Chapter One: Ruins
Wandering through the hallways of the ancient castle as a sort-of graduate, in many ways, feels no different than her days as a student. Something about the monolithic stone construct never fails to awe Hermione. Something about its legacy, the echoes of knowledge and the pursuit of enlightenment still ringing through the corridors, never fails to make her feel that excitement again, even what seems like a lifetime later.
"You are a witch, Ms. Granger." Disbelief. Astonishment. Curiosity. Hope.
But just as that budding hope sprang cautiously into life, crushing rejection smashed the flower back into the concrete from whence it had tried to bloom. Not just the cruelty of children, rejecting the different and misunderstood, but the cruelty of an entire backwards society, hell-bent on rejecting the different and misunderstood. While she had found faithful friends, even fought through the darkest times together, Harry and Ron would probably never fully understand the kind of casual prejudice that the average wizard clung to. Hell, Ron was a prime example of a wizard-born boy who had learnt those prejudices, growing up with tall-tales of imbecilic and idiotic muggles. Even Arthur's fascination with muggle culture was in itself an example of how behind the times and alienated the wizarding world was.
That prejudice is supposed to change now, with the war freshly behind them. All the ruin, destruction, and death is supposed to mean something now. The still cooling bodies fought for something, something beyond stopping a homicidal maniac (although that was certainly a good motivator). If Hermione is honest with herself, like she wants to be but can't bring herself to because then the post-battle relief will dissipate like smoke, only to reveal the diseased lungs underneath, the battle is won. The war is far from over.
The problem of blood prejudice stems from deep-rooted poisons, from generations of the same circles spreading the same lies. It would take a drastic overhaul to change the system to be accepting and equal to half-bloods and muggleborns. What's worse is how these poisonous thoughts are not without root. Hermione isn't that single minded teenager anymore, she's a driven and thoughtful one, and she recognizes that muggles can be anything but accepting. There has to be a balance somewhere. But where? And how will she begin?
Wandering through the broken hallways of the ancient castle as a veteran feels different to those innocent days as a student when the toughest problem was how to brew a potion so perfect that Professor Snape couldn't criticize it. There's a ghostly imprint on these walls, something like the silent laughter and agonizing screams, something like transparent blood splatters that cloud her vision with tears. The bodies are still warm, but Hermione can't afford to stop and mourn them like the rest. Can't let herself stop.
Some part of her feels like a little child again, soaring only on the power of her mind above all those human things like loneliness. Some part of her is broken, just like the walls of Hogwarts. Some part of her looks forward, blinking the tears away without mercy.
The battle is won. The war is not over.
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