She cast a diagnostic charm on him. He had two fractured ribs and bruising on his abdomen. She pushed him back so he'd lay down before she started healing him.
“I think you can do it. But — the prophecy. It's a coin toss. After Dumbledore died—,” she faltered slightly.
“Death is just one curse away from us all,” she said after a moment. “I can't just sit back and watch, waiting for fifty-fifty odds to land and assume I know the outcome. Not when there are so many people depending on us. What you have, the way you love people... it's pure, it's powerful. But — how many times have you killed Tom now? As a baby, because of your mother. In first and second year. But he's still here. He's still fighting you. I don't want to assume anything is enough.”
“You don't think Good can just win,” Harry said. The reproach in his voice was heavy.
“Everyone who wins say they were good, but they're the ones who write the history. I haven't seen anything indicating that it was actually moral superiority that made a difference,” she said as she murmured the spells to repair the fractures.
“You're talking about Muggle history though. Magic is different. The magical world is different,” Harry said fiercely.
Hermione shook her head, and Harry's expression grew bitter. He looked up at the sky. Hermione began spreading a bruise paste over Harry's stomach and ribs in small circular motions.
“You used to be different,” Harry said, “You used to be more righteous about things than me. What happened to S.P.E.W? That girl would never have said Dark Magic was worth the cost. What happened?”
“That girl died in a hospital ward trying to save Colin Creevey.”
“I was there when Colin died too, Hermione. And I didn't change.”
“I was always willing to do whatever it took, Harry. All those adventures of ours in school. Once I was in, I was in. Maybe you just never noticed how far I was willing to go for you.”
“Not for me.” Harry said, shaking his head. “You don't get to tell yourself you're doing this for me. I would never ask it of you.”
“I know,” she said, looking away. “This isn't for you. It's for everyone else. You have to do what you need to to win. So do I.”
“You're pushing yourself away,” Harry said in a hard voice as he sat up. “Maybe you don't think I see it, but I do. I just don't understand why. You were like my sister. But now — it's like every time there's a crack in our friendship, you walk up and drive a wedge into it. I don't understand — why are you doing that?”
He sounded on the verge of tears. His eyes were so hurt and angry as he stared at her. She felt herself waver.
If she admitted it now, maybe it would fix things. Maybe there was still a chance. The space Ginny had filled and concealed — he was realising it, feeling how far away Hermione had moved.
Her first friend. Her best friend. He was reaching out for her. If she reached back—
She stared sadly at him. “Those cracks were always there, Harry. The person I am, she was always there. The war is just making you see her.”
His face shuttered.
“Alright then.” He stood up and went back into the house.
Hermione sat for several minutes, trying to muster up the energy to climb back across the roof.
She found an armchair and curled up in it, so tired that even the stabbing pain of her arm couldn't keep her from sleeping.
When she jerked awake hours later, she felt icy. She was freezing cold, to the point that her teeth were chattering. It had been early afternoon when she'd fallen asleep, but the house had grown dark and quiet.
She shuddered with cold, grasped for her wand, and cast a warming charm on herself. It didn't provide her with any relief from the iciness she felt.
She felt — watched. As though there were something in the darkness staring at her.
At the base of her spine, and climbing slowly upward like icy tendrils, was a sense of dull pain. Like she was being infected with something that was trying to numb her as it crept through her system.
Her hand was shaking as she cast a diagnostic on herself. She must have overlooked a curse.
There was nothing.
The painful, icy sensation felt like it was spreading. Blooming through her body into her sternum and across her chest until breathing felt painful.
It was terrifying and awful but there was also a sort of draw to surrender. Pain for relief. Like sitting in the kitchen, cutting lines until it hurt more than everything else did.
Pain like liberation. Like the taste of blood.
She stood sharply.
It was the aftereffects of the Dark Magic she had used. Self-destructive tendencies. Hallucinations.
Now as she thought about it, the sensations were familiar.
Tonks had been right. She should be with someone. Someone who would help her hold on.
She stumbled down the stairs. It was the middle of the night. She made her way to the room Charlie had been in. They barely got on together, but he'd let her hold his hand. She was so cold. He could talk to her and help her keep focused—
Empty.
She checked Fred's. Empty.
She moved on.
Ron was asleep. Moaning in pain. She poured a Dreamless Sleep draught down his throat. As she watched him settle, she pulled out a potion to help reset the ligaments and tendons in her hand and swallowed it.
Harry was asleep in the chair next to Ron. Harry hadn't slept since Ron's capture. Remus had the full moon the next night; Tonks would be with him.
She wandered back out of the room and wondered what to do.
The coldness swallowing her was so painful it hurt to even breathe. She wavered and nearly let herself sink into it.
“Come back to me — if you ever need anything.”
She forced herself out the front door and apparated to Whitecroft.
She stepped toward the door, and her fingers grazed the knob, then she froze. The lights were out.
Of course — he wouldn't be there. It was just a rendezvous point. He didn't live there. It had been hours since she'd left. He was probably asleep. Somewhere with a bed.
Or he could be busy.
She wasn't supposed to call him unless it was an emergency. She'd promised she wouldn't. She had given him her word.
She didn't get to call him because she'd had a bad day.
She'd risk his cover — compromise him — endanger the Order.
She jerked her hand back and turned away.
If she could apparate again — there was always someone awake at a Grimmauld Place. She gripped her wand and closed her eyes.
It felt like something grabbed hold of her head. Her knees buckled. Everything vanished.
When the world slowly swam back into focus, she realized she was lying on her back. She stared up at the sky. The stars glittered overhead, dimmed by the moon. Cold.
The day has been so long.
Her skin was crawling. Hurting. Like there was something inside her. In her magic. She wanted to slice it out. If she could just find the spot. She could carve it out with one of her knives — so it would stop — stop crawling inside her.
She dug her fingers into her chest and pulled at it.
“Granger — what did you do to yourself?”
She became conscious of being lifted off the ground. Hot hands closing around her body, driving away the cold. She was so cold. She burrowed into the heat.
She was delirious, because Draco was there, dressed in Muggle clothing. She had never seen him in anything but black robes.
She pressed herself against him, and he felt like a furnace, driving away the crawling, creeping cold inside her.
“I killed people today,” she said, burying her face in his shirt. Even dressed as a Muggle, he somehow smelled the same. “I never killed anyone before. But I didn't even keep count of how many people I killed today.”