Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - The Last Breath of Tomorrow
Hell wasn’t made of fire. It was cold. And lonely.
The biting air sliced through her bare skin like invisible blades, leaving a trail of goosebumps with every hesitant step. Magic burned in her veins, a false, treacherous fire that promised warmth but never reached her frozen bones.
The sound of her own heart pulsed in her ears, an irregular beat of adrenaline and fear. It was the only thing left. The only reminder that, despite everything, she was still alive.
But what was power?
Was it knowledge? The raw strength vibrating in every fibre of her being? Or the ability to perform extraordinary feats with a simple wave of her hand?
No.
She had learned, far too soon, that true power didn’t come from strength or magic. It came from the ability to lead. To influence. To shape the people around her, turning them into weapons, into shields, into pieces of a game she never wanted to play. And it was exactly that power which destroyed the world.
The power that set humanity ablaze from the inside out, fuelling hatred until nothing remained but ruins and ash.
And now, what was left to do?
Hermione had never been good at leading. Ordering? Of course. Arguing? Certainly. But inspiring? Guiding? She didn’t have the patience. She never had the subtlety. At least, not while growing up.
Underestimated for her intellect, suffocated by an incessant desire to share what she knew, Hermione grew up lonely. Books were her first and only friends. When she received her letter to Hogwarts, she dreamed it would be different. That, finally, she would find her place.
But the wizarding world hadn’t fully embraced her either. She had friends, yes. People she loved, and who loved her back. But no one truly listened. No one valued what she knew in the way she needed.
She was bossy, a know-it-all, a Muggle-born girl who would never understand what it was like to grow up surrounded by magic. And, at the same time, she would never belong to the Muggle world again. How could she? Year after year, she spent more time among wizards than with her own family.
So, where did she belong?
How could she change the world if she wasn’t truly part of either?
Receiving her Hogwarts letter had been the happiest moment of her life. But now, the weight of being the last Muggle-born in Britain—perhaps in all of Europe—crushed her shoulders. A burden she had never wished to carry.
Like it or not, it was up to her to lead what remained of the wizarding race towards survival. She had to become powerful.
But power was lonely.
And, in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, surrounded by wizards she had learned to trust, Hermione Granger—the girl who had read more books than any other Hogwarts student—had never felt so alone.
What if she was making a mistake?
What if everything collapsed?
What if what she was about to do was worse than leaving things as they were?
Panic rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, Hermione allowed herself to escape. For a brief moment, she locked herself away in the deepest part of her mind, where the voices of her parents still lived, laughing, calling her for dinner, asking about school.
The memory brought a fleeting warmth, a fragile peace amidst the chaos.
But it didn’t last.
She wasn’t home.
She was in the middle of the forest, about to perform a Korubo ritual, an ancient magic that required blood—a lot of blood. Hermione was about to commit murder. Not because she wanted to, but because there was no other choice.
What if everything went wrong?
What if everything went wrong?
What if everything went wrong?!
Merlin, let her not be wrong.
——————-
The screams began before she could prepare herself.
Her eyes snapped open, her heartbeat quickening like an internal alarm. The sounds ahead dragged her back to the present with brutal force. Her stomach churned, but she forced her body to move.
Short, reluctant steps carried her towards the centre of the commotion. The world around her seemed blurred, as if every sound, every smell, every movement reached her with a cruel delay. It was the only way to endure what she was about to do.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Four.
The voices of the Korubo echoed through the forest, an ancient chant in a language Hermione had come to love. The melody was hypnotic, enveloping. Each word carried the weight of centuries of forgotten magic, now revived by necessity—and desperation.
But none of that was enough to drive away the image before her.
A woman sobbed, her body trembling in convulsions, her hands bound by spells that allowed no movement. Hermione stopped. The weight of the moment crashed over her like a sledgehammer.
Then, she remembered.
The small body beside the woman.
Pink hair, now dull. Violet eyes, glassy, staring into nothing. The angle of the neck was unnatural, a grotesque twist Hermione would never forget.
Teddy.
The world seemed to shrink until all that remained was the dead boy and the woman responsible for it. The Muggle doctor. The monster.
Perfect features, almost ethereal—ice-blue eyes, blonde hair that shimmered under the moonlight. To anyone else, she looked like a victim. An innocent woman, captured by wild wizards, waiting to be rescued.
But Hermione saw the truth.
She always had.
This woman was evil itself. Not the fantastical evil of fairy tales, but real, visceral evil. The kind of evil that destroys lives with a scalpel in hand and a smile on its face.
But now, Hermione had the power.
Blue met brown. The woman tried to speak, but Hermione didn’t give her the chance.
The blade slid through skin with a disturbing ease.
The first cut was swift. The second, deeper. Hermione didn’t stop until she felt the warmth of blood running down her fingers, until she saw the light fade from the woman’s eyes.
She crouched, observing the lifeless body with clinical detachment. Then, she plunged her hand into the open wound and pulled out a clump of flesh and blood, moulding it with magic into a dark, twisted rose.
“May your body rest, and your soul compulsorily follow its given purpose.”
Without hesitation, she brought the bloodied petal to her mouth and swallowed.
The taste of iron and death spread across her tongue, but Hermione didn’t flinch.
She stood and kept walking.
Hell was cold. And now, it carried her from within.
———————
The taste of blood was still on her tongue when the screams ceased.
But the silence brought no relief. It was a deafening void, filled only by the sound of her own footsteps on the wet earth and the irregular beating of her heart.
Run away!
Take your chance while you can! Flee to the Muggle world. Pretend none of this ever happened.
The voice in her head was desperate, pleading for an impossible escape.
But there was nowhere to run.
The world depended on this.
The weight of responsibility crushed her, but she kept moving. One step at a time.
The crescent’s threshold appeared before her, formed by twelve wizards aligned in a perfect circle. The runes carved into the ground glowed with a pale light, fed by the blood that already stained the soil. The moonlight bathed them in a cruel clarity, highlighting every face, every vacant stare, every feature hardened by war.
Hermione stopped when she felt the magic vibrating beneath her feet.
The body of Cláudia, the Muggle scientist who had calculated each step of this madness, lay stretched on the ground, her fresh blood forming grotesque patterns around her head.
Another sacrifice. Another weight Hermione would carry forever.
But she didn’t cry.
Absolute silence reigned.
For the first time since the war began, Hermione felt adrift, as if she were floating in an endless ocean, unable to distinguish the sky from the sea.
She raised her arm, gripping the rose of flesh firmly. Each petal was torn off with precision and sent, one by one, to each wizard in the circle.
When the last petal reached its destination, Hermione brought her own to her mouth.
The blood slid down her throat like liquid fire, burning everything in its path.
And then, the sky exploded.
A purple lightning bolt tore through the night, illuminating the forest with an unnatural light. The magic crackled in the air, dense and suffocating, as if the very world were holding its breath.
Hermione knew, in that instant, they were on the right path.
But the relief was brief.
A voice echoed to her right, shattering the moment with a desperate plea for help.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Draco.
The silver eyes met hers. Cold. Expressionless. The gaze that, years ago, would have been enough to melt her, was now empty.
Hermione felt her stomach twist.
It wasn’t just the Occlumency shielding him. It was the weight of what they were about to do. The weight of what they had already done.
“I give my blood and willingly surrender my heritage to the cause. Today, I will be nothing more.”
Draco’s voice was firm, but Hermione knew every nuance of it. And, no matter how much he tried to hide it, she recognised what lay behind those words.
Fear.
Beside him, a tall, broad-shouldered Black woman accompanied the chant in Portuguese. Her melodic voice contrasted with Draco’s deep tone, but together, they formed a perfect chorus.
A hymn of death.
Hermione took a deep breath and stepped forward.
The forest closed around her like a tomb.
The damp air clung to her bare skin, and each step seemed to drag the weight of the world with it. The cold, wet ground sucked the warmth from her feet, but she barely felt it. Her body was just a shell now, a vessel for the magic that pulsed like an extra heart, ready to burst.
She shut off her mind again.
It was the only way to continue.
Being here, learning ritual magic from one of the world’s oldest tribes, would have been the dream of the Hermione from Hogwarts. The girl who devoured books and craved knowledge would have been ecstatic at the opportunity.
But that Hermione no longer existed.
The woman who walked now was hardened by war. Every spell, every lesson, every drop of magic was just another step towards death.
Her bare feet pressed into the soaked earth, sinking slightly into the red mud that had begun to cover the ground. The cold crept up her legs, reaching her spine, but she ignored it.
A twig snapped beneath her heel.
The sound echoed through the silent forest like a gunshot.
Her eyes met those of the shaman Anajé, the leader of the Korubo tribe. He was the man who had opened the secrets of his magic to help a people he had never known. A people he had probably never wanted to know.
His gaze was steady. Without fear. Without regret.
Opposites in every way—reddish skin and hair dark as night, against Hermione’s pale complexion and wild curls—but united by survival.
She stopped in front of him.
Anajé leaned forward, and Hermione pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
He collapsed dead at her feet, his body sinking slowly into the blood-soaked mud.
Hermione did not tremble.
Death surrounded her.
And the forest, damp and cold, was the true hell.
——————-
Hermione kept walking.
The barriers of Occlumency rose in her mind, blocking out the pain, the fear, the guilt. Each step felt heavier than the last, but she did not stop.
The runic circle appeared ahead, glowing with a sinister light. The metallic stench of blood filled her nostrils, making her stomach churn.
She swallowed hard.
One step forward.
The ground gave way beneath her feet, and the warm, thick liquid engulfed her ankles. The blood rose quickly, staining her pale skin, dyeing it red.
The chanting returned, filling her ears, drowning her thoughts.
Her eyes lifted.
Naked bodies hung from ropes above her head, swaying gently with the night breeze. A man, in his forties, stared at her with glassy eyes. Blood dripped from his open throat, splashing directly onto her face.
Hermione did not look away.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward.
———————-
“Demons! You’ll all burn in hellfire! Jesus will—”
The scream was cut short by a flash of light.
More blood splattered across her face.
Hermione disconnected again.
It was the only way to keep going.
As she advanced, the pool of fresh blood rose, reaching her hips, then her chest. The warmth of the liquid contrasted with the night’s cold, creating a strange, almost numbing sensation.
But there was no comfort.
Death was everywhere.
She felt the magic penetrate her skin, a nauseating wave that made her tremble. The blood seemed to seep into every pore, every cell, until there was nothing left but… something new.
Her body rejected what was coming.
But her mind knew it was necessary.
“Old and new magic, together restoring balance.”
Her voice was only a whisper now, repeating the mantra as if clinging to it to avoid falling apart.
Each step brought her closer to the circle’s centre.
Each step took her further from who she was.
The blood reached her neck.
The hot, thick liquid clung to her skin, dripping through her hair, wrapping her in a grotesque second skin. The metallic smell filled her nostrils, sinking deep into her lungs with every breath.
But she kept going.
The chant echoed around her, now louder, more intense. The forest seemed to respond to the magic, the trees leaning in to listen, the ground vibrating beneath her feet.
Hermione felt every fibre of her being scream in protest, but her mind remained focused. The magical core within her pulsed in response to the ritual, a faint light struggling to survive amidst the darkness.
She repeated the mantra in her mind, each word an anchor keeping her grounded.
“Old and new magic, together restoring balance.”
But balance always demands a price.
And she was about to pay hers.
The first spasm hit like a knife through her abdomen. Hermione’s body arched, a silent scream trapped in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut, but nothing could stop the pain that spread through every nerve, every bone, every cell.
The blood around her began to boil.
The heat rose rapidly, burning her skin, causing blisters to form on her arms and legs. She felt her body disintegrating, as if the magic were consuming her from the inside out.
But she couldn’t stop.
She wouldn’t stop.
Hermione opened her eyes, now tinged a deep crimson, and took another step.
To her right, Draco stopped singing.
His silence was more deafening than any scream.
Hermione slowly turned her head, meeting the silver eyes that, for years, had been her anchor amidst chaos.
He was there. Steady. Cold. But she knew.
She knew that behind that icy façade, his heart was shattered.
Just like hers.
“Hermione.”
Her name escaped his lips as a whisper, loaded with everything he couldn’t say.
She felt her chest tighten, tears threatening to fall. But she couldn’t cry. Not now.
It was the last time she would hear her name spoken that way. Each syllable a mixture of insult and affection, a contrast only Draco Malfoy could make feel familiar.
They stared at each other for a moment that felt eternal.
I love you.
And I will miss you, even if I don’t remember.
She didn’t need to say it aloud.
He understood.
His gaze softened briefly, and in that moment, Hermione knew that, no matter what happened, a part of her would always carry him with her.
Always.
The moment passed.
Draco resumed chanting, his voice joining the chorus once more.
Hermione closed her eyes.
“I give my blood and willingly surrender my heritage to the cause. Today, I will be nothing more.”
She felt her body give in, bending until her lips touched the boiling blood.
The taste was unbearable, but she didn’t hesitate.
She dove in.
The heat enveloped her completely, burning her skin, her muscles, her bones. Every fibre of her being screamed in agony, but Hermione kept her mind steady, focused on her magical core.
The world disappeared.
All that remained was the sound of her heart, beating weaker and weaker.
I give my blood…
I give my blood…
The magic pulled her down, dragging her into the depths of the red pool. She felt the air escaping from her lungs, replaced by the warm blood that now filled her body.
Panic threatened to take over, but Hermione pushed it to the back of her mind.
She believed.
She believed this would work.
That, somehow, their sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.
The last thought she had before everything went dark was of Draco’s face.
The way he looked at her.
The silent promise they shared.
We will find each other again.
Even if they didn’t remember.
The world exploded in light.
The pain vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by an absolute void. Hermione felt her body dissolve, her consciousness spreading through time and space.
She was no longer Hermione Granger.
She was no longer anything.
And, at the same time, she was everything.
The magic wrapped around her, reconstructing every piece of who she had been. But she wasn’t the same person. She never would be.
The balance was being restored.
And the price had been paid