Chapter Text
In the distance, a group of silhouettes moves with purpose through the once majestic castle of Hogwarts. Rain falls heavily over the scarred grounds, a harsh and persistent downpour that seems to wash away the remnants of the war’s chaos. The once turbulent skies, now overcast with a blanket of dark, heavy clouds, bleed heavily.
As the rain touches the earth, it mingles with the ashes and soot, creating rivulets of murky water that snake through the grass, around the debris, and over the cobblestone paths. The droplets patter against the broken windows of the castle, filling the eerie silence left by the battle’s end with a rhythmic tapping.
Hermione’s voice pierces the tumultuous symphony of the storm, each word a beacon in the oppressive gloom. “If you can hear me, make any noise or sign!” she yells, her voice resounding around the broken walls. The rain seems to pause, taking a breath with her before it resumes its relentless descent.
Her throat aches, a raw and searing pain from hours of shouting into the void, but she pays it no heed. The discomfort is a triviality; she doesn’t care about the strain, the hoarseness creeping into her voice, or the chill of the rain that soaks through her clothes. Their task is too important, the stakes too high. They search for life in a landscape of death, for flickers of warmth in the cold aftermath of war. She stands resolute, her eyes scanning the horizon, her ears straining for the faintest response.
Around her, the others echo the call, their voices a chorus of hope amidst the cacophony of raindrops and rubble. They are united, a band of brothers and sisters bound by purpose and pain, their calls intertwining as they reach out to the unseen, the unheard, the lost.
The second day of searching feels like an eternity. They have found no survivors since yesterday, only silence. The relentless and unforgiving rain beats down on them as if the heavens weep for the fallen. Hermione’s wand illuminates the darkness, casting eerie shadows on the broken walls. She calls out, her voice raw, “If you’re alive, if anyone can hear us, make any noise or sign!”
But the silence persists. No cries for help, no rustling of hidden survivors. Only the sound of raindrops hitting shattered stone. Hermione’s heart sinks. She imagines faces—friends, professors, house elves—trapped beneath the debris. She remembers the laughter in the Great Hall, the late-night study sessions in the library, and the warmth of the common room fire. All gone now.
Ron stumbles, catching himself on a fallen beam. His eyes meet Hermione’s, and she sees the same despair mirrored there. “We can’t give up,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not yet.”
Harry nods, his scar a pale lightning bolt against his forehead. “We owe it to them,” he says. “To everyone who fought.”
They continue their search, their footsteps heavy, their hope dwindling. Hermione’s fingers brush against a torn piece of parchment—a page from a spellbook, perhaps. She picks it up, the ink smudged by rain. It’s a protection charm, a spell she’s cast a hundred times. But now, it feels futile.
They reach what was once the Great Hall. Its roof has collapsed, and rain pours through the gaps. Hermione scans the wreckage, her heart aching. She imagines Professor McGonagall standing there, stern but kind, overseeing the Sorting Hat ceremony. She imagines Luna Lovegood, her dreamy eyes sparkling as she talks about magical creatures during dinner.
“Nothing,” Ron mutters, kicking a broken chair. “No one.”
Hermione’s voice wavers as she calls out again, louder this time. “Please, if you’re alive, show us a sign.” But the silence mocks her.
They huddle together, rain dripping from their hair and clothes. Hermione’s tears mix with the raindrops. “We can’t stop,” she says, her voice breaking. “We are almost out of time.”
And so, they press on, their wands cutting through the darkness. Hermione thinks of the Room of Requirement, its hidden door, and wonders if it still exists after the fiendfyre. Maybe there’s a similar room out there, with a survivor trapped inside, waiting for rescue. Maybe hope isn’t lost entirely. This is officially the last day of search and rescue. She won’t give up until they’ve searched every possible inch of the castle.
Hermione’s wand is gripped tightly in her hand, not as a weapon, but as a lifeline—a tool to uncover, to illuminate, to bring back those who may yet live. Her incantations are interspersed with her calls, spells of detection falling from her lips with practiced ease.
“If you can hear me, make any noise or sign, please!” Hermione calls again, one last time, just as she sees McGonagall’s cat Patronus rounding the door, calling for retreat. It is time to call it a day. She sighs in frustration, her hair plastered to her forehead and falling into her eyes. She brushes her forearm against it in annoyance, revealing eyes that have seen too much in such a short lifetime. The aftermath of the war clings to them like the dampness in the air. She glances at Ron, his jaw clenched, and Harry, who wipes rain from his glasses with another spell. They’ve lost so much, but they refuse to give up hope.
It is only then, as the boys start to leave, making their way to meet with the others at the entrance hall, where they have made a temporary base of operations, that a faint sound catches her ear, a pained weak croak. She freezes completely and holds her breath. It was barely audible, but to Hermione, it was a clarion call.
“Mione?” Ron notices her pause and turns to her. Harry follows. She shushes them immediately. The sound of her heartbeat rushing in her ears is suddenly too loud as she strains to hear it again. But there is only silence and the sounds of their labored breaths. She shakes her head and almost dismisses it, attributing it to tiredness, but as they restart moving towards the entrance hall, she hears it again.
“There! Did you guys hear that?” She rushes towards the sound, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. A raven with feathers as black as the night is beneath a collapsed section of the roof, partially protected by a broken table. Its wings are battered, one bent at an unnatural angle, its eyes, blacker than its plumage, watching them warily. Hermione’s heart clenches at the sight of the creature, so small and vulnerable amidst the destruction. A life to save is a life to save.
She carefully crawls under the table and kneels beside the raven, murmuring words of comfort. “Shh, it’s alright. I’ve got you,” she whispers, her voice a soothing balm. Hermione extends a hand, her touch gentle. The raven snaps its beak at her, uncooperative, yet too weak to flee. With a sigh, she carefully scoops the raven up, cradling it against her chest to shield it from the rain and any possible falling debris as she crawls back out.
She rises, turning back to her friends, who watch with concern etched on their faces. “We need to help it,” she says, running her finger atop its feathered head. The raven protests weakly but doesn’t try to escape her gentle hold. “It’s hurt, but I think we can save it.”
Together, they return to the entrance hall, where they’ve been coordinating their efforts to search and rescue. The raven remains quiet in Hermione’s arms, its breathing shallow but steady.
At the hall, the remaining Weasley clan waits for them, ready to go to the Burrow together.
“Hey, Mione, Ron, Harry, come quick!” George’s voice cuts through the din of the bustling corridor, his hand energetically beckoning them toward where he stands. As they draw closer, Ginny’s curiosity piques and she inquires with a tilt of her head, “Is that a familiar I see?” The moment the words leave her lips, the Weasley clan’s gaze collectively shifts to the raven cradled in Hermione’s embrace.
Hermione’s eyes soften as she peers down at the trembling creature nestled against her. With a swift flick of her wand, she whispers an incantation, and a warm, gentle breeze envelops them, evaporating the moisture that clings to their forms. As the raven’s head perks up, its gaze locks onto Hermione’s. Its eyes, shining with deep intelligence but marred with pain, seem to pierce through to her soul. Feeling a strange connection, Hermione murmurs, “I’m not certain… It was lying wounded in the Great Hall.” She reluctantly tears her gaze away, seeking the comfort of her friends’ familiar faces.
Ron, ever tactless, chimes in, “Shouldn’t we get it to Pomfrey? It looks kinda pitiful.” He extends a tentative hand towards the bird, only to retract it swiftly as the raven snaps at him, its beak a hair’s breadth from his skin. “Oi! Watch out, Mione, it’s got a bite!” he exclaims, cradling his nearly-nipped finger.
Professor McGonagall approaches the group at this precise moment as she makes her rounds, her presence commanding yet comforting. “I’m afraid Madam Pomfrey has her hands full at the moment, Mr. Weasley,” she says, her gaze scrutinizing the raven through the rim of her spectacles. Hermione feels the bird shift uneasily, its discomfort palpable. “It doesn’t appear to be a familiar I recognize, and no one has reported one missing,” McGonagall muses, her eyes never leaving the raven. “But you, Ms. Granger, possess a remarkable talent for healing. There hasn’t been a spell yet that you couldn’t master.” A smile graces McGonagall’s lips, her gaze finally meeting Hermione’s. “I have every confidence that this raven will thrive in your care. We’ve just received a fresh supply of healing potions for those awaiting transfer to St. Mungo’s. I believe we can spare a few for this little one’s recuperation.”
Hermione’s heart swells with gratitude. “Thank you, Professor,” she says, her touch gentle upon the raven’s feathers. To her surprise, the bird remains still, accepting her caress. “I promise to do everything in my power to nurse it back to health.”
“Ravens are remarkably intelligent creatures, Ms. Granger,” Professor McGonagall intones, her voice carrying the weight of her years of wisdom. “Treat it with the kindness and respect it merits, and it shall reciprocate in kind.” With those parting words, she sweeps away, her robes billowing behind her as she continues her vigilant oversight of the other returning groups.
With the spare healing potion vials safely stored in her beaded bag, and a transfigured carrier for the raven, Hermione, Harry, and the Weasleys make their way to the Burrow, their journey uneventful.
Upon arrival, the Weasley siblings promptly erupt into a lighthearted squabble over bathing privileges. Harry and Hermione share an amused look at their antics, and even though she yearns for the warmth of a bath herself, she doesn’t join in on their bickering. There are, after all, more urgent concerns demanding her attention. Harry, however, has no issues with that, and she can clearly hear him making an argument and pulling the guest card—which he is laughed at for—as she makes her way upstairs.
With a swift incantation, Hermione cleanses herself and her attire with a ‘Scourgify,’ followed by a ‘Drying Charm,’ leaving her feeling refreshed.
She then procures a basin from the kitchen, filling it with clean warm water, a clean towel, and a clean cloth. From her bag, she secures the potion vials, the handy first aid kit she always carries, and the remaining array of healing supplies she still has left from their time on the run. Once she is sure she has everything she could possibly need, she settles onto the floor of the room she shares with Ginny. Her back resting comfortably against the bed, she lays the clean cloth in front of her crossed legs and carefully opens the carrier to let the bird out.
The bird has fallen asleep during their trip home, but now that she moves the carrier, the raven watches her intently, its eyes gleaming with an almost human-like intellect as it studies her from the security of the carrier.
“Alright, little one, let’s take a closer look at your injuries, okay?” She addresses the raven with a gentle tone. The raven continues to stare at her for a minute or two and then leaves the security of the carrier. Clearly in pain as it moves, yet the bird remains motionless in front of Hermione’s crossed legs, which she takes as permission to proceed. With gentle hands and tender care, she assesses the bird’s injuries, whispering her spells quietly and moving her wand carefully to avoid startling it.
The raven remains unfazed, however, and it only turns less than amenable the moment she touches it, its beak snapping sharply and wings fluttering in feeble defiance. Hermione is undeterred; she has faced far worse than a disgruntled bird.
The raven's wing is clearly broken, grotesquely twisted at an odd angle, and a deep, angry-looking gash runs across its back, broken wing, and flank—a stark contrast to its beautiful lustrous black feathers, now matted with blood, old and fresh, oozing from the gaping wound.
Hermione brings the basin of warm water closer, her movements a study in tenderness. She begins the delicate task of cleansing the raven’s wound and feathers, murmuring soothing sounds that fill the quiet room as the bird utters feeble cries of distress. With utmost care, she applies the healing essence of Dittany to the gash, watching as the magical properties work to mend the torn flesh, followed by a precise ‘Episkey’ to ensure the wound is properly closed. Only a faint silver scar remains at the end.
“Now, we must address your wing,” Hermione speaks softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she cradles the raven in her lap. “I implore you, please don’t snap at my fingers. I’m rather fond of them.” With a gentle but firm touch, she realigns the broken wing, eliciting a heart-wrenching croak of pain from the bird. A swift ‘Ferula’ spell conjures a splint and bandages, securing the wing in place and numbing the pain. The raven’s body relaxes in relief.
“It’s all in your capable wings now, little one,” she coos, her eyes locking with the raven’s, which sparkle with an uncanny intelligence. Retrieving a vial of healing potion, she transfigures a mug into a syringe, drawing up a small measure of the liquid. “This potion will help you heal. Can you drink it for me?” The raven regards her intently, its head tilting inquisitively at the sight of the syringe. “Ah, you’re puzzled by this contraption. It’s a syringe, designed to administer your medicine without making a big mess out of it,” Hermione explains patiently, just as she would with Crookshanks.
The raven continues to scrutinize Hermione, then, in a display of surprising comprehension, it opens its beak, accepting the potion with a grace that belies its condition. “You are so smart, such a good little bird,” Hermione whispers in a baby voice, a smile tugging at her lips as she watches the raven drink the potion. She could have sworn she saw a glint of amusement in the bird’s eyes as if it found her efforts amusing and her praise ridiculous. With a flick of her wand, Hermione summons an old hoodie from her trunk, fashioning a cozy nest on the floor. The raven surveys its new abode with a critical eye before reluctantly nestling into the soft fabric.
“I’m off to the kitchen to fetch you some food. Stay here and be good,” she tells the raven, which pays her no mind as she leaves. In the kitchen, she selects an assortment of fruits, favoring berries, and gathers a handful of nuts. She also picks up a small bowl, a plate, and a piece of the delicious nutty bread Molly baked the previous evening.
She arranges everything meticulously beside the raven’s makeshift nest and fills the bowl with water using an Aguamenti spell. She offers the raven some fruit, but the bird merely gazes at her before choosing to eat from the plate. She shrugs to herself, ‘Oh well.’
Leaving the raven to its solitude, she retrieves her belongings from her trunk, eager to finally take a bath. The bone-deep exhaustion from the day is finally creeping in, but she still takes her time to carefully wash her hair and dry it. Godric knows what it would look like in the morning if she didn’t. Once she is done she quickly dons the white tee shirt she chose and an old pair of dark grey sweatpants. She examines her reflection in the mirror over the sink, and her tired eyes stare back at her, the dark circles under her eyes looking darker than ever, and her hair seems to look at her in mock defiance. One of those days then. Too tired to try and tame it, she weaves it into a braid, just barely finishing when Molly calls them all down for supper.
The dinner table is oddly quiet; a sharp contrast between what it used to be, and what it is now post-battle. Fred’s vacant chair casts a shadow over the table that no one dares to address.
‘Will this unease ever fade?’
Hermione chances a look at Harry across the table. He looks as out of place as she feels. This is their chosen family, both of them, orphans of the war, and yet, right now perhaps they ought to give the Weasleys space to mourn in peace.
“We found a kid today.” It’s George who breaks the silence, his somber tone says it all. It is a heavy subject, one that they have all been avoiding until now. The night before, everyone had talked about the injured and survivors they’d found. But no one had dared speak of the fallen. “I think he was a first-year. He was just lying there, under the rubble. Like he was sleeping.” His voice breaks a little at the end, and fatigue weighs on everyone after the day’s events; they are all quiet as the words sink in. “I know everyone is saying we won,” George continues, “so why doesn’t it feel like it?”
And there lies the golden question. They won, but at what cost? Was it worth it in the end? Voldemort had to die; there would be no peace as long as he lived. But the price they paid for the long list of mistakes made by an insane man hungry for power was incredibly high.
“We did win,” Harry adds, looking at everyone at the table. “We’ve all paid a price for it, though. Some paid heavier prices than others.” He looks at Fred’s empty spot, then at Hermione. “War doesn’t come easy or free, and it is up to us now to make sure the outcome is better than the alternative. We honor our friends by moving forward, creating a better path for those who follow.”
As far as pep talks go, it wasn’t a bad one. But it did little to lift their spirits. Dinner ends quickly after that. When Molly declines assistance with the dishes, Hermione ascends to her room while the others linger in the living room, not yet ready for bed.
She exhales deeply as she shuts her door. She thinks about her price and—nope, not going there.
She changes into her pajamas and performs a dental hygiene spell. Glancing at the raven, she notes it sleeping soundly in its nest, the fruit and bread now absent.
‘Quite the hungry little creature.’
She makes a note to offer it more food in the morning and slips into bed, falling asleep the moment her head touches the pillow.