A/N: Welcome to my short story. There's a lot of me in poured into this; I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. This story would have been abandoned or deleted were it not for LadyKenz347. She and niffizzle have been incredible through all of this and I'm indebted to their time, advise and alpha work. CourtingInsanity is the most incredible beta ever. If you are not reading their stories, you should be! Go and read now!
Rating for mild language.
I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.
CHAPTER ONE
June, 2006
"Welcome back to Hogwarts, Miss Granger."
"It's lovely to be here, Headmistress." The lie rolls off her tongue easily; she's said it often enough. After all, she's avoided this country and all that's familiar as much as Harry, Luna, or any member of the Weasley family will allow her to get away with the last several years...
It's almost surprising to her when it doesn't taste as much a lie as she anticipated.
Hermione offers a smile she hopes doesn't appear as tight as she feels it is and says, "I will admit I found the vagueness of your letter to be intriguing."
"As I'd hoped." Stern lips almost, almost, quirk into a smile as the witch who's been Hermione's hero for fifteen years now claps her hands and leans back in the high back leather chair. "I hope the portrait backs behind me isn't too distracting for you." She waves to the wall behind them as Hermione gives a cursory glance.
She will admit to herself it is, and she suspects that the Headmistress has also silenced them, as she can't hear any protests. But, she smiles nonetheless and says, "Not at all. I'm not certain Professor Black would be happy to see me anytime soon."
The headmistress gives her a curious look, but doesn't ask.
Hermione hastily adds, "I hope you won't receive significant backlash for that, Headmistress."
"Not at all. They're used to this course of action with official business by now." The witch lifts her chin and continues, "I asked you here today, Miss Granger—"
"'Hermione', please."
"Hermione," the witch repeats, appearing to permit the smile this time. "And I'm either 'Minerva' or still 'Professor McGonagall' if you'd prefer. A few of the former students on staff prefer the latter still."
Hermione's heart seizes. "'Students?'" she queries. "Are there many more than Neville?"
"Oh, a few." Professor McGonagall (Hermione decides what's familiar is the most agreeable) tilts her head as in counting off a mental list. "You'll recall Miss Brocklehurst from your year in Ravenclaw, her sister two years younger has been teaching History of Magic for two years now. Theodore Nott has been teaching Potions for six years and Draco Malfoy has been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts for seven."
Seven years… Which means he's been here since just after the eighth year she never came back for. "I see," is all she says instead. She clears her throat. "It must be lovely to see the younger generations stepping up and filling in unexpected rolls. Where, precisely, would there be an opening for a Healer on staff, Professor?"
"Matron of the Hospital Wing, of course."
"What?" Hermione can't quite believe her ears.
"What else would I be offering you, my dear?" Professor McGonagall is entirely serious. "Poppy has decided it's time to retire. My immediate first thought of a replacement declined interest before I even asked her about an interview, but in no time at all, my thoughts turned to you."
Hermione's cheeks burn and she presses her lips together to stave off a proud beam. "I've hardly any experience in the pediatric world, Professor. Just research and theories." There. She at least attempts some modesty… Which Professor McGonagall isn't believing for an instant, if the twinkle in her eyes is anything to go by.
"Mmm," Professor McGonagall muses. "I will agree that the first three years after completing your Healer training concentrated on the workings and reversals of memory charms. I recall you were also involved with a few collaborative studies on the long-term effects of torturing curses in that time as well—"
Breathe, breathe, breathe, Hermione bids herself. Do not stop breathing…
"—but after you left Australia," the headmistress continues, unaware of Hermione's inner struggle, "your published studies have concentrated on children and youths. And as I'd not seen your name mentioned in recent academic periodicals over the last year, I made inquiries to Mrs. Weasley, who informed me you've been collaborating with a small magical school in America with pre-Healer training and I should like to see if something similar could be implemented here—"
A lifeline! Something to tether herself to in this conversation that threatens to blow her away, or drown her in memories—whichever metaphorical disaster decides to attack first.
"So," Hermione interjects between a shaky inhale, "this position would include more than Madam Pomfrey's previous duties?" The distraction of details to throw herself at is good.
"In an ideal world, yes," Professor McGonagall answers. "You and I will both need to be in separate correspondence with the hospital board and heads of the various departments at St. Mungo's work out the details of this if we try it. I also think if you agree to all of this, you'll want to consider making inquiries with said department as soon as possible." Hermione's brows quirk, and the headmistress gives an airy wave of a hand. "If we're to empower our students interested to the fullest extent, you should be familiar with the inner system of the hospital; the last time I was there, it was like visiting a foreign country. They've their own language, organisational system, and—"
"Right." Hermione winces as she's cut-in again, but offers a crooked smile. "I'm well aware that hospitals are a world entirely their own and that sounds like an excellent idea—if this is an official offer, and if I accept…" She adds the last bit as if it to herself. As if it's a question.
Professor McGonagall blinks slowly at her over thin-framed spectacles; likely the same pair she had when Hermione was in attendance to Hogwarts. Hermione does her best to keep from shifting in her seat, but it's a challenge.
She's well aware she's been restless in Boston. An agitated emptiness has settled in her bones and she's been in denial for some time now. Her only comfort is when she visits Britain. Not necessarily when she spends time with Harry other familiar company from her childhood, but there's something about… Britain.
It's in the air. The sights and sounds… The very air she breathes here. In both muggle and wizarding parts.
For as long as she's been away, this country calls to her from across oceans. For as much she strains to breathe when braving her old neighborhood, it has some hold over her. The old faces and places haunt her dreams. They hover overhead wherever she is.
And she's tired. She's exhausted from ignoring this pull on her soul for so long…
All of which her childhood heroine seems to discern in a matter of seconds, as there's a warmth in her gaze that Hermione swears wasn't there a minute before. She makes a show of coughing in her hands before picking up a quill and setting her hand over parchment. "Of course, we're getting ahead of ourselves. It seems I've yet to ask you any of the questions I'd prepared in advance, and perhaps we should transition into the official business part of the meeting."
"Yes." Hermione thinks her answer is something between a strangled noise and an exclamation of relief, but she can't bring herself to care. "I don't have any references or resumes with me, but I can send those to once I'm back in Boston."
"Of course, of course." Professor McGonagall makes a note off the to side of her parchment. "Now, we will start with something perfunctory: list three of your greatest professional strengths and please tell me why you consider them strengths."
Hermione's fingers lace together over her lap as she leans forward and begins.
Narcissa Malfoy gives a dramatic sigh into a bowl of porridge. "Oh, how this brings back memories of your first summers in school."
Her son snorts from behind the Quidditch section of The Daily Prophet, not bothering to lower the periodical. "You've said that every morning for the last week since I've been home from Hogwarts, Mother."
"Yes, and perhaps if I say it enough, I'll annoy you into missing a breakfast at home once in a while."
Draco folds one side of the paper, shooting his mother look. "You'd prefer I eat breakfast in my room?" He releases the paper, rolling his eyes at the image of Mrs. Ginny Zabini scoring a dramatic goal in yesterday's match. He adds, "I'd no idea my company was so odious."
"It isn't that..." Narcissa's tone bears the unusual timbre of pouting. "It's simply that perhaps once in a while you could have prior engagements that would prevent you from eating breakfast with your mother."
The newspaper lowers completely at that remark and Draco eyes his mother with an inquisitive furrowed brow. "Are you implying you'd prefer your son bed some random witch and th—?"
"Draco!" The matriarch's blue eyes widen as a delicate hand clutches her chest. "There's no need for such language to make a point, young man."
"Says the cauldron to the kettle." The corners of Draco's lips quirk with the beginning of a smile as he reaches for his still-steaming teacup and sips it slowly. "You've been agitated every morning for the past four mornings, though, perhaps now you'll tell me directly what's on your mind, Mother."
Narcissa's hands drop to her lap as meets Draco's gaze. "I worry about you is all."
"Pardon?" Not the answer he expected…
"I do." She nods and brings her interlaced fingers to the edge of the table, leaning in. "I can't help it, Draco. You just turned twenty-six, most of your friends are already married or in committed relationships."
"Mother." This patience for this annual discussion is wearing thin...
She continues, eyes narrow and piercing. "You're always home over the summer; you never take a holiday anywhere, unless it's with Andromeda, Teddy and I—"
"My own choice, Moth—"
"You only ever go out in groups—"
"You just said no one there's no one still si—"
"You don't even try!" Draco's mouth snaps shut as Narcissa's voice hitches at the last accusation. Her chest heaves and she reaches for her napkin and dabs at her mouth, as was her habit to regain composure. "This is not thriving, my son. We all needed time after the war, and I understood your need to focus inward after going back for that ridiculous eighth year. And I knew there would be adjustments and you'd want space and time to discern and decide the type of professor and man you wanted to be as you started in this new job, but now I can say without hesitation that you're hiding."
"I'm n—"
"You are!" She lifts a silencing hand, her head moving side-to-side in a slow, burdened movements. "I'm proud of you. You have to know I'm so proud of the wizard you've become. You pour yourself into your career and those students; the Headmistress boasts of the student's O.W.L and N.E.W.T. results in Defense Against the Dark Arts year after year, and I know you have a large role to play in that, for as much as you try to deny it.
"But you've withdrawn and you're hiding from the world now, and I can't imagine why." With a simple wave of her hand, the napkin folds midair as Narcissa rises from the table, eyes still fixed on her son. "The brand on your arm has all but faded. You've been master of the Malfoy estate since your father was locked up, and he's no say in your life. There's no reason to bear the weight of your past still."
She withdraws from the table with a dramatic flourish, while a raging coil burns within Draco's chest in the wake of her speech.
His left forearm itches. Salazar, it burns with the memory of dark magic that once resided there, and he allows his right hand to compress, applying just enough pressure to soothe.
It will never be enough—can't she see that? The past is always with him. It haunts every subtle act of the present and lingers so that there is no hope of escaping someday in the future.
It will never be enough. Not to be forgiven.
He gulps a sharp breath; his fingers clench over his sleeve. Long sleeve button-down shirts always, and not just because it is more presentable.
He wants to be forgiven. He wants to be forgiven.
The words roll and crash and pound against the fringes of his mind. He reels and scrambles for the calming techniques he'd learned from mandatory mind healing sessions during his 'eighth year' at Hogwarts…
His chest tightens and he fights to keep his breaths slow, deep and measured.
He wants to be forgiven. It's never enough.
The name 'Ginny Zabini' races across his vision in a dizzying loop. Blaise has moved on and married a former-Gryffindor. Theo has moved on and married Daphne. Goyle has even found someone.
While he remains. His life stagnant and stale. The future of lessons, dueling club, exams, study groups and meals in the Great Hall looms over him, oppressive in its predictability.
But he will never be forgiven; he's no right to consider more. No right t—
Something lands in his lap with a soft 'thud' and his mind reels. Reels and stumbles, struggling to break free from its own entrapment.
His fingers dive, skimming over what could only be a letter as his eyes blinked unseeing a moment more. An owl hoots softly in the background, her feathers ruffling as Draco's vision focuses on the lovely brown bird.
"Hello, Finn," he murmurs, swallowing once, collecting himself. He reaches out to let the owl give him an affectionate nip and looses a hard breath. "If you'll follow me to the study we'll see about letting you have a treat while I read what you've brought me and compose a response."
Finn blinks twice and nudges Draco's hand, which Draco has always presumed to be an approving answer of sorts. The owl perches on Draco's shoulder as they moved to the study, where the wizard rewards Finn's early morning efforts with a treat.
"Half a moment, boy," he says, turning his attention to the envelope addressed to him in the Headmistress' handwriting. His lips pull into a tight, thin line as he pulls against the red wax seal, an inexplicable sense of foreboding rooting in his chest as he withdraws the letter.
Draco,
I know it's your holiday and this is rather sudden, but I wondered if you'd be so kind as to join me for tea in my office this afternoon at four o'clock?
If the time is inconvenient, please respond with an alternate time best suited to your schedule; I will adjust my plans accordingly.
Thank you,
Professor McGonagall
Draco reads the missive twice more before he writes a brief affirmative to her request and sends Finn on his way. He turns to the note again, observing the stationery is not official Hogwarts heading parchment. There are few other conclusions that can be derived he decides. Her use of his first name also indicates an informal meeting; however, there's the use of her own professional title. And the location is still her office. But there was also the fact she hadn't dated it, and it's all highly irregular how it's come about.
His eyes continue to drift to the missive on his desk throughout the morning as he reads in his study.
A/N: Would love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading