2. //TABULA RASA
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She has to be ushered in.
She can feel the concerned glances tossed at her. But the pity has driven her to a hole and tied her legs down. Poor, pathetic little girl that she's being reduced to.
She wants it to stop.
And you wish to be taken seriously? The snide quip makes her nails dig deeper into her palms and she feels the pain brim over. It distracts her and her eyes become dry again.
Funny, this irony that the physical manifestation of agony is the one that cures her of it. At least temporarily, at least for a while until she can lock herself up and grab a dusty pillow as she suffocates herself in it. Screams, screams, screams. Then she'll be better.
Mrs. Weasley can barely look at her. The woman turns to Ron and she can't stand to look at her right now.
Her heart starts beating loudly.
She wants to know (she thinks she knows what Mrs. Weasley is trying to say) and needs to.
It needs to be confirmed. It needs to sink in.
She already knew it was going to happen someday.
And here she thought she was prepared. She thought she could handle it. She had even written letters about the possibility and advised her parents to do the same.
Yet.
Yet...
Voldemort had vanquished and so did her expectation of this. It couldn't happen. Not now, not when that contract was expired.
Not when peace had been reached. Not when she was finally safe (it doesn't seem to ring true now).
So her breath is labored and though she finds it difficult to speak with that persistent beat in her ears, she manages.
"Are my parents -"
Her body is weak.
"They're down the hall, Hermione."
She runs.
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The door slams and both Mrs Weasley and Ron are behind her.
There is Ron with his stupid stretched out hand and she wants to only take it so it'll stop being frozen. So he'd stop his pathetic attempt to support her.
She wants to cry as her parents (she can hardly recognize them) huddle in a corner. Various Order members congregate around them and her hands push them hastily away.
The blood is too apparent.
It is too familiar.
Her eyes prove to still be dry, her mouth mute and that cry has jammed her chords. Regardless, she throws herself in their expectant arms.
Kisses, so much kisses and I'm so sorry's from her. It's a blur and she's smelling her dad's common scent of shoe polish. She wants to stay in their arms all day.
It's suddenly like the times she would read a rare folklore and the image of the villain would imprint itself so clearly in her mind. She couldn't get rid of it so her small feet would patter their way to her parent's bedroom. Her mother would instantly know when to turn on the light and, without need for words, she would pull back the comforter. Her father would snore but she'd still tuck her head under his arm and drag her feet near her mother's hips. Sleep well honey and it was to a restful sleep.
She's trying to find the same comfort.
But now her hands smear too easily of the thick blood. A stain spreads on her summer skirt and her parents only look too forlorn.
She places her hand on her father's translucent dress shirt. The blood is layered all too neatly on his breast and she can see nothing beneath it.
Her mother notices and looks at her fearfully.
"Why," she has momentary control of her faltering voice, "is there no wound beneath this, dad?"
No one can meet her eyes. The question is repeated and the same response is exchanged.
She steps back and the question hangs in the air. She continues to walk back and she's right pressed onto Ron.
He takes over.
"Mum, where's Harry?"
The Order members wince and her parents look at each other. It's an easy question and no one answers.
The blood from her hands drips onto the floor and, as she looks at the banister, she can see a hand print with the same paint planted there and carelessly smeared.
It starts to click.
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No one bothers to stop her and they step aside when her feet start taking her up the dilapidated stairs. The creaks
sound so loud with everyone hushed and she hardly has a choice but to follow them.
It seems to take forever.
It seemed like forever when she was outside fooling around with Ron and having her hands bat away his from underneath her enticing sweater. They were only caressed by dirt then and now they shine too brightly from the blood that she can barely walk now.
She used to run and now she can barely move more than this inferi-state she's in.
It's too quiet and that adds to the surreal mood.
Down the hall and two doors to the right mark his room.
She wishes it didn't have to take wine-colored splatters to remind her of the way.
Professor Lupin and Madam Pomfrey don't notice her yet. She's just at that sharp corner in the hall and their hushed whispers make her weaker.
"So much blood -"
"Can he -"
"I hope."
She's shivering and she can now understand why she felt so cold before. It's a prelude to this bone-weary condition she finds herself in.
She can't cry.
She can't see.
She can't talk.
But she can walk still and the blood on her hands is her pass to enter his room. They step aside and she's starting to feel like a pariah.
The door clicks with a dull sound. As if she was expected, a girl with red-hair turns to look at her from his bedside.
She finally starts to cry.
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