywhere, but now I wish I hadn’t made such a deal of it.”

Ron waited for her to leave before turning to Hermione. “Frank’s a regular Filch, isn’t he? It sounds like he’s done a good job of putting the town on their toes.”

Hermione grunted, slightly annoyed that Ron had made her wait that much longer for her food.

Ron leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Well, I guess we still have to get supplies, but we should be able to get back quick enough.”

They didn’t have to wait too long for their food, though to Hermione, it seemed hours. She wolfed down one meal before Ron had even gotten halfway finished. By the time he had finished, she was calling the waitress over to order more.

Ron shook his head. “And you used to say I ate like an animal.”

“You do,” Hermione said. “You eat with your mouth full.”

“What I don’t understand is how you can eat like this whenever you get the chance and still be so thin,” Ron said critically.

“Oh, drop it, Ron,” Hermione said quickly. She’d been wondering the same thing. It was beginning to worry her. She’d read things about children in Africa with tape worms inside of their intestines. But they had potbellies. Hermione’s middle was small as the rest of her.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m going to get the supplies while you finish up, all right? I’ll meet you back here.”

Hermione gave him the money he needed, shooed him away, and greeted another two plates of food with a smile. She forced herself to slow down this time, savor the meal. Anything was better than the rabbit stew they’d been having for months, even if Ginny was an excellent cook.

She worked her way through another meal, and then a couple desserts, waiting for Ron. She was still hungry, but she was wondering whether Ron was having trouble picking out groceries. He could be helpless sometimes. She slapped down a fearful amount of money and left.

The store was across the street. Hermione entered and searched the entire place. He wasn’t there. She asked the checkout lady if she’d seen him. He’d been and gone.

Hermione went back and peered through the diner window. He wasn’t there. She wandered down the small main street, wondering what to do next, when she saw the sign “The Gas/Pub.” She was drawn to it. Someone from the wizarding world had been there. Maybe Ron had been drawn to it as well.

She opened the door and saw Ron, dead on the ground. There was a bullet in his forehead. It was too much, too fast for her to think about. She looked up at Frank, the station owner. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said. “He was one of them weirdoes.”

Hermione felt a strange prickling sensation on the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the sight of her best friend below her. Someone was watching. Her stomach lurched. She bent and picked up the groceries around Ron’s body, all still neatly in their bags. “You don’t even know,” she told the Muggle as she started to leave. “You don’t even know what’s coming.”

“I know,” Frank said, getting his gun out from under the counter, but Hermione was already running out the door. “I’ll be ready!” he shouted behind her. Hermione ran as fast as she could to the edge of town, where the steep hill led up into the forest.

She didn’t know what she would tell Ginny and Mr. Weasley.

Flour

It was a difficult life. It was an animal’s life, honestly. Hermione couldn’t remember ever being so hungry. It was all she ever thought about; food. It wasn’t as if she didn’t eat. She went hunting everyday, bringing back bunnies and the occasional deer. She went fishing, too, in the little stream that ran near the hideout. She would gather berries, and when she was out on her own, she would snark down a few herself, feeling guilty.

Once they settled into the area, and were able to find what they needed quite easily, Hermione could have sworn she ate more than she ever had at Hogwarts. But no matter how much she ate, she kept getting thinner. It was nice, the sudden change in her metabolism, besides always having to eat. Hermione spent a growing portion of each day trying to see her reflection in the stream, shaking her head and marveling at the change.

Maybe it was all the exercise she was getting. There was no time for reading books now. There was no time to get them. They would be moving again in a week.

Maybe it was the type of food she was eating. No more buttered toast for breakfast, no more pudding, no more cookies…

Hermione brought her concentration back to the stream, holding her wand at the ready. It wasn’t like shooting fish in a barrel, but it was easy enough to give Hermione a chance to pick at her hair. She would be getting dreadlocks soon, with the way things were going. She desperately needed a brush or a good hair-care spell book. Of all the things Hermione had learned at Hogwarts, she had never learned how to control her hair with magic. She’d just always assumed she’d have a hairbrush.

A fish slipped by. Zip. Hermione sent out a stunning spell without having to open her mouth. She’d gotten rather good at them lately. She plucked it from the water and examined its motionless body. It was a big one. She headed back to the hideout, snagging a few berries as she went.

When she arrived at camp, she handed her fish to Luna to do the killing and cleaning. Ginny did the cooking. Ron came back with a rabbit. The younger students had been somewhat successful with a vegetable patch they’d been helping along with magic. It would have been nice to have Neville with them. “Where’s Mr. Weasley?” Hermione asked.

“He’s talking to the centaurs again,” Luna answered, bashing the fish’s head on a stone.

Hermione nodded. Mr. Weasley spent an awful lot of time talking to the centaurs. Everyone knew it was a lie, that he went off into the forest alone for hours at a time, probably mad with grief and the responsibility now heaped upon him. The centaurs were allowing the refugee party in the forest temporarily, only because the group had promised to stay out of their way and move on soon.

They ate dinner without him – rabbit stew with a side of barbecued fish yet again – and went to sleep when it got dark, knowing he would show up in his own time. Hermione tossed and turned. The mattresses and sleeping bags she’d conjured for everyone were comfortable enough, but she was hungry.

It was well into the night when she heard Mr. Weasley return. He was moving stealthily, though he must have thought everyone was deep asleep, and shouldn’t have worried about waking them up. He snuck toward the Weasley side of the camp. Hermione looked back up at the stars, listening to him rustle around quietly. Then she heard a gasp.

She heard a choked cry. It was Ginny. Hermione sprung out of bed and sprinted through the sleeping bags. She should have known it all along. That spell had never been broken. Mr. Weasley had been lying. Some Death Eater was still controlling him. They knew where they were!

It was a short distance, and it only took ten seconds of shouting “Stop!” and waking everyone up before she got there. But Ginny was already safe. She was sitting on her mattress, sobbing, rubbing her neck. Mr. Weasley was sitting not far from her, sobbing just as hard. “What is it, what happened?” Hermione demanded, panting, the rush of adrenaline pumping through her.

“I strangled my own daughter,” Mr. Weasley sobbed.

“You’re free, Dad, you’re fine now,” Ginny said.

“I’ve been trying to stay away but I just couldn’t control it any longer.”

“I’m fine. Everything’s all right.”

The rest of the students had woken up and were watching silently, finally comprehending Mr. Weasley’s strange behavior. Ron sat down next to his father. “You have beaten it, right?”

“What if is comes back?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“It won’t,” Hermione said firmly. “Besides, I would have reached you before you did anything more.”

“I could have used my wand,” Mr. Weasley said sorrowfully, holding it up to demonstrate.

Hermione snatched it out of his hand. “Not anymore. We’re not letting you alone anymore, either. If you feel it coming, tell one of us. We can’t have you under their control. You’re the only adult we’ve got. Tomorrow, we’re going to leave.”

“Why?”

“You could have told them.”

Vanilla

Hogwarts was burning. It was a sight almost too terrible to see but Hermione stood her ground with the rest and watched it happen. Acid green flames roared through the castle, somehow melting the harsh stone and eating up wood in seconds. In a day or so, Hogwarts would be nothing but an expansive puddle of smooth, dark stone. The neighboring land would change as well, as though not able to stand the sight of the dark and sinister, lava-like blob. Over the next several weeks, the lake beside what used to be Hogwarts evaporated and moved on, forcing all of its inhabitants, including the mermaids and the giant squid, down a narrow stream to search for new homes. The trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest began to die. Hogsmeade survived, but it became a different sort of town.

Hermione finally turned away from the castle. She felt its heat on her back. Some of the others were already retreating into the forest, their white faces camouflaged by smudges of dirt, soot, and the growing darkness. She put her hand on Ron’s arm and pulled him gently back with her. He had been standing open-mouthed, shocked beyond comprehension at what he was witnessing, at what he had seen that day.

Hermione’s stomach turned over in hunger, something she knew she would have to get used to.

They made their way through the forest, to the hiding place. No one had expected to use it. Everyone thought the war was going well for their side, now that the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix were working together. But they hadn’t really been working together, even those that had been involved in both organizations. Voldemort had managed to bring Fudge under his control without anyone knowing. It started with a simple Imperio and Voldemort was in; in control of half of his opposition, able to work his silent magic and grease any squeaky hinges.

Like Percy, who’d been the first down in a great, surprise attack. He’d tried to warn Dumbledore.

It had started in an explosion of hexes and confusion. Hogwarts, attacked by Aurors they’d known and trusted. Kingsley Shacklebolt, bearing down on the first years near the door in the Great Hall, cut down by Dumbledore. Tonks next, transfigured to a cockroach and stomped on by McGonagall before she’d had a chance to murder more than one helpless Hufflepuff. Arthur Weasley, flying at his own daughter with dull eyes and a raised wand. Snape had punched him hard in the gut, then bound him before he could do any harm. Then more came, too many more. All of them were allies. Hermione began to weep when from a lack of proper duelers, she’d had to stand up and fight, along with Harry, Ron, and many other seventh years. She killed people she knew because there was simply no time to stop them. Ron’s father had been thrown behind the front line, but no others could be kept alive, not when the terrible, growing onslaught of Ministry workers simply took a moment to revive them.

But reinforcement arrived almost immediately. A large group of Order members came at top speed through the Entrance Hall. Everyone could see them coming. No one saw who attacked them. They were hexed in the back, from the gloom of the Entrance Hall, all in rapid succession as they made their way across the Great Hall, toward the bundle of students and teachers. Molly Weasley, Mundungus Fletcher, Hestia Jones, Fred, George, Moody, Sturgis Podmore, Bill Weasley, Emmeline Vance, Lupin, Charlie Weasley. Like that.

Students were ordered to make an escape hole out of the wall behind them, but their progress was slow as they fumbled nervously, watching their backs and trying to blast an exit out of the heavy, magically-reinforced rock.

And then, things slowed down. Silently, out of the shadows of the Entrance Hall, where all the torches seemed to have gone out, marched forward a horde of dementors. Their cold, silent forms stunned everyone in the Great Hall. They had thought that being forced to fight and kill their allies had been surprise enough.

Harry, Dumbledore, and Snape each managed a great, bright Patronus. Hermione, Ron, and the remaining members of Dumbledore’s Army made feeble, whispy attempts, but combined, it was enough to drive the dementors off.

But it didn’t seem as though Voldemort had been counting on the dementors. They were defeated, but they left a lingering chill on the hearts of the less courageous.

Two giants came next. They came one at a time, barely able to fit their massive bulk through the great double doors into the Great Hall. The line of dueling wizards exhausted themselves firing off an endless stream of hexes. Dumbledore’s were the only that seemed to make any impact through that thick skin. The giants were able to swing their massive arms across the floor, knocking people down like dominos. Hagrid stepped forward with an axe. He managed to hack at the heel of the larger giant, sending him crashing to the floor. He ran to the giant’s head and swung his axe down hard. Blood went splattering everywhere, great amounts of blood when there’d been hardly any before. The smaller giant kicked Hagrid, sending him into the far wall. Hagrid was stunned for a moment, but he came back. He wrenched the axe out of the slain giant’s skull and lifted it above his head, swinging it into the smaller giant’s gut. As he went down, the giant brought his rock-hard fist down on Hagrid’s head, and they both fell to the ground, Hagrid dead and the giant dying.

Then came the Death Eaters, all in dark robes. Some wore masks and hoods, others knew their faces would inspire more fear than any mask. Antonin Dolohov, who had nearly killed Hermione during the battle in the Department of Mysteries, came first, jumping up onto the larger giant’s leg and managing two curses before he was hit. Then more of them seethed from behind the dead bodies of the giants, using them as cover when needed. Bellatrix Lestrange was there, and Lucius Malfoy. The defenses were exhausted even before the Death Eaters appeared, and many more went down. Someone, Hermione couldn’t tell who, set fire to the cloaks of the bodies strewn across the Great Hall.

The situation became even more confusing, with students screaming at the sight of their dead friends and loved ones burning and Death Eaters yelling, still firing curses through the wall of flames.

And then Voldemort arrived, walking right through the fire. Hermione looked around instinctively, searching for Harry. She was horrified at the depleted remains of resistance. Harry was still standing, and Dumbledore, but not Snape, or McGonagall, or Flitwick, or any other teacher. Ron and a few other older students were holding their ground, but many were lying on the floor, dead or unconscious. The younger students were cowering near the back, a few of them still making frantic attempts to blow the wall open.

Voldemort killed Dumbledore. Right there, in the split second Dumbledore’s attention was divided as he tried to find a way to protect his students.

Harry was screaming. The sound finally filtered through Hermione’s ears. His shouts were hoarse and desperate and Hermione suddenly realized he’d been yelling since Molly Weasley went down.

Cool air rushed into the Great Hall. Dennis Creevey had managed to make a hole in the wall. The younger students began pouring out.

Harry fought Voldemort. He didn’t seem to be fighting for his life, though. He was dueling to give them time. Hermione didn’t know how he was holding on, blocking himself, jumping out of the way, firing off curses. The others tried to help him, but Voldemort deflected their attacks and wouldn’t be distracted from Harry. Harry’s incoherent yells turned into desperate pleas for everyone to leave.

Ginny was the first of the remaining members of the DA to retreat. She ducked out of the line of students and went to her father, who’d been left in a corner, and levitated him out through the hole in the castle wall. Then went Seamus, Zacharius Smith, and Luna, all at Harry’s insistence, with the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing they could do.

Ron and Hermione were left, refusing to believe this could be the end. They kept sending curses at Voldemort, with very little impact. Harry, dodging spells, sweating, gasping, and probably wounded in many places they couldn’t see, kept shouting at them to leave.

“Please, God, you idiots, get out of here!”

And then, somehow, Harry managed to send a curse in Hermione’s direction. It hit her foot, sent pain shooting like fire up her leg, and made her collapse to the floor.

“Ron, get her out!” Harry yelled.

And that was it. Ron ran to Hermione, yanked her to her feet, and half-dragged her to the hole. Neither of them saw what happened to Harry. They looked at each other and knew it was no use. They sealed off the exit as best they could and made a run for the forest.

Sugar

It was finally Spring. The sky was bright blue and the grounds were green, with a soft smattering of white daffodils tempting students to make silly wishes. Even the castle’s dark, solid lines seemed less jagged and imposing, whether that was because the sun was warming the thick stone or because Hermione’s school of nearly seven years had become home.

But there was one thing missing: sugar cookies. The sweet taste would be perfect on this first truly fine day. That fresh-from-the-oven warmth would melt the last of the winter’s chill and fill her up with comfort. And the texture, crunchy enough around the edges to give her molars a satisfying chew, and just a little undercooked in the middle, so she could feel the butter and vanilla squeeze out when she pressed a bit of cookie between the top of her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Well, it wouldn’t do much good to her hips, but Hermione couldn’t resist the urge.

Sugar cookies would bring a bit of Muggle hominess to the afternoon. Hermione was sure Harry and Ron would be happy to have some after Quidditch practice. She set off for the Room of Requirement, leaving her books and homework in the library. She would make them herself, for she was certain that even the cooking expertise of Hogwarts house-elves could not exceed her own skills, which had been developed through years of mother-daughter sessions, until just before she left for school. Besides, there was no need to ask the elves for such trivial favors and she needed a break from schoolwork. She could afford an hour or two off; N.E.W.T.s were still four weeks away. She paced back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement, thinking hard about what she needed.

The door opened to a lovely little set-up. The kitchen was small and bright with calm pastels and a nice painting of wildflowers on one wall. A clean white oven stood free of the wall, with no wires or tubes to connect it, though Hermione was sure it would work just as she needed. Sugar, vanilla, flour, butter, eggs, and salt were all laid out in perfect proportions next to a spatula, plate, large bowl, stirring spoon, and cookie sheet on the single creamy counter. There was a small, round table for Hermione to wait at while the cookies baked, and a Daily Prophet to read while she sat.

Hermione completed all the preparations and placed the dough-spotted cookie sheet in the oven. She sat down at her table to read the newspaper – full of happy prospects about the war – and wasn’t halfway through before Draco Malfoy burst through the door.

She was surprised, but more than a little curious. “What is it you need?”

Draco scowled at the pretty room. “What is this?” he asked disgustedly.

“Surely even you know what a kitchen is, Malfoy,” Hermione sneered.

Draco glared at her. “Oh, is this what Muggles call a kitchen? The entire thing could fit in one of the closets at Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione slowly folded her newspaper. She didn’t really want to get in an argument with Draco Malfoy if she could avoid it. It was too nice a day to ruin. “That’s lovely, Malfoy.”

“What is that smell?” Draco asked, peering about the room.

“I’m baking sugar cookies.”

“Ugh, no wonder I feel nauseated. It smells absolutely revolting.”

“Then I simply will not give you any.”

Draco stared at her sullenly, in the quiet way he’d picked up recently that almost made him seem intelligent and brooding, provided he didn’t speak. He glanced at the oven and then crossed to it and crouched before it. “Are these them?” he asked, looking inside the little window. “Disgusting lumps of bubbling sugar…” he muttered, and then straightened and walked to the window. He looked out at the grounds.

“Malfoy, what do you need?” Hermione asked, half out curiosity and half out of desire to have him gone.

Draco ignored her. He stared at the grounds outside with the same expression Hermione had felt herself wearing lately. Things were changing. They’d be finished with Hogwarts soon. Draco looked like he was saying goodbye to something he’d enjoyed, but whether or not he was looking forward to the future, Hermione couldn’t tell. She knew she was, but she’d never been able to understand what made Draco Malfoy tick.

Ding! went the cheerful timer.

Hermione hurried to the oven and used the mitt hanging on the wall to pull out her cookies. They were a soft creamy white with the faintest hint of brown toasted across their tops. They were perfect. She set them on the counter and began shoveling them off the cookie sheet with the spatula.

Hermione felt Draco turn from the window and watch her pile the plate with cookies. “What kind of witch makes cookies from scratch when there are house-elves nearby?”

“Well I suppose that would be the Muggle-born kind, wouldn’t it?” Hermione said as she finished placing the last cookie on top of the plate.

Draco moved over to her. Hermione felt her body stiffen. It was nearly impossible to expect the two of them to be alone in the same room without breaking into huge fight. “Are you finally going to leave?” he asked impatiently.

Hermione forced herself not to roll her eyes. She found some plastic wrap in one of the drawers and began pulling it over her plate of cookies when she suddenly realized that for Draco Malfoy, this behavior was remarkably civil. She pulled one cookie off of the top, finished wrapping, and then turned to him. She held it out.

“Would you like a cookie?”