DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. After this, they might be glad I don't.
You shut the door behind you, not minding the storm enough to shield yourself. Closing your eyes, you stand still and let it envelop you. It feels as if you're a cyclone's wall: the water swirls. It soaks your palms, stings your face.
As expected, the eye of the storm is dormant. Docile. One's mind would be just the same after telling one's parents what you just told yours.
It's not about the emotional drainage: You don't mind giving them time to comprehend the enormity of what's been discussed. No, what truly breaks you is your mother's embrace. When she thinks you're too distracted by her soothing presence to acknowledge the look she gives your father – and the look she gets back.
You realize how much it always meant to earn your parents' pride, and how all of your achievements led you down this road. You're no longer terrific; you just make them terrified.
Then she whispers in your ear, always there.
That's right.
You curl up your fingers and open your eyes to answer.
No.
Even heroes have tight schedules as they grow older.
Ron is constantly torn between Auror duties and helping George with his shop – you suspect it'll be their shop sooner or later. Fred would've liked that.
Catching up with Ginny usually involves visiting the rebuilt Burrow and seeing her walk out of the fireplace, green flames dancing around as she strips off her Quidditch clothes on her way to the shower mumbling what passes for "So tired". Molly never approves.
And then there's Harry.
Somehow, it's become your tradition. He argues that he doesn't mind tea shops and this one is pretty close to the Ministry – although it never fails to bring a smile to your face when you spot him checking the ceiling for cherubs.
You discuss your weeks, or just share much needed quietness. He understands the world is just loud sometimes.
Always Harry, you think. Always there, even when he shouldn't be. Even where he shouldn't be; drifting his way into your dreams as he used to when you were both inside that tent, alone against the world.
You wake up biting your lip more often than not, clutching the sheets as if by force of will you could summon him. You lift your nightdress slowly, dragging the fingers along your thigh with the confidence you know he'd have, and to your naked legs even the air seems loaded with his presence.
Frustration pours out of you and the covers fly to the floor, scaring your cat. There's a big mirror in your bedroom and you can't believe the mess that's staring right back at you.
She laughs, ever closer.
Because you know, deep down.
Your trembling hand turns to a fist.
No.
You stare at the manor. And the longer you stare, the less sense you make of it. You spend more nights here than you find safe to admit, resting by this tree, pulling your hooded cloak tight around you so the cold won't bite. You just... stare.
You relive the nightmares and the screams. Sometimes you get just enough of your old self to walk away. Sometimes you cry.
Sometimes you pick up the sharp black quill that rests in your pocket, the one that should've been destroyed ages ago. When that happens, she positively howls with delight, scaring you half to death. You're back inside that chamber with Bellatrix and her tools.
She has so many of them.
You deserved to be punished, she hums.
You clutch the quill and stop trembling. The ink feels warm. Your will is iron.
No.
AUTHOR NOTE: Written for a challenge. It's probably a very confusing read - to be honest, the first draft involved a Time-Turner and a different story. If I ever get that right, I'll post it as well.
If you want to read an AMAZING story about Hermione and her parents (that inspired the first scene, go to: /s/9273375/1/Raising-Hermione)
(and my WIPs are getting there. I know it doesn't look like they are, but... keep the faith. Thank you for reading)