On The Color Of Fur
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A/N: Longer chapter this time! I wanted to warn you about a possible trigger - it's a post-war fic, and struggles with depression were a bit unavoidable. It won't be extreme or anything, but if you feel this might harm you in any way, I urge you not to continue! There are loads of fluffier fics out there waiting to be read :)
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It was only the first week of school and everything seemed to exist in a sort of muted silence, infusing lessons with a funereal quality, one Hermione felt disinclined to shatter. There were no raised hands or spouting of eager words that she lacked the energy to utter, a behaviour that stumped her teachers, she was sure, but it was too soon. Much too soon—to restore any semblance of normality, to pretend everything was fine when things couldn't possibly be farther from it.
For the other students, speaking loudly, too, felt disrespectful, she imagined. After all, having survived felt somewhat uncouth of her, at times—even if she knew that condition had a name and, though not uncommon, its principle rang as highly illogical. Yet understating things didn't exempt one from experiencing them. It was a trauma shared, also, though the thought brought her no comfort.
And thus they all remained—deferential and discreet students—that, too, at odds with the Hogwarts she remembered. At this point, had it not been for the structure of the castle itself and the many familiar faces—alive or otherwise—it could be argued the school was a different place entirely.
Once yet another class was finished, Hermione rose from her seat and exited the room, making her way to the next. Her movements were entirely spurred by muscle memory, and everything these days felt mechanic—eating, sleeping, living. Like an ingrained habit one performed without thought, putting their limbs through each of the steps in the most economical of fashions, but seemed to forget the hows if they stopped to think about it.
So much so that, when the silence surrounding her broke, the cogs Hermione had for muscles ground to a halt, mind frozen at the sound of her own name.
When she recovered the slightest bit of agency, Hermione raised her gaze from the ground, turning her head towards the speaker. After the school had been restored, Professor McGonagall called several people to fill the vacancies on staff. Out of all of them, only one had stirred a reaction in Hermione.
"Rem—Professor Lupin." It had felt right and very little did these days. No one was more deserving of the D.A.D.A position and a part of Hermione couldn't shake the belief that, had he been their teacher longer, fewer students would have died.
"None of that, please." Professor Lupin put his hands in his pockets, posture straightening slightly. "I'd be very disappointed to have you revert to polite formalities on my account. We've fought a war together. I'd like to think we're at least friends."
"Sorry." His words spurred her into action, the need to apologise and explain always did these days. "Of course, I'm still…adjusting."
"Understandable. And you owe me no apology. I'll spare you the question of how you're feeling. How are things progressing, though, in your first week here?"
Well, at least that meant she wouldn't have to lie, right? Since he hadn't asked, there would be no need to reply with one of the three variations she'd come up with to assuage people's worries– I'm fine, truly. I'm feeling a little better, thank you. It's over now, that's relief enough for me. She had been using them on rotation for a while now, and most people were convinced. Either that or they did not care enough to verify, which was fair, she supposed. She could barely summon the energy to care for others herself.
Perhaps it had been that it was Remus–compassionate, kind Remus–asking or, rather, the fact that the question was a new one and she hadn't had time to come up with a ready response, but Hermione found herself being honest. "Right now, I think I regret returning. I honestly thought it would feel better, you know? Thought it could make things feel normal once more."
"I'm afraid 'normal' is too unreasonable an expectation, Hermione."
"I suppose you're right."
"Would you like to know what bothers me the most?"
"Please."
"The walls."
"The walls?"
He hummed his confirmation. "They've been completely restored, not a scorch mark or dent in sight. We're covered in scars, all of us, our bodies a map of wounds. Yet Hogwarts' walls are unblemished, the battle erased, wiped clean."
Hermione looked around. Everything looked untainted, spotless. For a moment, she felt the need to defile it, to corrupt the stones and tar the windows so it would show. So it would show.
People shouldn't be the only broken things.
She got ahold of herself. "It feels like the world is trying to forget, doesn't it?"
"A fresh start. It might work, for a while, except it doesn't take into account that the pain lives on still. Perhaps forever."
Her fingers found the scar on her arm, hidden beneath her clothes. The pain hadn't left her, just as the sickening, detestable marks wouldn't. Ever there, bodily reminders of fathomless horror.
A soft touch to her shoulder discontinued the spiral of her thoughts. "Would care to join me for tea, tomorrow? I find myself starved for good company."
"I'm not good company." It was just as she said it, that the reality of it struck her—she had been no company at all. Not just sometimes alone, not just missing Harry and Ron something fierce, but unable to remember when her last interaction comprised of more than a word had been. "But if you're willing to overlook that fact, I would like to."
Remus gave her a gentle smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "Then it's settled. Have a good day, Hermione."