Letters from the Road

Summary: On the run from Death Eaters in the Forest of Dean, Hermione Granger takes to writing letters as a coping mechanism. If only she could have predicted where, rather, with who they'd end up.

Disclaimer: As per usual, all credit goes to J. K. Rowling, I own nothing except the productions of my own pen.

To whoever picks this up,

Put on paper, that seems rather silly, but it's the best I've got. Magic can be unpredictable at the best of times and modified experimental charms even more so. I digress. This paper is charmed to wind up in the hands of someone on our side who needs it, but just in case, I'm not going to say anything that could lead you to us. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this and I do hope this hasn't ended up in the hands of some poor muggle. If so, I apologize, but I am about to open your eyes.

There is a war going on. Not one you can see, at least not without looking carefully and squinting just so. Murders are nothing to scoff at, but the sad truth is that they're just as commonplace in our world as they are in yours, mine I suppose, if we're being honest. Although, it seems as though I left that world behind forever ago now.

I guess I ought to tell you something about the charmed piece of paper you're holding. See, I got the idea originally from a cursed diary my friend had the misfortune to discover once and then I thought about those silly coins from fifth year. (and how useful they've turned out to be, even if not everyone keeps them anymore) Anyways, I modified a protean charm with some inspiration from the 'snake-faced prat,' as Harry likes to call him, and a little touch of the Marauders. Which, even if you went to Hogwarts, I sincerely doubt you've heard of. The important information is that these words will be accessible only to you, the holder of this parchment. I've spelled it so that if anyone else tries to read them, they'll appear to be notes from Hogwarts: A History. If you're a muggle, just tell someone it's a fiction novel.

I sometimes wish I was still at school for this year, like I was supposed to be. I suppose most eighteen year olds dream of gallivanting off in their final year to go save the world, but I prefer it not need saving at all. Harry would hate it if he heard me calling him the "chosen one" but it's true. He's the only hope we have right now after Dumbledore...well after Dumbledore is enough said about that. Maybe you know about that, and maybe you don't, it's perhaps better if you don't know the whole story, and I don't want to be the one who has to tell you.

I'm sorry, this is probably a rather lot to take in, whoever you are. I just needed some sort of outlet. We're all on edge here, wondering when the next enemy is going to appear just where we don't need them. We've got the bloody locket but we can't do anything about it except wear it, and that's no pleasant undertaking. Imagine wearing a Dementor around your neck, it's a similar feeling. I'm even just as afraid that it's going to take my soul. I've no idea how Umbrage stood the thing for more than a second, though the similarities between her winning personality and a dementor are perhaps better left unsaid. I wish we had broken every plate in her office. I wish I could lead her to the centaurs all over again and I wish she had never come back.

That's a horrible thing to wish upon a person isn't it? This beastly thing hanging from my neck is to blame, I'm sure. Or perhaps this war is changing us in ways we couldn't have imagined.

I wish I'd been a little more careful at the ministry and kept Yaxley from grabbing me. I know the boys don't blame me, at least out loud, but it was my fault we lost our base and we can't go back. Not now, maybe not ever depending on how things go. Everything is looking very hopeless right now. We've no idea where to look next and no real clue what we're doing.

Perhaps I'd best stop writing before I get any more maudlin.

Best of British to you,

Hermione Granger

At first, Draco wasn't sure what he was reading. By the time he'd reached the signature he wasn't sure if he wanted to burn the paper or cry. Something had obviously gone horribly wrong with whatever spell Granger had cast on the letter for it to end up with someone like him. He should forward it to his father immediately and let him start working on cracking the protective spells around it. Perhaps it would bring them back into favor with the Dark Lord and maybe his life would be less of a living hell.

He laughed and it was brittle. Ever since he'd failed and Snape had...well ever since Dumbledore he hadn't been sleeping well. Not that he'd been sleeping well before then either, what with the constant worry of being caught, the strange sensation that the old coot had known exactly what was going on, and the knowledge that his failure would doom his family it was no surprise.

What was surprising was that he was managing anything this year at all. Eating was a chore, class was abysmal, he was largely hated by his professors and the students alike, the Carrows took great delight in tormenting him at every turn, and Crabbe and Goyle, the traitors, were sucking up to them at every opportunity.

Every dark spell they lapped up from the Carrow's teachings made him want to vomit, although before the past year he likely would've been right there beside them. He didn't know if he wanted to vomit because of them, or more because of himself. It was easy to look back in a situation like this and wish that he had made different choices, except that with who he was and who his parents were this would always have been his choice. Regardless of how much the thought of all the things he would have to do to stay alive made his stomach churn, Draco would have to have been born a different person to avoid the fate that was now staring him in the face.

Like this bloody stupid letter from bleeding heart Granger that he still hadn't decided what he was going to do with. He ran his eyes over the page again. A good Death Eater wouldn't have hesitated, but he'd already established that he wasn't one of those. She sounded so bloody hopeless. It was nothing like the Granger he knew. He rubbed his jaw in remembrance of old pain and smiled. No one had ever hit him quite like that before. She'd slapped him so hard he'd staggered and then she'd unleashed a tide of vitriol that could have put the dark lord to shame. In retrospect, he was sure he'd deserved it, but at the time it had sharpened his resolve in his prejudices.

Then had come Dumbledore and his bloody stupid talk of second chances. As though there had ever been any chance in the first place for someone like him. "Only dark wizards belong in slytherin" Bloody Weasel had said it the first day of school and it was by and large the viewpoint of the rest of the world. How was he to compete with the expectations of the world when the expectations of his parents had been no different? Perhaps aspirations was a better word.

At first he'd been proud and by the time he'd realized this wasn't just a fun schoolyard feud, he was Marked, Harry Potter was stalking him through the school, and his mother was having hysterics every time he came home. Then Dumbledore was dead and Charity Burbage and he'd had to torture Rowle. Draco shuddered; he never wanted to use the Cruciatus on anyone ever again, not that there was any room in his life for what he wanted.

He growled and crumpled the letter down into a tight little ball, which he then threw into the fireplace. He drew his wand to light it and froze. Granger said she'd spelled it to find someone who needed it. Maybe he did need it. Draco didn't know her definition of need, per se, but maybe he could at least use the letter to find out something useful. Yes, it would be a shame to destroy something that could potentially be the key. Key to what, he didn't know, still unsure how he was rooting for this war to end now that he was seeing the potential future first hand. But, he could figure that out later.

Realizing he'd been standing with his wand pointed at the fireplace for what was likely minutes, Draco flushed, hastily sheathing it and scooping the crumpled paper from the ashes. He carried it to his desk, smoothing it carefully before reaching for a quill. Staring unseeing at the page for a minute, he cracked his knuckles and dipped his quill in the ink. "All right, Granger, let's see how this works."

(futurus persevero)

~GBD