Note: The characters here represented are the property of JK Rowling. Absolutely no profits have been derived from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
November 17th, 1996
Winter's first snow came late for Scotland. An incessant freezing drizzle had cast the world in a mournful gray for weeks when, quite suddenly, around ten in the morning, one or two unremarkable droplets blossomed into beautiful crystals somewhere in the atmosphere, and drifted down to earth, landing in Hermione's hair. She smiled in spite of herself, and stretched out a hand to catch those that followed, watching them melt into dots of water on her skin.
The back stoop of Hagrid's hut would have had her aching with cold had the stone not taken so well to the warming charm she'd cast on it. The stairs were built for Hagrid of course, and so large that Hermione's knees bent at a near ninety degrees to the ground, while the front face of the next step behind her supported most of her short torso. She leaned into the warmth of it, and felt for a moment like a queen on a crudely rendered throne in some distant, early kingdom. She savored the soft, tinkling rustle of falling snow. Hidden safely from view of the castle and all within, she closed her eyes for a moment and forgot who she was.
A distant rumbling echoed through the stillness, until finally Hagrid emerged from the Forbidden Forest hauling a cart the size of a dumpster piled high with freshly chopped firewood. Steam rose off his great shaggy head and massive shoulders, and thick, sodden snowflakes refused to adhere to him. Fang followed close, stopping to sniff at curiosities until he caught Hermione's scent and wagged his clumsy tail in recognition.
Hermione marveled at the sight of Hagrid. The simple fact of him still had the power to amaze her sometimes, even after all these years. He was as magical to her as any brilliant charm or elegant potion, but he had a quality about him that was, for lack of a different word, muggle. He felt like home – like being rocked to sleep in an imperfect cradle, like the acrid smell of matches, like the scratch of wool mittens and the slightly searing joy of a hot water bottle. These comforting discomforts were forgotten, or perhaps never known to wizarding folk. Families like the Malfoys were, she could tell just by looking, so divorced from the little insignificant struggles - the inexact bumbling of human life - that they almost ceased to be real. They were cold marble to Hermione's wet earth, and she pitied Draco sometimes as much as she hated him for that cheerless, sterile quality.
"'Ermione," Hagrid called when he noticed her, puffing a bit as he made his way up the final incline.
She smiled a genuine smile and the feeling was unfamiliar, as if the muscles involved had atrophied.
"'Arry with you?" he asked, coming to a halt and throwing off the makeshift wooden yoke he'd fashioned himself for the task.
"He'll be down soon I think," she replied, and stood to lift the first of two heavy stones on the ground near her feet, using magic to brace it against one enormous wheel. Hagrid glanced at her, a look of surprise appearing over his kind face before he could attempt to mask it. He bent quickly to lift the other stone as if it were a pebble, and wedged it into place with simple force. Hermione brushed her hands on her wool coat, and followed Hagrid back to the hut's entrance, eager for him to bring the still smoldering coals in the hearth back to a cheerful roar.
Hagrid busied himself with fire and tea while Hermione made herself comfortable in one of his huge chairs, pulling her favorite blanket from the armrest where it had been roughly folded and shaking it out. It was made of some sort of woven animal hair – a dark charcoal gray color with hints of shiny purple interspersed throughout; rough to look at but luxuriously soft to the touch. She realized that she had never asked what kind of fantastic beast it had come from. Still staring down at the material she opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, rubbing it between her fingers.
Perhaps a question unasked could be proof of a future in which to hear the answer.
The fire tended and the kettle set to boil on the iron hook above the open hearth, Hagrid dropped with a sigh into his leather and yew chair, and together they sat in peaceful silence, watching the fire.
He had become the only person with whom Hermione could quietly exist. She visited him infrequently, said almost nothing, and never explained; and in return he did her the incredible honor of allowing her the peace and quiet and comfort of his silent company, as if he knew it's all she needed. He'd sit with her and mend torn clothing, or repair broken tools, or sort seeds for planting in his garden while Hermione stared into the flames.
Sunday mornings had always been the time to come visit Hagrid. The four of them had never discussed the tradition; they had never planned a visit. It had simply evolved organically the way all things do between friends who are really family. Saturday was for getting in trouble, Sunday evening was for homework they should have done already, and right now was for Hagrid.
Hermione had spent every Sunday that term watching from her tower window for the figure of Harry wandering up to the castle through sunshine, mist, or rain. Most days she'd simply return to bed, draw the curtains and lie still for hours. Other days she'd rush out of the tower and down the wrong staircase, missing Harry on her roundabout route, and steal away to see Hagrid alone. To his very great credit, and to her relief, Hagrid had never told Harry, and had never asked her why.
Either he already knew the answer, or he understood that it would not be forthcoming. In either case, he loved and understood Harry and Hermione both, more than she had ever before realized, and she would be grateful to him – for his discretion and silence and company – for the rest of her life.
Hermione glanced at her watch; 10:27am.
Harry, her message had read. I'll be at Hagrid's this morning. And she'd signed it simply –Hermione.
Harry had to have noticed the neatly written missive tapping and fluttering gently against his window by now. Though it had been months since she'd sent him such a message, she was sure he still recognized the sound of it, even in sleep.
Hermione smiled sadly at the memory. It had taken the boys a full six months their second year to master the charm. She had woken on many mornings to find the most appalling efforts slamming themselves repeatedly into her window, looking more like the furiously discarded pages of a frustrated writer's first draft than a letter charmed to look and behave like a folded paper sparrow.
They'd traded hundreds of those messages over the years – each of them leaning out of their respective windows and, with hopeful expressions, releasing their little birds into the wind to fly around the circumference of the tower and into the window on the other side. What were so many of those little notes about? she thought to herself, almost but not quite laughing. They'd been heatedly scribbled conspiracy theories and plans, ridiculous jokes and hilariously obscene illustrations, silly riddles and games of hangman, class work questions and frivolous gossip. She still had a box of them at her parent's house, and she would never throw it away.
"There 'e is," Hagrid said suddenly, spotting Harry deftly negotiating the rocky path far in the distance.
Hermione drew a deep breath, and stood to gather mugs, tea, pot, and rock cakes to the sturdy square table in the center of the room.
She wasn't exactly sure why she'd chosen to come early on this Sunday of all those that had come before, and all that would follow after. She'd simply woken and decided. It could have been because of what was looming in her fast approaching future; it could have been because she was tired of avoiding her friend; it could have been because she missed him.
A knock at the door, a creak of hinges, the sound of hair being ruffled by a hand the size of a trashcan lid, the scrape of chair-legs, the pouring of tea, and then they were all sitting together, just like old times but for the vacant chair in the corner.
Harry looked at Hermione with haunted eyes. She tried to look back at him with the cold disconnection that had grown so familiar; to regard him as if he were a stranger to her. She had allowed him glimpses of her, fleeting moments of her company, the occasional sound of her voice, but she had kept her friendship from him; her self; her soul.
Today of all days, for the first time in months, for whatever reason, she let him have them again; and the moment he recognized it, he cried.
Great choking sobs that wracked his smallish frame. Hagrid laid a hand on his shoulders as he pulled his round glasses from his reddening face and set them on the table with a shaking hand. Hermione rubbed away a single tear that may not have ever fallen, and stared into the fire again, waiting for him to quiet.
OOOOOO
It is a fact of the human condition that emotional release almost always comes paired with meaningless chatter. Hermione couldn't remember who it was who had spoken first, or even what they had discussed in particular, but hours passed, and when she made her way back to the castle at dusk, she was comforted by the presence of Harry by her side.
It wasn't her intention, and she couldn't have known it would be the result, but a weight had been lifted from both of them. The rage hadn't lessened, the desire for revenge hadn't gone, but her guilt for hating Harry every day since that night had suddenly left her, and as a result her fury felt cleaner to her, somehow more righteous. It no longer drained her; it gave her strength.
Harry and Hermione turned toward the Great Hall, both suddenly ravenous beyond belief. She'd have to invent an excuse to separate from him after dinner; doing so while being kind to him was no longer second nature.
She would think of something, and Snape would be waiting at the stroke of seven.