Hermione had managed to avoid Ron as she slipped out of Gryffindor Commons for breakfast the next morning. Not that such a feat was difficult to do; Ron slept like the dead. Despite that, she'd had snakes in her stomach while getting dressed and the shaking in her hands and core had returned. The entire time she expected him to stop her before she could escape and corner her with sorrowful accusations.

She just wasn't ready to see him yet—or see the hurt in his eyes.

Hermione glanced at the silver ring in her palm as she rounded the corner. She'd hidden Malfoy's ring in her bookbag last night so no wandering eyes would accidentally see the family crest. Although there was no scandalous story behind her having it, she doubted anyone else would believe that. He'd accidentally dropped it. That was it.

Then why did she have the feeling returning Malfoy's ring wouldn't be her last interaction with him? She closed a fist over the ring and lifted her head as the buzz of chatter grew.

When Hermione entered the Great Hall, she glanced at the Slytherin table, but didn't see Malfoy's head of white-blonde hair. She wasn't sure if that relieved her or not.

She shook her head and adjusted her book bag over her shoulder, standing taller and pushing her shoulders back. "Ginny," she said, a small smile appearing.

Ginny, red hair pulled back in a ponytail, looked up from her plate of eggs, toast, beans, sausages, and fruit. She gave Hermione a soft smile. "Hi."

"I was hoping you'd be here," Hermione said, sitting across from her. "I didn't want to sit alone, and I've missed you."

"Quidditch practices have been brutal." She shrugged. "We've been training a new Seeker."

"Really? Who?"

Ginny moved her beans around with a fork and didn't look up from her plate as she breathed, "Me."

Hermione gaped, blinking. After a moment, she shook her head and placed a hand on Ginny's arm. "Ginny, you're going to be an amazing Seeker." The redhead paused at those words. "Who's Chaser if not you?"

Ginny seemed to come to life again and she put her fork down. Then she finally raised her head and looked Hermione in the face, eyes glistening. She wiped a hand at them, clearing her throat. "Dean Thomas."

"Just like last year?"

Ginny nodded. "Except this time, it's a little more permanent."

Hermione swallowed her own pain and whispered, "I'm sure there's no one else he'd rather take his place than you."

Ginny's hand curled into a fist, knuckles paling. "I shouldn't have to. He should be here still to take up the Seeker position for one last year." She swiped a finger under an eye before a tear could fall and then inhaled. "So many should-haves and what-ifs, but they won't change what happened."

Hermione scooped some eggs onto her plate even though she knew she wouldn't eat them. If Harry were next to her, he'd be nudging her with his shoe and handing her some toast or fruit. She'd had to do the same on more than one occasion. Especially during their fifth year. With Voldemort twisting his mind and manipulating visions, he'd barely eaten either term.

"Harry, you need to eat something," she put her book down and whispered to him.

Without looking up from his untouched plate, he whispered back, "I'm not hungry."

Then, she gave him an option. "How about this: we'll match bites. For every bite I take, you must do the same."

"Hermione—"

"Harry."

Though he'd rolled his eyes several times, she'd managed to get Harry to eat half the food on his plate.

Hermione's throat bobbed.

He wasn't here to do the same for her anymore. Perhaps she could play the game with herself. She glanced at Ginny's breakfast. For every bite she took, Hermione had to match it.

"I know this is a stupid question, but how are you doing?" she said to Ginny.

Ginny shrugged and raised her fork to her mouth. "I would assume about as well as you," she said through a mouthful of sausage and egg.

Hermione mirrored her and took a bite of her own eggs. "Which is?"

"Not well."

Ginny sure seemed to be doing better, but Hermione knew the youngest Weasley better than that. She was hiding her pain under her mask of cool confidence, and despite the almost-appearance of tears, she'd composed herself quickly. She'd guess Ginny had done plenty of mourning in solitude.

Hermione inhaled slowly, forcing herself to take another bite of eggs when Ginny shoveled another forkful into her mouth.

How did she have an appetite? Maybe because she was an athlete and she needed the fuel or else she couldn't play Quidditch. And without Quidditch, Ginny didn't have her distraction from the unprocessed trauma.

"Hey, Ginny—" Hermione hesitated. Ginny glanced up at her, brows raised. "If you ever need anyone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on—and I know you're not a big crier—but if you ever need someone to listen, I'm here."

Ginny swallowed the food in her mouth, gaze set on Hermione. Though the 17-year-old didn't reveal much by way of emotion, her eyes spoke volumes. They glistened once again, but this time in a sad sort of hope. "Thank you, Hermione. I'll keep that offer close to me." She held out her hand and Hermione grasped it, Ginny's long, slim fingers warm with color. "I know you went through something terrible"—Hermione's breath caught—"but that's all I know. Ron hasn't said a word to me apart from the day of the battle when he was going absolutely mental looking for you."

The hurt in his eyes from last night flashed through her mind.

Ginny sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm also here, and I'm sorry I haven't been."

Hermione gave Ginny a sad smile. "Don't blame yourself. We're all coping in different ways."

"Except that my coping shouldn't include cutting out my friends and family." Ginny took a breath. "I've been thinking about that for a while now. Self-isolating isn't going to achieve anything, especially not now. Not after we lost so many." She shoved her last bite of breakfast into her mouth and mumbled, "Actually doing that is harder than it seems, but I'm trying to change that. You're my friend, Hermione, and I want to be there because I have the opportunity to be there."

Perhaps that's why Ron had become clingy and overprotective; he had the opportunity to try and protect her now so he felt like he had to so he wouldn't lose her.

Well, he was too late. Hermione had lost herself that day in the forest. Though she knew Ginny had taken another bite of food, she couldn't make herself lift another forkful of eggs into her mouth. She glanced at the fruit and clenched her jaw.

Hermione shook her head and looked at Ginny. "I was trying to comfort you," she said, nearly chuckling, "and you turned it around on me. That's hardly fair."

"What can I say?" Ginny leaned close and whispered. "Everything is a competition." The ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "I'm just glad I'm not forced to tell the Ministry every little thought and feeling. I think I'd hex somebody."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the Slytherin table, but Malfoy hadn't shown up yet. Her instincts yelled at her. Something wasn't right. He never missed breakfast. She fiddled with his ring in her right hand and had been doing so for the entire length of conversation with Ginny, she realized. She turned back to Ginny who now leaned on the table with her hands folded in front of her. "What?"

"Were you listening to anything I just said?"

She nodded. She'd heard her say something about hexing—Hermione blinked. "Wait, what do you mean forced to tell the Ministry everything?"

"That's what any student—mostly Slytherins—have to do every week," she said with a jerk of her chin toward their table. "That's who you were looking at, right?"

Hermione nodded. "How—"

"Dad told me. He keeps me updated with the goings-on in the Ministry." She grinned and shrugged. "He's gotten sneakier, which is saying a lot for Dad."

"Why is the Ministry interrogating students?"

"Apparently it's to hopefully dig up information on a possible revolt or third gathering of those still loyal to Voldemort's mission before anything can be set in motion."

"A third gathering?" A shiver passed through Hermione's body. "Voldemort is dead," she whispered.

Ginny bit her lip but shrugged again. "That doesn't mean his influence died with him."

That'd be awfully brilliant thinking on the Ministry's part considering the last time they were told Voldemort was back and they did nothing, this was a step up in preparation for them.

"Did your dad say whether or not the Ministry had gotten links to a third gathering or connections between students that would reveal the skeleton of a plan?"

Ginny shook her head. "Even if the Ministry did have inklings of Death Eaters coming back together, I doubt they'd tell anyone." She swirled her mug of tea. "They're rather terrible at sharing pertinent information."

Hermione scoffed. "I'll say." She shouldn't ask, shouldn't even care, but a part of her did. And she wanted to know. "Does your dad know which Slytherins are being interrogated?"

Ginny shrugged again. "He didn't specify, so I just assumed the most likely ones. You know, Death Eaters."

Hermione bit her lip. That would mean Draco Malfoy. She nearly gasped as she stared at Ginny. "How are they interrogated? How are they…forced to talk?" She hoped with every bone in her body that it wasn't—

"Veritaserum," Ginny said simply. As if she had read Hermione's thoughts, she followed up with, "The Ministry would never use an Unforgivable Curse on a student, even if they're not technically underage." After a moment, she cocked her head to the side. "Well, I guess I should say it would be utterly idiotic of the Ministry to resort to using an Unforgivable Curse on students. That doesn't really scream trustworthiness, now does it?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

After what Hermione had witnessed in the Ministry when her, Ron, and Harry had gone undercover to retrieve the locket, she fully believed that more members of Voldemort's could infiltrate the Ministry and use its resources to their advantage. She could only imagine that if Death Eaters were currently regrouping and gathering, they'd be much smarter than before since they knew exactly the forces they were up against.

She'd lost all trust in the Ministry, so even with Kingsley Shacklebolt as the Minister, Hermione kept a healthy amount of distance from hope when it came to instances where the Ministry of Magic was involved.

Hermione spun Malfoy's ring around her index finger.

"Who were you looking for over at Slytherin House?"

She looked up at Ginny, brows raised. "Nobody."

Ginny tilted her head, smirking. "Lies." She pointed beyond Hermione's shoulder at Slytherin table. "You've glanced back there multiple times since sitting down."

Hermione hadn't fully thought out her words before they were out of her mouth. "Malfoy borrowed a book. He said he'd bring it back during breakfast today."

Ginny's eyes widened. "Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?"

"No," Hermione said with an eye roll, "it's the other Malfoy we go to school with."

"How the bloody hell did that conversation come about?"

"Well, he—"

From the back of the Great Hall, a powerful stride and loud clomp of shoes grabbed at Hermione's attention. The rest of her lie faded on her tongue as her thoughts faltered.

Ginny inclined her chin forward. "Hermione?"

But Hermione had turned to where Goyle stalked toward Slytherin table, and it wasn't the scowl on his face or the bruising and swelling around his left eye and cheek bone that pulled at her—it was the bruised and bloodied knuckles on his right hand.

It could be anybody, she told herself. He could have had it out for anybody, and yet Hermione's stomach dropped. That thought halted her. Why did she care? After everything Malfoy had said and done, not only to her, but to her best friends, she should hate him. And yet, the boy she'd seen in the forest had been different. After what he did, she didn't—couldn't hate him. He was as lost and alone as she was, and now he might be hurting.

Unless he walked in behind Goyle, Hermione might actually become concerned because Draco seemed to be the only Slytherin missing from the table. No, Zabini wasn't—

She grimaced when Blaise Zabini strode in after Goyle, his dark complexion dull and face taut. No blood or bruises on any visible part of him, either.

And no sign of Draco.

"Hermione?" Ginny said again, but Hermione stood and snatched up her book bag. "Woah, where are you going?"

She shook her head, already walking away. "Sorry, Ginny, but I have to get to class. I'll see you later."

"What—Okay. Bye."

Within seconds, Ginny's words faded into the sea of voices, but as Hermione strode toward the large open double doors, a louder, more grating voice sounded above the hum of the crowd.

"You should have seen it," Goyle gloated, a shit-eating grin on his swollen face. "He just stood there like a coward while I beat his face in."

She stopped. The blood on Goyle's knuckles was Draco's.

"Don't act like an ass," Zabini said, his tone hard. "Draco clearly did some damage to you, and if I know him, he probably held back."

"So what if he did?" Goyle said. "That's weakness."

"No," Zabini said, "that's smart." He cocked his head. "A trait you've never had."

A chorus of nervous laughter rolled down the Slytherin table, and Hermione was close enough to see Goyle's fingers clench into fists as his face reddened.

"Watch your bloody mouth, Zabini," Goyle hissed.

Zabini took a bite of black pudding, seemingly unfazed or unfearful of Goyle's growing anger. "Pretty sure that's what I heard Draco tell you, but you didn't listen."

"He's changed," Goyle growled, aiming a finger at Zabini. "Suddenly he cares if I call that Granger girl a Mudblood?"

Hermione squeezed Malfoy's ring as her blood boiled. She'd saved Goyle's ass a few months ago even though she'd wanted to let him drop into the fire. She never would have done such a terrible thing, but the thought had crossed her mind.

What an ass.

"Since she didn't die in that forest, you'd think she would have grown a backbone." Goyle barked a laugh. "I guess Malfoy and that Mudblood can be spineless together." He added, only a little softer, "They'll never stand a chance in the months to come."

She'd heard enough. Before she could second guess the stupidity of her actions, Hermione stalked over to the Slytherin table and pulled her wand at her side, blood pounding in her temples.

Goyle turned at her approach, eyes narrowing. He stood, now looming at least half a head over her and opened his mouth, most likely to snarl something foul at her, but Hermione beat him to it.

"You abominable shit goblin," she spat, voice dripping acid, and aimed her wand at his feet. "Locomotor Wibbly."

Goyle's legs turned to jelly and he collapsed to the stone floor, a stream of curses coming from him. The Slytherin table erupted in a mix of whoops of laughter and gasps of disbelief.

Hermione lowered her wand before more people could see what she'd done. Her heart raced, but damn did that feel good.

It's quite exciting, isn't it? Breaking the rules?

Yes, quite.

She sneered down at Goyle. "How's that for a backbone?"

"Mudblood bitch," he hissed, his legs like spaghetti under him.

Even with his face red with rage, she couldn't help but chuckle at the sight that was Gregory Goyle who sat fuming like a toddler.

She thumbed the wand in her hand. She was tired of feeling helpless. Maybe it was time she changed that.

Hermione glanced at the gawking Slytherins at the table before her, but none stood to defend Goyle. In fact, Zabini turned to her, brown eyes wide, and the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He inclined his chin toward the doors.

He was giving her a pass, Hermione realized. A chance to walk away unscathed.

She nodded and backed away, trying not to focus on the hundreds of stares boring into her back. She returned her wand within folds of her robes and found herself grinning as she thumbed Malfoy's ring around her index finger. With the sudden burst of anger, she hadn't realized she kept it on. Hadn't meant to, yet the sight of it didn't disgust her.

Hermione looked up from her hand in time to see Ron rounding the corner into the hall. She bit back a curse. Of course she had to run into him now.

Ron's gaze latched onto her, and he seemed to take in the scene before him—Goyle shouting filthy slurs at Hermione, Slytherins snickering, and the rest of the hall whispering. The rhythm of his gait faltered as disbelieving eyes slid to her.

"Ron," Hermione breathed, brows raised. "Ginny's still at the table if you want to sit—"

"What the bloody hell did you do, Hermione?" He said as he scanned everything past her, and though his voice was soft, it held no warmth. Then those blue eyes fell on her.

That. That was the look she didn't want to endure—that look of pity mixed with fear.

Defensiveness prickled at her. "What makes you think I did anything?"

"I'm not an idiot, Hermione," Ron said, crossing his arms. He jerked his chin in Goyle's direction. "You're the brightest witch of our age. Who else would give Goyle jelly legs and leaving him literally cursing your name?" He raised a brow. "Hmm?"

Hermione scoffed. "I won't stand here and be interrogated, Ronald." She tried to shove past him, but Ron caught her wrist and held it between them. She glared at him. "Let me go."

Again, that flash of hurt, but this time she didn't care. He always asked what but never why. It was the why that mattered to her.

"You jinxed Goyle?"

She hated the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her. He was gentle in his accusations, but that made it worse because he had no anger for her—just pity and worry and fear. Damn him for that. "Yes, I did."

Ron's lips parted but before he could speak, his glowering stare caught on Hermione's hand.

"Ron, let go of me."

He ignored her. Instead, he rotated Hermione's hand around so he could see the silver ring fitted to her index finger. The light reflected on the family crest and Ron dropped her hand so fast she would have thought he'd been burned.

"What the bloody hell are you doing wearing Malfoy's ring?" he hissed.

Always the what and never the why.

Hermione snatched her hand back, thankful Ron hadn't noticed the trembling that had started. "Why always with the accusations? Don't you think I had a damn good reason to jinx Goyle in the middle of the Great Hall?" Her voice rose without her meaning to. "Don't you think there's a very simple explanation as to why I'm wearing Draco Malfoy's ring?"

Ron's chuckle was dull. "There shouldn't be an explanation at all. You shouldn't be wearing it."

Hermione cocked her head. "Oh, I shouldn't?"

Ron's building fury banked at that. "Hermione…" In his mouth, her name was a vaccine for an incurable disease. "That's not what—You know I didn't mean—"

"Do I?" She shook her head, hardly able to look at him. She poked a finger against her chest with each emphasis as she said, "Do I know that, or are you going to tell me what else I know and what I should be doing?"

"I'm just trying to look out for you," he said, glancing warily at the eyes watching them.

"Are you? Or are you trying to control me?"

Ron reeled like he'd been slapped.

She knew Ron wasn't really trying to do that, but under his watch, it was stifling enough to feel like she didn't have any agency.

Hermione scoffed, making a show of ripping Malfoy's ring off and shoving it in the pocket of her robes. "I won't bother explaining to you why I have that. You would choose not to believe me even if I did. But apart from that, it's a ring, Ronald. It's a piece of metal, not a bloody horcrux."

Ron's voice was low but vicious. "You'd know all about those, wouldn't you?"

"So would you," she retorted. "You're the one who couldn't handle the locket and left us for weeks!"

"But I still came back and saved Harry's life!" He put his hands up in front of him. "Excuse me for not being the Chosen One or Hermione bloody Granger, the brightest witch of our age. I'm just me."

Hermione huffed. "And I never asked you to be anyone different."

"You didn't have to ask! I could see it in your eyes that I wasn't enough!" Ron shook his head, his words little more than a whisper, "I was never enough for you."

That's really what he thought of her? For the weeks they had traveled together, the kiss they had shared, he really believed she thought he wasn't enough?

"Don't do that," Hermione said. "Don't spew lies." She exhaled a breath, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. "I loved you, Ron."

Ron's next words didn't materialize. He stared at her, jaw muscles tensing. After a moment, he whispered, "Loved?"

Past tense.

Hermione looked away. "No, I do love you. I'll probably always love you in some way."

His gaze shuttered. "But?"

"But I'm suffocating," she said with a shrug, hands out to the side, "and love should be a breath of fresh air. An escape." Shouldn't it?

Ron reached out his hands, but Hermione stepped away. It was too late for that. He already proved he wouldn't bear the suffocating darkness with her. In loving him, she'd drown.

"Please, Hermione."

She held up a hand. "I have to get to class."

As she pushed past him, Ron said, "What's happened to you?"

Hermione paused, the scars littering her back burning at the context to his question. Most days, she forgot they existed until she showered or her mind spiraled through the events from the beginning of May.

What's happened to her? The unimaginable.

She survived hours of mental and physical torture over two days. She had her reality broken, mended, and then shattered.

And the scars on her back—She couldn't think about how she'd gotten those.

Hermione presumed her mind had blocked the majority of those two days because most of it was a blur of feelings, but no tangible memories.

Instead of saying any of that—instead of trying to explain precisely what she'd endured in order to snap something venomous back at Ron, she said coldly, "Voldemort."

….

Hermione arrived at the third floor for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and after sitting for a few minutes, she realized she had been rubbing her right wrist. It hadn't fully registered that it was sore. Hermione pulled up the sleeve of her robes and jumper, her breath catching in her throat. The imprints of four fingers and a thumb wrapped around her flesh in a bracelet of bruises. They were faint, but they were definitely there.

She sighed. Ron had caught her wrist when she tried to leave, but she hadn't thought he'd been gripping her that hard. Sure, it had been uncomfortable, but bruises?

Perhaps she didn't know him anymore either.

Raina Oakwald, former Auror for the Ministry of Magic and current Professor for DADA, walked by Hermione's desk as she entered the classroom. Hermione quickly pushed her sleeves back down.

"Hermione."

She looked up at the young professor whose long white hair had been intricately braided in sections while the rest remained free, falling gently over her shoulders. "Yes, Professor?"

Professor Oakwald knelt in front of her desk, her tan face full of color and her gray eyes bright. "I just wanted to tell you this to see where you stood on it." She tilted her head. "In two weeks, right before Halloween, I am going to be teaching lessons on fear. There's more to it, but what you need to know is that as part of that section, I will be utilizing a Boggart."

Hermione's stomach dropped as her thoughts immediately conjured her most terrifying moments. But she said, "And why are you telling me, specifically?"

"Well, I'll be letting everyone know as a class next week, but I wanted to tell you because—" Professor Oakwald took a breath and said softly, "Well, because I was told by the Headmistress that you had gone through some particularly terrible things in May. She didn't give me specifics, but she enlightened me for this upcoming Halloween section of my lesson plan that out of the other students in class, you might have a more… concerning reaction to a Boggart."

Hermione believed that everyone's Boggart had changed since the Battle, and while theirs had probably worsened to some extent, she also had an inkling hers definitely might be concerning, as the professor had put it.

"What's your question?" she asked even though she already knew Oakwald's answer.

"Do you want the opportunity to back out of being put in front of the Boggart?"

She didn't know. Even though it was just a Boggart, Hermione didn't know if she'd be able to handle facing a fear from the forest. She knew it would be something from that day. Those memories haunted her, so how could it be anything else?

She nearly laughed at her previous Boggart: Professor McGonagall giving her a failing grade. So much had changed her and changed her outlook on school and life.

Hermione straightened. She'd had enough of feeling helpless. If facing this Boggart helped her face the trauma of her past, then she'd do it.

She looked at Professor Oakwald and nodded. "I'll do it."

Professor Oakwald tilted her head. "Are you sure? I will be right here to stop anything, but I just don't want you to throw yourself against something you can't handle."

Hermione nodded. "I can handle it."

A small smile appeared on the professor's lips. "Okay." She laid a hand flat on Hermione's desk. "And I know you said you can handle it, but if the day comes and you feel like you can't, just let me know. There's nothing to be ashamed of. It's not easy to look our greatest fears in the eye and refuse to let it consume us."

Hadn't Hermione already done that? Who was to say she couldn't do it again?

"Thank you."

Professor Oakwald nodded and gave her a soft smile. She stood and projected to the class, "All right, people. Take your seats. Today we are talking about ways spells can be manipulated for malevolent purposes."

Hermione blocked out the professor's rambling as she glanced around the room. Her hand found Malfoy's ring in the pocket of her robes, but its owner was nowhere to be seen.

So she begrudgingly turned her attention to the blackboard even though she practically knew the ins and outs of the lesson.

A few minutes in, the faint click of boots and a shuffling of robes caught Hermione's ear. She knew that gait, knew the sound of those Chelsea boots.

She closed her eyes. Damn her for that.

Hermione had chosen the back row in all her classes this year, and for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Draco had sat in the same row across the aisle. Every class previously, Draco's presence and proximity had been like an alarm that blared in her head the entire period. Today though, as Draco Malfoy slipped in without the professor noticing, a different alarm went off.

Something was wrong.

Hermione didn't need to see him to know that, but she looked anyway.

She didn't think it was possible for Draco Malfoy's complexion to wane further, but it had, and what caught Hermione's attention wasn't the lack of color. Bruises littered his marble-cut cheek bone, jaw, and eye, he had a gash above his left eyebrow, and a swollen nose and split lip.

Her blood heated when Goyle's haughty words rang through her. He just stood there like a coward while I beat his face in. Draco hadn't fought back, yet he supposedly had fought for her—to keep that filthy name out of Goyle's mouth. She couldn't entirely believe it. She glanced over at him again.

For how dapper Malfoy had looked last night in all black with his overcoat, he seemed like a kid today. Despite Draco's lean build, he seemed smaller in his robes this morning. They looked two sizes too big and too dark compared to his skin. His hair fell into his face in wild strands, and even though he leaned with an arm over the back of his chair—the portrait of casual indifference—exhaustion swam in his eyes.

Hermione glanced sidelong at Draco, and he must have felt her eyes on him because his gaze flicked over to her. His brows narrowed.

Are you okay? she mouthed.

Draco's fingers crept toward what appeared to be a broken nose, but he jerked his hand away as if that movement had shaken him from a trance. He glanced back at Hermione, eyes cold, but not cruel. He gave a nearly indistinguishable nod. His gaze lingered for a moment, and though his mouth didn't say it, his eyes did: Thank you.

Hermione almost couldn't believe the gentleness in that look—haunted yet still gentle. She nodded back.

After a moment, she pulled his ring from her pocket and held it out to him from under her desk.

Malfoy's eyes widened.