Chapter Eleven- Ashes

Hermione didn't know if she was mad or desperate or maybe a little bit of both. Whatever it was, she stood before the stone gargoyle at the foot of the Head's office, twisting her hands and wondering if it wouldn't be better if she just listened for once and refrained from getting involved in other people's business.

But it wasn't quite as simple as that. Sometimes, when he was reading and she was sure he wouldn't notice, Hermione would watch Draco Malfoy. That meant that she noticed his little ticks, the twitch in his hand, the sporadic tightness of his lips as he twisted them, the way his foot would tap rhythmically and repetitively against the floor, tick-tocking, counting down the time until his trial-

He was going stir crazy locked up in this castle. He needed freedom. At least, a taste of it. Just to keep him going.

She sucked her cheeks in, wringing her hands. The Headmistress of Hogwarts was the only person Hermione trusted to ask for help, the only one she thought might care.

Stealing another moment, she inhaled deeply and before she could stall a second more, said, "Lemon Drops!"

Though the password came out as a rush of frantic air, the stone gargoyle obediently leapt aside, revealing the hidden staircase. Hermione swallowed, clenched and unclenched her fists by her side, and started up the steps. She knocked as soon as she reached the top, knowing her nerve might break if she hesitated again.

"Come in."

Hermione cracked the door open and slid into the room. The office hadn't changed much since before the war. The walls were still lined with shelves stacked high of all sorts of odd thingumabobs, devices with contractable arms and dials and buttons, plants that had to be chained to keep them in check but which nevertheless invaded other shelves and curled its way around picture frames holding certificates, vials and bottles of potions of all different colours, candles that never stopped burning, old books, peeling, leather-bound, thousands of pages long, withered globes of countries Hermione had never heard of, historical artefacts, daggers, jewels and dream catchers. There were still all the portraits of the past Headteachers and, joining them in his prime place above the desk, was the kindly face of Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling over crescent shaped glasses. Hermione's smile was breathless and teary. He folded his fingers, leaned forward slightly, and winked at her.

"Miss Granger."

She spun around, wiping at her face.

"What a pleasant surprise."

Professor McGonagall stood on the dais, ancient book in her arms, green robes as straight and immaculate as always, hat pointed to the sky. She looked older than the woman who had greeted her all those years ago in front of the Great Hall, much older, and tireder too. There were bags under her eyes and more wrinkles in her lips, like she'd shrivelled them one too many times. But she was still her Head of House, and Hermione felt a rush of fondness for the older witch.

"Professor," she said. There was something about seeing her former teacher that brought a tender recollection of normalcy, a reminder she was safe and she was home. Hermione swallowed. "How are you?"

Bemused, McGonagall came down to meet her. She rounded the desk, skirting Fawkes' empty perch, and sat in the chair, motioning for Hermione to do the same. She paused, then sat in the chair opposite her Headmistress.

"As well as ever, Miss Granger." The older woman peered over her glasses and it didn't have quite the same affect as the wizard sitting behind her in his golden frame. Her eyes were too beady, inquisitively sharp, though no less warm. "I was pleased to see your name amongst the returning Eighth Years."

Hermione smiled. Tucked a curl behind her ear. "It's nice to be back. I forgot how much I missed it."

McGonagall hummed. Her eyes softened as they roamed the office, tracing the high alcoves, lingering on the empty perch. "I had hoped it wouldn't feel haunted. We wished it to feel like it used to, like the safest fortress in the world." There was a wistful sigh in her voice.

Hermione winced a little. "It's a difficult feat when you know the fortress was conquered."

"But rebuilt from the rubble," her professor's eyes shone, and Hermione was sure they were tears.

"I'm really grateful to be back, Professor," she said quietly. "I don't know what I would have done otherwise."

McGonagall's lips twisted in a secretive smile. When she spoke, it was so matter-of-factly that her thick Scottish accent clipped each of her words. "I have no doubt you would have taught the Ministry how to deal with the aftermath of war. Kingsley Shacklebolt might be a good Minister, but he can't seem to keep everyone and thing from spilling over. The new world is going to be built on inconsistencies and misfiled paperwork."

Hermione heard the irritability leak into her voice, and she remembered a headline she'd read a few days ago at breakfast:

Chaos at the Ministry: Reforms or Revolts?

"Conservative reactions always follow war. The fear never truly goes away," said Hermione. "If anything, it intensifies. Just think about Grindelwald. As soon as he was defeated, the Ministry had drafted restrictive laws and organised raids that ended up lasting years. The Wizarding World ended up more broken than repaired."

"And in opposition to conservatism, there are the liberals who advocate peace in the chasm," replied McGonagall. She pursed her lips.

Hermione laughed a little. "I think we could do with some peace right about now."

"Miss Granger, I'm inclined to agree with you."

She smiled.

Before she could say anything else, there was a cry and through the window, riding on the setting sun, soared a bird of the most brilliant orange, fire-soaked red, and gold. Hermione wasn't sure she could really believe it. Something light settled in her soul and she thought the last ray of hope might as well have just swept through the sky and landed on the pane.

Fawkes sat proudly on the windowsill.

"I thought-" Hermione stumbled for sense. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him. "I thought he was gone forever."

McGonagall's face softened and she rose from her chair and beckoned him onto his perch. He acquiesced, swooping over and offering the older woman his head to stroke.

Hermione blinked, remembering the last time she had seen him, hearing his final song in her head. She stood from the chair and moved over slowly, careful not to frighten him.

"Not gone," said McGonagall, running her finger over the plumes of the Phoenix's head. "He visits from time to time. Usually, he comes here to die."

Hermione looked at her, lips parted. Her eyes strayed back to the bird, and she held out her hand so he could press his forehead against her knuckle.

"He comes home," a deep voice said, and Hermione jumped. The Phoenix crooned gently. Dumbledore smiled from his portrait above the desk. "It is said, Miss Granger, in my family, that a Phoenix appears when a Dumbledore is in need. Fawkes came to me when I was desperate, when I didn't know how to save myself, never mind anyone else. Extraordinary things, Phoenixes. Exceptionally nuanced and tuned into human emotion."

Hermione watched him. There was something almost pained in his eyes, his fingers clasped together tighter, as if to stop himself from reaching out, knowing he could never breach the gap to greet his old friend. Fawkes cried, ruffling his feathers. A few of them fell to the tray and sparked.

"What do you need, Professor?" asked Hermione. A tear slipped down her cheek. "Perhaps I can help-"

Dumbledore titled his head forward, eyes peering and crinkled. There was so much reassurance in those eyes that Hermione understood why Harry had trusted him so blindly, allowed him to hold his entire life in his wizened, charred hand.

"Miss Granger, you didn't come here to have biscuits and discuss Ministry reforms," was all he said. His lips quirked.

McGonagall was frowning deeply. She tutted. "Albus, what on earth-?"

But before she could chastise the former Headmaster, Fawkes sang a little tune, coaxing her hand open, pressing his head into Hermione's palm. She felt something wet drip down her skin.

Fawkes lifted his head, tipped his beak to the ceiling. The flames engulfed him from the very tips of his wings, stretching up his back and swallowing his narrow head. Orange, then red, reaching up, then dying down until there was nothing but ash and feather-

They stared at the tray.

Hermione took a shaky breath but it stopped in her throat when the ash started to move.

The chick slowly craned it's neck, chirping, and Hermione wiped at her eyes and laughed. Fawkes chirped again.

Dumbledore made a soft noise.

"Born from the ashes," Hermione murmured. Fawkes cooed gently, and tilted his head and fixed her with a surprisingly astute look. Blinking. It was like the bird was staring into her soul and yet- there was a twinkle in those dark eyes that reminded Hermione of the man in the frame. She felt obliged to say, "Professor, what do you know about Draco Malfoy?"

McGonagall looked at her sharply. "Miss Granger?"

"He's waiting for his trial, Professor. He's been accused of accessory to murder, of terrorism. The Ministry thinks he's a criminal but he's- he's an eighteen year old boy. I- I came to see you because I need your help. I need your help in proving he's innocent."

McGonagall shook her head. "Miss Granger, forgive me for my bluntness, but why do you care?"

Hermione inhaled sharply. She grimaced.

"Draco and I, well," she broke off. She didn't know why her face felt so hot. "We've- I suppose we've struck up a sort of friendship. Not really a friendship, more a- civil agreement. I've gotten to know him really quite well, Professor and, well, I'd like to take him to Hogsmeade. I think it would do him good.

"You might think I'm crazy, Professor," said Hermione quickly before the Headmistress could get a word in. "Honestly, I'm wondering a bit myself... But I've seen Draco Malfoy's soul, and it's not black and it's certainly not evil. He's scared. And he needs help."

McGonagall, the woman Hermione had admired as soon as she'd set eyes on her in First Year, pursed her lips and regarded her sharply. Eventually, she said in her curt voice, "What do you propose I do, Miss Granger? I'm not as powerful as Albus Dumbledore. I can't influence the Ministry."

Hermione hurriedly said, "I'm not asking you to! I was simply hoping you could write to ask if Malfoy could have the court's permission to go into Hogsmeade for a few hours. I'll stay with him the whole time and if it makes everyone feel more comfortable, I'll keep him under Harry's cloak. So they don't know he's there. He can't escape either way, he's got a tracker on his ankle. Purely to avoid causing a scene." Hermione paused. She said, in a shakier voice, "I think he needs this, Professor. I think maybe his life might depend on it."

McGonagall's lips had become shrivelled prunes and her eyebrows were furrowed deeply, before she said, "I'll see what can be done, Miss Granger, but I can't promise you anything."

There was a firework, or maybe a rocket, that went off in Hermione's stomach and she just nodded. "Of course, Professor. Thank you."

She turned to leave.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione stopped and looked back.

McGonagall was still stroking the bird, and Fawkes stretched his charred, little wings, craning his neck and preening. His shed feathers were a brilliant orange around him, like the explosion of the sun as it set in the evening, or autumn leaves as the world readied itself for the oncoming winter.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Be careful," she said. Her eyes were clear and sharp.

Hermione swallowed. "Harry told me, a long time ago, that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be. I was given that liberty. I need to make sure Malfoy is given the same."

McGonagall didn't reply, but her eyes ducked to the desk and her lips quirked slightly. Hermione nodded to herself and left, but she heard the Headmistress sigh float through the walls.

"It's the right thing to do, Minerva," she heard Dumbledore's portrait say.

McGonagall grumbled. "That doesn't mean it will be easy, Albus. You often forget what's feasible."

"Perhaps." Hermione heard the amusement in his voice. "But Miss Granger may be the only one who can save him-"