"She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?"
-- Psycho

* * *

You don't know what makes you do it. Your lips are pressed aggressively against his and your tongue is forcing his mouth open. After a pause, he responds, but your mind is otherwise engaged, overactive, trying to deduce where in Merlin's name this impulse came from. You're certain it didn't come from your head; you hadn't even realised you were thinking of doing it until it was done. And it didn't come from your heart; you hate this man. And the only way that your tired brain can think to explain the phenomenon that is this forbidden kiss is that somehow, silently, he put the thought in your head. How dare he!

You reel back, your face contorted into rage, and your open palm swipes his cheek. In another second, your wand is tucked under the front of his chin, pushing so violently into his skin that his face and neck begin to tremble.

"Do you want to die?" And it's not a question, which surprises you. When did you resort to threats?

"No." You barely hear it; it's no more than a breathless whimper. But that single word tells you he thinks you're going to do it. And that's such an absurd thought to you -- you would never kill him... But a dozen shocked and frozen faces suddenly infiltrate your thoughts and you have to force yourself not to count how many people -- Death Eaters, you justify to yourself -- you killed downstairs tonight.

You had rushed into the halls of Hogwarts intending to use Harry's simple yet effective Expelliarmus. But as friends and loved ones fell beside you, mouths agape and eyes sightless, you went straight for the Avada, like a bloody-nosed child on the playground to the arms of her harsh and overprotective mother. And she will remind you every day after this of what she did for you, to protect you, just so that you know you need her. Because that is what it all comes down to: you used the killing curse, and it saved you. It saved you and you owe everything to that bloody curse, for the simple reason that you're still standing here, going on, being.

And that foul word, murder, does not judge and takes no sides. It doesn't care if you killed Death Eaters or nuns, the fact is that you killed. And no matter how absurd that thought is to you, you realise he's right to be scared. Because you have done it, and you could again. And you wonder if this man -- this boy -- before you has. Is he a member of that exclusive and infernal club of the damned?

"Why didn't you give us up to your father?"

His mouth twitches but gives no answer, and you are too tired to repeat yourself. You lower your wand, step back. This boy is just a wounded animal and you are the hunter who has let him go. These oscillations from one extreme to the next make you feel mad and maybe you deserve to be. Maybe you all are by this point. And if you're not, maybe you should be.

You drop your wand to the floor and back away, offering open palms in front of you as a sign of surrender. Who'd have thought you would surrender this night?

"I..." he stumbles and you raise your eyebrows. "I don't know. It didn't feel right."

Right? As if this boy has any concept whatsoever of what is right. You laugh, lips pulled back over your teeth, and shriek with gaudy, terrifying laughter. And then you stop. Because there is nothing funny about any of this and, suddenly, thinking about this war makes you want to vomit. You became someone you weren't during this war. And you, Hermione Granger, will never be the you you were again. Already, you know there is no going back. And you feel so... so... e m p t y...

"I'm not who you think I am."

And you're startled to hear those words. Are they yours or his? You blink and ask yourself whose voice broke the silence. It couldn't have been his. It couldn't have. It couldn't have.

"I know," you say. And you mean it.