Twenty-Seven

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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Hermione bit her lip in consternation, resisting the urge to adjust the strap of her special bra for the umpteenth time. She had to stifle a nervous giggle when she realized that she'd been thinking of it thus since buying it from Lavender: her Special Bra. With her matching Special Underwear, she'd strode out of her room that morning feeling jaunty and invincible. Graduation had arrived, and in her determination to walk across the outdoor stage with a reason to be proud of herself, she'd shattered even her own hopes for N.E.W.T. scores. In fact, only one other person in the past forty years had equaled her in both number of subjects and average percentage.

Two days prior, when Headmistress McGonagall had told her that that person was Severus Snape, a wry laugh had escaped Hermione's lips. The Headmistress had paused in sipping her tea and studied her with an almost pitying expression, a pleasant change from the scrutiny to which she'd subjected Hermione since being apprised of the inappropriate feelings that had blossomed over the past several years. The fact that such illicit and fantastical imaginings had been conducted under her watchful gaze had undoubtedly disturbed her deeply, and Hermione had felt a pang of regret for the loss of trust in a once-meaningful acquaintance. She could only hope that unlike Snape, Professor McGonagall hadn't lost all respect for her as well.

Hermione had simply nodded, thanked her for the congratulations she'd offered, and left her office. Before everything that had happened...before the letter of recommendation that failed to come to fruition; before the potions and the long nights spent toiling in the lab, swallowing the desire that flashed through her with every electric connection of their gazes; before Ginny had blurted out her most tender secret to an entire restaurant...she supposed that on some subconscious level she'd been hoping to earn Snape's respect with her N.E.W.T. scores. It would be her final triumph, an accolade he couldn't possibly deny her even if he spent her seventh year deriding or utterly ignoring her performance in his class.

It stung her to realize that she was so deeply in love with him she might, if some greater power had made the diabolical offer, have traded the most prestigious and peerless academic honor for one more kind word from him. But such thoughts only sapped her integrity. She had little of it left, having thoroughly and unprofessionally betrayed him, but what she had, she clung to tightly and desperately. Thus, she'd resolved two nights before as she lay in her room while the happy parties raged in all four Houses, drying confused and aching tears, that it was time to start trying in earnest to let him go. The day of her graduation would be about her and her alone. Whatever Snape thought would no longer affect what it meant to be Hermione Granger. She would shake the Headmistress' hand, smile at the attendees, and receive her diploma unperturbed, and she would do it in her Special Underwear.

The raucous sound of bellowing Weasleys yanked her fiercely back to the present. Shaking her head, Hermione glanced at the girl to her left, who'd been staring up at the impossibly blue sky for the better part of fifteen minutes, looking dazed. Hermione could empathize: their entire situation seemed to have taken on the unreal quality of a beautiful, blurred movie montage; the years and the people flashed past in her mind's eye like so many scenes from a wild, unfathomable script, and she found tears welling up as she considered the course her life had followed over the past eight years. She had so very many things to appreciate, so many people for whom to be grateful, and plenty of it, she told herself firmly, did not depend on Severus Snape.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, delivered the address. His words had the intended effect, arousing nostalgia for her youth while tugging at her heart in remembrance of those who'd been lost. Hermione was surprised to find, as Shacklebolt effusively thanked the families for turning out in droves to witness their children's graduation, that she didn't regret her parents' absence more. She'd invited them, of course, but they had simply sent along an obscene amount of money as a gift and wished her the best of luck. They'd promised her more when she began university in the fall and requested that she visit them instead.

For a wild, spiteful moment she'd hated them. She'd flirted with the idea of demanding as much as she could get out of them, but then she'd quickly let it go, setting aside the letter. It was, if anything, a clear indication to her that her impressions of them the following summer hadn't been remiss; in saving their lives, she'd induced in them drastic changes, even if not in any obvious, external way, and they were no longer the people she'd once known.

The Weasleys more than made up for them, she decided, smiling as Molly, who was seated with her husband, Bill, Charlie, Harry and Ron at a group of chairs thirty yards or so to her right, dabbed at her overflowing eyes with a patched yellow handkerchief. Even from such a distance, Hermione could clearly discern the reflective tracks of tears working their way down the lined, motherly face. Arthur's movements were suspicious as well...a twitch of the nose, followed by a flick of the cuff of his robes toward his face...but if he was indeed crying, he was determined to wipe his eyes more surreptitiously than his wife. Periodically, Molly's sniffles actually became audible to the students. Hermione heard Ginny, seated several rows behind her, emit a mortified groan when her mother inadvertently released a sob followed by a ringing hiccup.

The girl next to Hermione...she couldn't remember her name; she'd learned so few of them, since they were not in her year...sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. She, too, seemed to have brought herself forcefully back to the present. Her foot had begun jiggling back and forth, and she was clearly impatient for the ceremony to conclude. Hermione was torn between wanting to escape the hot sun and wanting to prolong her last moments of young adulthood. After all, Wizarding children were considered to age at a much faster rate. She knew that while a Muggle university student would still be considered young, she would be viewed in the eyes of the Wizarding community as an accomplished and ostensibly functional adult from the moment she shook the Headmistress' hand.

The thought both thrilled and terrified her. She wanted maturity, to be sure; she wanted to dive right in and tackle everything from top to bottom...pursuing her university studies and eventual apprenticeship, forging a professional working relationship with Professor Vector and her colleagues in the field of Arithmancy, and helping to run the household she and Ginny were going to share. She had moments of rash impulse in which she imagined herself curled up in the lovely window seat in the flat, eating a steaming, homemade meal and solving the world's most perplexing problems with dizzying Arithmantic analysis. She had the energy for it; she had the drive for it; she was ready and itching with anticipation, and she would have said as much to anyone who'd asked her.

But they hadn't because they had damn well identified the other motivation that lurked within her eagerness. Cynically, she wondered if they'd already stigmatized her for it. She wanted to shake the Headmistress' hand and make her way back to her seat, walking with poise past the Hogwarts faculty, because she wanted Snape to be present at her entrance to adulthood. She wanted him to bear witness to that moment when the dynamic would necessarily change between them, when she became the adult who would pursue an intellectual path every bit as challenging and respectable as his.

Everyone knew it. She'd seen it in the eyes of the faculty, who were seated at the very front, directly before the Headmistress' podium, ideally situated to congratulate the students as they received their diplomas. Earlier, filing past them, everyone lined up neatly in alphabetical order to exit the castle and take their seats, Hermione had studiously avoided Snape's dark eyes, wanting to preserve her immunity to whatever might lurk there.

Simultaneously and critically, the other teachers' gazes had sized her up. They'd taken in the sleeker hair, which Ginny had styled for her into soft waves using a generous supply of Sleekeazy and pulled back with a beautiful decorative comb. They'd taken in the creamy lipstick she wore, a sudden impulse buy after she and Ginny had signed the lease on their new flat, along with the expensive leather pumps, an unexpected graduation gift from her only aunt, her father's sister. They'd taken in her new dress robes, enviably soft silk in a striking dove-gray. They'd taken it all in, and Hermione knew they wouldn't appreciate the hair and the clothes and the lipstick for what they were, her burgeoning desire to experiment with a more mature, confident femininity. With the exception of Professor Vector, judgment...unflattering, harsh judgment...had seemed to flash in their eyes as they snidely concluded that she'd been seized with one last, feverish opportunity to impress him.

Had she? Watching the foot of the Hufflepuff next to her jiggle hypnotically, Hermione honestly didn't think she had. She wanted to be an adult, true, but she also wanted to be a woman, and therein lay the motivation for the heels, and the lipstick, and the beautiful clothes. Though no one else was privy to it, the soft fabric currently sculpting her breasts and whispering along her hips reminded her at every moment of the way her body had changed, and she was tired of regretting those changes. Hiding beneath layers of baggy clothing was the self-destructive behavioral strategy of her past. Hermione Granger would never be flashy or glamorous, but she craved to express class and pleasure, that stark, forthright beauty that marked the consummate professional. That, she decided, was what she'd accomplished.

As Minister Shacklebolt's speech drew to a close, the attending parents and family clapped enthusiastically. Hermione wondered for a tense moment whether Harry and Ron, who were sniggering as Molly blew her nose wetly into her handkerchief, would set off one of the twins' more flamboyant creations to mark the occasion. The glances they shared seemed more subdued, however, and Hermione suspected that any conspiratorial endeavors between them had been instantly put on hiatus after the debacle at the Three Broomsticks. In the aftermath, it had undoubtedly have been terribly difficult for Harry to show his face at the Burrow. Hermione had been amazed to see him at all, having assumed for weeks that he would be too embarrassed to show his face.

"Can we start now?" the girl next to her whispered tartly. Apparently, Hermione's slow march as she moved to take her place behind the row of students preceding her had been too slow for the Hufflepuff's liking. Unruffled, Hermione progressed forward at a steady pace. The students dutifully lined up, sorted out a few last-minute misplacements, and worked their way to the podium. Scarcely visible over the crowd due to his diminutive stature, Professor Flitwick stood beside the Headmistress to announce in endearing squeaks the name of each student as he or she moved to shake the Headmistress' hand.

When her turn came, Hermione was gratified to hear a deafening roar of applause. Harry and Ron howled appreciatively, and she willed herself not to blush as she smiled and waved in their direction. The thought of turning toward the faculty nauseated her, so she moved quickly to stand before McGonagall.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," the Headmistress said. Hermione had expected the increased reserve that had colored their every interaction since her secret had become known, but for that moment only, it seemed to have vanished. The formidable Transfigurations professor almost appeared as though she had to restrain herself from doing more than pat Hermione affectionately on the shoulder.

When his turn came, Professor Flitwick handed her the diploma and hugged her warmly, a fact that both shocked and thrilled her to the point of tearing up. "Well done, Miss Granger," he said, tears in his own eyes as his voice carried over the crowd, hushing their cries. Molly Weasley let loose with a new round of sobbing as Professor Flitwick gripped both her shoulders and faced her with a bright smile. "Well done indeed!"

Hermione knew she was blushing now, but she couldn't quell it. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, reciting mentally, I will not cry. I will not cry. "It was such an honor, truly."

"The honor and the pleasure were all ours, my dear," he exclaimed, gesturing toward the faculty.

Hermione turned slowly, surreally, to find that they had all risen from their chairs and were applauding her with fervor. Tears spilled over from her eyes as she gave them a grateful smile, inexpressibly relieved that on some level they still respect her; they did not, perhaps could not, hate her. In unison, they nodded in recognition, of her thanks and of her tireless hard work, continuing to applaud as she made her way back to her seat. Hermione had no idea what had warranted the special attention, whether it was solely her N.E.W.T. performance or her determination to overcome the trauma of the war and return, alone, to complete her studies, but it hardly mattered. It was, irrespective of their reasoning, a moment she would cherish for the rest of her life.

She covered the distance back to her seat nearly in slow motion. As she passed by Snape, who was seated on the aisle, she swallowed the urge to look up and meet his eyes. He, too, had risen to applaud her, and Hermione knew she ought not to expect more from him. She focused instead on clapping heartily for the other students, and the remainder of the ceremony positively flew by. Before she knew it, Hermione found herself struggling to breathe in Arthur Weasley's embrace.

A flood of red hair soon engulfed her on all sides. When Arthur finally released her, Molly moved in next. Then Ron scooped her up, enfolded her in a bear hug that Lavender joined in as well. "Congratulations!" they chorused, bouncing in place, and Hermione laughed dizzily. Disentangling herself from Lavender's gauzy scarf and brushing a stray hair from her eyes, she took in their bright faces with a deep satisfaction warming every part of her body. There was no lingering jealousy, and she was thrilled that they'd taken the time to wish her well.

"We're so proud of you, Hermione!" Ron kept repeating, shaking his head. "I don't know how you could come back to... to all this. I could never have done it, 'specially without Harry, and with Dumbledore gone... But we knew you could do it!"

"We had no doubts," Harry concurred, green eyes watching her somberly. He was the only one not visibly vibrating with excitement, and Hermione could sense his anxious desire to maintain as much difference between himself and Ginny as possible. Ginny, for her part, was being passed like a virtually weightless doll between Charlie and Bill, who'd turned their attention from scowling at Harry in order to fawn over their baby sister.

"So what are you doing for the summer?" Lavender asked, toying idly with her scarf. "Ginny told me you two are renting a flat in London! She said it's convenient for her since it's..."

"What?" Harry interjected sharply. "You're renting a flat with Ginny? How does she have a flat lined up already?"

Hermione had to bite back the uncharitable reply that rose to her lips when she saw the hurt in his eyes; she was sorely tempted to point that he evidently hadn't had much difficulty in getting other women lined up. "In London," she replied with a reproachful look, conscious that an icy edge had entered her voice. "She needed a flatmate, and it's perfect for me because it's close to campus."

Harry seemed to debate with himself for a moment. But, having picked up on the warning tone, he backed off and settled for a nod. "I hope you two have fun living together," he offered cautiously, and she gave him a small smile, relieved that he knew better than to raise a topic guaranteed to spark an argument.

Charlie and Bill ambled over, and Harry's eyes immediately sought his shoes for some intensive contemplation. Ginny had disappeared, but they were content to hug Hermione and wish her congratulations. She thanked them and had just begun inquiring after their jobs when someone in the vicinity of the castle cried a word that vaguely resembled her name. Hermione ignored the sound at first, assuming she'd heard incorrectly. When Bill abruptly ceased talking and nodded to someone over her shoulder, however, she knew that it had definitely been her name.

Pivoting on her heel, she was startled to take in the sight of Ginny running wildly toward her, arms flapping as she tripped over her flimsy heels. She practically skidded to a halt in order to refrain from crashing into Hermione too hard as she panted, "Come quickly!"

Hermione put out her arms to provide a buffer for the unavoidable impact. "Ginny, wha...?"

Hermione didn't manage to finish forming the words before Ginny's hands were clasped almost painfully around her wrists. "Come quickly! In the Great Hall...on the table...for you..."

Alarmed, Hermione began a mad dash for the castle doors. Ginny, despite being in better physical shape, was already tired and lagged behind. Hermione was terribly confused, unsure what she would find and whether the object that would greet her would bear tragic news about someone, possibly her parents.

Manners momentarily discarded, she barged past the crowd milling about the entrance to the Great Hall and tore past the students surrounding the Gryffindor table. Once there, she drew to an ungraceful stop, eyes widening. There, placed directly in the center of the Gryffindor table, was the most magnificent gift she had ever received. Her mouth worked soundlessly, much as a fish's would, and the Headmistress, who was inspecting the gift with visible confusion, finally turned around and took notice of her quiet bafflement.

"Hermione!" she exclaimed, motioning for Hermione to move forward. "Do you know who sent this? What is it? It is clearly marked with your initials, and furthermore, it is placed quite deliberately at your usual seat..."

Hermione barely registered the words issuing from the other woman's mouth. Stepping forward, pressing a hand against the painful stitch in her side, she sought to regain her breath while drinking in the sight of it. The ceiling of the Great Hall reflected the flawless skies to be found outside, and the warm magical sunlight fell in a most flattering way along the sensual curves that met her eyes. From a stunning center of fuchsia and canary yellow, radiant pinks streaked outward in impossibly soft waves. Hermione's breath caught in her throat again, and she reached out a tremulous fingertip to stroke its surface.

"Really, Miss Granger, this is most irregular," McGonagall remarked, formality reentering her voice. "I confess I am somewhat at a loss to understand how any of your Muggle relatives could have got past us to put this in the Great Hall. Yet it is hardly a traditional gift from a witch or wizard!"

"But it is," Hermione whispered, thinking of one particular wizard as she curved her palm gently, lovingly, to caress it.

"I really must insist that you tell me what it is, then," Headmistress McGonagall barreled on.

"It's a..." But someone else was quicker, their voice rapturous with appreciation.

"...a lady's-slipper orchid!"