Chapter 3
Perhaps it was that she never really paid attention to the details.
Her eyes now were everywhere.
Just like her ears.
Discovering new things, new perspectives and such. She had been so oblivious to her surroundings that now she was uncomfortable with everything.
For example, she’d never noticed how strangely Seamus looked at her, as if she wasn’t supposed to be there. Of course that was when he tough she wasn’t noticing him. His eyes sometimes drifted to her when she raised her hand in classes, almost rolling them. Seamus was a prejudiced person, that had always been of her knowledge, but after the war he’d become even more judgmental. When he spoke with Dean or Cormac, his disdain for Slytherins was more obvious than ever, even wishing them death for their supposed loyalties.
Dean had always seemed to be the quiet one of the group, or so Hermione thought. Because it required just two butterbeers for him to start behaving just like a child who hadn’t learnt anything from the devastation of being prejudiced all along. Hermione had heard him talking about her with Seamus one night she had arrived the common room after her patrolling as Head Girl. At first Hermione believed they were wondering why Ron nor Harry were there to finish their schooling, but as far as they went, it wasn’t just that. They chatted of how much she had now lost her ‘value’, without her two best friends there was ‘no use for her anymore’, in quite literal words.
“I just don’t understand why is she back,” had said Seamus before sipping on his butterbeer; some slurring made obvious that alcohol was involved there. “I mean, the war is over, isn’t it? And she was a main conflict in it, with the Muggle-born registration or that shite… Then why would professors allow her to be here?”
“S’pose with the Orden of Merlin and all that she’s just trying to brag,” Dean shrugged one shoulder with an ‘eh.’
“She is for Orden of Merlin?” Seamus didn’t seem to believe it. His head had turned so fast to his best friend that Hermione was sure something snapped. Dean nodded. “Then why isn’t everyone who fought in the war given one? That’s fucking unfair, bullshit I tell you.”
“Must be ‘cause the title ‘Brightest Witch of her Age.’”
“Oh please, sure she’s a fucking prude.”
And Cormac, well, he’d always been a little shit, hadn’t he? But still. His looks towards her, as if she was a kind of price to win, a piece of meat that contained drops from the Foutain of Youth.
And he wasn’t the only one.
Since an article speaking about the war and its heroes and heroines was released in the Daily Prophet, everyone seemed to look at her with interest and disdain.
WAR IS OVER, LOOKING AT A NEW FUTURE
After years of being scared upon the threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, we finally look to new horizon; bright and blue skies with no more darkness sing along with the birds now that our heroes and heroines have made us fortunate of still having a life. Of course we pray for the souls lost in this battle of power and offer various minutes of silence for them (See Albus Dumbledore in page 3. See Severus Snape in page 7. See more casualties in page 9.)
After the Battle of Hogwarts, our main hero here is the Boy Who Lived. Harry James Potter (see page 11), son of James and Lily Potter (see page 8), fought valiantly along side with his two best friends, Mr Ronald Weasley (see page 12) and Miss Hermione Jean Granger (see page 13) against the darkness so our world would be better and out of the shadows. He has given conferences about his different encounters with the Dark Lord, and how the light and love have always been by his side, just like friendship, and he takes full graceful consideration and gratitude and recognition to all the people who believed in him and his vision. Still, is deeply sorry that so many children, like him, were dragged in the mess of nonsenses such as blood purity and conflicts between adults.
The now reconstructed and restructured British Ministry of Magic has spoken about this, offering condolences to all families who were victims of the Dark Regime, and endured tortures and loss of loved ones. Is that the rean then, that the Prime Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt (see page 16) has accorded to give all these people a grand sum of currency so as to help with the reconstruction of their homes and other factors. “If well money doesn’t bring people from the death, we hope this may help as many families as we can to reconstruct their lives with new homes,” said the new Minister, who’s also offering free accommodation to people who have lost it all, just as trials and hearings for all the ones incarcerated without a possibility of defence. If well nit all families will be reachable for the economic help, the Ministry has declared the money would be given to the ones who need it the most.
Material compensation would also be given to War Heroes and Heroines. Harry Potter receiving 2,800 gold galleons in compensation and award to him, however, the young trainee for Auror has spoken about this and said he will give this money to all the families who were in need of it.
Ronald Weasley then receiving 2,765 gold galleons. He hasn’t given any comments about this.
Hermione Granger receiving 2,790 gold galleons. Miss Granger hasn’t pronounced.
Minerva McGonagall (see page 16) receiving 2,685 gold galleons…
Hermione had shut her copy of the Daily Prophet with her cheeks turned in flames and had fled the Great Hall to bury herself in the library until the next day.
She had cried her eyes out all night long. She didn’t want any of this. None of fucking it. She hadn’t wanted to participate in the fucking war. She didn’t want the trauma, or the sleepless nights filled with nightmares of memories craved in her mind. Hermione was so tired of the looks everybody gave her, the glances, the narrowed eyes, the murmurs speaking about her. It was so fucking exhausting being herself that when she went to the Owlery the next that, she thought about pitching herself off the fucking tower.
And that idea crossed her mind again and again once she recollected all the letters addressed to her.
From Kingsley talking about the sum of money added to her Gringotts account.
That didn’t even matter to her.
Different Healers she had been in contact to see the case of her parents had written too.
She opened the one from Healer Amelie, a recommendation from Minerva’s part a few weeks after the war when she as aware of her situation.
Miss Granger, my most cordial greeting to you,
I’m deeply sorry our first communication has to be about a such horrific topic, but I’m willing to help you and do whatever is in my hands to attend your parents’ case. However you have to know my agenda is a bit busy right now, and I’ll be travelling to Egypt for a week due to a case of a Transmogrifian Torture. I hope this doesn’t take all your hopes down. I can promise you that during my stay there I will research about the memory charm you used in your parents and a way to reverse it. Commonly the Obliviate charm isn’t as impossible to reverse, but as Minerva has said to me, you used a variation of it, one that hasn’t been as investigated as the others due to its potential of being dark magic.
Please sent me a letter with all the details so I can send my assistance to you, and she can do check in to your parents and now what has happened.
All my prayers,
Amelie Hashamont.
The letter had been sent to her two days ago, not so long, she still had the chance to answer it.
But she will do it in a moment.
Passing one envelope after another, the tough of just letting her body fall into the ground below her was even more persistent.
None from Ronald nor from Harry.
Molly Weasley had sent a little parchment asking for her wellbeing and if she wanted to stay at the Burrow for the weekend.
Hermione declined right away with a piece of parchment. She wasn’t in the moods. After Mrs Weasley had looked at her with her cold eyes and smile going down when she had said that she wasn't going to marry her son after finishing Hogwarts, things were a bit strangled between the two. Molly wasn’t a bad person, she knew, but the letter she had received inviting her to dinner was an obvious invitation to hear how unfortunate it was that she wouldn’t marry Ronald.
All of this reminded her to her isolation after the war.
Those times she woke up violently. Shaking and shuddering, with a sheet of sweat covering her forehead and per se her entire body. The sheets of the bed, which she should have changed weeks ago, made a mess in the middle of the night because of the memories she has had to live with the past months. She had been a nervous wreck; she could always tell by the way her hands shook when wiping away the sweat from her skin. A ragged sigh leaving her lips every two second while sitting straight before she checking what time is it on the clock over her nightstand.
Four-thirty in the bloody morning.
It had always been that hour.
When Harry disappeared in front of her after she realised he had to sacrifice himself to save them all.
And she wondered if he would have ever been so tormented with an hour if she had been in his place.
She still can hear it. The screams of it. The cries and tears falling, collapsing into the crumbling ground. The sounds that form part of the symphony of the war. She has learned to recognize them, slowly and in a poorly way, but she has had to learn.
It all hurts, it all hurts just the same as the day before and the previous from that. Something is wrong and she can't certainly explain what is it — she herself doesn't know what is wrong with herself. Everything changed when the birds came, when the breaths were released, and eyes didn't see light more. You will never know what they might do if they catch you too early.
Hermione had been living in a small room for months, all being a disorder in her life. Uncommon from someone like her. But then she realises there is no more her inside that shell of a body that keeps her on her feet every day. The Hermione of the before would be tidy, she would certainly not have the cartons of Chinese food still on the floor and less her clothes.
The memories of sobs making echo in her lonely room shattered her mind into million pieces, and she felt weak at her own weakness.
And she is so tired of it.
The week passed by her and shook her ground.
There was even more gossiping about her.
Some people were so mad, that mad at her, that they had presented complaints to the Ministry of Magic for her to not be considered for the kind of ‘award’ she was receiving. It was unfair and she doesn’t need to be rewarded, next to the one and only she fought because she wanted to.
Well she hadn’t wanted to!
She was so fucking angry with those people.
She didn’t want an award either!
She didn’t want any of it!
She just wanted her life back.
She wanted to be naïve and happy and with none of the fucking shite of Voldemort and his fucking Death Eaters and bullshit prophecies and — and fucking shit she was losing it.
Circe.
She couldn’t catch a break.
Many letters and howlers started arriving to her every morning, all complaints, since the article in the Prophet had been published. All was shite, that was sure.
The majority of the letters came from Muggle-born and Half-blood families, all who were in precarious conditions and wouldn’t be able to receive the economic help the Ministry was offering, and this wasn’t any of her problem. She didn’t have the fucking slightest idea of how the help would be provided and which families were reachable and fit to the Reconstruction Program, she wasn’t even asked if she wanted the money, so why were all these people blaming her for something she wasn’t in control of? Hermione didn’t even know from were the money was coming. She had made calculations to know how much money was being given away for the Program, including the said awards and compensations, and it was more than the Ministry could afford, it was out of doubt the money wasn’t entirely coming from the Ministry itself, perhaps a 10% or less, knowing they still had to pay their employees and the ones who were volunteering themselves for the free trials and hearings, but there was still the question of who has giving all the money.
Hermione knew Harry would have offered, perhaps rejected at first but he would have fought. So lets say a 15 perhaps 17% was coming from Harry and all his money. She knew the Ministry wouldn’t leave the Chosen One without a single galleon.
There was also the possibility some families who were loyal to the Dark Lord had been stripped away from their money, or perhaps the Ministry had taken a percentage of them, but how much?
She knew the Averys, Macnairs, Rowles, Rookwood, remaining Lestranges, Goyles and Crabbes were stripped down their money completely. Perhaps also the Parkinsons were giving away some money? The Malfoys? Nott? The Greengrasses?
How much was the question.
She wasn’t going to go about asking, that was for sure, it would be nuts to do so.
Many other letters were just people asking her, somehow decently and nicely, to refuse the award from the Ministry so the money would be given to more families. She’d replied to those, every each of them, apologising for the many troubles and assuring she would do well with the money even if the Ministry didn’t allow her to refuse it. That was the only thing she could do really, apologise and such. She also wrote to Kingsley asking if the money they were giving to her could be rejected and given to more families, but he had said no, that it was a way of helping her reconstruct her life.
And what a fucking joke.
How could she reconstruct her life if she didn’t have one anymore?
Two days after that, the letters and howlers were still coming to her, but she had decided to ignore all the ones who called her slurs and curses for the sake of her hanging-on-a-thread mental health, and she continue her observatory mission.
Most days it was just to the Gryffindor table, everyone had become distant to her, leaving her just in a corner, eating alone. She had never felt so left out since her first year at Hogwarts. Minerva had asked her a few times to seat with her and have tea in her office, but Hermione had refused every invitation made to her. If Minerva knew what was happening surely more fuss would be made, and Hermione just didn’t have the head or heart to confront anyone else.
Still, there was always Luna, who sat with her most days, and it has helped a lot honestly, because Luna had always something to say, and she was fine with it. Luna kept her distracted from most things. However there was times when Luna was nowhere to be seen, and Hermione was started to notice why.
When Luna couldn’t watch her, Hermione would notice that she and Neville were closer than ever, and Hermione couldn’t be happier for both of her friends, so she understood there would be days the library would be her only refuge.
Now, Ginny.
Ginny was complicated.
Hermione didn’t see much of her, nor much of Pansy Parkinson either, so there was an idea of where Ginny could be most days.
Hermione hadn’t picked up the courage to ask Ginny what was happening with Pansy, or the rest of Slytherins, or why she would sometimes arrive late at their dormitory or simply wouldn’t arrive. Hermione just didn’t ask; she didn’t want to. If Ginny didn’t trust her anymore to tell her something as important, Hermione wouldn’t push. Yes, she loved Ginny and appreciated her deeply, but if her best friend didn’t considered her one anymore, there wasn’t much Hermione could do. She had tried to approach the red-haired two or three times at breakfast or dinner, but shame and cowardice always seemed to take over Hermione. She didn’t want to make Ginny uncomfortable in any sense, she was sure the Weasley matriarch didn’t know about the Pansy situation — Molly had always been against same-sex relationships and was a very old-mannered person — and Hermione wouldn’t be the one to betray Ginny.
She hadn’t seen much of Malfoy either; believe her when she says she was fine with it.
Perhaps she was attending his father’s hearings now that the great Lucius Malfoy wasn’t on earth anymore and couldn’t attend to his own trials.
Lucius had died one moth after the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been imprisoned due to war crimes and later on found killed by an inmate whose daughter had been killed by a Death Eater in the First Wizarding War. Hermione had been outraged by this once she heard it. Yes, Lucius Malfoy wasn’t the best person in the whole Magical Britain, but the crimes committed by others shouldn’t be paid by the ones who weren’t to blame. The punishment should fit the crime, always, and Hermione knew the deceased Malfoy patriarch hadn’t killed anyone during the wars to be killed in such sadistic way. Yes, he was serving a sentence, and yes, he would be punished various years for were his loyalties had been, but he didn’t deserve to die.
She had heard Narcissa Malfoy was devasted by the news and even forged an unconscious magical barrier around Malfoy Manor due to her immense grieving state. The hundreds of acres had been guarded by her pain and sorrow for months and wasn’t released until her son had to go back to Hogwarts. She and Malfoy had been both exonerated from any crime, after Narcissa’s brilliant sacrifice to survive, it was the right thing to do. Malfoy had been underage when he took the Dark Mark, so every single action after that had been a thing of the past, just a boy who made wrong choices and had tried to protect his family at all cost.
The night she had discovered his Dark Mark… That was something she thought she could never comprehend, but then she had grown up, and she understood in so many ways how far someone could go to protect one’s family.
His body was under hers, his shirt still on but unbuttoned, she wondered why he had left it on lately, he had never done it. Still, they were just leaving winter behind, perhaps he was just cold.
That thought made her cuddle more into him, her flexed leg over his abdomen. She was curled up like a child between his strong arms. Even if he had left Quidditch, his fortitude and well-formed body were still there. She blushed furiously at the memory of his broad shoulders and back contracting in each thrust he gave inside her. The muscles of his arms showing under the whiteness of his shirt, his hair messy from the play of her hands, strands toppling his brows, a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead. Her whole body went warm when the ghost of his lips against hers came back into her mind, making her stir into him. The smell of him. Everything about him.
He.
Draco…
He was everything.
Nonetheless if someone did find out, there would be no everything anymore.
At that thought her body went rigid.
Was it that wrong?
It couldn’t be.
He said her name so tenderly, so cautious…
Hermione…
‘Stay, Hermione, stay with me.’
As he fisted her hair to kiss her even deeper.
‘You’re so precious, love…’
When her eyes couldn’t keep being open as his hands traced her whole body.
‘Hermione… I…’
But what came after her name she hadn’t heard. What seemed to be a jar, or something made of glass had fallen onto the ground covering his words. It wasn’t the first thing the broke, that was for sure, but she had hated that sound so much she almost yelled at the room to be quiet so she could listen his words to her.
That time, when they were together as one, had been different, she could feel it, just not understand how much different it had been.
Yes, he had been slower. Yes, he had said her name for the first time.
But that wouldn’t be the last time, she was sure.
She cherished this moments, on the nature of darkness and flames of passion, she was more than happy. At peace with him.
Her movement made him release a soft grunt, as if he didn’t want for her to go, so he used his left arm — his right was being used by her as a pillow — to embrace her, hand holding her thigh, making his sleeve go up a little bit.
And then… Then her world crumbled.
Her everything became nothing.
And the nature of darkness was now so bright that it made her blind.
Her eyes fluttered open at the possessive touch, and the only thing that caught her attention was black ink under his sleeve. His arm, tattooed.
She didn’t quite understand why he had a tattoo, but as longer as she stared at it, she understood it wasn’t a simple tattoo, it was a mark.
The Dark Mark.
Hermione jumped from the sofa they were in, waking him up instantly.
“Hermione?” he sounded disorientated; his eyes shut tightly before opening them again.
“Your arm…” she said, scared. Hands and whole-body trembling as she stood up. “What have you done?”
His eyes drifted from her to his left arm, instantly, no surprise in his expression. He closed his eyes again and took a breath in. “Granger—”
“What have you done?!”
Tears burning her eyes, sliding down her cheeks.
He got up as well, his figure towering her. “You are one of them!”
“Let me explain, please—”
“NO!”
And she started picking up her clothes, putting her joggers and sweater on as quickly as she could, tears still rolling down, wetting her face and chest. He tried to grab her arm, but she jerked instantly with a jump.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” she shouted, strangled sobs leaving her mouth. Her eyes filled in fury as she looked at him. “How could you?! I trusted you, Draco!”
“Hermione—”
“Don’t Hermione me!” she took even more steps away from him, hysterical at the situation. “How could I be such a fool?” she sobbed. And he head shook in disbelief. The scare and fear in her eyes reflected into his clear grey.
“Don’t be scared… Please just let me explain—”
His eyes also with tears in them, but she couldn’t care less. “Don’t be scared?” she laughed bitterly. “And explain what, Draco? What are you going to explain?!” another sob. “You are dammed, Draco Malfoy, for life.”
And even if he was screaming for her to come back, she just ran out of the place, hurting from her heart and with a headache she couldn’t bear. Her body ached.
Draco…
By the 28th of October, the letters and howlers were less, so Hermione could actually step out of the castle and accept Luna’s offer to accompany her to Hogsmeade with Neville and meet Ginny there. She didn’t put too much effort in her looks, hair down because of the cold, jeans, boots and a cream-colored knitted sweater. She took a scarf just in case it became colder as it got late.
They left in the carriages exactly at 11 AM of that chilly Saturday and went first to Honeydukes because Neville had seen some candies in form of plants with their pots that looked so pretty he bought five. Hermione’s gaze swept across the wall filled of candies. Sugar Quills, Cauldron Cakes, Jelly Slugs, Limas Crazy Blob Drops, same old, same old.
But then her eyes went directly to the Sugared Butterfly Wings, a candy made of organic butterflies and dark chocolate, milk, sugar of course and coconut.
Laughter from outside the shop made Hermione turn her head around.
He was there, wearing a long black coat, dark trousers and a white scarf around his neck. His right hand holding a greenish-gold tin as his other took a sugared wing to his mouth, to her memory coming back the way his lips tasted after he had eaten a few of them, how she adored his literally sweet kisses full of chocolate and coconut. Daphne was spinning around with Theo, both holding each other’s forearms so as not to fall into the snow. He was smiling, his eyes with that sparkle of peace she always saw in him when the moment merited it. Blaise was standing by his side, a bit shorter than the blond, but still as tall as a tower.
Mrs Flume approached her with a smile, “You want something dear?”
“Yes,” she smiled back, “a tin of sugared wings please.”
“Ah, excellent choice,” Mrs Flume chuckled. “A handsome boy just bought two of them a few moments ago. Hope you enjoy them,” said the woman after receiving the money from Hermione, who nodded.
Leaving the shop after Luna and Neville, who were arms-linked and happy as ever, Hermione noticed it had started snowing.
Her eyes went up, fixed on certain person who was just a few metres before her.
He looked back a few seconds later.
Grey eyes glimmering in her view.
And he smiled for a second before looking down and following his friends.
Scared for you, yes, but of you? I would never be scared of you Draco…