Written for:
Captain: QUEEN: Write about someone who can be considered dominant.
Hogwarts: Divination, Task IV: Write about falling.
A/N: There's nothing quite like writing a story for a reserve postion in 20 minutes to mark the end of the regular QLFC session. This fic has been un-affectionately reffered as a problem child with attachment issues, but I'm glad it's done. Major thank you to my amazing friends, who beta-ed, motivated and saved me when I felt like giving up. I love you all and am forever grateful.
like a black hole in the headlights of humanity
Winning a war tastes like lamb stew and pumpkin juice, because as an orphan, Hermione has nowhere else to go, and Molly Weasley has not stopped cooking since they put her son's body in the ground.
Hermione doesn't like this part of the war, doesn't like sitting down when there is so much to do, but the dead haven't even been buried yet. People are still grieving and it's heartless, but she can't bring herself to care.
She's a war hero. She has the right to change things, but nothing is changing and she's collapsing onto herself.
Beside her, Ginny and Harry talk in low whispers, their hands clutched together under the table. Molly is being a drama queen as she coos over them, and Hermione pours herself a strong cup of coffee. She won't be able to deal with this any other way, and she doubts Molly would approve of alcoholism in the house.
"Nightmares?" Ron says and she hates the way he approaches silently, his tone soft and far quieter than normal.
Hermione laughs bitterly. "I've slept better," she says dryly. "Potions can only do so much when your body learns to reject them after constant usage."
That's when his eyes widen, a tad too much to be just genuine curiosity, and Hermione winces at the utter defeat in the simple motion.
"'Mione," he whispers, his voice sounding as if he's being strangled, "you don't get it—there's a reason they don't allow people to have unlimited access to them. Those potions, they're worse than constant bottles of wine, the side effects are—"
"—Far worse than addiction," Hermione finishes, shaking her head in exasperation. "Honestly, Ronald, it's not as if I didn't do my reading. I know what the risks are."
"I don't think you do." His blue eyes bore into her soul. "They turn you into a ghost of yourself, 'Mione. I won't let you do that to yourself."
"I didn't ask for your permission, and last time I checked, I don't need it either," Hermione snaps back without hesitation and Ron flinches like she's stabbed him.
Without another word, he disappears around the corner and she collapses into one of the Burrow's chairs.
She can't tame her pride enough to chase after him, and her apology wouldn't have been genuine, anyway.
(There's a reason people always say pride comes before the fall.)
…
As much as Hermione is loath to admit it, the next few days are almost…lonely.
The Burrow is as loud as ever, with people coming and going like at King's Cross. Andromeda and Teddy constantly visit Harry, and she watches the way he lights up at the sight of his godson.
She's not bitter (well, maybe she is, but that's another problem for any other day) but seeing the three of them together makes her want to bury herself in her work and never come out. She misses her parents to the point where it hurts, and, well…she misses Ron, and the way he always makes everything seem bearable.
"Want to come with me?" Harry finishes and she snaps out of her thoughts for a second, forcing a smile.
"I'm fine, have fun without me," she says and Harry frowns, his face showcasing every inch of his worry, but she looks away before he can say anything, and he's too noble to pry any deeper.
(She's never felt this alone before, and she hates the thought of living like this for any longer, but there's nothing she can do.)
…
On the fifth night after her fight with Ron, Hermione stumbles upon an aged photo of her family, the edges crinkled from the years. It's a simple Muggle photo, a depiction of a summer day, with herself between her parents' tanned forms. Sunlight streams onto everything around them, casting their faces with a heaven-like glow.
Almost unconsciously, Hermione traces their faces, and finally, when she gets to her baby self, it all becomes too much. This can't go on—she refuses to let things get worse. She's done feeling like a victim, stuck in a blurry haze of depression and numbing potions.
With a trembling hand, Hermione grabs a piece of paper from her bedside desk and writes herself an action plan the way she hasn't done in so, so long.
…
"I dumped them," she confesses, the words tumbling out of her mouth the moment she sees Ron. His eyes crinkle in stunned confusion, both at the fact that she's speaking to him and at her admission.
"Why?" His voice is cautiously hopeful, and she sees the way his fingers drum at the pockets of his jeans—he's just as nervous as she is.
She takes a deep breath. "I've lost a lot in this war, but I refuse to lose myself. Never again," she says firmly, her head set in stubborn conviction. "I'm no longer going to rely on the potions, and…I don't want to have to do this without you."
Blue eyes meet brown and in a split second, Hermione finds herself wrapped up in his arms. "Always," he says, kissing her curls. "We do it together. I won't risk losing you like this ever again, Mione."
"Together," Hermione breathes and for the first time since the war ended, she feels like herself again.