A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely reviews. I really do appreciate them! Now back to our dear Hermione...
Chapter 4: Rebuilding
The papers said she was a hero, but Hermione Granger didn't feel like one. Mostly, she felt tired and scared and alone.
There had always been a purpose before: keep Harry and Ron safe, find Horcruxes, fight Voldemort. Now that it was over, she didn't know what to do. She'd failed at the only goal that she had after the war—return her parents' memories—and now she felt inexplicably stuck, as if a thick fog was holding her in place.
Upon returning to Britain, she realized she was homeless. She'd gone to Ron first, at The Burrow. He'd done his best to comfort her, but she knew he could not truly understand how she felt when he looked shocked and confused when she'd burst into tears after he'd snaked his hands up her shirt to touch her breasts only three days after her return.
There was a hole inside her now that she wasn't sure could never be filled.
The Weasley's would have let her stay with them at The Burrow, or Harry at Grimmauld Place until she figured out what she wanted to do, but after the incident with Ron she wanted to be alone. So she she went where she felt the safest, where she knew she could find the space she needed. She returned to Hogwarts.
The castle was severely damaged in the final battle, and Professor McGonagall, now headmistress, welcomed her help with repairs. Even though the school wasn't free from difficult memories, Hermione hoped that just as she had found out about her true self at the age of 11 here in this castle, she might find out who she was again after the war.
She hadn't decided yet if she would stay in the fall and complete her seventh year. She didn't need to, she knew—she had been offered a position as an Auror along with Harry, Ron and Neville. But she wasn't sure she wanted to continue fighting; she'd seen enough terror in her life already, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was never her favourite subject.
In the meantime, she quickly discovered her desire to help put the old castle back together. If not for herself, then for the future students who would study and find their own power and knowledge in its halls.
Only two weeks had passed since she arrived and it was now early June, and the skies above Hogwarts were bright blue. Small wisps of clouds danced high in the atmosphere, while barely a breeze floated over the lake.
Hermione looked up and shielded her eyes with her hand from the bright sun. She was sweating in the heat, dampness apparent at her hairline and at her armpits. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, her bushy hair tied back into a workmanlike ponytail as she helped clear rubble from the entrance courtyard.
It was hard work, but Hermione enjoyed the physicalness of it. As she heaved and levitated the wreckage, her mind focused only on lifting and moving the debris into a pile beside tiny Flitwick, who was charming the pieces back together and into the castle walls. As she hoisted each stone, she forgot about the bodies lined up in the Great Hall, the constant fear of death, her torture at Malfoy manor, Professor Snape's shining eyes as he fought to help them with his final breaths, her parents' disbelieving faces as they gawked at her in the foyer of their sterile grey house.
"Nicely done, Miss Granger," chirped Flitwick as she placed a particularly large piece of granite on his left with her wand. She smiled briefly at the tiny wizard, who wore a light sapphire linen robe tied at the waist with a gold belt. "Why don't you take a lunch break? It's nearly one," he said.
"Thanks, Professor," said Hermione, stowing away her wand in her pocket. She went up the stone stairs into the Entrance Hall and into the small room she had stood in nervously as a first year before being sorted into Gryffindor, and then slumped into one of the chairs that had been placed along the wall.
With the Great Hall heavily damaged, the staff had chosen this room to act as their centre of operations. On the opposite wall from Hermione was a table lined with sandwiches, fruit and drinks left by the elves. Blueprints of the castle hung to the walls, colour coded to show the damaged areas that were repaired, were in process, and were still left to do. Each area had been assigned to one of four teams, shown with the letter of the professor that led the group. Hermione was in Group F, the letter stamped over the entrance courtyard of the school. Group S, led by Professor Sprout, was busy repairing the greenhouses; Group V, with Professor Vector, was currently working on the Astronomy Tower; and finally Group H, with Madame Hooch, was repairing the Quidditch pitch.
Hermione stretched out her back and arms, letting free a soft sigh as her muscles relaxed a bit from the labour of the morning. Then she wordlessly summoned a sandwich and an apple over from the table.
She wasn't sure how they were going to finish repairing the castle by the first of September. It had been burned and blasted severely in the final battle, and they had barely finished a quarter of the repairs.
She was munching on her apple, deep in thought, when the door opened and Neville Longbottom came into the room.
"Oh, hello Hermione," he said as he noticed her. He looked taller, more confident since the end of the war. She knew his grandmother had wanted him to come home, but he had surprisingly refused, determined to help restore the castle. He was one of the few former students who had decided to help along with her.
"Hi, Neville," Hermione smiled. "How are the greenhouses coming along?"
"Oh, fine," said Neville. "We found a group of Putrid Pansies buried beneath some rubble in greenhouse five. Professor Sprout was happy—thought we'd lost them all."
"That's great!" said Hermione, as Neville grabbed himself a few sandwiches.
"Well, I should get back. Later, Hermione," he said.
"Later, Neville," she replied.
As Neville closed the door behind him, Hermione stood and grabbed a bottle of water, supposing she should get back to work too. Sad thoughts were beginning to creep into her mind—all the faces she would never see again—and it wouldn't do to dwell on them.
They were almost finished repairing the castle wall in the courtyard when they finally stopped working that evening. Hermione smiled as she pocketed her wand. Except for a few missing stones, it looked almost like she remembered.
"I think we'll be able to move on to the statues tomorrow," said Flitwick. "You can all go to dinner now. Miss Granger, Professor McGonagall would like to speak with you before you eat."
Hermione went to the new headmistress's office as instructed, wondering what she might want, praying it was not bad news.
"Scottish Fold," she said to the gargoyle, which was still looking a little worse for wear but was at least upright. It jumped immediately out of her way as it always had.
McGonagall was reading through a tall stack of parchment at her desk when Hermione reached the top of the stairs.
"Good evening, Professor," said Hermione.
"Ah, good evening, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, looking up and setting down the quill she was holding. "Professor Flitwick tells me you've been a great help."
Hermione smiled and approached her old Head of House. Closer now, Hermione could see the topmost page had a short list of names.
"Not a good list, I'm afraid. Several people are still being reported missing," the woman frowned, and Hermione suddenly noticed she looked very tired, a few more creases present in her face than she remembered.
"Vincent Crabbe died in the Room of Requirement," said Hermione, pointing to his name at the top of Professor McGonagall's list. "I'm not sure there will be a body. He was killed by fiendfyre."
"Thank you, Miss Granger," said McGonagall with a grimace, and made a note on the parchment.
Eager to change the subject, Hermione said, "You wanted to see me, Professor?"
"That I did," said McGonagall, pushing the stack of parchment to the side of her desk. "But first, how are you doing, Miss Granger?"
"I'm fine, Professor," said Hermione, shocked at how easily the lie came out of her mouth. In reality she had nightmares almost every night. She hadn't told anyone, knowing her friends were busy dealing with their own trauma and repairs from the war, and that many others had it worse than she did: Ron and Ginny had lost their brother, Harry his whole family. At least she was alive and knew that her parents were safe in Australia, even if they didn't remember her.
McGonagall gave her an appraising look, but nodded. "In that case, I hope you might take on a more significant task than rubble levitation."
"A task?" asked Hermione curiously, wondering what it might be, and hoping it had nothing to do with McGonagal's list.
"Yes, well, it's probably easier if I show you," she said, getting up. "This way."
Following McGonagall to the back of the room, Hermione looked up and noticed Professor Snape's portrait was still missing beside Dumbledore, who was sleeping in his frame. The headmistress stopped in front of a bookshelf and tapped a green spine with her wand. The bookshelf folded inwards, revealing another spiral staircase going up. "Follow me, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, beginning to climb the stairs.
The top of the stairs opened into another circular room, which was obviously the Headmaster's quarters. Except rather than looking neat, filled with the burgundy and gold tartans that Hermione expected to see in McGonagall's room, it looked like something had exploded. The black curtains on the four-poster bed were in shreds, books and broken objects were scattered across the floor, a table and chairs lay in pieces in the middle of the room, the velvet sofa was shredded as if a tiger had used it as a scratching post, and the vanity mirror had a jagged piece of wood sticking out of the broken glass.
"Yes, well, you can see Professor Snape left the room in a quite a state," said McGonagall sourly. "I was hoping you might go through everything and clean it up. I'd do it myself, of course, but I'm so busy with everything else, and I want to make sure nothing," she paused for a second, "…important is missed. Seeing as you know the situation, I thought you might be willing to help."
"I'd be happy to, Professor," said Hermione, already calculating how she might go about organizing and searching through the materials. She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "By important, do you mean anything that might signal where Professor Snape's loyalty might have truly lain?"
"Something like, that, yes," said McGonagal, scowling. Harry had told the Order about Snape's true role, and they believed him—well enough that McGonagall had allowed Snape's body to be buried next to Dumbledore's by the lake—but the Ministry still remained uncertain and there was likely going to be a posthumous trial at Harry's insistence to clear Snape's name.
"I'll be sure to let you know if I find anything," said Hermione.
"I knew I could count on you, Miss Granger," said McGonagall. "You can let yourself in when you need to. One of the portraits will be able to find me if you need me. Now, let's go get some dinner, shall we?"