Chapter Text
“She could hear her hair growing. It sounded like something crumbling. A burnt thing crumbling. Coal. Toast. Moths crisped on a light bulb. She remembered reading somewhere that even after people died, their hair and nails kept growing. Like starlight, travelling through the universe long after the stars themselves had died. Like cities. Fizzy, effervescent, simulating the illusion of life while the planet they had plundered died around them.” — Arundhati Roy, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, Chapter 8.
Ever since her return to Hogwarts, Hermione hadn't been able to sleep properly. Truth be told, she hadn't been able to sleep properly for a while now, though she'd never admit to it. It had been foolish of her to think that a week in what had been her second home for the past 8 years would manage to fix her destroyed sleeping schedule.
As an only child, she had been used to sleeping on her own at a young age, though loving, night owls for parents didn't equate to the right to sleep with them for long apart from the rare occasions — sickness or nightmares, mostly.
Then the Gryffindor dormitories made her long for that privacy: at twelve, soon after she arrived, she had been happy — some could even say giddy — to share her sleeping space with girls her age, dreaming of nights in which they could whisper jokes and secrets to each other, dreaming of a sisterhood; but she quickly realised that it wouldn't be her reality. Instead she was met with arguments with her roommates more often than not, dreaming then for her noiseless bedroom back in Hampstead where she could pour her heart into her studies without a care for the outside world. Holidays spent at the Burrow when she grew older were never noiseless, but she always enjoyed the nights she spent in the room Ginny welcomed her in, allowing herself to savour the realisation of her childhood dreams, if only for a few weeks. The war had accustomed her with sleeping with one eye open at all times, though while knowing that she was never alone; it was tiring most times, to share her space with Harry and Ron while on the run, the bickering between the three of them incessant as they each took turns driving themselves mad with the Horcrux, arguing about when to move, where, when they'd get provisions, what best step to take next, etc. But that anxiety could settle while knowing that two of the most important people in her life were bunking right next to her every night, knowing that they'd be safer arguing together than apart. Anxiety wouldn't quite leave her when Ron left in a rage without a word about when he'd come back, if he would come back.
Perhaps it was that same Lady Anxiety that plagued her up until now.
At almost 19, Hermione had spent more years sleeping on her own than next to someone, yet now she wasn't able to stand it anymore. Her private room in the Eighth Year tower felt too small, yet too big, suffocating; no snores or soft breaths or tossing and turning to be heard — no noise to reassure her in the dead of the night that her best friend and the boy she thought she loved were still alive. No one to wake her up from another nightmare; yet, reassuringly, no one to hear her waking up in screams with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her only companions through these nights were her own ragged breaths and demons lurking in the corner of her mind, reminding her of what could've been, what should've been, what she had lost and couldn't protect. Reminding her that the Brightest Witch of Her Age, was nothing more than a too young girl who knew she should've done better if she didn't want to be haunted by regrets. Perhaps she deserved not being able to rest peacefully for the rest of her life; she surely felt like she deserved suffering on her own.
She had thought she would die while helping Harry. Selfishly, she now thought it might've been a kinder ending than having to live with her actions. Or her lack therefore of. She was supposed to have done better, saved more people.
If there was one thing Hermione was glad about, it was her refusal of being Head Girl. What was once supposed to be the pinnacle of her years at Hogwarts, now seemed meaningless and bothersome once offered to her on a silver platter; she didn't want — deserve — the responsibility that came with the title she longed for since she first read Hogwarts: A History. No, now, she could allow herself to go down of her tower barely before her classes if she wanted to — though she rarely did, preferring to escape the tower at the crack of dawn —, most times skipping a detour to the Great Hall for a fruit as she rushed to start her meticulously planned days. Wallowing in sorrows didn't allow one to be late, especially if one was Hermione Granger. She glamoured her face, hiding the dark circles, paste on what she hoped was a quiet smile and kind eyes, strode up and down the stairs, across halls to her next destination without a word to be uttered, lest talked to.
She was doing fine after the war and everyone presently around her could see it, though maybe she was quieter, less prone to debates or reminders about rules when no one ever asked for her opinion. Maybe she just hadn't had the time to pester them about those as the term had barely begun. She didn't really feel like being asked about anything, truth be told. Her schedule was airtight and the NEWTs her priority, only Outstanding results would be tolerable for her. It was the last thing she clung to. She often recited her new schedule in her thoughts, willing her brain to imprint it as easily as it usually did.
On Mondays, Transfiguration and Arithmancy in the morning, Defence Against the Dark Arts in the afternoon; on Tuesdays, Charms and Ancient Runes, then Potions and Herbology; on Wednesdays, a double-block of Advanced Arithmancy, then one of Advanced Potions, sometimes Astronomy in the evening; on Thursdays, another double-block of four hours this time allotted to Advanced Ancient Rune then two hours of Advanced DADA on the afternoons; on Fridays, a double-block of Advanced Transfiguration, then Advanced Charms for two hours. Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays allotted her a time of independent studies in the afternoons. Astronomy would only rarely disrupt her weekly planning for a special occasion that would force her to spend an extra night in her week in the west-wing tower, analysing the stars. She would run a tight ship, planned on spending more time secluded in the library than anyone else — even more than Madam Pince if she could help it—, and she would be fine. Scratch that, she was fine, truly. Yes, the double blocks lasting four hours longs of most of her Advanced classed had been excruciating the first week. No, she couldn't understand why the DADA and Charms Advanced classes were only two hours long. Yes, she was secretly glad about it. No, she wasn't secretly mad at Ginny for switching out of both Advanced Ancient Runes and Advanced Transfiguration for more of the regular classes not even a full week in. Why would she be? Yes, she also wondered why she decided to stick with Herbology when the plants seemed to hate her guts. No, she didn't hate the unpredictability of the Astronomy classes that Professor Sinistra could sprout out on Wednesdays whenever she deemed the sky clear enough. Yes, she had already asked Headmistress McGonagall why their first Advanced DADA class had been cancelled — the new Professor relied on the ongoings of the first regular class to organise the Advanced one, flimsy organisation, if you asked her. No, she didn't know why she even decided to take Advanced DADA when she already had an Order of Merlin: First Class to her name with the galleons that came with it. And no, you absolutely should not ask her about it; or wether she thought she had too many classes; or if she was jealous of Neville's ease in Herbology when he couldn't brew a potion to save his life; or if she was fine. The answer to that was no — she wasn't jealous of Neville, other than that, the answer was: yes. She. Was. Fine.
The only meal she had forced herself to try to attend and socialise in everyday the past week in the Great Hall was at supper, sitting next to Ginny or Neville most times, both of them trying — and failing — to make sure she actually ate instead of picking at her food while reading. Why hadn't she read all of the syllabuses and their required schoolbooks three times over during the summer as she usually did? Because she hadn't expected to be back — or alive for that matters. Her brain answered. Now she felt like she was falling behind on the self-appointed year-long schedule she had thought of. But it was fine. Yet food still seemed too bland to her taste most days now. Like a tasteless lump she was trying to force down her throat. Muggle protein bars she had stacked upon before leaving for Hogwarts were a force to be reckoned with; when she didn't forget to eat them. Hermione never used to forget anything, but outside the realm of what was on her To-Do lists newly plastered above her desk, she seemed to forget a lot now; eating properly was not, in fact, a part of her To-Do lists. Perhaps the fact that every time she entered the Great Hall she could swear she saw the ghost of Fred's cooling corpse laying next to Tonks' and Professor Lupin's ones right by where the Gryffindor table should've been didn't help to build back her appetite. If anyone asked, she just wasn't happy about the fact that the Ministry hadn't freed Hogwarts' house-elves yet and offered them an appropriate wage. Yes, she already had written to Kingsley Shacklebolt — newly appointed Minister of Magic — about it.
Barely a week had passed and Hermione could only be glad for Ginny had finally understood that she was fine. Meals amongst the endless noise of the Great Hall only brought her further indigestion; and the few times she ate and spoke with them at that time, feeling their constant eyes on her plate didn't help much further. Maybe she also stopped asking after Hermione sent her fourth letter to Harry in seven days with a footnote telling him to tell Ginny to quit fussing over her like her mother. Neville did notice she wasn't as eager to answer every questions asked during their classes, but at least he had thought better than to speak more than once about it after she flipped on the poor bloke about wanting to let actualSeventh Year navigate through their year as they should; without The —supposedly— Brightest Witch of Her Age's hands fending through the air every time. And God — Merlin? — help her, Luna was one very lucky witch for Hermione didn't have the heart to argue with her as she asked her everyday if she had finally remembered to put the teabag of verveine — verbena as the blonde called it — under her pillow at night. Apparently, her lack of sleep was all due to the "oozlum" nesting in her hair. She neither wanted to discuss the potential existence of said invisible oozlum nor the fact that her lack of sleep was most probably due to the fact that everytime she managed to slumber for a few hours she woke up in cold sweat; either to check if Harry, Ron and Ginny were still alive and sleeping around her after a nightmare where she had seen them die, or haunted by the ghosts of the actual dead that reproached her to have let them die on purpose. She hadn't tried hard enough to save them. She should have been able to figure out what were the last Horcrux earlier on. She should have understood earlier what needed to be done for Voldemort to be killed. She should have prepared Harry mentally, warn him as soon as she figured it out. She shouldn't have betrayed Ron during their Sixth Year. But was it really a betrayal if he had been the first to put her aside? She deserved to stew in the guilt of having the other half of her secret now buried six feet under. Perhaps Ron already knew and it was why he only had answered one of the five letters she had sent him. Perhaps all her letters to Harry and Ron were overkill — no pun intended.
She deserved to start at every sound she thought she heard once night fell. Most nights only allowed her a few hours of fitful, restless sleep before she woke up sweating profusely. Every night she heard at some point padded steps attempting to discreetly go down the stairs of their dorms to the Common Room, pausing, then retreating back up.
The only thing that now mattered was for Hermione Granger to focus on her classes and get Outstanding marks on every assignment she had. It was what was expected of her. So, it was what she would do. She couldn't afford to disappoint others any longer. Not when some had died so she could live.
Tempus. She cast wordlessly.
6:12 in the morning.
She had spent the last forty-ish minutes lost in her own thoughts, book long forgotten on her lap. She was now late on her self-imposed schedule. She quickly gathered what was left of her wits and things and ran up the stairs up to the second floor of the dormitories, only catching a glimpse of a flash of blond hair retreating behind a now closed door as she flung her own door open. She threw her unread book on the cold sheets of her bed and scrambled to grab pieces of her uniform from her spilling trunk next to her even messier desk. Collared white Oxford shirt, grey jumper, black pleated skirt, knee-high grey stockings, knee-length black robes for the day — though foggy, as every morning in the Scottish highlands was, it didn't look like it'd rain today — and her low heels, rounded toes Mary Jane shoes. She couldn't find her tie that still sported her house colours. Fine. Black tie for the day. Right. Towel, mango bodywash today, no time for shampoo this morning. Wand, of course her wand, always her wand. Although it had only technically been her wand for a few months now. Although it had been the wand for longer than she had lived to a witch that tried and failed to kill her. A witch that was dead. A wand that still seemed to obey the dead and resist the living whenever she thought she had finally made it her own. Maybe it knew it now belonged to a witch that its former owner branded with a slur on her arm. Maybe it knew that it had never been truly earned by the witch it now supposedly belonged to. After all, it had been given to her by Harry after Ron disarmed Bellatrix. Molly was the one who killed her. She hadn't done anything to deserve the wand unless writhing in agony on the floor as its owner attempted to torture you counted for something. And she probably didn't have the time to ponder on the semantics of wand ownership right now.
"Tempus."
6:37 in the morning.
She cursed under her breath as she ran towards the common bathroom at the end of the corridor, swearing — and lying — to herself that tonight would be the night she properly rearranged her bedroom. Why hadn't she done it during the weekend? She made sure not to look at herself in the mirror as she went inside the first empty stall she saw. Well, truth be told, considering the time, it was most likely that every stall was empty. Although it was odd that the bathroom was already steaming uncomfortably with the remnant fog of a scalding shower.
Everything felt off its course and she tried her very hardest not to curse herself by thinking that this was about to be a very long and excruciating day.
The fact that she struggled to find her Defence Against the Dark Arts school book and the handle of her satchel threatened to snap off twice before she passed through the threshold of the Great Hall still felt like a sign.
Okay, maybe Hermione was indeed, slightly, mad at Ginny for dropping Advanced Ancient Runes and Advanced Transfiguration. But no, it had nothing to do with Harry's letter she received this morning. Though the words still spiralled in her head as she walked with her towards their shared Transfiguration classroom.
I almost wish I could take the classes with you Hermione, it sure feels like it'd help with some of the stuff we have to work with. You know Gin only dropped them because she wants to focus on Quidditch this year as the team's captain. At least you won't need to help with her homework and we both know that your friendship might not have survived your colour-coded schedules for study-time if she took the Advanced classes with you! Pretty sure I'll still have nightmares about them for years to come. I know Ron still have them, but maybe it's because he's training with an Auror that insists on working with a system that feels way too similar for comfort.
Her colour-coded schedules was what allowed them both to pass their O.W.L.s and they both knew it. If anything they should be grateful she had taken the time to make them at all. Ungrateful arses the two of them.
I found a tea set that you might like. Sent it over with your favourite tea! Sorry if Pig destroyed them before they could get to you, didn't have time to buy bubble wrap. By the way, just a quick reminder, but please remember you can't live off of tea and chocolate bars. I can't even eat them anymore without thinking about the tent, don't know how you do it. Please don't tell Ginny off for telling me about it, I told her I wouldn't say anything but she's worried about you and I know you didn't put back on much weight during the summer before we saw you off. Your brain can't work at full capacity if you let it survive off Muggle snack bars for another year!
She should shove her Cadbury's Dairy Milk snack bars up Ginny's ar—
PS: I told Ron to write you back but I don't know if he has yet. He's well though, don't worry! Just proper knackered with all the training we have to do, you know he's never been great at remembering to answer letters.
Maybe she was more mad with Ron than she was with Ginny. Maybe she just wanted to take it out on the closest Weasley she had at hand. Maybe she was more mad at herself out of guilt than she was with the two of them.
PPS: Didn't really wanna ask but are you and Ron together? You've both been really vague about it all summer and even now, I don't really know what to make of it. Not that it's important! I know your N.E.W.T.s the most important thing right now. As it should be! Though you don't need to worry, you could pass them right now and I know you'd only get O's. Also, don't be mad please, but I don't think we'll be able to meet in Hogsmeade next weekend for your birthday, there's a planned field training next week and I'm not sure we'll be able to get out of it before the 19th. We'll see you Saturday 26th for sure though! Can't miss your birthday month entirely!
Love you, crash them with your brain!
Harry.
Maybe she wouldn't answer that letter as fast as she did the others. Maybe she still very much had a problem with giving others the silent treatment when she was mad at them. She surely felt like she was mad at Harry for missing her birthday when he had found the time to plan a date with Ginny the upcoming weekend. And Ron, she was mad at Ron too of course; but she couldn't possibly give the silent treatment to someone who was already giving it to her. And Ron had always been better at it than her; she had practically learned it from him. He surely hated her for not officialising their relationship before the term. Maybe he knew. Perhaps it was why he hadn't told Harry they weren't together. Not that she truly wanted to be in a relationship right now; she wanted to focus on her studies. That was it. She would accept to be in a couple once she had her N.E.W.T.s, no other reason at all. No guilt-related reason in sight. No resentful-reason either. Or because-she-wasn't-sure-if-she-even-loved-him reason. Merlin knew how much she secretly regretted kissing him. Deep, deep down.
Hermione shook her head to empty her thoughts as they reached the Transfiguration classroom and she attempted to pretend that she had been very involved in Ginny and Seamus conversation about... She strained her ears to listen to them.
"Come on, you know we'll never be able to find a Seeker as good as Harry was! Which is why we need to recruit the best Keeper we can get."
"'Parently there's a Fifth Year who's darn good on a broom with a wicked eye for Quaffles! Lemme drop by the Common Room tonight to have a talk with 'im, sure I can convince him to try out."
"Seamus," deadpanned Ginny, "I could bet you three galleons that if you had a talk with him you'd put him off Quidditch for the rest of his life, the only reason I'm not willing to take that bet is because I know Gabriel and he's already told me he'd try out for the position."
Ah. Quidditch. No wonder they had let her in her own thoughts the whole walk there. The classroom had no business being so far away from the Great Hall when it was their first class in the morning. But also if anyone asked her — and clearly no one did —, Seamus Finnigan, though very funny and capable, had no business being in a NEWT-level Transfiguration's classroom, Advanced or not. She could still remember the explosion he had caused when they were learning to transfigure a bowling ball into a balloon in Sixth Year. She could only imagine the ruckus he would make when it would be time for them to transfigure a tortoise into a trumpet. Though she did wonder how useful it was for one to turn any animal into any instrument — but alas, something else that no consulted her about. At least, she was certain that Seamus was glad now-Headmistress McGonagall only taught Advanced classes due to her restricted schedule. From what Ginny had heard in the Gryffindor Common Room, their new professor, Electa Shrew, wasn't half as shrewd as her last name let one assume and way more lenient on assignments' length. If one could drop a regular class without having to drop its advanced counterpart, Hermione would have bolted out of this one after hearing this. Yes, her parchment were always double the minimum length when it came to Transfiguration, and yes, she also always suffered greatly while writing them. But McGonagall was one of the few professors who had never complained about the length of her essays; gave her additional references whenever asked; praised her on the quality of her work. Maybe she'd complain to McGonagall directly if this new Professor chastised her about the length of her essays the ways Snape had. Thankfully, she didn't have time to dwell on potential thoughts about her late Potions Professor as she sat next to Ginny.
Her only grace was that this class was now shared between Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs Seventh and Eighth Years students; at last they had understood that to properly learn, this was one class the lions shouldn't share with Slytherins. Small graces, small graces.
Of course, Hermione had spoken — thought — too soon about what a grace it was not to share a class combined with Slytherins. While Arithmancy had so few students all Houses had to be mixed in one class — and thankfully, no one mindlessly chose to take Arithmancy, Advanced or not —, their regular Defence Against the Dark Arts class was one they had discovered to be combined with Slytherins. And Ravenclaws. And Hufflepuffs as well. Perhaps starting classes back on Wednesdays had been the true — only — small grace given to the young woman. Or, was it the fact that she had only been able to attend Advanced classes? Filled with students who actually cared about learning the subjects they chose themselves, preventing unnecessary squabbles due to the difficulty of the course? Although she was still a firm believer that Divination was a load of rubbish, she couldn't help but let a small — the tiny, tiniest really — part of her brain think that the Universe truly had sent her signs throughout her day to warn her of the headache that would be her DADA class. Maybe she should blame the Professor for cancelling their Advanced Defence class last week, leaving her unprepared for what was to come today. Not that she could have guessed it anyway.
Not being able to get a wink of sleep the past night. Getting lost in her thoughts to the point she was late to her showers. Struggling to cast a proper glamour on her face, wand uncooperative, as if she was back in Fourth Year, having to ask her roommates how they so effortlessly cast Witch Weekly's charms to improve their appearances. Being unable to find her lucky House-coloured tie. Struggling to find her schoolbook. Her satchel threatening to break twice in the morning — and four more times through the day. Being late to breakfast and having to sit through the ambiant mess of a noise the Great Hall was in the morning. Truly, how they had so much energy to chatter away so early in the morning was beyond her.Harry's letter. Ron's non-existant letter. A Professor that made them go back to the middle of the Sixth Year syllabus — yes, it was fair to those that had spent it under Snape's administration, but she had managed to get Outstanding marks in every single essays she gave during her Sixth Year, thank you very much. And finally, the pinnacle of her awful day, the mess that it was having to witness everyone's fired up spirits in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Truth be told, maybe she truly wasn't paying as much attention in class — or outside of it for what it mattered — as Neville had only dared to point out once. Otherwise, she would have noticed the tension that had found its way in the hearts of most students in the castle and would have expected this outcome as she learned that this lecture would only be shared by Eighth Years students. From all Houses. Together. So much for their current shared password of unity.
Their new Professor was a French Doctor with a PHD on Dark Arts Theory, Ominis Faucher. A too-young Doctor that while she didn't doubt was very knowledgable, clearly had no implication with the war that had raged in Wizarding Britain, be it on the Light or Dark sides. What had surely started as a logical idea to test their own knowledge in the matter, delved in an absolute mess of shoutings and a tad too-powerful for class material hexes between students that still held grudges against each other. Again, if she had paid attention the past few days, she wouldn't have expected for it to only be aimed at Slytherins.
Frankly, she hadn't paid attention to the snakes representatives amongst the Eighth Years. She was vaguely aware that only Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott had returned. She was very much aware that Zabini had fled to Italy with his mother during the war. She had been present for Goyle, Malfoy, Nott and Parkinson's trials. Even testified herself for Malfoy along with Harry and surprisingly at the time, Neville, Seamus and Hannah Abbott; the three of them had also testified for Nott. And so, she was aware that Parkinson was the only Slytherin actually forced to come back to Hogwarts on probation. Hogwarts and one year of house arrest afterwards, or Azkaban for five years for her actions during the war and willingly trying to deliver Harry to Voldemort during their last battle; of course it wasn't much of a choice.
Attendance at their trials had allowed Hermione to know everything they had gotten up to while she had been living in a tent with The Boy Who Lived — Again. Unfortunately, her brain seemed fuzzy whenever she tried to recall everything in details, which wasn't something she had ever had a problem with. She could account it to the adrenaline still coursing through her body the whole month after the battle; to the messed up sleeping schedule as she packed and unpacked a tent, apparition after apparition across the country for a year; the lack of nutritious food during extended period of times as they racked their brain to find out how to know what the remaining Horcrux were, where to find them, how to destroy them, then trying to steer off Harry from focusing only on the Elder Wand; the fear, the exhaustion, the losses she had to endure. Malnutrition. Paranoia. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder inducing Depression. Insomnia and its friend Sleep Deprivation. The labels had been thrown at her by Mind Healers who didn't quite know what to do with the generation of child soldiers now on their hands. Hermione hadn't been in the worst shape amongst all of them, she would be fine. It wasn't quite literally what they had said, but she knew that now that it was over, she would be fine, no Golden Girl truly needed therapy from unqualified practitioners throwing addicting Sleeping Draughts or Dreamless Sleep potions and a diet at what was supposed to be the best brain of her generation. Clearly, they were only trying to put her in a case and diminish her chance of getting back to a normal life. She hadn't let them. Even if months later, she realised that indeed, most of her memories of the past year were as foggy as the atmosphere surrounding the Scottish Highlands on this particular day. Some bits seemed mismatched, entire weeks gone from her mind, as if she had been cursed with an half-arsed Obliviate spell. She wondered if it was how her parents felt when they thought about the last 18 years of their life. No. She had been very thorough with her spell.
Her brain would work just as fine as it always had once she found a way to get some proper rest, everyone knew that all of this could be caused by a lack of proper sleep. The brain needed rest just like the body needed food to function. Well, she'd focus on one problem at the time. Snack bars were enough for now, thank you very much. Malnourished my arse.These bars along with canned tins nicked at Tesco's across the country had helped her — and Harry, you know, the guy who actually put an end to the war — survive a war, they would manage to get her through a last year at Hogwarts, thank you very much.
Still, her presence at the trials — and living through some of the recounted events — allowed her to know for a fact Malfoy made sure not to say that he recognised them back at his Manor. She had heard at his trials Neville, Seamus and Hannah claim that he had given them information about the Carrows' lessons — if it could be called as such — plans whenever he could; information about Death Eaters raids that were then shared to the Order; reports about missing but alive people that were shared through Potterwatch, hosted by Lee Jordan. She could still remember Fred's voice as he talked through the radio at times. He had made sure to always only pretend to use the Cruciatus against fellow students, also suffered the Carrows blows when they realised he couldn't actually cast it. Malfoy had fought at Dumbledore's Army sides during the last battle. Tried to protect those he could by following Crabbe and Goyle and interfering with their spells. These were facts, recognised by the Ministry under Shacklebolt, she knew of it.
Nott had tried to flee with the Zabinis but had been stopped by his father, still underaged, watched by Death Eaters. He didn't have a choice but to be throw back at Hogwarts. Though not as involved as Malfoy, at least he wasn't involved with both sides; refusing early on to even as much as attempt to pretend to curse his fellow students. He had suffered much more than his Slytherin friend who had to pretend to be on the Dark side at the castle, taking refuge in the Room of Requirements at times. He had also fought alongside Seamus during the last battle. Facts, recognised by the Ministry. She knew of it. Knew it was true. Had heard it in details now forgotten. But she was very much aware of these facts.
While Pansy Parkinson hadn't been aware of her friends semi-deflection, of Malfoy working as somewhat of a double agent, she apparently had never been able to throw a proper Unforgivable Curse at anyone. It didn't mean she hadn't willingly hexed students when asked to. Nor that she had been forced to try and throw Harry to the wolves. But it did mean that her faults were under a time of duress, in which she was still underage. She had never taken the Dark Mark. Her faults were those of a girl forced to turn woman too soon, with expectations she believed she had no choice but to obey to. Her choices weren't merely as grave as others who enjoyed the power given to them by the Carrows. She had still suffered from their wrath due to her perceived incompetency in their eyes. She had been graced with a lighter judgement than Goyle. What he had done during the occupation of the castle was unforgivable. Unspeakable. He had used Avada Kedavra willingly. These were facts she was glad she knew about. Some she was glad her fuzzy brain had forced her to already forget.
What she hadn't been aware of was the very well-known fact that the Prophet hadn't publicly shared all the informations she knew to be true. They had told the Wizarding World that Malfoy and Nott had helped the Order, partially recounting their trials; not going in depth enough for people to know they had tried their hardest to redeem themselves when it was most dangerous for them to do so. They hadn't been on probation, or forced to return to Hogwarts, only very much encouraged to do so. Scared that defending sons of Death Eaters, with one marked who had been the reason they could take the castle in the first place, would turn the population against their paper further more as they tried to turn a new leaf, the Prophet hadn't shared the most important details. They had spilled more than reasonable ink on Narcissa Malfoy and her year house arrest though; even more on Lucius Malfoy who would serve life in Azkaban alongside who everyone believed to be Malfoy's best friend, Goyle. The Daily Prophet had tried their hardest to rebuild their reputation.
And so, only the few that had stayed at Hogwarts and were old enough — involved enough — to know in details the intricacies of the war where grey areas existed, could know that the fact that they weren't in Azkaban was very much justified. Or those that had decided to attend the trials.
Evidently, Zacharias Smith was someone who had neither been involved with Dumbledore's Army, or the Order, during the war, nor had he tried to get his facts straight before coming back. Abbott however, was very much aware of what he had done and especially hadn't done and apparently, she had been holding a grudge ever since. Loyalty was, after all, supposed to be one of the most important traits defining Hufflepuffs.
Honestly, Professor Faucher's proposal to do amicable Houses' duels to test their level had seemed sensible to Hermione, safe even, considering the shared history of conflict between the Houses. She had been blindsided by her own blindness to what surrounded her the past few days, certainly more than even their new Professor had been; which was absolutely inacceptable of her. Zacharias did start it all with his snide remarks he barely tried to conceal.
"Not like we can't hex these snakes whenever we want outside of here anyway. No way McGonagall would tell us anything considering what they've done." The sneer on his face in what she assumed tried to be the Slytherin trademark sneer was far too unnatural on him for his own good.
Probably wanting to take the aforementioned Slytherins out of their misery by taking the attention off them for the rest of the class, the Defence Professor decided to make them go first. The schedule for their two-hour class had been clear and seemed pragmatic; Malfoy and Zabini first, Nott and Parkinson afterwards; then Ravenclaws' Anthony Goldstein against Terry Boot, Michael Connor and Padma Patil then — she could've bet on Padma winning easily —, and then he'd choose who would face Lisa Turpin after seeing them face each other; Ernest Macmillan and Hannah Abbott for the first Hufflepuff duel, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Zacharias Smith for the second, whoever would lose between Ernie and Hannah would face Susans Bones for the third one; finally, Dean against Parvati Patil, Seamus and Hermione, with the last duel being between herself and Neville. Each duel should last 5 minutes maximum, with the aim being only to disarm or incapacitate their opponents most creatively, no maiming. A break between each duel to comment on each duo's techniques.
It had seemed like quite the sound plan. Their professor had clearly been made aware of each of their skillset before and during the war, taking into account the fact that putting Slytherins and Gryffindors back-to-back could potentially create more unnecessary competitiveness. Those that had been forced to flee during the war or hadn't fought being put against opponents that could match their skills. She did feel like it was a bit unfair she was automatically made to duel twice, though not entirely surprising. She certainly wasn't eager to have to be in a room where duels would happen for over an hour, even more put out by the need to have to actually duel herself — she wasn't sure her wand would want to cooperate easily when it was time to throw harmless hexes, too used to the dark curses its previous owner was fond of. Still, she couldn't help but tighten her grip around said wand, knuckles whitening as rapidly as the new trumping rhythm of her heart. Hermione was too uncomfortable for her own good as her body seemed to naturally fill with the adrenaline that had accompanied her in the final battle, protective spell at the ready on the tip of her tongue.
She had been tuning out her classmates too much for her own good, finding herself properly flabbergasted when they ended up not even being able to move past the first duel. She had vaguely heard the spells Malfoy and Zabini threw at each other: Expelliarmus, Protego, Obscuro, Tarantallegra. The sound of their feet loud against the wooden ground in front of the group of Eighth Years Hogwartians as they seemed to predict the other one's move before they made them; circling each other, they duck, casted shields, threw another spell that missed. They knew each other well and it was clear they intended to abide by the rules they had been given: creativity, no maiming. Still, her eyes were casted downwards for a while as she tried to drown out the noises around her, growing more and more uncomfortable as flashes of light still sparkled on the floor. Hermione forced herself to look back up. She couldn't possibly shield herself if one of their spells — though harmless — misfired towards the clutter of students. A flash of too-close-to-white-blond and silver suddenly near them after a well-aimed Flipendo from Zabini. Arresto Momentum. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannah turning sharply towards the snickering that could be heard at the back, the latter's own eyes squinting apprehensively.
A boy's voice shouted at her back. "Diffindo!"
Her eyes widen and she duck slightly. Before she could cast a Protego Totalum as she saw a flash of red run its course past her — definitely initially aimed at Malfoy's back — Hannah's voice rang at her side, wand drawn.
"Depulso!"
A flash of blue. The red fizzling out as it went off course and crashed against the barrier they hadn't known had been cast around Malfoy and Zabini. Said barrier exploded right away. Bodies around her moved abruptly and almost knocked her over as she felt a hand grab forcefully at her arm to pull her upright before she fell, pulling her slightly away from the mess of limbs.
Another man's voice cried out, she could decipher it didn't belong to the one who had cast the initial slicing spell. "What the fuck was that for Abbott?", he sounded out of breath — probably had been pushed by the spell unexpectedly instead of the original Diffindo perpetrator —, "Everte Statum!"
A red flash. Hannah ducked and shouted again, "That was meant for Zacharias you dickhead! Incarcerous!" Parvati that had been pushed at her back in the mess of movement was hit squarely in the chest in her stead, her body lifting through the air before slamming to the ground. Hermione couldn't see who had been hit by Abbott.
"Fuck did I do? Fucking cow, free me!", a man shouted. Padma ran to her twin sister as she shout her name, probably still mindful of not actually maiming anyone, she threw a Body-Bind curse behind her without actually looking back.
"What the fuck Patil?", shrilled Parkinson.
Neville's voice rang right next to her ear, "Stupefy!"
She believed she could decipher the other Gryffindors' men voices shout out, protective of their Housemate laying dazzled next to her sister who asked her if she was okay. "Petrificus Totalus!"
"Oppugno chair!"
A chair hurtled towards someone. Though tongue-tied until now due to shock, Hermione finally cast the shielding charm she had intended to throw as soon as she heard the slicing charm around her and Neville who she finally recognised as the one who had pulled her away.
The rest was a blur of angry cries as students retaliated against each other after they believed the misaimed spells due to the general panic were intentionally targeted towards them. Shield in place, she dropped to the floor as soon as Neville ran towards the Patil twins still on the ground, casting his own shielding charm to protect them from their small group of students now determined to take revenge on whoever they believed had thrown a spell at them. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on calming her ragged breath as her wand hand shook to maintain her spell, much more eager to throw a curse of its own rather than a protective charm. Older images flashed behind her eyelids in time with the spells of the present. Her ears whistled as she tried to block out the bits of shouts around her.
"Finite Incantem!", "Incendio!", "Aguamenti!", "Tarantallegra!", "Never heard of Hufflepuffs' loyalty? Why'd you even try to stop me? Immobulus!" A scoff. "What do you know about loyalty? He actually fought with us while you fled with your tail between your legs! Confundo!", "Stupefy!" The sound of bats wings flying about. "Protego!", "Impendimento! Should read the Prophet instead of gobbling down Death Eater's balls!", "Locomotor Motis!", "You fucking coward you—" Someone retching what she could bet were slugs. "Obscuro!", "Protego!" ,"I wasn't even casting at you!" A punch. "Should be rotting in Azkaban with—", "Confringo!", "Silencio! Don't talk to— like that!", "I'll say whatever I—", "Finite Incantem, Levicorpus!", "You don't even know what the fuck you're tal—", "You absolute cunt! Put me down! 'Was helpin' you!", "Relashio!", "He fucking helped me while you let the Carrows—", "Depulso!", "Like we're supposed to believe that! Stupefy!", "Protego!", "Always knew you wanted to fuck sna—", "Descendo!".
Hermione's eyes flew open, blinded by the flashing lights of misaimed spells that crashed against her still-holding-on-despite-it-all shield. Her vision blurred. Her mind tricked her into believing she was back in another time, another place of the castle.
She heard Crabbe's shout though she couldn't see him, "Descendo!".
Junk tumbled down towards her and she screamed as she ran in the opposite direction, losing Ron in the process before she realised he hadn't followed her. "Protego Maxima!" Books and forgotten trinkets rained against her shield.
"Ron!", Harry bellowed. A few seconds later, "Finite!"
She couldn't hear anything falling to the floor anymore. She ran back towards where she thought she could hear the other men's voices. She tried to make herself more discreet as she turned a corner and stood behind Harry, wand aimed at Crabbe's head, "Stupefy!"
A flash of red angrily flared. Malfoy pulled Crabbe out of the way as the latter shouted, "It's that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green. She dived aside just in time not to be hit, the sound of her still beating heart thumping deafeningly in her ears as Malfoy screamed at Crabbe, "Fucking stop it, don't kill her!"
Her heart thumped as loudly as it had on May 1st as she forced her eyes to refocus on the scene around her, vaguely aware that the shaking she felt came from her own body rocking on the floor. It seemed like Professor Faucher was desperately trying to stop all her classmates at once and miserably failing at it.
A yellow and black tie flickered as a hand tightly wrapped around a wand pointed up. "Duro!" The book-filled shelves crumpled in a mess of stones.
"Protego Totalum!", a man's voice she knew shouted.
"I don't think I've heard you joke since you were—", Fred stopped as his neck snapped towards the whistling sound coming from the hall. His laughing eyes found hers once more, a cheeky smile on his lips as he grabbed her hand to pull her away from the wall, lips moving again to finish his sentence.
The force of the explosion sent her flying and threw her to the ground. One second Fred's warm hand had been holding hers. The next second she was screaming in pain as she laid on the floor, the impact leaving a sharp pain in her left rib. Her mouth tasted like blood. A wordless shielding charm around her flung the flying bits of stone away from her head she protected with both hands, the wood of the wand biting painfully in her right hand from the tightest grasp. She scrambled to get back on her knees, forcing great heaving breaths through her lungs. Stone dust flew into her mouth and made her cough as she struggled to find her footing, trying to stand up. Harry's hand found hers, replacing the warmth she had felt mere seconds ago as he pulled her towards the hole in the wall, stumbling over the splintered bits of stone and wood.
Her heart turned cold, stomach heavy as she recognised right away that the back of the redheads she was seeing kneeled on the ground belonged to Percy and Ron. No. No, no, no, no, not him. Not now. Not before —
"No — no — no! No! Fred! No!", Percy's voice joined hers as she felt her heart crumple to the ground. She let go of Harry's hand. An electrifying shiver ran its course through her entire body. She saw a glimpse of his face in between his brothers bodies. It seemed like his now glassy brown eyes were still staring at her. Cheeky smile etched on his face in glee as if he was about to finish his joke.
She turned around sharply, unable to stand the sight, and her lips opened in a scream that died in her constricted throat. Her eyes met Malfoy's who was looking at her with an horrified expression etched on his face. He was covered in snoot, two cleaner paths had made their way from his eyes to the bottom of his face. His eyes a vibrant shade of blue filled with now unwilling to shed tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Granger." She didn't know if she actually heard his voice or if she imagined it in her head as he mouthed them to her, dragging a shocked Goyle forcefully away from them.
The molten Golden Girl turned back numbly towards the boys and man she had shared her life with, hand shaking uncontrollably around her wand. Maybe it was her whole body. Her eyes widen as she saw one gigantic hairy leg crawl through the wall, her body finally allowed her to scream.
The horrifying screech that Hermione heard didn't register as hers until she felt her stomach twisting unpleasantly. It felt like taking a Portkey for the first time all over again, with the addition of a stabbing pain driving sharply through her ribs. Her throat felt hoarse as if she had let herself scream until her lungs had exhaled every last bit of oxygen they contained, head now dizzy.
A flash of blond and silver swarmed her vision. It was the last thing she registered before tiny black dots filled the surrounding space, her eyes rolling back as she felt her body betraying her, going limp.
She could feel her vocal cords pulled taut, an excruciating scream dying at her lips. Sweat pooled down her back; a feverish heat had spread through her sluggish body. Memories played in fragmented loop behind her eyelids, she couldn't step out of them. She couldn't open her eyes.
The feeling of a cool wet cloth met her burning forehead. Glass met her lips, a bitter earthy and herbal liquid flooded her tastebuds. The drawl of a man's voice lulling her back to numbness sounding more and more distant.
"It's over—."
She was gulping for air, out of breath. Her lungs fired up as she wouldn't allow her feet to falter in their frenzied pace. Branches slapped across her body, causing paper-cuts like trinkets of blood to flow from different places. Her beaded back thumped against her hip with every step forward. The forest seemed to close in on her, Harry's figure a few feet in front of her. She couldn't see Ron. The remnants of spells flew by her, some from Harry, others by snatchers coursing behind her. She tried her best to maintain her shield, throwing stunning charms blindly at her back whenever she felt she was on her line of sight.
A hand suddenly grabbed her arm. A scream escaped her before she realised it was Harry's, Ron holding onto his other arm; the sound of her voice died out in the pull of apparition.
Her body jerked up in a sitting position, brown eyes wild as they frantically looked around her, a wet cloth dropped on her lap. She couldn't feel her wand anywhere on her. A few candles levitated about, barely illuminating the space around her. She felt disorientated, didn't know where shew was, how she got there. She couldn't feel any restraints imposed on her body, if she had been kidnapped, the perpetrator had made the foolish mistake of not tying her down. Her eyes struggled to adapt to the darkness around her. Her breath started to pick up in panic; nor Harry or Ron seemed to be anywhere around. Had they been captured? She had been certain they had been able to apparate away from the snatchers mere moments ago. Her body felt too slow, her brain still hazy and having a hard time processing what had happened to her. She jumped up as she heard footsteps coming towards her, a woman's voice approaching along them.
"Ah Miss Granger, you've finally woken up—"
She interrupted right away, a slurred voice coming out of her hoarse throat, "Where am I? What have you done to my wand? Where's—"
"Miss Granger you are in the hospital wing, calm down, some of your classmates are still asleep."
Hospital wing? Classmates?
The woman's face came into view. It took Hermione's brain a few too many seconds to replace who she was. Madam Pomfrey.
"Please settle back down Miss Granger, I need to run a few more diagnosis before I allow you to go."
Her body complied before she could think to protest, mind too confused as she struggled to get her bearings. She couldn't understand what was happening, she had been with her best friends, if she was at the hospital wing... But Pomfrey was an ally to the Order. What had happened to them?
"Harry, is Harry okay? Where's Ron?" It was harder than it should have been for her to get the words out, her tongue sitting heavily in her mouth, uncooperative.
"Mister Potter and Weasley?", Madam Pomfrey brows furrowed as she cast a diagnosis charm on her, "Well I assume they're probably at home right now, considering the time. And I haven't heard about anything happening to any Aurors today, so I'm sure they're fine. But perhaps you're aware of something I'm not privy to?"
At home? Aurors? Hermione's own brows creased in a mimic of the school matron's equally confused expression. They couldn't be at home, they were supposed to find the Horcrux, though yes, that was something Pomfrey couldn't be aware of. But why would they be with Aurors? The Ministry was controlled by Voldemort, if they were with Aurors, certainly it meant they had been caught. Her heartbeat spiked up. How had she ended up at Hogwarts? If Snape knew, he would certainly warn his Dark Lord that the Undesirable No. 2 had been seen. She needed to leave as soon as possible, get to them before they could be killed. Surely if they were with Aurors they would be at the Ministry.
She made a move to sit back up, her movements too slow for her liking. "My—", she cleared her throat, every words she uttered seemed to hurt, "My wand, where is it? I need to leave, get to the Ministry before—"
"Young lady lay back down, I'm not done yet.", her hand gently guided her back to the bed. She was on a bed. "And what business would have you leaving Hogwarts for the Ministry at this hour?"
"If Snape kn—"
Madam Pomfrey's eyes widen in confusion, "Snape? Muffliato."
They stared into each other eyes for a few beats, Hermione growing more anxious with each passing seconds. She was wasting time, what if he had already been warned?
The Healer's voice seemed gentler now, more apprehensive. "Miss Granger, could you please tell me what date it is today?"
She scoffed, "Well it's—", her brows creased even more. What date was it? She wasn't sure. "I, I don't know?"
"Could you tell me what you last remember doing?"
She had been running away from snatchers in a forrest with Harry and Ron after they had apparated to their new camping spot. No, she had been reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard, wearing the cursed locket. Or screaming for Ron to come back, locket in hand? But Ron had destroyed the locket. She was in Malfoy Manor, a knife carving into her skin, a flash of blond paralysed in her peripheral vision as she creamed and begged. Under the Invisibility Cloak in the North of England in a Tesco. In the Great Hall surrounded by corpses. Cooking as Ron listened to Potterwatch, Fred and George voices grizzling through the radio. In the Ministry Polyjuiced. She had splinched Ron while trying to apparate out of Grimmauld Place. Bill and Fleur's wedding. Dragon-shaped flames licking against her clothes in the Room of Requirements. In the Hogwarts Express, watching Harry and the Weasleys getting smaller, still on the platform. Running in between tents in Dartmoor, screams surrounding them. In front of the Potters' graves in Godric's Hollow. Staring into Fred's lifeless eyes. On a beach, trying not to let what little food was in her stomach to spill in the sand as she stared at the dagger lodged in Dobby's tiny stiff body. Collecting wild mushrooms in Dartmoor. Arguing with Ron ln a riverbank in Wales. Her trembling hands were pouring essence of dittany onto the fang marks etched in Harry's arm.
She started at the sound of a screeching chair conjured by Madam Pomfrey, now at her eye-level as she sat.
She was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Had been silent for too long. She couldn't remember what she had been doing, bits of memories all jumbling together in her brain.
"Hermione, it's September 7th 1998, you're at Hogwarts."
September? Hermione's head automatically nodded as if some part of her knew it made sense.
"You chose to come back as an Eighth Year student to complete your N.E.W.T.s., it's been a week.", she seemed to hesitate before continuing, "The war has been over since May, Mister Potter and Weasley are training as Aurors and You—", her brows furrowed even more as she seemed to battle with her own resolution, "Voldemort. Is dead. You are safe."
She nodded once more, although it was slower, less certain. She was safe. Harry and Ron were safe. They had won. She wasn't here to battle. She was here to study.
Her mind seemed to struggle to rearrange her thoughts, her own voice coming out quieter, still hoarse, slurred as she processed the informations she was supposed to know well. "I was—", she gulped and Madam Pomfrey turned, grabbed a glass, it filled with water in a wordless Aguamenti, turned back, gave her the glass. She took a few careful sips. "I was in Defence Against the Dark Arts class, we— Each of us were supposed to duel," she nodded to herself, her grip tightened around the half-empty glass, "Malfoy and Zabini were the first duo to start. Someone—"
She hesitated, the school matron nodded, encouraging her to carry on. "Someone tried to throw a slicing charm at Malfoy when his back was to us and Hannah wanted to throw a spell back at the person who did it? And then," her head pulsed uncomfortably, only now did she notice how painful of a headache she had been sporting, "Chaos, I can't really remember what happened."
Her cheeks flushed in embrassement. Hermione Granger had never been unable to perfectly remember something, anything really. It was much more embarrassing to come to that realisation as she had to confess it to someone else.
"I'm not surprised Miss Granger, from what your classmates that weren't hurt told me, it must have been quite the debacle.", she shook her head disapprovingly, "Well, from my diagnosis, it doesn't seem like you've been physically injured anywhere."
Hermione hadn't even noticed that the blue light of the diagnosis charm had disappeared.
"However, it appears the commotion caused you an acute stress reaction that led you to faint. Professor Faucher alongside Miss Bones, Mister Longbottom and Malfoy brought you here with those that had been injured. You kept—", she hesitated, Madam Pomfrey never hesitated, "Waking up in screams. I had to give you doses of Sleeping Draught twice."
"The lethargy you might be feeling comes from these doses and though you haven't been hit by any spells, your vocal cords seemed to have been put under great stress due to overuse. I would advise you try not to strain them in the next few days to let them rest properly.", she paused, her voice softer now, "And Hermione, you also need to let your body rest properly. My diagnosis shows that you are dehydrated, strained, malnourished and sleep deprived. You need to drink more water, eat appropriately, and sleep.", she put emphasis on the last word as she got up, "Healer's orders."
The softness was gone from her voice. "Dinner at the Great Hall isn't over yet, but I doubt you're in state to attend it right now. I'll fetch some food for you. If you wish so, you can sleep here tonight for observation."
"No, I'm fine," the word tumbled out of her mouth quicker than any she had said since she woke up.
Madam Pomfrey's eyes squinted, "Fine, you say," she let out a sigh as she shook her head, "Well, you'll still be eating here tonight. I'll let you leave with a vial of Draught of Peace, two drops each morning, four at nights, to help keep your stress at bay. And no overstaying your welcome in the library for the next two weeks at least."
Hermione watched her turn towards her office, calling out the name of one of Hogwarts house-elves. She struggled to sit back up, eyes staring into nothing as she tried to get her wits back in order. She couldn't tell how much time had passed before Pomfrey came back and startled her, tray in hand.
A portion of mashed potatoes that smelled heavily. Shredded chicken that seemed tender. Milky soup with tofu. A serving of rice pudding as dessert. Her stomach turned unpleasantly.
Although she had always associated Hogwarts' food with the likeness of a warm homemade meal, every bite was a combat of its own. The mashed potatoes a lumpy mass tasting heavily of cheese and butter, weighing down in her stomach. She couldn't help but picture headless chickens running around as they feared to be slaughtered in a macabre dance with each piece that met her tongue. The texture of the tofu making it hard to swallow down, mushy with an acrid smell of the fishbones it had marinated with. By the time she arrived at the dessert, the grittiness of the rice made it hard for her not too gag, the aftertaste stinking of too much sugar, cinnamon and heavy milk. Still, she forced herself to eat every forkful under the attentive gaze of the school Healer. The latter wasn't outright staring at her to make sure she ate everything, but the younger witch could feel her eyes trained on her even as she attended to other patients.
Only once she was entirely done with her meal did Madam Pomfrey came back to her, her wand and satchel in tow.
"Mister Longbottom made sure to retrieve your belongings, all of you wands were tested to try and determine who had casted which spells. And Miss Granger," she placed a turquoise blue potion in her hand, "do try to get some sleep tonight."
Wand in her right hand, hidden by the wide sleeve of her robe; vial of Draught of Peace heavy in her left pocket; her satchel bouncing against her hip with every step she took. Someone had repaired the handle that had threatened to snap all day in a spell she would have to ask for; she had never been the greatest at housekeeping-related spells.
Hermione made her way towards the Eighth Year Tower, head still pounding to the rhythm of fuzzy memories attempting to hide themselves again in the deepest corners of her mind.
Every bit of food that had swirled uncomfortably in her stomach came back up in a disgruntling splatter against the porcelain of the common bathroom's toilet. Tears flowed silently down her cheeks, the only sound to be heard now of her harsh heaving breaths resonating in the now quiet space. She harshly dried her cheeks with the sleeve of her white shirt as she stood back up, staring blankly at the swirling mix of chewed food disappearing through the flushed toilet. What felt like mere few seconds had passed before she made her way out of the cabinet, washed her hands minutiously, garggled some water she spat back and made her way back to her bedroom she had deposited her belongings first thing as she arrived in the tower. Tonight wouldn't be the time to take care of rearranging the mess her bedroom had already become.
Her skin felt gungy with the remnants of sweat.
She picked up her red tartan flannel pyjama bottom discarded on the floor and ruffled through her trunk to find new underwear, a black long-sleeved shirt. The glamour she had charmed on herself in the morning now long gone, she wasn't sure she could stand the sight of her arm tonight. Glamoured or not, truth be told. Towel, peach bodywash and shampoo for the night, toiletry bag with her toothbrush and mint toothpaste. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror of her bedroom. Dark purple circles under her sunken eyes, the white of them stricken by reddish lines. Nails bitten too short on too thin hands. Too pale, papery skin still glinting unnaturally from the fever she had sported. Hollowed cheeks that gave a strict air to her face. Thin strands of hair still tuck to her face; the rest too frizzled for their own good in a halo framing her face. The mass of curls she had been sporting her whole life seemed to have shrunken in the last year though, less thick, bushy, healthy than they always had been.
As she stood under the scalding water of the shower — bony fingers massaging shampoo at her scalp, untangling strands that had inexplicably matted — clumps of brown locks fell in a mess on the tiled floor, clogging the siphon drains due to the sheer amount of lost hair. Her hair fell to the bottom of her back now; full of split ends, the usual healthy shine they had long gone. Some still marked by the angry burn of the Fiendfyre. She needed to cut them. It made sense they had decided to flee her on their own, pooling at her feet with every wash. They always had a mind of their own. She stared ahead at the wall as she washed her body. Unseeing her skin reddening under the unforgiving harshness of her hands.
Hermione didn't know how long it had been since she had cast her nightly mantra. Protego Totalum, Fianto Duri, Repello Inumicum, Salvio Hexia, Cave Inumicum, Coloportus. She laid under the heavy silk-covered blankets of her bed, hand still gripping her wand hidden beneath the singular pillow — she had thrown the rest of them on the ground on the second night and hadn't attempted to retrieve them since then. Luna's teabag of verveine rested against the side of her palm.
Beyond the velvet curtains of her canopy, rested on her bedside table the vial of Draught of Peace given by Pomfrey, untouched. How ironic was it that she had preferred to test out her whimsiest friend's advice before trusting the professional opinion of the castle Healer.
Tempus.
1:42 in the morning.
She had tried to remain unmoving in her bed for as long as possible tonight, her body surely exhausted beyond reason by the events of the day. So much for small graces, indeed.
Her naked feet met the bedroom's floor as she made to stand up, curtains withdrawn. A shiver ran through her body. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the room just enough for her to decipher the black hoodie that had belonged to her father laying on the floor — she had worn it two nights prior and hadn't paid attention to where she discarded it. At least, if it was on the ground, she struggled less to find it than in her overflowing trunk.
She grabbed her satchel and quickly found the shrunken parcel that had came with Harry's letter this very morning. A quick flick of her wand helped it return to its original size. In the box laid two teacups, two teaspoons, a matching porcelain teapot, semi-skimmed milk, brown sugar and two boxes of her favourite teas: Yorkshire rivalling Tetley's English Breakfast — they both had very strong opinions on which one tasted better, Harry preferring Tetley's —; a chamomile and spearmint blend. One of the teacups already had a chip on the rim, its tiny piece of broken porcelain at the bottom of the box. Ron's owl hadn't been to bring it all back in one piece as her friend had feared. She didn't throw the piece away nor tried to repair it. Her tired body mechanically prepared itself a cup.
Aguamenti to fill the teapot with water, Calefacio to heat said water at 100°C. Throwing the chamomile and spearmint teabag in and letting it steep for 10 minutes — more than what was recommended, but she enjoyed the stronger flavour. Pouring the liquid in the chipped teacup. A dash of milk in — she threw a statis charm on the now-opened gallon afterwards to prevent it from turning bad. A teaspoon of brown sugar she mixed in clockwise.
Her beaded bag laid on her desk next to the assemble. She furrowed her hand in it to retrieve the fizziest socks she knew she had, she hadn't put them on since she had last slept in the tent. Her hoodie cap hung low on her forehead. The book forgotten since morning at the bottom of her bed found its place in her front kangaroo-like pocket. Hygiène de l'assassinhad been translated in English by her grandmother as a gift to her mother for Christmas 1995, then gifted to Hermione by her mother for Christmas 1996; one of the last books given to her by her parents. Wand in her right hand, teacup in her left, Hermione made her way out of the safety of her wards.
Tempus.
2:01 in the morning.
The sound of her padded feet was muffled by the carpet of the wooden stairs as she went down. Soft crackling of wood burning in the fireplace resonating in the Common Room along with the howling of wind and tree leaves hurtling outside the stone walls. She stopped abruptly as she noticed someone sitting in the blue velvety armchair she had claimed as her own the past week. Seated there, staring into the fireplace, was Draco Malfoy, wand in his left hand. She gripped her own wand a tad tighter. His head snapped towards her as he noticed her standing still at the bottom of the stairs.
His pale icy blue eyes met her own and for the first time since she had came back at Hogwarts, Hermione took a few seconds to properly look at him.
The flames of the burning wood casted a yellowish glow to the left side of his white-blond hair, contrasting with the blueish gleam of the moon filtering through the windows surrounding the room. The metallic silver hues of his eyes seemed to shimmer in the darkness. His appearance was a reflection of what she hated to see in the mirror. Dark shadows framed his eyes. He had always been paler than her, and though his complexion hadn't retained the grayish, sickly tinge it had been sported at his trial, she could distinctively see that it was still too pale to be considered healthy, even for him. He also wasn't as thin as he had appeared months prior, but his features were still sharper than they should have been. He hadn't entirely regained the weight the last years of stress had made him lose, certainly not the muscles beckoning of a Seeker; the long-sleeved shirt he wore hanging loosely on his frame. His face was almost void of any expression, if not for his chaffed lips pressed apprehensively in a tight line. His body spoke for him though, slightly slouched in a way she had never seen it be, tiredness etched in his skin. Was it what Ginny saw when she looked at her even through the glamour?
Every pores of one's being reeking of exhaustion, anxiousness. Someone who had given up and was waiting for what would put them out of their misery, trying to make themselves disappear in the decor in the meantime.
He looked pathetic and Hermione would have hated herself for thinking so if years of bad blood didn't stand between them. Yes, she had testified for him at his trial. Knew the truth of his predicament through the war; logically, she knew he had been a product of his parents failures. It didn't mean she forget what he had done to her before it all went south. Or forgave him when no apologies had been presented. It also didn't mean she had to hate him, she had to be the bigger person for her own tired brain couldn't stand to hold such a strong sentiment towards him at present.
She did pity him though. Maybe she pitied herself a bit, too.
She also did, want to tell him to get the fuck out of her seat. Or to retrieve back to her chambers for the night, giving up.
Hermione did neither took a sip of her tea as she sat in the sofa in front of the fireplace. Her teacup found its place on the low mahogany table in between them. Neither spoke, and she retrieved her book from her pocket, silently flicking the pages with her hand that she didn't plan on putting down anytime soon. Out the corner of her eye, she saw him relax a bit more as he slouched back in the armchair, his own eyes casted back towards the fireplace.
If anyone asked, she wouldn't be able to tell how long the two of them sat together in demure silence, the heaviness of what was left unsaid loud enough between them. Fire crackling softly and casting shadows around them. Her pages turning softly in a rustle of paper, mostly forward, but sometimes backward, as she realised that she hadn't registered any information she read for the last however many pages. Air stolen in and out of their lungs in a rhythm that soon matched.
Hermione woke up to the muffled sound of padded steps and wooden stairs cracking under the weight of someone going up, when she groggily turned her head towards the sound, her blurry eyes only saw a flash of blond disappearing. Daylight starting to trickle through the windows.
"Tempus.", her whispered voice still sounded hoarse and foreign to her own ears. Her hand had stayed gripped to her wand through the night.
5:36 in the morning.
If anyone asked, she wouldn't be able to tell when she had managed to fall asleep, lulled by the sound of soft breathing near her. She certainly wouldn't admit — even less to herself — that a misinformed part of her treacherous brain had registered her need to know that her friends were alive and well, and latched onto Malfoy's presence beside her as enough reassurance to let go for a few hours. She was grateful for the first few hours of dreamless rest she had finally been able to catch since coming to Hogwarts; much less grateful for the fact that it had left her defenceless in the Common Room for the same amount of time in the presence of someone she distrusted.
As she gathered her teacup, she pondered on when she had put a statis charm on her forgotten tea, the slow curl of warm steam wafting in the cold air of the room. She casted nonverbally Scarpin's Revelaspell while mounting upstairs towards her room. Chamomile and spearmint tea, milk, brown sugar. She took a grateful sip. Today, Charms, Ancient Runes, Potions and Herbology. Nothing that could cause the mess of the last twenty-four hours to happen again.
Hermione didn't notice that her translated copy of Hygiène de l'assassin was missing until much later.