TW: Character with an eating disorder
AN: Hello! It feels so weird to be posting again after so long! Of course, I've decided to start something new instead of finish my old work, sorry to dissapoint :) This story's been knocking around in my head for quite awhile. I kept telling myself I didn't have time to write it, yet here we are!
On a more serious note, this story does take place inside a mental hospital and features several mentally ill characters as well as discusses and portrays some things that might be upsetting to some readers. Each chapter will be given its own trigger warnings which will be listed at the beginning of the chapter as shown above. If you think I missed a warning that should be included let me know and I'll add it. Consequently, the story is rated M for sensitive subject matter as mentioned above, language, and sexual situations. If you're okay with all warnings I hope you enjoy the story and thank you for providing your feedback!
Chapter one: Like Home
She had been allowed to bring some things from home. They had been checked, of course, for spells, curses, and danger, but they had said she could bring what she needed to make the room feel like home.
Like home, she thought as she unpacked pictures and set them with more care than necessary on the shelf by the window. The Weasley family waved to her from one, her parents stood still, holding each other and smiling from another.
Like home. It was an interesting concept to her. For eleven years she had called the modest townhouse she had lived in with her parents home. After that it had become Hogwarts. But during the war she had lost sight of what home was. For a bit, she supposed, she called it the tent she had shared with Harry and Ron. Sort of a mobile home, but a place to rest her head nonetheless. Afterwards she found herself wandering from home to home. A bed at Hogwarts again, a room in Grimmauld Place, a bit of floor at the Weasleys'. Now it was a small room at the Rosemary and Yarrow Mental Institute near the coast.
Sighing, she looked past the familiar faces on the shelf and out the window onto the institute's common grounds which were richly decorated with ripened fruit trees, hedges, and stoney walkways.
Rosemary and Yarrow's was one of the most highly regarded mental institutes in the wizarding UK and therefore was very exclusive and cost quite a pretty penny to get into. But not for a war hero. The Ministry had granted her hefty scholarships as compensation after the war which she had intended to use to attend a university and make something of herself.
Had intended. Those plans had been forgotten, though. Hermione sat down on the single bed wedged into the corner of her room. It is quite a nice bed, she thought as she felt the high thread-count sheets and bouncy mattress.
"Wars change people, Hermione," Ginny had told her. "There's no shame in that. Get the help that you need so you can move forward eventually, instead of being stuck."
She clenched her teeth at the memory and glanced at a picture of Harry and Ginny smiling and waving their engagement rings at the camera. But it's not fair, she nearly cried aloud. It seemed like everyone around her had been able to move on. Harry and Ginny were getting married in the spring, Ron had secured a job working in his brother's joke shop, Neville was nearly through his training to become a Herbology professor at Hogwarts, Luna was getting lost in places like Russia and Norway, and Hermione was here. Moving between therapy sessions and psych evaluations.
Why me, she wondered selfishly. Why was she the one out of everyone who needed extra help? Why was she the one still stuck in the war? She was the one who had worked hardest at Hogwarts. She was the one who had stayed up late studying. She was the one who had methodically planned out her life from getting good grades in school, earning the Prefect title, getting into any one of the top universities in the UK, to achieving her dream job, moving into a modest home, and constantly striving for the best; constantly moving. She was supposed to be the last person to end up somewhere like this. Why her?
A gentle knock on the door jerked Hermione out of her lamenting thoughts. The pleasant face of the young healer who had shown her to her room peaked around the door and asked her if she was ready to go to supper.
Hermione's stomach growled, but bile rose in her throat at the thought of eating dinner with dozens of strangers. Sure, everyone here was in a similar situation as her, sick of the mind in some way or another, but her ears still burned at the embarrassing thought that all these people would know she was sick.
"Do I have to?" she asked.
The healer gave her a pitying smile. "You have to go, but you don't have to eat if you don't want."
Hermione sighed internally, but followed the healer down the hall, through several doors, and down a set of stairs into the dining hall.
Like most places in the institute that Hermione had so far seen, the dining hall was exceptionally elegant and clearly designed with the institute's most elite patients in mind. Crystal chandeliers hung from several points on the ceiling, illuminating the hall in soft candlelight. The walls were embossed in beautiful rococo designs and the floors were shiny with fresh wax and richly dark with a deep wood.
Though most of the patients eating in the hall were dressed casually in simple jumpers and house shoes, Hermione couldn't help but feel considerably more out of place in such a wealthy environment.
The healer showed her how to que up for a plate and utensils and order between the evening's two options: rosemary chicken with roasted vegetables or the vegetarian pasta. Hermione kept her head down, hoping to conceal her face from anyone who might recognize her from the Daily Prophet. She was painfully aware that she may well be the only muggleborn is a sea of pretentious purebloods. The director of the mental health department at St. Mungo's had promised her that she would have complete protection from the healers and guards at Rosemary and Yarrow's from any injustices she faced from fellow patients and assured her that many patients wouldn't have half a mind to recognize her as a muggleborn as it was.
This thought brought her little comfort, however, as she found her way to an empty table near the back, hoping to avoid any sort of confrontation from anyone.
She promised herself, as she picked at her chicken, that she would do what it took to get better as quickly as possible so things could go back to normal and she could leave here.
She was interrupted, once again, from her thoughts at the sound of a struggle happening across the hall.
"Bullshit! Bullshit!" someone was yelling. The red face of a stocky young man came into view as he stood up from his seat and thrust his finger angrily at the plate of chicken and vegetables in front of him. Several healers and guards rushed toward the commotion, intent on de-escalating the situation before the furious patient could do the harm he was clearly capable of.
"No!" he yelled in response to something a healer had quietly said to him. "No! Because it's smaller! I want a bigger chicken! I want a bigger chicken!"
Attention in the hall had turned completely to the shouting man. People were whispering and giggling behind their sleeves and shirt collars.
Hermione used the distraction to slink away. Padding down the hallways back to where she remembered her room being, she was hit with a wave of nostalgia, of sneaking through the corridors of Hogwarts next to Harry and Ron, huddled together under the invisibility cloak or slinking between shadows and behind pillars.
Suddenly that nostalgia morphed into something else. The icy hands of fear gripped her chest. Her mind remained at Hogwarts, but the feeling changed. She was no longer sneaking giddily around with her friends, but running for her life and hiding from death eaters, heart pumping, hands sweating, knees shaking.
Her breathing quickened. She slumped against the nearest wall, feeling sick and faint. Her eyes closed and she tried to remind herself that it wasn't real.
"It's over," she whispered. "It's over."
But footsteps down the hall stopped her heart and turned her blood to ice. She knew she wasn't at Hogwarts during the war. She knew there were no death eaters stalking her in the halls, but her mind couldn't shake the thought that it might be. What if it is? Her mind hissed. It's not impossible.
Her hands fumbled for her wand within her clothes, but her mind failed to recall that it was locked safely in a box in some highly restricted area of the institute.
The footsteps were getting closer and she had nothing to defend herself with. She looked wildly around the hall for a broom closet or room she could slink into, but there was nothing along this stretch of hallway. With a small cry, she braced herself against the wall and slumped down to her knees, covering her face with her arms and sobbing somewhat hysterically into her sleeves.
"Are you okay?" someone asked.
Hermione gulped in air, trying to control her crying, and looked up into the worried face of a very thin girl. In the dim candlelight she looked nearly like a skull floating ominously in the night.
The girl's words had wrenched Hermione out of her hysteria and she wiped the tears from her face and stood up in embarrassment.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and harshly pinched the skin near her armpits until she felt sick from the pain. Stupid, she thought. So stupid.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," the girl told her. "I've seen much worse breakdowns in here than that.
Hermione regarded the girl with blurry eyes. Her face was thin and sunken and her lips dry and cracked. Thin brown hair hung to her shoulders and around her face like a curtain.
"I saw you leave the dining hall during Jerimiah's typical freakout. He's an asshole, but his routine fits of anger in the hall are helpful." She laughed lightly. "You have to get rid of the food on your plate though next time," she added. "That way, when they check your plate they'll think you ate it."
Hermione frowned at the girl for a moment before the pieces clicked into place.
"Oh," she said. "I'm not… here for that…" The thought of talking so openly about her sickness, or anyone else's for that matter, made her flush deeply.
The girl gave a chuckle. "An eating disorder? Could have fooled me."
Hermione wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. She was aware that she had lost a considerable amount of weight in the years following the war, but she had never contributed that to any eating disorders she had been warned about in muggle school.
"You left all the food on your plate," the girl said. "You picked at it, but you didn't eat it. I know that trick."
"You misunderstand," Hermione said, starting to back her way down the hall. "I was just feeling unwell."
The girl gave a knowing smile. "Yeah, I know that one too."
When Hermione made it back to her room, she broke down in tears once more as the reality of her situation began to sink in. Flinging herself onto her bed, she cried for all sorts of selfish reasons, wishing that it were anyone but her sick in a bed in an institute. And then she cried because she realized how selfish she was being, but soon she felt like pitying herself again. No one is crying for me, she told herself. I might as well do it myself.
A knock on the door jolted her for a moment from her self-pitying. "Shower time," a voice said from outside.
But the command was soon forgotten as she buried her head back into her pillow and sobbed a bit more until the heaving from her cries and the stress of the day caught up with her and she collapsed unmoving.
There came another brisk knock at the door and it opened enough for a healer to stick her head in. "Shower, Miss Granger," she snipped. "I do not want to have to drag your naked arse to the shower, and trust me, neither do you." And she was gone with a snap.
Hermione lay there a moment longer, staring at the door where the healer had been. She must have looked a mess, lying haphazardly on the bed, eyes puffy and red, tears streaming down her face. Finally, and with great struggle, she pushed herself off the bed and grabbed her robe. She thought about the healer's words and turned pink. No. She did not want that.
"How are you adjusting?" Healer Loeta asked her.
Hermione shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair across from Healer Loeta's large ornate desk. "Fine," she said.
The healer smiled at her from across the desk and Hermione wondered if the witch was skilled in occlumens.
"Do you like the single room? Or do you wish you had been placed in a double?" she asked.
"I like the single," Hermione answered. "I like the privacy."
"Good," she smiled. "I'd like to talk about therapy sessions."
Hermione internally groaned. She hated the therapy, the talking. How could she articulate how the horror of the war still haunted her to this day? How could anyone besides the students who had fought alongside her know anything close to how she felt? Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.
"I think it would be beneficial for you to maintain private sessions with me, let's say, starting with once a week. How does that sound?"
Hermione nodded. "That sounds good."
"But," she added and Hermione froze. "I would really like you to try some group therapy. I'm worried about you isolating yourself, Hermione."
"I don't know." Her arms wrapped themselves around her without thinking.
"I should remind you, a single room is a privilege. It can be taken away if I don't think you are taking the necessary strides towards recovery."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably again. She felt her fingers clamp down on the skin of her upper arms. "Okay," she finally said. "When?"
"There's a trauma group that meets once a week on Tuesdays. It's small and its members are generally soft spoken. I think you'd find it a good fit."
Hermione nodded, her stomach knotting at the thought of being forced to share her experiences and fears in front of a group of strangers.
Healer Loeta scribbled a note down on the parchment in front of her and then smiled back at Hermione. "One last thing," she said. "I'd like you to engage in one activity today. Then you're free to do as you wish until dinner time and curfew." She handed a small piece of paper to Hermione from across the desk. "Here's a list of the activities available today. When you attend one just get it stamped by the supervising healer and hand it back to me at our next session. Okay?" Her smile spread warmly across her face once more.
Hermione did not feel nearly as warm. Her fingers trembled as she held up the paper in front of her.
The slip Healer Loeta had given her contained several options for throughout the day activities, some of which were quite prestigious.
Golf was listed as available throughout the day even though the weather was turning quite crisp. Similarly, the art studio was said to be open for use all day with a patient-run class in the afternoon. There was a baking lesson at 9:00 and the swimming pool was open in the evening.
And on the list went, naming off various activities and classes available throughout the day. One event, however, caught Hermione's eye. A monthly book club, it said, was meeting today at 1:00 in the library.
Despite the pity and anger she had been feeling for herself, she felt a smile creep across her face at the words. Library, she thought to herself, and felt warm inside. Like home.
Lunch was less lonely than she would have liked. One moment she was sitting by herself and the next she was sitting with the girl she had met in the halway the day before.
"Maybe I was wrong," she said simply as she watched Hermione bite into the chicken and rice she had chosen for lunch.
"I'm feeling better today," Hermione said as she watched the young woman push her own chicken and rice around with her fork. "You should try it," she offered. "You might like it."
The girl laughed. "I know I'll like it. That's part of the problem."
"Well you have to eat something, don't you? They won't let you leave until you do, right?"
Hermione watched the girl's face fall for the first time. She bowed her head towards her plate with a look of something like disgust on her face and visibly swallowed with difficulty.
"I'm Hermione," she said as a way to break whatever tension she had caused. It seemed to work.
"Mary," the girl said, smiling once again and taking her outstretched hand in a friendly handshake. "And I know. I've read a lot about you in the Daily Prophet."
Hermione felt her stomach twist once again. Recognition was the last thing she wanted. She glanced around the hall as if checking to see if anyone had overheard her introduce herself.
"You'll be fine," Mary said as if reading her mind. "Sure there's a fair share of pretentious, small-minded assholes around here, but most of them will be too self absorbed or too…" she discreetly twisted her finger near her temple. "...to even recognize who you are."
"That's good to hear," Hermione said, and she meant it.
Sighing, Mary decidedly picked up her fork and knife and set about methodically removing the rice from one bit of chicken before putting it in her mouth and chewing it for what Hermione thought was entirely too long.
She glanced down at her watch. 12:45 it read. "I should get going," she told Mary, "I'm attending the book club today in the library."
"I'll come!" Mary exclaimed, springing to her feet. A healer came up from behind her and pushed her back down into her seat.
"You'll finish that first," the healer said plainly.
"Or not," Mary grumbled, staring down at her plate.
The book club was uneventful if not even a bit boring. Hermione, of course, had not been able to read the book discussed in the meeting and so she was forced to sit sidelined for the discussion. Although, she found this rather relieving. It was nice, she thought, at the end when the club was handed their read for next time and she was able to hold a book in her hands once again. LIke home.
She browsed the library for a perfect reading spot, finding one near a large window. She couldn't help but be awed once again by the lavish beauty of the institute's decor. The bookshelves were tall and sturdy, made of dark wood and intricately carved on the ends to display scenes, ribbon, and florals made entirely of the worked wood. Sparkling gold ladders leaned here and there against the shelves, but did not extend fully up the shelves, perhaps to keep patients from falling too far and injuring themselves.
As she read, she found herself becoming increasingly more and more distracted. The group therapy session she was to attend was tomorrow and she couldn't help but feel that things would go horribly.
Finally, dinner was called and she was wrenched from her thoughts for a while. Returning to her room alone, however, she stewed in them once more.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn't nightmares or irrational fears about death eaters lurking in the shadows that kept her up at night. It was a nagging feeling in her stomach and an unpleasant flutter in her chest.