“I don't. Because it will never be worth it,” Harry snapped. “We won't win that way. I can't fight that way. When I fight I'm thinking about all the people I love. How I'm protecting them and how I want to see them again. What is the point to any of it, if winning just means watching you and everyone else die slowly instead? Every battle is a test. Not giving into hatred is a choice. You don't get to choose both Love and Hate. I won't be like Tom Riddle in order to win. The lesson of the first war is that Love trumps all when people believe in it. We have to choose between what's easy and what's right. If we get it wrong we'll never defeat him.”
“You're accusing me of wanting easy choices?” Hermione was legitimately stunned.
“You want to use the Dark Arts because they'd be more 'effective'. Yeah, I'd say that's clearly a choice of easy instead of right.” Harry was pale, his fists clenched until the knuckles showed white. “The fight between Good and Evil is a test. You haven't just failed it, Hermione, you're trying to take the whole Resistance with you. I thought for a while that it was because you spent so much time with Snape. But I'm realising now, it's you. You actually believe it.”
Hermione didn't have to pretend to be enraged or bitter any longer. She scoffed in his face. “Of course I believe it. Think of Colin, Harry. Think of how Colin died in front of you and then multiply it. Multiply to include the casualties from every battle and raid in the last THREE YEARS. That—,” she gestured sharply around herself, “—has been my life since the moment I came back from training. That is how your friends are dying.”
“You don't need to tell me, Hermione.” Harry's voice was shaking, and he leaned toward her, his teeth flashing. “They were my friends. I trained them. I fought with them. I carried them back. I would die for them. I would do almost anything to have saved them. But when it comes to Light and Dark Magic, it matters. It's never worth giving into the Dark Arts, no matter what you think you'll get from it. The Order is going to stay Light.”
Something inside Hermione snapped. “You're not Light if you let people sacrifice themselves in order to keep your hands and soul clean.” She sneered at him.
Harry turned pale.
“How dare you?” he finally said in a voice that vibrated with rage. “How fucking dare you? I have never — I would never — ask anyone to die for me. All I have ever wanted was for people to stop dying because of me. I don't want to be the Chosen One. I don't want this fucking war. All I ever wanted was a family. The people in this room are all I've got. My parents are dead. They sacrificed themselves believing in Love over Hate, and you're saying what? That they were wrong? That if they'd just been as smart as you, I'd still have them? My godfather is dead. At least your parents are alive somewhere. I don't even have that scrap of consolation. I would die to win this war with a smile on my face. I will fight for as long as it takes. But I won't let people poison their souls. I won't tell them to go there. I won't set that kind of an example for the Resistance.”
He glared at Hermione and she could feel the waves of rage coming off him. It reminded her, in a horrible way, of Draco.
“Ron was right,” Harry added after a moment. The rage in his tone was suddenly gone, he sounded closer to devastated. “You are a bitch. You really don't understand the point of the Order.”
“To protect the wizarding and Muggle worlds from Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters,” Hermione said quietly. “That is the purpose of the Order of the Phoenix.”
She stood up and stared down at Harry; memorising him with her eyes for a moment before she looked away. “But I suppose you're right, I am a bitch. I don't think there's any use denying it at this point.” She gave a choked laugh. “It seems to be the one thing everyone consistently tells me. I hope you're right about the war, Harry. I really hope what you're doing is enough.”
Hermione turned on her heel and walked out of Shell Cottage.
She walked through the garden and into the hills beyond. She kept walking. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. The blood pounding in her ears was so loud she could barely hear the wind; though she felt the cold of it slicing against her cheeks.
Finally she stopped and looked around at the endless white surrounding her. It was a beautiful Christmas. Hermione couldn't remember the last time it had snowed on Christmas Day.
Her hands and feet were numb with cold. She wanted to stay there. Stay there and freeze. It couldn't possibly feel worse than she already felt.
She didn't want to think about how awful she currently felt. How much her head hurt. And her heart. It felt like a chasm in her chest. As though someone had sawn through her sternum and pried the bone apart with a retractor, the way the Muggles did for heart surgery. She was ripped open and it just — hurt. Agony cold as winter inside herself.
If she looked down, there would be blood in the snow.
“Hermione!” Ginny's voice cut through the wind.
Hermione turned.
“Hermione…” Ginny waded through the snow toward her. “What's wrong? What are you doing?”
Hermione stared dully at Ginny. “Doing?”
“You did that on purpose — I could tell — so Harry would be mad and let you leave. Why? He and Ron are all you've got. They might forget that half the time, but I know it. What are you doing? What is it you're afraid of? Even before Harry went over. You were sitting on the couch looking like you were attending our funerals. What's wrong?”
Hermione stared mutely as Ginny; shivering in Slytherin green.
Ginny reached out and cast a warming charm on her.
“I—,” Hermione's voice started and then failed for several seconds.
“I can't do this anymore, Ginny. I can't pretend things will be alright. Even if we won tomorrow morning, I'm not going to change my mind that we could have done better. The Dark Arts could shorten the war and save Resistance fighters. If Harry expects me to be standing next to him smiling when this is over, he should have that illusion shattered now.”
Ginny stared at Hermione. Her lashes had ice crystals caught in them, glittering in the light. Her hair was blown back by the wind, exposing the scar running along her face; the months had faded it somewhat, but the cold made it appear more stark against her pale skin. The disfigurement made Ginny's prettiness more startling.The contrast of elements made her striking. A tragic type of mesmerisation.
“You — you don't expect to be with us,” Ginny said slowly, her eyes were wide and sober. “After the war.”
“I have given myself to this war, Ginny. When it's over — there won't be anything left of me.”
Ginny shook her head and reached toward Hermione. “Don't say that — Hermione—“
“Ginny, if I am offered another empty word of encouragement, I may snap.” Hermione's voice was flat. She drew a sharp breath, then exhaled and watched the condensation vanish into the sky. “I can't — I don't have the energy to pretend for all of you. I'm too tired.”
Ginny opened her mouth to reply, but Hermione apparated away.
She went back to Grimmauld Place and hid in the library.
She felt frozen the next day as she worked. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She felt as though her heart had broken. She could occlude the mental aspects, but she hadn't realised just how much grief could physically hurt.
Moody found her working on potions.
“Granger, Severus wants to see you tonight.”
Hermione turned to stare at Moody with a guarded expression. “Why?”
“To discuss your progress.”
Hermione's eyes narrowed. “I thought you kept him informed.”
Moody's expression didn't change. “He has questions he wants answered.”