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When she had first woken up in this place, Eta IV was a woman on a mission. She took the map, she gave orders, she cautioned about running off alone. And now, despite her own advice, she had decided to set off on her own, venturing all the way through the mist back to the windmill that they had been investigating before the firepony showed up and ruined everything. The door was still ajar when she got there, sweat prickling on the back of her neck from the run. The fog was still dense and thick, but she didn't hear anyone following her.

Slipping inside, Eta IV found the place mostly empty. There were some rotted boxes in one corner, and a spiral staircase weaving its way halfway up the structure to the platform that held the fanblades' axle. Back when this town wasn't abandoned, it was probably how people came to repair it. Eta IV wasn't exactly short, but she was no giant either. The base of the spiraling stairs started about three feet above her head. She tried jumping. She tried a running start. She tried willing herself up there.

When all of that failed, she stacked as many rotting crates as she could until it was possible to grip the bottom rung.

This entire idea was stupid. The town was obviously abandoned, and this wood had seen better days -- much better. But for whatever reason, Eta IV wanted to just sit down somewhere alone to think about everything that had happened and to try desperately to sort out the kind of person that she had to be. The girl knew she didn't want to die -- duh -- but what exactly was she fighting so hard to live for? What was a life without memories inside it? She was a pulse, a heartbeat, a walking shell. What was the point in fighting for a life that you didn't even know?

This was an oddly deep thought for her, she reasoned. But then again -- was it? Maybe she was an incredibly deep person. Maybe she was the kind of girl who gave advice to all of her friends. Maybe she was a psychologist! Eta IV tried to think of psychology terms to test her theory. She got up to five and then had to admit that 'crazy' and 'schizo' probably shouldn't be counted.

Pulling herself up onto the rotting staircase, Eta IV felt the entire thing shudder beneath her feet. Just as she stepped to the next one, the bottom rung fell off. She took another step and so did the next one. "Uh oh," she murmured, picking up her booted feet as slowly and as carefully as she could. Up ahead, there was a stony ledge that she could sit on, but if more of these steps kept falling, Eta IV was pretty sure she'd never make it out of this windmill anyway.

One tiny step after the other -- and then Eta IV was sitting (mostly) comfortably on the open ledge of window carved windmill, glancing out at a field of fog broken only by the occasional passing windmill blade. She probably should have gone back to the Eta Base, but she didn't feel up to talking to any of them. She was having an existential crisis.

What is my purpose?

A chunk of wood hit her squarely in the back of the helmet, pulling Eta IV right out of her mental reverie. How had she missed the foul-mouthed Gamma sitting on a rafter above her? Existential crises could really take you out of it. Lucky for Eta IV the chunk of wood was light and rotted -- so much so that it shattered on her helmet.

It didn't make the gesture any less insulting.

"DO you mind?" she snapped, whipping around to glare angrily above her. Through the mask, it was hard to tell how angry, but E4 felt confident it was pushing Chris Brown-level. "I had my a** handed to me by a firepony and a field of monsters, and I didn't get the pendant or the second medkit. And, on top of all of that, I'm pretty positive I have nothing to live for except, you know, the joy of not dying."

Eta IV turned back in a huff. It lasted for a moment, and then she shifted to look up at the Gamma again. "Do I seem like the kind of person who likes waffles? I feel like I might like waffles." She started to touch at her face, but hit helmet instead. Damn helmets. "Do I seem maternal? Do you think I had children?" If this person wanted to attack her, they probably would have done it already.

Right?

Eta IV fell silent, shaking her head. The more she heard the voice, the more it sounded familiar to her. Wow. Wow wow. It was Kate. Of all the windmills in all the murderous islands in all of dreamland, she had to wander into hers. "I'm not even hungry," E4 said, ignoring the violent undertones. The only weapon she had on her was a useless pair of nunchucks, and Kate was right -- she'd knocked herself in the head with it and barely dented the hellbeast.

Scooting forward, she pulled her backpack into her lap and opened it. There were the failed nunchucks beside her medkit and the map. All of her possessions in this world fitting in a tiny bag. "I know I wasn't a ninja," she said flatly. "Because these nunchucks are useless in my hands." A long, thick vine had grown into the cracks of the windmill. She stared at it for awhile, mulling over Kate Eastwood's words.

It probably should have concerned her how much sense the crazy girl was making.

But who would she be if she could choose? It seemed like all her memories from whoever she had been before were limited to pop culture and that one memory from the classroom. E4 snapped free a twig from the winding vine and gave it a swish. She did it again. Then again. Something fired off in her brain, and she sat up suddenly.

"I want to be Hermione Granger."

Yes, Hermione Granger! She was smart, pretty, resourceful, and most importantly -- she survived in the final book with only minimal damage. If Eta IV had to assume an identity, that was the one she wanted to have. She didn't know what that meant about the person that she used to be, but she decided to stop asking questions and start answering them.

Just like Hermione Granger.

One hand shot out, twig lofted high. "I'M HERMIO--" Her words snapped off at the ends. There was a nasty cut on her arm, one that didn't like it when she shot her hand out all willy nilly. Hermione -- yes, Hermione -- curled her arm in to her chest. "There's not much in this medkit," she said aloud. "But I'm Hermione Granger. I am resourceful. I am also tough, tougher than people would expect." She paused and then added, "I'm also Breeteesh." This marked the beginning of a very bad false accent.

When Gamma III approached, Hermione stiffened. Yes, she was Hermione. The more she thought it in her mind, the more at ease she felt. So long as she was Hermione Granger, she was somebody, and that was more significant than being the nobody she was before. Hermione Granger had ideals. She had a family -- both Muggle dentists. She had an ex-boyfriend, Victor Krum. She didn't play Quidditch, but she liked to watch it. Her best friends were Ron Weasley and Harry -- wait.

Bright eyes glistened up at Gamma III -- no, not Gamma III. Harry. Her best friend, Harry Potter. Yes, they were best friends, and they were trapped in the wilderness trying to escape Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Where had Ron gone? Oh right, Harry and Ron fought, and Ron stormed off into the darkness. She remembered it now. Yes, that happened to her. That definitely happened to her.

"The horcruxes," she said, trying not to wince as Harry bandaged her arm. "We have to destroy the horcruxes, or we'll never survive." Hermione reached out to touch Harry's arm. "We have to survive."

She nodded to him, more sure now than she had been since they set foot on that island.

If Hermione Granger didn't die, then Eta IV told herself she wouldn't either. It was easier to think of the opponents she might have to face as Death Eaters or Dementors instead of facing the grim reality of slitting the throat of someone who was probably just like her under the suit. Extreme situations brought out extreme reactions. It just so happened that Gamma III and Eta IV -- or Harry and Hermione -- had found a mutual coping mechanism that gave them both the strength to fight as well as the heart to be okay with it.

"If we collect all the horcruxes," she said, her British accent slipping in and out of existence, "then we can defeat Voldemort and get out of this alive. Oh, Harry!"

Hermione grabbed her backpack. "My Undetectable Extension Charm is on the fritz -- but look." She held up the rolled map of the island that she had taken back at the Eta Base Camp. Scooting closer, she unrolled it across their laps. "We're here," she said, pointing to the abandoned town. "But Hogsmeade is dangerous -- and I don't know how close to Knockturn Alley we are." Her finger dragged over to the Cornfields. "If we go here, we might be able to find Ron! The Weasleys house was in a field... if it's still there. Maybe he found the locket?"

She squinted hard, looking closer. "Harry, the Marauder's Map isn't working." There should be feet moving all over warning them when people were close, shouldn't there? "There must be a powerful wizard nearby disrupting the magic..." Turning to face Harry, Hermione tried to look brave. "We might have to do some drastic things to get all the horcruxes, Harry -- but we have to do them in order to survive."

Her voice became plaintive: "...right?"

Hermione's eyes went wide. Not only because of the information that Harry was telling her, but because he was the one putting the pieces together. She was the smart one! Her OWLS were always flawless. "Five horcruxes. Five tickets to defeating the dark wizards and saving all of our friends," she echoed, nodding sagely. Her British accent was nowhere as consistent as Harry's. It was something she would have to work on.

When Harry pointed out his scar was missing, Hermione gasped. "Yes," she said. "Of course I can reverse this hex." She was Hermione ******** Granger. Spells wept on their knees before her, begging for her to say their incantation just one more time.

Hermione held her twig-wand up in the air and gripped the rock from Harry in the other. "Cursus Reversus!" she shouted, giving the twig a good ole swish and flick.

And then her other hand slammed the rock into the center of Harry's protective helmet.

It wasn't pretty, but it left a white scuff mark somewhere in the forehead region. There weren't any mirrors around here as far as she had seen so Hermione simply smiled triumphantly and said, "Perfect. As if there was any doubt." She flipped hair over her shoulder -- except there was no hair to flip so instead she just stirred the air.

Leaning back against the wall, Hermione rolled the map back up and put it into her backpack. "Harry, wot happoned to your wond?" she said, intoning each syllable slowly.

Hermioneta IV reached out and placed one arm around Harry after he finished shaking her.

Even though she had to wipe her parents' memory to keep them safe, she knew they were alive. Harry had lost almost everything -- his parents, his godfather, his mentor, an Auror who he had grown close to, and even his damn owl. So much loss for someone so young. Part of her wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn't. She had to be strong. She had to keep them motivated.

"Harry," she said, voice tender, "we may have to... use the Unforgivables, if we are to survive. I need you to be prepared for that."

The controlling curse, the torture curse, and the killing curse -- they were weapons in an arsenal that no good wizard was supposed to touch. And yet desperate times called for desperate measures. Hermione fought to keep her jaw square and hard. Roving eyes landed on the olive-green of Harry's uniform and the darkblue of hers.

"Oh, Harry!" she shouted, turning to face him. "There is another hex on us. Look -- they've put you in Slytherin colors and me in Ravenclaw. How would the Death Eaters know that we were almost in those houses? How... could they?" Her eyes went misty. "Do you think they got to the Sorting Hat?"

Hermione shook her head, forcing herself to be calm. "No, no, it's... it's okay. It can be a disguise for us, in case anyone is out there searching for us." They were wanted wizards, she knew that much.

But where to go from here? The fog was still too thick for them to travel.

Hermione's brow furrowed when Harry rebuked her. She tried to be understanding. She was often the glue that held their trio together. A pang pinched in her chest as the image of Rupert Grint Ron's back walking away from them played in her head once more. There was a fuzziness in her head, no doubt the after effects of another hex leveled at them. They had been in the woods for a long time, hadn't they? Yes. Of course they had.

She gave Harry space. "I know..." she whispered. The prophecy. Yes, she remembered it now that Harry mentioned it. Of course she did.

Her hand was warm in Harry's. It was the first real caring contact she had experienced since waking up in the tent that morning. The Snatchers were everywhere looking to scoop up hiding wizards to take them to Azkaban, or worse -- but not her, and not Harry. Hermione was determined to survive and then to prosper.

Prosper. A family. Kids. She had always wanted them, a gaggle of little geniuses running around her feet. "Harry," she said, keeping his hand in hers. "When we lost Ron, he said something things... You know -- I mean, you know you're like my brother. We're like family. And Ron is... well, Ron is..." She couldn't bring herself to say the words.

She also couldn't picture Ron in her head for some reason, not his face. Weird.