Hi everyone!
It has been a little while, I know! Welcome to my new fic, which has been a plunny-in-waiting since "Not A Word", and Merlin knows how long ago it was I wrote THAT particular creature.
Anyway, welcome aboard the good ship AEF! Updates might be sporadic to start with so do bear with me. Could be in a matter of days, or a matter of weeks. I'm not sure how long it will be either, so again - bear with me.
General warnings for angst, PTSD, grief, alcoholism and the possibility of mature content later on. This is your warning now, as I prefer not to give content warnings in each chapter unless something very unusual comes up.
Thanks, hearts, and love to my beta MissandMarauder who volunteered herself willingly to delve into the madness with me. It's going to be a blinder!
All that said, read and enjoy!
Much love,
-MM.
It was bright. Too bright, really, for what the day held in store.
Pale morning rays filtered into the bedroom of 12 Grimmauld Place in which Hermione Granger dressed for the day, her movements slow and calculated as she attached the pearls around her neck in horrifyingly practiced movements. She smoothed the soft, inky dress to her knees one last time, not bothering to check herself further in the mirror as she slipped bare feet into the plain, black patent heels that were polished to perfection.
Hermione knew what she would see. Bones much too big for her skin, gaunt cheeks, shadows bruising her eyes in a way no charm could fully conceal. Her usually lush hair, frizzy though it was, dulled and dried by time on the run and lack of care. Gashes that were still healing, littering her skin like kisses from lovers she would much rather forget. That damned curse from Dolohov that sometimes seemed to writhe on her skin like living flame, peeking out from the collar of the dark dress that had seen too many outings in the last fortnight.
Her dulled eyes flicked down of their own accord to her lace-covered arm and narrowed at the offending material. That word that no makeup or glamour could cover up – cursed.
Hermione had tried, of course. Or rather, she had let others try for her. When she had been selecting a dress for the endless stream of funerals that were to come, Ginny had tried endless charms and glamours to cover the deeply etched mudblood that stood red-raw against the pallor of her skin. They had even tried muggle make-up - from department store foundation to theatre company cover-up paste – but it seemed to melt and fizzle away to nothing within moments of being applied.
No, it would not be repressed. It would forever be a reminder of all that she had suffered.
As if the nightmares weren't enough.
Sighing deeply, Hermione's slim fingers grabbed the bag which had seen her through many dangers, and which she could not yet bear to part with. It was still packed with too many items that offered safety in times of danger, in times when a quick escape was necessary. She couldn't face emptying it yet, and couldn't let go of the lingering fear that clung to her periphery even now, when peace had officially been declared. Ron and Harry both kept glancing at it with expressions of equal parts concern and relief – concern she still had it, and relief she did. Hermione appreciated their duality over the inability to let go of their wartime mindset, and she wondered if she would ever be able to feel truly safe again.
"Ready?" A messy, dark head poked around the door and she met emerald eyes with a tilted smile.
Hermione reached out her hand to Harry and he took it, giving it a squeeze. "Where's Ron?" She asked quietly as they entered the hallway, listening to the muttered conversations in the rooms around them. Whilst it was no longer the Headquarters of the Order, Harry had reclaimed the house as his own and spent his free time trying to make it feel as homey as possible, cleansing whatever darkness from it that he could. Hermione had joined him, losing herself to the easy charms and wandwork whilst escaping the encamped press that floated around in the street outside.
"The Weasleys are downstairs. It's… well, you know. Ron's putting on a brave face; but you know him. He's going to explode eventually." Harry tried to chuckle, but it was as hollow as she felt.
"Yeah."
Fred. Fred.
Hermione still couldn't process the loss of so many she had cared for in the final battle. As they stood together, waiting for the call to move for the funeral, Hermione recalled those they had lost. {Losing} Remus and Tonks had hurt her deeply. The loss of her mentor had been a blow she had not been prepared for, and seeing him resting side by side with his wife had sent her running from the Great Hall to sob against a pillar until she could begin to think clearly again. Afterward, once the first round of tears dried, she could feel some hope in Teddy and the thought that the Marauders were now reunited once more.
Her heart cracked a little further as she saw the prone bodies of so many students from the school she had come to love as a second home. Innocent lives, murdered in cold blood simply because they dared to stand against a madman in a desperate last stand. She had uttered a stolen prayer for each student she came across as silent tears fell, until she saw the huddled bundle of dusty, bloodied, red hair. Harry stood a little distance away, his head bowed, and hands clasped together as his adoptive family grieved together. Hermione did the same, coming to stand beside him and taking his hand in silent solidarity.
"Fred." Harry had said in a strangled whisper, a reminder to himself as well as to her.
He'd been a voice of defiance. Laughter. Joy in the face of darkness.
He died with the ghost of a laugh on his face.
"It isn't right." Hermione whispered, jolted to the present as she felt Harry's hand brush away a stray tear from her face. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist – far too slim, even for his slight frame.
"None of it was right." Harry sighed, accepting her embrace comfortably. He rested his chin on her head and together they stood in the hallway as the day began: the last day of the funerals, and the first day of the new beginning for them all.
"You defeated him, though." Hermione reminded him gently.
"Not alone. Not without all of you. I just died at the proper time." Harry said darkly. "Chucked a useful curse at the right time. I'm not letting Kings turn me into some bloody hero. You, Ginny, and Neville deserve that more than I do."
"Stop it, Harry." Hermione felt a redness creep up her neck as she shook her head. "You know that's not true. We worked together. None of it could have happened without you, in the end. I know you've got this streak where you're all self-sacrificing, but you are allowed to recognise that you did defeat V-V-Vol.."
Hermione stuttered the name and cursed herself, tearing herself out of his arms and running her hands through her hair in frustration. She knew the taboo was no longer in force, but the nightmares of Bellatrix's torture welled up unbidden whenever she tried to say the name. She became so fucking angry with herself that she couldn't say the name she had been so adamant to say before, and she pulled her hair until it stung at her scalp.
"Hermione, stop!" A sharp voice commanded and she spun on her heels to see Harry's eyes burning into hers. "Stop tearing yourself apart. Just stop it, okay?" He tore her hands out of her hair, her skinny wrists firmly in his grasp. "Hold it together for Ron. Get through today. Just one day, right?"
"I hate this. I hate all of this." Hermione whispered. Harry didn't let go, but kept a solid grip of her so that she was grounded as he nodded his agreement.
"You will be fine, Hermione. You are the strongest person I have ever known. I know you don't think you are, but you will walk down those stairs and be there for Ron and hold his hand. You will help him through a day he shouldn't be having to go through for seventy years, and you will be okay. Yeah?"
Hermione choked on an unexpected laugh at his statement. "When did you get to be so wise, Harry Potter?"
The boy – no, man – gave a slightly cheeky smile as he gently released her wrists and gestured for her to walk down the stairs ahead of him. "Might have something to do with being the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Chosen One. Retuned from Death..." He listed his titles with a theatrical gesture.
"Harry!" She scolded, smacking him firmly on the arm. "How can you even joke…" She began with a huff and a slight shriek before turning to flounce away, her hair sparking with slight temper at his ridiculous answer.
"There's my Hermione." He chuckled as he followed her down the stairs.
"Don't you dare, Harry Potter!" She hissed over her shoulder and he laughed again as she disappeared into the dining room, and into the waiting throng of family that amassed for the day. He was terrible, she was absolutely certain.
xxxXxxx
"We are here today to remember, and to celebrate, the life of a fallen comrade and fighter against the dark forces of Tom Riddle." Kingsley intoned the same phrase that had begun every funeral for the fallen. However, the Minister paused in the speech he had given and his dark eyes swept the congregated witches and wizards on the grounds of Hogwarts, the sun glittering on the lake in a silvery blaze. Molly was strangely silent, her sobbing having settled long before the service began, and Arthur next to her stood tall and proud despite the dark circles and solemn expression he wore.
Hermione felt Ron's hand grasp hers tighter and she looked up at him, his blue eyes watery and rimmed with red, but his lips were formed into a strange, tight smile.
"Fred Weasley was not a man of sorrow. To see so many people here, solemn and grim, would not bring him any joy or bring respect to his memory. So first of all, I must insist…" Kingsley waved his wand and from behind him, there shot what seemed like hundreds of purple and orange hats and scarves in a variety of shapes and sizes. They quickly stuck themselves to the heads of the congregation with resulting unexpected yells and timid, shy laughter as people turned to look at one another. Bubbles of conversation began, followed by louder giggles, until Hermione could hear a cacophony of sound all centred around Fred Weasley and his legacy of prank making and joy.
Ginny was fumbling with a pair of goggles, and Harry was wrapped in a scarf so long it was doing rotations around his whole body, tying his arms firmly to his sides. Even Molly and Arthur hadn't been spared – their matching purple berets rather elegant compared to some of the monstrosities that attacked the crowd with a strange ferocity. Hermione felt her heart swell when Verity stood by Kingsley. She was helping to direct the clothing, with a distant ghost of a smile on her face as she waved her own wand in tandem with the Minister in a beautifully, perfectly, chaotically choreographed plan.
He would have adored it, Hermione thought with a sudden, unbidden smile.
A large, floppy-rimmed hat collided with Ron's head and a top-hat landed on Hermione's own, almost knocking her backwards with the force. She giggled despite herself as she took her sort-of-boyfriend in, his face shadowed by the ridiculous hat, and then a purple scarf planted itself in front of his face, covering it completely, and she couldn't stop the bright laugh as he struggled to fight off the material.
"Here." She chuckled, taking the material away, and then watched as Ron's tight expression melted as he took in the bedlam around him.
"Fred would have loved this." He said with a small smile, even though there was some sadness lingering in his tone. "Everyone being drowned in scarves at his funeral."
"Can you imagine what he'd say to me?" Hermione pointed to the top hat perched on her mass of mad curls. "I look loony."
"That's the best part, Granger." A grisly voice broke their conversation up and Hermione whipped around see George, his broken expression lingering on her as she stopped dead in her tracks. "This way, we figured you'd have to laugh along with us for once, out of guilt if nothing else."
George looked as thin and ghostly as she did, his skin pale and his usually cerulean eyes muted. His hair was lank – grown long to hide his ear, it was clear he wasn't taking care of himself enough and she felt a fresh swell of grief for the man before her. He wore a dark suit, but she noted that beneath it he still wore the dragonhide boots he so often wore around the shop. He would never let go of that part of himself.
Hermione hadn't seen much of him since the Battle. He'd been locked away at The Burrow, and Hermione had locked herself away at Grimmauld Place. He'd not come to any of the other funerals, and it was a shock to see the transformation of the muscled, broad, laughing man she had known to the shell that stood before her now. Merlin, she couldn't imagine what he must be going through to have lost someone so close to him – closer than any other member of his family. Hermione felt her eyes begin to burn, but didn't break her gaze, and she suddenly felt awkward in her examination of the man before him. "What, Granger?" He said, raising his arms and gesturing to himself wryly. "Nothing to say this time? No biting remarks?"
Hermione frowned, her eyes no longer stinging with tears. "Yes, George Weasley, I do." She marched up to him, scarf in hand. "You are not wearing a hat, nor are you wearing a scarf. That's rather rude."
Before he could move, she wrapped the bright purple scarf she had rescued Ron from under his chin and up to his head, over the ear that was no longer there, and tied it in a giant bow. He blinked rapidly, raising a hand to touch it, as she finished affixing it tightly with a sticking charm. "Now your ridiculous brain full of ridiculous pranks is dressed up as a gift for some idiot." She spoke sternly, but as she met his eyes she offered a slight wink. "I'm sure you'll want to make sure that such a gift is made as much a fuss of as possible, knowing you." She sighed, standing back and admiring her work with her hands on her hips. "Yes, you make a very pretty present, George Weasley. Even if you are a bit… Holey."
She was fairly certain Ron choked behind her, and she heard him shuffle away rapidly from her madness. It was probably a good idea, she thought logically. The plan could go rather terribly, to say the least.
George stared at her for a moment, before he closed his eyes and his head dropped forward. Hermione felt her heart clench as his shoulders began to shudder and a strange noise seemed to crack out from him, as if it had been forced out against his will. Had she hurt him, upset him? Then his eyes opened and his head raised, and mixed amongst his tears, hidden in the pained expression and the heartbroken expression that was permanently etched on his face… was the ghost of a laugh.
When Hermione heard that broken, crackling, unused laugh it tore at something in her own heart and she marched up to him again. It made her angry, somehow, for this man who was made to laugh not using his voice, his whole being to do so. It went against every law of nature for him to be so lost and so alone, and it flared her need to fix broken things like a burning flame in the darkness. "You'd best laugh at my terrible joke, George Weasley, now I've made the effort." She stomped her foot for effect. His eyes widened further, and then she threw her arms around his shoulders in the tightest hug she could manage.
"He would be so proud. Even I'm impressed, though if you tell anyone that I'll have to tell your mother about the way you used to sneak your products past Filch in my sixth year." She whispered so only he could hear, and she heard the same dry laughter again, a little more surely this time. Trembling arms wrapped around her waist. He felt warm and strangely strong despite the weight he had lost, and the fact he didn't tower over her like Ron did made him a rather nice height to hug. Better still, though - his laughter made her feel warm with a little pride.
"You wouldn't dare, Granger."
"You'd best laugh then, hadn't you?" She replied, and then a loud, echoing boom roared above them. Hermione's body stiffened in his arms and she closed her eyes, breathing through her nose to push the panic down. She began to sweat and began to struggle out of the hug, reaching for her beaded bag for her wand, her mind already whirring with defensive spells and a wandless shield thrown up to protect them. Yet she found herself unable to move, and she looked up with wide-eyed fear. "We've got to…"
A wave of dizziness hit her, her vision blurred, and she felt herself stagger. Strong arms fixed at her waist, holding her upright, and a hissed intake of breath forced her to focus on the face in front of her until the image cleared into the stark features of George Weasley once more.
"Just our fireworks, Granger." George's eyes found her own, a strange intensity in them. "Kings announced them, but you were too busy prattling to listen. Breathe. Drop the shield."
Fireworks.
Just fireworks.
Just fireworks, not bombardas.
Just fireworks, not Avadas.
"Bloody hell." She breathed, closing her eyes and dropping the shield as she exhaled. "I promised Harry I wouldn't do this today." She was glad Ron was still out of earshot – she could hear his cheers at the fireworks a little distance away. Her racing heart calmed just enough for the sickness and dizziness to ease. His arms felt rather safe, and she allowed herself to relax into the hold for a moment until she felt like the rising tide of panic and fear was receding. He smelled of parchment, smoke, and dragonhide, and a faint tang of whisky which made her frown.
Whisky. He smelled of whisky. How much must he be drinking for it to permeate his clothing?
"You're fucked up good and proper, aren't you Granger?" He asked with no small amount of bitter humour, and Hermione felt the remark cut as if it were a smack against her cheek. That wasn't the laughter she had hoped for, to say the least, and if she didn't leave soon she would be in for a bout of tears or full-blown panic. Another roar and crackle of fireworks detonated overhead, disguising their conversation as it raised in pitch rather suddenly.
"Bugger you, George Weasley. You have no room to talk. You smell like a brewery." She hissed at him, dragging herself out of his arms and walking backwards on wobbly legs.
"Oi, Granger, I didn't mean…" He winced, his mind seeming to stumble upon his poor choice of words just a moment too late, but Hermione refused to allow him to pity her when he clearly needed to spend his energy sorting out himself. Her heart thudded awkwardly as she knew he was probably halfway to drunk based on the scent of his clothes, but it was no excuse to speak to another human being that way. It would be better just to leave it, Hermione decided, and let him grieve for his brother in his own way. She shouldn't have got involved.
Hermione stumbled as she walked, and George reached out to steady her, but instead she turned on her heel and leaned on Ron, staring up into the sky. When she turned back to look over her shoulder not a minute later, he was nowhere to be seen. It shouldn't have twisted her stomach in knots that he had left so easily.
"Where'd George go?" Ron asked her. "What did he want with you, anyway, 'Mione?"
"Oh, just the usual." She muttered, avoiding the answer to the first question smoothly. "Being a pain in the arse, as always."
"Sounds about right. Good though, that he isn't locking himself away anymore." Ron's words were tinged with pain, and Hermione winced despite herself at his tone and the meaning beneath them. She had a feeling a rather large helping of Ogden's was the only reason he'd made it out to the funeral at all. Ron carried on, oblivious to her awkward silence. "These fireworks are brilliant. Freddie would have been proud." He slipped a hand into hers, squeezing gently.
"Yeah, brilliant." Hermione shuddered, a pang of guilt and a thrill of fear dancing down her spine as she stared fixedly at the sky, reminding herself once again that they were just fireworks, and that George Weasley was clearly drunk.
And that it shouldn't have hurt quite as much as it did for him to point out just how badly she was coping.
Just fireworks.
Hiss, roar, crackle.
Only Fireworks.
Bang.
Fireworks.
Hermione closed her eyes, and knotted her free hand into her hair.
.
.
.
I hope you enjoyed, and please feed your friendly neighbourhood author with a review!
