Title: here we are (a pyrrhic victory)
Fandom: hp
Rating: teen
Length: ~1300 words
Author notes: post-canon, angst, dark, mild gore, minor character death, susan-centric
Summary: It’s in the family name, they’ve never been a stranger to death.

War is never kind. It’s a fact Susan has always been too well acquainted with. She knew of death long before she’d heard enough stories from her Aunt Amelia to construct an image of her parents, grandparents. It wasn’t her Auntie’s fault- she raised her like her own- but the stories couldn’t erase the fact that they were being told. Couldn’t hide the scars of their own creation, the pain in their wake.

When the muggles turn on them, Susan is ready for another war, hates how easily her mind slips into a soldier’s once more. (As though greeting a long lost friend, more like a shade, a shadow of all she’s known.)

The first war taught her grief, learned long after it ended. From missing limbs to broken off sentences to an empty family tree. It’s almost crueler- for there is no action to take, nothing that can erase what has been done. At eight years old, Susan found a very old journal from Eleanor Bones, great-great-great-great-grandmama, the necromancer. She wasn’t allowed alone in the library after that. (As if she ever had the magical strength to pull off such a feat, targeted resurrections are far too taxing.)

The second war taught her how to endure, how to keep fighting. It took Amelia, took classmates, took the ministry for a time, and gave back so little. It gave her nerve damage in her left hand, one too many crucios from the Carrows. Gave her fresh nightmares with specific details: no longer a need to imagine what a rabid werewolf mauling someone looks like, or the light leaving a friend’s eyes, or how an entrail-expelling curse can be weaponized- any healing spell can, any spell can.

The Muggle War was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be done inside an hour. Their electronics and internet may have made hiding impossible, but they have magic.

Bullets are easy enough to stop once you get the hang of it. Bombs are not.

A muggleborn child brought the first bomb into Diagon Alley, and the gloves came off. World leaders and army generals were replaced by witches and wizards on polyjuice. It took a few weeks to get the big countries on board, moving in the right direction, but they did it.

A muggleborn child carries the bomb in, and half the public wants to turn their backs on all muggleborns. The second war feels closer than ever, makes Susan sick with blended nightmares. (There’s a young boy, only five, caught doing accidental magic and he’s burned alive like the young child-witches of old.)

Now there’s just the clean up.

Too much free time for the general population, with arguments raging in the Prophet about how to move forwards. There are still radical muggle fringe groups they haven’t managed to infiltrate, that refuse to be taken in alive. (It doesn’t matter how much Felix Felicis you’ve drank if your hostage swallows a cyanide pill. They’re not even pure cyanide anymore, a mix of poisons that can withstand a bezoar.)

Today’s should-be prisoner managed to kill herself, under a full body-bind. She even managed to get a final shot off, the slug still in Susan’s thigh. Irritatingly impressive, and she just knows Zabini’s going to be requesting a dark magic pass for their next mission. (Too many of their secrets have gotten out, some muggles trained in how to resist the Imperious. She rather hates that she doesn't cringe anymore at the thought of an Unforgivable.)

She apparates to the cottage, smiling when she spots Padma instantly. “Honey, I’m home.”

Padma looks up from her text, wrinkles her nose, eyes dragging down her form. “You’re bleeding on my carpet, again.”

Susan shrugs, walking over to the tiled floor and hopping up on the kitchen counter. The cool granite is sobering, reminds her that she is in fact in pain. “I’d clean it but I’m a little- ah empty, woozy.” (If it weren’t for the pounding in her head, in her leg, Susan would make a joke about the flying carpet hidden in plain sight and rather illegal in Britain.)

Rolling her eyes, Padma flicks her wrist, carpet instantly cleaned, and joins her in the kitchen. “You know that Ministry that employs you has actual healers on staff.”

Susan tries not to grin too big, probably fails. “Yeah but they don’t kiss it better at the end.”

“They better not,” Padma says, lips twitching into a smile as she looks over her more closely. “One bullet?”

“Mhmm.”

Padma vanishes her combat robes and pants, Susan shivering at the chill.

“…what is that?”

“Hmm? Oh, duck tape. Quack quack. Muggle thing, it works really well for temporary wound care, shitty tourniquets and such.”

“That would have been good during the great mistake.”

“You’re- ah!- telling me,” Susan groans, Padma opting to summon the bullet out. Back in the very beginning of the Muggle War, they agreed to meet their forces on a battlefield. It was a massacre on both sides. Susan saw Smith heal himself after getting shot, wasting the last of his magic before another slew of bullets hit him. (Goyle ended the battle: called for Fiendfyre, burnt everyone left on the field including himself.)

Back then, Padma was the Healer for her group, was the scariest of them all. (Forget semi-pardoned once Death Eaters that were allowed to join in.) For even though Padma didn’t fight, she could make the fight eternal. She could create new limbs, reconnect nerves, charm your exhaustion away for a time. And the muggles had endless troops, an endless population. They were creative too, more creative than magicals she can admit. They figured out ways to nullify magic with their technology, killed almost all the American witches and wizards in a single day. One day, and they killed more than any Dark Lord ever managed. The following morning was the Diagon Alley bombing, and there was no more debate about how the muggles should be treated. No more talk of peace treaties and acceptable terms. Once, Susan thought herself a good person, a hard worker. But she doesn't fight the tide, soothes herself with empty platitudes, for it's not as if she has a plan to save everyone. (Well, there's no more sanctioned public debate, Hermione Granger was never one to sit by quietly.)

There was no way to obliviate every single muggle, to make them forget how vulnerable witches and wizards could be. Instead, facts were twisted, hollowed out, science replaced with a meaningless ritual. With rare enough ingredients, that they would know the next time a muggle was attempting to nullify their magic. (Walking dementors was one of the kinder terms thrown around, and fuck, not even You-Know-Who had evoked such visceral hatred in half the population.)

After, there’s no more taking things for granted. Not that there ever was, but for a short time Susan honestly thought the Second War would be the last war. After, there’s restructuring in the ministry and bureaucratic transparency and all the things her Auntie used to dream of. After, when the wartime fling with Padma becomes real, Susan doesn’t know which of them is more surprised- or pleased.

Susan never really got over the first time she splinched herself, leaving her leg behind. The left limb felt different after that, artificial. (Which doesn’t even make sense, magic is the most natural force there is.) Padma’s reconnected her hands, feet, right ear, jaw- not to mention healed up more gaping wounds than Susan cares to remember. She feels like that Greek ship, pieces slowly being replaced until the ship that is sailing by cannot possibly be the original.

“There,” Padma whispers, a light kiss to the healed flesh, and Susan was so in her head, she completely missed Padma washing the wound out and closing it.

“My hero,” Susan murmurs; the pain gone now, she feels loopy from all the magic she cast today, exhaustion closing in fast.

“Lucky you’re cute Bones,” Padma says before casting a feather-light charm and carrying her upstairs to their room.

“Mmm, I am,” Susan mumbles, nestling into her breast. Susan’s sound asleep before they reach the top of the stair, arms tight around Padma even unconscious.