Chapter Text
Hermione didn’t recognise where she was at first.
She attempted to stand up, or to get her arm to move, she even willed it deliberately after they didn’t move the first couple times, but it was no use. It was like she was spectating from inside her own body, unable to move or speak.
It was far too dark to see anything, and all she could feel was her back against something cold — far too cold for an autumn’s day. The air around her was warm — not hot; the kind of warm you would see on a sticky summer afternoon after the sun had been blazing in the sky for a couple hours.
She could hear talking — laughing — though it was barely audible. The voices spoke in hushed whispers that gradually got louder and louder with time. She could feel her breathing quicken, though she wasn’t exactly sure why. Her heart rate started to accelerate as a foreign pressure built up in her spine.
"I know you are angry but—” A voice spoke from the shadows. Hermione recognised it, though she didn’t hear it often. It was that of Narcissa Malfoy, filled with anger and fear pointed at whoever she was speaking to.
The cool tile. The hushed voices. The laughing.
The realisation crashed into her all at once.
She knew this room. The cold floor. The hushed voices. The sickly smell in the air. She was in Malfoy manor, it was thirtieth of March 1998, and she was about to re-experience a memory she’s much rather have forgotten.
The room slowly became more clear. The tall stained glass windows letting in moonlight which tinted the whole room a pale green. The quartz pillars standing tall next to her, intricate designs chiseled into the bases. The ornate glass chandelier hanging proud above her, reflecting light across the room in a way it shouldn't be able to at night. And the three other people in the room: Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix Lestrange.
“Tell me, Mudblood.” Bellatrix stood above her, hair tossed about messily, a crazed smile drawn on her face. “Where did you get that sword!”
“I—” Hermione shook her head. “We found—”
Bellatrix hit her with the Cruciatus again, a thin blaze of red escaping from her wand as she uttered the curse, cutting Hermione off. Hermione could hear Bellatrix screaming through her own screams, but the words blurred into static. The pain went on for ages, draining her of every thought and sense but that of her nerves on fire.
“I’m going to ask you again!” Bellatrix lifted her wand once more. “Where did you get this sword?! Where!?”
“We found it— we found it!” Hermione washed as Bellatrix aimed her wand at her again, face masked with fury. “PLEASE!”
The curse got worse every time it was cast. Hermione couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of her body about to give out. The spell travelled through every inch of her, not stopping until she was at her weakest — even still, it continued. She had known intellectually that her life was at risk by continuing with Harry, but until that moment, she had never really thought she would die.
The worst part wasn’t even the pain. The worst part was that she gave Bellatrix exactly what she wanted — power. With every scream, every beg, every plea, she was giving Bellatrix more and more power over her.
“You are LYING!! Filthy little Mudblood!” Bellatrix was closer now, the words were said directly into her ear before she started yelling again. “I know it! I know you’ve been inside my vault at Gringotts!”
“Tell the truth…” Bellatrix whispered.
“*Tell the truth!!”* she repeated, shouting, pointing her wand directly into Hermione’s throat.
Hermione screamed again as the curse descended on her once more, racking her nerves more forcefully than before. She felt like she was going to pass out from the pain — but she mustn’t. She mustn’t pass out before Harry and Ron could find her. She mustn’t give Bellatrix more Power. But just as she felt the ends of her consciousness fading into oblivion, the curse lifted, and the curse stopped.
Not faded.
Stopped.
Hermione gasped for breath as she jolted awake, throat raw as if she’d been screaming. The air around her was colder now, more reflective of the time and season. The sun had still yet to rise, though her room was illuminated slightly by the lamp on her desk.
She glanced at the clock. 4:45. It was officially September.
She hadn't moved from the bed, fingers gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white. Her breathing hadn't slowed either, it still came short and shallow. Heart hammering against her ribs so hard they might bruise.
For a moment, she didn’t believe it was real. She braced herself to be transported back to that dark, humid room — to wake up under Cruciatus again — to be screaming for no one to hear her. Logically, she knew she wouldn’t, it was all a dream, just her mind playing tricks on her — but logic didn’t stop her from thinking she would.
That was the sixth time in August. Less than May, more than July. It wasn’t the same each time, sometimes it was the Manor, others it was erasing her parents memories, occasionally it was seeing Harry dead. She wondered if the increase had anything to do with her going back to Hogwarts.
Her hand moved mechanically towards her left forearm, tracing over the raised letters slightly. She’d tried every spell she could think of to get rid of it, none of them worked; it faded slightly, but was never truly disappeared. The scar was a reminder, a reminder that no matter how much she tried to, she could never forget the events of that night.
Eventually, her grip on the sheets loosened; her breath started to come normally, and her heart rate slowed to an expected pace. Her body moved automatically after that.
First to the shower. She stripped her night clothes off in exchange the hot water running from the shower head and soaked in it for a minute longer than necessary. Then it was to her sink, brushing her teeth with whatever mint toothpaste her parents had bought for her the week prior; she hated the stuff, but you’d be hard pressed to find toothpaste in any flavour but mint these days. After that it was to her dresser. She pulled out whatever clothes were on top and pulled them on quickly.
By the time she’d finished, the clock had just barely reached five thirty. Her parents wouldn’t be up until seven and she couldn’t call Harry or Ron — neither of them had phones — so it seemed she would be alone with her thoughts until the sun rose.
Opening her bedroom door, Hermione nearly tripped over a large ginger shape sprawled across the mat. Crookshanks blinked up at her with the urgency of well, a cat who’s just been woken up for no reason.
"Honestly?" Hermione muttered, pressing a hand against her chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
The cat yawned, followed by a slow, deliberate stretch, front paws spreading apart. Then he stood and brushed against her legs, winding around her ankles once before sitting expectantly beside the stairs.
“What are yo doing here?” Hermione frowned. His bed sat in the corner of the living room. They’d spent so much on it, yet he seemingly never used it.
Crookshanks merely stared at her.
The answer came to her a moment later.
He’d been waiting.
The nightmare had started shortly after she’d returned from Australia with her parents. The first few nights she’d woken screaming, disoriented, and convinced she was still trapped inside the memories she desperately wanted to forget. Each time, she’d found Crookshanks sitting outside her bedroom door the following morning.
She assumed it was coincidence at first, but by the fourth occurrence, she wasn’t so sure.
"You heard me, didn't you?" she asked quietly, picking him up. She wasn’t sure how he’d heard her, she had cast a silencing charm over her room after the first few nights, but she was glad he was there.
The cat quickly jumped out of her arms, staring down the stairs, pausing after several steps to look back and ensure she was following — as though escorting her somewhere.
The house remained dark and silent when they reached the kitchen. Hermione switched on a small lamp beside the counter and immediately Crookshanks leapt onto one of the chairs, curling himself into an orange ball, as if he decided she wasn’t ment to be alone in this moment.
Hermione filled the kettle, the familiar motions helping her gather her bearings. Water. Cup. Sugar. Tea bag. Milk. By the time the kettle finished boiling, her hands had finally stopped shaking.
Crookshanks opened his eyes, jumping towards his food bowl as Hermione emptied a can of tuna into it.
“Don't look so pleased with yourself," Hermione said.
・.˖・.⊹₊・₊
The sky had just begun to shift from dark blues and blacks into soft golds and yellows as the morning light streamed into the room.
Hermione had her hands curled around the warm mug which was now half-empty with its content, steam swirling lazily round its opening. Crookshanks had settled full on the floor now, the way cats did when they didn't want to be bothered moving.
The quiet didn’t last long though.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Then another.
Hermione didn’t look up. She already knew the rhythm of those footsteps — the soft, careful footsteps of someone trying not to wake anyone.
“Mum?” Hermione called.
“Coming,” she replied.
Her mother appeared a moment later in the doorway, slightly disheveled in the way that suggested she’d just gotten out of bed — hair loose, cardigan thrown unevenly over her shoulders.
“There you are,” she said gently, pulling Hermione into a hug. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered automatically, though the crack in her voice betrayed her.
“I heard you up early. Those dreams again?” She asked, pulling away.
“it’s fine,” Hermione dismissed. She didn’t want to tell either of her parents about the dreams initially, but as time went on, and it started becoming a more frequent occurrence, she had no choice but to — it’s hard to explain why your child would wake up screaming otherwise.
Her mother knew she was lying, but she didn’t push her on it. Instead, she started moving through the kitchen with a familiar rhythm — opening cabinets, pulling out ingredients, firing up the stove top.
“Big day to day, isn't it?” she said, cracking an egg into the hot pan. “How's an egg sound?”
Hermione nodded. She didn’t really know if she could stomach anything right now, but she knew she had to at least try — she’d be hungry later otherwise, and it’s not like the trolly had anything of substance. “Egg’s fine.”
“You’ll be alright at the station?” her mother asked.
“Yeah,” Hermione said, finally finishing her tea and placing the cup down. “I’ll be alright.”
Her mother paused at the stove momentarily, sliding the eggs onto two plates — one fore herself and one for Hermione. She looked back at Hermione, eyes flicking quickly to and from her forearm — not judging, just… aware. Then she reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Hermione’s ear.
“My baby’s all grown up,” she said softly, as if she was still getting used to the fact. “I’m going to miss you.”
“You’ll see me in four months.” Hermione let out a short laugh. “I’m not exactly moving out.”
“No.” Her mother smiled, placing the plates down. “But it feels like it.”
“I’ll write.”
Her mother turned her head slightly. “You always do.”
Silence stretched over them slightly as they ate, the room only filled with the sound of silverware hitting plates and Crookshanks’ lazy meows.
“I should get my things,” Hermione said as she finished, pushing the chair from the table.
Her mother nodded once. “Your father’s just finishing up. We’ll leave in twenty minutes.”
Hermione made her way up the stairs slowly. Her trunk sat open at the foot of her bed, already packed. She checked it twice the night before, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Books stacked neatly. Uniform folded. Wand placed carefully in its case.
She stood there for a moment.
Then checked it again anyway.
Crookshanks followed her, jumping lazily onto her now made bed and messing it up anyway. He looked at her in the way cats do when they do something wrong but know you won't do anything about it.
“You excited to go back?” Hermione asked the cat, though it was really more pointed towards herself. She should have been excited. Hogwarts had been a second home for almost seven years. It was where she'd met Harry and Ron. Where she'd learned magic. Where she'd spent every September since she was eleven years old.
Instead the thought felt strange. It wasn’t dread or excitement. It was something in-between.
The idea of returning to a place she loved and finding it changed while she'd been away was unsettling. More unsettling still was the possibility that Hogwarts hadn't changed at all. That she had.
But change was a necessary part of life, wasn't it?