Chapter Thirty-Four: Angry God

'You were standing there like an angry god
Counting out my sins just to cross them off
Saying that my tongue was too loud to trust
And that my blood couldn't keep you

My dear, you're not so innocent
You're fooling Heaven's gates
So you won't have to change
You're no saint, you're no saint, yeah'

- 'Saints' by Echos

Bright.

Everything was quiet. And soft. And bright.

Too bright.

It made Hermione's eyes ache, even as she squeezed them tighter together so that stars burst in her vision. She groaned, turning her head to the side to bury her face in the soft pillow. She inhaled deeply. It smelt like lavender.

That was how she awoke, startled by the light, her senses coming to her all at once. Nauseatingly so. Everything was too much, too overwhelming. The bright light, glaring in from the windows. The smell of the freshly laundered linens. The softness of the pillow beneath her head, the blanket which shifted and rustled with each movement. It might as well have been a fist rapping against a door.

She groaned once more, louder this time as she moved heavy limbs, a palm coming to rest on her head.

"My apologies, dear," a gentle voice came. Metal slid across metal, curtains swooshing as they enclosed the small area, shutting out the light of day.

She sighed, relieved. Slowly, she allowed her eyes to open, blinking into the shadows of the room. The infirmary, a place she was well acquainted with since she was just a child. She inhaled the scent once more, that floral scent. Cloyingly delicate. Familiar, and there was comfort in that familiarity.

"Do you know where you are, dear?" the voice asked again, and a face fell into her line of vision.

She blinked once more, her vision bleary. For a moment- a small, sliver of a moment- she believed it to be Madame Pomfrey before her, the elderly mediwitch who healed her many (far too many) injuries when she was young. But then reality shifted, came into focus in the daunting, nebulous way it does. Like the lens of a camera as it spun, focused until the image was clear, the colors vibrant.

It wasn't Madame Pomfrey, but Madame Malone. Because Hermione wasn't in her own time. She was in the one before it, where Lord Voldemort was nothing more than the cruel fantasy of a boy, where Grindelwald was the wizard whose name was spoken on hushed, covered lips.

Grindelwald.

The name brought with it a shiver, a memory that made her head ache thrice as strong and she hissed, wincing in sudden, remembered pain. A phantom pain. Grindelwald was dead. She remembered the weight of his arm against her, how slack and stiff it had become in that moment. How heavy it felt, the burden of his death bearing down on her.

Dumbledore had killed him.

Dumbledore had saved her.

Dumbledore had…

She let out a cry, pulling herself up from the bed even as soothing hands tried to push her back down, tried to settle her. Dumbledore had nearly killed her. Had nearly let Grindelwald take her, use her. Had nearly joined him.

She could still see it, the look on his face. The soft, saddened tilt of his eyes, as though he were drunk on the words Grindelwald said to him. All the promises he offered. Something lodged in her throat, and she struggled to breathe around it, her breath turning into hitches, wheezes.

"Here, dear, drink this, it will help you-"

"I don't want to sleep," Hermione managed to gasp, inhaling sharply. The air felt acidic, rotten, and she slumped forward, trying in vain to find a position that might help her breathe better, help her lungs expand fully.

She didn't want to sleep. She wanted, needed to be awake. She needed this, this moment of clarity.

The only true moment of clarity, it seemed. Because she had no idea who Dumbledore was, had ever been. Her entire life was built around this man, this near messiah-like figure who she turned to for guidance, trusted so deeply that for a moment it was easier to believe that Grindelwald was mad, had deluded the life he spoke of, than to believe Dumbledore was capable of such things. Capable of hiding them from her.

She felt sick, stomach twisting, and she turned over the side of the bed to vomit over the marble floor. She heaved, hacked so violently that her throat ached and spit pooled under her tongue. But she could not be sick, not even bile rising from her riotous stomach.

"Please, Miss Dumbledore-"

"Don't...don't call me that," she snapped, the anger in her words turning to another emotion. Betrayal. Sorrow. Grief, perhaps. Mourning the entirety of her life that could have been had she not trusted a man who did not trust her. A man with more secrets than she could imagine, capable of greater cruelty than she could imagine.

She recalled then how his eyes had looked at her, the moment he steadied his wand on her, prepared to stun her. The concentration, the clarity, the guilt. Had it been for her, or for the other girl? The one made of snow and memories long forgotten? The one that had nearly driven Dumbledore mad when she fell, becoming nothing more than bitter wind and ice?

Palms smoothed over either side of her face, a firm but kind touch, and Hermione looked at Madame Malone, kneeling before her and trying desperately to steady the girl.

"Hermione, I understand your confused and in pain, but everything is alright. It's over, now. You're safe, so is everyone. You can breathe now," the older witch spoke, having no idea what Hermione was going through. The source of her sudden panic, the phantom pains from a battle long past…

How long?

Hermione swallowed, licking her lips as she tried to summon that calm. Tried to force her heart to settle, her lungs to expand. After a moment, when her pulse had quieted and her hands no longer shook, she opened her eyes, blinking away the tears. When had she started crying?

"How...how long was I asleep?"

Madame Malone smiled, relieved to see the girl calm once more as she let her hands fall from her face, push the loose strands of curls behind her ear. "About three days now, on and off. You needed it though," she answered. Hermione nodded, remembering her uncertain dreams, flashes of things past and incoherent. She remembered awaking for a few solemn seconds, awaking to faces hovering over her, poking her and prodding her.

Malone stood, reaching a hand into her apron and producing a small vial of potion. "A mild calming draught. It won't put you to sleep- I promise." She held out Hermione's hand, folding the glass vial within it with a reassuring pat. She waited then, standing expectantly with her hands folded before her.

Hermione uncorked it, brought it to her nose for a sniff before slowly bringing it to her lips, tipping the contents into her mouth.

The effect was instantaneous, a sudden calm that worked into her muscles, allowing them to ease and slacken. She inhaled, this time slow and purposeful.

"Better?" Malone asked. She nodded.

The mediwitch offered a pinched smile before settling on the chair beside Hermione's bed, peering around the curtain for a moment before talking. "I'm sure you have many questions. I'll try to answer them. But before, I'm afraid I've some bad news," she began, eyes soft. "We were able to heal all of your injuries which was certainly an extensive list," she paused, chuckling in a placating, if not condescending manner. "The only one we could not heal was your leg. We -myself and the healers from St. Mungo's- tried everything we could but nothing seemed to work. The curse that was use...it was nothing we've ever seen, but it prevents any sort of regrowth. I'm so sorry."

"Oh," Hermione said, glancing down at her legs. Or, rather, leg. The other was cut off, just as it had been when Grindelwald had attacked her. It was healed, the skin fully grown back over, not even a bruise to tell of the trauma. She supposed she would have suspected as much, if she had allowed herself the moment to consider it. Fred had lost his ear to the same curse, and there was nothing to be done about it but be thankful it wasn't worse and make bad puns about the matter.

A leg was...rather inconvenient though.

"There are, of course, things we can do. Prosthetics and therapy. What matters is that you're alive," Malone said, reaching a hand out and giving a firm squeeze to Hermione's elbow.

Not wanting to dwell on it further, Hermione asked the only question that seemed to matter. "Where's Tom?" She looked around then, tried to look around the curtains secluding her bed to see if the boy was here with her. Dumbledore had said he was alive…

But that could have been a lie, for all she knew.

"Mr. Riddle was sent to St. Mungo's for surgery, but I've heard he is doing well and can be expected back any day now,"she answered, smiling widely now. "Your cousin, as well. He was supposed to be there for a few days longer, just for rest and observation. But you know him, so stubborn, he opted to leave only a few days after his surgery. He came back this morning and is resting in his private chambers."

Hermione stiffened at the mention of the man, but she did not seem to notice, rifling once more through her apron. "He left me with this, for when you awoke." She produced a letter, carefully sealed with a red stamp.

"Thank you," Hermione answered, her tone clipped and curt. She grabbed the letter, held it for a moment as though unsure of what to do with it.

Malone nodded then, raising from her seat. "I'm sure he can answer any other questions you may have, he spoke to the aurors and knows the more sordid details. I'll give you some privacy for now- a healer from St. Mungo's should be in later to help fit you with a prosthetic then and we can have you sleeping in your own bed tonight."

Hermione said nothing as the witch disappeared behind the curtain, lips thin and eyes narrowed. She waited a long, drawn out second before opening the letter, though she did not know why. It was unchangeable, the things that happened. The letter would not change, her distrust would not change. It would all exist, as it always did.

Some things in life were constant.

She opened the letter, blinking at the single line. She nearly snorted at it, the idea that the entirety of it could be fulfilled in one line. Small and singular.

If you'd grant it to me, I'd like your company for dinner tonight.

That was all it said, in the curly, ostentatious writing she had grown accustomed to. It was careful in its wording; not presumptuous, not assuming. It did not offer any grand apologies or explanations, simply the promise that they would come later.

She tossed the letter aside, sliding back against the pillows.

~x~

Tom was looking in the mirror, frowning at his reflection, when someone knocked on the door frame to his hospital room. "Mr. Riddle?" a voice called, the healer poking her head into the room.

"The lavatory," he called back in response, slipping through the door just in time to watch her jump, startled at his sudden presence. She was young, an apprentice, if the forest green color of her robes was anything to go by. Pretty, with a slightly upturned nose and a few strands of blond curls that fell loose from her cap.

"Oh, there you are," she muttered with a giggle, clearing her throat as she asked, "How are you feeling today?"

He scowled. "Fine, as I've already said two days ago. I'd like to go back to school now," he said, unable to hide the contempt in his voice. He was growing anxious, bitter with the small scraps of news and information they provided, too much yet not nearly enough. Grindelwald was dead, the war coming to a close as aurors set up to capture his supporters. Whispers that a student at Hogwarts had died, though no name was given, no further clue to who the casualty might have been.

His heart thrummed anxiously at the thought. He had asked about her, of course, but they would only frown in that useless, pathetic manner. 'Privacy laws,' they would tut apologetically. 'I'm sorry, but we can't say.'

The thought made him angry, feel powerless in a way that only fueled his rage. Even as his logical side tried to urge him that she must be okay, she must be alive. The dead have no privacy.

"Well, Healer Alvarez will tend to your discharge, so I'm afraid you have to sit tight for at least a few more hours," she began, smiling as she pointed a finger to his face, where the burn marks still spread over his neck, rising to curl just below his earlobe. "The salve seems to be helping improve the appearance! That's good." Her voice was unnecessarily chipper, and it only served to further sour his mood.

He didn't give an ogre's arse whether or not the salve was working. He simply wanted. To. See. His. Hermione.

Sensing his ire, she frowned and said, "Yes, well, there's someone here to see you."

Before Tom could ask, she stepped aside and into the hall, a wizard taking her place. The wizard was imposing, broad shouldered and wide, with thick arms that seemed ready to burst through his robe. The light reflected of his shaved head, his skin the color of deep mahogany.

The man smiled wide at the sight of Tom, extending a hand outward as he said in a deep, resonating voice, "You must be Mr. Tom Riddle, than. I'm Auror Waverley, the head of the Auror Department with the Ministry of Magic," he introduced, extending a hand outwards. Tom glanced at it, considered it for a moment before taking it, shaking hands firmly.

Without waiting for an invitation, Waverley sauntered in to the hospital room, forcing Tom to step back and offer him more space. "How are you feeling? That mediwitch wasn't giving you any trouble, eh?" he asked congenially, laughing as he undid his navy cloak and folded it over his arm before sitting down on the small sofa meant for any guests Tom might have.

He had none, until now.

"Fine, thanks. Eager to leave, is all," he answered, hoping his terse tone was mistaken for exhaustion, a desire to crawl up in his own bed to cope with the traumas he had seen. So young! And already he had fought in a war, so tragic yet so brave.

He was hardly in the mood for any pretenses.

Waverley nodded. "Yes, I'm sure. I just wanted to personally thank you for your services during the battle, it was our understanding from the reports that you played a rather integral war to bring down Grindelwald after his attack. The Ministry always appreciates and recognizes such bravery, especially from someone so young," he said.

Tom barely managed to contain his scowl, covering it up neatly with a smile that he hoped seemed proud, as though he were thankful and awed to receive such praise from someone so advanced. "I thank you, but I only did what I had to do. My friends needed help, thank Merlin I was there to offer it to them."

He really was so tired of this ruse, the placating, humbling words.

Waverley grinned, gesturing steadily at Tom as he said, "See, that's the attitude we need more of. That the Auror Department needs more."

Oh, bloody hell.

"I couldn't help but to notice you've yet to declare your career path. Have you considered a career working in law enforcement? Upholding the laws, serving your community to make the world safer?" The speech was standard, and Tom nearly laughed at the words. If this was the man heading the Auror Department, it certainly made his intended career path seem a breeze.

Waverley continued, either unaware of Tom's mockery or unconcerned by it, perhaps mistaking the smirk for one of unrestrained joy. "Maintaining the safety of our community is a never ending job, even now in the wake of such a triumphant defeat there are still supporters to apprehend, honor crimes that will continue until the dust settles. Grindelwald's death is a win for many of us, but for some it's simply an opportunity to riot. We'll need help now more than ever. In fact, you're actually the second stop I've made today. I've already paid that friend of yours a visit to offer him the same opportunity."

Tom frowned now, brow raising with his surprise at the statement. Friend? To his knowledge, limited as it was, there weren't many other students here, so long after the battle. He had heard that some were sent to St. Mungo's briefly, only to be returned to the infirmary at school, but not many had required surgery and observation. Not to his extent.

The only person who had fought alongside him, suffered the relatively same blows was-

Crane. Joshua Crane.

"Do you mean, Joshua Crane, sir?" he said furrowed brow.

"Well, I can't rightly say you know," he said, inclining his head and smiling in a way that made certain Tom knew that yes, it had been that Joshua. The man had all the subtlety of Slughorn in a ballgown. "He, in fact, had much to say about your participation in the battle."

Tom rose a skeptical eyebrow, recalling the brief moment when Crane had glanced at him with disgust, a level of vitriol he was used to doling out, not receiving. "Is that so?"

"Indeed. Spoke highly of you. Nothing to be taken lightly, as he's been under the wing of Moody for some time," Waverley said, lips pursing in thoughtful consideration. Respect.

Tom blinked. "Curious, though. If I recall correctly, Crane was expelled?"

Waverley sighed, nodding his head in a slow, purposeful manner. "Ah, yes but sometimes exceptions can be made in light of extenuating circumstances. We've lost many good men in the war, and are feeling overwhelmed. There is still much to be done, and we can't overlook the charities one performs. Rehabilitation, as it were," he explained, smiling widely. "Anyone who risks their life to defend their community is always worthy of a second chance in my book."

"How gracious of you then, to provide the second chance," Tom responded, something twinging behind his eye. Irritation, like an insect crawling around his brain. He thought he had been done with Crane, had dismantled him into a fool, someone barely worth the spit that might be tossed at his shoes. His jaw clenched, imperceptibly, and he ground his teeth hoping the sound could not be heard by his companion.

He was more exhausted than he knew, unable to hide the idiosyncrasies that made him so pathetically human. The small quirks of his behavior that he masked when in certain company.

"I believe that he will make an exceptional addition to our team. That you, as well, would be invaluable," Waverley prompted, brow raised as he leaned forward in his seat, lips twisting into a grin.

Tom considered him for a moment, trying to appear deep in thought instead of the desperate winding down of his rage that was slowly building within him. He might have laughed if he could do so without looking mad- a deep, barking laugh. Of course Crane had squirmed out from under his thumb, like a pest that was so small and inconsequential it could not be undone by broad sweeps.

It would require a finer touch. The skillful precision of an assassin, an executioner.

He thought then, of all the opportunities that he had not considered before. Grindelwald's men would be rounded up and arrested by the aurors- men who were licking their wounds and aching for the revolution that fell between their fingers. Men who would need a new god to worship, their savior reborn.

All the dangerous items collected on raids, the darkest of magic that was discovered and forfeited over by the aurors.

Performing their duties while cleaner the streets to make it safer.

He would have access to all of that.

It suddenly seemed so perfect, so ideal that his mouth watered at the prospect. Enough Ministry clearance to access all sorts of classified areas, find his way to the unsavory witches and wizards who might fall to his feet. But not so much that he would be watched, given any more than the standard scrutiny of any other auror.

After all, he was risking his life for the community. He would be a hero, a civic servant worthy of praise.

Getting to keep a very watchful eye of Crane?

Well, that was just the sweetened icing on the cake now wasn't it?

"It's certainly something to consider," he said, licking his lips. "It would be an honor to serve among your men."

~x~

"How does it feel, dear?"

Hermione glanced at Madame Malone before turning her sight back to her leg, the prosthetic newly fitted. It looked...strange, the sudden and sharp change in appearance. She had spent so many years in her body, familiarizing herself with each freckle, each dimple, each slim, silvery stretch mark. To look down and see something other than what she had known for so long was startling. As though she could forget about the absence if not for the weight which was a bit too heavy to be natural, the tight pinch where the prosthetic adjoined to her remaining limb.

It was more advanced than what a muggle prosthetic might have been- for this era, at least- though still imperfect. The movements were stilted and it felt as if she needed to apply a great deal of focus in order to do the simplest of motion.

It mirrored the shape of her leg, the same rounded muscle in her calf so that if she wore stockings one could not tell it was false. But the prosthetic itself was made of metal, a dark bronze color, and resembled more a cage than any other device she had seen in her admittedly limited experience. It was hollow, made up by strips of metal that ran the entire length of it, from the band below her knee, to the rounded joint of the makeshift ankle. The feet were tapered instead of morphing into individual toes, and the wiring was more intricate, like lace but crafted of metal. Delicate flowers and loops as though a beautiful design would alleviate the trauma.

She shrugged. "It pinches a bit." Though the healer had said that was normal. An adjustment period, she called it.

There was only so much magic could do, after all. It did not matter how efficient spells and charms were at healing; nothing could compensate for the human experience. Nothing could make it any easier.

"It will take some time to get more confident, so the healer left this for you," Malone said, holding a cane outward. It was smooth, a polished oak. Hermione hesitated only a moment before reaching out for it, running her fingers over the curved handle. Allowing the younger witch a moment of appreciation, Malone added, "Don't worry though, you'll have some help for now."

Just as Hermione raised her head in question, Malone stepped aside, pulling the curtain that hung around the bed for privacy. Mulciber and Rosier were sitting on the empty bed beside hers, heads bowed in conversation before they jumped, turning to look at Hermione and the mediwitch.

Rosier was the first to respond, lips spreading into a too-wide grin, as though the intensity of it might make up for the insincerity. "Hermione, love!" he crooned, jumping from the bed and walking towards her with extended arms. "The Slytherin Common Rooms have been so quiet without you bossing us around!"

It was playful, and she felt herself smile shakily at his words.

"Can't have that can we?" she asked, trying to slip into the normalcy of their report. The implication alone was enough to make her snort.

"Absolutely not, with Riddle gone we've been so unsupervised, it's a wonder dear Mulciber is even alive," he joked, immediately silenced by Malone clearing her throat and affixing him with a warning glare.

He sobered then, letting his arms fall to his side. "I mean-"

"That's quite enough, Mr. Rosier," Malone finished, sniffing as she gave one last sympathetic look to Hermione- complete with a firm grasp of her shoulder- and promptly left the three students alone.

It was silent for a moment, Hermione puncturing it with a softly spoken, "Dolohov-"

Rosier interrupted her, muttering quietly so as not to upset the mediwitch, "Did you...were you there?"

He moved forward, Mulciber following close behind him as they crowded the small space, faces rounded with intrigue, grief, and other emotions she couldn't quite place.

"I..." she began, only for the words to die on her tongue. She did not know how much was known, what was common knowledge. She was told to expect an auror the next day to collect her official statement, but it was merely for posterity's sake. Dumbledore had handled the interrogation, had provided what they needed to close the book on the matter, satisfied with the death of Grindelwald. Content as can be expected with the situation that had led to Dolohov's death. But it was all second hand information, she had yet to see Dumbledore and did not know the details of the interrogation or the story he gave- real or fake or somewhere in between.

It seemed he could weave the lies into truth as needed.

She wasn't sure how much she was supposed to know, if she would unintentionally contradict his official script. So instead she swallowed harshly, pretending as though the death was simply too much to discuss.

It was hardly a facade, her hand trembling at the memory of his wand in her hand as she held it up. As she recalled the heat of his blood as it fell on her face. The panic in his eyes, moments before they became glassy. Lifeless.

"It's okay," Mulciber said, reaching out to grab her hand and holding it for one...two...three seconds before pulling away. "Come on, let's get you home."

"Actually," Hermione said, making them pause even as they were midway between getting her to stand, a hand from either boy on each of her shoulders. "I um...I need to see my cousin. He's concerned."

They exchanged a measured glance.

"You don't have to if you don't want to. He'll understand if you're too tired," Rosier started.

She waved him off. "It will help pass the time. And perhaps he'll have some information about Tom," she explained, though it was only a half truth. She was, against her better judgment worried about the boy, a plummeting feeling in her stomach at the thought of his fate and a twisting feeling in her heart at the guilt she felt over such worry.

But, Tom aside, she needed to see Dumbledore.

She needed answers, she needed a confrontation.

She needed to talk to the man.

Truly talk.

Perhaps the first real talk she had ever had with him.

The thought alone was enough to make her stomach twist, the same bubbling nausea from before.

"Alright, we'll get you there," Mulciber said, and together, they helped her come to her unsteady feat, stepping back as she shifted, trying to find a comfortable footing. When none came to her, she settled for the discomfort and let the cane hold the burden of her weight.

The walked slowly, disjointedly. Though, thankfully, not in silence. As though sensing Hermione's embarrassment at having to work so hard to move so little, Rosier filled the quiet. Rambled and gossiped endlessly, updating her on all the tedious things that Malone could not.

"The first few days were a nightmare. The infirmary was constantly filled, and they were rotating people between St. Mungo's and the hospital wing. Everyone uninjured got stuck in their common rooms for two days. They even had our meals sent down. I tried to sneak in, pretended to be sick so I could check in on who was and wasn't there- they were keeping it real hush and Nott and I were the only ones left. They wouldn't let me though, they just sent a mediwitch down with some potions," he explained, his voice steady even as Hermione's own breath was coming out strained, harsh from the difficulty of her steps.

It hadn't been this hard with the healer. Though there was no bed for her to collapse on.

"They didn't tell us about Dolohov until the second day, right after they served dinner. I've never seen the common room so quiet-"

"Shush!" Mulciber admonished, glancing up from the floor to scowl at the boy.

Hermione did not listen to their spat, too focused on her steps as they lumbered up the steps. She paused, trying to catch her breath, pinching her eyes to stop the heat that prickled there, the tears that wanted to fall.

It was just so frustrating! She was only halfway there and it had taken an eternity to get this far, her hip and ankle aching from the constant shifting of her weight, the end of her limb now throbbing where the prosthetic was attached.

Malone had given her some mild pain relievers, but it felt like a failure to take them so soon. She had hardly moved at all, making it up only a floor and a half.

Was this how she was supposed to manage? Self-medicating between each floor?

Once more, she felt that horrible feeling of vulnerability. Stripped and raw.

"Hey, it's okay, we can take a break," Mulciber said, his voice soft. Too soft. It filled her with anger, indignation.

She understood now why Tom chose to wake early, to dress himself and prepare for the day before anyone had even blinked the sleep from their eyes. Anything was better than to have someone witness something so intimate, something so…

Well, human.

The thought made her shudder.

Relating to Tom was not something she needed to contend with now.

"No," she said, perhaps a bit too forcefully as she took another step. "I don't need to rest."

"Really, Hermione, it's no trouble, and you shouldn't be ashamed-"

Something within her snapped, the tenuous, tautly pulled thread of her restraint. She whipped around, lips pulling into a snarl as her hair curled, frizzed around her head. "I am not ashamed! If you've nothing to offer me but pity and the assurance that I can rest than I'd rather you leave!" she hissed, the words sharp, so startling that several other students passing by jumped, turning to her with slackened jaw and quirked brows.

Mulciber blinked at her, stunned by the outburst. "I...I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't mean to, and yet you did," she sneered, suddenly wanting them gone. If she was to breakdown on the middle of the staircase, stuck between floors, she'd rather it be alone. She'd rather not have her weakness be witnessed by two that were supposed to fear her, respect her.

She wanted, desperately, to be alone.

Mulciber blanched, glancing to Rosier for direction.

"Don't be stubborn, we'll help you-"

"I don't need your help," she hissed, the words low so only they could hear. It was a threat. "I need you two to go back to the dormitory and leave me be. Or have you suddenly forgotten how to follow orders?"

"Of course not, my lady," Rosier said after a second, his tone measured. With no other parting words, he and Mulciber turned, departing her side.

She watched them go, watched until they disappeared from sight. She would regret it later she was sure. Regret taking out all of her mounting anger and blame on them when they were only trying to help. Letting herself lash out at them simply because they were closest to her, because Dumbledore was so far away from her.

But perhaps it was better this way. Better to establish that distance, disjoint the familiarity between them. She couldn't be too close to them- she was meant to be above them. Lead them.

Her orders were to be commanded, even if they were so opposite her needs.

She couldn't let them see her cry, see her fracture.

They would never respect her as their Lady if they had to soothe her, mold her back together.

It was the right decision, she decided, letting herself slide down and sit upon the step. She rested her head against the balusters, eyes fluttering close as she once more tried to steady her breath.

How cruel that the only person who could see her break was the one person she suddenly trusted less than anyone else. Less than the young Death Eaters, less than Tom.

Even Tom had been more forthcoming with her when the time was right.

She recalled the icy tone of Grindelwald's promise. "But we can change that. We can bring her back."

The quiet, hopeful and yet melancholy response from Dumbledore. "We could." Two words that prefaced his almost betrayal, the two words that had felt like a knife to her heart.

She didn't want to, but she cried all the same.