||Now It's Just Us||

Chapter 2

Hermione cast a warming charm on the plate of food and placed it on the kitchen table. She then proceeded to hurry to her room, for she had no intentions of having another conversation with Carson at that moment. Anxiety had already started clawing away at her insides, and she felt suffocated. Why couldn't she just disappear into thin air and have nothing to worry about?

She closed the door and leaned against it. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

In, out, in, out.

She felt herself calm down somewhat. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and counted backwards from ten, sinking to the floor in the process. She immediately hugged her knees. In her room, with nobody to see her, and no work to occupy her, she loosened her hold on her mind.

She regretted it almost instantly. She shuddered as memories invaded her headspace, and instinctively raised a hand to her cheek. It still felt like yesterday, as though it hadn't been a year. Hermione felt her eyes brimming with tears. As though Fate was mad at her, it made her notice the scar on her arm, 'mudblood'. It was a constant reminder that she was not meant to be here, in the Wizarding world. She was not meant to be who she was. It was but an accident that she had magic in her. Along with the main scar, she could see the smaller ones along it. The scar tissue was almost invisible, and she could see it now only because the light caught it in a certain way. She averted her gaze from her scarred arm.

This wasn't fair. Today was supposed to be a good day. She wasn't supposed to be locked up in her room, crying over the past.

She furiously wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her jumper and watched the fabric stain a darker shade. When she looked up, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror across from her and grimaced.

She looked nothing like she did three years ago. 

Her body was thin, almost fragile looking. She had no curves, only edges, very much unlike most other girls her age. Her cheeks weren't tinged pink, her eyes had lost the fire they used to have before. Well, maybe not completely. It was there, but it was buried under layers and layers of anxiety and grieving. Her fingers were long, and her arms were only flesh and bones. Her face looked a little sunken. In other words, she looked like a slightly better version of a biology classroom's display  skeleton. Her hair, which had been a frizzy brown mane a few years ago, now fell down in slightly neater curls. It was manageable, and it was the only thing she liked about her present self. The rest, she hated. She hated that she had lost a large chunk of her self confidence. She hated that she never wanted to go up and talk to people anymore unless she already knew them. She also hated that all these changes were because of a certain ginger, who she hadn't seen in over an year. He was probably doing completely fine, going out, getting drunk, getting himself a new girlfriend every week. Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, and stayed that way until she could see the colorful swirling patterns on her eyelids. It made her head hurt, but she stayed without removing her hands from her eyes.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Hermione jumped. She surveyed her face for any trace of tears, and on deeming herself presentable stood and opened the door.

"Carson?"

"You've got a visitor," Carson stuck a thumb behind his shoulder. Hermione got on her tiptoes to see beyond him. Only now did she realise how tall he was.

She spotted a mass of messy raven hair in the living room, and instantly she flew past Carson and flung her arms around the Boy Who Lived.

"Hello, 'Mione," Harry managed to say into her hair, "how's unpacking going? I trust you're already done?"

"Yes, I finished in the evening actually," Hermione pulled away, and smiled a small smile. She was more than happy to see him. His presence itself was enough to make her feel at ease with everyone and, more importantly, with herself.  "How come you're here, at this time? It's late, we both have work tomorrow."