When Hermione was eleven, she vividly remembered being so filled with amazement, excitement, and wonder when she discovered that magic was real. Professor McGonagall showed up on her parent's doorstep to change their lives forever, and she believed with all her heart that she was being rescued.
Those muggle primary school bullies like Melissa Pickles and Andrea Blewitt wouldn't be able to get to her anymore. She would no longer be subjected to the stares and whispers that followed her everywhere she went. Nor would she have to lie about why unexplainable things happened around her anymore.
Little did she know that comments about her teeth, hair, books and the dried paint that lived on her fingers would be a cakewalk compared to what she was running towards. If it weren't for Harry and Ron, Hermione would have walked away from the wizarding world altogether. She may have gone as far as to snap her wand in half and burn the pieces. But things were what they were and there was no way she would abandon her boys. They were all the family she had.
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This was why the Brightest Witch of her Age sat cross-legged in the center of her bedroom floor, working on ridiculously large batches of Sleeping draught and Draught of Peace behind a tightly locked door. Her usual simply wouldn't do in this case. Its shelf life was incredibly short.
Beads of sweat poured over Hermione's moonlit skin. She steadfastly ignored her sheer white tank top clinging to her body like ink to parchment. Loose strands of thick, riotous hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. The itchy 'Mudblood'scar rudely standing out on her forearm went ignored in favor of the delicate task before her.
Not many witches or wizards could confidently say they correctly brewed two draughts simultaneously. Still, there was no choice but to get it right. She was due at platform 9 ¾ the next morning and there was no chance of Madam Pomfrey turning a blind eye to the number of draughts she would need to get through the year.
Not to mention, if she were to get her hands on more ingredients, where would she brew her own? It wasn't a secret that Myrtle's bathroom had once been a confidential lab anymore. Her brows furrowed deep with concentration.
There would be more questions asked than she wanted to answer.
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On the other hand, Hermione couldn't recall ever feeling prouder of herself as both potions called for their finishing touches. As she stirred one while adding hellebore to another, she grinned.
1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...7.
She smugly glanced between two perfectly brewed potions as she stood and stretched. It was one of the few moments where it was quite satisfying to be her.
Bottling the potions and packing them away was just as satisfying, if not more so. It meant she got to open her window let some air in.
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It took a while, but once she was done, she was greeted by a cool midnight breeze that wrapped around her like the arms of an old friend. She relished in it, not bothering to tuck the escaped renegade curls back into the bun atop her head. She let them float around her as she stared up at the face of the moon. There was something soothing about losing oneself to the vastness of the universe. If only people would take the time to really look.
It was fitting, in a way, that the same lights that brought her so much joy and comfort as a child had burned out long before they ever reached her eyes. The most important lessons are often ones that don't get through until after the light of the person teaching them is extinguished.
She tipped back the last Calming Draught phial in her hand, shuddering a bit as it slipped down her throat. Maybe if her body relaxed enough before she took her sleep aid, she might rest a bit better before she boarded the train in the morning.
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A blinking light flashed in the corner of her eye. "What...?"
Hermione approached her desk with caution. In the center of a quill that had been delivered to her a few weeks ago, a single gem lit up a brilliant blue. It felt like it was calling to her. If it hadn't come from Minerva, she would have blown it up with a blasting curse. As it was, it had come from the Headmistress, so she carefully picked it up with a deep breath and a steady hand.
A rush of magic surged through her, filling her with a lightness she hadn't known since she was eleven. Her mouth dropped open with amazement. How was it that this writing utensil replicated the feeling of being chosen by a wand?
Her mind threatened to run away with her, all but begging to start the research. Focus! She scolded herself. "Right." She dipped the quill into the inkwell and watched the quill with fascination as she blindly grabbed a spare bit of parchment.
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The second the tip touched the paper; she fought the urge to jerk her hand back. The quill moved of its own accord. It was then Hermione realized magic would never cease to amaze her. She could avoid it, even go as far as to loathe it, but she knew the day would never come when she stopped trying to understand it.
Hermione idly wondered if this is how Arthur felt about muggles.
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The quill glided across the page, a trail of ink swirling behind it in the shape of a snake before slithering across the parchment only to come to a sudden stop in front of her. A looping script that she didn't recognize appeared.
Then the quill dropped to the desk with a clatter.
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Hermione's lips quirked up a bit when she read:
McGonagall is out of her mind.
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If there was one universally acknowledged truth, it was that Hermione Granger never shirked from an assignment. Even during the moments when she felt like a fish out of water. It only took a moment for her to scribble her answer.
For the first time in my life, I'm inclined to agree with that assessment. However, it seems that we are stuck with each other for the duration of the school year. Might as well give as proper an introduction as we can, given these quills will prevent us from revealing our identities. How do you feel about using pseudonyms?
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The quill stayed still. A minute passed. Two minutes. Three. Once ten minutes came and went, Hermione simply put the quill down and stretched. It wasn't like she could honestly expect anyone else to be up at this hour. She shouldn't even be awake.
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It was at the exact moment that she stood when the quill began to move again.
Fair enough. For the duration of this arrangement, you can call me Ink. What about you?
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Leaning over the desk, her mark—her brand, as it was—demanded her attention. The letters were still as red as the blood in her veins. Ironically, that was what sparked her inspiration.
Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ink. You may call me Blood.
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The response was nearly instant.
Are you always awake this late?
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Hermione sighed.
I don't sleep much if that's what you're asking. I take it you don't either?
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She didn't know why, but she was nearly on the edge of her seat, waiting for the quill to move. Her eyes widened as she watched the words form.
No. Side effects of being involved in a war you wanted no part of.
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Ink's answer, short as it may have been, changed her entire perspective of McGonagall's program. She shook her head with a heavy heart. Maybe there really was something to this, after all.
Exactly. Duty to the ones you love comes with a heavy price, doesn't it?
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Another lull in their exchange came again, but this time Hermione didn't think much of it. She was too engrossed in what had already been said.
Logically, she knew that she wasn't the only one who struggled with the aftermath of the horrors they endured. Harry was still seeing a Mind Healer. Ron practically lived at the Burrow again.
Seeing it spelled out so plainly right in front of her, however, sent a jolt through her. Perhaps she had been spending too much time holed up within herself, to have missed something so obvious with the world around her. Maybe she wasn't the only one who needed to vent.
Hermione nodded to herself. This might have been Minerva's purpose in implementing the program. All the participants could technically pretend that their words went no further than the page; that there wasn't an actual person on the other side of the quill.
On that note, Hermione looked to the ceiling and groaned. The very thought of letting go, of not pretending, had no right to sound so bloody beautiful. And to fulfill Minerva's requirements for this year at the same time? She could grab the Headmistress' face and kiss her cheek for it.
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Passionflower.
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Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion, having been jolted out of her fantasy.
Pardon?
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The response was nearly instant.
Passionflower tea. Add some valerian root to the brew. It helps me sleep.
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Hermione paused. Passionflower? Valerian root? As her brain worked through the implications, she found that properties of the herbs made a powerful sleep-inducing combination.
This led her to speculate about her pen pal. There was no possible way to live with being a part of the Second Wizarding War and be so... willingly kind towards a total stranger. How did they know that she wasn't someone of the wrong sort?
She snorted. If she were talking to a third year right now, that would just be her luck.
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So far, she knew that this person was someone of generally few words. However, the words that he or she spoke packed a punch. They seemed to be the type to extend help to others in need, based on their unsolicited but appreciated advice concerning insomnia relief.
The way they worded their answer sounded like a person with a solid background in herbology. In turn, they were likely well-versed in potions.
Sharing a part of their war-inflicted suffering with a stranger revealed a certain level of bravery that warranted respect. It was also incredibly naïve, and, honestly, a bit reckless.
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What's keeping you awake? Is it anything I can help with?
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This time, the first few words were roughly scratched out. Next to them appeared another short, but neatly written sentence.
Doubt it. Just stuck in my own head. I know we don't know each other, but I'm not sure you could understand.
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Try me, Hermione quickly scribbled. I was involved in the war, too. It might help to unload to someone who can be completely unbiased.
Maybe another time. If it's any consolation, I appreciate your offer.
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Approximately ten minutes of short, awkward, but semi-sweet exchanges later, one thought stood out in Hermione's head louder than the rest: This year should be interesting, to say the least. McGonagall had just given her the next best thing to straight O's on her exams.
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The next morning, the weight of saying goodbye to Harry and Ron hit her like a ton of bricks as she faced getting the Hogwarts Express alone. The boys stood, or rather hovered, on either side of her while Ginny flanked them on Harry's side. With her hands on the straps of her carry-on bag, Hermione felt like she'd been petrified all over again. The last time she stepped on that train alone was in first year. It had always been the three of them. Together. Always.
What was she going to do?
A large, rough hand clasped hers. Immediately, the knot inside her chest loosened. "You can do this, Hermione." Harry's whispered encouragement was the first thing she truly heard since stepping onto the platform.
Another large, smoother hand clasped her other. "You can do anything, Hermione. Trust me," Ron said quietly. "If anyone can handle going back there while being surrounded by a bunch of snotty prats all year and stillget their N.E.W.T.s, it's you."
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"Hey!" Ginny snapped. If there was any doubt that his sister heard him, it was gone now. "If anyoneis the snotty prat around here—"
Hermione and Ron both looked up to see Harry clamping his free hand over his girlfriend's mouth. The poor guy grinned sheepishly as Ginny cut a glare at him—all the continuing to spout muffled expletives.
Hermione sighed. Unfortunately for her, Ginny had not taken the news of her breakup with Ron well at all. Despite Hermione's insistence that it was a mutual decision and that she was fine, the fiery redhead felt that her "idiotic wanker of a brother" (her words, not Hermione's) was entirely at fault and that he needed to be punished for hurting her friend.
She loved Ginny. Truly, she did. She admired how fiercely loyal and protective she was. However, Hermione prayed that this was not going to be an indication of the year to come.
Ever the punctual person, Hermione glanced up at the platform's clock. Only fifteen minutes left to board the train. She swallowed nervously but straightened her spine and squared her shoulders anyway.
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It was now or never. Just as she opened her mouth to try and force out some form of a parting statement, she was enveloped in one of her favorite bear hugs. "Harry!" She laughed. She threw her arms around her best friend's neck on pure instinct alone. It made her feel like the little girl who barreled towards him at full speed in the Great Hall again. She closed her eyes, basking in Harry's warm, safe, and familiar embrace.
She decided to commit this moment to memory; a bit of home to get her by in the months to come. "You better write to me at least twice a week, Harry Potter," she quietly ordered. His body rocked with quiet laughter, and she rolled her eyes. "I mean it, Harry. You have this dreadful habit of getting into trouble and nearly dying on me."
When Harry leaned back to fully look at her, his eyes sparkled with mischief. "See? All the more reason to come with us instead of—ow!" He jumped back, rubbing his arm with a full-blown grin on his face. "No need to smack me! Must you always be so violent?"
Ron chuckled. "She keeps making our case for us, mate. With all that pent-up anger she's got, she would be—ow!" He was now rubbing his arm, grumbling, "Figures. Can't even get a hug first before you—hey!"
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Hermione stood in the center between the two boys, hands on her hips, fuming at the pair of them while Ginny stood by, snickering at the scene. She pointed at Harry first. "You. I want a letter from you at least twice a week, letting me know you're alive at the bare minimum."
Before Ron could speak, she rounded on him. "And you. I want at least two letters a week from you too. You'd better let me know that you're alive and well on a regular basis."
Both boys wore sheepish grins, but Ron's turned into a wide, heartwarming smile when Hermione lunged at him and nuzzled her face into his neck.
Her ex-boyfriend patted her back gently as a single silent tear fell onto his skin. "It's going to be alright, Hermione," he whispered.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Why hadn't she opted to take her N.E.W.T.s from home again?
Knowing it was too late to back out now, she straightened herself once more and quickly wiped away the evidence of getting emotional in such a public setting. "Right. Well, Gin and I best be getting on the train."
Ron nodded, unsure of how to say goodbye to her now. "Yeah." The ground suddenly became extremely interesting. Hermione understood completely.
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Once she turned to say goodbye to Harry, she too had to look away. Watching him openly snogging his girlfriend wasn't exactly a comfortable sight to witness. She felt like she was intruding on an extremely private moment. Which would have been completely true if they weren't in the middle of platform 9 ¾.
As Hermione scanned the surroundings, searching for literally anywhere else to look, she spotted a patch of white-blond hair in the crowd. Donned in his usual pristine black suit, Malfoy stood next to a pillar, nearly invisible to everyone around him with his hands shoved in his pockets.
His face was devoid of emotion as he blankly stared at the train, but his shoulders seemed quite rigid. Squared, even, she would say. His posture indicated he was about to head into some form of confrontation. What was he up to?
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"Hermione," Harry said gently.
She jumped, having been caught staring. Her face burned with embarrassment. "Yes?"
"Try not to get into too much trouble without us, okay?"
Hermione and Ginny both snorted at that one. "Don't worry, Harry," Hermione assured him. "I think I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime."
Malfoy had already disappeared before the boys fully crossed back through the barrier. Hermione's mouth turned downward into a thoughtful frown. What was with him? There was no way he would be up to something this year. Right?
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Great. Now I'm starting to sound like Harry, Hermione thought.