Falling Twice [Harmione]

2006/2001 The beginning and the End

2006

Grimmauld Place

Hermione blinked blearily as the sun's first rays poured into the room. She hadn't slept at all, half afraid of nightmares, and uneasy about sleeping alone, especially in Grimmauld, no matter the new décor.

She sat up stiffly, her bones aching a bit, and trudged to the bathroom for a shower and freshen up. She showered quickly, trying to keep her mind blank, the rush of hot water hitting her skin providing a distraction. A towel hung on a rack and she quickly snatched it up, wrapping it around herself as she stepped out of the shower. It wasn't until she reached out and wiped away the condensation from the mirror that a strange sort of vertigo attacked her, and she clenched the edges of the sink so she wouldn't fall over squeezing her eyes shut.

The face in the mirror wasn't quite right. Wasn't quite her. The bathroom suddenly felt too hot as she fought to remain standing. There was an impenetrable wall between her and reality—her and truth. A part of her had never stopped screaming that everything was fake since she woke up.

The screaming increased in volume. It's all fake! It's all a trick! Her head throbbed and she swallowed hard, trying not to be sick.

To suddenly wake up and be married to Harry—that had to be fake, didn't it? The look on Harry's face from that night during the hunt kept intruding on her thoughts. How embarrassed he'd looked when Ron returned, how he'd turned away and left as soon as he could.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and she brushed them away impatiently, taking a deep breath. This was all—fake—fine. Hermione just needed to pick up the pieces of her life and put them back together–like a puzzle–and then maybe things would make sense again. She was good at puzzles. She could do this.

"Why do you think you have nightmares?" The healer's voice was hushed in the small, bland counseling space, each color carefully selected for its neutrality. The décor practically screamed that it had no opinions and made no judgments.

Hermione shrugged, staring down at her lap and avoiding the penetrating blue gaze of the Healer.

"Is it fear?"

Hermione ran her hand over the soft chenille fabric of the chair. This was a much better chair than those green couches everyone seemed to think were always in therapists' offices.

"Hermione."

Her eyes snapped to the healers. He rarely used her first name. For once, he looked slightly compassionate instead of his usual clinical expression.

"Why do you think you have nightmares, Hermione?"

She sucked in a deep breath, dropping her gaze again. "Because I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Lots of things."

"Part of recovery is identifying triggers and learning to train yourself into a different thought pattern. What do you think–above all else is the reason behind your nightmares?"

Hermione's hands fisted at her sides, remembering being helpless, unable to help anyone, unable to save anyone. Her intelligence was worthless in the face of their stupid, blunt hatred. "I had no control–nothing! I couldn't—couldn't—I was helpless—afraid—" Her voice choked off as the images assaulted her.

The healer's hand clasped her knees firmly, anchoring her to the present.

"You are in control of your life and will overcome fear."