Coming to Senses

Hermione spent the rest of that fateful evening in a blur. As the effects of the unintentional drugging wore off the next day, her clarity of thought returned, though she almost wished it hadn't.

On Saturday, she awoke at one o'clock, uncomfortably warm. A shiver coursed through her as she glanced at Ron, sprawled beside her, his long arm draped across her waist. The events of the previous day floated hazily in her memory, but as her consciousness slowly streamed back in, she vaguely recalled stumbling into her flat, supported by Ron. She had ended up cuddling with him on the sofa, pressing her tear-stained face into his dress shirt while he rubbed comforting circles on her back.

Hermione fervently hoped that she hadn't allowed the matters to spiral fully out of control the night before in her befuddled state.

However, these hopes were ruthlessly dispelled when she slipped out from under the covers, and realised she was completely naked. A gentle tug on the duvet covering Ron revealed him in a similar state of undress, causing her panic to rise.

Her black undergarments, hastily discarded, along with the silky pool of her evening gown stood out against the light wooden floor. Collecting the scattered items into her arms, she tiptoed toward the bathroom. Once alone, Hermione splashed her face liberally with water - it was refreshingly cold. Following a brisk shower, she ran her hands through her damp tresses and proceeded to give a stern lecture to the troubled and disconcerted woman staring back at her in the mirror.

"Hermione Jean Granger, you do not randomly sleep with your ex-boyfriend, even if you had had a rough day. That's bound to send the wrong signals. You ought to -" Her self-reproachful monologue was abruptly interrupted by a creaking sound from the bed, followed by a muffled groan and the shuffling of feet across the floor. Ron's voice emerged from the other side, low and indistinct.

"'Mione, you in there?"

"Yes, yes, just give me a moment."

Hermione enveloped her exposed form in the largest towel within reach, then cautiously swung open the door to see Ron awake, thankfully wearing his grey boxers. His eyes lingered on her frame before he offered a languid smile. Apparently, he wasn't nearly as alarmed by their recent coupling as she was.

"I really enjoyed last night, you know. You, you were…amazing," he confessed, his cheek tinted with a subtle blush. "I've never seen you like thisbefore."

His compliment sounded genuine, and Hermione thought she detected a subtle bulge at his crotch, which caused her cheeks to flush in turn. She searched for the best words to communicate to him that their night together was nothing more but a lapse of judgement on her part that she sincerely regretted.

"Umm, Ronald, about that. What transpired between us should not have occurred. It was a mistake."

The wizard raised a questioning brow as if he hadn't quite understood, visibly affronted by her lack of enthusiasm.

"Hermione, you were the one that started it all. Otherwise, I would have never touched you."

"Well, I am sorry if you felt led on. I wasn't myself last night and I assumed that maybe you would have enough sensitivity to notice. But then you've never been particularly perceptive," she stated sharply, her frustration evident.

Hermione's feelings of guilt had finally found an outlet in turning on Ron, willingg him to share the responsibility for the act. The fact that her mind was blank, that she could not remember a thing mightily bothered the witch accustomed to relying on her wits and clear reasoning.

"Oh really? So it's my fault now for saying 'yes' when you asked me to make love to you? Begged for it, quite frankly." It was Ron's turn to retaliate, his pride injured.

"Oh, did I? You should have had enough sense to see that I was very confused and under the influence. If our roles were reversed, I would have never, never agreed to it," Hermione retorted, growing increasingly irritated with her former boyfriend.

"You'd think differently if you saw yourself last night. You were all over me."

Could it be but her own fault for initiating sex, even if she had no idea what she was doing at the time? No, the very fact that she could not recall the act was enough of an argument that it was hardly consensual, even if she was indeed "all over" Ron, which she was hardly convinced was the case.

"Somehow I doubt it, you are such a…" She began heatedly but caught herself, observing hurt in Ron's eyes. There was little point in this conversation now that they were both in the defensive mode. Hermione needed time on her own, time to figure things out.

"Well, whatever went on between us I now see it was a complete and utter mistake. It'll be better if you leave," she said in a calmer but nevertheless assured tone.

Ron shot her a look of wounded incredulity and, without another word began picking up his own clothes that were strewn across the floor, flinging them on as he went, while Hermione retreated back into the privacy of the bathroom, unable to meet his accusatory gaze.

The only sign that he had finally left was the resounding clang of the door as Ron slammed it shut with force.

Hermione let out a weary sigh. She had undoubtedly made a significant mess of things.

With Ron temporarily out of the picture, the tumultuous events of the previous day resurfaced with a force that threatened to overwhelm her. Gradually, she pieced together the fleeting images, fragmented conversations, the details of her own rash speech until the entire embarrassing picture unveiled before her, and she hid her face in her palms as if hoping it would all simply vanish.

To be fair, buried deep within Hermione was a part she seldom permitted to speak, one secretly pleased in having finally unburdened herself of pent-up frustrations, even if it had been done in a less-than-prudent manner. This hidden facet of her character found a twisted satisfaction in the stir she had caused, relishing the bewildered and appalled expressions of her audience. She had, in a way, challenged their long-standing perception of her as the unflappable bookwork, the indefatigable campaigner, the Golden Girl always willing to put her needs aside to serve the greater good.

But beneath the initial rush of perverse satisfaction, a different emotion began to bubble. A flash of rage surged through her body, directed at Ron, Kingsley, that French git - L'Eclaire, George Weasley and his useless inventions, even Ginny. At that moment, she hated not only the Ministry (a bunch of hypocritical, self-entitled gossips) but the whole Wizarding World, and the longer she dwelled on it, the hotter her anger blazed and more irrational, too. In her fit of anger, she lashed out at Crookshanks, who had nonchalantly strolled into her bedroom to see if there was any legitimate reason for his delayed breakfast.

"You stupid cat, get out of here!" she cried, and the orange mass of a cat swiftly retreated into the hallway, never having seen her owner in such a state.

Alone in her room, Hermione gave in to a long spasmodic cry that seemed to wash away the remains of anger until all she was left with was a deep sense of defeat, sobering shame, and an acute guilt. She felt sick, nauseated by the older man's misguided advances which bordered on sexual abuse, but most of all by the way she had acted with Ron the night before. She had been craving comfort and escape through the means of carnal pleasure but now she could not even remember if she had managed to arrive at a place where the temporary gratification would at least make her error worthwhile. She bitterly recalled that while still in a relationship with Ron, she had seldom found fulfilment in their union, despite his well-meaning efforts to satisfy her.

She had no insight into the details of their encounter the previous day, except that which Ron himself relayed that morning, indicating that it was the most satisfying sexual experience they had shared, all in her drug-induced condition, though of course he hadn't been aware of that fact. Did that mean that she was incapable of true passion and feeling in her normal, sober state? Was George Weasly's label of her as 'stiff' accurate? Her old companions, insecurity and anxiety, visited her again, coiling their life-draining tendrils around her, manifesting in the tension of her shoulders muscles and the leaden weight in the pit of her stomach.

"How could I have been so foolish?" she moaned, slipping on a stretched-out sweatshirt and loose-fitting pants. With the fridge empty, except for a mouldy jar of pesto and a few forgotten carrots, Hermione reluctantly mustered herself to step outside, a prospect she approached with trepidation. Residing in a predominantly Muggle neighbourhood had its perks, as if it meant that no one around here would recognise her after she had made a fool of herself in one of the biggest social Wizarding events of the year. At least here anonymity shielded her from the shame she had brought upon herself.

Adding to her concerns, she braced herself for an upcoming ordeal: her impending appearance on the front page of the Sunday edition of The Prophet. It could not be avoided, with her recent appointment as the new Undersecretary, a development that was sure to draw considerable attention. Never before had she felt so ill-equipped for her newfound role, to the point that she contemplated handing in her resignation to Kingsley on Monday. That is, if he hadn't dismissed her first - a likely scenario considering the irresponsible way she had acted. Her public humiliation would surely serve as fodder for the insatiable press, always in search of new and controversial headlines. For Merlin's sake, couldn't the newspaper take a single day off, for once? Bloody Daily Prophet.

When she returned from shopping, with bags full of groceries and enough comfort food to last her for days, she remembered the leather-bound tome that Lucius lent her, one about the Numerals. Finding it still sitting in her satchel, she scanned the title again, 'Illuminating the Past and Manoeuvring the Future: the Potency of Numerals'. Although she would much rather forget the recent past at this point, perhaps there was a lesson to be derived from all that had occurred.

Hermione nestled comfortably on the wide windowsill in her bedroom, her preferred reading spot, with her legs pulled up to her chest, the book on her lap, and ran her hand over the soft binding. A faint echo of leather, cologne, firewhisky and mint filled the air, reminding her of Lucius, of his eyes burning into hers with a curious mix of genuine interest and mischief as he inquired of her reading choices. This expression had turned into concern, even care as he witnessed her weakness and she found herself upheld by his steady arms when her legs had momentarily failed, the dark memories from the past coming haunting back.

A strange, unfamiliar warmth settled over her chest and she brushed her again over the leather cover, recalling the sensation of Lucius' large hand under hers, in briefest intimacy, before he drew it right back. Then, with annoyance replacing the pleasant warm sensation, she considered his behaviour and what seemed sincere words during the trial. Hermione reasoned with herself that it was probably only a performance, just as Ginny suggested, a well-played one, but still only a performance.

Still, she could not help but admire his carefully crafted response: Lucius saying words that would show Kingsley and all of Wizengamot that he was undergoing a slow yet unmistakable transition from his former Death-Eater days. His pretence of reform was not too rushed, not too sluggish, but just what would be expected of a wealthy Pureblood steeped in anti-Muggle beliefs right from his youth, who eventually saw the fault in his ways and was making a gradual progress toward the light. After all, wasn't honesty considered the first step to accountability?

As to emphasise the point, details of Lucius' clandestine' conversation with young Nott in the dark hallway came back to her, each word of it denying every hint of reform he might have exhibited earlier. He played it all so well - even Kingsley was too blind to see that it was all but a well-rehearsed act. But then Kingsley was arguably losing his good discernment, a trait that had earned him respect even among his political opponents and one that had made her look up to him. After all, he had failed to see the French Minister for what he really was, an old, chauvinistic, perverted philanderer who was willing to take advantage of her right under the nose of his wife. All these aristocratic Purebloods, it seemed, were just the same, either viewing the Muggles and Muggleborns in utter contemptuousness, or else seeking to use them to their advantage.

Hermione snapped the book close, feeling the pangs of rage returning to her. Hermione sincerely wanted to believe that some of her arguments, Lucius' own observations of the changing world, along with the price his family had paid for their beliefs had got through to him. If losing his wife, one that she knew he had loved dearly having inferred that much from their conversations, did not cause him to stop and question the path he was on, she did not know if anything else would. Hermione opened the book again, making an effort to put a halt to the never-ending stream of thoughts rattling in her head and slowly, she allowed herself to be pulled in by the content.

Hermione spent the rest of the day with her nose in the books, willing herself to escape into their pages, and temporarily erase the recent events and troubles from her overtaxed mind. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that her head was swimming. She knew that she would have no other choice but to face them head-on, soon – sooner than she should have liked.