Hermione's Toothbrush
"Love, no one expects you to be over it. We realize it's been hard. We realize it's only been three weeks. But just do this one thing for us, love. Please. For Mum. For me. Just to show us that you're trying."
Hermione says nothing. She stares at her ceiling, at the false constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars. She counts cracks in the paint. Her father gets up and leaves, closing the door, but leaving behind the plastic jeweled toothbrush and glittery children's toothpaste behind.
Hermione resents that toothbrush. As if pretty colors are more likely to make her get up and behave like her old self. Brush her teeth. Talk. Exist.
She rolls over in bed and stares instead at the wall. I am 18, she thinks. I am 18 and I am refusing to brush my teeth. The thought is almost funny.
Hermione can't remember the last time she had a toothbrush in her mouth. Not since December, certainly. There had been no time. No time and no toothpaste. Toothpaste is not generally considered a necessity in times of war. But all her teeth are still there. As far as she can tell, anyway.
She can't remember the last time she had a toothbrush in her mouth. So, instead, she makes a list. Hermione has always enjoyed making lists. Everything is better, less frightening, when reduced to words on paper. Everything. But this list is in her head. It is a list of things she has had in her mouth more recently than a toothbrush.
1. Ron's tongue
This gives Hermione a pause. Perhaps, considering the lack of tooth brushing, this was not as enjoyable for Ron as it was for her. Of course, it is difficult for Ron to complain about it now.
2. A gag
3. Vodka, courtesy of Mundungus
4. Her own blood
5. Numerous too-hard pieces of bread, masquerading as rations
6. The words Avada Kedavra
The list has proved less comforting than Hermione had initially hoped. She rolls onto her other side (It is important for people who spend a lot of time in bed to rotate, she knows. It prevents bedsores) and there is the toothbrush, mocking her with its pinkness and shining bristles.
This toothbrush is too pretty for her mouth, Hermione decides. It will probably curl up and die before it gets within a centimeter of her teeth.
The idea causes her some vindictive joy. Why shouldn't the toothbrush suffer?
Hermione swings her feet to the floor and tries to stand up. At first she is too dizzy, ends up on her hands and knees. When was the last time she got out of bed? She can't quite recall.
Once she is standing, she wishes she wasn't. Her feet hurt. Her head hurts. Her hands hurt. Everything hurts.
She stumbles to the bathroom. Her knees keep trying to bend the wrong way. She swings the mirrored cabinet door open before she can catch a glimpse of her face and her yellow teeth and her hair. What's left of her hair.
Squeezing the toothpaste seems to take more effort than it used to. What's wrong with this toothpaste? Some of it ends up smeared on the edge of the sink, streaky and pink. Hermione stares at it. She can't think what to do next.
She sticks the toothbrush into her mouth and moves it around for a moment. But the combination of the sugary taste and the unfamiliar sensation is bad and she gags and retches. The toothbrush clatters to the floor.
From her doubled-up position on the cold white tiles, Hermione can see that the smears of toothpaste are clearly the wrong color. They should be red, dark red… Hermione laughs and cries and her tears are lost, invisible on the white, white floor but then everything isn't white anymore, it's black and…
When she opens her eyes much later, Hermione is back on her bed. She can hear snatches of her parents' worried voices outside in the hall.
"… long enough…"
"It's hard… they said we have to…"
"… don't care… she's not…"
Hermione runs her tongue around her mouth, clearing away the last remnants of the sickly sweetness.
No tooth brushing today.