Chapter Text
August had slipped away like her childhood, bittersweet and startlingly fast. September loomed over Hermione in a disturbing way, one entirely new and unique. She had always found wonder in September, she had never felt dread like this at the idea of the wizarding world. The train had seemed so magical and warm to the eleven year old witch, but to eighteen year war heroine Hermione, it sounded overwhelming and crowded. Something about crowds still shook her. The hidden dangers and unwelcome touches had not grown any less disturbing in the past four months. It had been four months since her best friend died, and lived, and won the war. Two and a half months since the war trials. One month since she left the Burrow in the night. Two weeks since she had written to Harry or Ginny. Time had never been on Hermione Granger’s side, but never had it so forcefully objected to her. Never had it run so far from her grasp, now she had one week until Hogwarts would be in session, and she had never felt more trapped. She had spent months on the run, but returning home, to the battlefield that was the real world, she could not do. Not even armed with her Order of Merlin First Class, the useless hunk of metal that Kingsley had insisted on. That the Wealsey’s had smiled so proudly at. That had Harry smiling hesitantly and Ronald grinning merrily at her. She had barely managed a grim curl of her lips for the photographers. Remus had pulled her into a corner shortly after, holding her to his chest as she sobbed for the first time since the start of the war. He held her tightly as she cried for her childhood friends, her parents, and finally for herself. She had lost much during the war, but not as much as most. So, when she wiped her tears, she turned away without so much as a word towards the man who had gently shaped her into the woman and soldier she was. He had survived his second war, losing the rest of his family, watching children become soldiers as his brothers had. She had been too cowardly to write him after, to thank him for more than his support at the ceremony. She didn’t know how to articulate it. That had been a recurring problem after the war, the loss of words. The inability to communicate the horrors she had borne witness to. “The little swot had been rendered speechless,” Ron joked. He seemed to enjoy the company of this lesser version of her. The broken child that nodded quietly and agreed flawlessly. Who didn’t volunteer useless information simply because it brought her joy. Instead she sat in the corner holding the chipped mug that had belonged to her mother. It had been a gift from her father with a hand painted rendering of an Egyptian Lotus. The same flower that had been abundant where Hermione’s mum had been born. Its blue and purple petals were fading and the chips in the rim were getting bigger and Hermione felt it fitting. She and her family were fading day by day. The war took more than lives, more than histories. She held that mug now as she stood in the small room she had rented above the Leaky, trying to muster up all of her Gryffindor courage and walk the alleyways to her favourite stores. She tried to be brave, but she could still see the blood in the cobble stones and she could still feel the splatter on her ankles as she ran through the dark. She knew her heart and lungs worked, she was sure everyone knew, they were so loud. The mug in her hand shook. The faded flower mocking her as she trembled. For a blossom meant to represent rebirth it sure didn’t bring her any healing. She knew that her soul was ruined. It was a wicked, wretched, ruined thing. Rebirth was the only hope she had. In this life she was here for Harry, maybe in the next one she’d finally live for herself. She knew that today would not be the day she ventured into Diagon Alley to see the damage and the scars in the buildings older than her parents. She felt each battle ground in her heart. Her sense of belonging in the world of magic depleted with each hurt. She felt as though she could have, she should have protected her people more. But, the war had ended and she had made her choices. She had made too many choices during the duration of the war. Since it had ended she had made very few, allowing others to make decisions for her. Many of which she might have kicked up a fuss about before, but she was tired of fighting. She wanted to lie down on the cool ground and not get up. She stayed in her room.
The next week she repeated her pattern of contemplation at the window and the inevitable outcome of procrastination and avoidance while lying in bed. The sheets had begun to scratch her skin and her hair was matted in a halo around her head. She finally rose from her wallowing and took a much needed shower. As she detangled her heavy curls she glanced down at the water pooling at her feet, half expecting to find it a bloody pink. The water had been stained for days after the war. She could still feel it on her skin, in her hair. Sometimes she could taste it on the backs of her teeth. Her beautiful teeth, maintained by her parents' passion for dentistry and perfection. She could never have the sparkly whiteness back, her teeth would always be coated in rich blood. Her teeth were red and her soul was rotting, and Hermione would never be clean again. She was crying now, her tears mixed with the bloody water as she gasped in wet breaths. She panted desperate inhalations, choking as she pulled in water. She pulled her heavy body from the shower to the cold bathroom floor. As she struggled to breathe, the edges of the bathroom blurred and she found herself panting on another cold floor, pinned down. Her pants became cries of anguish and the weight of panic became the weight of a madwoman. She searched for help, eyes roving the grand room. She locked eyes with a boy, she had gone to school with him. He knew her- maybe, he knew of her. She pleaded with him to help her, to not leave her here on this floor. Her cries turned vulgar, akin to the animal they believed her to be. The boy’s grey gaze did not waver even as he pulled in a deep breath, a motion she echoed. His gaze held hers as he lifted his head in a defiant way, reminding her of her own stubbornness. Her cries quieted as he stared at her, a memory swirled into action. The Burrow surrounded her and her family opened their gifts the Christmas before last. She felt no pain or fear, only the love of her family as she sat between them. The memory dissipated and the grey eyes were gone, but her brother held her as they disappeared from the cold room. And her eyes opened to the flooded tiles, she grasped blindly for a towel to soak up that damned water. It poured out of the shower in a scalding torrential downpour. She stumbled and slipped her way to the faucet, ending the water. Using the towel and the rags under the sink to mop up her mess before hanging them to dry. Magic would have sped up the task, but Hermione had not found it in her to utilise her magic. Her wand no longer felt alive and warm in hand, but cold and distant. Her first friend in the wizarding world, no longer. The magic that had once flowed through her hands and had brought her such joy, she could not do. Even the smell of magic, warm air and fresh soil, made her nauseous. She had gone muggle since the day after the Final Battle. She really didn’t want to return to the world of academia and scholarly magic. For the first time in her life, Hermione did not want to go to Hogwarts.