Danger/Mastered

Downfall

Hermione had a lot of drive.

She wanted to do good in the world. Later, she wanted to save it. To grab it from the clutches of Voldemort and shape it into the loving one she'd known growing up. More than anything, she wanted to be a part of it. To claim the magic that flowed through her veins.

Fighting in the war had challenged everything she knew. All the dark and evil and despicable things she'd seen— and done— and still, she knew there was worse out there. That another would rise from the ashes of Voldemort. They'd learn from his mistakes and be stronger. Smarter, even.

She'd become very powerful through the war. Dredged up ancient bits of magic that the wizarding world had forced away. That fear from Grindelwald had long buried. It surged through her in a way that made her old magic pitiable.

All this, because of her drive.

And how fucking ironic was it, that her drive had gotten her to the very end? That she'd made it— sacrificed so many pieces of herself to get there.

Victory.

Just to fucking be transported back in time the second the fighting stopped.

In Hogwarts.

It broke her.

All her friends were gone. The smattering ashes that had been floating around her disappeared and a much more put together castle appeared in its place.

A new start , Dumbledore had said. Our secret , he'd promised. She just needed to get through the school year quietly— undetected— and if he hadn't figured out a solution by then then she could spend her time after graduation— far away from Hogwarts and most likely Britain all together— trying to find the pieces to the puzzle herself.

It was a fine plan.

Except Hermione had nothing left. No drive. No motivation to solve the riddle and make it back to a time that apparently did not want her.

She felt hopelessly and permanently stuck.

And hopelessness— it was a funny thing. It could drag all the feeling out of Hermione's fingertips and stifle her magic so that she was no longer able to cast a patronus. It could weigh her down and make her belly feel fuller than it had in months— enough so that she couldn't eat. It kept her in bed on the weekends and made showering a chore.

But it could not stifle the need to replace the feeling with something else. Anything else.

She found herself in the potions store room one day, looking for lacewing flies when an idea caught her. She grabbed up handfuls of supplies and tossed it in her beaded bag before common sense could catch up.

There was an abandoned classroom a few doors down from the potion's lab. She couldn't say why she decided to brew there. It would make more sense to take up in the room of requirement where no one could catch her.

Only there was a large, sick part of her that wanted to be caught. And as she clanked and clattered in the room after curfew, brewing a potion so addictive that merely a few drops would get her high enough to see the stars, she grew frustrated at the lack of attention she was drawing.

And that was unfair, wasn't it? This was an abandoned classroom. In the dungeons. And she'd put in a bit of effort— threw up a silencing charm and disillusioned the door. But gods, she wanted so bad for someone to walk in, to see Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, brewing drugs.

But nobody came. Because she'd set herself up for failure. She was too good. Her spells were too strong, and the potion smelled maddeningly inviting. She couldn't say if she had actually planned to try it before, but there were so many well thought out intentions that had blown up in her face and she could no longer rationalize thinking things through.