Chapter Text
The beach was a constant escape for Hermione Granger.
The crashing waves and calls of the gulls guided her like a moth to flame. The ocean was the keeper of her secrets and the pedestal of her diary. Nothing compared to the feeling she experienced when watching the setting sun and grasping the sand between her fingers.
It was generally a comfortable loneliness, those nights on the beach. Nothing accompanied her but her own thoughts. Some nights she would cry. Some nights she would figure out the missing piece to a particularly difficult crossword puzzle the Daily Prophet now featured in their latest editions. Other nights she would simply sit in silence and hope that one day she could feel nothing but the drift of the current carrying her out to sea.
Since Bill and Fleur had moved to France to assist Fleur’s sick mother, Shell Cottage had become a widow of sorts. The trellis vines seemed to wither, the wind chimes made of conch shells never flew in the wind, and the stones constructing the structure became dull. When Bill contacted Hermione with an offer of residency, she packed her bags and set off on her way.
Now, after leaving behind her empty two-bedroom flat in Wiltshire, she had resided at Shell Cottage for six months. The cottage had bloomed back to life with her assistance and she frequently left little reminders of her love through the new types of shells she picked up on her nights on the beach, leaving them on the windowsills and in doorways. Tonight, she was preparing to do exactly that.
With her denim cuffed at the ankle and her sandals dangling from her fingers, Hermione walked the shoreline, scanning the sand for new additions to her growing collection. The cold water nipped at her heels, and she tugged her sweater a little closer as it grew darker. A flock of gulls ahead fought over some washed up clams. She smiled softly at her companions.
Her feet left soft indents in sand as she walked that were soon washed over by the foamy water. Tonight wasn’t a very good night — all the shells were either broken in half or shattered. Like someone had taken a hammer to glass.
They cut into her feet every so often, causing her to wince. It was like stepping on those little toy building blocks she had as a child with the sharp edges.
But, she continued on despite the pain. She walked, and searched, and mumbled oddities to herself. It took her another ten minutes until she was grinning dumbly at the newest conch shell she managed to wrangle out of the sand.
It was a small thing. White on the outside, growing orange towards where it curled in on itself. The tip was broken off and it had a tiny barnacle on the side. It was imperfect.
Just like you, she thought.
The spiteful thought had her huffing a laugh in disbelief. After all this time, she still couldn’t believe the Ministry had sent her away so desperately. So carelessly. As if she was someone unworthy of her position.
That idea struck a chord deep inside of Hermione. It sent her walking again, arms tucked under one another as it grew colder, twirling the shell between her fingers.
Why did they let her go so easily? She had never given it much thought. She had been too caught up in the embarrassment of being told of her termination — The Ministry no longer requires your assistance, Miss Granger — to work herself into a tizzy.
She stopped in front of a crest of jagged, dark rocks. Why didn’t she question it? Why didn’t she fight back?
She was Hermione Jean Granger, for Merlin’s sake. She was a war hero. A decorated war hero.
A scoff lurched out of her and she threw her sandals down, shoving her feet angrily into them. She climbed onto the tops of the rocks and plopped herself on the flattest one she could find to watch the sunset that now turned the same shade her face was.
A flicker of fire lit in her belly and rose and rose and rose until she burst into tears on the spot.
She cried for what felt like hours, and when she was done, she wiped her tears with her palms, sniffling every so often. A headache began to set in.
The rock underneath her wasn’t an unfamiliar one, she realized. She’d been on it before. Years ago. Before life became so mundane. Repetitive.
The memory sent her moving. Climbing back down onto the white sand, eyes catching on the slight shimmer of her wards that cut through the rocks. She threw a braid over her shoulder and began to walk back home.
Despite herself, Hermione thought back to the rock. On her days spent at this very coast during the war. She vividly remembered her and Ron walking the same pathway to the rocks and sitting in silence, occasionally discussing what they would do next. He would tuck her hair behind her ears when it got particularly windy, and she would always slightly scoot away and turn her head. Because his hand was not another's.
It’s not that Hermione didn’t share an emotional and partially romantic relationship with Ron — she knew there was a spark. Maybe it was derived from the threat to their lives, or maybe it was a long time coming. She had already experienced feelings like those before. She did with Victor Krum, though those were more fueled by his incessant need for lip locking, and she had with another boy, it was not long. It was not something she had ever imagined. It was over before it even began. So there was no use dwelling on it.
So when Ron would brush his shaking fingers against her ear, she would turn away. She would wish for paler skin and lighter hair to be doing it. Longing for a dead romance. It was clear then that her head was not in the right space for those kinds of feelings. They could ward her mind from the task at hand.
Getting to Hogwarts and ridding the world of the last horcruxes was top priority. Romance took a second place in her life.
What was left of anything intimate was at the school she fought so hard to protect, it started there, it lingered, and then it vanished.
And well — after the war grew hectic. Once the dust settled and the world grew color again, rehabilitation efforts were underway, clean up was eminent, and Hermione had to study for her N.E.W.T’s. So, yes. Romance took a second place in her life. There was no time to think about anything else.
Of course, after she completed her studies, she moved right into her flat in Wiltshire and began to work at the Ministry and became so wrapped up in everything that starting something with Ron just felt — wrong.
Ron, of course, didn’t take this the wrong way. He agreed in fact. Life was busy, they were busy. It was too much too soon. When she began to cry at this, he wiped her tears and held her gently.
A stab of pain shot up her spine, tickling between her eyes as she blinked away the beginnings of tears.
She reached the cottage door, pushing gently on the worn oak and tapping off the sand on her shoes outside. Crookshanks meowed at her from a dark corner, probably lounging lazily on the ottoman tucked there.
It was quiet here. She stood in the door frame for a moment longer, letting the warmth of the cottage ease into her. The smell of sea salt clutched to her curls and the conch shell hummed in her hand.
She set it down on the sill next to the others. They formed a mismatched line of curved, broken beauties. The last of the sunlight hit the orange edge of the one she’d found tonight. It glowed, just barely. But it glowed.
Hermione let out a long breath, shoulders slumping at the movement. The thump behind her eyes screamed at her and she grew frustrated.
She was tired of crying. Of feeling sorry for herself.
She had been stuck in this stupidly magical building for the past six months with nothing to do but sit and relax and wonder if all the best parts of herself were stuck in the past.
She felt forgotten.
It was her fault, really. She was reminded of that as she padded over to the small desk in the sitting room, brushing a hand over crookshanks before settling down and observing the half opened pile of letters.
She began to dwell, to curl into herself and feel sorry that she had felt so embarrassed she forced herself to cut contact. To disappear.
To be forgotten.
But, she didn’t let it happen. She sat straight and tucked the loose strands that framed her face behind her ears. She opened and closed drawers, rifled through old files and papers, stuck her hands as far as she could down a tray of quills for an ink well that when she emerged, they were covered in it.
Her wand clattered to the ground when she began to clear off the desk, moving parchments scribbled on desperately to the floor. She paused, watching the vinewood roll back and forth on the ground before leaning down slowly and picking it up.
It felt different now — like muscle memory more than magic. Like something she had once known intimately, but hadn’t used to its full potential in too long.
Hermione placed it gently in front of her and considered it for a moment, mind flashing back to the broken conch shell.
She found a blank roll of parchment, a quill, an ink well, and began to write.