"As if you were on fire from within.
The moon lives in the lining of your skin."
-Pablo Neruda
Hermione is in agony, her muscles screaming against the fire that rips through her torso and ignites in her lungs. She doesn't know who picks her up from the cold stone but there's the distinct pressure-squeeze of apparition and then a blur of cotton sheets and bright lights and white-clad figures poking and prodding her convulsing form.
She remembers the curse, the blinding flash, the searing pain. It replays over and over again in her mind long after she's been given a multitude of potions and left to rest, and she drifts into fitful dreams where a masked figure is torturing her for hours. Sometimes the members of Dumbledore's Army are standing on the sidelines, watching silently, ignorant to her cries for help. Hermione always awakes from these dreams sweating and trembling, her wound a bright-hot flare.
It takes a long time before she's conscious enough to really process her surroundings.
"Harry," is the first word she chokes out and a nurse comes rushing to the bedside. She's assured that all her friends are fine, there was only one casualty. Hermione doesn't have to ask, she saw him fall into the veil before she was hit. She had hoped it was only temporary, but no. He's really gone. The news hits her harder than she thought it would. Not so much because she liked the man, no, she had barely tolerated him – instead it's a stark reminder of how fragile they really are, how small their forces in comparison to Voldemort's. She feels suddenly tired, and much older than her fifteen years.
Ten days later she's discharged and sent to Grimmauld Place, her things already packed and waiting for her there. The Order had insisted on keeping a careful eye on the three friends, especially Harry; and not just because Voldemort might try something again now that the teen was vulnerable.
Hermione sees the difference immediately. Harry is a ghost around the house, drifting from room to room, barely speaking unless spoken to.
No matter what they try, nothing seems to be able to pull him out of this dark place. Ron's stupid jokes that normally get at least a chuckle now can't provoke any reaction. Hermione's assurances and attempts at comforting are met with blank stares. Even Fred and George's pranks fall on deaf ears and glassy eyes. She would be angry if she weren't so worried.
After a lot of frustrated meetings about what they should do, Hermione and Ron decide on giving Harry some space. Grieving is a lengthy process, and not one they can try to control. The most they can do is be there for him and watch out for any destructive behaviors. That's all.
She's so caught up in her best friend's pain that Hermione nearly forgets that Harry isn't the only one hurt by Sirius's death.
The library becomes her hiding place during those two months. There's rarely anyone else there and she guesses that's probably because the whole room smells like mold and decay and silverfish scuttle along the shelves, but despite this the books are still in good condition and so Hermione scourgifies one of the armchairs and settles in.
Many of the works are predictably bigoted, considering the family that had owned them. "Muggles: Mutant or Mistake?" is her personal favorite. Another, "How to Discipline your House-Elf," she cheerfully burns with a quick incendio. Usually Hermione would cringe at the thought of destroying any type of knowledge, but in this place she can make a few exceptions.
As the summer wears on she slowly builds a nest for herself in the room, cleaning as she makes her way through the vast collection of texts. She personalizes the space around the armchair till she has a nice little table, a working lamp, and a collection of journals and parchment in which to jot notes.
She sits there in the evenings, feet curled underneath her and a book in one hand, sipping minty tea from a cracked mug. It's the only time she feels at peace – a rare luxury since the battle at the department of mysteries. The scar that traces her ribcage still burns from time to time as it heals, and Hermione watches the slow progress as it fades from angry red to flushed pink to silver in a number of weeks. Thank the gods for magical healing, she often thinks as she examines it in the mirror. She knows it'll never quite disappear completely, but in secret she likes it. The mark of a true Gryffindor.
Mid-July comes and goes and Hermione's nightmares are still haunting her. The battle in the ministry replays over and over. Sometimes her friends all die and sometimes they turn out to be death eaters and sometimes it's just her and Dolohov, circling each other unendingly before there's a bright flash of purple flame and she wakes up shouting. She's taken to casting a silencing charm on her door for nights such as these—the others have enough to worry about already without her waking up the whole house.
Unable to get back to sleep after these dreams, she often sneaks through the halls to her library—she's started unconsciously referring to it as hers—and falls asleep in the old armchair with a book in her lap.
It's one of those nights that Hermione hears a noise from the kitchen. She draws her wand and inches toward the doorway, but slowly lowers it once she sees who it is.
Professor Lupin—Remus, she reminds herself—is sitting at the counter, elbows holding him up and head bent so she can't see his face. He makes another small sound that sounds suspiciously like a sob, and Hermione suddenly feels like she's intruding on an intimate moment. She begins to back away but the floorboards creak underfoot and his eyes snap up to hers, grey-green and raw with vulnerability.
"I- I'm sorry. I'll go." She stutters, but he's already shaking his head and she can see him retreating back into himself, putting up the barriers she had been so intrigued by as his student.
"No, it's alright, stay. I was just about to put the kettle on."
She thinks maybe she hears a plea in his words and so obliges, taking a seat on a stool across the kitchen island.
"Earl Grey?"
"Peppermint, please."
He gives her a little smile, a half-quirk of his lips.
"I don't know why, but I always took you for a black tea kind of person."
"Usually I am, but I don't need the caffeine. I have enough trouble sleeping already." She throws it out there casually, trying to even the stage a little. She still has the sense that she stumbled on something he hadn't wanted anyone to see, and feels the need to balance the scales.
He leans back against the counter and gazes at her. They stay like that for a few moments, some kind of unspoken understanding passing between them, and Hermione feels herself relax. The kettle whistles, breaking them out of it.
Hermione mixes milk and two sugars into her own tea and watches as Remus puts only milk in his. She files away the information for later.
"I've barely seen you around the house these past few weeks." His voice is low and quiet, and it takes her a minute to register that he's spoken.
"Yes, ah," She hesitates, "I've just needed time… to recover." She only realizes it's the truth once the words leave her lips.
He nods solemnly. "You're not alone, you know."
"I know," She sighs. It's hard to explain her need for privacy, for silence. How much Ron and Harry remind her of the things they've been through, how far they still have to go. She knows that Remus will understand, but she's not sure she's ready to talk about it all just yet. She sips her tea in lieu of speaking.
There's a long silence, thick and stretching, and Hermione debates whether she should ask Remus about what he was doing up. If he had been having nightmares too. But then it hits her, and she almost drops her cup. She's so, so stupid.
"It's Sirius, isn't it?" She asks. She hears his sharp intake of breath and knows she hit the mark.
"I'm so sorry, Remus," His first name feels strange on her tongue and she realizes belatedly she's never used it before, though it was almost two years ago now that he had been her professor. "I forgot you two were close."
"It's alright, Hermione." He waves her off, regaining composure, and she realizes this is the first time she's heard him use her name too. This whole night feels very strange.
"It's not, though." She nearly whispers, and on impulse reaches out and grasps his hand firmly in her own. He doesn't pull away, but doesn't look at her either. His skin is warm and his palm slightly calloused, and she realizes with a start how long it's been since she touched another human being. She really has been a hermit since the battle.
"Can I show you something?" She asks suddenly, an impulse taking over. He gives her a quizzical look, but sets down his mug and lets her lead him out of the kitchen.
Hermione introduces Remus to her hideaway with some trepidation—she has no idea how he'll react to the wealth of dark arts knowledge stored right under their noses. But she needn't have worried. When she swings open the hidden door and leads him inside, the astonished noise he makes sounds slightly awed.
He pads over to the nearest shelf and strokes a weathered spine reverently.
"How... When did you find this place?" He turns back to her, and she breathes a silent sigh of relief that he doesn't seem angry about her keeping it a secret.
"A couple of weeks ago. I'm sorry for not telling someone sooner, I just, you know. Needed somewhere quiet."
He nods, understanding too evident in his expression, and his eyes slowly slide over to the area she had clearly been camping out in. Smiling, he meets her sheepish gaze.
"Well, at least now I know where you've been sneaking off to."
It's surprisingly easy to share this space with him but then again, this is Remus. He's always been the most comforting person she knows, the most inclined to quiet companionship. Hermione transfigures the armchair into a loveseat large enough for both of them to sit without being cramped. She picks up the book on hippogriffs and their migration habits she had been dipping into, and leaves Remus to explore the shelves.
The cushions dip and shift when he takes a seat next to her, and she moves her socked feet slightly so there's more room. She hears the spine of a text crackle when he opens it, the whisper of his fingers turning a page, the soft sound of him breathing in the silence. She realizes she's been reading the same paragraph about courtship rituals over and over but she can't seem to bring herself to care; the scent of balsam and tea and something deeply earthy envelops her, and she barely notices the book slip from her fingers and thud to the floor.
I might continue this later, so leave me a review and let me know what you think!