Strange

Tears and Tensions

Exhaustion clung to Hermione like a second skin. Four hours trapped in the library battling overdue homework had left her brain feeling like overcooked porridge. Her eyes burned, and her limbs felt leaden as she trudged back to the deserted eighth-year common room. The disused tower had been converted into a begrudging haven for returning eighth-years, but it offered little comfort.

Hogwarts had become a strange liminal space. The grandeur of the castle's corridors no longer felt like the refuge it once was. Rebuilding felt impossible without the laughter that used to echo through the halls. The war had left its scars on the walls and the people within. But it was the absence of Ron that tore at her the most. Ron, her friend, her first love, was supposed to be beside her.

Instead, he was gone. Taken by the war. The searing memory of his death plagued her—Nagini's strike, the blood, his final breath as he gave his life to save hers. It was a bitter potion of anguish.

The pitying stares in the hallways, the whispered rumors—served as continual reminders of her outburst in the Great Hall. Lavender Brown's taunts further twisted the knife, declaring that Ron had died in vain, that Hermione wasn't worth his sacrifice. Those vicious words had become ingrained in her thoughts and tightened into an airless noose

As Hermione reached her dorm room, the emptiness inside seemed to echo her own. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her reflection staring back at her with bruises and scratches marring her face—mementos of the fight with Lavender. They were shameful trophies of her loss of control, a physical reminder of her frayed emotions. But the sting of the bruises paled in comparison to the gnawing ache that sat heavy within her chest, an ache she couldn't shake.

Her eyes drifted to the singular bed at the apex of the room, bathed in the pale light filtering through the window, casting a silent haze, like the mist of the Forbidden Forest—abysmal shadows pooling in the emptiness around it.

No roommates. No Ron.

She had chosen to return to Hogwarts, even though she hadn't needed to. Few had returned—those who did, came back to rebuild, to reclaim some sense of normalcy. But Hermione's return had been different. It wasn't out of obligation or nostalgia, like it might have been for some.

Harry and Ginny had left quickly, pursuing their Auror careers and Quidditch dreams. Like them, Hermione had been offered special privileges—a golden ticket to jumpstart any career of her choice, a reward for their contributions to the war. But while Harry and Ginny embraced their futures, Hermione couldn't. She could have followed them, taken the same path, but she hadn't. She didn't. She couldn't. The letters Harry sent, though kind and full of well-meaning words, did little to comfort her. What could anyone say?

The truth was, Hermione had come back to Hogwarts because she didn't know where else to go. Her parents—their memories wiped clean, still living their new lives across the world—had no idea who she was. She hadn't been able to reverse the spell that had erased her from their lives, and the thought of facing them, of trying to undo the damage she had done, was intolerable.

She had nowhere else to turn. Hermione clung to the one thing that kept her afloat—the promise she'd made to herself that portentous day as she cradled Ron's lifeless body in her arms. To live. To find a way to honor his sacrifice. Without Ron, without the familiarity of her family, there was only one place left that might offer her a semblance of purpose. Returning for her 8th year, she reasoned, might be that place.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione changed into her pajamas and sank into her bed, praying for sleep. But sleep had long since ceased to be a sanctuary. It had become a battleground, where her dreams would resurrect Ron only to take him away once more. She'd wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, her face wet with tears, a silenced cry lodged in her throat.