Winter Air

Hermione folded her one formal gown carefully into her case, along with the only set of underwear she owned where the bra did not show at the gown’s rather risqué neckline and the cloth bag containing the frivolous shoes that Ginny Potter had talked her into buying before the Ministry Christmas Ball. She would have avoided such high heels before Ginny had taught her a stability charm that enabled her, not just to walk safely, but to dance in them.

Not, she reflected, that there was likely to be anyone at the ball who would appreciate her gown and was also over seventh year, but she was blowed if she was going to invest in a different one just for a Saint Valentine’s Day ball that she really, really did not want to attend. Since splitting up with Ron, she had avoided all balls and parties where possible: not so much because she missed Ron – the break-up had been more of a relief than anything – but because everyone seemed to feel the need either to treat her with heavy-handed sympathy, or to match-make. Or both.

Hermione had realised that there was no-one she was interested in, either among her colleagues in the Unspeakables or who had been at Hogwarts with her, as a long-term partner. And while she was not entirely averse to the principle of a short-term fling, her status as War Heroine made her feel rather exposed to the wizarding press. Rita Skeeter had wielded her Quick-Quotes Quill to considerable effect over the years.

No, Hermione had taken a strategic decision (rather before she had split up with Ron, in fact) that she needed to travel outside Britain to find a partner. To that end, she had indicated her willingness to take part in any overseas fact-finding trips, conferences and exchanges that the Ministry might see fit to arrange. Her first, a conference in Sweden, would come up in April, and she was looking forward to receiving the list of delegates and doing a bit of unofficial research about them. She hoped to find a partner who was an academic, and preferably an older man. She allowed herself a moment’s wistful thought: her preference for older men had been established even before she left school.

And in the meantime she was just not looking.

Hermione closed her case, cast a quick Reducio and put the case in her jacket pocket. She recorded a brief message on her Muggle answering machine, cast a regretful look at her laptop, and seized Crookshanks’s carrier before Apparating back to Hogwarts.

She landed in a couple of centimetres of snow, two pheasants rocketing away in alarm. She took a deep breath of winter-scented air to shake off the queasy feeling that Apparation always gave her, then looked around and spotted Hagrid approaching the gates and waving. He let her through and took the cat carrier from her, and they started up the path, Hagrid making a slow pace so that Hermione could keep up without slipping.

‘Professor McGonagall told me that you were coming to do some research on the house-elves,’ Hagrid said. ‘You know, it was watching them made me realise I could still do magic even with my wand broken. They don’t need them, see, just like young children don’t. I was never that good with my wand anyway, and after practising with just the pieces for a while, I found I could still do the same spells.’

‘I never knew that, Hagrid. I knew you’d had your wand broken, of course. Didn’t you ever get another after you were cleared?’

‘Professor Dumbledore offered. But I said “I’m as good now with wandless magic as I ever was when I used a wand. I don’t need one.” And he just told me that he always knew I was doing spells and he had decided not to interfere, but if I ever changed my mind about a new wand, I should just ask him.’

‘Professor McGonagall is going to ask the house-elves if I can interview them and maybe look at their quarters,’ Hermione said.

Hagrid stopped. ‘They won’t like that. Very private, they are, about their living quarters and their families. But they’ll do what Professor McGonagall tells them.’

‘I don’t want to upset them,’ Hermione said anxiously. ‘I want the whole wizarding world to understand what we all owe them. Especially the war heroes. Do you know, when I visited Dobby’s grave, I found it was covered in flowers? People have been leaving bouquets and messages.’

‘D’you know there’s a house-elf cemetery here at Hogwarts?’ Hagrid asked, starting back up the path. ‘On the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Usually, Hogwarts elves are born here and want to be buried here. Most wizards don’t see it, but I have to, to trim the hedges.’

Hermione was fascinated. ‘Do you think they’d let me see it?’ she said eagerly.

‘I reckon if you know it’s there, you’ll see it,’ Hagrid said. ‘I’ve been able to since I was made Groundskeeper and the Headmaster told me all my duties. Tell you what, I’ll take you there tomorrow morning. How about after breakfast? Likely they’ll all be busy then.’

‘That would be brilliant, Hagrid, thank you. I’d like to find out as much as I can about their lives and families and their death customs as well.’

The old friends arrived at the main doors where Filch seemed to be surreptitiously taking advantage of a little winter sunshine. Hagrid put Crookshanks’s carrier down, and Hermione released the catch. There was a moment of comedy as Crookshanks emerged from the carrier only to find himself nose-to-nose with Mrs Norris – both animals sprang back with tails beginning to fluff up before recognising each other and chirruping greetings. They strolled off together into the castle while Hagrid bade Hermione a temporary goodbye and Filch told her that the house-elves had prepared her a guest-room on the first floor.

‘The password is “Connery”,’ he told her. Hermione snorted quietly. The Headmistress’s office had opened to “Coltrane” the previous day.

‘Has someone worked out how to show films at Hogwarts, Mr Filch?’ she asked, but Filch looked blankly uncomprehending, so she set off up the stairs to her room.