May 5, 1998.
The morning of the memorial dawned cool and clear, just as the day before it and the day before that had. Hermione woke on the sofa in the Burrow's living room, cozy and wrapped up in Ron's arms beneath the blanket.
She had no doubt he'd curled around her in the night to stifle her nightmares.
After the wake had ended midafternoon, Hermione had taken a nap on the couch. It turned out to be a rather poorly thought-out nap, for the sounds of her thrashing and whimpering had drawn every ear in the house. Ron must have made excuses of some kind before bundling her off to his room to sleep on the bright orange bedspread. More than anything, Harry's look of astonishment had surprised her.
The nightmares had followed her since Malfoy Manor - how had he not known about them?
When she'd settled on the bed, Ron told her that he'd been keeping vigil over her since he'd noticed her tossing and turning in Shell Cottage. He'd sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. "Sometimes grabbing your hand was enough to make them go away, but most of the time I had to make some excuse to wake you up," he'd told her, his face downcast. He'd pulled at a stray thread on the comforter.
"Ron," she'd murmured. He hadn't been looking at her, so he'd made a surprised noise when she had pulled him down onto the bed next to her. Pulling him close, Hermione had rested her chin on his shoulder and hugged him tight. "Thank you."
He'd returned the embrace, and Mrs. Weasley had walked in to ask after Hermione. From that moment, she'd relegated them to the couch if they were going to lie on the same surface.
Their sleeping on the couch turned out to be a necessity, because without him, Hermione was loud enough to wake even Charlie, who still seemed to be sleeping off what must have been an entire barrel of firewhiskey. So, much to her chagrin, at least half the family had seen her morning face - and morning hair - in the last two days before she could really wake up. Today was no exception, for although Hermione has just awoken in the dawn light, Mr. Weasley sat in an armchair across the coffee table from her and his snoring son. The Daily Prophet in his hands had a moving photograph on the front that panned over the grounds of Hogwarts, showing all the damage done. The headline read, "END OF WAR BATTLE RESULTS IN MASS CASUALTIES."
Hermione groaned. As if we need more reminders.
A pair of spectacled blue eyes glanced at her over the top of the paper. "Good morning, Hermione."
"Good morning, Mr. Weasley," Hermione said, very carefully and very gently extracting herself from Ron's arms. She pulled the blanket back over his shoulders. Sitting in one of the empty chairs, she reached for her bag and Bellatrix's wand - and did her best to ignore the sensation of goosebumps rising on her skin when she touched the walnut wood. "Accio socks," she muttered, and a pair of Ron's maroon and gold striped woolens jumped into her hands. Rolling her eyes, she set them down on the coffee table in front of Ron. "Accio Hermione's socks," she tried again, and this time a pair of blue knee-highs hopped out. "Good enough," she muttered.
"You need a new wand," said Mr. Weasley, still watching her.
Hermione glanced up at him as she pulled her socks on and rolled her pajama bottoms back down over them. "Mr. Ollivander isn't set up in his shop again yet, and mine hasn't been recovered since the Snatchers took it. Besides, it's not a terrible wand." Mr. Weasley raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged. "It may have done some terrible things, but so did the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand mended Harry's wand and saved his life."
"It's not the same and you know it," growled an apparently woken-up Ron from under the blankets on the sofa.
Hermione bit her lip. She'd been repeating the same thing for the last two days: it's not a bad wand, it's been forced to do bad things. In her mind, she'd made comparisons between the wand and dogs whose owners taught them to behave aggressively. Despite that, and the fact that it had continued to behave well (if slightly mischievously), she could not deny that the thing made her skin crawl.
Before she could answer Ron, Harry came thudding down the stairs with Ginny right behind him. Both were already dressed and groomed in Muggle clothes, and Hermione felt a pit drop in her stomach. "What time is it?" she asked them.
"I dunno," was Harry's sheepish reply. At a look from Hermione, he shrugged. "McGonagall's Patronus woke us up and told us she wanted us at Hogwarts. Percy's set up a portkey."
"It's time to find your shoes," said Ginny, looking Hermione over. "You'll be fine for the walk, but make sure to bring your toiletries and the proper clothes for the ceremony. We probably won't make it back to change."
Hermione held up the little bag that had accompanied her since before the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Brightening considerably, Ginny said, "Well, that'll make this far easier. Shoes."
She ended up slipping on the pair of sturdy boots she'd worn in the Forest of Dean; the walk to Stoatshead Hill would be just as tough as the time they had hiked it on their way to the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year. This time, despite being in her flannel pajamas, she would be prepared. A harried Kingsley Shacklebolt had had Percy restore portkey scheduling only the day before - it would be the only way to get all the underage wizards who had fled Hogwarts back to the grounds in time for the memorial. Apparition wasn't an option for every family, after all; Dean Thomas, for one, had never learned to Apparate, and his mother was a Muggle.
The hike was just as long as Hermione remembered. All three of them were huffing and puffing by the time they got to the top, but Ginny was worst off; Harry and Hermione had been running for the last year.
Surveying the top of the hill, Hermione's eyes searched for an object that would lead them to Hogwarts. There were supposed to be two out here, one for the three of them and the other for the rest of the Weasley party. "Perce said ours is a boot again," said Ginny.
Harry cracked a smile. "Appropriate."
"That's what I thought." Ginny grinned back at him. The pair of them stood there, gazing at each other and hand and hand, and Hermione let them have their moment.
It ended up being a short moment, for she found the boot in the already-yellowing grass a few yards away from them. It was just a bit mossy, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was the same one she had laid her index finger on only four years ago. Taking in a lungful of the crisp air atop the hill, Hermione offered the boot to them. "Grab hold," she said.
May 5, 1998.
Hogwarts was as they had left it: a flurry of activity. Professors seemed to stride about in every hallway, putting things back in their proper places. Professor McGonagall was leading her herd of desks - some limping severely - back to the classrooms she had gathered them from during the battle, now that other, more urgent work, such as repairing felled walls, had been attended to. Hermione had no idea how they had managed to get the castle back into even semi-presentable condition in the day and a half since she had been there; they must not have slept. On the other hand, they were professors. They were far more proficient in magic than she would be for a very long time.
"Let's get you dressed, Granger," said Ginny, jarring Hermione from her thoughts. "And me dressed. I'm sure Harry can take care of himself." The redhead raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend, who shook his head ruefully and set off ahead of them. "Prefects' Bathroom for us," Ginny declared.
"Where's he off to?" asked Hermione.
"Myrtle's bathroom. Apparently she flooded the whole floor yesterday. Professor Flitwick said she's been asking for him, since he's the only one who's talked to her 'nicely' in the last few years." Ginny leaned in a bit closer to Hermione as Professor Sinistra passed them on the way up the staircases, leading a suit of armor by the hand. "Harry says she probably heard he died and is wondering why he hasn't come to share her toilet yet. I guess she offered at some point."
Hermione raised her brows, but took Ginny at her word. The ghost would get upset during all the hubbub that came with the repairs. So much was happening around the castle, but no one had probably paid any attention to her. Shaking her head, Hermione followed Ginny up to the fifth floor.
When they finally convinced the statue of Boris the Bewildered that the passwords had all been reset after the battle, Hermione and Ginny found the Prefects' Bathroom in a state. Everything was dusty, and there was a hole blasted in one of the walls beside the stained glass window of the mermaid. She was still cowering against the opposite sill. Hermione felt like she had stared at it for a full minute before Ginny finally asked, "How did that even get there?"
"It doesn't matter, I suppose," replied Hermione. "Reparo."
Rubble flew back into shape as solid stone, collected more pieces of itself, and plugged the hole in the wall. The mermaid looked a little less frightened after Hermione used a Cleaning Charm on her glass and gave her a smile.
"Alright, what have you got in that bag?" asked Ginny from behind her. "I assume you still have your dress robes from Bill and Fleur's wedding."
"I can't wear those! They're not at all appropriate for mour- for a memorial." Hermione tried to scold herself for letting her words stick in her throat, but all she felt was distress. Am I really going to mourn more than a hundred people without being able to say I'm mourning them?
"Calm down, Hermione, we can turn them black, if you want." Ginny held out her hand for the bag. With a sigh, Hermione relinquished it and set out to tergeo the dusty floor around them.
Ginny rummaged through the beaded bag and produced Hermione's lilac dress robes and shoes. "Geminio," she muttered, and Hermione looked sharply at Ginny as the witch flicked her wand at both. Two copies of each appeared, all lavender still, and Ginny stowed the originals back in the bag. With some non-verbal spell that Hermione did not know, Ginny prodded the dress robes and shoes; black dye spread from the tip of her wand, shading away the robes' color.
"Now," said Ginny, "come over here and let me do your hair. And think of something to say, Professor McGonagall wants you to speak."
Hermione's shriek of "what?" echoed all the way across the fifth floor.
May 5, 1998.
The satin fabric of her once-lilac dress robes barely whispered across her skin as Hermione did her best not to fidget in her seat. It felt as though her wand were burning a hole in her pocket, sitting here in this chair, unable to move without drawing attention to herself. Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were guiding people to the pale wooden chairs that surrounded her. More had to be conjured every minute as people arrived - there had to be two hundred or more witches and wizards already present, not to mention the Muggle mothers and fathers who had, for the day, been made exceptions to the Muggle-repelling spells over the castle.
In spite of the open invitation that had been announced for the Death Eaters, however, not a single family associated with them had turned up to mourn. She had expected Mr. Crabbe to show up to memorialize his son, or for the Malfoys to appear to show some little respect for Narcissa's sister, but none had come. The ones who had retrieved the bodies of their relatives and friends after the battle - or had stolen away with them in the midst of the chaos and deserted Voldemort's cause - had more reason than most to attend, but all the combatants and families were welcome. If they had listened to the wizarding radio stations or read the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler that morning, they ought to have known that the memorial was today, and that peace had been sworn by all attending.
Yes, thought Hermione, no one will even think to pull a stunt like Aberforth did at Ariana's funeral. The thought made her snort, and Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in the seat beside her.
"Do you find something funny, Miss Granger?" she asked.
"No, Professor, only imagining what would happen should someone begin a fist fight at this particular memorial."
"Ah, yes," said McGonagall, her lips quirking slightly to the side. Gladness bubbled up a little in Hermione's chest at seeing the elderly witch humor her, even if it was only with a slight smile. "I should think we would have quite another mess to clean up."
The prospect of such stopped Hermione's giggles rather quickly. She was embarrassed to have them in the first place, but such was an effect of her nerves; she had managed to prepare what she hoped was a short, sufficient speech that would take place before the rest of the formalities, but she'd had only two hours to really get it right. McGonagall had approved it, and while Hermione knew it would likely be forgotten if it fell flat, her stomach was still sick with butterflies that felt more like Cornish pixies.
The last portkey arrived half an hour later. Hermione had sat in nervous silence, very thankful that Ginny had turned her dress robes black; they were less likely to show the sweat that she was sure had gathered around her shoulder blades as she sat there. The sleeves, though, were looser and more sheer than she remembered. She had to keep pulling the fabric down over her forearm to hide the angry red letters carved into her arm.
For a brief moment, she was jealous that Harry's scars - the ones he'd received from his detentions with Dolores Umbridge - had already turned white. They were still painfully readable ("I must not tell lies") but they had, at least, faded a bit. Hermione's own letters were glaring against the pale, smooth skin beneath her elbow. Professor McGonagall was already looking suspicious at her furtive movements, at the fact that her fingers had ended up gripping the fabric of her robes in her palm to keep the sleeves down. Ron was not here to make up excuses for her, still doing his duties as an usher, now seating people halfway up the hill to the castle.
Half of the wizards in Britain must have shown up for this. But really, could Hermione expect any less? Hogwarts was home. This was the only place they had to go to school, unlike the Muggle secondary schools. And, when they went to school, the spent three quarters of their adolescent lives in the castle. An attack on it was an attack on their heritage.
Once she was satisfied that everyone had been seated, or very nearly was, Professor McGonagall strode to the foot-high platform that had been raised in front of Albus Dumbledore's tomb. The lectern that had been situated at the front of the dais was Professor Sinistra's; Hermione recognized the constellations on its post and on the back as Leo and Draco.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and Hermione felt the audience behind her come to attention at the amplified and all too familiar sound. The Transfiguration instructor squared her shoulders, folded her hands in front of herself across her dress robes, and spoke. "Thank you for coming to this gathering in memoriam of those who were lost in the Battle of Hogwarts. Today, we will shield the castle anew and celebrate the peace that has been hard-won on both sides." The professor paused for a moment, surveying the crowd. Hermione felt it, more than observed it, when McGonagall's eyes landed on her. "We will also mourn together the loss of so many witches and wizards. For the sanity of everyone here today, please refrain from speaking ill of the dead."
Whispers fluttered through the crowd, and as McGonagall's eyes flicked to her again, Hermione rose from her seat. Her sleeve still clutched in her hand, she made for the podium.
"Behind me," continued McGonagall, "a tomb and a wall of memory have been built, both of which may appear new to you if you have not been to Hogwarts in the last two years. Laid to rest in the tomb is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, whose life was devoted to the instruction of young witches and wizards." Her tone, in less than a moment, went from the soft and reverent tone it had adopted when speaking of the old Headmaster to the severe Head of Gryffindor House that Hermione had known for the last six years. "The wall of memory was built by Miss Hermione Granger to recognize the victims of war, and Miss Granger will speak in a moment to address the note that I'm sure you all read in the paper this morning. If you have brought something with you that belonged to a lost loved one, form a line down the center aisle."
Nearly a quarter of the audience stood. Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment and let out a breath. When she opened her eyes, she focused on Mrs. Weasley's bright red hair bobbing into the middle of the aisle. Her hand held George's as they took a place in line.
The next thing she focused on was the man with white-blond hair walking up the path from Hogsmeade and toward the crowd.
Her thoughts went up behind that foggy barrier again, and Hermione stared. She could nearly feel the adrenaline drip into her veins.
Draco Malfoy's hands were in the pockets of his black dress robes, his hair mussed from the windy walk he must have had, if he had indeed Apparated to the village. His pace was slow, but definitely not relaxed - he looked cautious, as if at any moment, one of the members of the crowd would turn, recognize him, and hex him before remembering the blanket of peace that was supposed to have been laid upon the ceremony.
Hermione's attention was only brought back to the moment at hand by Professor McGonagall's gentle tap to her elbow.
Fumbling in her robes, Hermione pulled Bellatrix's wand from her pocket and slid it up her sleeve; it would not do to have anyone see her still using it. The Weasleys might be one thing, but a whole crowd of witches and wizards? Some of them had surely been subjected to torture by its first master and would recognize its wicked curve instinctively. Hermione herself knew that particular jolt; she felt it near every time she touched it in her pocket or saw it when she turned her attention back to wherever she had set it down. Pointing her fingers and the wand hidden within her sleeve at her throat, she whispered, "Sonorus."
"Good morning, everyone," she began, trying not to wince at hearing her own voice projected so loudly. In the distance, Hermione saw Malfoy freeze. Perhaps he had not recognized her on the podium next to the professor; her frightening, slept-on hair had been done up into a severe bun by Ginny for the occasion, and black made her look particularly stark. Mourning, she supposed, was not a good look for her, and she was thankful for it. "Like many of you here, I woke up this morning to a world completely different to the one I have known for the last three years." She paused, running her eyes down the line. Andromeda Tonks sat very near the front with a baby on her lap, and Hermione's heart tugged so hard in her chest that her eyes watered. "This morning, when I awoke, the birds were singing, the family that surrounded me was snoring peacefully -" Near the back, Harry shoved a hand into Ron's hair and ruffled it violently. Even from here, Hermione could see the brilliant shade of fuchsia Ron's ears had turned. "- and the only horrors that the paper retold were those of three days prior." Shifting to clasp her hands in front of her, Hermione let McGonagall's presence put some steel back in her spine. "Today, I am here to honor to the ones I loved and will continue to love, and to honor everyone, from every side, who fought for their ideals, whatever they might have been."
Malfoy unfroze and took a step forward. The adrenaline in Hermione's veins - both from speaking and from the presence of so many and, most of all, him - spiked anew.
"It appears that most of you, whether from the radio or in the paper, heard the instructions to bring something that belonged to the loved ones you lost." The crowd murmured their agreement. "The items you have brought will be encased in the wall of memory, which, we hope, will be imbued with the love they once held for this place that is so sacred to the people of these isles. Their sacrifice will be remembered by witches and wizards for generations to come. Our hope is that, with such a reminder, the blessing that is peace will also be remembered." Hermione gripped Bellatrix's wand beneath her sleeve. Please understand what I'm saying, she willed, but it was only an object; it might be magical, and it might be able to feel her emotions, but she had no idea if it would remember them.
Continuing, Hermione said, "If you did not hear of this notice, you may walk to Hogsmeade, where witches and wizards who are licensed in Apparition will help you retrieve an item to place in the wall. A warning: if you try to bring a cursed item, know that it will have been neutralized before it reaches the Hogwarts grounds."
A pair of witches who had been making their way toward the path to Hogsmeade paused and exchanged a glance, and then stood stock still, as if they had been caught in something. Beside Hermione, Professor McGonagall inclined her head toward Ginny and Harry, who moved to escort the two from the grounds. They would not be allowed to return; security was utmost, and the witches' had been a rather suspicious slip.
"The placement of objects inside the wall will be open until five o'clock this evening, after which a private dinner will be held in the Great Hall for the immediate family of those lost in the battle. After the dinner, non-magic parents will be escorted from the grounds, and the castle will be completely reshielded." Hermione took a deep breath, swaying a little bit. Nearly there. "The first in line may step forward."
Pointing her hand and the wand hidden in it at her throat again, she whispered, "Quietus."
The first in line stepped forward, and the strings of Hermione's heart yanked painfully. A fourteen-year-old boy with a camera held in his hands came forward; a man who could only be his father, judging by their near-identical mops of curly brown hair, came along, his hand on his son's shoulder. As soon as he reached her, Hermione pulled the boy into her arms and threaded her fingers into his hair.
Dennis Creevey's sob was only barely muffled by her shoulder. "I still don't think it's real," he whispered.
Hermione's eyes connected with his father's, as warm a brown as Colin's had been. She remembered hiding her laughter at the young Gryffindor's antics with his camera from Harry and Ron, remembered consoling the pair of brothers when their efforts at making a badge in support of Harry had failed. The grief in their father's expression pinched the lines around his eyes.
Letting go of Dennis with one hand, Hermione held her hand out to Mr. Creevey. He took it for a moment, and she could not mistake the shaking that he tried to disguise with a warm squeeze. When he released her, she rubbed Dennis's back. "Come back to us next year, Dennis. Things will be better," she murmured into the boy's hair. "Not as good as they would be if he were here, but better than they have been."
Dennis sobbed a bit louder, and Hermione felt him nod against her neck. When he pulled away, his face was wet and flushed with tears. Reaching between them, Professor McGonagall waved her wand over the camera in Dennis's hands. When nothing happened, Hermione put an arm around his shoulders and led him off the platform, skirting the tomb. The empty rectangular space that she'd carved out of the wall of memory already had a few objects in it, placed there by staff members who had had the opportunity. Dennis placed the camera next to a photograph of a woman running back and forth through the canvas, her arms outstretched toward the ground. With a jolt, Hermione recognized Harry's mother, but couldn't bring herself to disturb the picture to get a closer look - it was held down with a glass paperweight in the shape of a crowned serpent.
Only Harry had the right to touch those particular objects.
With a nod to Dennis, Hermione escorted he and his father back over the dais and welcomed the next person in line.
A witch with sandy hair stepped forward, clutching a rabbit's foot amulet in her hand. Her brown eyes were earnest and near desperate as she held out her hand to Professor McGonagall, who waved her wand over the object without a word. When nothing alarming happened, the woman moved around Hermione without a hint of recognition and deposited the bauble beside Colin's camera. It was only when the witch turned again and Hermione caught her profile that she recognized her as the mother of Lavender Brown. A sick feeling settled in her stomach; the fluffy, white foot could belong only to Binky, the rabbit that had been killed in their third year.
Mrs. Brown brushed by her again without speaking a word to her.
Andromeda Tonks came forward next, balancing a sleepy Teddy on her hip. The infant's hair was as black as his grandmother's robes for now, but when Hermione and Harry had visited him the day before, it had been bright pink as he'd laughed at their baby talk. Andromeda's kind eyes flicked to Hermione's arm as she reached up to touch Teddy's hand, which he immediately put in his mouth. The older woman's lips tightened; for a moment, Hermione feared she had seen the slur etched into her skin, but Andromeda seemed relaxed again a split second later. She held out her free hand and revealed a trio of tiny wooden figurines, each the length of Hermione's thumbnail: a pair of wolves and a hare. Silent recognition flickered in Hermione's mind.
"Dora inherited her father's ways and his jack rabbit, until one day she didn't have the rabbit anymore," said Andromeda, leaning her cheek against Teddy's fuzzy hair.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione smiled at Andromeda and let her pass after McGonagall's security test, trailing a finger over little Teddy's chubby arm as he went by her shoulder.
Minutes became ages as the afternoon passed slowly by and the line of witches and wizards dwindled. George kept pulling Mrs. Weasley further back in line, letting others move in front of them. Every time she witnessed it, Hermione's heart wrenched. Eventually, Ginny joined him in line and threaded her fingers through his, and it seemed to steel her brother's nerves.
Stragglers came up the path from Hogsmeade, some returning with their items of remembrance tucked in the pockets of their robes or in their arms. At some point, Malfoy joined the line - she noticed when two large gaps formed on either side of him. Well, she thought, at least they have maintained the peace.
If she was still standing on the dais when he reached the front of the line, though, Hermione feared she would be the one to breach that peace. That was, if Ron didn't do it before she could. His eyes had been locked on the back of Malfoy's head for the better part of the hour. Hermione did her best to greet every person who stood before her, but part of her was ever aware of Malfoy's position in line. His hands were in his pockets; she kept imagining a wand whipping out from beneath the folds of his robes and finishing the job that his aunt had begun.
Her breathing had begun to quicken by the time George, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley stepped onto the platform. To her surprise, Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall embraced while George stood in place, holding a piece of paper in his hands. Hermione could feel Ginny's eyes on her as her chest rose and fell even more rapidly, but she distracted herself by beckoning George into a hug.
The stout arms that looped around her waist were steadier than her own, which had begun to shake by the time she pulled him close.
"Easy now, Hermione," said his voice in his ear, grim and solemn. "Keep your face on. Can't have you losing it in front of someone who might report back to sweet old Rita."
A sharp breath filled her lungs. Merlin's beard!
Had anyone even thought of the press?
Closing her eyes, she leaned them into George's shoulder for a moment. The numbness that was beginning to work from her fingertips to the edges of her wrists didn't recede, but it didn't continue, either. Hold it together.
She released George. "What do you have?" she asked, touching the edge of the paper in his hands. It had a table of items on it, and some messy handwriting that looked familiar, but didn't belong to either of the twins.
"Fred's first confirmed order," said George.
Hermione nodded.
"From Colin."
I'm going to be sick.
Her breathing ratcheted up again. Concern entered George's eyes and Ginny stepped forward, one of her hands out, but Hermione waved her off. "I'll be fine," she said, but her voice came out breathy. Standing straight, Hermione tried to slow her racing heart. Still watching her, George held out the paper to McGonagall to secure, then wrapped a hand around Hermione's elbow.
Pulled along by the trio of redheads, Hermione did her best to calm herself as she was led to the wall of memory again. George laid the paper gently against the back wall behind a few other artifacts. They stood there for a bit, looking at all the remnants that were what was left of so many lives. Mrs. Weasley's soft hand rubbed up and down Hermione's back. "You're very brave, dear," she murmured.
Hermione fought down her rising panic and denied the tingles that were reaching up to her elbows and beginning in her toes.
I am a Gryffindor.
With the hands of Ginny and George clutched in hers, Hermione returned to the dais. Near unwillingly, she let the Weasleys go back to their seats.
More faces passed before her, and Hermione could do nothing but focus on the white-blond head in the crowd.
Like George, Malfoy was letting people pass him in line, holding back 'til the very end of the procession. But as five o'clock neared, there were only seven people separating her from him, and no more stragglers appeared by the gates to give her a last reprieve.
Hermione was very glad for the dark dress robes that hid her shaking knees.
Finally, the last face before Malfoy's thin, pinched one filed past her, and she was faced with the Boy Who Should Have Died. Her mixed feelings about Harry and Ron saving the Slytherin were something that she had spoken of to no one, not even to Ginny; they did not know the extent to which he haunted her.
They did not know that most of her nightmares involved Malfoy finally ending her misery at the Manor.
The whole crowd in front of her was silent, long since having identified Malfoy as the only apparent representative for the other side, and here she was, facing off against him.
Her lungs and head tingled with the pace of her breath. Oh Merlin, don't faint, don't faint on stage. You are a Gryffindor. Brave, rash, honorable Gryffindor. Hermione offered Malfoy a very tight, very false smile. "Ferret," she muttered in greeting, stepping aside as he mounted the dais. She pulled her sleeve down even tighter, and to her dismay, the movement drew his eye. He glanced away from her arm as soon as he looked down at it, though, and held out a small, painted portrait to Professor McGonagall. Though the Head of Gryffindor raised her eyebrows to him when nothing seemed to happen with the security test, she let him pass. He came back only half a moment later, brushing away the wrinkles that had been put in the front of his robes by bending over.
Malfoy paused at the edge of the dais and turned fathomless gray eyes on Hermione that were almost unfamiliar to her; they shone in the sunlight, unmarred by the malice that usually nested in the lines around them. His eyes flicked down to her arm again, and Hermione felt her heart rate spike.
He simply said, "Granger," with an inclination of his head and moved back up the aisle.
All of Hermione's air rushed out of her at once. A hand on her elbow steadied her, and her eyes met McGonagall's shrewd ones. The Head of Gryffindor gave her a pointed, curious look. There can be no mistaking that exchange for something simply linked to our childish antagonism.
Professor McGonagall pointed her wand at her throat again and amplified her voice. "Before we release you to the dinner or to your homes, an announcement must be made," she said. "On June the twenty-third, graduation for this year's seventh years will be held. The school year will not be finished, but those who wish to claim their diplomas may. They are also free to return next year for a more complete education. We encourage you to come to the ceremony and support the students who survived this year of such adversity."
More than one head ducked in the audience, their owners' bodies wracked with renewed sobs.
Pointing Bellatrix's wand at her throat again, Hermione amplified her own voice. "If you would please stand, we will observe a moment of silence before the closing of the ceremony."
The rustle of hundreds of robes and the squeaking of just as many chairs echoed across the grounds, and then the only sound that filled the air was birdsong and the gentle lap of water against the lake shore.
Hermione bowed her head, finally feeling her breathing and her heartbeat slow. The confrontation she had dreaded since Malfoy Manor had come and gone, and she had emerged unharmed - even uninsulted. In fact, she had been the one to land the first and only barb, but that felt almost inconsequential.
Something had changed, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was him, or if it was the world around them.
Lifting her head, Hermione walked around the edge of the White Tomb, discreetly tracing her fingers along its side to bring herself strength. When she reached the wall of memory, she studied the objects left in the cavity that she had carved before returning to the castle the morning before last.
The only one that she had not gotten a close look at was the one that belonged to the man with white-blond hair lurking in the back of the crowd behind her. She sought it out, and her eyes landed on a much younger Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. A dark-haired woman stood between them, holding a tiny, white-haired infant. All three adults smiled and waved, and the dark-haired woman, who must have been Bellatrix, waved the infant's hand for him.
Hermione's eyebrows drew together and the knot in her stomach twinged. She could not summon a coherent thought for what she saw before her and determined to process it later.
Raising her wand, she quieted the Amplifying Charm and blinked at all the objects. All of them had been so well cared for, even Fred's order form, which she would have expected to be at least crumpled. Instead, it was folded neatly in thirds, the handwriting within it well-preserved.
She bit her lip when she realized that it meant that two pieces of Colin Creevey would be going into the wall of memory.
Raising her wand once more, Hermione whispered, "Creo marmore." In a rush of warm, white flames and smoke, new marble grew over all the objects in the wall. Hermione's gaze was torn between focusing on Lily Potter chasing what she knew was Harry on his first broomstick and trying to understand the portrait that Malfoy had left.
In the end, the last she saw of the inside of the wall of memory was the waving fist of an infant Draco Malfoy, held up by long, lithe fingers that were tipped by black-painted nails.
May 5, 1998.
Nearly half the crowd filed into the Great Hall after McGonagall had dismissed the attendees.
Hermione was not one of them.
Instead, she settled on the edge of the dais, letting the rest of the tingles recede from her body. She had to get a handle on this, on her anxiety, especially if she was to speak anywhere else anytime soon. Today, Malfoy seemed to have triggered it, but she had no way to know that it might not have gone off without him, either. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, Hermione rested her elbows on her knees. It was over now, at least, and she could have the rest of the evening to herself.
McGonagall patted her shoulder as she followed the crowd to the Great Hall, and Ron came to ask after her, but Hermione asked him for time to herself. He seemed to accept it as post-speech nerves and followed the rest of his family to the Hall.
She sat in blessed quiet for what felt like hours, listening to the subtle sounds of birdsong and the Giant Squid splashing out in the distance. It felt like it had been ages when she finally looked up again. She had almost expected it to have turned to night time, but the sun still shone brightly behind her, the wall and the tomb casting long shadows over the dais. And while everything was slightly more vivid and green, Hermione recognized that something was off.
A single person remained amidst the hundreds of empty seats: a white-blond man who, while no longer coated in baby fat, was no less enigmatic than the family who had held him in the portrait.
Closing her eyes again, Hermione tried to blink him away, but he was real; he went nowhere between her flashes of vision. She let her wand - his dead aunt's wand - drop out of her sleeve and fully into her hand. She had plans to leave the way she had come in, and he stood between her and Hogsmeade. If he meant to remain in her way, he would find her more inhospitable than he might expect, for a weak creature who did not try to stand her ground.
Hermione's walk toward him, however, became more and more unsteady. Heart racing and lungs taking in only enough air to keep her mostly upright, Hermione did her best to get past him without looking at him.
Malfoy reached out and caught her by the elbow.
Turning on him what she hoped was a scowl worth ten thousand insults, Hermione wrenched out of his grip. "Hands to yourself, Malfoy. You've done quite enough."
Something flashed in his eyes, but he released her immediately when she jerked away. "Apologies, Granger," he said coolly. "I thought perhaps you'd gotten your directions wrong with all the trembling you're doing. Castle's that way." He pointed up toward the great stone building to her left.
"I'm afraid you'd have to know where I was going to think I'd gotten my directions wrong," she growled, shoving past him. "Move."
To his credit, he did move, but not in the way she had hoped: Malfoy simply hurried to stand a few paces in front of her. "Not going to the feast with Potter and Weasley?" he asked, and though his tone held his usual mockery, the brows that had dipped low over the bridge of his nose showed genuine confusion.
"It's not a feast, it's a dinner. And no, I'm not." Growing impatient, Hermione tipped her wand up for a moment, a tiny threat. "Get out of my way."
This time, Malfoy stood his ground, arms crossing. "Granger, I'm trying to talk to you."
Hermione's wand flicked up to his throat. Malfoy's hands immediately went up in a gesture of innocence. "No," she said. "You don't get to speak to me, you little pure-blood speck. Or had you forgotten that that's what you are?" She pressed the wand deeper into his skin. "But then, how could you, when I hold in my hand the wand that labeled me? I am the opposite of you, remember?" she hissed. "And when you are an arrogant, spoiled sycophant who had so devalued someone he knew that he wouldn't save her from torture because she was weak, I could not be more proud to be the opposite of you."
Malfoy's expression grew dark, and he shoved her wand away from his throat. An angry red mark appeared under his chin where the wand had been. "I was an arrogant, spoiled sycophant once," he muttered, "but I did not do what you last accused me of. Those may have been the words you heard, but that was not my intention."
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Malfoy," she spat, striding past him. She picked up the hem of her dress robes to avoid stepping on them. When she reached the gate that would take her to the road to Hogsmeade, Hermione looked back. He was standing there, watching her, face pensive once more. "And, in case you were wondering," she shouted at him, "I'm not going to the dinner because I didn't have any family left to lose at the battle."
Storing away the gaping expression that her words put on his face, Hermione pushed her way through the creaking gates and slammed them shut with a clang.