Loving the Lonely

Chapter 8

Hermione shouldn't be surprised to find her wolf waiting for her,  but it's still a pleasant shock to see him sitting on the dock. "I'm happy you showed up," she tells him, walking closer without fear now. 

Specter chuffs and bumps his head against the back of her legs until she acquiesces and sits down to pet him. 

"You're so well-behaved," she praises, thoughtlessly, focused on the repetitive motion. "I've never met such a calm creature who didn't need a treat to act that way. Even Crookshanks isn't this pleasant." 

The wolf rumbles quietly, letting his head droop and his eyes slip closed. 

Hermione falls silent, keeping up with her slow ministrations by otherwise remaining immobile. Sitting on the dock with the waters of the lake just as calm as she feels, Hermione lets her worries fade to the back of her mind. This is her place, the only place left that she has where she can be herself. Worries of yesterday, of the war, of her parents' hate, none of it can touch her here. 

An hour passes like this, with only the wind and her wolf. For the first time in months, she feels like she can breath again. Like heavy gazes of strange men and vile words aren't pressing on her chest. 

It's only natural, then, that her parents' words come swooping back to mind, no matter how hard she tries to repress them. 

"You deserve the worst," the wind seems to hiss, terribly similar to her mother's voice. Hermione flinches, closing her eyes and retracting her hands from the wolf so she can press them over her eyes. She's struck, suddenly, with the idea that if she were to look in front of herself, her mother would be standing there. 

"Go away," she pleads to the wind. "Let me have this one place. You have my dreams, and my home. Don't take away this one place." 

Distantly, she feels a cold, wet object press into her arm, and hears something like a whine. 

With her eyes closed, she can see the seeking gaze of the dull men. A shiver of disgust rolls over her and her skin feels too tight. It's stretched over her, pulling at her bones, halfway to snapping apart. She clings to herself, hugging her arms around her body. 

A demented laugh echoes in her ears, one that so often haunts the dreams that her parents aren't in. In an instant, she's back on cold wood floors in a shadowed room, her arm erupting in an agony that she imagines she still feels. Blindly, Hermione scratches at her own arm, rubbing at the scar that still aches some days. 

Overwhelmed by the waylay of memories, Hermione cries out loud. Her heart pounds as she slams her hands over her ears and pretends she can't hear a word. Not from her parents, or from the dull men, or from a long-dead psychotic witch. It doesn't matter, though, because every last one of their words are branded in her head and etched on her heart. 

She's devoured then, by an absolute loathing of her parents. Hermione had been content before being taken back to her house. Well, not content, but she'd kept everything back well enough, could focus on one thing at a time. But being back at that house, faced with everything she fears, it had torn down every last mental barrier she'd made for herself. 

All of it pours through, flashing through her mind like a movie on fast forward. Screaming parents, dull men gazing in lust, flashes of green spells, bloody words carved into her arm, her own voice breaking as she howls in pain. Every last moment, playing in her head, and it's her parents fault for breaking her down to this point, and she hates them for it. They've wrecked her, it feels like. Ruined everything about her. 

"Leave me alone," she whispers. "Leave me alone." It's a mantra, repeated over and over, until it's the only thing she can think anymore. 

When there is nothing left except her too-loud breaths, Hermione sags and collapses back completely against the dock. She comes back to the present in increments; A slow exhale, her fingers slipping through the space between the planks to clutch at something solid, a small shake of her head, her heart slowing to something more normal. She's aware of her strained muscles, and wonders idly how taunt she'd been holding her body.