Welcome to Rebuilding, home of the nicest readers in fandom, at least IMO. If you are just joining us the format might seem a little strange. Why, you ask, are there so many chapters, and why are they are so short?
This fic was originally structured as a series of drabble-like scenes, some as birthday drabbles. It soon grew into the monster you see looming ahead of you with daily posting of chapters that aimed to be between 700 and 800 words each. They are occasionally longer, never shorter.
. . . . . . . . . .
When the war was over and the trials held, Hermione Granger went back to Hogwarts to help rebuild. She planned on going back to redo, if that was the right word, her seventh year and take her N.E.W.T exams and she wanted the building intact for that.
She also had nowhere else to go.
Her parents were well and truly obliviated and consultations with more experienced wizards and witches had all yield the same results. She'd done an excellent job – a most impressive job – but to try to undo it risked brain damage. Let them be, she was advised. They're happy in the life you created for them. Let them live it. She'd listened to everyone who told her this, her face grimmer and her heart lower with each meeting, and finally had conceded that they were right. At least her parents were alive; not everyone could say that. At least they were happy.
She couldn't go to the Weasleys' either, for all that their family had been her wizarding home for years. She hadn't, after all, been able to forgive Ron. He loved her; she had no doubt of that. However, every time he held her hand or hugged or kissed her she was back in the tent in the woods with Harry, abandoned. Maybe it was petty. She'd been able to forgive so many people for so much more. She'd even shaken Narcissa Malfoy's hand and wished her luck after her trial, meaning every word, but Ron she had cared about too much and his betrayal had cut too deeply. If she hadn't loved him before that she would have been able to grow to love him afterward but, as it was, his love felt like ashes in her mouth.
This meant, of course, that Molly Weasley wanted nothing to do with her.
Therefore, she packed her bags and went to Hogwarts. The Gryffindor dorms were in pieces and McGonagall, apologies in her eyes, had suggested the Slytherin dorms because they had been sheltered from the fighting. "There's only one other student living there this summer," McGonagall told her. "By September we'll surely have the Tower ready for you again."
Hermione had nodded. It was a bed and right then she couldn't be too fussy about where she found one of those. She let herself in, rolling her Muggle-born eyes at the 'pureblood' password, and settled into one of the girl's dorm rooms. She was used to the brilliant, sun filled rooms of Gryffindor Tower and the eerie green glow that filtered in through the windows felt depressing and suffocating. No wonder all the Slytherins seemed so miserable all the time, she thought as she set a few novels out on the desk. They probably all suffered mood disorders because they didn't get enough light.
She knew that while quite a large number of people were commuting in every day to help rebuild, almost no one was living in the castle over the summer. Her, the staff, and whoever this other student was. "We're still serving meals," McGonagall had said. "The house elves got angry when we suggested they didn't need to cook so we're all meeting in what was once a classroom. It's in reasonably good shape which the Hall..."
There the woman had trailed off and Hermione had nodded; there was no point in dwelling on what condition the Hall was in. She was here to help fix it, after all. She'd taken the classroom number of the new dining space and said she would meet her fellow residents there for dinner. Casting a tempus charm, Hermione realized that was now and pushed open the door of her room to begin making her way back up and out of the dungeons.
She couldn't even muster surprise when she saw the blond head in the Slytherin common room and realized who the other summer resident was. Nothing had gone right since the war had ended; why should this be any different?
. . . . . . . . . .
Happy Birthday, redqueen22