This Is War

Prologue

AN: Hello, my lovelies! I know it has been AGES since I have come back with a new story. I hope this one makes up for that and is up to your standards. I'm so happy to be writing again for you all! Also, if anyone would be so lovely as to make me a cover for this, I would be forever grateful!  

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Hermione  was breathing heavily, her heart erratically pounding in her chest, making a painful rhythm inside her bones as she tried to collect herself. She could feel the anxiety gripping her bones, numbing her skin and immobilizing her limbs. Cold tingles ran up her spine as a sickening feeling of panic made her head spin, making something inside her eardrums pulsate.

"Collect yourself," she whispered to herself, shaking her hands at her sides to try and get rid of the tingles of numbness.

As she inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled through her nostrils for a few more minutes, trying to use those breathing exercises she learned when stress paralyzed her, she reached her hand forward and flushed the toilet. She watched, a little disgusted with herself as the contents that she had vomited swirled away.

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her robes as she opened the door of the bathroom stall, Hermione proceeded to the sink. She let the cold water run for a bit, sparing a glance at herself in the mirror across from her. She could see the paleness of her skin and the unmistakable dark circles that were a mix of different shades of purple underneath her eyes. She looked like she'd been wrestling with Death the night before. And it had felt like it. Every night she felt like she went to battle against the silent truth that shook the world outside the curtains of her four-poster.

She gave herself another look-over, confirming how hideous she looked. She wasn't being harsh either, she knew it was safe to say she looked terrible — but as she gathered  that cold water between her hands, she splashed her face and tried to push that sickness from her face. There was just no time for people to notice how horrible she had gotten, how sick everything around her had made her.

She would not let them think she was weak.

After rinsing her mouth with the water, popping in a breath-freshener she'd stolen from someone who left their box of mints lying around in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione fixed her curls and her school robes before heading for the door without a look back.

Making her way out through the corridor she'd always walked on, she raised her chin high; she met anyone in the eye who glanced at her. There was a lot of staring, a lot of contemplative glances thrown at her direction. She wanted to remind them who she was, how composed and strong she'd always been. She didn't want to give them too much time to get a full glimpse of her, to perhaps see those shadows of frailness she worked hard to dissimulate.

It wasn't a psychical sickness, after all, but she was sure her eyes would give it away; revealing things that no one was supposed to know. Despite that, the more she walked, the more she put up with the charade, the more she felt so mentally and emotionally exhausted to keep up with the false attitude. She had spent all summer long fighting, searching, studying, and planning. Her brain was fried. There was no ounce of fight in her left.

Just before her thoughts could head down a road that she's spent all night finding an exit from, she approached the grand doors of the Great Hall and spotted two figures  waiting for her. Once they had spotted her, too, they instantly stopped their conversation.

When two sets of distinct eyes peered into hers, Hermione pulled on the best smile she could with the strength she had left.

"Morning," her voice was quite cheerful.