When the tears slowed and the cracking, grating, prying of the invisible retractor had successfully exposed her insides to the world, Hermione picked herself up and shuffled to the bathroom, feeling like she was blowing to and fro in the wind. Brittle and crackly, she looked in the mirror and stared at herself long and hard. The hot shower that followed – scorching, scalding, cleansing – washed her clean, rinsed the tear tracks from her face but the puffy redness remained.

Daphne –

Daphne had said –

You're still you. You're still Hermione. But –

She wasn't. Things were different. Little things that she hadn't noticed at first, that maybe no one else had noticed –

Her hair was the same brown but longer than she had ever remembered having it in school. The dripping ends stuck wetly to her shoulders and chest, curled around the curves of her breasts and the angles of her shoulder blades and navigated towards her belly button. Still kinky, still unmanageable, Hermione sighed and –

Maybe she ought to cut it.

For a fresh start.

How poetic. Lose your memory and forget who you are and shear all your hair off.

Hermione sighed and dismissed the thought.

The delicate wings of her collarbones were the same but she was more tanned, much like the summer she'd spent in France. The flesh of her hips was rounder, fuller, but her waist still cinched with the exact same curve under her ribs. The arches of her feet were familiar but the slenderness of her face was foreign.

She was a walking stack of precarious impossibilities and delicate hyperbole, prepared to topple at any moment.

She was Hermione but not Hermione and it was disconcerting.

The contents of her dresser proved to be just as confusing. There was so much colour and gauzy fabric and she stared at it, perplexed. She dug and rummaged until she found a pair of shorts and a white tee and –

What was she supposed to wear under them because picking from the rather racy selection she seemed to have felt like wearing someone else's underwear and that thought made her cringe.

The other Hermione seemed to favour shades of lilac and lavender and periwinkle undergarments, and fabrics that were soft and comfortable. But the fact remained that she had not chosen them, or bought them, or worn them. She closed the drawer.

Wearing a pair of jeans was one thing but…

Hermione dug around until she found a bra that looked nearly unused, and pulled the clothes on. She felt strange in her own skin – no, it wasn't her skin, not this time – it was the way the shorts fit, and where the shirt fell, and –

It was another reminder that this was not her life.

And she didn't know where hers had gone.


"You're both so stubborn," Fred looked over at her. "I mean, why does it have to be this way?"

"Why don't you ask him? He's the one who won't make a move," Hermione responded, rolling her eyes and reaching out to stock a shelf with the boxes she held in her arms.

"Godric's left testicle," Fred leaned his head against a shelf down the aisle gently in exasperation. "He said the exact same thing."

"Why should I ask?" Hermione shot back.

"Why shouldn't you?" Fred tallied.

"I'm the girl!" she exclaimed.

"When has that ever stopped you?" Fred pressed and Hermione huffed in response. "Yeah, see, I'm right."

"You're never right," she said derisively.

"Au contraire, mon amie," Fred clicked his tongue and waggled a finger, pointing in the direction of the work room in the back as evidence.

"What does that even mean?" Hermione ignored him and turned, her cheeks threatening to redden at the thought of the man behind the door.

"You speak French, I've heard you," Fred laughed, purposely misinterpreting her and she threw him a glare.

"That's not what I mean," she shook her head.

"Like you don't know," he goaded with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm converting to 'blissfully ignorant'," she declared, staying turned.

"As if that could ever be possible, Miss Granger," came another voice and she held her breath, praying for –

Hermione jerked awake, startling Crookshanks and prompting a hard glare from him as she jumped. Her cheeks were warm and -

"Hermione?" she heard a familiar voice calling from the living room. "Are you ready? Do you still want go?"

"Yes, I -" she choked a little on her words, nervousness bubbling and expanding in her chest cavity, forcing its way up up up until her eyes widened. "I still want to go."

"Okay." Footsteps on the floorboards grew closer and closer until Ron poked his head around the corner. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"I'm fine, Ron," she insisted, voice much smaller and far more unsure than she had realized until that moment. He made to open his mouth again to protest and she shook her head. "I'm fine."

Her hair had dried somewhat during her impromptu nap and she glanced at the mess in the mirror, and Ron laughed. Ignoring him, she ran her fingers through the mass and attempted to pull it back into something presentable, causing him to snicker even harder.

"Did you need some help?" Ron suggested, leaning against the doorway and watching in amusement.

"You know, you're supposed to let a girl get ready without laughing at her," she bit back which Ron took as a 'yes' and approached her. He looked at her from over her shoulder in the mirror in askance and she nodded.

Ron was gentle, gathering the hair up in one hand carefully, so carefully, careful not to touch the skin of her neck. She watched him move much more delicately than she ever remembered being and realized –

He thought she needed gentle hands right now.

Tears started to prick at the corners of her eyes and she steeled herself. Now was not the time for more crying.

Ron's eyes were focused on the task at hand and he was careful not to pull any snags or tangles. Hermione watched his face quietly, her head moving slightly under his ministrations.

She remembered –

She remembered loving him, kissing him even, and writing letters to him from Hogwarts, telling him all about life as a normal student. She remembered his letters in return, long and as detailed as she could expect. She remembered his sign offs – 'I miss you' – and furrowed her brow.

She had wanted for so long before eighth year for that to be their relationship, for it be a relationship. She had yearned for him when he had left her and Harry on the horcrux hunt, just for him to be near, for him to be another familiar thing in the world of disaster and chaos and being hunted relentlessly.

And they had it, it seemed.

Memories came in snippets and glitches; Ron picking her up from Platform 9 3/4, hugging her tight and spinning her round. Her laugher. His joy. Harry, happy. Sun over the orchard. Running through Diagon Alley with a laugh on her lips.

What had happened to that?

That had been real. That had been so real.

How could she have turned away from that for… Uncertainty and…

His brother? It hardly made any sense to her and not for the first time, Hermione supressed the urge to express her frustration at not being able to recall memories from the last four years.

Ron's fingers moved and twisted and in the blink of an eye all her hair was rather deftly braided into a rope that hung down her back and rested heavily between her shoulders.

"How do you even know how to braid?" Hermione asked curiously, observing him in the mirror as he looked up.

"Well," he laughed at met her stare quietly, "I watched you do it so many times."

"Ron…" she started. "What -"

Her voice caught and she felt the damn tears start to come on again.

"It's okay," Ron said quietly. "I know – well, I don't know, but mum said it must be really hard for you because you're expecting us to be together, but things are very different. That doesn't change the fact that I love you, Hermione."

At those words, her view of him wavered and quivered and shook before the tears overflowed and she blinked them away stubbornly, dragging her palm over her wet cheeks roughly. Ron tugged her around and towards his chest, holding her tightly.

"It's okay," he whispered and Hermione felt her body clench, felt her mouth open in a grating soundless sob, felt the noise refuse to escape, refusing to leave, sinking its claws into her esophagus and holding firm. "It's just not the same as it was. We… we're better as friends. And we both knew it. I know you love me, and I love you, and – and maybe one day you'll remember -"

The damn cracked and the first strangled sob broke through, ripping her up as it left.


A/N: Thank you for all your supportive messages on here and on tumblr. You guys are The Best.

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