Through Fields of Gold

She remembers a time when standing on the grounds of Hogwarts brought her nothing but joy. Now she stands with the two men she loves dearly, willing herself not to cry. How long ago has it been since she was a child here, awestruck at the pure heavenly power that emenated from Hogwarts? How long has it been since she was a child.

It's been five years, five long years, since she walked away from Hogwarts with nothing but her wand, a severely burnt cat, and her two best friends. No NEWT's, no diploma, nothing. The very castle itself still seems wounded, bleeding memories and heartbreak into the soil.

She could walk through the graveyard without blinking, bypassing the graves of fallen childhood friends. She could walk by and ignore them, and not remember their final moments.

(Seamus went down screaming, and Dean simply crumpled. Padma stood by impassively as she watched Lucius Malfoy bleed to death, dying from wounds she inflicted.)

She could walk through the halls of Hogwarts without missing a step, tracing back a path to her first day as she rushed through the school.

(McGonagall was fried to a crisp, the bodies of Flitwick and Vector lying broken on the floor. Hagrid alone remained upright, cursing and screaming until he fell, finally destroyed by a simple flash of light.)

She could even make her way to the Forbidden Forest and trample through it, ignoring the splashes and stains that still marred the aged trees and wasted ground.

(Charlie fought valiently to the last, screeching defiance even as the Dementor stole his soul. Susan Bones thrashed in her final moments of agony, letting off one final shot that had warned the entire school that the Death Eaters were coming to attack.)

But Hermione cannot make herself face the Great Lake, calm on this balmy summer day, where she had watched three people she had slowly grown to love fade from existence.

(Ginny fell first, kicking with all her might as the werewolf tore into her body. It showed no mercy, and it was beyond a simple bite. It was not feeding, it was not a natural act; it was an attack, one to kill and not maim. But Ginny had fought, harder than anyone thought possible, not heeding her serious wounds as she used her body as a shield, buying time for Ron, Harry, and Hermione to launch themselves into what would be the final fight of the War.)

Harry puts his arm around her shoulders, and Ron grabs her arm, and they slowly start to turn her. For years now, Hermione has been the rational one, the one who has comforted them, nurturing them into the men they are today. But on this day, they know they have to be the rational ones, and they know that they must make Hermione face the one thing she has been avoiding since she walked towards Hogsmeade five years ago, covered in blood and sweat and refusing to turn around and see.

As they turn her slowly, she begins to tremble. From between tear-laden lashes, she can see the northern most point of the lake, where a friend died, years ago. A boy with a round face, and rosy cheeks, and the first person to ever call her his friend. Her knees knock as the golden strands of grass shiver over them, brushing against her legs like they did half a decade ago.

(Neville was always brave, even if other people never noticed it. That day, the whole world discovered that the heart of a real soldier beat inside Neville's chest as he raised his wand and took off at a wordless roar.

It was not glorious, the way that Neville died. It was fast, and painful, but it was a death of War, and war is rarely glorious or honourable. Neville charged on and hurtled himself into a crowd of Death Eaters, using his fists and feet to knock them down flatter than a pancake. He fell to the ground and fired off curses, screaming when they cursed him back, but the only thing that his friends heard was, "Go! Go find him! Go kill him! I'll keep them here!"

And she had been forced to run, forced to sacrifice her first friend, in order to save a world that seemed to believe that Neville Longbottom, fat, homely, wonderfully brave and devoted Neville, did not merit a proper burial. Because at the end of the war, there was nothing left of Neville to bury.)

As they turn her, make her face the Lake entirely, she falls to her knees and sobs. She can't take this; she doesn't want to take it. This is unfair. Not of Ron, or Harry, but of the world in general. The girl who died there, a girl Hermione once ignored or belittled, is a girl that she came to care for deeply. One who stood by her, comforted her; one who, despite their differences, believed in Hermione and never left her side. Hermione clutches the dull yellow blades that spring from the earth, and she howls like Ginny howled, in defiance, in pain, in anger and sorrow. A scream of understanding, and a cry of defeat.

(Luna never screamed when they hit her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raced to the other side of the lake, and Hermione saw Luna bounce off the warm sands of the Lake as wave after wave of curses, Crucio and otherwise, flew through her body.

Every cell in Hermione's body told her to stop, to help Luna, but ahead of her was Voldemort. This was the third sacrifice she would make in as many minutes, and every fibre of her being cursed her for it, denouncing her coldness.

She turned to shout for help, to summon the Aurors, but her eyes fell on Luna, and she knew the end was near. Luna would not make it through this.

Luna turned to look at them, her eyes rolling wildly for a second before settling. She looked at them, and then at Ginny's ravaged body, and then at Neville's forlorn shoes, lying next to bloody clothes made for a chubby boy.

"I want to go home," sobs Hermione, wiping her face and bawling like a four year old. "I WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Hermione," starts Harry, but words fail him. He and Ron have been here many, many times since, overlooking the grounds of Hogwarts. The fields of Hogwarts have blossomed, and a year after the last battle, some errant child had come and tossed flower seeds all over the place, and flowers grow wildly and fiercely, waving defiantly in the blood-soaked dirt. Bright red poppies clash violently with yellow snapdragons and lillies of the valley, stirring gently in the breeze.

"This isn't fair," she chokes out, feeling the soil wedge itself into her fingernails. "They were just kids. We were just kids. We never got to finish being children. We never got to START. How could everyone let this happen?!"

She wails, and moans, and Ron and Harry hold her, and let Hermione cry herself hoarse. She screams until she coughs up blood, and then goes silent, much like her three friends did years ago. The fields wave, the yellowed blades rippling in a fierce breeze.

"I want it to be over," she says after a while. "I want to be a kid again."

"Well, why can't you?" asks Ron, scraping the now-dried blood off her chin.

"Because they're not here," she whimpers, looking down at her scarred legs. "It's not fair to them."

"None of this was fair," says Harry, letting his fingers thread themselves in Hermione's hair. "None of this was right, but we had to do it, and we all know it. Ginny, Neville, and Luna knew it."

Harry leans back and smiles suddenly, as if something pleseant and warm has just erupted in his stomach. "I remember," he starts slowly, "something that Luna told me once. After Sirius died, and we bumped into one another at the Leaving Feast our fifth year. "You heard them, just behind the veil, didn't you?" she asked me. "In that room with the archway. They were just lurking out of sight, that's all. You heard them." It was like she already knew, and was already planning."

Harry turns to face a red-faced and pink-eyed Hermione, smiling at her and putting his sharp chin on her knee. "Luna was right, Hermione. They are still here. I can practically hear Ginny berating you for not getting over everything fast enough."

Ron holds Hermione around the middle, letting her sag against his almost too-skinny frame. "It's going to be okay, Hermione," he whispers in her ear. "We can be kids again, if you want. They're not really gone, you know. They're just waiting for us to come out."

Hermione gasps as all this weighs in on her, her intricate brain patterns quickly piecing this altogether. Suddenly, Hermione understands a little better, and a shadow lifts from her eyes.

She stands up suddenly, the brassy grass protesting as it slides around her knobbed knees. She smiles, slowly, surely, until it threatens to consume her entire face. This is a smile that wrinkles are born of, a smile akin to a mother holding her child for the first time or a small boy's first glimpse of a shooting star racing in the night sky.

The sun is starting to sink into the west, setting the grounds of Hogwarts ablaze in a wash of burnished coppers and bronzes. She lifts one legs and stretches it, as if preparing for a race. Harry and Ron watch as she works out the stiffness of her muscles, wondering what she wants to do next.

She beckons them up, her hand flapping in the imperious little way that she used to do, when she was commanding that they hand over their homework right now lest their work be below average.

"Yes?" they ask in chorus.

She eyes them slowly, as she brings up her foot and removes a shoe. She takes a step back, biting her lip, and images of nights spent in Gryffindor's tower dances through the boys' heads as they look at her.

With a girlish shriek, she launches the shoe at them, hitting Ron in the chest and causing him to stagger. They watch in total amazement as she takes off, kicking her other shoe off, running and laughing through the fields.

"Catch me if you can!" she yells, screaming joyously as her two best friends start running after her at full speed. She leads them on a merry chase around the castle, through the woods, past the lake, running through the fields of gold as the poppies, and snapdragons, and lilies kiss her frail white legs when she passes through them.

(As the three young children ran through the field, running and laughing and playing, the flowers they passed through breathed a lovely, sweet sigh. And for a moment, the memory of an echo of whispers rose to touch the sky; a little bandy-legged blonde girl, a chubby boy, and a flamed-headed girl ran beside the kids, their laughter vibrating with that of the three children who sped along the fields of gold.)