Au revoir?
Ah, it seems your flight home was un peu en retard due to inclement weather, but you're all set to depart the City of Lights now. I know you will miss it, but hopefully you can return soon!
In the meantime, today I have provided for you a little something to read on the plane.
Every morning, when she wakes up gasping out the last breaths of a scream, she tells herself it hasn’t happened yet.
She still must wait long minutes before the shaking subsides and she trusts herself enough to arise and begin the day, but it is an undeniable fact that it hasn’t happened yet, and the certainty of it is like an anchor; a burden, holding her back.
***
Her memory is better than most people’s; always has been (It says in Hogwarts: A History, page four hundred sixty-three, left hand column, third paragraph….), and then they gave her special training, for the job.
But now is not a time for memory; or rather, it is a time to forge new ones, to focus in the now in a sort of perverse Zen Buddhism that was also part of her training; to breathe in the air with its faint tinge of salt and to squint into the overcast yet still bright sky.
Safely hidden under the Invisibility cloak, she tries to think of herself as a blank sheet of blotting paper, but instead of soaking up ink she takes in every sound, not just the subvocal mumblings of the midwife-cum-hag whose crumbling mud-hut she’s leaning against, but also the cheerful calls of the fishermen from the docks and the waspish gossip of the laundrywomen by the river and the beckoning harangue of the itinerant preacher in the square.
If she does let her mind wander, it’s certainly not down Memory Lane, but rather to the future; she likes to imagine how these memories of hers will find their uses, picture not just the scholar toiling in willful obscurity to decipher the herblore of the hag, but the schoolchildren gasping in amazement at their sudden immersion in a world more vivid than their own, a world that died a thousand years ago..
***
Nobody knew she had taken the job. Well, nearly nobody. Her immediate superiors. Next of kin.
Nobody knew why she had taken the job. On its face, her motive - escapism - should have been obvious. She snorted at the thought that others had considered her more responsible than that; responsible enough to enroll in the Ministry’s most secretive department.
Then again, everyone who knew her well enough to understand was dead.
Her first visit to the Ministry, after, had been about as she expected; Scrimgeour had met with her in his private office, had promised that any request from the lone survivor of that terrible, mysterious battle in which Harry Potter had sacrificed himself to kill Voldemort (and Ron Weasley had sacrificed himself to save her) would be granted.
I want to work for the Ministry, she'd told him.
His response had been effusive: they'd be honored to have her, she could have her pick of departments, she'd make an excellent ambassador for wizarding Britain, if she'd care to-
The Department of Mysteries, she'd said, and no amount of cozening, cajoling or harrumphing had changed her mind. She wished to be an Unspeakable, and discussion was (naturally) out of the question. They hadn't made it easy for her, after that, but it scarcely mattered to Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.
She had had to lie to pass some of the tests, of course, but she had never had an objection to cheating in the service of a just cause.
***
When the hag ceases her mutterings over the cauldron full of a rudimentary healing potion and switches to mumbling over a perfectly mundane cauldron of mutton stew, she decides to call it a day.
Still carefully concealed under the cloak, with the ease of long practice she slips her wand from its pocket and presses it to her temple, deftly extracting today’s events in a long strand of memory which she deposits in the flask she’s produced from her rucksack. Silently she seals it with a preservation charm and then begins her walk to the drop-off point, careful not to bump into anyone on her way.
Though she's carefully charmed all the wards to allow her - and only her - through, still the thick haze of magic in the air sets her teeth on edge, reminding her of other places she's been, places meant to guard artifacts far less innocuous than vials of memories, preserved for study by future scholars.
As she carefully places the vial in its pigeonhole and inscribes the date below it, she tries, as always, to force down memories of the Horcrux hunt, of other close, dark spaces she's explored, of the two friends who accompanied her then, boys who never get to be men despite the heroic feats they accomplish, stories they could've told the grandchildren they'll never have.
Special training be damned, there's no escape from the past for her, here in the past. She'd made a grave miscalculation, and this mistake is irrevocable.
***
Every night, before she falls asleep, she thinks it's still going to happen, and knows she will not find rest, but the same restless dreams of green light and falling bodies.
In the meantime, today I have provided for you a little something to read on the plane.
Every morning, when she wakes up gasping out the last breaths of a scream, she tells herself it hasn’t happened yet.
She still must wait long minutes before the shaking subsides and she trusts herself enough to arise and begin the day, but it is an undeniable fact that it hasn’t happened yet, and the certainty of it is like an anchor; a burden, holding her back.
***
Her memory is better than most people’s; always has been (It says in Hogwarts: A History, page four hundred sixty-three, left hand column, third paragraph….), and then they gave her special training, for the job.
But now is not a time for memory; or rather, it is a time to forge new ones, to focus in the now in a sort of perverse Zen Buddhism that was also part of her training; to breathe in the air with its faint tinge of salt and to squint into the overcast yet still bright sky.
Safely hidden under the Invisibility cloak, she tries to think of herself as a blank sheet of blotting paper, but instead of soaking up ink she takes in every sound, not just the subvocal mumblings of the midwife-cum-hag whose crumbling mud-hut she’s leaning against, but also the cheerful calls of the fishermen from the docks and the waspish gossip of the laundrywomen by the river and the beckoning harangue of the itinerant preacher in the square.
If she does let her mind wander, it’s certainly not down Memory Lane, but rather to the future; she likes to imagine how these memories of hers will find their uses, picture not just the scholar toiling in willful obscurity to decipher the herblore of the hag, but the schoolchildren gasping in amazement at their sudden immersion in a world more vivid than their own, a world that died a thousand years ago..
***
Nobody knew she had taken the job. Well, nearly nobody. Her immediate superiors. Next of kin.
Nobody knew why she had taken the job. On its face, her motive - escapism - should have been obvious. She snorted at the thought that others had considered her more responsible than that; responsible enough to enroll in the Ministry’s most secretive department.
Then again, everyone who knew her well enough to understand was dead.
Her first visit to the Ministry, after, had been about as she expected; Scrimgeour had met with her in his private office, had promised that any request from the lone survivor of that terrible, mysterious battle in which Harry Potter had sacrificed himself to kill Voldemort (and Ron Weasley had sacrificed himself to save her) would be granted.
I want to work for the Ministry, she'd told him.
His response had been effusive: they'd be honored to have her, she could have her pick of departments, she'd make an excellent ambassador for wizarding Britain, if she'd care to-
The Department of Mysteries, she'd said, and no amount of cozening, cajoling or harrumphing had changed her mind. She wished to be an Unspeakable, and discussion was (naturally) out of the question. They hadn't made it easy for her, after that, but it scarcely mattered to Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.
She had had to lie to pass some of the tests, of course, but she had never had an objection to cheating in the service of a just cause.
***
When the hag ceases her mutterings over the cauldron full of a rudimentary healing potion and switches to mumbling over a perfectly mundane cauldron of mutton stew, she decides to call it a day.
Still carefully concealed under the cloak, with the ease of long practice she slips her wand from its pocket and presses it to her temple, deftly extracting today’s events in a long strand of memory which she deposits in the flask she’s produced from her rucksack. Silently she seals it with a preservation charm and then begins her walk to the drop-off point, careful not to bump into anyone on her way.
Though she's carefully charmed all the wards to allow her - and only her - through, still the thick haze of magic in the air sets her teeth on edge, reminding her of other places she's been, places meant to guard artifacts far less innocuous than vials of memories, preserved for study by future scholars.
As she carefully places the vial in its pigeonhole and inscribes the date below it, she tries, as always, to force down memories of the Horcrux hunt, of other close, dark spaces she's explored, of the two friends who accompanied her then, boys who never get to be men despite the heroic feats they accomplish, stories they could've told the grandchildren they'll never have.
Special training be damned, there's no escape from the past for her, here in the past. She'd made a grave miscalculation, and this mistake is irrevocable.
***
Every night, before she falls asleep, she thinks it's still going to happen, and knows she will not find rest, but the same restless dreams of green light and falling bodies.