Chapter Text
The massive stone archway of Hogwarts loomed before Hermione, both welcoming and intimidating in its ancient grandeur. Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the familiar weathered stones, cool beneath her touch despite the late summer warmth. A tide of contradicting emotions surged within her chest. Pride at returning to complete her education, anxiety about the unpredictable pain that now punctuated her days, and a bone-deep determination to prove she could succeed despite it all. She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the distinct scent of old stone and magic that permeated the air around the castle, and took her first step across the threshold.
The entrance hall stood just as she remembered, yet somehow different. The stones had been repaired after the battle, but to her eyes, hairline fractures remained visible where spells had struck, like scars on the castle's skin.
Hermione understood scars all too well.
She moved forward, her footsteps seemed to echo in the cavernous space. Weighty. Thick. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched before her like familiar rivers, channeling her toward her destination. Students parted around her like water breaking against stone, their faces turned toward her with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright awe. Wide eyes. Open mouths. Their whispers followed in her wake.
"That's Hermione Granger."
"She came back?"
"Helped defeat Voldemort and the Death Eaters."
"She killed Bellatrix Lestrange."
The last comment made her steps falter. The memory of stone crushing Bellatrix's body flashed through her mind, accompanied by phantom laughter that only she could hear. A mocking cackle that sometimes visited her in quiet moments.
Her arm chose that moment to flare with pain, the scarred letters carved into her skin burning as if freshly cut. Mudblood. The cruel reminder Bellatrix had left her with. Hermione stumbled, catching herself against the wall as agony rippled from her forearm up to her shoulder. She pressed her lips together to stifle any sound, fighting to control her breathing as black spots danced across her vision.
A group of third-years passed, openly staring. One of them clutched a copy of The Witches Brew, the gossip rag that Olivia Linwood had turned into a platform for endless speculation about Harry, Ron, and herself. The headline screamed something about "Granger Returns: Trauma or Training?" Hermione looked away, focusing instead on steadying herself.
The pain in her arm receded to a dull throb, but deep in her chest, she felt the telltale constriction of the Hangman's Tree curse tightening around her lungs. Each breath became shallower than the last. She closed her eyes and conjured the memory of Fleur's gentle hands on her skin, the cool relief of the salve she applied to the scar, the whispered French commentary that soothed better than any potion.
She missed Fleur with an intensity that created its own kind of pain. Two days apart, and already the curse symptoms worsened. But she refused to give in. This was her choice—to return to Hogwarts, to complete her education, to prove she was more than her wounds.
With renewed determination, she pushed away from the wall and continued her journey through the corridors, holding her head high despite the whispers. The paintings watched her pass, some offering nods of recognition or soft words of encouragement. Even they knew who she was, what she had done.
What she had survived.
The gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmistress's office came into view, its stone features stern and impassive. Hermione paused, realizing she didn't know the password. Before she could speak, however, the statue stirred, grinding stone against stone as it moved aside, recognizing her without need for words.
"Even the gargoyles know me now," she murmured, stepping onto the spiral staircase that began to ascend of its own accord. The rotating motion made her stomach lurch, and she closed her eyes, willing away another wave of nausea.
"Having trouble, little Duck? Perhaps you should have stayed hidden at the Weasley hovel with your little French nursemaid."
The voice was not real, she knew that, but it sounded so much like Bellatrix that her eyes snapped open, scanning the empty stairwell. Nothing. No one. Just her imagination, twisted by trauma and curse magic.
The staircase deposited her at the entrance to McGonagall's office. She took a steadying breath and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
"Enter," came McGonagall's crisp voice.
The office transformed Hermione's perception of time. It remained both Dumbledore's domain and distinctly McGonagall's space. Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in golden beams. The walls still housed portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, most pretending to doze in their frames while clearly listening to every word.
Fawkes's perch stood empty.
Minerva McGonagall sat behind the massive desk, her posture as straight as ever, her eyes sharp behind square spectacles. Yet something in her expression softened at the sight of Hermione.
"Miss Granger," she said, rising to her feet. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."
"Professor McGonagall," Hermione replied, struck by how the familiar title still came naturally to her lips despite McGonagall's elevation to Headmistress. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Nonsense. I've been expecting you." McGonagall gestured to the chair opposite her desk. "Please, sit. Tea?"
Hermione nodded, easing herself into the chair as McGonagall waved her wand. A tea service appeared between them, steam rising from the spout of the teapot like morning mist over a lake. The china clinked softly as McGonagall poured, passing a cup to Hermione with practiced grace.
"How have you been, Hermione?" McGonagall asked, her tone suggesting this was more than mere pleasantry.
"Well enough," Hermione said, taking the cup with both hands to mask their trembling. "Eager to complete my education."
McGonagall's gaze sharpened, and Hermione knew her attempt at deflection had failed. "And your health?"
Hermione's fingers tightened around the teacup. "Manageable."
"Manageable," McGonagall repeated, her tone making it clear she found the answer insufficient. "From what I understand, your condition requires regular treatment. Treatment that Miss Delacour has been providing."
Heat crept up Hermione's neck. She hadn't expected McGonagall to be so direct, nor to know so much about her private life. "Fleur has been very helpful, yes."
"The effects of the Cruciatus Curse are well-documented, though your prolonged exposure… it's rare for someone to survive," McGonagall continued, stirring a single lump of sugar into her tea. "But this other curse, the Hangman's Tree, is more concerning. It draws power directly from your magical core, does it not?"
Hermione took a sip of tea before answering, using the moment to compose herself. The liquid scalded her tongue, but she welcomed the distraction from the persistent ache in her chest.
"Yes," she admitted. "The more magic I use, the faster it grows. Fleur helps keep it under control."
"By 'trimming' it back," McGonagall said, and Hermione couldn't hide her surprise at the Headmistress's knowledge of their private terminology. "I worry you won't manage the year without Miss Delacour's assistance."
The cup trembled in Hermione's hands, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She set it down on the saucer with a sharp clink. "I'll manage."
McGonagall's expression remained neutral, but her eyes reflected concern. "Perhaps Madam Pomfrey could learn the necessary spellwork."
Hermione shook her head, recalling Molly Weasley's well-intentioned but ultimately painful attempts to treat her. The memory of Molly's face, creased with concentration as she applied a Ministry-approved salve that burned like acid against the carved letters in her forearm, made Hermione wince. Such a stark contrast to Fleur's tender ministrations, her cool fingers spreading a personally crafted potion that soothed rather than scalded, whispering in delicate French as she worked.
"I'm not certain it can be performed by someone who isn't Veela," Hermione said at last, reluctance clear in her voice. "The magic Fleur uses is... specific to her heritage and skill as a curse breaker."
"I see." McGonagall took a contemplative sip of her tea. "And the seizures? How frequent are they now?"
"Less frequent," Hermione answered, though a voice suspiciously like Bellatrix's whispered liar in the back of her mind. "Once a week, perhaps. I have potions."
"Brewed by Miss Delacour, I presume."
Hermione nodded, discomfort growing at the direction of the conversation. Her independence had been hard-won through years of proving herself, of fighting beside Harry and Ron, of surviving Bellatrix's torture. To admit her reliance on Fleur's care felt like surrendering a part of herself she wasn't ready to give up.
"Professor," she said, straightening her spine despite the twinge of pain it caused, "I understand your concerns. But I've come back to finish what I started. To complete my N.E.W.T.s and graduate properly. I won't let my condition interfere with that."
"Minerva, I think, Hermione. You've more than earned that respect from me." Minerva studied her for a long moment, then set down her teacup with a decisive click. "Your determination does you credit. It won't surprise you to learn that I've prepared for your return. A private room has been arranged, adjacent to the Gryffindor dormitories but separate enough to provide the quiet you may need during... episodes."
Relief washed over Hermione. She hadn't been looking forward to explaining her nightmares or seizures to new roommates. "Thank you, Minerva."
"Additionally," Minerva continued, "I've spoken with our staff about accommodations should you require them. Madam Pomfrey has been briefed on your general condition, though the details remain confidential."
The thought of Madam Pomfrey fussing over her made Hermione wince internally. The mediwitch was skilled but rigid in her methods, often skeptical of treatments not sanctioned by St. Mungo's. Would she understand the complex blend of Veela magic, curse breaking, and French healing techniques and ingredients that Fleur employed?
"I appreciate the consideration," Hermione said, choosing her words carefully, "but I hope not to need special treatment. I want to be a normal student. As normal as I can."
Minerva's lips twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile. "You have never been a 'normal student,' and I suspect you never will be. Your experiences during the war have set you apart, as have your exceptional abilities."
A flush of pride mingled with discomfort at the assessment. Hermione picked up her tea again, finding it had cooled to a more manageable temperature. Outside the window, clouds shifted, momentarily dimming the golden light that filled the office.
"There is one more matter," Minerva said, her tone shifting to something more cautious. "Regarding your Post-Traumatic Stress. I understand you sometimes experience... intrusions of memory."
Hermione froze once more, cup halfway to her lips. Was she referring to the Bellatrix hallucinations? How could she possibly know about those? Even Fleur didn't know that sometimes the apparition of Bellatrix spoke to her, offered twisted advice, or mocked her moments of weakness.
"Everyone who fought has memories," she replied carefully.
"Indeed." Minerva's gaze remained steady. "But not everyone endured what you did in Malfoy Manor."
The mention of that place sent ice through Hermione's veins. Her scar burned anew, and deep in her chest, she felt the tree shifting, its magical tendrils stretching toward her lungs. Her breath caught, the teacup wobbling dangerously in her grasp.
Minerva noticed, of course she did, but made no comment. Instead, she said, "We have a new Potions professor this year. Ilsa Frost. She specializes in medicinal potions, particularly those targeting curse damage."
"Oh?" Hermione managed, fighting to maintain her composure as the pain ebbed.
"She's brilliant, if rather private. I suspect you two would get along quite well." Minerva's eyes twinkled briefly. "She may be able to help with your seizures and the other... symptoms."
Hermione recognized the lifeline being offered. "I'd be interested in meeting her."
"Good." Minerva nodded, satisfied. "She's developing a modified anti-seizure potion that might complement the ones Miss Delacour provides."
Hope, small but persistent, bubbled up. If there was a way to better manage her condition, to be less dependent on Fleur's constant care... not that she didn't treasure every moment with Fleur, but to stand on her own, to not feel like a burden...
"Thank you," she said, meaning it with every fiber of her being.
Minerva inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Your schedule has been arranged to allow for rest periods between classes. Should you need additional accommodations as the term progresses, you need only ask."
Hermione nodded, grateful for the Headmistress's understanding but determined not to need any special treatment. She would prove herself capable, curse or no curse. The war had taken enough from her, it would not take her future as well.
As if reading her thoughts, Minerva said, "Strength, Hermione, comes in many forms. Sometimes it manifests as endurance, sometimes as the wisdom to accept help when needed."
The words settled over Hermione like a gentle wave, washing away some of her defensiveness. She remembered Fleur saying something similar as she dressed Hermione's wounds after a particularly violent seizure. "To accept care is not weakness. It is human."
"I'll remember that," Hermione said softly.
Outside the window, the sun emerged from behind the clouds once more, bathing the office in warm light. In that moment, despite the pain that had become her constant companion, Hermione felt something like peace.
A moment of silence stretched between them, comfortable yet expectant. Minerva set her teacup down with a quiet clink and rose from her chair, moving with the fluid grace that belied her age. Hermione watched her cross to a section of bookshelf partially hidden by shadow, her emerald robes rustling softly with each step. Something in her demeanor—a subtle tension in her shoulders, perhaps—suggested that whatever she sought was no ordinary text from the Hogwarts collection.
Minerva raised her wand, murmuring an incantation too low for Hermione to catch. The bookshelf shimmered, its edges blurring as if viewed through water, before a section slid aside to reveal a small alcove lined with velvet. Inside rested several objects: a slender wand box, a crystal vial containing swirling silver memories, and a single, massive tome.
It was that last item that Minerva carefully extracted, using both hands to support its weight. The book looked ancient, bound in leather so dark and worn it appeared almost black in places. Hermione straightened in her chair, scholarly interest immediately piqued despite the dull ache that had settled into her bones.
"I've been considering whether to share this with you," Minerva said, carrying the book back to her desk. "In light of our conversation, I believe now is the appropriate time."
She placed the tome before Hermione with reverence. Up close, Hermione could see intricate Celtic knotwork embossed into the leather cover, the patterns forming an unbroken line that wound around the edges and converged at the center to create what appeared to be a tree. No title marked its spine or cover, only the elaborate design that seemed to shift subtly as she looked at it, as if the knots were slowly untying and retying themselves.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, unable to keep the eager curiosity from her voice. Books had been her refuge since childhood, repositories of knowledge that never judged or expected more than she could give. Even now, with pain threaded through her body and Bellatrix's phantom laughter occasionally echoing in her mind, the promise of new information called to her like a siren song.
"This contains information on Celtic magic," Minerva explained, resuming her seat. "It's extraordinarily rare. The Ministry would prefer such texts remain restricted, but as Headmistress, I maintain certain... privileges."
The faintest hint of rebellion gleamed in her eyes, reminding Hermione that beneath the strict exterior beat the heart of a true Gryffindor. Hermione glanced down at the book, noticing now that it emanated a faint magical resonance, a subtle vibration that made her scar tingle and the hairs on her arms rise.
"May I?" she asked, hands hovering over the cover.
Minerva nodded. "It belongs to you now. At least for the duration of your studies here."
Hermione carefully placed her palms on the book, inhaling sharply as the magic within responded to her touch. The tingling in her scar intensified, not painful but distinctly present, like the awareness of a current flowing beneath the surface of still water. She traced the knotwork with her fingertips, following the intricate pattern to its center.
"It's beautiful," she murmured.
"And dangerous," Minerva cautioned. "The magic contained within these pages is not taught at Hogwarts for good reason. Some of it borders on what the Ministry would classify as Dark Arts, though such distinctions often reveal more about those making the classifications than about the magic itself."
Hermione nodded, understanding the subtle political comment. After the war, the Ministry had swung between progressive reform and reactionary control, particularly regarding certain branches of magic. The new Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, pushed for change, but centuries of prejudice and fear could not be undone overnight.
"Celtic magic draws heavily on natural forces and bloodlines," Minerva continued. "Given Miss Delacour's Veela heritage and your... relationship with her, I thought you might find it particularly relevant."
Heat crept up Hermione's neck at the direct reference to her and Fleur.
"The Veela possess their own brand of genetic magic," Minerva said, "as do many magical creatures. The wizarding world has long dismissed such magic as inferior or primitive, but recent research suggests it may be more sophisticated than previously believed. Particularly regarding healing and protective enchantments."
Hermione's mind raced with possibilities. If the book contained information that could help her understand Fleur's magic better, perhaps together they could develop more effective treatments for her conditions. Or even—she hardly dared hope—find a way to remove the Hangman's Tree entirely.
"The book discusses how certain genetic traits interact with magic," Minerva explained, "and how ancient Celtic practitioners developed spells that drew upon these bloodline connections. There are sections on protective enchantments, healing rituals, and... combative applications."
This last part was added with clear hesitation. Hermione understood why. After the war, after what she had done to Bellatrix, some looked at her differently. The bookish, rule-following student had demonstrated a capacity for violence that unsettled even those who had fought alongside her.
"I believe your research skills make you uniquely qualified to study this safely," Minerva said, her faith in Hermione evident in her steady gaze. "You have both the intellect to understand its complexities and the moral compass to use such knowledge responsibly."
Hermione's fingers itched to open the cover, to dive into the knowledge contained within, but she restrained herself. "Why give this to me now? Surely there are other students with mixed heritage who might benefit."
Minerva's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "There are indeed. But few have your particular combination of circumstances, Hermione. Fewer still have your determination to overcome them."
The weight of the book was substantial in Hermione's hands, both physically and metaphorically. Knowledge was power, she had believed that her entire life. But power came with responsibility, with choices that could reshape not just her own future but potentially the lives of others.
"Ooh, lovely, a little dark magic for the Mudblood," Bellatrix's voice cooed in her mind. "Perhaps you're more interesting than I thought."
Hermione pushed the intrusion away, focusing instead on Minerva's words. "You said it contains healing rituals. Do you think it might help with the Hangman's Tree?"
"I cannot say for certain," Minerva replied carefully. "But knowledge flows like water. It finds its way into the deepest crevices, sometimes revealing passages we never knew existed."
The water metaphor resonated with Hermione, who often thought of her condition in terms of drowning and resurfacing. Each seizure pulled her under, each painful flare of the curse threatened to submerge her, but somehow she kept finding her way back to the surface, gasping and determined.
As she accepted the book, sliding it closer to herself, her magical core flared painfully. The sensation was like ice crystals forming rapidly in her chest, spreading outward in jagged patterns that stole her breath.
Hermione winced but quickly masked her discomfort, pressing one hand to her sternum as if merely adjusting her position. The pain receded to a dull pressure, a reminder of the curse's constant presence. She glanced up to find Minerva watching her intently, concern and something like resignation mingling in her eyes.
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said, determined not to acknowledge the episode. "I'll study it carefully."
Minerva nodded, a silent understanding passing between them.
"Your resilience continues to impress me, Hermione," she said. "Many would have retreated from the world after enduring what you have. Yet here you are, pursuing knowledge and growth despite the cost."
The praise warmed Hermione, a counterbalance to the cold weight of the curse in her chest. To know that her former Head of House still believed in her capabilities, even now, strengthened her resolve.
"The war took too much already," Hermione said quietly. "I won't let it take my future too."
Minerva's eyes glistened briefly before she blinked, composure restored. "Very well. Your room is prepared, as I mentioned. The password is 'Boudicca'—I thought you might appreciate the reference."
Hermione smiled, recognizing the name of the Celtic queen who had led a rebellion against Roman rule. A warrior woman who had faced overwhelming odds with courage and determination. The choice of password was deliberate, a small reminder that history remembered those who refused to surrender.
"The term begins officially tomorrow," Minerva continued. "Professor Frost typically works in her laboratory during the evenings. You might find her in the dungeons should you wish to introduce yourself before class."
Hermione nodded, gathering the heavy tome into her arms as she stood. The book seemed to pulse against her chest, as if sensing her heartbeat and responding with its own rhythm. "I look forward to meeting her."
Minerva rose as well, escorting Hermione to the door with formal courtesy that nevertheless conveyed genuine care. "Should you require anything, my door remains open to you."
"Thank you, again," Hermione said, the words insufficient to express her gratitude for Minerva's understanding and trust. "For everything."
As she descended the spiral staircase, the book clutched protectively to her chest, Hermione felt a renewed sense of purpose flowing through her. The castle corridors stretched before her like uncharted rivers, leading to possibilities she had not dared consider. Within the ancient tome, perhaps lay answers to questions she had feared to ask.
Her scar throbbed dully beneath her sleeve, and deep in her chest, the Hangman's Tree shifted its weight, branches stretching toward her lungs. But for the first time in months, these sensations were matched by something stronger.
Hope.
Hermione thought of Fleur, of how her eyes would light up when she shared this discovery. How they might pore over the text together, Fleur's silver-blonde hair falling forward as she leaned in to examine a particular passage, her scent enveloping Hermione like a comforting blanket.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting golden paths across the stone floor. Hermione followed one such path, her steps steady despite the weight she carried, both the ancient tome in her arms and the invisible burdens within her body. She had survived Bellatrix Lestrange. She had survived the war. She would survive this too, and more than survive, she would thrive.