I do not own Harry Potter and I make no profit from this story. Harry
Potter belongs to J.K. Rowlings.
Hermione had read a lot of books in her life. She understood them, thought she had a good grasp of human characteristics from the secrets revealed within those tiny printed words. But there was one book she didn't understand.
She sat on the couch in the Griffindor common room, the book in her lap as she puzzled and picked at the idea. The fire was a cheerful blaze before her but it didn't actually give her any comfort.
Harry, having finished his homework, sat down beside her. "Something wrong Hermione?"
Hermione frowned, her brow knitted in thought. "Have you ever read "Lord of the Rings?" It's muggle literature."
"Actually, yes. Someone gave the set to Dudley once and he never wanted it."
"I don't...I don't understand Frodo." She admitted. "I mean, at the end it's like he just doesn't want to live anymore. He's got his life back and he doesn't even seem to want it."
Harry's reply was prompt. "I think it's more like what's already happened to him has made him different. He can't really live anymore. The whole trip and all the pain has made it impossible for him to go back to enjoying the simple things. There's always a weight there left over from being the hero. He's, well, older than everyone else. And tired. His whole life became about the quest and all the responsibility and pain he's gone through have worn him away. What happened is always with him, sort of like muggle post traumatic stress syndrome. Or at least, so I suppose." Harry glanced at his watch. "Oh darn. I forgot about Quidditch practice tonight. I'll see you later Hermione." He got up and ran up the stairs to his dorm for his broom.
Hermione watched him, something cold in her stomach. And then she picked up the first book again, looking desperately for where Frodo went wrong.
Hermione had read a lot of books in her life. She understood them, thought she had a good grasp of human characteristics from the secrets revealed within those tiny printed words. But there was one book she didn't understand.
She sat on the couch in the Griffindor common room, the book in her lap as she puzzled and picked at the idea. The fire was a cheerful blaze before her but it didn't actually give her any comfort.
Harry, having finished his homework, sat down beside her. "Something wrong Hermione?"
Hermione frowned, her brow knitted in thought. "Have you ever read "Lord of the Rings?" It's muggle literature."
"Actually, yes. Someone gave the set to Dudley once and he never wanted it."
"I don't...I don't understand Frodo." She admitted. "I mean, at the end it's like he just doesn't want to live anymore. He's got his life back and he doesn't even seem to want it."
Harry's reply was prompt. "I think it's more like what's already happened to him has made him different. He can't really live anymore. The whole trip and all the pain has made it impossible for him to go back to enjoying the simple things. There's always a weight there left over from being the hero. He's, well, older than everyone else. And tired. His whole life became about the quest and all the responsibility and pain he's gone through have worn him away. What happened is always with him, sort of like muggle post traumatic stress syndrome. Or at least, so I suppose." Harry glanced at his watch. "Oh darn. I forgot about Quidditch practice tonight. I'll see you later Hermione." He got up and ran up the stairs to his dorm for his broom.
Hermione watched him, something cold in her stomach. And then she picked up the first book again, looking desperately for where Frodo went wrong.