2005
Sometimes, she remembers.
She remembers the sleepless nights spent in a tent smelling of sweat. She remembers the feel of her wand, slick with blood, and the way her hand shook. Most of all, she remembers his face.
He'd looked so young, so tired with his pale eyes open wide and his arms limp at his sides. She wonders at the crudeness of it; there had been no beauty in his death, no poetic fluttering of his lashes or gory burst of blood.
Only silence, and shock, and stillness.
Hermione Granger is twenty-four years old, too old to be scared of the dark.
And yet, she clings to her nightly ritual of lighting all fourteen lamps in the small, university-supplied flat. She keeps her curtains tightly shut and paces the length of the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom, ensuring that all three of her wards are still secure.
It has been seven years since January the 2nd and seven years since she witnessed the death of Draco Malfoy. Seven years since Hermione Granger has had a full night's sleep.
She slides into her wooden desk chair and folds her legs tight, propping her knees against the edge of her desk. The contact settles her; she is here, in this room, and not in the field smelling of fire and blood. She picks a quill from her small ceramic holder, which is molded in the shape of a tabby cat and is a Christmas present from Ginny, and carefully dips it in a small bottle of ink. Then, holding a book of seventeenth century laws open with one hand, she begins to write.
She is in her final year as a PhD student studying the intersection between international policy, ancient runes, and psychology. She has never been able to settle on one subject, so she has combined her three favourite interests into her own graduate program.
She takes psychology and some of her policy courses at Oxford, as it is valuable to obtain a muggle perspective on these subjects. While witches and wizards may possess magic, their knowledge of the sciences is lesser, and she is eager to learn from the best. She studies ancient runes on her own, as the magical world woefully lacks an academic institution for graduate studies.
She dreams of starting her own university, of encouraging higher education in future generations of witches and wizards. Maybe, with education, she can combat the ignorance which fed the previous wars. Maybe, just maybe, she can end, or at least stopper, the cycle of dark witches and wizards.
The classes at Oxford are fascinating, and her tutors are as intelligent and worldly as she always dreamed university scholars would be. Hermione is forging forward with her career, and all she has left is to complete her dissertation and pass her oral defense before she will be Ms. Hermione Granger no longer but Dr. Hermione Granger, and the thought sends a thrill down her spine.
A thrill and a shudder, for now, in the deep of the night, she feels his presence. She imagines his hand pressing on her shoulder, his eyes watching her quill, and her hand stills. What had he wished to do with his life? Would he have followed in his father's footsteps? He would not have needed to work - not with his family's wealth - but she imagines he would have wanted to.
Or, at least, she thinks he would have; she does not - did not - know Draco Malfoy well. She only knows that he had the chance to kill her and had refused, and that she had not returned the favour.
And this is why, even as the world shakes free the last memories of war and a new generation of children is born ignorant of battle or the monster named Voldemort, Hermione Granger still feels the weight of guilt settle heavy on her shoulders.
Her quill tears through the parchment, a splatter of ink smearing her last few sentences. She watches the ink seep into the grain of the wood before she wipes it clean with a rag. She could have cleaned it easily with her wand, she knows, but somehow, the mundaneness of cleaning the spill with her own hands is comforting.
Living in her muggle flat in Oxford, surrounded by rolling green hills and scholars studying science rather than magic, she feels slightly more at ease. She still receives the Daily Prophet, and Harry, Ron, and Ginny still write her frequently, but she has lost touch with much of the magical world. She knows, from the announcements column, that many of her classmates are engaged or married or purchasing their first homes. Ron is engaged to Lavender, and she knows Harry is planning to propose to Ginny any day now.
Life carries on. It's a shame she can't do the same.
Hermione takes a new roll of parchment and begins again. She knows she should switch to computers, but she draws a certain satisfaction from snapping open a fresh roll of parchment. Parchment has always been one of her favourite scents.
A dull thumping comes from her window, and her breath catches. Her hand grips her wand tightly as she edges toward it, careful to not approach the window directly. From the side, she twitches the curtain open, exhaling when she sees not the grinning mask of a Death Eater but a small, grey owl.
She dispels her wards with a few flicks of her wand and wrenches open the window. A flurry of snow enters, and she shivers. The owl flutters inside, giving her an accusatory look.
"Sorry, I know it's cold," she says. She fumbles in a desk drawer for a treat, which the owl accepts begrudgingly. The owl is new; as an Auror, Harry is careful to switch owls regularly, as he does not want his communications tracked. Hermione is not sure whether this level of paranoia comes with the occupation or whether it comes from the war - or both. Either way, it is something she understands completely.
She unhooks the small roll of parchment from the owl's leg, careful to avoid his gleaming talons. Relieved of his burden, the owl shakes himself, dislodging snow onto Hermione's small, ratty couch. He settles himself between the cushions and blinks at her, quite at home.
She groans. "Are you staying?"
The owl blinks again.
She supposes the storm is picking up. She closes the window tightly and resets her wards. She doubts anyone will come to her flat, so there is no one to wonder why she is keeping an owl in her room. She has kept mostly to herself these first two years at Oxford.
She settles down next to the owl and unrolls the parchment.
Dear Hermione,
I hope all is well and that you are doing some things outside of studying. Remember, Hermione, life is not a book! And, no, the library does not count as going out.
I've finally done it - I proposed to Ginny last night, and she said yes! Thanks again for your advice on the ring. She loved it. We're probably not going to get married anytime soon; Ginny's just starting on the Holyhead Harpies, and anyway, I don't want to distract from Ron's wedding. Speaking of - Lavender has asked me to tell you that she has decided the bridesmaid's dresses should be - what else - lavender. I think she was hesitating before because she feared it might be too obvious. She's already changed her mind three times, so I wouldn't go buying your dress yet. I'm sure she'll have decided they should be blue or periwinkle or whatever by the time you get this letter. She's already yelled at me for failing to see the difference between 'ocean blue' and 'baby's breath blue.' Hermione, they were the exact same shade - I swear it.
Ron wants to know whether your dissertation defense is open to the public. I think he imagines it to be like a grand muggle celebration. I'll try to dissuade him from bringing noisemakers, but it'll be tough. He has his heart set on supporting you in the loudest, most visible way possible.
We miss you as always. Molly wants you to come visit for dinner. Please come soon; she's asked me to relay the message three times already, and I think she's going to throw a fit if she has to ask again.
Love,
Harry
P.S. the owl is named Archibald. Percy, as you might have guessed, named him, and I borrowed him because all the other Ministry owls are out - work has been crazy busy lately. I can't say much here, but be careful, Hermione. There are whispers of some strange things happening overseas, and it's beginning to leak to the British press. Fear makes people do terrifying things, and even the possibility of another Dark wizard or witch might be enough to send the wizarding world into a frenzy.
P.P.S. Oh, Merlin, am I sounding more like Mad Eye Moody? Ginny says I am, and I always denied it, but even I can see that my postscript was a tad paranoid.
P.P.P.S. Still, be careful.
She smiles at the news of Harry's engagement and Ron's question. It is just like Ron - and Harry - to try to support her in any way possible. She knows they worry about her; she hasn't been quite the same since the night of January the 2nd. None of them is, but she has changed the most.
It is odd to think of her childhood friends marrying and starting families. She and Ron broke up shortly after Voldemort's demise. She'd been in no place for a relationship, and she hadn't wanted Ron to suffer with her.
She can't imagine committing herself to anyone - not now. Maybe not ever. She's gone on a few first dates over the years, mostly set up by Ginny, but nothing comes of them. She is not ready to allow anyone to be so close to her, not when she is haunted by the blood on her hands.
Hermione Granger is not a war heroine.
Her smile slips further when she gets to Harry's postscript. She hasn't been reading the Daily Prophet too closely, but she's seen enough to know that the front page articles are still mostly focused on Harry Potter and the other heroes of the wizarding world. There aren't any articles on uprisings, magical or otherwise. Yet.
She shivers and stands, pacing the length of her flat to check yet again that her wards are secure. She does not know what she will do if there is another war. She still flinches at any loud noise, still checks behind corners for a glimpse of a Death Eater's mask, a hint of a werewolf's snarl.
She knows her actions draw undesirable attention from her muggle classmates. They are aware of the odd string of murders and 'terrorist attacks,' of course, but they are blissfully unaware of the full extent of the war. In their eyes, the string of unsettling attacks ended as suddenly as they began. Hermione has no desire to tell them otherwise. They should not have to suffer for a war that is not theirs to fight.
She taps the final window shut and looks blearily at the clock mounted above her bedroom door. It is 4:25 am, meaning there are still four hours and five minutes until her first meeting of the day. She eyes the owl, which peeps at her. She tosses him another treat and, rubbing at her eyes, drags a pillow and blanket onto the floor under the window, which is just large enough to escape through should the need arise.
Archibald watches her all the while, and she says to him, "If anything tries to come in through the door, I want you to bite me."
He blinks, and she imagines he understands. "Thank you," she says. It is nice to have company during these late hours; the night, she finds, is the loneliest time. It is during these hours when she is alone with her thoughts, when she knows the last of the stragglers have stumbled home from the bars and have fallen asleep, that she feels the most afraid. Keeping the lights on, Hermione lies down with her wand clutched tight in her hand.
Sleep is slow to come.
Author Note: Thank you so much for reading! I've decided to expand this one shot into a full-fledged story, as I've been itching to explore the Draco/Hermione dynamic and the effect of the war. Please consider dropping a comment; I love reading them and try my best to respond to each review! :)