Hermione Granger always did things the hard way. He knew that. She would put clues together, say things like, "Maybe," and, "Of course!" and then disappear for hours while she tested her conclusions. It had irritated him when they were twelve, and it drove him mad now they were adults. "I'm not coming back," then nothing? For four years? He was used to her lack of explanations, but wasn't that a bit overboard?
On the one hand, he understood. How many times had he wanted to chuck his wand and disappear? But he hadn't. No, he had faced his responsibilities, Hermione-like, while she had escaped.
On the other hand, they'd gone through hell together. Surely he, of all people, deserved an owl once in awhile? Christmastime, at least. Instead, she'd made things difficult, not just for herself, but for all of them. And now, when he really needed her and her level-headedness, she was out of his reach. He didn't even know where she was.
Snape knew something, he was sure of it. For years he'd been dropping hints, mentioning Hermione whenever Harry made wild threats. The war may have been over, Harry and Snape may have called a truce, but they never lost an opportunity to spite each other. "You'll want to look your best, Potter," the greasy git said. "Old friends will be dropping by. Professor McGonagall was important to more than just yourself."
Harry only glared at the hook-nosed new headmaster and returned his attention to the landscape that had so coloured his childhood. A biting cold wind howled across the Hogwarts grounds. On the edge of the Forbidden Forest a light glowed in the gamekeeper's hut. Hagrid had aged swiftly since Dumbledore's death. While still enormous, he seemed to take up less space somehow. His hair and beard were shot through with white, and he rarely left his cabin except for lessons.
The Forbidden Forest glittered in the moonlight, deceptively quiet in the winter night. Though it was no longer forbidden to him, Harry didn't like it. It no longer held adventure, but death. He'd done battle there. He'd killed there. He turned away.
There was the Quidditch pitch, where Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell had been killed by Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy in a macabre Quidditch match. The Whomping Willow, where Charlie Weasley had lost a leg, swayed against the wind, pulverizing any snowflake daring enough to go near it. The lake, into which Viktor Krum dived one too many times, was frozen over. They'd never found Viktor's body. In fact, everywhere Harry turned, he saw the final resting place of someone he'd known.
And now Professor McGonagall was dead. He wondered when, and where, it would all end.
"Let's go, Potter," Snape grumbled.
It seemed the only good thing to come out of this latest tragedy was watching Snape struggle to be gracious to people he'd always despised. Harry grudgingly straightened his robes and followed Snape out of the office and down to the dungeons, where a Ministry official was waiting to read McGonagall's will. Harry thought he already knew what it would say, but he was Harry Potter – he had to be there. Snape would get the headship, of course. Lupin would be asked to stay on for Transfiguration. He, Harry, would be left McGonagall's old office and the position of Head of Gryffindor House. The whole reordering of Hogwarts would be detailed in the will. As her last act of well-meaning dictatorship, Professor McGonagall would make sure that her directives for the school were honoured, even after she was gone.
The only real mystery, in fact, was if Hermione had been found and whether or not she'd come back. It had been bruited about at the funeral that McGonagall had something she'd always meant to give Hermione, but no one knew what it was.
He stopped at the doorway to the old Potions classroom, unwilling to cross the threshold. "Move, Potter," Snape grumbled, and Harry did as ordered – a knee-jerk reaction built over years of studying Potions under the surliest teacher at Hogwarts.
Behind Snape's old desk now stood a Ministry official so old and decrepit Harry hardly knew if it was a man or woman. Only Snape's brusque greeting, "Madam Aris," gave it away. But the ancient witch was not the most extraordinary sight to meet Harry's eyes. As he turned to find a seat, he saw that the entire dungeon was filled with people.
Most of the Hogwarts staff had retired after Voldemort's downfall. Harry understood: the Last Battle had been fought in and around the castle. Only those who has nowhere else to go had remained. The violence wrought in corridors and on the grounds had left its mark in ways that few who had lived through it could stomach. A new generation of teachers had risen up to take the places of the Sprouts and Vectors and Flitwicks of the past. Even old Binns had retired – though he continued to haunt the castle. Around the room, though, it seemed the new and old generations had come together one last time.
Dozens of past students filled their old seats in the Potions classroom. Harry nodded to Dean Thomas, who was sitting with Lavender Brown. There was Oliver Wood, who was wearing a black armband with his Puddlemere United uniform in honour of his late Head of House. And the Weasleys were out in full force: Bill, with Fleur Delacour. Charlie, wooden leg attached, beside his mother. Fred, George, and George's wife Melissa. Percy and Penelope. Ron, with Susan Bones, whose hair was red enough to suit any Weasley. Ginny, looking radiantly pregnant, holding her husband's hand. Only Mr. Weasley was missing. He had died valiantly, battling Lucius Malfoy.
There were others, too. Clarendon McGonagall, the good professor's only living relative, was there, sitting in the first row. Harry had met her – "Call me Claree" – at the funeral in November. Claree was about as magical as Harry's left shoe, but she'd heard tales all her life about her mysterious great-aunt and was here in hope of receiving a fortune. Harry had disliked her from the first and understood perfectly well why Professor McGonagall had never mentioned her.
Aside from this fortune-hunting distant relation, Trelawney was there, down from her attic hideaway. Cornelius Fudge, though Harry didn't know what that disgrace to Wizard-kind expected to receive. Rosemerta, from the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Professor Sprout (retired now), Tonks, Lupin, Luna Lovegood and her crackpot father, and at least thirty others Harry knew. He nodded to them all before finding a seat with the Weasleys. His back was thus turned when the dungeon door opened to admit one last person. One look at his best friend's face, however, told him who had finally arrived. Harry sat beside Ron and Susan and faced her.
Hermione.
-o-
It wasn't as bad as she'd feared – it was worse. Far worse. How big a fool was she to Apparate into Hogsmeade and take the old Honeydukes passage back to the castle? She should have come back on a plane. To London. After several years of avoiding magic, the effort required to cross half the globe in a single bound left her shaking and ill. And there was still the long walk through the secret tunnel to consider. By the time she arrived at the Potions classroom, her skin was grey and clammy, though her cheeks were flushed, and she was about to fall down. Not quite the grand entrance Ana had convinced her of.
And then, all those eyes staring at her! She could see the recrimination in Ginny's eyes, and Ron's, even from this distance. They would be slow to forgive her, if they ever did. And Molly – Hermione couldn't meet Molly's gaze; it was too painful. Hermione was to blame for Arthur's death, after all. If she'd been stronger, she could have handled Lucius Malfoy on her own.
She averted her gaze from the Weasleys and landed them on Snape, which was just as bad – perhaps worse. He sat there, so knowing and superior: Hermione could almost feel the smirk on his lips. She knew that he could read her mind, probably was doing it at that very moment. Her defences had never been weaker, but she didn't care. She swung away once more, completely unaware she was reeling around the room like a drunkard, and finally looked at Harry. What she saw in his green eyes almost pushed her to her knees.
Snape, of all people, rescued her. "Sit down, Ms. Granger," he barked, "before you fall down." A chair appeared to her right, near the door, and she fell into it without a word.
Madam Aris cleared her throat in an eerily familiar way, "Hem hem," before beginning to read. "The last will and testament of Minerva Louise Chadwyck Boudicca McGonagall." As the ancient witch droned on, Hermione fought to regain control of her body. Slowly, calmly, concentrating on nothing but the ancient stone floor beneath her feet, she drew several deep breaths and felt the nausea pass. Soon, the cold sweat ceased, as well as the trembling. By the time she heard her name read from the legal scroll, some of her natural colour had returned.
"To Hermione Granger, provided she returns from Thailand in time to hear this read, I leave the post of Potions Mistress and Head of Slytherin House, as well as the complete contents of my library, to be dispensed with as she sees fit. If Miss Granger does not return, I leave her my regards and this piece of advice: Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure."
At this Madam Aris looked up and adjusted her bifocals. "It appears Hermione Granger has fulfilled her end, so she will receive the assets as laid out." One rheumy glance at Hermione, then the Ministry official returned to her droning, leaving Hermione's mind reeling.
What was McGonagall playing at, making her Potions Mistress? And head of Slytherin to boot? Madness! She hadn't even so much as whispered a spell in almost three years. How was she supposed to take up the reins of Snape's old house, for God's sake?
...Though McGonagall's library would be an amazing addition to her own reference books.
A/N: Thanks, reviewers! Feedback rocks. I haven't written any fanfics in almost two years, so I'm glad to know that at least it's still interesting…
Sorry about any confusion or total wrong-ness with the will stuff. I have no idea about legalese in general, or magical British legalese in particular. Any tips y'all have, I'll happily accept!
And…um…Kosam. Are you kidding me? Don't be ridiculous, okay? One, there are really only seven plots in all of fiction (Writing Fiction, by Garry Disher). Two, I didn't steal anything. I don't need to, thanks very much. Three, puh-LEEZE! If you're going to question the integrity of my writing, at least back it up. Whose story do you think I "stole"? Show me. And whose memories of Bangkok am I channelling, if not my own? Just wondering.
Cheers! And happy reading.