Simple Gifts

Simple Gifts

The wind skipped across the lake as it always did, in a fresh twisting ribbon of air, sending ripples across the level surface of water beneath it. Hermione always liked the double nature of the wind, alternatively caressing and strangling, placid and destructive. Ambiguities made her think, made her muse, and musing allowed her to forget. Sometimes, all she needed was to forget.

Behind her stood Hogwarts, unchanged from the days the Founders laid its foundations and declared it removed enough from society to be a safe haven for wizards-in-training. It still dominated the countryside, and whether it was from Hogsmeade or the Quidditch pitch, one could still see the castle, stalwart and faithful. Everyone, however, knew that it had changed. Professor Dumbledore interred on the grounds beneath an oak tree, half the faculty lost to the sieges...she wondered how much longer it would be before the school regained at least a sense of normalcy.

He was gone too. But she wouldn't think about that.

-

I never asked for it to happen. These things, they just do. I never asked for Ron to die, the only person who did when the Weasleys were ambushed in Diagon Alley by Death Eaters. I never asked for Harry to be the one I clung to for support, and he to I. I never asked for the love that developed between us in the absence of our best friend.

But - no. Perhaps "love" is the wrong word. I did not desire him in the way that I had desired Krum or, God forbid that I even remember him, Gilderoy Lockhart. I could see how others thought him physically attractive, but his appearance was never the first thing that struck me about him. He was the only one left, though, and I did not want to lose him as I had lost Ron.

-

It was supposed to be her year of happiness, her rite of passage. She was supposed to march out of Hogwarts a confident, beaming new member of the British wizarding community. Instead, she would enter a world shattered by war and anarchy, a world trying to fix itself but facing numerous enemies. There were opportunities, yes, but only if one was willing to accept the accompanying risks. She could always stay here, walled up in the castle's grounds, and aid in Hogwarts' regeneration...she shook her head. Too much had transpired for her to remain.

Her trunks rested on the ground beside her as she silently looked across the water. It was certainly a nice day - the skies seemed to open up above her, and Hermione felt that if she just reached high enough, she could touch heaven itself. And, really, she wasn't melancholy so much as...

-

If it was love, it was an unconventional love, a love that did not involve snogging in dark corners, sending smoldering glances across a classroom, or whispering to each other as we passed in the hallways. Instead, we were like a pair of crutches, much like the set I had used when I broke my leg at the age of nine. I have never seen Harry so wrought and burdened as I did those last years, and as his oldest friend, I saw it as my responsibility to at least make him smile. Harry is never so beautiful as he is when he smiles.

And as for myself...well, certainly, my problems paled in comparison to his. Were he still alive, they still would. Needless to say, I found myself distraught over the loss of Ron and grades were, of course, a constant concern. Somehow, he managed to comfort me, to sooth my grief and stress.

So, yes, we were crutches, as crude as that analogy sounds. What exactly were we propping up? Each other, I suppose. That was a difficult enough task in itself.

-

The lake was calm and, from Hermione's standpoint, it seemed a malleable sheet of silver that stretched from where she stood to the horizon. How long, she wondered, before someone approached her and informed it was time to depart? She had wished so much for this last day, but now that it was here, would she be able to leave?

She sat down, resting her chin on her knees. The damp earth formed around her weight. Never has she seen the Hogwarts grounds so serene and quiet - she finds it unsettling. Few students remained now: most were at home, waiting until all of Voldemort's most vocal supporters are jailed, if not killed. The school was safe, though. That much Hermione did know. Victory would be achieved, and her friends' sacrifices would prove to have meaning.

-

Why did he have to die? The question is selfish, and I, a member of the Order, knew better than anyone else that many throughout magical Britain were asking the same question about family and friends that had suffered more terrible deaths than the one that had befallen Harry. Nevertheless, it is an inevitable question that we ask when our loved ones pass away. I asked it to myself when Ron left us, and I ask it again now that Harry has joined him. Why did he have to die?

According to others (I wasn't present when it happened), he died quietly. There was no unnecessary suffering involved, no pain...just death. A death so sudden sometimes I doubted it had happened, that when I looked over the hills, I would see him walking towards me: dirtied, bloodied, but alive. Then how could I doubt it when I remember the ceaseless aching inside of me?

-

Suddenly, a sharp movement off to the side caught her eye, shaking her out of her reverie. Squinting, she saw that it was a flock of birds, hardly anything special, but as she continued to look...

Hermione got to her feet, taking a few steps closer. They were black, a sleek and raven-like black, and - and she had never seen so many of them as they formed a chessboard of green and ebony on the grounds. Their little heads bobbed up and down as they prodded the earth for food, chirping their at once jarring and melodious song. Such a simple sight, she thought, yet she was inexorably drawn to it. Thus, Hermione, who had always been able recite the most difficult of incantations and the most complex of potion ingredients, found herself not understanding, not grasping this. It confounded her, it frustrated her, but she was intrigued.

"Hello?" She aimed the greeting at no one in particular, and the air carried it away. "Can you hear me? Would you like to chat for a bit?"

The birds paid her little attention.

"I've missed you, you know."

Still, they did not acknowledge her.

So she ran, throwing her hands up, running towards the heart of the flock. Hermione didn't know why, and as her legs propelled her faster and faster, she was aware only of a child's wonder and irrationality seizing her as she tripped, tumbling into the birds' territory.

They took flight immediately. From her muddied spot on the ground, she watched them, following their opening wings, their long arc through the air. And she smiled.

"Hermione, your ride is here."

Minerva McGonagall stood in the sunlight, the lines on her face highlighted by the glare. Hermione pushed herself out of the mud, dusting off the front of her robes. "Thanks, Professor. I'll be ready in a moment."

"You know that I am no longer your professor."

She detected a fleeting smile on the old woman's face. "It's out of habit, I suppose."