CARRY ON
Days passed and nights passed and days passed as if for the second time, because it seemed to Hermione that each day was the same as the one before it.
It had been three weeks since she'd received the Ministry's owl. The funeral had come and gone, and so had her relatives. They stayed just long enough to weep into their handkerchiefs and tell Hermione how awfully sorry they all were before climbing back into their BMWs and driving out of her life for good. Even her Aunt Vivian, who arranged the service and was Hermione's closest living relative (though "close" wasn't really the appropriate word, seeing as the funeral was the third time in her life Hermione had met the woman), seemed to disappear in a flurry of air kisses and promises of phone calls immediately after the wake. They left her alone in her house. It seemed they all thought of the precocious girl as an adult, for nobody bothered to ask whether or not she'd be alright in the house by herself.
For the first time in her life, Hermione felt like screaming "I'm not an adult! I'm just a little girl!" But nobody was there to listen. Even her best friends were absent, though at Hermione's insistence. They so badly wanted to be there for her ('And play the protective heroes,' she thought bitterly and unfairly), but she told them she'd rather they weren't. How she had regretted that stupidity as she sat on her staircase, contemplating the empty wine glasses and empty cheese trays and empty bedrooms that filled her house.
But it seems one can't stop time from steamrolling over everything, and that included Hermione's grief. Only three weeks on, it seemed that everyone expected – or desperately wanted – Hermione to become 'normal' again. To stop locking herself in her room for days at a time. To begin having real conversations, instead of barely stringing two sentences together when addressed. Harry, Ron and Ginny wanted the Old Hermione back. And Hermione tried to deliver. She really did try.
But there were some things she couldn't erase from her mind, and they simply would not leave her alone. One of them was the mind-numbing pain she had experienced on the night of the Ministry's owl, when she'd fallen through the ice and into the freezing water. She couldn't get that feeling, that cold dark shock, out of her head. It haunted her dreams and woke her in the night. She began to have cravings for coldness and darkness. Abdomen-gripping, hair-pulling cravings that no amount of cold showers should satiate. Being a person who'd always had an interest in Muggle psychology, this state of affairs both frightened and intrigued Hermione.
The other thing that wouldn't leave her head alone was the memory of the night she had met Severus Snape in the entrance hall. The look in his eyes just before she'd told him to go to hell. The strength in his arms as he'd held her against the wall. The humiliating way she'd fallen apart in front of him. The incredible guilt she felt every time she'd walked into his classroom since then. This was the man who'd saved her life. He'd reached into the freezing lake and pulled her out. Carried her to the castle. Brewed and administered several potions over the days that followed, when nobody was sure that Hermione was going to survive the hypothermia and shock. She'd discovered all this afterwards, through her discussions with Ron and Harry, and had been unable to hide her surprise.
Severus Snape saved her life. And she repaid him by telling him… God, she could hardly believe what she'd said. Of course he'd wanted to hit her for it. Who wouldn't? she thought.
These were the thoughts that ran through Hermione's mind late one mid-week evening as she made her way down to the dungeons.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know, I know. Not a whole lot of dialogue in this story yet. I promise that's changing as of the very next chapter. In fact, I think there might be QUITE a conversation. Please Read and Review! It's all very much appreciated.
