AN: This is a companion piece to "So this is the end," but it is not necessary to read both to understand one. TW for PTSD. I don't own Harry Potter.
Vices
Eleanor Rigby sits at the window,
Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door.
Who is it for?
She may be a war hero, but she feels like a coward. She's afraid of her own shadow. She wishes she hadn't come back to Hogwarts, that she'd delved into real life the way Harry and Ron had done, but she knows she has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. She may be smart, but she feels like she doesn't know all that much after all.
It's amazing how much free time she has now. She spent her whole adolescence alternatively scheming with and trying to keep Ron and Harry from getting killed. She spent a year on the run, a fugitive in more ways than one. There are still those who would see her kind destroyed—sometimes she gets hate mail, and now they screen everything for curses before distributing it to the students—but she doesn't have to worry about her survival, for the most part.
It frees up a lot of mental space, too. She's been taking trips into muggle London just to sit in a cafe and use muggle electronics to listen to muggle music. She has an Apparation license now, and Harry entrusted her with his map during her last year. She it is surprisingly easy to leave the castle on a Saturday morning and not come back until late in the evening, nobody the wiser. When she's out, she listens to music from her childhood, anything she can get her hands on—bonus if there's a strong connection to her parents, whose memory she restored but who don't want to talk to her anymore. She's got a muggle library card now, too, and she takes out CDs to play on her Walkman. She doodles in a blank journal while drinking endless amounts of black coffee. She's never been very artistic, but she needs to get the violent images out of her head. She doesn't know why they're suddenly plaguing her. They never did before. She suspects it's all that free time.
She stays up at night, perched on the windowsill of her dormitory with her knees pulled to her chest. It's just herself and Parvati now. Parvati sleeps like the dead, but Hermione has a sneaking suspicion that it comes at the cost of a Dreamless Sleep addiction. She can't bring herself to confront Parvati. Truth be told, a Dreamless Sleep addiction doesn't sound that bad most of the time.
Eventually, she puts her brain to use and figures out a way to make her Walkman work at Hogwarts. Magic tends to disrupt electronic currents, but she gets around that by replacing the batteries with some complicated spell-work. She still sneaks out of school when she can, but now she doesn't have to sit in silence when she is awake all night. Too much silence makes her anxious. Her heartbeat speeds up and she's convinced she can hear the snap of a twig or the rustle of a bush, the sure sign of an enemy just out of sight. When she finally goes to bed, she keeps her wand up her sleeve. Just in case.
She isn't the only one who doesn't sleep. She knows because she can see him from her window, a dark figure in the moonlight. Sometimes he paces the grounds. Sometimes he sits. He's usually hungover when he teaches class.
She doesn't regret saving Professor Snape, but given how miserable he always looks, she wonders if he wishes she hadn't. The idea makes her feel guilty. She's always wanted to do the right thing, but the definitive "right thing" has become more and more elusive as she's grown up. The issue of the professor's life only heightens her moral dilemma.
Professor Snape himself has said nothing to her either way. He doesn't even write scathing comments on her essays anymore, just sends them back with an O. Part of her wonders if her work is actually good or if he's just doing it because he's too tired to bother criticizing. She never raises her hand in his class, and he never calls on her.
It's November when she joins him outside. She doesn't know why she does. Perhaps she's just particularly lonely that night. She hugs her cloak to her and sits down on the steps beside him. He must know she's there, but he doesn't acknowledge her.
She watches her breath made visible in the cold air. She wonders what it would be like to be a dragon. Maybe she could fly away from her troubles. She hates being on a broomstick, and her one dragon-riding experience was hardly a joy ride, but she thinks she might like it if she could be in control.
She jumps slightly when she sees an outstretched hand in her periphery. She looks at Professor Snape, something she's done barely all semester. His hair hides his expression, but she can see his nose and chin in profile. He's offering her his bottle of firewhisky. There's something ironic about the strictest teacher in school—he isn't as fearsome now, not in the way he used to be, but she'll always think of him as such—offering her hard liquor. She's just started thinking about the year on the run, though, and the time Ron abandoned them, and their time at Malfoy Manor; so, she takes the bottle and knocks it back.
It burns. She's never had a real drink before. She was never a party girl and she hasn't exactly had the time to rebel in typical teenage fashion. She wants to gag, but she settles for a grimace as she makes herself swallow again.
The professor takes back the bottle. She feels like she should say something, but she doesn't know what. Thanks for the booze? Sorry I saved your life? Neither feels significant or appropriate, so she stays quiet.
The alcohol takes effect quickly. She feels like she isn't entirely in her body, like maybe her legs aren't really hers or like she's just residing in her body temporarily. It's an odd feeling, but she thinks she'd like to feel more of it. She isn't sure whether to be surprised or not when she holds out her hand and Snape passes her the bottle again without hesitation.
They spend the rest of the night like that, sitting in drunk silence. When the sun begins to rise, so do they. She feels calmer than she has in a long time. Her thoughts are slow enough she can actually understand them, and if she tries hard enough, maybe she can even silence them. Perhaps she'll go to bed now. She might as well. It's the weekend, after all.
They never speak of that night.