Hermione's Point of View


I wake slowly, but not gently. My chest feels too full, like someone packed grief into the hollow spaces of my lungs while I slept. Each breath feels strained. I try to focus on the morning light bleeding through the attic window, but all I can feel is that something's missing. Not just missing—ripped out. It's strange, having knowledge without memory. I know what happened. I know about Draco, about us. Ginny's voice from last night still echoes in my moved when he I can't feel it. Not really. It's like reading someone else's story and trying to convince myself I lived it. I can imagine it in my mind, but I can't feel it on my fingertips. What a cruel world to be told you've felt love but are left with nothing but the echoes.

Downstairs, the living room is empty, except for a stray cat and the nagging tapping of a hungry owl at the window. I can hear the sounds of hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Too loud with whispers and too quiet with the truth. When I push open the door, the whispers fall off as Ginny meets my eyes first, standing from the makeshift breakfast nook they've made in the corner. She slings her arm around my neck and pulls me tight.
Over her shoulder, I notice a few of the others exchange glances.

"Hermione, dear, I've set up the coffee station here for you," Molly says, taking my elbow as she leads me a little away from everyone else. At the counter, I make my coffee slowly, trying to overhear any of their conversation. But my suspicions that they've swiftly switched to talking trivialities while I'm in the room prove true.
"And the milk, dear," Molly says, trying to distract my attention away from the table. I notice Harry's jaw clenching as he speaks low with Remus. Molly pushes the sugar bowl toward me as she watches me make my coffee. I imagine she's trying to learn the intricate way in which I make it.
"Thank you," I say, turning toward Molly. She smiles at me with that look she always reserves for these sorts of situations—warm, but heavy. Like she's trying to stitch me back together with nothing but her kindness and warmth. A sort of habitual mother's smile when there's nothing left to offer but their presence. Is the situation really that dire?
Ginny again watches me hesitantly, tenderly, as I approach the breakfast nook. The silence finds its place right smack dab in the centre of the table. I sip my coffee, waiting for it to pass. It doesn't. Molly tries to mask the silence by starting the dishes loudly at the sink. I sigh.

"Harry, can I talk to you?" I ask.
"Now?" he questions, turning toward Ron and Remus with a look of apprehension.
"If you have the time," I add, impatiently. I try to let go of the anger building inside me. I don't want to feel like I did back at Grimmauld Place. I don't want to start feeling like the prisoner everyone is keeping things from. I don't want the rotations to start again. The watching and waiting for me to crack. Harry stands from the table.
"Just Harry?" Ron asks, unfolding his legs under the table. He doesn't even try to hide the suspicion in his voice.
"By all means, come along," I tell him, leaving the kitchen.
I wait for them both in the living room. They take far longer than expected to eventually saunter in, bringing Remus with them as well.
I sit on the couch, as the stray cat lounges on the back of the headrest, stretching its back out in the morning sun coming in through the window.
The silence stretches between us again like a wire pulled too tight. None of them sit. They just hover—Harry by the window, Ron shifting from foot to foot by the door, and Remus staring blankly into space by the mantel. I let the quiet hang for a beat longer. Maybe if I let them stew in it, they'll be more receptive.

"So, what is the plan?" I ask, hands folded tightly in my lap. Harry turns away from the window, eyes to the floor. I wait.
"Regarding?" Ron questions.
"Regarding Malfoy, obviously." I don't bother to mask the irritation in my voice. If they want to start on this tone, then I can.
"Hermione," Harry starts, sitting on the couch beside me. He feels out the words on his tongue for a beat before turning to Remus.
"There is no plan, Hermione," Remus chimes in.
"No plan?" I ask. "No plan as in we just leave him there?"
"We aren't leaving him there, Hermione. He chose to leave. You know that," Ron says.
"Ron, you were there too. Please don't try and twist what happened."
"He's not twisting it, Hermione. He told me what happened. Malfoy did leave. He chose to leave, and you know you've heard everything from Ginny, and you know this isn't the first time he has left," Harry adds.
"That is not fair, Harry. That is not fair at all…" I take a breath. "He had to leave. He didn't choose to leave. That's absolutely ridiculous. He did not choose to leave. There is a difference. He had to, and now what? We're just done with him? You called him to Grimmauld Place, and he comes immediately to help, and now we just abandon him?"
"We're not abandoning him, Hermione. Please try and understand our point of view. He left again. I specifically asked him not to leave again. I understand the situation, but this is the third time he's done this to you. I can't sit by and just allow this to happen again. I won't entertain it anymore. Plus, do you really think he would want you anywhere near the Manor? Near his father after what he's done to you?" Harry asks.
At his words, I absentmindedly rub the healing slice along my skull. It's still tender to the touch.
"Maybe he always knew where he belonged," Ron mutters.
"Ron, if you're not going to contribute anything useful, then get out," Harry barks. He doesn't even turn to look at Ron. His voice cuts across the room—sharp, loud. Ron huffs and turns to lean against the wall.
"I can't believe you're suggesting this," I whisper, staring into my palms.
"You don't remember what it did to you the first time he left. I remember. Ron remembers. It wasn't pretty, Hermione."
"Do you think that I'm not entitled to a say in this? Do you think somehow you and Ron or Remus get the final say?" I shout. "It's my life, Harry. It's my decision."
"You're grieving someone you don't even remember, Hermione," Ron scoffs. "You're grieving a ghost."
"Ron!" Harry shouts again, raising his hand for him to shut up.
"What about my memories? Who's going to get them back if he's gone?" I argue. Harry turns to Remus, who shifts awkwardly in place. I notice his body language, the tension in his shoulders as he holds his arms awkwardly behind him. He pulls something from behind his back, and I see it's a newspaper. My chest tightens.
"What's going on?"
Harry takes the newspaper from Remus and opens it out on the coffee table in front of me. I stare at the corner of his face—his furrowed brows and deep frown as he straightens the pages. I lean forward.

Blood on the Streets: Diagon Alley Attack Claims the Lives of Many, Chaos Grips the Wizarding World
In a devastating blow to our community, Diagon Alley was struck by a vicious attack last week that left dozens dead and many more with life-threatening injuries. Sources at the scene confirmed that the attack, which lasted several hours, was orchestrated by Death Eaters seeking to sow terror and panic in the heart of all those present just searching for a relaxing afternoon in Diagon Alley. Several prominent businesses were destroyed with shattered storefronts…

I stop reading and turn toward Harry questioningly.
"This is the attack a few days ago?" I ask. Harry nods.
"Why are you showing me this? I was there with you in Grimmauld Place when Shacklebolt told us?" I question. Where are they going with this?
"We're trying to show you that there are other things going on in the world, Hermione. There are other things that need our attention," Harry explains.
"We don't have the resources to spare in a war like this," Remus chimes in, stepping forward. "It's unfair to ask us to allocate people. Especially when Malfoy made a choice to leave," he says. Remus leans forward and turns the page of the newspaper. He drops the corner of the page as it settles, retreating as if knowing turning a page is going to change the course of the conversation. When I read, I see that he was right.
"We thought you should see this. It's about Malfoy," Harry says. I scan the article, focusing on the blurry image of a silhouette with blonde hair outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. It animates only for a split second, and in that second, it's unmistakable that it's Malfoy.

The Prodigal Son Lives: Draco Malfoy Spotted Outside Family Manor Amidst Talks of Extended Mission Concluding.
After months of unexplained absences and brief sightings, Draco Malfoy, son of infamous Lucius Malfoy and sole heir to the Malfoy fortune, was spotted outside his family home yesterday evening, sparking a flurry of new rumors about his whereabouts and the nature of his prolonged disappearance. Although allegedly spotted in Diagon Alley recently (see page 9), this is the first confirmed sighting of him in months. Sources close to the Malfoy estate suggest that the prodigal son has been away on 'highly classified' assignments for He Who Must Not Be Named himself. His sudden reappearance has raised questions among some, wondering if he played any part in the recent attacks on Diagon Alley or the movement and encirclement of Death Eaters around London.
His appearance outside his family home raises questions about his involvement in covert operations, including the removal of dark forces in Edinburgh…

"Malfoy… on important 'highly classified' assignments," I shout, ridiculous. "Since when do we believe the Daily Prophet? They're not exactly on our side, Harry?" My voice trembles, my throat dry and hoarse. I clench my fists at my side to help quell the heat burning behind my eyes.
"We know the Prophet is biased, Hermione. Everyone knows it's just a cash grab. This shit sells. But we can't ignore the fact that they managed to snap a picture of Malfoy outside Malfoy Manor. They're watching the Manor," Remus explains. I stare at him, waiting for him to continue.
"We can't be seen aiding or helping someone like Malfoy. None of us can be seen outside the Malfoy Manor on some half-witted rescue mission for someone who chose to return there," Remus says. I try to argue, but he stops me.
"You cannot ask us to risk our people for this. Would you ask me to send Tonks for something like this?"
"That's not fair," I cry.
"Not everything is fair, Hermione. I know you don't have your memories anymore, but I know you remember the promise we made to Harry when we were in first year. That hasn't changed," Ron interjects.
"Of course, I remember, Ron."
"Then honour it," he bites back.
"But Ron, you were there," I shout, standing from the couch. "You were there. You know this article in the Prophet is bullshit. You saw him. He was forced to leave. Why are you all acting like I'm crazy?"
"Yeah, I was there. But I also never heard him once ask us to help him or risk our own skin to rescue him. Him leaving, Hermione…" Ron pauses. "That was him saying goodbye."
"Hermione, we all love you, but this war is bigger than this. Bigger than Draco Malfoy."
"It's not about him anymore. You need to stop grieving someone you don't even remember," Ron adds.

But his words feel like rocks thrown at me. Of course, I am grieving Malfoy and the memories of him. But I am also grieving myself. The person I don't remember. That person is gone and years of my life and memories are gone with it. A painting of a girl I was is shown, a blank canvas given to me with no tools on how to reach that final image.
"I'm grieving the truth, Ron! And I'll be damned if I allow some bullshit article in the Prophet dictate what I believe about him. What I saw with my own two eyes," I shout, furiously wiping at my eyes. Remus steps forward, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I shake it off.
"We're trying to protect you. To protect all of us. We've already lost so many wizards this week in Diagon Alley. This war is bigger than just Malfoy. The risks… they're real, and I'm not willing to risk Tonks,"
"Or my mum or dad," Ron adds.
"Or Ginny," Harry supplies quietly beside me.
"So that's it?" I ask, defeated. The light coming in the window is giving me a headache. My thoughts are thumping around my head, unorganized and frantic.
"Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry whispers, taking my hand. But his hold is limp, this go, it about Draco Malfoy.
"And my memories? I just let them go too?"
"We've been trying to reach Snape," Remus says. "I've sent him a few owls. I'm just waiting to hear back. I know he's been busy, but that's our next task—get in contact with him so we can get your memories back."
An anger boils inside me, slicing its way up my spine. I recall Ginny telling me that within my lost memories, there was also something crucial I had forgotten about my time with Harry and Ron on the road. Something I had discovered that I didn't have a chance to divulge before they were lost. Something that would, of course, help Harry.
"And what happens if he can retrieve my memories? Do you think if I remember everything, I'm going to be okay with just abandoning Malfoy? Do you think that person will be okay with this?"
"Hermione," Harry starts, but I cut him off.
"Or were you hoping maybe Snape can just retrieve the memories that benefit you and leave the ones of Malfoy lost?" I accuse. Harry scowls, taken aback.
"That's not a bad idea," Ron mutters.
"Ron, leave the room," Harry states, low but forcefully.
"Don't bother. I'll leave," I say, walking out the living room door, shaking off Remus's arm as he tries to stop me.


I move through the kitchen, ignoring Ginny and Tonks's eager, uneasy questions and make my way into the back utility room to stand by the open door. The chickens and hens move noisily around the porch, pecking at the ground for food. The room is warm, the soft movement of invisible hands cleaning a never-ending supply of clothes and the smell of washing detergent and fabric softener help soothe the ache in my muscles.
Behind me I notice Molly moving around. I had slipped right past her without even noticing.
"I'm sorry," I say, "I don't mean to intrude."
"You could never intrude on me, dear. I think you should know that by now," she says, her voice warm and sweet like honey. Tender like the touch of my mother lost somewhere in the world. The single flash of my mother's face causes tears to stream down my face. Embarrassed, I turn away, covering my face.
"Godric, I'm sorry I don't know what's come over me," I stammer, grabbing a T-shirt from the clean clothes pile and pushing it hard against my eyes like a cut, hoping the pressure will stop the bleeding of tears.
Molly doesn't press. She doesn't try to console me or offer her hand for reassurance. Instead, she gives me the privacy of my tears, allowing me a moment to gather myself while filling the silence with her gentle, lilting hum—a sound almost as reassuring as a warm blanket.
"Would you like me to make you some hot chocolate?" she asks. I remove the T-shirt and smile.
"Not right now, thank you though." I say, throwing the T-shirt into the washing bowl.
Molly drags a chair up behind me and slides it against my back legs before I cave and sit down. She slides me a little forward towards the open door, so the sun is caressing my skin. The chickens scurry away for a moment, scared by the noise before resuming their pecking elsewhere. I bask in the sun for a moment, allowing it to dry my tears.
"Molly, can I ask you a question?" She pauses, setting the clothes down.
"Of course, dear."
"What did you think of him?" I ask. "Of Draco?"
She ponders for a moment, smiling to herself. But there's also sorrow there, hidden in the layers behind her eyes. Perhaps that is the generic look that crossed everyone's face when they think of him.
"I always thought he had kind eyes. When he wasn't putting on a front of course. A clever boy if I'm not mistaken. But a lot of pain there too."
She shifts around and comes to stand at the right of my chair as we both look out the porch door.
"You know Arthur and I married young. Rarely known to anyone besides our family, friends and immediate neighbours, and we both enjoyed that life. We've never had to live up to a family name or idea. I've never known the weight of that and I'm grateful my children are afforded that same luxury."
"What do you mean?" I ask, waiting for her to elaborate.
"Being born into that kind of environment with the weight already on your shoulders to carry the family name. Especially when that family name is associated with you-know-who. I am grateful every day to not know that strain."
"Do you think he's a monster because of it? Do you think he's a bad person?" I ask.
"If you back a scared dog into a corner, dear, and it lashes out, is it the dog's fault for biting, or is it simply a reaction to the threat it feels?" she explains. I pause; the analogy stirs something deep inside me. Overturning the memories that are blocked to me. Was he really a frightening dog backed into a corner? Questioning that is questioning the lost version of myself and her judgment. Do I trust that she made the right judgment with regards to his character? She must have if the relationship spanned years.
"It's a good analogy," I remark, my voice quieter.
"I think so."


Later, in the late afternoon after lunch, the house lingers quietly, reflectively on the day's happenings. I think on the people who lost their lives in Diagon Alley. The hushed whispers of plans between Harry and Remus that don't involve rescuing Malfoy but moving forward. Leaving that idea behind completely. I reflect on the weight of that action and feel the inner, lost version of myself recoil in disgust at the thought. I try to see the bigger picture of the war. The ethical question of whether or not risking countless lives is worth saving one, as Harry, Remus, and Ron seem to view it.
I settle with a solemn resolve that waiting now does not mean waiting always. I resolve myself to agree with Harry and Remus's ideas for now. I agree to bide my time until a concrete, safe solution is tangible. I try not to get upset at the fact that the boys weren't willing to even ponder this idea. Just because they're unwilling to help doesn't mean I can't.
I open the attic window and lean my arm out, calling the closest owl over. I watch as it soars from its nest huddled away in a nearby tree. Its claws land harshly on my arm, digging into my skin with its talons. I tie my note into its holder on its leg, triple-checking its security.
It jumps back up onto the weathered wood of the attic window and stares back at me expectantly. I swallow my resolve.
"Severus Snape. Location: Unknown," I tell the owl. It seems to ponder uneasily. Aware that unknown location flights take much longer. I drop a few hardened pieces of fruit into its talon as extra payment for the long journey. It takes off swiftly and purposefully without a second look back.
I know within that it's the right choice to wait. There can be no gain in jumping in unprepared and unaware of the entire situation. But in the pit of my stomach, I feel a quiet rebellion, a voice whispering that waiting means giving up. That I'm just prolonging the inevitable. But not yet. Not entirely. But for now, all there's left to do is just wait.
I watch the owl soar away, carried forward by the breeze.


Later that night I dream restlessly, following Malfoy around endless hallways in Hogwarts. Running as fast as I can for him just to disappear around the next. When I finally catch up to him, I can make out Snape ahead of him with Bellatrix Lestrange in tow, rounding the corner into the great hall. I bellow out Malfoy's name so loud it causes the hair on my arm to stand up. I can feel the noise act as an intrusion that is slowly waking me up from the dream. I try to hold on as he turns around to face me after the outburst. But for some reason, unbeknownst to me he can't see him. His eyes searching the empty hallways before I wake up.