On The Color Of Fur
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Hermione's reflection examined her from the tall bathroom mirror. Strangers to themselves, the both of them. Unrecognizable were it not for the synchronicity of their movements, but more so for the lack thereof. Empty, dull brown eyes took stock of her face, hair, and clothes in their stillness—everything lay in disarray, an outward reflection of her thoughts, her senses, her emotions. Stripes of dust marked her dark blue jumper and black jeans with odd patterns, patent remnants of the deserted classroom—a stone sanctum that had contained her rarely used emotions when her internal walls proved ineffective and far too feeble. Following her attempt to banish the waxy look her fit of terror had granted her, to baptize and cleanse herself with water, little droplets were left behind, spattered across her face and neck. Her hair… well, its state betrayed her earlier agitation.
Hermione found that, if she remained unmoving enough, the curves of her mouth and the set of her brow delineated the photograph of her despondency.
Yet she blinked and her gaze shifted, its focus settling for a moment on the space surrounding her.
This had once been Moaning Myrtle's dwelling. Yet now that the girl had companions of her age and likeness, all victims of the same instigator, Myrtle had left her usual haunt behind. Absurdly, it felt more haunted now that silence rang, every diminutive disruption of it all the more eerie. The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets that used to lie in the centre was no more, sealed for good, and the configuration of the bathroom got refashioned: the sinks now braced the round wall, leaving its void in the middle.
Hermione dried herself with a pass of her wand. Needing to collect herself had become a habit at this point, a practice acquired through ghastly means: an unending list of funerals. Every time she fell apart, every death she mourned when she wanted to rage ended the same way: with her needing to pull herself together, again and again, through will that she lacked. She knew the best ways to hide her state—a spell to fix her hair, one to rid her eyes of their lingering redness, another to unrumple her clothing… She had learnt not out of vanity, but because it was expected of her. No matter what, she should endure, should remain an image of resistance. A myth construed by people's hopes, their need to believe in something. Othe people's expectations had always been the one thing she could always meet—surpass, even—and if she couldn't—if she didn't—then what did it say about her?
It was a question best left unanswered.
So she crumbled in private, always hidden, and then rebuilt herself, slightly hollower, bits and pieces missing here and there, but so what? Most people didn't even notice that the facsimile was not perfect, that it fell just a bit shorter each time. They barely even cared, as long as Hermione Granger was there: larger than life, made out of spellfire and knowledge.
Remus, however, must be the exception.
As the door to his quarters on the second floor opened, he must have picked up on something, spotted the cracks somehow because his usual gentle green eyes sharpened at the sight of her, his relaxed posture tensed. Her appearance was immaculate, but she wondered if his enhanced senses could discern the scent of her tears. He had never commented on it, though, and, as a rule of thumb lately, Hermione didn't ask. If he couldn't, all the better, really, and if he did… Provided he didn't mention it, Hermione could pretend nothing had happened. Her composure hinged on it, every last bit of her strength drained from her encounter with Malfoy earlier. She begged Remus' silence through her eyes, averting them to the stone floor instead of maintaining his gaze.
Remus acceded without a word, motioning for her to enter and offering her a seat on a battered but comfortable-looking leather sofa. It gave like butter as she lowered herself on it, the cushion making it impossible for her to sit ramrod straight as it moulded around any part of her it touched. The inability to regulate her posture snatched some of her control and she fought with the furniture, sitting closer to the edge to maintain a balanced perch. Comfort would have been appreciated under different circumstances when memories of Bellatrix's hands and wand and knife weren't crawling all over her skin.
Still, the entire thing felt… illusory. The snug sofa, the cosy room, the pleasant company. Remus poured her a cup of tea, his hands ensuring she had a firm hold of it before he let her hand and the cup go. It felt nice, the heat, both of his hand and of the beverage, yet that, too, seemed transient, figmental. As though Hermione was still writhing on that floor, every nerve an electrified fence, and her mind had detached itself from the pain, from any lingering, raw body link, and had instead conjured a daydream in which agony was not welcome. Strange that it had come up with Remus, though she supposed she knew no one more caring, except perhaps Hagrid. Something about the DADA Professor had always put her at ease, even after she had found out his secret condition. The night she revealed it to Harry and Ron in the Shack, she had been angry and hadn't known how to feel, but even then the only time she had felt truly unsafe in his presence was when he lost control of himself to the wolf.
In her reverie, Hermione failed to notice that she had neither touched her tea nor spoken a single word for what must have been minutes. Silences weren't exactly comfortable these days, but then neither was making conversation, both chatter and its absence sitting heavy in her stomach. She took a sip of the tea and hugged herself as inconspicuously as she could.
Remus broke the silence. "Is the tea to your liking?"
"Yes, thank you." She took another sip, having not registered the flavour on the first one. Chamomile, the temperature hot enough to warm her but not so much it burned her tongue. There was perhaps a little more sugar in it than she was accustomed to, being the daughter of dentists, but given that she had been unable to talk as she had first entered the room, she appreciated Remus' attempt—or, rather, her mind's attempt at imitating him, if her theory had merit and this was indeed a delusion. As far as she could recall, Remus had always favoured sweet things, his predilection towards chocolate common knowledge, something her subconscious would be well aware of.
As she had hoped, Remus avoided commenting on her state, but his questions, innocuous though they were, were always centred around her, particular in ways she could never easily return. There was no possibility of discussing whether he had heard from his best friends lately, not without wandering too close to the topic of Sirius' death, or asking which classes he was taking given that he was at Hogwarts in a different capacity altogether. He was an attentive listener despite how trivial her answers were, in a way neither Harry nor Ron had ever had the patience to be, and she found herself peeking out from the shell she had taken shelter in.
It wasn't long until she regretted it.
"I'm glad, Hermione." And, despite not recalling this specific question or her own inane words, the sentiment soothed her. Remus lowered his cup, placing it and its saucer on the small centre table with a clink, and rested his hands on his thighs, his posture shifting just a tad in his not-as-semiliquid armchair. "May I ask about your family?"
It landed like a blow, his soft-spoken question, though it was common enough these days—both the enquiry and the hesitant form in which it was worded, asking permission to ask in case it might prove too painful a topic. It pierced through the sense of surreality she had been experiencing, making her both relieved that she wasn't being tortured, and tormented. Hermione shook herself—she had no right to feel the latter—her parents were safe. Happy. It was more than most could claim.
"They're well," she said, and, feeling the response insufficient, she added, "They've found a house and finished the move a month ago."
"They had left Britain then?"
"Not..." She swallowed, her voice quieter as she continued, "Not out of their own volition."
"Oh. I see."
Did he? They were just words, though they struck an overly tightened chord and it snapped.
"Do you?" she asked, unable to contain her words. "Do you truly?"
There was a minute change in him—his face turned to the side, ever so slightly, his eyes more guarded. "No, but I assume you used whatever means at your disposal to keep them safe. Am I wrong?"
"I guess you do see it, after all," she said, though her tone belied her words. She jutted her chin, turning her confession into a double-bladed weapon, "I obliviated them."
Hermione waited until the blow landed, though the edge meant for him was far blunter than the one that pierced her heart. Her wounds were hardly ever clean-cut. However razor-sharp the instrument that left them behind, the damage showed in jagged lines, slightly barbed, too. Through the burn, Hermione waited for the coating of judgment to come like clockwork. Few knew what she'd done, but the expression was always the same—horror, tinged with a dash of something else. Sympathy, sometimes, if she was lucky. Fear, of what she could do, of how far she would go, at others.
Yet Remus' face betrayed nothing. "It was very clever of you, Hermione. Not many could bear to do the same."
She scoffed. "You mean not many could be unfeeling enough to accomplish it."
His calm demeanour remained unchanged. It rattled her further. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I've never known you to be unfeeling. Humans are comfort creatures. There's very little more comforting than the love of a parent in a time of war. It took great courage to be selfless enough to give it up, even if it was for the sake of their safety."
"It wasn't courage." She exhaled a short laugh. "It was the most cowardly I've ever behaved. Vilely, even. I did it behind their backs, so I wouldn't—so I wouldn't have to look. They wouldn't have let me go with Harry. I couldn't risk them looking for me."
Remus leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "They had no means to defend themselves in this world. You ensured their survival."
Another memory assaulted her. The wards Hermione had placed around her home alerted her to a disturbance. She didn't check, not at first—too risky. She was a cautious Gryffindor, now. The house lay empty anyway, so she waited hours before Apparating a few blocks away. The heat hit her despite the distance. Tall, green flames licked their way up, befouling the night sky with thick clouds of smoke, almost lava-like, that billowed up and to the side with the breeze, some of its plume enshrouding the image of a snake slithering out of a skull's jaw. The dark mark's glow painted a sickly, horrifying picture, one she was unable to tear her gaze from. She fell to her knees, landing on soft earth. Those walls had withstood sixty years. They had been her grandparents' before they were her parents'. Now, they were no more.
"They burnt down the house. Firefighters took over eight hours to subdue the magical flames. It was carbonised. There wasn't anything left that I hadn't taken with me or shipped to Australia with them."
When Hermione managed to regain her focus, Remus' gaze had softened further and he gave her a heavy nod. "Then it wasn't just very clever, but quite effective as well."
The left corner of her mouth pulled up, in what must have been an ugly curl. "Yes, effective. They lived, so all is well. Because I couldn't bear to have them suffer under wand-point, I used mine to rob them of their memories. Of any recollection of their lives, of everything they had ever known." Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She couldn't cry—Oh, God, she couldn't cry. Her throat thickened. "Of their choice. I turned on them, used the one thing they lack against them. But they survived, didn't they? How clever and effective of me."
"You had very little options, Hermione," Remus said.
"Why must you keep saying these things? Why must you defend it?"
His head tilted to the side. "Because you need to hear them. Because I care for you, and it worries me—"
Her brain latched onto that word—worry. She rose from the soft sofa, unable to bear it any longer. Her cup thudded on the wooden table when she plonked it down.
"Is that what this is about?" she asked. "Poor Hermione, she can't cope, shan't we charitably tell her that she did her best?"
It was too much. The last straw—her encounter with Malfoy, the panic attack, Remus knowing, somehow, when she had everyone else fooled. His attempts to console her.
She wanted to burst. Wanted to overturn the tea set, and spill the calming flavour he had chosen all over the floor.
But as Hermione stormed out, she did so quietly—no sound but the one of her footsteps, no slamming but the one of her heart.
Her name was called. She didn't turn back.
The tears were already falling.
N/A: Ha, remember when I said the chapters for this story would be REALLY short so I would be able to edit them much faster? Poor naive, silly little writer lol. Truth is, they keep growing longer on me. I know I'm late, but editing this one meant changing the dialogue around a lot and writing an extra thousand words, so...
But, if you add all the chapters I managed to post this month, it amounts to over 4k words! It's more than I can come up with a regular monthly update since my brain gets fuzzy when dealing with any chapter that's over 3k, which means I effectively managed to trick my brain by using this shorter format. Huh. Who would've thought?
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and let me know your thoughts if you're comfortable with sharing them :)
Huge thanks to roon0 for the review and to all of you who favorited and followed the story!