AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter contains a funeral prayer that was not written by me. Just a disclaimer... enjoy!
After hours passed with no signs of activity outside her tent, Hermione felt safe enough to finally emerge. She'd scourgify-ed herself and changed into a blue Weasley sweater and plaid pajama pants. They clashed horribly with her yellow rubber boots, but she hardly cared or noticed as she went about building a fire in a practiced, autonomic way.
The Centaurs hadn't come for her, either unaware of her lingering in their land or unconcerned as she was technically being escorted out by Pyronesia. The unsanctioned visit to the lean-to could be considered within the bounds of rules set forth by Firenze or a direct violation; Hermione recognized an argument could be made for either case.
Pyronesia. An image of the beast flashed in her mind, causing her stomach to twist into an uncomfortable knot. She felt unsettled, anxious in an all too familiar way. While she knew that the times had changed, at that moment Hermione felt again quite much like her old self. A child, a soldier. Alone, hiding out in the woods, terrified of being watched… of being hunted.
To be hunted was to feel watched at all times, an ever-present threat looming in every shadow. The shadows of the Dark Wood held many secrets, some Hermione feared to encounter. She'd felt its presence today; it's as if she was guided by the wood… she felt, oddly spoken to. While Hermione never felt quite alone in the Forbidden Forest; knowing the Centaurs had been keeping tabs on her, the presence she felt made sense. It wasn't the same as the feeling of being hunted, something that was all too familiar to her. Whether she was running from Snatchers, having a near-miss with a wild predator, or dodging arrows shot from a Centaurs' bow, Hermione Granger was no stranger to being hunted.
Logs crackled, kindling smoking heartily as Hermione silently conjured flames. She sat on a log before the campfire, the damp wood soaking her pants, but she hardly noticed. The short visit with the centaurs had her reeling. The unusual events coupled with her traumatic experiences in the past were the perfect recipe to disrupt her psyche. Hermione felt away from herself; her body sat idly by the fire, while her mind wandered.
A dull ache began throbbing behind her eyes as Hermione struggled to piece together the sequence of events. It had all happened so quickly and in her current state, she found it hard to keep track of what had happened first. She found the Centaurs, was under the threat of an arrow, but then brought to their village… and then asked to leave, permitted there only in the shadow of darkness with an agreement to stay away from the herd.
Hermione had been hopeful for a more receptive welcome, but she understood the centaurs' lingering mistrust of wizards for she sometimes held reservations about her own kind, too. It was easy to fear something, especially when supplemented with good reason. Hermione considered Pyronesia who had lost her sight to a wizard; she was probably not the only creature with lasting wounds brought forth by wands and magic. No wonder the herd preferred to be left alone.
She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something much larger was at play in the Dark Wood. The sense of desperation that she had gotten from Pyronesia was unnerving, undeniable. The creature had been obviously distressed, seeming to be knowing more about the situation than she was able to divulge at the time. Had the light returned her eyesight or the sight to her third eye (which was clearly working during their short encounter)?
Her mind was clouded with her anxiety, but she blew through it in a desperate attempt to make sense of what had happened in her time behind the sovereign line, focusing on the smell of the fire as she regulated her breathing and cleared her mind. When sufficiently calm, Hermione began pulling forth the memory from her mind: the frantic Centaur and their secret meeting, Hermione reaching for the eye patch, Pyronesia's fated words. She was unseeing of the fire before her, unhearing of the wind rustling through the trees marking the periphery of the Moon-Gazer Clearing; her only focus was on Pyronesia and her visit to the lean-to.
The panicked beast, her mystic rambling.
It had been years since she was faced with prophecy and never one that had been about her. She understood fully now how Harry must have felt during their teenage years, though on a lesser scale. Harry's prophecy had been a matter of life and death, the fate of the wizarding world. Hers? Well, she wasn't sure.
A dying Forest, dark in Heart, can only be saved if you do your part…
Was the Forest dying? It seemed perfectly fine to Hermione, not much different than it had been during her Hogwarts days, albeit a bit quieter. In her rush to travel out to her census assignment, Hermione hadn't spent much time reading about the Forbidden Forest in preparation. Was Pyronesia implying it had a physical heart? And if so, why was it dark? And what part did she play in all this?
Secrets of the wood you will discover. To transform yourself will transform the other.
She had presumed the Forbidden Forest to be full of secrets but never expected herself to be actively seeking one out. Hermione had dreamed of stumbling upon a new type of beast, one unknown to wizardkind. She would be founded with its discovery, perhaps they'd even make her a chocolate frog card; certainly, it would earn her a promotion. She presumed Pyronesia to be the 'the other', but she struggled to believe this with conviction. Was the centaur merely a soothsayer or did she have a larger role to play in whatever the hell was going on in the Forest?
Bury your prejudice, go back to before, or a heart newly beating will beat no more.
Pyronesia's final words were the most thought-provoking of them all. Hermione considered herself to be a very tolerant and inclusive person; open-minded to people and creatures alike. So what prejudices of hers would she have to bury? And why, if she didn't, would a heart cease to beat? What heart did Pyronesia mean? The heart of the Forest? Another heart entirely?
Was she overanalyzing again, merely forcing two plus two to equal ten?
Despite the feeling of perplexity, Hermione felt certain that there was something bigger – more than she could imagine – at play in the Dark Wood. And apparently, if Pyronesia's divine episode were to be believed, it was for Hermione to find out. It was that very fact that made her stomach sour until Hermione found herself bounding for the treeline and emptying the contents of her stomach onto the roots exposed.
In a way, the stars had always taunted her, with much of her teenage years riddled with prophecy, symbolism, and finding the unknown. She had tried to fight off her involvement with such things as much as possible but to little avail. It seemed that now was no different, with prophecy having found her once more. This time, however, it had come from the mouth of a Centaur; the species itself so well known for their divine prowess, their spirits so attuned to nature… it was harder for Hermione to discredit Pyronesia's word, to shake off the creeping feeling in her chest.
To make sense of anything, she'd need to speak with Pyronesia again. Eleven days; Hermione began the countdown in her mind. She had eleven days to formulate questions – and prayed to the Gods the Centaur would provide some straightforward answers. This time they'd be meeting in more neutral territory, under the safety of the stars in the Moon-Gazer Clearing.
As if the Census wouldn't be hard enough with the uncooperative nature of the Centaurs, now Hermione had to contend with a prophecy and an anxious Centaur who had, apparently, sealed their fate. She knew that she could unravel the mysteries of the wood, but she questioned if she wanted to. Was she willing to distract herself from the census to chase an errant prophecy that was likely to hold less credibility than Luna's tessomancy session?
If it was a matter of life and death, did she really have a choice?
Pyronesia's words played over and over in her mind. Hermione recited the words quietly to herself, becoming quite entranced as she chanted for hours, watching the flames fighting for survival against the damp wood before her. Her journey would not be easy, she knew; entertaining to the Gods but tumultuous to endure.
She contemplated these thoughts until the flames of her fire slowly died out on a curl of grey smoke, leaving her cold, in the dark, and alone.
It hadn't rained in days, the sky drained of its oppressive weight sufficiently four days prior, but the moisture had returned, forming a heavy fog that clung close to Hogwarts' ground. It was characteristically overcast, as it often was on the day memorializing the Battle of Hogwarts.
The moisture was causing her low bun to frizz, a few errant corkscrew curls poking wildly in all directions as she sat under a canopy that had been set up for the memorial service. She'd gone home that morning to get an outfit for the occasion: a plain black dress tied at the waist with a sash, a large black trench coat protecting her from the early morning chill, a sensible pair of black flats, and a string of small pearls strung around her neck. Her mothers' pearls. She stroked the necklace fondly from her seat at the edge of the second row, allowing her mind to wander while she waited for the ceremony to begin.
The Tombs of the Fallen looked ominous and otherworldly down the sloping grass, a few wizards strolled amongst them, their identities obscured by the fog. The tombs stood uniformly in a five-by-nine grid, dark grey marble each embossed with a white script to identify the dead; it all seemed almost too clinical, cold, devoid of emotion. Of course, not all the dead were buried here, with many being collected by families and handled privately. On the other hand, some families had felt honored to have their loved ones buried at Hogwarts. However, not all families were left standing after the war; some of the fallen had nobody looking for them and nowhere else to go for their final rest.
It was one of Hermione's least favorite days of the year for all the wrong reasons. She should have felt zealous and proud of what they had accomplished, the evil they had defeated. She should be celebrating the lives of the fallen, not dreading the attention that would come at an event like this. It was a reverent thing, to have fought in the Second Wizarding War. It had launched many of them into celebrity status. Some of them thrived in the limelight, while others, like Hermione, shied away.
The reporters were all looking for a story, hoping to keep up with the heroes of the war while most of the heroes themselves struggled for privacy so they could battle their own demons. She found herself feeling especially camera shy after she had returned from Australia two years after the war when reporters began sticking their noses into business that didn't concern them. Of course, she still had Skeeter under her thumb, but the young and eager reporters were not so easily scared (especially when some had known her since their school days).
Events like this were just another opportunity for well-wishing people to attempt their way closer to the war heroes; most hoping to glean some celebrity status by proxy. It distracted from the true reason for their gathering and made Hermione's stomach turn. It was the reason she would keep her time at the memorial brief: she didn't want to appear in the news more than just her name marked in attendance, perhaps a brief photo with the other Order members at most. Plus, she had plenty to do in the Forest once the sun had finally set, the only time she was permitted in the Centaur's land to perform the census.
The speeches were the same as they always were: Minerva's poised and poetic, the practiced speaker eliciting emotion from the attendees as skillfully as she had at the original burial. Harry's words were always less scripted but had more impact. This year he had decided on a simple poem, the words of which rang through her head as she paid her respects at the graves of the fallen:
Do not stand by my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep -
She stopped first at the shared grave of Remus and Nymphadora Lupin, the headstone standing proudly in the front row of the tombs. Tears fell from her face, which she dabbed away with a handkerchief. The couple had just started their life together, it wasn't fair for them to have been lost. Her bitterness was softened by her fond thoughts of Andromeda and Teddy, whose lives carried on the Lupins legacy: brave, kind people who fought for what was right. She craned her neck to glance back at the canopy atop the hill where the grandmother stood with her grandson, his hair shifting colors with his confusion, his sadness. It was hard enough to reconcile a parent's death as an adult, and Hermione couldn't imagine their absence being the only known status of the people that gave you life. It was something she wouldn't wish on anyone, especially the young and sweet Teddy Lupin.
I am the thousand winds that blow; I am the diamond glints in the snow;
Severus Snape had gotten the center headstone, his position as a spy for the Order considered instrumental to the winning side, his protection of Hogwarts and students during his time as Headmaster not going unnoticed. It took a long time for Hermione to understand his motivations, and his position in both armies. The man had been much like the wind, blowing this way and that by external forces perhaps beyond his control or enacted by his own hand.
She personally found it shameful to keep him here, on the same grounds as the man whose life he took atop the Astronomy Tower – and for what? To spare the innocence of Draco Malfoy? As if he had any goodness in him left to be spared. She pursed her lips, feigning to wipe a tear from her cheek as she stood before the potions master. Murderer, mentor, adversary, ally. Ultimately she concluded that the enigma that was the life of Severus Snape was not something she would come to understand.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain; I am the gentle, autumn rain.
The younger Order members and students had headstones in the third row, memorializing those whose parents had chosen to lay them to rest there like Colin Creevey and Fred Weasley. Others, like Lavender Brown, had been returned to their families, where they could be laid to rest by their own customs. She dwelled here, grieving those who had lost their lives far too young before they had even had a chance to find their place in the world. Lost from the world, but never lost at heart, watching from beyond the veil.
As you awake with morning's hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night.
Much to her chagrin, even students on the wrong side of the war had been buried at Hogwarts, before the final row of unmarked tombs. She frowned at the graves, wondering how many of those students had really meant their actions and how many were just acting out of fear and following the examples set by their parents? Her eyes shut tightly as she walked by the tomb belonging to a first-year that fought with the Death Eaters; surely she hadn't known better, certainly, she had been indoctrinated so properly that she was willing to become an eleven-year-old sacrifice. Others, like Crabbe and Malfoy who were buried at the end of the row, she was sure they knew what they were doing; she was sure that they had meant it.
Again, it didn't seem fair. She froze at the final headstone, capping the row. She read the script to herself, her brows furrowing and the frown deepening on her lips. It was the grave of Draco Malfoy. He had been buried there after the seizure of Malfoy Manor by the Ministry, with Lucius Kissed and Narcissa exiled the Manor had fallen to government property, and the family crypts sealed. There was also pointed unavailability of space at the Black family gravesite, which had its last available plot filled by the late Bellatrix Lestrange. So Malfoy got to be buried at the very place that had been brought under siege by his own doing; the place where he had made fatal mistakes became the backdrop for his eternal rest. It was hardly the kindness he deserved.
Do not stand by my grave, and cry – I am not there, I did not die.
Hermione finished her trek through the section of unmarked graves; these graves, the bodies unidentified, were the most tragic deaths of them all. They provided no closure, their loss was not properly mourned. It was a shadow of war that lingered over them, the unanswered questions after all these years. She wondered if they'd ever get answers or if it were better to allow things to remain unknown.
Hermione turned her back on the graves, striding away from the cluster of monuments, making her way up the sloping hill to the throng of her former schoolmates that had gathered. Ginny was the first to spot her and the redhead pushed her way through the group, enveloping her friend with a tight squeeze. When the two separated, Ginny frowned and punched her on the arm.
"Ow!" Hermione rubbed the spot gingerly, throwing her friend a dirty look.
"That's for running off to the Forbidden Forest without telling anybody." Her friend informed her, crossing her freckled arms across her bosoms.
"I told Padma, who I assumed would tell Parvati who would tell the Harpies who would tell you," she shook her head with a nervous laugh, realizing how silly she sounded. "I'm sorry. I should have owled."
"S'alright 'Mione," Harry joined the witches, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek. Hermione gave Harry a side-hug, "we just know how wrapped up you get in work, don't want you getting lost out there."
Ron stood a few feet behind Harry, staring awkwardly at his shoes. Hermione gave a patience-gathering sigh and fought the urge to roll her eyes, opting for civility instead. "Ronald." She addressed him with barely a nod.
He huffed under his breath, barely intelligible, in response. Being in his presence already had Hermione feeling a bit annoyed. She'd had her fill with the crowd and mourning, hoping that if she could slip out soon enough she might miss the inevitable media frenzy that followed these types of services.
Alas, she wasn't so lucky, as Dennis Creevey sidled up to the group, an oversized camera in hand. "Quick one for the Prophet, heroes?"
It was impossible to say no to Dennis, especially considering the service was memorializing his brother. Hermione gave a tight-lipped smile; it was rather horrible to make him work at the service, but then again the press would do anything for a story. Ginny and Harry squeezed together, Hermione sliding into Harry's other side. Ron jostled himself close to Hermione as well, her spine stiffened a touch.
Dennis was quick for the picture in which nobody smiled. It wasn't a happy occasion. Yes, the end of the war had been a celebrated occasion, but few smiles were spared that day. The photographer conjured a copy of the photo, handing it to Hermione. She glanced down at the Polaroid, the image appearing under her gaze.
The group stood atop the hill, the dense trees of the Forest a dark backdrop to the photo. In the distance, the grid of tombs stood, long shadows cast by bright beams of sunlight. The group looked tense, uncomfortable. Hermione flared her nostrils at the longing look Ron cast at her in the photo loop; oh she couldn't wait for the speculatory rumors to start flying after this one was published. She watched the loop a few more times, thinking about where they were now versus where they had all been on this day seven years ago.
Ginny reached over and settled her hand over Hermione's, whose grip was causing the picture to crinkle in the middle. "What is it?" She jested, "Did Creevey miss my good side?"
Hermione shook her head, glancing back at the photo in her grasp, relaxing her grip. She watched the loop one last time before pointing to the bottom right corner, where the forest lay beyond the graves in the frame. "What is that?" Hermione asked.
"What's what?" Ginny leaned in, looking where Hermione indicated; a momentary flash of white in a sea of dark wood in the backdrop of the picture. "You're the creature expert," She dug an elbow into Hermione's side, "you tell me."
"Looks like an owl," Harry claimed, grabbing the photo out of Hermione's hand.
"Or maybe a centaurs' arse." Ron jested with a smirk.
Even Hermione laughed at that, some of the tension dissipating, leaving them all with small smiles, but downturned expressions. The conversation shifted easily then as Luna and Neville joined them with talks of babies, parties, and times past. Hermione cast a look over her shoulder while her friends chatted, eyeing the edge of the Forbidden Forest suspiciously. Could the white shadow be Pyronesia, having urgent instructions ahead of their scheduled meeting, or worse, come to spread more prophecy?
"I have to go," she interrupted their conversation with a mumble, having found reason enough to finally escape. She shot Ginny and Harry an apologetic look, as she backed away, leaving her friends to the reporters that were flocking as the ceremonial tent was disassembled, chairs putting themselves away. "I'll see you all at the baby shower if you'll be there."
"We will," Harry assured her with a penetrating stare; the look he'd given her so many times before when he'd been trying to figure out what kind of puzzles were taking shape inside her mind.
Hermione hurried off down the lawn toward the Longbottom cottage without a second glance. She attempted to walk casually in case anyone was watching her from the congregation on the lawn, but Hermione found herself speed walking around the glass dome of Neville's greenhouse, practically jogging as she passed over the footbridge heading toward the barn. She found the exit point with ease, a coolness washing over her as she ventured back into the Forbidden Forest, where the temperature dropped further under the shade of the leaves. There, she walked along the creeks' edge, her eyes searching for the white centaur with the dark braids.
She walked slowly, catching her breath from her previous exertion, and whispering Pyronesia's name every few steps, but her echo was the only thing she received in response. The forest was quiet as if the creatures were practicing their own mourning on the memorialized day. After ten minutes, Hermione gave up her hushed shouting – if the centaur were looking for her, Hermione was sure that she'd be found.
The bubbling of the brook eased her mind, thoughts clearing away with every step. Her feet were drifting of their own volition, meandering about tree trunks and thick weeds, following the creek west, toward the Centaur territory. Hermione was barely cognizant of her surroundings, several times threatening to slip off the embankment and into the running water. Rather she trudged ahead, trying her best to do everything in her power to not think about the past or worry about the present. It was a valiant battle to do either and Hermione caught herself slipping several times, conjuring forth mental images of fallen friends or hearing echoes of prophecy along the gentle currents of wind.
Hermione took a misstep, the toe of her flat wetting in the creek water, her mind snapping back to reality. She staggered back, wetness permeating the thin material of her shoe. No matter for a witch, she mused as she transfigured her flats into a pair of hiking boots. They looked ridiculous in contrast to the formal outfit she had worn to the memorial, causing Hermione to snicker as she imagined Ginny's horror at her ensemble.
How will you ever find a man...especially dressed like that? Ginny would have asked her before carrying on. Your wardrobe didn't choose hiking boots for a reason, Hermione; they clash horribly with your pearls.
She laughed to herself at the thought. Again, she was being ridiculous; it didn't matter what she wore or looked like, especially out here! What, was she going to stumble across the man of her dreams, waiting for her in the dark wood? Hermione followed the creek around a sharp bend. She navigated through a cluster of trees, around which the river curved back. Hermione disentangled herself from a branch, cursing as a twig caught in her hair. Once finally free, she began to set off again, only to freeze at the sight before her with a gasp.
There, ten meters from her on the opposite shore of the river was a large, white wolf; the same she had seen her first morning in the woods. It must have been drinking, its head halfway bent to the water. It stood fully when she gasped; head as tall as her shoulder. Brown eyes met pale orbs, lightly colored irises barely discernible around the animals' wide, black pupils.
Time stretched out between them as each waited for the other to react. Its' fur was a thick, flawless white, with an almost shimmering quality to it, bright pink skin peeking out from areas where the fur was thinner: the abdomen, the edge of its' muzzle, and the tip of its' nose… the tip of his nose if she had to guess, based on his stocky frame. From where she stood she could see him clearly and Hermione tried to take in every detail, noting the wolf had a few patches of black fur on his front legs and back paws.
Hermione's heart pounded in her ears, every nerve in her body telling her to run. But she didn't, she couldn't move at all. The fear coursing through her felt all too familiar, transporting her back to the last time she had been caught by a predator, a Snatcher, in the woods. Now, like then, she felt immobilized, but this time out of fear rather than from a spell.
The wolf bared his teeth, a low growl rumbling from trembling jowls as it took a few cautious steps away from the creek. Hermione remained frozen, not liking her chances of outrunning the creature at such a close distance. The most she could hope for would be to apparate quickly if it lunged for her – and that would only work if she were still outside of the Centaurs' bounds, but she had been so lost in thought while walking that Hermione couldn't be sure where exactly she was. She allowed her wand to fall from the holster in her sleeve, gripping it tightly in her right hand.
The wolf slunk back into the shadows of the undergrowth, a deadly look in its eyes that were trained on her. Hermione side-stepped along the riverbank, ensuring her back didn't turn to the animal, her wand raised before her defensively. If she couldn't apparate, she might have to fight. Spells came forth in her mind, held on the tip of her tongue as she waited for the wolf to come after her. But he didn't, hiding entirely in the shadows, remaining from Hermione's sight.
After a moment of nothingness, Hermione sighed in relief; it seemed that the wolf was gone. She had narrowly avoided him once again. Her wand was still aloft as she completed a final scan of her surroundings before heading back to camp when she noticed something on the opposite creek bank that gave her pause.
The paw prints… they had gone from four-toed impressions to five-toed, to… a human hand. She stared at them, her wand arm falling to her side in shock. The magic in her veins crackled like electricity, her sense of danger heightening in an instant. The wolf had disappeared into the Forest, only the rustling of leaves indicating his diminishing proximity. She caught sight of him, darting through the crowded trees forty meters away, making a hasty retreat.
Before she knew it, Hermione's feet were moving on their own accord, splashing through the water to the opposite bank, chasing after the wolf. She sprinted along the water's edge, straining her ears to listen for him, searching for flashes of white in the forest. He was heading west, where the river would split into two.
At the split, the wolf headed right, skirting up an incline, heading for the top of the cliff. She took a shot at him, a streak of blue light shooting from her wand tip, narrowly missing the wolf as it ducked behind a tree. Hermione followed, hot in pursuit, her wet hiking boots slipping on some tree roots as she attempted to ascend the path the wolf had taken.
She slipped several times, tearing holes in her stockings against the gnarled roots of the dark wood trees. When she rounded the tree where the wolf had been hiding, blue light was sent from her wand again, this time hitting nothing. Up ahead, she spotted him on top of the hill, darting west toward the plateau above.
Hermione followed relentlessly, her lungs burning with her exertion. She barreled up the hill, skidding to a halt, searching urgently for the predator that had become her prey. But there was no sign of him. To her left, only the oak tree with the barren branches stood before the edge of the cliff. To the right, the trees began to thin as the elevation continued to rise, where the mountains sprang from the Earth. He must have gone straight, she deduced, scurrying off along the base of the mountain.
She carried on down the path for twenty minutes, haphazardly casting the animagus counterspell at any suspiciously moving bushes, hoping to strike her target. Either the wolf was truly that, just a wolf in which the spell would have no effect anyway, or he was gone, having eluded her successfully. Begrudgingly, Hermione accepted that both could be true. She hadn't seen five digits on the wolf, only an impression in the sand near where he had been standing There were many holes in her theory; this did not serve as definitive proof.
Hermione paused, taking note of her surroundings. She was reaching the edge of the Forest, the magic in the air not as thick up here. To the north she could see vegetation thinning, the incline increasing rapidly as the Earth reached for the sky. She climbed the rocky slope, having to double over to maintain her footing on the steep surface. A flat spot offered a resting point a few meters up, Hermione put her wand in her teeth to climb onto it.
She brought herself to sit on the edge of the landing where she made notes in her field journal, resting a moment as the sun's rays began to set. The sun warmed her back as she gazed out, a sudden haze in her mind as her adrenaline dropped. From her elevation, she could see the Forest stretch below her, the land below her was bathed in an orange glow. The castle, a shadowy mass in the distance flanked by a cluster of lights that was Hogsmeade village.
Much of Hogwarts was cast in shadows, but a glowing spotlight shone on the Tombs of the Fallen, nature's tribute to the memorial – or perhaps a message from the other side. Peace for the lost was the most she could hope for. It was what they deserved. Looking down upon everything from up here made Hermione feel incredibly small, insignificant, and alone. Her chest pulled taut with emotion, floodgates in her mind threatening to release. She closed her eyes, lifting her chin to the breeze, wishing the air would whisk her worries away.
Her mind was a hum of rapid thoughts dulled to an indiscernible murmur as she occluded, attempting to combat the melancholy plucking at her insides. It was natural to be sad on this day, natural to feel insignificant in the grand scheme of time. Rather than sitting with her thoughts and giving them the space they deserved, she pushed them down, tucking them away for another time, at least that's what she told herself. Her throat tightened with each push of her thoughts, her Occlumency practice doing little to diminish her anxiety.
A cold wind blew the promise of night, leaving Hermoine with a sudden urge to return to camp. She felt exposed and ridiculous: perched on the mountainside in torn nylons, goosebumps prickling her legs in the chilling air. She stood, shaking the dirt off her coat and straightening her dress. Despite nothing but the quiet hum of insects and rustling of trees, she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone. It made her pull her wand, eyes darting amongst the foliage in search of an unwanted watcher. She heard nothing, saw no one, but the feeling remained.
It was time to move. She figured she was at the origin of her map coordinates, the northwest corner of A1, perhaps even slightly beyond the magical barrier of the Forest. Having come so far, it only made sense that she'd census this coordinate before heading back to camp. Perhaps she'd cut through the Centaur's territory on the way back after the sun had set when she was permitted to traverse the land.
It would be dark soon, she should try to cover as much ground as possible while the light permitted. She spotted a pond to the southeast, surrounded by a circle of trees. Being near the periphery of the forest, Hermione doubted there'd be many creatures living there. At least it would be easy enough to get out of the way.
She saw nothing remarkable on the short walk to the water's edge, finding the pond itself was a smooth, entirely reflective surface, but equally boring. It took her only a few minutes to summon the Flobberworms for counting, another few minutes were spent noting the ecology of the pond. It was clear of Grindylow and Bundimun based on her detection spells. Notes were made in her field journal while the last rays of light gave way to the night. She strolled the circumference of the pool, returning the Flobberworms to their home, making her way to the eastern edge of the treeline where she found something unexpected.
A group of wildflowers laid in front of a primitive cross made of two sticks tied together by a bit of string. On the horizontal beam, the word 'Mother' was carved in an elegant script. Hermione clutched at her chest, the pain and grief of losing her own mother hitting her from her occluded depths. Her bottom lip quivered, hot tears threatening her cheeks from her bottom lash line. She fell to her knees at the grave, her mind swimming with images of the past.
Her thoughts had taken her away from the Forest, back to the busy streets of Melbourne in the Arts' District, outside of a tidy little dental practice. Caution tape crisscrossed over the entrance, a police cruiser and two ambulances staining the milling crowd in harsh flashes of red and blue light. Hermione stood at the edge of the crowd, her face transfigured, tears streaming freely down her face.
The medics carried out two stretchers, on each laid a zipped, black body bag. It hadn't worked, they hadn't woken up. How could she have been so stupid? Since when was Hermione up to the task of playing God? Was this punishment for her hubris, for her naive belief that she would be able to save them?
She should have known better, she scolded herself… Wendell and Monica Wilkins could have had a perfectly happy life. They were happy, even if they didn't remember their daughter or the first half of their life in England. They could have lived long lives, cleaned many teeth in the city of Melbourne. Maybe they would have gotten a dog or taken a liking to a child in the neighborhood, becoming the pseudo-grandparents they always dreamt of being.
But Hermione didn't know how to leave well enough alone and they would never have the chance, she scolded herself as her presence in the Forbidden Forest was brought back to her, leaving behind the red and blue glow of the worst day of her life. Australia was gone to her, she would never go back. There was only the here and now, kneeling over an unidentified corpse in the shadows of the Dark Wood.
Hermione stroked the cross before her reverently, tucking away the memory neatly before shoving it to the back of her mind. She wondered about this Mother's child, the person who had knelt at this grave, who had cried for their own departed mother. Did they feel guilty as she did? Were they filled with regret? Or were there memories warm and fond, an aching hole in their chest softening at every visit to their dear Mother? Her heart ached for the child, imagining a student picking wildflowers on their journey here in between classes or late at night under the shadows of darkness to pay their respects.
She stood, swishing her wand to transfigure a nearby rock into a vase. She gathered the wildflowers and arranged them within the container, adding a few pale roses to fill out the bouquet. The vase stood proudly next to the cross, which Hermione added stability charms to, lest a creature or the elements destroy the memorial.
Standing, she took a step back to admire her work, only to freeze in terror as something warm and wet bumped her neck, hot waves of air coursing down her back.
No, she thought in disbelief, it can't be.