a/n: As you can tell, this is a bit of an unconventional, shorter chapter, but I felt like this was where it needed to go! Hope you like it! I've been trying so hard to find a teaching job and have had so many interviews, I cannot WAIT to land something and be done! I'll update with Chapter 20 ASAP!

Chapter 19: Downpour

By the twelfth of July, Hermione had given up completely on reading the papers. Every page was filled with lies and gave her zero insight into what was going on, so when Lottie showed up at her usual time with the usual drop-offs, the papers continued to pile on top of each other.

Hermione had barely given any thought to the rally in Italy at the end of the week. The terrifying possibilities of what could happen rolled their way through her mind, but they failed to affect her emotions. She was curled up on the bed facing the dresser. The light that shone through the window told her it was morning. She didn't care to check the clock on the other wall; it didn't matter what time it was, anyways.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine a time in her life when things weren't clouded by a looming sense of dread. The moments were there, buried somewhere below the rest. She saw the flashes of happy faces: her parents…the Weasleys…Harry… But they were tainted. Her parents' warm smiles morphed into cold, distant stares, ones that didn't recognize her as their daughter. The Weasleys - once bustling about their cozy cottage with unrivaled life - looked worn down and fearful. And Harry… Just the thought of him made her stomach ache; her eyes stung at the perfect image of innocence and determination in his bright green eyes. But behind them was the underlying reality that he was in mortal peril.

She barely moved as her tears flowed, pooling in her right ear and soaking the fabric of the pillow underneath it. In her mind, it could have been just the day before that she'd seen him. And the memory that lingered was the last time she had felt nearly the same level of despair.

Forest of Dean, Autumn, 1997

Hours had passed in silence after Ron stormed out of the tent and Disapparated beyond their wards. Hermione stared at the spot where he'd vanished - her cheeks still dawning dried tears - hoping he would materialize and everything could be alright again. But the sun was setting and a thin layer of fog clouded her vision in the growing dark of the night.

She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a heavy breath before returning to the tent. Harry was already lying down on his bed, his back facing her. With a flick of her wand, Hermione's pajamas soared through the space from her bag. She went through the motions to change, brush her teeth, comb her damp hair, and tidy up the tent, all the while glancing at the entrance flap.

She finally slipped under the covers of her bed and rested her head straight back against the pillow, staring up at the fabric of the tent. For as long as Hermione could remember, she slept on her back. She had read once that it was the best sleeping position for deep to R.E.M. sleep ratio as well as the most efficient for whole-body repair and refuel. In recent times, however, Hermione laid awake the longest while lying on her back. She still tried to summon sleep in the position every night, stubborn to do things the right way, but it was to little avail. As the minutes ticked on and the patter of the rain grew, she was no closer to sleeping. Her gaze was fixed above her and her ears were straining to hear a pop outside the tent that never came. She had no idea how much time passed until she finally rolled onto her right side and closed her eyes.

"What if he's right?" Harry's quiet question floated through the pitch dark tent from where he laid, the silence between them broken by his words.

Hermione's eyes shot back open. She had wondered if he was really asleep.

"Harry-"

"No, Hermione, really. I don't know what I'm doing. We've found one Horcrux and are as close to finding another as we are to finding a way to destroy the one we have-"

"Harry-" she tried again, falling back onto her back.

"And people are losing faith in me. You heard it yourself today from Dirk-"

"Harry, please."

He quieted.

"I believe in you; in us. We will find the sword and some kind of lead to another Horcrux." Her voice was nearly a whisper.

Harry didn't respond.

Outside, the rain hit the ground and the canvas of the tent even harder. It grew heavy in the silence, and after a while, Hermione wondered if he'd given up on talking for the night.

When he spoke again, his words were barely distinguishable through the harsh sound of the weather. "There's a very good chance we won't find the rest of the Horcruxes, Hermione. Or the Sword of Gryffindor. I can't stay in hiding forever. At some point, I'll have to face him and I won't make it. If that happens-"

"That's not going to happ-"

"Please," he insisted, raising his voice in a desperate plea she had never before heard from him. "If that happens, promise me you'll protect yourself. If Ron," the name was bitter on his tongue, "has made it back to his family, I know he'll fight for them. They're all fighters. Especially Ginny. I know they'll keep each other safe. But you don't have anyone, Hermione- Sorry, that didn't come out right…I just mean…you need to take care of yourself."

She was silent. He knew just as much as she did that it wasn't a promise she could keep; that she'd fight until the very end, just as he would.

"Promise?" The word was soft and strained.

Hermione swallowed and returned to her side. "Promise."

Present Day

She opened her eyes and stared ahead at the dresser directly opposite her in the bedroom. In a rare moment of bad weather, dark clouds enveloped the Manor and sunk Hermione's room into a deep, fittingly depressing hue of grey. She couldn't hear any sounds of bustling from below, and a quick glance through the window confirmed that Draco was still gone. No surprise there.

As a steady rhythm of rain started, she imagined what Harry would think of her role in this new world. Had she fulfilled his promise after all? She was more protected than she'd been in years, as she was valuable enough to Voldemort not to kill, and she even protected others at the price of promoting his new regime alongside Harry's Hogwarts nemesis. But she was fighting, wasn't she? In her own way?

Hermione watched as the window was hit with a downpour of sideways rain. The harsh sound of it reminded her of a late winter evening in her fifth year.

Hogwarts Library, 1996

Hermione had been studying endlessly for her O.W.L.s when she came across a book with statistics of Muggle-born failure and success rates compared to those of other witches and wizards, particularly purebloods. She was curled in a corner armchair, one of her favourite spots because it was hidden behind a row of bookshelves. The book in her hand had captivated her for far longer than she would have liked, but she couldn't put it down. From the author's research, he had found that Muggle-borns and purebloods were typically the highest academic performers of all witches and wizards. He asserted that his findings were due to the high level of pressure put on such students, generally from an internal motivation for Muggle-borns and an external one for purebloods (i.e. family).

As she turned the page, she caught sight of the top of a stark blonde head moving through the space above books on a nearby shelf. She unfortunately knew that hair. Draco Malfoy was getting closer and closer to the end of the row. Her stomach turned with anticipation and a bout of fear. She reached into her pocket and clutched her wand at her side, just in case. He stopped a few paces away from the end of the row.

She held her breath.

He was looking down at something. She waited for him to move, but he didn't. She just stared at the top of his head, her breathing strong. Finally, he walked, and her heart pounded against her chest even more. In mere seconds, he emerged into the aisle, and her breath caught.

He was staring down at the pages of the book in his hand as he turned left - thankfully away from where she was - and settled into an armchair several aisles away from her. He didn't look up once from his book; didn't notice her at all, yet her grip was tight on her wand. Malfoy's brows were furrowed as his eyes skimmed the pages. He lifted a hand and carefully turned each page as the minutes dragged on. Hermione strained her eyes to read the title of the tattered book: An Advanced Analysis of the Life and Misfortune of Callisto. It was one of the suggested supplemental titles to read for Astronomy by Professor Sinistra. Even Hermione hadn't checked it out yet; the book had just been recommended that week. She looked back down at her own reading and considered the findings of the book's author. Maybe he was right. Apparently, Malfoy had performed almost as well as her thus far in their academic journey.

Hermione loosened her grip on her wand and released an unintended scoff as she stared down at the words her eyes landed on: purebloods have a tendency to overcompensate…

Malfoy's head whipped in her direction. Her gaze snapped to him simultaneously, and a mixture of anger, pride, and embarrassment all wrapped into one expression on her face. His mouth twisted into a sneer at the sight of her, but she held her head up a little higher. She stared back at him, challenging him through the look she sent his way, but he held his gaze firm on her.

Against the floor-length window in between them, the rain increased, and there was suddenly a heavy patter of droplets against the glass.

Hermione finally raised her eyebrows at him and looked back down to her book. She felt his eyes on her for far longer than she'd expected, and she couldn't help but wonder what he could possibly be thinking about. She lifted a hand to her temple and ran her finger down to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She wouldn't leave just because Draco Malfoy was there. She was stronger than that.

She forced herself to continue reading:

Oftentimes, so-called purebloods can come across as hostile or arrogant, but on the inside, they tend to be more insecure than the average person, magical or not. They have an overwhelming desire to prove themselves as superior or worthy of praise and acceptance, which can stem from their relationships with parents - or a single parent - who are often cold, distant, and unloving.

Present Day

Hermione blinked and the memory faded away.

She stood and let her legs carry her to the window in front of the armchair in her room. It was the first time she'd left the bed in hours. The rain was coming down hard and the view was dark; grey and gloomy. She closed her eyes and savoured the sound of the raindrops pounding on the roof above. For a long while, she stood there with her feet grounded to the floor, just listening. Everything was harsh and soft simultaneously; the rush of the wind…the rhythm of the rain…even the temperature in the room.

As she breathed in, she recognized the unique scent of petrichor: the smell of rain. She'd read about the term once in Alchemy, Ancient Art, and Science by Argo Pyrites in her first year at Hogwarts when she was researching Nicolas Flamel. The smell was one of her favourites.

She settled into the armchair and watched the rain fall for the rest of the gloomy Sunday evening.