Please see my profile for a short summary, content warnings, and plot-establishing details.
Thank you for reading! Xo, B.
i. Jumpsuit
1943
The front door of 12 Grimmauld Place is not quite so daunting as the young woman approaching it has envisioned. Perhaps, in her head, she has likened it to a whimsical haunted house from a storybook or a creepy, abandoned shack, but it is rather plain and unsuspecting, nestled between others just like it, in a smoggy part of London. She wonders if she has ever passed this very spot and not realized, as she grew up two or three hours away and would sometimes visit the city with her parents.
The air smells slightly of industrial work and sewage, and the stairs of the building are well-worn and tinged green with moss. Craning her neck, the young woman counts seven windows set in water-stained brick, fashioned with simple curtains that are tightly closed. She studies them for a moment, willing one to move out of morbid curiosity, before a voice over her shoulder urges, "Don't stare, lower your head," and she does so. Her companion swallows, his throat dry and his heart racing.
As they near closer, the two homes to the left and right of 12 Grimmauld Place—11 and 13 Grimmauld Place, respectively—are suddenly warped out of sight and the pair ascend the front steps, each gripping the wrought iron hand rail subconsciously and self-consciously. The young woman glances at her companion's ash white knuckles and then her own, stark against the black iron and glittered with goosebumps.
Her tongue darts out to moisten her dry lips. They have long prepared for this. Placing a hand on the door handle, her companion looks to her and nods affirmatively. She returns the gesture. She has long awaited the moment she would enter 12 Grimmauld Place; they let themselves inside and the moment passes, Trench has begun.
The second front door of 12 Grimmauld Place is pristine but even plainer than the first, save for an ornate silver knocker. Shaped like a twisting serpent with a severe face and gleaming eyes, it seems to peer at them and they peer back, the young woman especially spellbound by its glossy stone eyes. The man takes a deep and shaking breath then procures a thin wooden wand from his coat and raises it towards the door, but hesitates. He halts for a moment of thought, wand poised in the face of the serpent. Eventually he replaces his wand and knocks instead. His knuckles rap on the firm wood, first softly and then loudly as the first whacks appear to go unheard.
Loud cursing can be heard on the other side of the door. "Are you ready?" the man whispers to the woman and she nods, throes of adrenaline pooling in her fingertips, the palms of her hands, the backs of her knees. She feels cemented to the floor by the weight of her boot-clad feet. She thinks, If I'm not ready at this point, I'm better off dead.
The door drags open and reveals a thin little being with a harsh face wearing a rag and no shoes. He scowls at them, his short frame assertive as if to prevent them from entering, and spits, "Who are you? Why did you come here?" The young woman smiles at him softly but as he snarls and glares at her, the smile falls.
The man clears his throat and runs a hand through his greying beard. "Hello Kreacher," he leans forward slightly, not quite crouching but offering an open hand, and lies, "My name is Phineas, do you remember me?" Kreacher does not take his hand but studies the man. His expressions relaxes briefly then becomes severe once more. He eyes the man and sniffs the air around him, hissing. "You're Phineas Black? Kreacher does not believe you."
"It is me, Kreacher, though you are wise to be suspicious. You have always been a clever house-elf and a faithful servant to my family, and I thank you for protecting them." He speaks in such a way that is persuasive and compelling, and brooding Kreacher appears to settle down. "How can I prove my identity? I was able to find this house, was I not?" The house-elf, diverted by his flattery but still unsure of how to react, says nothing. The man claiming to be Phineas Black continues, "I am here to speak to my mother, will you ask if she will see me?"
Kreacher contorts his beastly features in displeasure. Wordlessly, he snaps his long fingers and disappears in a puff of smoke. The young woman coughs into her balled fist.
The man, who is not Phineas Black but bears him a striking resemblance enriched by a smidgen of magic, removes a wool felt fedora from atop his head while he waits. His blackish hair is neatly tied back but he takes a moment to fuss with it, smoothing it down with a flat hand. The young woman, facing forward, realizes that she is idly chewing on her lower lip and stops. She tilts her head towards her companion who recalls an earlier thought and looks squarely back at her. "Hermione," he says quietly, bleakly, "If things go wrong, I'm going to cover you. Then, you need to run."
Hermione's eyebrows furrow. She understands. She whispers, "I will."
The house-elf returns and grunts at the pair, beckoning them to follow him inside 12 Grimmauld Place.
He casts the occasional wayward glance over his shoulder and mutters under his breath, "Muggle-loving blood traitor, but always kind to Kreacher."
They enter a grand hallway decorated with framed portraits and paintings, the subjects of which shuffle gaily around their canvases in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the unusual visitors. They whisper among themselves—Phineas, is it? My, he's grown. He's an old man now. Who is that with him? A girl?—but are unacknowledged. For a moment their chittering gets rowdy but Kreacher startles them silent by beating a fist on the wall, shaking the mounts.
A glittering chandelier hangs overhead, alight with candles that reflect and dance off the silver statues and trinkets lining the corridor. The adorning heirlooms and serpent-themed furnishings are both breathtaking and intimidating, an impressive display of the Black family's wealth, ambition, and power—and naturally so, supposes Hermione.
Her eyes roam the hall and settle on a portrait of two young progenies. The subjects, a sister and brother no older than perhaps ten years, wear dark, fancy robes unbefitting of children and are smiling widely. The girl cast in the painting spots Hermione and shyly waves, her brother following suit. Their prim postures are then thwarted by a laugh they share which causes their noses to crinkle and shoulders to slack and wobble, and their merriment is a strange fixture in the formidable corridor.
Kreacher guides the houseguests up a flight of ostentatious stairs carpeted in deep emerald green. Hermione avoids looking towards a grotesque display of severed house-elf heads festooned upon the wall, repulsed. Her thoughts echo the words of her companion—Are you ready?—and she reaffirms her earlier sentiment. If I'm not ready, I'm better off dead.
They arrive at the foot of an exquisite door and she undergoes a short but intense wave of panic, regret, and nausea. She feels herself sway but is steadied and comforted by a hand on her shoulder.
The house-elf instructs the man to knock and he does.
A shrill female voice on the other side of the door grants him entry and he pushes the door open, allowing Hermione to step inside first. She is struck in the chest with a penetrating, unseen pressure as she crosses the threshold and her logical mind wanders, Could this be magic? Spirits? Finally, she realizes the pressure is of her own causing and rests in her ribs as she has not taken a breath in a few dozen seconds. She breathes.
She is taken aback by not only the grandeur of what could only be the revered Black manor drawing room, but also by the smoldering glares of six or seven persons standing before her, brandishing wands. She makes eye contact with an elderly woman sitting on a parlor sofa in the center of the room but averts her gaze and lowers her head, longing to reach for her own wand and defend herself.
The room is unnervingly silent until the elderly woman says, "Phineas, for what reason have you returned here? Surely you must know, you are not welcome."
"Yes, Mother. I wish to speak with you."
She raises her thin nose to the air and studies her son through drooping eyelids. "Speak, then."
The man glances around the drawing room and attempts to persuade her. "I have come here bearing nothing but good will, Mother. I will prove that to you, but I ask that my dear family lower their wands."
The elderly woman quirks a painted eyebrow at him but waves a bony hand embossed with garish jewelry over her shoulder, dismissing the armed witches and wizards. They drop their aggressive stances but continue holding their wands guardedly. The man conveys his word like a passionate professor teaching a lesson and Hermione detests his remarks, detests this ruse, and detests this place.
"It has been quite the journey home but I feel it necessary to inform you all that I no longer believe in muggle rights," the man declares and one spectator gasps at this revelation. Another begins to whisper but is shushed by Phineas' mother, "I realized the error of my ways, long ago. I am deeply sorry for opposing my family and it is one of my gravest regrets. I detest muggles and those who walk down my same traitorous path."
Hermione lifts her eyes from the floor and watches the elderly woman, whose lashes flutter. She knows of this person, of Phineas' mother Ursula Black; she has long studied her, preparing for this moment. She knows Ursula Black to be the wife of a late, former headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, an esteemed political figure, and a darkly powerful witch. As the man speaks, Ursula uses a riffle of magic to light a long, fancy cigarette and takes a drag, which amuses Hermione; she has never heard of Ursula Black to be a smoker.
"I have come here not to ask for forgiveness, but to offer my sincere apologies. I cannot change the past." The man gestures to the Black clan tapestry, an exorbitant family tree sewn in gold which hangs on the drawing room wall and from which his portrait has been burned away. This is followed by more whispering which Ursula does not quiet but seems to listen to and consider. She takes another long drag from her cigarette. A sharp-looking older gentleman standing to her left speaks up. "Why did you change your mind about muggles, Phineas?"
"Ah, Cygnus. Dear brother, how have you?"
Hermione correctly identifies this person as Cygnus Black the second, the youngest son of Ursula. Based on what she has read, Cygnus is rather unremarkable but deduces that one might not assume this from his haughty arrogance. He turns his nose and does not respond, and her companion answers his question. "Not long after I left home, I met a beautiful witch in France. We were married—"
Ursula cuts off his sentence to ask, "What is her family name?" Her dark eyes gleam.
"Delacour. Jolene Delacour, youngest daughter of Monsieur Jean Delacour of French and Britanny pure-blood wizarding lineage." Impressed murmurs taper throughout the room and Ursula nods in approval, muttering, "Well done." She bids her son to continue.
"We were married and she bore our daughter," Hermione's blood runs cold as she feels every gaze in the room linger on her, "But vile muggles murdered my wife fifteen years ago. After some months, I could no longer conceal my hatred." The story is cleverly fabricated but well-rehearsed and reputable, contrived by the Delacour family of later years.
Fleur Delacour, whom Hermione does not know well but is gracious and generous, researched the Delacour family tree and provided her with the name of an estranged aunt who passed away unexpectedly in 1928. Fleur had gone so far as to find and present her with a grainy enchanted photo of a waving Jolene Delacour taken in 1922, but they soon realized it was far too aged and tattered to have been passable for a photo rendered only two decades before.
Instead, the girls spent weeks hunting down an antique wizarding camera, which they then used to take an almost identical photo of Fleur. Her blonde hair was curled and pinned and she donned a dress popular among French witches in the 1920s, and Hermione fondly recalls the fun they had while gussying her up and posing her. It had been the first time she had laughed in months and was also the last time she could remember doing so, and she had captured the moment with the pull of a small lever.
Fleur blinked and rubbed her eyes after the bright flash and the dusty camera produced an enchanted photograph, which the man now removes from his pocket and hands to Ursula. Some members of the Black family inch their way towards the matriarch to catch a glimpse over her shoulder.
She observes the old photo passively and returns it, satisfied with the proof of this woeful tale. She smirks. Her wrinkled features and sagging cheeks give some gentleness to her face but cannot mask her wickedness. "My dear son, if only you had never strayed!"
Several others look to the man expectantly, while the rest look in the direction of Hermione, sympathetic and interested. In an eerily upbeat manner, Ursula points a sharply manicured finger at her and she nearly jumps out of her skin, pressure thrumming in her ears. "What is your name, girl?"
"My name is Hermione, Madam."
"Hermione," she says the name like she's tasting it, "What a curious name. Are you a witch?"
"Yes, Madam."
Ursula laughs, cold but delighted. She puffs on her cigarette thoughtfully. "My, dear Phineas. This girl is very polite. She could teach her cousins a few lessons, I'm sure."
Hermione's heart beats so fast she fears the room can hear it. She reminds herself that, here and now, she is a daughter of the Black family and must act as such. She musters confidence as she bows her head and smiles, responding before her companion can, "Thank you, Madam. I am a talented witch, as well. My magic is quite advanced for my age, and I have recently mastered nonverbal spellcasting."
"What a precocious girl!" Ursula beams, "Where was she educated, Phineas? Surely, living in France you would have enrolled her in Beauxbatons Academy, but the girl has no French accent."
"Ever observant, Mother," the man compliments and she gushes, pleased with herself, "After my wife passed we began to travel—I elected that since I could not return home without shame I would do my part in speaking forth the sanctity of pure blood. I became a missionary, and I educated Hermione myself as we traveled." The Black family is aghast but enthusiastic.
A pretty girl with an unyielding expression, who seems close in age to Hermione and who sits on a second parlor sofa, crosses her arms over her chest. She watches the strangers keenly, almost abrasively, and a boy sitting in the seat to her left leans forward, enthralled in the drama. Hermione knows their names—Walburga, Alphard. She has read and heard stories of them—she saw a portrait of their younger selves in the downstairs corridor.
She knows more about them than they know of themselves; not only their past and present, but their future, how they will live and die. The thought chills her and she feels anxious once more. The room is buzzing and she detests it, plain hates it.
"Phineas," Ursula speaks over everyone else, quieting them, "What are your intentions here?"
The man in question bows his head. "Today, I simply wish to inform my dear family of my whereabouts and apologize for my transgressions. I have established a home north of Hogsmeade village and I am enrolling Hermione in Hogwarts School as a sixth year student. I also thought it of the essence for her to meet her cousins before the schoolyear begins."
Ursula nods, agreeable with this. A chipper, feminine voice speaks up from behind Walburga and Alphard—their young mother, Irma, who stands nearby cradling a sleeping toddler. "How lovely. Walburga will be starting her seventh year at Hogwarts and Alphard his fifth. Perhaps the children will share some classes, Alphard is particularly bright." Hermione observes Irma, a Black by marriage but the epitome of Black family elegance nonetheless. She notices Irma's squared shoulders and perfect posture and mindfully corrects her own.
Alphard's ears turn red at his mother's praise, whereas Walburga appears to fume. Ursula smiles, contemplative, and says after a pause, "Walburga, do stand please. Come here." The old woman's lipstick bleeds just barely into the cracks around her mouth, having rubbed off onto the white paper of the rollup she touts.
Walburga obeys her great-grandmother and comes to be at her side. Discarding her first cigarette, Ursula procures and lights another. She takes a drag and blows the putrid smoke almost directly into Walburga's face but the young witch does not react.
"My child, have you your wand?"
"Yes…" Walburga says, before adding, "Madam." The word sounds odd from her mouth and her great-grandmother grimaces. She acquires a wand from her formal skirt, holding it up for all to see. Ursula looks to Hermione. "And you, dear? Have you?"
She feels overwhelmed and breathless, but reaches into the shallow pocket of her coat and pulls out her thin, vine wood wand. She presents it and says quietly, "Yes, Madam."
Elderly Ursula reaches for her son Cygnus and grandson Pollux, who help her to her unsteady feet. "You two shall duel, a friendly game," Walburga appears argumentative or perhaps annoyed, but remains silent, watching her relatives clear a space.
Hermione feels momentarily panic-stricken and looks to her companion, who only gestures for her to step into the middle of the drawing room. He is confident in her dueling abilities—he expressed this to her several times today as they made way to 12 Grimmauld Place.
Hermione, he had even warned at the conception of Trench several months prior, The Black family loves…violence. They'll expect you to duel and you need to be ready for it. You can't fuck it up.
She removes her coat and hands it to him; no, she certainly does not intend to fuck it up.
She has devoted countless hours, poured immense effort into honing her physical dexterity, perfecting jinxes, hexes, even curses. As of the day she came to be in 1943, she had sparred with and championed over every one of her willing friends at least once in preparation—Ron, Ginny, Neville, and more—and had developed techniques and skills she had never learned from professors or reading.
She takes a silk ribbon from around her wrist and uses it to tie back her polished brown hair, a skill that once seemed more difficult to master than dueling. Now, she does so in one dignified and fluid motion. Along the sidelines of the room, she hears Ursula brag to the man who is not her son, "I see the girl inherited my grace," and Hermione makes quick and amused eye contact with him.
The shuffling of bodies and furniture and the bubble of excited conversation causes the drawing room to become warm and she watches Walburga unfasten two buttons at the very top of her blouse, revealing nothing inappropriate but earning a stern look from her mother.
Poised to duel, the two teenaged witches stand facing one another on opposite sides of the room. They size each other up and mentally prepare themselves, and for a moment Hermione considers throwing the match, Do I want to make an enemy out of Walburga Black? However, she notes Ursula's gleeful expression as she tokes on her stinking cigarette and decides to impress her.
They begin dueling after a curt bow. Walburga casts the first spell without hesitation, a complicated hex that is surely meant to serve as a one-hit knockout, and watches mortified as Hermione expertly counters it, employing a disarming charm that sends Walburga's wand across the room. It clatters loudly at the feet of her father and she says, "Damn it!" just loud enough that only Hermione can hear. Pollux Black retrieves the wand from the floor and throws it back his daughter's way. She repossesses it, which frustrates Hermione.
The drawing room becomes a mess of shooting lights and bright beams, and though expressive, the Black family neither cheers nor boos at the witches, instead evaluating their every move with critical eyes. Ursula seems especially analytical, not missing a moment of action.
Each girl throws themselves fiercely into the task of defeating the other. Hermione studies her competitor, adapting to her combat style and smartly avoiding jinxes and hexes hurled her way. She moves effortlessly like a spry doe; her near-mastery of nonverbal magic gives her a significant advantage as Walburga declares her spells out loud and gives away every move she attempts to make. She grows ever more vicious as her spells whir by Hermione's head, missing each time, and her brother begins to laugh from where he watches. However, she is still a fierce competitor, and sweat begins to form on Hermione's brow as she begins to grow tired.
Hermione casts a slowing charm which immobilizes Walburga for a moment; in retaliation, Walburga casts a Cruciatus curse, narrowly missing. Hermione shrieks and looks around the room. Those spectating do not oppose the use of an Unforgivable curse in a friendly duel and do not seem to pay it any mind. She considers how she might end this now—neither maiming Walburga nor getting maimed herself would benefit her.
Walburga takes aim and raises her wand in preparation to cast once more, but Hermione strikes first, sending a fountain of royal blue flames in the path of her rival. Her face is briefly illuminated and her expression is terror-laden and haunting before the flames swallow her head. She screams.
The fire encircles Walburga completely and she emits one more awful, chilling scream as the fire appears to burn her alive. Her mother also screams and the other spectators look to Hermione in gross horror, apart from her companion and Ursula, who are unmoving. The room falls silent save for the sound of the toddler who earlier slept in Irma's arms, roused awake and beginning to cry and whimper.
The blue flames sweep aside and vanish, revealing Walburga unscathed. She falls to her knees and cries inconsolably, having believed herself dead and having been bested by an outsider, and her parents approach her and try to comfort her. Hermione awkwardly pockets her wand, and the duel concludes. She eyes the sobbing Walburga and thinks that she is still rather pretty, even in this state. Pretty, for a murderous bitch. She feels accomplished but somewhat hollow.
As Walburga is escorted from the room, Ursula ushers Hermione to stand before her. She takes the young witch by the hand and traces her bony fingers along the girl's palm, as if admiring a delicate piece of jewelry. She looks into Hermione's eyes and sneers.
"You are deliciously clever, dear Hermione. Your foolish cousin should be embarrassed by her performance, but you have captivated me." She takes a final drag from her rollup and stubs it out in a nearby crystal ashtray. The foul tobacco smoke wafts upwards and burns Hermione's eyes. "Tell me, was that a bluebell flame charm?"
Hermione forces herself to smile as if appreciative. "It was, Madam. It's a rather rudimentary technique, but I thought I needn't use complicated techniques for rather rudimentary dueling."
Ursula laughs. The man comes closer and places a hand on Hermione's shoulder, and Ursula congratulates him. "My dear Phineas, you have raised a powerful pure-blooded witch. Do return this week and we shall discuss our family matters privately." Stone-faced, he nods. "Thank you, Mother. Thank you for allowing us your time today."
The pair bids farewell to the Black family and as they are escorted out of 12 Grimmauld Place, they hear the wails of Walburga coming from an upstairs bedroom. They step into the street outside and the building evaporates behind them, and Hermione feels relief wash over her. They hastily walk in a random direction.
Once far away and obscured enough so as to not risk being overheard or seen, the magical coverlet placed over the man's appearance melts away. Hermione is a touch comforted to see the familiar face of Sirius Black, who performs the role of his ancestor so convincingly well that it troubles her at times.
"I think that went well," Sirius states plainly, and Hermione agrees. "What you did was brilliant," he continues, "The bluebell flames. I thought I was gon' to piss myself." She is fully aware as to why—if his mother were to be killed or even badly hurt, time would be corrupted and he would cease to exist. She wonders if the incident made him wary of her at all. Again, Hermione agrees; it was brilliant.
They make way to a dim alley and apparate to the home they have acquired north of Hogsmeade. It is a cozy but rather large manor, justified by their façade of established, pure-blooded wizards; the home cost a pretty penny, but they had spent a great deal of time stockpiling galleons in anticipation of Trench, and their money is more valuable in 1943. They paid cash upfront and moved in that same day.
They have equipped the manor with stylish furniture and adornments that are a bit pompous, some of which will transfigure into sacrilegious knick-knacks and symbols of sacred blood purity upon the arrival of visitors. Hermione requested this charm be placed on the house for her own mental wellbeing and Sirius gladly obliged. Without the offensive trappings, the space is practically bearable and she finds it easy enough to occupy her time and feel comfortable, but longs for normalcy each time she steps through the unfamiliar front door. She feels a strange soreness when she arrives home and does not smell her mother's cooking or hear the faint hum of her father watching the television in the family room.
After they moved in, Hermione counted how many rooms the house had. Four bedrooms, six and-a-half bathrooms, a large kitchen, dining room, one large and one small sitting room, a quaint library, and several other rooms she has not yet determined the purpose of—in total, twenty-two rooms, a number she finds frivolously high but makes no complaints about as she spends her days reading and studying in the well-stocked library.
It is early evening once they arrive home, and Sirius hurries to a desk in the parlor. He uses his wand to open a charmed drawer, removes a diary and sits in the desk's cushioned seat. He writes in the book like mad, summarizing the day's events as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Eventually, Hermione stands to watch over his shoulder, struggling to interpret a few of his scrawlings.
…didn't question our identities…impressed with Hermione…challenged her to a duel—each time he finishes writing one sentence, the words disappear from the page, ink seeping into the paper like snow melting into the ground. She swallows drily and pardons herself to the kitchen to brew herself a pot of tea. "Tea, Sirius?" she asks with one foot out the door, and he shakes his head, intent on his writing. Once she has her tea, she sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, and reflects on her day as well.
After a few minutes, Sirius yells from the parlor, "Ron said to tell you hello, says he's taking good care of the cat." Hermione grips her teacup too tightly and brings it to her lips. The steam tickles her nose and the ceramic is burning hot against her palms, and she has to put the cup down to let it cool. She lightly presses the sides of the teacup with her fingertips. "That's great," she answers, "please thank him for me." She listens to the faint sound of quill against paper. Sirius calls again, "He asked how you're doing."
"I'm fine," she yells back, "Tell him that please."
Sirius complies but then is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, speaking directly to Hermione. His hands hold either side of the slim doorframe and he looks exhausted without his camouflage in place.
"He asked to have you write him back," Sirius says flatly, "I won't keep doing it for you."
Hermione glowers and forgets about the tea she brewed, which by now has cooled enough to drink. "Don't then. We've been here less than a week, he needs to stop being so attached." She lifts herself from the stool and leaves the kitchen, Sirius moves out of the doorway so she can pass. She sits at the parlor desk and holds the quill. She thinks for a moment.
Goodnight, Ronald.
She closes the diary rather dramatically and stuffs it inside the desk, then shuts the drawer with a gentle bang. She looks over her shoulder at Sirius, who only sighs and uses his wand to lock and charm the drawer once more. Hermione sits in an armchair indifferently and uses her wand to light the brick fireplace; she watches the crackling fire and jadedly props her elbow on an armrest, resting her chin in her palm. Sirius leaves and returns with her tea, reheated to the perfect temperature, and a pint of beer for himself. He places the teacup on the coffee table in front of her, and she looks up. Sitting, he says, "Tomorrow you should go to Diagon Alley, you can get your robes and books and things. Sound alright?" and she nods and answers, "Sounds fine," and after a moment, "I might try to find him, maybe just look around. I know what shops he goes to."
Sirius asks, "What's your plan if you see him?"
Hermione reaches for her tea and shrugs. "Take mental notes, I suppose? I don't plan on him seeing me. I don't want him getting suspicious." They agree upon this idea, as they do not disagree upon many things. She sips the tea and is dissatisfied with its bitterness, but is too tired to search for the sugar bowl.
After a bit more discussion, the two say goodnight and go their separate ways; Sirius retires to a master bedroom befitting a son of the Black family, and Hermione to a smaller, but just as grand, suite. She finds it ironic to have been afforded such luxuries in a potentially dire situation. She often muses to herself that it seems like a consolation prize—everyone you love might die, but at least you'll have a lot of galleons for a bit. Best of luck finding something to spend it on in the forties. Cheers.
She does enjoy the hot bath and large bed, and the food and books, so she considers herself consoled.
Hermione draws a bath to soak in. While she bathes her mind wanders to the diary and what she would have written to Ron had their circumstances been different.
Perhaps, Don't worry Ronald, I'll be home soon. But, she will not be home soon and feels too guilty to perpetuate this ideal. She dips a pale pink scrubbing sponge in the tub and watches it swell, and exfoliates her arms and thighs with it. She dunks the crown of her head in the bathwater and wets her hair, then steeps her entire head like a teabag, holding her breath as she goes under.
She remains submerged there for as long as her lungs will let her, knees hugged to her naked chest like a cannonball that won't detonate. She keeps her eyes tightly shut and clasps her hands at her shins as if to prevent herself from floating away; when she begins to feel lightheaded she breaches the water and pulls herself up by the edge of the tub, gasping for air.
Perhaps she would have written, Don't slack in class while I'm gone, you ninny, because he always put off studying until the last possible second. He promised her he would try harder in her absence but she knows he is just full of it.
She cries silently for a few minutes, for her friends and the future and for Ron's failing grades, before draining the tub and drying herself.
After dressing in a dull nightgown, she downs a murky purple sleeping draught. Not only does she want to be well-rested to scout Diagon Alley the next day, the potion will ensure that she will not dream that night, a regular habit since she started having unbearable nightmares the year before.
Hermione climbs into bed and considers that she may be dependent on the draught but ultimately thinks nothing of it; it's inevitable, as is suffering, and there is no worse suffering than the future she left behind. She had been set to a task—a mission, codename Trench—and swore to succeed in this plan or die trying.
Suffering is inevitable, and so is pain and death and—
Hermione falls asleep as her head touches the silk pillow and she has not a single dream.