September 25th, 9 years after the War
Hermione had long believed that the Hogwarts Library held no secrets from her person. Second only to her own chambers, it was her most frequented room in the castle. As a 28-year-old Arithmancy professor, she practically lived there.
Even during her student years, not a day went by when she did wander among its dimly lit aisles, perusing the dusty shelves, scanning ancient tomes with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Her love for literature and dedication to studying had earned her the title of the brightest witch of her age, a title she unconsciously took pride in, especially since she hailed from a Muggle family- an often scorned background.
Now, as she strolled through the library, the slanting rays of the setting sun cast a golden glow across the unventilated space. Her fingertips caressed the spines of countless volumes with a lover's affection, seeking comfort in their familiar pages, when an excited whisper reached her ears, followed by a soft thud. It was coming from the Restricted Section of the library.
Alerted and aware of the possible consequences of meddling with forbidden, dark literature, she swiftly set off in that direction.
"Rowan, please stop," the lighthearted tone, with which it was uttered contradicting the message. Hermione thought she heard a stifled moan, and she quickened her pace, prepared to intervene. Moving closer, she recognised Dakota Higgins in the breathy female voice, a sixth year. There was no doubt now as to what nature of illicit activity the students were engaged in.
Upon reaching the Restricted Section, she saw Dakota, leaning heavily against a rosewood bookcase. Her black uniform robes were askew, her skirt hiked up, with one sleeve slipped from her shoulder. Rowan Sparks' tall frame hovered alarmingly close to her, his hands on her waist as he whispered into her ear, drawing a mixture of soft whimpers and giggles from Dakota's half-opened mouth. The young couple was abruptly interrupted as they spotted their approaching Professor, and they scrambled to fix their robes.
Hermione did not have a high opinion of Rowan, a Gryffindow Seeker whose ego had swelled ever since he made the team two years earlier. From what she had heard, he was a Seeker both on and outside of the Quidditch field, though she believed that he was a good boy deep down, perhaps a little lost.
Dakota feverishly secured the final button of her blouse, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment, just as Hermione cast a stern gaze upon them both. The professor glanced around surreptitiously, ensuring there were no other witnesses to the scene. She preferred to handle the delicate situation alone, rather than involve Madam Pince, the librarian known by both students and faculty for her overly strict observance of the school rules, especially the ones concerning the sacred space of her library.
Clearly, the young lovebirds shared Hermione's preference as they fixed her with pleading eyes and launched into a flurry of hurried, chaotic explanations for their indiscreet behaviour. Hermione swiftly silenced their babbling with a single, authoritative wave of her hand.
"Sush, both of you. If Madam Pince finds you here, a boy and a girl at that, Merlin have mercy on your souls. Rowan, you can sneak out unnoticed if you hurry." Hermione adopted a conspiratorial tone before shifting to authority again. "But don't let me catch you here, or anywhere else again with Dakota, or any other girl for that matter. If I do, you'll answer to your Head of the House and we both know he has little tolerance for public displays of affection. Off you go."
The boy did not need to be told twice. He hastened to the exit, skillfully avoiding the librarian's watchful gaze like a Seeker dodging a Bludger. Once alone, Hermione turned to the young woman, "Dakota, for a Ravenclaw, I thought you had more sense than that. You could have been caught by Mrs Pince and your days at Hogwarts would be numbered."
The girl's playful demeanour had evaporated completely and she grew quiet and serious. The long, dark lashes veiled her eyes as she dropped her gaze, avoiding Hermione's, and her shoulder tensed perceptibly. Observing this, the older witch softened slightly.
"I am not your parent and so it is not my place to scold you," she said, and a shade of relief passed over the student's face.
"You know, I was your age once and I know the joys and delights of first love but you need to be careful," she paused briefly, searching for the appropriate words, "There is a gift you can only give to one person, please keep that in mind. Before you part with it, make sure the other person is truly deserving of that gift. It's all too easy to make a mistake that you'll later regret," Hermione finished somewhat pensively.
Dakota offered her a weak smile, too surprised and grateful for being spared the consequences to notice the brief, sorrowful glimmer in her teacher's eyes. She solemnly promised that she would not take the matter lightly, as Hermione accompanied her towards the solid, wooden, panelled door, encrusted with iron studs. A nod to Irma Pince signalled that Dakota had been in her company at this late hour.
The Library was open to students until seven, and the hands of the clock above the entrance now pointed to quarter past. The Sun had just dipped behind the horizon and encroaching shadows wrapped the room in semi-darkness. With all visitors gone, the place had grown even more unnaturally quiet, if that were even possible with Madam Pince's vigil surveillance for the slightest breach of silence.
"Will you be staying long, Miss Granger?" asked the tall librarian, adjusting the gold-rimmed spectacles with the talon-shaped nail of her spindly finger.
"Perhaps a half-more hour, if that is not an inconvenience."
The older witch hesitated only for a moment, "No, of library is open to Hogwarts professors whenever such need may arise, I suppose. After all, we're all committed to grant the best possible education to our students, aren't we?"
Hermione nodded in agreement, albeit a little absent-mindedly. Mrs Pince did not need to know that the hours she was recently spending in her knowledge kingdom had little to do with research related to the subject she taught.
"Is there anything I can help you find?"
"No, I think I'll find my way around. Thank you."
The librarian shrugged her bony shoulders haughtily, her gracious offer of assistance so carelessly declined, and folded her hands together, where the blue of her veins traced spidery trails across the pallid, parchment-like skin. Without another word, she returned to her task, that is making sure the returned books have been placed in the correct places. If there was one thing she hated more than noise that disturbed the solemn nature of this place, it was chaos and disorder.
Meanwhile Hermione unhurriedly continued her walk among the aisles when she noticed the book lying face down on the floor right at the Restricted Section. Miss Higgins must have accidentally knocked it down when engaged with her beau in their questionable activity.
Hermione picked up the book, shaking her head disapprovingly that the sixth years had displayed such carelessness toward literature of mostly unresearched and potentially lethal nature. Didn't they know that some of these books were steeped in the Dark Arts? Just by opening these books they risked exposing themselves to unknown dark forces. Not without some fondness, she recalled her own encounters with such literature, convinced that she had never been so blissfully ignorant, even at a much younger age.
Upon closer inspection, Hermione recognised the leather-bound cover in a deep, forest green shade. It was "Flora Obscura: A Treasury of Forbidden Flora", a manuscript from the 14th century, comprising a catalogue of rare and highly dangerous magical plants for potion-making. She had seen it before at Neville's, as he had used it while preparing for his final Herbology exam.
Hermione let out a relieved sigh and closed the bulky tome. She was just about to slide it back into the gaping space on the shelf, when she spotted a corner of paper peeking out from the fragile pages. With her curiosity piqued, she pulled it out - it was a piece of parchment, crinkled, as if someone carried it in their pockets and then put it inside the book to flatten. To her disappointment, she found it to be entirely blank, likely it had been served as a bookmark, she concluded. Without further thought, she swiftly returned the book back to the shelf while slipping the note in the capacious pocket of her dress.
Later that evening, in her quarters on the third floor, Hermione sat down at her small, wooden desk to finish composing a letter to her parents. With the library episode not far from her mind, her thoughts drifted back several years prior. As a student, he used to spend a good portion of her summer holidays invariably in the family house in Hampstead in northern London Even as an adult, and Hogwarts Professor she still looked forward to their time together, treasuring those moments, thankful that despite a substantial gap that separated her magical world from that of her Muggle parents, they had been able to maintain a close and loving relationship.
This past year, however, her visits had become scarce and far between; her most recent brief visit taking place at the end of June. In their letter to her, her parents communicated that they had been worrying about her and how much they missed her; they were asking when she would be finally coming home for the long-awaited visit.
"Hermione, don't forget you're not only our darling daughter, but our only daughter, too and we'd like to see our little girl more often. We know you're busy teaching and shaping young minds , but perhaps you could carve out some time to see your old folks during the weekend?
As Hermione re-read these lines, she released a profound sigh. If only her parents knew the true reason she had been delaying the next visit. Her parents rightfully demanded an explanation; she knew well that her tired excuse of her profession keeping her perpetually occupied would not hold. The true reason for her negligence lay elsewhere but she was not prepared to disclose it just yet to them. She wanted to be certain she had truly exhausted all means of recourse before she broke the weighty news to them.
Dipping one end of her long pheasant quill into the inkwell while chewing on the other, she carefully considered her reply. She detested lying to her parents, keeping them in the dark, but was there really any other way in her current situation? Were there any principles and guidelines about informing one's parents that one is about to die and there was most likely nothing one could do about it?
The cheerful flames in the fireplace, so at odds with her somber thoughts, filled the room with a soothing crackling sound, casting animated shadows across the plain walls and infusing the space with the pleasant aroma of burning cherrywood.
Having finished crafting her reply in the flickering light of a candle, she set down her quill to rest, almost knocking over the inkwell. Lately, she was acting absent-mindedly, her mornings and afternoons filled with ceaseless academic activity: teaching, marking, preparing lessons to the best of her ability, while her evenings were devoted to methodically combing through the Hogwarts shelves in search of a counter-curse. So far her efforts in the latter regard had been dishearteningly fruitless. Although she still hoped that the books she had always put so much faith in would yet provide her with much-needed answers, a cold, prickling fear had begun to coil just beneath her ribs.
Hermione was plagued by the inexplicable sensation of cold increasingly often these days, which added to her anxiety although she had no reason to be surprised by it. So far it seemed Douglass Willgood, a renowned Healer from St Mungo's, was correct. Upon examination that followed the accident, or the attack- depending how one looked at these things - he had fleshed out the progressive symptoms of the spreading curse in detail, including the time she had left before it had taken its full effect and claimed her very existence. He had been very clear that she had several months of life before her, perhaps a year- if she was fortunate. The diagnosis was made in May and ever since time seemed to have gathered pace; it slipped through her fingers like a relentless river current, sweeping away moments, hopes and aspirations with an unforgiving force.
Pulling her shawl snugly around her shoulders, her fingers searched the depths of her pockets for her wand. The fire in the fireplace had dwindled to a feeble, ineffective flicker, and she was determined to rekindle its warmth. While feeling for the smooth end of her wand, she discovered the piece of parchment from the library, its crinkled, empty surface seemed to mockingly mirror her own life- unlived to its potential, devoid of purpose, and fading away before its time. Suddenly, she was overcome by a strange, irrational urge to fill the annoying blankness with words, doodles, anything to defy the looming void that threatened to consume both the parchment and her own existence. She wanted to leave her mark, however small.
Hermione raised her quill again, and a large drop of jet-black ink swirled from its end and made its way down, but the yellowed surface of parchment remained curiously untainted. Intrigued, Hermione set the quill to the paper and wrote a few words, but she might have as well been writing in the air for the ink appeared to sink into the paper. Her brows furrowed into a frown and she bit her lower lip, fazed by the phenomenon.
"Sweet Helga, what is wrong with this? The paper must be imbued with some ink-resistant charm. I guess someone was really not keen on having it spoiled with a stranger's scribbles, unless… " she paused as an unlikely idea floated into her mind.
She gently lifted the parchment to the candle. As the warmth of the flames enveloped her hand, three words became visible on its creased surface, confirming her theory. It was a name.