The days after the Dark Lord's fall were the longest day's she'd ever lived through. They made the days spent cold, hungry and abandoned in that miserable tent feel like Sunday afternoons. Hermione couldn't recall exactly what she had been expecting, what she imagined would happen afterwards. Mainly because she hadn't expected an 'after' at all. Not one that she'd be around for anyway. As Harry Potter's mud-blood best friend, what hope did she have of surviving the final battle? What right did she have of surviving, ahead of the far more innocent? Logically, in a world where the odds dictated reality, these never-ending days would belong to Colin. Perhaps Fred. Even the harmlessly dim Lavender Brown.

In a world in which mathematical, and dare she say it arithmatic, calculations were fool proof, she would be laid out on the cold marble floor of the great hall. It would have been the simplest solution. No family would have to mourn her passing. No mother weeping over a lifeless form. No father facing empty days and sleepless nights. Just a statistic of the battle. An aside in the history books that among the battle's casualties; Harry Potter's best friend was numbered.

But of course, as seven years in the magical world had taught Hermione Granger, probability could not be counted on. One could not even rule out the impossible.

And so it was that Hermione sat in Gryffindor tower alone, exhausted, and far too numb to even contemplate sleep. It was possibly the longest Hermione had sat by the fire, completely and utterly inactive. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a part of her stirred, no doubt affronted by the thought. The Old Hermione, struggling to break through, to make lists and take stock of the situation, to pinpoint the issues and rally the troops, to stare into the abyss of the unachievable and break it into tiny pieces, schedule it into manageable slots and a simple but strict reading schedule.

But she sat.

She sat and stared into the empty flames as the numb tide of inevitability swept over and crushed the old Hermione.

She sat and wondered what to make of the broken girl with battle scars that had been left behind.

— — — —

Poppy Pomfrey would swear for the rest of her life that the sunlight that poured through the windows that morning was blood red. No one would ever persuade her otherwise. The Third sunrise of the 'After': a full 48 hours since the war was won.

Had Poppy been a superstitious woman, she would have called it an omen. As an in the flesh witch living in a magical castle, she didn't hold much place for superstitious nonsense. So when the blood red light cascaded onto the still and seemingly lifeless form of Severus Snape, she couldn't account for the strange feeling of unease that washed over her. It was just a sunrise. One the man was lucky to see in. Not that he technically saw it. Not that he would ever likely see another one. But it really wasn't anything out of the ordinary. She should have set her coffee down on the desk and returned to the inventory of the battle.

Such a strange phrase to use, but no matter which words she turned to, nothing seemed to cover it. The bodies that had lined the castle, lying lifeless and bloody among the rubble, how could they be stock to be taken account of? How could they be figures of calamity? Mere numbers in the margins, as if the value of the slaughter could be worked out.

Very easily apparently. It truly was the simplest way to accomplish the task. A list of survivors, a list of casualties, and a list of the dead. All rounded off and a totaled. It was really quite frightening how corpses became stock, but it was a fear masked by open wounds and far sharper pain. Only the growing list of names in the margin of the page could further stir fresh pangs of grief. Those yet unaccounted for. Truly and literally lost in the battle. Unexplainable figures that threatened to corrode the lists facade of stability. That slowly ate away at Poppy's resolve to put the battle behind her. For every step taken forward, those unexplainable figures were left further and further behind.

Burying her head in her hands and searching for the resolve to get up and face the day, Poppy couldn't shake the odd prickling at the back of her neck. The blood red swell had crept further up the hospital wing, softly illuminating the steadily rising chest of Severus Snape.

Her head shot up, and the chair screeched as she shoved it backwards over the flagstone floors. It couldn't be. It was simply impossible. Rushing across the room, her wand was in her hand shooting diagnostic spells before she was even aware of casting them. Blue lights whizzed around his gaunt, thin frame, highlighting the numerous scars and bruises, but pin pointing a defiantly strong pulse. Running a blood and toxins screening, Poppy examined the chart.

It didn't make sense. The amount of poison present in his system was more than enough to kill him instantly. In fact, even for as large a snake as Naigni, it was an extraordinary amount of venom. She stared down at his blank, bloodless face, so unusually devoid of a sneer. She was sure that was he conscious, that trademark sneer would be there, goading her on to a conclusion that he had already reached. The insufferable man, the moody boy she had nursed time and time again.

He would know exactly what was happening. Poppy gasped, dropping the chart with a clatter. He had known what would happen, or at least he had taken exhaustive precautions for what could have been at most a distant possibility. That brilliant man; her brilliant insufferable boy. With tears streaming down her face, Poppy picked up her chart and cast the appropriate charms. She could face the new day now, knowing there was one less left behind.

— — — —

"Hermione!" Harry's voice called through the dense fog and brought her back to the sun filled common room. "Hermione wake up"

"I'm up" Hermione mumbled, shifting to a sitting position and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She could vaguely feel where the pattern of the couch had left an imprint on her face.

"Have you been to bed at all Hermione?" Harry's green eyes were filled with worry at his friend, and for once, it did nothing to move Hermione. How many times had she thrown those looks at him, begging him to calm down, be sensible, and more than anything, to be all right? Still, it was eerie to have that same look facing her. She was all right wasn't she? There were no snatchers, no Bellatrix, no curses streaming through the air towards her. She was in Gryffindor Tower, the veritable embodiment of Okay.

"I've slept Harry, I was just so exhausted. What are you doing here?" She looked over at her friend, suddenly worried. "I thought you had decided to stay at the burrow?"

"I couldn't stay there. " He sighed and rubbed his scar, more out of habit than anything she thought. "I thought it would feel like home you know? Feel like before. It was so quiet. I'd have never thought the burrow could be quiet. Ron's still there, so is Ginny. I've come back to help rebuild. Give them a bit of space you know?"

Hermione nodded. She had worked that much out for herself, and had elected to stay back at the castle alone. She didn't blame Harry for leaving though. The Burrow had been the first welcoming family home he'd ever known. She could imagine the disappointment once he realized that leaving Hogwarts wasn't enough to leave everything else behind. The shadow of the ruined castle stretched far further than the sloping grounds.

She vaguely knew that she should get up. That she should bathe and change and head downstairs, ushering Harry along with her. But the practicality of getting up seemed to elude her. Harry's head leaned down to rest on her shoulder, and even that simple gesture felt as though it would weigh her down.

"Is it really over Hermione?" Harry whispered.

"Just us left Harry. Just Hogwarts and us left. He's gone Harry" She didn't know where the words came from, or if they were what he needed to hear. It wasn't technically what he had asked. She was sure the Old Hermione would have had the perfect answer ready. Harry lifted his head off her shoulder and smiled tiredly.

"Come on. Fight's not over while this place lies in ruins. "

It really shouldn't have been enough to get her to stand up. It really should have made everything worse. In a world of logic, it was the last thing she needed to hear. But for probably the billionth time, Hermione reminded herself there was very little logic in the magical world. Harry's answer served as the magic words.

"Do you remember, in first year, right before you went to face Quirrel?"

"Yeah?" Harry looked at her strangely

"And I told you that you were a great wizard?"

Harry nodded.

"Nothing's really changed Harry."

With those words Harry enveloped her into his arms, and for a moment, it was almost enough to make her believe that nothing had really changed.

— — — —

Harry leaned back against the cool stonewall, stretching his aching muscles. Everything hurt. His shoulders seemed to creak and strain with every shovel of rubble. The arch of his spine was set at a continual low burn. Even his feet throbbed in protest. He reveled in the pain. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he knew he was lucky to feel anything at all.

In an unspoken agreement, he and Neville had completely ignored their wands as they worked side by side. Only the dull thud of bricks thrown to the pile carried over the summer afternoon. They didn't have the words yet. No one questioned their methods as they passed by. Harry shifted each stone with the same resolve he had shown back at shell cottage. The grief was just as potent, only now he had the time to let it bleed out naturally. He knew that, this time, waving a wand couldn't set it all right.

With the sun streaming down on the back of his neck, Harry couldn't help remembering past summers. The last time he had worked this hard was with Aunt Petunia tsk-ing from the kitchen window. It was hard to believe that at this moment, number four privet drive lay empty, its lawn yellowing and its hedge wild. He could just imagine the disproving glares of the neighbors. His lips twitched at the corners, almost managing a smile, before they gave out. He filled his shovel. He tossed the rubble behind him. He lifted his shovel. He ignored his back. He listened to the dull thuds of rock. He lifted. He listened. He lifted. He listened. He scrapped the shovel over the dust. He glanced at Neville on his periphery, head down, shoulders bent. He swung the shovel behind him. He waited for the thuds. There was nothing left.

Letting the shovel clatter to the ground, he settled on the dirt, leaning forward over his knees. He heard Neville shuffle over and collapse next to him. They exchanged nods. Across the grounds to the left, a group of students attempted to set the owlery steps right. The giant squid was frolicking in the warm water of the lake, letting its tentacles float along the surface. Hagrid sat outside his hut, tending to some partially burnt bowtruckles. It was a balm, seeing the castle full of activity. Perhaps not a soothing balm, true. More like muggle antiseptic. It helped, knowing everything would heal. It just came with a sting. Running his palm over the scar at his forehead, Harry turned to Neville.

"Heard anything from Luna, Neville?"

Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Neville stared out onto the lake. "She's gone home to spend time with her father. Reckoned he'd need help rebuilding that diadem of his."

They shared a small grin at this. Harry suspected it had a lot less to do with the diadem, and more to do with her time at Malfoy Manor, but he knew Luna was where she most needed to be.

— — — —

The school library hadn't been the main host of the Battle, but it sported its fair share of damage. With the Deatheaters blasting the castle's framework and windows, the high spindling towers of books had toppled into disarray. To Irma Price, the sight of her ancient tomes sprawled in piles and covered with glass and splinters of wood was nothing less than sacrilege. To Hermione, it was her saving grace. She don't know what she would have done, had the immaculate armies of shelves still stood strong where the real had fallen. The chaos and devastation of the wreckage felt like walking through the halls of her very own heart. Twisting her hair into a knot and rolling up her sleeves, she stoically set to work. Armies of books at least, could be stood back up.

— — — —

Arthur Weasley pottered about in his back shed. He had almost finished putting his third spark plug back together. Wand behind one ear and screwdriver behind the other, he hunched over his desk, trying to catch the most of the dimming candlelight. The night was a mild one, with fresh marsh air sweeping through the bulrushes and in the open window. Up in the house, Molly lay in bed; eyes blankly open to the sounds of a half empty home. He knew that she'd never refer to it so. She'd ring her hands in her apron and lift her chin, proclaiming it to be half full. Always half full. And that we ought to be thankful of it. He let out a bone-weary heart heavy sigh and flung the plug to the floor. The chair soon followed. With tears stinging and burning a path down his face, he raged against the table, the walls, the brick-a-brack and wires and tools. Shoulders shaking he fell to his knees, cradling his raw shaking hands and sobbing. His Fred. His poor Fred. Teaching him to ride a broom, trying not to laugh while tell him off, secretly sneaking out to the shed to help him with the muggle range of magic tricks, when he'd lost his first tooth. His little Freddie. His brave, brave boy. His smiling face, never to be seen again while seen everyday. His poor George. His poor, poor boys. Not boys. Boy. Shifting across the floor he pulled the last dregs of a bottle of Ogden's from under his desk. Sitting on the floor of the ruined shed, Arthur toasted in the daybreak.

— — — —

It took five days to replace the enchantments on the great hall's ceiling. Minerva couldn't rationally justify the expenditure of time and magical energy when there was so much else to be put right. The ministry owls seemed to bombard her by the half hour. There were constant queries from the board of governors. Not to mention the correspondence to the remnants of the order. Even as she slept, her mind reminded her of the countless things that remained undone. Really, the ceiling could have waited. It was simply a matter of pride.

Watching the faces light up as they staggered into the great hall that evening, however, made it all worth it. Friends and colleagues, students and ex-students alike, stood gazing on the precipice of the doorway. She understood. It felt like walking into the hall for the first time all over again. It felt like coming home. House tables abolished, their somewhat eclectic group gathered in the center of the hall, and resolved to eat, drink and laugh again. Minerva felt another pang of pride seeing Potter, Harry, seeing Harry, clothes covered in dust, blisters and callouses forming, smiling among his friends. None could be seen to work so hard. His dogged determination to rebuild kept most others going. Minerva had campaigned tirelessly to keep the prophet and its affiliates away from the boy as he worked. She could imagine Albus' twinkling eyes and his usual mother-lion-and-her-cubs joke. Even a year later, after everything that had happened, she missed having her tutor, and friend, around.

Standing up, she smartly rapped her knife to the goblet in front of her.

"If I could have your attention please, I would like to say a few words."

As the room quieted she couldn't help but bitterly recall Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak.

"With the clearance of the entrance hall, the front lawns, the Owlery and the spiral staircase, the secondary stages of the castle reconstructions draw nearer. I would like to personally thank each and every one of you for your unstinting efforts. Officials from the Ministry, and a representative from the board of governors will be arriving in the next fortnight to assess further reparations and plans. As such, I will require a list of those persons who wish to remain after the next two weeks. As construction overtakes the majority of the castle, spaces for those volunteers will be limited." Minerva paused; bristling slightly at what she was forced to ask of these loyal people. In a slightly stronger voice, marred by her brogue accent, she continued. "While the Ministry see's fit to enforce these regulations, let one thing remain clear. Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home. Anyone who needs to stay will not be cast out. It is suffice to say that where there is a requirement of it, there will be room. Thank you all"

While there were a few titters at the last segment of her speech, any student who served as part of Dumbledore's Army, or sought refuge from the Carrows, knew exactly what was meant. Hogwarts had always, and would always, provide for them.

— — — —

The returning presence of the night sky in the great hall that night made little impact on Hermione. Sitting next to Harry, she struggled to seem appropriately upbeat. She mechanically set about chewing and swallowing, paying no real attention to what she ate. Conversation around the table was limited to the restoration effort and musings about who would be staying past the next two weeks. Ernie Macmillan, the erstwhile Hufflepuff who hadn't left the grounds since staying to fight the final battle, was relaying the details of his apprenticeship in America. Apparently his decision to pursue Arithmacy was influenced mainly by his parents' connection to his future mentor. He earnestly offered for her to come visit, so he could introduce her there and help set up her own course of study. With a kind smile and polite thanks, She smothered the voice that snapped in the back of her head. She was the brightest witch of her age, the muggle-born best friend of Harry Potter and a major participant in the war effort. It was not a want of contacts that stayed her hand in deciding what to do with her life. The very thought of simply picking one field, and going off to follow it as though the entire last year hadn't happened seemed impossible. Harry, who had caught on to his friend's discomfort, looked at Ernie stricken.

"Hermione move to America? I'd give Britain a week to fall to shambles without her." Clasping her hand under the table, Hermione could sense his jest was no more than a cover for sudden panic. She gripped his fingers and smiled what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Don't think you can get rid of me that easily."

Across the table, Ernie and the others tittered with laughter, but Hermione couldn't help think of those Harry was now rid of. With Voldemort and at least half the death eaters gone, hopefully for good this time, Hermione fought to silence the whisper of her thoughts, the ever present reminder that Harry soon wouldn't need her at all.

— — — —

Even if he lived another ten thousand lives and died another ten thousand deaths, nothing could have convinced Severus that Minerva McGonagall would sit a nightly vigil at his bedside. Yet there she sat, night after night. Though he slipped in and out of consciousness and had not yet opened his eyes, there was no mistaking the brogue murmurs of the older woman as she sat by his side each night. Sometimes she talked, forcing him to relive shared memories, boring him with the trivialities of the castle's maintenance. If he was particularly unlucky, which as life's events would dictate he was, she would simply sit and mutter lists of the dead. She hadn't brought news of Potter yet, but he assumed, simply by her presence at all, that the boy still lived. That thought brought comfort through the bouts of mindless pain. It held him steadfast as he lost grips on the real and succumbed to endless nightmares, in which he woke back in his office to find the war raged on still. Potter's name was not amongst the list of the dead. It became his mantra as Red eyes breached his shields and poured haring, murderous pain unto his very core, then shifted into the Green eyes that haunted ever waking moment. Over and over, he repeated it to himself. He lives. He lives. Over and over, until the words lost meaning. Until the morphed and shift, from red to green and back and forth until he found himself repeating; I can die. I can die. He lives, I can die.

But every night the same distinctive murmur would seep through the darkness, calling to him. Reminding him it was not yet over. That he still had more to give. That his life, worthless though it was, served as greater punishment than death. So he carried on. He let the burning tumbling wave of remorse sweep him onwards, through each endless spiral of pain, through each depraved haunting memory, until it saw fit to finally, finally, let him drown.

—- —- —-

Harry found her surrounded by a pile of ruined books. Paper drifted like ash across the floor, and some books still quietly protested, feebly moaning and wailing. Looking up from the mounds around her, her face lit up.

"Harry!"

"Hey Mione. I didn't think it was this bad in here."

Standing, she wiped her forehead, and sat up on a newly repaired desk.

"Were getting there. How's outside coming along?"

Harry shrugged and adopted a grin.

"Be finished tomorrow we reckon."

"That's fantastic Harry." She smiled, but a calculating look had entered her eyes and she watched him apprehensively. Harry knew it would be a long time before Hermione stopped trying to look after him.

"So are you going to help them with the Quidditch Pitch? I overheard Ernie saying they were contemplating new designs since nothing of the original structure remains, I though you might-"

"No." Harry quietly interrupted her. Taking a seat next to her he let out a sigh. "I think I've done what I had to do. I'm going back to the burrow. Ron needs me. Ginny needs me. The Weasleys have always been like a family to me."

For one of the first times Harry could remember, Hermione did not rush to outline the pros and cons, to weigh up his decision and encourage him. She was silent, staring off into the distant reaches of the library.

"I know it will be harder, in a lot of ways, than staying here. But I just feel it's where I'm meant to be."

She nodded at this, and then seemed to snap out of it.

"Yeah Harry. No, you're right, that's good." She muddled out, patting his shoulder gently.

"There's room for you too, you know. What with Ron taking- I mean, sharing with George…" He couldn't help but pause at his initial choice of words.

"Well, just know that you'd be more than welcome. Have you heard from Ron yet?"

Hermione shook her head.

"You know what he's like with letter's Harry, and well, I mean he's busy, and I've been busy, and most of it can't be written and-"

"Fair enough Mione." Harry put his arm around her and shook her slightly.

"It'll all be alright. He'll still be there waiting for you once you've done what you need to do." He consoled her.

"How did you-" Hermione began, brow creased.

"Know you still needed time? You're like a sister Hermione. Sign up to stay for the next two weeks. I'll handle the Weasleys."

"Thanks Harry." She smiled up at him, but Harry couldn't help compare the watery pale face with the all-encompassing grin he'd grown up with.

"C'mon. Lunch. I'm starving."

—- —- —- —-

Hermione would have never imagined that the Castle could be so silent. Never could she have pictured the aging stone halls empty, no wandering students littering the grounds. Classrooms shut up and covered with a fine layer of dust. Somehow the ghosts seemed more substantial now too. The only conscious forms parading the corridors. She didn't really know what she was expecting when she signed up to stay. Hers was one of only 12 names on the list. Dennis Creevy was the only other Gryffindor; but as he was re-growing his left foot in the hospital wing, Hermione had Gryffindor tower completely to herself. She took her place next to Professor Vector at the end of the Staff table rather than sit at Gryffindor's alone. Most nights found the Ministry attendants still arguing with Minerva over supper, and conversation was so stilted she could pass the whole evening in silence.

It was nice.

It left her to her thoughts and she couldn't help to compare this gentle silence with the raw pandemonium that surrounded the Weasley's dining hall. As much as she missed Harry and Ron, it was rather nice, not being faced with question after question on what she would do next. On her next big move. Or worse, on Matrimony and children. She wondered how the Weasley matriarch could possibly be serious. Heaven forbid Molly find out she was actually closer to 20 than 18. If Hermione never heard the term 'biological clock" again, it would be too soon.

"Hermione?" Minerva and Professor Sprout were looking at her from the other end of the table.

"Sorry I was miles away" Hermione smiled.

"Pompona and I were just saying that once the library has been cleared out, you could help Neville sort out green house three." Minerva called down the table

"Yes dear, the Venomous Tentacula's molars are coming in at the moment, and I wouldn't trust anyone else near it." Pompona inclined her head, oblivious to the large stretch of dirt across her brow.

"Yes though I do hope you won't deprive me of her until everything is exactly as it was, Minerva." Irma Pince grumbled from the left. "She's the only one who knows the old system off by heart."

There were a few laughs around the table, all of her past teachers and classmates well aware of the seemingly endless hours she'd spent locked away in the library. She felt a dull sort of pang in her stomach and imagined the faces of Harry and Ron had they heard the comment. She honestly wished they were here to make the whole thing seem ridiculous. To make her smile at the eccentricity. To make her laugh it off as a positive little quirk.

To make all of the striving, the study, the questions and hours searching for answers, to make all of it seem worth it. As though it had somehow made a difference.

— — — —

Ron sat alone in the back room of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes fiddling with the radio. The Cannons were on today at 3pm but he couldn't get the bloody thing to tune in. He'd tossed 6 others to the side after they'd loudly erupted confetti and a resounding "HA!" Fred and George and their bloody prototypes. George and his bloody prototypes. He kept doing that. Saying "their" names where there was now only 'his' name. He reckoned it must be worse for George.

The shop really didn't take much to run. Verity had been working here for two years now, and had things pretty much under wraps. He sometimes wondered who was supervising whom. George had yet to step foot in the place since, well. Since. With Charlie back in Romania, Bill at Gringotts and Percy in the Ministry, Ron had taken up the mantle of running the shop. He didn't mind too much. With three solid meals each day, and sometimes a pint after work with Charlie, it beat being on the run hands down.

Ron knew that before, working behind a counter in his brother's shop would have worried him. Selling puking pastilles and canary crèmes to snot-nosed little kids while his older brothers wrestled dragons and broke curses (and revolutionized the thickness of cauldron bottoms) would have gotten under his skin. The fact was that after everything, proving he was just as impressive as his brothers seemed stupid. He couldn't help but chuckle when he remembered what he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised. Still, at least he hadn't seen a pair of socks. Dumbledore always had been a daft old codger. A genius and everything, but completely off the deep-end.

"FUCK!"

Jumping with a start he flung the radio to the floor and brushed the confetti off his head. Mumbling about Merlin's soggy left whats-it, Ron shrugged on his jacket and waved for Verity to look after the shop. If he hurried he could catch the end of the game at the pub.

Hermione sat stumped in front of the empty sheaf of parchment. It was a new experience for her. Rolling the quill through her fingers she ran the word through her head.

Ron:

Dear Ron.

My Ron.

Pratt who left me and makes everything difficult.

Ron,

One word in half an hour. The old Hermione could have churned out 8 inches on goblin wars in this time. In fact, she was pretty sure she could write the same essay now with less effort.

Why was this so difficult?

Admittedly, she and Ron had never had a particularly verbose relationship. The only letters they'd ever exchanged were stilted inquiries over the summer. Usually at her insistence.

Somehow asking him how everyone at the burrow was doing seemed terribly inadequate. Writing a monologue on how she was going seemed just as daunting. She didn't really know to be honest. She was covered in dirt and smelt like the wrong end of a hippogriff after spending all day in the greenhouses with Neville. The greenhouses were sweltering in the dry June weather and lugging fully grown mandrakes about was not easy labor. Still as drained as she was from the long day she felt a bit better. There was far less time to think when a snarfalug plant was demanding your full attention. It was only as she sat idle that the slow creep of numbness set upon her. She couldn't put that into words. She could only assume that Ron felt the weight of the world pressing down on him too.

Ron,

Can we meet up?

Hermione

She sat musing at the three lines. She doubted Ron would believe its authenticity. Hermione Granger, pen a six-word letter? She sighed then sent it off anyway. Everything had changed, why should this be any different she supposed.