Author's Note: If you look at my profile on , you will see that one of my heroes listed is my godbrother, Michael Pruss, who is amazing to me and whom I don't deserve. This story is dedicated to the memory of his brother, Tim, who died when he was eighteen years old who still has a big role in my life and the lives of everyone who loved and cared about him. When I'm feeling most alone, I talk to Tim sometimes and I know that he's listening and is with me along with my nan and granddad and pops and everyone else who has died but whom I still need. So, this is my thank you to Tim and yet another way of memorialising him. I hope you enjoy this story, which will have six chapters altogether, and will leave it good reviews.
DaenerysTargary3n
The pair of teenagers were sitting in a beautifully decorated office that had wonderful Neville Johnson furnishings, not taking any comfort whatsoever from the homely furniture as was intended by the interior decorator. They had just finished their first appointment with the psychiatrist they had decided to meet with biweekly together before they saw their individual doctors. Dr. Mecklewit was most sought after therapist in the British Isles and was a Muggle-born witch. Thankfully, the cost of their therapy was being covered by the fund that was set aside by the Ministry to aid those who had lost and suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Unknown to Hermione though, Harry had agreed with Kingsley, the new leader of the magical world, that he would pay for most of their sessions (he did try to finagle the entire amount but Kingsley and Minerva McGonagall would not have any of his negotiating). He figured that the only reason Hermione required intense contact time with a therapist was because she was his dearest friend. The least he could do was use his legacies from the Potter and Black estates to ease her suffering and burdens.
"Harry, Hermione," Mecklewit greeted them softly as she reentered her office, "sorry to have been gone for so long but I just wanted to confirm my diagnosis and treatment plan with one of my colleagues. It's standard practice here, so there's nothing to worry about."
"It's fine," Harry replied, having been the more loquacious of the two patients, "what's your prognosis for us both?"
Kyanna Mecklewit had trained all her life and endured the hazing and competition involved in a medical education but having listened and marginally comprehended what the pair of young people in front of her had suffered and undergone, she felt utterly at sea. She was at the top of her game in trauma counselling and magically integrated CBT, for despite having all the tools of magic, before she came along, her predecessors in the trade had refrained from utilising Muggle methods and developments in psychiatry.
"Well, you both have PTSD, which is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That was to be expected as an underlying and chronic condition. It is the different psychoses that have built up on top of the PTSD that I wanted to have confirmed. Would you like to discuss this privately or are you both open to me carrying on with you together?"
Hermione made the only movement in the past hour and a half in the wake of Mecklewit's question. She had spoken in bits to answer the therapist's questions and help Harry as much as she could in the narration of some of their exploits, but her dialogue was stilted and did not reveal as much to the other occupants of the office as her body language.
Her arms were closed tightly around her thinning body as though she was embracing herself or more accurately, shielding herself. She refused to make eye contact with Mecklewit and only held Harry's gaze momentarily. The young professional wondered if her female patient would have even left the house she shared co-dependently with her best friend if she had to attend sessions on her own. Her initial impression was that the girl had depended on, was wholly dedicated to and had her entire world rooted in Harry Potter.
Once Harry and Hermione had nodded their permission for her to carry on, she continued with a sigh, "Well, Harry, if I can start with you...you have acute depression and Survivor syndrome. We can prescribe you medication to help with that along with regular CBT sessions and psychotherapy. Trust me, I know that sounds bad but believe me, they are all manageable and you can recover from them."
"Thank you, doctor," Harry replied, simply content to have labels other than 'crazy' or 'weak' or 'damaged' to relate to. The fact that he might - in time - regain some semblance of what a normal life was supposed to be (not that he'd ever experienced that phenomenon) was at this juncture just a bonus.
"Hermione, as I've said already, you have PTSD but my colleague, Dr. Wendell-Cassley, agrees with my diagnoses of psychalgia, Anthropophobia and GAD, which stands for Generalised Anxiety Disorder. It is that which has caused you to lose your ability to spellcast and use magical means. The treatments for those are more comprehensive but I think it would be beneficial for you to attend CBT and counselling individually but come with Mr. Potter here. I will prescribe you some medicine but in your condition, I really must stress how important it is that you not attempt to self-medicate with potions or any other substances. You can still have a life, Hermione, there's so much you have the potential to do once you've recuperated from the past few years but in order to reach that point, you have to want to get better."
The pallid, shade of a girl who was barely listening to her words looked up at her with vacant brown eyes and whispered so quietly she could barely be heard, "I'll try."
Little two word statements. That's all Dr. Mecklewit was getting from her newest challenge. If Hermione Granger, the brightest and cleverest witch of her generation, could say what she was expected to now, she did. All the erudite language and years of study were not giving her the words or wherewithal to express her feelings aloud. The Second War had been a waste...such a waste. To have such wizarding talent all but obliterated by warfare and constant threat was more heartbreaking to Dr. Mecklewit because this time the war had taken away the futures of children, had traumatised and victimised children.
"Doctor, is there anything else you need us for? It's just that our time is up and I'm sure you have better things to do, other people to see." Harry asked, unnerved by her silence and apparent introspection.
"No, sorry," she replied, recriminating herself silently for her lack of professional comportment, "I'll be sending your prescriptions through by owl but you'll need to have them filled in a Muggle pharmacy. Somehow, the magical world hasn't yet conjured up a drug that can outdo Citalopram. I'll email reception with the requirements for your next couple of sessions and before you leave today, you can arrange times that suit you with Dante at the desk. He'll set you both up with reminder charms so you'll know when to come back. It's been an honour to meet the two of you and I look forward to seeing you towards the end of the week."
Neither said anything after that. They just nodded, shook Dr. Mecklewit's proffered hand and departed, both anxious to be home after a long stint away from Godric's Hollow.
Once they had made it back into the haven that was their shared house, Hermione went to her soft, paisley armchair and doodled away with no particular design in mind and scribble on sheaths and sheaths of parchment that she ordered in and Harry sat down at his desk to see what letters his new owl, Gorgo, had deposited on his desk. Fortunately, for him his 'fanmail' from people he had never met and now, had no desire to got redirected to the Ministry and while the school year was out, he was paying Dennis Creevey a pretty penny to be him and ensure that none of it made its way to Godric's Hollow. So, the only correspondence he had to deal with was from his friends and acquaintances.
Usually, the letters only required notes and brief replies, but today one caught Harry's eye that necessitated a more considered and lengthy answer. It was in the hand of the Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Dearest Harry,
I am sorry to interrupt your time away rebuilding your parents' house and spending time with Miss Granger. I would not be writing unless I felt it was warranted. You have done and sacrificed much for others' safety and lives and I would not hold you to blame if you had no wish to set foot in the school grounds ever again. However, as the summer is drawing to a close and we are anticipating the return of students and staff, Professor Flitwick and I are deeply concerned that the castle is not safe enough yet for full capacity and the rebuilding is taking longer than we had anticipated. The both of us and the future pupils who will attend school here would be grateful if you would be able to spare some of your time helping us to rebuild the school that trained you to use your magic. While I appreciate your need for privacy, as Headmistress, I must respect the rights of children to learn witchcraft and wizardry more and refashion Hogwarts into a place of learning not a battleground.
Ever your friend and Head of House,
Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
It was a moving request from one of the teachers he had esteemed most at school and he knew that McGonagall would not have written to him unless she truly was anxious about the new school year. As Headmistress following the term of Snape and the Carrows, she was probably just trying to keep her nerves in check and make sure she could reassure the incoming students with a complete castle and a stable school, not one that had been ravaged by Unforgivable Curses and the mass casualties produced by the notorious final battle.
"Hermione," Harry called sharply to catch her attention, turning round in his swivel chair, "I think I've got some news for you. Good news."
He added the last two words when he caught sight of her startled expression. They were a futile appendix, however, and he knew well that until Hermione knew all the facts, she would not be able to retreat from the brink of the heart attack looming on the horizon.
"I think I might go to work at Hogwarts for a few days a week...just until the summer is over. McGonagall wrote to me to say she doesn't think that the castle will be repaired sufficiently to host the new students. She needs help."
His housemate tried with all her might to process the information she had just been given but her malfunctioning brain was not letting her wrap her mind around the idea that she would have to attempt to be alone in the house without Harry. He had been cautious and had not left her alone up until now, something the therapist that morning had sensed too judging by her instructions that they travel to her practice as a pair, and with good reason because she honestly did not know if she had the fortitude to be alone, not when she had spent the last year or so in Harry's - or someone she truly trusted - constant company.
"Okay. Well then," she whimpered despite trying not to, "you had best go help. I'm just sorry I don't think I can go back to that place yet."
"I know you can't but you heard what Mecklewit said earlier. You, me, both of us, we can get better so one day maybe you'll be able to go there again, maybe even become a teacher."
Hermione scoffed, "I can't see that happening, Harry. I'm not who I was when I was there. I mean I can't even imagine a time when I'll be able to say a simple levitation charm again let alone any of the more advanced magic I knew. I will never be who I once was and I don't know that I actually want to be her again. She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and had to know that one spell that at the end of the day, when the time came would save the day. How can I live in a world where, if I let myself be like I was, when the next evil bastard with a God complex comes along I am asked to join the fight again? I'd rather live like a squib and broken than be whole and tortured by the like of Bellatrix Lestrange again. Frankly, Harry, I can't think why you of all people want to throw yourself back into all that crap. Being the hero to the students of Hogwarts...aren't you tired of that? It almost got you, me and everyone killed. Fucking hell, Harry, it got your godfather, Remus and Tonks, Fred, Colin...and so many others killed! Are you just going to keep going back until it kills you too?"
Her onslaught and outcry was expected but he was surprised that her main concern was him returning to their alma mater. She was still using her worry for him and her need to protect him to overwhelm her own pain and the fear she had for herself. What Harry Potter did not anticipate was just how full of rage she was, for Hermione never used foul language. She had always clipped both him and Ron soundly round the head when their mouths had to be washed with soap (something she used to be able to accomplish with a spell taught to her by Molly Weasley).
"That's not fair! I am trying, Hermione, I am trying so hard. I just want my first proper home - Hogwarts, if it isn't obvious - to be a good place again. It's got nothing to do with being a hero! What has that ever got me? Like you said, basically everyone I've ever loved or remotely cared about has wound up dead because of me or hates my guts, so you think it's even remotely possible in your warped, twisted mind that I want that back? I want to be normal, I'm trying to be normal and the way I see it, normal people help their friends when asked and visit their old school. I'm sorry my going is hard for you, most likely because you don't want to be alone, but it will be good for you, 'Mione and I promise I won't be gone too long. Please just don't think I want to go back to all that fighting and dying because the only person I want to need me is you because I'm only hanging on because you're here. Without you, I'm not sure I'd have been able to make it to therapy. Don't you see? We need each other and we can't snipe at each other like we've just done, because if we keep doing so, sooner or later one of us will snap and unlike all the crap we've got in our heads, we won't be able to recover from that."
Hermione heard his words, words that spoke to the damaged core of her soul in a way that no one else's could. She knew she had been unreasonable and out of order to the only person she had left.
"You're right," she whispered, approaching Harry and falling into his open arms, "I'm sorry. I'm pleased that you're getting back out into the real world and out of the house. There's no reason you shouldn't live as normally as you are able. I suppose I'm just jealous, Harry, jealous that you'll start to feel happy and like yourself before me when I might never again be the old Hermione and you'll get sick of me. Then, you'll ask me to leave and I'll have nowhere to go. I don't have people needing me anymore. They're either living their lives or have other people to lean on or leaning on them. You say you need me, Harry, but you're already making plans to have a temporary job at Hogwarts. You'll do just fine without me once you tire of having me around."
"Just stop! Stop right now! I will not just sit here listening to you say what I'm going to do and what I will do in the future, which is still uncertain. You know so much, Hermione, but you dropped out of divination, remember?"
She pulled away from her friend and looked at him through reddened eyes using her sorrowful face to coax a change of subject, "Anyway, when are you going to Hogwarts? Don't worry, I'm calm again, and I'm not going to try to stop you, it just would be nice if I could prepare myself for being alone here."
"I'll probably go tomorrow morning. I'll try and bring you back some Honeydukes chocolate. It'll make you feel better the next time." Harry told her, leading her over to the sofa where she had originally settled down.
"That would be nice," she murmured, still trying to regain her calm, "and actually I have something I would like to share with you, since we're sharing good news and such like."
Harry saw the glint of a smile that crept up and stole the limelight away from the straight-lipped expression she had worn every day lately. He briefly wondered if a recovery for her was not as far afield as she reckoned. It was definitely the first smile he had seen from her in over a week even if it still didn't reach her eyes as he remembered. That's what he prayer for to every divine being that he didn't really believe in while he waited for Hermione's grand reveal.
She reached over to the coffee table where her pieces of parchment and quills were resting. She put aside the shreds of parchment that bore her sweet little cartoons that he knew she drew to distract her from her innermost feelings of guilt, regret, sadness and overwhelming pain (physical, emotional and mental). What she handed over to her friend was reams of parchment scrolls, the sandy sheets covered with neatly aligned writing that went on and on.
"What?"
"It's what I've been doing to get my mind off everything," she interrupted, "I started writing. I read that journals can be really helpful in getting over things and trying to move on and somewhere along the ride, it just kind of turned into my, or I suppose it really is our, memoirs. I haven't finished yet and all of this only goes from when we met on the train at Hogwarts (the day my life really began) to right after The Battle of Hogwarts. I'm not really going to go into what we've been through since we moved into Godric's Hollow. It doesn't seem right somehow. I might put it in as a little epilogue but I want to get our school years right first."
"You've written about us looking for the Horcruxes?" Harry asked, stunned by how much of her writing there was and that she would include a topic so dangerous in them.
"Yes, everyone knows about them now, Harry. The Daily Prophet made it public knowledge, so I can't be blamed," she said fearfully, "but you needn't worry. I haven't said anything about how to make them or destroy them or anything that could be construed as Dark Arts Education. I was careful."
He nodded, satisfied that his learned friend would not be indiscreet. Simply, he was dying to delve deep into her secrets and how she truly felt since they met and perceived all their years together. Every other thought was currently being sidelined by the questions that being presented with her written memoirs stirred up.
"Go make yourself a cup of tea or some lunch while I read this. I can't read it properly with you staring at me like I've got a bomb strapped to my chest."
Having been dismissed but glad he was interested in what she thought, she left him to his reading. She would give him a few hours to process all that she had written and then she would reemerge.
Harry turned to the first page that bore a brief dedication and note from the writer. As he read it, he found his eyes tearing up already and hoped that she wasn't too much of a tear-jerking author, otherwise he was going to be blind by the end of the hefty tome.
These writings are my memoirs. They are for everyone who lost someone in the Second War against Tom Riddle. They have been written down so that the sacrifices of those lost will never be forgotten or unappreciated by we the survivors. I am Hermione Jean Granger, Muggle-born called Mudblood, sorted into Gryffindor, ally of the Order of the Phoenix and close friend of the Boy Who Lived. My memories are mostly of him, the hero who saved us but more the person beneath the name, beneath the mask, and so, this is dedicated to him, my best friend and the best person I know...Harry James Potter.
Just the way she had put the sentiment was moving. That she had been scribbling away at this endeavour furtively when he thought she was just doodling and jotting things down was beyond belief. He had to believe what was before him though because it was one of her many achievements and he was so proud of his friend.
He flicked through the pages, relishing her portrayal of the troll incident and body-binding Neville Longbottom before the three friends faced the obstacles to reach the Philosopher's Stone. He had been there for those events, but it was the ones that were new to him that opened his eyes. Hermione's remembrances of the time at the end of their first year when he was still comatose after Quirrell and Voldemort's attack made cathartic reading.
I sat, waiting for days for The Boy Who Lived to wake up. He had survived a fatal attack once more and although I knew he was a powerful wizard and told him so, I couldn't believe how vulnerable and young he looked. The wizarding world believed that he was a battle-worn hero even though he was only eleven years old then. I was no older myself but I knew that here was a boy with an uncaring family and the best I could be for him - I am always striving to be the best - was the best friend I could be. I could learn everything that would make him strong and protect him and keep him safe. That I have done and that was when I decided I would truly be part of the Golden Trio.
The Golden Trio...how Harry hated that name in the aftermath of that extract. Not because he resented his two comrades and friends their share of deserved glory, but because it implied that they had to be golden, not silver, not bronze, or whatever other element they had to be. Golden people are the ones who get sacrificed, who lose their wealth of knowledge and magic, as Hermione had. It was unfair of the world to make a sweet, bookish and innocent eleven year old girl strive to be part of a golden trio.
He didn't know if he could stand to read more at that time of how much of Hermione's pre-teen years were spent dedicated to sustaining his life and making sure he got hurt as little as possible. Something that did interest him, was her recollection of their third year, in particular their illegal salvation of Sirius from the Dementor's Kiss. He knew his experience as though it had only just happened, but her thirteen year old self's point of view would be educational, he was certain.
What I saw when Harry and I busted Sirius free and one very temperamental Hippogriff was wonderful. It was a glimmer of happiness in Harry's eyes and the same reflected in his godfather's. It made my heart soar. The reunion of kindred souls who should have been together over a decade ago is a beautiful sight but also a sad one...when you know that you will be ever in the shadows, always looking in at what you want. I have never begrudged Harry any of his happiness but I came perilously close to it then. Sirius was right. I was the smartest witch but smart witches don't volunteer to get their heart broken time and time again. That was the beginning of the heartbreak of Hermione Granger. I gave up a great deal that night but until I wrote down how I remembered it I had no idea. I relinquished the larger part of my heart. I was young but for a boy who would attack a teacher, fight off Dementors, my love was unconditional and unspeakable. It was also unreturned but I was glad of that. If Harry Potter never knew how he had stolen Hermione Granger's heart, she wouldn't have been able to protect him, an unspeakable consequence of my selfish feelings.
"Bloody hell!" Harry spat out, uncertain how to react to the revelation that even back when they were both thirteen, Hermione had felt something for him and sacrificed her heart so she could better protect him from the demons in the night.
She had felt then, so keenly judging by her words and the unbearable tone of sacrifice permeating her every line. That was it. He couldn't stomach any more. When he remembered rescuing Sirius and their parting when he had flattered Hermione shamelessly (but truly), all he thought was that his godfather was free and that he might have a life with the guardian his parents intended to raise their only child. He had been completely oblivious to the inner workings of his best friend's heart. He knew he didn't feel that way about her, especially in the wake of everything they had done together and survived together, but he did love her enough to regret taking her for granted and causing her to think that any amorous feelings she had were 'selfish' or unacceptable because she was meant to protect him.
"Hermione," Harry bellowed, "Hermione, get back in here now!"
She threw herself round the corner, her face panicked and flushed, "What's the matter? Are you alright? What have I done?"
He held his head in his hands at her three questions that definitely illustrated the crux of her problem. Her first concern was general, her second was for his wellbeing and her third was that she was the root of his issues. It was devastating now that he could recognise the signs that had always been there that his female best friend had forsworn feeling love in favour of a platonic relationship with him. He would get her to feel love again. Today.
Harry thrust the scrolls of parchment off his lap and onto the floor. He strided out towards Hermione, ignoring her frightened expression, and met her lips with his. A moment of surprise and a weak shove later, she became receptive and melted into his searing kiss.
"You. Are. Not. Selfish." Harry stammered between kisses.
Hermione's eyes widened, "You read our third year. You know me."
Harry kissed her more fervently, confirming that he did know her, more than anyone else could or would. She had given up her feelings for him, now it was his turn to make them both feel something together.
"You gave up your feelings for me in every sense, so now, I'm going to make you feel something, anything, 'Mione. I'm going to make you feel something visceral, primal."
"I haven't felt anything but rage in so long, Harry," she moaned, "I don't know if I can be what you need."
"You already are."
With that, he pulled her closer to him and dragged her on top of him as they bounced onto the couch. He let her be on top, unwilling to take any control away from her now. All his task was in the heat of the moment was to elicit something from his best friend that would replace - or at least, alleviate - the pain. He would be like her...he would strive to be the best. It was his turn to not let her down.
She was a quick study, making light work of both of their clothes. It seemed that when given the chance and with the right partner, Hermione was a firecracker. Gone were the signs of apathy and irresponsiveness, she was alive and vibrant. It was how she was before the Department of Mysteries and Bellatrix Lestrange's torture session.
When both of them were fully nude, Hermione stammered, "This is a one-time thing, Harry, I'm not ready for anything more than sex. I can't make myself love you the way you deserve. We can't do this with false expectations."
"I have no expectations of you in this, 'Mione. I just want you to be in the moment. Don't psychoanalyse this or work it out. Just feel it, accept it and live it."
Although his words sounded scarily like a corporate slogan, he knew neither of them would have a lifetime love the way they had expected, but he was just glad of the sensation of a physical display of love, the love years of friendship had nurtured.
As she lowered herself unashamedly onto him, drawing them both closer together, matching their emotional bond with their physical, her barrier broke but she shed no tears. She had, after all, expended all her tears on her mental agony but was not willing to part with any because she was sharing something beautiful with the best of friends.
With each thrust, there was no evidence of the tender lovemaking of paramours but instead just two damaged, hurt and war-torn soldiers finding one mutual time of pleasure to interrupt the eternal pain. This was the therapy that both needed. Both knew that by being together and each other's solace they would find their way through the maze to the other side that awaited them.