The Internal Devices

Chapter 7

**HERMIONE**

Today was a bad day. It was hardly eight o'clock in the morning and she could already tell. The nightmares had her out of bed by half-past four and she had wandered the halls aimlessly until the breakfast bell. She didn't go looking for Ginny or the Slytherin boys; she couldn't bear to be near anyone at the moment. Instead of making her way to the Great Hall, she picked her way toward a corner of the castle and mounted a lonely set of stairs. She had no intention of going to classes today. There was a time that the mere prospect of skipping classes sent Hermione into a panic, but lately, she couldn't be bothered. Everything they were learning was pointless. It was pointless to pretend everything was normal. Pointless to review lessons over potions she learned on her own in second year. Pointless to smile and answer questions like they weren't in a classroom that was drenched in blood only months ago. It made her sick.

She was sitting in the owlery, surrounded by feathers and droppings. It was the only place she could think of where no one would come looking for her. No one seemed to understand that she couldn't breathe; she was drowning. She crossed her ankles and scratched at her scarred wrist. The treatments her healers had administrated had removed the inflammation and prevented any infection, but the deplorable word remained visible. She traced the first letter lightly with her fingers.

M.

Madness. It was madness that everyone seemed to forget that there was a war not six months ago. Madness that only she seemed incapable of moving on, incapable of a peaceful night's sleep. When she looked around during classes, students were smiling. But not Hermione, because across the room was an empty desk. Lavender. And there–on the other end–for Colin. A choking noise caught in her throat. She moved on to the next letter.

U.

Useless. This 'experiment' of hers had been useless. This play at normalcy, telling Harry and Ron that a bit of structure was just what she needed to heal. What a load of shit. It had done nothing for her but give her daily reminders of everything she'd lost. Her nostrils flared at the thought. Next.

D.

Damaged. She was so incredibly damaged. In addition to the knife wound, she had Bellatrix to thank for extensive nerve damage after hours of the cruciatus curse. The tremors never quite left her, although she kept them well hidden under calming draughts and muscle relaxer potions. She didn't even want to think about the mental and emotional damage she suffered from the war. That was her future therapist's problem. She snorted and moved to the next letter.

B.

Bastard. That bastard Malfoy hadn't given her favorite quill back in days. He was insufferable. He knew that one was her favorite, with the subtle green flecks amongst the feathers. She liked the way it shone when the light was just right. She had half a mind to hex him for it.

L.

Lonely. She was so, so lonely. Did anyone truly understand what it was to feel this isolated? Right now, her friends sat around their tables in the Great Hall and laughed over breakfast. They did not dream of torture and death. They did not know what it was to feel unbearable pain, a pain that lingers, that lodges itself in memory until it becomes a daily phantom. She clutched her wrist involuntarily, digging her nails into the next letter.

O.

Obliterated. Whatever girl she used to be was completely obliterated. She wasn't sure when she had lost her. Perhaps it was when Harry had returned from the maze clutching Cedric's body. Maybe it was when Sirius died in the Department of Mysteries. When she obliviated her parents before going on the run. When she was carved open on a drawing room floor. When Hagrid carried her best friend, dead, into the Hogwarts courtyard. When the news came, after the war, that rogue Death Eaters had found her parents and murdered them. When she hadn't gotten to say goodbye. When most did not know what she had lost because her parents had never been a part of this world. Tears fell freely now, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. Her nails drew blood as they carved through the next letter.