A/N: I have no idea where the idea for this came from... I don't even know if I like it much. But I do know that this story contains NO SPOILERS for DH and the characters don't belong to me.
When it was over those who made it through were left to face the fact that they would never be able to fulfil their dreams, that those dreams had in fact been shattered by the cruel intervention of reality and warfare. They were left desolate and alone, applying for menial jobs they didn't want and asking for outrageous things that they didn't need. Their entire lives had been ruined by that one day, those specific twenty four hours that ripped apart a world of opportunity. They lost everything – they lost the will to live.
All except one.
She knew what she was going to do once the war had ended, once the final battle had been fought. Oh, she knew it well, because you see, Hermione Granger was smart – the smartest – and had been planning it from the beginning. From the very moment that they were all aware that the fight was about to be bought on to their doorsteps, she had begun planning, scheming, preparing. She had laid it all out, good to go, ready for her on the off chance that she survived.
Time to hit that big, green button labelled 'Go'.
Standing in front of the grimy little bathroom mirror, she carefully applied a layer of bright red – whore's siren – lipstick with the precision of an artist, plumping them up, making them obvious, wanton. Next came the shoes, the four inch heel, over-the-knee, shiny leather boots. They didn't even come close to touching the tight black, short skirt that she had wriggled herself into. A red and black silk corset and her hair in a loose, messy bun completed the look and she was on her way, slamming closed the door to her rented bed-sit.
She didn't even bother to take I.D with her – the bouncer would always let her in. All she had to do was flash him a smile and a bit of leg – the offer of a quick blow-job – and she waltzed through the doors, wiping her mouth, jumping the queue two years underage.
The bar man she knew rather well by now, and, when he saw her heading towards him, he began lining up her order. Hogwarts purple, Gryffindor red, Slytherin green, Ravenclaw blue, Hufflepuff yellow; a small section of the counter became a dizzying swatch of colours and liquids, intensified by the neon back-lights of the bar. She swayed to the thumping – painful and bruising – music as she knocked back the drinks. First green for the traitors, then blue for those who stood on the sidelines, and yellow for those too stupid to give up. Next red for the passion and for the blood, and finally purple was the last to go – the last to be taken. She always had them in the same order; it never changed as she did.
Leaning against the bar – being propped up by the bar – her head span in a million different directions. Her face a mask – always a mask - of childlike mischievousness as it surveyed the room. Her full red lips were curved into a lopsided smile; lips that were laced with an enticing poison hiding behind strawberries. Her beautiful brunette hair fell out of the bun in soft shiny ringlets over her exposed skin, drawing attention to the olive colour it seemed to glow with. No-one noticed beads of sweat on her brow. The room was hot, after all.
She watched. Couples, men, women, unknowns, all pulling each other this way and that, wanting those extra few moments of closeness, of connection. Each after the promise of an uncomplicated one-night stand, or a quick fumble in the bathrooms off to back of the dance floor. Hell, let's do it right here, right now. It's not like everyone else isn't wanting the same thing. Let's just fuck and get it over with.
That is why she loved London, especially that side of it. People are so uncomplicated, so transparent. They think they are being subtle or sneaky, but everyone can see right through them, see what they're after, see their deepest desires, see the ring on their finger. All except her – she was permanently, obstinately opaque.
London had called to her, and, like the dutiful girl she was, she answered it promptly, listened to its soft, ever-so-charming voice and let herself give in to the call. It spoke her name and she went running, a few sets of clothes, her wand and a bag of galleons her only companions. She arrived in the city in the jeans and t-shirt she had worn to battle.
She walked further into the crowed room, and she radiated sex and confidence. When she was sure she was in the centre, she stopped, and turned her head slowly from side to side, looking each and every one of them in the eye, promising them everything but actually giving nothing, before moving on to the next. She joined others who had received London's invitation, and began grinding her hips against whoever was nearest, thrusting her body against theirs and running her hands over her breasts and legs. She danced her way through the crowd, person to person – penis to penis, vagina to vagina. It didn't matter. It wasn't for her.
Hermione never danced for herself anymore.
She wasn't her fucking self.
Dancing became a way of proving to her best friends that she was still alive, that she hadn't died on the grounds of their old school. Every movement, every person was just another way of showing them that she was still carrying on, living fine without them. She hated them for leaving her and this was her poisonous revenge – a black widow spider. Every person fucked, every new bed woken up in was a point for her and one away from them. Every drink she drank, every drug she snorted, injected, or smoked was a rebellion against being left alone – if she did it long enough, hard enough, they would come back and tell her to stop being a bitch, to return to the old Hermione that they left behind. She told herself that if she fell far enough and hard enough, then they would feel obligated to return and save her. From herself, from the black, empowering poison of the London night, from the squalor and the shit that she let herself dwell in.
There was a man.
There were always men (sometimes women too).
Just never the ones she wanted.
The ones she wanted were dead.
This particular man moved across the floor, going from body to body, but never taking his eyes off her. She was oblivious to him, but he was intent on her. He moved around her, never touching – grasping, groping, teasing, taking, fuck me now – just out of reach. She danced on, unaware. Slowly, he made his way towards her, stepping in and out of people, dancing and dodging them. He was in front of her, and yet she still didn't see him – her head was bent and her eyes closed. He touched her shoulder and she looked up, never stopping her dance of blood lust, passion and vengeance. She raised her head and looked at him, hair dancing around her face like a broken halo.
Suddenly he wasn't dancing anymore.
He was still staring at her, but he wasn't dancing. Instead he was looking at her face, eyes following the three parallel scars that ran down her cheek from under her right eye to the right side of her top lip – her battle scars worn proud. She could have covered them, hidden then under layers and layers of foundation, each dab erasing the past a little bit more, but then she might forget and Hermione wanted to never forget. He must have been looking at his reflection in the milky white of her right eye, pale as the moonlight, only a hint of brown swimming in sea of irreparable spell damage - "Descriato!"
One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Did he not like what he had seen? Was she not pretty like all the other emaciated bints in this town? Was he as disgusted with himself as she was? Did he see him being tried and being found wanting? After all, everyone wants something, even her.
And she laughed. She threw her head back and laughed so loud, so hard, so god damned painfully that she felt she was going to die laughing – die with a smile on her face, with a fucking happy song in her bleeding heart. Her blood red lips spread wide across her face, her head tilted upwards. To those that didn't know her, it may have looked as if she was crying or praying – two of the things she never did. God was long since dead, died in a flash of glory – a pitiful whimper - and tears were only for the weak. She wasn't weak. She wasn't. Not anymore. You can't be weak in London for it can smell your fear and it will swallow you totally and completely. As cliché as it sounds, in London, only the strong survive. And she was strong. The strongest. She was her God. And she laughed.
…Don't talk to her when shooting stars are falling
Don't talk to her when she can smell the jasmine in the air
Don't talk to her when no one knows you're calling
You might just say the words that keep her waiting there…
She shut the door behind her and went into the dingy, grey lounge. Picking up the packet of cigarettes off of the broken table she lit one, inhaling the first wisps of smoke. Once she had reduced the stick down to its butt, she lit another one. And another. She let the packet burn down to nothing but ash. Five quid up in flames. She might as well just burn the bank.
Her head hurt and the light streaming in through the dirty windows was bothering her eyes. Walking over to the small fridge in the corner, she poured herself a Jack Daniels and headed into the bedroom. She was sat on the bed, a cigarette in one hand, her half empty – half full, always an optimist – glass of whisky in the other, reading yesterday's newspaper – old news, no news, bad news, all the same- when came a knock at the door.
She answered it, thinking that it would be the motel manager, asking for last week's money - which she actually had. But it wasn't. It was the bar tender from the club she went to. He knew where she lived and she knew where he worked. A compromise between friends of a sort. She invited him in and offered him a drink. Got to be polite, Mudbloods are always, unfailingly polite to their Masters, right?
Once they had relaxed a little, he turned around and tried to kiss her. Twisting her head away, she tried to push him off, but he was strong – but not stronger than her. Never that. Just bigger.
He grabbed her lustfully and she tried to squirm away, but he pinned her down on the bed. Climbing on top of her, he proceeded to force himself into her, again and again. And she just let it happen, gave up struggling and took it like a meek little handmaid, like a red-light girl who'd conveniently forget to take payment at the end in hope that her customer would return. She gripped the sheets waited patiently for him to finish, thinking about eighteenth century goblin revolutions and NEWT-level Arithmancy equations to stop her from getting bored.
He collapsed on top of her – over her – and began snoring. Pushing him off in disinterest, she slid off the bed and got dressed. After gathering her belongings in a bag that hung loosely off her left shoulder, she lit a cigarette and stared at the sleeping corpse. Human life never looks more innocent than when they are sleeping, they say. They say a lot of things they know nothing about. But she knew. Yes, she knew that it was never innocent. Even a baby, just born, fresh and new, was immediately tainted by the world that demanded everything you ever had.
One touch of the flaming lighter to the bed sheets was all it took. That and turning the key in the lock behind her.
The smell of smoke eventually left her clothes but the smell of burning flesh stuck around, reminding her, encouraging her.
After that she drifted. Can't remember where or even why. Floating along as if she was above it all – above everyone. She had to constantly remind herself that she was. Stronger and better. Smarter. Everything and nothing in between.
She got a room at a down-trodden and disease ridden hotel a few blocks from her personal crematorium. The receptionist – too chirpy, too happy to be working in a place where used and split condoms lined the lift and semen watered the plants – asked Hermione about herself while she tapped and tapped away on a keyboard. "I am the widow to a generation" was all she would say. She took her key the moment it appeared and walked away, not notice the young girl who shivered in her wake.
Pity, she would have liked to see it. She enjoyed intimidation lately.
…Don't talk to her when she is softly sleeping
Don't wake her to the sound of your voice whispering her name
Don't tell her all the secrets you've been keeping
Don't tell her that you're drowning in a river of shame…
Another night, another bouncer, another blow job, another darkened club. Another dazzling array of beautiful people becoming uglier and uglier with every drink she greedily accepted. She danced with ten, twenty, fifty, a thousand of them, never giving then longer than a few minutes to stare down her top and run their hands up the inside of her thigh, before she took off, leaving them to miss her. One claimed to be a model scout interested on signing her. She followed his lead into the light of the dingy male bathrooms. One look at her face, one punch to his and she laughed as she heard his head bounce off the stone tiled flooring. With a spring in her step – and an ache in her hand – she returned back the heaving, groaning, pulsating dance floor, uncaring of the unconscious man she left behind.
She danced alone for the rest of the night. You couldn't go near her – she was too bright. She burned, a shooting star, burning so hard, so brightly, falling so fast, so fiercely that she was painful to touch, to look at. They shrank back as she moved towards them, clearing a path between the rest of the world and her. Alone in the middle, a celestial phenomenon that no one could comprehend.
For her it was always like this – one against the world. She'd known that that was going to be the rest of her life from the age of eleven and the moment she said her parents were dentists. Somehow – she never believed in Divination, but somehow – she had known that after all was said and done, after a war was waged and lost, that she was still going to be the odd one out, the one that never fit in. A normal girl living the life of a smart, intelligent witch at Hogwarts. A magical girl living the life of a rebellious, drunk, normal party girl in London. Even that façade – against her will, for she was indestructible – was starting to crack. Soon it would shatter like bones across the floor and she would be left standing, naked and laughed at. An oddity pretending to fit in. Freak. Freak. Freak.
Freakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreakfreak…
The star exploded and with it went every piece of glass in the building. Windows KA-POW! DIE! Drink bottles BA-BOOM! DEAD! Glasses BANG! DYING! More than one person would end up blind tonight. It – whatever it was - tore through the building, shaking it at its very foundations, fighting to raise the whole thing down to the ground.
STOP!
As quickly as the star came it died, collapsing into itself, unaware of the shards and fragments digging in at the shoulders and arms and legs. Bare flesh destroyed. Screams flooded the place but she was lost in a different world, in a different fight for survival.
"Mione, go! Run!"
"Fuck you, Ron. We stand together, you know that."
"Harry's failing, Mione! The bastard's not going to be able to-" Traffic light goes green and another life goes back to the dust as all the drivers in the race move off.
"Ron!" One final desperate cry, to show that you cared, to show that you mourn and then stop. Silence. There's nothing you can do. Can't bring back the dead. Move on, girl, move on.
But they're all dead. Almost as far as you can see, dead. A carpet of corpses covering the hall floor, all tinted red or green. All except two. Two are still moving though and you move closer, wanting to be with someone who's actually breathing, wanting to hear the sounds of breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale…
"Harry! Ron's-"
"Shit! Not now, Hermione!" The only one you know and call a friend who's left alive and he doesn't want to talk to you, to know you. Turn around, child. Go find someone else to talk to. Go back, sit down and talk to Ron. He'll listen to your plans, your ideas. He won't interrupt. He knows how to listen. Unlike Harry.
A scream. A long, wailing, never-ending scream. Your hands go to your ears and you do your best, you soldier on to block out the noise. You know what that noise means but you're not ready to hear it. Run out of the hall, hands over your ears still. Run like the wind chasing a leaf. Run until you can't breathe, until your lungs wither and die inside of you. Run away, coward. Run away.
RUN AWAY!
Run away to London; to somewhere no one knows you and you the screaming fades into the background, behind the music. After all, if you can't hear the screaming, you can't feel the guilt, right? Right.
…When the wolf is howling
Underneath the moon
Underneath the window
Of a hotel room
Burn the blanket
Shoot the light
But don't talk to her at night…
She walked along the street, a cigarette in one hand and another bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. The doctors and nurses at the hospital had removed the shards of glass from her shoulders, neck and arms – a rainbow of red and black chips, enough to create a stained glass window looking straight into hell - and sent her on her way with a prescription for a Muggle healing cream that she'd thrown in the bin as soon as she stepped outside of the automatic doors. She'd just wait until she was somewhere secluded and whip out her wand and heal the thirty or so lacerations that littered her body. Like magic.
Her mind turned to the guy she had left burning in his sleep. When did she become a cold-blooded killer? Did it actually count as cold blood? Sure, he practically raped her but what happened to turning him into a toad and all that shit? She'd killed before – she's killed by the dozen, keep your eye on her, both eyes, she's dangerous – but that was in war. She wasn't still in war. There was no war in London, stupid.
Hermione was so caught up in her mind that she failed to notice the police car that had drawn up beside her, or the two police men that got out of it.
"Good morning, madam."
"Huh?" She looked up. "Oh. Hey. What can I do you for?" she asked, keeping the slurring to a minimum.
"Someone fitting your description was involved in an accident last night at one of the local nightclubs. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?" one of the coppers asked.
She looked them over. The one on the right, the taller one, kind of looked like Harry. If she squinted. The other one could have been mistaken for Neville at a distance – oh Neville, how she missed the quiet little boy whose love for plants eventually killed him. He didn't deserve to die. None of them did. Least of all her. But she wasn't going to die. Ever. She was going to burn.
"Maam?"
"Huh?" Hermione snapped out of her – selfish – thoughts. "Um, yea, sure."
They asked her varying questions – had she been near the club last night? Yes. Did she stay all night? Yes. Did she drink at all last night? Yes, quite a bit. Did she witness the blast? Can you see the cuts all over me? What do you think? (Moron) Did she have any idea of what caused the sudden explosion? No, none (liars be damned, her father had said, right before he was gutted by Macnair – he burned prettily, a firework of green sparks and red liquid). Did she see anyone acting suspicious before the explosion? Wasn't really paying attention, officer. I was focused on the dick up my arse (not really, but watch his face. Watch it go red and pop!) Clears throat. And, finally, where was she currently residing, in case there are any more questions? Oh, I'm in the little backstreet hotel just round the corner. Forgotten the name. Room four-two-seven. They thanked her and got back in their squad car, radios suddenly squawking and emitting loud, static blasts.
Wondering if she should have erased their memory, she turned the corner and walked into the lobby of the hotel, nodding at the chirpy receptionist who watched her from behind the cover of her fringe, too scared to call hello or nod back.
Lying on her bed in room 428, she thinks to herself that she could happily die – no, not die, idiot, burn. She could happily burn in London. She could be a streetlamp, flickering on when the night rolls in and fading away as daylight chases the darkness out. That could be the life for her. If only she had more time. Time was creeping up on her now, and in the morning she had to implant phase two of her plan. But that was tomorrow morning, and tomorrow could wait for her.
…Don't talk to her in thunder or in lightning
Don't talk to her with fuses blown and wires falling down
Don't talk to her when the fever is frightening
When she's burning in the bedroom in an evening gown…
She touched the end of her wand to her cigarette, not caring who saw the tiny little flame come out the end. Screw the secrecy act. She should blow their cover; blow it right open so the Muggles knew what they were. Then they'd all burn again, and they could laugh while they burned, like Wendolyn.
She kicked open the white front door. She didn't have a key – it was in her trunk, back in what was left of Scotland. She threw her carrier bag of belongings in the hallway, not caring when the bag ripped and her clothes went everywhere. She didn't like them anyway – they smelt of London and of burnt flesh and police.
Walking into the kitchen, Hermione was confronted with the dead body of her mother, eyes wide and glassy, neck twisted post mortem where she had bounced off the counter. It was just a corpse now. She had no love for a corpse.
She stepped over the body, towards the cupboards where she found a clean glass. Moving over to the sink, she turned on the tap, but no water came out. Try the other one. Nothing. She threw a dirty look over her shoulder at her mother – tut tut, forgot to pay the bill. Throwing the glass into the sink, ignoring the sound it made when it smash and the pain it caused when a couple of the shards went into her skin, she walked out of the room, ignoring her incompetent mother, and headed upstairs to the bedrooms.
Her father was there, asleep on the hallway landing. His shirt was open and she could see his stomach and his kidneys and his spine and his liver and his- hush, child. Keep moving. To your bedroom.
She pushed open the door to her room, blinking as red walls tried to blind her with their passion. She stood there a moment, fighting with them, struggling against them in the battle to see who was stronger – She is. Of course she is. She's the brightest and best of her generation, didn't you know? She also the only one of her generation, but shhh! Don't mention that. That's her line.
She touched her bookshelves, over flowing with books and papers. She ran her fingers over the photos on her dresser, laughing at the happy faces that stared back at her, tempting her. She touched everything, the floor, the chair, the windows, the curtains, the ceiling. And then… then she lay down on her old bed and lit a cigarette. And another. And another. Lung cancer and yellowed skin wasn't going to be a problem anymore, because Hermione Granger was smart – the smartest – and she had a plan.
One touch of the flaming wand to the bed sheets was all it took for the star to burn again.
This time, she didn't even bother to lock the door.
…Or when the wolf is howling
Underneath the moon
Underneath the window
Of a hotel room
Burn the blanket
Shoot the light
But don't talk to her at night
Don't talk to her at night…
Mark Cohn – Don't Talk to Her at Night