Hermione Granger sat propped up on her bed, pillows behind her and open books and notes scattered out in all directions. She was flipping the pages of Genetics: Analysis of Genes and Genomes, reading for the millionth time about chromosomal abnormalities and meiotic mutations, brow furrowed and mind focused. Her first exam of the semester was in less than twelve hours, and, naturally, she was consumed with studying.
When her roommate Deirdre stumbled into the room, arms full of carryout from the dining hall, Hermione didn't even look up. "Glad to see you're breaking for food," Deirdre said. "I brought you some French fries, anyway." Deirdre slid her armful of Styrofoam containers onto her desk and headed for the little fridge in the corner of the dorm room they shared.
"Thanks, Deirdre," Hermione said, pen poised above the notebook now in her hand. She looked up and took a breath. "Mind handing me a Frap while you're in there?"
"This is going to kill you one day," Deirdre said as she handed over a Frappuccino, Hermione's American drink of choice. Hermione had taken a serious liking to coffee since moving to the states. Deirdre pulled out a Bud Light for herself and took off the cap by way of the corner of her dresser.
Hermione took the bottle Deirdre was holding out and laughed genuinely. "Me? Look at you! Honestly, I don't know how you've made it through this many semesters. You drink like a fish."
Deirdre took a long swig and said, "No, Hermione, I'm talking about the studying."
Hermione looked out the window for a pinch, then turned back to her books. "Well, this is me. Don't know how to live any other way."
Deirdre grabbed her laptop from her desk and moved it onto her bed, along with the Styrofoam boxes. "Suit yourself, hon. If you ever decide to see the light, I'll be here with a cold beer for you." She pushed one of the boxes toward Hermione and said, "Here. And don't say no, they're doused in vinegar just the way you like them."
Hermione smiled at her friend and grudgingly took the box. "Okay, but this is it with French fries until after spring break."
"I hear you on that one," Deirdre said. "Cheers."
"Cheers," Hermione echoed, holding up her drink.
The friends sat in silence as they ate, Hermione nibbling only half-heartedly and spending more time consuming information than food. When Deirdre had finished eating she swallowed the last of her beer, belched, and got up from her bed. "I'm hitting up the shower," she said, grabbing her towel. "Maybe when I get back you can try to be normal for a few minutes and we can watch some TV?"
Hermione nodded without looking up. "Okay," she said. "At any rate, I owe you for the French fries."
Once Deirdre had left the room, latching the door closed behind her, Hermione closed her book. She'd been studying for the better part of three hours without stopping. It was getting late, really…she looked out the window and rubbed her eyes.
It was night, but it wasn't dark. The city was never dark, and she could never see the stars. She thought back to those late nights studying in Gryffindor tower and how the darkness enveloped the grounds like a heavy cloak. How on cloudy nights there was nothing but pure blackness outside her window.
The longing and nostalgia were tangible, and Hermione felt a twinge in her stomach. She'd left the Burrow two weeks after the war ended, once she'd paid her last respects to Fred and tried her best to explain her desertion to those who were left. Leaving her friends, her world, was the hardest decision of her life, but it was something she'd had to do. After years of holding everyone together - all those months of braving a strong face for Harry's sake, weeks of traveling the cold English countryside on a foolishly dangerous mission, and never-ending nights holding onto a tortured and devastated Ron -
She just couldn't do it any longer. She had always thought herself a strong and willful person, but with the weight of the war off her shoulders she broke down. She couldn't be that steady rock anymore. What she wanted more than anything was to find out what she was like outside of the pressures of war, outside the confines of struggling to save the world. Just a person shaped by the frivolity and trivial pursuits of life.
Hermione pushed her thoughts away and the papers and textbooks to one side of the bed. She closed the curtains to stop herself from thinking of the last time she'd looked out the window and seen stars. Brushing back a stray strand of hair from her forehead, she sighed heavily, crossed the room and locked the door, and walked the four steps to her dresser. In the bottom of the bottom drawer she rummaged between her heaviest wool jumpers, now put away in preparation for the arrival of spring, and clasped her hand around a cotton drawstring bag.
The bag concealed her wand, ten and three quarter inches, vine, dragon heartstring. She hadn't removed it from its spot inside her oldest red jumper for nearly two years.
Explaining herself to Ginny had been the easiest part. She and Ginny had never been terribly close, so Ginny didn't try to stop her leaving. She'd insisted that the reason was her parents - after all, they were still blissfully unaware in Australia. She'd never attempted to remove a memory charm before, but she was sure it would require time. Maybe months, maybe years. And so she wouldn't likely be back very soon.
She trusted Ginny to deliver the message; she had disapparated from the edge of the field beside the Burrow just as the sun had been creeping up the horizon.
Ron had taken it the hardest, as she expected. Not only was he broken after Fred's death but now also betrayed by his girlfriend. Owl after owl arrived. At first she had read them all faithfully, weeping over his letters and cursing herself for leaving. But Ron was relentless. Every letter blamed, cursed, and pleaded for her return. At first Hermione agreed that she should be punished and hurt for the pain she'd caused. But every day, as her parents became more and more the people she knew and loved, and she became more and more lighthearted and forgiving, she stopped feeling that sympathy. Regardless of how selfish it may have been to deny Ron a proper goodbye, Hermione knew that reconnecting with her parents was something she simply had to do. Something she needed to do alone. And something that a soul mate would recognize and respect.
In all those months, Hermione had received just one owl from Harry: Hope everything is alright and everyone is safe. Good luck. Here if you need help, just owl. Harry.
Harry's letter had lifted her spirits. She yearned to write him back, to confirm that life was moving on. To reassure him that she was content and would be in touch when the right time came. But it would be impossible to owl Harry without Ron finding out, and Hermione was not about to give Ron the satisfaction of a reply.
Hermione spent Christmas with her parents that year, celebrating the joys and life and family. It was a quiet affair, just the three of them, and she'd reveled in the laughter and comforts of being home. When she laid down to sleep on Christmas night, having played no games of exploding snap nor receiving a hand-knitted jumper, she wondered whether she'd dreamed the past seven years of her life. It had been weeks since she'd used any magic - she'd been so caught up in enjoying life. And she wondered if she could face going back to the world she'd deserted.
When she woke up the next morning, she put away her wand. Her mother had given her a bottle of perfume wrapped in a drawstring pouch; she replaced the perfume bottle with her wand and drew the string tight. Then she carefully situated the bag inside her oldest red jumper and put it in a box under her bed.
Her fingers were now separated from her wand by mere threads. A part of her lusted to feel its weight in her hand, and a part of her was scared to do it. A part of her couldn't stand to ignore her past for another second, but her voice of reason restrained her: she'd built a new life, at least for now, and magic wasn't a part of it.
The doorknob to Hermione's room jingled as someone tried to turn it open and then a voice from the hall called out, "Hey, open up. I'm out here in my towel."
Hermione pulled her hand out of the jumper as if her wand had turned red-hot, smacking her hand against the dresser as she withdrew it. She quickly closed the drawer, shaking her hand in pain and grimacing, and jumped across the room to unlock the door.
"Geeze, I was only gone a minute," Deirdre complained. "You afraid someone's going to break in?"
"No," Hermione replied, sinking back into the cleared spot on her bed, "just trying to keep some privacy while I finished studying. That's all."
Deirdre made a disinterested sound in her throat and yanked pajamas out of her closet. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, you got some mail," she said, plugging in her hair dryer. "It's in my book bag. You can rummage in there."
"Really?" Hermione said, surprised. She didn't often get post at all, let alone the Muggle way. She reached off the end of her bed and slid Deirdre's book bag closer. The letter was just on top. Postmarked from Britain. Return address in Leeds.
"Yeah," Deirdre went on as she pulled plaid flannel pants over her legs. "I thought your parents lived in Australia?"
"They do," Hermione said hastily. Then she added, "But they've got relatives in Britain."
Deirdre nodded and turned the hair dryer on. Hermione turned her back to her roommate and tore open the envelope with as much dignity as she could muster. She couldn't deny that her hands were shaking - it had been more than a year since she'd heard from Ron or Harry, or actually anyone for that matter.
She recognized the scrawled handwriting at once, and her heart jumped a beat.
Dear Hermione,
Hope all is well at university. I don't mean this post to be bothersome - don't write if you don't want to. Truth is that life is pretty dull back in Britain, and I was hoping to catch up, if you want to. Your mum and dad responded to my last owl and gave me this address. I suppose sending an owl to a Muggle dormitory might put you in a predicament.
-Harry.
Hermione read the message over until the whining of Deirdre's hairdryer died. Deirdre unplugged it and then sat on her bed, scooting nearer to Hermione and craning her neck toward the letter. "Good news?"
Hermione couldn't help but smile as she folded the letter over and pulled it toward her chest. "Yes," she said. "Just a - cousin."
"How come she's never written you before?"
"He." Hermione shrugged. "We haven't talked in a few years. We used to go to school together, though. He wants to reconnect."
"Hmm," Deirdre said. "That's cool." She dug through the covers of her bed and pulled out the remote control to the tellie. "You have a TV preference?"
Hermione shook her head. "No," she said. "I was just about to relocate to the common room anyway. I just need another few minutes to go over these notes."
Deirdre smiled but shook her head. "If you say so," she said.
In less than two minutes Hermione was sitting cross-legged on a couch in the living room of their dormitory suite, a pen poised above a piece of loose leaf and her mind racing. When she set up the pen and paper she had intended to sketch out some final notes on genomes - but her mind refused to regurgitate those concepts, and her hands refused to draw out any other words than "Dear Harry." So she sat with a blank page addressed to Harry and an ocean of thoughts drowning her.
Hermione painstakingly crafted the first correspondence she would share with her best friend in months. After so much time apart, she doubted whether he could believe her words were genuine. She might be able to resist magic, even when reminded of how it once defined her life. But she couldn't resist Harry. Not anymore.
Dear Harry,
University has been treating me well. I am studying to become a doctor. You know well that I enjoy my studies - this situation suits me.
I haven't done magic in two years. I am telling you this because you are my dearest friend, and I know you won't judge me for abandoning what I am supposed to be. I needed to know myself outside of the definitions of war, and that is why I left. That is why I haven't done magic. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. That was unforgivable, even if my reasons for leaving were just.
I would very much like to see you, although I won't pretend that I am not afraid of confronting Ron. I have a week of holiday during the middle of March; perhaps we can arrange something. Muggle post is much preferred. My roommate and all of wizarding kind appreciate your forethought in that matter.
Her hand wobbled over the page at the closing, unsure. On it's own accord it penned, Love, Hermione.
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