Thursday, May 28, 1998
10:57 P.M.
Tears stung Hermione Granger's warm, usually cheerful eyes. The usual comfort of Albus Dumbledore's homey headmaster office had long since vanished, and Hermione found herself sitting directly across from the Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, feeling very alone. The vivid red and gold, pointy Gryffindor graduation hat that had initially delighted her beyond belief, complete with the special Head Girl insignia, was now lying in a crumpled ball in her limp hands.
She couldn't believe this was happening. Not on the day of her graduation from Hogwarts. The Dark forces were supposed to be receding. The war was supposed to be ending.
This night cannot be happening!
"Hermione," the elderly man was saying heavily, "You know, more than I can express, how you, Harry, and Ron have been a part of our family, our Hogwarts family, for seven wonderful, terrible years."
Wonderful, terrible. The two words could never have been more appropriate. Hermione's mind flashed back fondly to the adventures she had had with her two best friends, of the walks in Hogsmeade, of the pranks on the Slytherins (despite her every protest, unless they had really deserved it), of the way she could just sit with them and be, and never feel more at home.
Then the war had begun.
Focusing back on his entire statement, Hermione frowned and sat a bit more stiffly, her spine so straight that it arched elegantly against the wood of the chair back. Why had Dumbledore called her to his office, at this hour, and on this day, of all days, without her usual companions?
She smiled to herself, brightening, as she imagined what Harry and Ron were up to now... literally. Would it be their thirteenth bottle of butterbeer or their fourteenth? After all, it was their last night to break the rest of the school's remaining rules before they said their farewells and left Hogwarts forever . . .
Yes, now that she thought about it, maybe it had been best that Dumbledore had left them out of whatever it was he needed to discuss tonight.
As if he sensed her distance of thought, Dumbledore genially cleared his throat, and Hermione's musings quickly left Ron and Harry to their late night partying.
She was a bit more concerned as to why the leader of the Order of the Phoenix had just explained to her that almost every single bit of intel the Order had thought they had had on the course of the war had been dreadfully erroneous; how, instead of receding, Voldemort was merely regrouping his forces, resurging, sweeping through the United Kingdom and Paris with more ferocity and strength than the remaining Light fighters had to give in return.
"Please, sir," she began slowly, carefully choosing as tact of a phrasing as possible, "I don't mean to be blunt, but.... Why are you telling me this?" Me and not Harry? "What's left that I—we— can possibly do?"
Wordlessly, Dumbledore abandoned his polished wooden seat and began to pace the room, studying the multifarious paintings lining the wall, his hand clasped behind his back, his long grey beard brushing the tip of his maroon belt and matching robe.
A silent Dumbledore was never a good sign, and Hermione, try as she might, couldn't erase the vision that met her whenever she looked at his face: The twinkle that had always graced his mischievous blue eyes had been absent for months now. She feared that it had been permanently replaced with a lost, defeated expression, and tonight was no exception.
More than facing Death Eaters, more than fighting wand-to-wand for her life in the midst of a battle, more than preparing to stand up to Lord Voldemort with Harry at the inevitable and soon approaching Final Battle, Dumbledore's face sent chills of pure terror through Hermione's nerves.
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