CHAPTER 1

SOBER

"There's a shadow just behind me, shrouding every step I take, making every promise empty, pointing every finger at me."

The aftermath of war is an indescribable thing. Giddy, yes, seasoned with relief and gratitude and a sort of bone deep lethargy that speaks of the need for a long, long rest. Coming down from a war is tiring work. But it is painful too, this much is obvious. The loss of life, love, and liberty inflicts wounds that penetrate far too deeply for peace alone to heal.

However, what may not be immediately obvious to those who have not experienced it is that the aftermath of war is frightening too. Because the terror that became such a daily part of one's emotional spectrum does not dissipate with the death of a villain. It must find new avenues through which to feel, experience, and explore the fear that has latched onto the psyche with no intent to let go. And if those avenues are not readily available in the physical world, then the mind will create them.

Hermione Granger was an intelligent young woman, and though her bookish tenacity and somewhat over serious demeanour was the characteristic most obvious in her interactions with the world, she also had the capacity for deep personal insight, as much as was possible for a woman of eighteen years. She knew this about herself.

She also knew that cleaning up the mess after a war was about more than just scrubbing blood off stone and attending funerals, commiserating with the survivors and attempting to forge a positive path together into the future. She knew that underneath it all was each individual's writhing emotional journey.

It had become slowly apparent to her that her emotional journey through the frightening silence of a post-war wizarding England did involve the creation of threats that did not exist outside of her mind causing her to frequently experience sensations of panic and anxiety. And though she was painfully aware of this rapidly developing pattern, she found she could do very little about it. Her mind, it seemed, was thoroughly equipped with the tools to make her panic at entirely spontaneous moments, with what appeared to be no stimulus or motivation, but it was apparently not equipped to put a stop to this pattern or heal itself of that damage.

And so, she existed with an almost permanent hum of anxiety thrilling through her body. She found that every little thing frightened her into a maelstrom of over thinking and analysing and obsessing. But try as she might, she could not stop it. The thing she found hardest about all that however was not the effect it had on her personally, but the effect it had on those around her. She couldn't stand the idea of making others uncomfortable with her anxiousness. The thought alone bothered her almost as much as the anxiousness itself. She preferred to be alone.

Even here, sitting in the Weasley's garden on a warm summer afternoon, those feelings wouldn't leave her alone entirely. In that moment her strange and untameable mind seemed to be latched onto the idea that she may be silently passing on her anxieties through telekinesis alone to Mrs Weasley, who was sitting next to her at the wrought iron table, an idea she knew was entirely unreasonable, Mrs Weasley seemed completely oblivious to Hermione's mere presence beside her let alone her feelings, but her mind would just not let it be and picked at it ceaselessly like a child with a scab on its knee.

Beyond that, another far more important anxiety sat waiting quietly for her attention. The letter folded into a small, rough rectangle in her hand.

Hermione's eyes rested on the paper peaking from between her fingers as the warm summer breeze threatened to flick tendrils of her hair across her face. She began to nervously and unconsciously roll and fold the corners of the parchment.

This letter threatened to spill its one big question all over her life with every passing second, a question she couldn't bring herself to contemplate properly in that moment. It was better to simply put it out of her mind, to not think about it. Thus it was an anxiety that sat patiently waiting. She could not bring herself to put it down both physically and mentally. Her mind was both entirely focused upon it whilst also trying very hard to ignore it all together.

Hermione glanced to her left at Mrs Weasley who it appeared was also neglecting to watch the two aside match of Quidditch between Ron, Harry, Ginny and George being played above them. Her gaze was instead locked onto something in the distance and Hermione curiously followed it up onto the hill beside the Burrow. Through the glaring sunlight she could just make out a row of head stones peeking through the long grass. She looked away quickly, feeling the image burn itself onto her retinas. Blinking rapidly to remove it, she finally cast her eyes upwards to watch the match.

Harry was flying through the air, an old football tucked underneath his arm as Ron sped along behind him, clearly having difficulty keeping up. Harry pitched the ball at Ginny, who plucked it deftly from the air, launched it past George and through one of the hoops that had been charmed into hanging a few metres off the ground as their make-shift goal.

From where Hermione was sitting, she could see Ron's face turn a brilliant red and his mouth open angrily, but the wind blew his words away before they reached her. She felt the sun burn on her neck as the afternoon wore on and got to her feet, tucking the letter, now folded into a small square with corners tattered and soft, into her pocket. She turned to Mrs Weasley.

"It's too hot for me out here, Molly, I'm going inside. Do you need anything?" she asked, laying a hand lightly on Molly's shoulder.

Mrs Weasley started slightly, her eyes dazed and blank, and then said quietly, "No, no dear, I'm fine. I'll just get started on the weeding."

Hermione smiled and turned away, noting as she did that Molly made no move to leave her seat.

She made her way into the kitchen, past the old cauldrons and wellington boots scattered around the Burrow's back door, and stopped to run her hand distractedly over the stained and deeply scratched wood of the dining table, a constant reminder of the past and all those that had been lost to the war. She could hardly see how the Weasleys could stand to have it in the house. Molly had always encouraged friends of the family to mark the wood in some way, to carve a symbol or initial into it. It was, she had once described it, a constant and beautiful work of art that reminded her of the many friendships that held her family together, a work of art never to be finished and always ready for a new inscription.

Hermione knew those marks well now; she had sat at the table so often. A lighting shape had been engraved in front of the seat Harry generally occupied, and a snitch beside it etched by Ginny. An untidy scrawl read Professor Rubeus Hagrid along the table's left edge near the words 'wit beyond measure is a man's greatest treasure', though Hermione did not know who had inscribed the latter. Ron had written his own name on the corner if the table, and presumably Fred and George had been the ones to add ickle and ickens before and after it, much to Ron's indignation. A large Padfoot had been carved by Sirius in the middle accompanied by Remus's addition of Moony. Those were among the ones that made Hermione's heart ache just a little. But the inscription that gave her the most pain was one barely noticeable unless you knew where to find it. The little scratched triangle with a circle and a line down the middle that looked a bit like a tiny eye, carved deep into the wood of the table leg, right down near the floor. She knew that this was a mark left by Dumbledore.

Even the thought of it sent a momentary thrill of resentment towards her old headmaster rush through her body. She had devoted years to believing him infallible and all-knowing, to trusting him, and he had betrayed them all with his secrets and manipulations. She knew, deep down, that his actions were somewhat justifiable and that his justification had been good enough for Harry, but it hurt her knowing how many things Dumbledore had never told them, information that might have helped, might have made something that was already painfully hard just that little bit easier. She'd always thought he was a genius, brilliant but mental as Ron used to say; now however she knew him to be just as manipulative, close minded, and in some ways elitist as Tom Riddle. Both men were paradoxes. Idiots with too much information at their disposal.

Hermione let her fingers trail over the wood of the table as she made her way around it to sit heavily in one of the chairs. It was not so much the list of names of the dead that was present with her all the time, but the feeling of death itself, the feeling of loss. It could be said that she lost no one in the war with whom she had a terribly deep bond, unlike Harry who had lost three of the greatest mentors in his life in Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore, or Ron who had lost a brother. But the feeling of loss, of all the people who had died whom she could claim a friendship or acquaintance, even those whose names she did not know, that feeling was always with her. It was omnipresent, everywhere.

Even the deaths of those whom she cordially disliked, such as Severus Snape, were difficult for her to process. Although she did not think very much of her old potions master, no matter what Harry had said about his allegiances and his bravery, she would have liked to come out of the final battle and shake his hand all the same; would have liked to have talked to him, see what he was like without the spectres of Voldemort and Dumbledore hovering over his life.

In the end, it all came down to the simple fact that deep down, she could hardly believe that it was all really over. She still expected some great and unnameable evil threatening the lives of everyone she loved to emerge from the background. Another Dark Lord. And then the battle would begin again. They would all have something to consume them again, something to care about. She felt a great concern for all the people left behind, the world just didn't feel right, didn't feel full anymore. There was something wanting and she could see it in the faces of everyone around her.

Nothing was the same. Intellectually, she had always known, even in the hours after the final battle, that it wouldn't be but the differences as she experienced them day by day were drastic and scary no matter how prepared for them she had thought herself to be.

Those differences lay, for the most part, in the people around her as much as within herself.

Harry could only be described as scattered and changeable. Some days he seemed happy, unencumbered to the point of jovial, and relatively optimistic. On others however a deep and consuming depression seemed to weigh him down and on those days it was difficult to get a word out of him. His energy of sadness would hang heavily over the house like the grey of an overcast day when he was down, and every single one of its occupants would be affected by it.

Ceaselessly Ginny would hover around him, tending to his every whim, rejoicing over-enthusiastically when he was happy and coddling him to the point of madness when he was down. She moved through the house with a kind of wounded strength, like a prospective martyr on the way to the stake waiting for a reprieve from god. Once upon a time Hermione had seen her as strong and independent; but now she had taken on an over bearing motherly role within the family; trying, resolutely, to remain the omnipresent pillar of strength to what was left of the people she loved. Ginny was affected now. She no longer danced to her own tune but to the tune of everyone else's grief.

Hermione found her wearing at the best of times, but she could acknowledge that there must always be a mother in the Weasley household, that was the way that they had been brought up, and Mrs Weasley was not fulfilling the role.

Molly's grief manifested itself into confusion and disorder. She would often speak to people who weren't there, she would re-wash dishes she had washed only minutes earlier, and repeatedly she had asked Ron, Harry, and Hermione when they would like to go to Diagon Alley to pick up their school things. Whenever any of them had reminded her that there was no school anymore she would simply reply, "Oh nonsense!" and go back to sitting in the garden, staring up at the hill beside the house.

Her husband very clearly had no idea how to deal with her, though he tried. Arthur had always been unendingly kind and that kindness continued in his treatment of his wife. But Hermione could see that through his own obsessive need to bring justice to the remainder of Voldemort's followers and the consequential time he spent at work, it was just a matter of his finding it easier to be obsessive than to be depressed as well as ignoring the greater problem that awaited him at home for Molly's state of mind was obviously distressing to him.

Understandably, their sons were as lost and messy as they were.

George was a shadow of his former self, often to be seen walking through the hills around their home, hands deep in his pockets, speaking aloud to his dead twin as if he were still strolling along beside him. He was a quintessential example of numbness. He smiled, but there was no light. He frowned, but there was no storm. He was blank. Somehow though, Hermione felt that George was not hopeless. There was something about his grief that encouraged her, as if he was experiencing that grief purely, not letting his mind run wild with anxiety and insecurity and anger the way the rest of them had. It seemed to be George's intent to feel the loss of his twin fully and completely with no concern for those around him. Hermione could see that there was an inherent selfishness to this, but she admired him for it and couldn't help feeling that he was going about things the right way.

Ron however, was almost the opposite. He was never properly cheerful but at the same time, he seemed less down trodden than the rest of the family. In fact, we was entirely numbed. When Hermione looked at him she could see guilt, pain, and fear repressed. His eyes were blank and cold. Whenever she noticed a rare smile light up his face, she watched as it faltered, could tell that he was internally reminding himself that smiling was not allowed now. Ron seemed to be in some kind of manic denial, he didn't want to participate in the emotional turmoil gripping his family, but at the same time could not disengage from it. Privately, she thought of this as Ron trying to do it the man's way. Just harden up and move on and ignore all the bits and pieces that have to be there in order for the moving on to happen.

Hermione wondered briefly if maybe the dead were the lucky ones. Were there pieces to pick up in the afterlife? Because the amount that had to be done in the real world appeared to be far too much for those left behind.

Being with herself these days was very hard, but Hermione was beginning to see that being around all this sadness and silence was another thing entirely.

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at her hands, she felt entirely at a loss. She could see very clearly that everyone around her was in a great deal of pain, but for once no book could help her. She ached to fix, to mend, but had no idea where to start. There was no talking happening in the Burrow anymore and something was telling Hermione that communication had to be the right place to begin. But really, she didn't entirely know if she had the motivation to start to encourage the others to be vulnerable and unburden themselves of their inner troubles.

It was a strange place to be in, cultivating both the fierce and huge desire to help whilst also feeling as if helping was all too much and that she might not be up to it.

The reality was, of course, that she wasn't. But this was such an unpalatable idea that she just couldn't acknowledge it, because ultimately Hermione felt entirely without options and attempting to somehow help the people around her seemed like the one and only path before her.

It frightened her though, how the future seemed in her mind. If she was honest, things had been on an increasingly quick downward trajectory since the end of the war, and she couldn't see how they could all simultaneously pull themselves out of that nose dive together.

Over the days after the final battle, the collective mood had been euphoric and manic and desperate. It had been everything. She had felt such a wide and colourful array of emotions that it was almost difficult to remember the events that had followed with any real clarity. Mostly, she remembered feeling confused and overwhelmed. She had wanted desperately to sleep and be alone, she had wanted to hug Harry, she had wanted to fuck Ron, she had wanted to curse everyone in the vicinity, all at once. But instead, she had laughed and cried and toasted the dead and the living and simply lived through the overwhelming hugeness of her reality. It was awful and terrifying but she had, at the very least, things to do, other things to focus on. She had ridden the feeling until her bones ached and her eyes refused to stay open any longer, by simply never allowing herself to be directionless or without occupation.

The only moment of silence she had really allowed herself was in the first hours after the battle had ended. Harry had disappeared very quickly once all the hand wringing, hugging, drinking, eating, and congratulations were done with. Hermione and Ron had followed soon after, dragging their feet through the rubble, hand in hand, up to the Gryffindor tower. When they stepped into the boy's dormitory together, Harry had looked so vulnerable and hurt in his sleep that Hermione had climbed in beside him without thought. He looped his hand over her hip sleepily as she pressed her back to his chest and Ron slipped under the covers in front of her, pulling her arm over him.

There was silence in that moment, but love too, which made all else small in comparison and made the silence ok. She had allowed herself to simply feel safe enough to sleep between the two men in the world she loved the most.

Their rest though was of course only brief for the noise reverberating from the Great Hall was a constant, distracting hum.

The three of them, the Golden Trio, had been there at Hogwarts until there was nothing more to do, the sick and the wounded were taken care of, and the dead were dealt with respectfully. Then, they had beat the familiar path down to Hogsmeade, outside of the Hogwarts boundaries, and apparated directly back to the Burrow. Immediately its usual atmosphere of busyness and activity absorbed them.

She knew vaguely at the time that the only reason everyone was so loud, the only reason they rushed around was because they didn't want to stay still or quiet for long enough to let reality sink in. And that method had worked while it lasted. Hermione participated in it wholeheartedly and with noticeable enthusiasm.

Every night Hermione had gone to bed exhausted and utterly drained having spent her days with Harry, the Weasleys, and any guests that happened to pass through, consumed by the planning and talking, crying and comforting. They commiserated with one another through the funerals and while the assets of the dead were dealt with. They all made it through that difficult time with what Hermione thought was a great deal of grace and strength. But she remembered vividly the morning they all woke to find that the harshest reality had not yet come crashing down on any of them entirely.

It was the quiet, the silence of that day, and every day that passed afterwards, that undid them all. Every letter that required writing had been sent, every story that could be shared had been expressed, every apology that could be offered had been said, and everything that needed to be dealt with had been dealt with.

The silence had lasted for three months. It had gotten heavier and quieter with every passing hour as the manifestations of grief had begun to bloom into being within all of them, becoming more potent and apparently permanent all the time. It had all become almost normal to Hermione, the routines that they had all fallen into in their own profound sadness as much as each other's. It was almost normal and Hermione hated it, loathed feeling so stuck and so thoroughly without hope for the future.

It hit her like an epiphany then, as her fingers traced nervous patterns on the scratched table top, the realisation that she could not continue to exist in this state, in this house, with these people, no matter how much she cared for them and wanted to help them.

The letter in her pocket seemed to burn, the letter from McGonagall offering Hermione a place at Hogwarts this year. She realised that she might just have to accept that offer and leave the Burrow. It was finally a question that required serious thought; she couldn't ignore it any longer.

It was in those first weeks that the idea of going back to Hogwarts for another year had first begun to be spoken about. McGonagall had offered them all place and Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Hermione swapped opinions on the proposal for some time. Harry and Ron seemed to feel put off by the idea, they appeared to feel they were ready for the world and wanted to step out and explore it. There then followed many fanciful conversations between the four of them about where they could all go, how they'd get there and what they'd do.

The way they had all changed and how thoroughly the atmosphere in the Burrow had altered made it hardly believable that they'd ever shared such light hearted, hope filled conversation together.

Hermione missed it all so desperately.

It was part of what made each day so hard was how toxic and silent her relationships had become. How could she not live in a state of almost permanent anxiety when she was frightened every time she spoke to Harry, even about surface stuff, that she might trigger him into some kind of mood? When Ron would barely look at her, let alone have a conversation with her?

Hermione realised that if she didn't get out and help herself, there was no helping anyone. And even if she had no idea at all what helping herself looked like, she had to try. The first step to that trying began with her disentangling herself from the Burrow, pulling herself out of its web of grief.

New possibilities began to bloom in Hermione's mind as the thought of freedom began to properly settle in. And in her enthusiasm for it she forgot to feel guilty or ashamed or worried for a moment.

McGonagall had made it clear in her letter that Hermione had choices, something that Hermione herself had not fully realised or felt until that very second. The Headmistress had said that if Hermione did not wish to remain at the Burrow she could return to her residency at Hogwarts or that McGonagall would help her to find other accommodation wherein Hermione could live on her own.

The latter idea held great appeal to her. The idea of being able to live, day to day, without the worry of how her feelings were affecting others, without the concern over their state of mind, without having to hear their opinions on her choices, was so tempting it almost made her mouth water.

She found herself then becoming completely caught up in the fantasy of it. It was only just becoming apparent to her how much she had craved silence of a different kind to the sort she had become so very accustomed to.

Her and Crookshanks alone. How blissful that sounded.

Reading in the morning sunlight without risk of interruption. Cooking sumptuous meals for herself, eating what she wanted. Cups of tea in the middle of the night. Practicing new spells, brewing new potions. Loud, self induced orgasms that she could take hours and hours to build up to. Pursuing hobbies that her life had thus far never had room for like drawing or painting or writing. Takeaway at three in the morning. Following any vague inclination that may come upon her at any given time.

It all sounded so wonderful. She couldn't see any possible down side, the fantasy induced tunnel vision was so complete.

Harry wandered through the kitchen door at that moment, interrupting her dreaming. His face was flushed and glowing from the exercise of the match and he grinned at Hermione as he made his way over to the sink to fill up a glass of water. He felt good that day.

"What's up with you?" he asked breathlessly, in between gulps.

She realised suddenly that he had happened upon her standing with her palms pressed against the table, breathing heavily and realised that it must have looked odd. She sunk back into her chair looking a little embarrassed.

"You know you could just use Aguamenti," she said distractedly, nodding towards his glass.

He grinned again and shrugged, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. "Yeah I know. Force of habit I guess."

Hermione gave a feeble laugh and fell silent. Harry frowned slightly. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yes!" she replied with a little too much enthusiasm, "Yes I'm fine. Really."

Harry raised an eyebrow and went to sit beside her at the table.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" he asked, his voice concerned.

Hermione watched as the condensation on Harry's glass formed droplets that sunk slowly down to the table where the wood almost immediately absorbed it. She took a deep breath in an attempt to still some of the excitement beating away in her chest.

"I don't know," she said, "I was just thinking about this."

She reached into her pocket for the letter, opening and smoothing it out before sliding it toward Harry. He glanced down at it quickly and then back at her.

"What about it?" he was trying to sound non-committal but Hermione could hear the underlying anxiety in his voice. It occurred to her that perhaps he too was nervous about his own letter and possible return to Hogwarts.

"Oh you know, just where I'll live, how I'll pay for everything… That sort of thing," she pulled a hair band from around her wrist and tied her hair up into a pony tail as she spoke, her tone preoccupied.

"Well," he said slowly, looking as if he was trying to work something out in his head, "You've got plenty of savings in Gringotts since people were so generous with us after the war... And as for where you'd live, I don't see why you shouldn't stay on here."

"What if I don't want to stay on here though?" Hermione asked, quietly relishing being able to speak to Harry like they were friends again.

To her surprise though, Harry looked hurt. "Why wouldn't you want to?"

She began to feel a little uncomfortable. There had been so many realisations within the last few minutes alone that she had no idea where to start or if she was even finished processing them herself yet. She did not feel prepared to go on and try to explain them all to Harry. However, she'd have to say something.

"Well, this was always going to be temporary, wasn't it Harry? I mean, we all talked about going travelling or something, and I know going back to Hogwarts isn't globetrotting, but it's something..."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," said Harry, sounding frustrated, "I'm not struggling to understand why you're going back to Hogwarts. I mean, I have actually met you, Hermione. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out. What I don't get is why you're thinking of leaving here."

"Don't you think it would be nice to... to have your own flat or something?" Hermione responded feebly.

Harry shrugged, "Seems a pretty weak reason to pack up and leave everything that's going on here, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

He fixed her with a rather intense and serious look and leant forward on the table, "Don't you think you're needed here? Wouldn't it be a bit slack to abandon everyone like that just because the idea of living on your own is just sort of nice?"

Hermione began to feel the creeping sensation of guilt and embarrassment welling up in her chest.

"I mean," Harry continued, "If you left, it would just upset the balance of things wouldn't it? We've all got a kind of routine around each other, haven't we? And if we mess with that, it's very probable that we'll just make everything worse."

"Yes, yes, you're right," said Hermione, nodding. Harry's tone sounded so earnest and serious she felt compelled to understand and agree with him.

Hermione realised then how very long it had really been since she and Harry had actually had a proper conversation, exchange words with one another that held more meaning than I'm going for a walk or pass the salt or is Ginny finished in the bathroom. She realised that it had been a long time for all of them. They hadn't actually talked about anything real in months.

It also occurred to her how different Harry was. It didn't seem quite in line with his character to be so... so thoroughly convincing or eloquent. The Harry she'd known was always sort of bumbling and sincere. The way he was talking just didn't sound quite like him.

As a result of this, something within her bristled as she began to feel slightly manipulated.

After a long silence wherein Harry stared intently at her and Hermione looked uncomfortably at the table, she said, "But what if we all need some shaking up? What if all this just isn't going well? What if change is the answer?"

A look of anger flashed across his face. "The answer to what exactly?"

"To... to all our problems."

"What problems?"

Hermione let out a scoff and looked at him bemusedly. "What problems? Seriously Harry, you can't possibly think that any of us are doing particularly well..."

"I think we're doing fine," he responded through gritted teeth.

She frowned. More than anything, she didn't want to fight with him, but it felt like he was intent on heading in that direction if she disagreed with him and the only way to avoid a fight was to tell him she'd stay. She felt trapped in a corner and it was this feeling that led her to her following actions.

She stood up and with a shaking voice said, "Look, I've made up my mind. I want to leave here, I want to have a life again, I want..."

Harry cut her off with a scalding laugh, "Yeah, it's all about what you want, isn't it?"

She faltered and frowned, "Well no, it's not so much about what I want as what I need, I just..."

He cut her off again and stood, "Spare me."

At that moment Ron, Ginny and Fred ambled into the kitchen. Hermione cringed, knowing that it was obvious her and Harry were having a conflict and hating that they had to bear witness to it. Harry on the other hand, seemed pleased.

"Hermione's leaving," he announced to them in a voice laden with judgment.

"What?" asked Ginny, looking bemused.

"Apparently we're all too much to handle," Harry told them, "A burden getting in the way of her glamorous ambitions."

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione, shocked, "I didn't say any of that! I only said I..."

"Whatever!" shouted Harry over the top of her.

Hermione looked to Ron in mute appeal but he avoided her eyes, slouching in the back doorway sullenly. George stood in front of him looking utterly and completely bewildered. Hermione turned to Ginny who hovered between herself and Harry. There seemed to be some sort of internal battle happening behind her eyes as she looked between her partner and her friend. Hermione knew that the battle was about whether to go with the side of reason and side with Hermione, or placate Harry by siding with him. She also knew which decision Ginny would come to and was not wrong. The younger woman moved to stand by Harry, fixing her face with an accusatory glare.

"Look," Hermione tried to explain, "McGonagall wrote to me and offered to help me find a flat for myself and it just sounds so nice... I'd love to get back into my studies and just forget about... about the war and everything that happened and..."

She trailed off, knowing that she had committed the ultimate crime by mentioning the forbidden topic of the war. The faces looking at her reflected this. Ginny and Harry looked outraged and Ron seemed to stiffen more, still refusing to look Hermione in the eye. George however continued to look bewildered.

"Ok, I'm just... I'm just going to go..." said Hermione weakly, beginning to turn away.

Harry laughed loudly and harshly, throwing his hands in the air and turning away from her.

"What, now?" asked Ginny, her voice torn between forced anger and total confusion.

"Yes..." Hermione responded unsteadily, "I'll go to the Leaky Cauldron while I wait for McGonagall to find me somewhere to live."

She didn't know where this plan was coming from. She had, after all only just made the decision to leave, why had it suddenly become so urgent that she do so? She could not place it but she just had this deep, deep feeling of unease suddenly. She wanted to be away from them all, from the familiar scents and scenes of the Burrow, she needed to get out. The very idea of staying any longer suddenly filled her with a palpable panic.

Hermione turned on her heel and it was all she could do not to take the stairs two at a time up to Ginny's old room. Once inside, she closed the door hastily behind her and paced backwards and forwards, picking up bits and pieces of her possessions that were scattered about and hurled them unceremoniously into her old and dilapidated beaded bag, trying all the while to ease to anguish she felt in the aftermath of the confrontation.

She and Harry had not fought like that in all the time they had been living under the same roof and it seemed obvious to Hermione that Harry's temper came from her intention to bring change into his life by leaving. He clearly feared it and, much like her, wished things could remain the same simply because it felt safer. But unlike her, Harry had not experienced the same epiphany and was not driven to leave through the sheer force of his self preservation. Hermione did wish she could stay and it was almost tempting for her to do so, it felt easier, but she knew deep within herself that she just couldn't. Over the past half an hour that knowledge had solidified in her mind like concrete. She would not be swayed.

It took her the better part of an hour to pack her bag and collect her belongings from around the now silent house and she ran into none of the family as she did so, something she was grateful for.

With the packing done, Hermione left through the back door and made her way over to Molly who was still seated in the garden.

"Molly?" she said quietly, laying a hand on the older woman's shoulder.

"Yes dear?" said Molly, turning to look at her with dazed eyes.

"I'm... I'm leaving for Hogwarts now," she told her, wishing with all her heart that she could explain her abrupt departure more fully but knowing that Mrs Weasley did not have the mental capacity to understand her in that moment.

"Oh, yes of course," said Molly, "Have you got all your school things?"

"Yes."

"And you're all packed?"

"Yes."

"And how will you be getting there?"

"I'll be apparating."

"Good, good."

"Thank you for everything, for letting me stay here and..."

The older woman patted Hermione's hand. "It was lovely having you. Give my best to Dumbledore."

Hermione nodded mutely, her hearted beating rapidly in her chest. She turned away and begun striding toward the back gate.

It felt as if her life was suddenly cascading her in a direction she was not ready for, as if this one choice, the choice to leave, was changing the shape of everything; her relationships, her view of herself, and her future. She didn't know if she could handle it. Hermione realised that the past few months had slowly pushed her into a quiet sort of numbness. Tears that had still not spilt from her eyes were long overdue and the pain and shame she now felt were as foreign to her as another country.

It suddenly became very real how frightened of Harry she had been feeling, walking on eggshells, terrified of saying the wrong thing, and how her and Ron had become so distant where once they had been as close as two people could be. Before that day, before the choice had been made, she realised she'd been lying to herself, quite possibly too caught up in her own anxieties to notice how bad it had really gotten for them all.

She saw now how wrong that had been, how she had privately judged everyone around her for their grieving processes because she had simply chosen not to have one. Instead, her mind had conjured for her the anxiety and panic attacks she had been experiencing in order to deal with the overwhelming fear and pain she really felt.

In that moment, as she her hands landed on the back gate and pushed it open, Hermione fully felt how terrifically frightened she was of life now, how lost she felt, and how her feeling of being entirely without hope hadn't come from those around her, it had come from within.

She wanted to turn back and apologise to them all for how messy it was ending and how bad it had all turned out, but her fear was guiding her footsteps away and that was far stronger than her desire to stay.

The guilt burned in her chest when she thought of Harry, her best friend, broken and disabled as he was becoming and she almost regretted what she had said and what she was about to do. But the detached and logical part of her mind swiftly reminded her that she had to care for herself, that she needed to ensure her own survival before she worried about his, or she would be entirely useless to him.

She would come back to Harry, to them all, and she would help. And that promise to herself, made as she reached the Burrow's magical boundary, was the only thing that could convince her to leave at all.

Just as she was about to turn herself into darkness however, she heard a voice calling her name and spun around to see Ginny running towards her, red hair flying in the wind.

"Hermione!" she called, breathless as she came to a standstill, "You're really leaving now?"

"Yes," answered Hermione shortly.

"Why?" Ginny's voice was confused.

"I just have to," Hermione told her.

"But... but everything was fine before today! Everything was great!" Ginny exclaimed.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Really? Was everything really fine?"

"Yes..." the younger woman answered, yet her tone was laced with uncertainty.

Hermione fixed Ginny with a hard look. "Be honest, Ginny. You're mum can barely keep two thoughts in her head, George is a husk of a person, your dad is hardly in the house and when he is he's clearly really depressed, Ron won't show an ounce of emotion in either direction to anyone, and Harry is nearly clinically insane with his mood swings. And to top it all off, none of us speak to each other anymore! What about any of that is fine?"

"But that's normal after... after everything."

"Really?! It's been over three months since the final battle and everything's only gotten worse! I'm sorry but I've got to go. I just can't be in it anymore."

"But what about Ron? You two are in love, how can you just walk away from him?" Ginny demanded, and Hermione could see that she was beginning to get angry.

Her heart constricted at the thought of Ron, a herald of the pain she knew would soon crash over her at the disintegration of their relationship, a fact that she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge at all.

"Ron hasn't touched me in months, Ginny," she said sadly, "He can't even look at me. And..." her voice cracked, "He hasn't come out to stop me, has he? He doesn't care that I'm leaving. In fact, I'd say he's probably glad of it."

The younger woman looked sad and seemed lost for words. Hermione took advantage of this lull in conversation.

"Look, I've got to leave. I've just got to. I'm sorry."

And with that, she turned on the spot and the suffocating darkness engulfed her.

A/N: So here it is beautiful ones, the first chapter of the new and improved version of Victim of the Fall! I was so grateful for all your words of encouragement and congratulations in your reviews, thank you.

There were more changes here than I had originally anticipated but it's opening my eyes to the new and wonderful directions this story can take. I'm loving being back in this flow again, back in a world that I love, with a story that is so close to my heart.

Hoping you're loving this as much as I am.

Always,

Desdemona