A/N: Hi everyone! This is just a Dramione fanfiction I've decided to write one day when I felt emotional while reading and listening to music. I don't promise quick updates for this one, though, (sorry) but hopefully, this'll survive.
It was the same, Hermione realized. Same castle. Same people. Same atmosphere.
How could they do it to themselves? A war, for goodness' sake, had just been fought, and thousands died! Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Regulus Black, Fred Weasley, Alastor Moody, Dumbledore, Snape, Charity Burbage, even Hermione's parents.
And Hermione felt so alone. Isolated. Her friends, Harry Potter, wizarding world hero, and Ron Weasley, were sympathetic, of course, being friends with her for seven years.
All right, 'Mione?
Want to join us, Hermione?
Are you sure you don't want to eat dinner? You haven't eaten lunch today yet, even.
We'll be back soon, 'Mi.
Do you want us to stay with you?
Need any help, Hermione?
Hermione was utterly tired of it all, and frustrated. You could even call her embarrassed. Oh, yes, Hermione was embarrassed. She couldn't get how everybody could get over it, but she couldn't. She just couldn't. She was ashamed, too- if Harry James Potter, with what the war revolving around him and prime target of Voldemort, could get over the deaths of everybody, why couldn't she?
Perhaps the crucios of a certain dark onyx-eyed, curly-haired, maniacal witch had taken a toll on Hermione. Hermione still remembered the exact details of her torture- the once-gorgeous Bellatrix Black Lestrange's bared, yellowed, rotting teeth, her hollowed cheekbones, her manical, blood-thirsty glint, her high scream, her long, claw-like nails, the enchanted silver knife piercing her arm and carving the slur, held, pressed just slightly to her neck, the Malfoy Manor drawing room. After that night, she downed Dreamless Sleep potions like a man dying of thirst. That was her little secret. Dreamless sleep potions, painless potions. She was addicted. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but, good lord, they were sublime at numbing everything, everywhere. Her worries, her fears, her nightmares, her insecurities, were white-washed, foggy, and if she was lucky, non-existent.
"Anything from the trolley, dearies?" the pleasant-faced trolley cart woman on the Hogwarts Express asked, wheeling her cart over.
Ron opened his mouth, probably to order a ridiculous amount of food, but sweet, kind Harry who was filled with sympathy shot Ron a sharp glance and turned to the trolley woman.
"No, thanks, we're fine," Harry said politely but also sternly.
Ron, who still did not get Harry's meaning, scrunched his face in confusion, until Harry placed a well-aimed kick to his leg and a meaningful glance in Hermione's direction, none too subtly.
"If that's what you want, dears," the trolley cart woman cooed, the exchange having not gone unnoticed.
"Harry," Hermione protested. "Please, Harry. I want you two to live freely. Really, I hate to be a burden."
"You aren't a burden, 'Mione," Ron proclaimed loudly and fondly.
"Thank you, Ron," Hermione smiled. "Really, though. Listen- I've got to use the loo, change into my Hogwarts robes. I'll be back soon."
Nodding, the two boys turned to their deck of Exploding Snap and started playing. Smiling weakly and grimly, Hermione backed out of their customary compartment and ran to the girls' bathroom.
"Colloportus," Hermione wheezed, barricading herself into a stall. It was squashed inside the stall, but it would have to do.
Quickly, Hermione changed into her Hogwarts uniform with a flick of her wand, then slowly unzipped her backpack to gulp down a calming drought. Eerily instantly, she was calm. There was some murmuring at the back of her head, she thought, and tried to tune in, but she couldn't.
Hermione scrunched her face drowsily. It didn't make any sense, really, why could she not recover from the war? And she was so damn fragile. Undoing the drought, she was nearly bowled over with a wave of anger. Stepping out of the girls' bathroom with a fresh wave of anger, she stomped back into her compartment.
"Blergh, mate, I just ate an earwax flavoured Bertie Bott's- Hermione! Back?" Ron was saying.
Hermione wanted to snap at him, to yell and shout, but seeing those innocent, happy, alight eyes that were borderline hopeful, she nodded and quickly flashed a strained smile.
"Yes, Ron," she said quickly, rapidly sat down as far as she could from Harry and Ron, reached into her knapsack, and instantly grabbed the first book she could get her hands on. Fumbling, she flipped the book open.
High heavens, she was emotional and utterly out of place. Hermione's eyes started watering, but she couldn't, no, wouldn't cry in front of Ron and Harry. She doesn't deserve them, doesn't deserve the way that Harry was utterly always there for her, Ron joked with her, how they both cared for her.
" 'Mione?" Ron asks, his tone so light, joking, and carefree. "What do you think?"
Hermione abruptly slams down her book, takes a moment to suck in a deep, harsh breath, composes herself. Only then does she remotely trust her voice. "What're we talking about? I'm sorry, I was reading."
She picks up the book with jittery hands, sees the title. An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms.
"The book was upside down," Harry said, raising an eyebrow, distrust flashing in his emerald eyes.
God, how she hated being a burden, lying to her friends, but what could she do? Hermione knew that Harry wasn't as dumb as he let on, her Killing-curse eyed friend would catch up and solve what made her so fragile.
"Ooh, mate, 'Mione's channeling Luna!" Ron chortled jokingly.
So naive, but she would let it be.
Hermione lets out a sigh, white fingers drumming on her lap. "I was thinking," she says feebly.
"Okay," Ron says happily and obliviously, god, and reaches into a pack of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavoured Beans, then tosses one into his mouth. "Wow, mate! I like this one, it's starfruit flavored."
"Mmhm," Harry says, letting his eyes linger on her for a little too long for it to be unpurposeful. "I've never had a starfruit before, though."
She gulps, frantically picks up the book, tries to read. The words wiggle and move, blurring and dancing in front of her eyes. Focus, stop focus. No. She can't focus. How would she survive her eighth year?
"We're there!" Ron cries, a smile breaking out on his face. "C'mon, Harry, Hermione!"
"Yes, we're there," Hermione repeated dumbly. She needed to get out, then an idea popped up. "Ron, Harry?"
They turn around. Hermione's mildly disturbed by Ron's naive-ness, but what really hit hard was Harry's eyes. Stone cold and soul-piercing, they stared at her. She flushes, trembles.
"You two go on ahead. I'm not feeling too well, I'll just go down to the kitchens and lay down for a little," she stammers, then mentally whacks herself upside-down the head. She needed to practice lying more, she sounded utterly pathetic.
"Are you sure you're fine, Hermione?" Harry asks, his voice soft and silky.
"As right as rain," she assures him, not really believing it herself.
"I suppose so, then," Ron says cheerily, looping arms with Harry, who reluctantly turned away. "Hope you get better, 'Mione."
She doesn't know what triggers it, but she runs. Grabs her knapsack, then sprints out the compartment, out of the train, then runs, runs, runs. Fuzzily, she realized that she doesn't even know where she was now. She's so cold, and scared, and there are wet tracks running down cheek. Her foot hits something large, she's thrown into the arm, and then sprawled onto the ground, knocked out, a trickle of blood running down her chin.