Wrote this for 2012 Hogwarts Games, for Triathlon. Prompts are below. And by the way:

OH MY GOD I HATE THIS THING!

Word: Evolution

Quote: "I will grow old or die trying."

Genre: "Mystery"

Hermione was long aware that she was going to die young. When a war has been happening around you since you were fifteen, making it to the mythical twenty just felt like a little less sand in the hourglass. It was nothing to look forward to, just one year more she had dodged the Killing Curse behind her and one year more that she might not ahead.

There was a note today. She had long fixed that mirror of Harry's, even expanded it, just as something to do, and though she usually kept it covered, sometimes she found a note reflected in it, like it had been taped to the surface.

She had only looked directly into the mirror once, and panicked at the sight of a glimpse of a face-pale, gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes. She never saw their color, she'd swiftly ducked, then shoved it under the thin bedcovers. There was no telling who it had been.

She set it flat on the table, put her hand a few inches above it in case someone peeked through and stared from this awkward angle.

Hazel-

Writing back means more than two words in old lipstick, did you know that?

She smiled and pulled out the tube, the magical make-up staying in the thin tip she'd carved it to. She wrote a Yes at the end of the line-backwards, as always.

It means thoughtful responses. Your lack of response to each of my heartfelt letters irks me.

It's Hermione Granger's birthday today, September 19. I think you know her, though I can't say why. Tell her happy birthday for me, if you meet her, though she may not be feeling it.

There was a slaughter of children last night. Professors McGonagall, Sinistra (Astronomy, remember her?) and Sprout were found hiding many muggleborn children, and rumor has it that He has acquired the Book of Names, where all children of magic are written as they're born.

There was a glimpse of Harry Potter. He did nothing.

Write back,

Grey

She read it again, wrote one more Yes, (She remembered Sinistra with fondness) and then copied the letter's contents into a journal. Then she slid the mirror back into its spelled bag and it went back into her purse. Grey's rumors were always true, and she felt a sickly sensation in her throat.

She flipped back to his first letter. He'd addressed her as "Woman in the Mirror" and signed it "Man on the Other Side"

It had been about a year ago. It had felt odd to be addressed as a woman, but she was over seventeen, and she would have felt insulted to be addressed as Girl. Her longest response had been Call me Hazel-Eyes.

Her eyes weren't hazel, but she had once wished when she was a child.

The letters were on and off, he always dated them somehow, in the corner or in the contents. After the first letter had come another a few weeks later, then another, and then a few months had passed, and then she'd gotten a letter each week for two months, and then there'd been a gap month, and onward.

It was her birthday, it seemed. She wondered how he knew that. She wondered a lot of things about Grey, but she wanted to know who he was first before she wrote back. She knew he went to Hogwarts once upon a time, but who hadn't? He had perfect cursive, generally a sign of a rich upbringing, but he could be anyone now. Grey used more words than necessary and was humorously overdramatic and always knew the true rumors about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and now he knew her birthday. She scrawled that carefully in neat handwriting in the back.

She was living in a cabin this week, one of those one-bedroom winter homes someone rented for a holiday and then forgot until they remembered they hadn't gotten the photos developed. She'd forgotten what it was like to sleep in a soft bed, and instead of savoring it, she tossed and turned, uncomfortable. She'd eventually fled to the floor, the first night, where there was something solid beneath the carpet to feel. Hermione picked up the blanket and spread it back over the bed, folding it's edge down like she'd found it.

Harry had been spotted. He was still alive. They'd been separated for months, without a word of even his footprints.

She hoped he was okay. Not lifting his wand to help a child-so unlike him. She smoothed her hands over the blanket again.

. . .

She could understand her friends fear, when they insisted to her that she stop running with them and instead just move around from safe place to safe place. Malfoy Manor had made it all too clear that when seeking information, she would be the first target for torture. When identifying them, she was the most recognizable.

Hermione still blamed herself for that.

The cabin had been her home for almost a month. She had been counting off days and it was now the twelfth of October. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to read but a dictionary, thesaurus and the books she had been carrying with her for two years. Not even a newspaper-she would love a newspaper. There was so many things that could be done with a newspaper, she-

She was going insane in this cabin, she really needed to move to a new safe spot.

Hermione placed the mirror flat on the table, building a little platform over it with sticks and magic to balance its cloth bag over it, and then placed her cheek against the table to stare at it. It was blank, a mirror reflecting white.

A sound of breathing, a glimpse of something. She lifted her head a little.

Grey had slim hands, pale, long fingers with nails that needed a trim. They were shaking, picking up a parchment, then quickly adding something to it with quick motions.

He was left-handed? No, his right hand was bandaged.

Spellotape was placed along the parchment edges with jerky actions, and it was placed on the mirror.

Hazel-

Forgive my handwriting, my hand was burned.

Instead of my usual snide comment about your lack of response, I'm going to beg. I need contact with someone.

I used to think the most horrifying sound was someone screaming, their last breaths wasted on unnoticed sounds of their torment.

Now it's silence. It haunts my nightmares, a tangible lack of noise and emotion, pure nothing and the blank faces of the doomed I've seen too often.

I watched a boy burn for being a muggleborn, heard his silence as he lay draped half over a window, unable to escape. And still, he never screamed. I don't think he could.

My nightmares are evolving. I can't sleep. Can you?

Grey

Hermione just stared at the letter a while. Newspapers were always cold, lacking those little details that could make such events truly horrifying.

He never screamed.

She swallowed, the image sharp in her imagination.

She tore a page from her journal and copied something out of the dictionary.

Evolution

Noun

1 the process by which different kinds of living organisms are thought to have developed and diversified from earlier forms during the history of the earth.

2 the gradual development of something, esp. from a simple to a more complex form.

3 Chemistry- the giving off of a gaseous product, or of heat.

4 a pattern of movements or maneuvers.

5 dated Mathematics- the extraction of a root from a given quantity.

Pure

Adjective

not mixed or adulterated with any other substance or material.

She carefully taped it onto the mirror, keeping herself out of sight, and waited. A glance at the clock showed it was two in the morning, possibly, but she couldn't care less. She didn't sleep on a normal schedule anymore.

But she hadn't copied down the note. Hermione shot up when she realized and then began trying to write it from memory, finally forced to peel up a corner and write what she could see from that angle.

Just in time. There was a glimpse of those hands as they anxiously peeled off his letter. She slammed the corner back down.

A chuckle. The sound surprised her, Hermione had been alone with nothing but her own voice for six months. Sometimes if she realized something important, she had that spelled knut that she gave Harry and Ron, and she'd leave the info in one of their drop-off points.

The laugh was humorless, some might have even said lifeless, and was definitely a man's laugh. It went straight to her stomach, fluttering around like deranged butterflies on coffee.

She scribbled these clues in her journal's back. Deep voice, piano hands, pale skin.

A rustle of paper.

Hazel-

Perhaps I shall have to detail what I would like out of a response. (Though, definitions are a start)

First of all, to be addressed by a name. It's only common curtesy, after all, as these are letters. Start with a name, sign a name.

Then, in short order, some thoughtful responses to what I've written, and then something from your side for me to respond to. Conversations are two-sided, did you know?

As my final request, I would like to know who the hell-excuse my language-I have been talking to this last year. I have told you things I wouldn't dare speak where I live, and I would like to know I'm not going to die for it. I have avoided questions about the war and whichever side you may be on, I've been polite, and even used that idiot nickname without a snarky comment. Some return, love?

-Grey

P.S: So perhaps pure was not the right word for that occasion. But why the definition of evolution?

She blinked at the letter, quickly copying it in rather messy handwriting while she tried to think of a response.

Dear Grey,

Instead of telling you who I am, I propose a game. We'll continue our letters and anonymity, and try to figure out who the other is. When we both have our guesses, (And maybe the war will be over by then) we'll meet somewhere and find out if we're right.

Deal?

Don't call me love, by the way.

Sincerely,

Hazel

P.S: I just thought it was fascinating.

As her first hint, she wrote in some of her precious gold ink.

. . .

It took several days for him to write back a confirmation, during which she backpacked and apparated all the way to London-busy, full of magical and much too full of muggle tourists, but easy for her to blend into. And-muggle libraries.

She remembered she had a second-cousin she met some distant summers ago living around, and a look through a few phonebooks found in front of a nondescript house, hating herself for what she was doing. She was putting them in danger, but she had noticed signs of illness managing an unfortunate surfacing, and she had nowhere to go.

She looked up at the little two-story, then down at herself. She looked vaguely well-put-together, though her clothes were obviously old, and short on the legs, and she already knew her hair was a wreck, but she still looked like Hermione-didn't she?

Hermione knocked twice, politely.

In minutes, the door opened, revealing a college-aged woman, her curly hair in a bun. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Lillian?" Hermione asked, and then remembered her wand was still strapped to her leg, and that all she was carrying was an extremely empty-looking purse.

"Can I help you?" the woman repeated.

"I-I'm your second cousin... Hermione? We haven't met since I was fifteen."

Lillian looked her up and down again, suddenly swallowing. "Hermione? But-You and Aunt Jean and Uncle... You went missing!"

Hermione stared at the ground and nodded, "They're still missing," she lied. Or it wasn't a lie-she didn't know where her dear parents were now.

Lillian pulled her into a tight hug, but then quickly shoved her back to arms length. "Come in, but go right upstairs to the bathroom. I'll call Mum at her office-I can't believe it!"

Hermione stepped over the threshold, looking around. It looked like she was in awe, but she was really looking for a sign of danger. No glimmers of magic, no sign of Death Eaters or the Order, no one-just the home of two muggles living in a house, with a big family. The walls were covered in photos. Hermione smiled sadly, seeing all those still photos of family she hadn't seen in years or never seen at all.

Still photographs, she decided, were better. They didn't react, the moments weren't shown how they were ruined seconds later by the one person who fell over or the dog who ran through, engagement photos didn't show the embarrassing second when the man fainted with relief (Humorous, but not to be hung on a wall), the smiling faces of the dearly departed weren't made more painful by interacting with the people walking by.

She walked up the stairs and into the bathroom and gladly rid herself of the stains of her travels.

The next morning she had to face why she was sleeping on the floor of the guest room and so lovingly polishing a carved stick, and where she had pulled the large hand-mirror next to her from.

After a few ineffectual lies, Hermione came clean, damn the Statute of Secrecy. Muggle papers were noticing all the odd disappearances and rising numbers of deaths by accidents.

"I'm a witch. I went to a special school, I have a wand, I do magic."

Then she demonstrated, quite simply, by pulling a tea kettle out of her purse.

Cousin Meredith, Lillian's mother, had fainted, and Lillian had stared at her oddly while pulling out an entire tent from her purse.

"There's a war going on. A man-well, you can't really call him a man anymore-who's referred to as You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is trying to kill all muggleborns. I'm a muggleborn. A muggle is a person without magic. They, um, call us mudbloods, saying that we steal our magic, and that we taint magic. They like to torture and kill muggles, for sport. Wizard-kind has a curse, an unforgivable curse, called the Killing Curse, it kills without leaving a mark."

"Is that what happened to-"

"I don't know. Mum and Dad are missing." She couldn't tell them that she caused it herself. She needed their trust. "It could be that some of the good side-the Order of the Phoenix, we call ourselves, took them somewhere, or that..."

Lillian and Meredith stared at her.

"Um, do you want to know more?"

"Where have you been?"

Hermione gave them a short account, traveling with her friends and discouraging the idea that she was in a relationship with either of them, how they were trying to destroy magical items that Voldemort was using to keep himself alive. An extremely edited version of Malfoy Manor was delivered to them, and then the tale of how she had been moving place to place for a year and a half.

Which then required the tale of the first six years of her schooling, edited again.

Hermione did a lot of storytelling that day, and a long explanation of why they couldn't tell anyone.

She finally began her game with Grey.

Hazel-

I've decided right away that you're not a Hufflepuff. They aren't elusive and they don't play games.

I think I just might like you.

In order to speed up the process (Or perhaps slow it down), in each letter we must ask one personal question, (Only one) and the responder must answer it. We may be as vague or specific as we wish. We must answer our own question.

I'll start simple, love. What is your favorite animal, or animals? I used to like snakes, but now I've found ravens much more interesting. A touch morbid, but they are beautiful birds, regardless of all their connotations.

Grey

She picked out a book of animal symbolism at the library.

Dear Grey,

I like cats. I had a cat, but I had to give it away, he was a good boy though. He was always there when I needed him and had a good intuition about people-even if he wasn't fond of my crush, but when they first met he was a bit of a prat to him for trying to eat his own pet.

I looked up about ravens. They aren't all about death. They're intelligent birds, and symbolize magic, shapeshifting, wisdom, and are associated with many gods and legendary figures, like the Morrigan, Odin, (Valkyries are said to be able to transform into ravens, explaining their presence after battles) Athena AND Apollo, and is the star of many Native American legends. It's thought to be an oracle, because its cries sound quite a lot like the word cras. I'm quite assured you know Latin, and that telling you it means tomorrow is pointless, but I'm doing so anyway. Don't complain.

What was your latest dream (or nightmare)? Mine was

She paused. Hermione hadn't meant to ask that, but Grey had told her a bit about some of his nightmares, and she didn't want to waste ink rewriting the entire thing. She continued writing, albite with a shaky hand.

A time I was tortured for information I didn't have. I only survived because of brave-and frankly idiotic-friends. I know it shouldn't affect me how it does, but it's a common nightmare of mine.

Sincerely,

Hazel

P.S: Don't call me love!

. . .

She knew he went to Hogwarts around the time she did, that he often had nightmares about those he'd seen die, she'd figured out that he was a Slytherin, he was aggravating how he always called her love despite her complaints, he had perfect hands and always wore dress-shirts when she saw them, his voice gave her a case of flutters for absolutely no reason, and always knew the true rumors about Voldemort. He liked the colors green and gold, he liked the smell of the air after a rainstorm, he liked to watch thunderstorms.

He was a Death Eater, she was sure, from rereadings of letters. He was only hiding among them, she got that feeling from his phrasings, but she was naturally wary, trying to become more sparse in details but her quill spilling them before she could stop herself.

She had a dream about him, his voice whispering things in her ear, those hands brushing across her body, he was sitting behind her with her pressed against his chest so that face still stayed hidden.

Hermione was rather fascinated to wake up and find her underwear was soaked. She also felt like she was betraying Ron. She'd never dreamt about him like that, and yet she'd found herself enjoying, reliving, an erotic dream about a man she'd never even met.

Dear Grey,

I grew up in southern England, with both my parents, no sisters or brothers, and a family reunion every year. We'd take over this little corner of a park in whoever's city it was that year, and my parents always brought vegetable trays. I always made sure to take home some of the sweets my other cousins would bring and stretched them out for weeks. My parents didn't want me eating too many (Bad for my teeth), so I didn't often get sweets, except the family reunion and school events.

I've been to Wiltshire a few times, but it wasn't for very long.

I dreamt about you a few nights ago. Do you dream about me?

Hazel

She wanted to burn this letter, to wipe it from the earth, but she couldn't spare the ink-she was going to have to loot another wizard's home. Sadly, thievery had become her method of survival months ago.

It was summer now, and she had retreated to living on a mountain in Scotland-the Northwest Highlands, her map said. The old tent was set up, she had beautiful scenery every day, no news to bother her and only the occasional animals wandering by.

It was one of those lucky times when a Death Eater or a Snatcher didn't find her, and she felt safe enough to walk around.

Hermione was lamenting Grey's lack of reply, silently telling herself off for saying such a thing-I dreamt about you, what was she thinking?-in between the mental checklist of things she would have to allocate soon. Last year's leaves were thick on the ground, and the path was steep, but she barely noticed until she slipped and fell, nearly crashing into a bramble thicket.

Or whatever that thorned plant was. It looked distinctly magical, and she hadn't looked at an herbology book in a long time. She sat, watching it as she wiped her hands on her pants, struggling to remember. She had seen a picture, she knew, she-

Hermione Granger burst into tears. She couldn't remember what she'd read! She remembered everything, she could remember all the differences between of the editions of A History of Magic since its publication in August 1943, but she couldn't remember a stupid plant!

She was useless, the brains of the Golden Trio who couldn't even figure out who a man was when he dropped hints, never mind find out the next Horcrux for her friends. There was three left and she hadn't given them any information in seven months, she hadn't been looking for any, she'd just been...

Caught up in stupid letters and dreams about a man on the other side of the war.

Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't written in weeks.

. . .

The mirror went into her purse and stayed there and she threw herself back into Horcrux-hunting, and even managed to give Harry and Ron the location of the next Horcrux-Bellatrix Lestrange's vault.

Grey crept into her dreams, sometimes those touches and sometimes a man with fluid features-except his grey eyes, always piercing hers. "What did I do? Please, Hermione. Please."

How she imagined his voice saying her name made her shiver. How she imagined his upset expression made her wake in tears.

She was passing through a town when she realized. She reached into her purse for a backpack, something more suiting her traveling appearance, forgetting she had put the mirror inside it.

The letter was dated for a month ago.

Hazel-

Please. I'm begging you. Write to me. I've felt so alone. I'm sorry, whatever I said. Please. I'm scared you're dead, that I'll never find out if I'm right. Don't leave the game standing like this. Don't leave me.

I know I was callous how I said that, but I didn't mean it like that, my quill gets ahead of my mind. Please, love. I close my eyes and I see you dying in so many ways...

In case you haven't actually figured out who I am, here's a hint-ferret.

Grey

P.S: I'll probably never write again, so I want you to know. I know who you are, and I love you anyway.

The mirror shattered on the pavement.

She took several deep breaths, trying to control herself, but scrambling to collect the shards. She sliced open her hand, grabbing the pieces and putting them in her bag, trying to get them, but so many were so small...

She didn't think to use a spell, she panicked and then ran, down the pavement to some little bench in a strip of green. It could have been a park or a square, she didn't look around and find out. She was desperately trying to fit those shards back together into the letter.

She suddenly remembered her magic, bending close over the mirror pieces and tearfully whispering, "Reparo."

Draco Malfoy loved her. He confessed to loving her. Her, right? Who did he think she was? He said anyways, so maybe...

The thought of someone loving her kindled in her heart, sharp and yet warm.

There were holes in the mirror, and the little pieces to fill them were on a street she couldn't find. But that didn't bother her. On the bench, she penned a letter.

Dear Grey,

I'm so sorry! It wasn't anything you did, I'm so sorry.

I can explain. If you find this, write me. We can meet at

She wrote the first place she could think of, the name in a newspaper to her left.

Trafalgar Square.

Sincerely,

Hazel

P.S: I know who you are too.

She'd not written for six months, she couldn't believe herself...

. . .

She checked that mirror every day from January to June, taping a second, short, Happy Birthday message below her original when 5 of June came around.

She checked it every week for the next few months, then only a few weeks, losing hope. The war was being lost around her and she couldn't hide.

"Make me an auror, Kingsley. I don't care what Harry and Ron say."

. . .

"You." It was all she could say, and she wasn't even sure she could be heard.

Malfoy stared at her, expression carefully neutral. The battle was loud in the rest of the woods, even through the trees, and silence seemed to emanate from the wand he had pointed at her chest with a steady hand.

"Me," he returned, eyes turning cold in what could only be self-defense. "You never wrote back. I checked every day for five months, I thought you died. I mourned for you." He sounded accusatory.

"I-I-I did write... In... January... I'm sorry, Grey. I..." She knew him as Grey, she couldn't quite make herself call him Draco yet.

"Was busy? Too busy to write SOMETHING? For six months? I could. I bothered to let that Weasel git live because I knew you cared for him, I was supposed to kill him. I have scars from my punishment!"

"You... Were distracting. I was supposed to be doing something important-"

"For Weasel and Scarhead, right? You were laughing, I bet. The three of you. Did you pass the letters around and laugh about the ferret falling for the Gryffindor Princess?"

"No! I haven't seen them in years, Grey, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry I hurt you. But-You really were distracting, I kept checking the mirror when I should have been working, and you're in my dreams, and... I lo-"

He suddenly crossed the distance, grabbing her by the back of her shirt, the Loose-Limb curse causing her body to relax against her will.

"Hold your breath," he whispered. She did her best to comply.

"Well, I guess I could hang her on a wall," he drawled, gripping her harshly by her shirt and neck. "Or get her stuffed. Mudblood Gryffindor, rare species these days."

"'Ey, here's an idea. She's still alive, right? We could always just have our little way... 'Course, you get dibs for catching her..."

She was struggling to hold her breath and felt glad she had her eyes closed, her eyes were itching to twitch.

"No, she's dead. Hard to miss. Played to her ever-famous bleeding heart: 'Oh, I never wanted to be one! Please, oh please, help me!' Never saw it coming."

"Oh. Well, she's still warm. The dead can say no 'bout as much as the unconscious. What-"

Draco dropped Hermione. Her head cracked harshly against something, maybe a rock.

"That is disgusting! Do you have any standards! Fucking a mudblood-not just that, a dead one! Go join Fenrir, you obscene little shit, I heard he has the front line."

"'Ey, it was just-I'm leaving!" A rustle of tree limbs and bushes.

"You're okay, right?" Draco whispered, his arms sliding around her. He lifted her as she struggled to open her eyes. Her head hurt fiercely, she could feel her pulse beating there. She knew she was bleeding, she'd gotten head wounds before. She smiled at Draco as her body left the ground.

"You're so strong," she giggled. "Spinning me in circles."

He stared at her a moment. "Don't go to sleep, okay?"

"But you're here, what if I wanna?"

"Hazel-Hermione, we need to stay quiet! I need to get you somewhere safe," he whispered harshly. She smiled at him.

"Okay!"

She then kissed his neck, teeth latching into the little patch of skin. She was feeling sleepy, but he said not to sleep...

"Hey! You! Asshole, get your Golden Girl before someone realizes I'm here!"

She was aware of someone slamming into her and Grey, "Get your hands off-"

And she blacked out.

She was told she was asleep for a few days, that she had been rescued from Draco Malfoy, and all the details of her head trauma.

It didn't matter, it was worth it because she had a letter.

Love-

I think we both know now is not a good time to meet. But no matter who wins the war, the instant we find out, we'll meet there. Okay?

I have both a hickey and teeth-shaped puncture marks I had to explain to both my mother and my sadist aunt, I hope you're happy.

Draco

P.S: Let's not repeat this last year. Write when you wake.

. . .

The war wasn't over for two more years. Twenty-four-year-old Hermione watched it happen, her and Neville teaming up-her with a basilisk fang and him with the stolen-back Sword of Gryffindor-to kill Nagini. She had to admit, in later years, that the sword slicing her head off was much cooler than how she stabbed the snake through the belly. (She missed, ever so slightly. That was why Neville used the sword)

When Voldemort died, she grinned wildly, ignoring the Death Eater she had been fighting and immediately turning on her heel. At four in the morning, Hermione stood in the square, Scourgifying herself and waiting.

The people began to mill around their lives as the hours began to slip by, the sun rose on the winter day, and it was ten o'clock before he appeared.

"I was getting your cat," Draco said, Crookshanks purring in his arms. "And-changing my clothes, I think you can tell."

"Should I insult your vanity or thank you for getting Crooks?" 'Crooks' leapt down to the ground and pulled himself into her lap.

Draco slipped off his coat and pulled it around her, sitting down. Their thighs touched, and the little electric feeling, the adrenaline and just the overwhelming euphoria that the war was gone nearly consumed her.

"Let's do this properly. I'm Draco Malfoy," he held out his gloved hand.

"Hermione Granger." She shook it for a second before he kissed her hand. That kiss somehow traveled the distance from her hand to her lips with a movement she wasn't sure even happened. One second there, then here.

His hands tangled in her hair, lips soft against her own. She curled closer to him.

Five minutes later they would be caught and Draco would be arrested to be trailed. Three months later he'd be free, but on house arrest, then probation.

But then he'd be free.

That wouldn't be for five minutes. Right now they were enjoying the fruits of a mystery long solved.

Agghh, let me reiterate how much I hate this thing, but I had to write it in five days because I leave for camp for two weeks on Sunday. So it sucks. There, deal with it :P

One day, I will look back, scream eternal hatred for this piece and rewrite it, and it will probably make a lot more sense...