Rosemary for Remembrance

By Hayseed

They had forgotten her.  Somehow, in the flurry of everything, in the bustle as wounded were transported to St. Mungo’s and back to the castle, as the Weasleys clustered around their dead and grieved, as the remainder of the Order gathered up poor, slack-jawed Harry and vanished, she had been forgotten.

That was fine.  Hermione had forgotten most of herself, so it was almost understandable.

She did not want to follow Dumbledore’s curt order, delivered before cradling Harry’s head in his bare palms and disappearing.  She did not want to go back up to Hogwarts, to sequester herself with the younger students, with the rest of the wounded ones that did not require St. Mungo’s services.  She did not want to go to the Infirmary and help Poppy pour potions and mutter countercurses. 

She especially did not want to count heads and come up short, even though she knew she would.

Hermione had not been able to bring herself to take even a single step for the last hour at least.  The swirling green and black smoke, burning in their eyes and noses and mouths, signifying that even as Harry lost, he won, meant that battle was nearing an end.  The Aurors sounded an all-clear not many minutes after that.

She’d found herself covered in blood and unspeakable things and trembled upon the realization that very little of it was her own.

Not knowing how it had happened, Hermione simply sank to the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees.

How could this have happened?

Her mind was too full.  Full of screaming and smoke and bright lights whizzing through the air.  Ron’s agonized cry as he saw his mother fall still rang in her head. 

And abruptly, all at once, before she could even think about it, it was impossible to bear.  Hermione became acutely aware of the blood on the ground, soaking into her robes.  Of the stench in the air, of Dark magic and of other, more human things.  Her nostrils twitched and her eyes hurtled open and she could take it no longer.

Gulping air, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled through the wreckage, running away.  Running away from the battle, away from Hogwarts.

How could Dumbledore have let this happen?

He must have known that Voldemort would try to take Hogwarts.  How could he not have known? 

How could he have allowed Harry to stand with the Order and with the Aurors, wand at the ready? 

How could he have not known that the DA would follow their leader to their deaths, despite McGonagall’s attempts to confine all students to their common rooms?

Tripping over a corpse, Hermione went down, arms flailing, and landed face-first in mud that was more gore than dirt.  With a muffled shout that even she could not tell was fear or anger, she rolled over, scrabbling for purchase.

Luna Lovegood’s face -- or, half of it -- stared at her, lips bared in a final, dying scream.  Her single eye was vaguely accusatory, and Hermione knew that her resulting shriek was definitely terror.

“Oh, God!” she cried, pushing Luna’s lifeless body away, half-crawling, half-running in an effort to flee.  Her eyes closed and she ran with no other aim than to escape.

Hermione did not know how long she ran, nor how far.  She did note, however, once her legs completely failed her and she collapsed, shaking with equal parts adrenaline and exhaustion, that the air did not smell quite so awful here.

The illusion was comforting and she did not wish to shatter it, so she kept her eyes closed, breathing slowly, savoring the nearly untainted air that washed into her lungs.  Perhaps she even drowsed a bit -- the darkness was more inviting than the light.  But the growing coolness on her skin told her that the sun was setting.  Idly, she wondered if the night would be warm enough for her to spend it outside, lying on this very spot.  Grass tickled her bare hands, and the slow itching on her face was increasingly difficult to ignore.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up, absently using one hand to scratch at her cheek, carefully not noticing as the dried blood flecked off and lodged itself under her nails.

The sun was indeed setting, innocently sending its oranges and purples across the sky as if it had no knowledge of the events of this day.  Hermione crossed her legs and propped her chin in her hands, watching the colors play over the mountains, poorly echoed in the shimmering lake at the bottom of the slope.

It would be dark soon, and she perhaps ought to go back to the castle, if nothing else, to let the professors know that she was not dead.

And maybe find out what happened to Harry.

She had not been able to fight her way back to his side.  The occasional flash of red hair off in the distance in the heat of battle made her suspect that Ron had.  Certainly she heard him bellow, “Harry!” at the top of his lungs once or twice.

And then that awful smoke.

She’d almost broken free, then.  Her wand had been broken some time earlier, shattered into a million pieces by one of the anonymous, masked Death Eaters, but she’d managed to clout the fellow who had his hands around her neck at the time with a nearby rock.  Kicking him in the face savagely, she’d darted toward the source of the smoke, believing but not knowing that her friend was at least part of the cause.

The sight of Harry himself had brought her up short.  Swaying on his feet, eyes blank and mouth hanging gently open, she’d thought for a single, horrible moment that he was dead somehow.  But the eyelids fluttered and he’d let out a single, keening cry, and she knew that he was alive, at the very least.

And then the Order had come swarming and she’d been roughly pushed out of the way.

That was all right, though.  The Order could help Harry far better than she could.

But she should go back.  And it would be dangerous to walk back in the dark without a wand.  Hermione told herself this repeatedly as she watched the sun slip closer to the horizon.

Finally, as the purples and reds and oranges spread themselves out over the entirety of the sky, she forced herself to stand, groaning as her right knee protested the movement.  Her shoulder did not seem to work properly, either, and she dimly remembered having to use her other arm to force herself into an agonizing shrug after a Death Eater yanked at her so hard she’d actually heard the joint pop out of place.

Madam Pomfrey would probably take a look at it for her if she asked.  Maybe she would even let her go to bed with a vial of Dreamless Sleep, instead of asking her to hand it out herself to the other students, avoiding questions and trying to ignore the screams still echoing in her head.  Maybe Professor McGonagall wouldn’t shout at her, as much fear as anger in her eyes.

Probably not, though, which was why Hermione allowed herself to linger a bit longer on the slope, as dusk began to slip into true twilight. 

There would be stars tonight.

Horribly, she felt a laugh bubble up in her gut.

There would be stars tonight.

The grounds around Hogwarts were stained with blood, the Whomping Willow was burned down to a stump, and no less than thirty students were lying dead in the mud, but the stars twinkled on.

Her laughter began to feel more like nausea, and she finally turned to begin the long, slow, dark walk back to Hogwarts.

As she moved, slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground in an effort to avoid obstacles, her eye caught a blinding shock of white off to the left.  Curious, Hermione turned and followed it and gasped as she realized what it was.

Draco Malfoy.  Lying on the ground with one hand under himself and another flung over his head.  The fading light highlighted oddly glistening tracks down his cheeks and the shining remains of his internal organs through the shreds of his robes.  He’d been eviscerated, and the stench of bowels and Dark magic and blood filled Hermione’s nostrils yet again.

Dropping to her knees, she vomited for the first time that day, coughing and heaving and spitting beside the body of someone she’d thought was her enemy.

Draco Malfoy had died crying.  With his belly split open and no one to hear him.

Swearing at the tears that dripped down her face, Hermione swiped violently at her nose, wanting to kick Malfoy, to shake him back to life.  She did not, however, and her sobs only grew stronger.

“You should not be out here,” a voice said quietly from over her shoulder.

Startled and ashamed, she bent her head further and fought the urge to take Malfoy’s cold hand, streaked with blood and curled into a painful claw, caught in the rigor of death.  “Probably not,” she replied, equally quietly, not attempting to hide her tears.

“They will be looking for you, in the castle,” it continued.  “In fact, if you are quite done with your bout of self-pity, I suggest that you go back there.”

“Self-pity?” she echoed, refraining from telling the disembodied but recognizable voice that she hadn’t actually been in the castle since before dawn.

“That is what you have been thinking, is it not?” the voice asked, shades of cynicism in its tone.  “Poor, pitiful me, caught in the battle between good and evil.  What made it come to this?  Things like that.”

Dully, Hermione turned so that she could look at Professor Snape, sitting on her heels and feeling her knee complain vigorously at the motion.  Not to glare at him, exactly, just to allow him to look into her eyes so that he could tell she was speaking truth.  “Mostly, sir, I’ve been trying not to think of anything at all.”  She gave in to her internal struggle and reached out to brush a finger against Malfoy’s cheek, turning away from him again.  The skin was hard and unyielding and she tried not to let Snape see her shudder.

“Don’t touch him,” Snape said harshly.  “You have no right to touch him.”

“Why was he out here?” she whispered, ignoring the professor and pressing her entire palm against the dead boy’s forehead.  “He wasn’t in the DA.  And Harry and Ron always thought--“

“Potter and Weasley are just as idiotic as they have always been, Granger,” he snapped, fury making his voice tight.  “Clearly, he slipped out of the castle.  As you did.”

Her hand cupped Malfoy’s cheek and her thumb rubbed thoughtlessly in the hollow beneath his lower lip.  “I can smell the Dark magic,” she said hesitantly.  If Malfoy were alive, he would have hissed at her to get her Mudblood hand off, slapped her away.

Snape sighed and she heard him sit down in the grass.  “I won’t know for certain until the Aurors finish investigating all of the wands, but I believe that Lucius is responsible for this.”

He could not see it, but her eyes and mouth rounded in surprise.  “Mr. Malfoy?” she asked.  “But his own--“

“I saw them on the meadow, dueling,” he said.  “I saw Lucius bind Draco and take him away.  I did not know... I found them later.  Lucius had been Stunned, and Draco was...”

His voice was steady and matter-of-fact, as if he were giving her a weather report, or listing ingredients for a potion in class.  Hermione suddenly longed to slap him, to ask him how he dared act this way.

Snape cleared his throat.  “I do not think they realize that he is missing, up in the castle.  Minerva realized that your... that Potter’s band was gone, and she and several others went out to protect you, but--“

Heart dropping down into the pit of her stomach at this, she was suddenly and deeply ashamed and pulled her hand away from Malfoy’s face.  “Oh.”

“You stupid, thoughtless children!” he cried abruptly, loudly enough that she had the urge to cover her head with her arms.  “How could you not know what the consequences of your actions would be?”

“We just...” Hermione stammered unthinkingly.  “Harry was...”

“Damn Potter and damn you, too,” he snarled.  “No matter what Albus thinks, these are not affairs for children.  You aren’t brave, Granger, and you aren’t honorable.  You’re a brainless little girl, and you’ve probably killed more people with your actions than you saved.”

Hermione flinched, not denying his words.  She could not bring herself to look at him.  It was completely dark by now, though, and she was unsure that even if she turned around, that she could make him out.  She wasn’t about to risk it, though.

“Go back to the castle, Granger,” he eventually said into the silence, breathing heavily through his nose.  “Albus will be wanting you shortly to snivel by Potter’s bedside, I’m sure.”

Unwilling to expose herself to him, she bit her lip, but the words hatefully betrayed her, bubbling out of her gut.  “I’m afraid,” she muttered.

He snorted.  “Of course you’re afraid.  If you weren’t, then you’d be far more of a fool than I thought.”

“I don’t have a wand, either,” she continued, cursing herself for telling him such things.  “It was broken.  I don’t think I can find my way back.”

After a short pause, a piece of wood hit her in the head.  Dazed, she picked it up and was startled to realize that it looked vaguely familiar.  “You can return it to me when I return later,” Snape said shortly.

“But aren’t you--?” she began, unconsciously running her fingers over the length of the wand now in her hands.

“I am keeping watch,” he said, interrupting her.  “No harm should come to those still on the meadow, and the Aurors will not be able to collect them, I’m sure, until tomorrow morning, at least.  I came over here because I saw movement, and I didn’t want his body to be disturbed.”

Hermione was simultaneously distressed and comforted by the thought of Professor Snape, stalking through the remains of battle, ensuring the peace of the dead as well as he could.  Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and she could make out the individual stalks of grass peeking out from under Malfoy’s still body.

“Did the headmaster--?”

Again, he cut her off.  “Albus is concerned only with Potter’s welfare,” he said.  “And Flitwick is busy speaking with parents.  It was not a task I fancied assigning to the prefects.”  His voice was only slightly ironic.

The remaining prefects, she thought, remembering just how many of them were in the DA and not saying it out loud.

“Go back, Granger,” he said again.

Choosing to ignore him, she turned to face him, finally.  His eyes glittered at her in the dark.  “Did you know it would be like this?”

She rather suspected that his gaze narrowed, but it was difficult to tell as shadows played across his face.  “I hoped it wouldn’t,” he said coldly.

For a moment, she waited for him to continue and was oddly disappointed when he did not.  “I didn’t think--“ she began.

“No, Granger,” he said with a thin smile, his teeth flashing ferally in the starlight.  “You did not.”

Glaring at him and halfway hoping that he couldn’t see her, she furrowed her forehead.  “No, I mean... how could this happen?  How could God let it happen?”

“God?” Snape echoed, shades of amusement in his voice -- Hermione again fought the urge to lash out and strike him.

“Wizards don’t believe in God, do they?” she asked, hating how small and young she sounded.  “I think now I understand the appeal.”

“Cynicism does not suit you, Granger,” he said, turning his head away from her and looking back toward the bloodstained field, covered in shadow in the starlight.  She saw then that he had a cloth tied across his head -- the frayed edges and sloppy knot near his ear made her suspect that he’d bound his own wound.  “It comes across only as so much petulance.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she replied, only slightly less angry than she would be if she hadn’t been watching a light breeze toy with Malfoy’s hair and the ends of Snape’s handmade bandage.  “If there was a God, He wouldn’t be a very good one if He allowed war to happen.  If He let children die at the hands of monsters.”

“And yet, I am told that it happens every day,” Snape said in a surprisingly mild voice.  “But I would not be so quick to condemn faith if I were you, Granger.  A faithless existence is not one that you would like to live, I think.”

“Faith?” she spat, no longer angry at him in particular but directing it toward a more general source.  “Faith gets you killed.  It’s a backward, believing in things that aren’t true, way to live.  Faith creates monsters.”

Again, his teeth flashed.  “It also creates angels.”

“How does a wizard know about angels?” she asked sarcastically, halfway forgetting that she was talking to a professor but becoming dimly worried that he would take away points.

Points?  Something in her head laughed at her and Luna Lovegood’s unseeing, accusing eye flashed in her mind.

“Besides, Granger, claiming that God allows things to happen is presumptuous at best,” he said, apparently ready to ignore her.

Hermione remained silent, hoping against hope that he would elaborate.

“Especially,” Snape continued slowly, “when one could easily assert that He gives us the tools to stop things ourselves.”

She was so startled she almost laughed.  “You old faker,” she exclaimed, absolutely forgetting who he was, “I never had you pegged for a closet Protestant!”

“Thirty points from Gryffindor, Granger,” he said, eyes glittering once more at her in the dim light.  “And, for the last time, go back to the castle.”

For the first time since she saw Neville Longbottom flailing under a Cruciatus curse in the morning sun, Hermione began to think that things might eventually get better.  “Do you...” she began, hesitant in the quiet, “do you need any help, Professor?  With the... I mean...”

In a single motion, Snape stood and held his hand out in an impatient gesture.  “Keep the wand,” he said tersely.  “I know my way in the dark.”

She took it with her good hand, surprised to find his fingers warm and smooth, and allowed him to help her to her feet.  “I’ll learn,” she promised him with a solemn smile that, for a fleeting second, she saw him return.

FINIS