Chapter Text
“You cannot go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” ~ C.S. Lewis
Solitude can force a person to take a long, hard look at themselves. While silence can sometimes bring peace, it can also unleash a torrent of thoughts. In the same way, isolation can grant respite from the crazy chaos that life often becomes, but it can also force long-avoided and deeply buried issues to the surface. With nothing and no one to distract from such things, it’s not difficult to imagine that one might spend unending moments mulling over every perception and decision and previously-held notion in an effort to understand how they had reached a particular point. Such was the current situation Draco found himself in.
Weeks had passed since he had seen anything outside the walls of his cell inside the stone fortress of Azkaban. When the Dark Lord fell and the Battle ended, he had sat huddled with his parents at the far end of the Great Hall. His mother had been shaking uncontrollably and his father had looked completely empty, as if there was nothing left behind his steel gray eyes. It terrified Draco. All his life, his father had been a pillar of strength and dignity, demanding respect and instilling fear in anyone who dared to cross him. But when the Aurors had come to arrest them, Lucius had stood there meekly in the Entrance Hall, head bowed, staring down at his manacled hands. Narcissa had taken them in her own and whispered something to him. Draco watched his father slowly raise his eyes to meet hers and his chin trembled. She whispered something else and Lucius took a great, shuddering breath, closed his eyes and gave the slightest shake of his head. As one of the Aurors came around to cuff Draco’s wrists, his father looked at him and mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” as a single tear slid down his haggard face.
Draco had been shocked. He had never, as far as he could remember, seen his father cry. He’d honestly never seen him express any deep emotion about anything. He didn’t have a chance to even consider a response before Lucius was flanked by Aurors and disapparated away. Narcissa had stepped over to him and had clasped his hands in hers, which were cold as ice and trembling. He had looked into her tear-filled eyes and felt a helpless wave of incompetence and failure sweep over him. Everything he had done the past two years had been an attempt to keep her safe, and yet here she was, on her way to prison. If only he had taken Dumbledore up on his offer to hide her. She could be far away from all of this, and maybe even he could have had a different future. Guilt gripped him again as the Aurors disapparated her away before he could say good-bye, before he could tell her how sorry he was. Then it was his turn and in the blink of an eye he found himself no longer in the crumbling castle, where sunlight was streaming through the windows and wreckage, but in a cold, dark, musty cell, for quite possibly the rest of his life.
The very first day (or night, he wasn’t really sure about time anymore), he had been in what he assumed was shock. He had sat on the stone floor, his back against the wall, and just stared in silence for hours, his mind blank. Eventually, thoughts started seeping back in, and along with them came the way he felt about those thoughts. There was still fear and guilt, quite a bit of shame and regret, but mostly there was anger. So much anger. He was angry with himself for his part in all of it, and angry with the Dark Lord for coming up with the asinine plan in the first place, and angry at all the mindless followers who bought into it, but most of all he was angry with his father for dragging his family into the entire mess. For sacrificing his wife and son to the allegiance of a madman.
All at once, as if he couldn’t contain the rage boiling inside while sitting down, he bolted up and started pacing the cell in a manic sort of way. That wasn’t nearly enough of an outlet for the tidal wave of emotion rising inside, so he began destroying anything in the cell that could be ruined. The air around him crackled with his uncontrolled magic and his vision was obscured by a haze of red. He flipped the metal cot over, kicking and stomping on it until it was bent and twisted. He picked up the thin mattress and tore it to shreds, the same with the lumpy pillow. He ripped the woolen blanket into jagged strips, and then rent those into even smaller pieces. He picked up the metal chair and smashed it against the wall until it, too, was contorted beyond use. When there was no more damage he could inflict upon the objects in the cell, he started punching and kicking the stone wall. He railed against it, slamming his shoulder into it, pummeling it with his fists until they were bleeding profusely, but he didn’t notice the pain. He screamed until he was hoarse and then, just as violently as the fury had overtaken him, it left.
As his anger dissipated, the grief and sorrow over all he had lost, that everyone had lost, overwhelmed him. Draco sank to his knees in the middle of the shambles of his cell and wept. He had never felt so hopeless or desolate as he did in that moment and every ounce of it poured out over the wreckage around him. He did not know how long he cried, only that by the time the tears stopped, he felt completely empty and welcomed the exhausted sleep that pulled him under.
When he woke up, he was confused to find himself lying on a cot that was very much intact, covered with a completely whole blanket, and his knuckles bandaged with clean, white strips of gauze. Aside from a slight headache, and the fact that his eyes felt puffy and extremely dry, he seemed to be no worse for wear. Before he could ponder this further, the door to his cell opened and a guard came in with a tray of food, placed it on the repaired chair in the corner and walked back out again without so much as a glance in Draco’s direction.
For the rest of the week, this remained a regular occurrence. He had tried to question the guard as to who had healed him, or what day it was, or if there was any news about his mother, but he was greeted with the same silence each time. In an attempt to keep track of how many days were passing, he would make a small tally mark on the wall behind his cot with his fork after dinner. He didn’t destroy his repaired furniture again, nor did he take out his frustrations on the objects around him. Instead, he had many conversations with himself about the past several years of his life; what choices had been his own, versus what had been thrust upon him, and what he truly believed compared to what he’d been expected to adhere to. He had never been a huge fan of taking responsibility for his actions, typically hiding behind his name and his father’s imposing reputation. That was no longer an option, he knew. He also had come to the stark realization that he was now basically on his own and if he ever had a prayer of getting out of this place, he needed to know his own mind.
ooOoo
Growing up, Draco had definitely believed himself to be better than anyone who wasn’t a Pureblood. That idea had been ingrained in him since he was old enough to talk, but he’d never expected, or desired, the kind of carnage he’d witnessed recently, nor had he ever envisioned being forced to carry out some of the atrocities himself. He had taunted and sneered at his classmates for their impure heritage, though he’d never considered just how far Voldemort would take his hatred. He had made it seem as if it was the Purebloods’ right to rid the world of anyone that could threaten their pristine line of magic. How ironic that Tom Riddle had been a Half-blood himself, a fact the majority of his cultish followers seemed content to ignore.
As the Dark Lord had grown in power, Draco witnessed his father become more and more enamored with the promises and plans laid out before the Death Eaters. Lucius had volunteered not only himself, but his son for a blood-thirsty crusade, never willing to consider the slightest possibility that it might not end in victory. He watched both of his parents, for his mother had no choice, give themselves over to the control of their maniacal leader until they were in so deep there was nothing left for them to hold onto. And then he watched them begin to drown. After Lucius failed to obtain the prophecy, Voldemort lost faith in him. After Draco technically failed to kill Dumbledore, the Dark Lord seemed to lessen his favor of him, as well.
Not that Draco had complained about that. He had hated being called upon to serve; hated having Death Eaters constantly in his family’s home; hated living in fear every moment of every day that they would finally have outlived their usefulness and the flash of green light would be aimed their way. His father had become a silent sycophant, nodding at everything Voldemort said, and scurrying off to do whatever menial task was given, no longer proud or confident. His mother had become a shell of the woman she had once been, too afraid to say anything to his father or even to him. It sickened him, causing his stomach to roil and his skin to crawl with shame and humiliation. What was it all for? What did they have to show for their blind allegiance? The turning point for Draco had hit him like a bludger to the stomach.
The day Potter, Weasley, and Granger had been dragged into the drawing room.
It was a scene he replayed over and over in his mind as he stared at the ceiling each night in his cell. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to identify them; couldn’t turn them over to Voldemort knowing that while it might end the war between the Dark Lord and the Boy-He-Obsessed-Over, it wouldn’t end the tyrannical reign of that psychopath. If Potter died, Voldemort would gloat and cheer, and then pick right back up with killing Muggleborns and Half-bloods, and anyone else who got in his way. That wasn’t the kind of world Draco wanted to live in.
It still made him sick to think of the way Bellatrix carved that slur into Granger’s arm. Every scream that was ripped from her throat had made Draco feel like his own insides were being torn out. This was who his family had aligned themselves with. Crazed lunatics who were happy to torture an innocent girl. And she was innocent. She was being tormented for who she was, not for anything his aunt assumed she had done. If it was simply about the sword, she could have chosen any of the three to question and play with. Bellatrix chose her because she was supposedly “less” than the rest of them. As her cries had filled the room, he knew this was madness and he wanted no part of it. He might not like her, swotty little know-it-all that she was, but she didn’t deserve that.
In that moment, he swore to himself that he would abandon those ridiculous, pureblood beliefs if he made it out of this mess alive. He was done with the darkness and the fear and the hate. He would spend the rest of his life, given the chance, doing the exact opposite of everything he had been brought up with, the opposite of everything his father had ever done. He would reinvent himself and the Malfoy name, and do whatever he could to right the wrongs he had committed. These thoughts continued as he stared at his cell walls, allowing a sliver of hope to creep into his chest at the thought of doing something worthwhile. Typically, after a few minutes of this sort of pep talk with himself, reality came crashing down again with the knowledge that he would most likely die in this prison.
ooOoo
In the days immediately following the Final Battle, the Wizarding World had stood relatively still. Families came together to grieve for their lost members, funerals and memorial services were held, and a solid week and a half went by in a foggy haze of tears, choked-out eulogies, determined vows that these deaths would not be in vain, and promises to keep up with each other in the future. Hermione had attended services for Fred, Lupin, Tonks and her father, Lavender, and Colin Creevey. She hadn’t known Colin hardly at all, but Harry had felt particularly guilty about his death, since Colin had basically worshipped the ground he walked on, and had snuck back into the castle to fight even though he was underage. Ron was, understandably, needed at home with his family, so she accompanied Harry to the small service. Colin’s parents and brothers were so very appreciative, and had nothing but kind words for Harry, and she thought he seemed a little lighter afterwards. The remaining members of the Order had held a memorial service for both Mad-Eye and Snape, during which the truth of the former Potions professor’s heroism was revealed to everyone. Hermione had never felt such a conflicting combination of grief and gratefulness before.
After that, she had joined a team of volunteers who had started repairing and rebuilding Hogwarts. Harry had accepted Kingsley’s offer to help round up escaped Death Eaters and prepare for the trials. Hermione had no desire to join that pursuit, but she needed to do something, needed to feel useful, and quite honestly, she needed to get away from the general public. Everywhere she went, people approached her, wanting to thank her for her role in the end of the war. Journalists and photographers seemed to pop out of the woodwork, pressing her for a statement or a picture. And she received multiple invitations daily to speak at gatherings, or make appearances, or support the latest post-war campaign for unity. While she appreciated the sentiments expressed, she found it all to be more fluff than substance. She had attended more teas in fancy drawing rooms with richly-dressed society witches than she could count, all saying the right words about moving forward, respecting all magical people, and the like. Unfortunately, she didn’t see much actually happening to prove they were towing the line. Now, instead of Purebloods looking down on anyone with a blended heritage, it was the Half-bloods, Muggleborns, and Purebloods who had not supported Voldemort, who were ostracizing the others. Wasn’t that just as bad? Didn’t they fight to put an end to all the prejudice and division? Needless to say, when the opportunity arose to return to the castle and help, she’d left immediately.
At first, the castle and grounds were heavy with the weight of all the destruction and loss, and everyone crept around in reverent silence, speaking only when necessary, and quietly working in their assigned areas. Most of the teachers had returned to oversee the process, which helped establish a sense of familiarity. It seemed much more like Hogwarts with Professor Flitwick showing a handful of volunteers how to charm window panes back into place, and it warmed Hermione’s heart to see Headmistress McGonagall instructing the suits of armor to move large stones and heavy beams. After receiving some general information from Hagrid about which areas were still too unstable to venture into, she had traced the familiar path to the library.
The large oak doors were slightly crooked on their hinges, and the light streaming in from the many broken windows mixed with a substantial amount of dust, but the books - Hermione’s beloved tomes - were still there. She had stood completely still for a few seconds, simply taking in the sight before her. Amazingly, miraculously, many of the shelves were still standing, and some even still had books on them, although most of the literary treasures were strewn about the floor, accompanied by splintered tables, shattered ink pots, and innumerable pieces of parchment. As her eyes roamed the scene, she caught sight of a single person, more than halfway down the center aisle, bending over to pick something up. She made her way closer and saw that it was Madam Pince. The severely strict librarian had never been Hermione’s favorite staff member, but seeing the woman now, as she gently held a battered copy of Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean with shaking hands and tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks, her heart softened towards her.
“Don’t worry, Madam Pince. We’ll get them all back in their rightful places in no time,” Hermione said softly as she approached the older witch.
Madam Pince turned sharply, staring into Hermione’s face with a mix of pain and uncertainty, and after a few seconds, offered a tremulous, close-lipped smile. She took a deep breath, nodded crisply, and said, “We should start towards the back, where the least amount of damage was done, and work our way forward.”
Waving her wand, a very large scroll appeared in front of them. “This is the official catalog of all the books in the Hogwarts Library, organized by subject, and alphabetically by author. Please refer to it when shelving the books.” The matron sounded much more like herself as she quipped these instructions, making the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitch slightly as she reached out to take the parchment. Madam Pince made to turn away, but stopped and laid a bony hand on Hermione’s arm, “Thank you, Miss Granger. I know I can count on you.” And without waiting for a reply, she moved swiftly away to work in another section.
As the days passed, more witches and wizards had arrived to help, many of them current and former students who were eager to see their castle home restored. During that time, Hermione had spent four solid days in the library, eventually joined by Ernie McMillan and Padma Patil, with Madam Pince regularly checking on their progress. With the space being so vast, and each of them working in their own area, there wasn’t much conversation, but the company was greatly appreciated all the same. The four of them ate lunch together at the librarian’s desk, and learned a great deal about how Madam Pince wound up in that role. Once one got past her hawkish glare and stiff nature, there was definitely a more personable side to her. One might even call her friendly in her own way. Ernie told them about his plans to attend Oxford that autumn, explaining that he needed a break from the magical world for a bit. Padma spoke openly about how hard it was to be at home in the wake of the Battle. Her twin, Pavarti, was struggling deeply with the loss of her best friend, Lavender, and refused to discuss any sort of future goals or ideas, leaving Padma torn between going away and staying put.
“I don’t want to leave her, but I can’t just hole up in the house, you know?” she asked the little group tearfully. “I need to feel like I’m moving forward.” And Hermione knew exactly how that felt. She, too, needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
In the end, the Hogwarts Library was returned to its former glory, with every book in place, every table dusted, and every candle lit. The only testament to the destruction it had endured was a small plaque, hung on the end of a new shelf that contained all sorts of books written about, and by, Muggles. “In memory of Professor Charity Burbage: May her love for all people be remembered as we strive for a more unified world.”
ooOoo
Once her favorite space had been set to rights, Hermione sought out Headmistress McGonagall to let her know she needed to be heading home. She found her favorite professor in her office, head bowed over multiple pieces of parchment, but the older witch looked up smiling as she registered who stood before her.
“Miss Granger, I’m pleased to see you. I was going to seek you out later today. I wanted to discuss something with you,” she gestured to the chair in front of her desk, beckoning Hermione to sit, which she did, asking, “What did you wish to talk to me about?”
The headmistress folded her hands on her desk, took a long look at the young woman seated across from her, and began. “The Ministry is contemplating offering an Eighth Year, if you will, for any Seventh Year students who did not get the chance to complete their studies this past year. It would encompass all subject areas, and would include a focus on N.E.W.T. preparation. Students would not be mandated to attend, but any who wish to complete their magical education would be welcome to participate in the program. I was wondering what you would think of such an option?”
Hermione sat in silence for a moment, her brow furrowed in deep thought, and then asked. “Would the Eighth Years live in the house dormitories? And follow regular schedules?”
McGonagall watched the younger witch’s face, noticing the slight strain around her eyes. “Not exactly. At least, that would not be my preference,” she responded. When Hermione simply stared at her, the older woman continued, “I think it would be very hard, at least at first, for students in that category to just jump back in, as if everything was the same as before. I also think we, as an entire school, need to focus less on individual houses, and more on the unification of all magical people. To that end, the Eighth Years would have a dormitory of their own, regardless of what house they had previously been assigned. They would take all their classes together, as well.”
“And the younger students?” asked Hermione.
“They will still be sorted into houses for the purpose of dormitories, Quidditch teams, and class schedules. However, the house tables in the Great Hall will be replaced with numerous, smaller tables that will seat a variety of students from each house at every meal. There will also be intentional opportunities for inter-house relationships to grow. Team-building activities, if you will.”
A small smile had started to spread across the curly-haired witch’s face as her mentor spoke. This was something she could get on board with. This was the kind of healing and positive forward motion the Wizarding World needed, and where better than to start but at Hogwarts? “I think that sounds wonderful, Professor,” she said sincerely.
“Would you be interested in returning to complete your final year?” asked McGonagall.
“Maybe,” Hermione answered honestly. “September first seems so far away, and I’ve got a lot of things to get through before then…” her voice trailed away as she considered all the engagements and commitments she had pending in the weeks to come, none of which interested her in the slightest. “But, regardless of what I wind up doing, I definitely think this is a brilliant idea!”
Both women smiled widely at each other and stood up. McGonagall came around her desk, and wrapped her arm around her favorite student as they walked to the door. “You have plenty of time to decide. Please send me an owl when you do.” Hermione nodded, already compiling a list of pros and cons in her head. She would consider this at length once she was home. She would talk to Harry and Ron about it, too, although she was pretty sure she already knew what their responses would be.
“One more thing,” McGonagall interrupted her train of thought. “Kingsley wanted me to make sure you knew that the international travel ban has been lifted.” She peered intently into the chocolate eyes that widened as she spoke.
“Oh,” breathed Hermione, her shock turning to complete joy as understanding dawned, and a wide smile spread across her face. “Thank you for telling me!” She gave her professor an enthusiastic hug and almost skipped into the fireplace, leaving the headmistress chuckling softly and wiping a tear from her eye.