Chapter 2
A wincing pain attacked the girl’s stomach and invaded hermiones headspace with a thick fog that made her struggle to think, let alone realise what was happening to her. Lightheaded was an understatement for the amount of nausea that suffocated hermiones head. Her brain couldn’t uphold what others had deeply manufactured into theirs, the simple task of breathing had become unknown as she clawed at the green tiled room. As if a fucking bathroom wall could help her.
She felt pathetic and embarrassed, unable to release any air from out of her lungs. As if death had a grip at her throat as it bashed the poor girls head against hogwarts many bathrooms.
Tears meandered down her blouse, every so often blocked by her trembling lips, the salty solution leaving a tangy taste against her tongue. She winced at the sirening sound that clawed through Hermione’s ear canals. The insufferable headache pounded with extreme force as she scrambled for air, fuck what she would give to be able to smash a fair few windows right now.
Help. She had never needed much assistance from anyone when she had her usual panic attacks but the medical issue combined with the sweet effects of time travel had an extreme downpour on Hermione’s body.
Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead as strands of hair stuck to her face, her harsh breaths echoing through the empty toilets. She couldn’t feel the air enter her body nor could she feel it exit, in her brain she was still drowning.
She thrashed against the floor begging that something or someone could help her and there it was. Fighting her instincts and panic attack she withdrew her wand from her pocket with unstable, precarious hands, wrapping her nimble fingers around the maple oak and feeling immense satisfaction from the magic that instantly thrummed through Hermione’s small figure.
“bombardo” She cried through seething teeth trying to hold back her screams, she felt as though she was continuously being punched in the bladder by some species of disturbed ghost.
One flick of her wand and the mirrors shattered across the room, segments of glass slicing through the air causing a saccharine release of blood to spill down her arms and face. Pipes burst, water spurted in all directions, hiding all traces of her tears with a freshly soaked shirt. An explosive spell to mirror how she was feeling inside. This was her panic room. The endeavour was her guilty pleasure, creating something as broken as she was. As she revelled in the destruction she had created, welcoming the pain from her cuts and watching the bathroom change from its perfect composure to a bloody mess. Tears continued to meander down her shirt but she could now breathe. One pain replaces another. She was able to take healthy breaths without the wincing pain that would scourge her brain. Ecstatic rushes of ecstasy welcomed her senses, thank fuck it worked.
The cloud that had covered her brain had passed by, leaving only rays of sunshine and bliss, and a couple sighs of release as she sat in a puddle of sweat and tears tainted with pigments of velvet.
What a lovely way to be welcomed into 1940, I mean what did she expect time travelling back half a century, of course this would happen. You stupid bitch. Her heart rate had recovered to a normal pace and her hands had become less clammy as she placed the wand onto the cold floor, it released a clattering sound at the sudden action. The tip of her wand was tainted a dark crimson, leaving a trail that meandered through the crevices of the floor and down to the drains.
Although she had just experienced a rather painful process she had no regrets because she was finally free, and although a psychopathic murderer currently roamed the school he wouldn’t kill his father for a good few months- according to the timeline put in place by Harry.
So there the young women sat, accompanied by her own respiration’s and a chilly wind that rattled through the bathroom from a fissure in the tainted glass windows. She cast a quick spell to clean up her mess and for her scars to embed themselves back into her flesh. The old Hermione- the one that everyone still believed she was- would probably have had a planner organized by now, with fancy sticky notes and a plan to kill Tom Riddle but she didn’t. The younger version wouldn’t possibly believe that she would fuck up bathrooms and uncaringly harm herself in the process but here she was, carrying out her rebellious streak when no one was around to judge.
“What the fuck am I meant to do now”