Summary: Where the battle isn't only in the war, but her own mind as well.
CHAPTER ONE.
It started in the midst of war.
When everything else was loss after loss after goddamn loss, she found this. But it wasn't something found, she would say. No. It was a loss. She would attribute it as a loss. And she thinks, it was the last thing she lost. After hope, and after courage, and after love, she lost it last. Because without all the rest, she couldn't have her mentality too. Something she prided herself on for eighteen years, what she had been known for, she had finally lost it too.
You never kept anything during the war.
It took, and took, and took, until you were barren. Bare-skinned barren. And then it would take some more, just to be safe. And she found this out the hard way. After watching Harry, after watching Ron, after watching the detriment of all these beautiful, beautiful minds, she thought she wouldn't go too. She wouldn't let it. But she had never been so wrong in her life. She had never disregarded something for so long. Hermione, the brightest witch of her age.
She lost it, just like war said she would.
–
It is quiet. It has been quiet for a week or two now. During the war, a week or two could be a month or two, or just a day or two. For Hermione, this week or two has been a month or two. They were going nowhere with plans after plans, after futile plans. There were frustrations and there were broken plates in the safe-house as Harry was constantly up, burdened by a scar taunting him, just by being idle. Hermione guesses he keeps waiting for the pain that used to grace him so regularly before, but never comes now. More than once, Ginny's had to calm him down, soothe him to sleep, so to not alarm the already alarmed.
It was not uncommon now for Remus and Tonks, who had been so in love at Bill and Fleur's wedding, to be in hushed quarrels. ("Of course I want him, this just isn't the best environment!" "He's going to be our child, regardless of environment!" "But what about me? What if he turns out like me?") People minded their own business, any disputes were better off forgotten. With each passing day, Hermione could hardly tell them apart anymore. They were all the same. Harry yelling out frustrations, Ginny soothing him, Remus and Tonks in their quarrels, Hermione in her room, Hermione in her room, Hermione in her room.
She couldn't stand the noise anymore. She couldn't stand the ashen looks on all of their faces, how drained they were. She couldn't stand any of it anymore. So she stayed inside her room, muted screams seeping through the wooden walls. Ron often knocking, calling her for food. Sometimes she could move her arms, to throw the scratchy blankets off of her thinning frame, and to shuffle into the dining room, only to move beans around on her plate. But more often than not, her arms were dead weights, and she would watch the shadow from beneath the door wait for twenty beats of the heart, no more, no less, before dispersing, letting the hallway light flood in again.
Ron, Ron, Ron. It was over between them before it even started. He would be found in the lounge, playing chess on his own now. Sometimes with Neville. Always, no less than five games a day. Always, no less than five wins a day. Sometimes Hermione would watch him. And when his queen would swing her staff to shatter a pawn, Hermione would smile, and Ron would smile back. The twitch of lips were enough to warrant a smile now. Anything more than that would be a rarity, a gift. And after a win, Hermione would claim fatigue, then retreat back to her room for the night, unseen until the next afternoon.
It is the same as the ten days before, Hermione in her room, Ron playing chess with Neville, when the front door opens, likely Remus coming back from meetings, from the grocery store, Hermione doesn't keep track anymore. She's heading to the kitchen, looking for leftovers after everybody's already eaten, maybe an apple, if they're lucky enough to have some. She glances towards Remus, offering a small smile.
"Do we have any appl–?" she begins, but something catches the corner of her eye and she has to do a double take.
From behind Remus is blond hair, black slacks, angular face. He's there in the flesh, and Hermione can't help but stare. She hasn't given him a thought since all of this started. She thinks she may be hallucinating, that he's a ghost, but he looks as real as Remus does.
"Remus?" Hermione all but squeaks.
Her eyes flicker to Ron who's watching her. And she thinks she really must be hallucinating if Ron doesn't seem alarmed. Neville's absorbed in the game, deciding his next move, probably hoping to not lose yet another game to Ron. And as if everybody can sense her discomfort, the whole household seems to gather around into the lounge. Tonks greets Remus. Harry and Ginny enter, and Hermione looks to see if Harry can see him too.
"Malfoy," he says, and Hermione is almost relieved. He isn't a vision.
But it doesn't add up.
"What is he doing here?" Hermione can finally ask.
Everybody seems to look at each other, as if for help. As if silently deciding which one of them is their turn to tell Hermione what is going on, Hermione who locks herself away inside her room, Hermione who has no idea what is going on anymore.
Finally, Tonks speaks up. "He recently reformed," she whispers into Hermione's ear. "He's going to be staying here for a few days."
And she and Remus leave the room, followed by Harry and Ginny. Ron and Neville turn back to their game. And she's left as the victim of his steely gaze.
"Granger," he says.
And it's like a sword in her heart. His voice cutting the thick atmosphere that doesn't seem to be suffocating anyone else. She can feel her heart, its two-toned drumming, and she thinks she has never felt more alive than now.
–
She goes after Harry. ("Always Harry, always Harry." Don't.)
"Harry! Harry, what is this?"
He pauses at the front of his bedroom, and Hermione can see his tired eyes, just as glassy as his rimmed frames.
"He came to us a few days ago, renouncing his ways. He's just going to be staying here a while. We've got his wand so he can't use it. I'm sorry, 'Mione, we should have told you earlier," Harry says but his voice is hollow, and all Hermione can hear is his tiredness.
He turns his back and enters his room, the door clicking softly in front of her.
"Why are you the only one alarmed?"
Hermione jumps at his voice, quickly turning around to see him standing right there, dressed in all black attire. Pristine, so pristine, she can't help but notice. His voice is like staccato beats, broken almost, Hermione might say. He's stiff, a ghost of his former audacious self.
"I–I don't–" Hermione begins, unsure how to address him.
He seems to be standing so close to her, she can see not a single wrinkle in his immaculate clothes, not a sweep of hair out of place. But at the same time, he looks faraway, and if Hermione were to reach out her arm, she wouldn't be able to touch him. He's a thick smog, smothering her, suffocating her. The hallway seems to narrow down and drag on for miles. It's suddenly claustrophobic.
"They forgot about you," Draco says, realizing.
Hermione breathes heavily, her heart racing, beating in her ears. 'Shut up, shut up,' she wants to say because deep in her mind, the same refrain is repeating. (They forgot. They forgot. How could they forget? Hermione who locks herself away inside her room, Hermione who has no idea what is going on anymore.) She doesn't want to hear it aloud, to have the truth confirmed. ('It's not the truth, it's not the truth!')
'Shut up, shut up, shut up' is threatening to be said. But when she opens her mouth, "Fuck you," is spit out instead, and she can feel her heart, her hammering heart, as she retreats to her room. She has never felt more profane, she has never felt more alive, no, she has never felt better.
–
"I've heard you haven't been kind to our newest resident." George, or Fred, slings an arm around her while she's preparing leftover macaroni and cheese. She cranes her head to see if this twin is missing his left ear or not, but it's covered by a mass of his trademark flaming-red hair, and Hermione can't tell.
"Uh-uh huh, I see what you're doing!" he cries, pulling Hermione closer and she squeals.
"You're growing your hair out on purpose aren't you?"
"Why, yes, I am, is that a crime?" The other twin turns up suavely, leaning against the counter.
"Did you hear–" the one around Hermione speaks to his brother.
"Yes, I did, with my one–"
"Or is it two?"
"Good ears."
"You dropped the f-bomb!" they both say at once, directing it at Hermione.
"What did he ever do to you?"
"He's been nothing but courteous here."
"He was standing innocently by himself in the hallway."
"You should have seen his face!"
They counter the jokes at Hermione and she can't help but giggle, remembering how she swore.
"Well, thanks for the meal!" The one around Hermione releases his hold and grabs her bowl of macaroni, while the other spoons a mouthful.
"Take care!" the other mumbles through macaroni.
She's left having to make another bowl of mac and cheese, thankful the twins can still get up to their usual antics.
–
It's sometime in the middle of the night, when it's pitch-dark, when no one should be awake, that Hermione is. She had slept all afternoon, waking up to an empty stomach now. It's time for dinner. Or is it breakfast? She flickers on the small light at the stove, never opting to filter the whole room with white blindness when she hears a shuffle in the connecting lounge. Hermione startles, flicking her eyes around to see if there's an object she can use as a weapon, when the perpetrator stands up from the couch, towering over her. He reaches behind him, as if grabbing his wand from his pocket, but he draws up empty as he pats himself down. He doesn't have his wand on him, and Hermione thinks she may have the upper-hand.
But then she gets a glimpse of his white-blond hair from the dim kitchen light and realises it's just him.
"Granger," he grunts out.
Hermione can't help but notice that his clothes have pressed wrinkles in them, like he's been in a stationary position for a while, and his hair is ruffed up. He's still in his slacks and button-down top. Draco runs his slender fingers through his hair to comb it into place.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asks, hoping she kept the fright from her voice.
He stiffens and Hermione sees his jaws clench. "I was sleeping." His voice is still staccato beats, and Hermione doesn't know if he'll ever feel comfortable here. She doesn't know if she'll ever be comfortable with him in the safe-house now. Everywhere she turns, he's there.
"On the couch?"
He stiffens more so, if possible. "I–I don't have a room. They're all full."
Hermione hasn't been keeping track of who's staying here or not anymore. But she knows for sure that there's an empty bed in Ron's room, having often snuck in there when he's fast asleep and she needs some company, his snores soothing her until she can go back to her own room. She silently snorts at the idea of Ron and Draco living in the same room together. It's already a shock that they're under the same roof. They wouldn't be caught dead being civilised with each other within a hundred meters at Hogwarts. But this isn't Hogwarts anymore, Hermione suddenly reminds herself. People have changed, she has changed.
"Oh. Well, I was just, just." Hermione waves her hand vaguely, not wanting to tell him her fucked up living schedule, breathing schedule, anything for that matter.
"Where's your wand?"
"What?" she stutters, but she's heard him clearly.
"Your wand."
"Oh, uh, it's in my room." 'Bad, bad move, Hermione! You shouldn't have told him where your wand was.' She scolds herself silently when she realises what she's blurted out, her heart picking up speed, panicking. He could easily overtake her now, push past her, grab her wand, and–
"You should carry it with you. If, you know, if you thought I was, whatever you thought of, it would be easier to–" he trails off, but she understands what he means.
"Yeah," she says, a bit dumb-stricken at his advice.
They stand, Hermione avoiding eye contact at all cost, as he unabashedly stares. She feels naked under his gaze, in her old oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. He's probably never seen someone look so muggle before, Hermione can't help but think. She wishes she had something more conservative on, feeling uneasy at how exposed she feels.
"Well, night," she quickly says, feeling her heat creep up her neck, turning to go back to the comfort of her room.
When she closes the door, she leans against it, only realising then that her stomach's still calling for food. But she can't go back out again. An encounter with him a day is enough to drain her, if she wasn't drained enough as it is already.
Her mind reels on what he's said. Her wand, where's her wand? It seems like she hasn't used her wand for so long now. Since they fell into this quiet slump, she's unwittingly reverted back to her muggle ways, forgetting about her wand, forgetting about magic. Hermione looks for it, patting the top of the mostly empty dresser, scans over her desk littered with books half read. Under her pillow, on the bedside table. Only with an exasperated huff, does she drop to her knees and looks beneath the bed.
And it's there. Alone, abandoned. She reaches under, craning her fingers, until she can feel the buzz of magic, and the smooth yet sturdy wood. Hermione wraps her hand around it, bringing it out. And it's like she's eleven again, buying her first wand. Feeling the magic she had always read about in Disney tales as a child. It's resplendent. And Hermione drops it inside the bedside table, closing the drawer quickly.
It's dangerous as well.
A/N: This is my first ever fanfiction. I don't own anything. I welcome all reviews, especially those pointing out errors in terms of terminology, as I draw everything I know from the films and other fanfiction I have read. Title is by Angus and Julia Stone, and pretty much all their other songs is this story's soundtrack. And with that, enjoy!