The Room of Requirement had always been…peaceful. It felt almost silly to think, after the devouring licks of Fiendfyre and the unforgivable curses that had ricocheted through the room only a year before, but the room had healed itself. It had found a way to mend from the inside, gently rebuilding every hidden passage and delicate tapestry. The hidden things were gone, of course, burned away, but she was almost grateful. A fresh start.
Hermione found herself here more and more of late, slipping out of the common room after dinner to hide away in the Room. The chatter felt harder to bear now, the easy warmth and chintz armchairs oddly false against the memories that thrust themselves unbidden into her mind. In here, she didn't have to pretend nothing had changed. She could just let the grief wash over her.
When she'd been invited to join the Transitional Programme, she'd hesitated before returning McGonagall's owl. I'm supposed to call her Minerva now, she reminded herself. She'd never get used to that.
She'd loved the idea of guiding Hogwarts students, helping them to bridge the gap between school and the real world. Sure, some days she felt like a glorified babysitter, shepherding them into bed so they wouldn't be exhausted for morning classes, but every now and then one of them would knock on the door to her little tower room. Those conversations always began the same:
"What…what was it like? When you fought him."
"Did you lose people too?"
"Do you think he'll…well, you know, someone like him…how can I fight them?"
She knew that was why McGonagall had asked her to join, really. Any witch or wizard could talk through career advice. The Transitional guides were there for the students who had seen the war from the sidelines, still afraid that they might be drafted someday. Fear still sat over Hogwarts like a thick blanket, silent and stifling. It was hard on the younger students, the ones who hadn't learned how strong they were yet. McGonagall wanted someone who could teach them how to live through it.
And yet - Hermione still couldn't fathom some of the choices her former teacher had made. Neville of course was a natural, and Luna's airy complaisance drew in the younger students in a way Hermione almost envied. But the others…she wondered how Blaise Zambini could instill comfort in anyone. And then there was Malfoy.
No matter how many times Harry described Malfoy's face in the final battle, that heavy expression of fear and regret, Hermione couldn't shake a thrill of disgust whenever she looked at the gaunt Slytherin. He'd strode into Hogwarts on the first day of the term, his jaw tight, barely glancing at the other Transitional guides. Their eyes had caught for an infinitesimal moment before that cold gaze swept on, masking a flicker of…something. If Hermione hadn't known better, she'd have called it grief.
That was the last she'd seen of him - at least, the last time they'd acknowledged each other. He sat at the far end of the Great Hall, sometimes engrossed in low conversation with the few Slytherins brave enough to approach. Even for students of that house, there was something about Malfoy that seemed to signal distance.
So Hermione struggled to name the feeling that rose in her throat at the sight of him, standing alone in the silence of the Room of Requirement. His back was to her, firelight glinting off his pale hair, but it was unmistakably him.
If he hadn't turned, face half-shadowed in the dim light, if he hadn't looked so…
The word found its way to her, heavy with recognition. Lost.
There was a measure of distance between them, more than enough to escape without speaking. He'd noticed her of course, but Hermione felt no great duty to politeness. Not to him, at least. Nodding curtly, not waiting for an answer, she whirled and raised her wand to the door, willing it to open even before she finished the spell. At least she could trust him not to waste breath on conversation.
"Granger."
Her wand faltered, just enough to end the spell. Granger. It was hardly a greeting. It didn't even warrant a response, and yet - too many years of common politeness were drilled into her. It was one thing to punch someone, but it was another to be plain rude. She turned, letting out a slow breath.
"Yes?"
"I…", he seemed to slip for a moment, drifting into some memory she couldn't see. The fire behind him crackled, throwing a gold light over the walls. In an instant, he was back. His eyes flicked toward her with their familiar disdain. "Nevermind."
She gritted her teeth. Typical. That would teach her to bother being polite to Malfoy.
"Fine." She turned again, this time muttering the incantation before she was even facing the doorway.
Yet, as the door fell closed, she couldn't help turning. Just for a moment. Draco Malfoy stood silhouetted against the firelight, its golden glow casting half his face into shadow. He was still looking at the place where she'd stood, as if he hadn't yet realized she was gone.