Quotes from Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows and Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling, as well as Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery.
May 3, 1998.
The walnut wood was smooth and cool beneath her skin, the grain fine beneath the scrape of her fingernails. Hermione held the wand in both hands, one on each end, testing the bend in the wood. It gave not a millimeter; it was unyielding, just as Ollivander had promised. Still, Hermione wondered every day how much pressure it would take to snap it. Every day, she resisted the urge to burn it, lest Fiendfyre burst from the dragon heartstring at its core when the wood became ash. She resisted the urge to throw it into the lake, in case it polluted the water and put an end to the Giant Squid's reign.
Above all, she resisted the urge to snap it because she did not want to find out that she didn't have the strength to do it.
The wand itself was not evil. It had turned its allegiance to her in the day since the battle; Hermione could feel it. Every spell she cast taught the wand her style, her will, her alignment. But it had known and committed evil acts, and sometimes, Hermione wondered if it had ever been as reluctant for its first master as it had been for her.
Had it been reluctant when it had turned the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom?
On Alice Longbottom?
Sirius?
Hermione herself? Had it been reluctant to curse the letters that the silver knife had carved into her arm?
Had this wand ever refused to do anything its master had asked of it?
Hermione was near certain that it had not. In the long hours that had passed since it had truly become hers, she'd grown more certain. It had no qualms; its first master had never taught it any morality, as the witch herself had not had much. And now… Hermione wasn't sure that that was something it could learn from her. She had morals, but her will felt shaken. This wand wouldn't learn morals from repairing the damage done to Hogwarts Castle. It would be better done healing those wounded by the falling rubble or by casting its first Patronus Charm.
Tilting her head back, Hermione looked up at the dawning summer sky. It had finally cleared of smoke and the filmy remains of the broken protective spells that had filled the air after the battle. The smell of the sunlight hitting the dewy grass around her was almost too much of a contrast to the reminder of evil that she held in her hands. She put the wand back in its place between her belt and her waistband before she could give in and throw it across the lawn.
Merlin, all she wanted to do was go home. To touch the rose petals that she had preserved between the pages of Hogwarts: A History and to remember what they had smelled like when Mr. Ollivander had handed the enormous blooms back to her that day in his shop. She had stored them in a desk drawer in her parents' house before leaving; she couldn't risk them being damaged. Hogwarts: A History might have come along for her journey, but it was a book. While the copy she owned felt like it could be the only one that truly belonged to her, it could be replaced, just like her first wand. The roses could not, and so they were at home, where she desperately longed to be.
But she was a grown witch now, and she had a job to do. She had fought her battle. Home could wait a few more days. It would not be home until she retrieved her parents from Australia, anyway.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione reached out a hand. Her fingers brushed over the marble of Professor Dumbledore's tomb, steady for the first time since she had seen Hagrid in chains. She pulled the wand from her belt again and pointed it at the ground. "Inardesco creo marmore," she murmured, slowly raising her wand toward the sky. Flame burst from the grass on the lake shore between the tomb and the lapping water. The fire looked like a shroud, like those which all the bodies in the Great Hall had worn in the silence after Voldemort had fallen. White, clean, billowing in the breeze that had come through the shattered windows from across the lake. "Creo marmore." The wide white blaze rose higher, until it was taller than the tomb that stood before Hermione, until it was taller than Hermione herself. "Finite."
The flames whirled away from each other, parting and swirling into smoke and warm air. In their wake, a blank marble wall stood. It shone in the new summer sunlight, nearly blinding her as she walked around the end of her headmaster's tomb to look at it. The marble was of a fine grain, barely veined. It, like the wand in her hand, was cool to the touch, and just as lacking in intent. It would become whatever she wanted it to be, if she had the nerve to change it.
Hermione set the tip of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand to the stone.
The Battle of Hogwarts - 2 May 1998
History is written by the victors, but in times of war, neither side can be truly victorious. Loss and grief will be known to all, and all we may do is remember:
'It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.'
Albus Dumbledore
In memory of those who lost their lives on each side of the battle, we raise this wall to remind us that the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Until then, we live.
Lifting the wand away from the stone, Hermione felt her heart stutter as she recalled the list of names. So many of them had been brought down by the witch who had once wielded this wand. The first name, more than any other, filled Hermione with heartache.
Lavender Brown. The grinding sound that the wand made as it etched her name into the stone made Hermione's gut clench. She had treated the girl so pettily, so poorly… And yet, it had never occurred to Hermione to hesitate to save her. After the fact, she wondered if she might have - if time had paused for those few seconds which meant Lavender lost too much blood, if moments had passed and she had run in slow motion, lifted this wand too slowly. Lavender had been her roommate, Ron's first kiss - possibly his first love - but there was no inkling of jealousy lurking in Hermione's veins. Only that heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knotted tangle of nerves. The only thing that kept her together after writing out Colin Creevey was the name she carved a few lines below it: Fenrir Greyback.
She had blasted him through a banister, and that and an enormous crystal ball had finally been enough to stun the rabid beast. At Malfoy Manor, she vaguely remembered Bellatrix Stunning him with three wands, but even that had not been enough to put him down. Trelawney had managed it with only a ball of glass. Ron and Neville had ended his terror for good after the centaurs and the house-elves had charged.
The other names she had memorized in alphabetical order seemed to come letter by letter, keeping her from comprehending their meanings until, finally, she forced the wand to write out Bellatrix Lestrange.
She hoped it was a powerful lesson to the wand, but also wondered if she was putting too much stock in its perceptive abilities.
The rest of the names made her grip the wand even harder. Nymphadora Lupin came after the name of the aunt who had slain her, followed by Remus Lupin. Twenty names filled the space between the Lupins and the one who was the cause of so much death and destruction.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
In smaller print below his name, Hermione wrote out: The first victim of Lord Voldemort.
The idea had been Harry's; for all her claims of objectivity, Hermione had been just as keen as Ron to paint Voldemort only as a Dark wizard. Harry had seen another side of him, though, a side that was just a boy learning to harness his magic on his own and toward a misguided purpose. Ron's snort had been completely disbelieving, but Ginny had spoken up in agreement. Her brother had gone quiet at that, and the Headmaster's Office had been blessedly silent for a moment or two before the next casualty was discussed.
Doran Scabior. The name had taken them ages to find in the records. Her skin still crawled at the thought of the Snatcher's fingers on her skin, but it was nothing to the scar that was still puffy and angry beneath her sleeve.
Severus Snape. Her fingers began to shake as she etched his name, and her wrists began to tingle as her breath shortened. Hermione snatched her hand away from the wall just in time to avoid marring it as sparks shot from the end of the wand. She took a deep breath and let it out, her lungs squeezing in her chest. Why had she volunteered for this? It might be a complex piece of magic, but another could have done it. Professor Flitwick had built the white tomb behind her with the help of the other professors. Why had she subjected herself to this, to seeing their pale faces behind her eyes again?
Hermione leaned her head against the cool marble as the sound of her breathing in her ears overtook her. Indents of letters pressed into her forehead, but when she closed her eyes, she was in the Shrieking Shack, muffling her own screams. She could almost feel Ron's hand pressed tightly to her mouth, see a flash of silver light on dark crimson in the dim room. The gleam of Nagini's scales as she'd wrapped her mouth around the Potions Master's neck still shone beneath Hermione's eyelids. Merlin, she would not have wished Snape's death on anyone - not on Malfoy, who had stood there as she was tortured - not even on Voldemort himself. Why not just use a Killing Curse? He had been faithful, he had been good…
Of course, in the end, Snape had been neither of those things, but Voldemort had not known that.
Slowing her breathing, Hermione shook out her numb hands for the third time that day. A shower of sparks cascaded from the wand and died. A doctor would tell you that you have anxiety as a result of an extreme trauma. It can be fixed, but not right now, and maybe not for a long time. She pulled her head away from the wall.
The names of giants, centaurs, house-elves, Death Eaters, Order members, and Hogwarts students filled the space between Snape's name and the last: Lord Voldemort.
A hundred and twenty-eight names had been carved in the stone.
Beneath them, Hermione wrote the last words that were required of her.
Encased herein are the remains of those who died to protect Hogwarts, and to whom it will always be home.
May 3, 1998.
Silver animals near filled the Great Hall as they awaited their instructions; onlookers had awe and astonishment written on their faces, but Hermione merely sat on a bench, observing. Bellatrix's wand was clasped between her hands again. Hermione had come to think of the position as a threat to dismantle it if it misbehaved particularly badly. Professor McGonagall and the Order sent dozens of Patronuses far and wide, calling wizarding families out of hiding.
In between the Patronuses fleeing through the doors, stretchers carried the last of the injured to the Hospital Wing and the dead to the entrance hall. A quarter of the bodies had been claimed before Hermione had come in from the grounds, the new memorial wall left behind her. She had released another quarter to families when she had returned, taking the place of a thoroughly overwhelmed Ron. With a kiss pressed to her forehead, Ron had made her promise to attend Fred's wake later in the day. Hermione had, for reasons that eluded her, agreed. The last she'd seen of him, he had been running down the stairs to the fresh air, hellbent on going home with the rest of his family. Fred had gone home, too, one last time.
As she sat there in the hall on her break from standing over the fallen, Hermione asked herself the same questions.
Why do you do this to yourself? Why not leave instead of watching these faces file past?
A freckled hand covered her shaking fingers. Hermione looked up, found bright brown eyes and deep green ones looking down at her, and took a deep breath. Pulling her hands away from Ginny's and loosening her hold on the walnut wand, Hermione stood. "What can I do?" she asked.
"The professors will take care of the rest," said Ginny. "There's nothing left, Hermione." Her tone was coaxing, so unlike the hot-tempered redheads she knew. She saw your raw nerves, didn't she? She saw you shake.
Harry held out a scratched hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are probably waiting for us, and Ron is waiting for you."
Despite the blood-stained stone beneath their feet, a tiny smile curled at the corner of Ginny's mouth, and Hermione made her best effort to return it.
Hermione hugged a filthy, tearful Hagrid on her way out of the Hall and passed through more Patronuses than she could count. Every one warmed her a little more, filled her with a little more vigor - and then she walked into the entrance hall.
Sheets in white and House colors shrouded forms across half the floor; neat rows were still being laid out by the enchanted stretchers. Her hand tightened around Harry's as they walked determinedly by them, waving a hurried goodbye to the students patrolling the grounds and fetching up Oliver Wood on their way to the Apparition boundary.
The Burrow might not be her home, but she was happy to go there. It would be more homey than any place she had been in the last year.
May 3, 1998.
Hermione did not expect to arrive to a party. Nor, by the expression on his face, did Harry. Ginny pulled them along all the same, and by the time they reached the door, Hermione understood that it wasn't quite a party.
The Burrow had been taken over by a congregation of people drinking firewhiskey and shouting over one another. Charlie was carrying on in the garden; Percy sat somberly in the living room, talking with an old woman who Hermione recognized, to her dismay, as Great-Aunt Muriel. Oliver Wood removed himself from their group and went to slap a very drunk Lee Jordan around the shoulders. Ginny and Harry locked the broom cupboard before anyone could take an inebriated joyride, especially the dragon tamer threatening to have a flying table tourney in the orchard.
Her arms crossed as she spotted Ron in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame and holding a firewhiskey in one hand and a pastry in the other.
That cannot mix well.
Crossing the kitchen, Hermione pulled the bottle gently from his grasp. Ron reluctantly let it go. "We buried him," he muttered.
"Where?" she asked, lifting the bottle to her lips.
"The graveyard in the village."
Hermione gulped down a mouthful of Ron's firewhiskey and felt the warmth spread through her veins. When he reached out to take it back, she let him have it; she would not become one of the loud, near-drunk people slurring over their memories of Fred. "Where's George?" she asked.
"Mum and Dad are still with him out there."
Hermione wheeled around to scan the crowd that had somehow managed to shove itself into the Burrow. "Who did they leave in charge of this?" Her voice came out high and incredulous and more judgmental than she had intended; Hermione blamed the alcohol. She might have had only a sip, and only just now, but it was magical - or so she told herself.
"Bill's 'round somewhere."
And indeed, Hermione spotted him on the staircase with Fleur at his side, her pale hair shining in the yellow light. The scars in his cheek were dark and he looked sallow and stern, but he wasn't holding a bottle. Instead, his wife's pale, long-fingered hand was held in his own.
Satisfied, Hermione murmured, "I'd like to go to the cemetery."
The gaze Ron regarded her with seemed both resigned and confused, but he put his pastry down and washed his hands of the sticky frosting all the same. He laced his fingers with hers and offered her another sip of the firewhiskey.
The walk to the graveyard was quiet, the May sun warming the air more than Hermione thought it should. The birds chirped in the grass around them. She felt far more grim than the day around her, than the wake behind her; dread filled her stomach like a lead weight, though the infrequent sips of firewhiskey were beginning to dissolve it. "Fred would have liked this," she said, but she couldn't raise her voice above a whisper.
"He would," Ron said, "but he'd have wanted to drink with us, and he'd drag George along. And Percy. And he'd get Gin going, too."
"Something tells me he'd gift her a bottle of gin before he went." A small smile edged at her lips, and Ron snorted.
"She'd smash him upside the head with it. She likes her firewhiskey just fine."
Shaking her head, Hermione finally let her grin show.
The graveyard was just what she expected for a Muggle cemetery, although perhaps a bit larger than was needed for Ottery St. Catchpole; names of the wizarding families who lived on the outskirts of the village appeared on the headstones as often as those of the more ordinary folk in the village. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley passed by them on their way through the wooden gate, and Mr. Weasley squeezed her shoulder as he went. Hermione did her best to offer him a smile.
They found George at the rear of the cemetery, cradled in the roots of a tree. A bottle was clasped between his hands, long since emptied. Ron took a breath and sat down beside his brother, leaning into his shoulder. The only acknowledgment George made to his presence was to sway to the side to make room for Ron in the space between the tree roots.
Standing there for a moment, Hermione studied the headstone. The earth beneath it was well turned; just as Harry had not used magic for Dobby, the Weasleys must not have used magic to bury Fred. The granite that formed his headstone was slightly irregular around the edges and not at all shiny, unlike the Muggle headstones Hermione was accustomed to seeing.
"Mum made it herself," said a raspy, ragged voice. Hermione looked to George, who pointed at the stone with the neck of the bottle in his grasp.
Fred Gideon Weasley.
1 April 1978 - 2 May 1998
Life is worth living as long as there's a laugh in it.
Sighing, Hermione sat down on George's other side, pressing her shoulder into the warmth of his side. She clinked her own bottle against the empty one in his hands and offered it to him, but he shook his head. "He's probably getting annoyed at me for drinking this poison," he said, holding out his own bottle and studying it.
"Charlie would disagree," offered Ron, but George shook his head.
"Charlie's acting the prat."
"Perce's holding off Muriel for you."
"Tell him I say thanks."
Apparently taking this as a dismissal, Ron made to get up. Hermione shot him a look behind George's slumped shoulders, and he sat back down, looking a bit more cowed than she would have expected. Perhaps that was the alcohol, too. "I'd like to sit here for a while, if you don't mind?" she said to George.
Ron's brother shrugged noncommittally.
Letting out a quiet breath, Hermione leaned back against the tree and stretched her legs out. Resting the bottle against her chest, she let the tree hold her. After a moment, she held out a hand to George.
His fingers clung to hers with a strength she didn't know he still possessed.
Two more days, they seemed to say as they pressed into the tendons in the back of her hand. Two more days, and we all can mourn in peace.
They were, almost without a doubt, the two longest days of Hermione's life.