This is my first published fic in a while. Thank you for reading. Reviews always welcome.
Chapter One
There was something about the way the old castle loomed ahead that made Hermione Granger's heart flutter. Of course, she had been on this journey many times before, at the beginning of each school year, but this time it was different. Of course, things were different now; after the war, everything was different. But not the castle though, no, it was still the same, larger than life, held together by bricks and magic and hundreds of years of being, still extending its familiarity and sturdiness and for that, she was grateful.
As she looked up at the monolithic castle, she traced the edges of the towers with a curious gaze, revelling in its silhouette for the first time in what felt like a long time, and the flutter in her heart gave way to what she knew was true; it was home, and it was still there, and it had waited patiently for her return.
The carriage pulled to a halt and for the first time since departing the Hogwarts Express, she gazed around at the others in the carriages with her. It would be a smaller turnout that year, she knew, but a few familiar faces surfaced. Harry and Ron had decided not to return, with Ron having decided that under no circumstances would he be returning for school ("Absolutely stupid idea, if you ask me" "Luckily, no one asked you Ronald") and had joined Harry promptly at the Aurors department at the Ministry. A head of blonde stuck out amidst the sea of black robes and caught her attention, and Hermione spent an extra moment contemplating how she'd missed it before she caught their eye, raising a tentative hand in a wave.
"I didn't see you on the train," came Luna's dreamy voice as she pushed her way through the throng of students who had all disembarked their carriages.
"I needed – I mean, I had to – I wanted to collect my thoughts. Plus, I was late, I had to sit in a carriage at the back," she scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. "Have you seen Ginny? Or Neville?"
Luna's next sentence was cut off when a small gasp was heard to their right, and then a flurry of red hair found its way towards them, bunching them together in an embrace. It was to be like this for a while, holding each other for as long as they could. Having located Ginny, who had also arrived late and had to squeeze into a carriage with some haughty fourth years, Hermione realised for the first time since accepting the invitation to return that perhaps she'd made a mistake, that this was a terrible idea.
As they trudged into the castle, slowly and piling in as they always had, she couldn't stop imagining the pile of rubble the great hall had once been reduced to, that by the stairs there'd been boulders from the ceilings and the walls, and the pictures of old headmasters and headmistresses had fallen, and for a moment she was convinced she could hear the sounds of spells hissing by her ears. Shaking herself quickly from that thought, she returned her gaze to the Great Hall, taking in its wonders again, the starlit magical ceiling and the rows of tables for each house, and felt that sinking feeling she'd lacked categorising earlier; trepidation.
The sorting lasted longer than she'd anticipated it would, the old, worn Sorting Hat carried out carefully by McGonagall and then returned once the first years had been sorted. There laid an expression she hadn't seen in the eyes of first years before, a sense of wonder but mixed in with a sort of anticipation, or maybe even fear, and she knew that news of the state of Hogwarts had been met with shock and sadness throughout the wizarding community. And try as she might, the images of the crumbled halls and stairwells, of the stone rubble that littered the courtyard, of men in frightening dark robes plagued her, hidden behind each blink.
As candles floated above them, replacing the stars, seated in the spaces at the Gryffindor table as always, she found herself feeling a sense of loss, or that something was missing, but not quite being able to figure out just what. The usual bubbling sense of excitement was absent, and Hermione Granger could not seem to find the inclination or motivation to find it.
Later as they were shown to their dormitories, a separate tower for all the students who had returned to complete their eighth year and attain their NEWTs, Hermione had found herself in an overstuffed chintz, her schedule in hand and contemplated her lessons and professors. A small pile of books sat beside her, her textbooks for the year all carefully bought in Diagon Alley weeks prior, and she found herself slowly thumbing through one. Almost deaf and numb to the world around her, she slowly began to flip through the Ancient Runes textbook, slowly mulling the implications for the year ahead. None of the words nor the symbols managed to make any sense yet, and she carelessly flipped through, her mind dwelling. Slowly, the book was forgotten, the heavy tome lying on her lap open to a random page, as she gazed into the fire. Thoughts swirled as she became mesmerised with the flames before her, vaguely noticing students slowly milling in and out of the eighth years' dormitory, barely paying them any mind. Since the end of the war, there seemed to be no more need for house division, and she had run into the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott the few times she'd venture from the Muggle world into the wizarding. They'd exchanged nothing but curt nods, maybe a small, surprised expression from her, but nothing else was given. Nothing else was needed.
Thoughts flared to life, the thousands that she'd kept supressed for so long, specifically those that were cut fresh open by her return to Hogwarts, and she wondered how she would ever walk through the hallways, venture into the library, traipse through the grounds, without envisioning what she had seen. What she still saw at night.
Those thoughts were shaken from her, the images ground to a halt, when a small cough caught her attention. For a moment, she wondered if she'd made it up, jolted from her reverie, until she looked up from her daze, and a bright beam spread across her cheeks.
"Neville!"
Perhaps she'd wondered about what the year would entail without Harry and Ron for far too long, and dwelt on the feeling of being alone, that the reminder that Neville had also written to her over the summer to tell her that he'd be returning had fallen by the wayside. But seeing him there, standing above her in that awkwardly boyish way that he always encompassed, was enough for Hermione stand and throw her arms around his shoulders, bringing him in for a hug.
"Hermi -oomph!" Neville's surprise was soon discarded by a grin, his own arms around her, and she gladly accepted the moment of comfort of a familiar face. It had become quite apparent that there weren't many of her friends who had returned to finish their final year, aside from Ginny and Luna who were in seventh. In the Great Hall, she had caught a glimpse of a few more, mingled in with the same dazed expression she was sure she was sporting herself. She'd noticed Parvati Patil and Dean Thomas at the other end of the table, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley at Hufflepuff, Terry Boot, Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein (who looked like he would rather have been anywhere else but Hermione had heard his parents had forced his return) and when she finally glanced at the Slytherin table, she hadn't had time to take stock beyond the surprise that was Draco Malfoy wedged in between Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott. She was entirely sure that a few others had made their way back, but for the moment, standing in front of Neville, she felt a sense of comfort that she hadn't expected.
"I didn't see you on the train," her voice betrayed a relief that she hadn't anticipated it would, but she was glad nonetheless. As Neville regaled her with the tale of his morning, of missing the train ("I'm still just as forgetful as I was first year, eh?"), having to Floo in much later once he'd been able to get a hold of a professor, she found herself comfortable in front of the fire and thought that perhaps it wouldn't be as lonely of a year as she'd anticipated.
For a long time after they were done speaking, they drifted into a silence that was warm and cosy, both knowing what a gift silence could be, and as Hermione read and Neville busied himself with a letter to his grandmother, she found herself enjoying the moment. Before she departed, up the tower to the girls dormitories, where she had seen Parvati retreat to earlier, she bade farewell to Neville, with the promise of a return to a routine that she hadn't realised that she'd sorely missed.
As sleep evaded Hermione that night, and whilst she blamed the potential excitement of the morning, even hours after bidding goodnight to Parvati, she was still on her side, hand beneath her cheek as she stared off into the darkness, bidding something to emerge, if even just to shake her from the emptiness.
The fresh smell of toast at Hogwarts had always been one of his favourites. Of course, Draco Malfoy had toast at home, but the smell somehow didn't manage to fill the kitchen or dining room the same way it did in the Great Hall. He'd woken that morning dishevelled and tired, having spent half the night in the dormitory staring up at the ceiling and wondering how he had put up with Theo's snoring for the better part of six years. He'd tossed and turned until the early hours, and everything felt wrong. The bedding was awkward against his skin, the mattress too firm but too soft and lumpy, and then the echoing sounds of the darkness, the owls, the scuffling and scratching of a castle that had once again come to life had only kept him awake. It's definitely not the same as home, he'd thought to himself, and even as he did, he felt like a traitor. Hogwarts had been the closest thing to a home for him for years, and yet the attachment he felt to it had long been replaced with an indifference, he didn't deserve to think of it as home, and he definitely did not deserve to want it to be, not after what he had done. After getting dressed when morning dawned, coiffing his hair, and tossing a sideways look in the direction of Theo's bed, he made his way out.
He avoided the common area of the dormitory the eighth years shared, wrinkling his nose at the idea of all the students who he'd have to share it with, and though it was nowhere near time for classes, and knowing that the castle hadn't yet woken, he made his way to the Great Hall. The smell of toast had greeted him when he was halfway down the last flight of stairs, and he avoided looking at the walls around him, in fear of the memories that would invade. No, instead his head was down, trying to avoid the gazes of the few who were already awake, mostly bleary eyed and excited first years and a few tired looking students scattered at their house tables, and he found a spot at the end of the Slytherin table and buttered a slice of toast.
Draco hadn't wanted to return, but it was through coercion from his mother, and heavier coercion through his father, that he had acquiesced. It was clear that it would do well for their reputation, in tatters after the war, and the image of their son, an ex-Death Eater and ex-sympathiser of the Dark Lord, entering the doors of the castle that had once barred him, was entirely what they needed. Lucius Malfoy was nothing if not calculating and would always know exactly what to do to get himself out of sticky situations. Draco had written two short letters that evening prior, simply detailed that he'd arrived safely. One sent to Malfoy Manor. The other to Azkaban.
At the table, he thought that there was nothing warmer than a slice of Hogwarts buttered toast. There was a feeling of comfort with the toast warming the tips of his fingers, and he watched the way that students were slowly moving in and out of the Great Hall. Every now and then a glance was slid in his direction, mostly curious glances, some shocked and surprised from those who hadn't read the news of his return in the papers a few days prior, but for the most part, it was easy to ignore them. It didn't feel right, sitting there, as if nothing had happened, and knowing that the state of the castle was because of him – and that stupid cabinet.
Hard training had been required to stop that particular train of thought, and he had realised over the summer in the Manor that he could very easily distract himself from runaway thoughts by simply digging the fingernail of one finger into the pad of another, right over the fingerprint, whilst his fist was closed. It wasn't painful, but just acute enough to draw him back into reality, and it had proved quite useful to distract himself. In the early hours of that morning, he found that he had to use that particular tactic only twice, as he enjoyed his breakfast. It promised to be a long year, he could tell, and though he yearned for the comfort of anonymity, he was at least glad that he was here, and not at the Manor.
The first thought that crossed Hermione's mind as she sat in the greenhouse when the lesson had started was that she found it odd that Draco Malfoy had decided to take Herbology. It was rather crowded, with the seventh years and the returning eighth year students, so much so that Professor Sprout had separated the class into two groups across two greenhouses. The heat and humidity trapped in the glasshouse was enough for Hermione's hair to frizz, and she pushed a wayward curl out of her eyes as she observed the scene before her. There was a sense that it was all abnormal, that merely a few months ago, as they'd received their letters, she had been thinking about perhaps rejecting the invitation. The thought of returning to the castle, albeit a caste that was now restored, brick by agonising brick, had caused her to feel a sense of dread, that had resided deep in her navel, and that feeling had lingered, until the day before when the castle loomed into sight. It was still the same castle. Perhaps a bit beaten and worse for wear, harbouring a few ghosts and memories, but it was still home.
Bent over a pot of rue with Ginny, Hermione slowly began to tend to the plant, snipping off the dried leaves as instructed (but not too close to the stem, as Neville had hinted) as the redhead beside her conversed with her easily.
"-Owled me this morning, said he's three months into the Auror program and thinks that they're all a bunch of tossers who insist on making him and Harry write up reports endlessly. Can you imagine my brother writing reports?" A chuckle from one, a snort from the other, Hermione's lips curving upwards in a little smile. "He said he's absolutely going barmy, and when he makes a mistake, they make him rewrite it," Ginny grinned, lifting a tiny, pale green leaf of the plant and gently snipping off the offending leaf beneath it. Hermione's reply was a grin of her own.
About to reply with something humorous about Ron writing (and rewriting) reports, Ginny cast her a sly glance. "What happened between you two, by the way?"
It was an innocently curious question, and Hermione's response firstly was a shrug. "I don't know what you're-"
"Come off it, you know what I'm talking about."
Bugger, Ginny always saw right through her. She continued. "You were on the run together for almost a year, and then he pulls a classic Ron and fucks off," Ginny paused as Hermione snorted in amusement. "But then he returns, there's a battle, and then everyone sees you two holding hands in the Great Hall and all the way across the bridge," Ginny's eyes returned to tending to the plant. "Then Skeeter prints that article, which made for a very interesting read, by the way, all but confirming everything and then…" Ginny trailed off. "…nothing?"
The gardening gloves were preventing Hermione from being able to carefully lift a leaf of the rue, and she huffed in impatience as she listened to Ginny. She wasn't wrong, and it was a perfect breakdown of their timeline. "That's pretty much it," she shrugged, trying not to trivialise it, but knowing she would fail anyway. "Except in between the nothing and the Skeeter article, there was a conversation at The Burrow," she paused and before Ginny could ask, Hermione filled her in. "You were on a date with Dean," she quickly added. A deep blush spread up her neck and to her ears as she admitted the next part. "We were outside after dinner, just sitting there as the sunset. It could have been quite romantic and lovely, actually. We kissed. Well, he kissed me," she shook her head and tried not to make eye contact with Ginny. "It was like kissing a friend or a brother-"
"Vomit."
"-and it just felt wrong. Like all the tension down in the Chamber became this big firework display but it wasn't real," she didn't know how else to put it, having tried to dissect their downfall for months now. "And we talked, which is giving a rather large amount of credit to Ron as I did most of the talking, and he listened, and I think it became clear that I would have kept talking and he would have just kept nodding along and not being able to really understand what I was trying to say if nobody stopped us. And then I said that it felt awkward and strange, and he got a bit angry, mostly with himself, I think, but ultimately, we agreed," she took in a deep breath. "We agreed that it felt right in the moment, but our feelings didn't really extend beyond friendship. Deep friendship." She chuckled at her next joke. "I probably would have kissed Malfoy under the same circumstances."
That seemed to placate Ginny for the time being, and as she was about to open her mouth with her response, Professor Sprout was pushing open the door to the greenhouse and back in the room, and annoyingly, was praising the very person for his tending of his pot of rue. "Well done, Draco, gather around everybody, see how he hasn't trimmed too close to the vine or stem? Perfect. This allows the plant to concentrate on fortifying the strong leaves, essential for Felix Felicis," she bustled on, checking the pots, and making adjustments as she did. Hermione's own pot was also praised, as was Neville's, and Ginny's received a few nods. By the end of the lesson, Hermione had discarded the gloves, and eyeing Malfoy with a level of contempt and competition she hadn't felt in a long time, had bested him in rue maintenance.
The library was crowded by the time she made it there after dinner. There was something comforting about the place, and she had visited earlier during lunch, just to make sure. A few shelves were missing, with quite a few books destroyed during the battle, but it was still the same place; rows of shelves, the large windows that looked down into the grounds, the sturdy wooden tables with those uncomfortable seats where students were already starting to gather. There was an unspoken rule that the first years were at the lowest of the pecking order, having to find seats wherever available, where the tables closest to the window were reserved for seventh years, and it was towards those tables that Hermione made her way. It really was the ideal study location, and though her movement across the library did attract a few smiles, a few waves, a few dumbstruck, wide-eyed stares from the younger students, she found a quiet spot beside the window that afforded her quite a nice view of the lake. By the time she had made her Herbology and Arithmancy notes for the evening, she noticed two rather surprising things. Firstly, she had sorely missed studying, and though she'd spent quite a large portion of the previous few months going over what she'd learnt in sixth, it was nothing like being back at Hogwarts and within the stacks of shelves of books as she revised her work. And secondly, Draco Malfoy was seated two tables away from her, head down over his own notes, his quill slowly scribbling away, and it looked like he was going to be challenging her diligence this year.