Chapter Text
Sleeping at Last - Mars
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Spring-Summer 1998
The Burrow
The war wasn’t over, just because the Battle of Hogwarts was done and Voldemort was dead. No matter how much Ron, Rita Skeeter, or the Daily Prophet screamed that it was.
In the last few months, the Ministry, namely the Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, quickly became the face of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE). He set up a committee that created a mysterious Auror squad of Anti-Death Eaters Unit (ADU) that began hunting down any continued dissent after Voldemort fell. Dissenters were quickly and quietly rounded up; entire prominent families disappeared from the public eye.
When the dust settled in the months that followed, there were murmurs about what the ADU Aurors were allowed to do to achieve this—the Dark Magic and the Unforgivables, the lengths they could go to find Death Eaters, funders, and their sympathizers.
Harry and and Ron laughed with glee, devouring all of this in the Daily Prophet. It was, at least, a welcome change from their war-torn, gaunt faces splashed all over on the covers.
“—Fucking serves them right!”
“—Yeah. Did you see this, ‘Mione? They found Zabini’s family in Greece!”
But something about the news rubbed Hermione the wrong way. She nodded quickly. She already read the article in the morning. They weren’t saying anything new.
As spring turned into summer, the days warmed and life seemed a bit more upbeat. The Golden Trio - as they were called over and over again, but a name preferable to Blood Traitors, child soldiers, or even Dumbledore's army - were still constantly in the news, detailing their everyday comings and goings and commenting on their private lives, however inaccurate.
The Chosen One Becomes the Chosen Two.
Brightest Witch of her Age Breaks up the Golden Trio
Potter's Secret Life and Lovechild; Breaks Granger's Heart
These articles were less welcome. Although none of them had any basis in reality, Hermione saw that it bothered Ronald. His name was rarely mentioned, and if it were, his heroics were overlooked in favour of how Harry saved the world; how Hermione was the true brains of the operation; or how Hermione was cuckolding him with Harry.
[Image: Hogsmeade and Hogswart street signs pointing in opposite directions.]
The days that stretched into months were quiet afterward. No one quite sure what to do with this amount of time stretched out in front of them. Little structure. Nothing to look forward to. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were still picking up the pieces.
Along with the Hogwarts elves and other students, they helped to clean up the school during the days. At nights, they often met up with the lot — Ginny and Neville of course, Seamus, Dean, Padma, Parvati, Katie, Cormac, Hannah, in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. Then others came - Cho, Justin, and Anthony, first tentatively, now enveloped into the fold. Sometimes, they would bring others.
They laughed raucously, regaled about certain parts of the battle - the parts they could stomach - and more importantly, they drank and took potions that Neville brewed, dripping drops into their drinks or downing whole bottles. Sometimes they were invigorating; other times calming; all welcome experiences from the dreariness each Hogwarts student felt. Learning things they were too young to know. The smell of fear, sweat, shit, and blood swirling in the air; how terror appeared in a child's eyes; and what a body looked like when the soul finally leaves its confines.
They stayed in one bar until they were kicked out. Too rowdy or too drunk. They Apparated from the Leaky Cauldron to Three Broomsticks to Hog's Head, in random order. They didn't much care. They would do it again tomorrow.
The lines that separated the Houses were less clear now. What was now important was ... well, they weren’t sure, but not that.
From the grapevine of whoever had the gossip, they learned that Hogwarts was going to stay closed for the time being - some work to be done on the stone foundations, the clock, and Astronomy Tower, and additional wards if the rumours were to be believed.
On the days where they didn’t go to a pub or Hogwarts, they were at the Burrow. Harry and Hermione loved it; it was always loud, busy, and bright. Food was always cooking somewhere; a loud explosion every now and again; and Molly screeching at one of her children to be careful. They slept from early evening to early afternoon — all three of them in Ron’s room. No one roused them. They were dead to the world. Ron gave Hermione his bed, and transfigured a couple of stools into small cots for Harry and himself. Each cot flanked one side of the bed. They slept, and slept, and slept.
When Molly or Arthur checked in on them in the morning as they were wont to do, the door was always slightly ajar—a small detail that Hermione never forgot. She was already sleeping and ostensibly living at the Burrow. She wanted Molly and Arthur to be comfortable with her presence in her son’s room.
The Weasleys’ parents found them always as they were, in their respective beds and cots. Even though by now, they knew they would be, Molly always breathed a sigh of relief. Their eyes then drifted down to their son's hands. Most nights, they would find Ron’s hands clasped tightly around Hermione’s, eyes shut but rolling around, and brows furrowed in some sort of feverish dream or nightmare.
After breakfast, Ginny sometimes checked in on them too. Although she wasn't proud of it, she would feel a sharp twinge of jealousy in her chest watching Hermione’s finger curled sleepily around Ron's or Harry’s as they slept. Ginny knew that for now, it was what they needed … to signal to each other that they were alive and safe, even while asleep. She swallowed that bitter feeling and closed the door.
Other nights, Hermione’s hands drifted down from Ron's/her bed, and her finger curled tightly against Harry’s soft jumper or bedsheet. She watched and waited until she saw his chest move. Counting until she was sure it wasn't a fluke.
Rise and fall.
Rise and fall.
Rise and fall.
She turned over on her back, squeezed her eyes tight - trying to not make a sound - as tears escaped the corners of her eyes. Sometimes she couldn't contain them and broke out into heaving sobs.
Relief. Harry was there. Harry was always here. He didn't reject her. He didn't leave her. Not like Ron. Not like Malfoy. Not like her parents.
This time, it was relief. A cool rush of relief spread over her, touching her wherever her tears fell. Illogical, though it was, that was how it felt.
Other times, she cried because she was happy. She had them. They survived. They were here. Their warmth, their hands, their breathing, all real. Sometimes Hermione cried because she was still scared; sometimes she cried for what she did, what she had to do; sometimes she cried because her right arm still hurt.
Remnants of Dark Magic, she surmised.
The words were still there: angry, jagged writing in the form of reddish-pink scar tissue. Glamours didn't work on it.
Mudblood.
Raised skin. Ugly. In these moments, she looked up at the ceiling and saw a pair of grey-blue eyes looking down at her. They were torn. His mouth downturned into a painful grimace, as each Cruciatus curse hit her.
She heard her bones crack.
Bile moving up and out of her mouth as she seized.
Blood leaking out of every orifice.
He recognized them. Within earshot, she heard him.
His voice was small. Like a boy's. He was reluctant but steadfast in his confusion.
In her pained haze, as she was pinned to his Drawing Room floor, she wanted the pain to stop. She willed herself to die.
Please. Let go.
He watched her, wearing a pained expression on his face. His eyes followed the tear that leaked out of her, and the blood that dripped from her nose and mouth to the floor, pooling around her.
The taste of sharp and salty copper.
But he stayed motionless, as if hexed to the ground, while Bellatrix bit her and carved those lazy letters into her arm, forever etched into her skin.
She tried to call out his name. To plead with him. To make the pain stop. To kill her. She cried, "Dra—hic—co." sounding out those foreign syllables in her mouth. But all that came out was ash and more screams.
He turned away.
In those moments, she felt a fire burn inside her and tears slipped silently out of the side of her eyes. The fire, akin to what she thought hate felt like, threatened to consume her throat and nose, then her chest, until she couldn’t breathe. She sat up, body racking with sobs and convulsions. More than once, she got nosebleeds upon waking or tasted bile bubbling up in her throat as she dry-heaved in the bed.
Sometimes she couldn't make it in time to the bathroom.
Hearing her cries and retching, either Harry or Ron or both sat up with her through the night. Holding her hand too tightly, so they knew she was here. Pinching her nose to stop the blood. Vanished her bodily fluids. They never said anything. Her back ached terribly from sobbing or retching. They rubbed her back until she laid back down. They reminded her that they were still there.
She hated those moments. She hated having Harry and Ron see them. She hated feeling weak. The visceral, throbbing pain that lit her head on fire extended to her forearm sometimes. She could manage that. As she laid back down, she often thought about that night in Malfoy Manor. She wondered if he thought of her; if he felt the same anger course through her veins. If he saw her in his nightmares. She hoped he did. She hated him.
Right before she drifted off to another fitful sleep, another tear slipped out of her. If she were honest, those tears were for herself. Of self pity and ugliness. It was the feeling of rejection. Like she was disposable; like she was nothing; like she didn’t matter.
She reminded herself again that she had them, Ron and Harry. They were there, alive, warm, and comforting her. She wasn’t alone. In her nightmares, she reached out to him every time, but every single time, he turned away.
In. Out.
In. Out.
This time, Hermione was able to control her breathing.
In the past few months, she wasn’t the only one to wake up in cold sweats or vomit. Sometimes it was Ron; sometimes it was Harry. Ron dreamt about Fred and her. He would sometimes scream, “Hermione!” as he awoke, then paw at her body when he awoke. Sometimes she allowed him into the bed. She held him close until he stopped shaking, ignoring his growing erection and reminding him of Harry's presence.
Harry’s nightmares were a mixed bag of his horrors of dying and guilt of having people die in his name. In his dreams, he saw nothing but fast-forwarded destruction behind his bespectacled green eyes: Death in the shape of Voldemort; carnage of the Death Eaters, disintegrating buildings, Lily's wilted body, Hermione's screams, Luna in the cellar, Colin, Dumbledore, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Severus, etc. All bleeding from their eyes, lined up in front of him. No amount of sleep seemed to help. The numbers of fallen loved ones just kept adding up.
Harry blamed himself. Someone had to.
While trying to avoid another nightmare, the three of them often sat up together on Ron's bed until dawn. They were solemn and serious. They spoke sparsely, in low tones, and took turns comforting one another.
Shh …
You’re here. I’m here …
Breathe …
It’s okay.
I’m here.
Just because the war was over, didn't mean all was well. Ghosts, monsters, and horror still warred within them.
With no immediate plans, Harry and Hermione stayed at the Burrow. No one asked why they didn’t head back to Muggle London. They didn’t have the answers.
No one did.
