December 21
Title: Paris, Burning
Author: spadul
Rating: R
Word Count: 4259
Prompt: Ice Skating
Warnings: Some rough language, violence, too much angst for a Christmas fic, AU for ending of 7th book, and obviously EWE.
Summary: In a world where Voldemort is winning the war, Hermione and a group of rebels of the light must escape England and journey through Europe on a quest to find allies amongst the darkness that seeks to consume them.
A/N: This was fun to write, I hope it is equally fun to read. I am aware that things involving ice skating and Christmas should generally be happy, but this fic is anything but. Maybe it's the bitter Jew in me, or maybe it's just the fact that I love angst. Regardless, I hope everyone likes it. Thanks to my precious S for the beta job, you are my shinning star.
December 18, 20:07
Hermione stood at the shore of the English Channel, freezing water licking up her legs as she watched the dark sky of her home smolder in shades of reds and oranges, the remnants of the city snowing down on her face in thick clumps of ash. The air was cool with the bitterness of a war lost, of failure, of finally giving up hope. That’s not what she heard in hushed whispers intended to justify their actions, but Hermione knew better than to delude herself. She conjured a small rowboat; merely further evidence of their collective retreat. They fled from the war they were born to fight -- left their homes, everything they had ever known, behind for a chance at survival, for the fool’s hope that someone was out there waiting to help them. Hermione began to row, and over the sound of waves splashing against the boat she could hear echoes of sobs filled with despair as they ricocheted across the surface.
Who could help them when they could barely help themselves?
December 19, 02:34
“Which port are we at?”
“Cherbourg, I think.” She held her small map in front of her eyes, clicking her tongue while squinting to adjust her vision in the dark.
“What?” someone to her left hissed. Panic broke through the air suddenly, sending frenzied tones humming around her like a swarm of confused bees. “I thought we needed to set dock in Le Havre,” someone added.
“We went too far west!” A voice exclaimed with precise airy detachment, one she recognized immediately as belonging to Fleur. She scoffed shortly, and Hermione could tell even in the darkness that it was directed towards her.
“No matter,” Hermione stated bluntly. She was far from the point of sanity required to reason with a group of people who were unwilling to listen. She folded the map and ran her fingers over the creased lines -- two months of creased lines. Two months, the length of their failure, neatly concealed by the crossed off cities their journey took them through.
“No matter?” Her eyes had begun to adjust, and she watched as Fleur rose to her feet with a sour expression on her face. “We don’t have the time. Your mistake has added another day to our journey -- what if our allies are gone by the time we reach Paris?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I don’t see how that would be my fault.” Her mouth was rigid; teeth pressed together and lips barely moving as she spoke. The night was cold and sent shivers down her spine, but despite it she barely moved under Fleur’s scrutiny.
“You ‘ave zee map!” Fleur yelled hotly, carelessly allowing her accent to escape from the confines of her words.
“Relax, Delacour.” Malfoy kicked himself off the tree he had been leaning against, and strolled forward staring both her and Fleur down. Hermione wondered if he forgot Fleur was a Weasley, or if he deliberately chose to ignore the fact. “It’s your own fault for trusting Granger’s judgment.”
“How was it my judgment when my boat was taking up the rear? Just because I have the only map…” she trailed off slowly, cautious of the slow smirk spreading smoothly over Malfoy’s face. “What?”
“Really, Granger?” He raised an eyebrow and leveled her with a serious, dangerous look. She had seen one like it before, and it wasn’t good. “I never knew you were the type to take it up the re--”
“--That,” she paused as a shiver unwillingly passed down her spine, “is not what I meant, and you full well know it.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“How is that--”
“Shut it!” Fleur’s shriek broke even through the air and crackled around them, her anger lingering in the staleness of it. “Save whatever you two are doing for later, because right now we’re fucked, and it’s your fault.” She sent a pointed look in Hermione’s direction. “So unless you have a solution, could you hand the map over to someone with a brain so we can get the fuck out of here?” Hermione watched her mouth as it moved, almost unable to believe she was being spoken to in such a condescending manner. She rarely had an issue with people questioning the quality of her brain, and she blamed the war. She blamed her parents for not teaching her how to handle situations like this, and she blamed Harry and Ron for escaping while they still had a chance to, when she no longer did. She blamed Fleur, and she blamed the sodding English Channel, and she blamed Malfoy.
“Fine,” Hermione seethed. “You think someone could do it better? Let’s see it.” She ran a finger longingly over a crease in the map before tossing it at Malfoy, a vindictive look shining in her eyes under the fading moonlight -- a challenge. “See how well he’ll do. See if they’ll even follow him.”
And they would. He turned after a few moments’ hesitation, and slowly they began following him. Because in the pitch black of night when nightmares exist and people do bad things, Draco Malfoy had more of a reason to run from what was chasing them.
December 21, 17:45
It took them half a day to realize that the Death Eaters had followed them, and half a day of arguing before agreeing to cross the Seine and carry on from the opposite shore. The water was ice cold and too deep to easily maneuver across, and Hermione had never been an excellent swimmer. But still she carried on, barely staying afloat because she needed to, above all else. It wouldn’t get any easier from this point on, and the sooner she came to terms with that fact the sooner she could erase the smell of burning from her consciousness.
December 24, 10:15
“This can’t be right.”
They walked slowly, their heels dragging and heads tilted skyward to face the grey skies. With each step they took into the city the more worried they became. Hermione passed a taxi and ran her index finger across the door that was left open, the owner nowhere in sight. A woman turned from an alley clutching two children to her, and it was a few steps before she caught sight of their group. Her eyes widened, and she turned almost immediately, her back disappearing into a cloud of mist and smog.
Paris was empty. They were too late.
“It’s not safe here.” Hermione’s senses were hyperaware of their surroundings; the empty cars left parked in the middle of streets, the mist that hung far too close to the ground. Something had happened, and it wasn’t good.
“Alright then.” Malfoy’s sarcastic tone cut through her. “And where, exactly, are we supposed to go now?” He blinked once, twice, and on the third his eyes rolled and he turned away from her, groaning an aggravated fuck under his breath. She watched him retreat with sour eyes, prepared to tell him exactly where he could go, when she spotted something beside him.
“The metro,” she whispered quiet enough to be talking to herself, but knowing, somehow, that he could hear her. His back tensed, and he turned his head slightly over his shoulder to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “They won’t think to monitor the metro. We can enter the city without them knowing we’ve arrived.” She ran on excited feet to the top of the stairwell, and peered down into the quiet darkness with calculating eyes. Malfoy stepped in beside her, and stood unmoving for a pulsating moment.
“Granger.” He said it as if it were his first time seeing her; like he had just stumbled upon something magnificent. There was hope in his voice, it filled her with the optimism she had been lacking, and as their wary companions crowded around the top of the stairs she knew they could feel it too.
December 24, 13:32
It was pitch black. So terrifyingly pitch black that it robbed Hermione completely of her senses. With each step she took she became more encompassed by it, surrendering herself over to helplessness. She could no longer distinguish sounds, nor their origins. Every draft of cool air past her shoulder sent her hand gripping that much tighter around her wand, and she consistently checked over her shoulder for any sign, any trace of the enemy, although she would not be able to see them, even if they were mere paces from her face.
The group walked deeper into the heart of the underground maze, afraid to even whisper Lumos for fear of being found.
“How do we know the trains aren’t running?” someone asked, and Hermione thought it sounded like Neville, but in the darkness she couldn’t be sure.
“We don’t.”
December 24, 19:00
“How does she know him again?” Hermione’s eyes were trained on the stranger’s face, watching his lips as he spoke in a language she couldn’t decipher. There was something off about his face, she noticed, the way his eyes never really focused on anything. They were empty, hollow eyes. Eyes that could not be trusted.
“Hey.” She reached to her side, and with a tentative hand she lightly squeezed Malfoy’s upper arm. She didn’t exhale until he turned to acknowledge her, his face managing to look curious and bored at the same time. He raised an eyebrow. “How does Fleur know this man?” she asked in a strained whisper.
He shrugged a shoulder. “He’s French, she’s French.”
“That’s hardly rational.”
He gave her a look that suggested she got precisely what she asked for, which was somewhat true. Getting a straight answer out of Malfoy was no easy feat to manage, and she had plenty of experience in the matter. The first two weeks they traveled together, fought together, survived together, her questions were insistent. She didn’t trust him, so she asked questions to justify her lack of trust. When he finally cracked, finally answered her most consistent question, why, she no longer had a reason to not trust him.
“What if he’s a Death Eater?”
“Then we’re fucked.” Fleur’s voice rose in excitement, and Malfoy’s eyes snapped past Hermione’s head and he watched them intently. Hermione moved closer to him on instinct, nervous excitement bubbling in her veins.
“Can you understand what she’s saying?” Hermione looked eagerly between Fleur and Malfoy, hoping he would be able to decipher the rich stream of fluent French being exchanged before them.
He sighed through his nose and looked unhappily around the alley they stood in. “Not a bleeding word,” he admitted, with what appeared to be difficulty. Hermione tapped her foot as she watched their body language and gestures, attempting to decode anything that was happening.
“I swear, if she is--”
“Some of them fled.” Fleur turned sharply, addressing the group. The man she had been talking to looked over his shoulder before disappearing with a panicked look. “The Death Eaters were here early this morning, but they did not linger. There are still some allies left in the Ministry.”
“So we’re going, then?” Malfoy huffed impatiently. Fleur’s eyes darted over him for a brief moment, her usual hoity look of superiority taking its home across her features.
“They were just under attack, we can’t just waltz in unannounced. Jean is alerting them of our presence.”
“How can you be sure he is to be trusted?” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip; still staring at the spot the stranger had possessed seconds before. “I mean, did he say anything to prove his allegiance?”
“He didn’t say anything to not prove it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I don’t think it’s impractical to be thorough, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“May I imply that we get out of this sodding alley?” All heads turned to face Malfoy, who was glaring so intently at the far wall, he looked as if he intended to ignite it.
“No,” Hermione said. “We’ll wait.”
December 24, 20:10
“What do you mean they didn’t know we were coming?” Hermione’s heart pounded helplessly in her chest, blood rushing to her face and staining her cheeks pink. She had been right; Jean wasn’t helping them, and with any luck the Death Eaters would be back in the city within the hour. “How did you know that man?” Accusing eyes landed on Fleur.
“He was a friend of my father’s,” she said in a tight voice, her accent tied across her words like rope wound too tightly, bound to break.
“Some friend,” Hermione bit, not caring to mask the viciousness that poisoned her tongue.
“And how was I to know?”
Malfoy stepped in front of Hermione, cutting her off before the words could form in her mouth. It was almost protective, the way he distanced her from Fleur, but she would be a fool to believe it was. “Tell me,” he said, and Hermione glanced around shortly. He was staring at the wide-eyed Ministry worker, a wave of silent tension crashing around them. “Is that man even affiliated with your Ministry?”
The man frowned. “The Ministry is not to be trusted any longer, I’m afraid.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed into fiery slits. “What does that mean?”
“I’m so very sorry,” spoke the man, slowly lifting his sleeve to reveal skin marred by a black serpent. “So sorry,” and his voice trailed off in an airy whisper.
“Get out,” Malfoy hissed over his shoulder. He placed his hands on Hermione’s waist, and the feeling burned as he pushed her forward. “They can’t help us, we need to get out.”
There was a commotion to reach the stairs; all of their feet pounding desperately down each step. They spilled out at the landing, and took off at a quickened pace through the Atrium.
“Where are we going to go?” Hermione asked, nervousness heavy in her voice, and the soles of her shoes sliding against the polished marble floor.
“There’s nowhere to go, Granger.” They broke through the doors and stumbled to a halt. Night had fallen across Paris, the eerie glow of red in the sky lighting the streets far better than the lamps could. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she watched hundreds of bewildered civilians trickle slowly into the streets from their homes, emerging from alleys and corner streets, and filling the city with the sadness of what had been lost. Children ran about carelessly, their holiday not tarnished by the woes that plagued their parents. They spilled into small ice park from across the way, laughing as their feet made contact with the smooth ice.
Hermione stood staring straight forward, watching the innocent children as they skated by on the stretch of ice before her. The children held hands and spun in intricate circles, their parents waving from beyond the rink’s railings before turning to look at each other, hopelessness worn into the lines on their faces.
Hermione began thinking about fate, and death, and how one could not exist without the other. Would these people, these people who would never have deserved their quickly coming fate, be put in this position had they never left England? Was it entirely their fault? Hermione watched as their faces lit up with joy, and she didn’t think she could live with herself if it was.
“Do you think they know?” she asked him, because it has been two months and she thought she knew him well enough to know he’d be thinking about it, too.
“That they’re going to die?” She nodded her head once, a minuscule incline but he noticed it all the same. “No, but I think it’s better that way.”
“How can you say that? Wouldn’t you want to know? Want to fight?”
“It’s not their war to fight, Granger. You can’t save everyone, all of the time. You need to let them save themselves.”
She frowned. “But it’s our fault.” She really believed that it was. Their wild hope took them into these civilians’ home, and it was that same wild hope that would tear their home apart. The same one that tore her home apart, and his as well.
“No, I don’t think so.”
She traced the lines the skaters made with sad eyes, and asked, “What makes you so sure?”
“They have the right to fight for their lives, Granger.” He rubbed his hands together, stuffed them into his coat pockets, and turned to give her a solid, unhesitating look. “And so do we.”
December 24, 21:49
The Death Eaters came into the city quickly, and it wasn’t long before the streets looked as empty as they had found them. Hermione stood panting in the crumbling foyer of an apartment building, Malfoy and a few others crowded closely around her.
“How long will we wait here?” someone asked.
“Until it’s safe,” Malfoy said. Hermione peered out of the small window, watched as the stale air was lit up with the remnants of a rampant curse. Until it’s safe. Hermione didn’t think it would ever be safe.
December 24, 23:53
“We need to make a run for it.”
“Run?” Hermione was incredulous. After all they had done, after what their mere existence in the city had caused, he wanted to run? “What about fighting?”
“That would be suicide.” It was almost a whisper, but it was loud enough that the others heard and became panicked.
“But running would make us cowards. People have died here -- innocent people!”
“Do you want to end up like them, Granger? Because if you stand here all night I can guarantee you will.” His tone was harsh, and he was breathing heavily through his nose. He turned his head slowly from her, his eyes holding onto her attention as long as they could. He faced the rest of their small group and leaned in close, intently. “We’ll break for the Left Bank, the others will be waiting for us there.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. We’ll pick up with the Seine again, follow it as far as it takes us. They’ll expect us to go North, towards Germany, probably. But we need to leave. Now.” He stepped beside her, gave her a knowing look, and pried the door open. He stuck his head out, loud crashes and bangs echoing like mad in the open street air. He inclined his head, and their companions all slipped through the door and disappeared into the shadows as they broke into a run. He turned to her, but she wouldn’t budge.
She had turned from the door and was leaning against the wall, her hands clutching at the wall like it was more stable than she was, like it couldn’t be broken.
“I can’t,” she whispered, the truth in her words startling her. Her eyes, wide and scared, met his. “I can’t do this.”
“You have to.” Simply.
“I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? You’re not giving up, Granger, not now, not after all of this. If you do? You’re not the person I thought you were.”
She stared at him then, really stared at him. Who was Draco Malfoy? He was a fighter, she knew that much. He was a leader, one that people followed without disagreement. He fought two wars, and lost the one with himself. It led him here, with her, with them, fighting against what he had fought for. Because when it came down to it, when his wand was pointed at the face of someone he knew, he hadn’t been strong enough. Or maybe he was strong enough, stronger than anyone had given him credit for. He had walked away, after all, from a war that he had initially been winning. It was more than others could say. The tables had turned quickly, the light had been doing so well, until they hadn’t. Voldemort’s followers grew stronger every day, until there was no good left to corrupt. Muggleborns fled, claimed it wasn’t their war to fight. Other wizards joined ranks, too afraid to be on the losing side. And then there was them, the rebels. The ones who fought when there was nothing left to fight for. But Hermione couldn’t do it, not any longer.
Her shoulder sagged, and she gave a feeble laugh. “And who am I?”
“You’re an uppity bitch, Granger. And you don’t give up, even when you want to, because even when you can’t find it and it’s too dark to tell, there’s always going to be something to prove.”
“And what happens when I walk out that door, hm? What will happen then?”
“I can’t tell you that, and I shouldn’t have to. It’s not up to me, I don’t get to decide when you can start realizing that this,” he waved his hands around, “is our reality.” He pulled the door open again, and paused in the doorframe. Smoke spilled in around his ankles, and with a deep breath he stepped past the threshold. “All I know, Granger, is that you need to start living before the chance gets taken away from you.”
She grabbed his wrist before he could take another step, and he looked as confused as she felt when he turned to face her, stepping inside the foyer and letting the door click closed behind him.
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
“I don’t know.” He was honest, and she was thankful. “But we can try.” Somehow that was what she needed to hear. She gave him a dim smile, and stepped past him and angled herself between his body and the door. He turned, their bodies so close that he turned against her, his body heat radiating off of him and into her. His hand reached for the handle, and without thinking she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes, and hovered there for a few moments. Her eyes searched his, completely unmoving, and she was about to drop back down when his hand left the handle and rose to cup her face. He walked her backward, his body pressing into hers until she collided softly with the door, and his mouth captured hers. She breathed instantly, letting air escape from her nose, and she curled herself into him.
His tongue ran along the swell of her bottom lip, and without thinking she opened herself to him, reveling in the feel of his tongue against hers. Her legs ached from standing on her toes, and her lungs were protesting their need for oxygen, but none of that mattered so long as his lips didn’t leave hers. His hands roamed down the sides of her waist, across the curve of her hip and the dip of her stomach, making the most of the short moment they had.
A tremendous bang sounded from the street outside, sending tremors through the ground and causing chunks of the ceiling to rain down on their heads. He pulled away from her mouth quickly, short of breath, but alert. He still held her close, his forehead just barely skimming hers, their labored breathing rising and falling in a syncopated rhythm.
“Wand out,” he whispered, his voice thick and raspy. He cleared his throat and took a step from her, brandishing his wand. Hermione followed suit, and turned in time for him to snap the door open and push them both out into the street.
December 25, 00:01
Her lungs burned with soot and ash, and she was left gasping for breath against the side of a building. Her hand cramped under the terrified hold she had on her wand, her fingers completely numb to any sensation. Blood trickled down from her hairline, and a piercing ache in stomach made her wonder if she had actually broken a rib or two. Draco was standing beside her, cursing heavily under his breath as he stared out at the road they needed to safely cross to get where they needed to go. Lifeless eyes stared at them from the cold bodies littering the streets, mocking them for the things they had done wrong.
She had witnessed the Eiffel Tower go up in flames, watched helplessly as innocent people were trapped in the cars that had been crushed by an unseen force. She could do nothing but hope something different for herself.
“You ready?”
“No,” she answered.
“Good.” He looked at her, at the road, and back to her, and nodded. He held his wand in the dueling position as he barreled his body across the open street, and watching him made her too late realize she should have been running as well. She kicked off with one foot, her suede shoes groaning in protest, and followed him into the darkness. A lone curse whizzed over her shoulder, coming dangerously close to her skin, and without thinking she turned on her heel and began firing spells into the distance, no targets in sight. Her attempt at running backwards failed, her heel catching on an inconsistency in the pavement. She tumbled to the ground, and was not there for more than two seconds before a pair of arms grabbed her from under the armpits and hauled her to her feet. She searched for his face to thank him, but he was already running, and his hand pulling her with him. They ran until their legs could carry them no longer, and they collapsed against the bark of an old tree.
With a final deep breath Hermione steadied her wand, curses thick in her throat, and turned her back to the city of Paris, burning softly in the distance.