Echoes

by TheFrancakes

"Human efforts to evade or overcome death are always doomed to disappointment."

Albus Dumbledore on "The Tale of the Three Brothers"

PART ONE

One.

Hermione Granger was a floor person.

It had started after the Battle of Hogwarts, once everything had settled down. One moment she had been pacing her small office at The Ministry with anxious energy, the next she was leaning against the wall and slipping down to the floor. There had been something about the cold, hard tile beneath her that grounded her and filtered the helplessness from her system. She sat there for hours, working from the floor like she was part of it so that she did not drift away into her thoughts.

She thought it was a one time thing. Her logical side knew it was rather ridiculous to conduct business from the floor when she had a perfectly good desk and chair.

Yet not even two weeks later, she found herself sitting on the floor once again after her presentation to her boss, the Head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, was a complete flop. Every single one of her ideas on house-elf rights had not just been denied, but flat out ignored. It was infuriating that even as "The Brightest Witch of Her Age," her boss still clucked his tongue every time she opened her mouth and declared she did not have enough experience to be making such suggestions or changes.

He liked to remind her that he had gotten five N.E.W.T.S. while she received none, as if that made a difference in the quality of her ideas or gave him the superiority to not even give her a chance.

She had been so angry at the end of the meeting, she slammed the door to her office and slipped down to the floor in a crash of emotion. There she sobbed, pulling at her hair, until the same calm from the floor grounded her. It was not her fault that she had no N.E.W.T.S. to her name; she did not fail her tests. She reminded herself was smart and capable and would have had top marks on every exam.

She had even wanted to go back to Hogwarts to retake them, but it's rebuilding had not come easy. In fact, even as the fourth anniversary approached, not a wall had been rebuilt. There had been attempts by many, but each time progress had been made, the castle almost quite literally rebelled. Most recently a news article had detailed that once completely rebuilt, the bridge to the castle split in two and crumbled under the very feet of the wizards who had worked upon it. Had it not been for some quick appartating spells, the wizards celebrating their achievement would have most likely perished.

For the past three years, Hermione had not moved upwards in her position in the Department. She had a few ideas listened to, but she had made nothing more than a small dent in all the laws and regulations concerning house elves. By now she had grown to accept the floor. She laid on it when she was stressed. Sometimes she chose to sit on it instead of the couch. A few times she had fallen asleep on her rug in front of the fire.

It was a random morning as she lay on the floor, her head underneath her christmas tree to let the lights help lull the dread she had about going into work that a memory struck her.

Sometime in the beginning of her first year, lonely and friendless, she suddenly remembered she had been a floor person then too.

The alcove in the courtyard was dark, but the lights from the stars above her twinkled warmly. They made her feel less alone and eased her regret of coming to a school, and a world, that she knew nothing about.

No one wanted to be friends with the class know-it-all. She heard the girls in her dorm gossiping about her about her study habits and her frizzy hair. They had not known she was in the common room when passed by tonight, making fun of Hermione's teeth. Hermione had escaped the common room without being detected and found herself in the courtyard, hiding from Filch at the late hour.

She had not even noticed she brought a book for comfort. 'A History of Magic' by Bathilda Bagshot. By the light of the stars, she curled up with her knees to her chest and began to re-read the book she had finished twice before.

She had not noticed Dumbledore approaching quietly until he was standing in front of her, reading the binding on her book. Hermione jumped with fright, ready to make excuses of why she was out of bed at a late hour, but Dumbledore seemed not to notice or care about the time.

"I always thought it should be called 'The Magic of History,'" he hummed, almost to himself as if he only saw the book and not the girl with tear stained cheeks. But then his eyes twinkled at her and she knew he saw her; she knew this was where she belonged.

"Never stop reading, Miss Granger," he told her as a goodbye before heading into the castle.

The memory made her chuckle to herself now. If only they knew the hidden meanings Dumbledore was always trying to tell them. She had taken the message to heart and never stopped reading, even the The Tales of Beedle the Bard he had given her upon his death.

Closing her eyes, she felt her body sink deeper into the floor. Her carpeting was soft, but she still felt like her resolve was hardening like the floor under her. Her mind wandered through the memory again and suddenly she wondered…

After pulling herself out from under the Christmas tree, Hermione wandered over to her bookcase so overstuffed that even her expansion charms were overloaded. She scanned through the copies of her text books until she found what she was looking for: A History of Magic.

She was about to pull it out when the book next to it caught her eye.

It was another copy of the same textbook, but the binding was darker and the gold lettering up the spine called to her. She didn't remember owning two copies, but as she tugged the intruder out of her bookcase, she knew it belonged to her. The book was bound with a leather cover the color of a forest at night.

Opening the cover, she confirmed her suspicion: it was a First Edition from 1947. She could not remember when she came into its possession and was positive it would not be something she would forget, but she could not recall no matter how long she thought on it.

Something from the way her skin sparked told her it had been a gift. She had always wanted a first edition.

"Of what book?" a distant voice asked her.

"Any book."

It was as if her heart could remember the essence, but her mind could not recall the imagery.

Opening to the first chapter, she found what she needed. It had been removed from all editions after, but this first contained the true answer. Chapter One: The Ancient Magic of History.

—-

It had taken Hermione three months to research and write her proposal. Upon finding her old-yet-forgotten first edition textbook, she had sent a letter to her Department Head with only five words written upon it.

I quit. Sincerely, Hermione Granger

She spent the rest of the day reading the textbook from front to back and that evening she read it over again. The next day she traveled to four different wizarding bookstores to find any book she could mentioning the magic of history. There was not much. It seemed the theory of history being its own form of magic had been abandoned sometime in the 1960's and written out of most modern day books. The books that did speak of it reminded her of how muggles spoke about magic - something intangible and full of fairy tale wishes.

But Dumbledore had taught her even the most childish tales were built on truth. So she kept looking. She spent two weeks traveling across Europe and even a quick trip to Asia to visit ancient libraries to access texts that were hidden from the masses. She was sure it was only her fame that had helped her secure entrance, but she had learned not to feel shame when she used it to help others.

And her mission was with the hope to help others. Dumbledore had also taught her that fairy tales could contain the answer to some of the most important riddles of their day and Hermione was searching for the answer that plagued many for the past four years: how to rebuild Hogwarts.

As she researched, Hermione discovered the answer.

The theory of History Magic was not based on rebuilding or replacing, but of memories and remembrance. It hypothesized that the longer a physical object was exposed to magic and magical beings, the more magic it would absorb itself. It made sense seeing as items close to a witch or wizard would hold their magical signature, sometimes even decades after they passed. It also explained why wands were considered sentient as they not only chose the wizard, but decided who they wished to and not to work for.

Hogwarts Castle and its grounds, Hermione realized, was no longer just a castle to learn in, but a living, growing being. And it had not been destroyed, it had been injured.

This was why Hogwarts could not be rebuilt. It was why even with the heavy use of magic, the castle fought back like an injured animal.

The collapsing bridge was not the first story of failure in the rebuilding. Through the years, news stories told of the bricks that would not stack to make walls. That the charms would not stick to enchant the stairs or lighting. That a construction wizard fainted from completely depleting his magic stores. A second crew member fainted and did not wake for three days.

Even the parts that had not been touched during the Battle of Hogwarts were considered dangerous. Staircases would not move and trick stairs turned to quicksand, sucking the person through them to dangle for their lives. Whole rooms would vanish and appear in another part of the castle. Portraits would capture their occupants, refusing to let them move from frame to frame. The dungeons would randomly flood and drain with lake water while sucking furniture through the cracks.

Hogwarts was not cement and bricks, it was lives and memories. It was every swish of a wand and every backfire of a charm gone wrong. It was every perfectly brewed potion and every melted cauldron. It was every friendship and every enemy made. It was every kiss and every heartbreak. It was love and it was death.

Hermione poured everything she could find into her proposal; it was ninety-seven pages long.

But the conclusion was all anyone needed to read to know she was right:

Hogwarts does not need a construction crew; it needs a Healer.

—-

A week after sending in her proposal, Hermione sat in Minerva McGonagall's dining room sipping tea. The home was much of what she expected from her former professor; the decor was warm, but elegant and sparse. She had no need or patience for clutter.

Hermione was nervous about the meeting. When she had mentioned her ideas to Ron and Harry after quitting her job, their reception had not been of the same excitement she had felt upon her discovery. Harry had been skeptical, which she expected as he was skeptical of just about everything these days, and did not think it was worth quitting her job over. However, he did say if anyone could do it, she could. Ron, though, stated it was rubbish and that the builders probably already considered it. It had left a sour taste in Hermione's mouth and she pledged not to speak of her research again.

She had sent the proposal by owl, not expecting a quick response or one at all. She knew McGonagall had been busy with the rebuild and probably did not need 100 pages based on a guess to stall her progress further. Yet two days after sending, Hermione received an owl back asking her to tea at the end of the week.

McGonagall did not waste time with small talk or recapping the past four years. Instead, she cut straight to the point.

"I read your proposal," McGonagall started after pouring them both tea. "I believe you are correct in your hypothesis. So I've asked you here to offer you a position."

Hermione's face wrinkled in confusion. She had expected a discussion, maybe a debate, about her research. She had even brought along talking points, some of her research materials, and even practiced a speech in the mirror prior to arriving.

"A position?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. As Head of the Healing of Hogwarts," McGonagall nodded.

"But don't you want to see more-"

"No. Ninety-seven pages was more than enough, Miss Granger. You have always been able to accomplish what others could not; I don't expect this to be any different," she hummed.

Of course, McGonagall was correct.

—-

Within a week, Hermione had constructed a team of healers, specialists, and even muggle builders.

She had decided to start with muggle builders to rebuild the walls. Just as she had expected, the castle had let the muggles pour the cement needed for its foundation as if it trusted their lack of magic not to hurt its injured form. To the muggles, it was just an old castle needing repair and they had done that all over the Scottish countryside. It was history that needed a physical touch to reform into the present.

They cared for it, restored it, and preserved it like a mother tending a sick child. As they fixed the plumbing, they were tender with the copper as if reinvoicing its veins. When they replaced the broken banisters, they used as much of the original wood as they could, only sanding away the death that had fallen upon it. They kept the marble and granite floors and tiles, only replacing the broken and cracked, like replacing the pieces lost in a fully formed puzzle.

Once the physical structure had been rebuilt, the healers were brought in. Instead of charming the stairs to move, the healers shouted reparifors to reverse the paralysis and poison of dark spells that had ricocheted off the wall. The healers then poured pain relief potions down the drains and could feel the walls sigh, exhaling their trauma. Brackium Emendo was whispered into the cracks, allowing the bones of the castle to finally mend.

Next, she brought in a specialized Auror team. They ran diagnostic spells on the portraits to discover and remove the dark magic they had sealed themselves against in order to protect themselves. They set wards and charms to protect the corridors and statues from being hurt again. They even repaired the library's silencing charms and repellant spells to keep nosy first years out of the restricted section.

Finally, the furniture, tapestries, and other necessities were either donated or handmade. It was important to the castle that nothing came fresh and new; it needed the sweat from the woodworker, the signature of the artist that put their soul into their work, and the happiness of the witch or wizard giving furniture life again. Each donation was accepted as is. Perfection was not wanted, but instead desks with initials carved into the wood, books handed down by mothers and fathers to their children with inscriptions of love and prosperity, and even the mismatched dishes and silverware from households that shared and bickered and fought and loved all over a warm meal.

Hermione oversaw each step of the rebuilding. She spent her days at the castle, helping the builders, healers, and aurors. She whispered words of encouragement to the building when it groaned and creaked under the stress of rebuilding.

"We're going to get through this," she would tell the castle aloud as she walked through it, holding her palm against the wall as if they were holding hands. "I've got you, just one more step and you'll be whole again."

The magic in the air made her hand tingle; the castle thanking her for bringing it back from death.

It took almost a year, but a few months before the fifth anniversary, the castle was healthy once more.

Now they just had to fill it.