She hurts, oh God does she hurt – from her toenails to the tips of her hair, she hurts. Her mind hurts too. She hurts so much she can't will herself to move.
She's covered in dried blood, bruises and bite marks. Her clothing is ripped and mud is dried to her skin. She's filthy and she fears, oh how she fears, she will never be able to be clean.
She's curled in a ball, cowering in the corner of a derelict shack. Faint laughs and bits of conversation reach her ears but she tunes them out, turns off her capacity to understand English. She doesn't want to hear Him bragging about hurting her, using her. She turns off her mind in general; she doesn't want to think, doesn't want to process.
She stays this way, like a doll, numb, for what seems like days; she only wakes to a soft, gentle whisper of "Hermione."
She slowly raises her head, an action that inflames the soreness of her every fiber, and looks into the green eyes of someone she knows, someone she supposes she should be glad to see. Remus. But she's not glad to see him, not here, not in this monstrous place. She must communicate this with her expression because he murmurs "oh Hermione." His voice is full of pity.
He pushes the hair from her face, slipping it behind her ear; it's dark brown bushiness is tamed with tried blood and mud. "I am so sorry," he croons. She closes her eyes, resting into his gentle touch, softening with every said apology.
The peace does not last long; He comes, barking at Remus and laughing at her pitiful display. He kicks her in the stomach, laughing like the monster He is. Remus says something and He angrily barks something back. Footsteps fade away and Hermione loses herself in the numbness again.
This is her existence now. She's a punching bag and a sex doll rolled into one. She's mocked and humiliated. They jeer and sneer at her, breaking her more and more until she's shattered glass on the floor. Occasionally she meets green eyes full of pity but only occasionally and certainly never as close as the first time. Her bones break, her body contorts, pain burns through her veins, and all she can do is wallow it.
She's changed. She doesn't mind his pity; she used to hate pity but now she seeks it out. And once, in a time that's quickly vanishing from her mind, she would fight, kick and scream. She can't now though; she's a bird with broken wings, a doll without its stuffing.
She's curled up in her corner in the dilapidated hovel again when he comes to her. "Hermione," he whispers, an urgency in his voice. She lazily looks up, looking for the pity and frowning when she doesn't see it. She bows her head again, sinking back into her lethargy when he shakes her. She doesn't react. "Hermione," he whispers again, irritation lacing the word. She still does not react. She does not react when arms wrap around her body and pull her tight against his chest, nor does she react as the shacks and trees fly by. She does not care that he's taking her away, she simply can't.
Remus takes her to his cottage in Yorkshire, sits her on the couch, wraps a blanket snugly around her, and places a mug of hot chocolate before her that she does not touch. Tonks sits beside her, speaks to her, tells her what they know of Harry and Ron. Tonks frowns at her lack of reactions, her hair turning black, but keeps speaking until the baby cries and she has to go to him. Remus rewarms her drink for a second, a third, a fourth time.
That's how things progress. She remains as comatose as was when she was There, practically a walking corpse with her ashen skin and lifeless eyes. It progresses to the point where Tonks hair turns black every time they're in a room together and Remus wears a permanent frown. She trips over things and burns herself with drinks and food, simply not noticing.
She doesn't even notice when they disappear. She does not notice Andromeda sitting on the loveseat, holding Teddy. She does not notice as the clock ticks by.
She finally notices when Remus comes home, haggard and bloody and without Tonks. She watches as he says something to Andromeda and the old women breaks down into tears. Her keenness returns for a moment as she infers that Tonks is dead. This realization is just another pain on the pile.
That night, as Teddy sleeps soundly in his crib, not having yet noticed that his mother is gone, Hermione finds Remus sitting on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders shaking, silently sobbing. She sits beside him, wrapped up tightly in her blanket, and rests her head on his shoulder, a single tear leaking from her eyes.
He speaks then, voice weak and shaking. "The wars over; Voldemort's dead, as are the majority of his Death Eaters. Greyback is too; I did it myself." A shudder ripples through her as Remus speaks His name, but that is her only outwards reaction. "Fred and Severus are dead too, as are plenty others. Harry and Ron survived though; they want to see you." She does not react to this either. Remus sighs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She doesn't know if this hug is meant to comfort her or if it's meant to comfort him. She supposes it doesn't matter.
Ron and Harry come to visit two days later, rushing to hug her and crying into her shoulders. When she does not respond they frown and ask what's wrong. What isn't? she thinks, but does not speak. Remus pulls them aside and explains what has happened, that she's in shock. Pity fills their gazes as they whisper "oh Hermione."
They come to visit her every day. Harry talks to her about his blossoming relationship with Ginny, complains to her about all the media press, and gushes over his new job in the Auror Dept. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Remus cringing at the mention of Harry's job. Tonks. Ron talks to her about anything and everything, trying to help her, to fix her. He brings her things, brings her Crookshanks, offers to let her stay at the Burrow, just offers anything he thinks will bring him back his Hermione. If her heart was not already broken, then it would brake now.
She appreciates their visits, especially Ron's, but with every visit guilt gnaws at her. She doesn't return his blatant feelings, can't anymore, but she also can't muster the words to tell him so. Remus seems to understand this as well and pulls Ron aside on one of his visits and tells him such. Instead of being angry and exploding, he hugs her, pets her hair, and tells her he understands. He still visits everyday but now it's without the overhanging unrequited feelings. Eventually he confesses to her that he's seeing Lavender again who, though mauled by Him, survived the Battle. She is happy for him.
Happiness is less foreign now. The changes that He has wrought are permanent – she is silent and apathetic for the most part, horrors always on the edge of her conscious, and she changes with the full moon – but she is beginning to show life, small laughs here and tiny smiles there. They come out when Ron and Harry visit, but more so when she is alone with Remus. He notices this too.
"Hermione," he says one day, his voice firm and eyes averted as they sit on the couch. "Please don't take this the wrong way but what you are feeling for me is Hero Worship. It's not real."
She shakes her head but does not say anything. He sighs but returns to his book.
She doesn't know if she's in love with him but she knows it's not Hero Worship that she feels for him. If she does love him like she's beginning to think and he certainly thinks, than it is real. It's not because he saved her but because he's been there, because he understands.
He broaches the subject again a few days later. "I'm too old for this Hermione, I've been through too much. You deserve better."
That's what you said to Tonks, she thinks. Instead she says, for she can speak again now, "If I deserve anything it will be what I want." It's left at that.
He slips in subtle hints that he's not good for her or good enough for her (it varies). She hardly responds; unlike Tonks, she won't fight him on the subject. If he does not want these feelings she's sure she has than he does not have to have them. She's not sure he doesn't want them though as she catches him staring at her when he doesn't think she's looking, blushing when he is caught.
"I'm forty," he says one evening, leaning against the counter as she eats dinner at the table. "There is a twenty year age gap between us." She says nothing; he appears to be talking more to himself than to her. He looks at her, meets her questioning brown eyes with his green ones full of self-pity. "I knew you when you were thirteen. I taught you!"
That night he kisses her, chastely, and disappears immediately following. Her lips tingle afterwards, the first real sensation besides pain and numbness that she's felt in years.
He kisses her again the next day, despite the fact he's forty and she's twenty and he taught her when she was thirteen. The kiss is lest chaste this time but it's not with a passion that burns like hellfire. It's just a kiss, one of love. She returns it, loves it and him and she's completely sure of that. When they pull away, he rests his brow against her, looking into her eyes.
There is no pity in his gaze.