Another month passed, and Hermione was trying to read a book by that same river she wanted to cross and escape so badly. She painfully realised that she had nowhere to go. So, she stayed. Stayed in the house, stayed with Harry, Ginny, and Ron, tried to stay sane. The latter part was the hardest. Being with people annoyed her, but being alone made her anxious because she was more likely to see a vision of the Phantom if she was alone. It got easier to just ignore him because he showed up so frequently before her; but the knowledge that he was right there, standing, watching her, caused crippling anxiety.

So, Hermione read books. Or, she tried; but reading required a lot of mental stamina and sharp focus her brain was still unwilling to give. It had gotten better since she was training her eyes and her mind to read normally for the past three months, but letters still blurred on the page, and she often forgot what she read, having to reread the same line repeatedly until it finally stuck. Reading used to be so easy for her. Her ability allowed her to finish books in a matter of days and comprehend difficult concepts within seconds. She used to be a witch, too, could do magic. She used to be a person, someone who could do things and do them well.

All of that was gone now. Hermione had to learn how to live again, even when her body was shutting off constantly. She would read until her eyes watered, and then would read some more just to prove herself she could. Almost every day, she returned to this river, especially when she noticed James getting annoyed with her. She abandoned the hope of getting to the other side and existing just for herself, with no expectations. This was her home, after all, perhaps her only home, and if the war ever ended, she would probably stay here. But right now, her days were slow, and Hermione was doing all she could to occupy her mind before it wandered off to the territory of terrors. She would read some of her book, and when her brain shut off, she would stare at the ice floes, moving along with the river stream down along the way. The Phantom would always be there, watching her, and she would pretend he was a silent companion for her muted reading.

Since Hermione got very few returned memories in the last two months, Harry started using legilimency on her. She wanted to avoid it at all costs, because she thought legilimency would cause awful memories to resurface, ones she would never want to get back; and she was right. They'd already been through four sessions, which always intensified her seizures. They were now overcoming her, sometimes multiple times a day, and that was incredibly mentally and psychologically taxing. Harry would take her to a separate room where they wouldn't bother anyone, cast a silencing charm on the door, and invade her mind, trying to find anything that could be advantageous.

The most important thing, naturally, was for Harry to figure out the identity of the Phantom. He never said it, but Hermione knew Harry believed she just wasn't trying hard enough to remember the Phantom because of the trauma connected to his person, but when he searched her memories himself, he was just as unlucky. He would shuffle through the cards of her recollections, frantically searching for the ace, but all he found were ones and twos. Nothing new. Harry wasn't mad at her for that, but he was getting more frustrated with every passing legilimency session. They left Hermione shaking and sobbing on the floor afterwards. Still, at least she was doing something. At least her suffering was supposed to lead them to their ultimate goal.

When Harry wasn't in Hermione's brain, he was usually away at battle. Ron now would always go with him, and sometimes would come back even later. Hermione was certain this was how he tried to avoid her. Or he was spending time with Padma. Hermione had no interest in whichever it was. She had very little sympathy left in her mind and body to give away freely, so she had to pick where to settle it. First, she cared about the war. She wanted it to end faster, and to end with no more of her friends dying. But this was an objective want, something that any sane person might wish for—peace. Second, she wanted to get better. She aspired to be her old self again; she wanted to do magic and own a wand again; she wanted to know what it was to feel more than just a teaspoon of emotions, to not see gruesome visions of her rapist and torturer everywhere she went. But this was a personal wish. Too personal even. Selfish, some might say. Third, she wanted to take care of James, to make sure his childhood didn't pass by like nothing amidst the war, and that he wouldn't have to grow up too soon. She wanted to protect him from the horrors the surrounding adults were facing every second. This was the only thing that was not only doable, but also a way for her to justify her own existence. If I help this boy, if I help this innocent child, then I have the right to exist. This was her thinking pattern. And it was not hard to do, except that one time.

It was another snowy day at the beginning of February when James was playing outside, and Hermione was watching over him. But it wasn't the only duty—she also had to go into the house from time to time since Ginny was now so heavily pregnant that she was bed-ridden, and Hermione didn't feel well if she didn't check up on her at least every half an hour. It took only one of those check-ups for Hermione to come back outside, to find James covered in blood.

She stopped in her tracks, right in the middle of the doorway–she left the door open ajar. The winter winds were swirling inside, but despite that, Hermione could not close them. She stared. Her first thought was that James got hurt somehow, and that's what made her move forward, although the sight of blood made her sick.

"James?" she called out quietly, trying not to look at the red on the boy's hands and all over his front.

He looked up and smiled after hearing his name.

"Are you okay?" she asked, getting closer to him step by step, as fast as she could, which was incredibly slow.

Then she saw it–a dead bird, crushed in half on the ground before James, the droplets of its blood smearing the snow crimson. James's hands were all gore and that blood. How could such a small bird have so much blood?

Hermione finally found her voice. "What happened here?"

"This bird flew by," James said casually.

"Flew by?" He nodded. "And did what?"

"Just flew by. It's a pigeon. Daddy said pigeons might be spies, and that if they fly by, I tell him. But he's not here."

Hermione crouched down to James's level. "This was just a pigeon, James, not a spy. No wizard would ever spy with birds." This was the muggle way. "Do you understand?"

She put a hand on his small shoulder to get his attention, but James didn't seem affected by her words.

"I don't like pigeons," he said. "They're icky."

"It doesn't matter if you like them or not, they're living creatures and killing them is wrong," Hermione explained patiently. "This bird did nothing wrong. If you feared it, you could've called for me."

James frowned. "I wanted to do it myself. I can do it. I can help."

Hermione sighed, realizing she won't achieve anything like this. "Just… promise me you won't do it again, okay?"

James looked her in the eyes. "Okay."

"Now, go wash up, change your clothes. And don't let your mom see you like this. I will come shortly, I'll just…" she looked down at the gore, "…clean this up first."

James listened. But then it happened again. If it wasn't a pigeon, it was a squirrel, if not a squirrel, then some other small animal. He killed them with his bare hands, knowing that she would see it minutes if not seconds later, and that must've been the reason he started doing it more frequently. Hermione couldn't wrap her mind around it. He wasn't a violent child, and he was empathetic to those around him, so this must've been some sort of act to get her attention. His mother was always tired and in bed, lethargic from the final stages of her pregnancy, and his father and uncle were always away–she was all James had. So, she started spending all her time with James rather than reading by the river. And that didn't help. The moment she turned away; she'd find him bloody. Then she'd start looking for the hurt animal. She'd find it. James would promise not to do it again. He would do it again. James lies, she'd remember Victoire say.

After the incident repeated thrice, Hermione decided that the best course of action was to tell Harry what was happening. His reaction, however, was quite unexpected. Harry listened to her concern and complaints with a frown on his face, and when she was done, he said, "I'll talk to him. Make sure he doesn't do it again." Hermione believed James would listen to his father more than he would listen to her. She was mistaken or harry didn't speak to him right, because he kept on harming animals with an indifference that was frightening.

Hermione learned to ignore it, just like she ignored many other concerning things here.

Harry was too busy with the prisoner in their cellar to coordinate James's behaviour. He worked hard to make the warrior of the Phantom break, and after a few times watching harry alter the memories of the poor captive, she could no longer handle it and would stay upstairs when Harry did his duty. A few weeks later, when she was bringing leftovers from dinner to the prisoner, Hermione found the cellar empty.

"Where is he?" Hermione asked Harry when she caught him alone.

"I let him go," Harry said simply.

"Why?"

"He'll do his job well, I believe it. On my side."

An uneasy feeling grew in Hermione's chest. She didn't question Harry. She had gotten good at ignoring the way these gruesome acts made her feel.

Ginny's stress and size increased dramatically until her due date finally arrived, and, predictably, Hermione was the sole person available to offer help. She was in her room, going through her bookshelves, when she heard Ginny's scream. She ran downstairs and found Ginny crouched down in the living room, her hands gripping the windowsill so hard that her knuckles were white.

"My water broke!" she choked out when she saw Hermione.

Both of them were afraid, even though it was Ginny's second childbirth. Hermione had apparently assisted with delivering James before, but she had no recollection of it. Therefore, she had to begin anew and rely on her instincts rather than on her expertise.

Hermione ran to Ginny's side, urging her to get to the other room.

"Where's Harry?" Ginny demanded, her voice high with panic.

"Not home… But I'm sure he'll come back soon…" Hermione said, not believing her own words.

"No… I want him…" Ginny cried. The pain and fear were already getting to her as the first contraction washed over her.

"It's going to be okay… Trust me…"

She could tell from Ginny's eyes that she'd get no trust. "Let's go to the other bedroom, so James doesn't see—"

Despite her reluctance, Ginny took Hermione's hand and allowed Hermione to lead her into the room. She lied on the bed and the contractions got worse. However, it was impossible to hide from James. He heard his mother's screams and came to see what was going on.

"Mummy?" he called out, looking at Ginny with wide eyes.

Hermione came to him, blocking his mother from his view.

"James, honey, it's better if you're not here right now," she told the boy. "Your mum is giving birth to the baby. Soon, you'll have a brother or a sister. But right now, I need you to not be here, okay?"

James nodded with his mouth still open. He left the room with uncharacteristic slowness. All three of them were in that same shock. None of them knew what to do. Nonetheless, something had to be done.

Hermione fetched towels and some hot water. For the next two hours, Ginny's contractions were stable, and James was out of the way, so that was as good as Hermione could hope for. Sweat shone on Ginny's forehead, her eyes were glassy from the pain, and she kept crying out for Harry in between contractions, but neither he nor Ron got home. Another hour passed by, but there was still no sign of a baby or even an opening. Hermione worried. Ginny was now almost delirious, exhausted with agony. Hermione laboured to do something, without knowing exactly what she should do. She checked if everything was alright, but when she pulled away, blood soaked her hands. Something wasn't right. Hermione sat back, staring at the red before her, and on Ginny.

"Harry, Harry, where are you—" Ginny wailed.

"Is that—blood?" Hermione heard James ask in a small, frightened voice behind her.

Hermione turned around, shaken out of the trance she was in.

"I told you to stay away!" Hermione shouted.

James was close to tears, shivering, horrified. Hermione stood up, shooed him out, waving her dirty hands, and closed the door right in front of his face. She was just as horrified, and that made her irrational. If something happened to Ginny or her baby, Hermione would never forgive herself…

"Blood, what blood, am I bleeding?" Ginny kept asking, coming back to her senses for a short while, if only to ask this, to know if she was going to survive this or not.

Hermione gently touched Ginny's forehead, the mess of sweat and blood marking it pink. "It's okay…" Hermione said, trying to stop her voice and herself from shaking.

Ginny cried out, pushing instinctively, and more blood poured out. Hermione had to think fast. She scourged through the cabinets with potions–none of them had labels, so she had to navigate by what she remembered herself, guessing from the colour. She took one potion and made Ginny drink it.

"This will help with the pain," she said.

In the two minutes that it took for the potion to start working and Ginny's crying to die down, Hermione found a dagger and tried to find the right spot on Ginny's exposed belly.

"What are you doing?" Ginny asked, her voice small like when she was a little girl in her first year, trying to fight her demons and finding solace only in a horcrux diary where Tom Riddle's soul was waiting to come out.

"We'll save your baby, you're both going to be alright…" Hermione kept repeating, her voice shaking more with every word she spoke. She stopped speaking. She cut into Ginny's flesh. Deadly silence settled in the room. Hermione could hear her own laboured breathing. Good, the potion was working.

Hermione dipped her hands inside the hole she made, trying not to cringe away. She wasn't sick yet, which was a good sign. She felt the body of a baby, grasped it with her fingers as tenderly as she could, and took it out. Ginny stared at her act with unseeing eyes, mesmerised. The baby was all blood and gore, then it cried out, sound filling the room once more. Hermione cut off the umbilical cord with that same dagger knife.

Ginny sighed and put her head back on the pillow. Hermione brought the baby closer to herself, looking down at it.

"It's a boy—"

The door behind her burst open and Harry appeared behind them, looking at the scene before him with unbridled awe. He was heaving for air as if he had been running all the way here. He was only three hours late.

"It's a boy," Hermione repeated, shell-shocked. Harry came closer, but didn't listen to her, didn't even hear her words. He only had eyes for the bloody baby in her hands, so she passed it on to him, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

She immediately leaned into the wall with her back, sliding down it, the exhaustion of standing and stressing for so long taking over her already fragile body. She stared before her, not seeing anything, rubbing the crusts of gore and blood on her hands. It didn't come off at all, already dried. Still, she tried. The action was thoughtless.

She saw Ron come toward her; he was only a silhouette in the fog. No fog was present. "Where's James?" Ron demanded.

"I don't know," Hermione said numbly. "I told him to go away."

She saw Ron's hands form fists–they were on the same level as her eyes. Then he turned around and left, probably to look for James. Hermione didn't register that.

After some time–seconds, minutes, hours–she slowly stood up, her legs buckled at the knees, but somehow, she remained standing. She went to the sink in the kitchen to wash her hands, rubbing the soap on them in harsh movements until her skin was red. The scenes from the birth kept playing in her mind. The blood, the gore, Ginny's crying, the baby's crying, her blade cutting into the flesh, the deadly silence following right after… Hermione felt déjà vu. But no, this wasn't déjà vu, because déjà vu was feeling a nostalgia for something one has never experienced… But Hermione had so many gaps in her memory, she simply couldn't know what she had experienced and what she hadn't… Maybe it was James's birth she was half-remembering… maybe someone else's…

Perhaps her own…

With the skin on her hands scraped raw, Hermione flinched back into herself. She turned off the tap, stopping the water flow. She fixed her gaze on the water spinning in the sink, taking deep breaths, trying to get herself together.

Hermione couldn't let herself be lethargic. She got some more hot water and more towels, bringing them to the room where Ginny and Harry were with their newborn. The door was slightly ajar. Hermione was sure she had closed it, but she could have been mistaken. She heard Ginny cry hysterically, she wanted to bolt into the room the way Harry had, thinking that something had happened to the baby, then she heard Ginny's words and stopped in her tracks, "I can't do this anymore… I can't do this, Harry—I want this to be over, I'm going to die here if you don't stop—"

"You'll be okay," Harry said calmly. Very calmly.

"No, I won't be!" Ginny screamed. "I can't stand having her here, I can't even look at her—why did you think this was a good idea—do you think it's easy for me?"

"It's hard for all of us." Again, that cold, detached voice of Harry's.

"All of us?! No, YOU SAID IT WOULD GET BETTER, THAT THE WAR WOULD END, BUT IT WONT'T! You're leaving me here with her all alone, but it was your idea. You did it. I told you to stop, and you didn't, and now she's here!"

"Keep your voice down."

"NO, I WANT HER TO KNOW—"

Hermione didn't realise the side of her face was right in front of the door while she was trying to eavesdrop. When it abruptly opened, she almost got hit in the face.

It was Harry. His face was grim. "I—" Hermione began but didn't get to say anything else because Harry hugged her tightly.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you so much. You saved my son today."

Hermione said nothing, and when he pulled away, she just stood there awkwardly. "Is the—baby, okay?" she finally asked. They both pretended she didn't hear what just passed on between him and the mother of his children.

Harry nodded. "He is. And his name is Albus."

Hermione felt sick. She did not know why.