Nightmares and Exhaustion
It begins just as it always does. Voldemort's scream of rage piercing her senses before a tug at her navel throws her into Apparition. 'Mend it, please.' A flash of Harry's face upon seeing his broken wand; her own unbearable guilt. An explosion – Fred falls to the ground. Anguish as all around her, the dead lie; lifeless and mutilated. 'Listen to me –' 'I wanna kill Death Eaters –''Please – Ron – we're the only ones who can end this!' The struggle to restrain Ron ends when his fingers grab her chin. Long nails dig into her cheeks and Bellatrix Lestrange's black eyes glare into her own. 'Girl to girl…' Pain ignites her body. She can do nothing. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she screams.
Hermione jerks awake, her mouth gaping in an agonized shriek. Her heart thunders in her chest and sweat drips down her temples. She slowly comes to her senses and she realizes that no, her bones aren't infused with the pain of the Cruciatus curse. That's in the past now.
She lets her eyes flutter shut once more. She lies, tangled in the cotton bedsheets, panting as she tries to calm herself.
But she can't. Even from beneath her closed lids, tears escape her scarred eyes and wet her cheeks. She begins to sob and tries to curl up, but the tightening pain in her stomach is too much. Frustration – she is stronger than this – has her crying out and she violently rips the covers from her body before sitting up.
It's been more than three years since the war. Three long years in which so much has happened, so much has changed…
She thought she had been getting better. The dreams came less frequently. Not at all in the past month. Her work with the ministry in the Post-War Rehabilitation division brings her more hope and promise with each day. So then why –?
It has been worse tonight. She is still shaking, her body still racks with sobs as she frenziedly pulls on a pair of jeans and sleeved shirt. In a burst of pain, she half runs, half stumbles to the wall of her bedroom and collapses against it. Her fist pounds the wall as she cries.
Almost as quickly as her tears came, they seize. Hermione lets her body crumple to the floor as her breath comes out in ragged, dry wheezes. There is now a dull ache in her eyes to match the one in her gut. But her mind is still frantic.
Stumbling, she pulls herself up and begins to hurry about the room as if she has something to do. But she doesn't.
Ron is away in Bulgaria in search of Yaxley, but Harry –
She apparates.
Numb with exhaustion, Harry turns the knob of his apartment door and nudges it open with his shoulder. Dropping his one rucksack by the door, he doesn't bother with the light and begins to drag himself through the dark towards his bedroom.
Then he notices Hermione.
She's sitting in his only armchair, legs drawn close to her body and brown eyes dull and unseeing. The curtains of the window have been opened and the moonlight streams in, illuminating one side of her petite face.
There was a time when Hermione would have started at being found in Harry's apartment, alone in the very early hours of the morning. She would have stuttered apologies, gathered her things and left with dignity. Tonight however, she merely raises her broken gaze to his and murmurs hoarsely, "Couldn't sleep."
His own body stiff from the week's intensity, Harry stares at her for a moment before approaching and wordlessly pulling her out of the chair. Her fingers are cold and he watches her as they graze his arm almost contemplatively.
"Come on."
He leads the way into the kitchen and she follows silently. He clicks on one weak light and isn't sure how or why, but finds himself heating milk and mixing some malt for her.
He was never good at comforting Hermione, but she always seems grateful for his efforts.
She leans precariously against his kitchen counter, as if she can't muster the effort to relax her body. Minutes later, he presses the warm mug into her white fingers and after staring dismally into its depths, she takes a sip.
She sighs and murmurs thanks before quieting once more.
He knows she has nightmares. All three of them do. Everyone does. The war has left them scattered and fragile. Hermione would be a lot worse off if she had not had Ron that first year. After the war, they were everything the other needed. But the demise of their relationship was inevitable; both were too stubborn for each other.
His own exhaustion making his mind groggy, Harry watches Hermione.
"How long have you been here?"
She doesn't answer. Eventually, she says, "I'd forgotten you were on assignment. By the time I got here… I didn't think you'd be back tonight?"
"We lost him. Again. We were all sent home."
"Until another tip off?" she says bitterly. "Until another Muggle somewhere on the other side of Europe sights him?"
He sighs, rubbing at his unshaven cheeks. "Yes."
"Harry, you're tired." Her voice has regained some of its maternal note. She cocks her head and sends him a small, shaky smile. "Go to bed. I'll be fine… I'll just drink this and be off…"
His own eyes heavy, he stares solemnly into her reddened, troubled ones before shaking his head. She is in no state to be sent home alone.
Harry's feeble kitchen light has managed to catch the scar on Hermione's neck. Smooth and white, he wouldn't have noticed it had he not known it was there. It stretches across her throat, as thin as Bellatrix's blade.
His muscles protest, but Harry pushes himself upright and shuffles to stand in front of Hermione. She seems to have abandoned the malt, so he takes it from her and places it on the counter behind.
An idea has formed in his fogged mind, and he doesn't have the energy to neither consider nor worry about its repercussions.
Numbly, Harry lets his fingers brush her brown hair from her shoulder. She stares at him, eyes turbulent. Gently, his knuckles ghost upwards to graze her scarred neck before unfurling to cup the side of her face. Her eyes flutter close and she leans into his touch as he presses a kiss to her forehead.
"Come on," he murmurs for the second time that night, taking her elbow. "Let's get some rest."