Simply A Mask

Summary: After the war, Hermione finds herself afflicted with a rather unsettling amount of melancholy and doubts about herself. Her attempts at a makeover leave everyone speechless with awe- except for the person whose opinion, she soon finds, matters to her most. A twist to the overdone 'Hermione gets a makeover' plotline. DH compliant, ignores crapilogue. Eventual HHr, but RHr and HG at first.

Chapter 2: Who Will Understand Now?

Harry grunted as he moved the monstrously heavy books from their shelves to the cardboard box lying on the carpeted floor. He was in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, cleaning out the shelves of the library for Hermione, who was arriving that same day after spending the summer with her parents.

It was rather insensitive of Harry to leave the cleaning this late, but it had only a few days since he and Ron had decided to live here at all.

The original plan had been for him, Ron and Hermione to share a flat somewhere in London, preferably one near the entrance to the Ministry, since that was where he and Ron would begin Auror training, and Hermione would begin her internship in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had wanted nothing to do with his inheritance; there were far too many painful ghosts that would haunt him at Number 12: Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks, Fred…

About 3 days before Hermione's anticipated reunion with her boys, however, as Harry was helping Ron pack, Mr. Weasley had asked him where the flat was located. Harry had shaken his head, and told the red-headed patriarch that they hasn't found one, they were looking, but expected to find one and be moved in by the end of the day. Mr. Weasley, with a small smile on his face, had then explained that getting flat was much more complicated than the boys were expecting; there were leases to negotiate and sign once a suitable apartment was found, along with the time a landlord would take in examining if they were fiscally responsible and trustworthy enough to let a flat to.

Ron had bristled, irritated that someone would find Harry and himself as untrustworthy, but Mr. Weasley had also explained that two eighteen year old boys fresh out of school would not inspire confidence in any landlord. Harry, resigned to the idea of not getting a flat, then suggest Grimmauld Place as a residence. Ron had clapped him on the back, grinning, wondering why the two of them hadn't thought of it before. Between Kreacher and the house's enchantments, they would be protected and well fed, with no worries except their work.

Harry, of course, had smiled back, but in private was quite upset at having to live in a house that had made his godfather so unhappy, and whose hallways had once been filled with the laughter of people who had died because of him. But he couldn't tell Ron this. He couldn't tell anyone this, not even Ginny, who had spent the majority of the summer before her final year at Hogwarts firmly attached to her boyfriend's side. She was leaving for Scotland in a week to return to Hogwarts, though, and she didn't want to waste anytime talking, only snogging.

Harry wiped his brow with his dust covered arm, not noticing the dirt that had smeared across his forehead. All the books had been put into boxes as he mused, and he was shocked to find all the shelves empty. He took out his wand and shrunk the boxes then carried the dozen to the cupboard that had been the home of a boggart only a few years ago. Shuddering at the memory of Mrs. Weasley's worst fear, he placed all of the shrunken boxes into the drawers. Hermione could remove them if she wished to read them.

He sat down in one of the armchairs in the library, and rested his head on his chin. He had been thinking of Hermione much more often than Ginny lately. The fact that he had woken up at seven that morning to ready the library for the bookworm had seemed like a natural enough gesture for his closest friend, but it confused him. He knew Hermione could have done it herself, and may have even preferred to, but he wanted to do something nice for her. He wanted her to feel comfortable, to think of Grimmauld place not as a place to stay but as her home, perhaps her permanent home.

Harry could not deny that as his relationship with Ginny became more and more about the physical, he was drawn more and more to the quiet intellectual nature of Hermione. That wasn't to say that he was attracted to her; no, she was pretty in her own way, soft and understated in sharp contrast to Ginny's overt and often over-emphasized sexuality. But while was all about snogging and Quidditch, Hermione understood his feelings. Hermione knew when Harry needed to talk or wanted to keep things to himself; she never pushed him to discuss things he wasn't ready to. She had always understood his moods, and would never get upset and petulant when she didn't get her way or when Harry wasn't in the mood to be with her.

It was fast becoming obvious to Harry that Hermione was more his match than Ginny, understood him more than Ginny, and that he liked her – even loved her – more than he did Ginny. But she was his best mate's girlfriend, and they loved each other. He couldn't ruin that for them, not when Ron had finally found himself outside of Harry's shadow. He had Ginny, and that would be enough.

There was a knock at the front door.

Hedwig began hooting from her perch downstairs, and the excited squeaks of Pigwidgeon completed the cacophony of noise. Hermione was arriving. Harry stuck his head out of the library door, and saw Kreacher walk into the foyer and silence the bird with treats. Ron had emerged from his usual seat in the kitchen, and stood leaning on the banister in anticipation of his girlfriend.

Harry vacated the library and started down the stairs, the butterflies in his stomach becoming more and more active with each downward step. He wanted so much to talk to Hermione, to have a decent conversation with someone who talked about more than Quidditch like Ron or gossip like Ginny. He needed someone who understood him, and Hermione had always been that person.

Kreacher opened the door, and Harry had reached the bottom of the staircase had was about to call out a greeting when the words became stuck in his throat.

Ron's mouth had fallen open, his jaw nearly hitting the floor.

Standing in the doorway was a petite brunette. Her hair was smoothed into precise ringlets that glowed with honey colored highlights, and the curls were left loose, framing her face. Her eyes glowed, the lids lightly brushed over with lavender shadow. A light blush covered her cheeks, and her mouth was a delightful shade of kissable pink. Her clothes were stylish and fit her perfectly; she was dressed in designer skinny jeans and a pair of black high heels, with a black blazer covering a white button up shirt. Light pink pearls hung about her neck and in her ears, and a Louis Vuitton purse hung off of her shoulder. In her hand was a cat carrier, in which a ginger-colored cat with a squished face looked out and mewed.

It said something – and Harry was unsure exactly what – that the only way he had recognized Hermione was because of her cat.

For it was Hermione in the doorway; the beautiful woman in the doorway bore no resemblance to the girl he had known for seven years. She was groomed and made-up, transformed from a pretty bookworm into a beautiful doll. She was absolutely gorgeous, and absolutely different.

Harry felt his stomach sink.

After a few moments, Ron regained his senses. He rushed over to his girlfriend and embraced her, crushing his mouth onto hers. She responded in kind, her mouth parting and allowing Ron more access then was decent in the front hall in front of other people. This lack of modesty was so unlike Hermione that it was sickening. Harry looked in the opposite direction, and his heart sank along with his stomach.

Hermione pulled away after a minute with a soft giggle. Hermione, giggling?

"Well, hello, Ron." Her voice was light and lilting, even flirty, far removed from her normal stoicism.

"Hermione," the red-head breathed, taking a step back and unashamedly looking her over. "You look amazing."

She smiled and looked down, shyly. "It was Mum's idea. We went shopping and got makeovers. It cheered me up so much. Do you like it?" she asked, not out of modesty but, Harry thought, because she knew the answer.

"I love it!"

Hermione blushed and looked over at the raven-haired young man standing at the foot of the stairs. Harry's gaze was still focused away from the couple and his face was blank, his emotions hidden behind a mask of indifference that had not existed when she left for the summer.

"Hi, Harry," she said, tentatively taking a step towards him.

He avoided her gaze as his eyes turned in her direction, instead looking at the doorframe above her head. "Hello, Hermione."

"H-how have you been?" She could think of nothing else to ask; his silence was making her uneasy, and she could not understand why he refused to look at her. Did he not like how she looked now?

Harry was experiencing similar turmoil. Hermione, it seemed, had turned into a more intellectual version of Ginny. He couldn't shake the impression that this change was not only on the surface, but affected her personality too. She was flirty and vain, relishing the affect her looks were having on her boyfriend.

"I've been fine. You've obviously been well."

"Harry! Whatever is the matter with you?"

He cooed softly, and Hedwig flew over to him, landing on his outstretched arm. He began to walk up the stairs, and looked back over his shoulder.

"The library is cleaned out for you. I'll see you later."

He walked quickly up the steps, leaving a shocked and hurt Hermione in his wake. He had tog et away before he lashed out even more. The emotional turmoil he was feeling – disappointment, anger, and a heartbroken sadness – was not warranted. He hadn't talked to Hermione at length; he had no idea if she was really changed or if this was a phase. But after his anticipation had been built up so much and after feeling for weeks and weeks that Hermione was the only one who understood him, who could help him banish his demons, her had been let down; this flirtatious China doll who had made out with her boyfriend right in front of him was nothing like what he had expected.

His gut was telling him that she had changed, and if he had learned anything in the past seven years of his life, it was that his gut was always right. Hermione had changed.

He was alone with his thoughts, with the ghosts of those who had died, and there was no one who would understand now.