Aftermath

F O U R

The spiraling staircase leading to Professor McGonagall's office rose before Hermione like a path to an unknown destiny, one she had never expected to walk. Each step seemed to carry more weight than the last, the heavy echo of her boots against the stone walls a constant reminder of the mantle she had taken on. It wasn't just the title of Head Girl that burdened her; it was the expectation to heal a fractured school, to pull it together after everything they had been through.

The flickering torches lining the walls cast shadows that danced with a life of their own, as if the castle itself was waiting to see what she would do next. Hermione's gaze fell on the familiar stone walls, each inch of the castle a silent witness to the trials that had shaped her—trials she had never imagined would lead her to this point.

At last, she reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the heavy oak door. The warmth of the room greeted her like an old friend, though the air was thick with tension. The office was as she remembered: cozy, filled with the scent of old parchment and polished wood, a space that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of magic. The shelves were laden with books that whispered of wisdom, each one a silent teacher, a promise of knowledge yet to be discovered.

Her gaze drifted to the portraits of past headmasters, each one offering its silent judgment. And then, she stopped—her breath catching in her chest. Albus Dumbledore's portrait winked at her, his eyes twinkling in that knowing way, as if to reassure her that she wasn't alone. The faintest of smiles tugged at her lips, a spark of warmth breaking through the coldness that had settled in her heart.

Draco Malfoy was standing near the desk, his body rigid and his expression unreadable. He absently traced a finger along the edge of a stack of parchment, his focus elsewhere, as though the world around him had faded into the background. He was different now—less the arrogant, insufferable boy who had tormented her in years past, and more a figure cloaked in reluctant strength. Hermione could feel the weight of it, the tension in the air that seemed to hang between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Her heart raced, and she fought to keep her composure. This was a test—an uncertain, fragile beginning of a new alliance. The kind of alliance that felt like it could either save them or shatter them entirely.

Draco's voice broke the silence, low and dismissive. "Are you going to just stand there?"

Hermione's throat tightened at the challenge, her nerves sparking to life. "I was waiting for you to say something," she answered, her voice steadier than she felt. The words sounded almost hollow in the vast silence of the room, but they carried weight. Because this wasn't just about them anymore; it was about the school, the people who had lost so much, and the fragile hope that still flickered in the darkest corners of their hearts.

Draco looked at her then, his eyes narrowing with a sharpness that made her stomach flip. "You think I owe you an explanation?" His voice dripped with disdain, but there was something else beneath it—something guarded, something unsure. "This isn't about us, Granger."

The words stung, but Hermione refused to let them show. The silence between them stretched, thick with all the things they couldn't say. And then, a crack appeared. Draco ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tic she hadn't seen before, and for a brief moment, the façade slipped. He was just a boy, caught in a storm of expectations and fears, trying to navigate a world that had changed overnight.

"You really think this will work?" he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with doubt.

Before Hermione could answer, the door swung open, and Professor McGonagall entered, her presence as commanding as ever. She adjusted her half-moon spectacles, her eyes briefly flicking between Hermione and Draco, assessing them both with a practiced gaze.

"Thank you both for coming," she said, her tone measured but firm.

"As you know, I am entrusting you with the responsibility of fostering unity among the students this year." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle between them. "I trust you understand the importance of this task."

Draco's lips curled into a sneer, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Unity? That's rich coming from you. What do you expect us to do, hold hands and sing songs around the campfire?"

McGonagall's eyes narrowed behind her spectacles, her disapproval palpable. "I suggest you both find a way to compromise," she said, her voice unwavering. "Or this year will be far more difficult than it needs to be."

Hermione's pulse quickened with a mix of frustration and determination. She knew McGonagall was right, but how could they even begin to bridge the chasm between them? "What about a study group or a memorial for those we lost?" she proposed, her voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at her. "It might help bring everyone together."

Draco's scoff echoed through the room, his disbelief evident. "You really think a memorial will fix everything?"

"It's not about fixing it," Hermione replied, her patience fraying at the edges. "It's about acknowledging the pain. This school has always been a community, and it needs that more than ever."

Draco's eyes narrowed, a trace of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Right, because bringing up the dead is the best way to make everyone feel better."

"Sometimes, facing the truth is the only way to heal," Hermione shot back, the words leaving her lips before she could stop them. She met his gaze squarely, her heart pounding in her chest. "You might want to try it sometime, Malfoy."

For a moment, the venom in Draco's gaze faltered. A flicker of vulnerability, quickly buried, passed through his expression. And then, he let out a sharp breath and turned away, his back to her once more. "Fine. We'll do your memorial," he muttered, his tone begrudging but resigned.

The room fell silent again, but this time, there was something different in the air. A tenuous thread of understanding had woven itself between them, fragile but present. Maybe this was the start of something new—a chance for healing, for reconciliation. At least, Hermione hoped it was.

As the days passed, the planning for the memorial began in earnest. Hermione threw herself into the task, drawing on her memories of Ron and Harry, recalling how they had always known how to lift their spirits even in the darkest of times. Perhaps this was the first step—not to fix everything, but to create a space where the healing could begin. 

And for the first time in a long while, Hermione allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was possible.