Wanderer

Ashes

Chapter Eleven- Ashes

Hermione didn't know if she was mad or desperate or maybe a little bit of both. Whatever it was, she stood before the stone gargoyle at the foot of the Head's office, twisting her hands and wondering if it wouldn't be better if she just listened for once and refrained from getting involved in other people's business.

But it wasn't quite as simple as that. Sometimes, when he was reading and she was sure he wouldn't notice, Hermione would watch Draco Malfoy. That meant that she noticed his little ticks, the twitch in his hand, the sporadic tightness of his lips as he twisted them, the way his foot would tap rhythmically and repetitively against the floor, tick-tocking, counting down the time until his trial-

He was going stir crazy locked up in this castle. He needed freedom. At least, a taste of it. Just to keep him going.

She sucked her cheeks in, wringing her hands. The Headmistress of Hogwarts was the only person Hermione trusted to ask for help, the only one she thought might care.

Stealing another moment, she inhaled deeply and before she could stall a second more, said, "Lemon Drops!"

Though the password came out as a rush of frantic air, the stone gargoyle obediently leapt aside, revealing the hidden staircase. Hermione swallowed, clenched and unclenched her fists by her side, and started up the steps. She knocked as soon as she reached the top, knowing her nerve might break if she hesitated again.

"Come in."

Hermione cracked the door open and slid into the room. The office hadn't changed much since before the war. The walls were still lined with shelves stacked high of all sorts of odd thingumabobs, devices with contractable arms and dials and buttons, plants that had to be chained to keep them in check but which nevertheless invaded other shelves and curled its way around picture frames holding certificates, vials and bottles of potions of all different colours, candles that never stopped burning, old books, peeling, leather-bound, thousands of pages long, withered globes of countries Hermione had never heard of, historical artefacts, daggers, jewels and dream catchers. There were still all the portraits of the past Headteachers and, joining them in his prime place above the desk, was the kindly face of Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling over crescent shaped glasses. Hermione's smile was breathless and teary. He folded his fingers, leaned forward slightly, and winked at her.

"Miss Granger."

She spun around, wiping at her face.

"What a pleasant surprise."

Professor McGonagall stood on the dais, ancient book in her arms, green robes as straight and immaculate as always, hat pointed to the sky. She looked older than the woman who had greeted her all those years ago in front of the Great Hall, much older, and tireder too. There were bags under her eyes and more wrinkles in her lips, like she'd shrivelled them one too many times. But she was still her Head of House, and Hermione felt a rush of fondness for the older witch.

"Professor," she said. There was something about seeing her former teacher that brought a tender recollection of normalcy, a reminder she was safe and she was home. Hermione swallowed. "How are you?"

Bemused, McGonagall came down to meet her. She rounded the desk, skirting Fawkes' empty perch, and sat in the chair, motioning for Hermione to do the same. She paused, then sat in the chair opposite her Headmistress.

"As well as ever, Miss Granger." The older woman peered over her glasses and it didn't have quite the same affect as the wizard sitting behind her in his golden frame. Her eyes were too beady, inquisitively sharp, though no less warm. "I was pleased to see your name amongst the returning Eighth Years."