Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Most of the things you recognise belong to J. K. Rowling. No money is being made. Whatever you recognise and does not belong to J. K. Rowling (quotations, references etc), has probably been deliberately burrowed from known fiction writers (to whom I say thank you and tries to credit in my footnotes). The rest is probably mine.

I wish to thank for several people who had been working with me on the story- Sean Roberts, Crooked Cat, Seraphina Snape and Abby Jaggers for beta-reading at this stage or another- my beloved Doly, for reading, commenting, inspiring me, and being of great assistance, and especially to Azazello, my wonderful beta- we should all be blessed to have a beta of her capability and dedication.

-The story\'s title, is a line taken from T. S. Eliot\'s poem, \"The Burial of the Dead\".

Prologue


\"A man doesn\'t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn\'t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.\"

-- A Man in His Life, Yehuda Amichai.


Hermione Granger’s naked body was sprawled across the dewy grass, not far away from the Owlery. Dew encrusted her skin, glowing from her thick, tangled hair, shining in her long, pale eyelashes. Congealed blood was smeared on her thighs, and a scarlet ribbon of blood also trickled down from the corner of her mouth. Her body, cream-white against the grass, was cold and damp. She was a stain of obsession – white nothingness upon the grim, wavering sea of grass. Her bruised lips wore the bluish hue of death. Above her the owls were slowly retreating into the Owlery, beaks stained with blood after catching their night’s prey. Hogwarts lawns were quiet, disturbed only by the low hum of morning.

The sound of approaching footsteps fractured the crystalline silence. It was an old, purple-clad wizard, who walked into the scene, his white beard cascading down his chest, his usually silver-blue eyes darkened with worry. Albus Dumbledore kneeled by thillhilling body of his student. Carefully he took her left hand, still clutched around an object, and released her hold of the thing. A time-turner. The girl’s final project consumed so much of her time that Minerva had applied to the Ministry with a request to grant her brightest student a time-turner. An irony, indeed.

Albus Dumbledore removed his cloak, spreading it over the naked girl. Then, with a flick of his wand, he summoned a stretcher, moving Hermione onto it. The poor child.

Several minutes afterwards both the old man and the young girl were gone from sight, unseen by anyone but the owls who were hurrying back into the darkness of the Owlery.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was startled by the sight of the thin, haunted figure, which seemed to sneak into his office. He looked at her, sighed, and, adjusting his glasses, offered Hermione Granger a seat. The girl was excruciatingly pale, but it wasn’t the pallor of the fair skinned, but of those who were slowly dissolving: one raw pigment after another, loosening from the thick, gluey connector that was holding them together, and fading away. She wasn’t whole. No whole person could walk out on him, thought Dumbledore. “Please, have a seat, Miss. Granger,” he offered kindly, “and perhaps a Lemon Drop?”

“No thank you, Headmaster.”

He breathed deeply. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

Her face twisted. Bare agony. Bitter laughter. Then she moistened her lips and looked at him. “I’m fine, Headmaster, really. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” A courteous, sad smile was somehow wavering along her face, like a mask of composed feelings.

“Of course, Hermione.”

“Well,” she reconsidered, “there’s another thing I wanted to ask you.”

He lifted his eyebrow. “Please ask, Hermione.”

“Did you know?”

Dumbledore chose his words carefully. “I knew… something. A long time ago, when Professor Snape came to me to confess of his… former activities, he told me of a girl he raped. A girl he never knew before, who sobbed his name and told him that he was forgiven. It seemed to be the last provocation for him. That girl had made him come to me.”

Hermione gaped, holding back the tears that threatened to pour down her face. “Does he know… it was me?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I hardly think so. He told me he couldn’t make out your face.”

“Were you expecting me…? Near the Owlery…?”

“The Hogwarts staff have been looking for you ever since you went missing.”

“So… they know?”

“Only Poppy, Minerva, and myself,” Dumbledore answered. “The rest have only been told you were found.”

“Right. I’m… Headmaster,” she coughed. “Can I please have a glass of water?”

“Of course, dear.”

She grasped the glass he conjured with both of her hands, sipping slowly, carefully. Then she set the glass on the table and turned to look at him. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Once again, she managed to surprise him.

“Yes. I don’t think I can go on… like that. Facing him. Facing… this situation. Voldemort.” She shuddered as the name brought up the memory of the creature’s inhuman, snake-like face. “It\'s just… I need to be gone. I’m sorry. I need to leave the Wizarding World, and now that I’m physically capable… there’s no reason for me to stay any longer.\"

“What about your friends…? Your studies…?”

“Maybe you can…” She moistened her lips once more. “I don’t know… let a rumour spread… that I was attacked by Death Eaters or something…”

He watched her severely. “This is not the Hermione Granger I used to know.”

Hermione agreed. “No, it’s not, Headmaster. You don’t know what it’s like… or you would never expect me… to be… her.”

“Why don’t you tell me then? I have often found that talking about the things that disturb you usually help with one’s unburdening.”

“No,” she shook her head, with an odd determination. “It might sound like a paradox but the memory is the only thing I have left for myself. Of myself. It’s as much privacy I‘m ever going to achieve in my own body. So no, I don’t wish to talk about that.”

“I see.”

“So… would you give me your permission to…?”

“Would you stay if I didn’t?”

“No,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t. Would you give me your blessing then?”

“I would wish you luck. And happiness. Is there any help I can offer?”

Her eyes, large and sorrowful, clung to his. “Yes. Would you please make sure they don’t know? I don’t want anybody to come after me.”

“Yes, Miss. Granger. I will.”

She was solemn. “Thank you, Headmaster. For everything”

“You’re welcome, Hermione. Your secret is safe with me.”