TWENTY-THREE: The Plan

The current of Hermione's mind was slow, steady, as though no intruder stood in its midst.

One wouldn't even know it to look at her; she reclined in her armchair, her feet tucked up beneath her, her muscles relaxed, her expression neutral. The occasional tick at the corner of her mouth betrayed how delighted she was—how proud of herself—but otherwise, there was no sign that Severus was rifling through her mind, looking for a vulnerable point in her defenses.

The permanent wall he'd been helping her to construct was not yet finished. There were memories she hadn't faced and discussed in the Pensieve, recollections that could still stray from their boundaries and wreck havoc, but their escape route was much more difficult now. She had laid a great many of these to rest—had begun to do so even while they were apart, instinctively, gritting her teeth through it.

She was proud of herself, but standing in the evidence of her diligent work, he did not think she could possibly be prouder than he was.

Her lip twitched. "Heard that."

"Good." He pressed deeper, examining the wall beneath the rivers of everything else. The seams were tight, the structure sound. He drifted toward the holes that remained—the first traces of panic and fear evident in her thoughts.

She longed to stop him; he could feel how heartily she wished to stand in his way, but her fingers only tightened a bit on the armchair and she let him proceed, following the old grief.

It was silence this time, deep and chilling. Night after night passed in a blur of lantern light; Potter moved within the periphery of her vision, around the tent, but he didn't speak to her, and she did not reach out to him. They bent over books and persisted through the cold seeping into the tent, but no words passed between them. Weasley never made an appearance.

"That was the worst bit of that year, I think," she said aloud. "I love Harry, but...it had always been the three of us. We'd never been separated like that, not so completely. Maybe one of us would have a row with one of the others, but the third was always there to bridge the gap, to try and get us back to how we were. Without Ron...there was no bridge. We were sure...I was sure...that we were going to fail. For those few weeks, I...I was sure of it. We were going to fail. Voldemort was going to win."

He'd withdrawn while she spoke. She'd braced her chin against her hand, her eyes unfocused, and she no longer looked proud at all, but pale and sad and far away, well out of his reach.

"You feel a great deal of outrage about what Dumbledore had me do," he said. "What about what he asked you to do? You were barely of age, and he entrusted the only task that would destroy the Dark Lord to you, Potter, and Weasley."

She didn't meet his gaze, but a furrow formed between her brows. "I didn't question it," she replied. "We were exceptional. I was exceptional. I'd always been made to feel that way. When you're exceptional, expectations are high."

"You were exceptional," he said. "You are exceptional."

"But we were very young," she agreed. "Terrified. And he couldn't have laid it out for us, oh no—just a trail of clues, a mountain of dead ends. I put on a brave face for Harry, I swore up and down that Dumbledore had his best interests at heart, but…" She met his eyes. "In the end, I guess we both know that wasn't true."

"He did survive," he allowed.

"But Harry didn't think he would," she said. "And Dumbledore didn't either, did he? You expected him to die. You were surprised that he lived."

"Yes. Dumbledore told me that Potter would have to die to vanquish the Dark Lord, and I believed him."

He remembered that anger—so powerful, so fierce, that it hadn't felt like anger at all.

She shook her head. "That's what I can't stand. Harry lived, but the intent. The intent...Dumbledore pointed and Harry—all of us—marched toward our graves like we were glad to." She closed her eyes. "And some of us made it all the way there."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the crackle of the fire low and familiar, as color gradually returned to her face.

"I wish he'd lived," she said bitterly. "I'd like to tell him to his face just what I think of him now."

Severus failed to stifle a snort. "You could always tell off his portrait."

She chuckled, shook her head again, but now something else was bothering her—he could sense her change in mood, the spike of her anxiety different than the oppressive dread of that memory.

"This is never going to work, is it," she said.

"What's this?"

"Occlumency. For me," she hurried on, seeing that he was about to contradict her, "it's been working. I've been sleeping longer, better, the wall's coming along, my moods aren't so...wild...but for everyone. We've talked about this before. Occlumency isn't something the average witch or wizard can do."

He waited. She sat up a little straighter.

"I've had an idea," she said.

Salazar save him from her ideas, but he leaned forward to hear it all the same.

"We need to know more about the way Muggles do this. Their methods. If Muggles can get through it, then the average wizard can, too. And there are comparable disasters in Muggle history that have caused this sort of thing—it's not as if it's a matter of magnitude, their methods still work—"

"We may be uncommonly clever people," he said, and her lips curved toward a smile, "but it takes many years of study, of education, to become a psychologist. Certifications, training. It is not the sort of thing we can learn solely from books and then implement. We would likely do more damage that way."

She hesitated one last time before speaking again. "I think we need a loophole in the Statute of Secrecy," she said.

He leaned back in his chair again, a little stunned by the gall of her, sitting there, proposing the alteration of one of their society's most basic tenets.

"There are people already trained to deal with this," she went on. "Whole hosts of them. Hundreds of times more qualified than we are. If some of them could be informed about our world—I know there are already Muggles who know—"

"The Ministry will never accept such a proposal," he cut in.

"No, I think they might. We just need to do our research first. Convince them. Get a few…important…people on our side. I know Kingsley's on board, and Harry's support is not exactly small. If I tell him that this is what we need, he'll fight tooth and nail to make it happen."

"And if we fail?" he pressed.

"Then we try again," she said heatedly, "and again, and again, until they listen to us."

"They may never listen," he pointed out.

"I'll make them listen," she said fervently, her eyes bright. "They won't have a choice. They thought I was like a dog with a bone for Law One Hundred and Twenty-Six F, but they haven't begun to see how relentless I can be." She stood up and crossed to her desk and the stacks and stacks of parchment there, shifted one over, and scribbled something out.

"Should I leave you to it?" he asked, both amused and heartened by this display. He did not think it would work—he thought they had only the smallest chance of convincing the new government, however more lenient, that this was necessary—but he couldn't help but admire her nerve.

She looked up, her eyes slightly unfocused. "No, no, it's our evening off—I'm not going to work all night." He was not offended by the slightly longing glance she cast at one of her bookshelves. "Besides, I've got something else to talk to you about."

He waited while she shifted around the stacks again and pulled out a small card.

She'd spent a not insignificant amount of time staring absentmindedly at this woebegone piece of parchment over the last three weeks. She hadn't mentioned it to him, and he hadn't asked; he was certain that she would bring it up when she'd made up her mind, and not a moment before.

He suspected that he knew what it was, and he did not quite understand her hesitation. She'd spoken cordially to Weasley at Potter's party; they had been friends once, and likely would be again. They had shared an experience so terrible, that so few people had in common with them, that it seemed impossible to be otherwise. She remained on good terms with his family. They would always be connected through Potter. The resolution seemed obvious.

"Would you go to Ron's wedding with me?" she asked, brandishing the card. Before he could answer, she rushed on. "We wouldn't have to stay late. I can't imagine their vows will be particularly loquacious."

This was what she'd hesitated over, then: whether or not to ask him along. He knew better than to believe that she would ask if she didn't want him there. Her deliberation had not been over that, but over whether or not she believed he would come if she did ask.

"I only feel as if I should go," she went on, her fingers worrying at one corner of the invitation now. "I can't sit down and tell Ron about things the way I've done with Harry and Ginny. We just aren't…like that. But this would mean that things are okay between us, that we could be friends again. He would understand. And I'd prefer to have…I'd like your company. The deadline's tomorrow. I know I haven't given you much time to think about it, and I'm sorry, but—"

"I'll come."

Her features brightened perceptibly, her relief palpable in her smile. "Oh, good." Picking up her quill, she filled in the battered card. "I'll drop it at the owlery in the morning." She smiled up at him. "Thank you."

He waved her off. He was not much for social engagements, but there was some undeniable appeal in accompanying her anywhere, something in the way that she stood at his side without shame before other people she loved. It soothed some old, petty wound in his heart, and he was grateful.

From her examination of the pitiful accounts available about mental illness in the aftermath of the First Wizarding War, Hermione didn't think there was much use in trying to craft a potion to cure the trauma itself. She did, however, hope that there was something that could be done about treating the symptoms, if only they went about it in the correct way. Dreamless Sleep had helped her, hadn't it, when used sparingly?

There was always a danger with potions, of course—side effects, addiction—but as long as the consumer was monitored, there was no reason to discount that line of thinking entirely. With this in mind, she traipsed down to the greenhouses, shivering in the chill. January was behind them, but February promised to be just as cold.

February, she realized. Valentine's Day was coming up, and for the first time in years, she felt a sort of nervous anticipation for the holiday. She and Severus hadn't really celebrated Christmas together—well, they had, but they hadn't exchanged gifts. He'd reacted well enough to the birthday present, but that had been…not impersonal, exactly, but not romantic. She tried to imagine Severus giving her a pink, heart-shaped box of chocolates and snickered heartily into her scarf. Not bloody likely.

She and Ron, after the first year or two, had done the same thing every year: gone out to a nice dinner, had a few drinks, exchanged a few silly gifts, had mediocre sex, and called it a night. It had been fun enough, she supposed, but the expectation had always grated on her—that they couldn't seem to make other plans for that day or that night, that they had to take time out to celebrate their relationship. The problem had been, of course, that it was one of the few times of year that they actually did celebrate one another, and that was on the two of them, not the (admittedly ridiculous) holiday.

She waved hello to Professor Sprout and ducked into Greenhouse Five. Neville was near the back, feeding the Chinese Chomping Cabbage.

"Hi, Hermione," he called. "Looking for something?"

"Valerian roots," she said, pulling off her mittens, "if you have any."

He glanced up; the Chomping Cabbage took advantage of his moment of distraction and yanked the entire carrot out of his hand, nearly taking a few fingers with it. Hastily, he snatched his hand away.

"Anything in particular you want them for?" he asked, striding over to the correct planter. "I've got fresh, dried, powdered…"

"Fresh, I think. I've enough of the dried and powdered in the storeroom."

He started carefully uprooting a single plant. It quivered in indignation at the intrusion, but as it had no teeth, it endured the treatment of its roots.

"Fresh is better for sleeping draughts," Neville mentioned off-handedly.

"It's not for me," Hermione said. "I've been doing some research—trying to work out where those healers at St. Mungo's went wrong in the eighties—and I think I've got an idea. Just need to do a little experimentation."

His eyes darted sideways at her. "St. Mungo's healers?"

She explained that she'd been looking into the symptoms caused by the trauma of war, and he listened attentively, pulling the roots apart from the trembling plant.

"And I just think it's a shame," she finished, as he laid the roots out on a clean length of linen, "you know, that they didn't look a bit further—consult a little wider—they met a bit of resistance and one dead end and tossed it in. And now they're off pursuing those flimsy little charms instead of any real course of treatment, so it's up to the enterprising among us to work out a solution."

The roots bound up and tied in the linen, Neville leaned back against the planter beside her, smiling. "And here I thought you might be taking some well-deserved relaxation in the evenings," he said, "holed up in your rooms, nesting with Snape, maybe, but no. It's business as usual."

"Well, not exactly as usual," she admitted. "Severus is an advocate of…erm…pacing the research. I mean, you can only do so much work in one night, I see his point—"

"Gross," he said, grinning now.

She grinned back, a little pink in the cheeks. "Anyway, I only meant that I haven't got my nose to the grindstone. It's going to be a lot of work before we can get this off the ground. Rushing it won't do anyone any favours."

"Harry said you want to take it to the Ministry."

"Yes." Her grin trickled away. "I only hope they'll listen."

"You just need to apply pressure in the right places. If everyone with an Order of Merlin starts sending Howlers, they can't exactly ignore it."

"Our plan is…a little risky," she hedged. "I'm just not sure everyone will think it's worth it."

"Well, I do," Neville said staunchly. "It's awful, what's been happening. The war is supposed to be over, not still dogging us like a bloody Grim. I think a lot of people will be damn relieved to have a solution. And I know you have a solution. You always do."

She smiled her gratitude, and they were quiet for a moment, watching the Chomping Cabbage munch happily on its supper.

"Are you going to Ron's wedding?" he asked.

She nodded. "Just dropped the R.S.V.P. at the owlery this morning."

"Pansy Parkinson," he said, shaking his head. "And now you're going out with Snape—it's really a whole new world, isn't it?"

She considered it: the way some Slytherins and some Gryffindors now crossed the Great Hall, in plain sight of their houses, to lunch together; the group that had banded together to protect Darrow and Lennox in Hogsmeade; that somehow, unbelievably, their generation had emerged from the war not with prejudices more firmly engrained but instead stripped away.

"It is," she agreed. "And I really think it's for the best."

Neville made a face. "Tell that to Mrs. Weasley," he said. "Ginny tells me she's at her wit's end."

"She accepted Fleur, in the end," Hermione pointed out. "And Pansy's lost her family over this. Mrs. Weasley will come around."

"I hope you're right," he said, unconvinced. "Otherwise, the wedding's going to be bloody unbearable."

"We're not planning on staying late," Hermione admitted.

Neville guffawed. "Oh, I should've known. You're bringing Snape. I can't believe he agreed to come."

"Well, he came to the naming ceremony, and it can hardly be worse than that, can it?"

"Was he furious?" Neville asked, still grinning. "Harry's nerve, honestly—Albus Severus. That poor kid. My godson."

"He was…surprised," Hermione said, a little sheepishly. "I probably should have warned him, but I knew he wouldn't come if he knew…I think he was impressed that I managed to keep it a secret for months, honestly. And he and Harry…talked. I don't think they're ever going to be as friendly as Harry'd like, but apparently it's better now that Harry's promised to stop sending gifts."

Neville handed over the linen-wrapped roots, chortling. "Quality entertainment."

They spent the walk back to the castle debating the merits of fresh or dried valerian sprigs in a Forgetfulness Potion, and wondering whether or not it would be of any use in the complicated equation Hermione had derived for her experimental potion. She'd have to fiddle with the Arithmancy a little more before she got started, she thought, and run it by Severus before she brewed it.

First, though, there were rounds to make. She dropped off the roots in her storeroom and hurried off to meet him, casting a warming charm on her cloak as she departed the dungeons. It felt stronger than the one she'd cast even a few weeks before, and she thought it was a sign—a hopeful, somewhat terrifying sign—that when she made her annual pilgrimage to Australia this year, she might succeed in lifting the Memory Charm.

Until then, there was no use worrying what the consequences of her actions might be. She did her best to put it out of her mind.