To a Better End

Chapter 19

December 18th 1942

Christmastime brought on some of the worst nightmares, nightmares she hadn't suffered in a long time. Even with her drops of dreamless sleep, she wasn't able to keep the memories at bay for longer than a couple of hours that night. It felt so real, like she was living it all over again.

She was at the graveyard. Harry was next to her. Bathilda Bagshot appeared behind them. Hermione knew. She told him. They shouldn't be here. They shouldn't linger. They shouldn't blindly trust. But Harry was stubborn. She should have stunned him and apparated away somewhere safe.

She was screaming again. Harry was screaming. The crashing was so loud. And as childish as it was, Hermione wanted her mother.

"Shhh." She felt a hand running over her hair. This was new. This was concerning. "It's okay. Hermione, you need to wake up."

"Hermione," the voice was familiar, but Hermione wasn't used to hearing that voice in such a comforting manner. "You need to wake up, Hermione. It's just a bad dream."

Hermione willed her eyes to open. She was no longer in the destroyed home of an old woman. She was back in the safety of the curtains of the four-poster bed. And she wasn't alone.

"Walburga?" Hermione sat up abruptly, looking around. "How did you know that I was having a nightmare? I placed several silencing charms."

"I had a hard time sleeping, usually do before I return home for the holidays. I thought it was strange that I couldn't hear anything from your bed, not even the sound of breathing. I was concerned."

"Oh." Never in Hermione's life did she think that Walburga would have concern for her.

"Is it the war? The Muggle one you were fighting in?" Walburga's brow furrowed.

"It haunts me every night," Hermione nodded in reply.

"Do you ever get any sleep?" The stern witch brushed hair behind Hermione's ear. It was almost motherly.

"Sometimes."

Walburga's empathy was apparent at her admission. "Hermione, how are you even surviving?"

"I do alright." Hermione bit her lip, glancing down at the sheets wrapped around her fingertips.

Walburga eyed her with tense concern. Her shoulders were so tight, her demeanour bordered on anger. Hermione wasn't sure what to think about it. The pair hadn't exchanged more than a few words in one setting. Walburga was usually so reserved. She never seemed to care about anyone — emotions always kept in check. Even in that moment, her state of compassion seemed to be fueled by hate.

"This is why we need separation. Children fighting in a war that isn't even for them."

"It's an important war, Walburga."

"And you're an important witch. You're not meant to be a soldier." She was right. Hermione never should have been a soldier. But she was and still continued to be. Academics and fighting were her strong suits. That part of her brain remained active, even after the war. She didn't know how to stop fighting.

"Thank you?" She wasn't sure how to respond to this interaction.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I... I don't think so." Hermione was not about to tell her that she could only sleep a whole night while being held by a certain blonde wizard.

Walburga gave her a smile before placing a gentle, motherly hand on her cheek and retreated back to her own bed. Hermione sat still for a few moments, touching the ghost of the touch. Somehow, she was both comforted and terrified by the encounter.