Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 36: XXXVI

February 2nd, 1999

It's two in the morning.

She's been sitting in McGonagall's office for more than four hours, sipping long-cold tea from a cup that clinks whenever her shaking hands put it back on the saucer.

She'd been honest with Draco and Theo about the possibility of this - about the viability of what was claimed in the Prophet. Logical Hermione had been forthright that it could be done.

But she's come to realize that logical Hermione and the rest of herself are disjointed. Out of step. Separate.

And the rest of herself never saw this coming.

"What can I do?" she asks for the hundredth time, voice a dull croak.

McGonagall sits tiredly in Dumbledore's old chair, still pouring over the countless indictments she'd been handed by Dawlish shortly before he incarcerated a good fourth of her student body. "You can get some rest," McGonagall says, voice somehow both stern and compassionate - an undertone of exhaustion.

"I can't-"

"Miss Granger..."

"I just stood there, Headmaster." Hermione sets down her teacup on the edge of the desk. Wrings her hands. "I just stood there. I watched. I can't-"

"I know how much you care for Mr. Malfoy-"

"All of them," she deadpans, unable to control it. Admitting it both out loud and to herself for the first time. "I care about all of them."

McGonagall quirks a sage brow.

"I need to know what I can do."

"As I said, Miss Granger, you can get some much-needed rest-"

"Headmaster-"

"Much-needed," McGonagall interrupts, raising her voice as she stands, "so that you will have your wits about you when we go to the Ministry tomorrow."

Hermione blinks. Blinks twice.

"We?"

"Yes," she says curtly, vanishing both their teacups - a clear indication of dismissal. "As their Headmaster, I cannot function as a character witness. You, on the other hand..."

"Yes," she blurts immediately. "Yes, absolutely. I'll do it."

"Think carefully on it, Miss Granger. Think on the consequences and the cost before you fully commit yourself."

"I know-"

"It will be exhausting. Painful. Alienating. A media circus, if you will - and your own character will be called into question-"

"Headmaster, I want to do it."

McGonagall clutches her shoulder gently. "Think on it," she says. "I insist. And meet me here at nine o'clock, if you're truly up to it."

Hermione bites back on anything further she planned to say. Makes herself nod. Makes herself stand. Her legs are numb from so many hours in the chair, and a steady ache has built up at the base of her skull.

"Thank you, Headmaster," she murmurs, heading for the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Think on it."

The dormitory is quiet but Ginny is awake. Of course she is.

"What are you doing?" she asks through the parted, crimson curtains of her four-poster, watching as Hermione lays out her nicest blazer. Her nicest skirt.

"I'm going to the Ministry in a few hours," she says quietly. At least she can tell Ginny the truth.

"'Mione, there's nothing you can-"