Homecoming
Hermione
“Hermione, pass me a pasty, will you?”
Ron spoke through a mouthful of pie, sending flakes of pastry flying all over the long, wooden table. Hermione couldn’t help but grimace; a great multitude of things had changed over the past six months, but her best-friend-slash-boyfriend's table manners were not one of them. Their fingers brushed lightly over the flaky pastry, and he averted his eyes, suddenly more interested in the food on his plate than he was before.
“You really think he’s innocent?”
“Honestly, Neville, I dunno.”
“Harry, come on. Surely you don’t think someone like that would just... forget everything? And just go back to learning about Transfiguration and Potions and —”
“I mean, there’s a chance, isn’t there?” Harry ran a hand over his scar with a sigh. She noticed that he often did that when feeling frustrated and had a sneaking suspicion that the habit would end up being as permanent as the scar itself.
“Mate” Ron started, wiping the only clean part of his face with a napkin, “he gave Voldemort a bloody hug. It was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. They’ve all come running back to Dumbledore with their tails between their legs because he’s gone, but I’m telling you now, the moment they get chance —”
“Be quiet, Ronald!” she scolded, her heart in her mouth, as she cast a nervous glance over at the Slytherin table. Thankfully, they were too involved in their own conversations to have noticed Ron’s tactless remark; a duel with half of Slytherin House on their third evening back at Hogwarts was not on her agenda, and she stared at Ron expectantly, until he ceased glowering and returned to the few pieces of food that were not smeared across his face and chin.
“Imagine how complicated things must have been for him, though” Ginny mused, thankfully at a lower decibel than her brother. Harry nodded in agreement, which wasn’t at all surprising, since he agreed with more or less anything she ever said. Hermione’s stomach twisted a little with something that felt a lot like jealousy, but she still couldn’t help but smile; she was glad that two of her closest friends were happy, even if her own relationship (she almost shuddered at the word) was... awkward, to say the least.
“I mean”, Ginny continued, “if I’d been raised like he had, and my father was anything like Lucius... I might’ve found it hard to stand against them, too.”
Ron started shaking his head before she’d even finished speaking.
“Nah. Not a chance. I agree with Neville. People don’t just change, Ginny —”
“At the end of the day” she continued loudly, earning a wry smile from Hermione, “Dumbledore obviously trusts him, or he wouldn’t be sitting there, would he? Whether you like him or not, I think we need to trust him, too.”
A grudging silence settled over the group. The ceiling in the Great Hall was hazy combination of clear, cerulean blue, and tangerine – the signature blend of August sun morphing into the brisk cold of September; the last dregs of golden sunshine, filtering through the amber lens of Autumn.
Hermione found that her food didn’t taste quite as pleasant as it had five minutes earlier, and began to chew her lip. It hadn’t taken long for the same old rumours to spring back to life, or for new and equally terrifying ones to be created. It was undoubtedly true that Voldemort was still out there – plotting his revenge, regrouping, biding his time – but the truth, and her desire to talk about it, were not mutually exclusive. It was hard not to see bodies strewn about the floor of the Great Hall each time she gazed upon it; though she’d been immeasurably happy to return to Hogwarts, she’d quickly realised that things would never be quite the same: like a broken plate that had been glued back together, the cracks would always show. Mourning family members, broken glass, crumbling, blood-soaked stone... her throat tightened at the thought. The dreams had stopped, though, and she no longer saw flashes of green light each time she closed her eyes. Small wins, she thought to herself dryly.
She glanced over at the Slytherin table herself, unable to dislodge a quiet sense of surprise as she absorbed the stark differences in his appearance. While Draco Malfoy’s skin had always been a glowing – almost translucent – shade of ivory, it now appeared waxen, even slightly sunken, under his high cheekbones. His hair was still so blonde that it might be silver, with each strand combed perfectly into place, but dark rings circled his eyes, giving the impression that he hadn’t slept in weeks. His signature smirk was absent from his thin lips, and he seemed uninterested in his surroundings – more preoccupied with using the tip of his finger to swirl a shiny silver spoon around his teacup without so much as touching it, than in conversing with his fellow Slytherins.
It wasn’t lost on her that sympathy was probably one of the last things he deserved, and yet, she couldn’t help but feel pangs of it as she began to understand the extent of the toll the war had taken on him. Ginny was right: his situation had been horribly complicated, and as she imagined herself in his place, she felt almost ridiculous for expecting him to appear any differently. He appeared dejected, hollow, bored – until a Fanged Frisbee flew directly into a carafe of pumpkin juice, knocking it to the floor with a deafening clatter, and he startled, his eyes wide with panic. She felt a strange sense of relief at the knowledge that she wasn’t the only person who was still battling with the aftermath of the war.
She chose not to head back to the Gryffindor common room with Ginny and the boys, opting instead to soak up the last glimmers of evening sunlight. She’d always thought the Black Lake to be beautiful, but under the amber glow of the setting sun, it was indescribable. She drew her robe tightly to her body as a cold breeze tangled through her auburn ringlets. The evenings were growing cold, and the crisp September air served as a reminder that, as inviting as the evening sun was, her third evening at Hogwarts was no exception.
She released a long breath, finding a sense of peace in her solitude, and recognizing a deep-rooted feeling that – despite everything – she was more at home at Hogwarts than anywhere else in the world. It would always be her refuge. She smiled at the sight of a tree she’d once picnicked under with Ron and Harry in the Summer, and languidly traced a hand over a nearby Sweetblossom bush, closing her eyes as she breathed in the honeyed aroma that arose at her touch. She couldn’t believe such a beautiful-smelling flower could exist in nature the first time she found it; it was in her third year, when her favourite things were homework, and striped sweaters, and bright red hair... she smiled wistfully at the memory. She still loved homework, but the unmistakable sight of bright red hair just filled her with anxiety, now.
She ambled along idly, meandering through the clusters of Sweetblossom bushes and Hazel trees that flourished by the edge of the water, only half-conscious that she was purposely delaying her return to the castle – unsure of what she’d occupy herself with upon her arrival, and certain that she couldn’t stomach another torturous evening with Ron.
She truly hated how awkward things had become between the two of them, but there was nothing to be done about it: the more space she gave him, the more he sought her company – and yet, when she returned his enthusiasm, he could hardly bring himself to look her in the eye. It was an exhausting game of cat and mouse that had quickly become wearing. She often found herself wondering how much of their relationship had bloomed from genuine feelings of affection toward one another, and how much had developed from the sheer will and expectation of those around them.
Streaks of burnt orange light shot across the sky as the sun sank further below the horizon - engulfing her in a golden haze that made her skin appear a radiant bronze; a pleasant contrast to the usual cool undertones of her freckled skin, but one that she knew would disappear along with the sun. Resigned, she headed back towards the castle, her sigh almost as heavy as her feet as she dragged them unwillingly to an inevitable evening of tension and embarrassment.
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Conversation in the common room was every bit as awkward as anticipated. Ron had fluttered to her side on the ruby cushioned sofa the moment she’d joined them, a determined look on his face as he awkwardly placed an arm around her shoulder. He smiled sheepishly as she briefly met his eyes, but she didn’t miss the way his expression turned to one of mortification as he looked away from her. She might have laughed, had it not been so humiliating. His arm suddenly felt like an unwelcome weight that was far too heavy, and her cheeks began to burn.
She looked away, but there was no escaping it: blooming from what she could only assume was a new appreciation for life, what felt like the entirety of Gryffindor House had split into couples since the end of the war, and displays of stomach-churning romance were everywhere she looked. Neville and Luna sat cosily in one of the armchairs – a surprising pairing, and yet totally unsurprising at the same time – and Harry and Ginny were even more inseparable than before. Padma and Seamus were typically huddled in a corner somewhere, and even Lavender Brown had managed to find love in Seamus Finnigan. She wondered for the second time that day whether Ron's arm was draped around her shoulders because he wanted it to be, or because he felt it ought to be.
The flames in the fireplace flickered and danced as the group caught up on all the things they’d seen and done between the war ending and their return to school, and the things they were already starting to miss; Ginny, her legs thrown across Harry, lamented the absence of her mother’s cooking, while Neville was sorely missing the free time he had to spend in his grandmother's garden. Harry soured the mood somewhat by joking that he missed his cupboard under the stairs, but Ginny lightened things up by throwing a cushion at his head, and the group dissolved into laughter.
When asked what she missed the most, Hermione had to pause. Admitting that she missed the simplicity of solitude, and the short break at home with her parents following the reversal of their memory loss, would probably not go down well – so, instead, she spluttered out the first thing that came to mind.
“A bubble bath?!” Harry laughed incredulously, a twinkle in his eye as he tucked a strand of Ginny's hair behind her ear. Even Ron looked at her directly for once, his face scrunched up in disbelief.
“Yes” she defended weakly, unable to quash a peal of laughter, the joy of the group infectious. The buzz of their laughter was the most magical sound; as comforting as a warm bowl of tomato soup, and enough to make her forget – momentarily – why she’d lied in the first place.
“You want to get yourself down to the Room of Requirement, then” Neville answered, as the laughter faded. She waved away his suggestion, but not twenty minutes later, she found herself walking the familiar path to the hidden room – half-annoyed that she’d had to wander around the castle after hours just to make her lie believable, and half-relieved to get some time away from the festering awkwardness with Ron.
The castle looked darker at night than she remembered, and thanks to the curfews that were still in place while students adjusted to life back at school, there wasn’t a soul around. Even the prefects had been told to cease their patrols.
The quiet was eerie, and punctuated only by the echoes of her hurried footsteps on the cold, stone floor as she strode as quickly as she was able to without running. Not much farther, she chanted to herself, her heart pounding in her ears. Every candle or torch that lined the stone walls of the corridor had been extinguished; though it struck her as odd, she was too desperate to escape the dark to pay too much attention to it. It had taken longer than she’d liked for her eyes to adjust to the inky blackness, and vivid memories of the war – of Death Eaters, and Voldemort — made her hair stand on end.
Although, she conceded, in its own way, the dark was a comfort: now and then, pale rays of moonlight filtered in through the tall, arched windows that lined the walls, and the small fractures of light caused the shadows of columns and statues to warp and elongate. It gave them the appearance of figures moving soundlessly towards her. Drifting, black tendrils; cold, floating, reeking of death. Just like...
Nope, she thought fiercely, pressing her mouth into a thin line. Not thinking about that. Not much farther to go, now... just around that corner...
Oddly enough, Dementors were still quite close to the top of her list when she thought of the things that terrified her. She knew the spell to make them flee, and had arguably been up against much worse (literal torture, for example), but the hopelessness that spread like ice through her veins was more than she could handle, and not a memory that was easily forgotten. She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, warming against a cold that wasn’t really there, when hushed and furious whispers brought her up short.
“You must know where it is! Your family PUT it there —”
“I swear, I’m telling you the truth! I don’t know! I —”
“Do not LIE to me —”
Reaching for her wand – and grimacing, when she felt nothing but an empty pocket – she rounded the corner, unable to prevent a gasp, as the two figures looked up to stare at her in unison. She knew of only one person whose hair was so blonde, it was almost silver; the identity of the tall figure was unmistakable, and when his piercing blue eyes met hers, she froze into place.
The sandy-haired Hufflepuff boy (distinguishable by his canary yellow tie) stumbled over his own feet as he grasped the opportunity to flee, not daring to turn his back until he’d rounded the safety of the corner. His footfalls were heavy as he sprinted away, becoming lighter, and lighter, before fading entirely. The silence that followed was deafening.
Malfoy watched him flee with such apparent disinterest that she wondered, for a small moment, if he might calmly turn to her and strike up a conversation about the weather. She wanted to demand an explanation but didn't trust her voice not to waver. When she eventually dared turn towards him, he moved so quickly that she could barely register - only realising that she'd been pushed forcefully against the stone wall of the darkened corridor when his hand covered her mouth to muffle her screams.
Panic numbed the pain of the sharp stone scraping against her skin as it surged from the top of her head to the tips of her toes; through every auburn ringlet, through each finger that strained futilely for the wand that lay forgotten on her nightstand. A thousand thoughts and questions blazed through her mind. She fought against his grip— screaming, demanding, begging against his hand for him to let her go. Tears pricked her eyes and her throat began to constrict; is this really how it ends for me? Is it part of a bigger plan? Or was I just in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
Something he saw, or thought – in her frightened features, his deeper conscience, or his better judgement – made his sharp features begin to soften. Like snow under sunlight, the hardness of his expression faltered, and he suddenly looked five years younger. Like the arrogant boy who’d called her a mudblood; like the lanky, smirking teenager she’d punched in the face – back when their biggest problems were saving Hagrid’s job, hiding behind pumpkins, or rescuing a Hippogriff.
Slowly, he peeled his fingers away from her mouth, one by one. A stern warning in his eyes told her not to make a sound, and paralysed with fear, she obeyed without thought. Air returned to her lungs. She felt colour return to her cheeks.
Her hazel eyes drifted warily from his piercing blue gaze for a fraction of a second. It was all she dared to do, but it was enough to see the wide open space behind him, and find the bravery within herself to flee to safety. One breath in the silence. One more. And then —
Shoving past him with all the strength and speed in her body, she sprinted down the hallway in the wake of the Hufflepuff boy. She knew the distance wasn't far, but her movements felt sluggish, as though she were running through deep water. Her lungs began to ache, and her calves started to burn, but adrenaline propelled her forward, and she didn’t stop to look back until she reached the safety of Gryffindor Tower.
“Grata Domum” she panted at the fat lady, clutching a stitch in her side; her voice was hoarse, and the metallic taste in the back of her throat made her stomach churn.
“In you go, dear” the fat lady replied cheerfully (seemingly oblivious to her distressed state), and she sprinted through the common room, thankful to find it empty. Her limbs began to feel weak as she mounted the stairs. She stumbled clumsily, catching herself on the steps, feeling as terrified and vulnerable as a small child.
When she reached her door (saying a silent prayer of thanks that, as a senior student, she had been granted the privacy of her own room), she closed it quickly behind herself, coarsely uttered "Colloportus" and stumbled to her bed, just as her legs gave way. Her mind felt like a pensieve as she stared at the ceiling: countless incorporeal thoughts whirled around her brain like the silvery whisps of memories, and trying to choose one to focus on was almost dizzying. Her laboured breathing was the only sound to be heard. Exhausted, she closed her eyes, but her mind continued to whirr.
Resigned to her insomnia, she stared through her window into the night sky, wiping away the fog that misted the glass. She hated to admit it, but Ron was right. Malfoy was undoubtedly still involved with Voldemort, and was obviously carrying out orders at Hogwarts. But who was the Hufflepuff boy? Why was Malfoy threatening him? What was his connection to everything? And why had he allowed her to run away, after the things she’d seen and heard?
Her flushed cheeks began to pale as realization seeped in. The boy had also been allowed to flee. What if he comes back for me?
After a few seconds of staring at her heavy wooden door, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her wand, and flung every protective spell she could think of directly at it. She flopped onto her bed and hugged her knees against the cold of the room. Sleep did not come.