Disclaimer: If I owned this, one of the following two things would happen to the storyline: 1) It would be overwhelmed with extremely dry and subtle humor, or 2) a giant wave of angst would come crashing over it.
Key:
*these two stars around a word mean emphasis*
_underscores mean thoughts, or simply italics_
[a number here tells you to go take a look at the bottom of the chapter]
A/N: This is my first _Harry Potter_ fanfiction. Yes, I realize that the title of the book is the name of the character that barely makes an appearance in this story, but you know what? Too bad. Hee-hee-hee...
Anywho, I recently grew fascinated with the Hermione/Draco pairing, especially with all the things people have come up with for making it plausible, and BOOM! suddenly there was this idea for a tremendously angsty fanfiction, and, well, here I am. But what I find odd is that I have never before written an extremely angsty fanfiction, and I'm a bit surprised that my muse has presented me with this idea. Ah, well.
Now, without further adoo-doo, the first chapter of _Pick up the pieces_...
*********
Late summer, seventh year
*********
It was with a start, in the middle of a rather confusing conversation with her parents, that Hermione realized she was going to be lonely this year at Hogwarts.
Seventh year, she had heard, was never easy, but ever since third year she had depended on the fact that she was going to have *friends.*
And it was only just now occurring to her that she didn't have those any more.
Her sixth year had been her most frightening and heart-rending yet. With everyone caught up in the war against Voldemort, there was no time for school, no matter how much she wanted there to be. Oh, the first month had gone all right, with Hermione doing well in her studies, Ron obsessing over Quidditch, and Harry worrying about his friends in the war but then, in one day, everything had been shot to hell.
She still remembered quite clearly what she had been doing: writing out the technique used for turning a mushroom into a barstool, while Ron played exploding snap on the carpet next to her chair with Dean Thomas. She had looked up to see the fire before her, and was quite suddenly confronted with Professor Dumbledore, looking grim. The trip to his office was short and confused, and then her memory skipped to the moment she was told the most shocking and grave news imaginable: Harry had been killed.
Ron went completely berserk, smashing things around the office, shouting that he wouldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it--Hermione just sat in her seat, stunned, staring at the wall as if dead. Harry? Dead? But if he'd--Ron had been just about to pick up a glass instrument from a bookshelf near Fawkes' perch, making the phoenix squawk, when Hermione stood up and went over to him. As if in a trance, she'd said his name, took his arm from where it had frozen, and put it gently by his side.
After that her memories got a bit hazy, but she knew that that was the day Voldemort had finally chosen to launch a full-scale attack. He'd started by infiltrating the Ministry, with a side contingent sent to Hogwarts. Suddenly schoolmates turned on each other. Hermione had been forced by her own morals to follow Ron into battle as he picked up the torch for Harry's sake.
"For Harry's sake" was all she had heard for the following six months, as, time and again, she found herself by Ron's side, hoping to gain vengeance for Harry. And finally it was had. Voldemort fell, and with him, his evil collaborative. There'd been rejoicing in the streets.
But it hadn't seemed enough for Ron, somehow. In the middle of a wild celebratory party, people hugging on all sides, weeping with joy...he'd sat with an unshakeable glower on his face. When she'd approached him and asked him what could possibly be wrong, she'd gotten a yell that had halted the festivities for the brief minute it took to shuffle an enraged Weasley out of the room.
From there it had gotten steadily worse. Ron retreated farther and farther into himself, eventually speaking only to his father ("He says I'm the only one who understands," Mr. Weasley had reported sadly), and only in short, terse replies to his questioning. He didn't smile or laugh. He wouldn't even look at Hermione when she visited. Mrs. Weasley found herself unable to cope with the idea of sending him back to Hogwarts, since he responded bitterly, when spoken to by his father, "Too many memories."
Hermione knew how he felt. She was dreading her return to Hogwarts, especially since her last close friend, Ginny, had been drafted as a trainee auror, having proved herself worthy during the war. Now the full impact of the fact that she was going to be alone hit her full force. Alone to face a Hogwarts without Harry or Ron. No pesky friends bothering her while she was studying. No one to cheer for a Quidditch games.
All this came to her in a snap, and then she responded to her mother, hurt, "You do *remember* how I came back here, don't you?"
"Yes," her father rumbled, pausing in his pacing for a few seconds to look her in the eye. "Two months early and unwilling to tell us anything except about some war--and you've yet to produce evidence that this war actually *happened.*"
"You don't trust me enough to--"
"We never see you anymore!" cried her father. "You go away all year, and then when you *do* come back, you say you can't tell us because we won't understand! Every year, Hermione! And you come back *changed* every year!"
"We're missing it," said her mother quietly.
"And don't think I didn't notice your teeth shrank, young lady," said her father intensely, holding out a scolding finger. "We expressly *forbid* you from shrinking them, and then you just--"
"All right! You want to know what you've missed?! Huh?!"
"Yes!" said Hermione's mother, quietly fervent.
"My best friend's died, okay?!" Her voice was angry and laden with tears. "There's your proof of the war! My best friend's died, and my other best friend won't talk to me because of it!" She collected her arguments as she looked right through her stunned parents. "I work hard all year long, I pull perfect marks--because that's what you'd expect of me! I spent nearly every night in the library--Harry and Ron'd complain," she choked, "because I'd be too busy to spend time with them. And that's what got me *this,*" she seized the letter that had just arrived, pronouncing her Head Girl, which had prompted this entire discussion, "and you're going to scold me for--being too distant?!" She paused, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, tears pouring down her cheeks unnoticed, and then her eyes flashed as she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to her room.
*********
A half an hour later, Hermione found herself pacing through her room, gesturing furiously at the air in front of her. Her throat was exceptionally dry from crying, and she croaked as she spoke her quiet but vehement arguments. "They don't even *know* what I've suffered--what I've risked--" not that she could tell them, they'd be furious, "--what I've--ugh! and they decide to pick on me because I'm *Head* *Girl*!" The last two words she punctuated by two frenzied swipes at her bed, causing Crookshanks, the entirely-useless-ball-of-fur cat, to lift his head and blink muzzily at her before settling down into his nap again. "And to say that I shrunk my teeth--that wasn't even me *anyway,* it was that stupid, bloody--and it's *my* decision, not *yours,*" she growled. "*My* decision about how I look. *Mine.* I could go--change my hair right now, just 'cause it's mine!" she whirled on Crookshanks, who merely perked up his ears a little bit. Turning to her mirror, she snarled in disgust at her thick head of curly hair, trying to run her hands through the outer edges of it and failing miserably. "Stupid, ruddy--" she cut herself off; that word reminded her too much of Ron.
Then an idea occurred to her, and she spun on Crookshanks again. "It's about time I changed it, anyway," she rationalized haughtily at the cat. Turning to the door, she took a deep breath, turned the knob, then stepped out into the hall, padded down the stairs, walked past the doorway to the kitchen, where her parents' murmuring could be heard, slipped on her shoes, opened the front door, and closed it quietly behind her.
Blinking at the bright sunlight, Hermione set off down the sidewalk. Once she got into her pace, it was actually rather pleasant. A breath of fresh air, quite literally, from her stifling room where she was cramped in with her emotions. Out here she could almost forget them...almost. Taking her first left, she quickly approached her destination.
The bell rang above her as she opened the door, and she quickly checked her pockets to see how much Muggle money she had left. A tiny nod to herself as she discovered about fifteen pounds.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Hermione told the salon-worker. "I'd like a haircut, please."
*********
Her parents weren't happy with her new haircut. When she'd walked back in the door with her straightened, shoulder-length hair, she'd spotted them on the couch, thrown a cool look at them as if daring them to say something, then marched back up the stairs to her room. For the rest of the evening a tense silence had filled the house.
The same tense silence that filled the car now. "Mum," said Hermione quietly. Her mother didn't take her eyes off the road. "I'm sorry." Hermione looked up at her mother's eyes, still locked on the road in front of her, then went back to watching her clammy hands. There was no response, and after a long moment, she said quietly, "Please say something."
"What do you want me to say?" Controlled anger.
"Maybe that you forgive me?" asked Hermione plaintively.
She sighed. "Dear, we--" she cut herself off as she pulled into a parking space. Turning to her daughter, she bit her bottom lip. "We just--miss you, is all. You're never around, and--and when you are, you go and--" she cut herself off again, gesturing feebly at Hermione's hair.
"I know, mum. I'm sorry." Hermione wasn't sure if she was apologizing for her outburst, her hair, or the fact that she had grown so distant from her parents. "But...you never said what you think...do you like it?"
The older woman cracked a smile, and Hermione gave her an answering one. "I like it. I like it a lot. You look very--grown up." They smiled at one another for a few more seconds, and then her mother clapped her hands on her knees and, opening the door, said, "Well, we'd better get you some school supplies, don't you think?"
"Yeah," said Hermione, brightening.
*********
Things got a great deal more interesting when you were sharing them with people, Hermione remarked inwardly. When her father had arrived late at Diagon Alley, after running an errand, Hermione's mother excused herself to the bathroom for a few minutes, during which Hermione repeated her apology. He'd clapped her on the shoulder, and she'd ducked a third clap to give him a hug around the middle.
Now she was giving her parents, for the first time, really, a walking tour of Diagon Alley, in between shopping for school supplies. Contrary to her prior beliefs, the adults were actually quite interested in what she was studying, and were a bit more prone to believe her about her studies, surrounded as they were every year by people doing magic. The only thing that put a damper on this moment was that the people who recognized her--even with the different hairstyle--tended to mutter a quiet "Hello" to her more cheerful "Hi." She wasn't quite sure why that was, but she knew she'd figure it out soon after she got back to school, and put a stop to it. People couldn't be shying away from the Head Girl, could they?
"Wait, Hermione," called her father from behind her. "You haven't told us about this shop yet. You're a witch, you must ride a broomstick," he joked, as she came walking back. To his surprise, she took his arm gently, and tried to steer him away from the window, saying,
"No, dad, I don't want to--Harry liked Quidditch, dad, I couldn't--" she stuttered, a lump forming in her throat.
"Oh," he said softly, understandingly, patting her on the back. Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders, and they walked towards the next store, about which her parents immediately started exclaiming.
*********
And then, quite suddenly, it was time to go back to school. Hermione surveyed the contents of her trunk, satisfied, before closing it firmly. Then she turned resolutely towards the basket with which she brought Crookshanks to and from school, and sighed heavily.
"Dear, are you all packed?" came echoing up the stairs.
"Just have to get Crookshanks!" she called.
"That can wait, dear, come down a moment?" Shrugging, Hermione went down the stairs to find her mother holding out a gift-wrapped parcel.
"For our Head Girl," said her father proudly as Hermione took the package, looking at her parents curiously.
"Thanks," she said, smiling and tearing open the wrapping. When the brightly-colored paper fell away, she stared down at the gift, befuddled. "What--?"
"We'd like you to write us, dear," said her mother, almost as if she were reciting a practiced speech. "We realized we really don't know anything about your life at school, and we'd like to hear about it. So we got you this," she indicated the stationary in her daughter's hands, "so you could write to us every week."
Every week?
"And use the regular old Muggle-post, so we can show you off at work, huh?" joked her father affectionately.
Muggle-post? From Hogwarts?
"Thank you, mum. Dad." Hermione decided that she didn't want to fight with her parents over something so trivial as a letter a week, so she acquiesced. Forcing a smile, she said, "I'll do that."
"Well, go get Crookshanks, dear, you're going to be late!"
"Yeah," she laughed, thinking it sounded a bit false. "He's probably hiding under the bed again."
*********
A/N: And there we go! The first chapter. I'll probably get the next one up by tomorrow, but I make no promises. No, wait, one promise: Draco will be in the next chapter. Yayyy!
Key:
*these two stars around a word mean emphasis*
_underscores mean thoughts, or simply italics_
[a number here tells you to go take a look at the bottom of the chapter]
A/N: This is my first _Harry Potter_ fanfiction. Yes, I realize that the title of the book is the name of the character that barely makes an appearance in this story, but you know what? Too bad. Hee-hee-hee...
Anywho, I recently grew fascinated with the Hermione/Draco pairing, especially with all the things people have come up with for making it plausible, and BOOM! suddenly there was this idea for a tremendously angsty fanfiction, and, well, here I am. But what I find odd is that I have never before written an extremely angsty fanfiction, and I'm a bit surprised that my muse has presented me with this idea. Ah, well.
Now, without further adoo-doo, the first chapter of _Pick up the pieces_...
*********
Late summer, seventh year
*********
It was with a start, in the middle of a rather confusing conversation with her parents, that Hermione realized she was going to be lonely this year at Hogwarts.
Seventh year, she had heard, was never easy, but ever since third year she had depended on the fact that she was going to have *friends.*
And it was only just now occurring to her that she didn't have those any more.
Her sixth year had been her most frightening and heart-rending yet. With everyone caught up in the war against Voldemort, there was no time for school, no matter how much she wanted there to be. Oh, the first month had gone all right, with Hermione doing well in her studies, Ron obsessing over Quidditch, and Harry worrying about his friends in the war but then, in one day, everything had been shot to hell.
She still remembered quite clearly what she had been doing: writing out the technique used for turning a mushroom into a barstool, while Ron played exploding snap on the carpet next to her chair with Dean Thomas. She had looked up to see the fire before her, and was quite suddenly confronted with Professor Dumbledore, looking grim. The trip to his office was short and confused, and then her memory skipped to the moment she was told the most shocking and grave news imaginable: Harry had been killed.
Ron went completely berserk, smashing things around the office, shouting that he wouldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it--Hermione just sat in her seat, stunned, staring at the wall as if dead. Harry? Dead? But if he'd--Ron had been just about to pick up a glass instrument from a bookshelf near Fawkes' perch, making the phoenix squawk, when Hermione stood up and went over to him. As if in a trance, she'd said his name, took his arm from where it had frozen, and put it gently by his side.
After that her memories got a bit hazy, but she knew that that was the day Voldemort had finally chosen to launch a full-scale attack. He'd started by infiltrating the Ministry, with a side contingent sent to Hogwarts. Suddenly schoolmates turned on each other. Hermione had been forced by her own morals to follow Ron into battle as he picked up the torch for Harry's sake.
"For Harry's sake" was all she had heard for the following six months, as, time and again, she found herself by Ron's side, hoping to gain vengeance for Harry. And finally it was had. Voldemort fell, and with him, his evil collaborative. There'd been rejoicing in the streets.
But it hadn't seemed enough for Ron, somehow. In the middle of a wild celebratory party, people hugging on all sides, weeping with joy...he'd sat with an unshakeable glower on his face. When she'd approached him and asked him what could possibly be wrong, she'd gotten a yell that had halted the festivities for the brief minute it took to shuffle an enraged Weasley out of the room.
From there it had gotten steadily worse. Ron retreated farther and farther into himself, eventually speaking only to his father ("He says I'm the only one who understands," Mr. Weasley had reported sadly), and only in short, terse replies to his questioning. He didn't smile or laugh. He wouldn't even look at Hermione when she visited. Mrs. Weasley found herself unable to cope with the idea of sending him back to Hogwarts, since he responded bitterly, when spoken to by his father, "Too many memories."
Hermione knew how he felt. She was dreading her return to Hogwarts, especially since her last close friend, Ginny, had been drafted as a trainee auror, having proved herself worthy during the war. Now the full impact of the fact that she was going to be alone hit her full force. Alone to face a Hogwarts without Harry or Ron. No pesky friends bothering her while she was studying. No one to cheer for a Quidditch games.
All this came to her in a snap, and then she responded to her mother, hurt, "You do *remember* how I came back here, don't you?"
"Yes," her father rumbled, pausing in his pacing for a few seconds to look her in the eye. "Two months early and unwilling to tell us anything except about some war--and you've yet to produce evidence that this war actually *happened.*"
"You don't trust me enough to--"
"We never see you anymore!" cried her father. "You go away all year, and then when you *do* come back, you say you can't tell us because we won't understand! Every year, Hermione! And you come back *changed* every year!"
"We're missing it," said her mother quietly.
"And don't think I didn't notice your teeth shrank, young lady," said her father intensely, holding out a scolding finger. "We expressly *forbid* you from shrinking them, and then you just--"
"All right! You want to know what you've missed?! Huh?!"
"Yes!" said Hermione's mother, quietly fervent.
"My best friend's died, okay?!" Her voice was angry and laden with tears. "There's your proof of the war! My best friend's died, and my other best friend won't talk to me because of it!" She collected her arguments as she looked right through her stunned parents. "I work hard all year long, I pull perfect marks--because that's what you'd expect of me! I spent nearly every night in the library--Harry and Ron'd complain," she choked, "because I'd be too busy to spend time with them. And that's what got me *this,*" she seized the letter that had just arrived, pronouncing her Head Girl, which had prompted this entire discussion, "and you're going to scold me for--being too distant?!" She paused, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, tears pouring down her cheeks unnoticed, and then her eyes flashed as she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to her room.
*********
A half an hour later, Hermione found herself pacing through her room, gesturing furiously at the air in front of her. Her throat was exceptionally dry from crying, and she croaked as she spoke her quiet but vehement arguments. "They don't even *know* what I've suffered--what I've risked--" not that she could tell them, they'd be furious, "--what I've--ugh! and they decide to pick on me because I'm *Head* *Girl*!" The last two words she punctuated by two frenzied swipes at her bed, causing Crookshanks, the entirely-useless-ball-of-fur cat, to lift his head and blink muzzily at her before settling down into his nap again. "And to say that I shrunk my teeth--that wasn't even me *anyway,* it was that stupid, bloody--and it's *my* decision, not *yours,*" she growled. "*My* decision about how I look. *Mine.* I could go--change my hair right now, just 'cause it's mine!" she whirled on Crookshanks, who merely perked up his ears a little bit. Turning to her mirror, she snarled in disgust at her thick head of curly hair, trying to run her hands through the outer edges of it and failing miserably. "Stupid, ruddy--" she cut herself off; that word reminded her too much of Ron.
Then an idea occurred to her, and she spun on Crookshanks again. "It's about time I changed it, anyway," she rationalized haughtily at the cat. Turning to the door, she took a deep breath, turned the knob, then stepped out into the hall, padded down the stairs, walked past the doorway to the kitchen, where her parents' murmuring could be heard, slipped on her shoes, opened the front door, and closed it quietly behind her.
Blinking at the bright sunlight, Hermione set off down the sidewalk. Once she got into her pace, it was actually rather pleasant. A breath of fresh air, quite literally, from her stifling room where she was cramped in with her emotions. Out here she could almost forget them...almost. Taking her first left, she quickly approached her destination.
The bell rang above her as she opened the door, and she quickly checked her pockets to see how much Muggle money she had left. A tiny nod to herself as she discovered about fifteen pounds.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Hermione told the salon-worker. "I'd like a haircut, please."
*********
Her parents weren't happy with her new haircut. When she'd walked back in the door with her straightened, shoulder-length hair, she'd spotted them on the couch, thrown a cool look at them as if daring them to say something, then marched back up the stairs to her room. For the rest of the evening a tense silence had filled the house.
The same tense silence that filled the car now. "Mum," said Hermione quietly. Her mother didn't take her eyes off the road. "I'm sorry." Hermione looked up at her mother's eyes, still locked on the road in front of her, then went back to watching her clammy hands. There was no response, and after a long moment, she said quietly, "Please say something."
"What do you want me to say?" Controlled anger.
"Maybe that you forgive me?" asked Hermione plaintively.
She sighed. "Dear, we--" she cut herself off as she pulled into a parking space. Turning to her daughter, she bit her bottom lip. "We just--miss you, is all. You're never around, and--and when you are, you go and--" she cut herself off again, gesturing feebly at Hermione's hair.
"I know, mum. I'm sorry." Hermione wasn't sure if she was apologizing for her outburst, her hair, or the fact that she had grown so distant from her parents. "But...you never said what you think...do you like it?"
The older woman cracked a smile, and Hermione gave her an answering one. "I like it. I like it a lot. You look very--grown up." They smiled at one another for a few more seconds, and then her mother clapped her hands on her knees and, opening the door, said, "Well, we'd better get you some school supplies, don't you think?"
"Yeah," said Hermione, brightening.
*********
Things got a great deal more interesting when you were sharing them with people, Hermione remarked inwardly. When her father had arrived late at Diagon Alley, after running an errand, Hermione's mother excused herself to the bathroom for a few minutes, during which Hermione repeated her apology. He'd clapped her on the shoulder, and she'd ducked a third clap to give him a hug around the middle.
Now she was giving her parents, for the first time, really, a walking tour of Diagon Alley, in between shopping for school supplies. Contrary to her prior beliefs, the adults were actually quite interested in what she was studying, and were a bit more prone to believe her about her studies, surrounded as they were every year by people doing magic. The only thing that put a damper on this moment was that the people who recognized her--even with the different hairstyle--tended to mutter a quiet "Hello" to her more cheerful "Hi." She wasn't quite sure why that was, but she knew she'd figure it out soon after she got back to school, and put a stop to it. People couldn't be shying away from the Head Girl, could they?
"Wait, Hermione," called her father from behind her. "You haven't told us about this shop yet. You're a witch, you must ride a broomstick," he joked, as she came walking back. To his surprise, she took his arm gently, and tried to steer him away from the window, saying,
"No, dad, I don't want to--Harry liked Quidditch, dad, I couldn't--" she stuttered, a lump forming in her throat.
"Oh," he said softly, understandingly, patting her on the back. Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders, and they walked towards the next store, about which her parents immediately started exclaiming.
*********
And then, quite suddenly, it was time to go back to school. Hermione surveyed the contents of her trunk, satisfied, before closing it firmly. Then she turned resolutely towards the basket with which she brought Crookshanks to and from school, and sighed heavily.
"Dear, are you all packed?" came echoing up the stairs.
"Just have to get Crookshanks!" she called.
"That can wait, dear, come down a moment?" Shrugging, Hermione went down the stairs to find her mother holding out a gift-wrapped parcel.
"For our Head Girl," said her father proudly as Hermione took the package, looking at her parents curiously.
"Thanks," she said, smiling and tearing open the wrapping. When the brightly-colored paper fell away, she stared down at the gift, befuddled. "What--?"
"We'd like you to write us, dear," said her mother, almost as if she were reciting a practiced speech. "We realized we really don't know anything about your life at school, and we'd like to hear about it. So we got you this," she indicated the stationary in her daughter's hands, "so you could write to us every week."
Every week?
"And use the regular old Muggle-post, so we can show you off at work, huh?" joked her father affectionately.
Muggle-post? From Hogwarts?
"Thank you, mum. Dad." Hermione decided that she didn't want to fight with her parents over something so trivial as a letter a week, so she acquiesced. Forcing a smile, she said, "I'll do that."
"Well, go get Crookshanks, dear, you're going to be late!"
"Yeah," she laughed, thinking it sounded a bit false. "He's probably hiding under the bed again."
*********
A/N: And there we go! The first chapter. I'll probably get the next one up by tomorrow, but I make no promises. No, wait, one promise: Draco will be in the next chapter. Yayyy!