Wanderer

Salvation

Chapter Thirty Six – Salvation

Hermione swept into her classroom, and a hush fell across the class. They had gotten used to her punctuality, and her students had learned to arrive early to maintain her good graces. Their books were already out, quills standing to attention in the ink pots, parchment unrolled in front of them. The bell, signalling the start of the period, rang just as the door closed behind her.

As she walked down the aisle, Hermione's eyes snagged on the moving front page of The Daily Prophet, open on one of the boys' laps, partially hidden under the desk. She pursed her lips, silently summoning it, and relished in the sound it made as it sliced its way through the air towards her, punctured by the gasp of the student harbouring it.

"Class has begun," said Hermione, turning to face them once she got to the front, the paper still clutched in her hand. "You can get it back at the end, Mr Watson."

She made to fold it, but as she caught sight of the newspaper, her eyes stuck, and she froze. Blown up beneath the title, covering the entire front page, were two figures, encapsulated in the two sides of a broken, teetering heart. She recognised the look on Draco's face as the split second before he had left the ceremony, the moment his eyes had met hers, the whispers deafening him, the regret soaking into his skin. She saw herself, trapped in the spotlight, smile fading.

"STAR CROSSED LOVERS! HERMIONE GRANGER'S DEATH EATER BOYFRIEND?"

Hermione felt her jaw tick, her fist clench the paper, when she spied the byline. Rita Skeeter. She gritted her teeth, screwed the paper into a ball and flicked her wrist to set it on fire. It burned to a crisp in her hand, withering away until nothing was left.

She smiled at her class, who were all gaping at her, before turning on her heel, picking up her chalk and writing the lesson plan on the blackboard beside her desk. She preferred these Muggle ways of teaching, and holding the chalk meant that she could keep her anger in check.

"Is it true, Professor?" asked the boy whose paper she had confiscated and destroyed.

"Anyone with so few brain cells as to believe the insipidity of the Daily Prophet's gossip column makes a mockery of the fine art of Arithmancy and should sincerely consider whether they have the mental aptitude for such a highly skilled subject." Hermione finished writing, putting down the chalk, and turning to face her class. They remained stunned into silence. She raised her eyebrows. "Now, if that's resolved, turn to Chapter Ten of your New Theory of Numerology. Since you've demonstrated yourself to be such an avid reader, why don't you begin with the first page, Watson?"

oOo

The stone underneath her feet was cold and sharp as winter crept through the castle's cracks and crevices, whistling under the window panes, slinking along the corridors. There was a quiet but it wasn't stifling, like the calm that settles after a storm, like the quiet shortly before you slip into sleep.

Hermione knew exactly where she was going. There was a peace that had settled in her bones. She was not the same person she had been a year ago, when everything about Hogwarts had reminded her of war. The shadows had felt like the enemy stalking her, the quiet rang, the cold gnawed, every corridor, every bit of stone, was a reminder of the horrors they had witnessed, the blood that had dripped into the cracks.

Now, the castle was once again her haven. She could not forget what had happened, but she took care to remember all of the good times: her classes, studying in the library, sitting in front of the fire and laughing until her stomach ached with Harry and Ron, Dumbledore's Army, saving Sirius, getting closer to Draco, teaching the subject she loved.