CHAPTER 2
WHEN I GROW UP
"On the seventh day I rest for a minute or two, then back on my feet to call for you."
When the blackness of apparition released her, Hermione found herself standing in the dark, rain sodden courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron, reeling a little. She hastily threw herself underneath the building's eaves in an attempt to stay dry but the rain was pounding so heavily on the flagstones in front of her that she was quickly drenched. Yet though her feet had brought her to a cover that was so inadequate, she found she could not move.
In that moment, it seemed impossible to do so and she realised that a change was manifesting in her mind and in her body that demanded a moment of her time.
It was as if a huge, wet blanket were being lifted off of her emotional body. Suddenly, the painfully quiet numbness and confusion she had fallen into over the past few months were entirely gone and her emotions, spawning from not only the memories of the war but also the disintegration of her relationships with Ron and, to a lesser extent, Harry and Ginny, were like an open wound, bleeding copiously, burning with agonising freshness.
This sudden onslaught was so thoroughly unexpected and confronting that it was almost a living entity, a monolithic, dark figure looming in front of her, rushing towards her with all the speed of an oncoming train, unstoppable and ferocious.
And Hermione could do nothing but stand in a kind of awe as she observed its imminence. Her mind barely had a moment to question this thing, barely had a second to understand where it had been before this very moment, and why this setting, the rain, the Leaky Cauldron, had brought about the ideal opportunity for its attack.
What had really changed?
Everything this thing represented had been present in her life for some time, so why now? What had happened?
Then, the demon embraced her.
For a few moments, the intensity of her feeling was almost as suffocating as apparition. There was no breath in her body, her chest was tight with grief, the full force of her fear and despair were pounding down on her from above, physically causing her body to bow and constrict until she was crouched, and hugging her knees on the wet and dirty flagstones. The physical effect of it was almost comparable to a panic attack, but somehow it tasted different because the fear itself was lacking. This sensation was pure emotion, and so many that they were almost impossible to distinguish from one another, but fear and panic were certainly not among them.
And then, like thick smoke dispersing in a soft but persistent wind, the demon released her and she stood.
It seemed as if the air flowing in and out of her lungs in deep gasps was somehow cleaner, colder, more refreshing than any she had been breathing before.
Yes, the enormous wave of feeling had passed, but Hermione remained entirely altered from the woman she had been at the Burrow. There was something new happening within her. The numbness was not returning. Though the initial wave of emotion had now cascaded over her she realised that those feelings were still very much flowing, like a burst dam returning a river to its native course.
Notably bewildered and confused, shaking and feeling weak, Hermione gathered herself and rushed into the warm, busy noise of the Leaky Cauldron to book herself a room.
It took several days for Hermione to stop reeling from what she had felt upon her arrival, the experience had left her feeling weak and shaky. Still, she had waited for the old numbness and anxiety to return, but it didn't. She found it exhausting to be so thoroughly present with her emotions all the time, present to the dysfunctional obsessive thinking about Ron and the pain of his distance and indifference that had set in over the past days. Numbness, though it was heavy and kept her foggy, was certainly easier than this sudden onslaught of total awareness and feeling. It was hard not to write to him, hard not to return to the Burrow to initiate some sort of reconciliation. It took up all of her focus.
The obsession had crept up on her so quietly that it took her entirely by surprise. It hadn't occurred to her before she'd left that there'd be this particular kind of fallout.
Many times during her stay at the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione paced her room alone and spoke aloud as if Ron were there, rehearsing all of the things she wanted to say to him that she had felt too numb or too frightened to voice before. It struck her often how crazy this behaviour must be, but it was the only thing that kept her sane. Every waking moment she thought about Ron, every moment she wanted to return to the Burrow to initiate something, she didn't know what, just something that would mean that she didn't have to go through what she was experiencing now.
What stopped her from actually going through with that plan was the constant terror that Ron would reject her in exactly the same way he had been rejecting her every day for the past months. If she could only be sure that he would talk to her, yell at her, hug her, cry at her, whatever, if she could only be sure that he would react then she might have gone through with it. Unfortunately it felt far more likely that Ron would treat her return with nothing more than cold indifference, just as he had treated her departure.
It was an exhaustive process, being unable to satisfy her yearning for contact only because of her fear of it, like she was being pulled painfully in two separate directions.
Hermione felt sure that the mess she saw in the mirror every day was the same mess others saw when they looked at her when she went down into the pub for dinner or to pay for another night's lodgings. She wasn't messy in the sense that she was crying and screaming, curled into a ball unable to move, crippled by depression; she was messy in that she didn't know what to do with herself, couldn't sit still, couldn't keep her mind still, and felt like every moment her whole being was crawling, mind and body. Somehow that sort of messy felt so much realer, so much more insane than anything else.
Because of this, the week she spent at the Leaky Cauldron before McGonagall was able to find her suitable accommodation was difficult and fraught with the constant tension Hermione found herself embodying every day.
She could only try to convince herself that once she was set up in a place of her own, away from other people, everything would even out, she would have the opportunity to begin to feel ok again. So, when the day came for her to inspect her prospective new home, she felt nothing but relief.
McGonagall met her that sunny autumn morning at the top of Diagon Alley so that the two of them might see the flat together. As Hermione approached, she felt her Headmistress's eyes scrutinising her.
"Hermione," said McGonagall by way of greeting.
"Professor," Hermione smiled in response.
"How are you?"
There was an uncomfortable pause between this question and her response as she tried to decide the best way to reply to a query with so many varying answers.
"I'm alright," was the somewhat anticlimactic response she chose, accompanied by a strained smile. Seeing someone familiar made her feel like her insides were quivering.
McGonagall nodded curtly. "I can imagine. Well, shall we?" she gestured down the street.
"Are we not apparating?" Hermione asked bemusedly.
"There will be no need for that," answered McGonagall, "I have found you a flat above Flourish and Blotts, I felt it would suit better. And to be frank I did not like the idea of your being isolated somewhere unfamiliar to you."
Hermione felt a different kind of quivering, a thrill of happiness, and thanked her Headmistress profusely. She could barely believe her good fortune at being able to live surrounded by books, those things that she loved so thoroughly. It was a welcome break from her obsessive thinking.
McGonagall smiled good naturedly at Hermione's enthusiastic gratitude. "Let's not get too ahead of ourselves shall we? We must first determine that the place is not in total disrepair."
Hermione felt she would hardly care if it was.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they began to walk at a gentle pace down the busy street. Hermione's gaze explored the scene thoroughly as she had not had the courage to venture there during her stay at the Leaky Cauldron. She was struck by the strangeness of it all, how different Diagon Alley was to what it had been the last time she had set foot there when many of the shops had been boarded up and witches and wizards had been slumped in their doorways, begging for wands. That incarnation of the usually busy and bright street had felt ruthless and terrifying.
Sometimes, Hermione had awful premonitions of what the world might have been like if they hadn't defeated Voldemort. And the image of Diagon Alley the last time she had been there, dark, unsafe, and unforgiving, always preceded them. She couldn't possibly imagine what actually living in a world that was so constantly and thoroughly terrifying, controlled, and cold would be like in its reality. During the war, there had been something to fight for, no one was winning or losing, the sole focus was entirely on the battle they waged for their rights and for their lives. But if they'd lost, if Harry had died, Voldemort's ideals of darkness and control would have stretched across decades, across generations. She had found it hard enough fighting that darkness, but imagine living in it?
The thought frightened her even now that the war was won. Voldemort stood for all the most evil things in the world, war, murder, rape, indoctrination, and hatred; and for that she ultimately pitied him. Like any human being who had been turned down a path of anger and pain, like any drug addict, like any man who hit his wife or any mother that neglected her children, the Dark Lord was ultimately brought up by a system that let him down. The fact was that the system, their society, had perfectly created the circumstances to foster such intense hatred in a child. Thomas Moore had once said, "If you suffer your people to be ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and then punish them."
When the very rights of every man, woman, and child are placed beneath the priority of money and the values and traditions any society holds to be important, then of course human suffering will be the result.
The underlying problem was that the same society, laws, and traditions that created Voldemort were the very same that were bringing up every other child alive, and this is what made Hermione frightened. Of course, not every child who was a result of abuse and neglect was destined for evil, Harry was a prime example, but was it worth the risk to simply trust in the established system?
Kingsley Shacklebolt may be Minister now, he might have a higher level of approval and likeability from the public, he may be stronger and smarter than Cornelius Fudge; he may be kinder and possess far more humility than Rufus Scrimgeour, but he simply wasn't the system, he was only its figurehead. Could they really be sure that every member of the Wizengammot, every single person who worked at the Ministry, people who had actively sought their positions of power, would be held accountable for their own moral standards? The answer was no. Any kind of bureaucracy that would willingly employ people like Lucius Malfoy and Dolores Umbridge was already sick no matter who headed it.
Hermione knew that history would only repeat itself until humanity learnt the lessons provided to them. She also knew that defence was not the answer, tighter laws, fewer options, more regimented control over the wizarding polulation, these were all things that would only compound the problem. No, the answer was kindness, understanding, and wisdom, from a government that ultimately embodied love rather than power. But where could that be found?
She mentally shook herself. These thoughts did not go anywhere. She might have some vague idea of what the wizarding world needed to heal itself but no real ability to implement it. Thus, worrying about it only served to stress her.
What was it to her today anyway? This autumn day, walking down a relatively healed Diagon Alley next to a mentor she admired whom had her best interests at heart, going to see a flat that was in such a wonderfully perfect location Hermione could hardly prevent herself from running towards it. Perhaps it would be better for her to simply be present in that moment, when she was surrounded by things to be happy about, even if the thought of Ron and her trauma were still niggling at the very back of her mind. The larger issues of the wizarding world always paled in comparison to her own concerns if she were honest with herself. She knew that this probably meant she was a rather selfish person, but the truth was the truth.
Hermione made a conscious choice then to simply be and take in what was around her, regardless of whether or not that made her selfish.
They passed Eyelops Owl Emporium and the body of sound it emitted of screeches and squawks and scuffling. She reminded herself to buy an owl when the opportunity arose. They passed a witch with a beautifully elaborate tree tattooed up her arm. Hermione avoided a puddle of frogspawn congealing on the cobblestones as they walked past the apothecary. She smiled at the loud sign of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes poking up over the roof of Ollivanders, ignoring the twinge of sadness and regret it produced in her heart. Her eyes caught sight of Draco Malfoy exiting Quality Quidditch Supplies examining a sheet of parchment held in his hand.
Wait.
Draco Malfoy?
Hermione was so shocked at his presence in Diagon Alley, or in fact his presence anywhere other than Azkaban, she stopped walking abruptly, causing McGonagall to pause a few paces ahead and look at her inquiringly.
"Hermione?"
She did not answer, entirely because she was so thoroughly overcome by her own shock and incredulity. She was looking at a known Death Eater, someone who had the Dark Mark on his arm, who had knowingly chosen to do Voldemort's bidding, who had adopted his puritanical view of the world; and he had been allowed to walk free? Hermione knew that his family's fortune had saved his parents incarceration from being splashed across the papers but it certainly hadn't prevented their imprisonment. So how was he here? In broad daylight? Doing, of all things, his shopping?
In the intervening moments, McGonagall it seemed had followed Hermione's gaze.
"Hermione..." she said again her voice so stern and full of warning it almost made Hermione cower from her.
This barely concealed reprimand confused Hermione almost as much as seeing Malfoy free. Shouldn't McGonagall be just as shocked and angered?
Before she could respond however a familiar, jovial voice cried out behind them both.
"Ah! Headmistress! Doing some last minute shopping?"
"Professor Slughorn," said McGonagall turning her attention to him and smiling. "Hermione and I were just going to view her new home."
"Oho! Miss Granger!" cried Slughorn delightedly and Hermione flicked him a quick smile, her attention remaining on Malfoy who was still standing a few metres from them staring at the sheet of parchment in his hand.
At the sound of her name shouted so loudly however he lifted his head and caught her eye. Hermione scowled and, fully expecting him to return her venomous look with an expression of smugness or condescension, was shocked to see that upon catching sight of her he looked nothing short of panicked.
Hermione barely had a moment to register this before he dashed quickly into the crowd and disappeared from view. He had fled from her presence.
"Returning to Hogwarts this year I hope, Miss Granger?" asked Slughorn good-naturedly, oblivious to her preoccupation, and Hermione was forced to give him her attention.
"Yes," she answered with a tight smile.
"Good, good," he boomed, "Naturally, I will be throwing the occasional soiree in my quarters as usual. Just a few select students. I hope to include you on my guest list?"
"Yes, of course sir," Hermione replied automatically.
The older man smiled down at her fondly and, after exchanging a few last minute pleasantries with McGonagall, left them to their business.
The two of them continued walking in silence, Hermione's mind churning with thoughts of Malfoy and Death Eaters and the war. She wanted to express her feelings of indignance and confusion to McGonagall but after the older woman's sternness, felt too uncomfortable to do so. The energy between them had become tense and strained.
Soon enough they reached Flourish and Blotts. Hermione stared into the recesses of the dark, familiar shop in front of her, then cast her eyes upwards. There was a small balcony jutting out over the street.
"I assume that must be the flat," said McGonagall, following her gaze.
They entered the shop together, the aura of the place wrapping itself around her like a hug, and found herself immediately confronted with Mr Flourish as he seemed to materialise suddenly behind the counter.
"Hogwarts, eh? Year?" he barked through his handlebar moustache.
"Seventh, but-" she began.
"Right. Well I've got a copy of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 7 right here, but I'll have to get the others from the back," he said and made to retreat through a door in the back of the shop.
"Mr Flourish, I believe you were expecting us," said McGonagall briskly, appearing behind Hermione.
"Oh yes! Yes!" He hurried around the counter and grasped Hermione's hand in both of his. "Such a pleasure! My, I didn't even recognise you! Such a pleasure to have you here!"
Hermione laughed nervously. "Thank you Mr Flourish, really, I couldn't be more grateful, I-"
He waved her off and began to hobble towards the back door. "Don't give it another thought. Now follow me, follow me. It's just through here."
He led her through the door and into a vast room full of books and boxes. She inhaled the familiar scent of fresh parchment and couldn't help but smile, all thoughts of Malfoy and the war temporarily driven from her mind as excited anticipation beat in her chest. This was certainly her place.
They picked their way through towering piles of literature towards the back of the storeroom where there could be found a small spiral staircase that led to the floor above, which Mr Flourish began to climb with Hermione and the Headmistress in tow. The shiny red paint that covered it, flaked off in their hands.
"I remember the first time you came in here, I do," the shop keeper began to ramble over his shoulder, "Always took great pleasure in books. Tells you a lot about a person, I think. Young people are too careless about books these days. Sad, very sad. But not you! I think you'll be plenty happy here. Of course, I'm happy to have you, after all you've done. Wouldn't be here if it weren't for you and your friends."
Hermione felt her stomach clench but tried to ignore the sensation. She always found it hard when others tried to praise her efforts in the war, she didn't know why. The praise was difficult to respond to, she never knew what to say and usually chose to remain silent, as she did in this instance, which made her even more uncomfortable.
At the top of the red and flaking spiral stairs, they came out on a dark little landing, lit by a single candle in a votive on the wall, with nothing on it but a door. Mr Flourish produced a great set of keys from the folds of his robes and opened the door with a heave.
Hermione and McGonagall followed him into the dusty and dimly lit flat and already the potential of it leapt out from every corner despite its neglected appearance.
A set of old wooden double doors led from the lounge room onto the balcony they had seen from the street, hidden by heavy, dark green curtains that blocked out all but the merest slivers of light. The room itself was small but with a deliciously high, slanted ceiling and faded wooden floor boards. A large, old couch sat by the wall like a cat reclining after a large meal, with a weather beaten wooden coffee table in front of it. The floor was swathed in an impossibly huge Persian rug, threadbare in places and covered in patterns that gave the room a regal, sophisticated air. Hermione had always coveted Persian rugs. By far the best feature of the room however was the vast wooden bookshelf that spanned the entirety of the opposite wall, hugging a small, blackened fireplace. Hermione shivered in excitement as she went over to run her hands over the dark, stained wood and Mr Flourish it seemed couldn't help but notice her enthusiasm.
"I'll warrant it won't take you long to fill that up eh?" he said and she grinned in response, resisting the urge to jump up and down in excitement. "This here's the living area," he went on, "the front door's a bit dodgy, you've gotta give it a bit of a heave to get it open. The kitchen's just here."
Hermione followed his gesture and made her way through into the cooking area as McGonagall poked her head around the entryway to see for herself.
"This may need work," said the Headmistress doubtfully.
But Hermione shook her head, grinning from ear to ear, "No, just a clean. It's perfect. It's all perfect."
The tiles that spanned the floor were a rich, dark blue, dulled by dust, some cracked and loose. The cupboards under and above the small bench top all looked at risk of falling off at any moment, and the sink was dusty and scratched. In the corner sat more shelves and a modest pantry, all in all it was not a room blessed with space, but it suited Hermione's needs and tastes perfectly. A small window with a chipped frame that looked out over London sat on the wall opposite the entryway. Hermione wandered over to it, staring out into the busy street, bustling with muggles. She felt as if she were on the cusp between the wizarding world and the muggle one, with her balcony looking out over Diagon alley and her kitchen looking out to London. It felt right to her, like that was just where she belonged.
"Well I'm glad you like it," said Mr Flourish, snapping her out of her contemplation of the kitchen, "It's been mighty hard to find tenants for this place."
Hermione couldn't imagine anyone who would not love such a wonderful, character filled space.
"Oh really? Why?"
The shopkeeper cast a wary eye at McGonagall before he spoke. "It's right on the dividing line, see? You can hear it, makes a bit of a buzzing noise. It's from the enchantments that keep Diagon Alley hidden from the muggles."
Hermione stopped and listened for a moment and indeed she could hear and feel a faint buzzing, but it felt soothing if anything, like a rotating fan in summer that stayed on all night simply because the silence if one turned it off would be too jarring. Hermione had always liked to sleep with a fan on when she lived at home.
"Does the buzzing bother people?" she asked curiously.
"Oh no. It's not the buzzing. Most folk are suspicious you see? They think it's bad luck to sleep on a dividing line. Like having one foot in and one foot out. Not that an educated person believes in that sort of nonsense."
Hermione laughed. She wasn't generally suspicious and the wizarding world had many eccentricities that she found silly so she wasn't entirely bothered by this information. McGonagall however seemed slightly annoyed by the conversation and just as Hermione was going to question the subject further, the Headmistress cut her off somewhat sharply.
"May we see the bedroom, Mr Flourish?"
"Of course, Headmistress," said the shopkeeper, sounding strangely embarrassed or frightened, Hermione could not tell which. On the whole however, the short exchange on the subject had piqued her interest. She would read up on Dividing Lines when she could.
Mr Flourish gestured for them to follow him again. "The bedroom is through here."
He led them out of the kitchen and through a tiny hallway leading off the living area to the only other room in the flat. The ceiling in here was also high and slanted and large picture window sat on the wall opposite the door, this too shrouded in heavy, dark green curtain, looking out to Diagon Alley. The room was mostly taken up by a large four poster bed and an ornate wooden wardrobe and nightstands to match. She discovered that a door in the corner led to a small but equally charming bathroom, bedecked with the same rich blue tiles.
After inspecting the room thoroughly, Hermione turned to Mr Flourish, looking hopeful and enthusiastic, and McGonagall, looking doubtful and sceptical.
"I love it," she said simply.
McGonagall made to speak but before she could, a large orange blur leapt out from under the bed and tried to claw its way up Hermione's leg.
The squeal that followed was one of pain and delight. "Crookshanks!"
Mr Flourish laughed, "Oh yes! I'd forgotten all about him! Arthur Weasley dropped him off here not an hour before you arrived."
Hermione must have looked confused as she scooped her cat up into her arms.
"I have been in correspondence with the Weasleys regarding your situation," McGonagall told her, "I did not want to cause them unnecessary worry."
Nodding uncomfortably, Hermione felt that she did not want to begin to contemplate what that may imply, specifically whether Ron now knew where she was or if he would try to come and see her.
The three of them, Crookshanks in tow, made their way back out into the living area.
"So, home sweet home!" the shopkeeper said happily, "You won't want for much, but you might have to buy your own cooking things. Other than that," he pulled off two keys from his huge set and dropped them into her hand, "There you go, this one opens your door and the big one opens the front door of the shop."
"Is there an apparition point set up on the landing?" McGonagall asked, her tone business like.
Mr Flourish looked embarrassed, "Ah, no. I wasn't too sure how to go about doing that…"
"We will have someone from the Ministry come out to take care of it," the Headmistress said. "Now, as to rent…"
The shopkeeper cut her off, "There'll be no need to talk about that just yet," he turned to Hermione, "once you're back at Hogwarts and settled into your classes, you can work weekends down in the shop. But you get yourself comfortable first, then we'll talk about it proper."
"That's very kind of you Mr Flourish, thank you!" said Hermione breathlessly, happy at the thought of working in her favourite bookshop, but also glad to have a rest before she was required to do so.
The shopkeeper waved off her praise, said a hurried goodbye to Professor McGonagall before hobbling out the door and closing it behind him.
Her Headmistress turned to Hermione wearing a formidably serious expression.
"You needn't stay here if you do not want to, Miss Granger."
"No, I do really like it, Professor!" Hermione assured her.
McGonagall nodded curtly. "Would you like help making it… habitable?"
Hermione shook her head, "No, thanks Professor. I'm looking forward to doing it on my own to be honest."
"And your belongings? Do you require assistance collecting your things from the Burrow?"
Again, Hermione shook her head. She patted the old and tattered beaded bag that hung at her hip. "It's all in here."
"Well then," said McGonagall with an air of finality, "If you can think of no more use for me then I shall return to Hogwarts and I will see you within the fortnight at the start of year feast."
The Headmistress made to let herself out but after a moment's hesitation turned back to Hermione and laid a hand on her arm. "Do write to me if you feel in any way unhappy or lacking… I am here to help," said McGonagall, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.
Hermione could do no more than nod and smile gratefully as McGonagall let herself out.
The front door closed with an air of significance. In the silence that followed, she felt grateful for the hum of the dividing line, it made that silence less complete or threatening. For just a moment she felt suddenly frightened of this unfamiliar place, though she had fallen so in love with it at first sight. The dark and the dust now began to feel ominous, lonely, and neglected.
She walked over to the double doors and threw open the curtains, bathing the room in golden, afternoon sunlight. The warmth of the light made her feel marginally better. The afternoon was pleasantly warm so she opened the balcony door wide followed by the kitchen window.
Hermione found herself casting her eyes around, suddenly lost for what to do, where to begin, and almost overcome with a wave of lethargy.
Crookshanks slunk of out her bedroom, meowed imperiously, and bounded onto the couch. Hermione took off her beaded bag, laid it with a loud clunk on the coffee table, and cast a quick 'tergio' to clear the fabric of excess dust and dirt. Then, she joined him, allowing the soft, voluptuous pillows of the couch to hug her body. She felt thankful for the sound of Crookshanks purring, the hum of the dividing line, the throb of traffic drifting through her kitchen window, and the chatter of witches and wizards through the balcony door. It all combined to be just loud enough to make her feel less alone.
Without intention, she soon fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.
Hermione awoke later that night to the smell of rain on asphalt. Upon inspection, her watch told her it was eight o'clock.
For a moment she could not remember where she was, the room was dark and cold and the noises coming from the streets bellow, once so comforting now felt alien to her sleep addled mind. At the Burrow, all that could be heard at night was the wind in the trees, the owls hooting dolefully, and the soft chirping of insects. In her new home she could hear many distant voices mixed with occasional burst of laughter, as if there were a restaurant or bar nearby, the traffic, the buzz of the dividing line.
Hermione groped in the pocket of her robes for her wand and muttered a quiet, "lumos."
The darkness scattered before the eerie blue light cast by her wand which she set down on the coffee table beside her.
She stretched slowly, her mind moving sluggishly from sleep to wakefulness. With it unfortunately came the dream she had been having.
Less a dream than a memory, really. Since the war Hermione had noticed that this often happened. Where once her dreams had spanned the gamut of what could be considered normal content, odd and irrelevant, they now consisted mostly of memories, experiences she had had over the course of her life. In her dreams, she relived her past. This was rarely a happy occurrence for now even her most pleasant memories were tinged with sadness.
This dream had been, like so many others, about Ron, about a night they had spent together many months ago after the war but before he had changed.
It had been hot that night, the air slightly heavy with humidity. Unable to sleep, Ron and Hermione had gone for a walk in the fields surrounding the house. This was a common occurrence. As the house was so full, it was hard to ever get a moment alone together. Ron and Harry shared a room just as Ginny and Hermione did. Sometimes it was necessary for the young couples to seek out more private surroundings, and the dark, windswept heat of the hills was the best they could do.
During these strolls, Ron and Hermione never did talk about the war, or the hunt for the Horcruxes. Even then Ron seemed to feel as if there were not much to say on the subject, it had been so thoroughly dissected and recounted already. Hermione felt the opposite, like there was so much she wanted to say about how she felt that she didn't know where to begin.
The lights and colours of the final battle still fizzed through her mind like sparklers when she was sleeping.
Consequentially, they walked in silence that night, occasionally breaking it to banter playfully, as they so often did. But the discomfort Hermione felt at that silence was minor, overall she felt happy to simply be with Ron, to feel his skin on hers as they held hands.
"You know Harry and Ginny are most likely copulating in your bed right now?" Hermione had said with a quiet laugh as they crested a small hill.
Ron snorted, "Bloody hell, Hermione, don't sugar coat it or anything. I was trying not to think about it!"
Hermione giggled, "Yeah well, it's not like you and I wouldn't take that chance if we had it. Maybe I should convince Ginny to bring Harry out for a moonlit stroll sometime?"
Ron shrugged, "Nah, it's our thing," he gave her hand a light squeeze, "It'll be good when we've got our own place though."
"What makes you say that?" she giggled, playing dumb.
He grinned cheekily, "Well I reckon you'd make a really good housewife, and you're not exactly reaching your fullest potential here in that area."
He flinched even before she had raised her fist to punch his arm playfully.
"Ronald! I am not a housewife!"
"Ow!" he laughed and rubbed the tender spot where she had hit him, "You're getting bloody good at that, I don't know whether to be proud or scared!"
"Scared, I think. Anyway, I've been practicing. How else will I keep my househusband in line? What colour do you want your apron, dear? Magenta or lilac?"
Ron chuckled, took her hand again and drew them both to a standstill. Together they stared out at the rolling, moonlit hills. She felt giddy with the romance of it all.
He turned his face into her hair and said quietly, "Love you."
She looked at him. He didn't often say that to her. "I wasn't expecting that."
He shrugged and smiled.
"I love you too Ron," she told him.
Hermione tightened her arms around him and pulled him into a kiss.
The fact that he responded didn't shock her back then, the fact that she could feel his smile and his stubble on her cheeks, it wasn't a surprise. When they'd lay down together in the grass, when their hands would scatter across each other's bodies, not quite sure what to do but sure that their hands were entirely necessary, when they were joking and laughing and entwined through their heavy breaths, none of it felt wrong or out of the ordinary. It just seemed as if that was the way it should be, that after all they'd been through of course they could have that easy, giggling contentedness to hold them afterward.
There were no insecurities to cloud Hermione's mind, to make her afraid or angry or ashamed. She just felt loved.
To feel that way, to be so totally sure of it all, then to suddenly find that Ron, to whom she had given all of her trust, could no longer muster even an expression of concern when she was going to leave him felt totally beyond the limits of her endurance.
Lying on an unfamiliar couch, in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by cold, blue wand light, Hermione suddenly felt, for a few moments, that she couldn't possibly bear it. More than anything she hated that the memory of his hands and his kisses had made her body respond, that she was lying there in that unfamiliar place feeling discarded and alone and aroused.
Hermione sat up and pushed it all away, shoved it deep into her mind where she didn't have to look at it. She felt that there was no point, no purpose to feeling so horrible. She was exhausted by it.
With a wave of her wand, the lanterns around her flat were lit and this marginally improved the lonely feeling that had seeped into her. The candlelight was roseate and warm. It also served to remind her of how much needed to be done before she could really go to bed. Though the inviting light of the lanterns made the flat feel more human, more hospitable, it also threw into focus the heavy layer of dust that blanketed everything.
Over the proceeding forty-five minutes, Hermione must have cast tergio at least twice as many times. Though it was not a spell in her arsenal she felt particularly attached to, she felt slightly proud that by the end of her whirlwind clean through her new flat, she was noticeably better at it. Once everything from the floors to the ceiling, her bed, her bathroom, her kitchen cabinets, and her fireplace had been thoroughly cleaned and purged of all dust, grime, dirt, spider webs and mould, she felt elated that she could finally begin the part to which she had been most looking forward.
Feeling significantly better, Hermione sat down on her couch and drew her beaded bag towards her. It took her well over two hours to relieve it of its contents, but once she had, the flat felt more like home that the Burrow had ever done. There when the small ceramic green elephant had sat on Ginny's desk, it had looked like it was placed there temporarily, complacently, but as it sat on the nightstand next to Hermione's bed in her flat, it simply looked at home. The same could be said for the small crystal hanging from her kitchen window, the addition of her shampoo, conditioner and soap to the shower, the many, many books that now adorned her expansive, though nowhere near full, bookshelf.
As Hermione began to get down to the last few items at the bottom of her beaded bag, a familiar tapping sounded from her balcony doors. Looking around, she saw a handsome screech owl sat outside with a letter tied to its leg. She stood up bemusedly, let it in, and relieved it of its burden before it shot back off into the night.
She sat down on her couch and unfurled the parchment.
Hey Hermione,
Dad told me where to find you.
I was wondering if we could have dinner? You're only just around the corner now and I wouldn't mind the company.
Let me know,
George
Hermione stared at the page in her hand in bewilderment. George and she had never been particularly close and he had always seemed so closed off when he had been around the Burrow, it had looked like company was something he purposefully avoided, let alone desired. She felt touched that he'd reached out however, as much as she felt confused by it. She also felt frightened of spending time with him, he was Ron's brother after all, and he was a connection to the source of her heartbreak. That was both terrifying and hugely tempting.
Hermione pushed the thoughts and the letter away to be dealt with later and turned her attention back to her beaded bag. Reaching her arms in she pulled from its depths, with much grunting and straining, an old and shabby record player, complete with an equally shabby and ancient gramophone. These objects were closely followed by a wooden crate she knew to be filled with records.
These items had been sitting at the bottom of her beaded bag for a very long time. The silence at the Burrow had felt so complete, so heavy that it was almost as if putting music on would have been a thoroughly unwelcome nuisance. It would have sounded sharp and jarring at the Burrow.
These were not the only reasons for keeping the record player hidden away however. The records, the gramophone and the player itself had all been the only items Hermione had inherited upon the death of Remus Lupin. This in itself was strange as it seemed only logical that Hermione would get his defence books, but those went to Harry. Perhaps Lupin had thought she had enough books, perhaps what he thought she needed was more music in her life.
However Hermione had never tried to use it, had not even wrenched open the crate and perused the records. It seemed unlikely that Lupin would have anything she would like. She had never really grown to enjoy wizarding music, she didn't know why. And being at Hogwarts, that was all she really had access to. The only music she had been exposed to had been that which her parents had played her as she was growing up on school holidays.
Hermione purged her beaded bag of its remaining contents before turning to the records. With little else to do she pried open the crate and tipped it onto the floor. The sleeves slipped and slid across the Persian rug.
As her eyes raked over the titles she could see, she found herself immediately surprised and delighted for most of the records bore labels she recognised, and consisted of very little wizarding music. There was Beethoven and Billy Holiday, PJ Harvey and Air, Tchaikovsky and Bob Marley. There was a record that boasted two hours of Mongolian throat singing, and another that consisted entirely of flamenco guitar favourites. Hermione found as she flicked through the pile, that there was no record that did not enchant and excite her. She wanted to listen to them all at once and felt in that moment a huge and overwhelming sense of gratitude that Lupin had given her this gift, almost as if he knew that one day she would find herself alone and in need of comfort.
As she reached the bottom of the pile, Hermione came across a record that was more familiar to her than any other. Her heart gave an extra hard thud in her chest. She picked it up reverentially, slid the disk out of its slip, put it onto the record player and placed the needle on the outer ring.
"I need an easy friend,
I do, with an ear to lend,
I do think you fit this shoe,
I do, but do you have a clue?"
The music filled her space exquisitely and she felt a shiver thrill through her body as suddenly, her flat seemed to glow with a new light. Where before everything had seemed grey and empty despite all the cleaning and unpacking she had done, it now felt alight and alive. Hermione began to sway with the music, still staring down at the empty cover in her hands. Nirvana: Unplugged in New York. Her dad had been there for that concert, he had flown over to America while Hermione was at Hogwarts, he'd told her all about it when she came home for the holidays, he'd played her the CD over and over and sang along. He'd had such light in his eyes as he'd recounted the memory, he'd seemed so elated.
When he got back, she'd give him the record. It would be a homecoming gift. He didn't have it in vinyl. He'd like that.
Hermione stopped swaying.
When he got back.
But he wasn't getting back. Not unless she went to get him. Not unless she undid the memory charm she'd placed on him a year a half ago. Did Wendel Wilkins even like Nirvana? He didn't sound like he did, he sounded like the kind of man who listened to BBC radio 4 and went golfing on the weekends. He sounded like the kind of man who covered up his tattooed arms and brushed them off as foolish decisions made in his youth. What if he'd had his tattoos removed? She'd always liked that her dad was a tattooed dentist. What if now he was just a dentist?
What if her mum had removed her tragus piercing and thrown out all her old books on women's lib? What if she'd stopped going to art galleries and started going to medical conventions? What if she didn't like mushrooms anymore? What if she stopped trying to force Hermione to eat them?
What if they weren't them anymore? What if Hermione had botched the memory charm and erased Nina and Barry Granger forever?
She'd forgotten her rule never to think about her parents. She'd forgotten about how she'd pushed all those feelings and memories deep into the recesses of her mind. She didn't talk about her parents, she didn't think about them, she didn't feel about them.
She'd broken that rule.
Hermione pulled the needle off the record with a violent scratch. Her hands were shaking. She scooped Crookshanks up in her arms and, leaving the records scattered across her living room floor, fled to her bedroom. She climbed, fully clothed, into her four poster bed and clutched Crookshanks to her stomach. For a moment he struggled and pushed against her arms with his paws until it was as if he sensed her need for him and calmed.
Hermione's new flat might look nice in the light of the candles, it might have a nice view and she might like the blue tiles in the kitchen; but it wasn't home. It didn't have a green walled kitchen with a light scorch mark on the ceiling from when she'd accidentally left olive oil in a hot pan. It wasn't filled with the scent of her mother's shampoo and perfume. There was no glimpse of her name written in rose vines over her father's back, no laughter over her mum's obsessive cleanliness when she insisted on ironing her pyjamas, no half-finished game of trivial pursuit on the dining room table. No mum. No dad.
It was just her.
In that moment Hermione felt entirely hopeless.
She was alone, and she was going to be alone for a long time. She had a whole year at Hogwarts in front of her and for those 365 nights, she would be entirely alone in this flat. Unaccompanied, unaided, isolated. If she died, no one would know. She could lie bleeding in her bathtub for days before someone found her. No one to talk to, no one to fight with, no one to pat her hair and tell her she was beautiful and kind and clever and she would be ok. At least at the Burrow she was part of a collective feeling of grief and misery where her thoughts were occupied obsessing over her relationship with Ron and what was going on with Harry. But she had no friends anymore, it was just her.
Hermione didn't know what to do with any of that feeling. She didn't know where to put the hurt. She couldn't just sit it on her nice new bookshelf and leave it be. It was just so entirely there, all around her, within her, it was everything she was about right then, it was her whole identity.
And so for the first time in a very long time, Hermione cried the sort of tears that rolled slowly down her cheeks, soft crying, quiet crying, the kind of crying that came from a deep feeling of hopelessness and sadness and loneliness.
And that was all she could do.