She saw Viktor die, falling out of the sky as he swooped down on a nest of Death Eaters, heard him hit the ground, felt it shake. Lavender and Seamus were found, bleeding and exhausted, barely alive, in the Forbidden Forest three days after they disappeared. Luna's neck was snapped in two, which hurt, but not nearly as much as the fact that she was found with Ron. She never let them tell her what happened to Ron.

The war still rages and she still fights it. She sends out potions and hexes and curses until she can barely speak, until the blisters on her hands from her wand ache and burst and bleed. She fights and fights even though there is no fight left in her.

But sometimes, when it's quiet for a moment, when the skies aren't blood red, when everyone recuperates and recovers and weeps a few tears for fallen comrades, she disappears, hides in the real world for a few hours, mourning not the dead, but the life she could have had if she'd never heard of magic.

The music pounds down on her, pressing against her nearly bare skin. The club is hot and sweaty and loud, full of smoke and drink and bodies, all pressing closer and closer. Her hair is cut short, shorn really, so it frames her face. She's shed one shirt and is now just dressed in a white tank top that clings to her skin, wet with perspiration and nearly see-through. She never wears a bra on nights like this. She needs to be free, something she's never allowed to be. Needs to be someone else, someone different. Needs to be the Hermione Granger she could have been, never will be.

Her skirt is short, a mockery of the one from her Hogwarts uniform, barely covering her panties that are also soaked through. She holds her hands above her head as she dances, letting the music own her as she moves through the crowd, writhes with pleasure and pain, forgetting everyone that she knows, has known. She doesn't remember her parents, the way they were or the way they looked when they found them. Doesn't remember Ron or any of the others. She just moves and sways, never speaking, never drinking except at the end, when she swallows down three glasses of water, the fourth sacrificed over her head to wash away some of the stench of the night.

Men try to dance with her, but she evades them and avoids them, honing her skills with flirty smiles and disappointed eyes. She's like mercury, too painful to touch, but so beautiful they all want to. She's quicksilver and lightning, slipping through them, past them, brushing against them just enough to leave a shock of skin or fabric, nipples tight and hard under sheer material, legs long and lithe as they bring her closer then away across the floor.

She revels in it, the feelings of power and of pleasure. She does enjoy herself; forgets herself and she wonders if this is really what it's always like for other 17-year-olds. She wonders if they have lives that really require nights like this or if it's only her dancing with desperation. She sees them together on the floor, grinding against one another, finding some kind of release. One girl routinely strips off her top and various boys suck on her nipples and she always turns away, the image of red hair on pale skin flashing through her mind.

No one asks her about her disappearances, though she's sure that they know. She spells her bed to make it seem as if she's there, silently sleeping, but she knows that Harry knows, or would if Ron were still alive. Dumbledore or Snape or McGonagall might know, must guess, but she doesn't care so long as they don't stop her.

She comes home every time, back to Hogwarts and the Hermione Granger she really is, the tight, constrictive flesh that houses her, surrounds herself in books and wars and blood and spells. She knows too much to stay gone, knows this isn't really her, no matter how much she pretends.

The sky is clear as she looks up through the skylight, wending her way through the top floor of the club, not watching the various couplings that are taking place in the shadows around her. It must have been this dark in the Forest when Seamus first touched Lavender. Was probably darker the first night Ron kissed Luna's bare skin.

She feels him approach her, senses the magic on his skin as his hands grasp her hips, pull her back against him. They move together as if made for each other, his body pressed to hers. She feels his erection against her ass and closes her eyes, careful to move against it, keep in contact with it.

His hands slide higher, tug her tank top free from her skirt and move under the damp fabric, cupping her bare breasts in his large palms, rough and warm as his thumbs sweep over the hard tips of her nipples. She presses her lips together to repress her moan, closes her eyes as she leans back, her head resting against his chest.

He kisses her temple softly, chastely as one of his hands slips down her stomach, leaving trails through the perspiration on her skin until his fingers reach the waistband of her skirt, splaying out over the plaid material, bunching it up.

Hermione breathes heavily, reaching down and closing her hand over his, stopping him from pulling her skirt too high, exposing her. He tightens his hold on her nipple, pinching lightly. She gasps and moans, thrusting back against him as he licks her neck, nibbles on it, his hand flat over her skirt, against her pelvis, holding her against him.

She licks her lips and grinds against his hand then back against his hard cock, rolling her hips in jerky circles of need, heavy breaths falling from her parted lips. He stills suddenly and bites her earlobe gently, his voice like a vise seizing tight around her. "Let's go home, Hermione."

She doesn't look back as he walks behind her, watches London move around them. She can feel him there, sense him like she could in the club and she knows that there's a lecture in her future. Knows that he's been sent by someone protecting her. From the world, from Voldemort, from herself.

She stops before he does, doesn't move away. There's no point in running, there's no longer anywhere to run to, no longer any escape. He touches her lightly in the small of her back and she somehow knows he's nodded toward the door. She walks in first and heads for the stairs, trudging up them silently as he locks the door behind them, following her without words.

At the top of the stairs she finally turns and looks at him, meets his eyes. They're clear and calm, which surprises her. "Who sent you?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No one."

"You don't have to lie."

"Have I ever lied to you about anything?" He takes another step closer, his body almost brushing hers as he reaches past her and pushes open a door. Grabbing a towel from the shelf, he hands it to her. "Shower's all yours."

She nods and takes a step back, glancing over her shoulder. He follows her gaze and shakes his head. She nods again and turns, heading for the bath. As she reaches the doors, she stops, her hand on the knob. "How'd you find me then?"

"I wasn't looking for you."

She turns quickly, taking him in. His black t-shirt hugs his muscles tightly, emphasizing everything years in Quidditch and wizarding robes had kept hidden. His jeans cling to every curve and the residual stench of smoke and sweat and cloves exudes from his skin. Her lips part in surprise then widen into a smile. "I've never seen you there before."

"I'd never been before." He nods past her toward the door. "Ladies first."

She moves into the bath and sheds her clothes, leaving them in a damp pile on the floor. The water washes out cold, slowly heating, steam beginning to fill the room as she pulls the door back and steps inside, closing it and losing herself in the cocoon of warm air.

She ducks her head under the spray and stays there, her hands splayed on the wall in front of her, her back arched slightly, letting the water wash away the sweat and smoke. She stays still, not moving for a long time, her blood pounding in her ears as the water pounds down against her skull.

Nothing penetrates the silence save for a quick blast of cool air. She imagines he's set out clothes for her, something dry and more formal to wear. She wonders if they're his clothes she's supposed to lose herself in or if she'll be dressed in some old girlfriend's cast-offs. She smiles, wondering who she was, wondering for a brief moment what he did to her when the air comes again, cold followed by the sudden heat of flesh on flesh.

His hands are rough and callused as they press against her lower back, sliding up to her shoulders then down again, exerting pressure enough to make her muscles respond, bringing to life aches she pretends aren't there every night. Every inch of her body is coiled with tension and his fingers find it, release it, sending echoes of relief through her.

The touch is gone just as quickly as it came and she starts to protest, the sound lost in the water as it courses through her hair, over her eyes, in her mouth. It returns with cool lotion and she can feel the bubbles forming on her skin as he washes her, caresses her. She steps back slightly, away from the spray. Rivulets of water still slide down her skin but not enough to wash away the warm heat of the circles he's making. Slick lotion and the froth of bubbles cover her back and she lets her head fall back just as he caresses her shoulders.

His body is against hers again, nothing between them this time. His cock presses against the curve of her ass, the gel soap he's using slithering down between the two taut globes, easing the constant thrust as his hips roll forward again and again. His hands leave her shoulders and move down her arms, leaving trails of bubbles in their wake, covering muscle and sinew with their delicate incandescence.

She leans back further, against him now, her whole body pressed firmly to his. His cock stills, trapped between them, his breath hot on her neck. He releases her arms to cup her breasts, the heat of the water washing away any remnants of soap so it's only his touch on her skin. His fingers ply her hard nipples until they're aching peaks of sensitized flesh.

He mimics his motions from the club, finally sliding one hand down her stomach. He traces the faded pink of the scar just above her navel with his thumb before letting his fingers move further, the dark, damp tangle of hair waiting for his touch between her parted legs.

She's already wet, the ache in her nipples extending down to her clit like an instrument string pulled too tight, ready to snap at the slightest plucking. His fingers slip past slick flesh to her clit, rough and gentle all at once as they stroke the hard tip, circling and slipping over it as Hermione thrusts down against him.

His cock rubs against her, hot and hard and slick as his fingers tease her, slipping back to her wet opening before finding her clit again. The rough calluses of Quidditch rasp against her skin and she shudders, sensation sliding through her as she comes. She swallows water as she fights to breathe, muscles cording and tightening.

He releases her nipple with one final, light squeeze then slides his hand around to her back, pushing her forward slightly. Her hands slip on the tile then catch, her back arched against his palm as he guides his cock to her opening, sliding it over the sensitive flesh before pressing it inside her, easing in slowly, his body quivering with the effort.

Her fingers curl as he grasps her hips, holding her body tightly against his, his cock filling her completely. His breath ripples over her, as hot on her skin as the water pounding down on them. His teeth graze the base of her neck with a soft nip then his mouth opens over her, licking and sucking on her flesh as he begins to move his hips in slow, hypnotic circles, driving deeper inside her.

One hand slides around her waist, holding her slight form against his, the other reaching up to caress her breast. His fingers are slick with her orgasm, wet from the spray as they tease her nipple to an even tighter peak.

His breath is like the heavy bass of the club, constant and rhythmic, matching every hard thrust inside her. Her body trembles around him, every nerve ending alive, on fire as he gasps her name against her neck, coming hot and hard and fast like the water flowing down around them.

Hermione's arms shake then give out. She presses her face on the sweating tile, his body against hers. He turns off the water but the steam stays, swirling around them until she can't breath, can't think.

"Fred?" She whispers his name softly and he groans, pushing forward as his hips react to the soft sound of her voice. After a silent moment, he pulls away, pulls free.

Cool air shifts around her as he opens the glass doors. She turns her head to watch him, not leaving the support of the wall until he's wrapped a towel around his waist and held another open for her.

His hands work the terrycloth over her weak flesh, drying her with exquisite care. She closes her eyes, feeling him for a long time before she speaks. "Who?"

"You got the name right, love," he assures her.

She smiles and shakes her head just as he wraps the towel around her hair, fingers massaging her scalp as he dries the recently shorn mass. "Who sent you?"

"I told you. No one."

"How'd you know to find me? Where to find me?"

He kisses her softly, letting the damp towel slip along her shoulder then over her breast. "I wasn't looking. For you, at least."

"Then who?"

His smiling eyes are sad, reflecting the same losses she knows, heavier ones that she doesn't. His kiss is tender before he pulls away, both towels dropping to the floor as he leads her to his room. "Anyone."

Hermione glances down at Fred as he sleeps, brushing his hair out of his face and dropping a gentle kiss on his forehead. He sighs and shifts closer to her, moaning quietly in his sleep as she pulls away, leaving him with an armful of warmly scented air.

He sighs again, mumbling softly. She slips out of the bed and hurries to the bathroom, gathering her clothes and dressing quickly. She shivers in the cold of the fabric and Apparates before she allows herself the thought of slipping back into the bedroom, into his arms.

The tunnels are dark, but she knows them well as she hides in a small alcove and changes back into her school uniform, her winter robe tucked around her for warmth. She hurries the rest of the way to Gryffindor tower, knowing the sun is fast approaching the horizon.

She whispers the password and ignores the look the Fat Lady gives her as she does every time, doesn't bother to comment on the somewhat catty remark regarding the fact that she's always managed to make it in the same night she left. The stairs are on her right and she starts toward them, stopping before she even begins to climb and heading up the staircase to her left.

Harry's room is dark as it is every night, and she's careful not to glance at the open curtains that frame Ron's empty bed. She hurries over, knowing that anyone could wake any moment. She draws the curtains back and leans in, brushing Harry's hair out of his face and dropping a gentle kiss on his forehead.

She pauses for a moment and smiles down at him, safely home, safely Hermione once again. The smile fades as she realizes what she's just done, realizes she's not Hermione again.

She's simply never been anyone else.