On The Color Of Fur
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Don't you have two ongoing WIPs already? Yes.
Shouldn't you be focusing on finishing them first? Absolutely (and I am, Falling Leaves first)
But guuuuuys - it's Remione with Sirius, too! How could I resist?!
Plus, if I post really short chapters, editing will go faster and I'll update more frequently (think, like, every week!), so I can make it happen, right?
Right (here's where you all agree when faced with my puppy dog eyes lol)
Shout-out to Omfale for encouraging this madness!
Reviews (and that includes barely comprehensible squealing/flailing if you ever feel like it) are greatly appreciated! They feed my soul!
It was an odd place to be, Hogwarts.
The castle which had been a second home for Hermione for so many years felt… altered, now. Neither good nor bad, just ill-fitting. Off. A book you remembered quite differently.
She couldn't pinpoint one reason why, though. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Harry and Ron hadn't returned, had moved on to become Aurors-in-Training and, while trying to get away from the violence that had painted rivers of blood and death the previous year, Hermione had broken something by remaining behind. Their consonance had been rent. Tunes that went together—always together—were now played apart, though they still resonated.
The cause could also be that the student contingent had dwindled significantly, while the ghost one had expanded. Hermione could see the faces of those she had failed to save—not in her memories or nightmares, but in the shape of a white haze, gory wounds, haunting eyes.
Children that were now… other.
The feel of the world turning, relentless in its forward movement, changing while Hermione stood, frozen and weary, victorious over a war that had burned to ash and rubble everything beneath her feet—that, too, might have been to blame for that sense of displacement.
Most likely, it was a combination of all three.
Recovering her parents' memories had been a glint of light in pitch-black reality. Not enough to lessen the sensation of being dislodged in her own skin, but treasured nonetheless. She had gathered those paltry moments—their forgiveness, her friends' survival, the dawning sun after Voldemort's demise—and held on to them, like the shells she had collected from the beach when she was younger, placing them near her ear in the hopes that she could still hear the hum of happier times echoing from their spirals.
When living turned exhausting, making decisions became an impossibility. Returning to Hogwarts hadn't been her choice, exactly. It had just been the familiar one, the thing she had always known—books and learning—and therefore the path less grating to her nerves.
Now, though, she wasn't quite certain it had been for the best.