First Watch
"Are you all right, Professor?" asked one of her first year students. Hermione nodded absently and smiled at the girl, trying to reassure her. All too well she remembered her own first few days at Hogwarts. It was not an easy experience, even for people more gregarious than she had been. The child was a Hufflepuff, she noted.
"I'm fine, Frances," she said, trying to sound poised. That seemed to placate the girl and she walked away, obviously still getting used to her robes. She was a Muggle-born, obviously, and as she tripped on the hem of her academic robes, it was clear she had never worn such things before.
Given her experience in Muggle chemistry, Hermione had been awarded the position of Potions teacher. While she was moving into her new quarters, a few days before classes began, it had struck her who had been in charge of Potions in her and Harry's day: Snape, she had recalled, though she supposed she would be obliged to call him by his first name, now. Samson, Samuel, Saint John .
She had glimpsed the man in question at the opening ceremonies, where it seemed to her he attended more out of requirement than to actually enjoy the celebration. He had barely paid attention to the Sorting, not even to the new Slytherins. She wondered if he was still Head of House. Though he had caught her staring at him, he had not acknowledged her then, even as a former student, and she had not seen him since. All the better then, she thought. He had terrified her as a child, mocked her and derided her almost to the point of tears once over the size of her teeth. Oh, she'd fixed that, but a glance in the mirror reminded her just how dreadful he had been.
Hermione swept into the Headmaster's office. She was trying very hard to take on the attitude of a teacher here at Hogwarts, but it wasn't going very well. She had lived as a Muggle for too long to make her robes swish the way she remembered just yet. Practice, practice, Hermione. Even her robes, sapphire blue with indigo trim, were a more ornate design than those worn by the older teachers, but a style that was gaining popularity among the younger wizards, especially around London. Albus Dumbledore sat behind the massive desk, just as she remembered it.
"Ah, Professor Potter," he said, quietly. "Is it still Potter, or shall I refer to you as Miss Granger?"
She was silent for a moment, wondering what she ought to answer. It was not easy to be married to The-Boy-Who-Lived, but it might be even more difficult to be divorced from him. "Granger will suffice, I think, sir. Everyone already knows . well, what happened. No point in attracting extra attention by using his name."
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "A wise choice, Hermione. I think it would be acceptable for you to call me Albus, would it not? You are no longer the child I once had to keep an eye on." The wit in his tone made her smile and she felt content in Dumbledore's omniscience. It felt strange to think of him by his first name, but she supposed they were colleagues now. "How do you feel about your new position?"
"It - I think I will get used to it, sir - Albus. It's quite an honor." He nodded again, agreeing with her assessment. Her question from earlier came to mind. "May I ask what Professor Snape is doing now?"
"Severus is currently employed teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts." Severus, that was it. "He has long wanted the position, but only with Voldemort . taken care of was it appropriate to place him there."
Everyone in the school had known that Snape had been one of Voldemort's followers. She had even caught a glimpse, years ago, of the Dark Mark he wore, that he would always wear, even after turning away from Dark Magic. His entire career as a spy had been recorded in the Daily Prophet the very day the war had ended. Sitting in the safety of Dumbledore's office, she felt a pang of pity balancing her ancient fear of Snape, who would have to live with his mistakes, no matter how thoroughly he regretted them. She, at least, could simply use a different name.
"Severus is a good man, Hermione. Don't let your memories of him color your professional relationship. He simply . made a few mistakes." Startled, she looked up: Dumbledore had always seemed to be able to read the thoughts of his students. "I hope your rooms are acceptable. You will find them preferable to your former quarters."
Hermione smiled, thinking of the old days with Harry and Ron in Gryffindor Tower, not so many years, but an eternity ago. Eight years and a war: so much had changed since then . She had been dismissed, she realized. "Thank you sir, yes," she mumbled and left.
Hermione was heading back to those rooms when she saw a dark figure in the corridor ahead of her. Snape, she thought reflexively. She was in the wing that housed all the teachers' rooms, she knew, but what were the chances of running into him right now?
"Professor Potter," he rumbled, nodding respectfully. Well, that was one of the nicer perks of being a teacher here: respect. "It's good to see you here," he muttered, falsely. Well, respect was respect, even if it was false.
She nodded. "Thank you, professor. As long as we're being proper," she said forcefully. "It's Granger again."
The sneer he always bore dropped from his lips. "I'm sorry to hear that, professor," he said, with more feeling than she could ever remember him using.
"Not as sorry as I am to say it."
"It was not a . mutual decision?" He looked genuinely concerned behind that cruel mask of his - which was the last thing she wanted from Snape. She did not want to believe she was so pathetic that Severus Snape could pity her.
"It was. Harry and I are just different people ." Her voice was starting to tremble now and she was gripped by a fear that must have shown on her face, a fear showing her emotions to this man. "Excuse me, professor," she whispered as she pushed past him in pursuit of her rooms, willing the tears in her eyes not to fall until she was far enough away.
Severus stepped aside for the girl to pass by, pausing in the dark hallway to watch her walk away, and then turned to the door to his rooms. "Frigidum," he muttered at it, and it swung open. He stalked toward the fireplace, almost forgetting to shut the door behind him.
The room was dark, with an eerie green light pouring in through the glass around the cold torches hanging from the ceiling, black curtains on windows he'd blacked out years ago. Everywhere but the area nearest the fire was icy cold, just as he liked it: it was the type of place one could wear a sweater and cloak and never sweat a drop. It was perfect, especially by his bed hung with dark curtains all around.
The Daily Prophet was still on the armchair where he had left it that morning, boasting a picture of Harry Potter and the Quidditch Cup. He had been surprised when he had heard they were to marry, but he had never expected it to end - especially not this soon. Severus read the first lines of the article his eyes settled on: "It's about time England won the Cup again. Back where it belongs," Potter declared last Friday after winning the Quidditch World Cup. That was something James would have said, Severus thought before he could check himself.
Damn that Potter boy for - for what, Severus? For being good at Quidditch? For not being good at being married? No, for not appreciating his wife. Hermione was too good for him. Not that Potter wasn't, well, a worthy human being, no matter how much he hated to admit it. Hermione Granger had always been intellectual in ways Potter would never be able to appreciate, he mused to himself. He remembered her better than he wanted to admit, an outstanding student in every possible way, a teacher's dream - and nightmare, too, for her loud mouth. He smiled to himself. Perhaps she' changed her talking habits as much as she'd changed her appearance.
He tossed the Prophet on the fire and sat in the armchair - the people in the pictures screaming silently and running for cover - calling a book on his chosen concentration over from the shelf. A wave of his wand on the chill air conjured a mug with his initials on it filled with steaming coffee: never would he learn to like tea. He considered, for a brief moment, apparating himself to someplace Mediterranean, someplace he where he had a chance to get coffee moderately better than the stuff the Hogwarts house elves brought him. Too much work, he decided, and fell asleep there in front of the fire.
"Hermione Granger. I am pleased to see you at Hogwarts again." Professor McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor House, had always been a comfort to her. The older woman's eyes were glittering brightly beneath her black witch's hat, in that old way she remembered. It was nice to have a familiar face, one from whom she both got and wanted concern. She was dressed in her teaching robes still, beneath them a bright tartan skirt, her hair done up in the old bun Hermione remembered. "Do sit down."
Hermione was ushered into the living room and into the chair across from the professor's. She was warm enough, beside the fire, yet she pulled her robes around herself. School had been in session for nearly a fortnight, but Hermione never spoke to any of the other teachers. In fact, rarely left her rooms at all, except for classes, required meetings, and the occasional meal. Somehow, she constantly felt that someone, somewhere, was looking at her with pity, an overwhelmingly creepy sensation, like what her Muggle parents would have called a "sixth sense."
"What can I do for you, my dear?" The older woman smiled at her. "You sent your last owl a few days before your arrival, but if I didn't know better I'd think you were avoiding me since then."
Hermione blushed. "I've been avoiding almost everyone, I'm afraid, Minerva. I'm still getting used to all this . silence." She gestured vaguely at the air around her head. "But I wanted to thank you, professor, for helping get this position. That's why I came to see you tonight."
"Why my dear girl, I had nothing to do with it. If anything, you should thank your friend Weasley. He and Albus have become quite thick since he got his position with the Ministry. One owl from him and Albus was willing to switch around the entire staff of Hogwarts."
Hermione knew that Ron and Dumbledore had been exchanging letters, but she had never thought much of it, keeping in relatively close contact with Minerva herself.
"He always did fancy you. You know, Hermione, I never would have said this while you were still married, but I always thought Ron would have been a better choice for you, my dear."
Hermione exhaled sharply. It only made sense that Ron would have been anxious to help her out. It was, however, far too close to home. She was wanted to say something, to ask Minerva what she had heard, but Minerva, whose eyes were obviously more concerned with measuring sugar for her tea than watching her expression, went on.
"The wife of a Minister of Magic attracts far less attention than that of the youngest Quidditch player in a century, after all." Minerva glanced up at Hermione. With a flick of her wand she conjured a cup and offered it to the girl. She declined. "That always bothered you."
Hermione suddenly wished she accepted the tea: if nothing else she could have sipped it to keep from talking. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be married not only to The-Boy-Who-Lived, but the Quidditch darling of England, not to mention the world? Every little girl and half the boys anywhere near our age read about it in the Daily Prophet and wondered why it hadn't been them."
Minerva nodded silently. It was hard to argue when what the girl was saying was so true.
"So now we're over, and everybody wants to know how I could kick out my wonderful husband Harry. I mean, honestly, is it that hard to understand? But no-one gives a damn how I feel about anything. It's like I don't even exist." Unintentionally, Hermione had let her voice become shrill even in its softness.
Minerva nodded calmly. That must have been a habit she'd picked up from Dumbledore, that sage nod that made her look older than she was. Or perhaps just wiser than Hermione remembered.
One of the house elves brought in coffee - obviously, word had gotten out of Hermione's whereabouts in the kitchens. "Your letters broke my heart, my dear. Especially there at the end. Then again," she said, seeming to have just noticed something. "Ron never could match your intelligence."
Hermione did not speak for several moments. At last, Minerva broke the silence. "I have heard that Harry is living with Cho Chang," she said, after a moment.
Hermione almost laughed out loud. "Cho? Come on, he can do better than that."
"I suppose, by that comment, that you mean yourself," Minerva said, looking at Hermione over the rims of her smallish, square, gold glasses.
She shook her head. "Everything with Harry was a foolish inclination: I see that now. It started as a childhood passion and it ought to have stayed that way." The coffee cup in her hands felt good, a bit of warmth in the cold of Minerva's quarters, the fire dwindling unchecked. It was the dreadful coffee the house elves prepared. At least it smelled good.
Allowing that last to drop, Minerva started again. "And are you seeing someone, Miss Granger?"
The question hung in the air like one of those obnoxious house ghosts, unanswered for several moments. Hermione was just silent for a while, watching the steam rise from her coffee cup. She could almost see Ron's face through it, as she had the last time they were together. "I received word that there was a position available here almost before proceedings began." She sighed heavily. "I barely had time to pack, much less date. I've never let my eye stray from Harry."
"Except for Ron."
Hermione snapped back from that dream she had been in. The older woman was looking at her as if she was searching for something particular in her face: it was useless to argue. "How did you know about that?"
She smiled. "I may be old, Hermione, but I'm not stupid."
Minerva swished her wand absently, and the empty teacup disappeared. She kept her eyes on the girl: Hermione seemed on the verge of tears. In fact, every time Minerva had caught a glimpse of her in the last two weeks, Hermione had looked like that. She changed the subject.
"You fit in here, Hermione: you were always meant to be an academic. You'll find where you belong soon enough. Besides, you're not the first to live in the shadow of a Potter, my girl."
Hermione remembered her history, and all the stories about James and Lily Potter. More than that, she had seen the way people acted around Harry: their days at Hogwarts had been colored by Harry's renown, every one.
"You'll get out of it. We Gryffindors are known for our bravery, are we not?"
Hermione looked at her former Head of House, glad for the hundredth time she had kept up contact. "You've said that before, Minerva, but I don't seem to know how to be brave. Not any more."
"My dear girl, you may not know, but you will learn. That was always your best quality." The wisdom in her voice quelled any response that leapt to Hermione's tongue, and that was that.
Hermione went back to her rooms feeling remarkably unsatisfied. Professor McGonagall, had always seemed so understanding and helpful. Could it be that all the professors were tainted by her memories of them? She sat down in the armchair by the fire, noticing for the first time how much professors' quarters were the same. Save for the particular color scheme, which for her was subdued blues and purples, her living room was precisely the same as McGonagall's. Ah, well, creativity was overrated.
She summoned one of the house elves and asked for a cup of coffee. It would have been easy enough to do it herself, but she just didn't feel like it. She had the feeling that tonight was going to be another sleepless night, another like so many she had spent towards the end of her pathetic marriage. Sipping the coffee, staring into the fire, she wondered when Harry would be home. It wasn't like him to be out this late .
Oh. A mental shake brought Hermione back to the present. She wished very much she had not just allowed her mind to go down that particularly painful path. In spite of this wish, an unbidden memory flashed to her mind, of one night like a thousand others, when Harry had come home, streaked with mud from his Quidditch game.
"You won," she observed from the grin on his face. She had long since stopped listening to the game at work. He nodded and bent down to kiss her. "Go take a shower."
"Oh, come on, Mione. No congratulations?" And he'd been drinking. Harshly, almost defiantly, she stood up and put her arms around him. She kissed him, hard, feeling his arms curl around her. It was old habit, she knew, the way he held her. The fire she had felt for him all those years ago, when Harry had been the best thing that had ever happened to her, when the one everybody loved had loved her. Harry Potter had stood up for her at school, had validated Hermione Granger's bookish personality by recognizing her worth.
And Hermione Potter had become a different woman from that shrill little girl. Armed with Harry's last name, she had found a job she was good at, Muggle though it was, and found friends who liked her for her wit and not what she could do for them. Strangest change of all, and slowest to come to the surface, was the realization that Harry's strength resisted her influence. He had grown up, and would no longer let her tell him how to do things. Like what time to come home.
So this new last name, one that at once signified a wizarding life and the love of one wizard in particular, and still tore her away from both, had become a weight that threatened to stifle her. It was a fate like being pressed to death until she could no longer bear it, and still she had muttered 'more weight.' And then a light, and redheaded, mustached light, had come into her life once again, and she had dared to reclaim a name she thought she'd forgotten, and a happiness she thought she'd lost. She drank that light in until it burned, burned away every happy thought it had brought and illumed.
And she, a woman of two names, had been destroyed.
Suddenly, Hermione realized that her coffee was cold and that she was exhausted. She set her half-drunk cup on the mantle and went to bed. At least one thing was clear: she was willing to follow Minerva's suggestion.
"Are you all right, Professor?" asked one of her first year students. Hermione nodded absently and smiled at the girl, trying to reassure her. All too well she remembered her own first few days at Hogwarts. It was not an easy experience, even for people more gregarious than she had been. The child was a Hufflepuff, she noted.
"I'm fine, Frances," she said, trying to sound poised. That seemed to placate the girl and she walked away, obviously still getting used to her robes. She was a Muggle-born, obviously, and as she tripped on the hem of her academic robes, it was clear she had never worn such things before.
Given her experience in Muggle chemistry, Hermione had been awarded the position of Potions teacher. While she was moving into her new quarters, a few days before classes began, it had struck her who had been in charge of Potions in her and Harry's day: Snape, she had recalled, though she supposed she would be obliged to call him by his first name, now. Samson, Samuel, Saint John .
She had glimpsed the man in question at the opening ceremonies, where it seemed to her he attended more out of requirement than to actually enjoy the celebration. He had barely paid attention to the Sorting, not even to the new Slytherins. She wondered if he was still Head of House. Though he had caught her staring at him, he had not acknowledged her then, even as a former student, and she had not seen him since. All the better then, she thought. He had terrified her as a child, mocked her and derided her almost to the point of tears once over the size of her teeth. Oh, she'd fixed that, but a glance in the mirror reminded her just how dreadful he had been.
Hermione swept into the Headmaster's office. She was trying very hard to take on the attitude of a teacher here at Hogwarts, but it wasn't going very well. She had lived as a Muggle for too long to make her robes swish the way she remembered just yet. Practice, practice, Hermione. Even her robes, sapphire blue with indigo trim, were a more ornate design than those worn by the older teachers, but a style that was gaining popularity among the younger wizards, especially around London. Albus Dumbledore sat behind the massive desk, just as she remembered it.
"Ah, Professor Potter," he said, quietly. "Is it still Potter, or shall I refer to you as Miss Granger?"
She was silent for a moment, wondering what she ought to answer. It was not easy to be married to The-Boy-Who-Lived, but it might be even more difficult to be divorced from him. "Granger will suffice, I think, sir. Everyone already knows . well, what happened. No point in attracting extra attention by using his name."
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "A wise choice, Hermione. I think it would be acceptable for you to call me Albus, would it not? You are no longer the child I once had to keep an eye on." The wit in his tone made her smile and she felt content in Dumbledore's omniscience. It felt strange to think of him by his first name, but she supposed they were colleagues now. "How do you feel about your new position?"
"It - I think I will get used to it, sir - Albus. It's quite an honor." He nodded again, agreeing with her assessment. Her question from earlier came to mind. "May I ask what Professor Snape is doing now?"
"Severus is currently employed teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts." Severus, that was it. "He has long wanted the position, but only with Voldemort . taken care of was it appropriate to place him there."
Everyone in the school had known that Snape had been one of Voldemort's followers. She had even caught a glimpse, years ago, of the Dark Mark he wore, that he would always wear, even after turning away from Dark Magic. His entire career as a spy had been recorded in the Daily Prophet the very day the war had ended. Sitting in the safety of Dumbledore's office, she felt a pang of pity balancing her ancient fear of Snape, who would have to live with his mistakes, no matter how thoroughly he regretted them. She, at least, could simply use a different name.
"Severus is a good man, Hermione. Don't let your memories of him color your professional relationship. He simply . made a few mistakes." Startled, she looked up: Dumbledore had always seemed to be able to read the thoughts of his students. "I hope your rooms are acceptable. You will find them preferable to your former quarters."
Hermione smiled, thinking of the old days with Harry and Ron in Gryffindor Tower, not so many years, but an eternity ago. Eight years and a war: so much had changed since then . She had been dismissed, she realized. "Thank you sir, yes," she mumbled and left.
Hermione was heading back to those rooms when she saw a dark figure in the corridor ahead of her. Snape, she thought reflexively. She was in the wing that housed all the teachers' rooms, she knew, but what were the chances of running into him right now?
"Professor Potter," he rumbled, nodding respectfully. Well, that was one of the nicer perks of being a teacher here: respect. "It's good to see you here," he muttered, falsely. Well, respect was respect, even if it was false.
She nodded. "Thank you, professor. As long as we're being proper," she said forcefully. "It's Granger again."
The sneer he always bore dropped from his lips. "I'm sorry to hear that, professor," he said, with more feeling than she could ever remember him using.
"Not as sorry as I am to say it."
"It was not a . mutual decision?" He looked genuinely concerned behind that cruel mask of his - which was the last thing she wanted from Snape. She did not want to believe she was so pathetic that Severus Snape could pity her.
"It was. Harry and I are just different people ." Her voice was starting to tremble now and she was gripped by a fear that must have shown on her face, a fear showing her emotions to this man. "Excuse me, professor," she whispered as she pushed past him in pursuit of her rooms, willing the tears in her eyes not to fall until she was far enough away.
Severus stepped aside for the girl to pass by, pausing in the dark hallway to watch her walk away, and then turned to the door to his rooms. "Frigidum," he muttered at it, and it swung open. He stalked toward the fireplace, almost forgetting to shut the door behind him.
The room was dark, with an eerie green light pouring in through the glass around the cold torches hanging from the ceiling, black curtains on windows he'd blacked out years ago. Everywhere but the area nearest the fire was icy cold, just as he liked it: it was the type of place one could wear a sweater and cloak and never sweat a drop. It was perfect, especially by his bed hung with dark curtains all around.
The Daily Prophet was still on the armchair where he had left it that morning, boasting a picture of Harry Potter and the Quidditch Cup. He had been surprised when he had heard they were to marry, but he had never expected it to end - especially not this soon. Severus read the first lines of the article his eyes settled on: "It's about time England won the Cup again. Back where it belongs," Potter declared last Friday after winning the Quidditch World Cup. That was something James would have said, Severus thought before he could check himself.
Damn that Potter boy for - for what, Severus? For being good at Quidditch? For not being good at being married? No, for not appreciating his wife. Hermione was too good for him. Not that Potter wasn't, well, a worthy human being, no matter how much he hated to admit it. Hermione Granger had always been intellectual in ways Potter would never be able to appreciate, he mused to himself. He remembered her better than he wanted to admit, an outstanding student in every possible way, a teacher's dream - and nightmare, too, for her loud mouth. He smiled to himself. Perhaps she' changed her talking habits as much as she'd changed her appearance.
He tossed the Prophet on the fire and sat in the armchair - the people in the pictures screaming silently and running for cover - calling a book on his chosen concentration over from the shelf. A wave of his wand on the chill air conjured a mug with his initials on it filled with steaming coffee: never would he learn to like tea. He considered, for a brief moment, apparating himself to someplace Mediterranean, someplace he where he had a chance to get coffee moderately better than the stuff the Hogwarts house elves brought him. Too much work, he decided, and fell asleep there in front of the fire.
"Hermione Granger. I am pleased to see you at Hogwarts again." Professor McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor House, had always been a comfort to her. The older woman's eyes were glittering brightly beneath her black witch's hat, in that old way she remembered. It was nice to have a familiar face, one from whom she both got and wanted concern. She was dressed in her teaching robes still, beneath them a bright tartan skirt, her hair done up in the old bun Hermione remembered. "Do sit down."
Hermione was ushered into the living room and into the chair across from the professor's. She was warm enough, beside the fire, yet she pulled her robes around herself. School had been in session for nearly a fortnight, but Hermione never spoke to any of the other teachers. In fact, rarely left her rooms at all, except for classes, required meetings, and the occasional meal. Somehow, she constantly felt that someone, somewhere, was looking at her with pity, an overwhelmingly creepy sensation, like what her Muggle parents would have called a "sixth sense."
"What can I do for you, my dear?" The older woman smiled at her. "You sent your last owl a few days before your arrival, but if I didn't know better I'd think you were avoiding me since then."
Hermione blushed. "I've been avoiding almost everyone, I'm afraid, Minerva. I'm still getting used to all this . silence." She gestured vaguely at the air around her head. "But I wanted to thank you, professor, for helping get this position. That's why I came to see you tonight."
"Why my dear girl, I had nothing to do with it. If anything, you should thank your friend Weasley. He and Albus have become quite thick since he got his position with the Ministry. One owl from him and Albus was willing to switch around the entire staff of Hogwarts."
Hermione knew that Ron and Dumbledore had been exchanging letters, but she had never thought much of it, keeping in relatively close contact with Minerva herself.
"He always did fancy you. You know, Hermione, I never would have said this while you were still married, but I always thought Ron would have been a better choice for you, my dear."
Hermione exhaled sharply. It only made sense that Ron would have been anxious to help her out. It was, however, far too close to home. She was wanted to say something, to ask Minerva what she had heard, but Minerva, whose eyes were obviously more concerned with measuring sugar for her tea than watching her expression, went on.
"The wife of a Minister of Magic attracts far less attention than that of the youngest Quidditch player in a century, after all." Minerva glanced up at Hermione. With a flick of her wand she conjured a cup and offered it to the girl. She declined. "That always bothered you."
Hermione suddenly wished she accepted the tea: if nothing else she could have sipped it to keep from talking. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be married not only to The-Boy-Who-Lived, but the Quidditch darling of England, not to mention the world? Every little girl and half the boys anywhere near our age read about it in the Daily Prophet and wondered why it hadn't been them."
Minerva nodded silently. It was hard to argue when what the girl was saying was so true.
"So now we're over, and everybody wants to know how I could kick out my wonderful husband Harry. I mean, honestly, is it that hard to understand? But no-one gives a damn how I feel about anything. It's like I don't even exist." Unintentionally, Hermione had let her voice become shrill even in its softness.
Minerva nodded calmly. That must have been a habit she'd picked up from Dumbledore, that sage nod that made her look older than she was. Or perhaps just wiser than Hermione remembered.
One of the house elves brought in coffee - obviously, word had gotten out of Hermione's whereabouts in the kitchens. "Your letters broke my heart, my dear. Especially there at the end. Then again," she said, seeming to have just noticed something. "Ron never could match your intelligence."
Hermione did not speak for several moments. At last, Minerva broke the silence. "I have heard that Harry is living with Cho Chang," she said, after a moment.
Hermione almost laughed out loud. "Cho? Come on, he can do better than that."
"I suppose, by that comment, that you mean yourself," Minerva said, looking at Hermione over the rims of her smallish, square, gold glasses.
She shook her head. "Everything with Harry was a foolish inclination: I see that now. It started as a childhood passion and it ought to have stayed that way." The coffee cup in her hands felt good, a bit of warmth in the cold of Minerva's quarters, the fire dwindling unchecked. It was the dreadful coffee the house elves prepared. At least it smelled good.
Allowing that last to drop, Minerva started again. "And are you seeing someone, Miss Granger?"
The question hung in the air like one of those obnoxious house ghosts, unanswered for several moments. Hermione was just silent for a while, watching the steam rise from her coffee cup. She could almost see Ron's face through it, as she had the last time they were together. "I received word that there was a position available here almost before proceedings began." She sighed heavily. "I barely had time to pack, much less date. I've never let my eye stray from Harry."
"Except for Ron."
Hermione snapped back from that dream she had been in. The older woman was looking at her as if she was searching for something particular in her face: it was useless to argue. "How did you know about that?"
She smiled. "I may be old, Hermione, but I'm not stupid."
Minerva swished her wand absently, and the empty teacup disappeared. She kept her eyes on the girl: Hermione seemed on the verge of tears. In fact, every time Minerva had caught a glimpse of her in the last two weeks, Hermione had looked like that. She changed the subject.
"You fit in here, Hermione: you were always meant to be an academic. You'll find where you belong soon enough. Besides, you're not the first to live in the shadow of a Potter, my girl."
Hermione remembered her history, and all the stories about James and Lily Potter. More than that, she had seen the way people acted around Harry: their days at Hogwarts had been colored by Harry's renown, every one.
"You'll get out of it. We Gryffindors are known for our bravery, are we not?"
Hermione looked at her former Head of House, glad for the hundredth time she had kept up contact. "You've said that before, Minerva, but I don't seem to know how to be brave. Not any more."
"My dear girl, you may not know, but you will learn. That was always your best quality." The wisdom in her voice quelled any response that leapt to Hermione's tongue, and that was that.
Hermione went back to her rooms feeling remarkably unsatisfied. Professor McGonagall, had always seemed so understanding and helpful. Could it be that all the professors were tainted by her memories of them? She sat down in the armchair by the fire, noticing for the first time how much professors' quarters were the same. Save for the particular color scheme, which for her was subdued blues and purples, her living room was precisely the same as McGonagall's. Ah, well, creativity was overrated.
She summoned one of the house elves and asked for a cup of coffee. It would have been easy enough to do it herself, but she just didn't feel like it. She had the feeling that tonight was going to be another sleepless night, another like so many she had spent towards the end of her pathetic marriage. Sipping the coffee, staring into the fire, she wondered when Harry would be home. It wasn't like him to be out this late .
Oh. A mental shake brought Hermione back to the present. She wished very much she had not just allowed her mind to go down that particularly painful path. In spite of this wish, an unbidden memory flashed to her mind, of one night like a thousand others, when Harry had come home, streaked with mud from his Quidditch game.
"You won," she observed from the grin on his face. She had long since stopped listening to the game at work. He nodded and bent down to kiss her. "Go take a shower."
"Oh, come on, Mione. No congratulations?" And he'd been drinking. Harshly, almost defiantly, she stood up and put her arms around him. She kissed him, hard, feeling his arms curl around her. It was old habit, she knew, the way he held her. The fire she had felt for him all those years ago, when Harry had been the best thing that had ever happened to her, when the one everybody loved had loved her. Harry Potter had stood up for her at school, had validated Hermione Granger's bookish personality by recognizing her worth.
And Hermione Potter had become a different woman from that shrill little girl. Armed with Harry's last name, she had found a job she was good at, Muggle though it was, and found friends who liked her for her wit and not what she could do for them. Strangest change of all, and slowest to come to the surface, was the realization that Harry's strength resisted her influence. He had grown up, and would no longer let her tell him how to do things. Like what time to come home.
So this new last name, one that at once signified a wizarding life and the love of one wizard in particular, and still tore her away from both, had become a weight that threatened to stifle her. It was a fate like being pressed to death until she could no longer bear it, and still she had muttered 'more weight.' And then a light, and redheaded, mustached light, had come into her life once again, and she had dared to reclaim a name she thought she'd forgotten, and a happiness she thought she'd lost. She drank that light in until it burned, burned away every happy thought it had brought and illumed.
And she, a woman of two names, had been destroyed.
Suddenly, Hermione realized that her coffee was cold and that she was exhausted. She set her half-drunk cup on the mantle and went to bed. At least one thing was clear: she was willing to follow Minerva's suggestion.