Marked

The Big Picture

Chapter 8: The Big Picture

The halls of the castle were deathly quiet. Hermione, who had usually gone home for the holidays, had never experienced Hogwarts outside of its full occupation, and found herself unnerved by its uncharacteristic lack of exuberance.

It was hard for her to see the castle the same way after everything that had happened there. For everything that she was able to recall about her first moments at Hogwarts, each seemed to be followed by a darker, corresponding moment in her psyche. For her delight in the pictures that moved, there was the jolting image of Harry clutching Cedric after the Triwizard Tournament. For the wonder of the staircases that shifted, there was her glimpse of Malfoy's haunted reflection in the bathroom mirror. For the very first magic that she'd performed within its walls, there was a vision of Dumbledore's gentle blue eyes, looking up at her from the point of her wand.

When she'd first arrived at Hogwarts, it had welcomed her like an old friend. Now . . . now it seemed to give her something of a cold shoulder, and she knew it was her fault. She'd emptied the castle of what had perhaps been its finest headmaster, and frankly, she wouldn't blame the place if it never forgave her.

"This way," Harry murmured quietly, nudging her. She nodded.

She was happy to let him do the leading and the navigating; she had other things on her mind, after all. With how quiet Malfoy had been, she could only assume he was internalizing his turmoil, as usual, and she was fairly distressed at the thought. Leaving him alone with Ron, who was already not the most sensitive of companions, was probably not the best idea she'd ever had - not that she could do anything about that now.

Thankfully, her concentration wasn't necessary. They'd made their way down the stairs to the third floor without any problems, and it didn't even appear that any of the ghosts were currently active. Many of the portraits were vacant as well, their occupants wandering elsewhere or napping quietly.

Speaking of portraits . . .

"Harry," she said, gripping his arm. "I just realized something."

"Yes?" he asked, pausing to look at her.

"Dumbledore's office - it has portraits of previous headmasters, doesn't it?" she asked tentatively.

To her relief, Harry's face seemed to show clarity right away. "You think Dumbledore's portrait will be in there?" he asked hopefully. "You think I can talk to him?"

"Maybe," she said. Her mood suddenly darkened. "Yes, I suppose he would be in there."

Harry grimaced. "Do you think you can face him?"

She felt a jolt go through her, a mix of indignation and distress. "What do you mean?" she asked, her brows furrowed together anxiously. "You think I can't face him?"

Harry looked uneasy, but not apologetic. "Well - you did kill him," he reminded her.

"I haven't forgotten," she snapped. "Though maybe you've forgotten why I had to."

"I'm very clear on everything, Hermione," he replied coolly. "I know you thought it was what you needed to do - "

"No," she said abruptly, pursing her lips. "No. Stop right there. It was what I needed to do - "

"I get that you wanted to save Malfoy," he said calmly, his voice irksomely patient. "I understand why you thought it was your only option."

It was whatever he wasn't saying that was nagging at her.

"Are you trying to say that you think I had other options, then?" she asked furiously. "Tell me, Harry, what do you think I should have done?"