By Anastasia Mei
"I know there's something in the wake of your smile.
I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yeah.
You've built a love but that love falls apart.
Your little piece of heaven turns too dark."
'I want to go home,' she sobbed. This sob did not sound like a usual sob. This sob resounded with many years of pain and sorrow. For that was the history of Hermione Jane Granger. 'I want to go home,' she cried again, but she took extra caution to keep her voice low. She rocked her body to and fro, her head buried in her head amongst her bushy brown hair.
Deep inside Hermione was proud of her hair. It was unique, even if it was not sleek or sexy. It was perfect for hiding her tears. It was a physical mask that kept her from exposing herself. The mask reassured her that her secret was safe.
'Honey, you okay?' Hermione jerked forwards.
'Yeah, I'm fine.' She flushed the empty toilet for proof.
'Are you sure? You've been taking a really long time in there.'
'Oh, you know us women.' Hermione hurried as she got off the seat and stared at the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose could rival Rudolph's. Her cheeks were stained with tears. Pulling out her wand, Hermione began to cast the necessary spells. She knew them all by heart, to the very last detail. Soon, her face began to return to normal.
Slowly, she entered the luxurious Muggle apartment, where atop the king size bed perched Marco Russell, a prominent journalist with a nice presence. His sky blue eyes and charming disposition had attracted many ladies before Hermione. To add to everything, he had an interesting and nice personality.
'I heard crying. That wasn't you, was it, Stacy?' Inwardly, Hermione cringed. She had not changed her name to such a degrading and common sound. Anastasia Montrose was a beautiful name, like a name for a perfume. Stacy didn't even sound like her chosen name. But Hermione chose the name because of the tragic story surrounding it. Just like her life, magical and Muggle.
'No, it was probably some baby crying next door or something.'
'I didn't think so.' His eyes stared intently at her. He really doesn't know, thought Hermione. He just doesn't know that his girlfriend is broken, no, dying inside. That I am lonely, even with him by my side.
'Here, come sit next to me.' Marco patted the bed beside him. He never will know how I feel. I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this. She gave a slight smile as he lent in for an emotionless kiss.
Hermione lay awake. She had not been able to sleep… since before the war. She could count the number of peaceful nights she had had in the previous year on her fingers and toes. She yearned for an undisturbed sleep. At first, she had drunk dreamless sleep potions, but her body soon became immune and she became an insomniac. When, by chance, she did fall asleep, her dreams were always tainted by her past. They were full of blood and death.
Hermione knew that she could not live any longer. Not with the mask. She was tired of acting. The question was simple, the mask or her soul. Each came with responsibilities and difficulties. She just didn't know which one to choose.
The runaway walked, concentrating on ground ahead of her, to avoid the tears. Practice made the technique perfect. She knew her eyes were already red, and if she did not reach an apparating point soon, some unsuspecting Muggle would witness the brightest witch of her age break down, a scene only one other had seen, her best friend, and that had been entirely accidental. She had apparated to the wrong apartment.
Last night's dream had been exceptionally ferocious. It had portrayed the last few minutes of her parents' lives, painted by her imagination. There was torture, screams, and insane laughing before the room was engulfed in a green light.
'Daddy…Mum,' Hermione whispered, her head shaking and her complexion paling. 'You're gone. You're actually gone. I knew this would happen sometime or other…but,' another burst of tears stopped her from finishing her sentence. She remembered the funeral and the days that followed. She remembered crying, just crying for hours, without pausing to eat. How could those monsters do that? Did they enjoy watching her suffer? Did they enjoy the pain that she was going through? Now her entire family was dead. They weren't going to be there in her birthday when she blew out the candles, or during Christmas when she opened the presents. They didn't even have a chance to become grandparents.
'You're gone…forever. But always loved.' Her voice cracked towards the end from all her crying. 'It has been years, but I still miss you.'
Her parents' death only made her desire to destroy Voldemort (not kill, he was not human) and his followers. And with each day that passed, Hermione and the rest of the trio came closer to ending the war.
But what hurt Hermione the most was that she did not have a home. Not anymore.