Chapter Text
Bellatrix's slap was so hard it sent Hermione sprawling to the ground. The dizzying pain pulsing from where her head hit the cobbled floor of the Malfoy Manor was far too overwhelming that she hardly felt the sting on her face. She scrambled up, rapidly blinking to shake it off, but the deranged woman was on her again, pinning her down. Hermione panicked. She felt immensely vulnerable without her wand.
"YOU FILTHY LITTLE MUDBLOOD THIEF!" The deranged woman screeched; her face was so close to Hermione's that she felt Bellatrix's saliva sputtering on her face. Her breath smelled like death.
She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, "I- I swear I did not take anyth—"
"DON'T LIE TO ME, YOU!!!" Bellatrix seethed, leaning closer to her arm. That's when she felt a searing burn of pierced flesh that made her shriek in pain and horror. For a moment, Hermione thought the death eater had bitten her, but the pain continued to burn through the length of her arm. That's when she realized that the woman was carving letters on her skin.
"MUDBLOOD! HA HA HA HA HA," Bellatrix shrieked in sick pleasure, admiring her work.
The wound continued to burn, like dripping hot lava, scorching her skin. 'A cursed mark.' She thought grimly as tears fell against her will. Hermione screamed in anger, writhing with all her might to set herself free, but Bellatrix held on while hysterically shrieking. Hermione was filled with outrage and dread, the killing curse swirling in her head.
The pain suddenly stopped with a flash of bright light. A soft but determined murmuring replaced all the screaming; she barely understood the words in her delirious state.
“Soul… heart.. safe…”
It was suddenly quiet and peaceful. Hermione briefly wondered if she was dead. Then she felt delicate fingers running through the back of her hair, slightly lifting her head up. Another set of fingers gently tilted her chin, parting her lips. She felt it before she tasted it — a pair of soft, supple lips closed against hers, sending a jolt down her core, making her gasp. Sweet like wild honey. She felt warmth spread through her body like a gentle embrace. It felt like coming home.
She opened her eyes and saw a stunningly beautiful goddess with silvery-blonde hair before her, intensely staring back, eyes watery, lips smiling with relief and pride.
"That's it, ma chérie, come back… come back to me."
Worried eyes flicked down her lips before meeting her gaze again.
The goddess looked awfully a lot like… like..' Fleur? Wha- where —'
*THUD*
Hermione startled awake at the sound of a book falling on the floor. She looked around, momentarily disoriented, before realizing that she was in the living room of her new one-bedroom apartment in London, just about half a mile from 12 Grimmauld place. She had fallen asleep on the sofa and sure enough—had another nightmare.
She's been struggling with PTSD after the war. Unfortunately, the Wizarding world was appallingly backward regarding mental health — chucking everything as 'madness.' Fortunately, she met Evelyne Brochu, a squib from Australia who does muggle therapy, whom she met while searching for her parents to restore their identities and memories. While Evelyne had been lovely, the process was taxing to say the least. It took a lot of work and talk therapy to get to where she was today. Relatively functional — able to focus and manage the horrifying intrusive thoughts while awake — but they still find their way into her subconscious the moment she fell asleep. So she made the most of whatever peace of mind she found when she can.
With a deep sigh, she sat up and bent over to pick up the book that slipped off her hand. 'The Little Prince.' She was pleasantly surprised when she found the muggle book in the box she was unpacking; it was her childhood favourite. Her mother must have sneaked it in when she helped her pack, back in Australia. A gentle reminder to be proud of her heritage and that 'I now remember, and I don't ever want to forget again.' It's bittersweet. While her parents struggled with acceptance and harboured a growing distrust of the Wizarding World, they understood why she has done what she did and forgave her. Hermione was suddenly filled with guilt and gratitude.
It seemed like that's the story of her life now — a cocktail of intense, conflicting emotions, guilt, resentment, hate, shame, pride, contentment, gratitude, and love — interspersed with nightmares and anxiety attacks, with brief periods of peace and sanity.
Like the one she surprisingly found in unpacking and shelving her things manually. She stood up and continued the chore without the aid of magic. Mrs. Weasley would be scandalized.
The recurring nightmares were one of the reasons why she decided to move back to London so she could be closer to her chosen family. To see the magical community post-war. To know the peace that she gave so much of herself to achieve. A decision that her parents only acquiesced to after seeing and hearing her squirm in bed, drenched in sweat and screaming herself awake night after night.
She still had a bit of time before meeting everyone for the first time in months after leaving so abruptly almost immediately after the war. She was excited to see them but also anxious for them to see her current state. Afraid they'll notice the subtle but always present fright in her eyes or the seemingly permanent dark circles beneath them. She was worried that they'll discover how broken she’d been. 'She was alive. Her parents were alive. Yet somehow, she felt so broken and incomplete. She should be grateful, yet somehow, she could barely hold herself together. It was disgraceful.' At the thought, Hermione moved to the next box and continued unpacking. Menial work without magic proved to be calming, almost therapeutic.
Breathe in. Count to five. Breathe out. Repeat. 'You are whole, you are loved, you are safe.' She told herself, willing the courage to believe it.
Despite her progress, the nightmares remained just as vivid as they were since Malfoy Manor — more like recurrent memories, really. Except for the last part, where a 'glowing' Fleur seemed to kiss her nightmare away. That started just a few weeks after they left Shell Cottage. She blushed and tried not to think anything of it.
Her confusing dreams of the veela were unhealthy and inappropriate, to say the least. For Christ's sake, Fleur’s married to Bill, her best friend's brother, no less.
Plus, she can't risk ruining her friendship with the veela over something so arbitrary like 'having a girl-crush on someone who’s loving, kind, understanding, intelligent and so radiantly beautiful that she even finds her haughtiness attracti—' okay, she digressed.
Nope. Hermione definitely doesn't have a crush on Fleur.
Perhaps it was just her subconscious’ way of coping. She reasoned. It only made sense that her fractured mind clung to Fleur; after all, she was the light that brought her back to life and sanity in her darkest days after Malfoy Manor. Fleur had become her safe space.
Her unlikely friendship with Fleur started off at the most inopportune time, yet the blonde turned out to be the person she never knew she needed the most. Fleur had seen it all. The hysteria, the nightmares, her ungraceful regression — curling up in fetal position at night, with the blonde's arms around her waist while clutching her delicate hands, trembling, crying, afraid of everything and nothing all at once — one that Fleur helped her overcome as she lovingly nursed her back to health, both physically and mentally. One that she never truly had the chance to thank the blonde for before leaving to pull off the only known successful robbery in the history of Gringotts.
The next time they saw each other was during the Battle of Hogwarts when Fleur inadvertently helped her destroy Helga Hufflepuff's cup in the Chamber of secrets. 'Fleur almost died that night.' She shuddered at the memory and shook it off. As Fleur had saved her in Shell Cottage, she had saved Fleur then in the Chamber of Secrets. She’d hardly call them even, and she would have wanted to do more for her friend, but the last time she saw her was at Fred's funeral. The veela was preoccupied with consoling her then-fiancé, Bill; while Hermione consoled Ron. The morning after, she took off without saying goodbye to anyone, only leaving Harry and Ron a tiny note — ‘Off to Australia. I’ll keep you posted.’
Only, she never did.
Half a year later, she was back in London while deliberately ignoring Fleur's last letter, where the veela offered to help her move into her new apartment. Harry and Ron offered as well, but she felt like she needed the time alone.
She can only ignore her (and everyone) for so long without being suspicious, so she might as well get ready for tonight's get-together at the Burrow.
She looked around her new apartment littered with now empty moving boxes. The one-bedroom loft doesn't look so hollow and sterile now that she was almost done putting her things where they should be.
It's starting to feel like home.
...
