Consequences of Falling

Ch. 8

Just as she had said she would, the young professor did manage to complete her curriculum for the Headmistress within the following two weeks. In this time she devoted her days to its completion and avoided much interaction with her fellow staff, choosing to take her meals in her rooms, alone, and without distraction from the task she was charged with. This solitary life didn't bother or inconvenience her in the slightest, she enjoyed the act of throwing herself into the task without interruption, although once or twice interruption did come – but only in the form of a knock at her door. When the woman didn't answer, no one entered in or bothered with her any longer.

Carrying her parchments and course outlines, sectioned by chapters Year One through til Year Seven, under arm, Hermione did finally venture from her rooms and private office out into the corridor and down towards the swinging staircases. She considered the fact that the ebony haired witch, whom she'd previously avoided at great length – as well as, her silver haired counterpart -, may just bump into her along the way. In those days, she managed to prepare for it. Seclusion, even in all its convenience and quiet participation, still eluded to a feeling of fear and uncertainty, neither of which sat with her comfortably. No, not in the slightest. Hermione was made to be fearless and sure, steadfast, and that was the image she hoped to further convey now that the dust had settled.

Weaving down corridors, calculated footsteps ventured no further than the golden statue of the Headmistresses office.

"Password?" The low, grumbling of a voice greeted in its own particular way.

"Let me see... Ginger Newt?" Hermione replied crisply, only to watch as the statue lifted its wings in the slightest and began to turn, carrying stairs with it, stairs on which she stepped to be drawn up to Minerva's office door.

The question remained: Knock? Simply enter in? She was, after all, staff... Not a student any longer. Knocking, she concluded, gave an air of questioning, where as turning the handle and strolling in offered the sense of a little entitlement. She was meant to be here, therefore, she should be awarded that little bit of entitlement. Hand reached and took gold handle to turn without further debate, allowing the witch to tuck inside with not a second to spare.

"Headmistress..." The woman called as she turned to gently close the door behind, her eyes focused solely on that rather than the innards of the office before her. Not a sound. Hermione lifted her gaze to the other womans' desk and searched.

"She's not in, Granger... I'm afraid you've just missed your dear head of house." A silky, deep voice floated down to reach her ear and, with it, the spark of recognition. Gaze snapped to bear witness to that face that was turned down upon her and watched as her most beloved potions master folded his arms over his chest, casually. Hermione didn't move from her spot in the doorway initially. As with everyone who hadn't had the opportunity to lay eyes on her face for a number of years, it was always the same – a cursory glance, a questioning look about face, a comment... So, she waited. Severus did always have the sharpest tongue... Yet, nothing.

Those dark eyes did scan her visage, trained for a fraction of a moment on her marred features, but nothing escaped those thin lips. Much to her surprise. He did, although, seem to shift for a moment, uncomfortably, beneath her own piercing gaze.

"I see," She replied dryly, finally, as she did manage to step forward and toward Minerva's desk, avoiding tables of trinkets and whizzing silver things that she really didn't care to inspect. "I'll leave this here then for when she returns." Hermione dropped her thick file of parchment upon the Scottish womans' desk with a harsh slap, the weight of those pages meeting hardwood snapping a few sleeping wizards in their portraits awake. She heard their mumblings, heard... However, she didn't care to listen.

The younger woman turned and made haste to leave but a few select words caused her pause a few feet from reaching the door.

"You owe no one an explanation, Miss. Granger." Snape's voice once more drifted with unexpected words of parting.

The young professor hesitated.

Now, in this instance, a number of scenarios ran through her mind; what was he talking about? Did he know? Who else knew? Why were these words the ones he wished to convey? This was Severus Snape talking, here...

"Excuse me?" Turning slowly back toward the portrait hanging there on the wall, the woman furthered by taking one calculated step in its direction, her features darkening with a telling look of warning and making clear that the man within the frame should choose his next words very carefully. The man seemed to detect a change within the woman who, despite her question, didn't appear to be a passive party, at all. She exuded a sense of rigidity and disdain, a look he knew all too well himself.

"It's no secret within the confines of this office that there is a history here between yourself and our headmistress, don't fool yourself by thinking that this secret has been kept under lock and key... If Albus were here, I doubt, he would elude to anything different himself." Eyes travelled to the empty portrait where there was, indeed, the missing face of one white bearded wizard. She considered this for a moment before returning her gaze to meet that of the Potions Master peering back down upon her, noting that, on this day, he no longer stared down the length of his nose in condescension.

"Who knows." It wasn't a question. She ordered for the information rather than make inquiry with a tone that was even and without rising intonation. Why did it matter? It mattered only because she despised being discussed without presence, and why did it bother her so greatly? Because it was no ones business but her own.

"Have no doubt that there are but four parties who are truly aware here, only four... Myself, Dumbledor, McGonagall, and Hooch."

"Why are you telling me all this, why even discuss it with me..." Hermione questioned as soon as the thought, again, crossed her mind. It didn't add up, something felt amiss. Kindness was not one of Snape's most glowing qualities, she could remember nothing of the sort until his dying wish to give Harry Potter a simple memory after laying down his life for the young man. This was the most kindness she had ever witnessed, so why now?

Severus seemed to read her mind on the matter, he needn't the power of legilimens to figure out that the woman was cautious – cautious only in this moment, by the marks on her face.

"I give you this because I have been in a similar circumstance long before you stepped foot into the Great Hall for sorting, Miss. Granger... I have experienced what it is like to be discussed without knowledge and to hold onto many secrets while living within these walls," He replied simply and without the air of arrogance that she'd come to associate with the dark eyed professor. She listened. "You'll come to realize that your colleagues are a tight group of witches and wizards, tight enough that nothing remains secret for very long while living among them, speculation about you will rise, especially because you are no longer that bright eyed, bushy haired irritant you were whilst studying within this castle. You've taken to some sort of transformation, I see." Hermione's gaze hardened.

"Whether you sort your business or not, is no ones business but your own. But be prepared that at one point or another, due to such changes in your character and mind, you will... Undoubtedly... Find yourself garnering some attention... And with a gossip like Sprout wandering the halls, you can only imagine..."

Food for thought. Something which Hermione hadn't anticipated when she arrived to drop off her lesson plans that afternoon. Whatever the situation may have been while she was a student at Hogwarts, Snape made a fair point. Her demeanor had been far different, her tone, her eyes... Features. The way she carried herself was not that of some girl with a chip on her shoulder. Well aware, Hermione could only take a moment to breathe it in and drop her chin for a moment in thought.

"Duly noted, Severus," The woman said, her syllables lacking that crispness that indicated she wished for harshness, in this regard she aimed for a stalemate. "Thank you."

The woman did not wait for the man to reply before turning and leaving that office. Denying that his points were sound was something she couldn't justify. Denial wasn't becoming, nor was hiding, however. So, there had to be some give, so long as there wasn't just take.

Hermione returned to her quarters and strolled through to her bedroom. The new information clouding her brain needed to be settled and untangled. She stripped herself of her blouse and bra, slipped out of her trousers and socks, grabbed some running shorts and a sports bra out of her dresser, then redressed herself. Snatching her running shoes off the floor beside her nightstand, she sat on the edge of her bed and pulled them on, tying them tightly. It had been a good while since she'd had a decent run and she hated that feeling; the feeling that she was getting out of shape. She couldn't remember what it was like to be thin and toneless, flat – yet, soft - of stomach... Her body may not exactly have been a temple, but it was a force to be reckoned with.

Which was exactly how she liked it; strong and agile.

"How is she?"

Kingsley was not a man who beat around the bush. He didn't gild any lily. And to say that he wasn't in the slightest bit concerned was almost to say he wasn't the Minister of Magic. He was a man with concerns and was, most certainly, the Minister of Magic.

The green eyed witch shifted in her seat and raised a knee to cross her leg over her other, her hands lacing and folding to rest in her lap, hands which she peered down upon for a moment before lifting her gaze to meet that of the Minister's which was aimed back upon her with subtle curiosity.

"I cannot say." The woman replied simply. It wasn't a falsehood at all to say that she wasn't entirely sure how the young woman was. It, also, was not a lie to admit that she hardly knew who the young woman was at this point. They had shared so little time together and the time they had spent within each others company was either devoid of polite conversation or entirely explosive. There was no telling, in her mind, what was going to be the outcome by the end of the school year... If the newly appointed woman was even to stay.

"That is not good news for me, Minerva," Kingsley stated clearly, his large form shifting from behind his desk to sit on the edge of his desk in front of the woman within his office. "When I handed Hermione over to you it was with the understanding that she would find a place within Hogwarts where she could work comfortably and potentially cool from some of her more active work with the Ministry..."

"Kingsley, we have been friends now for quite some time, you and I, and when you owled me with this situation you really gave me no indication of Miss. Granger's status or her mind set," Emerald eyes bore signs of discontent, worry, not only for the sake of her school but for the sake of the situation she had found herself. "The woman living in the castle is not the same woman I remember leaving it, I have no doubt that she will take her duty to Hogwarts seriously and with all the best intentions in regards to our students, but we did have a form of a falling out, Minister... That which you can understand, I'm sure."

Dissatisfied, the dark skinned wizard sniffed, uncertain, and eyed the toe of his shined, black shoe for a brief moment.

"Hermione is a liability for me in current standing, McGonagall. She is reckless despite being highly reliable, but her record here is not what I can, in good conscience, expunge or sweep away under the rug." Explained the man with a sigh. He had known her, knew her, since her school days. He was well aware of the young woman and her great talents, especially her academic prowess and her hand in the war; a war which, for the woman, had lasted many years. Which was why he needed her in the first place. Somewhere along the lines of an Auror was her position, still she held no title. She was his personal researcher, she reported solely to him. Her excellence knew no bounds... Eventually, nor did her hubris.

"Her unwillingness to confide any of this in me is a considerable problem, I may have been her head of house but she is no longer a student in my charge. She's an adult woman and one of my staff but that doesn't garner me any rights to information so if there is something I should know as to why you have suddenly wished for me to employ her, I need to know what exactly I am to be dealing with." There was an imploring look about the Scottish witch, undeniable in its presentation, her eyes told all that, in this moment, there was no going further without knowing what it was that she required.

The picture in Minerva's mind was only partially painted. The bits and pieces that she could manage to put together only involved herself – her own failure in the eyes of the young woman and little more. Little could she ever assume that there was an entire section of Hermione's life that, up until that point, had gone unaddressed. The mystery of it all soon was to come unraveling but not by the young woman herself, but by the Minister who had immediately employed her after graduation. It wasn't his story to tell, although there they were. And since Minerva was already been put in a position of lying by omission, that Hogwarts wasn't truly in great need for a professor when, really, it had been the Minister himself who had placed her in the very position Hermione found herself taking, there was no going back now.

The man closed his eyes briefly and dropped his chin, this was not to be perceived as a physical manifestation of inconvenience, though to many it would have appeared to be. No, this was his frustration due only to the series of circumstances within which they had found themselves.

"I will never regret hiring Hermione Granger," Stated the sullen man finally, his tone lacking its official nature that, when adorned, meant you were speaking to the Minister – this now had turned to conversation between close friends, off the record, so to speak. Minerva silenced herself immediately. "Although, over the past years, a great change has caused her to become unlike anything I could have possibly imagined."

"I didn't know matters had become so dire." Admitted the elder witch as her hands twisted upon her lap to lace and re-lace. Kingsley shot her a look as though to say 'you haven't the slightest'.

"When she was hired her numbers were impeccable, exceeding expectation, she's such a clever woman that any puzzle that was thrown her way was almost immediately worked and solved with expert precision. Death Eaters are still a problem case, as I'm sure you realize. And not only Death Eaters but other factions of dark witches and wizards have sprung to life in their wake – there are still, even today, people that believe that Voldemort will return, and are willing him to do just that."

Minerva had assumed as such. Even though a multitude of people had watched as the Dark Lord was rendered to nothing but a pile of ash, evil would always find a way, always be waiting. It had only been not even ten years since the fall of Voldemort and his followers, still it would take tens more to finally put to rest it had truly been the end. The woman gave a grave nod of the head and awaited further explanation, for that was all she could do given the current atmosphere.

"The one issue was that somehow, in some way, Hermione... She's grown so fast. Whatever managed to change her managed in a great way," Kingsley continued, his arms lifting to fold over his large chest. "I can't even begin to explain how many people I've had to answer for, how much paper work I've had to file, just to cover her tracks... For every one that she managed to bring in for questioning, another six were put in the ground. She is relentless."

"I can't imagine her doing such things..." The ebony haired woman rose from her seat and turned her back upon the Minister, disbelief scrambling her mind at these discoveries he appeared so willing to unearth now that the question had been posed. Hermione could never... She wasn't a murderous assassin like Bellatrix Lestrange – good natured, compassionate even when compassion wasn't warranted, humble to a fault in her presence... These were the things Minerva remembered. Pacing the short distance behind those two lofty office chairs in front of Kingsley's desk, she finally returned sights upon the man who could only look off in the vague direction of his bookshelf.

"A couple years after she began working for me she was partnered by a witch sent to us from MACUSA..."

"The Magical Congress of the United States of America?" She paused her pacing and interjected in confusion, only to receive a slight nod to indicate the positive before the man before her continued, as did she in her steps.

"Unfortunately, MACUSA has had to investigate some breaches in their own back yard because of the events that had transpired here in our home country, unexpected, although, luckily, we had prepared for the unexpected," The headmistresss' brain was swimming with the new details, she suddenly found it difficult to keep track... Reminding herself to work with her head, rather than heart, became paramount. "Miss. Granger and Miss. Ryder worked closely together for five years – four, of which, they had entered into a relationship more intimate than that of their employ."

Head snapped in the direction of the man seated there against his desk, emerald eyes betraying the indiscernible mix of emotion there...

There had been another.

The mere suggestion shook Minerva to her core. Never wanting more than the absolute best for her ex lover and dear friend, she scolded herself for feeling slightly surprised to note the new information. For some reason – even if it was perhaps ill thought out that there hadn't been another woman to capture Hermione's heart, a rather arrogant thought -, she truly hadn't considered the fact that the young woman would have taken up with another. Then the realization dawned...

Facing Kingsley more directly, Minerva's brows drew somewhat pinched. The man could only appraise as it seemed the Headmistress was piecing thoughts together.

"For four years... There was an end?" Did the woman leave her? Did Hermione take her leave of the woman?

"Miss. Ryder was caught in the crossfire, suffered a great injury... Quite suddenly," A knot formed in Minerva's throat, she found herself reaching to land a hand on the back of one of two winged leather chairs. "Hermione tried to nurse her through her injury at the site of the mission, however, nothing she could have done would have prevented Miss. Ryder from succumbing to her injury. A most horrible, albeit, powerful and well crafted jynx to induce internal bleeding... Even in that case no one could have predicted that our most knowledgeable Miss. Granger could not undo what had been done. Miss. Ryder died in her arms... They fielded the mission alone together, misinformed, and that, I'm afraid, was my fault."

"They got away?" The bastards got away... Minerva's voice was but a hushed whisper, her question hardly able to reach its potential volume due to the utter devastation she felt welling at the recognition of such pain. Pain that she hadn't a single clue had transpired since Hermione's end of days at Hogwarts. She hadn't ever imagined. Some comfort was felt when she witnessed Kingsley slowly shake his head, comfort replaced with ice, as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over her head, the moment later when he replied.

"No, they didn't get away," He seemed to shift uncomfortably before continuing in all seriousness, as solemn as the grave. "Hermione tracked down every single one of a group of seven, as quick as I've ever seen anyone track down a dispersed group, and she killed every single last one until she was sure no other had Miss. Ryder's blood on their hands... I kept her on course for a year after, it was all I could do, but she's slipping, clumsy with herself, and she needs safe grounds now to recollect and relearn... Whoever she is... Before I can even imagine reinstating her status with the Ministry entirely. Her health is at risk if she continues down the path she is on."

The Quidditch pitch would always be a welcoming sight. In her school days, Hermione had never been a fan of brooms or flying, although, in her later years, she'd come to appreciate the thrill of having air whipping about her cheeks as the descent on her motorbike brought her sickeningly close to crashing into the dirt. One moment; that last moment before she pulled hard on her handles, her body raising off the leather seat and her feet forcing down to straighten out that split second before wheels melded to gravel and carried her away down a dusty road... It was a feeling unlike any other. Sirius's motorbike was both a gift and a burden – a gift from Harry which she would always treasure, and a burden for there wasn't enough time to pay tribute to such a gift.

The bike had seen her through thick and thin, through the most unendurable moments and those that had made her poor heart soar with possibility.

Nothing could replace her one steadfast companion; a motorcycle.

Hermione jogged out onto the pitch and found herself jogging in one place, limbering up, starting her heart. The heart was a muscle that needed to be warmed before it took on the inevitable. She started there, on that very spot, just for a moment, a minute and a half at most, then... Direction. Her legs sprung to life and the woman began at a reasonable pace. With a dimming sky overhead and color splashing over the rim of those towers adorned with blue, red, yellow and green, the softness of the well kept grass beneath her feet, well... It warmed her heart. Alone and without a partner, being as she couldn't seem to bring herself to call upon Rolanda for company – the one person who she had begun to even remotely feel a slight bit of normalcy with -, the brunette woman ran.

Away from her problems, away from her fears and mistrust, away from her pain, away from her shattered morality... She ran. The white hardened lines of tissue seen in abundance lacing her skin – her shoulders and her back, her chest and her stomach, arms, legs, neck and face... These bits called a scar were only physical representations of what had been. Physical fights and physical flaws. These were things which the eye could see quite plainly written and drawn out like a map in various directions; a town, a city, roads to nowhere... These drawn lines were but a fraction. A moment.

A moment ends.

A memory can last forever.

TBC...