A weary ray of sunlight fell upon the worn pages of the tome as Hermione rubbed her eyes, exhausted.
Once again, she sat alone late into the night in the familiar library. The tables and chairs looked almost the same as before, to all those who rarely came here. But Hermione felt their difference. Everything was different.
They were transfigured and restored, in some places by magic, and in others not without familiar hands. They were glued, sanded, strengthened. But they still would never again be as they once were before the war.
Her favourite desk was tucked away in the corner of the second room. Behind it, a window opened. Natural light during the day and morning illuminated the many pages she read. And in the evening, the moonlight in the Black Lake gave the library a truly mystical atmosphere. This place was her little escape and a corner of peace. Here, in different tomes, worlds appeared and knowledge was gained. It was so quiet and calm, understandable all around.
"Oh, my girl," Madam Pince looked at her with pain in her eyes the very first time she entered here again . "So many books burned."
And they could not be saved. They had sunk forever, victims of those drunk with power.
They fell like forgotten heroes on the field of someone else's struggle. Perhaps only Madam Pince and Hermione grieved so much about the burned books. And it was stupid, really... There was so much to do around. In the mornings, they all worked together to restore the Great Hall. It had absorbed more horror than anyone else, more blood and tears shed over the bodies of the dead. It would be too strange to have breakfast there again. Before the school year had started and there were only a few students who had come to help, they ate in the kitchen. The professors, Headmistress McGonagall and a few students all sat at a small table, enlarged by Transfiguration. It reminded Hermione of the war. Of the Order's headquarters. Of months on the run, of eternal fear, hunger and darkness. She was ready to die. Everything... seemed to lead to that very end. Logical. Understandable.
The outcome.
To die in the war, fighting like a hero. To fulfill her destiny for the greater good. But that had not happened to her. They... Harry, she and Ron... had survived and remained. With blood on their hands, with the memories of their friends lying lifeless on a pile of black and red ash. Having paid the price. Having seen and experienced begging - the one for mercy and for pity, for the slightest indulgence. Having known cruelty. Having played fate. Was it a fair game? Hell no. She would rather die herself than the souls of the little children who died in that magnificent hall. Hermione won't be able to eat, won't be able to see the new students in the place where Luna, Colin, Fred, Hagrid and those who became names on the memorial stone lay. She just won't be able to. And she's terribly sorry.
A month ago
The barn owl hooted loudly and landed on her windowsill. As with all the previous times, Hermione was sure Snape hadn't read anything. "I'm sorry," she said pitifully, handing her beautiful barn owl a treat. "I know you don't like flying to him. I'm sorry." Hermione didn't know what to do. Snape hadn't opened her messages voluntarily, hadn't read her messages, hadn't wanted to make contact.
And she needed to talk to him so… so unbearably badly. To explain and discuss. To apologize. To say thank you. Damn it all.
She needed to talk to him. Hermione had nothing and no one left, she had no idea what to do with her colorless life, and the only, monstrously slightest interest, her desire, her reason, so mercilessly kept her away. She was alone. In the middle of a huge world in ashes, in the middle of a swamp – black – and with her hands covered in blood. She needed something, someone, and she wanted so much to find at least a bit, at least a drop, at least a grain of an explanation from this man. Terrible and mortal, a sacrificial victim, alive.
Snape.
His figure was too… complex. And it was not that she wanted to unravel him. Just… Unclear. She did not understand anything that Hermione had in this world. And perhaps only he - still evil, still terrifying, professor and spy, traitor and hero - was the only anchor connecting her torn body with the past world. But she could do nothing. She did not think that it was possible - not allowed - that it would be decent in the whole situation. Godric, how ironic. She was thinking about rules, about norms? About duplicity?
Of course not. In fact, Hermione understood that she could get in. She could pick the lock, there were no wards on his house, he did not even try. But it was as if this barrier… This invisible thread – not allowed – was the only thing that really kept them apart. She had taken everything from Snape. Death, money, and freedom.
"Idiot," as he had said to her in the courtroom, in the hospital, was the true definition for her. It was all true. She was an idiot, and she was doomed. So without explanation, without clear motives, and senselessly, she had cooked stew for him today. And she really couldn't understand the point.
Two weeks ago
"It's cold today," Harry said kindly, finding himself standing behind Hermione, wrapped in a sweater, near the entrance to his now eternal home. "Harry," she turned around. "I'm sorry I came so suddenly." "Come on," he waved his hand and opened the door, silently inviting her inside. The living room was damp, impersonal, dark. Harry rarely spent the night in this house. He was busy and overloaded. Stressed. So much to do after the war, it turned out. So much to do. "Kreacher!" Harry called, and an elderly elf instantly appeared in front of them. "Master!" Kreacher croaked, bowing low. "Serve dinner for two." "As you command, Master." As soon as the elf disappeared, Harry sighed heavily and collapsed on the sofa. "Sorry, I'm just so tired." "Hearings again?" Hermione asked. "Everyone at the Ministry has gone mad," he said, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as he took off his glasses. "They're trying to pass a law to control every wand…" he hesitated, suddenly vague, "of Muggle-borns." "What?" Harry swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?" "There are rumours in the Ministry that after Riddle's fall, some Muggle-borns are banding together and trying to… take revenge." "When…" Hermione stared at Harry in disbelief. "When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me?" "I'm telling you now," he said. "Don't look at me like that, I don't know much myself. Kingsley hardly tells me anything.
I…" A loud bang from the middle of the room interrupted them. "Dinner is served, my master. For you and Miss Filthy…" "Shut your mouth, Kreacher," Harry snapped at him. "You promised me you wouldn't call Hermione that." "Sorry, Master. Kreacher will punish himself." The elf disappeared too quickly.
"Harry, explain it to me." "That's why I didn't want to talk about it until everything was clear," he said irritably. "I don't really know anything myself, Hermione. I'm telling you what I heard. I don't know," Harry exhaled, clearly trying to calm down. "I don't know. How… How disgusting it is in this new world without the war. There was no freedom. There was no security and peace since the end of the battle." "I shouldn't have revealed this information at all. It's all too vague. Don't tell anyone." "Does Ron know?" "No. She didn't even… remember why she came." "I'm really hungry," Harry exhaled, getting up from the shabby sofa. "Will you keep me company?" "No, I'll go." Just a few seconds and a few blinks, and Harry retreated. "As you wish," he squeezed out quietly, taking the first step into the kitchen. Slowly pushing back the very chair he always sat in during meetings, Harry sat down at the table, picked up a spoon and scooped up some soup.
He sat in the light of the sun, which did not warm him a bit.
A man in silence.
A man alone.
He had grown so much, so much matured. The war had aged him, although Harry was only… eighteen. She had always thought it so… bitter and sad. Eating at a big table alone. But they were all unacceptably and immensely alone – as it turned out. In that very world without war. There was no room left for the familiar – for dreams and aspirations, for those illusions that young minds dreamed of in the midst of terrible nights. In spite of. With one last look at her friend, Hermione took the Floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.
***
Hogwarts was lit every night. Hundreds of golden lanterns, slowly rising upward. A tribute to the fallen. Hermione liked to sit on the windowsill on the seventh floor. It was unclear why, but it was here that she wanted to... get lost. The view of gloomy Scotland opened up from above. The golden trees were slowly saying goodbye to summer, autumn was coming. Very soon, the students would arrive here. And the new teachers, who had not had time to arrive to help with the reconstruction. Hermione had been here for two weeks already, and all she understood was that she did not know what to do next. That day, after visiting Harry, she returned home and sat at her desk. Just as big and empty - the one Harry sat at. Crookshanks passed by her, and even he did not want to stay with her. That day, Hermione cried alone. In her small house, which she bought with the money from the sale of her parents' house, who were no longer there. Whom she so wanted to hide and protect, but it did not work out. How ironic it was to receive the news of Monica and Wendell's deaths.
How ironic, how painful. Severus Snape, whom she had saved, had no desire to live either. Harry was busy and tired, Ron's father was dying, Ginny was too broken herself. No one needed her. No one needed anyone. All... alone. All... dead. In that bloody war, they had all been killed and buried forever. Their souls, their childhood, their dreams, their youth and naivety.
Life.
Their lives were there. Somewhere among the rotting bodies of their comrades, somewhere near the embraces they had shared at that last moment. The throbbing scar on her forearm burned as Hermione brushed away her tears. A pale, grayish fluid oozed from the swollen, inflamed letters.
Mudblood.
Mudblood.
Mudblood.
It didn't matter what they were fighting for. It didn't matter if Voldemort existed or not. It would always be like this. She was forever unclean. And she would have to see it for the rest of her life.
The light of the setting sun reflected off the water. The jug stood on the large table where Hermione sat quietly. And perhaps it should have happened long ago. But until now, the right moment had never come. Loud. The sound of glass hitting the floor was too much, too much. Those tiny shards scattered across the floor, fell under her feet. She should tell Crookshanks not to come near, but not now. In her palm was a shard. Vile. Tears stood in her eyes, and a silent scream froze on her lips. Hermione bit into that dirty brand, into the crooked letters.
She kept cutting, desperate to carve them away. Pus mixed with blood, the pain was brighter. But Hermione kept going, going, going, until her eyes closed from the terribly burning tears. That day, she woke up after a while. Crookshanks was meowing shrilly next to her body in a pool of blood. That day, she probably didn't want to die so stupidly. She only wanted… to get rid of… dirty blood. How childish. How illogical. Hermione had survived the war. She had made others live, she had… saved Snape. Why? Oh why? In mockery of her incredibly pathetic life, the scar from Bellatrix's knife had swollen even more. Her attempts to get rid of it were futile. The letters weren't even damaged, the mark hadn't disappeared. She had only made it worse.
"Idiot."
The voice appeared in her head again… that one.
And as if by magic, a bird flew into her window. On that same large and lonely table where she had sat that evening, a painfully familiar letter appeared. The same one that had once given Hermione faith. And the same one that once gave Hermione the world.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
From Headmistress Minerva McGonagall for Hermione Granger."