It is 19th September 1979. You are 44. The mark, the one you'd resigned yourself to never receiving, burns itself onto your wrist. Your first thought: oh, heavens no, it's a student.
11 years later you are not surprised to see Hermione Granger stagger into the school, looking around herself in wonder. Her neat but cramped handwriting burns on your wrist, and you resolve yourself to 7 years of avoiding her.
A month in and Hermione (no, Miss Granger) is friendless, burying herself in school amidst valiant efforts to try and fit in. Albus tries to tell you about your duty of care to the girl, but you know full well what your duty is, and it's to ensure that the girl doesn't allow herself close to you.
Then the troll comes. You're running, running almost as hard as you did in the first war, trying to reach her. How can your final chance of happiness already be snatched from you? And under your care?
The girl was lying, obviously, but God you've never admired someone's courage more than at that moment. You want to embrace her, to tell her you're proud of her, but instead you briskly send the three of them to bed with minimal point loss, avoiding Hermione's gaze as she stares back at you.
Hermione's eyes are always lingering. You know that she must know, that you both know about the other one, but somehow you finish the year without speaking of it, even if you've never had to run from your classroom so many times in a year, even when you're tightly gripping her hand in the Hospital Wing as she lays there, almost as white as the sheets she's laying on. You leave as her eyes begin to open, only catching sight of the edge of your robes, and time moves on.
2nd year, Hermione's petrified, and you're running through the halls again. Of course, there's nothing you can do, you know that, but seeing her like that… If you could you'd take on that basilisk equipped with nothing but your wand and you like to think that you'd win.
As soon as Poppy sees you she pulls you aside, into her office, voice soft and full of pity, and you know that she knows. "I saw her mark, I didn't mean to I promise, but… What are you going to do?"
"I don't know." Your smile is bitter and you rub at your wrist, as has become your habit. "Continue on as I have been, avoiding her I suppose."
"You could be a friend to her, a mother, surely?"
"Oh, Poppy. That's not what I want from my mark. It's safer this way."
Before she can say another word you march away, back to your office, ready to continue pretending that her name had never appeared in the first place.
"Miss Granger, please follow me to my office." It's 3rd year and you're giving her a time turner. You'd fought with the Ministry for it, wanting the best for her even as you refuse to speak to her.
"Are we ever going to talk about our marks?" Hermione's voice is small, eyes wide, innocent and seeking, as she stands to leave the office. "I mean I understand why you don't want to, I just… I guess I'm just checking you have one too?"
You sigh, pull up the sleeve of your robe, reveal your mark to her. "Yes, Miss Granger, I am marked also. I hope you've been keeping yours out of sight?"
"Yes, of course, it's on my ribs so, erm, it's not so difficult to hide."
"Good, that's good." You sigh, pick an imaginary piece of lint off your robes. "This conversation is best left until you're older I think."
"But- but can't we just be friends?"
"Favouritism, a whole battalion of reasons that isn't possible and I'm sure you're aware of all of them. Go to the feast. Don't think about this anymore."
Hermione scrubbed her shaking hands over her face, trying to hide the tears. You turn your eyes away, rubbing at the pain in your chest absentmindedly. Then she finds her fire. "Fine. We can ignore this, deny both of us happiness, but stop ignoring me completely. Treat me as you would any other student, like you should have been doing for the last two years."
"That's… Fair of you to say." You frown at the desk in front of you. "Fine. We'll talk about this once you've graduated."
The girl's face is slightly brighter; she seems less heavy than she was previously. "Thank you, professor. I look forward to it."
Skip 2 and half years. Skip to your unholy scream as Albus' body falls, falls, smashes into grass. It's too high, not even he'll survive that, I have to help him, I have to - but you're being held back by tight arms, Hermione murmuring "you can't help him, we have to go, c'mon," in your ear. You allow yourself to be dragged away.
After, when you've stopped crying into her neck and she's stopped crying into yours, you wipe away your tears and go to fix this. That's what you do, that's what you're paid for, what you live for, and now you've got a school full of students who just witnessed, participated in, even, a battle they should have had nothing to do with and by God you're going to protect them with all you have. But you can't let go of Hermione's hand.
For some inexplicable reason she allows you to drag her around the school, checking on the students and teachers, alerting the necessary authorities, the meeting with the Minister. Finally, the last task is finished, the students tucked away in bed, and you're left staring into her honey eyes, hands still clasped.
"I'm sorry." You rasp, going to let go, but she doesn't let you, tugging you into another tight embrace without a word. With a sigh you relax into her arms, curling around her like a vine.
Minutes, hours later, Hermione breaks the silence. "If you can't sleep tonight come visit me." She shakes her head before you can protest. "In your cat form, if you feel like you'd be breaking boundaries." Then the clever girl disguises your need as her own. "I don't think I could sleep without you tonight."
You allow yourself to be convinced, nodding unsurely. She slips away with a smile and a nod.
When you fall asleep that night, Hermione's hand is curled around your tail.
She doesn't tell you she's not coming back, not even when you dance with her at the wedding.
When the trio comes to Hogwarts, you want to yell at her, throw things, take her and keep her safe and never let her leave you again. Instead, you fight.
Much later, after all the death and destruction is done, you find her, sat outside by herself. You sit on the piece of broken wall next to her and just look at her, the grime on her face, the blood. The image is implanted in your memory as you wipe a line through the dirt on one cheek.
"Can we have that conversation now?" Her voice is quiet, thready, barely there. With a smile, you nod.
A conversation is had, a decision made.
You gently brush your fingers over your name scrawled on her ribs.