Chapter 1: A History Most Mysterious
June 3, 1999
Part 1: 9: 30 a.m.
Butterflies in the stomach always sounded like a nonsensical saying to the bride to be yet the feeling had persisted throughout the morning preparation.
It was quite aggravating really, if one had to be honest about the matter. Despite the fact, she had faced countless Death Eaters this whole wedding played quite havoc with her usual calm demeanor.
Hermione Granger literally fled. She was unable to handle the amount of noise and the intrusion on her privacy
Her haven of heaven smelled deliciously of worn out leather covering of books. Sniffing in deep appreciation, she settled down on a loveseat. Contrary to popular beliefs, Hermione did not always go to the library to read. She got as much serenity from being in the library as she did reading.
Today was to be one of the most important days of her life. One of the more momentous transitions in her young life yet Hermione Granger found herself looking backwards instead of contemplating her future.
Hidden as she was from the prying eyes, Hermione could not shake off the mantle of expectations. Once which at a younger age looked to be an exhilarating responsibility now haunted her even in her seclusion.
When the Second War, aptly named, began Hermione had a firm idea on what life was. Young and idealistic she had been ready to change the world. Never had she imagined that the world would change her whether she wanted to do or not.
Her world had consisted of well- consistency. Regularity that she treasured yet loathed.
Life after Hogwarts had taught her lessons. Some hard, some bitter. The journey had been one more tumultuous than she could have imagined back then.
Life had been hard during the war but it was the aftermath of the war that kept her awake any given night.
War was easy. There was no time to think. Neither regrets nor doubts. It was a matter of life and death; survival kicked in hard. Do or die. Morality was not the issue of the day. After some times, one even forgot why one was fighting. Then a jolt of horror spurred the adrenaline already pumping through the blood.
It was afterwards when everything rushed at you. Or rather, it was the case of everyone else rushing towards you.
War gave one set roles. Hero or villain.
Hermione thought it was easier to be a villain than it was to be a hero. No one held villains accountable for actions beyond their mistakes. No one expected them to save anyone or anything. That was in the defined nature of villain.
A hero or hero did not have that freedom. Freedom was an elusive dream to the hero. Heroes were beyond the war they fought. Naturally, as was the case of war it demanded heroes. There was nothing wrong about it.
Then expectations caged them after. There was no escape. It was everywhere.
People assumed that she woke up at night because of nightmares of war but that was far from the truth. Her nightmare did not consist of that twisted bitch Bellatrix Lestrange but rather of people.
At first, it had been gratifying. The adoring looks, the whisper of awes, the tears- seemed like proper enough thanks for the journey. Hell, it had almost helped boost the ego.
Nevertheless, the fun slowly faded away.
Wanting to recover and move on took over the need for recognition. They wanted the time to heal in private.
The public would not have it.
No one wanted to live history in the making. History was preferred disconnected from one's reality. History never should include their suffering. Their agonies were not the etching of a new story.
History needed its figure. It needed figure heads. They needed tools to disconnect history from their reality, to romanticize it.
It was not enough that the wizarding world had sacrificed a little boy for their so-called peace. It did not matter to them that the boy, now a man, woke up feeling as if blood was staining his hands. The lives he felt he should been able to save. No, it did not matter to them. He was a hero.
Their own brand of hero- someone to give face to their pain. He was a front for history to judge their times. He was a metaphor of sorts to show the resilience of the people. His pain was the cover of their story.
By association of the hero, Hermione was now a heroine. Her life was no longer hers. She was like the boy-who-lived, for all intents and purposes, a property of the public to do as they willed.
She was not the only one who became a victim of the circumstances. Anywhere one looked, there were signs of rebuilding. Memorials sprung overnight. Streets renamed after the major events. A tribute from the public to the losses suffered.
Romanticizing the events hid the horrors of the terrors.
However, the romanticizing also hid the pain and the strains of the figures.
Some days it felt like the war had never finished and other days perhaps it never had been.
Now caught in the whimsy of public she found it impossible to breathe. She actually felt suffocated. Her nerves strained she was afraid she would break. Just explode one day. The destruction would be unfathomable. She wanted it so bad.
But here she was. On her most important day and outside the house people gathered to celebrate with her. No one asked her if she wanted them.
Even in her wedding day, she played a puppet to the public's romantic whimsy.
She sighed and walked outside to prepare to be a new front of the war. Happiness.
Part 2: 10:30 a.m.
Her gown was frothy and white. She absolutely hated it. The dress had rosette through out the dress. It was whimsical yet classical.
Hermione wanted to tear the dress.
But expectations once again geared its ugly head.
"If only you would let me do your hair," Ginny protested.
Hermione put her foot down on the hair. She was going to be the same nest haired geek with whom he had fallen in love. Let the public have their dress she would go to him with her own hair. Sometimes she felt as if her hair was the only real her public ever saw. It was sad.
She looked like a vision in the white dress and she despised every moment of it.
Part 3: 12:30 p.m.
The door banged against the wall as someone came in.
Hermione looked up. Her stomach clenched in fear. Their faces were grave. Hers were lined with worry.
Ron Weasley handed her the note as he walked towards her.
I am sorry.
That was all. It was short and almost sweet. It was very poignant in its simplicity.
Her fiancé had left her at the altar.
Lending credence to the rumor that she had lost it she laughed out. Louder than she had laughed recently.
He had behaved accordingly.
A/N: I hope you like this so far.