An Unanswered Question
George leads her to the side street and disapparates. When Hermione’s feet once again find the ground she looks over her shoulder, expecting to see the back of their hotel.
Instead, she blinks as she takes in the different dingy side street they stand in. Babble and car horns echo from the street beyond, and Hermione looks to George.
“What—?”
“Come on.” George takes her by the elbow and walks them out into the city street. They cross the road and march to the front steps of the Darling Square Library.
“You said the property records were just a starting place,” George says as he pushes open the front door. “What was your second choice?”
Hermione bites her lip, eyes swiveling around the library’s bright open entryway.
“Newspapers,” she says at last. “The local papers from the last year.”
“Right.” George gives a quick nod, his hand releasing its grip on her arm. “You go find seats. I’ll ask the woman at the front.”
“Oh, but—”
“Granger, you said yourself half of research is just building relationships,” George grins. “How am I supposed to help if I don’t get a chance to charm a muggle librarian?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Just try not to do anything to get us kicked out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” George slides her knapsack off his shoulder and holds it out to her. “Here, take the bags and find us some seats. I’ll see what we can find by way of local Australian newspapers from the last year.”
Without a word, Hermione takes first her own knapsack and then George’s bag into her arms. As George strides towards the reference desk, she wanders around the building looking for a suitable place for them to work.
The Darling Square Library has clearly been optimized for collaboration and community engagement, and neglected its offerings of dusty corners in which two people can carry out covert plans in peace. People of various ages sit scattered throughout the open room. Adolescents sprawl across armchairs, their bags flung to the floor beside them. Mothers and fathers sit with young children, reading picture books or playing with colorful plastic toys.
Hermione thinks of the Hogwarts library, with all its crooked nooks and cozy hideaways tucked amidst the shelves. A pang reverberates through her chest as she meanders past large tables clearly meant for study groups and big cozy armchairs just waiting for someone to sink into them. The space is lovely, but it is not what they need.
As if she has conjured them through sheer force of will, she spots a tiny table and two chairs shoved into a corner near the back of the library. Hermione hurries towards them, more than a little afraid an unseen rival might appear out of thin air to snatch the seats away. She heaves the bags onto one of the chairs before sinking into the other, and then she waits.
She waits for ten minutes before she starts wandering away from the table, peering around bookshelves for glimpses of George. He might not be able to find her, she reasons. After all, she chose one of the more secluded corners of the library to work in. He might be wandering the space trying to find her amidst the chattering university students and young families.
After a quarter hour, Hermione bites her lip and begins to pace in earnest. Scenarios of varying probabilities play out in her head, growing more distressing with each iteration. George getting kicked out of the library and not having a chance to tell her. George growing impatient with library research after all and deciding he would rather just go home. George getting accosted by masked figures who gag him and drag him away to some unknown place to torture or kill him.
Hermione has just made up her mind to abandon the table and walk back to the front desk when she hears him.
“Are you sure I can’t carry that for you, Margie? You’re making me feel absolutely useless.”
A rustle and a short giggle ring out between the bookshelves as Hermione spots George and the reference librarian walking towards her. Marjorie, her spectacles perched rather precariously on her nose, carries a large crate in her arms. The smile she gives George is one that Hermione can only describe as saccharine.
“There you are, Granger,” George says, having finally caught sight of her. “We were worried we’d missed you. See, Margie?” He looks down and gives Marjorie a broad grin. “I told you she’d be back here. Likes to do her fact finding away from the crowds, this one does.”
Hermione clears her throat and shuffles around the table, unsure of what to do with herself. “You can set that box here,” she says to Marjorie, nodding towards the tabletop.
“And I still think you should have let me carry it for you,” George says. “My mum would have my head if she knew I let you carry all of those across the building.”
“Oh, it was no trouble,” Marjorie laughs. She waddles to the table and sets the crate down with a faint huff, pausing for a moment before pushing her glasses further up her nose. “I’m glad I was able to help you find what you need. Your work sounds so interesting.”
Hermione narrows her eyes and sends a pointed look towards George.
“I’m glad you think so. It bores most people to tears.” George runs a hand through his hair and offers Marjorie a grin, ignoring Hermione’s frown. “But we wouldn’t be able to move forward without you.”
“Just let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Marjorie gives another bright smile as she straightens. “You know where to find me.”
“That we do.” George winks, and it takes every ounce of Hermione’s self restraint not to roll her eyes.
As Marjorie walks back to the reference desk, Hermione turns to George and raises an eyebrow.
“Made a new friend?”
George smirks at her. “You told me to charm a librarian, didn’t you?”
Hermione scowls. “I absolutely did not tell you to do that.”
George shrugs. “Alright, fine. You had me track down newspapers so we can continue our search, and that involved me charming a librarian into helping me.”
Hermione crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t tell you to do anything. You insisted on going to talk to her while I found us seats and then you took your bloody time getting back over here. I thought something was wrong!”
The last point comes out slightly shriller than she had intended, and George looks momentarily abashed. The effect dissipates quickly, however.
“It takes time to win people over, Granger.” The smile returns to his face. “And now dear Marjorie will be around to help us if we hit any more trouble.”
Hermione exhales and runs a hand over her hair, smoothing down the frizzy flyaways. She rocks backwards onto her heels as her eyes wander past George, following the path Marjorie has taken back to her reference desk. “You didn’t do anything to her, did you?”
The smile slides off George’s face. “What do you mean?”
Hermione swallows. “You didn’t—I don’t know—confund her? Give her a love potion or anything just to make your point?”
George’s jaw tightens and his eyebrows knit together. “No,” he says in a hard voice. “I didn’t do anything other than talk with her.”
Hermione gives a short nod. Her arms uncross and drop to her sides and her eyes sink to the floor. “Alright,” she mutters. “I just—we’ve been using Confundus a lot and—”
She trails off and looks up, half waiting for George to interrupt her with some cavalier reply. He simply watches her, face stony.
“I—” Hermione tries to start again, to find some words to make him stop looking like that.
“I’m not in the habit of bewitching muggles just for the hell of it,” George says at last, a muscle leaping in his jaw. “Just so you know.”
“I know you’re not,” Hermione says softly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
George swallows, and she can see his Adam’s apple bob with the effort. She bites her lip and gestures towards the crate on the table. “So—er—what did you find?”
George’s face slips into a blank mask as he turns away from her and reaches into the crate, extracting two piles of newspapers. “I got the last two weeks worth of The Sydney Morning Herald and The Daily Telegraph,” he says, eyes flickering towards Hermione. “Marjorie said those would be the best place to start if we’re looking for references to average Sydney residents.”
“Lovely.” Hermione steps towards the table and leans down to get a better view of the papers. “Did she say how far back their collection goes?”
“She said they’ll have a physical copy of anything less than three months old,” George replies, addressing the newspaper in his hand rather than her. “Everything older than that we’ll have to use the computers again to look at a digital copy.”
Hermione nods and drops into one of the chairs. “We’ll want to start reading, then. It’ll take us a few hours to get through all of this.”
“I was thinking we could split up the work again like we did at the land registry,” George says. “You read one newspaper and I read the other. It’ll be easier than both of us trying to look across everything.”
“Sure.” Hermione frowns as she looks away from George and examines the newspapers in front of her. “Which one do you want to look at?”
“It doesn’t matter to me.” George shrugs. “Marjorie assured me both are perfectly reputable.” He glances towards her and quirks an eyebrow. “I told her you wouldn’t abide any gossip rags or shoddy journalism.”
Hermione flushes and looks at the table, unsure whether the last bit was intended to be a joke or a dig.
“I’ll read the Herald,” she says at last, reaching for the pile to the right and dragging it towards her.
George merely nods and takes up the first issue of The Daily Telegraph from the pile, disappearing behind the tidy black print.
They read in silence. Or, Hermione scans a few lines of text every few minutes in between glancing over top of her newspaper to examine George’s face. The obvious signs of anger have subsided, but there still is no hint of humor in his expression as he studies the paper in front of him.
Something gnaws deep in Hermione’s chest, and she feels as though she is fourteen years old again, friendless at school after an argument. The old conviction creeps back into her mind, the cold dread that something innate in her repels other people.
She can never seem to keep hold of the people she cares about. Not even her friend’s older brother, her only companion on a different continent.
She tries to think of something to say, something to bring back a bit of joy to George’s face. It feels wrong, somehow, seeing him so sullen. He has made such an effort to cheer her up since they left the Burrow. She ought to do the same for him.
“You have bewitched a muggle just for laughs before.”
She wants to kick herself as soon as the words hit the air. Hermione clamps her mouth shut and her eyes go wide.
Stupid, insufferable, know-it-all nightmare. Small wonder she can’t keep any friends.
Across the table, George lowers his newspaper and frowns at her. “What?”
Hermione shakes her head quickly and snatches the newspaper in front of her. “Nothing,” she stammers. “Never mind.”
“No,” George says slowly, leveling a look at her. “What did you say?”
Hermione chews the inside of her cheek.
“Just tell me, Granger,” George sighs.
“Harry’s cousin,” Hermione says. “You gave him a charmed sweet when you went with Ron and your dad to get Harry from his aunt and uncle’s house before we all went to the Quidditch world cup. I heard your dad yelling at you when you all got back.”
George opens and closes his mouth several times without speaking, evidently choosing his words carefully.
“We wanted to teach him a lesson,” he says at last, running a hand through his hair and grimacing. “Ron had told us all these stories he’d heard from Harry, about how his aunt and uncle starved him and his cousin beat him up. I mean—they put bars on his window for Merlin’s sake.”
His eyes flick up to Hermione’s as he continues. “We wanted to shock them a little, to make them think twice.”
He pauses. “And we thought it would be funny.”
“Even though he wouldn’t be able to stop the charm by himself?” She can’t help but ask.
George frowns at her. “Honestly, we hadn’t even thought about that until Dad started yelling. We felt like right gits afterwards.”
Hermione nods slowly and fidgets with the corner of her newspaper.
“We never took products near a muggle after that,” George continues, leaning back in his chair. He looks up and catches Hermione’s eye. “And I wouldn’t use magic on a muggle just to try and get them to like me.”
“I know that.” Hermione sighs and runs a hand over her hair.
“Then why did you ask?”
Hermione attempts a nonchalant shrug. “I just—” she begins and trails off, her eyes once again wandering the library. “We’ve been confunding a lot of muggles on this trip so far. I don’t want us to get carried away.”
“Noted.” George picks up his newspaper and begins to read again, brow furrowing as he squints at the text.
“What did you say to her, then?” Hermione asks, somehow unwilling to let the conversation drop. “To Majorie? To get her to like you so quickly?”
George looks up, his mouth slipping back into a small, faraway smile. “It’s one of our secret talents, getting to know librarians and teachers and authority figures of all kinds. It’s easier to get away with causing chaos when people like you.”
Hermione bites back a smile. “Alright. But how do you do that? Make them like you?”
George peers at her and shrugs. “Everyone enjoys a bit of small talk and flattery. And women of a certain demographic adore a lovable mischief maker.”
Hermione snorts. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” George nods, letting the newspaper fall back onto the table as he leans towards her conspiratorially. “You should have seen McGonagall try to punish us back at school.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow. “She punished you all the time. I know I personally saw her give you at least a dozen detentions.”
“Ah, yes, but she could have given us at least a hundred. It’s all relative. And, anyways, half the time she was telling us off she was trying not to laugh.”
“I’m sure.”
“Doubt me if you want,” George says, picking up his newspaper once again. “But I promise you it’s true.”
Hermione opens up her mouth to respond, but then decides to follow George’s lead and return to her reading. She scans the issue of The Sydney Morning Herald , paying close attention to local pieces and anything that looks like a human interest story.
There are no mentions of a Monica and Wendell Wilkins in the first issue of the paper. But then, she hadn’t expected there to be.
She knows there is a slim chance of her parents being mentioned in the newspaper at all. But there has to be a mention of them somewhere, in some newspaper or record that she can find. All people, even those with false identities and shredded memories, leave traces of themselves in the places they pass through. There is a record of her parents somewhere on this continent, and she just needs the patience to find it.
She makes it through five days worth of newspapers before George breaks the silence.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, by the way.”
“Hm?” Hermione glances up from the sports section in her hands, mind full of the Sydney Swans prospects for the upcoming season.
George glances over his shoulder before leaning over the table and whispering. ‘How exactly did you make it so your parents didn’t remember you at all?”
Hermione blinks at him. “With a memory charm.”
“Yeah, I know that.” George rolls his eyes. “But how did you make it so it didn’t just remove one memory, but removed all possible memories including you, and the fact that you exist at all? I’ve been trying to figure out how you did it and I can’t.”
“Oh,” Hermione fidgets in her seat, rather taken aback by the question. “I—well, it wasn’t a classic Oblivate. I had to adjust it a little.”
George cocks his head to the side. “Adjust it how?”
“Well, I had to be a little creative,” Hermione says. “I couldn’t risk any rogue memories being ignored by the spell, so I made the memory charm a bit more—er—general.”
George frowns. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Hermione looks down at the table and twists the end of her plait around her finger. “I had to find a way to both erase memories and create whole new ones,” she murmurs. “I had to find a way to do it so they didn’t only forget about concrete facts like my name and face, but the fact they have a daughter at all. And then I had to create a whole new identity and sense of self for them.”
She looks up and finds his blue eyes trained on her. She bites down on her lip so hard she tastes blood. “I didn’t just modify their memories. I overwrote them altogether.”
George blinks at her, mouth going somewhat slack. “Where did you even find a spell to do that? That can’t have been in a Hogwarts library book.”
Hermione swallows and lets her plait fall from her fingers. “I didn’t. Well—I found pieces of it in different places. But I had to — stitch them all together myself, if you will.”
George continues to stare at her, expression flickering between impressed and appalled. “I didn’t even know you could combine memory spells,” he says at last. “I always thought those were spells you weren’t supposed to mess with.”
“You’re not,” Hermione says shortly. “It took a long time to be sure I had combined them properly and wouldn’t accidentally scramble my parents’ brains altogether.”
George raises an eyebrow. “But you managed it.”
Hermione’s stomach flips, the truth bubbling up her throat like bile. “As far as I know.”
George’s eyebrows climb higher. He looks for a moment like he wants to say more, but then simply shakes his head. “I have to say Granger,” he says in a light voice. “I thought it was impossible to underestimate you, but I was wrong.”
Hermione swallows and shrugs. “I just did what I had to do.”
“You created a whole new fucking spell. In one of the most complicated branches of magic. Without any help from anyone.”
“I didn’t create anything, I simply tied together—“
“Nope, don't try to walk it back or make it sound less brilliant. I’m proper impressed, and you can’t change that.”
Hermione feels her cheeks warm, and looks back down at her newspaper. “I don’t know that it’s quite as impressive as getting Professor McGonagall to laugh,” she says in a light voice. “That might still be the bigger achievement.”
George gives a short chuckle and shakes his head. “I’m flattered to hear you say that, Granger.”
Hermione picks her newspaper back up and forces her eyes to find the sports section again. She glances over the top of the page one last time, and feels something release in her stomach when she finds George watching her, mouth curled in a gentle smile. He catches her eye, winks, and returns to reading his own paper.
They read for another hour until George suggests they pack up for the day and go back to the hotel, seeing as it has been a long day and she must be tired.
Hermione doesn’t argue, though she has only read ten of the fourteen papers in front of her. She stacks the newspapers and then takes out her wand, ensuring there are no other patrons near them before tapping the newspapers and watching them align themselves into a neat pile.
George takes the crate and Hermione gets their bags from underneath the table. Marjorie greets them at the reference desk with a bright smile, chirping merrily as she takes the crate from George. Hermione rolls her eyes as George looks over his shoulder to flash her a look that plainly says “I told you so.”
Divested of the newspapers, they make their way out of the library and into the busy street. Hermione surveys the area, taking in the crowds of people, the lights lining the street, and the steady pulse of lives stubbornly continuing on in spite of the horrors all around them.
She wishes she could sink into the wave of bodies making their way down the sidewalk and let the force of their momentum flatten her. She wishes someone would turn a wand on her and vanish her, give her a few heavenly days of existence in non-being.
She doesn’t want to die, not exactly. But she is so tired. She thinks of what Harry told her about Voldemort’s existence before regaining his body. Less than spirit. Less than ghost. A bodiless soul drifting along in the world, anonymous and alone.
Hermione knows enough to know she does not want such an existence, but at the moment she can see its advantages. She wants to rest.
She also wants to eat. Her stomach growls and George raises an eyebrow at her. Hermione glares at him and grabs him by the arm, ducking into the first restaurant she sees.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” George says as he scoops up the bag of food from the counter and Hermione stuffs her wallet back in her knapsack. He glances over his shoulder as they make their way to one of the red plastic booths that line the wall. Hermione does the same, and sees the scrawny cashier lope back into the kitchen. “About the, ah, adjustments you made for the memory spell.”
“Okay,” Hermione replies, sliding into the booth. “And?”
“And there’s still something I haven’t figured out.”
Hermione purses her lips. “What’s that?”
George drops into the seat across from her, opening the bag and handing over her carton of pad thai and a set of plastic silverware before taking out his own dinner. “I think it’s incredible you were able to put all those pieces together,” he says while he opens the pad thai container. “But—” his eyes flicker towards her. “You said it was difficult to put all of it together well enough that the effects would hold.”
Hermione nods, swallowing a bite of food. “That’s right.”
“So how exactly will you be able to undo it? Without risking the countercurses reacting badly with one another and causing damage?”
Hermione pauses and lowers her fork, catching her lower lip with her teeth. She looks up and meets George’s gaze.
“I don’t know, exactly,” she whispers, the words just barely making it past her throat. “Like you said, I put together all these different pieces, and there’s not—I haven’t been able to find a clear path for undoing them.”
She pauses, biting down again on her lip until the coppery taste of blood mixes with the oily stir fry on her tongue. “I’ve been reading, of course. And I have a few ideas. But I’ll have to just take my best guess when I find them and hope—”
She trails off, her eyes dropping onto the scratched table top.
“We’ll figure it out,” George says, giving her a firm nod. “There has to be something out there about how to undo this. And we’ve plenty of time. Worst case scenario, we find your parents and just bring them back to Britain with us and figure out how to reverse everything.”
His expression tightens and he brings his fork to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Even if it takes a few years, at least that way you all can be together.”
Hermione’s stomach drops. “We don’t have that much time, though.”
George frowns. “Why? From what I read, most memory charms have a five year window to safely reverse.” His eyes widen slightly and he looks sharply at her. “What did—”
“The adjustments—” Hermione wraps her fingers around the plastic fork, letting the uneven edge dig into her palm as she fights to keep her voice low. “Some of the pieces I brought in—I don’t know how they all have interacted but—some of the pieces—there are some discrepancies, but the majority of researchers agree—”
“What adjustments, exactly?” George whispers, leaning closer. His eyes scrape down her face, and his lips press into a tight line. “Hermione—”
She swallows and rubs a hand over her face, breathing in heavily. “I had to use some complicated charms to create implanted memories spanning their entire lives. All new identities.” She bites her lip again and glances at him.
“Implanted memories are a little like plants, you know. Especially large-scale ones. When you first put them in someone’s head, they’re fairly fragile. You have to be careful not to show the subject anything that will contradict the memory or bring it into question, or else you risk it falling apart.”
“Right.” George nods, eyebrows still knitted together. “But they grow stronger over time.”
“Exactly,” Hermione presses her lips together. “They grow roots of sorts. They become a piece of that person’s psyche, a piece of their identity and their personal narrative. They’re harder to dislodge.”
George continues to watch her, frown deepening. Hermione takes a rasping breath and continues.
“And I—I implanted quite a few memories. Almost all of them. And while there’s not a universal answer, most scholars agree that the general timeframe in which implanted memories can safely be removed without permanently altering the cognitive capacity of the subject is roughly two years.”
George inhales sharply. Hermione sees him straighten, eyebrows pulling together again. She can almost see him flipping through a calendar in his brain, counting the months since she ran off with Harry and Ron. She sees the moment the number comes to him.
His eyes land back on her like lead weights. “A year,” he says. “You have a year.”
“A year and a month,” she says hollowly. “To find them and figure out how to reverse everything.”
She turns her attention back to her food, appetite now gone. She takes another bite and closes the top of the container. Across from her, George does the same.
“Let’s go out and walk around for a little bit,” he says, nodding towards the window. “We can take the leftovers back with us and eat them at the hotel.”
Hermione nods silently, handing her carton back to George. He places the food gently in the takeaway bag and stands, gesturing for Hermione to walk in front of him.
“I didn't mean to rush us,” Hermione says as they pick a direction and meander down the sidewalk. “I just felt like—”
“Nonsense,” George says, throwing an arm out and causing the bag holding their dinner to swing wildly in his hand. “You didn’t rush me at all. This is brilliant. We’re taking a delightful evening stroll in a beautiful city. It’s probably doing wonders for us both. It can’t be good for a person, sitting in a dusty library all day.”
Hermione bites her lip again as the familiar worry eats at her chest. “I’m sorry this isn’t more interesting. You probably were expecting a bit more excitement. But like I said there’s a timeline—”
“Granger, it’s fine,” George says, winking at her and nudging her shoulder. “I don’t mind sitting in a dusty library.” He bends over to lean closer to her, jaw setting and eyes softening. “And we’re going to find your parents in time and reverse everything. Alright?”
Hermione swallows and gives a short nod.
“You’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met,” George continues, “and I’m willing to do all the lousy, boring work of talking to librarians and fetching sandwiches so you’re free to create some brilliance. Really, we’re an ideal team.”
Hermione lets out a soft laugh. “You’re good for more than chatting up librarians and fetching sandwiches. I would guess you’re also very good at bringing tea.”
George grins at her, face bright in the glinting light of the setting sun. “I’m so glad you appreciate my talents, Granger. Most people completely ignore the fact that I am excellent at bringing tea.”
They turn a corner and Hermione’s eyes drift towards the bag in George’s hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to just go back to the hotel?” she asks. “Our food will get cold if we wait too long.”
George shakes his head. “We can heat it when we’re back. I’m rather enjoying the walk.”
Hermione chews her lip again and glances at him. He catches her eye, winks again, and flashes a cheeky smile. “So, would you like to hear about the time McGonagall nearly caught us filling Snape’s office with stuffed bats?”
They walk for nearly an hour, George regaling Hermione with stories of the times he and his brother had narrowly avoided detention, and the one time they successfully snuck a classmate’s pet cat into Professor McGonagall’s office.
As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over Sydney, George finally agrees that it is time they went back to the hotel. They slip into a side street, George takes Hermione’s hand, and they disapparate.
George does not resume his stories after they land behind their hotel. He trudges behind Hermione in silence, the takeaway bag rustling against the leg of his jeans.
Hermione glances over her shoulder, and watches his face fall further and further as the elevator carries them up to the fifth floor, and then as they walk quietly down the corridor to their rooms.
When they reach room 524 George wordlessly hands Hermione her carton of pad thai and a set of plastic utensils before taking his room key out of his pocket. She watches as he pauses for a moment, staring at the ground before straightening to his full height, mouth set in a thin line.
“Goodnight, Granger,” he says over his shoulder, sliding the room key into the reader and pushing the door open. “Sweet dreams.”
He ducks into his room before she can reply. With nothing else to do, Hermione lets herself into her own room and sinks onto the bed, setting her cold pad dad thai onto the nightstand and telling herself she will cast a heating charm on it when she is hungry again.
She breathes deeply for several seconds, forcing herself to notice the feel of the carpet under her feet and the feathery duvet under her palms. Another night stretches before her, and now that she sits alone in her hotel room she rather wishes they had stayed in the city center longer. She wishes she had suggested they sit in the lobby and eat their pad thai together, if only so George could continue talking and distract her from the nightmares which she knows will soon engulf her.
With a glance towards the window she rises from the bed and takes out her wand. The protective enchantments stream from her almost without thought, and their presence wraps Hermione in a warmth so light and complete she has a fleeting thought that this must be how caterpillars feel in their cocoons. Safe, warm, and knowing they will soon emerge nearly unrecognizable.
She thinks back to primary school, when her class had learned about caterpillars and their transformation. The notion of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly had seemed so surreal, then. Like magic.
Protective enchantments complete, Hermione returns to her bed and opens her pad thai. If she is a caterpillar in a cocoon, she wonders what she will become at the end of all this. She thinks of the butterflies her mum used to show her in the garden, their wings so delicate that one touch of Hermione’s small finger could have killed it.
It had seemed unfair to Hermione, then, that caterpillars go into their cocoons and emerge weaker than they had been before. Beautiful, but fragile. Whatever she is becoming, Hermione knows she will be no butterfly. She has survived more than a touch already.
She turns and looks towards the wall behind her headboard. On the other side, somewhere, George Weasley sits in a cocoon of his own, likely trying to get through his own night of hidden horrors. Hermione hopes he can get some rest.