Author's Note: Hello, hello :) I have not written anything here for two years- sorry! I know I should be working on my other stories, but it's a bit hard to write something well when you don't have the passion for it anymore. I will always be passionate for Harry Potter-otherwise known as God's gift to mankind-and I can't believe it's taken me this long to write a HP fic. As the summary says, this fic is Hermione-centric and post-Hogwarts. If you squint, there's a little Draco/Hermione and Ron/Hermione, but the focus is not on romance. Thank you so much for reading!
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all rights to the Harry Potter series; I own a laptop. Well, actually, I don't :/
There is absolutely nothing wrong with Hermione Granger. She is smart, she is beautiful, she is famous.
(Not quite loved, not quite yet)
(But soon.)
.
Twenty twoyearsold; PersonalArithmancy Research and Theories Expertfor Bill Weasley.
.
Sometimes, a girl can get really exhausted from hearing all the overused jokes about her brains repeated twenty times a day-it's alright. It comes with the job of being Hermione Granger, and she is determined-as she always is-to do her duty well. There's a well of emotion just beneath the clay of her facade, but she is careful not to pull up a bucket; she is careful not to feel.
(There are moments when she looks up from the paperwork cluttering her desk to catch silvery eyes peering into hers-and is it wrong that she loves them so much? Is it wrong that she loves him so much?)
.
Twenty-nine years old; Undersecretary to the Undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic.
.
Red hair flops over his blue eyes, and her fingers reach up to brush the strands away. After years of on and off dating, she thinks this is it. Her life is picking up speed, hurtling her to that ideal happy ending. Ron is by her side, Harry at the other, and those hateful silver eyes are nowhere to be found.
It was always going to be the Golden Duo, with Harry, grinning proudly, standing over them.
(Wasn't it?)
.
Thirty-five years old; unemployed.
.
She checks her mail listlessly, already knowing there's nothing to find. Her days are routine, now. After six years, she's finally adjusted to the scars her loved ones left on her heart. Her parents, having been trained to attribute every one of her problems to the Wizarding World, say nothing.
(She has never heard so much silence in her life. She could end it all with just one word, but she won't speak can't speak won't stop must stop is stopped-)
The Malfoys are silent.
The Weasleys are silent.
The Potters are silent.
The whole world seems to have turned without her, as if she'd never existed.
.
Forty years old; institutionalized.
.
HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TO HER?
The rage builds to a raging inferno, its flames tearing at every part of her. She smashes into the wall, picking up everything within reach and hurling it all to the ceiling until, at last (she breathes), her heartbeat slows.
She turns her head to the shard of mirror laying on the wall beside her. Her eyes are dull, her cheeks hollowed, and her gray-streaked tangles have escaped their braid to reach for her face. The tears stream silently down her face as she wonders how she has reached this point- how she has transformed from the center of attention to the lonely prisoner in the mental hospital.
She hears the door creak open, and she sighs. Another wizard come to laugh at the brains of the Golden Trio in a mental hospital or another pity visit from her family?
"What do you want?" she mutters harshly.
"To see you," answers the deep, unfamiliar voice. Another wizard, then.
"You see me," she whispers bitterly. "Take a picture if you need to. Just leave."
"Why are you so hateful?" he asks, genuinely perplexed. "You had everything."
She is silent.
"No one loves me," she murmurs.
"They don't have to. You do."
.
Forty years old; loved.
.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with Hermione Granger. She is smart; she is beautiful.
She is loved.