Chapter 4: Reflections of the Past

Hermione lay in her childhood bed, staring up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. The house had once been filled with warmth and laughter, the echoes of her parents' voices filling every corner. But now, it was just a house—a structure made of wood and stone, devoid of the life that had once made it a home. The war had taken so much from her, more than she could ever have imagined, and the emptiness that filled the space where her parents had been was a constant reminder of what she had lost.

She had done everything she could to protect them, obliviating their memories and sending them far away, hoping that distance would keep them safe. But the Death Eaters had found them, hunted them down with a cruelty that defied comprehension. They had been tortured and killed, and Hermione hadn't even been able to say goodbye. The guilt weighed on her like a heavy shroud, a constant presence that she could never escape.

In the aftermath of the war, she had been showered with riches and rewards, hailed as a hero, the best friend of the chosen one. But none of it mattered. No amount of gold or praise could fill the void that had been left behind. The house she had grown up in was a prison now, a place where memories haunted her every step. She had considered returning to Hogwarts to complete her final year, but the thought of it exhausted her. She was done, too tired to continue pretending that life could go back to what it had been before.

She craved normalcy, but she no longer knew what that was. The lines between the magical and the mundane had blurred, and she found herself using magic sparingly, only when absolutely necessary. She wanted to reclaim something of the life she had lost, but every time she tried, the memories of the war came crashing back, dragging her down into a pit of despair.

After the war, she had tried to move on, to find some semblance of happiness. She had dated Ron, thinking that perhaps being with someone familiar would help her heal. But Ron wasn't what she needed. He was passive-aggressive, his compliments laced with subtle insults that chipped away at her already fragile self-esteem. He would praise her intelligence while questioning her decisions, compliment her looks while suggesting she change her style. It was a slow, insidious erosion of her sense of self, and it wasn't long before Hermione began to feel like she was losing herself all over again.

During her time with Ron, she had grown close to George, his older brother. George was everything Ron wasn't—kind, understanding, and supportive. Their relationship had been brief, more of a mutual understanding than a passionate romance, but it had been enough to show Hermione what she had been missing. When it ended, there was no bitterness, no anger, only a quiet acceptance that it had run its course.

Hermione had known she had to leave, and one day, she simply walked away, leaving behind everything that had tied her to Ron and the Weasley family. She had returned to the Muggle world, seeking solace in the familiarity of her old life. But even there, she couldn't escape the ghosts of her past. She would occasionally return to the wizarding world to visit Harry, her one remaining connection to the life she had known. Harry never judged her, never questioned her decisions. He was her anchor, the one person who still understood her.

Ginny, however, hated her. She couldn't stand the sight of Hermione, couldn't forgive her for leaving Ron. The Weasley family had largely alienated Hermione, save for George. But Harry never wavered. He knew that Hermione and George had shared something real, something honest, and he respected that.

Bumping into Malfoy had not been part of Hermione's plan. She had gone to Diagon Alley that day to clear her head, to find some sense of peace in the familiar streets. But seeing him there, gaunt and broken, had shaken her to her very core. She couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't get the image of him out of her mind. It was as if everything she had tried to bury, everything she had tried to forget, had come rushing back with a vengeance.

She had never expected to see him like that. Malfoy had always been a symbol of everything she had fought against—arrogance, prejudice, cruelty. But now, seeing him reduced to nothing, it didn't feel right. It didn't feel like a victory. Instead, it felt like a hollow, bitter reminder of how much they had all lost.

Hermione rolled over in bed, as she tried to make sense of her thoughts. She remembered how she, Harry, and Ron had rallied behind Malfoy during the trials, how they had fought to keep him out of Azkaban. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do, like an act of mercy. But now, looking back, she couldn't help but wonder if they had made a mistake. Lucius Malfoy was living a better life in Azkaban than his son was in the outside world. And for what? So that Malfoy could be free to suffer, free to live in the ruins of his former life?

She sighed, her mind spinning with a thousand questions, a thousand what-ifs. What if she had been more understanding? What if she had reached out to Malfoy in their sixth year, when it was so clear that he was drowning, struggling under the weight of the expectations placed upon him? He had wanted to be caught, she realized now. He had wanted someone to see his pain, to offer him a way out. But they had all been too focused on their own survival to notice, too wrapped up in their own battles to reach out a hand.

That night, as she lay in bed, Hermione made a decision. She would keep returning to that spot in Diagon Alley, to the place where she had seen Malfoy. She would bring food with her, enough to sustain him, enough to show him that someone still cared. She didn't know why she felt so compelled to help him, didn't know what it was about that encounter that had struck such a deep chord within her. But she couldn't ignore it. She couldn't just walk away and pretend that she hadn't seen what she had seen.

Seeing Malfoy like this didn't feel right. It didn't feel like the victory she had once imagined. It felt like a failure, like they had all failed him, just as they had failed so many others. She couldn't change the past, couldn't undo the choices that had led them all to this point. But she could do something now, something small, something that might make a difference.

She was lonely, and she wondered if she should have taken Harry up on his offer to move into Grimmauld Place. But she knew that wasn't the answer. She had to find her own way, had to figure out who she was now, in this post-war world. And maybe, just maybe, helping Malfoy would help her find that path.

That night, as sleep finally claimed her, Hermione dreamed of the boy with the pale, platinum blonde hair and the most piercing grey eyes. He was no longer the enemy, no longer the person she had once despised. He was something else now, something she didn't fully understand yet. But she knew that she would keep going back, keep searching for him, keep trying to make things right.

Because seeing him broken and defeated didn't feel right.

It didn't feel right at all.