When the curse hit her, no one noticed. She had been looking for some rare books in Knockturn Alley late in the evening and had told Ron and Harry not to wait for her. It had been a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but she had been happy, and she had felt safe. It had not hurt, not really, only a little sting, a minor hex. She had seen the hag scuttling away and had been more surprised than worried. She had decided to go to St. Mungo's anyway, because she hadn't been able to identify it, and she had been curious. The healers had confirmed her own assessment – a minor hex, nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, there was no known counter, but there was a potion that helped with the side effects, such as headaches and tiredness. It was a simple potion, she could brew it easily herself and keep it on hand. She had been annoyed, of course, she had never believed in relying on medication, and she had never had to deal with stupid ailments such as this before, but she had been confident she would manage. She had had headaches on occasion, and she had been tired sometimes, and she usually ignored that, drank a coffee, and carried on. There was no reason why it should be different now.
In the beginning, it hadn't been. She had started her apprenticeship at the Ministry of Magic, and she had been very busy and very successful. Sometime along the way she had broken up with Ron. They just didn't work out. He had different goals, different ideas what a relationship should be like. He wanted to spend time with her when she came home, he wanted her to cook dinner, he was full of energy and chattering about his work and all the exciting things he did and expected her to listen, and then he thought she was still interested in sex after all that. She wanted to grab a sandwich, take care of paperwork, maybe read one or two chapters of a novel to take her mind off work, and sleep. Before long, they were arguing constantly, until he finally cheated on her and had the gall to tell her it was her fault, because 'every man has urges'. She wept for a few hours for the future of a white wedding and a large, happy family that had just turned to dust, and then brushed it off as the childish illusion it had been and moved on. It would have never satisfied her, anyway.
She became a trainee at the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and then an assistant to the British ambassador in France. Her hours increased, and her contact with her friends lessened, but it didn't bother her, she hardly noticed. She was too busy to care. France was beautiful, and she loved her little flat in wizarding Montmartre, the old libraries, the food, and the people. It took her a while to realize she wasn't happy, and she couldn't even really say why.
It started slowly. She didn't really like her boss, but at first that didn't bother her. She did her work, and that was that. Then, she realized that she had started to come in later and later. She was just always so tired in the morning, and she had been coming in early all her life, surely it would be okay if she came in together with the others? In addition, she dreaded the many stairs she had to walk up every morning to get to her workplace, which for some reason was right next to the basilica. When she arrived, she felt dizzy and out of breath, so she decided to join a muggle gym to increase her stamina. It annoyed her that she had become so weak, but it was not altogether surprising, considering she spent most of her time at work and she often forgot to eat.
One time, she fainted in the middle of a work out, to the shocked surprise of the muggles, and her instructor advised her to drink more and not push herself so hard. She wondered for a few hours if she was really pushing herself too hard, but then reminded herself that she usually came in late for work, and dismissed it. It didn't help with the stairs either, but she told herself that it would take time.
Somehow, work piled up. She hadn't even noticed, but suddenly, everyone else was already there when she came in, and she always stayed late to finish all her assignments. There just didn't seem to be enough time. She once complained about it, but her colleagues frowned at her. They managed just fine.
Once, she had planned ahead on the weekends, then caught up, now, the blinding headaches forced her to stay in bed and she barely managed to cook. Sometimes she didn't manage even that, but she was so tired that she hardly noticed she was hungry.
Her life seemed to become an endless repetition of dragging herself out of bed, crawling to work, and coming back home to fall asleep. Before long, she realized that she hated her job. Her boss's endless demands and lack of appreciation became unbearable. Even Paris lost its glamour, but how could it not, if she never really saw it? Finally, her boss called her into his office one day and told her none too gently that she wasn't pushing herself hard enough, that her work was not good enough, and that she did not fit into the group. Intelligence alone, he said, simply doesn't cut it. You need the desire to achieve, too.
Hermione went home and cried for hours. It seemed like her whole life was suddenly falling apart, for no discernible reason. She had always done her best. Why wasn't that enough anymore? She curled up in her bed and slept, and only got up when the hunger became unbearable. Two weeks later, she stared up at the ceiling of her flat, looked at the pile of letters that had accumulated next to the barred up fireplace, and finally admitted to herself that she was not alright. That she hadn't been well for some time.
She returned to Britain filled with guilt and shame. She didn't ask her parents to help her, their relationship had been strained ever since she had taken their memories, and she knew they would never understand. To them, she looked alive and well, so there was no reason at all why she should stop working and bother them.
Her grandmother was not like that. The old woman had always loved her, and didn't ask many questions when Hermione decided to move in with her.
The healers at St. Mungo's just shook their heads and said that, yes, the curse had evolved, but hadn't she taken her potion regularly? No, she hadn't. Sometimes, she had forgotten because she was busy, and it hadn't seemed such a big deal. Sometimes she had been tired. Also, they had told her she should only take it when she didn't feel well! It occurred to her guiltily that maybe she had occasionally – well, often – ignored it when she wasn't feeling well, but wasn't that a sign that it wasn't that bad? The healers shook their heads again, sighed, and told her that there was nothing they could do. That she should just learn to live with it. Practice meditation, maybe. Apply some cheering charms.
There were days when the pain spread through all her limbs, and her tea cup tumbled out of her hand and broke because her fingers were suddenly too weak to hold it. There were days when she only got up to say Good Morning to her grandmother, and crawled back into bed as soon as the old woman was reassured that she was fine. There were days when it took all her self-control to stand upright and not double over in pain when she was talking to someone.
Harry had been happy when she came back to England, and he and Ginny had visited her with the kids almost immediately. It had been exhausting. She had told them that she was busy writing a book, and that no, she couldn't take care of the children once in a while, but she would look over some paperwork for Harry. She regretted that when the letters danced in front of her eyes and her concentration fled entirely before she reached the fifth page. Somehow she managed to complete it, but told him she could not do it again.
'You have changed, Hermione.' he said. 'What is wrong with you?'
'Nothing,' she said, thinking of how he had a family to take care of, and how she hadn't seen him in years and didn't want to burden him with her problems. 'People change.'
He frowned, but he had many other things on his mind, and why should he suspect that she lied to him? He did not ask her again.
Her savings slowly dwindled. After the war, she had given all the money awarded and gifted to her to charity. She hadn't thought she would ever need it, and her job had always paid well. The possibility that one day she would not be able to work had never occurred to her.
The healers told her that she should be able to live a normal life if she took her potion and stayed within her limits. Hermione had never believed in limits, and the healer's definition of normal enraged her. She had never been normal; she did not know how to be.
She looked for work, but all the jobs that interested her she knew she would be unable to do. All the jobs she might be able to do seemed humiliating.
One evening, she came downstairs for dinner, and Ron was sitting at the table with her grandmother. At first, she felt angry, but she was too tired to stay angry for too long.
'What do you want?' she asked.
Ron studied her. He seemed reluctant, almost embarrassed. 'Harry told me you were back.' he said.
'I have been back for four months.' She couldn't help but sound snappish. She hadn't heard anything from him in years, except for a Christmas card which usually only said one sentence. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Ron.
He looked at his hands. He still had those big, clumsy hands that she had once found endearing. Everything about him was big and clumsy, even the way he had stumbled through their relationship. 'I know, I… I didn't really know what to say to you.'
Neither do I, she thought, sitting down to pick at the food.
'I have never married,' he suddenly said. 'It just… didn't feel right.'
She stared at him. 'So what?' she asked incredulously. 'You're telling me you have been waiting for me, or what? It didn't work between us, Ron, and for a reason.'
He closed his eyes and shook his head. 'I know. But I still know you better than anyone else.'
She froze, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. 'What do you mean?'
He looked at her again, his eyes big and earnest. 'You are not well, Hermione. Everyone is worried.'
'Worried?' she repeated with derision. 'Who? What a ridiculous statement! I'm fine.'
'No, you are not,' he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
There was silence. Her grandmother watched them with kind eyes, eyes that agreed with Ron more than Hermione wanted to acknowledge.
'Okay, maybe I'm not fine,' she said finally. 'But there is nothing anyone can do. I just have to figure this out for myself.'
'No.' he said. 'Don't you get it? You don't have to. You were always there for us. You always seemed so independent, so brilliant in everything. Everyone was sure you would make your own way. It seemed that you never really needed us, that we were only holding you back. But I can tell that you need help now. Please, Hermione, let us help you.'
Hermione started to tremble, and for a moment she was angry that her stupid body betrayed her, again. The truth of his words crashed down on her, and the reality of what she had once been, and what she had become, was suddenly overwhelming. She began to cry. Ron hesitated for a moment, then he wrapped his arm around her, and she felt how her grandmother joined him and stroked her hair. She cried until it felt like she had no tears left, and then she finally told them. Everything. And Ron held her hand, and for the first time in years she finally felt that it would be alright. That she would be alright. Because she was not alone.