it is still your village
Once in a village that is burning
because a village is always somewhere
burning
And if you do not look because it is not your village
it is still your village
It has been a week since the final battle, but to Hermione it feels like no time has passed - she’s slept through most of it, catching up on missed sleep and trying to let her body recover from the heightened stress of the last few months. Harry, on the other hand, barely sleeps at all - whether because of nightmares or the memories being in Grimmauld Place stirs up she doesn’t know. Hermione worries, but he says he’s fine when she asks and frankly she’s too tired to push any further.
His sleeplessness seems to be paying off, at least; in the last week he’s kept up constant correspondence with several Ministry officials, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“Kingsley wrote last night,” Harry says one day, when Hermione comes into the kitchen and sits across from him with a cup of tea and some toast. “To tell me that the Ministry finally sat down and decided who should be, er, the temporary Minister.”
“Acting Minister,” Hermione says in between bites of toast. “Do we know who they picked?”
Harry points at the newspaper on the table next to her, and she blinks when she notices it. And blinks again at the headline.
“Kingsley was chosen!,” she says excitedly, dropping her toast to pick up the paper and hold it closer to her face. “They wanted someone who held a high enough position in the Ministry, but had the benefit of staying uncorrupted by the new regime during the war - well, obviously, - and Kingsley has the added benefit of being part of the Order, as well.” She puts the paper back down and stares across the table with wide eyes. “This is really good news, Harry.”
Harry shrugs. “I guess.” He frowns. “I’m surprised they chose someone who was so loyal to Dumbledore, actually. The Ministry doesn’t generally go in for divided loyalties.”
“That’s true,” Hermione says. “But obviously they want to show that they're not like that anymore - that they aren’t the same Ministry that let Voldemort take over, that supported people like Umbridge staying in power.”
“He’s only temporary though, right? So, they’ll use him to show how much they’ve changed, and then when the dust settles they’ll elect another Fudge.”
Hermione smiles. “It’s likely that’s their plan,” she agrees. “But Harry, you’re forgetting something.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You. And me, and the Order…and, really, the entire DA. You, because you saved everyone and have the power to make changes - like Dumbledore after defeating Grindelwald. And maybe the Order doesn’t have that much power, really, but Kingsley is a member - and now he’s Acting Minister, that gives it a level of authority it didn’t have before. Legitimacy beyond a vigilante group.”
His frown clears. “Alright,” he says. “Why the DA, though? They’re just kids, like us - but they aren’t as, uh,” he grimaces.
“Famous?” Hermione supplies, grinning at his expression. He nods and she continues. “How many members of the DA are purebloods? Never mind that, how many of them are children of Ministry officials? Of Wizengamot members?” She watches the confusion on his face begin to clear. “There’s a reason Umbridge and Fudge were so upset about the DA, Harry, beyond the obvious implications of ‘Dumbledore’s Army’. Those children have the potential to upheave the entire system of governance that keeps people like Fudge - and Umbridge - in power. We have that potential.”
“Huh,” he muses. “I didn’t even realize…” He looks at her with surprised awe. “Did you do that on purpose, or something?”
She shrugs. “Well, not totally on purpose, but, yes. I wanted some assurances that everything wouldn’t blow up in our faces if Umbridge ever discovered us.” She grimaces. “I didn’t plan on getting caught, or having the Ministry connection exploited.” She doesn’t like to think about it, so she doesn’t. Instead, she gets up from the table to put her empty plate in the sink. “I’m going to the library to catch up on some reading.” Hermione reaches over to Harry’s hand and squeezes it. “Think about what I said - feel free to come join me when you’re done in here.”
She takes her tea and heads to the library; now that she’s not sleeping away her days, books are the obvious answer to keeping her mind off the war and its consequences. It’s not healthy, but it’s better than crying - and frankly, Hermione doesn’t have the energy for anything else. Not yet, maybe not ever.
*
Harry has never known how to say no when someone asks for his help; when an owl comes later that day carrying expensive parchment bearing the Ministry seal, he doesn’t even finish his lunch before opening it. Hermione wanders back into the kitchen to refill her cup, and he shows her the letter.
“It’s from the Minister’s office - Kingsley wants me to make a speech before the trials.”
Her brain still caught up in her book, it takes her a moment to clear her mind enough to understand what he’s said. “Oh! Are you going to do it?”
And Harry, who hates public speaking, but who hates disappointing people more, says, “Er, yeah, I was thinking about it.”
Hermione, teacup now full, just nods. “Alright. Come get me if you need any help.” And back to her book she goes.
*
An hour later, Harry comes into the library with a crumpled piece of parchment in his hands and a look of desperation in his eyes. “I need your help, please,” he says, and Hermione puts down her book. “I have most of it, but - I need something to tie it all together.” He sounds tired.
She looks at the purple shadows under his eyes; something about the colour reminds her of her grandmother. Remembering her grandmother always makes her think of poetry, and suddenly inspiration strikes. “There is a poem,” she says, “by a muggle poet called Elana Bell.”
Harry frowns. “I’m not sure poetry’s the answer.”
“Do you trust me?” Hermione asks.
“Of course I do,” Harry says, and Hermione knows he means it.
“Then trust me, Harry. Rest, and let me write the speech. I promise it won’t say anything you wouldn’t want it to - I’ll go over it with you tomorrow morning, and change anything you don't like.”
He nods. Hermione knows what she’s doing, because she always knows what she's doing. “Thank you,” he says. He leaves the rough draft in her hands and goes to bed.
“Alright,” she says to herself. “Let’s write a speech.” She’s grateful, perhaps for the first time in her life, to be in Grimmauld Place and not Hogwarts; she loves the Hogwarts library very much, but the library in Grimmauld Place has something that Hogwarts doesn't.
A muggle poetry section.
She discovered it in the summer before fifth year - the summer after Cedric died, after Voldemort came back. She’d fought with her parents that summer. They’d surprised her with plane tickets to Greece when she’d gotten off the train and into the car; her mother had an itinerary planned out already, which included two museums, an art gallery, and the National Library of Greece.
Hermione swallows. “Oh,” she says weakly. “Um.”
Her mother waves the tickets. “Don’t you want to go?”
Of course she wanted to go, of course she did! But Harry, but Ron, but the war… She couldn’t go. “I can’t,” she says, but explaining why is impossible and her parents are furious. The two weeks before her parents leave and she goes to the Weasley’s is filled with tension and angry silences. It’s the longest two weeks of her life.
Hermione tries not to think too hard about that summer, about the fight they’d had, or the fact that her parents couldn’t remember that fight, because they couldn't even remember her - as she tries not to think too hard about any of that, she instead wonders how exactly a collection of muggle poetry had found its way into the Black library.
It’s easier to think about. A mystery with low stakes, perhaps, since there are no Blacks left to clutch their pearls, (or burn the whole thing down in a wave of rage; which, based on what she knows of the family, seems more realistic.) She’d always meant to ask Sirius about it, but never got around to it - and then he’d died, and it didn’t seem so important anymore. Hermione supposes she could ask Kreacher, but she enjoys the mystery of it too much to bother.
“Now, where are you…” she mutters to herself as she scans the shelves, running a finger over the spines until it lands on one she recognizes. “Ah, here you are.” She pulls the book from the shelf and moves back to her chair, flipping the cover open to the table of contents and looking for the one labelled Your Village by Elana Bell.
There. Page 89.
She turns to page 89 and reads the poem, just to be certain it suits her needs. Then, summoning a quill and blank parchment from the desk by the window, she begins to write.
*
The next morning Hermione watches Harry look over what she’s written with anxious eyes. She’s been up all night writing it, finding the right words, and it has turned into a strange mix of her thoughts and Harry’s. She hasn’t slept, or showered, or even eaten yet, and as he reads it in his slow and steady way her adrenaline is pumping just to keep her upright.
“So?,” she asks impatiently after watching him read and reread for ten minutes. “Is it alright?”
Harry folds the parchment in a neat square and tucks it into his pocket. “Hermione,” he says, hand on her arm. “It’s perfect.”
She deflates with relief. “Good,” she says, and pats his hand where it rests on her arm. “I’m going to shower and get dressed,”
“And drink your weight in tea,” Harry says.
“And drink my weight in tea,” she agrees, walking up the stairs toward her room. “Then we’ll go to the Ministry.”
*
“I will start by reading an excerpt from a poem.” Harry says, and Hermione can tell he is nervous by the way he keeps smoothing out the parchment over the podium. He clears his throat, smoothes his speech out one last time, and lifts it toward himself as he begins to read.
“Once in a village that is burning
because a village is always somewhere
burning
And if you do not look because it is not your village
it is still your village
In that village is a hollow child
You drown when he looks at you with his
black, black eyes
And if you do not cry because he is not your child
he is still your child.”
He clears his throat again, and putting the paper down on the podium, he looks up with narrow eyes. “This poem,” Harry says, “is by a muggle poet named Elana Bell. I think that is important to remember, because it’s proof of what I hope to explain to you here today; that our differences are petty, our similarities profound.”
Hermione nearly smiles, despite the solemn air in the room. She is particularly proud of that line.
“Our society has the bad habit of being plagued by dark wizards, and war. It has spread through our world twice now in the last fifty years; three times, if you go back as far as Grindelwald. A plague, or perhaps a disease.” Harry adjusts his glasses and glances down at the podium before continuing.
“Voldemort,” he says, and glares as the crowd collectively cringes. He continues, raising his voice even further to be heard over the exclamations of fear. “Voldemort was not the disease; he was a symptom. The Death Eaters weren’t, aren’t, the disease; they are a symptom. We,” he says firmly as the crowd begins to settle down again and listen, “are the disease. Our failure to understand each other, to accept one another, to value the differences instead of penalizing them. Our devotion to what is mine, and what is yours; never considering what is ours.”
Hermione is mouthing the words along with him, knowing the speech is coming to a close. She is pleasantly surprised that he’s managing it so well, despite its length. She’s surprised, and she’s proud too - that he’s doing so well, that he’s practically memorized it, that it's her words he’s reciting.
“This life is ours, these people ours, this village ours. The village is on fire, and it is our job to put it out. We must stand together; we must accept the help of our neighbours, and offer our friendship to our fellow wizards and witches. Lead with kindness, with forgiveness, with generosity, and the world we build will not only be greater than what was torn down, but will last twice as long. If you take away anything from this speech, take this: Division is the death of success. It is still your village.” Harry pauses. “Um, thank you.”
The crowd is quiet for a moment after he finishes, before exploding with noise. Hermione can't tell if the cheers are for the speech, or because Harry was the one who read it; but when she looks around, she sees the witches and wizards closest to her smiling at one another, hugging, nodding, clapping as one. There is a closeness she has never felt before, a belonging, and it fills her with hope. She looks up at the stage and catches Harry’s eye, grins up at him. Fred is still dead, and Remus, and Snape, and many, many more. But maybe, if they can hold onto this feeling, things will be okay again.