Hermione hesitated in the blank stretch of corridor, the memory of her last foray to the Room still stinging. But no, tonight was quiet. Solitary. The students were in bed, and McGonagall—Minerva—had taken the other Transitional guides for a thank-you drink in Hogsmeade. Hermione had begged off, citing a headache.
Still, she chewed her lip as she began the three paces back and forth before the Room's invisible entrance. What if…?
She wasn't sure she could handle another run-in with Malfoy. He hadn't even acknowledged her since their strange encounter a week prior, but she had the awful feeling he was looking at her whenever her back was to him. Once or twice she'd turned around, but he was always staring fixedly somewhere else.
She wanted silence tonight, stillness. Steadying herself against the cool stone wall, Hermione closed her eyes. One of the new first years, Theodora Ainsley, had come to her office that afternoon. Hermione normally liked office hours; it felt like she was doing something useful. First years would come to her on the edge of tears, clutching a half-finished potions essay, and she'd patiently talk them through how to crush the juice from a sopophorous bean or how to weigh aconite without melting the scales. They'd catch their breath and she'd watch a look of cautious confidence spread slowly over their faces. It made her feel like she had a purpose again.
But today…Theodora was sweet, and smart. She wasn't a problem student, it was nothing like that. There was just something so…
Hermione sighed. It was like looking in a mirror. Theodora was smart, and thoughtful, and maybe a little awkward…or she's simply an eleven-year-old, she smiled to herself. But the first year was Muggle-born, and she even looked a little like her. She had her whole life ahead of her at Hogwarts, calm and safe. She'd be able to learn wonderful magic and explore libraries and make friendships that felt closer than family. Maybe she'd be lucky enough to break her heart over a bad exam, and it would feel like the most frightening thing in the world. And for her, it would be.
It was an awful feeling, envy. Hermione wanted to burn it out of herself. She shouldn't envy an eleven-year-old for the privilege of growing up in safety.
She'd talked Theodora through the anxiety of her first flying class, reflecting privately that she was probably the worst person the first-year could have come to for that. Still, at the end of half an hour, Theodora had left the office with a nervous half-smile on her face, and Hermione had fought down the guilty enviousness twisting in her gut. The next two hours felt like she was moving through mud, arranging an over-cheerful smile as she chatted with Neville and Luna over dinner. She'd been holding her breath all afternoon, just waiting to get into the Room alone so she could finally let it out.
Caught up in her thoughts, Hermione didn't even notice the door to the Room emerge from the blank stone wall. Smiling slightly, she stopped and pulled the wrought iron handle, letting the door swing closed behind her.
She froze. The Room's long stone walls, hung with deep green and crimson tapestries, were gone. Instead of a cozy fire in the grate, grey trees stretched against the horizon, further than she would have thought possible. The Forest of Dean greeted her with a gasp of cool night air, fresh and sharp with the breath of late autumn.
For a moment she fought the urge to turn and walk straight back into the familiar Hogwarts corridor. But the idea of the Gryffindor common room, burdened with warmth, the background chatter of smiling portraits—
It was quiet here, still and comforting in its loneliness. An owl called somewhere in the distance; the movement of insects sent a soft rustle through the carpet of fallen leaves. The earth smelled faintly of wet and decay, the hint of snow a few days off.
Hermione stepped tentatively into the forest, listening. She knew she was still in the Room of Requirement; the doorway stood firmly behind her. No one else was in the forest, if it was even a real forest. Yet it felt real. She could have sworn the little pool was just a short ways off, the wooded paths winding deeper into the heart of the trees.
Wandering further into the Room, her heart stuttered. Through the shadowy branches, a small tent glowed, its door half-open in the evening light. It looked exactly as it had two years ago, the camp lantern tucked by the doorway, canvas discoloured from a bit of ink spilled in her beaded handbag. For a moment she stood, staring, the slight breeze stinging her cheeks.
She wasn't sure what she expected when she stepped through the tent. Maybe a part of her imagined Harry asleep on his bunk, or Ron tinkering with the old radio, fiddling with the dials for a staticky Potterwatch broadcast. But no; Harry was in London negotiating the youth Auror programme; Ron was safe at the Burrow preparing the next shipment for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The tent was empty except for her, standing alone in the silent evening.
She ran her hands over the familiar furnishings, the scratches and grooves in the old wooden table. Pushing aside the heavy beige canvas that divided the beds from the main space, she stood for a long moment looking at the worn, tidy blankets.
You wanted this, she reminded herself. You wanted solitude.
Settling herself on the low bunk, she closed her eyes. The Room was secure; she doubted anyone else in Hogwarts had even heard of the Forest of Dean. Gryffindor tower would be stirring in a few hours, students stepping out to the bathroom and portraits chatting over their nightly affairs. The forest breeze wrapped the tent in a quiet hum, dulling the noise that echoed incessantly in her head. Just for a moment, just for tonight, she might as well sleep here.