Hermione had always loved to read.

From a young age, she utilized books as a means of escapism from the real world. If she felt down: immerse herself into an adventure novel. Or if she was anxious, she'd pour that energy into studying for hours on end, until no one was left in the common room but her. Even if she was perfectly content with life, reading was the answer.

Seldom things excited her more than curling up with a good book.

She felt like Matilda from Roald Dahl's book, always traveling back and forth from the library to escape what waited at home. Only she didn't have a bingo mother and a car salesman father. Not even an older brother!

Days at home were curiously lonely if Hermione wasn't occupied.

It was something none of her classmates seemed to share. Muggle school was expected, but she thought wizard school would be home to a plethora of people like her.

Hogwarts felt like a slap in the face. Her new, very real world still didn't like her much.

So, as she'd always done, she read. Read and read until her problems were no longer in sight, until she was so immersed in the plot she forgot who she was.

It was truly a gift. One she no longer possessed.

Since midnight, Hermione had been attempting to begin Little Women, a novel she'd read many times before. It was joyous and heartfelt and full of love, yet she couldn't read more than a few pages before losing focus.

What was wrong with her? Reading wasn't hard for her. Nothing ever was.

Embarrassed, she lifted her wand.

"Lumos,"

The wand rested on her lap, illuminating the pages. In another effort, she began to track her progress on the page with her finger.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out before her, and jerked herself along as she went machinery, and her 'Ow!' was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest...

As quick as it came, the scene of the sisters faded from Hermione's memory.

Her finger was still in the same spot, but she couldn't recall where she had actually left off.

How should she continue if she wasn't even able to remember her place in a paragraph?

So desperately did she want to launch Little Women across the room. Somehow, it was something else's fault for her lack of skill.

What logical person read this late anyways?

She'd done it plenty of times before, but she was losing too much sleep these days to focus on anything properly. Not even that, but the size of the print was ridiculous. One full page had the word count of nearly five. It was unrealistic to expect herself to read printing that small.

She submitted, closing the book and setting it on a nightstand beside the bed. She could pretend it was not her fault if it meant some peace.

And yet she couldn't.

"Mione..." Ron murmured sleepily.

She had woken him up. For Godric's sake, she woke him up!

A sob began to bubble out of her. As if her life depended on it, she tried to silence it. If not for her sake, then for Ron's. Out of all people, Ron deserved some sleep. He had lost too much in this war.

"Mione," he said again. This time she knew he was awake.

"You should be sleeping Ron,"

He sat up, "You should be sleeping,"

"I haven't had a good night's rest since I was about 15," she said, "I keep having nightmares now, though,"

He yawned, but didn't slip back into the covers.

"I heard you crying," he replied, "Was it a nightmare about...her?"

"It wasn't even a nightmare,"

"So what was it about?"

She hesitated.

"A book,"

Silence followed. Hermione expected something from Ron, the silliest person she knew. A chortle, or a laugh poorly disguised as a cough. But there was nothing.

He gave her this look. A look that Hermione often found herself wearing, the mask behind the broken pieces of herself. A look that signaled to someone that neither you or I are OK.

She couldn't bear to see Ron doing the same.

Hermione blurted out, "It's stupid, really. I just couldn't hold my place, and I got upset, and-"

"It's OK,"

Ron put an arm around her.

In an instant, she let herself go.

She wrapped herself around him, quiet sobs echoing across the room. Hermione was sure she had stained Ron's shirt with her mucus, but he didn't say much of anything to confirm it.

Ever since the war ended, she's become this way. Her and Ginny had been through this routine many times, but she thought maybe—it would be different with Ron.

It was disgusting to think this is what their first night together had reduced to.

"I'm sorry,"

They had somehow laid back down in the process, Ron's arm around her. The sobs were reduced to sniffles now, with the occasional hiccup of words. Like this one.

He replied slowly, "Hermione, there's nothing to be sorry about,"

"I just don't want you to see me like this," she confessed, "I feel like...everyday is going to be like this for the rest of my life. I'll just wake up and pretend I'm OK, and then try and do something to relieve myself of the pain that ultimately fails. I just want to be happy again. That's all I want,"

A mucus bubble began to form. She wiped it away with the collar of her shirt.

He looked her dead in the eye, "I love you, Hermione. I love you when you're happy, I love you when you're shooting birds at my head. I love you when you're a blubbering mess..." he paused, "I love you all the time. Don't worry about being alright for anyone. Everyone's hurting with you,"

Already, the sun was rising, a small pink sliver forming at the bottom of the sky. Soon, she would have to rise again, pretending she was OK when everyone else knew that it was the farthest thing from the truth. A wave of nausea passed at the thought of it.

"Can we stay here?" she whispered, "Just until the sun rises all the way?"

Ron yawned, "Of course,"

"I love you,"

Her tone was a bit desperate. In spite of what he said, she still remained nervous that he wouldn't reply.

He kissed her on her temple, and she took that as reciprocation she didn't know how badly she needed.

The smell of bacon wafted in the air, Hermione taking all of it in.

Ginny was cooking breakfast for her (again), since no one else usually had the energy to rise out of bed. Ron was in the next room, clearing out a pile of junk from last week. The two siblings looked exhausted, but were catering to every need they could.

This was how it had been since the war ended. As the youngest children, the duty was bestowed upon Ginny and Ron to take care of the rest of the family. Every day, trash was emptied, meals were cooked, people even bathed a few times. The rest of the family didn't seem to, or simply couldn't care enough about their suffering.

Everyone else was so wrapped up in their own grief that their welfare had become an afterthought.

It had been difficult at first, but Harry and Hermione had begun taking part in the upkeep. The four were bonded in that way; even if it killed them, they would get back up for the others.

"How do you want your eggs, Hermione?"

Ginny turned to her, her scarlet hair tied into a loose ponytail.

"Sunny-side up," she replied, half smiling.

That's the least she could do to show her appreciation for Ginny.

"On it,"

Ginny whistled a tune while cooking, Hermione quietly humming along. Though she wasn't exactly happy, this could be counted as the most pleasant part of her day.

"Need anything Gin?" Harry called from the next room. He had probably been helping Ron.

"I'm fine," she said, "Now shut up, I'm trying to focus on getting this right,"

Hermione heard Ron's gasp, "Hermione, what have you done? My sister is turning into you,"

She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

"Well, I am a witch,"

"Oh great heavens!"

He pretended to faint in the doorway, Hermione letting out a small chuckle. Ginny grumbled.

A strong odor began to fill the room.

"Fuck!"

Ginny slammed the pan on the stovetop, groaning in frustration.

"I'm sorry 'Mione," she exclaimed, "I burnt your egg,"

Hermione walked towards her, a sympathetic look on her face. She didn't want to see Ginny so frustrated over something as simple as an egg.

Though she knew exactly why any of them would be frustrated over something as simple as an egg.

"It's alright," she said, "Let me finish for you. Sit down,"

Ginny hesitated before slumping into a kitchen chair, Harry and Ron joining her. Soon the conversation had resumed.

Hermione fetched a few plates from the cupboard, sliding her egg and a few strips of bacon onto hers. Over the next few minutes, she prepared some scrambled eggs for the rest.

Cooking wasn't very therapeutic for Hermione, but she managed. She had always hated the flame.

After everyone had been served, she joined the others. She could see the exhaustion on their faces.

Ron and Harry ate quickly, seemingly to leave the two alone.

But why?

"Your eyes look puffy, 'Mione. Are you OK?"

As if Ginny didn't have the same red rimmed eyes.

"I'm fine," Hermione replied, "Just had a hard time last night,"

"You say that every morning,"

They both knew Ginny wouldn't stop pestering until she got an answer. It was as engraved in Ginny as it was in Hermione to remain obstinate.

The two continued eating, the eggs bitter tasting. She could only get through about halfway before pushing her plate away.

"You know, it would be nice if you would tell me what's on your mind. I'm not a stranger, for Merlin's sake,"

She was just as stubborn as Hermione, if not more.

Damn her.

"You hardly tell me anything,"

What a weak defense. Ginny was like an open book when it came to her best friends.

Ginny scoffed, "That's a lie. We both know that,"

"What do you want me to tell you, Ginny?" she retorted, "What exactly do you want to know?"

"I just want to help you through all of this. Like you've helped me,"

Hermione crossed her arms, pressing them tightly against her chest.

The thing is, it's not as if she didn't know it was there. She knew. They both knew. But the least she could do for herself is distract herself from it. And that started with not bringing it up during the day. That was reserved for the nighttime, where she could cry into someone's arms and they could pretend to forget about it the next morning.

"I don't know," she sighed, "I just don't like talking about it. You know why,"

"I don't actually," Ginny replied, "You have a nightmare and then you cry, but I never actually know what you're thinking,"

"Exactly why I don't like talking about it,"

The two sat in silence, each analyzing each other. Hermione loved Ginny like a sister, but she couldn't bring herself to do this. Not now.

Harry had witnessed it, so there wasn't much explaining to do there. Even when he would bring it up, she would deflect him. Ron wouldn't, but she could see it in his eyes that he wanted to know.

Ginny sighed, "I can't help you. But you need to find someone who can,"

Hermione leaned in, "What do you mean?"

Her parents were dentists. What would she know about help?

"I think you need to see a psychologist, Hermione,"