A/N: So, while I was supposed to be doing a million other things (including writing the next chapter of Rose's Turn), this little story popped into my head and demanded to be written. To see the inspiration behind it, go watch KatrinDepp's youtube video entitled "where i feel at home", as well as listen to the song Picking up the Pieces by Blue October. Once again, thanks to my beautiful beta reader, Mochoa1994, for editing my sleep-deprived words and helping them to make more sense. Enjoy!
As long as Hermione had been in the Wizarding World, she had known war.
At twelve years old, she helped her best friends fight their way through a series of obstacles separating them from the Philosopher's Stone in an attempt at stopping Lord Voldemort from getting it.
At thirteen, she became a victim of the Basilisk attacks that nearly destroyed the school, and her friends. She'd spent a good portion of her second year petrified in the hospital wing.
At fourteen, she saw for the first time how cruel a justice system that wrongfully imprisoned a man for twelve years could be. She came face to face with the killer and the accused, and saw justice fail again.
At fifteen, she might as well have been a competitor in the Triwizard Tournament herself with all the research she'd done on the tasks. She witnessed her friend return from the maze clutching the body of a fellow student. It was the first time she'd seen death up close.
At sixteen, she fought against the school she'd thought she could trust, going against the new Ministry-enforced policies. She stood beside her friends as they battled their way through the Department of Mysteries. She learned the pain of loss once again.
At seventeen, she struggled to come to terms that her classmates – no matter how vile – could be working for Voldemort. She fought in her second war battle. For the third time, she learned loss.
At eighteen years old – still so young by most standards – she dropped out of school, faced more evil than she could have ever imagined, watched friend after friend fall to the war, and watched as one of her best friends – whom she had fought to keep alive for seven years – walk into the forest to die so that he might make their foe mortal once more. She and her two friends walked away alive while so many others did not.
Since she was eleven years old, Hermione Granger had known nothing but war, and now that it was finally over, she was left to pick up the pieces.
But it was not as easy as she had hoped.
It was almost three o'clock in the morning when Hermione shot awake with a start, drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. For a long minute, she did not recognize where she was. Her mind raced, trying to figure out when they had been captured. It was only after she heard the slow, even breathing beside her did she remember that she was at the Burrow, with Ginny Weasley sleeping a few feet away.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, staring straight ahead at the wall which was adorned with a poster of Gwenog Jones, giving a winning smile to the camera. Hermione had to look away. The poster made her feel ill.
She sighed, tossed her blanket aside, and grabbed her beaded bag from the bedside table. She needed to move. She felt as though she might suffocate if she stayed in this little room for much longer.
As quickly and quietly as she could, Hermione made her way through the narrow hallways and down the creaky stairs. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would help her sleep. She'd tried everything else she could think of in the two weeks since the war had ended.
The kitchen was dark, and everyone in the house was sleeping. Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a book of matches to light a candle and went to work, trying to focus on each individual task; searching for the kettle, filling it with water, setting the kettle on the stove, finding the tin of chamomile and filling the little tea strainer with the aromatic mix, taking the kettle off the second it begins to whistle as not to alert the others to her presence, pouring the boiling water into a chipped mug. But then it was time to wait. There was nothing she could do but wait for the tea to brew. Even twirling the jar of honey she planned on mixing with the tea and watching as the sticky amber slowly coated the glass could only distract for so long.
Hermione had spent the last two weeks trying to avoid down time. It was best to keep her hands busy because if she didn't, who knew what horrible things would creep into her mind. It was hardest at night, when all she could do was try to fall asleep and hope that the nightmares would be manageable. Often, her nightmares included being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. Those were the worst.
Often, Ron and Harry would ask her if she was alright, but she would just smile and tell them that she was fine. She thought that everything would go back to normal after the war ended, and she'd been wrong. Nothing was like it was before.
That first night had been awful. Even after finding her parents and repairing their memories, she knew that there were things that she could never tell them about what had happened to her. That was part of the reason she had come to stay with the Weasleys. She thought that it would be better to be around people who had gone through similar things, to be around Ron and Harry, but Hermione had begun to think that maybe she should have stayed at home.
It was difficult for her to think about everyone she'd seen injured or die. Her heart felt particularly heavy over Lavender Brown, mauled by Greyback, her neck and face damn near destroyed. The two girls had never been particularly close, but they had shared a dorm for six years. Lavender had spent a week in St. Mungo's before she was finally released, though the Healers said she'll likely never be the same again. She had spent a few days at the Burrow right after being released so that she could meet Bill, who took the younger girl under his wing, knowing how traumatic her experience was. The entire time she was there, Hermione made sure she was off doing some unimportant task.
Hermione shuddered lightly, glad that her tea was finally ready to drink, and stirred in a spoonful of honey. She lifted the mug to her lips, inhaled the soothing vapors, and took a sip.
Just then, the lights in the kitchen turned on. Hermione jumped in fright, reaching for the bag sitting to her right, dropping her cup on accident. It shattered on impact, sending broken bits of ceramic and hot tea everywhere. Just as the lights flicked on, her panic had too.
"Whoa! Hermione, it's alright! It's just me!" Ron said, rushing to her side.
She tried to calm to rapid beating of her heart, but she just felt more flustered as she bent down to pick up the shards of the mug up from the ground.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried, sweeping up the broken ceramic as quickly as she could. "You frightened me and – ouch!" She cut her finger open on one of the fragments, bright red blood now dripped down her hand. The sight of it brought back memories of blood-soaked bodies. She stood hastily, trying not to look too carefully at her injured hand. Her whole body seemed to be shaking as she turned on the faucet, running the wound under the water. She hardly realized that she was crying until Ron turned the water off and turned her to face him.
"Hermione, it's alright," he said, gently taking her injured hand and pulled out his wand. "Episkey." The cut on her finger disappeared. He pointed his wand at the broken mug. "Reparo. There," he told her. "No harm done."
More tears poured from her eyes. "I didn't even think about using magic to fix it," she admitted sadly.
"It's alright," Ron promised. "Everything's alright."
Hermione looked him straight in the eye. "I don't believe you," she said, unable to lie.
He gave her a wry smile. "Do you want to know a secret? Neither do I. Right now, I don't think anyone does." He eyed the bag in her hand. "Why are you still carrying that around?"
"Just in case," she said.
"'Mione," he said in a careful tone. "You know you don't have to do that."
"I know, but I just… I'm always the one who was prepared! I need to be prepared! What if something happens?"
He pried the bag from her hands and set it back down on the table. "Nothing's going to happen," he told her. "There's no need to be prepared to leave at a moment's notice. What's really been going on? And don't say that it's nothing. I know you better than that, Hermione Jean Granger."
"I keep having nightmares," Hermione admitted. "When I was a little girl and I had nightmares, my parents would tell me that none of it was real. But…" she trailed of, unsure she wanted to continue.
"But it is real," Ron finished for her. "Well, was real," he corrected himself.
"Yeah. It was real."
"Well, let's do this," Ron said. "I'll make us both a new cup of tea and we can talk about it."
Hermione felt her eyes well up with more tears at the sentiment. She couldn't believe this was the same boy she'd once said had the emotional range of a teaspoon. "I'd like that."
"Alright then," he said with a smile, putting the kettle back on the stove and preparing new cups and tea leaves. It took a much shorter amount of time for the water the boil and the tea to brew. Hermione watched every move he made carefully. Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione, walking her to the kitchen table and sitting her down.
"So, tell me about the nightmares," he prompted as Hermione took a sip from her glass.
Hermione hesitated for a minute, thinking of where to begin.
"The main one is of her," she began, knowing that Ron would understand who she was talking about. "It's like I'm back there, reliving the pain all over again. And every time, I can hear her yelling at me trying to force me to tell her the truth. And no matter how much I tell her we didn't steal anything, no matter how much I scream, she just keeps hurting me, over and over and over again."
"That's funny," Ron said.
"Funny? What's funny about it?"
"Well, I guess funny's not the right word for it," he corrected. "I guess more like sad. The nightmares I have are of hearing you scream and not being able to do anything about it."
"Is it selfish of me?" Hermione asked, tears in her eyes. "Is it selfish to wish I'd never gotten my letter?"
Ron wrapped his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder. "No," he whispered softly. "It's not selfish at all."
"I used to have a friend," Hermione told him through her tears. "Her name was Veronica. We'd been best friends since we were in primary school. We shared everything. I don't remember the last time we spoke."
"It's alright," Ron said.
"No," Hermione insisted. "It's not alright. I was supposed to be graduating this year, from high school. Veronica and I would have had our graduation parties together. I would have my driver's license right now, and I'd be thinking about what university I wanted to go to. I was supposed to be normal."
No matter what Ron said, Hermione felt selfish admitting all of these things, and her own words brought her great shame.
"But, if you'd been normal, we wouldn't have ever found each other," Ron murmured.
"I know," Hermione said. "But I wouldn't feel this way right now."
She looked up at Ron, meeting his gaze, and asked the question that she – so often called, the brightest witch their age – could not answer. "How do they expect us to pick up all the pieces?"
The Daily Prophet had been doing articles about the war survivors every day since the war had ended. Obviously, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been interviewed immediately after the ordeal, before everything had truly set in. Hermione had been the picture of composure during her session, talking about how wonderful it would be to get back to her own home again, sleep in a real bed, and not having to worry about being captured or ambushed. The story made it seem like she had it all together, which is what the wizarding community wanted to hear. What a lie it all seemed now. The Prophet had asked for a follow-up story, but she refused. The last thing Hermione wanted was for the world to see how defeated she felt.
Ron stared back at her for a long second before burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know."
Hermione was not sure how long the two sat there, holding each other tightly. It might have been seconds or hours. She didn't know. But at some point during the embrace, Hermione yawned, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue.
"Sleepy?" Ron asked, pulling back and brushing her hair away from her face.
"Kind of," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I haven't slept much lately. I'm almost afraid to go to sleep sometimes. I'm worried about what I'm going to relive."
"I know what you mean," he said. He stood and helped Hermione to her feet. "Come on. I know we could both go for some good rest."
"I can't stay in Ginny's room," Hermione told him. "It's too… normal. I can't stay in there and stare at posters of Gwenog Jones and Myron Wagtail and pretend like everything's alright."
"Then you'll stay in my room, with Harry and me," Ron reasoned. "As long as you don't mind posters of the Chudley Cannons, that is."
"How is your mother going to react to that?" she questioned skeptically.
"We shared a tent together for six months," he reminded her. "I think she can deal with us sharing a bed until everything starts settling back down."
Hermione still wasn't sure, but she knew there was no way she would be able to sleep in Ginny's room again. And if it meant a chance at even a slightly peaceful sleep, she would be willing to deal with the possible repercussions.
"Alright," she said at last, and allowed Ron to lead her up the familiar path to his bedroom. Hermione made sure not to look at the door on the second floor landing, which was right above Ginny's. The room which once held a two-man team now held only one; another reminder of how close the war had made it.
"Shhh," Ron said when they reached his door. "Harry's still sleeping."
He pushed the door open lightly and the two crept in. Sure enough, on the opposite side of the room was another bed which held the sleeping form of Harry Potter. Hermione wondered how it was he seemed to sleep so easily and free of the horrors that haunted her night hours. Perhaps Harry had seen so much in his life already that to be done with it was enough that he didn't have to relive every moment anymore.
Ron laid down on his bed and pulled Hermione down with him, covering both of them with his bright orange Chudley Cannons blanket and wrapping his arms around her once more. Hermione immediately curled into him and let her eyes close.
"Ron?" she asked in a muted whisper just before she allowed herself to succumb to the fatigue that had plagued her for two excruciatingly long weeks.
"Yeah, 'Mione?"
"Do you think we'll ever be able to pick up all the pieces?"
There was a slight pause in which Ron's lips found her own. "Yeah, I do," he said as he broke the kiss.
Hermione sighed, a content smile crossing her face for the first time since the war had ended. "I love you, Ron."
"I love you, too, Hermione."
The pair fell asleep in each other's arms, dreaming of the other, and how they could help each other pick up the pieces of their broken lives and turn it into something beautiful. And the next morning when Harry awoke, he saw his two best friends, fast asleep, both still smiling.
A/N: This piece really got me thinking about how it must feel to come back from war after seeing so many people you knew and loved die. Especially to be so young and to see so many horrors. That must have been really hard, especially for someone who grew up away from the stories from the First Wizarding War, like Hermione was. I don't know. I guess it's just really sad to think that at eighteen years old, you'd be forced to come home from war and rebuild your entire life. Well, that's enough rambling from me. Be sure to tell me what you think by way of review. And also go check out my other two Harry Potter fics, Rose's Turn and Sorting Victory.