Flight of the Stars

Chapter Twenty-Three

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. That belongs completely to J.K. Rowling. (I finally could get an update out! I wish I could say I'm not falling behind or running late, but...)

Note: I listened to Hardest of Hearts by Florence + The Machine.

o-0-o

Hermione was astounded by how far her power had come. It was more than astounded - she couldn't quite put her finger on the word, but she had advanced leaps and bounds even since they had first arrived at the tiny house. She spent almost all of her time in the woods, now, and the area of destroyed or disintegrated trees had expanded quite far since the day they had opened that strange book.

Tom had been right all along, she realized. Light magic really did limit one's capabilities. And as long as she didn't use her newfound power in a negative way, she would be fine. Right? Right.

There was still one huge problem. The Horcrux.

She wouldn't take Tom's excuse for an answer. Oh sure, it wasn't hurting anything, besides his humanity and his ability to love and pretty much everything that made life beautiful. She wouldn't have it. She was going to get rid of it, one way or the other.

The problem was, the only way she could destroy the Horcrux without destroying the soul was through remorse. And she should know, having aided in the destruction of most of Voldemort's during the Second Wizarding War. She knew almost all there was to know about the destruction of Horcruxes, and true remorse was the only way to keep the soul and destroy the container.

But, of course, Tom felt no remorse whatsoever, so that pretty much threw that solution out the window.

She sighed, turning yet another page in Secrets of the Darkest Art. She despised the book. Touching it made her feel like she was dousing her hand in some sort of thick, black liquid; it was filled to the brim with the Darkest magic imaginable. But this was the only book, that she knew of, that provided any information on Horcruxes. Even Magick Moste Evile only skimmed the topic.

So, no remorse. But what other solution was there? Apparently none. And in addition, the process of true remorse was extremely painful, and it could even kill the wizard that was supposed to be cleansed through it.

Hermione scowled at the most unhelpful book, closed it with a thud, blew out the candle, and left her room for a walk in the woods to clear her head. The sound of the door closing behind her almost felt like a load was lifted off of her, and she breathed in the chilly night air. Up overhead, the moon shone silver, accompanied by thousands of twinkling stars. She smiled. Night was beautiful. She had no responsibilities, at nighttime. She didn't have to hide. She could just be herself.

Hermione walked over to the edge of the forest, gazing at the almost circular graveyard of trees, which were now simply piles of ash and dust. She murmured a spell she'd learned, watching with satisfaction as an arc of magic shot toward one of the trees, causing it to melt instantly, then vaporize. The residue of magic raised chills on her arms. She breathed it in, allowing herself to relax for the first time since they had arrived. Everything was so busy, and stressful, and complicated, that she reveled in the peace that this soft moment alone provided.

Hermione glanced down, and saw that she had been absentmindedly running her thumb over the Dark Mark on her left forearm. She gritted her teeth. She liked to forget as much as she could, when it came to the Mark. She had too many horrible memories from the war for her to be comfortable wearing it. It felt like a breach of her character.

She sighed. There I go again. She couldn't seem to shake thoughts of the war out of her head. Even as details from her previous timeline faded, those memories remained strong. It wasn't helping her deal with her trauma, that much was for certain. And yet, she didn't want to forget, either. It was part of who she was.