A/N: I've been absent for awhile, I am aware... :)
Thank you for the supportive messages - I am based in the States at the moment and without getting too political I will simply say that the most recent election has felt rather personal and I needed time to mobilize and re-engage. It's been a bit of a journey.
Fortunately, I am again between active projects and will have more time to get back on track with my updates and revisions. The break also allowed me time to do a bit more research and I feel more confident about the upcoming course of this particular story.
That said - this next chapter is still a bit heavy. There are references to violent themes and sexual assault, so tread carefully if that is not your cup of tea. A bit more framing and detail will come later, but for now we are absorbing a bit more about Hermione's history.
Thank you again for your patience and enjoy!
-R
The more she learned, the more Dia was convinced that if she had the opportunity to meet Elizabeth Waterhouse in person, she would be quite likely to hex the witch straightaway.
Closing a folder with frustrated sigh earned her a few startled looks and Dia scowled lightly as she resettled, drawing her warm woolen sweater a bit closer around her shoulders as she adjusted her spectacles with a practiced hand.
The early morning was still rather cold, and a glance to her right indicated that only a few poor souls were out, their faces contorted into grimaces as they stumbled to avoid the strong wind and sleeting rain that was casting itself against the window in sheets.
Her arrival to the MACUSA checkpoint in New York had been uneventful and despite the Americans' continued culture of paranoia, their security measures and intricate network of national Portkeys had been most efficient. Somehow Dia had expected more questioning of her plans in the States, but the tired night-watch wizards had barely spared a glance at her prepared itinerary once they heard a few polysyllabic words regarding her supposed "potions research."
Her first stop in Palo Alto had also been rather bland. With the time difference, she arrived just after one in the morning, providing her with ample time to visit the Stanford university campus and to work through Waterhouse's office undisturbed.
It had taken her two minutes and twenty seconds to unravel the witch's active warding - something that the New York Ghost had claimed local Aurors had still been unable to accomplish and a conundrum that continued to baffle No-Maj police. The thrill of a puzzle was something that Dia could never resist, though granted, she imagined being an Architect's niece had given her a significant advantage.
Alongside her skills as an Animagus… well, Waterhouse's ridiculously arrogant wards had stood little chance.
The American Aurory had already set up their own series of rotating diagnostics that had made her job significantly more tricky. Unraveling the wards left her ten minutes of undisturbed snooping before the drop in magic would trigger a series of alarms.
As a result, Dia had been forced to repeatedly unravel and reassemble the witch's wards and work her way through the office in precisely timed intervals. It was frustrating, tedious, and only served to underscore just how much of an egomaniac Elizabeth Waterhouse appeared to be.
Her thorough perusal of the office had eventually told her that the witch was paranoid, vain, a bit ruthless, and unfortunately, a relatively competent teacher.
Over the course of several hours Dia had been able to duplicate the witch's financial history, her last five years of research, a good amount of correspondence and notes related to courses she taught at Stanford, and cursory evidence that suggested Waterhouse had either intimidated or bribed her way into several key sources of funding. Reading through a few emails seemed to indicate that the witch was beloved by higher-ups in the university system but generally hated by her colleagues, and Dia resolved to make a second stop by the campus on her return journey to learn more in person.
She imagined the interpersonal dynamics of the Muggle department would prove fascinating.
A large amount of information had been stored in Waterhouse's computer, and Dia had cursed her lack of knowledge regarding the unfamiliar Muggle technology. Ana had already admonished her lukewarm interest in the new wave of machines and products that continued popping into existence with startling rapidity, assuring her that magical experimentation with the newer lines of technology could easily lead to a boom in economic growth throughout the Wizarding world.
Hermione, she knew, possessed a number of key investments in at least two prominent Muggle computer companies… and briefly Dia had been regretful that her apprentice was not involved in a later stage of her studies. While she herself continued to keep a close eye on Muggle technology and advancements, there were some advantages that Muggle-born witches and wizards continued to hold over her by simple virtue of culture and education.
Doubtless her witch would have been a better hand at extracting Waterhouse's files without leaving a trace. Even with magic, Dia knew that her attempts had been clumsy at best.
Your witch?
The possessive thought drew Dia from her reflection and she sat back slightly, taking in a cursory glance around the increasingly busy coffee shop for a long moment before turning back to her pile of materials.
Your apprentice… she amended, firmly pulling another stack of correspondence forward. A rough sip of espresso continued to soothe her headache and Dia sighed again as the miraculous liquid slid down her throat.
The best she had been able do with Waterhouse's office computer was to have left a series of magical tripwires embedded in the system. Anyone trying to determine her identity as a hacker would inadvertently destroy the rest of the witch's information. It was crude but effective.
Beyond the computer, the rest of Waterhouse's space had been unremarkable.
The office had been arranged with meticulous care - clearly indicating someone who knew exactly how each bauble and trinket was meant to be placed, and a number of smaller items precariously balanced to preclude unwanted snooping.
Several creative curses had been placed on the woman's extensive bookshelves - too many to unravel in such a short amount of time, though waving away a series of glamours had indicated the witch had most definitely been interested in the Necromantic potential of her latest research. Despite a number of more questionable books, it had been clear that the witch held no actual affinity for the Dark Arts, and Dia realized that she had been disappointed.
As irritating as Waterhouse seemed, the initial evidence suggested that the woman had likely stumbled on matters far beyond her scope… and attracted the wrong attention for it.
It felt far too early to begin tallying innocent lives unwittingly lumped into the category of collateral damage, and Dia had been more than troubled.
By the time she had slipped out of the witch's office for what felt like the thousandth time since her arrival, Dia had more questions than answers, far too much adrenaline in her system, and a splitting headache that demanded no less than a solid liter of coffee before she could even consider delving into all of the materials she had pulled.
The campus had been quiet when she left, an early morning tinge of pale grey light upon the horizon, and Dia had been thankful to Apparate away… arriving into the Presidio and discovering the weather would not allow her to make more than a few basic predictions about the state of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Instead of the reconnaissance she had planned, Dia ended up in the Muggle coffee shop, reviewing her new materials and hoping that the rain would clear enough to allow her opportunity for investigation at a later point in the day. Shifting into her Animagus remained an option, however the risk of being seen was still too great for her liking.
There have been enough improbable events in this city for the time being...
"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice the array of books you seem to be reading. Are you an archaeologist?"
Pulled from her musings, Dia's eyebrows lifted upwards as her focus settled upon the hopeful visage of a young man standing off of her left elbow, late twenties perhaps, with bright blue eyes and an open smile.
Sweet Circe… not now.
She removed her reading spectacles easily before flashing a polite but distant smile.
"I'm just doing a bit of research for a project," she replied evenly, barely remembering to conceal her accent, "I have a report to write."
"Ah," the man's face fell slightly before shrugging lightly and gesturing toward her stack of books, "Well, it seems you must be doing investigation into the early civilizations of Central America..."
Dia smiled and chose to remain silent, hoping the young man would simply leave. Unfortunately her subtle hint went unnoticed as sharp eyes raked over a selection of books she had brought from Athens. Inwardly she cursed her carelessness at not having charmed the covers to something more inane, having considered the Muggle locale enough camouflage in itself.
You forgot about the actual Muggles…
"Waterhouse's book provides a great overview of the intersectionality of art history and religious practice during the Classic Period of the Maya civilization. Traxler's book is a better choice if you're looking for a good overall reference…" the man squinted slightly as he bent to read the smallest print, "However, it seems that Waterhouse is providing a good deal of your inspiration," one hand gestured lightly, "She's a fascinating woman and a brilliant writer - I can see why you would gravitate toward her materials."
Dia's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What do you know of her?" she asked casually, both exasperated and amused when the young man took the question as an invitation to join her. After a moment of endearingly awkward vacillation, he slid into the empty seat across from her with a soft smile and a humble sip of his drink.
Dia absorbed the casual blazer, pressed shirt, and tailored jeans with a careful eye. The man's clean, polished look gave him the appearance of a privileged academic. It was both irritating and reasonably attractive.
Usually American men were so… scruffy.
"I've taken a few classes from her in the course of my studies," the man said. Dia noted that despite his brave overture, he seemed rather nervous.
"Then you're at Stanford," she deduced, tilting her head slightly. Her comment was met with an embarrassed smile.
"Yes. I'm currently working on my PhD in Anthropology, actually… I departed from Archaeology after undergrad."
Dia felt a sinuous smile spread over her features, at once pleased that the unexpected interruption might prove to her benefit.
Never look a gift hippogriff in the beak…
"That sounds challenging," Dia murmured, deliberately pushing her papers to one side and grasping her coffee cup with both hands. The man's face brightened a bit as he caught her interest and sat forward.
"At times," he agreed, flashing a clear smile. "My name is Daniel, by the way."
"Diana."
"Pleasure to meet you," Daniel said, shifting to rest his elbows on the table with a smile. Blue eyes danced for a moment before he gestured toward her materials, "So tell me… what are you working on? With your project that is?"
"Ah, a bit of an oddball piece," Dia replied with a smile, leaning back and allowing herself to slip into the easy role of someone unafraid of a good round of flirting, "Something between the realm of history and abject fiction. There might be hints of magic involved."
"Sounds mysterious."
"Indeed."
Harry's cheeks flushed with emotion as he gesticulated broadly.
"So then he makes this big fuss about not having expensive European liquor and we should know better than to ask for Akvavit-"
"Yeah, and then he has the gall to pour us two shots of Firewhiskey and make us pay for it," Ron leaned back with an incredulous expression, "As if he didn't know that you had already paid for him to pass along the Portkeys! Bloody hell! The man's a complete tosser!"
Hermione's bright laughter spilled across the table and Harry's ire immediately dissolved into chuckles as his friend's cheeks flushed and she wiped her eyes with a delicate hand.
"Ohhh… gosh, I really am sorry for Aberforth. Though can you blame him for wanting a bit of extra business? Does anyone really go to the Hog's Head on a Sunday?"
Harry snorted as Hermione's apologetic look was met with theatrical grumbles from Ron.
"Yeah, well… Aberforth was just the tip of the iceberg," Harry continued, lifting an eyebrow, "D'you know that your so-called friend dragged us through Soho and half of Fitzrovia before shoving us into a taxi and taking the most roundabout way to get out here?"
Hermione pursed her lips in a failed attempt not to smile.
"I imagine we are quite secure though, no?"
Ron's barking laughter provided enough answer and one elegant eyebrow lifted coquettishly as Harry swore.
Hermione folded her arms across the table and smiled cheekily, white teeth flashing for a moment before she tilted her head attractively.
"Yiayia is my master's aunt… and, while you've already experienced that she's a colorful character, she's been an incredible asset over the past two weeks for her rather unusual set of skills," she explained, "I imagine you both could learn a great deal from some of her more clandestine ways."
Harry's eyebrows rose at that.
"What does she do?" Ron asked curiously. Hermione's amused expression smoothed slightly and her full lips pursed.
"Yiayia's retired," she replied slowly. "She's still a well-respected witch in Greece and she has friends in plenty of high places… though I would imagine nothing less from an accomplished Architect."
Ron's mouth fell open before he let out a low whistle.
Harry immediately knew he was about to experience the familiar discomfort well-known to most Muggleborns, though it irritated him that Hermione suddenly seemed have a wider scope of the Wizarding world than he did. Before, they had usually been well-matched in their lack of knowledge, and while he had heard the implied capital 'A' in his friend's tone, the significance of the profession still eluded him.
Hermione caught his spiraling embarrassment immediately as she reached out a delicate hand to clasp his arm.
"Don't feel bad, Harry. I only started reading about the Architecture Guild within the last two years," Hermione said softly, "It's one of those frustrating things that's both well-known and completely mysterious to the Wizarding world. Though come to think of it, there were mentions of it in Hogwarts: A History..."
"Of course," Ron chuckled as Harry squinted. So what's the big deal…?
Hermione tilted her head again and sent him an understanding smile.
"Being an Architect is one of the most challenging professions in the Wizarding world," she explained, somehow managing to keep her voice free from the patronizing tone he remembered from youth.
It felt nice.
"All Architects belong to the Architectural Guild which is a profession-based organization similar to a Society but with slightly more open rules. Yiayia said to think of it as a members-only sort of club and that's about all I know at the moment. There are no books on the Guild, just as there are no truly good books on Mastery Societies..."
Ron hit his leg under the table and Harry bit back a snort. The irritation in Hermione's voice was palpable.
"Similar to great Architects of the Muggle world, the Wizarding version depends on a good amount of skill which is part of its inherent challenge. It's a profession that requires someone to be creative and design-oriented, but also incredibly precise and exacting in order to achieve the structural and material demands of the job. And then of course there's magic."
There was a glint in caramel-colored eyes that Harry remembered well from Hogwarts… a spark of interest that only ever appeared when Hermione had found some new sort of mystery or branch of particularly advanced magic that demanded her perusal.
"Architects must have a Mastery-level command of Transfiguration, Charms, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy for most of the practical work that is required," Harry sniffed in disbelief as Ron nodded his admiration, "But they must also have a well rounded erudition of Neuromancy, Magical History, Electromagical Energies, and sometimes also Astronomy, Herbology, and Necromancy."
Next to him, Harry felt Ron shudder at the last and briefly saw Hermione's eyes flicker towards Ron in an apparent expression of annoyance before it evaporated.
"Wow… that sounds complex," Harry said, as Hermione sat forward and nodded. He didn't even know what some of the last branches of magic were but it was clear that Wizarding Architecture was considerably more involved than its Muggle counterpart.
"Architects must be well-versed in so many of the magical arts that it makes them rather scarce. Also, I've understood that you either have the strength of magical ability to become an Architect or you do not. It's a fierce combination of intellect, magical strength, and magical breadth… and it's apparently quite dangerous work."
Harry found himself nodding as he absorbed yet another Wizarding peculiarity with relative ease.
I wonder what Architects actually do...
Maybe they built magical buildings single-handedly and that's why it was so hard. He knew that a building's warding was an extension of its physical structure and that was a complicated branch of magic that the Aurory frequently encountered. Maybe Architects build the warding?
It was too big a curiosity to consider over lunch and Harry's attention refocused as Hermione shifted, her wand briefly poking out of one sleeve before she flourished a hand and it disappeared again. Another rush of magic settled in around them and once again, Harry found himself impressed.
"Muggle Repelling Charm," she muttered by way of explanation as Ron gave her a quizzical look. Hermione sat forward and placing her elbows on the table, "I'd like the rest of our conversation to continue uninterrupted."
Harry frowned, glancing at Ron to see an equally troubled look upon his friend's face. Something in their friend's unusually impassive tone suggested that their discussion was about to take another turn.
Their earlier discussion about Hermione's master had been illuminating if still a bit polarizing, and the darkness of current events continued to hang at the periphery of their conversation like an ominous cloud.
It was clear that their friend felt a great amount of loyalty to the enigmatic Greek witch and while Harry had briefly felt guilty for questioning Hermione about her, there were still a number of unanswered questions continued to linger at the back of his mind. Quietly, he had already decided not to give up that point so easily.
The waitress had come to clear their plates and bring dessert menus just after Hermione had admitted to working on a few different Order-related theories. He and Ron had been eager to hear her thoughts, but had become distracted by her explanation of the new D.A. coins. It seemed that Hermione had been using her spare time to also work on inventing new stealthy methods of communication that would have made the Marauders rather proud.
Some of her ideas were rather inspired and he and Ron had contributed with their own thoughts as best they could… and Harry had also found himself wondering what Hermione was doing in her day to day life; somehow he imagined that the D.A. coins weren't on her master's radar - a small thing that made him feel a little better about Hermione's loyalty to the Order, and also a bit out of character for his unfailingly honest friend.
Things were changing faster than he knew how to handle and the first tendrils of unease had begun to wrap themselves through his mind. He hadn't been this unnerved since before the end of the War.
"This brings me toward the rest of the conversation we need to have," Hermione said quietly, one long hand absently turning her water glass as Harry refocused.
"My life is different now. Just as yours are as well… I've met new people, had plenty of new experiences. Master Kallas has illuminated many things for me just as I imagine Gawain Robards has done for you," the elegant hand tucked itself against the edge of the table, "None of us are the same as we were at the end of the War… and I think that's a good thing. It proves we are all growing."
Harry made a non-committal noise of agreement as Ron shifted a spoon aside and nodded, his brow drawn.
Where is she going with this?
"Yiayia is one of the people who has shown me a lot about what it means to grow as a person. Her skills as an Architect prove that she's an incredibly adept hand at most forms of magic and from a few stories I've gathered, I know that she and other members of the Architectural Guild have a history of helping the Order," Hermione paused as Harry's eyebrows shot upwards.
That is news…
He and Ron were still learning just how thick and convoluted the Order's history was… not only in the last War but in the First Wizarding War when they had just been born. The web of interconnected names and wands stretched out far wider than they had ever imagined, though hearing that a whole order of powerful Architects had been involved… that seemed rather impressive.
Not for the first time, Harry found himself irritated that he didn't simply know more about the Order's past business.
"Beyond that shared history, Yiayia has also begun teaching me about how to deal with people," Hermione continued, drawing confused looks from the both of them, "And while a lot of her lessons are helping me prepare for the work to be done in both of my Societies, I realize that they are also skills that will assist in the impending needs of the Order. But before I can begin to delve into that, I need to be assured that I haven't lost your loyalty. I need to know that I haven't lost your friendship along the way… and before anything, I need to first ask for your forgiveness."
Hermione's features were open and apologetic and Harry's first instinct was to reply with some sort of assuaging comment. Of course she has our friendship… isn't that what this whole meeting is about?
However he felt his brow furrowed as he took another moment to digest his friend's meandering words.
It almost sounds like this Yiayia witch is teaching her how to be a spy…
Secrecy seemed to be the mandate of all Societies and perhaps, too, this Architectural Guild. It made sense that Hermione would need training to navigate the pitfalls of such communities, but what about her closer relationships? What was she being taught to conceal from her friends?
The thoughts blazed through Harry's mind quickly and he found himself frozen, midway to a reply when Ron cut him off.
"Hermione, what are you talking about?" Ron interrupted, brows furrowed as he leaned across the table impatiently. "You're speaking in riddles. What are you apologizing for?"
Harry suddenly realized that Hermione had been watching him with a rather knowing expression and he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Caramel eyes flicked away. Hermione… what are you doing?
Their friend frowned, but rather than snapping at Ron as Harry had initially expected, she simply sat back with a troubled expression upon her face.
"When I left for my apprenticeships, I told you that it was because I needed to step away from Great Britain and the aftermath of the War. I wanted to get out and see more of the world and to take a break from all the hardships we had endured together. All of that was true. But that wasn't the entirety of my reasoning."
"Hermione…"
"Please," Hermione held up a firm hand, as her eyes floated shut, "Just let me get this out and then we can talk about it further."
Harry found himself swallowing and sitting back slightly, watching as Ron fell silent. Across the table, their friend shifted slightly, her shoulders squaring in a deliberate manner that pulled the emerald brocade of her blazer into a crisp line. Harry realized his mouth had become rather dry.
"I need to apologize for keeping important information from you," Hermione said quietly, her gaze dropping to the table between them, "I need to apologize for keeping you in the dark about things that happened to me toward the end of the War… since they are the reason I've been having trouble writing and staying in contact with the both of you."
The silence at their table was profound and Harry felt an inappropriate flash of relief and gratitude for privacy charms.
That flash was immediately followed by the icy fingers of dread as he absorbed the implication of Hermione's words.
Something… happened to her?
No.
He and Ron had been there for everything… well, he hadn't been there at the very end, but he knew for a fact that Ron and Hermione had remained together for most of the Final Battle. They would have known if something had happened to her.
Wouldn't we?
"When?" Harry found himself croaking and the emerald shoulders stiffened slightly.
"I never told you the full extent of what happened that day at the Malfoy Manor."
While her posture remained resolutely calm, Hermione's face was telling a different story. Harry was suddenly acutely aware of the myriad of micro-expressions flitting across his friend's face - sliding together and changing almost too fast for him to read.
Regret. Pain. Embarrassment. Fear.
Large eyes blinked and full lips parted slightly, drawing in the air slowly as though drinking it in through a straw.
Of all the things that he had imagined Hermione had wanted to discuss, the subject of her torture had never even dawned upon him. A stone had settled deep into Harry's stomach and next to him, Ron seemed to have turned into a statue.
"After they separated us, Bellatrix tortured me with the Cruciatus. You already know that," a light hand gestured dismissively, "The first round, I estimate she only tortured me for about forty minutes. The first was the hardest. She was angry and relentless…"
Hermione trailed off as she frowned distantly.
Harry balked. Only forty minutes…
At the Academy he and Ron had heard stories of witches and wizards losing their facilities after twenty. Guiltily, he realized they had never talked about Hermione's torture nor how long Bellatrix had held her under the Unforgivable beyond what she had explained after they had escaped to safety. Merlin… you never asked her if there have been aftereffects...
Even if the insane witch had done it in shorter sessions or spurts, the combined effects of the curse would have been… debilitating at best.
And Hermione was talking of rounds. How many had there been?
"Bellatrix returned later with a cursed knife to cut 'mudblood' into my arm and to torture me again… but… I left out the point at which she called in the other Death Eaters..."
Dark lashes lowered toward the edge of the table as Hermione tucked her chin.
"She gave me to them. And told them to 'play with me' while I assume she went away to speak with Griphook about the sword."
Harry's stomach churned and he felt a strange sensation of being both hot and cold at once. Hermione's voice seemed to be coming from far away and despite the horror of her words, her beautiful features betrayed little emotion.
"I remember their faces," a flicker of disgust, "The way they laughed at me and pushed me around. I couldn't fight them… I couldn't..." Hermione cleared her throat and her voice took on a strangely clinical tone as she folded her arms upon the table.
"The Cruciatus leaves you oversensitized according to most medical journals. Prolonged exposure inflames the peripheral nerves and creates muscle weakness and an exaggerated or distorted experience of touch. It also disrupts a person's magical core… leaving the body susceptible to threat or injury much like a Muggle's without its natural magical defenses."
Harry felt his features twist into an expression of dread as Hermione's assembled into the ghost of a sardonic smile.
"I was fortunate that Bellatrix was ruthless enough to damage enough of my sensory-motor nerves with her first wave of torture so that I experienced a good amount of numbness rather than immediate or exaggerated pain as the Death Eaters assumed. The Healers managed to repair everything after the Final Battle and they suggested it might have been a last-ditch attempt by my magical core to create a counter-defense," she continued, her voice rather bland, "I suppose I have a few things to be thankful for."
Harry waited, feeling sick to his stomach as the inevitable question of "what happened next?" hung over the table like a tangible Grim. Hermione took a careful sip of water and somehow it seemed that they were all waiting for her to verbalize the answer.
A long moment passed as Hermione's expression grew solemn and pensive.
"I don't know how long it took. I remember Pettigrew. Lucius Malfoy. A witch and wizard I didn't recognize. They all participated in some way. Fenrir Greyback was supposed to wait until the end. But Bellatrix returned after… Antonin Dolohov… he…" Hermione's jaw worked and Harry could almost visualize the words as palpable objects getting stuck inside her mouth.
"He… was the one who… violated me."
Harry felt his eyes widen in horror.
"Violated you?" The disbelieving whisper came out with more vehemence than he intended and to Harry's dismay, his friend's shoulders immediately folded in upon themselves.
"Please… I don't want to go into details," Hermione whispered, her lashes fluttering slightly as she held up a hand. Harry's heart broke and he started to reach across the table and then froze when she moved back slightly, visibly deflating at his effort to connect.
The calm façade that Hermione had exuded throughout their conversation suddenly evaporated and he was faced with a smaller version of the witch that seemed nearly as fragile as the eleven-year old girl he had met on the Hogwart's Express. Harry suddenly had no idea how to respond.
And then Ron sat forward gently.
"S'all right, 'Mione. You don't have to tell us anything that you don't want," Ron murmured reassuringly, his voice soothing and warm.
Harry's eyes skirted over to see his friend's face a patient mask of understanding and concern, remarkably calm in contrast to the hot flush of anger and grief that seemed to be swallowing his own composure.
Mother of Merlin… she… Hermione was… she was…
His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he struggled to even think the terrible word.
A deep breath helped him draw from Ron's smooth expression, but Harry didn't fail to note the way one of his friend's hands was clenched in his lap… nor how his Adam's apple bobbed against a hard swallow.
Hermione exhaled slowly and she nodded, straightening slightly, her gaze still falling somewhere between the edge of the table and her water glass.
"I… don't remember everything anyway. At least, not while I'm awake," a wry smile briefly tinged full lips, "There are flashes. Small details mostly. It's like watching something from someone else's life… except… in the end I know what happened to me. The St. Mungo's report listed everything for me in crystalline detail."
"I didn't know you went to St. Mungo's," Harry said, immediately regretting the second thoughtless blurt. It wasn't that important.
Fortunately, Hermione simply sat back, blinking as though recalling where they were. Long hands twisted for a moment before pressing against the surface of the table.
"The day after the Final Battle. I went with Neville and Luna while the two of you went to the Burrow to arrange for… the funeral," dark eyes flickered toward Ron without quite meeting his face, "Madam Pomfrey sent us for surface injuries because of all the damage to the Hospital Wing… and while I was there I requested that they give me a complete examination. The Healers eventually confirmed it wasn't all just some sort of terrible Cruciatus-induced hallucination."
Harry experienced a brief jolt as he recalled the day of which Hermione spoke. Guiltily, he acknowledged that in the midst of the confusion and grief surrounding the Final Battle and Fred's death, he hadn't even realized that Hermione had been absent from The Burrow.
"You were always welcome with us, Hermione," Ron said softly. "If we had… if we had known what happened, we would have been there with you. We… maybe we could have helped?"
The half-question came out as a throaty croak and Harry pressed his lips together, feeling his own eyes begin to prick and burn.
"I know that, Ron," Hermione replied sadly, her voice regaining a bit more strength, "But there's a difference between knowing something and understanding it. At the time I felt that no one could understand how I was feeling… and so I made the choice to be alone and to carry on. It was… easier than having to face the reality of what happened to me."
Oh Hermione…
Ron looked away and Harry swallowed, trying to dispel the lump that had arisen in the back of his throat as he worked to process his friend's words and experience.
Hermione had endured something that neither he nor Ron could truly ever understand.
While Harry could briefly empathize with the experience of being completely powerless and at the beck and call of someone else's cruelty, the visions and brief face-to-face experiences he had had with Voldemort were completely different.
Like comparing apples and oranges…
Harry didn't know what to say and he immediately hated himself for it. His gut churned with the rolling force of his emotions and he dropped his focus toward his hands which were twisting in his lap ineffectually.
Across the table, Hermione sighed.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole story," she said, after a moment. Elegant brows drew together in an intense expression of concentration and Harry's eyes zeroed in upon trembling lips. Again, his heart clenched.
"I… was afraid of how you would react, I think. But over time I've realized that pushing you away hasn't been helping me to heal. Despite all the new connections I've been making abroad... I've missed having my two best friends at my side. I just... hope you can understand why I needed to take some time. I didn't want anyone to know… and I was worried you would treat me differently. Or that maybe you'd pity me," Hermione ducked her chin and her voice dropped into a whisper, "I don't want you to pity me."
"Hermione-"
Harry froze as he and Ron spoke together, the both of them leaning forward across the table before stopping to stare at each other for a moment. Harry sat back first, waiting as Ron turned back to their friend.
"Hermione," Ron repeated quietly, "You have my sympathy and compassion, but not my pity."
Hermione's lips twitched, but she remained silent, staring down at the top of the table with a determined sort of focus. Harry imagined she might have been steeling herself against their reaction and something in his gut twisted. Just how did she imagine we would react?
Ron sat back slightly and raked a hand through his hair.
"I think pity means that there is cause for shame somewhere," he continued, shaking his head slowly, "And… knowing you - one of my two best friends… the smartest, most intelligent, bravest witch I know - I can't think of any reason for you to be ashamed."
His friend took a deep breath and lifted a large hand to place upon the table between them, palm facing up. Hermione's gaze flicked toward it, but she remained perfectly still, shoulders slightly rounded, looking a far cry from the collected, confident witch who had sat before them just minutes earlier.
"What happened to you was not your fault. We were only kids at the time and I know how everyone likes to talk about how the three of us took on Voldemort single-handedly… but we know that isn't how it went," Ron's voice grew softer and more tender, "And even though everyone calls you the Brightest Witch of Her Age - which you are, by the way… that doesn't take away from the fact that we were stepping into roles meant for adults… in a War that we inherited… with stakes far higher than we knew how to handle. It wasn't our place and yet we did it anyway. We did it anyway, but it meant that some of us got hurt."
Harry waited as Ron took a deep breath, feeling his heart ache for Hermione… and swelling with the familiar pain that lingered as his thoughts turned toward the kaleidoscope of dark memories from the War. But beneath all of that he felt a small blossom of pride as he waited for his friend to continue, wondering again, just when the red-haired boy he had met on the train had become such a good and honorable man.
"I hate that you suffered," Ron whispered and Harry could hear the tears coloring the tight words, "It makes me angry in a way that I don't even have words to… to..." the open palm clenched and unclenched, "I hate it. You deserve to live in a world where witches shouldn't be afraid of wizards and where wizards should have the decency to treat witches as the equals that they are. What happened to you was… terrible. Unthinkable. Unjust."
Ron inhaled quickly and let the air out in a soft hiss before tilting his head and leaning forward, clearly searching for Hermione's eyes.
"And don't you dare think that you somehow are responsible… or that you weren't good enough… or gods forbid, deserved it for not being good enough or strong enough… because none of that is true."
Hermione pressed a hand against her mouth and stifled a silent sob, reaching out with her other hand to clasp Ron's tightly. Silvery tears leaked out from beneath full lashes and slipped down smooth cheeks slowly.
"You are a brilliant witch, an amazing woman, and I… love you, 'Mione. You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me. Don't think I would let you go just because something terrible happened to you."
Hermione rose and halved the distance before disappearing into Ron's strong embrace. Harry dropped his chin and let the flood of tears finally come, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table as he took a shuddering breath.
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of quietly shared pain. He heard Ron murmur a few more soft phrases and Harry felt the hot flush of his emotion gradually recede as he waited for his friends to break apart.
Merlin's beard…
Hermione's revelation felt like a sucker punch to the gut and Harry briefly wracked his brain as he wondered how he and Ron had completely missed their friend's pain for such a long time. Had she tried to say something to them before and failed? Had there been signs that they had missed?
Of course there had been.
The hazy months leading up to the Final Battle had been tinged with darkness, constant anxiety, numbing confusion, and ever-present fear.
The time they had spent at Shell Cottage had been fraught with anxiety over the Sword of Gryffindor and grief at Dobby's death. Looking back, Harry could only vaguely remember having spent a bit of time with Hermione during her recuperation. They had moved on to planning the break-in at Gringotts immediately and other than her constant need for rest, Harry had been too caught up in his own emotions to notice that his friend had been more subdued than he could ever have remembered.
She hadn't simply been sick and hurting. She had been dealing with trauma.
After the Final Battle there had been other signs.
Unlike he, Ginny, and Ron, Hermione had spent barely any time at The Burrow. After the initial wave of victory parties and funerals, Hermione had been the first to mobilize their friends and community into assisting with the immediate repairs to Hogwarts. She had thrown herself into the work with a passion and Harry had never stopped to consider that her feverish efforts might've hinted at something beyond just simple devotion.
Once the largest repairs had been completed, Hermione had made her journey to Australia with Ron. Afterward, Harry had assumed that her relentless N.E.W.T.s preparations had been the logical response to finding her parents and setting her life back on track. Headmistress McGonagall had spent the most time with their friend, but beyond that Hermione had seemed intent upon becoming a permanent fixture of the Hogwarts Library and not even Madam Pince had had the heart to chase her away.
At the time Harry had simply chalked it up to Hermione being Hermione and wanting to get a head start on her career. He, Ginny, and Ron had stopped by infrequently but had largely spent their time at The Burrow or over at The Rook with Luna. The familiarity of her habits had felt good… as if the world had somehow righted itself if Hermione Granger's only concern was achieving as many O's as humanly possible.
That limited perspective only seemed to underscore how very wrong he had been.
Harry rose as both of his friends sniffled slightly and finally broke apart, chuckling softly as they wiped their noses in a moment of synchronicity. Hermione stepped back and gave Harry a crumpled sort of smile before stepping into his open arms even as her tears began anew.
Automatically Harry found his arms stroking the muscular back as he pressed his lips into the loosely tamed curls. His nose inhaled the warm scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and honey and he felt a wave of unidentifiable emotion come over him as his own eyes burned with fresh tears.
"Hermione, you're like my sister," Harry murmured, his voice tight. "I love you and you're the closest thing I have to actual family," thin arms clasped him tighter, "You get me in a way that no one else does. Not even Ron."
They shared a communal amused sniff as Ron elbowed Harry with quiet "eyy."
"I just… I am so proud of you, Hermione. There's nothing in the world that could make me think of you any differently," Harry said, drawing back and shaking his head as he tried to find the words to reach his friend. He wasn't good at the understanding speeches like Ron was and there were still too many emotions floating through his head.
"We both know that I'm not good at this… and Ron already said the important things," he gave a crooked smile as Hermione chuckled and pressed a soft hand against his chest, "I wish I could've been there for you when you needed it most… but y'know… I think we're all learning that everyone heals in their own time. And I'm glad that you've taken the time you needed and just know that we're here for you now. And we'll always have your back, ok?"
"Oh Harry…"
He rubbed her back soothingly until her tears abated and she drew back with a hiccuping sort of sniff.
"I know," Hermione sniffed again and reached backward to swipe a napkin from the table. Harry allowed her to step back until the three of them were standing in a close sort of triangle to the side of the table.
"I… thank you. I think I really needed to hear that," the soft voice was warm with affection and Harry felt a combination of guilt and reassurance as Hermione gave them both a watery smile before wiping her nose and shrugging awkwardly.
Ron slung a heavy arm across Harry's shoulders as he drew closer, a lopsided smile glowing from beneath his beard. Clear blue eyes seemed rather bright.
"You're stuck with us, 'Mione. Don't you remember?" Ron said, opening his other hand toward her as he gave Harry a friendly shake, "We're in this together."
Harry extended his own hand, and with a half-laugh, half-sob, Hermione rolled her eyes and pressed forward into their shared hug, slinging her arms around their ribs with a fierce grip.
"Good. I wouldn't want it any other way."
Drawing his two friends close, Harry felt a smile break through his tears.