"The war is over!"
A roar of jubilation crashed through the Great Hall, wave after wave of cheering, weeping, applause. The war that had raged across the world for so many years had ended; the Dark was defeated and the warriors of the Light would return home at last.
Albus Dumbledore surveyed his students with a quiet twinkle in his eye. He stroked the downy white owl at his elbow, folded the precious parchment, and raised his glass. The Hall fell silent, all eyes turned to the aged Headmaster.
"I would like to propose a toast. First, to the memories of our compatriots." He gestured to the six silent, black-draped chairs at the faculty table. The students soberly copied the gesture.
"Next, to those who will be returning home soon: may their journeys be short and happy." Another roar of applause.
"Finally," and he gazed around the room over the edges of his glasses, "to each of you, that you have flourished despite your circumstances. I hope that the years ahead of you will be easier than those behind."
At his elbow, Hermione Granger smiled slightly. She tipped her glass toward Severus Snape and Madame Pomphrey, some of the only faculty still remaining from her own student days. She said a quick, fervent prayer for the safe return of those she loved.
Dumbledore lowered himself into his seat as food appeared on the table. Hermione leaned in to whisper to him.
"Albus." No matter how often she said it, his name still sounded odd coming from her own mouth. "Any word yet?"
"Yes, Miss Granger." He nodded slowly. "They are all coming home at last."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Snape wandered around the Potions classroom, absently touching phials and beakers. The war had all but passed him by; he had watched students leave, colleagues fall and old compatriots meet all-too untimely ends. He himself had stayed at Hogwarts, his only outward concession to current events the addition of several key potions to the yearly repertoire. While the other professors restructured their classes to at least include some mention of the war, Snape's students joked that, in the dungeons, time ceased to exist.
It was far from the truth. Snape received regular owls from an old acquaintance in the Ministry, keeping him abreast of the currents of war. He knew the battles by heart, every advance, every defeat, every former student that died in every valiant stand in every country of the world. He kept his eye on certain names, always half-expecting to find them among the lists of the dead, always strangely relieved when they were not. Now, they would be returning here, as colleagues; he felt a leap of unfamiliar expectation at the prospect of seeing their young faces again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first heroes returned in early summer. The Weasley brothers, except Percy and Bill, had survived the war despite serving in the most dangerous capacities. Fred and George, to everyone's surprise, had enlisted as counterintelligence officers, helping infiltrate the ranks of Voldemort's Death-Eaters. They returned to Hogwarts for a brief time in May to rest and recover. Charlie came not much later and stayed only a few days, then left to resume the life he had put on hold for the duration. Percy and Bill returned a little later, a mournful homecoming, two black wooden boxes unloaded from the train on an obligingly rainy morning. They were buried at Hogwarts by their parents' request, the first of many former students to return home forever.
Ron returned the same month. He had grown into a secure, confident man during his tenure as an Auror for the ministry, yet sadness lay thick across his formerly cheerful features. He spent hours in Hermione's chambers, holding her as if he would lose her at any moment. They had not seen each other in two years, not since he had slipped out in the night and disappeared from her life. All he would say of those two years was that he didn't want to talk about them.
"I just want to skip over them. I'd rather concentrate on what comes now." What came now was a position as Charms Master at Hogwarts in the fall, and a wedding in the winter.
Ginny also came home in May, although hers was not a hero's return. Her parents had sent her away to keep her as far as possible from the British and American conflicts; she passed the war with Anne's sister Betsy, serving in Vancouver as a Healer.
Hermione kept records of the others, the survivors and the dead. Neville Longbottom, Colin Creevey, Seamus Finnegan– their regiment was destroyed at the Battle of Dunkeld in the last weeks of the war. She sent flowers to their families and mourned in her own quiet way, spending hours in the library away from the other professors.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Miss Granger." Hermione looked up from her research and nodded a greeting at Dumbledore.
"Albus. Any news? Should we expect...anyone else?"
Dumbledore settled into the chair beside her. "Yes, Hermione." His voice was soothing. "She should be arriving any day now. As for him...as always, that remains to be seen. I have faith that he will come back to us, though." They sat together in companionable silence. She shook herself slightly and dragged herself from the chair.
"I hate to run off like this, Albus. I need to see about the new portraits– I was hoping to have them all hung before the school term starts." He nodded, waving her out the door. He continued to sit, lost in thought, for a long time.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~Anne~
Sometimes I think the worst moments of my life happen when I'm sitting in front of a mirror. When I was at school, I remember sitting for hours, trying to figure out ways to cover up the evidence of my encounters with a professor; then, every mirror I passed was a potential betrayal, an enemy in my own battle against knowledge. After I went to Hogwarts, the mirror was a silent collaborator, the one and only person I talked to for months on end as I tried to figure out who this person was that I was becoming. As I made friends, settled into the routine of my new home, I noticed mirrors less and less, some days forgetting to look in them entirely.
That changed during the war. A mirror is an operative's best friend– it tells you when you're succeeding or failing, when your disguise is slipping, what to adjust, how to act. It's the safe trial run before the most dangerous performances. I lived in my mirror for four years, until I knew every inch of my own face far better than anyone ever had.
Now, I sit in front of my old childhood mirror in my Gram's house, and wonder who that woman is staring out at me from the depths of the glass. I don't recognize her anymore– the cold, flat eyes, copper hair streaked with bone white, the sunburnt skin seeming brittle to the touch. I turn my face to the right; she mimics me, and we both stare at the map of scars that obscures the once-strong features. Her mouth twitches upward, slightly, a smile so ironic it is painful to watch. I adjust my own dark blue veils, an habitual motion fine-tuned by years in the Middle East, covering her scars with fabric the color of night. Her eyes are shockingly icy, floating like chips of jade above the ocean of blue.
The face is lean and hard, the body taught with muscle and tension. Would any of my old friends recognize me, even if I went unveiled? I would find out soon enough. I lifted a single parchment from the dressing table, absently stroking the tiny brown owl that had delivered the message, and reread the summons.
I turned away from the mirror to stare through another sheet of glass onto the city streets. Edinburgh hadn't changed as much as I had expected, a forcible reminder that our wars were not always the wars of Muggles. The great castle still stood above the rolling waves of the old city, a pile of crumbling stone and glass and grass. Gram's house hadn't changed either– I don't think it had changed at all since I was a small child visiting for Midsummer holidays. She had operated a vast network of correspondence and intelligence from this house during the war; letters from every battle or operation or secret cabal had passed through these walls safely. Now I was home, for a while, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of a life I thought would end in the war.
I eyed the sheet of parchment still lying on my dressing table. It glowed faintly around the edges, dark script stark against the creamy paper. I picked it up and read it again.
Miss Llewellyn-Pale,
We would like to extend an offer of employment beginning with the Fall term of this year. As you may know, we have lost a substantial number of our staff to the war, and we find ourselves far short of the necessary number of teachers. We hope to receive your reply promptly.
Cordially,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
P.S. It's time to come home, Anne.
I tossed the letter back onto the cluttered surface, knocking over several tiny bottles. Nejat, my hawk, ruffled her feathers and danced from foot to foot in agitation. I stroked her head absently, noting that her feathers were damp.
"Have you been out today, my love? It must have been foggy." She cocked her head at me, her yellow eyes glinting. "I know you don't like this weather. Neither do I, but we'll have to get used to it. Poor dear. At least I was born here. You must be miserable, and it's not even that cold yet." I was afraid for her health once winter came; Nejat had never known snow or cold or ice in her life in the desert.
A slight ache throbbed between my eyes; I was still unaccustomed to reading left to right. I looked up from the page and stared around my bedroom. Gram had kept the room intact throughout the long years of the war; some instinct, perhaps, that told her I would desperately need familiar things around me when I returned home at last. My weary eyes drank in the cool blue and white linens and the wide view of Edinburgh outside the windows. Was I ready to leave this place, the only place where I had found rest after the war?
I peeled a long strip of parchment from the bottom edge of Dumbledore's letter. I had learned early on in our acquaintance that Nejat wouldn't carry full-sized letters in her talons; she was trained to fly messages in tiny tubes strapped to her legs, and couldn't land if her feet were occupied. Jotting a quick reply, I extended my arm to the dust-colored bird perched on the windowsill. Nejat hopped onto my wrist and nibbled at my hair as I fastened the message to her leg.
"Go now. Fly north, find Dumbledore. Hurry." She soared out the window, a streak of tawny feathers against the blue sky.
Suddenly anxious, I roamed around my childhood bedroom, absently touching things that tried to be familiar to me, but failed. My old toys, books, the crisp white and blue linens, a closet full of clothes that belonged to someone I didn't know. I laughed, abrupt and harsh in the tranquil room. At least packing wouldn't be difficult– I owned almost nothing, had very little clothing. All of my worldly possessions would now fit comfortably inside my old school trunk.
The door snicked open behind me, and I caught my Gram's eye in the mirror. I wondered if she had any idea how much I'd missed her tiny, tweed-clad appearance while I was in the desert. She surveyed the room, noted Nejat's absence, the torn parchment, and my inky fingers in one glance.
"Anne." My Gram's soft brogue at the doorway.
"Yes, Gram" I turned to face her, instinctively drawing the veil over the lower part of my face. Worry marked her gentle face.
"Dearest, was that the letter from Dumbledore?"
"Yes Gram. I've replied." I smiled reassuringly at her.
"You're going then." It was less a question than a statement of fact.
"Where else would I go, Gram? I can't stay here forever. The doctor said I'm healed as well as I ever will be, there's no reason to wait longer. Besides, I need to be back among familiar faces."
She touched the top of my head gingerly. Poor Gram– she didn't know how to act around me anymore. I felt so weary, so tired of the way things had become. I pressed my thumb against a low, rotten ache in my temple. Gram touched me on the shoulder, let me cling to her against the onslaught of anxiety.
"Come down to eat, sweetest. You don't eat enough." She crossed to the doorway, hesitated, and turned back to me. "And Anne. Your mother wrote. Your sister's back home."
I nodded. Betsy had also spent the years of the war abroad, but she, unlike me, had passed her time in primarily administrative capacities. My parents would be proudest of her.
"That's good Gram. They need a daughter they can claim."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Great Hall was clogged with students in early June; Dumbledore had reinstated summer school during the war years as a safe haven for his students, and many had stayed on that last summer rather than return home to the sad work of rebuilding their world. They would all be returning home for a few weeks before the start of term to visit and celebrate or mourn.
On Midsummer Night, the Hall was wreathed in garlands of fresh summer wildflowers twined with shimmering ribbons, the ensorcelled ceiling reflecting a vast velvet sky pinned together with a perfect full moon. The faculty seemed more relaxed than the students had ever seen them; even Snape seemed pleasant that evening.
Hermione and Ron sat at the high table together. "Do you think they'll come, 'Mione?" Ron reverted to his old childhood nickname for her. He dished a helping of baked summer squash onto his plate; she smiled affectionately to see that his appetite was finally returning.
"I don't know, love. I think he will, but I don't know about her. Dumbledore says any day now they'll both be here, but I'm just not sure if she'll come at all." Her face folded in worried creases.
Ron squeezed her knee beneath the table. "She always was more stubborn than we thought. Remember how she stood up to Draco, all those years. And don't forget how she used to talk back to Snape. Bloody near killed him, I think." He squeezed in another mouthful of squash. Hermione nodded.
"You weren't here the last time, when she left. You were still in training in London. It was awful, Ron. She and Harry argued; he told her he wanted her to go home to her family where she would be safe, she wanted to go with him and fight. She ended up staying in Edinburgh, Dumbledore told us, but she only stayed at home long enough to prepare to enter the war. I don't think they've seen each other in...what...six years?" She shook her head, picking at her food.
"Eight."
Hermione and Ron both jumped at the sudden harsh voice. The Great Hall fell silent, students and professors slack-jawed in astonishment at the odd figure that had Apparated before the faculty table. The person was slight and seemed thin, but all hints at the person's identity were erased by the clothes the figure wore. A jet-black robe fell to the floor, the sleeves extended to the knuckles, every inch of flesh completely concealed. The figure's head was covered by a deep blue scarf, and the face was covered with a matching veil. Two black-rimmed eyes stared out, flat and cold, between the layers of veiling. A massive tawny bird perched on the figure's wrist; it bridled and screamed, a single challenging note in the still room.
Snape and Ron leaped to their feet, wands lowered at the figure. Students scrambled away from the threatening entity, stories of Death Eaters still fresh in their minds. The figure stood, motionless, at the center of a storm of activity. One dark hand stroked the nervous bird.
"Silence." Dumbledore's voice rumbled over the noisy hall. "Every will please return to your seats. Professor Snape, Professor Weasely. Thank you for your vigilance, but I think you will find that no defense is necessary." Dumbledore sat back down and waited.
The figure turned toward him. "That's quite a welcome, Headmaster. Makes a person feel right at home." The dark-rimmed eyes danced in grim amusement. Dumbledore gestured to the empty seat to his right.
"Please join us."
The figure stared at the seat that Dumbledore had indicated. The wide eyes turned to him in disbelief. "Oh, sir. Not Minerva."
Dumbledore nodded. "I am afraid so. She would have wanted you to take her chair, though."
The other professors were still wary. Hermione leaned around Ron. "Albus. Perhaps you could let the rest of us in on the secret here."
Before Dumbledore could speak, the dark figure stepped forward.
"I think I should answer that. It's only right, since I gave you such a scare."
One hand lifted to the side of the head and released a single pin. As they all watched, the figure slid the veils over the head and dropped them to the floor. A rich flood of shimmering copper and blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, partially covering her face, and icy green eyes snapped from a deeply tanned face. Hermione gasped aloud and began to sob. Ron hurtled from his chair to wrap her in a massive hug. Snape rose from his seat, a frosted wave of relief washing over him.
"Welcome back to Hogwarts, Miss Llewellyn-Pale." Her head turned toward his deep voice, her eyes shimmering at him through Ron's long firecracker hair. She pulled away from him gently, and faced her old Potions master.
"Actually, Professor Snape, it's just Llewellyn now. I dropped my father's name years ago." She smiled grimly at him, stretched like a cat, long and lithe, wrapping the veils back over her hair and face. She stepped behind the long table and seated herself in Minerva McGonagall's old chair. Snape dropped back into his customary chair, wondering when the other would show up.
~~~~~~~~
~Anne~
I didn't mean to frighten anyone.
Perhaps that's not the truth. I did want to startle them, to impress upon them that I was no longer their sweet Anne. To remind them of what I did in the war.
I didn't expect so many empty seats, so many of the faculty gone. The Hall looks so different without them there.
Even the students don't look as I remember. These children aren't like we were; they don't have that air of protected innocence anymore. They look like survivors, not children.