Summary:
Five years later, Hermione finds herself in a position where she runs into him again. And maybe they got lost in translation. Maybe she asked for too much. But maybe what they had was a masterpiece 'til he tore it all up. Running scared, she was there and she remembers it all too well.
Notes:
This fic was inspired by Taylor Swift's (10min) Version of the song, "All Too Well."
I am a huge Taylor Fan and many parts of this story will be inspired by a lot of her songs! Since I am in the middle of updating and uploading my other fic, this one will be updated 1-2 times per week.
Please leave me comments or questions, it allows me to be more active.
For now, it's rate M but may have to be changed to Explicit.
I don't own any rights to songs or Harry Potter.
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Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythmic sound of tapping was the only thing Hermione could concentrate on as she found herself lost in her thoughts, her gaze fixated on the intricately designed royal blue rug beneath her feet. Faint traces of chocolate wafted through the air, tempting her senses, and as she looked past the figure seated across from her, she discovered a tempting batch of freshly baked cookies resting invitingly on her desk.
"Hermione?" The voice pulled her out of her reverie, and she swiftly redirected her attention to the earnest brunette before her.
Hermione's fingers tightened around her quill on her notepad, the incessant tapping coming to an abrupt halt as she watched the other person take her quill and begin writing something down on the parchment pad.
"S-Sorry, what was the question again?" she stammered, her eyes meeting those of her concerned companion.
"The letter, were you able to write it?" Dr. Isabella Heartwell, Hermione's mind healer and therapist, inquired with a steady tone, though her concern shone through her compassionate eyes. Her voice was a soothing balm, devoid of any judgment, which made Hermione feel neither pitied nor embarrassed for seeking help.
Hermione's gaze drifted downward as she started fiddling with her fingernails, a nervous habit that had become all too familiar. She nodded in response to Dr. Heartwell's question. It had taken her a full week to summon the courage to write even the first two sentences, but she had managed it. She'd pretended to compose a letter, a charade for the sake of her therapy.
Therapy had been Harry's idea originally. He'd sought Dr. Heartwell's guidance for years after the Battle of Hogwarts, and it had helped him confront and manage the emotional scars left by those tumultuous times. But for Hermione, her reasons for sitting in Dr. Heartwell's office every week for the past two months went far deeper. It wasn't the war itself or any of the harrowing events at Hogwarts that had led her here. No, her struggle was surviving the aftermath—the complex, heart-wrenching aftermath of her relationship with him.
"Good," Heartwell responded gently, her voice like a soft, comforting embrace. "Do you feel like it helped you release some of those emotions?" Her words hung in the air, wrapped in understanding and patience, as she watched Hermione closely.
Hermione's gaze wandered past Heartwell, landing on the bookcase against the wall. Her eyes fixed on a specific title: 'Secrets of Celestial Numerology: Unraveling the Cosmic Equations, Arithmancy.' The sight of it triggered a pang in her chest, a rush of memories and emotions she had been trying to keep at bay. She tore her gaze away from the book, trying to regain her composure.
After a moment, she replied to the mind healer's question, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "A bit," she admitted.
"The Quidditch season begins in two weeks, do you want to add more sessions in between now and your first day?" Dr. Heartwell inquired, her soothing voice permeating the room as she leaned forward in her plush chair. The soft hum of the room's enchanted lighting added to the atmosphere, casting a warm, inviting glow.
Being an unwavering advocate for magical creatures and holding a prominent position at the Ministry of Magic, where she tirelessly championed the rights of others, Hermione had garnered the respect and admiration of countless individuals within the wizarding world. In the five years since her graduation from Hogwarts at the tender age of eighteen, Hermione had achieved remarkable progress in the realm of magical creature rights. Now, she faced a new chapter in her career, having been invited to join the International Quidditch Association (IQA) as the International Welfare Quidditch Officer.
This freshly established position came into existence largely because of Hermione's relentless advocacy efforts that had resulted in the passing of pivotal laws regarding Lycanthropy in the wizarding world. Her role within the IQA would encompass advocating for the welfare of all players, irrespective of whether they were affected by a condition like Lycanthropy or not. However, the driving force behind the creation of this role was the profound impact of her work, marking a significant step forward in the recognition and support of players plagued by this disease.
"No, it's okay," Hermione said firmly, her voice steady, resonating with determination. The soft, comforting scent of lavender hung in the air, emanating from the bouquet of flowers on Dr. Heartwell's desk. Hermione's fingers brushed lightly against the armrest of her chair, grounding her in the moment.
Dr. Heartwell nodded, her understanding gaze never wavering. "And you've come to terms with the fact that you will be seeing him again, working alongside him?" The words hung in the room like a delicate, unspoken truth.
Hermione's chest constricted at the mere mention of it, a knot of anxiety and anticipation tightening within her. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and nodded meekly. Her whispered response was almost lost in the soft rustle of her clothing. "I can handle it," she admitted, her voice tinged with a mixture of resignation and vulnerability. "What choice do I have?"
Dear,
Scratch that, how can I even address you as 'Dear' when you've torn my heart to pieces?
I can hardly bring myself to utter your name; the pain is too much to bear, so why bother?
No, let's start this letter the way we once did:
Hi, how are you? (Don't bother answering because I genuinely couldn't care less)
I walked through the cold with you, figuratively and metaphorically. And I left my scarf at your best friend's house, and now you've got it in your drawer somewhere, somehow even now. I saw you wearing it in the papers. It made me reminisce about the day we sang together in the car during our time in London. You kept running those red lights because you couldn't tear your eyes away from me.
Perhaps that should have been a warning sign, but instead, I was enchanted by your sweet disposition for the very first time, and my eyes widened as I discovered this new side of you. It was autumn and the leaves were falling, and even after all these days I still remember it clear as day, the wind was in my hair and I remember it all too well.