Warning: Chapter contains scenes of alcohol/substance use.
Love's Odyssey in Death's Design
II
The month of May had always been defined by flowers and budding leaves, spring at its zenith, the air a warm and gentle breeze, the earth coming to life while simultaneously bracing itself for the heat of summer. This particular May had been defined by flowers too, flowers that adorned the caskets and graves of the many who had perished in the great and final battle of the Wizarding World's Second War. The month had brought with it an endless procession of funerals, more funerals than Hermione had ever wanted to attend in her life. None of the services, though, had been overshadowed by rain or marred by grey clouds. The sun had shone brightly, the azure blue of the sky seeming to embrace the souls of those departed in as soothing a manner possible.
Just the same, Hermione and all the others in attendance had shed bitter tears for their dead and her gut wrenching sobs had rivaled even those of Molly Weasley's at the double funeral that saw two of the matriarch's children laid to rest. Fred's death had fallen over the family with the weight of a thousand bricks, but Ron's death had sent what felt like a powerfully potent dose of the Cruciatus Curse straight to her heart. It hurt to think about the light of one third of the golden trio, the saviors of the Wizarding World, being snuffed out. It hurt more than words could express.
The pain was vicious, relentless, and unending. Worse still was the guilt that had ravenously eaten away her ever since the fateful moment when Ron had sacrificed himself to save her from the Fiendfyre that had ravaged the Room of Requirement. It was an image she would probably never get out of her mind. She could still feel the hot lick of the flames, feel the choking grip of the smoke as all the artifacts within the room smoldered and burned. It was a cruel twist of fate, when just moments before they had shared their first kiss after triumphantly destroying one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, a tender kiss that was filled with the promise of a loving future, of the laughter of children, of growing old. A first kiss that was right out of the pages of a fairy tale.
Their first kiss. Their only kiss.
All of these tumultuous feelings surging through her though, no one thought twice of. When everyone looked at her or addressed her, it was with the pity reserved for someone who had simply lost a boyfriend. It was Harry that everyone was the most careful with, Harry that everyone coddled and looked after. It was Harry that everyone thought had to be the most devastated by Ron's and everyone else's death because Harry was the Chosen One.
Harry was the Boy Who Lived not once, but twice. And that was the hardest thing to deal with because it filled Hermione with loathing towards her surviving best friend, which only fed the seemingly ever hungry guilt. But even that wasn't enough to rid her of the anger. For as long as they had been friends, everything had always been about him. She had made sacrifices too. Her own parents were off in Australia with no inkling they even had a daughter because of her fear they would be targeted by Voldemort and his followers. She had forgone the last year of her education to hunt for the Horcruxes, used her own skills and talents to ensure that the three of them survived the long and difficult search. But then again, Harry had always been the priority and sure, it had been Harry who had dealt the final death blow to the one who had been known as the darkest wizard of all time, but he would not have been able to succeed - none of them would have - without her. And even though Harry had to deal with all that came along with being the most well renowned wizard in the world right now, he still had a shelter from the storm, a pillar of strength in the form of Ginny Weasley.
Hermione had no one.
The days that followed the Battle blew passed like a hurricane of pain and sadness and after the last of the casualties were buried, Hermione was left only with the task of having to figure out how to go on. Where to start. What to do. Her parents still needed to be located. Volunteers were being recruited in a desperate attempt to repair the damage Hogwarts had sustained in time for the start of the next term. Professor McGonagall had presented her with the opportunity to continue her studies. Employment offers from the Ministry of Magic arrived by owl post every day. It was overwhelming, frustrating, and there was no escape. She felt boxed in, caged, and there was nothing she could do about it because it was expected of her to be saddened by the losses, but overjoyed for the victory like everyone else.
But she couldn't. And no one understood. She didn't even understand.
"Another, please."
The bartender gave a noncommittal grunt even as he used a short wand to levitate a bottle of clear liquid. A deft wave caused the bottle to tilt and pour its contents into a shot glass and when full, the glass slowly slid itself in the witch's direction.
It should have been a shocking thing to see, one of the heroes of the Wizarding World sitting on a bar stool in the Leaky Cauldron, tossing back shots of vodka as if it were water and she was dying of thirst, and it would have been had the occurrence not been a regular one. The night of Fred and Ron's funeral had been the first of what would become the nearly daily visits to the pub. Now, she could ignore the few odd looks that were thrown her way so long as she kept her eyes downcast, concentrating only on the glasses placed in front of her until she lost count.
It did not make her numb, the alcohol, as she had first thought it might. No, it didn't really dull her pain but it gave her something else to focus on, something that was not memorized facts, the smiling faces of her friends during past happier times, something that was not war and torture, hexes, curses and screams, crumbling rubble, or unseeing eyes. Instead she could concentrate solely on the effects of the intoxicant, swirling about in her belly, giving her a delicious feeling of weightlessness. It was as close to an outer body experience she could have.
"Last one Miss Granger," Tom said gruffly, though there was something like fatherly concern in his eyes despite the tone, "It's getting late and I'd be sorely tempted to let you out a room for the night again if I didn't think Molly Weasley would have my arse. She wants you to go home."
"Okay," was the reply even though it was not okay. Of course, she knew that the Weasleys only meant to make sure she was all right, especially after so many invitations to stay with them had either been rejected or gone unanswered. But she could not stay at the Burrow, and she knew that that was the place Tom had been eluding to at the mention of home. She could not be surrounded by the family who had become something like a second one to her during the past seven years. She could not bear to be confronted with the void Ron and Fred had left in their wake, that would only serve as a constant reminder of what had been and what could have been. Hermione could not bear to watch the sparks of Harry and Ginny's new found romance grow into a roaring flame that would continue to burn for what was sure to be many years of a cozy, familial bliss the likes of which would never happen for her as it had been viciously torn from her grasp before she'd even gotten a chance at a proper touch.
It was selfish of her and it was unfair. But so was the way of the world and she was learning that lesson as rapidly as she had learned the subject matter of her classes while at Hogwarts.
Draining the glass in a little more than a swallow, Hermione set it down as she rose from the stool. Immediately she could feel the heaviness in her limbs, yet she walked as quickly as she possibly could, out of the pub. She had definitely overstayed her welcome and she was not at all interested in the lingering stares or whispered conversations of the pub's patrons. The spring night air rolled over her like a wave, cooling her flushed face though doing not much else for her mood and spirit. She had no destination in mind and knew better than to Apparate in her condition.
The sights and sounds of Muggle London, rather than providing a sense of comfort, were too noisy and bright. It was bizarre how she had grown up in this world, had lived as a Muggle for the early years of her life until the day that Professor McGonagall had knocked on her door to personally deliver her Hogwarts letter. And from then on, nothing had ever been the same. Who would have thought that by the age of eighteen, shy bookworm Hermione Granger would become one of the most important people in the Wizarding World. Who have thought that her innocence would be robbed by the horrors and struggles of a war that had started before she'd been born, a war being waged in a world she would not have even known existed if she'd simply been a Muggle? It was enough to make her want to laugh and sob uncontrollably at the same time but she knew if she started, she probably would not ever stop.
Choosing to no longer just stand there, contemplating things that she could never change, Hermione moved to the edge of the curb, sticking her right hand out in manner that was both obvious and subtle, no different from the way a Muggle might hail a taxi. Moments later, the screech of rubber wheels on asphalt and a blaring horn rose above the cacophony of the city and there appeared in a triple decker purple swerving mass to come to a halt before her, the Knight Bus.
Stan Shunpike despite being in his early twenties still retained a rather boyish look about him if not for the large ears and pimply face, though Hermione was pleased to see that he had resumed his job as conductor of the bus now that the war had ended and his name had been cleared. Dressed in a burgundy uniform, his conductor's hat slightly askew, he ushered Hermione in, refusing the silver coins she began to draw from her purse. Shrugging, her head spinning a little from the vodka, Hermione boarded the contraption in a clumsy fashion, taking a seat upon the nearest bed.
"Where you headed?"
"I don't know yet," she murmured, "I'm still trying to figure it out."
Stan gave a curt nod despite the fleeting expression of confusion that crossed his face. And then they were off.
With each bump, tilt, and swerve of the bus, Hermione's stomach rolled dreadfully, her head pounded and she fiercely regretted her decision to use this particular mode of transportation almost at once. She would have been better off trying to Apparate now that she thought about it, and if she would have just so happened to splinch herself in her drunken state, well then, it would not have been half as bad as the nausea that was currently wrapping its caustic tendrils around her belly.
"Yer lookin' a little green about the gills there miss. Is you alright?"
Not trusting herself to utter a word without feeling the urge to gag, Hermione merely nodded quickly, the jerking motion intensifying the spinning sensation in her head. Perhaps she should just go to the Burrow. The promise of a warm bed, a cold rag for her head, a relief of pain potion, and in a few hours, a home cooked breakfast very nearly made her mind up for her. As the bus suddenly came to a screeching stop, Hermione's body was pitched forward, and only a trembling hand that gripped the closest metal pole kept her from falling off the bed.
Through the liquor induced haze, Hermione could hear the muffled voices of Stan and the passenger the bus had stopped for. Then the shuffle of footsteps, the revving of the engine being started up again, followed by the sickening lurch of the contraption. Her eyelids felt as heavy as her head as she tried to make out the features of the individual who had just boarded. The figure was that of a woman, Hermione could gather as much despite the long, thick cloak she wore and the hood that covered her head. But then something caught her eye, even though her vision was blurred and doubled. Dark hair was visible around the edges of the cloak's hood, a mass of curls of such volume that it was too much to fully contain.
There was only one witch that Hermione knew to have hair like that and that particular fact cut through the intoxicated stupor, resulting in a flashback that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her blood. The sound of her own high pitched, panicked screams filled her head and a hot lance of pain shot across her left forearm. Merlin, she knew what that hair felt like to the touch, knew what it smelled like. She must have made a sound in the back of her throat because both Stan and the cloaked passenger glanced over in her direction. Those pale, haggard features, those soulless black eyes. It was a nightmare of a confirmation that was like a sledgehammer blow to the temple. A loud cry of shock from Stan Shunpike was the last thing Hermione heard before her consciousness was extinguished like the flame on a candle being put out, her body crumpling to the floor of the bus in a dead faint.
Author's Note: Heaps of thanks and gratitude for the reception L.O.D.D. has already received. I am both delighted and thrilled you all are enjoying this story so far, words cannot express how much. So, until next time, my wonderful readers! -bellanoire, over and out!
