Chapter Text
She never imagined that she would find herself back here, in front of these ancient walls, the northern wind whipping her cloak around her thin frame like it wants to tear it into pieces. Yet here she is, Hermione Granger, more than twelve years after the battle, in a place where she promised herself never to return to. A place where too many memories will be clawing at her very soul.
She fights the urge to wrap her arms around herself and casts a warming charm on her clothes - a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and a short black cloak tied with a satin ribbon around her neck. Why did she think wearing heels was a good idea? She is no longer in London.
Technically, it’s still summer, two days before the students return for another school year, but Scotland doesn’t seem to care about such technicalities. She will have to dig her winter robes out sooner rather than later.
She straightens her back and lifts her chin up high. She walks through the grand doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the clicking of her heels echoing against the walls. The castle looks like it did when she was eleven years old and full of ambition and hope. However, Hermione remembers. She remembers blood, she remembers corpses - people injured above recognition - she remembers crumbling walls and stone scorched with fire. She remembers parents mourning their children and children mourning their friends. She remembers the way she cried - wailed, barely human in her grief - for Harry but no matter how much she called his name he never came back. They never even found his body. How do you let somebody go when they simply disappear with no body to bury, with no final goodbye?
Her thoughts carry her all the way to the Headmistress’s office, the gargoyle guarding the entrance no longer sloped to the side but as fierce and proud as it was before. Hermione gives the password and rides the spiral staircase, her heart beating like a drum, which is silly because there is absolutely no reason to be nervous. She forces her mouth to form a smile and walks through the door.
“In vino veritas? Are you sure such a password is a good idea, Professor? The children might get bad ideas.”
“The children don’t need me to have bad ideas, their heads are full of them already.” McGonagall gets up from her desk and walks up to Hermione to give her a quick but fierce hug. She is a whole head taller than Hermione and the years haven’t changed her, not one bit, and just for a moment, Hermione feels like a child again. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Minerva? Especially now that we are going to be colleagues.”
“Maybe just one more.” Hermione’s smile is genuine this time.
McGonagall walks back to her desk, opens a drawer and gets a couple of scrolls out, precision and purpose in her every move. “I can’t say how relieved I am that you have accepted the position. Ever since Horace retired…” She puts the scrolls in the box which is resting by the side of her desk and is already overflowing with notebooks and crumpled papers, picks it up and gives it to Hermione, whose knees buckle under the weight. “Let’s just say that it’s a challenge to find a decent Potions Professor.”
“It wasn’t a difficult choice to make.” Although it was. “I couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in the same job at the Ministry for yet another year.”
“They should have promoted you ages ago, such a bright young thing,” McGonagall says as she walks around Hermione and out of the office, and Hermione scrambles to follow.
“You are forgetting that I am muggle-born, Prof-“ McGonagall glances back to give her a stern look. “-Minerva. They only promote pure-bloods and half-bloods from time to time.” Hermione hates that she sounds so bitter but… She’s worked so hard all her life and for what?
“It’s their loss,” McGonagall says in her no-nonsense way. “And my gain.”
By the time they get to the Potions classroom, Hermione’s arms feel like they are about to fall off from the weight of the box and she drops it on the nearest desk with a thud and shakes out her hands.
“What’s all this anyway?”
“Horace’s lesson plans, a list of school rules, your schedule, and a few other bits and pieces,” the Headmistress explains while she digs in her pocket and then draws out a set of keys. “These only work for members of staff.” They clink as they fall into Hermione’s outstretched hand and she studies the labels - office, storage cupboard, classroom, desk, chambers - then looks back up at McGonagall.
“The entrance to your private chambers is there,” she points at the furthest corner of the classroom and Hermione spots a door she’s never noticed before. “It’s spelled to be visible only to those who know it’s there. Come.”
Her former Professor shows Hermione her rooms and another exit that leads straight into the office.
“I will leave you to settle in. I’ll expect to see you at dinner. You are too thin, we need to change that,” and, without giving Hermione a chance to protest, McGonagall walks away.
***
Hermione is poking at her white fish of some sort with a fork. She can’t imagine taking another bite. She hasn’t had much appetite recently, not just for food but for other things too - books, socialising, work, sex, life itself. She puts the fork down with more force than necessary and the sound of it clanking against the plate rings throughout the Great Hall.
“How can you bear to sit here and eat when you saw so many die in this room?” Hermione wasn’t going to say anything but her mouth opened and her lips started moving before she could stop herself.
“It was hard at first but it’s been years.”
“It doesn’t feel like years to me,” Hermione replies without looking up.
“You should have come back sooner.” McGonagall takes a sip from her goblet then picks up Hermione’s and forces it into her hand. “In vino veritas,” she smiles tightly.
“I don’t drink,” Hermione goes to put the wine back down but McGonagall touches her long wrinkled fingers to the bottom of her goblet and forces it closer to Hermione’s lips.
“Drink. It’s an order.” Hermione stares at McGonagall, annoyed, but she takes a sip - the wine is thick and smooth and it warms her throat on the way down. She clutches the goblet to her chest and looks around the Great Hall properly for the first time.
“You should have come back sooner,” McGonagall repeats. “Most returned to help repair the castle. They found the process… healing.” McGonagall states it like a fact, with no accusation in her voice. Hermione stares at the spot where she saw Harry for the very last time - tired, dirty, bloodied but standing strong and self-assured. Hermione watched the Killing Curse rebound off his body and strike Voldemort and just as the dark wizard’s body crumpled to the ground, Harry’s body disappeared out of existence. No spin and crack of apparition, no pull and twist of a portkey. He simply vanished.
“You are thinking about Harry,” McGonagall guesses.
Hermione’s body jolts at hearing Harry’s name as if from an electric shock. She hasn’t heard his name mentioned in a while. It was all over the papers at first, it was on people’s lips - shouted, whispered, sobbed, murmured - but after a while, even the most dedicated stopped looking and moved on with their lives. Ginny married Neville and is pregnant with their third - or is it fourth now? - child, Ron is happy enough working with George and fucking anything with breasts, Luna is travelling the world looking for new magical species…
“It seems that everybody has moved on and I just - can’t.” Hermione sips more wine despite herself. It is good. “I see him everywhere around this castle. I see him when I close my eyes.”
“You loved him.”
“I wasn’t the only one.” She drinks more, and this time it’s more of a gulp than a sip.
“I don’t believe their love was quite the same.”
Hermione looks at a cheap plastic ring on her index finger, its centre a glittery purple - the only thing on her with a bit of colour.
“I suppose not,” Hermione agrees finishing her wine. The goblet refills itself.
***
Halfway to the dungeons, Hermione realises that she doesn’t want to go back to her chambers. She takes her ridiculous shoes off and launches them down the stairs. They hit the wall and clatter down the steps. She turns and sways on her feet, then steadies herself with her hand on the wall. Maybe McGonagall - Minerva, she reminds herself - is right and she needs to reacquaint herself with the castle. Maybe she needs to confront all the ghosts of Harry to finally be able to let him go.
She walks the halls, her steps silent, her head dizzy. She takes the pins out of her hair and drops them carelessly on the floor then untwists her tight bun. She digs her fingers into her thick hair and scratches her scalp, which feels tight and itchy. Her hair settles in a cloud around her face and she sighs in relief.
“Hullaballoo,” she gives the password to the Fat Lady - the list was on one of the scrolls McGonagall left with her - and quickly climbs through the portrait hole before she changes her mind. Harry is everywhere. He is in front of the fire, a silly grin on his face. He is by the boys’ staircase, shouting at Seamus because his dormmate is being an arse again. He is on the window seat kissing Ginny Weasley, and Hermione’s chest burns with jealousy. He is weaving around the chairs, broom in hand, late for quidditch practice. He is leaning over a piece of parchment, his tongue sticking out, scribbling furiously, as if personally offended by the fact that a thing like homework exists. Harry is everywhere and nowhere at all. Hermione sniffs, turns on her heel and dashes out of the room.
She wants to run away from Harry but he follows her into the school halls. He is on the stairs chatting to the twins, he is in the corridor exchanging insults with Malfoy, he is leaning on the wall waiting for a class to start, an easy smile on his face, he is stomping up the steps, annoyed that people are calling him a liar. Hermione runs past all the versions of him, her bare feet padding along, her lashes stuck together with tears, her breaths short. She runs until she spots the painting of dancing trolls and twists to look at a bare stretch of a wall. McGonagall said that the Room of Requirement never opened again, the fiendfyre must have destroyed all its magic, but… what if? Hermione is so tired and her feet are freezing cold and she needs to get away from all this grief. She paces in front of the room, wishing for a place where she will be able to feel lighter, a place that can help her feel like herself again. She wishes for something that will help her heal.
A door appears.
***
The room is pitch dark and it smells like fire but there is no smoke and the floor is just as cold inside as it was in the corridor. The magic of the room must be indeed broken. On the other hand, who knows, maybe this dark and lonely room is exactly what Hermione needs.
She flicks her wrist and her wand obediently slides from her sleeve and into her hand.
“Lumos,” she says softly and watches the light dance off the bare stone walls. It’s small, about the size of a regular living room, and uninspiringly empty. Hermione’s heart drops with disappointment. No fireplace, no pillars, no hidden things, only a pile of cushions on the floor in the corner, or is it a blanket?
She makes the light shine brighter, anxious all of a sudden, and looks back to make sure that the door is still open. Only then does she come closer to have a proper look. It takes three cautious steps to realise that it’s not a pile of cushions at all.
She gasps, and the sound echoes off the walls, and her blood rushes into her ears.
It must be a boggart. Why else would Harry’s body be lying here out of all places? He’s resting on his side, facing away from her, but he is wearing the same torn jeans and stained jumper that he did during the battle as if no time has passed at all, and she’d recognise his untidy mop of hair anywhere.
Hermione points her wand at the body and feels proud of the fact that her hand is not shaking.
“Riddikulus!”
Nothing happens. The body is still there, and Hermione mentally goes through the list of all the shapeshifting creatures that she knows of when Harry - who cannot possibly be Harry - groans and rolls onto his back. His eyelashes flutter and, despite her brain yelling at her to stay away, to leave, to shut the door and never come back, Hermione’s feet carry her closer and her knees painfully hit the floor when she gets to his side. She barely notices and shines the light on his face - his impossibly young face - and there is a cut under his right eye that she remembers and it looks like it happened hours ago instead of years.
His lashes lift and his hand flies to shield his eyes. Hermione makes the light softer and stares. She is sure now that this is just a dream. She must have passed out in the corridor somewhere in a drunken stupor.
Harry rubs his eyes with the back of his hand then blinks a few times before he looks right at her, his eyes just as green and full of life as she remembers.
“Hermione?” He asks, his voice all scratchy but unquestionably his, Harry’s. “Why did you take an ageing potion?” A strange sound forms in her throat and Harry raises his hand to touch her cheek. “Are you alright?”
Hermione shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut against the hot ache behind them.
“You can’t be real.” But even as she says it, his arms reach for her and he holds her close, and she listens to his heart as it beats frantically in his chest, just under where her ear is pressed.
This Harry can’t be real but she really, really wants him to be.