A/N: This started as an explanation to a friend about how PTSD can feel and somehow morphed into a POV of a Blood War survivor, specifically Hermione. I'm not yet certain if I'll add more to the story or not...but the answer is probably yes. For now, it'll remain a one shot. A short breakdown of each part is available at the end if needed.
Warnings: AU, Death (implied), Rape (implied), other implied war actions
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is Rowling's, I just play in the sandbox.
Pain.
It has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember. Sometimes, on the rare good days, you can control it. Most of the time the pain overwhelms your thoughts.
Remembering new information is a struggle. You can see them speaking to you; you can hear the symphony of their voices, but ever still the exact words elude you.
Every day is a challenge. You almost collapse because you have forgotten how to breathe. You wonder if it is just you or if maybe the world is at fault. What kind of person forgets how to breathe?
Memories.
For all you cannot remember, for every piece of new information you struggle to recall there are a dozen memories you see flash before your eyes.
They do not understand, cannot understand. Looks of pity, confusion, worry, or worse yet, anger are cast toward you at every flinch.
You ignore them. You learned long ago the futility of trying to explain what is trapped within. It scratches and claws at the walls you placed around it trying to escape.
It always wants to escape. Always.
You are in a meeting. The topic is as mundane and plebeian as the matter is capable. They look shocked when you speak in diminutive sentences, ever the concise and candid individual; you simplify the matter at hand into bit size niblets, so minute a child could accurately interpret your words.
You fall silent and the others stare more. One speaks, accusing you of not understanding the issue, believing you a simpleton. The insults, concealed in well placed remarks disguised as suggestions, are nothing compared to the pain.
You curse internally. For a few blissful moments you forgot the pain, stepped away from the loving embrace. Blocking it out, you respond in kind, always controlling your responses so they fall just short of the wounds the other attempts to inflict upon you. Pain you know. How to restrain yourself from unleashing the suppressed grief and pain, you discovered long ago.
Again you fall silent, unwavering in your determination to end the farce of a conversation masquerading in your presence. Even as the other tries to rekindle it, you ruthlessly snuff out the embers.
'Weak' you are called. Flashes start to alight your vision as your mind returns to the past. The return starts gently, almost like a lover's caress…
Hatred.
You see his face. You remember the hits, the abuse of your body and mind. You remember the time you meekly just accepted it, hoping it would hasten the process. 'You enjoy this', he tells you, ordering you to believe him. You do not know if you do. You hide the flinch and pretend to be that which he desires.
Grief.
You see the flames climbing ever higher, glowing with intensity and burning with a furor you have seen only a handful of times before. You are in shock, paralyzed by the reality of your situation. A silent prayer, the last you will ever try, floats towards the heavens, following the trail of smoke through the sky with the gracefulness of a butterfly, leaving behind an empty cocoon – you. Something starts to grow within you, a terrible being forged from the grief you feel, increasing in size at exponential rates.
Anger.
You hear the screams, the pleas for help and you release the monster from its bindings. For the first time since its inception, you relinquish control of the beast. 'Be free' you whisper, as you let the anger course through your veins until if builds into a raging inferno. You emulate the storm that passed by a few hours prior as you spin from place to place, never stopping long, taking only enough time to assist the unfortunate souls as you pass. You lose track of time in the cycle of anger—eventually, you are told to rest, to take some time to recover. You collapse into your bed, not feeling the fatigue in your body nor the effects of your injuries, and the demon purrs contently inside its cage.
Rage.
You hear the diagnosis, the dreaded words from the doctor and you barely pull your demon inward. The icy mask returns to your face as you pretend to remain unaffected by the devastating news. How dare the universe add this travesty? Have you not given enough, sacrificed enough? As your expression remains as cold as the Siberian Mountains, within you are a raging inferno burning hotter than Eta Carinae. The demon attacks its glacial trappings, desiring the freedom to show all why you are still alive, why you survived the brutality of human nature for so long.
You want to set it free, let the monster take over to carry you through this period of rage, but by now you know better—you know it is not yet time, so you speak softly to the demon, soothing it, bringing it back to the center. 'Hush, it is not time. Not yet. You will have your freedom yet, but not today. Today we wait.' The demon returns to its slumber, wrapping its ferocious body around your core, content in the knowledge it will have freedom.
Patience.
You know how to bide your time. When you were younger, you would rush headlong into a fight without thinking of the consequences. You know better now. 'Soon.' The rumbling from your demon marks its agreement. Inside, amidst the ice and chains, your demon prepares itself for a fight. But for now, you wait. You will wait until the time is ripe for the picking. It would not do to show your hand early.
The flashes cease, having occurred over a mere few seconds, unnoticed by the others in the room. 'Patience', you remember, so you pull yourself back together and continue to ignore the other's voice. You are quite skilled at feigning ignorance by this point in your life.
No, they do not see the monster, do not know its embrace. But you…you know it. Where you once hated the monster within, now you cherish it as a mother cherishes her children. Yet, inexplicably, the demon is not your child so much as a comrade in arms. Together you have done many things—some marvelous works of wonder and light, a tribute to those others call angels; other works, the personification of hell itself, a harsh reminder of humanity's true nature.
You are the demon's only source of freedom. For that, and for your acceptance, it contents itself with a crystallized prison of ice. The demon is the source of your strength, you weakness, your foundation. You go unabashedly into its waiting arms, feeling at home within the fiery embrace, protected from the icy shield between you and the external world.
You know the chances of finding a partner to spend your life with are slim, but within your demon's embrace, you care not. The world will change, but your sanctuary and peace with the demon will not.
A/N:
Hatred - an abusive relationship with Ron Weasley.
Grief - the death of Luna Lovegood, a friend but not of Hermione's.
Anger - the Battle of St. Mungo's.
Rage - an injury resulting in the inability to have children.
Patience - Hermione's coping mechanism after the war.
Huge thanks goes to my beta and long time gaming buddy, Mags, who encouraged me to share this with others.