What The Body Remembers

 

She woke again, her thin nightgown tangled around her, her blue pillow plastered with sweat. Several strands of brown hair tangled around her face and blocked her vision. It didn't matter though, for it was the time of darkness, that oppressive darkness just before the dawn came. Out her window, as her eyes adjusted to the blackness, she saw the huge oak tree tossing and waving in the wind, its branches whipped by the raging storm.

It was December in California. The lack of snow disturbed her; in its place there was only rain, rain soaking the ground and the meager, sparse evergreens. The trees that had shed their leaves grimaced at her like skeletons from outside. The hill on her property curved softly, and from her open window she could smell rain and the rotting remnants of the wild hay that grew on its slopes. A brief flash of lightning illuminated her face, which was only slightly marred by the onset of time. A couple of lines crinkled at her eyes as she squinted into the darkness. She reached for her wand, and muttered a light spell to it.

Hermione Granger had aged, but well. A few soft streaks of grey coursed through her hair, grey that she had not bothered to cover up. Yet it was only physically that she was still relatively unblemished. She heard things at night sometimes, things she knew weren't there. A child's hungry cry. Maybe it would be Nimue's high shrill wail, the hearty cry of Guinevere, or perhaps always-hungry Alexis. Yet it was Rhiannon, her youngest daughter, that Hermione worried for most.

After Voldemort had been defeated - by Hermione herself - others had stepped into his shoes. There had been the brief and inconsequential reign of Wormtail over the minions, and too Lucius Malfoy had been proclaimed the Dark Lord's successor. Yet it was a woman who carried the torch of the Dark Arts now - none other than Narcissa Malfoy, still brilliantly beautiful and just as brilliantly evil at seventy-five. Once she had learned that Rhiannon Granger was her granddaughter, of her flesh and blood, she had seduced the girl into the service of the Dark Arts. Rhiannon had been so young - barely the requisite adolescent - when she had been made a Death Eater. She'd changed her name, too - to Rhiannon Malfoy. Everybody knew that she would be made the next Dark Lady once Narcissa died. It was the most shameful thing that had ever happened to Hermione. Nobody ever talked to her about Rhiannon. It was as if Rhiannon had no mother, as if she was simply Draco's daughter, heiress to a dangerous legacy of evil.

Hermione bitterly thought back to Draco's death. The conflict between the Dark and the Light had consumed him, for he was unable to choose which side he would devote himself to. Hermione had begged him to stay with the Light, to hold on to whatever scrap of goodness he owned as long as he could. His father, and then his mother as Dark Lady had never stopped in their efforts to bring their son to the side of Darkness. In the end, torn by his conflicting desires, between his dark legacy and his spark of light, he had gone back to Hogwarts, the only place he had ever been happy, and jumped off the high tower used by the astronomy classes. Hermione still hadn't forgiven herself for not seeing that he was slipping away from life those last days.

How old was Rhiannon now? Twenty? Yes, twenty. She had been Hermione's fourth child, the last girl, always waifish, always seeming as though she had stepped straight from the realm of Fae and was not human at all. Hermione shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memories. She thought about Draco and Rhiannon all too much for her sanity. Yet her reminiscing wasn't over for the night. Memories still tortured her, and wouldn't let her sleep, wouldn't let her drift off into that perfect dreamland where all of the people she loved were still alive.

He rarely haunted her now. Sometimes he came, only to sit at the edge of her now-cold bed, motionless and frowning, his eyes showing a dark hurt and deep pain. He hadn't lived to see Rhiannon's betrayal, and for his sake Hermione was glad his children with Ginny were still firmly on the side of the Light. Sometimes she, Hermione, would go visit them - red-faced Rachel, pale and fragile Raphael, the very image of his father, and the twins, cheery Veronica and moody Madison. Mostly, though, they only brought unpleasant memories of the brief happiness she had enjoyed with Draco.

rose petals flying through the air
sunlight in a tree's leaves
sunset reflected in a marble
this is what the body remembers

Her thoughts shifted to Ron, and she stifled a little sigh. Of late she hadn't been able to sleep without imagining that she could still here his voice whispering to her in the dark, like he used to do when they had been married. Yet he too was gone, sacrificed in the drastic final battle against Lucius Malfoy. Yet for all he'd given, it hadn't mattered, in the end - Narcissa was a far better leader of the Dark Forces than her husband ever was. It troubled her quite a bit, to think that Ron's death had all been for nothing. She could still hear his clear, strong voice shouting the spells at Lucius, before he had been struck down by an Avada Kedavra in the back from Narcissa Malfoy. They'd only had one child - the vivacious Guinevere, who had inherited her father's drastically red hair and sparkling eyes. Hermione often remembered how wonderful and beautiful it was when they were all young together, safe in the haven of Hogwarts...

Hogwarts. She'd visited the rubble last year, before the workmen had cleared it away and begun to rebuild. Nothing identifiable had been left after the climactic confrontation she'd had with Voldemort. A chunk of wood from the ruins lay on her dresser, charred by Dark Magic fire so much that it glowed a faint green. When she looked at it, so many images flashed through her mind - her old bed at Hogwarts; the Yule Ball which had been the apex, the utter triumph of her fourth year; and the night she and Ron had laid out under the stars and felt the moonlight on their cheeks. She could still, if she concentrated, feel the starlight of that night piercing her heart and her eyes.

a pillow soaked with tears
mussed sheets and the slam of a door
a secret ache that won't go away
this is what the body remembers

And yet the green that glowed from the rubble paled in comparison to Harry's eyes. Harry...Oh, God, not Harry, why do I have to remember Harry tonight? When he haunted her, most of the time she only saw those eyes, glowing out at her like two coals from the Slytherin common room fire. How many years had he laid still in the earth? Yes, yes...it has been twenty years since I heard his voice. Twenty years since she had killed Voldemort once and for all, in a crazy frenzy of grief. Harry Potter and Voldemort had died the very same night. She even still remembered the date. August. August the fourteenth.

It had been in the midst of a late summer thunderstorm, the sky racked by the lightning's convulsions. It was only after Harry had fallen that the rain came, seeming to Hermione like the tears of Heaven. She had come too late to save her beloved. With a wailing Nimue clutched to her breast, she had watched, horror-struck, as he was surrounded by Voldemort and his Death Eaters. For good measure, Narcissa Malfoy - Hermione still couldn't say her name without shuddering - had put an on Immobility Curse on Hermione until they were finished with Harry.

It was only when she saw him plummeting to earth, defeated, that she had found the strength to break Narcissa's curses and mount her own broom. She'd left Nimue on the ground, wrapped in voluminous Protection Charms. The child's green eyes had burned out at her as she mounted her broom. She had barely been thinking at the time - she hadn't even planned what spells she was going to use. Afterward, all she remembered was the half-blind fury of magic she had unleashed. What spell she used, how many Death Eaters had died, even how long it had took she didn't know. As she had glided down to the earth and grabbed her baby, rushing to Harry's side, she had hoped that there was still breath left in him. His cheeks were pale, almost white, but she still used whatever spells she knew and even Muggle practices for reviving him. She was about to resort to the darkest spells of resurrection before she had fainted from the strain of performing so much concentrated magic.

Nimue had grown into a haunted child, an almost exact duplicate of her father, with shockingly green eyes and bushy black hair that flowed in an untameable river down her back. She almost always had shadows around her face. The Aurors from the Ministry of Magic told her later that on the night of Harry's death, the insanely powerful magic had affected everyone in the vicinity, breaking through even Hermione's best Protection Charms. Nimue's three children were all like her, covered with shadows, almost wraiths.

Yet as it had been with Draco, Ginny had provided Harry with three children while they were married, beautiful robust children, two girls and a boy, with green eyes and flaming red hair. Hermione tried not to envy Ginny the happiness she had. Yet often she didn't succeed. She knew very well that many of the old friends she'd had at Hogwarts regarded her as dangerous. She was very painfully aware that many blamed her for Ron's death, for Draco's suicide, and especially for Harry's downfall.

cheers and shouts and standing ovations
tears and screams and blood smearing your finger
starlight piercing your heart and your eyes
this is what the body remembers

Hermione was almost ready to start crying. That was a relief, because once she felt her tears she could usually fall asleep. She'd had to change her pillowcases almost daily since she'd recovered that haunting piece of rubble from the Hogwarts ruins.

Yet something besides that glowing rock was going to haunt Hermione tonight. She could barely see him at first...it's always a "him" isn't it, Hermione...and when he became more concrete, she almost didn't recognize him. This was a ghost she had never seen before. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about that thick black hair, the tall stature, that hawk-like stare...

Oh God. It was Viktor Krum, dead for the past thirty years. Would he speak to her like Harry and Ron did, or fix her with a stony glare as Draco did? "Viktor? Speak to me, Viktor. Tell me I'm not hallucinating."

He flashed that brief smile he had given her sometimes when they were married. "You're older now, Herm-own-ninny."

He still says my name the same. It's been thrity years since I heard that..."Oh, God...How did you get here?"

"The Guardians let me come see you. Supposedly to them I vos not as much of a hero as Harry and Ron vere. It took longer."

"Oh, I don't care, it doesn't matter, I'm just so glad to see you..."

"And you followed my wishes, did you? They gave you my last letter?"

"Of course...didn't Harry and Ron tell you?"

"No...but it does not matter. They are both heroes and deserve you more than I ever did."

"Don't say that..."

"No...do not speak...I do not haff much time, and the Guardians vill not let me come back for a long time. Harry gave me something before I left to see you...it is a new spell he made. Here, Herm-own-ninny. Touch my shoulder."

She did so, feeling the hot tears slide down her cheeks. Yet his skin was as firm as her own, and if she squinted she could see the color coming back into his cheeks. She gasped and withdrew her hand. "God, he couldn't have resurrected..."

"No, that is the Dark Magic, he vill not do that, and neither vill I...I do not have time to explain...but, vy are you crying?" He stroked her cheek and bent down to kiss the spot where the tears had fallen. "You haff nothing to fear..."

"I just cannot believe that it could be true...you...you look just like you did when we said goodbye and you went off to..."

"It's all right, it did not hurt..."

She put a finger to his lips and shook her head. "No, don't tell me. We don't have the time."

He smiled again, a very sad smile that didn't reach his eyes, as he leaned down and kissed her.

 

When she woke in the morning, the storm had broken, and the cold midwinter sun shone on the leaves of the evergreen outside her window, making them into sparkling emeralds. She reached to the other side of her bed. Empty. Nothing remained of him, not even a depression in the mattress. Yet there was a small scrap of paper, on which was scribbled, in his messy hand:

I could not stay. But you know that I love you, and now that I know that you still love me that is all the comfort I need. Never forget me, as I will never forget you, and I have no doubt that soon I shall see you again, in a different world, in a place of peace.

This time, her tears wouldn't fall. They stuck to her eyes, hot and heavy, and the blinked over and over, trying to expel them. They never came.

this is what the body remembers