Title: Desperation.
Author: alp crim.

Summary: War changes even the brightest of people, and you bleed just to know you're alive. FWHGGW.

Pairing: Fred / Hermione / George.
Rating: M.

Genre: Angst / Tragedy.
WARNINGS: Later smut, probably. Language, violence and death – the usual.
Note: I'm already planning a sequel. And I really, really need a Beta that's also willing and able to act as my Muse – or anything along those lines. Please, people. Anyway, I just had to cure my itch for a FWHGGW story, so here it is. Don't forget, though, I'm still in need of a BETA AND MUSE!

-

You bleed just to know you're alive.

Iris by Goo Goo Dolls.

-

Hermione idly thumbed through the torn and soot streaked pages of her battered journal, filled to the brim with both idealistic and pragmatic wanderings – all of which were hers. It had been days since the most recent battle, and the Order had lost more fighters than they had predicted.

The appearance of Fenrir Greyback, famed werewolf with an appalling hunger for human blood and flesh, had been most unexpected.

And so, it had begun.

She knew what war looked like – and that hadn't been it.

It had been slaughter, brutal and mindless.

Their side had been unprepared and ill-equipped. Once Remus Lupin – Professor Lupin, as she used to call him – had realized what was going on, it had been too late. Fenrir's pack had flooded them in bevies and hordes, biting and tearing, ripping and shredding through every obstacle they came across.

She could still hear the barbarically cruel growls. The werewolves had howled at their victory, standing tall and bloodstained beside satisfied Death Eaters.

Harry had narrowly avoided getting his throat ripped out, and Ron – brave, daft Ron had tried to take on a group of four werewolves by himself. He had done it to keep them off of Harry, whose glasses had been knocked askew. Not even she could have managed, and she was the better spell caster of the two.

Hermione knew she was going to cry again, even before she felt the familiar stinging behind her eyes. This was the way it worked.

Her friends would die gallantly by hateful hands, and she would grieve – sob until her throat burned – cry until the tears wouldn't come.

Neville.

Luna.

Ron.

"I want it to end."

She was startled when she felt a hand alight on her shoulder, rough and calloused and warm. Fred Weasley sat in the dirt beside her. He didn't smile and yet, he didn't remove the large hand settled on her small shoulder. She gave him a simple, cursory nod, and he took it without question.

"Don't we all, 'Mione."

She could've winced at his use of her name. It was what Ron – used to call her. His voice was scratchy, as if he hadn't used it for a long period of time. It wasn't a surprising thing – he and George had become much quieter, more soft-spoken. They kept to themselves. In fact, she hadn't seen him for days.

That is, not since the battle.

"He wasn't even there." His hand tightened on her shoulder, and then it fell away. She flicked her eyes up to his face when he said, "Voldemort."

I wonder how he feels.

Fred was tracing his finger through the grainy particles of dirt, and it took her only a moment to realize he was writing.

Crucio. To torture.

Sectumsempra. To bleed.

Reducto. To smash.

Diffindo. To rip in half.

Incendio. To set fire to.

As she watched him inscribe the curses that would cause the most pain – the most agony – she knew instinctively that he intended them for no one but Greyback.

Greyback, who had rent and plundered and killed.

Greyback, who had led his minions to destroy those loved and held dear.

Is he coping?

She knew that he wouldn't bother to protect himself. He had even come up with curses she had never heard of – his own, no doubt.

Lacero.

Quasso.

Noceo.

"What are those," she whispered quietly, not really expecting an answer, but curious all the same. When she glanced at him again, Fred wasn't looking at her. He was simply staring at the hexes carved into the dirt, absently scraping a soiled fingernail over the earth.

"'Lacero'," he said softly, "mangles. 'Quasso' shatters bones. 'Noceo' … 'Noceo' inflicts endless damage – in reference to your personal thoughts."

"Demonstrate?" She knew he wouldn't.

His eyes skimmed her briefly, and he clambered to his feet. Fred cracked her a humorless smile before he trudged off, back towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest where she knew he would stand sentry with George at his side.

"Maybe another time."

He left her sitting there, knees curled into her chest at the base of a grand dead oak, gazing at the rows of words he'd bequeathed to her.

She knew all but three.

Lacero. To mangle.

Quasso. To shatter bone.

Noceo. A deadlier, more advanced version of Crucio.

Her mind deviated onto Fred and, coincidentally, George. They had lost their father to an attack on the Ministry months ago. Molly Weasley was slowly but surely driving herself into insanity.

Charlie had been murdered not two weeks after.

Ron was mauled just four days ago.

The situation had seemed remarkably like Bill's. The one hefty difference gave no one the alternative of overlooking it.

Bill had survived.

Their family was being torn apart, one by one. Bill and Ginny were all they had left, and they were adamant in their part in fighting – just like their father and brothers.

They won't survive for long.

It wasn't a warning.

It wasn't a questionable statement.

It was fact.

Hagrid, who was immune to magic because of his half-giant blood, had been struck down – not by magic, no. His mother, Fridwulfa, had chosen to side with the opposition, as did many of her kind. She had been the one to kill him, rip him limb from limb and smile maliciously as his blood, thick and heavy, cloaked the battleground.

His own mother.

Oh, Hagrid.

So many had died. So many were gone.

They won't survive.

And neither would she.

But she knew where she would be – she knew where she was needed: at Harry's side, all the way until the end. Through thick and thin – it didn't matter anymore. She knew her place.

Oh, but if she died before the final battle … if she never lived to see Harry kick the living shit out of Voldemort, she would be satisfied with knowing that he would.

Because Harry couldn't fail.

Harry couldn't fail because he was their only hope – a boy of seventeen, barely of age and sustaining the weight of the world on his clearly splintering shoulders.

Harry.

The Boy Who Lived.

The Chosen One.

Harry Potter, fulfiller of Trelawney's damning prophecy.

Harry.

My best friend.

There were no 'what ifs' or 'buts'. He couldn't fail because she depended on him. Harry couldn't possibly fail, because if he did …

Harry was hope. He gave her hope for the future. He gave her hope for a future.

And so, because she depended on him, Harry couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail.

Because if he did, there would be no consequences to consider. There would be nothing to deliberate on.

There would be nothing.

So why was she so calm, so composed and unruffled?

Because I know, she told herself, refusing to let her companions speak the one truth she herself knew, that we're fighting a losing battle.

Hermione smiled, a wretched parody of what she used to be.

But then, they already knew that, didn't they.