Ok, well, this was inspired by a song called, you guessed it, Like Humans Do, by David Byrne. However, this is not,I repeat NOT, a song fic. The lyrics are available at the end if your really want to read them. So yeah, enjoy. It's kind of shorter than I hoped, and probably choc a block full of errors and all... but I'm rambling. So read!
Like Humans Do
"She's so little!" The woman's face was still flushed with the effort of giving birth to the tiny baby girl she held in her arms. "I mean, just look at her. She's so, so-"
"Pink?" her husband suggested, waggling his eyebrows and grinning, elated at finally being a father. His wife gave him a look, the look, and he held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Sweet. She's sweet. And so innocent," the mother corrected, gazing fondly at her daughter. The baby began to cry.
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Said girl was no longer so innocent. A small bottle hung loosely from fingertips that barely seemed to notice its presence, filched from the mini-bar of the last motel that had acted as her accommodation for another night. Her hair was greasy, brush strokes clearly visible in the lank, brown locks, if locks they could still be called. Her eyelids were swollen, thanks to a lack of sleep for at least three days past. She Lent her head back against the station wall, sighing slightly. The station smelt of cheap cigarettes, sweat and urine. Wrinkling her nose she stood and heaved her bag onto her shoulder, staggering slightly not only with the weight but as a result of the aforementioned bottle's contents. Hermione Granger was not happy.
She managed to make her way up the escalator which, as always, was out of order. Her ticket refused to go through the ticket barrier twice before she slipped through and was able to leave the putrid station. Hermione barely made it to her flat unscathed, stumbling down the road with the stability of ten drunks. Crashing through the door she ditched her bag and slammed the door behind her, regardless of the fact it was nearing three a.m. Screw her neighbours. Who really cared?
Hermione practically crawled into her bedroom, slumping at the foot of her bed before beginning to cry. It was her birthday. She was twenty six. Twenty bloody six. And what did she have to show for it? No relationship, no friends, no family, no money, no career. She hadn't planned it this way, it was supposed to be better. Her tears grew more bitter as she slammed her fist repeatedly into her bed stead.
She found herself viciously hoping that he knew it was all his fault. Hoping that it ate him up inside, devoured him like worms. Her too, Hermione hoped she couldn't sleep for the guilt. Hermione smiled a little twisted smile, the smile of a drunk, before lapsing back into despair. Back into that night.
The Christmas Party. How ironic. Hermione had been making all those funny quips about how she hoped it wouldn't go as badly as Slughorn's party in sixth year. How she'd walked into that one.
She could recall that night as if she were there once more. The tinkling laughter, the circle of awe that had surrounded Harry as he tried desperately to play down his defeat of Lord Voldemort which still years later was the popular topic of conversation. A different Harry came out later, a worried and desperate Harry as he tried to block her view and distract her as she returned from the ladies room. Hermione recalls the slight sheen of sweat on his brow as he tried to talk to her, and her own joke that she was trying to hide something from her. Then someone had jostled him and he'd moved and she'd seen...
Hermione sobbed louder as she remembered that moment. The last moment she'd ever seen him in fact. Ron Weasley with his fucking tongue down fucking Lavendar Brown's throat. She saw them with perfect clarity, heard her own glass tumble out of her hand and shatter as it hit the white marbled floor of the Ministry's function room. Harry cried hoarsely after her as she wrenched the door open and stepped through. But no one had stopped her.
Hermione fumbled around for something to throw as the memory ended. She swore loudly, audible through the paper thin walls of her crappy flat. She'd already broken her TV and most of the china during a previous night of sorrow drowning. She flung her shoes into the darkness of her room, hearing them hit the walls with a satisfying THWACK! Smirking triumphantly she dragged herself up and onto her bed, trying to get comfortable on the old mattress and rock hard pillow. Her eyes closed and, if only due to exhaustion rather than peace, she fell into sleep.
Hermione had not had a good couple of years. From a high paying job at the Ministry of Magic, where she had a good health plan, not to mention a promotion in the offing, she had been reduced to becoming a waitress where the only perks were the occasional quid or two left as a tip. Cheapskates. She was living in the cheapest flat she could find, was living off frozen food, most of which had past its best before date and her wardrobe consisted of her uniform, a pair of jeans and a shirt or two. The rest had gone. Though her appearance had not changed fundamentally, she was barely recognizable as Hermione Granger. Perhaps because everyone called her Gemma Pinching.
She awoke the next morning to the sound of the couple above her apparently trying to break the bed and the couple below screaming at one another. Light streamed in through her curtain-less windows and she rolled over, groaning and swearing lazily. She fell out of bed, startling the arguing pair below her into silence, and staggered into what was meant to be a bathroom. The shower ran brown water for a few moments before turning clear enough to be considered washing water. She pulled her uniform on reluctantly, her hair wet and soaking her back. Hair driers were most definitely a luxury.
She looked at herself in the mirror and for a few moments she could see the old Hermione Granger. However, seconds later she disappeared and Gemma Pinching took her place. She took a few deep breaths and left the flat, scooping up her keys and kicking the bag of her belongings as she passed through the hall.
It was quite odd that she worked in London. Indeed, she worked less than a few miles away from the Ministry itself. She knew that for a while, Harry and Ron had looked for her, but she had known they would overlook her. She knew the way they worked too well from days spent in the Library so long ago. However, she did have to give them marks for trying. Hermione had heard that Harry had only given up a few months back and remained in 'constant vigilance' as Moody would say.
She entered the cafe wearily, her eyes barely open as the wafting smell of grease hit her hard. She had barely made it through her first order before her superior, a Mr. Bletchly, had squeezed her arse and muttered a lecherous comment in her ear. Her head was killing her as her hangover set in. She never had been particularly good at drinking. It was just something to do to while away time.
Hermione pushed her hair out of her eyes, sagging into a chair as the breakfast stream ended. She had at least half an hour before the early luncher's flooded in. However, apparently Mr. Bletchly had considered this half hour to be his chance and she had been forced to listen to what he considered flirting as she ate her own brunch, consisting of a solitary hard boiled egg and a burnt piece of toast. It was for the food that Hermione worked here, not the money since that went directly to the rent. She could scrounge left overs and keep herself out of starvation.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the first customer entered ten minutes earlier than she had hoped and Mr. Blatchly was forced to scurry back to the kitchen. She happily took the man's order and ignored the pain when his son trampled on her toes. Hermione almost felt her hair becoming greasier and greasier as she traversed from the kitchen to the dining area, plates piled on her hands and arms.
Towards the end of the lunch period she almost dropped them all as a man with shocking red hair wandered in to be greeted by a girl who reminded her of Lavendar Brown so much that she felt bile rise in her throat. Luckily, the young man'sresemblence was only in the hair and she was able to regain her composure and wits enough to wait tables.
It was on the way home that she'd gotten a real shock. A drunk beggar had pressed her against a wall, reeking of spirits. It was one of the few moments she wished she hadn't left her wand, as well as all other magical items, behind her when she had left her old life. It was too easily traced and she'd wanted Ron to be guilty, never knowing how she was or even if she was still alive. Her revenge was long drawn out and difficult, but she was set on it. She'd been living like this for too long to give up now.
She winced as his toothless mouth loomed a few inches away from her face, his hands on her arms. His breath stank, not only of alcohol but of cigarettes and a smell Hermione recognized from the council estates corners. Even so, she had had to shut her eyes to push the man away. He'd looked about eighty and despite her new life she was not accustomed to hurting old men, especially those who bore a slight, very slight, resemblance to dead professors, now departed.
Hermione had gotten away of course, the man was so drunk he could barely stand, but that hadn't stopped her running the rest of the way home. She had broken a heel in a grate as she crossed the road and in a moment of frustration snapped the other as well. The sky which had started out as white with tiny patches of blue was now a deepening gloomy grey.
Hermione entered the council estate quickly, a harsh wind blowing and whipping her hair against her face. She clung to her name pin absurdly, as if the flimsy plastic was her dearest possession in the world. It scared her just how close it was to that.As she darted inside her block of flats the grey clouds overhead opened and rain started bucketing down, making the gum covered pavement turn sleekly black. She climbed the stairs to her flat slowly, dragging her feet behind her. Despite her run to get to her home, she despised every inch of it and was always reluctant to return to it, unwilling to believe this was what she had reduced herself to.She felt morose, her hangover still desperately trying to cling to her mind. Hermione was weary and simply sick of it all.
However, the moment she entered her flat she knew something was wrong. The TV was still broken, the dishes were still stacked in the sink, congealed food stuck to them like leeches. In a few moments she found it. Her bedroom door, the only proper door in the whole flat,was closed. Hermione knew she was not the one who closed it, never really being bothered enough.
She moved quietly through her flat, taking up a piece of piping that had fallen out of a cupboard when she first moved in and had never been touched. Having ascertained that no one was in her kitchen or bathroom she moved slowly to the flimsy door with its chipped white paint stained with nicotine and opened it, piping in hand.
Sitting on her bed was Ronald Weasley,stroking what appeared to be an older, fatter, Crookshanks. Both looked up upon her entry, two pairs of eyes staring at her. However, this sight was only visible for a moment as Hermione slammed the door, her eyes wide before running out of the flat, down the stairs and out into the rain. Her head hurt, her heart ached, her limbs felt heavy as lead as she dragged herself across the council estate. Her shoulders shook, though whether from the cold of the fear she didn't know. She noticed that her hand was still clenched around the piping, knuckles turning white. She dropped it and it clanged loudly on the cement, forcing her to a stop.
Hermione felt stupid and foolish. She didn't know the facts and it made her feel afraid. How had he found her? Why was he here? All she knew was that a few moments later she could hear her name being bellowed through the rain. She turned slightly and saw the mop of red hair turn darker as it was soaked. Tears stung her eyes as she staggered backwards, trying to avoid what she knew was coming. Arms encircled her and red fur brushed at her ankles affectionately as Ron and Crookshanks caught up with her. Hermione surrendered as a hand smoothed her hair, resting on Ron, sobbing as all three of them were soaked through.
It may have been moments or minutes later when Hermione pulled away. Ron tried to speak but she shook her head.
She took a deep breath.
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For millions of years, In millions of homes
A man loved a woman, A child it was born
It learned how to hurt and it learned how to cry
Like Humans Do
I'm breathing in
I'm breathing out
So slip inside this funky house
Dishes in the sink
The TV's in repair
Don't look at the floor
Don't go up the stairs
I'm achin'
I'm shakin'
I'm breakin'
Like Humans Do
I work & I sleep & I dance & I'm dead
I'm eatin, I'm laughin & I'm lovin myself
I never watch TV except when I'm stoned
Like Humans Do
I'm breathing in
I'm breathing out
So slip inside this funky house
Dishes in the sink
The TV's in repair
Don't look at the floor
Don't go up the stairs
I'm achin'
I'm shakin'
I'm breakin'
Like Humans Do
I'm breathing in
I'm breathing out
So slip Inside this funky house
Wiggle while you work
Anybody can
The rain is pourin in on a woman & a man
I'm achin'
I'm shakin'
I'm breakin'
Like Humans Do
I'm breathing in
I'm breathing out.
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Crappy? Bad ending?Pointless? I won't know unless you press the purple button! Cheers.