Author's Note: Hey there! My first story that's not Next Gen. Ha, I know, crazy idea. This story is focused on my personal favorite character, the incomparable Hermione Granger, who I do not own. Nor do I own any other HP canon materials. Please read/review. Enjoy!
Dear Harry,
Are you eating? Are you sleeping? If you're not, I'll personally see to it that you get locked into a Mungo's room for a week the next time I see you. Without your wand. Also, sorry in advance, but I'll totally tell Kingsley, so he can yell at you too. That aside... how is training on the job? I hope you are making sure that Ron pays attention. If that freckly git gets himself killed now...
Anyway, I thought you might like to know that things around the castle are progressing nicely. We have been getting deliveries to replace more of the destroyed desks, chalkboards and naturally...the suits of armor in the corridors. Why, Parvati just told me that Professor McGonagall and the stone mason walked around for hours yesterday after lessons, assessing both critical defensive wards and even some of the cosmetic repairs. Who knows, Hogwarts may even look it's old self soon.
Also, term starting seems to be doing wonders for Ginny. I decided to watch Quidditch trials last weekend and well...she was more like her old self in the air... (barking out orders and plays and whatnot)...than she's been since the day of the battle itself. I'm sure I don't need to remind you though that she's still waiting for you to let her into that ridiculously stubborn head of yours. It's ok to be a bit vulnerable Harry...to talk about the nightmares...
I personally, am totally...
The ink abruptly blotched at her hesitation, causing Hermione to sigh loudly and immediately toss the quill aside. Why? Why couldn't she simply say, 'Hey Harry, classes are fine, but after everything that's happened, I'm having more trouble being at Hogwarts than I thought. Because... because well... for the first time in forever, you and Ron aren't sleeping one bunk or one turret over. And further because of the fact that lots of our friends/families died fighting an evil, soul-splitting bastard only 4 months ago in this bloody castle...'
She roughly pushed back her chair and pressed her fist under her chin, brooding as the still loaded implement oozed carelessly onto a stack of nearby blank parchments. Instead of scooping it up and safely replacing it in the well, the girl simply watched it. Watched as the corner of the parchments became saturated with dark red ink, soon transferring it over onto the surface of the wooden writing desk she'd set up in front of the window. Finally, some of the vibrant liquid even dripped off onto the wooden floor, slow and wet like a person's life-blood seep...
"Oi Hermione, want to play..." said an eager voice from behind her, cutting across her strangely morose thoughts. She smiled briefly as she turned to see Terry Boot, her fellow Head, casually standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Since last bell he'd ditched his Ravenclaw robes, but was still wearing his grey slacks, white Oxford (with the sleeves rolled up) and striped House tie. A folding chess set was tucked under his arm. "Are you... alright?" he asked carefully, adjusting his tone upon noticing the mess behind her.
Hermione gave the desk a perfunctory glance, before swiveling back to meet Terry's keen brown eyes. "Fine," she said, shrugging simply, "Nothing an easy cleaning spell won't fix right?" She smiled carefully, aware that she was masking something, but not really sure what that was.
"Mhm..." replied Terry skeptically, eyebrows contracting a bit. But then, just before he could really start thinking, he shook his head gingerly and gave a small laugh. "Just so long as you're not depressed, all right?" he teased, gesturing awkwardly with the chess set, "Because if you are... McGonagall will want to hear. And frankly...I don't know if you're sorry butt is worth that paperwork." He beamed at her playfully and winked.
Hermione suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for the young wizard run through her. If she had been stuck being Heads with some sullen git like Malfoy... or a rowdy, devilish bloke like Seamus, she probably would've jumped out the bloody window by now. Even someone like Neville (much as she adored him), with his quiet seriousness and overall awkwardness, would've be a disaster too. She probably would've shut herself off completely in that scenario, save for classes and duties, and no one might've really stopped her. Frankly, it still took a lot for the bossy witch to remember that a somewhat "new" Neville had emerged in the last year. Would he actually ever yell at her? Would she take it seriously if he did?
But Neville wasn't even here, and Terry Boot on the other hand, was turning out to be the perfect compatriot. He was smart and studious, attentive to his Head's duties, considerate... and very engaging. He'd also fought in The Battle, and had the scars and laurels to prove it. With three odd weeks of the school year behind them, the Muggleborn already knew, without question, that the affable Ravenclaw had her back.
"I'm not, thanks Terry. Just trying to write a quick letter before my date with Ron later," she told him airily, before draping her arms on the back of her chair and propping her head on them tiredly. Her body language easily betrayed her tone, but in present company, Hermione hardly cared. She might've been telling Harry to sleep, but the bags around her own eyes were making her a hypocrite in that respect...
To his credit, Terry allowed the dissonance without probing. He was used to people fronting lately. "Ah, such plans..." said the boy, sighing melodramatically and shifting his weight against her doorframe, "So...you're saying... you really are depressed then?" He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.
"Uhh-gh," groaned Hermione in annoyance, "Don't be a wanker!" Then, pretending to be further affronted, she haphazardly threw an empty metal inkpot at him.
But the former member of Dumbledore's Army was much too quick for that. He dodged the poor effort and stuck out his tongue. The inkpot left a dark mark on her door-frame and thudded harmlessly onto the hardwood. Clucking, Boot drew his wand from his pocket and confidently transfigured the inkpot into a perfect yellow rose.
"Merlin Terry," gaped Hermione, suddenly quiet, as he floated it over to her with a graceful swish of the ebony and phoenix feather combination, "I...why...I..." She stared and cocked her head at him, before finally reaching out to grab a section of stem that wasn't thorny.
"Easy Granger, it's a flower not a love letter," he answered casually, "I'm not looking to get my arse beat by Britain's first family of redheads."
At the joke, Hermione regained herself. She rolled her eyes and stood, before crossing the room and punching his shoulder. "Shut it Boot. I was going to say, that it was beautiful...," she paused mid-phrase, grinning slyly, "...spell-work." Then, after turning on a heel and returning to lean against her desk, she added, "And... rather sweet. For a Ravenclaw." With a light toss of her hair, the Muggleborn finished her flurry of activity by conjuring up a lovely, twisting glass vase and plopping the rose inside.
Terry inclined his head, smirking at her put-down. The old, pre-Horcrux hunt (yes he'd heard about that) Hermione Granger would've never dug at him like that. Outside of Dumbledore's Army meetings, they'd barely exchanged more than a few words back then. Frankly though, despite the serious misfortunes from whence it had sprung, he was well-pleased with this new, bolder version of Gryffindor's brightest witch. If not for her, he would have stopped caring about stupid old N.E.W.T's and flown this drafty and haunting old coop days ago. Unfortunately, he also easily realized that the Head Girl was not his to monopolize at the moment. "I simply came in to see if you cared for a chess lesson," he re-started, retreating to formality in his defeat, "But, I see I must look elsewhere for tonight's opponent. In any case, enjoy your date Hermione." With that, the brown-haired youth pulled himself off of the doorframe and turned to leave.
"Terry wait," she called out, suddenly serious herself, "Anthony is on patrol, you know. And Justin is in remedial Potions with Slughorn. So...you're going to... ask Michael to play with you?" Locking eyes, it passed between them silently. The fact that his best friend had only just woken up from his injuries sustained in The Battle a month ago. The fact too that Michael Corner had yet to even remember they'd been...they were still...best friends.
People called him The Warrior Son of Ravenclaw these days, Boot considered, chuckling internally. More formidable in battle than any other student wearing the bronze-and-blue that harrowing night of May the 2nd. But the wordy nickname, the commendation from the Ministry, his place in this Head's office...none of it had brought his best friend back to him. She was looking sympathetically at him now. It was rather ironic, he thought, how he really preferred her sly and playful. "I'm not depressed either Hermione," he responded evenly, before ducking swiftly out the door.
"Terrence Elias Boot," she yelled desperately at his retreating back, leaping to her own doorway, "I'll play. I'll...I'll stay home...or put Ron off an hour..."
He turned and looked sadly at her stricken face, wishing he was stone-cold enough to take her up on the offer. "Smell the rose Hermione," he replied with a wry smirk, "Breathe it in, finish that letter and then...go on your date." With that, he turned and strode out of their Common Room, chess set still under his arm.
Hermione Granger stood stunned for a quite a few minutes, resting her forehead on the doorframe (which was, incidentally, getting quite the action this afternoon). She was an idiot. Bringing up Michael and getting all weird...over a flower. They'd mastered that spell in class a week ago! Terry had simply been showing off. Suddenly, the portrait hole swung inward and someone clamored through. Terry...? She looked up.
But it was Ginny, practice gear slung over one shoulder. She appeared distracted, but immediately stopped short at seeing the older girl hovering awkwardly in no man's land. The redhead dropped the gear next to the sofa and quickly walked over. Hermione looked up at her (waiting with arms folded) and managed a weak smile. "Hey Gin," she said, before leading them back into her room. Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed and hung her head, hands clasped in her lap. Merlin, she was tired. And not just physically. She let out a long sigh.
The bed sagged with extra weight, as the smaller girl sat down next to her, their shoulders touching. Ginny clasped her own pale, freckled hands and for a minute...neither of them spoke. It would have been easy to start. To mutter through some run-down of the whole thing, spilled ink to closed portrait hole. The youngest Weasley could've talked about how her day had included finding a notched old Beater's bat down in the Quidditch storage shed... with the initials F.W. scratched in the handle. But they didn't. The silence... the ability to just empathize quietly...was nice.
Hermione leaned her head on Ginny's shoulder. "I screwed up with Terry, Gin," she said finally, "We were goofing around...and then he made me a rose. It threw me off somehow... and... I brought up Michael."
The redhead winced at the mention of her ex-boyfriend, who as it happened, remembered being in love with her. She reached up and patted Hermione's hair. "Were you doing your best?" she asked her flatly. That was their phrase now. A phrase born out of heavy grief, and agreed upon by her, Hermione, Ron and Harry in the broom shed at the Burrow. All they could do was their best, no matter what everyone else asked of them.
The Muggleborn sighed. "I thought so," she murmured, "I'd just told him I was going on a date with Ron... and that forced him into a change of plans..."
"Hence, you mentioned Michael," finished Ginny, "Smooth Granger, really smooth."
Hermione groaned, pushed off her friend and buried her face in the scarlet coverlet. The redhead sighed, leaned back on the bed's footboard and looked around. The bed itself was decidedly rumpled and the lower shelves of the bookcase were starting to look dusty, even from here. The desk, despite the inky splotches Ginny didn't understand, was also a mess. Books and parchment everywhere...wrappers from chocolate frogs... There was also a butterbeer bottle on the floor underneath it. The rose was nice though. "You really should let a house elf in here Hermione," she said, wrinkling her nose, "The Head Girl needs to at least seem put together! And well, right now... Godric help you if McGonagall needed to come in here one night."
The 18-year-old rolled over and looked at her friend dejectedly. She was so worn out, she barely felt shamed by what the younger girl was saying. The room was just... just lived in. Wasn't it? On the hunt, they'd just pack up the tent and leave. So... she was just out of practice cleaning. That was all. And far too busy otherwise. Far too... She suddenly moaned and covered her face in her hands. Get a grip Granger, she chastised herself. "Damn it. I really am a sorry mess...aren't I Gin?" she groused sadly, glancing at her for conformation.
Ginny levelled the brilliant-but-currently-clueless witch with one of her trademark fierce stares. "I've been hinting at it for days love," she dead-panned, "And you know how much hinting isn't in my nature..."
Hermione sighed in resignation. "You're right, I'm sorry. Merlin! I'm so sorry," she rambled, before letting out a strangled chuckle. The brunette wrung her hands and looked ready to cry. "What's wrong with me Ginny?" she eventually asked, voice cracking a little as she choked back tears, "Why can't I just... move ahead already?"
Ginny Weasley moaned softly. If Ron got something right for once in his life, Hermione would eventually be, officially, her sister. But at this point, even without their romantic relationship, there were very few people (a list headed by her own parents and Harry) that the temperamental redhead held in higher regard. To see her finally upset, after weeks of putting a Head Girl's mask over the inner turmoil, honestly broke Gin up inside. If her Hermione, the smartest and most logical human she knew, couldn't let the war go yet... then how was she supposed to? When was she going to stop breaking down in tears over an old Beater's bat or... or while passing that silly, roped-section of swamp that had even survived the battle that'd killed him?
"C'mon," she said suddenly, tugging at the older girl's wrist, "Get up 'Mione. Your meeting Ron in roughly an hour yea? That's plenty of time pull yourself together. And to answer your questions...there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing, you hear? You are, Hermione. Freaking. Granger. You went to hell and back last year and not even crazy old Bellatrix Lestrange could break you! You'll move ahead in time...we all will. Now c'mon...do your best for me love. I...I'm afraid I've already failed at it today myself. So we'll just have to get back on the thestral together here."
The Head Girl grudgingly allowed herself to be pulled into a sitting position and wiped away the few tears that had managed to escape. "Why? What happened with you?" she asked, voice still a bit shaky.
Ginny bit at her lip, suddenly reluctant. She didn't really want to worry her fellow Gryffindor in the end. But confession is good for the soul, she reminded herself forcibly. Plus, Hermione already shared with you. She shrugged and moved towards the bedroom window, skirting some ink and a stack of heavy tomes piled high on the floor.
"Eh, Fred stuff," she replied shortly. But the older girl simply gave her a quelling look of her own at that statement. "Oh, al-right," relented Ginny, easily defeated, "It's just...his presence is everywhere 'Mione. The swamp square... those nasty scorch marks by the dungeons...and today...some splintery old bat in the Quidditch shed..." She shuddered and tranced a finger on the glass. It was fragile glass...not spell-reinforced glass such as this...but glass in general. Like a life. Hermione wasn't talking yet, having apparently put on her listening ears for this one. That sat well enough with Gin though. No quick spurt of life advice was likely to fill the still gaping maw where her elder brother's presence ought to be.
She'd willing confessed though. Something that was still a rare occurrence in itself. People said that it was the healthiest way to deal with her loss...openness and honesty. Blame and rage and regret...were apparently not. But that didn't stop Ginny from still wanting to dismember Rookwood, the Death Eater that had eventually been deemed officially responsible for collapsing a corridor on her poor brother. She knew for a fact that the bastard was in Azkaban, having escaped death in battle by being stunned into unconsciousness by Aberforth Dumbledore. And that...was simply unacceptable. The place wasn't even guarded by Dementors anymore, thanks to Harry and Kingsley and the remaining Aurors. Yes, she knew Dementors were an unreasonable torment and a potentially unreliable partnership to leave one's most dangerous criminals in the hands of, but Fred had died...and that slimy, old conniver had been spared. Whether it had been fate, or mercy...Ginny didn't know. She just knew it still hurt.
"I'm already over it Hermione," the redhead decided to continue (perhaps untruthfully), after determining her counterpart was obviously too fragile to muster up an automatic pep talk right now, "The silly old bat thing I mean. It...It was a bit scary though. I simply froze when I saw it... lying among some chewed-up pads and Keeper caps...that was probably some nest of pixies or doxies doing... and anyway, I just went into like... a zone. I picked it up, grabbed my broom...and just flew into The Forest. I put it down in a clearing and used 'Expulso' to shatter it to bits. No hesitation. Only then did it hit me, after the fact. What if someone had wanted it? Dad or Charlie...or even George? And I just...destroyed it...without thinking twice. So then I cried. Merlin help me, I cried. For Freddy... and for everything else his leaving us has done...or will do. The fact that the shop is still closed. The fact that Mum still calling George the wrong name like a six times this summer felt like a hot knife in the gut over and over. The fact that we'll have to get Percy to play if want to do Weasley 3-a-side Quidditch ever again...big stuff...little stuff..."
The brunette touched her shoulder and turned her around. Ginny hadn't even heard the girl approach over her pained speech. She went back to gnawing her lip. "It's just a bad day, r...right?" she quavered, "Just that stupid Potions practical and Peakes playing like a tosser all afternoon and shite...right? I can't be this angry anymore 'Mione. I..." The rest of her pleadings were muffled by the front of the older girl's jumper, as she pulled the young Weasley into a silent hug.
And that's where they stayed. Until Ginny finally extracted herself and went over to Hermione's bottom desk drawer. The redhead pulled out a long, corked bottle with dark liquid sloshing around inside. She waggled an eyebrow and mustered a tight smile. "A drink for the road?" she said invitingly, "You know you're going to want to face whatever plan Ron's cobbled together with the edge already off."
"Sure," agreed the Muggleborn, also attempting to smile through the turmoil of the past hour, "A nip might do. I've got to walk down and meet him in this crazy weather anyway. Might keep me from feeling the chill so long that I simply turn back for my bed." She sighed bemusedly and whipped out her wand, quickly tidying up the desktop and siphoning away the ink stains.
Gin nodded. They'd been lucky to practice earlier, with showers having lasted most of the morning and winds even now, still gusting around the grounds like a banshee's howl. She poured two round-bottomed, silver tumblers to the half-way point with a dark, burgundy liquid. Picking hers up, she smelled a pleasant earthiness and hints of sweet fruit. Saving the wizarding world had worked out for the Golden Trio in some respects, she mused. This particular imported wine in Hermione's drawer had been a gift from Madame Maxime, the formidable Headmistress of Beauxbatons. The handsome tumblers, also tastefully engraved with her name and accented with a painted lion, were from the German Minister for Magic himself.
Presents like these were, to state the obvious, not uncommon for the heralded threesome. Ginny knew that, except for Ron, they largely hated getting the trinkets...or speaking at memorials...but thought it important to be gracious. Even Harry, who couldn't hope to hide his grief from her, had done so admirably at a few appearances, before formally starting Auror duties last month. Of course, he'd also holed himself in Grimmauld Place a few times and pretended nothing was wrong...but she didn't want to think about that. His pain tended to affect her even more than her own, in a way.
"Godric's arse Ginny, what to wear?" Hermione's frustrated shout pulled her out of her thoughts about a certain Chosen One and back into Head's bedroom. She knocked back a gulp of wine and smirked at the other girl's recent adoption of cussing, before striding over to the open wardrobe. When she was done with Hermione tonight, Ron wouldn't have a clue she'd been a mess lately. They were, after all, supposed to be doing their best.