Home

See the devil on the doorstep now,

Harsh, dry winds blew litter down the deserted street, under the cars parked jaggedly along the sides of the barren road. Winds buffeted the branches of dead trees, the twigs rapping on windows to beg sanctuary. Hermione looks at her parent's house, sizes up the pealing blue door with its rusting knocker from her position on the neglected stoop. The wind has captured her hair as its slave and wickedly enjoys yanking it from its braid and throwing it in her empty eyes. She doesn't try to keep it from blurring her vision, just looks through the curtain of tangles haplessly at the door. Numbly she raises her right hand, with the flat of her palm she pushes at the door. Creaking is opens, the hinges weak from whatever hammering they took. Bending Hermione gathers the handles of her lone suitcase in her limp hands and crosses over the threshold despondently.
Telling everybody just how to live their lies,

Everything is just as the Ministry left it. Slowly she leans back on the door, deftly closing it and locking it as best she can, though she is not actually sure the lock remains in tact. Neatly she leaves her shoes lined up at the mat next to her suitcase and ventures tentatively into the mausoleum. Dust and cobwebs linger in all the corners and on the tops of tables as blankets her mother would have never approved of. Sorely Hermione walks to the mantel, her thin arms locked around her meager waist in a hug. Happy people look out at her from plain picture frames, they do not move until her hand lurches up to snap them all face down. Behind the pictures was a mirror, big, broad, shiny, clean, it alone had seen everything. Listlessly she turns her face away from her reflection; she doesn't want to encourage shallow grooves and hallow expression.

Her bare feet shuffle across course gray carpets, past withering furniture, and light switches that might have been helpful. Hermione doesn't turn the lights on though, she finds the staircase fine, it hasn't moved either. Without touching the wooden banister she navigates her way shakily up to the first floor landing. She doesn't pay a glance to the closed doors lining the corridor; her destination awaits her patiently at the end of the hall on the left, last door.
Sliding down the information highway,

The desk, the shelves all empty, bed unmade, windows closed but without curtains, wardrobe hanging open in the corner home only to mice and dust bunnies. Sinking solemnly into the mattress Hermione lets the spring poking through gouge at her as she puts her hands at the edge of the bed to clutch at that ledge for her support.

A computer gazes back at her coldly, unblinkingly amazed at her return. Hermione knows there was a time when the glow of such a creation would have comforted her, but that falls into the recesses of her mind as white noise predominates the nothing buzzing in her. Last time she was here she had unplugged it, she is glad, because she doesn't think she would have had the strength to this time. Compulsively she rises to shut the wardrobe, before its open mouth can mock her. Superstitiously she gently turns the mirror backward to face the wood of the beast. Hermione turns back to her limp bed to she her suitcase in her place, waiting.
Buying in just like a bunch of fools.

The latch pops free easily under her pale hands. Reverently placing the lid open she looks at the neat stacks of essentials she is too smart to go without. Everything has a place and she goes to find them in hops she has not forgotten. Jeans with holes on their way, frayed bottoms where her only pair of shoes bite away at that last hem. Two pairs only, a few gray shirts without tags to itch, a ragged belt that's buckle no longer gleams, and her robes. Carefully she hangs them all in her wardrobe as though they were the clothing of a princess.

The robes are the symbol of what happened, burnt and ripped half the fabric they had been upon purchase. Her robes were from a time when there had been a chance, a hope, a flicker of light to help find the stairs in case they had moved. After that there is only the money, the scarce bit that remains as necessity, the last because there is not a place left to get more. Hermione fingers her wand in her belt loop where it constantly hangs, a testament to habits derived from paranoia.

She knows she won't need the wand. After all, the good guys won.
Time is ticking and we can't go back.
A jar of peanut butter and a flat bottle of ginger ale are all she can find in the kitchen that she would even consider consuming. Someone unplugged the refrigerator when they left, but there was only an apple in there, and now it has shriveled in upon its self, death by consumption. The water spat out of the faucet irregularly, but it was suspiciously tinted, who knows how old the pipes are. Leaning against a window Hermione eats her dinner, making the ginger ale last as long as possible, drawing out the misery. Not a soul ventures the streets, and it may be in fear, but she knows it is simply because there isn't anyone to walk the streets.

Not even four months ago there had been people to drive those cars and pollute the air. Footprints made in the puddles bordering the gutter, pets scampering willfully about at the butchers, scavenging scraps and bones. Drearily she wipes at a patch of grim with her sleeve, hoping to make the image less disoriented-to bring the people back, but not even she can do that.
What about the world today?

Hermione knows the road to hell is paved with good intentions, she remembers reading that somewhere before all the books were burned for warmth while on campaign. Vaguely she wonders if when the last skeleton is gone if the earth will keep going, or if it will reverse and start again. Her brain shuts up her heart. Questions brought the world to its knees, and she had been the one asking the questions, interpreting the runes. There was no point in trying to make sense of fate, not hers and not anyone else's, not ever again. A new year's revolution in the making, there will be no asking of questions in supposed utopia. Rule number two. Rule number one was not to begin the fight anew, but then again, Harry had always said rules were meant to be broken, and he went and broke them all.
What about the place that we call home?

Home was subjective to the conditions. Home had been for a very long time the kingdoms of the imagination, the clouds of the fairytale; the restraints of the mind all shattered in dreams of childhood fantasy. Had home ever been a castle hidden deep in the Scottish highlands under the shadow of sublime mountain, just adjacent to the horizon? Hermione knows Hogwarts was a home, a niche of safety in a time of terror, that place to hide from reality. There had been smiles there, secrets to unravel, and dust was a good thing as it floated past a window and refracted the sheaths of sunlight like prisms.

But home moved with her, and longing for a new one was pointless, as all the tents had been standard. Home had become the place you fell asleep at night, the place you ended up in to sleep dreamlessly. No one held a home for a very long time, maybe a rare five hours after you stayed awake reliving every nightmare you'd ever had.

Now Hermione has come full circle to this place where it all began, four walls of Muggle invention, but it felt an empty shell of a place with no one to share the buzzing quiet. At least there had always been arms to wrap around her waist and hold her all through the night. It didn't matter that the arms were hardly ever the same twice, one pair would die and another pair would jump at the chance to share her bed.
We've never been so many.

The streetlights flicker to life, moths are the only things to gather in them though, the moths and the shadows alone all across the country. She can count on one hand the number of people watching them from earth, but she can't manage the calculations for the number of those observing calmly from whatever comes next. Heaven is that conceivable? Hell still lies down that road? Rebirth from the ashes?

Ironically Percy will be the only one in the Burrow, taking posters from the walls and rolling them in tubes. He will be there to pack away used and cherished pots and pans, broomsticks, hidden candy collections, and diaries with rings on each page from sweating glasses of rationed water. The last to return will be the last to leave.

Half of who Padma was will lock the door to her sister's room after she sits on the bed and takes it all in one last time. Walking out on it all is so much harder to do on a person who can't protest.

Hermione never called the space next to Viktor home, but maybe it is good she didn't because for everyone she did they are not here. Not here: Ron, Teddy, Oliver, Harry, Bill, Lavender... Viktor was one of the lucky few. Unfortunately he returns to a place void of all emotion, heartless, hopeless, and for all intents and purposes-dead.

And there is one more to survive: an old withered man who speaks in tongues and never found a side. He didn't have the skill to choose, said it was in the job description not to have a conscious. Mr. Ollivander in his gray fleece coat with pockets in all the wrong places and eyes that knew every recess of your heart-even the ones you never even dared venture in.

Hermione looks at one hand, five fingers, five left on earth. There have never been so many vehicles of good compared to the nonexistent evils. Such a ration should have never existed.
And we've never been so alone,

She leaves her window when the first fingers of dawn start to wander over the sky. Her job is done for today; she has seen the world into Monday morning. She collapses in the middle of her bare mattress like a lone mark on a scorecard.
You keep watching from your picket fence,

Her body jolts itself awake on schedule, as if there was still a need for patrols. Scowling at the ceiling she warns them to avoid her while she uses the bathroom. Their gazes take up the puppet strings as soon as she leaves the bathroom for her window ledge. Thousands of eyes are following her.

Brown puddles putting weight on her shoulders and it feels good, feels normal to have weight there, but she wishes the problems would take a break before lining up again. Ron begging with her to help him on homework, to make his potion pink instead of the mud it was. Ron arguing with her ceaselessly, stressing her completely in every aspect of his life.

Blue gems twinkling skeptically, mockingly, and yet kindly spattering her from the mid-afternoon sky, the lone clouds framing the wrinkles. Dumbdlore acting as her grandfather, giving her a few less dolls each year.

Harry isn't really last. His green eyes waving good-bye in a cheap imitation of his wrecked hand the evening he'd left the camp. He'd known he wasn't coming back, and maybe she would've too if she hadn't thought the same thing prematurely every night before then.

The gray eyes are last, cutting past Harry even though he's supposed to be the end. The grays mock her, taunt her, telling her that she can't do any better, that she can't solve the problem. Draco was always a jackass.
You keep talking but it makes no sense,

Ollivander gave her a new wand when they all parted after the last marker had been engraved and put in place, surrounded by a string of weeds because there just weren't any wildflowers left and nobody could remember a spell for them. He told her she would need it. Gave her a little list of spells she might try should she want to practice, but she's had it under her bra strap and she'd lost her bra at the little brook where she'd stopped to bathe before trekking into her hometown a wreck.

There was no real reason for her to have a wand. Threats had all been diminished to a near prick of darkness that wouldn't be a problem for several generations. It was up to the rest of the world to provide that generation. The Americans could do it, they seemed particularly keen on sex or the Chinese, they could stop drowning their children. Just because bloodlines had died didn't mean the end. Magic would reoccur, it was magic, it had a way of working in unusual patterns.
You say we're not responsible;
but we are, we are.

If it hadn't been for them...the Light, the lions, the 'good' then there wouldn't have been a death total. Every person she'd killed had been bad, evil, vile, imprinted with the Dark Mark, but every one of them had been a life, another notch in her wand shaft.

If it hadn't of been for the gray...the Hufflepuffs, the Ravenclaws, the neutral, the undecided, the Muggles, the unknowing, the peacemakers then there wouldn't have been five people left on earth. The grays were only a class of peoples who weren't able to make a choice, or didn't know they had to make one. Ollivander seems to be one of them, though Hermione can't really understand it. He seems to be one of the first to realize that they all bled the same crimson, but he didn't exploit it so he never choose.

If it hadn't been for the others...the Death Eater, the pureblood, the prejudice then this massacre wouldn't have happened.

But Hermione sat in her window and knew that those were only perchance, and it had all happened. She had killed, she had bled, she had screamed, and it was their fault.
You wash your hands and come out clean.

Trying to defy herself Hermione washes her hand at least five times each hour, fully expectant to see blood rushing off them down the sink. Draco's blood, her blood, somebody's blood, but there never is any. Her hands always come out clean, red raw, but clean.
Fail to recognize the enemies within.

Hermione falls asleep in her window; hands clenched a cold from their last trip through the icy water. Her eyes shut and the monsters attack. Guilt. Remorse. Anger. Pain. Restlessness. The teeth tear at what remains of her soul, eating her as she sleeps, tossing and turning, batting her head against the window. Her eyes snap open and she shakes the tingles out of her spine, attributing the cold in her chest to the crack in the upper pane of her window.
You say we're not responsible.

She can't fall back to sleep, so she waits, waits for whatever is going to happen next. If she waits long enough maybe the dead will walk; maybe everything will be okay. But it won't ever be okay and in the end it's supposed to be okay. Draco always told her that if everything wasn't okay then it wasn't the end. Hermione's mother, before her execution, raised her to take that burden offered her. She is honoring this perversely by taking the responsibility on to herself in the silence of the night, hearing the pulses of those whose life she ended, seeing them glow briefly green like a twisted phoenix. None ever came back though, and it's her responsibility to mourn them.

But we are, we are, we are, we are.

She knows it is she who must mourn the evil because the others won't.

Percy lost a family, an entire family, a wife in Penelope and a brat child with glasses just like him. He couldn't be bothered because he better be trying to figure out how it wasn't all his fault.

Padma wasn't all quite there anymore, her twin sister was gone, the greater half of her was lost to an abyss. Her hands were full trying to feel out her own loss.

Hermione couldn't know that Viktor hadn't lost the intimates the others had, he'd lost friends, she'd lost friends, he'd lost himself, her map was upside down, and they were both responsible because Ollivander was too busy trying to resurrect a future to bother.
One step forward making two steps back.

The day the peanut butter ran out Hermione left, her quest for home wasn't over. Her clothes fell back into her suitcase in those two perfect stacks, the mirror reversed to show a parched face, weak brown eyes, but her hair had been combed through with a harsh brush found in a drawer, her aunt's ebony hair still stuck fast in the teeth.

She stands the pictures back up on the mantel one at a time, anniversaries celebrated with champagne, a rosy faced little girl who was going to step off that carousal and lose all hope that color might have had, and a broad faced woman with faultless teeth crossing a finish line of a race.

Hermione loops her wand back into her belt loop, and the handle begins the tattoo against her thigh as she walks toward the door, yanking the handle shut behind her in a gesture of finale.

Mr. Ollivander and Viktor are waiting for her on the doorstep, hand raised to knock.
Riding piggy on the bad boy's back for life;
lining up for the grand illusion,

Blinking Hermione felt the world tip under her metaphorically and all the shrouded events of her life burst free with startling clarity. Heavy parchment letter, lost frogs, purple flame, two glowing yellow eyes, werewolf discovery, Harry and Sirius on that ridicules hippogriff, her head breaking the top of the icy lake, bitter tasting potions ten at a time, dating Ron first, talking to Sirius through that mirror, Head Girl letter, calling him Draco, the Death Eaters breaking the Apparition barrier, in the tents it was her job to put the boys to bed, and kissing Draco as she twisted that dagger into his stomach.

Dumbdlore had promised that they would win. Well, Dumbdlore didn't lie. They'd won. But at what cost? There were three people sharing a step, two generations, and they were on the winning side. How is it that winning comes with such loses?
No answers for no questions asked,

Silencing the words on Ollivander's tongue Hermione glares hard at him, roughly passing both him and Viktor, clutching the handles of her bag until her knuckles bloom white she makes her way down the street, no longer accompanied by the dead winds.

Viktor pads after her down the street, war made him more graceful. He clutches her upper arm and forces her to look at him, his face spells out confusion, but his eyes are comforting. Hermione had her hand raised to strike him hard round the bald head, but she finds her head crashing down on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her instead. It is finally time to cry, to release.
Lining up for the execution.

Dumbdlore wouldn't let anyone under fourth year fight, but they all died anyway. She'd been at the head of the line passing out pre-made potions that had taken the N.E.W.T. classes and Snape months to make in preparation, stuffing tents and matchbooks into palms of kids who didn't even know how a match worked, and pricking fingers for blood oaths. Lots and lots of blood before the battle even began, the scars never heal.

Hermione and Harry put them in lines, the beginning of the alphabet got killed first, and she should have too being Granger and all. The Death Eaters weren't scrupulous like that; they weren't worried about petty things like letters, just winning. Twice Hermione met Draco, and twice they let some dueling pairs fall between them. They say the third time is the charm.
Without knowing why,

She hasn't asked Ollivander why he wants them all. They don't talk much as they walk up the country, occasionally finding a car with gas in it still, but she can't manage to stay in them long because for some reason they're starting to make her queasy.

Padma didn't want to come, but Hermione clasps her bony hand in her own, their bones rub together, and Padma squints in the sunlight, but they keep walking like that-arms linked. Up the coast, feet in the salt waters, silent for the most part.

Percy is drunk and Hermione gladly tosses a bucket of dirty water over his pristine head, kicking him hard in the shins to give him something more than his hangover to concentrate on.

Ollivander seems to know where they're going, but the rest don't actually care so long as it's away. Away from trouble, leaving behind responsibility with plenty of food. Hermione wasn't excepting to crest a mountain one evening at dusk and to see they weren't leaving...but going to...Hogwarts.

You keep watching from your picket fence,

It's all there. The winged boars watching them as they enter with bated breath. They'd all been mutinous when Ollivander had brought them back, rupturing the wound, but it began to pour rain down on them and there was no where left to go because there certainly weren't trees anymore.

Ruins are what remain. Hermione takes strong Viktor and they explore as best they can, but they don't get far before there is an ominous rumbling and dust caking her hair and his eyelashes. Something seems to be keeping the Great Hall standing, but there is a giant hole in the once great ceiling, and the spell on it is gone, as though it never was. Slowly it begins to come back to them, the spells they will need to fortify these walls, Percy knows first, and then Padma.

They keep repairing the hall, and it begins to stand alone, without the help of cosmic forces, but none ever suggests they repair the eye in the ceiling, for through it they are being watched.
You keep talking but it makes no sense,

She wakes up one morning, the last one to rise, and Ollivander gestures Hermione over to the half of the Ravenclaw table they seem to have named home base. Hermione listens as he explains his reasons.
You say we're not responsible;
But we are, we are.

It makes Hermione sick and she heaves outside at the edge of what had been the lake, Padma at her side, holding her hair back. He tried to convince them of the most treacherous idea of their time, and when Hermione pointed this out he countered by telling her that their time was over, and it was the zenith. The opportunity to start new, begin to write history again before it is all forgotten. Remembering his patronizing tone she vomits again.
You wash your hands and come out clean.

Her stomach half quiets itself enough to allow her to rinse her hands under Padma's wands. The water temperature jumps around though, as Padma only keeps half her attention on the charm. Both watch and see how clear the water is after its passed over Hermione's hands, and they both begin to think that maybe he is right.
Fail to recognize the enemies within.

Gulping at air Hermione and Padma lean against one another, linking arms for strength and hobble inside. They nod at Ollivander from one end of the hall and the men enter from the other side, each barreling through a heavy oak door looking determined. Ollivander doesn't need words to pass amongst them, he knows, and with a slight bow of the head he vanishes soundlessly. The silence hangs over them, but hands are shaken, and white wine summoned to share amongst them. They start again, from the bottom. Hermione begins to reconstruct the book from the napkins that littered the stones. Days pass before she is able to set a quill over it and let names pass from the infinite ink supply. She and Padma makes the lists at night when there no other work can be done, lists of books that were lost, spells, portraits, mascots, and the puzzle begins to fall into place.

Viktor hauls rocks outside, and knocks what is left of the outer walls. This time this building will not be a fortress, but a safe haven. He grunts all day long, but won't let the others help cook dinner.

Percy maps, he had an internal instinct that tells him where things were, where things have to go, and one day the rocks Viktor moved come back, one on top of another until they reach the sky.
You say we're not responsible.
But we are, we are, we are, we are.
It is two months into their foray before they begin to talk, really talk, and they are not loose tongued with wine because Hermione has lost her taste for it and it's a waste to have something they cannot share. They all lost, and they were just beginning to find again. Percy still finds he hates his mother, even though she was the woman who raised him and loved him, and made him ugly sweater, he still does not have a space in his heart for her. But he passes her needles on to Hermione anyway. Viktor walked out on the ideals of his family, left mother, father, and older brother gaping in the parlor on the evening of his eighteenth birthday because he wasn't going to allow himself to be marked. This is more honor that Hermione can say her lover ever had, and she killed him for it.

Padma surprised them all by being the first to speak, she told them one night, her voice whimpering like a violin string. She watched her sister's torture, watched that part of her die, but Percy seems to be helping her even the half of her gone to the half of her renewed.
It's all about power,

Ollivander left them Christmas gifts on their beds while they worked. Most of them are antiques as none of the newer makes survived. A broom for Viktor, battered Tarot cards for Padma, a colored yarn for Hermione laced through with more protection spells than she could compile in a year, and chess set for Percy with one black castle missing. He's trying to whittle a new one, but so far he's only managed to nearly cut his thumb off. Viktor is the only one well suited for his gift, but they adapt.

Percy isn't Ron. Padma isn't Parvati. Hermione isn't very good, but she sews the little cloths by hand and not magic to infuse it with her love.

You keep watching from your picket fence,

The first tower was up in three months, it's not very tall, but it'll house a common room nicely or maybe some classrooms. Percy's map says common room, but he's learning to fight his brain with his gut.

At night Hermione lies on her bed between Padma and Viktor, looking at them through their shared eye, daring them to interrupt them, she just dares Ron to send her a problem that she hasn't got one thousand contingencies for. He can't do it though and his brown eye just blinks stupidly, but happily glad she's not next to his brother. Dumbdlore twinkles, each star she can number a little gleam in the blue. The green never comes at night, never comes at all, perhaps because she doesn't know what Harry would do, but mostly because she thinks he's too content to have to wonder how's she doing. The gray isn't there until dawn, just after the deepest vestiges of Dumbdlore, and right before the phoenix rises in the sky. He winks and Hermione traces her navel with a pinkie, waiting for him to challenge her, and he does, every morning.
You keep talking but it makes no sense,

Underneath the third tower they find the first books, not many, but not few either. They're Snape's old books Hermione thinks, mainly because they're written in Latin, Parselmouth, and another dead language none of them can translate easily. Percy points out that people should leave dead languages dead, they were dead for a reason. A communal sigh rises up and they put it in the stack of things they need to ask Ollivander the next time they catch him dropping by.

He does that a lot-drop by without telling them. He usually leaves them a hint or a clue of something they have to do, something they seem to have forgotten the little things like train owls because they seemed to have left in the end. But they don't mind because that was the end and this is the beginning.
You say we're not responsible;
but we are, we are.

Hermione screams, she has acknowledged that they are responsible for everything but that must not have been enough because this was more pain that any hex ever inflicted upon her. The knife that was slitting her open slowly was excruciating, she prayed this was her last penance. Growling she tried to bite Viktor as he moved her sweaty out of her brilliant red face. She never quite managed that so she just squeezed his hand harder, nails biting into flesh instead of teeth. Padma lets out a flustered sigh, then it changes to a squeal and she reveals the most hideous bundle Hermione can imagine, but Percy wipes it off, and even before all the blood is off she loves her.
You wash your hands and come out clean.
Percy passes her the bundle of mostly pink blankets and nestled inside, shriveled and screaming with very tiny lungs. A baby, her baby, eyes screwed up tightly, fists clenched and an almighty racket echoing around the entire hall, driving both the men to casting powerful muffling spells.
You say we're not responsible.
But we are, we are, we are, we are.
Hermione smiles and baby quiets under the influence of milk and badly hummed lullabies that she is surprised to remember. Percy was the first to tactfully ask what baby's name was, and Hermione doesn't know yet. Ollivander poked the girl's nose with the tip of his wand and sent the infant into a tantrum, Viktor showed him the door. Padma showers her with Hindi stories about twins, the only ones she seems to know, and Hermione paces from window to window trying to find that ever elusive name as its sit just on the tip of her tongue.

What about the world today?

The last tower went up the day the name came to her. There was a dance in the wildflower-infested hills as Viktor and Percy scampered up to the highest window to smile triumphantly down at the ground. Clicks chirped in her head and for the first time she breathed the name Dove Grey.

From the tower Percy and Viktor shout their congratulations as the one year anniversary of the war passes half unnoticed, but this is a triumph in Ollivander's eyes and he doesn't call that night.

Hermione has been confined to minor tasks that no one really wants to do. But they have to be done anyway so she might as well do it in a place where she can mind Dove and her basket bed lined with the softest tatters of denim Hermione could gather as she doesn't wear them anymore. Instead she and Padma both have taken to wearing long brown skirts that end just above their bare feet and ankles that have pockets up the side hems and aprons in the front.
What about the place that we call home?

Dove asks more questions than Hermione can handle, but she always has time to answer to the questions about home. She's finally got her answer: home is a castle in the Scottish highlands with lots of little strangers trying to get under foot.

For the first year the Great Hall was very empty and they all still had to share a bed chamber, least the nightmare come back. The next year Percy and Viktor took a room three doors down from Padma, Hermione and the nursery and there were five dozen students.
We've never been so many.

This all changed of course this year when Hermione adopted Viktor as Dove's stepfather, legally, Dove has been calling Viktor daddy since she was three. Hermione didn't leave Padma alone though; she left her in the capable hands of Percy Weasley.

Ollivander smiled graciously when they found a young Canadian to teach some of the classes, but since there aren't any specific job appointments he has to reach out for some topics, but he was easy to hire only needing a general understanding of magics. Hermione wasn't going to hire Pierre until Dove escaped Padma's grasp and ran up to the blond man and tried to yank his leg off.

Tonight the students arrive, and being the new bloke Pierre gets the privilege of leading the students up the road from the train depot. The train depot itself is plain enough, a single platform in the near deserted land of Scotland, but each year they try to make it more accommodating, but there is an unspoken and mutual consensus not to have Thestrals. It will be seven years tonight and a graduating class will leave in June, but for the moment Hermione and Viktor are having a game of catch Dove as she streaks through the corridors after a bath half dressed.
We are the children lost in war.
We are walking on into that horizon.
We are responsible.
We are constantly watched.
We are home.

The history of magic class fell quiet.