ritualistic- dramione

I: Too Close to the Waters of Change

Hermione Granger had a routine. A plan. Some would say, for everything. It kept her afloat. Ronald regularly joked that Hermione was like a jigsaw puzzle, unnecessarily difficult and rather tedious. The Weasley had no idea just how right he was.

Hermione herself was not the puzzle however, more her life. Consisting mostly of cold sweaty wake ups, traumas still fresh in her mind, and self-scheduled activities that, to Harry and Ron, consisted solely of the mundane variety, each curved piece was equivalently important to the rest. An over all image, perfectly orchestrated and maintained at a cost perhaps unknown to the muggleborn. Or maybe just unimportant. The threat of one amiss always propelled Hermione to practise this status quo without fail for years.

It wasn't a new development in her psyche as much as it was simply a strengthening of character. This just happened to be the character that Hermione had been born with. Nothing to be done about it, not that she wanted change at all really in the first place. Granted, the war hadn't been the most healthy environment, but Hogwarts was a memory and a half that sometimes Hermione had to remind herself of. There had been a before. It was once better. She was once better.

Thoughts didn't barricade her happiness, sometimes her basic functioning; unwanted, intrusive and lethal. Looking to the future didn't feel so hard; like standing in a ring of fire peering through the ashes and smoke clogging your windpipes slowly and conquering your vision. Adrenaline long overused still pumped through her veins, filling them with acute pain whenever her mind catapulted Hermione back straight into the palm of battle's clenching fist.

The brunette ran her fingers down the spine of a book she hadn't touched in years, watching the dust that had collected over said time vanish into the air. She allowed herself to reminisce. Still calloused, her hands reached for the book and brought it to her lap on the sofa she'd fallen somewhat tiredly into. The parchment flipped elegantly between her fingertips and she gripped the leather tightly as a scene she remembered so vividly it haunted her how she could practically smell the dry ice and gingerbread sprung to life for her eyes to devour.

A familiar few heads swam around others, Padma and Parvati twirling themselves after Ronald and Harry had taken to sulking in the corner with Luna and Ginny, who had secretly snuck in successfully for all of twelve minutes before Flitwick had caught her. Turns out, the punch bowl was not a great hiding place, especially when one is prancing about like a deer. Even if their hair matches the punch perfectly.

Harry longing after Cho, who herself was somewhere enjoying what was to be her last dance with what some would call her "greatest love" Cedric Diggory. Hermione could practically hear the cries of terror and agony from that fateful day. She averted her attention.

Neville looked rather dashing as he confusingly shuffled about with an eager Luna while his presumed "date" enjoyed the thrill of high stakes hide and seek with all the Professors.

Ron was clearly visible sneering at every decadent Durmstrang coat that flew into view as the red erupted for all to see as soon as one would perform a grand spin. A modest blush rose to Hermione's cheeks; she really ought to have declined Viktor's invitation after all. Conversation had been lacking fully and truthfully all they did that day was dance silently til her feet hurt and engage in idle chat with Beauxbatons girls that Viktor's friends had taken a liking to. Not that, according to the Patils, her boys had been any better. But she ultimately would have rather mothered than mingled.

The Weird Sisters that Dean had been so excited about seeing belting high notes, Rita Skeeter scurrying about in animagus form collecting gossip and Ernie Macmillan chasing her around with a iceickle from the chandelier, Hagrid and Madame Maxime exchanging thoughtful words and secrets, much to their expense later on. The muggleborn remembered it all. Hermione herself, feeling positively electric, at the age of fourteen floating about the dance floor in a trance of perfection dressed in the periwinkle she'd chosen.