Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful JK Rowling.
This is an update of the first chapter, I spotted a mistake and had to change it for my own mental sanity, I'm about to write the second instalment!
This was not her home. The home she had known for six too short years had been a towering, majestic castle, welcoming and bright. This strange yet familiar place was crumbling, desolate, dark, illuminated by flashes of white, of red, of green, the air pierced by shouts and the occasional scream.
Then suddenly it was all over, huge and triumphant yet almost anti-climatic as the monster's body hit the floor.
And after the screams and shouts of celebration were finished, there was only a silence that endured long after the first hesitant murmurs of conversation began to grow.
She didn't know where Harry had gone, having to elected to return to the Great Hall with Ron, sensing that her best friend needed time alone, whereas her other best friend, boyfriend, whatever he now was, needed her as he faced his family for the first decent conversation with most of them for 9 months, held over the dead body and vacant, staring eyes of his brother.
But when the reunion was over and he stopped leaning on her for support, she faced the inevitable she had been avoiding. She could finally sit down and think. And then it hit her, the magnitude of it all, the horror she had been trying desperately to suppress. But she did not want to think. Because if she thought, she would remember.
She barely noticed it when her old Transfiguration teacher came and sat down next down next to her, hesitating slightly before putting an arm around her.
"Miss Granger?"
There was no response, the blank face gazing out into the distance with horror-filled eyes. McGonagall, usually so stern, felt her heart aching for the girl, one of her house and, loathe as she was to admit it, a favourite. She had missed the three of them and later, in the privacy of her chambers, she would weep silent, bitter tears for Harry and the childhood he never had, for Ron and Hermione and all they sacrificed for friendship, for all the children (even those who were of age and had been for a while she still thought of as children) who had lost so much, fought so hard and grown up so fast. She knew later she would weep for the laughter that had been extinguished from George Weasley's eyes, the many children with tortured faces, lost expressions, pale faces and for the rows upon rows, from both wars, that had given their lives. Gideon, Fabian, Dorcas, Marlene, the Longbottoms who hadn't even had the luxury of death, Sirius, Lily, James, Remus, Nymphadora, Cedric Diggory, Albus, Fred Weasley, even little (though she remembered with a jolt of surprise that in fact he had been a young man) Colin Creevey.
But first to do other things. For of all the lost children, none looked worse than Hermione Granger.
Her hair was lank and lifeless, her face grey-white, in stark contrast to the white circles carved under her unnaturally bright eyes. She had aged since Minerva had last seen her, no longer the conscientious schoolgirl but a battle-weary soldier. Even as she sat down next to her she could feel the ribs jutting out of the girl's almost skeletal frame. She wanted to know what the three had been through these past months but looking at Hermione, she was afraid to ask.
Seeing that the girl still hadn't responded, she tried again.
"Hermione?"
This time the girl slowly looked round, subconsciously putting a ready hand on her wand but upon seeing the professor, she relaxed slightly.
McGonagall smiled.
"It's good to see you Miss Granger."
"You too Professor."
The girl was guarded, wary. McGonagall sighed.
"Hermione, it's alright to grieve."
And Hermione Granger broke.