Pairing: Pince/Hermione.

Rating: G.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Hermione falls asleep in the library--a not uncommon occurrence. But Irma Pince discovers her there, and the events that follow are uncommon indeed.

Sunlight flooded the ancient stone corridors and classrooms of Hogwarts. It was early summer. Wallflowers and roses nodded their heads in the heat, and released their sweet scent into the air. The perfume drifted and curled round the doors and halls and stairs, winding its way through silent corridors until it reached the library. There, a girl was asleep, her head resting on an open book and her hand loosely grasping a quill. A small pool of ink lay on her sheet of parchment, where she had touched quill-tip to paper intending to write, but had found her eyes sliding closed instead. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, far too hot for this weather.

Irma Pince slid her cool fingers under Hermione's hair and gently swept it away from her neck, letting it rest instead on her shoulders. The skin underneath was pale and glistened unhealthily. She sighed and looked down at the girl in front of her. Irma knew that she should go back to her desk, get on with her work and forget about Hermione Granger. But she didn't.

The room was still and quiet, just the way that Irma liked it. The light spilled in through the tall windows, making bars of light and shade on the floor. The new tables gleamed and the new books were in perfect order on the shelves, not to be disturbed now until the children came back in the autumn. She'd known that Hermione would be here, as she had been nearly every day for all of her years at Hogwarts, sitting at the last space on the far table. She was shaken from her thoughts by a movement under her fingers, where they lay buried in Hermione's hair. The girl was staring up at her in surprise, half turned in her chair.

'Madame Pince,' she said, swallowing nervously.

Irma withdrew her hand and stepped away.

'You fell asleep, my dear. It really is so hot in here, I'm hardly surprised,' she said. 'Don't you want to be in the grounds with your friends today, celebrating?'

It was the last day of term. The books in the restricted section rustled their pages briefly, breaking the heavy silence. Hermione sat up and looked away, her eyes dull.

'Not today, no. I don't really feel like it.'

Often in the last year, Irma had seen her in the library, just sitting, head resting on one hand, idly flipping over the pages of a book. She was obviously not reading, and her eyes would have an unfocused look to them. Her fingers would run absently over the fresh bindings and bright leather covers, new enough to still be deeply patterned with the lines and whorls of dried skin. She looked like she was remembering. Irma would look at her and frown, but she never went over to talk to her.

A few old books had survived. She remembered asking Hermione if she'd like to help unpack the new ones, when they arrived. The girl had agreed, and they'd spent an afternoon together, exchanging a few awkward words. That had been the last time that they'd spoken at all, other than over the library counter.

Before that, before Voldemort, Irma reminded herself, Hermione would come and sit at her desk, often uninvited. Irma couldn't remember ever letting a pupil do that, or wanting them to. The conversation always consisted of books, and nothing else. Irma would nod and talk and notice how Hermione's eyes would linger on hers an instant too long, and how Hermione's gaze sometimes fixed on her lips as Irma talked.

There was a pleading in her eyes that Irma had seen before, a long time ago, she had to admit, when her skin had been smoother and her temper less well used. Schoolgirl crushes were not new, beginning with her own when she was Hermione's age. Professor Campbell had been tall and straight-backed, with lush black hair that on holidays and weekends she let hang down her back like a flag. It had shimmered blue-black in the light and Irma followed her around, had longed to push her fingers into it, imagining how it would spill over her fingers like paint, and would be cool to the touch yet warm underneath, where it touched the skin.

Hermione never came to talk to her anymore, not since the battle for Hogwarts.

'They're never coming back, are they?' Hermione whispered, hanging her head and clasping her thin hands together on the desk top, her fingers twisting painfully together.

Irma closed her eyes for a second, seeing the thick blue-white smoke rising above the library roof, and the shouts and screams of the injured and dying, and of her burning lungs as she desperately tried to gather her books to safety.

'No,' she said, shortly. She tasted bitter anger and smoke. Her throat ached with it.

'I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't see you again, probably,' Hermione said quietly, sitting up straight now.

'No, perhaps not.' Irma said. She paused and laid a hand gently on Hermione's shoulder. 'Hermione....'

With a noise like tearing paper, Hermione shoved her chair back and stood up, and turning round she flung herself into Irma's arms, sobbing and shuddering. Irma almost stumbled backwards with the force of the embrace, and awkwardly put her arms round the slender figure that was pressed against her so desperately.

'Hermione,' she murmured, her hands fluttering like birds on Hermione's back, unable to find a safe place to land. Hermione clung tighter, and Irma pressed her eyes shut as hot breath gusted against her neck. Hermione smelled of ink and paper, the smell of a school.

Irma gently stroked Hermione's back, soothing her with meaningless words, until Hermione stopped shaking. She pushed Hermione gently away and stepped back, her heart beating fast.

'We all did what we could, Hermione. Everyone had to make sacrifices.' She gestured vaguely at the shelves that held the new books. 'You'll understand one day. It'll get easier.' There was a silence as Hermione looked up, wiping her eyes and frowning.

'Understand it?' She sounded puzzled. 'I understand it already,' Hermione said, desperately, 'but it doesn't make it any easier. How can it? They're gone, my friends. I loved them, more than all the books in this room.' Her face suddenly contorted with anger. 'I don't think you understand that, stuck in here with your precious books everyday. You tried to save them, not us,' she said her voice rising, 'I know, I remember. I saw you.'

'Hermione!' Irma gasped, shock blooming in her stomach as she watched Hermione's pale hands curl into fists. Hermione's eyes flashed with anger as she backed away, the bright sun glistening on her tears. Turning, she snatched up her things from the table and ran. The door banged shut, echoing in the empty room. Irma shivered: she'd always hated it when the door banged, had always resented the children for letting it slam. She stood still, frozen, listening to the echo of steps retreating down the hall. Eventually they were gone, and there was no other sound.

She sat down in the nearest chair, her knees shaking, and put her hand to her mouth. The worst of it was, Hermione was right. She knew that. Her books, better known to her than her pupils. Her books had been destroyed, and she'd wept scalding tears over them. They were irreplaceable.

Like the children.

She got up and walked over to the windows. On the grass far below she could see the small group, all the years together, sitting on the grass eating a picnic. Laughter and shouting floated up to her. A surprisingly small number of children, for a school. She put her hand to her mouth as the tears came; they spilled down her cheeks, soaking the neck of her robes. The silence enfolded her; even the restricted section had stopped rustling now. Turning away from the window, she dried her tears. Her heels tapped quickly across the floor, and then the door banged shut for the second time that day. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and the footsteps faded down the corridor. The library was empty.