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The Bread & The Wine

"What did I just tell you?"

Hermione Jean Granger pressed her fingertips to her temples. She cursed the unyielding soft spot in her heart for her friends. One such friend, and god's favorite pain in the ass, dangled from a broom in the gloomy morning sky. Ronald Weasley's screams echoed through the Quidditch pitch.

Looks like words are off the table. She thought to herself and sighed, pulling her wand from her coat pocket. She considered a freezing spell, maybe letting him fall a few meters before guiding him safely to the ground. Just for a bit of naughty fun. But the ever-present, ever-looming manager in her mind took on a tone of scolding when she said 'just bring him down. GENTLY.'

"Boooooo." Hermione grumbled to herself and pointed her wand at Ron's flailing body.

"Tar anuas!"

He calmed slightly when he began floating downward. As soon as his feet touched the dew-wetted sand of the pitch, he fell to his knees, letting out a relieved sob. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, a wisened and grisled coach deeply disappointed in her athlete. She didn't know why he insisted on playing this silly game. He hated flying as much as she did, and he'd confessed as much to her, in first year. Heights horrified him, but he didn't want to be seen as weak or wanting. His brothers played, Harry played, and so he would play. End of discussion.

Ron lacked the predisposition for most things magical, despite coming from a family of gifted witches and wizards, and that very much included flying. He swore the other boys could never know he wasn't a naturally gifted flier. Of all the things he couldn't do, not being able to fly was his greatest shame? She'd thought to herself. That damned softness in heart led her to offer secret flying lessons anyway, with the very clear stipulation that she would not be getting on a broom, short of a life or death scenario. That's why she was now outside on this cold, rainy fall day, watching him gratefully tongue-kiss the earth that did not break him. Men are all the same, wizard and human alike.

"Ronald, get your mouth out of the dirt, that's disgusting." He sat back on his knees, lips covered in filth, face sweating.

"You're still letting the broom ride you." His mouth betrayed a childish cackle, but Hermione punched his shoulder before it fully manifested. "If you set out thinking you're going to fall, you are inevitably going to fall. The Firebolt is no different than your Nimbus, stop fixating on its speed. You're not riding a nuclear bomb."

"...A what?" Ron whined. And with that, Hermione was officially done for the day.

"Alright, flying lessons are over. I need tea. Immediately." she held out her hand and yanked him off the ground. Ron reached down for his brand-new Firebolt; an all-too-generous Christmas gift from Harry. He held it only at the very end of the handle, as if it would spontaneously burst into flames. Hermione shook her head and turned toward the castle.

Ron, finally noticing the whisper of disgust on her face, said "You're no good at actual flying, either, Hermione! Don't judge me!"

"Yes, but I don't insist on participating in an extracurricular activity that is ENTIRELY dependent on flying." They climbed the rise to the courtyard. "And even though I hate to fly, I've mastered the magic involved with flying. Knowledge you have benefitted from for the last five years. If you don't like it, then ask Harry next-"

"NO." Ron gristled behind her.

"That's what I thought. So. What do we say?" Hermione asked sweetly. Ron held his tongue until he could drop to the outer courtyard wall.

"Thank you." he growled.

"You are so welcome. Now I am going to the common room, I am changing into pajamas, I am making the hottest cup of tea known to wizardkind and I am reading for the rest of the day. Do not bother me." she tousled his sweaty hair and made her way to the entrance. Though her voice was tinged with irritation, her face cracked into a smile. She admitted to taking pleasure in knowing that those two boys, particularly Ronald, would not survive without her.

She opened the heavy wooden doors and shivered as the warmth of the castle enveloped her. Hermione had carved out the rest of this Saturday in her schedule, her mind, her body, and her spirit as a rest day. A real rest day, just for her. No saving the world, no mothering her best friends, no snakes in basements, trolls in bathrooms, no sociopaths with insatiable god complexes. No war. No war flashbacks. And NO schoolwork. The manager in her mind repeated with a tone of warning, 'Seriously. No schoolwork. Not even light reading.'

Pulling off her gloves, she headed in the direction of Gryffindor tower. Hermione knew if anyone had access to her innermost workings, they'd toss her into St. Mungo's. But she had been parenting herself from the first moment the magic seared beneath her skin.

Her mother and father had truly done their best, and loved her with all the tools they had in their human arsenal. But, in the end, they were human. There were just some things they could never understand, fears they could not ease, sensations they could not explain. Hermione had to turn inward at a very young age, creating a protective presence that could, at least, try to guide her through her earlier magical life. She relied on it, and on books, and on quiet observation of the world around her.

Though she was proud of her strength, her resilience… and she never blamed her parents…she couldn't stop the recurring memory of the horror in their eyes each time her magic bubbled to the surface. A table flung across a room, windows shattering, household objects floating to the ceiling. They didn't mean to wear their emotions so openly. They did their best.

Their best still hurt me.

The thought slipped from the depths of her mind before she could stop it.

Hermione stuffed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, willing the old loneliness to spare her, just for today. She trotted up the final flight of stairs. A real rest day, she told herself; a plea and an affirmation. She whispered the password and stepped into the warm glow of the Gryffindor common room.

Several shifting staircases below, hidden in a fixed shadow, a pair of storm-gray eyes followed Hermione Jean Granger's every step. Long-steeped rage burned in those eyes, emitting an energy that slithered up and up, to the very threshold of Gryffindor tower itself. A hiss came from the darkness.

"...Mine."