Tabula Rasa

TABULA RASA

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Tabula rasa: the theory that the (human) mind is at birth a "blank slate" without rules for processing data, and that data is added and rules for processing are formed solely by one's sensory experiences. The notion is central to Lockean empiricism. As understood by Locke, tabula rasa meant that the mind of the individual was born "blank", and it also emphasized the individual's freedom to author his or her own soul.

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It’s a typical happy ever after.

Discoursed dispute that was tied up neatly by the limber fingers that scuttle underneath her threadbare sweater. She laughs and that’s it. It’s all about the present (don’t think about the fights) and it’s all about his red hair trickling down to his brows that are, for once, not covering a frown.

This is how it’s suppose to be, she reasons. The bruises accumulated (but they don’t count now, this is all that matters) are gone. Or at least she can forget them right now.

She waited so long for this.

The moment starts receding, but it’s there. His hands pull away and he hiccups a laugh as she blushes and pulls down on her Weasley sweater.

They want to go further (at least he wants to) but it’s always stopped here. Both don’t know why.

Now he’s there, looking at his bare feet. Her own itch horribly because of the crab grass (and it’s getting to be so cold), though it doesn’t matter.

He does.

They do.

Vexation is released at last. And he’s sorry, so sorry, for the banters. But she tells him that’s what they’re famous for. That’s what makes them them.

And he smiles in reply.

But the day has been turning too cold to ignore and she knows they’re going to have to return back to reality. She trembles at the passing wind that somehow (she can swear) mocks her. The shift begins.

He only looks curiously at her (she can’t stop shaking) and she only can see a blur of thin lips asking (questioning) whether she was alright.

She was (has to be) and she has no idea why suddenly dread is clogging up her veins, her sheer sweater should at least cover her from this brutal response. Her front teeth bite her bottom lip as she sees him disappear like a shadow to the mutual sunset.

“It’s getting to be dark.” he says.

Obvious comment.

Awkward tense.

“Yeah, I can see.”

She’s starting to recoil back to some pressing emotion. It claws into her arms and abruptly (she wants to get away, let her go), she’s starting to see too much.

Her teeth chatter and Ron seems quite placid across from her. She can’t stop trembling and her head throbs. She can taste the blood rising from the bite on her cheek. Ron only betrays a frown through her hazy view.

Then, it all stops.

The moment is finally broken. The threads unravel at an impressing speed (she can only stay transfixed by its dance) that she doesn’t know quite what to do but hang on. Her index finger and thumb pinch the thin cord.

Ron suggests that they hurry back in case she caught something. Her stomach still tingles from the aftertaste of his hand and it stings something pleasant, but she consents.

Still, as they both walk back, she doesn’t take his hand.

>>>

The walk proves to be too short.

She can compare it too well to their relationship.

The shaking has resided and he only responded with a quick “good, you’re not dying.” The realities are being acknowledged once again and each step is a wash of that.

His crabby mood has always been overbearing and she can practically feel the arguments, those coarse words, bubble on their tongues. Waiting to be released, waiting for the exchange they can only do.

It seems that their - whatever it is - has been marked by disputes. Internal or external.

Like, she remembers how she took the porcelain brush from her vanity and did her daily ritual back sixth year. She remembers how Lavender reclined on her bed post and she could see her pained expression (through the mirror’s all-too-open reflection) as she finally broke down.

“Hermione, I can’t - I can’t do this anymore.”

She remembers how her face stood impassive and that smug arrogance started rising to her lips. She was a marionette under its seductive control. She relished it.

Lavender simply continued to cry. And Lavender’s eyes were a grimace to themselves as she continued to brush her curls.

The blonde girl only stared “I suppose you’re happy now, Hermione? Huh? Another top mark, another title to add to your trophy case?”

The delicate acquaintance between the girls fell loose.

“You know that’s all you were Lavender?” Brush, brush, brush, and her head turned around. “A second-rate trophy.”

And it was all undone. Petty girl altercations.

Asides that can be found in each of those books dog-eared by a gossip-friendly generation.

“You know you’ll make yourselves hate each other?”

Pride’s last few words.

“I know everyone sees it happening, but do they see an end? It’s going to all come to the same conclusion, Hermione.”

The brush was left to drop. Spiteful words tumbled out.

“You’re delusional.”

A light started entering Lavender’s eyes as a rough laugh echoed in the empty room. It shook her frame and unexpectedly Hermione felt inferior.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“I don’t have to intentionally hurt you. It’s already obvious who’s won here.”

The words resound in her head.

She can see Lavender taking a glass of gin and tossing her head, her plump red lips sipping the rim as she carelessly winks at her.

“I can’t promise I won’t say I told you so.”

>>>

They both look at each other as they see Grimmauld Place lit up.

It’s late and they expected everyone to be snug in their beds or shrouded in darkness as they went about their endeavors.

She hears Ginny’s words from a lone Saturday of sneaking into the boy’s room and grabbing Harry. It would be risky (but Ginny was always like that) considering her brother would be about two meters away.

“Also disturbing,” Hermione giggled.

“That’s why you’re here. You can distract him, if there is any need to, considering his snores...”

And then Ginny would leave, her hips sashaying, as she would make any excuse to touch (feel) Harry. A laugh with an intentional place of hands and Ginny would flash him a smile.

Little promises of her continued loyalty for Harry. But, it seemed, he took them for granted.

He had reverted back to that lone soldier archetype. Only her persistent (steadfast) arguments with him would remind him to show emotion.

Ginny only grew frustrated. Her small hands shook as her fiery temper took control and she would enter their room to see fallen debris. The girl’s (she was so much younger than them) shoulders shaking as her hands bled.

“I - I don’t get it Hermione. Why doesn’t he care anymore? Why isn’t he like last year?”

It would be back to their sessions. Ginny’s begging of her need to dive into what can figuratively be interpreted as her fountain of Harry.

“Hermione, I need to know -”
“You’re his best friend, so you know -”
“I don’t know him quite well, but do you think he’ll like -”

Advice, advice, advice.

It pricked at her everytime Ginny came for one of her Harry lessons. She would only smirk at the girl and tell her that she knew Harry in a way she never had.

Ginny would reply, “I know,” but her smug tone would waver. Back again to the constant plaguing doubts.

She already heard it all. There was no need for Harry’s “we broke up because I needed to,” Ginny would fill her up with the details.

“He told me we could have had years. We could have. We can still! It’s over, his job is, what more is there?”

She asked Harry and he merely looked at her sadly.

Now, as Ron and her gaze at the burning lights coming from the Black House she feels her beginning to comprehend his look.

>>>

Ron offers his hand as they stand in front of the back door. But her fists are clenched tightly around her summer skirt and she fights the strong urge to cry.

It’s back to those days.

Paranoia. Adrenaline. Death.

The trepidation is seeping and she can’t stop breathing it in (she doesn’t know where to run to).

Ron’s feeling it too and it hardly comforts her.

His hand is still stretched towards her (she needs that condolence), but, but...

She can’t move.

The door bangs open and the light shines in her eyes. It stings and a dam of tears are ready to be released.

Mrs. Weasley’s watermarked cheeks seem to confirm the situation. A ringing noise envelops her (she’s trying so hard to be there) after the older woman huddles her close and whispers. The words slip and slide and she can’t hear a thing.

She doesn’t want to hear it.

“Your house was attacked today, one hour ago.”

Mrs. Weasley has to hold her up.

>>>

A/N: I’ve been busy revamping this fic and trust me that the first few chapters are just to prep you guys up for (hopefully) the shocking details that are going to come. I tried to be subtle with some hints, so maybe you’ll catch them. ;)

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.

>>>

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.

>>>

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.

>>>

3.//TABULA RASA

>>>

She closes her eyes. Tick tock and it’s to the beat of her heart. A few slow breaths and she can forget about the twirling spoon commanded by a redheaded girl.

It’s just the two of them here. She should be used to this, she should be able to relax, rest her shoulder, offer hers if need be, but just do something other than cupping a mug of an hour too cold cocoa.

She resists the need to pluck her wand. Her fists clench involuntarily. She still can’t even begin to think about touching that wand.

Too much... memories.

“You guys came awfully early.”

Ginny’s lips murmur the words and it’s hard to catch them. Her head is buzzed, intoxicated, overfilled with water that’s soaking through her papercup. Dixie quality.

Her eyes look up to meet Ginny’s puffy ones.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The other girl’s lips pull to the side. It’s such an uncanny imitation of Draco’s that she has to blink fast and tighten her hold upon her mug. Thank Merlin it wasn’t hot.

“Exactly what it implies, you must think I am some dull virgin not to know what you and Ron have been doing since you discovered you had a cunt.”

She’s affronted, but it shouldn’t be surprising. What is, though, is Ginny kicking back her chair, one straight hair-strand plastered to her mouth. Small immaculate mouth with thin lips that are curled up in some sneer.

“I bet you didn’t even know what happened to him, huh? No, why should I even ask?”

The cocoa swings violently to the side. It’s easy to hear the ripples as the House stands still, no single whisper to stem the rise and fall of her chest.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

The obscenity slips past her lips. She feels herself recoil into some coming argument.

Too late.

Ginny barks a laugh. “Finally, heh, I hear the famous prefect Granger curse. I’m quite flattered to be the target.”

Her emotions are conflicting. Melancholy, Worry, Anxiety, Curiosity...

“If discussing my sex life is considered small talk for you than I think you should reconsider your social skills, Miss Hogwarts.”

The title startles a chuckle out of Ginny. She pulls a chair to her side and swings her body on it.

“Miss Hogwarts? How did you come to hear that one?”

“It’s quite hard not to when I overhear all your fucking exploits around the school. I hear the Squid got cheated though.”

Ginny has the decency to blush. She doesn’t even quite comprehend why that slipped past her mind. Doesn’t even know she thought that in the first place and is wondering if she preferred the five hours of dead silence or this lively alternative.

“I see my brother got something other than his cock in you.”

She doesn’t see the need to objectify that statement. The nearest thing that Ron and her had gotten to would at best be placed under some hardcore PG-13 label.

Yet, the words of dull virgin resound in her head and she thinks it’s some form of credibility to have this assumption planted in there.

“If that theory played out, you’d be worse off than Bellatrix. I hear she put out even for Voldemort.”

It’s like adding salt to a yet-to-be-healed wound.

Her casual comment quickly jolts her back. Her filmstrip of a mind jerks and there it is, the scene starts playing.

She involuntarily whimpers.

“Ah, am I supposed to believe that bullshit? Don’t you think that you should leave it alone? It’s been about six months since that, no one is going to buy it anymore.”

Her breath is labored still. However many potions she downed, the spells she cast on herself, something that Harry and she did (she can’t recollect it exactly), the memories sometimes overfill her. They come in some flood, the dam starts to chip and there she will be, arms chaffed, wrists bound up in a chain and the dank prison, all alone, only - Stop!

“Speak for yourself, hypocrite.”

And there it is, she blinks back tears, vaguely seeing a fuzzy Ginny. Tall, seemingly-all-too-perfect Ginny, standing near the doorway.

Her red hair only stirs and she blows on the strand near her mouth. Like a gust of wind, she realizes that her slight friendship between this assumed sister-in-law had fallen like the spilt cocoa that rolled all over the Black kitchen.

Ginny only looks her over and she wonders if this realization has hit her. If it even affected her, if she even mattered to this once-shy-dependent girl.

It hits her that Ginny probably already let her go some time ago as she leaves without an apology.

>>>

Ron and her sit next to each other. The sun is right on the horizon and it reminds her of yesterday. Yesterday with it’s giggles and its wandering hands.

Now they’re just... apart. Not even tips of their fingers brushing, only that itchy crab grass engulfing her palm.

“Did you get anything out of him?” She fingers a blade of grass.

“No, he’s worse than me when I chugged down those sleeping pills I thought were candy. Not even you jumping on my bed could have sprouted, er, anything...” he trails off awkwardly.

She bites her lip.

“Yeah, I had no success either.”

“- I wouldn’t expect you too. You were like a banshee on mute,” Ron shakes his head, “ And that’s some sort of paradox right there if I ever heard of one.”

“I’m glad I bring novelties to your life.”

Ron just laughs, he coughs into his hand and she gets some bitter taste out of it.

“You know, it just figures that the one day we decide to forget it, to start what we had all over, would just bring it all back.” She sees Ron’s nostrils flare, “To think I almost missed it, thought it was an adventure.”

“Don’t lie, you still think it is.” Her head ducks down. She can remember a similar conversation she had with Harry. How she had just had it with his rash chivalry, how she had accused him of this arrogance and he only gave her a half smile, tongue slipped out as he raised her chin, the tears were already in her eyes. He told her it would be on his arse that he’d at least make this tale a bestseller.

She wouldn’t put it past Ron to actually go through with the idea once it hit him. If, that is.

“I’m expecting to be back at Pomfreys, getting points docked down for going past curfew. Damn Harry, he owes me at least 20 detentions.”

“Only because you were stupid enough to forget that he conveniently has an invisibility cloak those 20 times.”

Ron only grins at her and flicks a few blades of grass at her head.

“Sometimes I wonder if our bad influence on you was such a good idea.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I had any influence on you.”

He lays back and she can see why she still hung around him. See that flicker of whatever stirred within her when he would spread his freckled arm towards her and have that laid-back posture that she would want to curl into.

But it was only every once in a while. Broken moments that were starting to lose their value. Episodes that had been wearing thin.

“Ron, don’t you think that maybe we should...”

Stop. Halt. Quit this before she has nothing good to look back on?

His blue eyes look inquisitively on her. Same ones that closed behind pale eyelids that sparkled with just-disguised freckles that she kissed once.

“... Go back, maybe we can visit Harry again?”

She sees him crack his knuckles as he lets off an unconvincing chortle.

“Right, I see you have taken over Ginny’s place as President of the Harry Potter fan club...Do I get some consolation prize at the very least?”

>>>

The door creaks and she stays behind. Her hand is steady on the knob and it’s some sort of reflex. A habit she assumes that developed after those many episodes, those little escapes she would carry along with Harry, to wait on him. Gasp in the air and take in the sky with it’s many stars she would point out to him.

“Hermione? Are you coming?”

She tucks a curl behind her ear, dragging her feet upon the foyer. She always hated entering this house. It was nothing but bad news.

Nothing but Ron having a shadow loom over his face with each step he took and Harry - oh, how Harry’s gaze would be so blank. The house would be a reminder of what they knew they had to do... What they had done.

Why, after it’s conclusion, was it showing itself again?

“Hermione?”

She’s a statue. Carcass held up, turned to stone upon looking at him with the blood bathed upon him, the bed stained red. With Ginny at his side, watching her reproachingly, and how she couldn’t move, how the tears slipped out, how she had stumbled back on the door.

How Harry wouldn’t approve. How Harry would positively fear having to confront her in this mood, water hose Hermione. A Cho replica.

“Miss. Granger”

The voice slides in her brain. Wish wash, who would call her that?

She’s brought back from her daze to see Remus in front of her. His worry-creased face furrows more and he huddles a bandaged hand in his arm crest.

“Remus, how many times have I told you to call me Hermione? You disturbingly remind me of Snape when you use the surname.”

He cracks a smile.

“My apologies. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, can I talk to you?”

Through the corner of her eye she can see Ginny cradling a hand near her mouth and how Tonks has an arm around her. Ron only looks back at her with wide eyes.

Remus sees and shakes his head, “Sorry Ron, I mean privately.”

She feels her heart hammer in her throat.

“This can’t be good for my blood pressure.”

>>>

A/N: Ok, it’s been a looooooooong time, hasn’t it? Mostly because I wasn’t completely satisfied with how I was handling the story before and I didn’t really know how to go about it. But, now I do. I totally have everything planned and I’m real excited about it.

The question is, is there still interest in this story? I mean, I’d love to keep churning the chapters but support for the story will make me real motivated or else you’ll see my lapse of updates like last time. So, type to me!

4.// TABULA RASA

>>>

If we will disbelieve everything, because we cannot certainly know all things, we shall do much what as wisely as he who would not use his legs, but sit still and perish, because he had no wings to fly. ~ John Locke

>>>

It’s a small, dank room.

Only a sliver of light caresses her face and makes his honey eyes stand out. Her hands are folded on her lap and she’s trying so hard to stay there. Mind attentive, eyes focused, and no collapsing.

“I won’t lie to you.”

She wants to be lied to. It would make it so much easier to breathe.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

He inches closer to her, his hand stretched out, veins prominent. The scene flashes and she thinks of Ron’s freckled one, always extended, always empty. And what of Harry’s? Red. Scarred. Drawn away from her.

Remus shakes his head and she bites her lip. Just say it.

“He’s dying... We don’t know why -”
“That’s impossible!”

His eyes open wide and his shoulders hunch back. She already knows what he’s going to say, the predictability burns and her tears involuntarily rise.

“Hermione, I know it’s hard to believe -”
“--How you can renounce him so easily? Yeah, that’s hard to comprehend.”

Her fists clench and Remus is forsaken. His hand is still stretched out towards hers and she knows she’ll never take it. Not his, not Ron’s, not anybody’s...

She kicks back her chair.

“I know... You think I’m in denial, but I’m not. I’m not.”

She’s not even convinced by her own words.

“Hermione --” his voice sounds so weak - thin - to her ears and she wonders what her own connotates. Desperation? Hysteria? “He’s not breathing. You’re a smart girl --”

“If he’s not breathing than how the hell can he be dying? He would be dead.”

She wants to wring his neck for even letting her speak those words by His name. It’s dreadful, it’s blasphemy.

“We don’t know, I already told you --”
“How he can speak despite not taking in air? I think you’ve been had.”

Now it’s Remus turn to kiss anger. He pushes the table with such a force that she winces. But only for a second.

“You think I want to admit it? God dammit Hermione! I want to think like you so badly it hurts! I want to believe that this is some sick joke, that Harry has some fucked up sense of humor and that he’s alive and kicking somewhere else and what’s up there is some doppelganger, but it’s not! It’s Harry and he’s, he’s...”

Spit flies from his mouth and he grabs his hair. His face is backed in profile and she knows she should comfort him.

“Not going to die.”

She crosses her arms. And Remus runs his limber fingers through his fading hair.

“He said a few numbers. Three to be exact. One one one. Does that hold any significance to you?”

The words are dull.

“No. Must be some ticking bomb by your guesses.”

She lets the door slam.

>>>

“Hermione.”

The sound of her name startles her and Ron’s eyes only blink, amused. His hands are tucked inside his jean pockets as he scuffs his way towards her. Her and the wall she’s pressed onto.

He snaps his fingers.

“And to think I forgot my handcuffs. Damn.”
“I brought the whip, think that’ll do?”

He smirks.

“Responding already?”
“No, that’s you.”

She wiggles her pinky as she looks at his crotch region. “Nothing much to see though.”

His laughter sounds choked as he sways with those stick-like legs of his.

“It’s not suppose to be like this Hermione!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t giggle like your Playwitch special editions.”

He grimaces as he guides her down the narrow hallway.

“You’re no fun.”
“No, it’s just so easy to make fun of you. You set yourself up, and, really Ron, can you be more of a red-blooded boner of a guy?”
“Well, fuck, what do you want me to be? Cold blooded?”

She simply shakes her head.

“Hopeless.”
“Yeah, you ever loving someone.”
“It’ll save me some humiliation at least. Speaking of which, where’s your necklace, Pimp Daddy?”
“What?”
“You know, the one Lav-Lav gave to you.”
“Oh Merlin! I’m never going to live that one down am I? Anyway, wouldn’t that upset you?”

She sits on the edge of a bed and her feet dangle. They grace the dust-bidden floor and she sees two streaks of her footprints leading back to Ron.

“Why would it upset me?”
“Why would you sic yellow canaries at me?”
“Because I like Tweety.”
“Wha’? Who’s Tweety? What an unfortunate name. Poor bloke.”

The conversation is ridiculous and it’s comforting. A tiny escape that she can lose herself in. A miniscule of a moment in which she could hold onto the rail and flex her fingers as she struggles not to be overwhelmed by everything, to not succumb to insanity.

But it’s temporary.

“So, why did Remus want you?”
“I said no to him, told him Tonks would kill me. But, if he so desired me, than I would give him permission to have Tonks resemble me, that pedophile.”
“Hermione!”

The blood drains out of her face and it’s involuntarily. The tears start returning and she rubs her hand underneath the bags of her eyes.

“He told me Harry’s dying.”

For the first time she sees Ron utterly speechless. Then his lips pull to the side and it must be some Weasley thing.

“Hahaha, very funny Hermione. I think you need to get checked though. You have some whacked out sense of humor...”

She smiles and doesn’t dispute the claim.

>>>

Dinner is a silent affair.

The table is stretched thin with only a few Order members sprinkled here and there. She has an odd urge to spread her arms wide just so her fingertips will brush someone and let her know she’s not alone.

“Hermione, your parents -”

Her hand falters and she inhales.

“They’re okay, aren’t they? I... I haven’t checked up on them.”

It’s like a fist in her stomach.

“Nothing but a few scratches and bruises, my dear.”

She has always hated when Mrs Weasley used her variety of endearments on her. They are coated artificial things and their tone rings false. Especially since Ron and her’s last break up.

Scarlet Woman, they seemed to say.

But she smiles anyway and inclines her head.

“They’re back in that house of theirs and we’ve obliviated them, of course.”

Her heart picks up at the comment. Obliviate.

“You’ve, you’ve --What?!”

The whole table stands still at her exclamation. Ron is the only one that remains eating.

Mrs Weasley’s eyes only glaze with sympathy and it condescends.

“Muggles aren’t supposed to know about these things, dear. We’ve taken care of it. Mundungus was the one who did it.”

Her eyes track the fellow in question. He only looks down at his platter and rubs his wrist back and forth. She’s not at all reassured.

“What if they knew something useful? About Harry?”

Mrs. Weasley only glances at her and replies all too quickly.

“My dear, they’re Muggles.”

It’s as if it answered any other queries of hers. The remark makes her sick to her stomach and more so since no one rises to contest it.

“They’re my parents. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She needs a breath of fresh air, she needs to get away.

The stew was poorly done anyway.

Her feet take her rapidly away from them. But the dining door slams right open and she only catches a glimpse of red before her nose sprouts off blood from the impact.

“Hermione!”
“Ginny!”

Blood dribbles from her nostrils and her vision is coming back. Somehow she’s crouched low and Ginny’s everything red. Red lips, hair, eyes. It all hurts.

Ron is soon by her side.

“Nicely done, Genius.” It’s softly whispered. Her hand is covered in blood.

“Ginny, where have you been?” Mrs Weasley is careful to dismiss her.

Red. She’s everything red.

Somehow, she can’t let go of that concept.

“I’ve been visiting Harry.”
“You’ve been there all day. Everyday.”

Ginny only brings her bandaged hand near her mouth as she covers a shy smile.

It sickens her.

“What happened to you?”

It’s a mother’s prerogative as she reaches out for her daughter’s hand. The girl only recoils. “No-nothing. Just a mere accident, that’s all. Glass, I knocked over glass and hurt myself.”

“Let me fix it then.”
“No!”

Her mouth is covered in blood and she’s still on the floor. Damn door. Perhaps her nose was broken? Sure felt like it.

“What about Hermione then?”
“Oh, Hermione!”

She feels various wands pointed at her and her heart beats wildly. She can feel those memories coming. No, she wouldn’t let them.

“No, no. Don’t bother with wands. I’m just going to head up the loo. Goodnight.”

>>>

She’s alone once again.

Her bags are strewn across the vacant room and dust is easily breathable. Everything is still packed as they’re fresh out her her and Ginny’s former room.

Insomnia.

It bids her. She’s been tossing and turning for four hours straight and her nose is all clogged up. Dry blood masquerades her visage into some twisted version of someone’s All Hallows Eve costume.

1:00 AM.

Oh, it’s futile to sleep. She’ll just go slip in the library. At least it welcomed her, at least the books wouldn’t talk back and remind her of all that’s happened.

The bed springs creak as she rises and stumbles in the dark. Her nightgown is twisted and falls , mid-thigh.

With each second that passes by, she grows more alert.

Her feet quietly patter down the floor and the shadows cast their garish figures.

Somehow, she finds herself there.

Down the hall and two doors to the right

“...Mark his room.”

Her whisper is lost in the stuffy corridor. She doesn’t think she can bear to see him again, to enter that door. How Ginny could handle seeing him, every second, like that...

blood bathed upon him, the bed stained red

It would be too much to handle.

“Stop! I didn’t do anything!”

She looks at both sides of the hallway, but she already knows that it came - No, impossible. Her imagination, it’s convoluted...

“Stop!”

Her breath picks up and, next thing she knows, she’s past his door. Each window is shut inside there and the room is rank with the taste of his blood. A metallic taste that stings with each intake, but it doesn’t matter.

His body is writhing on the bed and she’s stupefied.

She knows she should call for help, run for an Order member, but these rational thoughts fall away. She feels a need to be closer and it’s compelling.

Her hand reaches out for his and it steadies him. He falls silent and still underneath her grasp and it scares her a little.

What has she done?

Her body shakes and there go her tears again.

HarryHarryHarry.

Her fingertips reach for his wrist, but there’s no pulse.

He’s not breathing

He can’t be dying. He’d be dead.

“Breathe Harry, breathe. Don’t do this - it scares me.”

The words are hard to get passed her lips. The neon red numbers of the clock from his bedside only glow back at her.

1:11 AM.

It’s the last thing she sees before he grasps her hand tightly and she fades away.


A/N: Okay, yeah, I know. I’m such a hypocrite and a LIAR. I know I promised quick updates like three months ago and haven’t done jack with this fic since then, but, let me explain. It’s that cliché excuse of my being busy. Yeah, I had like 65147876404 up my ass that it’s now sore. Thankfully, they’re getting done and I’m almost out of school (!!!). So, that means more time for my creative indulgences(i.e. this fic). I hope you guys are still hyped about the fic ‘cause we’re actually getting TO THE PLOT. Yeah, there actually is one! Weee! Until next time. ;)