Chapter 4: Catharsis
When Hermione wakes next, it's to the sound of party partaking on the landing below her. She slowly becomes alert, much more lucid than the last time she recalls consciousness, and takes in the room. It's made of a sturdy, honey coloured wood with a baby blue shag carpet coating the floor. A large window lets in the last of a bright, burning sunset and illuminates the room in tangerine and rose. It is the epitome of comfort and safety, helping her ease back into relaxation.
She's laying on a soft cot, her cot. Her bag of things lays in the corner of the room and she realises that her rescuers have pulled out her camping cot she kept tucked in her unassuming purse.
Memories flood her mind and she shields away immediately from the searing pain she recalls like a moment ago, her muscles involuntarily twitching. The dopy pleasantness of the soft awakening is gone in an instant and Hermione jerks up into a sitting position, the webs in her mind cleared as everything comes back.
She's aware of a soft keening noise coming from… Herself. Before she knows it, she's sobbing, arms wrapped around her bent knees. Scars litter her forearms and she catches the tail end of the word Mudblood in bright red lettering on her flesh.
Hermione doesn't hear the sound of the door opening and closing softly, but she starts at the feeling of arms wrapping around her in soft embrace. Ginny's fire red hair wraps around her in a cocoon and she's hugging her friend with ferocity, letting the younger girl rock her gently.
"We've got you, Hermione," the girl murmurs, barely audibly over the noise of tears and jovial music downstairs. "And we're never going to let you go again."
Hermione wants to believe her but all she can hear is the sound of Bellatrix's haunting laughter echoing in her head.
After what felt like an eternity of tears, Hermione wiped her tears and let go a watery huff of laughter, carefully untangling from Ginny's embrace.
"God, 'm such a mess," Hermione hiccupped as she wiped her nose, disgusted.
Ginny trades a watery grin with the brunette and carefully carded her fingers through Hermione's brutally short hair.
"We're gonna need to style this," Ginny stated carefully.
Hermione's hands drifted towards her normally bushy mane and started as she felt just short, jagged locks. She felt her face drain of blood at the memory of LeStrange chopping hair off her head by the handful, scalping slices of her head with the cursed blade.
"How-" She cuts off suddenly, her voice choked with tears. She took a moment to recover and breathe deeply. "How bad does it look?"
Ginny hummed thoughtfully, letting long finger run over the little nicks and scars on her friend.
"Actually, not that bad," she quips suddenly, a cheeky grin breaking out on her face. "I'm thinking of converting to short hair too – imagine the amount of conditioner we'd save between the two of us."
Hermione felt a hysterical sort of laugh burst in her chest and she hugged Ginny with ferocity. "Merlin, I missed you," she giggled, hugging the smirking girl close.
"Yeah, yeah," Ginny teased. "Now let's get you cleaned up and go downstairs."
Hermione paled considerably at the prospect. "Who is here?" She asked with trepidation.
"Well," Ginny began thoughtfully. "We have Harry, Ron – who is still in the dog house for abandoning you, mind – Bill, Fleur, Luna and the twins. We also had Olivander and Griphook here for a few days but they took off last night. Dobby… Well, we'll tell you the story when we get downstairs." Ginny sighed and Hermione felt her gut twist horribly, though the thought of Luna's presence suddenly made her all the more eager to see the others.
Hermione stood on shaky legs and walked towards the ensuite bathroom Ginny pointed her towards. Ginny sat her on the edge of the bathtub as Hermione studiously ignored the mirror, worried about what she'd see.
The mirror was thankfully quiet (whether because she looked that bad or it was non-magical, she didn't care to know) and Ginny carefully snipped away at her locks with steady, patient hands. A magical comb ran through her chopped locks and Hermione had the feeling that it was stimulating hair growth with each pull, evening out the length of her hair to a manageable length as Ginny trimmed and layered generously.
"Luna wanted to have a go at your hair – Merlin, could you imagine?" Ginny prattled as she styled Hermione with a flourish. "You'd end up looking like a Weird Sister with radish weaves. Then again, the girl does have a strange appealing sort of style, so maybe you'd come out looking okay." Hermione felt her cheeks redden at the teasing and she closed her eyes, enjoying listening to Ginny's voice as she went on.
"And don't you scold me for teasing Luna – I'm actually telling you how she said she wanted to style your hair!" Hermione shuddered, suddenly grateful Luna was still downstairs.
Finally, Ginny squealed with joy and pressed pinched fingers to her lips and kissed loudly in an overdramatic gesture of pleased perfection.
"Wa-lah!" She declared, looking at Hermione as if she was her greatest artwork yet.
Hermione stood carefully and looked into the mirror. She barely recognised herself – a short (admittedly cute) pixie cut covered her head in soft, flapper-esc curls and she could see no sign of the scars she knew littered her skull. A small, hairline scar started at the edge of her left jaw and ran the length of her neck, ending just above her collarbone. A few other small scars smattered across her shoulders and disappeared into her loose, cotton t-shirt.
Strangely enough, Hermione thought she looked better than she had in months. She looked rested, those massive black bags hanging under her eyes faded to a dull grey and her once grey skin no longer a pale, translucent shade.
"I know this is going to take a while to get used to," Ginny whispered softly. "But I really do think you look great – the scars will always represent something bad, but Bill told me that it's important to embrace them. They… They should make you proud. To have survived. And they don't define you even though they do tell a story. They say that… you're strong."
Hermione wanted to whip around and slap Ginny in that moment. She didn't feel proud or strong or like a survivor – then she caught Ginny's downcast expression and she knew the girl didn't mean to presume. Ginny was comforting both of them, in a way.
Hermione turned around and swallowed at the fear in Ginny's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the younger girl's hands in her own. Ginny smiled then, a timid little movement so unlike herself that it made Hermione's heart well with compassion and sisterly affection.
Ginny shook herself and then smiled a little brighter. "Well, go on! There's shampoo, conditioner, some amazing body wash from France that smells like chai tea made love to a vanilla stalk and this ridiculously expensive jasmine skin rejuvenation lotion in the cabinet that Fleur keeps trying to hide from me," Ginny gushed while grinning madly. She hopped to her feet and skipped out of the room calling behind her, "And there's some new clothes in the closet for you! Towels in the bathroom are all yours too! Get out soon or I'll come in and drag you out myself!"
Hermione laughed at the girl's antics and rejoiced in taking a shower – a luxury Harry and herself hadn't experienced in nearly a year. She let the boiling water wash over her as she practiced her meditation, focusing on clearing her mind.
It was so easy – so tempting – to use her carefully honed compartmentalisation skills to lock away those memories and never muse over them again. Hermione knew better than to hide like child, but emotion outweighed her knowledge in this rare instance; ignoring the grief she'd need to go through would only exacerbate the issue in the future. But she'd leave processing those feelings until later; right now, she had a date with some shampoo, conditioner and (Merlin help her) posh Veela lotion.
Ginny led Hermione into the little living and kitchen space of the Shell Cottage (a safety house Ginny had whispered) and was swamped with hugs by the Weasley Clan and an eager Lovegood.
"Oh," Hermione gasped as someone hugged a little harder than she was used to.
"Off zee girl! Now!" Barked a furious blonde – and to Hermione's surprise, she was released instantly. Fleur had adopted the Weasley matriarch role with ease and strode towards the smaller girl in silence. Fleur carefully grasped her at arm's length and studied her over; Hermione felt uneasy and self-conscious under the beautiful woman's gaze.
"'Ermione – you are gorgeez!" She declared in a no-nonsense tone, blonde eyebrow raised regally.
Hermione blushed so hard she'd thought she'd faint as Ginny catcalled, causing a round of laughter in the suddenly jovial cottage.
"Gorgeeeeeez!" Declared Greg as Forge swooned dearly in his arms, arm flung over his faint brow.
Hermione laughed and laughed and laughed – until suddenly she stopped laughing, realising she was the only one awake in a household that had gone to sleep hours ago. She wasn't sure what happened, but a gaping black hole in her memory shook her out of her humour.
Alone in the darkly lit living room, sitting on the couch and looking out into the distance, Hermione realised that something had happened to her at the Malfoy Manor – something deeply nestled in her subconscious, hidden away from view.
Hermione rose to her feet, acutely aware of the stillness and silence in the house. The living room lay bathed in a blue hue – the birth of a sunrise.
She walked outside onto the golden sand of the Shell Beach. Sunlight began to rise in the farthest horizon, a distant speck of gold and rose. She felt tears cascade down her cheeks as everything seemed to rumble in the background of her mind. Pieces of the night came back to her – laughing, playing cards, drinking a nip of firewhiskey and spitting it right back out, saying goodbye to each person as they slowly headed off to bed – but it wasn't her. It was a different part of her, a different person that shared this memory with her.
Hermione shivered violently, wrapping thin, scarred arms around her waist and stared off into the curvature of the planet, wondering how to carry on from here.
Everything seemed to go in pieces after that moment in the Shell Cottage, the scattered, haphazard mess of a half-finished puzzle. Hermione didn't know what precisely was wrong with her. Perhaps a second personality, perhaps a lapse in sanity – possibilities haunted her. But she kept it together, if just for Harry's sake. She snuck into Hogwarts with her friends, watched on as the Room of Requirement bloomed into unforgiving flame, as Crabbe fell into a roaring dragon of heat, as Harry disappeared into the battlefield.
She chased behind him, jumping in with a roaring battle-cry. Everything blurred once more, turning into a dark spot of her memory until Hermione suddenly jerked back in control of her mind, aware just as a swift punch knocked her to the ground and into oblivion.
The sun began to rise over the horizon, a piercing beam of honey and blood orange sweeping the mountains. Hermione's eyelids snapped open, hearing the ending of a well-cast "Enervate" and immediately focused on a dark, smouldering pair of blue eyes.
Instead of screaming and scrambling back like her instincts once would have commanded of her, Hermione's muscles remained relaxed, her mind calm. A warrior's training overtook her, swift and gentle as a summer breeze. She remained motionless, minutely flaring nostrils giving her away.
The kohled eyes remained intensely focused on her, just hovering over her still form.
"'Ello beautiful," a voice whispered, floating gently on the wind.
"Hello yourself," Hermione whispered back, opening her eyes and smiling shyly. Brown eyes glittered black in the tall shadows of a sunrise.
His face shuttered at the words, frame withdrawing and raising into the sky. The heated rays of first sun lit the man like a beacon, illuminating his slight, powerful frame.
Hermione used his momentary sunblind squint to raise her summoned wand. He did the same – and in a heartbeat they were throwing spells at one another.
Their spells collided, erupting in a flurry of foaming magic, overspilling onto the damp forest floor. Hermione didn't dare consider the implications – the soaring power to fight and win sang through her veins. Hermione kept eye contact with those of her determined attacker as the world exploded around them in chaos.
Hermione wasn't sure when the Battle of Hogwarts began, but she remembers exactly when it ended. Her eyes processed the vision before her, translating the meaning into lighting speed, her years of study and reverent thirst for knowledge suddenly making itself useful.
Harry rose from the caricature of Hagrid's cocooned arms like a phoenix reborn.
Warriors old and young froze in time in that precise moment. Both sides; good versus evil, light versus dark, Death Eaters versus Order of the Phoenix – and wasn't that appropriately named?
Even mad-dog LeStrange fell to her knees as her master looked on at the Child Who Lived with fearfully glittering eyes, whispering hauntingly "It's not possible" and flinching as her words echoed strangely loud across the blooded warpath.
The gods of fate and fortune looked down upon a black haired, green eyed child in that moment, peering down from the heavens at their Chosen One and smiling with favour. The boy-turned-man raised his wand, a boy of legends, descended of Achilles, Hercules, Odysseus, Perseus – a true homecoming.
Excalibur, the sovereignty of freedom and right, crashed down on a serpent head, wielded by another prophesised to come into his own, marked emotionally by the Dark Lord. It was clear to all of knowledge of the prophesy that Voldemort trembled in that moment – suddenly comprehending with horrible awe that it applied to both dark haired boys.
Words barely spoken as the final spell was cast and lay waste the man who cheated death.
The Spectre of a man, crossed with Dark Magic and Hellhounds of Time, collapsed in upon himself. Flight of Death, indeed.
Like marionettes cut of their strings, as one Death Eaters across the Earth fell. Those in hiding, those on battlefields, those in their graves all crumbled into fireless ash.
Nothing remained of Voldemort and his legion – bar the memories and once-human particles floating in the breeze.
There was no celebration this time.
Enchanted fireworks did not light the sky, parties of reckless abandon did not spill out into the streets, muggles didn't sense another world so thinly pressed against their own as they had during the last Dark Lord's fall.
Cheers and toasts were not made.
Britain mourned in silence and the world joined in solidarity.
A poem echoed in Hermione's head, one that haunted her in her deepest dreams and sat on the tip of her tongue each morning as she awoke, lips already parted to mouth the words as if reciting on stage.
"This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends –
Not with a bang
but a whimper."