Everything was silent. To quiet. To calm.
She took a deep breath. Everything remained still, including her, and she hated it. There was no noise, movement, there was no life.
She hated the silence, she hated it with so much passion that it burned her to the core, So much it was painful. Because living the nightmare that was the war, The final battle, had damaged her, so deeply that even silence reminded her of death.
The stillness became to much, She opened her mouth and screamed. She mustered her voice as strongly as possible, and screamed.
Incoherent words, things that no longer mattered, Shouting them at the top of her lungs.
Her hands found there way to the shelf, sweeping themselves swiftly across from it, a symphony of shattered and cracked glass mingling with her sobbing screams.
Tears were slipping down her cheeks and she swept her entire arms across the counter, sending picture frames and vases and fake candles and real candles crashing down, creating movement, creating noise, creating life.
The painting on the mantel was thrown across the room. Everything that sat so neatly and perfectly arranged was demolished.
Screaming, screaming, screaming.
She did not feel the shattering glass or the shredded paper, She could barley hear the shattering glass above her own screaming sobs.
It was a mad sort of comfort.
Nothing was safe from her hands, even the couch pillows and cushions were uprooted and tossed aside, The phone, the remote, it was all tossed ans strewn about.
And once everything in the room that could possibly be destroyed was, she moved on to the next room, throwing pictures, shattering everything that would, shredding everything not protected tear-staining her cheeks and her shirt as she tore down the curtains and tossed them all aside.
Let the world see her sins.
She was still screaming, gasping for breathe between, She twisted and turned and destroyed.
Her fingers were bleeding, Her feet had sharp pangs in the soles as she walked, ran, kicked.
She destroyed what they said was right.
Because everything was wrong.
Screaming, gasping, sobbing. Louder,louder,louder.
Break, crack, kick, shred, cut, demolish, destroy.
Every last part of this place. Every last picture, paper, vase, glass, painting, everything. It had to be destroyed.
The empty bottle from last week crashed against the wall and shattered into millions of tiny pieces. A full bottle hit the wall beside it, and the dark drink dripped down the walls.
Drawers were pulled and emptied and then thrown, everything in them was kicked and thrown.
She made noise, because silence reminded her of death, it reminded her of the unbearable pain of losing him, it reminded her of him.
She hated the silence, so she destroyed to create that wonderful symphony of shattered, damaged things.
Hermione Granger was damaged. She was so haunted and broken, she could not bear the silence.
She'd rather have madness.
So she screamed and she sobbed and she destroyed. She shattered and she cracked and she kicked and she broke.
She shredded and shattered and broke and destroyed because she could, Because she was everyone of those things.
Not a single room was safe, not a single thing was left untouched. Her clothes were ripped out of the closet and the drawers and tossed and ripped and destroyed and damaged.
Her lamp her alarm clock and even her picture were tossed, something was thrown out the window, a book maybe.
She had no distinction between almost anything anymore. She could not distinguish her gasps from her screams and her sobs from her gasps, She could not distinguish blood from wine or glass from plastic.
Now, She was screaming words, clear as day and as cutting as any knife or sword. "Why him?Why us?Why?Why?why?WHY?WHY?WHY?WHYWHYWHYHIM?"
And finally, after the five hour rampage, only one thing was left untouched in the darkness of her house, A record player.
That night, a haunted and damaged Hermione Granger fell asleep just before dawn to A mixture of Mozart's Requiem on repeat and impossibly loud, and her own whispers of "It isn't fair. It isn't fair I loved him. It isn't fair because Fred Weasley loved me back. It isn't fair because he was mine. It isn't fair because I love him. It isn't fair. It isn't fair; I loved him."