I didn't create this, I'm not getting paid. I wish.
Also, I apologize for the lateness of this next chapter. We're at midterms in school, and I'm drastically falling behind. This was written in the middle of my psych class over a couple of lectures.
Chapter Four: Azure
It didn't feel anything like floating, but more like falling. Every bone in her body seemed to be asleep, and she was left with the tingling, burning sensation that spread from her fingers to her toes, echoing in waves of unmistakable non-pain. All of her nerve endings we all at once on fire, and then instantly cooled by ice- it came in like sheets of rain.
The first time she woke up, she was surrounded by burnt sienna and cardinal red, and one bobbing blob of dirt brown. The next few times, there was only one burnt sienna mass there, and the one time she opened her mouth, she was hissed at, much like a snake, and told to sleep, and she happily complied. One time when the burning stopped and she opened her eyes, she could've sworn instead of the burning red color that hurt her eyes, she found instead a bright ocean teal. Her eyes opened even wider this time, almost begging for an answer, trying to focus on the ocean, when she was hissed at again, less like a snake this time and more like steam from a kettle, and was told she'd be given an explanation later, after she'd rested. She closed her eyes again and thought of the ocean and a cloudless sky over the Great Hall.
At some point, it stopped feeling like she was falling- she never hit the ground, but somehow the falling slowed, and she was back into sleeping. She dreamed of fire and the ocean, and of what the Griffindor Common Rooms looked like in her first year- like home. Something smelled like raisin cookies and pumpkin juice, and her mother was waiting for her at home over Christmas break. She drifted in and out of shell cottage, where she and Luna on one of their many walks on the beach had embedded some more shells in the wall closest to the roar of the ocean, and had littered the ground over Dobby's grave with flowers and shells.
And when she stopped floating, she became acutely aware that she was not in her own bed that smelled vaguely like a female but in a sterilized location, where the sheets felt cleaner, and not at all worn in, and the starchiness of them irritated her toes curled at the bottom of the bed. She opened her eyes, heavy, and unfocused, and waited for a moment while the world righted itself. She inhaled deeply, and turned her head as slowly as she could manage to look to her right. A lanky body sat next to her, reading The Daily Prophet casually, that smiled at her. Actual words formed this time in her ears and brought a slow smile to her lips.
"About time, dear." Fred or George cooed at her and she straightened things out in her head after a moment. George. George had cooed at her. "It's been three days."
"What happened?" Her voice felt like syrup, and it took a moment for her to fully register what was in front of her. "Why is your hair blue?"
"I prefer azure, thank you." He primped importantly and pulled a green wrapper out of his pocket to show her. "I was playing with a hair-color-changing treat that I've been developing, and I got stuck at blue. Mum's furious." She laughed until her ribs hurt, and tried to sit up in bed, George easing her up to prop herself against the headboard. "You took quite a spill."
"I don't even remember it, to be honest." She bit her bottom lip, and glanced around at the tent she was in. Sterilized and white, she was on one of three cots that lined the room. It was very much a tented replica of the Hospital Wing, and she was suddenly surprised not to see Madam Pomfrey bustling around someplace. George seemed to read her mind.
"She's with the children. We're moving them into the Great Hall, and they need to be double checked for illness, so it won't spread." She yelped in surprise and he cut her off before she could speak. "Yeah, they finished putting the final touches on the roof yesterday. Our cozy little village will be coming down on their side. The rest of us are still stuck out here until we can get the rest of the castle built."
"What happened to me?" Hermione struggled to keep her voice calm. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hear it, her pride was sure to take a hit.
"One of the big granite slabs fell down. Someone must've broken concentration." He was deliberately dodging placing blame, and for that she was thankful. He stood abruptly, his laughter gone. "I'll go get Ron. He'll want to know."
He left the tent swiftly, leaving Hermione's head still dizzy and confused. She slumped back down into her pillow and found herself drifting into sleep again, warm and comforted by the green wrapper that George had left on the ground.
When she woke again, she only opened her eyes a fraction of an inch, to see if anyone was there. All she found at her bedside table was a tiny, dirty looking journal that made her heart drop into her stomach as she reached for it with shaking fingers. She clutched it to her heart and gnawed on her lip, curling on her side like a child. She didn't realize she was crying until it dropped onto the bed, and voice filled the room.
"I found it when I went to get you your own pillow. I thought you might want to sleep in your own blankets." He was stiff and detached, and it broke her heart. Of course he read it. She didn't dare look at him, but she heard a chair scrape backwards, and Ron's voice sounded much like it had the day he decided to leave her and Harry alone. The same ache filled her heart. "I didn't realize I was such a burden to you."
Of course he had read everything. Of course Ron, his curiosity peaked at the hidden journal he would've only felt, would've read the entire thing once he had found it, wondered why she had hidden it that way. He would've obsessed over every page, read every line, wondered why she would say horrible things about him, like she had months ago when he left. And it was clear and obvious in his tone that this was not something that he would simply just let slide. His Weasley pride would get the best of him. He would dwell and wonder, and just like Ron, he would never truly forgive.
She let a wretched sob rip from her throat and shut her eyes tightly to block out the world, as Ron sat at the edge of her bed by her feet. She could feel him taking in deep, measured breaths, as he placed a hand on her ankle, and squeezed lightly. He didn't have to say it. Of course he didn't have to say it.
"You're leaving." His breathing stopped. And she let another howl rip through her, echoing through her lungs. He always left.
"Just for a little while, maybe?" It was a question. A breakup. A death sentence.
"Go." He stood up. He hadn't expected it from her. With the last of her strength, she heaved her arm up, the book flying from her fingers and hitting his shoulder with a dull thud. Ron stopped, and heaved a sigh, gingerly picking up the tiny trouble starting book, and placing it next to her again. She flinched as he reached out to touch her face, and he froze. "Go." She couldn't tell if she screamed it or whispered it, but it was enough to make him turn and leave, and the world echoed the words. Such a silent, wordless breakup, and it was all over.
She let her tears rock her back into sleep, and dreamt of a violent sea that burned everything it touched, and left it charred and blackened and dead.
She woke up in her own tent, the heat of the evening pressing down on her like a blanket. Her face felt paper thin, stained, and pale. She easily ignored the ache in her stomach as she pressed her palms against her eyes, making stars appear and wiping them clean. The tent was dark, and she clearly had slept through the rest of the day. Her book was sitting on the bedside table again, and she kicked it violently, shaking the lamp and knocking the book off. The air seemed stiller, much more silent, and she remembered that the children were inside, no longer crying into the night air. George's tent next to her was oddly silent as well, and suddenly, she felt her stomach cave into a sense of recklessness.
She tore off the hospital gown that she only now realized that she had been wearing, and pulled on jeans and a shirt from her trunk, throwing them on haphazardly as she stalked out of the tent. Her gut took a hit when she glanced across the way, seeing that Ron's tent was abandoned and empty- its flaps were open so the tent could air out in the August heat. With a gulp of courage, she dipped between the flaps of the tent next to her, and stood in the dirt of the tent that she had been avoiding like a plague.
All the months she had been avoiding the pain around her, she had been avoiding the obvious ending of her and Ron. She had put aside the grief of not being able to find her parents, of losing so many, of being strong and dependable and well-liked for everyone. She was always the moderator. And in the tent next to her was a Weasley who needed her. And tonight she needed exactly what he needed.
She slid across the dirt like a ghost, the dark of the room pressing around her so she couldn't see. But she followed the sounds of soft sobs to the bed, and crawled her way into bed underneath the covers. She heard his breathing stop for a fraction of a moment, and his sobs cease. She buried her damp face into his warm bare chest, relishing in the skin and how good it felt to let someone know that she couldn't handle the world. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her taut against his body, and his tears started fresh again, and the heaving of his chest and her vague sniffles lulled them both into sleep.
Hermione dreamed of cinnamon and Greek Gods.