Hermione wakes up, and Tom is gone. The tent is empty and white.
She sits up in one fluid motion and realizes, startled, that her body does not whine in pain. Muscles move, sinew stretches, bones shift. All without aching. She pushes herself up to her feet and leaves the tent. The sun is high in the sky and shines unyieldingly bright. Noon. The warmth bleeds thoroughly into her body.
There's no sign of Tom or a note, only ashes in the fire pit. She grabs the towel hanging on the makeshift clothesline, and heads for the Great Lake. She looks around once more for Tom at the edge of the water. Then she strips, dropping her dusty clothes into a pile - ripped jeans, grey tee, plaid shirt - and dives headfirst into the crystal clear surface.
Surprisingly, the water is lukewarm. She squints against the sun's reflection, then looks away. Smelts, Bass and Carps swim in swarms around the shelf, their scales catching sunlight and dotting the translucent water in colour. After a while, her body starts to shiver. She washes, scrubbing the dust from her face, and running her hands through her hair, untangling the knots as best she can. When she leaves the water and rubs herself dry, her skin is wrinkled and tender. Before the war, her skin had always been soft and smooth. Now, rough patches and cuts decorate her body, accented by a crimson-coloured scar that will never completely heal. She scourgifies her clothes, then puts them on. Tom was right; it doesn't get rid of the smell.
Tom has been right about a lot of things regarding magic in the last couple of days. About things not taught in school, things their professors said were against the rules. Things that Harry thought were not fair. A scoff leaves her lips. As if anything is fair in war.
She contemplates going back to the camp but decides against it. Nothing good comes from sitting around all day, doing nothing. Her muscles cry for attention and exercise. After so many days of rest, her body longs for any movement. So, she takes off into the ruined building to search for Tom.
The castle's south side - close to the Whomping Willow and Hagrid's old hut - is mostly untouched. There are craters blasted deep into the cliffs, and some of the brickwork has holes. But most walls still stand. Vines creep out from underneath the castle, winding around the stones. Here too, the magic has started to reclaim its land.
Hermione is close to the greenhouses when she sees movement in a rift in the castle's facade. She climbs two rocks at once, jumps over a trunk growing crossways through the room, and lands in the former alchemy classroom. The sun has broken in through the rift and paints the walls. A half-ripped papyrus scroll collects dust in one corner. Glass from broken flasks crunch under her boots. Half of the tables are thrown over or destroyed. She snakes her way into the adjoining storeroom, and even further into the aisles.
Nearing the end of one of the shelves, she sees a large, hunched shadow. Her body freezes.
Wet, gurgling sounds come from around the corner, sending a chill down her spine. A terrible, high screech pierces her eardrums, silenced quickly by wet ripping. Hackles raised, she searches for her wand. Her fingers fly over every pocket, every niche.
Nothing.
Empty.
Horrified, she realizes that she probably forgot it near the Lake. Before she can take another step back, the shadow rounds the corner. First, a grey-coloured muzzle appears. Nostrils flaring, the head comes next, then a sleek leopard-like body and tail. The beast is silver-purple coloured, with small spikes around its mane. Blood is smeared all around its muzzle, running in droplets down onto its chest.
Hermione doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. Can't breathe. Her whole existence is frozen, trapped in the predator's gaze. The grey beast bares its teeth. Its talons start to move on the tiles, digging into stone on the bring of attack. As it crouches down in preparation to lunge, her heart skips a beat.
She takes half a step back, about to turn and sprint, when something flies past her head, hitting the creature in the face. The giant rears in surprise, sending droplets of blood flying, and hastily retreats out of sight. For a moment the corridor is empty, half-lit and silent, except for her panting. Then, Tom steps up next to her, peeling himself out of the darkness and into the sun's glow. His form creates a stark contrast. Almost as if he doesn't belong in the light.
Slowly, Hermione's heart starts to beat.
"That will be hard to wash out," Tom says, nodding at the ruby-coloured drops on her shirt.
"You're worried about a few blood splatters on my shirt?" Her body is still shivering from the tension. Her voice isn't.
"It's a nice shirt," he says, nonchalant. When he turns around and enters a nearby door, Hermione follows him.
They soon end up inside the old Defense Against Dark Arts office. Tom goes straight up to the teacher's desk, pushes it away, and starts to clear the rubble on the tiles. Hermione stands behind him, watching him work, before going to lean on a nearby desk as exhaustion slips into her bones. Going from zero to one hundred still took a lot out of her, even when fully healed.
"Fucking cat," she mumbles, scratching a nail over the darkened spot on her shirt.
"Nundu," Tom offers helpfully, in the most unhelpful and righteous tone he can muster. He's not looking at her, but Hermione's sure there's mischief glimmering in those grey eyes.
"Nundu. Right." She scratches at the drying blood again but gives up when it makes no difference. "We're in bloody Scotland, and a tropical jungle cat just tried to devour me for lunch. What did you even throw at it?"
"Scamander's Encyclopedia about magical creatures."
"You threw a book?"
"Well, not my first choice, but I figured between sacrificing the book or you, the book would be easier to replace."
Hermione flinches at the sudden, harsh words but stops herself from lashing out. She swallows, then,
"This is the second time you saved my life. Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Clearing away the last of the debris, Tom goes after the tiles on the floor, prying them from the ground with a jagged rock. He removes one tile after another, throwing them carelessly aside. A new pile of rubble forms between them, growing later until he uncovers a ragged piece of bone-white paper. Another diary page. Of course.
"How imaginative," Hermione says, pushing herself back up and stretching. "Has he hidden all of the pages in Hogwarts?"
"Do you really want me to answer that or would you like to maintain plausible deniability for later?" He folds the page away into the back pocket of his jeans, making his way back to her.
"One of these days, I'm going to murder you," she mutters, without bite, when he reaches her.
He smirks, wide and lethal and with too many teeth. If his expression alone could talk, it would say I'm counting on it.
It is breathtaking. It is dangerous.
She looks away and doesn't speak as they make their way back to the camp.
