The Quiet Aftermath
The towering gates of Hogwarts loomed ahead, their iron wrought bars etched with centuries of history. The air was heavy with the crisp chill of autumn, a quiet stillness that had settled over the castle grounds after years of chaos. Hermione Granger stood at the entrance, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before stepping into the familiar yet hauntingly different halls.
This place had once been her refuge. Now, it was a sanctuary of a different kind—one she hoped would heal the fractures the war had left in her heart.
The Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, had welcomed Hermione with a quiet understanding. A position as the new Transfiguration professor had been offered, and Hermione had accepted it without hesitation. The Ministry had sent countless offers her way—prestigious, high-ranking positions, lauding her as a war heroine. But the very thought of returning to that life of constant vigilance, of being immersed in the remnants of war and politics, sent shivers down her spine.
Here at Hogwarts, she could breathe. At least, she hoped she could.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, the sound both familiar and jarring. The castle felt different now—quieter, as though it, too, had scars from the war. The students had not yet arrived for the new term, giving her the time she needed to settle into her new life. The silence was a welcome reprieve, but it also allowed her thoughts to roam freely, something she had been trying to avoid.
The memories of the war clung to her like a second skin. The final battle had torn through her with a violence she could never have anticipated. The faces of those she had lost haunted her, especially Fred, Tonks, and Remus, and sometimes even Ron, despite their strained, unresolved relationship. She had told herself this new chapter at Hogwarts was a chance to rebuild herself, but the weight of her past clung to her, refusing to let go.
As she wandered the halls, lost in thought, her gaze caught on something unfamiliar—a portrait. It hung on the far wall, recently added, judging by the gleam of fresh paint and varnish. She walked closer, her brow furrowed in curiosity.
The man in the portrait was young, his features sharp and distinct. Platinum blond hair framed a face that was both familiar and not. His posture was relaxed, his expression contemplative, as though he were gazing at something just beyond the frame. A flicker of recognition sparked in Hermione’s mind, though she couldn’t place it immediately.
The silver nameplate at the bottom of the frame gleamed in the dim light.
Lucian Malfoy.
Her breath caught in her throat as she took a step back. Malfoy. But not Draco. Lucian. The name stirred faint memories, distant and blurry. A twin brother? Yes, that was it. She had heard the name whispered once or twice during their school years, but Lucian had always remained in the background, a shadow to his more prominent twin.
Why had she never known more? Why hadn’t his name surfaced in all the stories of the war? She hadn’t remembered seeing him at Hogwarts during the final year. She hadn’t heard of him fighting for either side.
Hermione tilted her head, studying the portrait more closely. Lucian’s gaze seemed to meet hers, his grey eyes piercing, a shade darker than Draco’s, though perhaps that was simply the artist’s interpretation. There was something in his expression that unsettled her—something quiet, almost secretive. It was strange, seeing a Malfoy here, immortalized on these walls.
Her mind wandered back to the war, to the many sacrifices made by those who had fought alongside Harry. She knew Draco’s role—or lack thereof—had been complex. But Lucian? She knew nothing. Why was his portrait here? What had he done to earn a place on Hogwarts’ walls?
As if in response to her unspoken questions, the painted figure stirred. His eyes flickered, turning slightly, and his lips quirked into the faintest semblance of a smile. She felt a jolt of surprise, despite knowing full well that portraits in the wizarding world were meant to interact.
"Professor Granger," came a soft voice from behind her.
Hermione spun around, her heart leaping to her throat. It was only Professor McGonagall, her stern expression softened by the gentleness of her tone.
"Minerva," Hermione said, letting out a breath. "I didn’t expect to see you again so soon."
McGonagall glanced at the portrait, her lips pursing in a thoughtful line. "I see you’ve noticed our latest addition," she remarked, her voice low.
"Lucian Malfoy," Hermione murmured, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. "I don’t remember him being… involved. Not in the way Draco was, at least."
"Most wouldn’t," McGonagall replied, stepping beside her. "Lucian was… discreet in his actions. His contributions during the war were kept quiet, but they were no less significant. In fact, it was on Dumbledore’s own recommendation that his portrait was added to the walls of Hogwarts. He may not have stood in the spotlight, but his sacrifices were… considerable."
Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine. "I didn’t know."
"No," McGonagall said softly, her eyes on the portrait. "Very few did."
They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. Lucian’s painted eyes seemed to watch them, quietly observant.
"I thought he had followed the same path as Draco," Hermione admitted. "Or at least, that’s what most of us assumed."
"Assumptions," McGonagall said, her voice tinged with something like regret, "are often misleading, Hermione. Lucian was always an enigma, even to his family. But he made his choice in the end. A choice that cost him his life."
Hermione felt the weight of those words settle over her, heavier than she had anticipated. She had always been quick to judge the Malfoys, quick to assume their loyalties and motives. But here was proof, in the form of a painted figure, that she had been wrong—at least, about one of them.
"Why wasn’t this more widely known?" Hermione asked, her voice quieter now.
McGonagall gave her a knowing look. "Because some sacrifices are meant to be remembered quietly, without fanfare or glory. Lucian was one of those few who preferred it that way."
Hermione nodded, still processing the revelation. She felt an inexplicable pull toward the portrait, as though there was something more to discover, some hidden truth behind those painted eyes.
"Thank you, Minerva," she said softly, her gaze never leaving Lucian’s portrait.
McGonagall gave her a small smile before turning to leave. "You’ll be all right here, Hermione. Hogwarts has a way of mending the broken parts of us, even when we don’t think it’s possible."
As the older witch’s footsteps faded into the distance, Hermione found herself alone with the portrait once more. Lucian’s eyes seemed to follow her, his expression inscrutable, yet almost… familiar.
She turned away, a strange feeling curling in her chest.
This was supposed to be her escape from the past, her sanctuary. But now, it seemed the past wasn’t quite done with her yet.