When Hermione was eleven, she vividly remembered being so filled with amazement, excitement, and wonder when she discovered that magic was real. When Professor McGonagall showed up on her parent's doorstep to change their lives forever, she thought she was being rescued. The muggle primary school bullies that once tormented and made fun of her wouldn't able to get to her anymore. She would no longer be subjected to the stares and whispers that followed her everywhere she went. Nor would she have to lie anymore about why unexplainable things happened around her all the time.
At least, that's what she naively thought. Little did she know that comments about her teeth, hair, books, and the dried paint that lived on her fingers would be a cakewalk compared to what she was running towards. If it weren't for Harry and Ron, Hermione would have undoubtedly walked away from the wizarding world altogether. She may have gone as far as to snap her wand in half and burn the pieces. But, things were what they were and there was no way she could abandon her boys. They were all the family she had.
This was why the Brightest Witch of her Age sat cross legged in the center of her bedroom floor, working on ridiculously large batches of Sleeping draught and Draught of Peace by the moonlight. Her usual simply wouldn't do in this case. Its shelf life is, in fact, incredibly short.
Her thick, riotous hair was bunched high atop her head, her normal long sleeved blouse discarded in favor of a sheer white tank top with the door tightly locked. As the temperature in the room climbed, beads of sweat continued to pour over Hermione's moonlit skin. The witch ignored the way the fabric of her shirt clung to her body like ink to parchment. She deliberately kept her focus off the itchy Mudblood scar that still rudely stood out on her forearm, opting to give the brews in front of her, her undivided attention.
Not many witches or wizards could confidently say they correctly brewed two draughts simultaneously. She had to get it right. There was no choice in the matter. She was due at platform 9 3/4 the next morning and there was no chance of Madam Pomfrey turning a blind eye to the amount of potions she would need to get through the year. Not to mention, if she were to get her hands on more ingredients, where would she brew her own? It wasn't exactly a secret that Myrtle's bathroom had been a confidential potions lab anymore. Her brows were furrowed deep in concentration.
There would be more questions asked than she wanted to answer.
On the other hand, Hermione couldn't recall ever feeling prouder of herself as both potions called for their finishing touches. As she stirred one while also adding hellebore to another, she grinned. 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...7. She smugly glanced back and forth between two perfectly brewed potions as she stood and stretched. It was the few and far between moments when she could honestly say it was quite satisfying to be her.
Bottling the potions and packing them away was just as satisfying, if not more so. It meant she could finally open her window and get some air.
It took a while, but Hermione finally was able to pad across the room and open her window. Once she did, a she was greeted with a cool midnight breeze that wrapped around her like the arms of an old friend. She relished in it, not bothering to tuck her stray curls behind her ears. Instead, she let them float around her as she stared up at the face of the moon. There was something so soothing about taking in the moon and stars, losing herself in the vastness of the universe and the wonder that hung just above their heads, if only they would take the time to really look.
As a little girl, she and her parents would often lay out a quilt in the backyard and gaze at the stars. The beauty of it all took her breath away then. Over the last eight years, she sought comfort from the night sky more often than she'd ever admit. Now, she felt strangely nostalgic. It was fitting, in a way, that the same lights that had brought her so much joy and comfort over the years were ones that had burned out long before they ever reached her eyes. The most important lessons are often ones that don't get through until after the light of the person teaching them is extinguished.
She tipped back the last Calming Draught phial she had, shuddering a bit as it ran down her throat. Maybe, just maybe, if her body relaxed enough before she took her sleep aid, she might rest a bit better before she boarded the train in the morning.
On the desk behind Hermione, a blinking blue light flashed, catching her attention from the corner of her eye. She spun on the spot, eyeing the anomaly in her own bedroom. "What...?" She whispered. She approached her desk cautiously, going as far to tip toe towards it. A single small gem in the center of it lit up a brilliant blue, calling to her to pick it up.
If this quill hadn't come from McGonagall, she might have hit it with a bombarda. As it was, it had come from the Headmistress, so she carefully picked it up with a deep breath and a steady hand. A rush of magic surged through her, filling her with a lightness she hadn't known since she was eleven. Her mouth dropped and her eye flew open in amazement. How is it that this writing utensil replicated the feeling of being chosen by a wand? Her mind threatened to run away with her, all but begging to start the research. She had half a mind to immediately write the Headmistress and ask the thousand questions that just came to mind...
Focus! She scolded herself. She could ask all the questions she wanted tomorrow, when she would see the professor in person. "Right," she whispered, as she dipped the quill into the inkwell. She watched the quill, fascinated, as she blindly grabbed a spare bit of parchment. The second the tip touched the paper, it began to move on its own.
As long as she lived, magic would never cease to amaze her. She could avoid it, even go as far as to loathe it, but she knew the day would never come when she stopped trying to understand it. As the quill eloquently glided across the page, she idly wondered if this is how Arthur felt about muggles. She slammed her eyes shut against the thought. Though she had lived in this world for eight years, there were moments like this that she felt that she was no closer to truly being a part of this world than when she started. Poor Mister Weasley had no idea that he would never be able to truly understand non-magical people, no matter how many questions he asked. She would never have the heart to tell him so, either.
The quill dropped to the desk with a clatter.
Hermione's lips quirked up a bit when she read:
McGonagall is out of her mind.
If there was one thing that could be said, it was that Hermione Granger never shirked from an assignment. It only took a moment for her to scribble her answer.
For the first time in my life, I'm inclined to agree with that assessment. However, it would seem that we are stuck with each other for the duration of the school year. Might as well give as proper an introduction as we can, given these quills will prevent us from revealing our identities. How do you feel about using pseudonyms?
The quill stayed still. A minute passed. Two minutes. Three. Once ten minutes had gone by, Hermione simply put the quill down and stretched. It wasn't like she could honestly expect anyone else to be up at this hour. She shouldn't even be awake at this hour.
It was at the exact moment that she stood that the quill began to move again.
Fair enough. For the duration of this arrangement, you can call me Ink. What about you?
Hermione had forgotten all about the discarded blouse she normally wore. Leaning over the desk, her mark-her brand, as it were, demanded her attention. The letters were still as red as the blood in her veins. Ironically, that was what sparked her inspiration.
Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ink. You may call me Blood.
The response was nearly instant.
Are you always awake this late?
Hermione sighed.
I don't sleep much, if that's what you're asking. I take it you don't either?
She didn't know why, but she was nearly on the edge of her seat, waiting for the quill to move. Her eyes widened as she watched the words form.
No. Side effects of being involved in a war you wanted no part of.
Ink's answer, short as it may have been, changed her entire perspective of McGonagall's program. She shook her head with a heavy heart. Maybe there really was something to this, after all.
Exactly. Duty to the ones you love comes with a heavy price, doesn't it?
Another lull in their exchange came again, but this time Hermione didn't think much of it. She was too engrossed in what had already been said.
Logically, she knew that she wasn't the only one who struggled with the aftermath of the horrors they endured. Harry was still seeing a Mind Healer. Ron practically lived at the Burrow again. However, seeing it spelled out so plainly right in front of her sent a jolt through her. Perhaps she had been spending too much time holed up within herself to have missed something so obvious with the world around her. Maybe she wasn't the only one who needed to vent.
Hermione nodded to herself. Merlin knew she didn't need another face and another name to pretend for, but maybe, just maybe, she could vent without any repercussions or ties. Maybe this person needed the same. Maybe they could both just pretend that their words went no further than the page; that there wasn't even an actual person on the other side of the quill.
On that note, Hermione looked to the ceiling and groaned. The very thought of just letting go had no right to sound so bloody beautiful. And to fulfill McGonagall's requirements for this year at the same time? Hermione could just grab the Headmistress' face and kiss her on the cheek for it.
Passionflower.
Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion, having been jolted out of her fantasy.
Pardon?
The response was nearly instant.
Passionflower tea. Add some valerian root to the brew. It helps me sleep.
Hermione paused. Passionflower? Valerian root? As her brain worked through the implications, she found the properties of the herbs actually made a powerful combination to induce sleep.
This led her to speculating about them. There could be no possible way to live with being a part of the Second Wizarding War and be so... willingly kind towards a total stranger. How could they know that Hermione wasn't someone of the wrong sort? She snorted. If she were talking to a Third Year right now, that would just be her luck.
So far, she knew that this person was someone of generally few words. However, the words that he or she spoke packed a punch. They seemed to be the type to extend help to others in need, based off their unsolicited, but appreciated advice concerning insomnia relief. The way they worded their answer, however, sounded like a person with a solid background with Herbology. They were likely well versed with herbs, and, in turn, possibly potions.
Sharing a part of their suffering inflicted from the war to a complete stranger revealed a certain level of bravery that warranted respect. It was also incredibly naïve, and a bit reckless, honestly.
What's keeping you awake? Is it anything I can help with?
Hermione thought that as long as they would be communicating throughout the year, she might as well be polite. If they built some sort of rapport with each other, maybe they could get to the point of being each other's sounding boards. Her thoughts traveled back to her fantasy of being able to freely vent with no repercussions. Yes. That was definitely something she'd like to work up to.
This time, the first few words were roughly scratched out, next to another short, but neatly written sentence.
Doubt it. Just stuck in my own head. I know we don't know each other, but I'm not sure you could understand.
Try me, Hermione quickly scribbled. I was involved in the war, too. It could help to unload to someone who is in a position to be completely unbiased.
Maybe another time. If it's any consolation, I appreciate your offer.
Approximately ten minutes of short, awkward, but semi-sweet exchanges later, one thought stood out in Hermione's head, louder than the rest: This year should be interesting, to say the least. McGonagall had just given her the next best thing to straight O's on her exams.
The next morning, the weight of saying goodbye to Harry and Ron hit her like a ton of bricks as she faced getting the Hogwarts Express alone. The boys stood, or rather hovered, on either side of her, while Ginny flanked them on Harry's side. Hermione froze, feeling as though she'd been petrified all over again, with her hands on the strap of her carry bag. She hadn't gotten on the train alone since First Year. It had always been the three of them... together. Always.
What was she going to do?
A large, fairly rough hand clasped one of hers. Immediately, the knot inside her chest began to loosen. "You can do this, Hermione," Harry's voice whispered in her ear. "You can do anything." Another large, but smoother hand clasped her other. "You're the absolute best, Hermione," Ron whispered in her other ear. "If anyone can handle going back there while being surrounded by a bunch of snotty prats all year and still get their N.E.W.T.s, it's you."
"Hey!" Ginny snapped, having clearly heard Ron's words. "If anyone is the snotty prat around here-" Hermione and Ron both looked up to see Harry clamping his free hand over his girlfriend's mouth. The poor guy grinned sheepishly as Ginny cut a glare at him while she continued to spout muffled expletives.
Hermione sighed. Unfortunately for her, Ginny had not taken the news of her breakup with Ron well at all. Despite Hermione's insistence that it was a mutual decision and that she was fine, Ginny felt that her "idiotic wanker of a brother" (her words, not Hermione's) was entirely at fault and that he needed to be punished for hurting her friend. She loved Ginny. Truly, she did. She admired how fiercely loyal and protective she was. However, she prayed that this was not going to be an indication of the year to come.
Ever the punctual person, Hermione glanced upward to the platform's clock. Only fifteen minutes left to board the train. She swallowed nervously, but straightened her spine and squared her shoulders nonetheless. It was now or never. Just as she opened her mouth to try and force out some form of a parting statement, she was enveloped in one of her favorite bear hugs. "Harry!" She laughed. She threw her arms around her best friend's neck on pure instinct alone, feeling like the little girl who barreled towards him at full speed in the Great Hall again. She closed her eyes, basking in Harry's warm, safe, and familiar embrace. She decided to commit this moment to memory; a bit of home to get her by in the months to come.
"You better write to me at least twice a week, Harry Potter," Hermione quietly demanded. She rolled her eyes as his body rocked with equally quiet laughter. "I mean it, Harry," she retorted. "You have this dreadful habit of getting into trouble and nearly dying on me."
When Harry leaned back to fully look at her, his eyes sparkled with mischief. "See? All the more reason to come with us instead of-ow! " Harry jumped back, rubbing his arm with a full-blown grin on his face. "Hey, no need to smack me! Must you always be so violent, Hermione?" Ron chuckled. "She just keeps making our case for us, mate. With all that pent up anger she's got, she would be-ow!" Ron was now rubbing his arm, grumbling, "Figures. Can't even get a hug first before you-hey!"
Hermione stood in the center between the two boys, hands on her hips, fuming at the pair of them while Ginny stood by, snickering at the scene. She pointed at Harry first. "You. I want a letter from you at least twice a week, letting me know you're alive at the bare minimum." Before Ron could speak, she turned her attention toward him. "And you. I want at least two letters a week from you too. You'd better let me know that you're alive and well on a regular basis." Both boys wore sheepish grins, but Ron's turned into a wide, heartwarming smile when Hermione lunged at him, throwing her arms around him and nuzzled her face into his neck.
Ron patted her back gently as a single silent tear fell onto his skin. "It's going to be alright, Hermione," he whispered. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Why hadn't she opted to take her N.E.W.T.s from home again?
Knowing it was too late to back out now, she straightened herself, quickly wiping away the evidence of her getting emotional in such a public setting. "Right. Well, Ginny and I best be getting on the train." Ron nodded, unsure of how to say goodbye to her now. "Yeah," he whispered. The ground suddenly became extremely interesting. Hermione understood completely.
Once she turned to say goodbye to Harry, she too had to look away. Watching her honorary brother openly snogging Ginny wasn't exactly a comfortable sight to witness. She felt like she was intruding on an extremely private moment. Which would have been completely true if they weren't in the middle of platform 9 3/4.
As Hermione scanned the surroundings, trying to find literally anywhere else to look, she spotted a patch of white-blonde hair in the crowd. Donned in his usual pristine black suit, Malfoy stiffly stood next to a pillar, nearly invisible to everyone around him with his hands shoved in his pockets. His face was devoid of emotion as he blankly stared at the train, but his shoulders seemed quite rigid. Squared, even, she would say. His posture indicated he were about to head into some form of confrontation. What was he up to?
"Hermione," Harry said gently. She jumped, having been caught staring. Her face burned with embarrassment. "Yes?"
"Try not to get into too much trouble without us, okay?"
Hermione and Ginny both snorted at that one. "Don't worry, Harry," Hermione assured him. "I think I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime."
As soon as the boys turned to leave from the platform, Malfoy had already disappeared. Hermione's mouth turned downward into a thoughtful frown. What is with him? There's no way he would be up to something this year... right?
Great. Now I'm starting to sound like Harry, Hermione thought.