Trials

As they entered the Great Hall, it became clear that the tension over the arrival of the so-called Death Eaters had not dissipated. If anything, the opportunity for the news to spread had resulted in more distaste being directed toward them. The group sat, isolated at their table, talking in hushed tones. They were all there, except Malfoy. Hermione felt her interest noted, as the taciturn stare of Zabini fell on her once again. She twisted away, uncomfortable.

Breakfast was a necessary affair: yesterday had highlighted the need for her to receive Owl Post herself. It wouldn't do to be surprised again. Diligently, she sat with her friends, and took great care over her food. She cut an item into pieces, and scooped some onto her fork. She'd start a conversation. She would then discretely tip the food onto a different part of her plate. Take a large drink of water. Repeat. Most didn't notice, happy to indulge in her company. She seemed livelier than she had been in some time, and they weren't going to question that. Harry had an eye on her, as always, but that was nothing new. What was different, however, was Neville. Try as he might to tear his eyes away from her plate, he couldn't.

She felt tense, sure he was about to say something. A wandless, unspoken vanishing charm somewhat alleviated his concerns, but a delaying tactic was all it would be. She knew him well enough. Long gone was the body-bound first year. Before her panic reached its crescendo, three large owls swooped down on them. She was finally able to take a breath. Landing in front of herself, Ron and Harry, they offered a scroll from their talons. The trio tucked them in their robes. They could deal with that later. Harry took her arm, and excused them as they made their way to Transfiguration.

Early, they took seats close to the door. She had goosebumps in the poorly insulated classroom, and snuggled into Harry's robe quite comfortably when he pulled her toward him. They sat quietly, his hand holding her slight waist, the other stroking her soft curls. Warmth returned. Pulling apart slightly as people came in, they softly discussed their classmates.

NEWT Level Transfiguration was not for the faint-hearted, and there weren't many who had opted for the challenge. Anthony Goldstein walked in a few minutes before class was due to start, throwing a warm smile toward Hermione, taking a seat at the front. His hair had darkened somewhat, and he seemed unduly old. Justin took the seat next to him, the tan from his family's relocation over the past year not yet having faded. Malfoy arrived. Harry tensed, talking lowly about why Malfoy was interested in Transfiguration. He slunk toward the individual table nearest the back window of the classroom. Hermione supposed his cronies hasn't made the cut into NEWT Transfiguration. She was proven wrong moments later when Nott arrived, noted his friend sitting on his own and was ignored in his attempts to get his attention. Instead, he sat with Zabini, directly in front of them. Daphne Greengrass, she recalled from McGonagall's office, took the seat next to Nott, joined by an aloof Tracey Davis. This left one table. Ron, invariably, arrived late. Sliding into the table next to them, he shot them a sideways grin.

Conjuring animation was a complex topic, and Professor Dumbledore certainly had proficiency given the growling candelabra over their heads. Aberforth made for an interesting teacher: willing to explain, uninterested in classroom politics, and with a slightly wild look in his eyes that would quell even the most impetuous Slytherins. Not that they were causing problems. Indeed, there was an unsettling serenity to the group. It made her nervous. Malfoy hadn't said a word, nor shot even a dirty look in their direction.

The class allowed a significant practical portion, and soon devolved into the students trying to animate their teacups. Hermione's was waltzing around, without a single misstep. Harry's was hopping on one leg. Ron's had launched itself into the wall, only just avoiding the professor's head. Aberforth stared him down.

"Weasley, what are you starting here? I'll soon take it outside and show you what's what."

As red as his hair, Ron repaired his teacup and issued his profuse apologies. He shot a dirty look at Nott, who was openly laughing at him. With a swift wave of his wand, Zabini's teacup began chasing the now furious Ron, shooting painful sparks from its handle. With a pointed glare at the smirking man, Hermione redirected the teacup to attack him, until he succeeded in shattering it.

"I could've handled it, Hermione." Ron hissed at her, still out of breath from his sprint.

"I trust you'll be at practice today Ron? You're out of breath." Harry pointedly deescalated the conflict. A fallout was the last thing Hermione needed. It was only upon exiting the classroom that Ron finally perked up.

"'Mione, do you have some time before Potions?"

Harry shot her a concerned look, searching for a sign she wanted him to stay. Finding no uneasiness on her features, he left them to it. She knew how to find him if she needed him, and they had Potions in an hour. She walked alongside the broad redhead out toward the shores of the lake. Conjuring a blanket, they sat on the grassy hill overlooking the White Tomb. The air was crisp, and she tried to focus her attention on the tranquil water of the lake.

"It's been a while since we talked this Summer. You, me and Harry. I don't want this to be awkward, but I'd rather know that my chance has gone if you two are… you know, together. I know that Harry is spending nights with you, and I know that I fucked up leaving you two last year. But I do lo… like you a lot, and I think we could be happy. My mum loves you, and we said we'd stop and have another conversation in a few months, and I want to do that now. Before things get too deep with Harry. You're both my friends and…"

His words came thick and fast, and she felt ensnared by them. Choking on the crushing fog. Her abdomen was tight, as though hurtling toward an imminent crash. It was all she could do to wrap her arms around her knees in a protective embrace.

"… I don't want to give up on us. I don't want you to give up on us either, 'Mione."

He gripped her hand in his sweaty palm, pulling it back from her legs. She couldn't speak.

"If you want to keep going with Harry, if that's what you've decided on. That's okay too. I understand."

No response.

"It's also okay if you're not sure. Of anything. That must be a new one for you, eh, 'Mione?"

He finally brought his monologue to a close. Thunderous silence surrounded them. His laugh seemed harsh. She continued staring forward, mouth dry as she tried to push words out into the world.

"They… they say his tomb will always be the only grave at Hogwarts. It's like they think the world stopped when we left this place in Sixth Year."

She was talking about the bleak marble monolith, but also more than that, she was answering him too. Perhaps for the first time, she felt he recognised that.

"Neville was right. Sweeping the sacrifices of so many people under the rug is what this community did wrong last time. I had higher expectations of Hogwarts. I thought winning was going to be the hard part. After coming back here, I'm not so sure we did win. If the only monument to the war is the tomb of a man who caused so much unnecessary difficulty and loss, a man who died before it even really started. We lost so many people, we lost so much. That needs to mean something."

Ron was shocked at what was pouring out of her mouth. She hadn't spoken so certainly on, well, anything for a long time. Hermione, in that moment, was as viscerally alive as ever. He smiled, and hugged her into him.

"We'll make it mean something, we all will. For Fred, for you, for everyone. You just tell us what we need to do."

They sat for a while, before walking back up to the castle. Hermione had returned to near silence, and she didn't seem to want to come with him to get his textbook. Instead, she took the stairs toward the dungeons. Before the classroom, she took a detour into an unknown corridor.

Tell them what to do.The words echoed around her head, spinning through dense murkiness. Lightheadedness threatened to overcome her. She knew what to do. Her nimble fingers returned to her neck, just below the collar. The skin was sore and thin, aching at even the most delicate touch. Her favourite spot. She held the tender flesh between her fingertips and twisted. In that moment, she felt connected again. The pain tethered her to the world. The fog faded, just enough to feel real again. That bond consumed her, allowed her to see in almost obscene clarity. Only one thing remained invisible to her, in the shadowed alcoves of the corridor. A figure stood, watching.

She found herself unable to sleep that night, pulled on her robes, and made her way out into the darkness of Hogwarts. Once she'd made her way up, she took out the scroll she'd tucked into the pocket that morning and read the details carefully. Lucius Malfoy. And so she began.

She precisely placed the sharp tip of her poplar wand to pull another, yet hopefully final, silver strand from her temple. Smoothly releasing the memory into the calm surface of the stone basin in front of her, she released a breath she hadn't known she'd been guarding. Sinking into the overstuffed, yet singularly uncomfortable armchair, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The process had remained the same, with each arrest warrant executed by the much diminished Auror's Office, there was a new demand for evidence to put before a Wizengamot Jury. The distinctive great horned owl would arrive, swooping down impatiently to deliver an envelope invariably sealed with the umber wax that verified a Ministry of Magic communication. The memories required would be listed, and initially, the golden trio would settle around a pensieve each evening to probe into themselves and retrieve their recollections together. The memories would then be retrieved from the pensieve, and provided to the remaining twenty members of the council. So frequent, were the trials, that it soon became overwhelming. The continual emotional weight of burrowing within the difficulties of the war had pushed Hermione, at least, to retrieve her own memories in the seclusion of the silent dawn.

Streams of autumnal sunlight woke her, and she peered past the ancient runes of the bowl to confirm that the waters had settled. They had, and she softly made her way back toward her dormitory. Neville's bag lay next to the armchair, unmoved. No one was awake yet, and for that she was grateful. Taking quiet steps toward her room, she opened the door and found Harry sitting up. He looked tired, perhaps even more so than the year they'd spend living in a tent. His bright green eyes still held an alarming contrast to his pale skin and dark hair, but more pressing were the soft mauve circles that surrounded them. They seemed to be an almost permanent feature now. She saw his eyes blink, adjusting to her presence. He pushed the pillow behind him down, and pulled the duvet he had circled around him free, opening up a spot for her.

She pulled her robe off, and climbed into bed beside him, her tense body softening slightly as he put an arm over her waist. Trusting he would keep the duvet between his arm and her body, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe in his smell. In the mornings, his natural scent was intoxicating. He was vetiver musk, with a hint of the smokiness of broomstick grease. More than enough to lull her to a dreamless sleep.