‘Are you having particular trouble juicing your squill bulb, Ms. Abbott?’ Horace Slughorn’s rickety voice came from behind the young woman, the greying professor peering over Hannah’s shoulder with his wiry eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘Ah, no professor.’ Hannah smirked sideways at Ginny Weasley, who began ostensibly stirring at her cauldron.
‘That’s what I thought,’ the old man moved on, slowly pacing around the room before pausing over a cauldron on the end of the long, high-set table. ‘Once again, Ms. Granger. Impeccable.’
Hermione gave a small smile and continued chopping up her anemones. It had been almost a year since she had set foot in a Potions classroom, but she had not forgotten the hundreds of recipes inscribed in her mind. It had been one of the only benefits during the war; keeping her skills intact. The grounds still felt somewhat familiar; the huge stone pillars and the cold, dusky afternoons on the Black Lake - but the school had lost that golden, springtime glow she had once associated with third-year library sessions or visits to Hagrid’s hut. Her mind tore to Ron, and Harry - what they might be doing at this very moment. Perhaps adventuring all over the country, finding dark wizards to capture.
‘You don’t have to keep rubbing it in our faces, you know. They’ll be writing books about you soon, Hermione.’ Ginny grinned and nudged her in the ribs and Hermione, letting out a long overdue laugh, responded with a pained oww.
‘I’m sure they’ll be writing books about you,’ said Hermione. ‘You’re not easily forgotten for standing up to the dark lord.’
‘Girls!’ Professor Slughorn turned abruptly around and knotted his brows together. ‘What have I said about talking about it? Have some compassion for an old man’s nerves, will you.’ Nonsensical, Hermione heard him whisper under his breath, shaking his head; the girls broke into a fit of quiet giggling.
The classroom, with its books and uniformity and detail - it was one of the only places Hermione could find a sense of normalcy. Half the school was empty, with most of the eighth year students declining to return for the completion of their N.E.W.Ts, and the remaining students seemed either to float through the days with careless obligation from their parents or out of necessity. For Hermione it was the latter, if she wanted to secure the job at the ministry next year. The buildings on the north side of the castle were all demolished and in ruins, barring the north tower and the owlery, and a large part of the remaining debris had been cleared away for rehabilitation. Hermione felt relief in knowing the library had escaped untouched from the battle, and was largely empty these days since no one was in a mood to pour over their textbooks. Exams weren’t for weeks and the limited staff that still worked in the castle weren’t pressing for any academic promptitude - a revelation Hermione was almost disappointed to observe. Hogwarts was still Hogwarts, for the most part.
When Hermione returned to her dorm in Gryffindor Tower, a letter stamped with silvery black wax was sitting on her bed. The tiny sigil was shaped in the curled-up form of a bespectacled cat; Hermione, recognising Professor McGonagall’s seal, opened the letter. The parchment unscrolled, whizzed up into the air with a slight flutter and reshaped itself into the angular face of a tabby cat. From it’s paper mouth, came flowing the all-too-familiar voice of her favourite professor:
‘Dearest Hermione,
I hope you’ve found the first weeks back alright; I know you must be terribly exhausted, as I myself have found it terribly hard to sleep.
This letter informs you, and encourages you to make use of the services of our newest faculty member - Professor Everglane. Professor Everglane hails from our American friends at Ilvermorny, and has provided her extensive knowledge and skills in magical cognizant healing in the aftermath of the battle. She is staying at the school for the remainder of the semester and hopes to meet with you, I suppose, to discuss and aid in your recovery. She has urged me to send word for you, hoping to meet with you in the coming days.
Once again, my comforts and love to you.
Professor McGonagall’
Professor of magical cognizant healing? Hermione had never heard of such a thing. It felt hardly right to refuse an offer from Professor McGonagall, but at the same time, going to magical therapy sounded like the last thing she wanted to do. She might have been tortured and kidnapped and locked up, but Hermione had assured herself that she was perfectly fine. After the year she’d had, there was nothing much else Hermione thought she couldn’t handle - in hindsight, post-exam nerves and homework deadlines seemed so trivial compared to dragon riding and illegally infiltrating the ministry. She walked over to the dressing table that stood in the far corner of the room and opened a vanity case that stood next to the framed photo of her parents - by this time, complete with her own ten-year-old face - and took out the tiny glass vial inside. Hermione held it up, close to her face, and inspected the silvery liquid that swirled lazily inside. The skirmish at Malfoy Manor, read the label, and Hermione felt a nerve falter even saying the name in her head.
She had not removed all memory of that day, - she remembered being whisked away with the Snatchers, and she remembered Dobby appearing - but the rest would remain a blur, dulled sort of thrumming pain that she craved not to rediscover again. Even Ron had told her to put the memories back in the last owl he’d sent, a few days ago, saying that it would be better to face the memory than to leave it forever aching away at the back of her mind, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to do it. Perhaps I should pay Professor Everglane a visit, she toyed with the thought for a moment before locking it away again. She was stronger than it. She had to be.
Looking at her reflection - another privilege she had forgotten during the months horcrux hunting - made Hermione realise how much she had changed. The lack of nutrition, living off cheap, non-perishable foods for months on end had drained the tenderness from her cheeks. In their place, Hermione observed the gaunt, angular edges of her face and the dull, almost sallow appearance of her skin. Her hair, no longer in its chestnut ringlets, had dropped into a state of flat, split-ended tangles and her collarbones stuck out in thin lines against her white school shirt. Hermione pulled on the collar of her sweater and re-wrapped the maroon and gold-striped scarf around her neck. She looked positively malnourished. Had she any mind to take care of herself these days, Hermione thought she might have even enjoyed going to the common room parties, a new tradition Ginny and Parvarti had started since coming back to school.
But she had no appetite, no motivation to dress up or comb her hair or put on any makeup, only an appetite to get through N.E.W.Ts and move on with her life. That was all.
_____________
Draco hated the Slytherin common room. His face just inches away from the huge, 12-foot window that poured cold, green light from the lake into the room, he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and tried to remember how it felt like to be warm. There was scarcely anyone else in Slytherin who had come back to complete exams; everyone except him, a few girls he had never spoken to, Blaise and Astoria Greengrass were gone from their dungeon common room. And even then, Zabini hardly bothered to check in, more preoccupied with getting his N.E.W.Ts so that he and his mother could pick up and move to Paris with her new husband. The mere thought annoyed Draco.
When he did leave the common room - which was almost never, save for lessons and to visit the owlery - Draco was bombarded with hateful glares and whisperings, a hushed, under-the-breath ‘murderer’ every two seconds or purposeful shoves by the braver Gryffindors on his way to class. It was the first time he had ever experienced any sort of ‘bullying’ and Draco imagined it not too dissimilar to how Weasley or Potter had felt in their younger years of taunting from his side.
Beginning to feel as though he might freeze over, get hypothermia or faint, a screech trembled through the glass pressed against his cheek and Draco flinched, turning to see the disappearing tail of a mermaid whizzing through the water in a flash of silvery hair and green scales, back into the dark oblivion of the seaweed. It reminded Draco of his mother - long silvery hair, like his own, sleek and smooth, always put-together. Though now, Narcissa Malfoy was probably locked up and rotting away in a dark, slimy cell in Azkaban. Draco tried his hardest not to think about his mother, but the sight of her curled up, freezing her limbs off, tortured and in pain, often crept into his nightmares if not his conscious thoughts.
‘Have any pressing plans?’
Draco turned around quickly and met the eyes of Astoria Greengrass, who was standing lopsided, with a thick textbook wrapped under her arm and a curious smile on her lips.
‘Er, no.’ he replied blankly.
‘Good,’ Astoria walked over and sat down opposite Draco on the alcove window seat. ‘Thought I could borrow your brains for an hour or two; I need help with my charms homework.’
‘Astoria, I’m really not in the mood,’ Draco began turning back to closing his eyes and trying to nap. ‘Maybe another day.’
‘Oh come on,’ Astoria shook his shoulder gently. ‘You’ve been doing nothing but sleeping and eating and staring into space. I think a bit of tutoring might make you feel better.’ Draco moaned slightly and opened one eye to stare at the girl.
‘Fine.’ he lightened only slightly at the sight of Astoria’s instant glee and the two walked sheepishly over to a desk lining the common room wall.
‘Professor Flitwick said my flourishes are awkward - it says in the text, look here, to sweep and dot but I can’t get the hang of it,’ Astoria took out her wand and began waving it ineptly through the air. Draco shook his head and reached for the wand, picking it up before hastily dropping it again, searing pain tearing through his fingers.
‘Ah, the curse,’ he began shaking the pain off and flexed his knuckles. ‘I forgot.’
‘Shit, sorry,’ Astoria said quietly, and flicked a few pages over. ‘Maybe just help me with the reading then.’ Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had held a wand, his wand. He could feel his magic had somewhat dulled since Harry had disarmed him that day at the manor and he wasn’t sure how to get it back without using a wand, like he could even do that.
‘So, Flitwick said we have to write and observe how different objects-.’
‘Why are you talking to me?’ Draco snapped. Astoria’s mouth closed all of a sudden and Draco stared into her hazel eyes for a moment.
The girl inhaled and let out a small sigh. ‘Mum says she’s trying everything at the ministry to get Narcissa out of solitary; she’s been trying to contact her for months. She thought you could use a little company in the meantime.’ Astoria looked down at her lap, suddenly abashed at the exposure of her motivations.
‘Great, so you didn’t actually want any help. Just being mummy’s little puppet, I see,’ Draco got up and began walking back to the dorms when Astoria grabbed his wrist. ‘Let go of me!’
‘Draco! Draco, you listen to me! You must put the memory back if you ever hope to see your mother again. I can help you - my parents are on the inquisitorial board for prisoner-of-war management. I can help you see Narcissa again,’ Draco’s heart skipped a beat. ‘But I can’t help you if you do not remember. Only you can contact her - and you can only do it if you remember everything.’ The blonde boy paused for a moment before shaking Astoria’s hand away.
‘I don’t need your help.’