Chapter Text
No one stops to glance at the memorials she built over the summer. The hordes of students laugh loudly as they walk towards the large ornate doors—the same doors she spent months meticulously repairing.
First-years worry about sorting.
Second-years worry about their new classes.
Third-years worry about the embarrassing second years.
Fourth-years worry about what to wear to the upcoming quidditch match.
Fifth-years worry about OWLs.
Sixth-years worry about becoming seventh years.
Seventh-years worry about what to do next.
And the Eighth-years, well, they worry about moving on.
But no one worries about the months prior—the bloodshed, the lives lost right where they walk. No one seems to care that the school was nothing but rubble and ash only a few months ago.
No one stops at the memorial to mourn what once was. But still, Hermione Granger stands on the walkway leading to Hogwarts, watching to see if anyone feels as empty as she does. With every passing student, she feels herself grow a bit more broken.
She remembers when she decided to build a memorial for each student who lost their life in the war. She hadn’t wanted to go home, avoiding the ongoing circus in the wizard's court. Harry and Ron had insisted on attending, sitting above those on trial, forcing them to see the faces of the ones they had stood against, smug and free of shackles. But Hermione couldn’t face their words, couldn’t see their faces.
So, instead, she begged Minerva McGonagall to let her stay at Hogwarts to help rebuild the castle. It didn’t feel right to simply pave over history. So, with McGonagall’s permission, she sat down with Poppy Pomfrey and went through the records of the deceased. One by one, she constructed small memorials that fit into the stone, with names and birthdates carved eloquently.
She thought it would bring the community together, allow them to mourn publicly, to share their grief. But student after student passes them. No hesitation, no admiration, and, to her surprise, no grief.
It’s not that Hermione believes the world stopped after the war. It didn’t—the voices ringing through the Hogwarts grounds are proof of that. But she thought there would be some sense of gloom, a dark cloud that followed them into the new year.
Yet as she looks up, she has to shield her eyes from the blazing sun, not a cloud in sight.
Maybe it’s just her that holds onto the screams and the weight of heavy bodies in her hands. Maybe she simply needs to put effort into healing—something she hasn’t had the energy or focus to do. Maybe others have done the work over the summer and returned, much like the rebuilt castle, better than before.
She presses herself against the cold stone, the realization of how alone she is sending her head and heart into a tailspin. She thought she could do this—come back and be who she always wanted to be—but maybe she’s been wrong. Maybe she can no longer connect to those around her, permanently scarred by what she’s seen and experienced.
Her breathing picks up, and she clamps down on the stone railing even tighter, begging herself to slow it down. It’s not a new occurrence—the cold sweat despite the chilled breeze, the erratic beating of her heart, the blurred vision—but she’s been able to hide it from most, battling the panic alone behind closed doors.
But she’s out in the open, surrounded by a sea of students, new and old. She has to slow it down.
She shuts her eyes tightly, willing herself to take control. Reminding herself of the books she’s read—what had they said?
Engage your senses.
Deep breaths.
Something about counting...
Merlin, she has to get a grip. Taking a deep, steady inhale, she counts backward from ten and finally opens her eyes. Panic is almost consuming her, but something catches her attention before she spirals.
Across the walkway, someone kneels in front of a memorial, surrounded by three others. Her heart hammers in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, someone understands how she can’t so quickly shake off the war.
She makes her way across the courtyard, staring at the water. But as seconds pass, she builds the courage to glance at the group to her left.
From her position, she can’t recognize the three who surround the person kneeling. They haven’t noticed her yet, so she steps closer and squints, trying to get a better look. A tall, dark-skinned boy stands rigid; a petite woman with inky black hair and sharp bone structure; next to her is a boy leaning leisurely against her—his mop of brown hair unstyled yet perfect. But she can’t see the person kneeling and wonders who they might be.
Who have they lost?
And if they would be willing to talk to her about it.
Because Hermione needs to talk about all she has seen, about what she lost during the war. She is desperate to find a soft place to land.
Harry and Ron, of course, have said they’re there whenever she’s ready. But there’s something about everything they’ve seen together that makes it hard to open up. Like she’s embarrassed to be the one struggling the most out of their trio.
Looking back at the still waters of the lake, a flicker of hope ignites inside her. She knows it’s silly, that hope is dangerous, but the thought of someone understanding makes her feel like maybe she’ll make it out of Hogwarts alive.
From the corner of her eye, she sees movement. The kneeling person rises to look at those around them, and she restrains herself from looking directly at them.
“Hermione? Where are you?” Ron’s voice calls, and she finds him on the steps, waving at her with a goofy smile. “Come on! We’re about to start, and I know how you are about these things.”
His smile is dreamy, and Hermione feels a pang of nostalgia for life before the war—when she looked forward to Hogwarts' events. The choirs, the sorting, the food. Back then, she believed anything was possible.
But she hasn’t felt that kind of optimism in some time.
As she bends over to grab her bag, she feels a chill run down her spine. She follows the lingering sensation of a heavy gaze back to the group that had held her focus. The mourners she had hoped to connect with.
Her stomach churns as she meets their dark stare.
Draco Malfoy stands surrounded by fellow Slytherins. His tie is perfectly tied, his blonde hair longer than she remembered, and his gray eyes lock on her, smoldering with a mix of fury and grief.
Pansy Parkinson, whom she now recognizes, places a gentle hand on his elbow, whispering something. Draco nods, turning away from Hermione. She watches as they head towards the entrance of Hogwarts, Ron sneering as they pass. But as Draco reaches the front steps, he looks over his shoulder once more, meeting her eyes and grimacing. She refuses to look away until he disappears.
Finally, she meets Ron’s impatient gaze.
The sound of the choir spills out from the open doors, and Hermione curses under her breath as she picks up her bag, walking swiftly towards the castle. But as she passes by, she pauses in front of the memorial Draco had knelt before.
Gregory Goyle
September 9, 1980 – May 2, 1998.
Remembered and loved.
She remembers constructing his memorial clearly. She had watched him fall into the fire, devoured by flames. She had struggled with the message—knowing where he stood in the war, knowing many would never mourn him. But despite his past, she had secretly mourned him as she carved the stone.
Another life lost to the war.
Another fellow student she will never see again.
Remembered and loved.
Maybe not by many, but by those who knew him or carried the weight of the war. And, obviously, by Draco Malfoy too.
As she walks into the warm halls of the place she once called home, she takes a deep breath, reminding herself that with time, all wounds heal. At least, that’s what the self-help book on her dresser tells her. But as she presses her hands against the heavy wooden doors—the same doors she opened to identify the bodies of the dead—she’s not so sure that’s true.
An empty spot between Harry and Ron waits for her at a table near the back. To her dismay, many eyes turn to her as she enters, and she considers walking back out. But the choir ends, and Minerva steps forward, demanding attention with the clearing of her throat. So Hermione stays, for now at least.
Sliding into the seat, Harry and Ron turn their attention to her, ignoring the welcome speech they’ve heard too many times before.
“Not like you to be late,” Harry says with a grin.
Hermione rolls her eyes in mock exasperation, playing along.
“It’s our last year at Hogwarts; my apologies for wanting to take it all in.”
“So sentimental,” Ron teases, taking her hand under the table and giving her an affectionate look.
She looks down at their hands, trying not to linger on the sight.
She and Ron have been dating for a few months, but she still hasn’t fully adjusted. When she kissed him in the Chamber of Secrets, she thought she was going to die. It sounds terrible now, and she cringes at the thought.
It’s not that Ron isn’t lovely. He is. He really is. But the passion just isn’t there. She’s read about it in the romance novels she keeps hidden away, reading by wandlight when no one’s around.
The fire, the chemistry—it’s written like poetry that warms her soul. But Ron, well, Ron makes her feel safe and comfortable. Two things she craved after the war. Yet now, as she stares at their hands under the table, she longs for the fiery passion between the pages of her favorite books.
Craves it, even.
“Everything okay?”
Ginny Weasley slides into the seat across from Hermione, smiling softly, though her eyes carry a knowing weight.
“Everything’s fine. Why do you ask?” Hermione’s voice is strained.
“You looked deep in thought, just checking in.”
Ginny’s gaze is gentle, but it’s too much for Hermione. She sinks into her seat under the weight of it.
The welcome ceremony passes. Hermione pulls her hand from Ron’s to get something from her bag and then sits on her hands, unable to handle more physical contact. Ginny notices, her knowing glance darting in Hermione’s direction again. Hermione pointedly turns her attention to McGonagall as she nears the end of her speech.
“Students, I would be remiss not to acknowledge the events that took place prior to this school year.” The air leaves the room as students shift uncomfortably. Hermione sneaks a glance at the Slytherin table and notices Malfoy sitting stiffly, his jaw clenched. “We’ve been through trying times, but we’ve emerged. Your future—the rest of our lives—begins today. We know the weight you carry.”
Too many eyes turn towards them, and Hermione slumps against the table. To her surprise, so do Ron and Harry. They share a glance only they can understand—a glance they exchanged often when they tried to untangle Voldemort’s web, desperate to fade into the crowd.
At that moment, despite her irritation with their need to move past everything, she knows only they can understand. Only they can relate to her. She pulls her hands free and takes both of theirs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
Eventually, the moment passes, students turning their attention back to the headmistress. But Hermione keeps Ron and Harry’s hands in hers. They don’t pull away.
“And that’s why we’re happy to announce that Hogwarts will be offering therapy and group support sessions for those impacted by the war.” Hermione snaps her head up, noticing McGonagall’s eyes resting on her. “While most students won’t be required, we hope you take advantage of this opportunity as it’s integral to moving forward.”
Most.
The word reverberates in Hermione’s mind. Most students wouldn’t be required. But she knows she isn’t most students. Nor are her best friends. They will be required.
And while she knows it’s probably for the best, she isn’t sure how she feels about revealing how she’s truly doing. Because she isn’t doing well.
The first time Ginny saw her after the summer, she asked if Hermione had been sleeping. Hermione knows the lack of sleep is etched into her features, aging her, revealing parts she doesn’t want exposed. But the nightmares make it too hard. She’s stopped wanting to sleep altogether—the gruesome images too overwhelming. Dead bodies, peers screaming for help, the smell of burnt flesh and rotting corpses.
She wakes up sobbing, then finds a book to read until the sun peeks over the horizon.
And that’s another thing the war has stolen from her.
The darkness is overwhelming. The thought of stepping into a dimly lit hallway or taking a walk by the lake is too much. Too much could be lurking in the shadows, things she doesn’t understand waiting for her. It leaves her paralyzed, which is why she stays in bed, a candle lit and her wand close by, just in case.
But most of all, the war has stolen her ability to just…exist.
She can no longer enjoy the world around her—naïve, unassuming. No, she’s always thinking ahead, planning an escape route. Never present, always calculating, overthinking. It’s exhausting, and still, she can’t find sleep.
Merlin, maybe she does need therapy.
The sound of footsteps pulls her back to the Great Hall, and she realizes the ceremony is over. Students head towards their respective common rooms. But her group doesn’t move. Ginny stays seated. Younger students stare as they pass, and Hermione feels a blush creeping up her neck.
She hates the attention these days. She used to crave it—the validation. From boys, from school, from anyone. A hand raised before the professor could finish asking a question, chasing after Viktor Krum through the castle, always trying to please Harry and Ron. She needed the attention, the validation. Her mother used to say she had always craved recognition, something about being an only child.
But then the war happened.
It seems to be how she explains everything now.
She always wanted to be Minister of Magic. But then the war happened, corrupting her view of the position—or maybe she just saw it clearly for the first time.
She always wanted to finish seventh year early, maybe get an internship at the Ministry. But then the war happened, and here she is, a year older and still sitting at these same grand tables in the same robes.
She used to sleep. She used to study. She used to do so many wonderful things.
But then the war happened, and now, she’s a shell of the girl she once was.
As she looks across the Great Hall, she notices they aren’t alone. The Slytherins she saw earlier are frozen in place, just like them. They huddle together, most likely discussing how to escape the mandatory therapy they know is coming.
Her stomach churns as she studies them. This group stood on the other side of the war. Their arms are tainted with the symbol that represents hatred for someone like her. And yet, they’re here, whispering across the room.
She doesn’t understand how the world just goes on.
But as she continues to assess them, cold gray eyes meet hers. They stare back, unflinching, and something ignites within her. She savors it. It’s been months of feeling nothing and too much at the same time.
But now, she feels rage—fury even.
For years, he bullied her, berated her every chance he got. And when it came down to it, he stood with those who wanted her dead.
She used to run from him, hide in alcoves, try to stay quiet in his classes. She spent years avoiding Draco Malfoy, trying to ignore the looks of disgust he sent her way.
But not anymore. Now, it’s him who looks away first, who returns his attention to the gaudy ring on his pinky finger.
She used to be scared of Draco Malfoy.
But then the war happened.
They sit in the common room, the fire making it almost uncomfortably warm. Ginny had insisted on lighting it, likely hoping it would bring some sense of comfort. But it’s impossible.
Students trickle down, see them gathered, and awkwardly turn away, offering excuses. There’s no normalcy to be found.
Hermione fidgets with the Head Girl badge McGonagall pinned to her sweater earlier that morning.
“We trust you, Miss Granger. You’ve done great things for this school, and I hope that continues.”
We hope that continues. The words echo in her mind because she knows McGonagall, out of everyone, knows how broken she is. She saw Hermione mourning over the summer, building memorials and crying while she worked. She saw her deliver a rose to each empty grave.
Maybe McGonagall hopes the Head Girl title will bring a bit of life back to Hermione, a glimmer of the girl she used to be. But it’s done the opposite—just a reminder of who she can never be again.
She’s thankful for the private room that comes with the position, though. It makes it easier to hide her nightmares. If she woke someone up with her screams, she has no idea what she would do.
She still hasn’t found out who the Head Boy is, though, and the thought makes her nervous. It’s not a Gryffindor, which is unusual.
The sun is setting on the castle, and she knows, soon enough, she’ll have to retreat to her quarters. The dark corridors are too much for her, even with the dimly lit torches. Harry notices her restless gaze and gives her a small smile.
“I’m tired. I think I’ll head to bed soon,” he says with an exaggerated yawn.
Ginny nods in agreement.
“Hermione, I wish we had your setup. After all these years, I could do without the roommates.”
“Speaking of your setup…want me to join you?” Ron teases.
Ginny pretends to vomit.
“Gross, Ron. Hermione probably wants the night to herself anyway. It’s been a long day.”
Ron shoots his sister a fiery look. “I know it’s been a long day, Ginerva. That’s why I was making sure Hermione only had to be alone if she wanted to be.”
Hermione gives him a gentle smile, trying to be as eloquent as possible.
“I’ve been dreaming about being Head Girl since I first stepped into the castle. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone tonight...to soak it in.”
“Of course,” he says curtly. She knows he’s hurting, but she desperately needs space. “Another night?”
“Yeah, another night.” She stands, leaving the soft throw blanket in the chair. “I’ll see you all in the morning?”
Ron starts to stand to hug her, but she’s already heading for the door. The thought of his touch feels overwhelming, like if he lays a finger on her, she might fall apart. As the door closes behind her, the last thing she sees is Ginny reaching out to place a hand on Ron’s shoulder.
The sun slips away too quickly for Hermione’s liking, and her breath hitches. She curses under her breath, hating herself for being so weak. She has faced much worse than the dark—dementors, the Dark Lord, a three-headed dog. And yet, since the war, the dark feels like a threatening monster waiting to devour her. She picks up her pace in the empty corridor, rounding the corner that leads to the final stairwell.
The light is nearly gone as she takes the first step, and she races up. She’s almost to the top when she sees a looming figure standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at her. Her blood runs cold. The flames on the walls do nothing to help, only casting sinister shadows. The figure doesn’t move, and she considers her next move but has no idea what to do.
She thinks about running in the opposite direction, but the dark threatens her as much as the shadow before her. But if she walks towards it, she has no idea what she’ll face.
She’s out of options and out of time.
The blood pounding in her ears is nearly deafening, but through the panic, she hears a male voice.
“Are you going to come up? The stairs are too narrow for both of us.”
The voice is clear, deep, and a bit of her panic slides away. It’s just someone wanting to pass, not someone waiting to attack.
“Sorry,” she replies, taking the next step. “I thought I forgot something.”
Another step. Then another.
Finally, in the light, she can see him.
A mess of blonde hair and steel-gray eyes.
Draco Malfoy.
She freezes on the final step, still blocking his path, unsure what to do or say.
“Ah, Granger. I should’ve assumed you’d be Head Girl.” He tilts his head, studying her. “Suppose everything really is back to normal.”
“You’re the Head Boy?” she blurts. Her voice is rushed, her tone too high-pitched, and he smirks.
“Now, aren’t you a little too smart to be asking dumb questions?”
She frowns, surprised he’s still as arrogant and rude as ever. But she’s changed. She’s no longer the meek, gentle mudblood he once tormented.
“How am I supposed to know what’s required for your reformation program? Maybe being Head Boy and doing something good for this school was part of your deal.”
He steps back, her words hitting unexpectedly, and she mirrors the same smirk he gave her.
“Fuck you, Granger. You know nothing about what...I’ve been through.”
“But I know plenty about what you caused.”
For a moment, he falters. His lips turn down in a frown that doesn’t quite suit his face. His eyes look far away. But then his attention snaps back, his fiery gray eyes locking onto hers. She swears she can feel them burning against her skin.
And then he pushes past her and makes his way down the stairs. She stays frozen until the sound of his footsteps fades away.
Finally, she takes a deep breath and heads towards her room.