Went from intended fluffy angst to this horror/angst/dystopic thing. Hope you enjoy nonetheless, and comments are appreciated!

You spend Christmas getting drunk on cheap, sour cask wine with a group of Resisters, after they've cut off your hair. That's something you know, logically, that you should have done earlier; but ever since the Yule Ball back in Fourth Year, you've appreciated your hair more and more. There's a guy here, though, an Edouard with amazing green-grey eyes and a smile to die for who came to London as personal hairdresser to some famous actor whose name you can't remember; he takes it all off, leaves you with stubble that is somehow still attractive, in a haunting, damaged way.

The next day you wake early to the stench of dark magic, and barely manage to get a handful of that handful of leftovers (thirteen of about forty) away before the rest are incinerated in a soundless scream that echoes in your head (she's not there, my Lord, she escapedKILL THEM ALL HOW DARE THEY KEEP HER FROM ME).

Edouard isn't one of the ones you end up saving, but there's no such thing as picking and choosing now; not even between wizard and Muggle (and, though it shames you to admit it, you were making that distinction up until you realised, really realised, that it doesn't make a difference anymore).

I'm coming for you, Hermioneyou can't run foreverlet me take you, love.

That's the aftermath of the echo, a sweet caress to your mind that sings like chocolate and tastes like an A on a cellist's D string; smooth and seductive and wrong.

Never, you think, I'll die first.

If only you could find someone to kill you.

It's only been two months since it all started – since you started running. But as you creep through London, head turned downwards to hide your eyes (you know you've Transfigured them blue, and it was painful but had to be done, even though it doesn't stop you from being paranoid as ever), it looks like a hundred years of war and decay. The streets are full of rubble, buildings toppled and streetlamps barricading the roads haphazardly.

You're here reluctantly, only present after five different people who you are at least seventy percent sure you can trust have told you to come here. A new information source, they (Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dean Thomas, Narcissa Malfoy – trustworthy the moment Draco was killed in front of her – Nymphadora Tonks, and Ginny Weasley.)

(Ginny died three days ago, but that's irrelevant and you can't afford to think about anything that doesn't matter why-)

"Granger?"

The voice is raspy and quiet and that doesn't matter because you'd flinch as violently as you just have if it'd been loud and brazen or melodious and smooth.

The cloaked, hooded figure steps closer as you back into an alleyway, forcing confusion (feigned) and fear (real, oh so real) onto your face. "I'm sorry, who are you?" Your voice is quavering, even as that cold, calculating part of your mind is judging the proximity to the Centre, trying to determine just how much wandless magic (don't forget to take into account wasted output, uncontained radiation) you can get away with while still avoiding detection.

But then the figure huffs, and crosses its arms in a gesture that's oddly familiar, even through the haze of the last two months.

"Honestly, Granger, you haven't gotten any better at lying, have you?"

"You're dead," you repeat despite all evidence to the contrary, tripping over rock shards and mannequins, tree branches and power lines as you try to keep up with Draco (Malfoy, you correct yourself, because you could only call him Draco when you knew he was dead and you were still feeling guilty about thinking of him as an annoying little twat.)

From the roll of his eyes that you feel without seeing, he obviously seems to agree with your mind, which keeps telling your mouth to shut up because dead people don't walk and talk (and they don't tend to have smooth skinned marred by horrific acid burn scars and deep claw marks that still expose bone despite layers upon layers of healing magic). "Clearly, I'm not. Now shut up, Granger, and keep moving."

Where are we going? The words die on your tongue, unsaid, as you round the corner.

No. Please, no. Your left hand flies to your pocket – useless, your wand is broken you idiot! – and by the time you've collected yourself to reach out through the barrier of wandlessness to your magic while attempting to stagger backwards, it's too late. Something grips your limbs, takes hold of your muscles and drains them, leaving you loose and pliant, with just barely enough control to lean against a rough stone wall, painfully aware of the fact that you can't feel your magic as anything more than a barely-audible, distant murmur.

Untouchable.

"Who was it?" you manage to ask quietly around the lassitude, voice flat and expressionless like you imagine your face to be. He glances back at you, and you catch the barest glint of pity in his eyes.

"Isn't it obvious, Granger?" Draco says gently. "All of them."

"Good work, Draco," a voice says warmly, and Draco bows his head before looking at you one last time.

The corner of his mouth twitches upwards, a sardonic, hollow grin. "Sorry," he whispers before bowing again and stepping away, making to leave you, alone in the empty Colosseum-esque arena you find yourself in.

"Ah, Draco." The voice is still pleasant and fond, but you can sense what's coming in your bones. "I don't believe you've been dismissed."

Your old school rival can sense it too, you know, because there's a muted despair in his eyes when he turns around, as your eyes flicker in between him and the other. "My Lord, you offered me immunity," he says, even though you can tell he knows it's not going to work.

"Yes, yes, I did." You close your eyes but the beautiful, melodious syllables still thrum through your veins. "But you know what's interesting about bargaining with traitors, Draco?" Almost as an afterthought, you hear a mild "And Hermione, sweetheart, please open your eyes."

Oh God. It takes an effort, a long hard effort to force your lids up, and you wouldn't have if not for the iron in that voice, that horribly familiar different alien voice. Even when you finally get them open, seeing through a haze of exhausted tears, you don't look straight ahead; you keep turned towards Draco.

"That's it." There's smug pleasure in those two words. "Now, Draco; as much as I appreciate your efforts, how am I going to know that you're not going to turn out a traitor? Again, that is."

To his credit, Draco doesn't try to draw this out, and after a few long moments of silence, the voice is petulant when it sighs and murmurs, "well, I'll give you a quick death at least."

"Avada Kedavra," and you don't look away as the green light dies along with the spark of life in Draco's pale eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," you say dully.

A chuckle, mellow and tenor and hateful and loved all at once as he approaches, and though you try to struggle away power clamps down on you (he's stronger, stronger than Dumbledore now) and you're helpless to resist when slender fingers grasp your chin gently and tilt your face upwards.

Harry's green eyes gaze down at you tenderly, full of warm compassion as he wraps the other hand around your waist to pull you closer.

"He betrayed you, my love," Tom Riddle tells you with love in his voice and dark possessiveness licking out of his soul to caress your body. "No one's allowed to hurt you, Hermione. No one."

No one except you, and perhaps Voldemort should have killed Harry (Riddle, because Harry hasn't been Harry since he flew out of the Chamber of Secrets in second year) instead of Harry (Riddle) killing him, that night in the Manor when Bellatrix Lestrange burned for raising a knife against Hermione Granger's skin to carve the beginnings of that horrid word into her - your- arm.

That was the night, you think muzzily through the fog of Tom-Harry's overwhelming presence, intoxicating and terrifying. That was the night your world imploded, the night everything stopped, when everyone you cared about started dying while you watched, unable to join them because it turned out Riddle had found a way into the girls' dorms, and now there are a thousand symbols carved into your bones and skin and soul to ensure that no one, not even Death, will take you from him.

The ruler of the world kisses you, and his mouth is warm and firm against your pliant lips as you scream into oblivion.