The sky, the clouds, the world outside, faded into a blue grey blur as the train picked up speed.
A scarlet steam engine, rolling across the countryside, billowing smoke under a wide, dark, sky.
Hermione Granger put a finger up to the foggy window and scribbled a patch of countryside. She wished, not for the first time, that she was out there instead of in here.
This is what she'd wanted, after all. A second chance at finishing her schooling, taking her NEWTS and properly graduating. Doing it all the right way. She wasn't on the run anymore, Voldemort was dead and everything should have returned, albeit shakily, to normal.
But it didn't feel that way, not really. The expectation of normalcy had been elusive. Once the Ministry had authorized it, Hermione had traveled to Australia through a series of Portkeys, leaving Harry and Ron behind to rebuild.
She'd found her parents and reversed the memory modification, spent several days explaining what she had done and why, convincing them that it had been for the best. Had it really? When the Grangers had returned to Britain, Hermione spent nights drenched in sweat, shaking from repeated nightmares of heavily lidded eyes and long dark hair. Hogwarts had felt inevitable for her as it didn't for Harry or Ron, whose futures were secured in their sacrifice.
And then there were those fleeting three hours after Fred's funeral, where she and Ron had made their final attempt at a relationship and ultimately failed. It was amicable, as things had never been between them. Friendship took work, but there were bonds that couldn't be broken by silly whims or frantic romance. So now, they were just friends. Hermione knew that there had been something missing beyond schoolgirl longing. She wasn't looking for her intellectual equal or for another Gilderoy Lockhart, but she needed…more. Chemistry, sparks, "magic", whatever it was. Being with Ron felt forced, like she was still on the run.
She wanted home.
She turned back into the compartment, bathed in a wavering golden light.
Ginny, playing with Arnold. Neville, reading a book on exceptionally dangerous plant life, legs stretched out on the opposite seat. Luna, buried in today's edition of the Quibbler. Every so often, a member of the former DA would pop in, hug someone, offer condolences and hurry onwards. First, second and third years would peak unabashedly through the glass, whispering about Voldemort and the War of Hogwarts, about the golden trio. Hermione was used to the whispers about Harry Potter, but she was downright uncomfortable now they were saying her name so loudly and frequently.
"You'd think they'd have better things to do," Ginny glared at the most recent face to appear in the foggy glass, nose pressed against the pane as if no one in the compartment could see. "I don't know how Harry puts up with this, it's a nightmare."
"I think it's quite nice," said Luna, brightly, looking up from the Quibbler, "They've asked me all sorts of interesting questions about Voldemort and his army. I told them that he had a whole herd of heliopaths-"
"Luna," Hermione sighed, "There were no heliopaths!"
"That's what you think," Luna said mysteriously, returning to her copy of the Quibbler. "Did you know Kingsley Shacklebolt moonlights as a jazz musician?"
It was a mark of their friendship with Luna that nobody batted an eyelash at this revelation.
"Hang on," Neville said, staring at the entrance to the compartment with an odd look on his face, "Is that…?"
Hermione looked towards the door to see a tall, thin shadow with white blonde hair slipping out of sight along the corridor. She got up and pulled the door open and the figure disappeared into a compartment further down the train.
It couldn't be.
She hadn't seen Draco Malfoy since he'd left the castle, all those months ago, striding away in between his parents. Mr. Weasley had told them over breakfast one morning that the Malfoys still lived in their old house, hiding away from the world. Lucius had been arrested a few months back, and there were rumors that Draco was estranged from his mother and father. No one knew what had happened to them.
They were remnants of an old world, a cruel illustration of how far it was possible to fall.
"Was that Draco Malfoy?" Luna asked, serenely. All the others nodded, not speaking. There were times when it was easier to pretend things were normal. This was not one of them.
"He was rather kind to me," she said, a thoughtful look on her face, "When I was at the Manor." Leave it to Luna to make it sound as though she was there for the summer holidays, thought Hermione ruefully. Luna began humming softly, ignoring the stunned looks around her.
Nobody spoke.
"I can't believe they let him come back," Ginny said finally, breaking the silence. Hermione found herself at a loss for words. She could feel her scars tingling, her insides electric.
Neville shrugged. "I suppose they've got their reasons. I feel bad for the bloke, honestly. Can't have been easy- "
"Being a death eater?" asked Ginny, sarcastically, "Yeah, that can't be a walk in the park."
"I was going to say growing up in that house," he shuddered, "That's an unpleasant lot."
"Unpleasant is the understatement of the century," Ginny said, folding her arms. Hermione and Luna laughed, but it was the sort of humorless thing that makes you feel emptier than usual.
The sight of Hogsmeade, rapidly approaching, caused Hermione's stomach to drop. Disembarking the train felt oddly normal, listening to Hagrid's bellows of "Firs' years, Firs' years over here." It felt almost comforting, until she approached the carriages and stifled a gasp at what she saw.
In that year alone, a record number of students at Hogwarts finally saw the thestrals.
The first morning of classes dawned cold and blue. Hermione had expected to feel excited to return to the thing she loved best, but sitting in the Great Hall at breakfast, she felt slightly sick. It wasn't just the glaring absence of students, or the tingling scars she kept trying to hide under her robes. It was the great hall, repaired, clean, absent of bodies and smoke and rubble. When she closed her eyes, she could see all of it.
"Ms. Granger."
Professor McGonagall, who was making her way down the table, distributing timetables, approached Hermione with a piece of parchment in hand, tapped it with her wand and handed it to her.
"You've qualified for all NEWT classes, so I've filled them out for you. You've also got a bit of job advisory with your head of house, which in this case will be myself."
"Oh, alright-thank you, Professor."
"And if you've got a moment after breakfast, will you stop by my office? I want to have a quick word about the upcoming year."
Hermione looked up at her curiously. "Yes, of course."
She left the Great Hall early after choking down a single, forlorn sausage. It was sitting rather badly in her stomach.
Hermione arrived at McGonagall's office a few minutes later, using one of Harry's favorite secret passages to avoid the growing throng of students heading to class.
McGonagall looked older, much older, than Hermione remembered. She noticed the grey hair around her temples, the pinch of her mouth more severe than ever.
She looked up when Hermione entered, setting aside a sheaf of parchment and gesturing to one of the hard-backed chairs in front of her desk.
"How are you, Hermione?"
Hermione gave a wry smile. "Given the circumstances, I'm alright."
"I thought as much," said McGonagall, "You must tell me if this gets to be too much for you. You've been through a terrible shock and I would understand if-"
Hermione shook her head. "It's better for me to be here," she said, quietly, "This is what I love. It's what I'm meant to be doing."
McGonagall allowed her a rare smile at this. "So, Ms. Granger. There's a rather – shall we say, delicate situation at Hogwarts this year and I will require your assistance."
Hermione didn't speak. She folded her hands and looked expectantly at the new Head of Hogwarts as she adjusted her spectacles.
"As you know by now, I'm sure, Draco Malfoy is returning to Hogwarts for another year." Hermione blinked at her, not liking the direction of conversation. "Given the events of last year, it was obviously a difficult decision. In the end, we, as in I and the Ministry, concluded that we should attempt to reintegrate him into normal society. Obviously, this will take some effort on our part, and we hoped that you, as the only member of the so called 'Golden Trio' to return to Hogwarts, would be able to – keep an eye on him."
"I don't understand," Hermione said, blankly, "What are we meant to do?"
"Now, I'm not asking you to spy on him," McGonagall said, crisply, "I'm asking you to give him the benefit of the doubt. To ensure that during his final year here he's not continuing the – shall we say, family business." She smiled wryly at Hermione, who looked aghast.
"I can't – Professor, not after this year – how can you expect-" Hermione felt slightly panicky, heart pounding at the prospect of having to see Draco Malfoy again and maintain some vague semblance of civility. How could she forgive him? How could he forgive her?
"Miss Granger, I'm not giving you a choice." McGonagall stood up and turned towards the window, her hands clasped, expression impassive.
"But Professor, he's a – "
"He Who Must Not Be Named is dead, Miss Granger. His father is in Azkaban. Whatever he is, or whatever he may prove to be, we will give him the chance to complete his education. If he proves himself dangerous or otherwise, the appropriate action will be taken."
"But why isn't he in Azkaban? Surely wizarding law dictates-"
"He was a minor when those charges were assessed. The minister has spoken with myself and Dumbledore-well, his portrait, anyways, regarding how to handle this, and we believe this is the best course of action."
"And will you tell the parents that you're sending their children to school with a former Death Eater?" Hermione did not mean to be insolent, especially to her favorite professor. But it felt like a betrayal of everything she'd fought for not to make Draco Malfoy pay for the hurt he'd caused.
"Miss Granger, I am not asking your permission for Draco to stay here. He will be monitored closely," McGonagall looked down at Hermione through her spectacles. "You are not without a conscience. This is not a punishment, rather, an attempt to do some good in the world."
When Hermione didn't speak, McGonagall put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You've read Hogwarts, A History, Miss Granger. You know that this school is one of the safest places in Britain. I wouldn't put you or my students in danger."
Hermione felt her hands shake slightly. How could it be? Slytherin house had all but disintegrated, and yet Draco Malfoy was returning to school. And she, Hermione, was expected to somehow tolerate his presence, to forgive him for his family and all he represented. The scars on her arm tingled. She felt sick.
Hermione spent most of classes that day in a haze. She left double Herbology as the sun was beginning to sink slowly into the tree lined horizon, treading the familiar path to the library instead of the Great Hall. The smell of dust and old parchment made her feel calmer and she wasn't hungry enough to eat. She thought about pulling out her new arithmancy book and starting her NEWT work, but her mind was moving too fast.
Integration. Forgiveness. Rebuilding.
It felt impossible. Her chest tightened at the thought of George, of Dobby, of Remus and Tonks and Lavender and the Creeveys and countless others. Bodies, piled in the Great Hall. The smell of death and plaster. Fiendfyre, ripping through the Room of Requirement. Malfoy's screams.
"Granger."
Her eyes flew open.
There was no other way to put it. Draco Malfoy looked awful. His hair was oddly long, a shadow of blonde tracing his upper lip and chin. The bags under his eyes were nearly black. His robes hung off him, giving him the appearance of drowning.
As much as Hermione wanted to hate him, the feeling of pity was nearly overwhelming.
It was the oddest feeling, looking at him now. Voldemort vanquished, the wizarding world free, the sun shining, Hogwarts alive again. And Draco, a remnant of an old world, standing there with a look of mingled resentment and – perhaps it was guilt, she couldn't tell.
"Oh," she said, "Malfoy." She didn't know what to say or how to react. Instinct told her to pull out her wand, but she was tired of fighting. "How are you?"
"Not exactly what I expected to hear from you," Draco's familiar drawl was tired, rougher than usual. "Given the circumstances, I'm surviving."
Hermione was, for once, at a loss for words.
"I don't think I have the energy to hate him anymore," Harry folded the Daily Prophet over, revealing a picture of a skeletal looking Lucius Malfoy, cameras flashing over his face, surrounded by dark robed Ministry figures. "It just feels pointless now the war's over."
"What about Malfoy?" asked Hermione, sharp eyes discerning the short blonde hair moving in the back of the photograph. "I heard McGonagall say he might be returning to Hogwarts in the fall."
"I still wouldn't trust that git as far as I could throw him," said Ron, glaring at the article, which read FORMER DEATH EATER QUESTIONED BY MINISTRY OFFICIALS, and detailed the Ministry's lengthy mission to track the movements of Voldemort's remaining followers in Britain.
Harry shook his head. "There's a part of me that wants him to suffer for everything he's done," he said, quietly, "but there's another part of me that knows he already has."
"So we forgive him, then?" Ron asked, incredulous, "Just forget what that lying prick did to us? How much it nearly cost us to save his stupid life? And let's not forget that he's a prejudiced son of a-"
"Ron!" admonished Hermione. "I think – I think it begs the question – do we blame someone for being a puppet for their parent's propaganda, raised not to know anything different? Think about it, both of you. He's probably never had a single original opinion in his life."
"I can't believe you would say that after he called you a Mudblood every day for about 6 years."
"I'm not saying that absolves him of blame," said Hermione, hotly, "I'm just making a point about forgiving people for the things they did when they were really young."
"We're really young!," said Ron, loudly.
"And we have the guidance of a lot of intelligent and loving people, Ron," said Hermione, beginning to clear their breakfast plates. "It's the same concept as SPEW," both Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows, "we have to understand where people come from and why they might behave the way they do."
"Granger," Malfoy waved a hand at her and Hermione sank back into reality, Ron's words ringing in her ears. She realized, with a jolt, that she'd been staring at him as she reminisced, and he was giving her a very odd look.
"Er, sorry," she said, hastily, "So, um, why-why did you decide to come back?"
"Because I though it sounded like it would be a brilliant lark," said Malfoy, sarcastically. "Just what I needed, a school full of insufferable prats who think I'm the scum of the earth."
"I'd think you were here because you realized being an arrogant prick was a less lucrative occupation than it used to be before-" Hermione stopped. The words had tumbled out of their own accord. "I'm sorry, Malfoy, I'm not going to pick a fight with you."
"Is that a threat or a promise, Granger?" Despite his hollow appearance, the words seemed to have brought the malicious sparkle back to his cold, grey eyes.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Haven't you got better things to do than resurrect an old rivalry, Malfoy?"
"Not particularly, no," he said, an edge to his voice.
"I'll make it easy for you, then."
Yanking her bag over her shoulder, she turned on her heel and strode down the adjacent aisle, trying to outrun the feeling of growing panic.
"Albus," she panted to the fat lady, before climbing through the portrait hole. The common room was empty, most of the students lingering at dinner, so she marched up to the highest dormitory, her own little room.
She was the only Gryffindor girl out of the original 5 who'd returned that year, and as such, she'd been given the Head Girl's dormitory, despite turning down the official title. It was warm and circular, with a single bed, a small fireplace and a scarlet chintz armchair. Savoring the quiet, Hermione curled up in the chair and let her breathing return to normal.
Draco Malfoy was human embodiment of everything Hermione hated. Elitism, laziness, cruelty and worst of all, cowardice. Since the war had ended, she knew his father had been Kissed and was awaiting a death sentence in Azkaban. He and his mother had been pardoned, but had been forced to relinquish much of their wealth for their father's wrongdoing.
A small voice spoke, echoing her memory from the Burrow.
When does a boy start being responsible for the actions foisted on him by his father? What if it is all he knows? If he is raised as a puppet of propaganda? What if he loves his family? What if the very idea of normalcy is defined within the walls of a palatial, dark house?
These thoughts were rational and yet so irrational that Hermione could hardly martial them.
She felt her chest rising, familiar panic flooding through her. That loss of control, that feeling of reckless terror. Hermione hated it, hated that her mind strayed too dark things, tricked her into thinking that they had not lost the war, that everything was falling apart. Her scars tingled again and she hugged herself, rocking back and forth, hoping against hope that the nightmares wouldn't come.