Chapter Text
“Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed. ”
― Anna Karenina
Margaret Wright had just started work at Wool’s Orphanage last Tuesday, and already she had her hands full. She had expected to be assigned something small to start out with; reading to schoolchildren, or watching them during their brief periods outdoors. Instead she was given an ear-full about the “percentage method”, and shown how to properly mix cow’s milk with water, cream, cod liver oil, and a touch of sugar. This was, apparently, extremely important to their patrons, and Mrs. Cole did her best to accommodate them.
Margaret was then shoved into a square room filled with at least two dozen cribs, with a blanket in one hand and a bottle in the other.
She braced herself against the noise. Many were crying, a couple of older infants screaming and shoving themselves against the edges of the crib. She startled as the child next to her saw her standing there and made a racket she was convinced was unholy. Other babies saw her enter and did the same. She stood solidly for a few moments against the irritating cacophony of sound before she sprang into action. She really needed this job- no one else in her family was working. She would figure this out.
She took the child nearest to her into her arms, and nervously attempted to bounce it on her hip. What looked to be a he didn’t stop screaming, so she settled him into the crook of her arm and shoved the bottle and its rubble nipple into his mouth. It took a few minutes, but the sound around her settled some and she was able to take the bottle out without him getting upset. She turned him on her shoulder, padded his back with her fingertips a few times, and carefully put him back in the crib.
She quickly went to the next crying baby and did the same.
She wished she could say that after she had made a round, it was quiet. There was some odd chain-reaction, and one fussy infant seemed to wake everyone around them, until the screaming started all over again. She could barely afford to give any attention to the fussiest of infants, let alone the quiet ones. As she carted a squealing baby girl over her shoulder, she looked down at one of the few silent babes. The name attached to the front of the crib stated, “Tom Marvolo Riddle” in block letters.
He was a handsome baby, to be sure, with arresting dark eyes that peered at her over the top of his crib. She thought he may have been one of the infants that started to cry after she came into the room, but he had stopped some twenty minutes ago as she attended to the other infants. She considered, briefly, whether or not she should try to hold all of the infants, before her attention snapped back to the baby in her arms as the girl yanked on a few loose strands of hair.
They would be fine. They weren’t crying, right? To be honest, Margaret didn’t have much experience with children, having been brought up as an only child by an aunt and uncle after the death of her parents in the war. She could only assume that if they needed something, they would cry and let her know.
So she set a mental remainder to tie her hair back during lunch, shoved the nipple into the mouth of the baby girl, and steeled herself for another round.
The end of the war prompted a flurry of activity. There were funerals to attend. Trials. Homes and businesses needed to be rebuilt. And Professor McGonagall required passive-aggressive reminders that various students needed to sit the N.E.W.T.S. if they were to be able to move forward with their futures.
When it was approved that a test would be administered in December, Hermione's days became engrossed with a mad, frantic energy that bordered manic anxiety as she attempted to reread every textbook (and every other text of possible import) that she could get her hands on. Every hour was spent in an organized dash to review notes, make more notes, and attempt to ignore how nothing had improved since the end of the war. Attempt to forget how little she felt up to pursuing her schoolgirl dreams.
Because Hermione did not feel herself.
It started with a creeping after the battle, but as the months went by it became all-consuming. The distress that steadily built the longer she realized she was unable to feel the same relief as everyone else. The tension that settled into the cracks in her joints and coiled the muscles in her limbs, until she was ready to scrap the skin off her forearms with her fingernails just to relieve some of the pressure. The sense of fear that encouraged her to obsessively over-pack her beaded purse, and triple-check her wards every night. And a growing pain that seemed to originate somewhere in her chest that cut into her every time she wrote a sentence, bit into a sandwich, and got out of bed in the morning.
Unfortunately, Hermione did not feel comfortable disclosing any of this to her friends. Harry would always be near and dear to her heart, but he had gone through so much. He still suffered from night terrors and his reflexes bordered paranoia, but she could tell he was happier. Whether it was playing Quidditch with Ron or snuggling on a couch with Ginny, she could tell he was coming to terms with peacetime and she did not want to burden him with the fact that she did not feel the same.
And Ron. How had things ended up this way? How could she possibly confess that she had only kissed him because destroying Hufflepuff’s cup had left her feeling a loss so substantial that she was desperate to establish a connection with anyone? Feeling guilty, she had tried so hard after the war to reconnect with him. In between trials and funerals, she attempted to cling to his broad chest, snogging him as if she could regain her feelings for him by force. But he noticed that she couldn’t quite reciprocate. She didn’t let him take her virginity, despite the various times she initiated intimacy. She didn’t say that she was in love with him, despite the fact that she knew Ron needed those words to hold him together after the death of his older brother and the trauma that was the war.
When he questioned her after another aborted attempt to have sex, it had turned into a fight. Which wasn't exactly surprising.
“Why, Hermione? You start kissing me and touching me, and then you push me away like the thought of me inside you disgusts you. I want to make love to you! What's wrong with that?”
Hermione ignored him as she pushed her shirt back down over her stomach and buttoned her jeans. She started heading towards the door; she felt dirty and guilty, and was desperate for some space if only to distract herself and separate from these ugly feelings.
“Wait a second! Where are you going? I’m trying to talk to you!” Ron took several steps forward and grabbed her wrist, before swinging her back so that she faced him. “Well?” he asked, his face red with indignation.
Hermione knew she needed to tell him the truth, but she also knew that admitting to her sudden apathy would cause a lot of hurt feelings and effectively end their relationship. And ending her relationship with Ron would be charged enough that it would more than likely end their friendship. Years of her life she had spent enjoying him for his sense of humor and his warm affection. And she had so few friends. She knew it was selfish of her to lead him on, but she didn’t understand what was wrong with her and was desperate for comfort. She thought she had wanted him for years; why were things turning out this way? Why couldn’t she just get over the anxiety, and the depression, and the pain? Why were they still present? Shouldn’t he make those feelings better?
She didn’t have a lot of experience with relationships, and she knew that she was probably overestimating her expectations, but should she really feel so empty?
Ron impatiently squeezed her wrist, and Hermione winced at the pain. She took a deep breath trying to calm her rising panic. Despite the fact that she knew it was wrong to lie to him, this kind of life-altering decision was overwhelming to make. She was afraid. Afraid to be alone, but afraid to take a step forward without being positively sure that it would work out for the better.
But he was pushing her to make a decision right now.
She wasn't ready.
“Ron, let go, you’re hurting me.”
“Not until you tell me what's going through your head. Why are you acting this way?”
“Ron, I want to leave, let me go!”
“No! Talk to me! We've been after each other for years, Hermione. And it will be perfect! We can get married. Our kids and Harry and Ginny’s kids will play with each other and go to school with each other. I’ll even let you work at the Ministry and get a career like you’ve always wanted! This will work!”
Hermione didn’t know how to respond to that. He would let her have a career? As if she needed his permission? But her first inclination when pushed to make a decision she wasn’t ready for was to react defensively. And while she wasn’t known for her rash decision-making, she tended to let her mouth go when she was in a temper.
“Ron, I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that!”
“Well, yeah, but soon right? Me and Harry have already been contacted by the Ministry, and we're set to start Auror training in October. So maybe we could get married in September? I’ll be real busy once I start working, and this way everything will be fine just in case you get pregnant.” He rambled this off in obvious excitement, and his broad smile displayed all the confidence in the world. “That’s why you’ve been like this, right? I talked to Mum about it, and she said it was because you needed a sign of commitment. Well, I'm committed! I don’t have the ring yet, but I should have it soon, so no problem, right?”
Hermione froze. And then immediately felt nauseous in the wake of his proposal. She had to stop herself from hyperventilating as anxiety tore through her body, physical pain in its tracks. Did she have to make that decision right now? She wasn’t prepared! And while the picture he painted of their red-headed children playing behind the Burrow sounded like everything she had wanted since she was fourteen, there was so much she couldn’t ignore. What about her ambitions? Her life plan? And the presumption. They had only been dating for a couple of months! They fought all the time as teenagers, how was she to know that this would work the way he wanted?
And this was ignoring her most obvious concern regarding the flippancy of her feelings.
As the silence continued, Ron’s grin faltered and his grip tightened.
“Yes?” he suggested with less confidence.
“Ron…” she started to say, before Ron shoved her arm back.
“No?” he asked as his face started to turn red again and wrinkle in displeasure. “Why not?”
Hermione started to breath more heavily as she backed up into the door. She couldn’t do this right now, she couldn’t, and the nausea and pain were making her want to vomit. She swallowed nervously as she rubbed the spot where he had gripped her arm.
“I can’t…” she started to say, but she was cut off as Ron took another step forward.
“Why not?!” he practically screamed in her face.
She snapped, and screamed back, “Because I can’t, Ron! I don’t feel the same way! I don’t feel happy, or in love! I feel sick all the time! Nervous and in pain, and I don’t know why! And I can’t share your confidence, Ron! We fight all the time! And how do I know you will be there when it gets difficult?! You left, Ron!”
He looked like he’d been slapped. He took a few deep breaths, before saying with a hint of a whine, “I came back! I tried so hard to come back! Isn’t that more important?”
“I can’t, Ron,” Hermione stated again, barely more than a whisper as she hugged her arms into her chest.
A myriad of expressions flickered across his face for a solid minute before settling on a sneer. “Fine. We are through.”
He flew out the door, vindictively shoving the solid wood into her shoulder, and slammed it shut behind him.
Moments passed. Then Hermione sank to the ground holding her head in her hands as a cold streak of dread sank through her body. Not mindful of the tears warming her cheeks and salting the corners of her mouth. What should she do now? She knew there was no turning back; there was no way Ron would so easily forgive such an insult to his pride. But what now? Without her friends, because she had no doubt that Ron was on his way to speak to Harry about what had happened…
She sat there long enough for her breathing to settle and her legs to cramp, tucked into the chilled floor. But even as her body grew stiff, her mind remained restless, conjuring images of condemnation and rejection.
Her despondent musings were interrupted by a firm knock on her door. She got unsteadily on her feet and opened the door, resigned to her fate. Then stood in surprise as she realized who was actually at her door.
“Luna?”
Luna was smiling tiredly as she pushed her way inside and made herself comfortable on the couch, earrings made of rusty washers clanging slightly from the momentum. A twitch of her wand and the door closed. “Hermione?” she suggested, her hand gesturing to the tea set on the coffee table. Hermione felt her eyebrows and forehead wrinkle in consternation, before she sighed, picked up the tray, and headed to the kitchen to brew some tea.
Someone else knocked on the door while she was still heating the water, and she heard Luna get up to answer it.
“Harry!” she heard Luna exclaim, before answering his upset, muffled inquiries with dulcet tones. “Yes, Hermione is here, but now is not the time to speak to her. She is dealing with some issues right now, and is not in the right state of mind.”
There was another muffled assertion, and Hermione was reasonably sure she heard Ron’s name, before Luna responded. “I have no idea what happened with Ron. I’m talking about the state of Hermione’s soul.”
Harry’s, “What?” was easier to make out as Hermione robotically measured out loose leaf black tea, feeling a sense of suspense settle from her torso down to her fingertips. Her soul? Was there something wrong with her soul?
Luna continued. “A disruption of the soul is usually difficult to see, I understand, but I couldn’t ignore the slupnotts I saw migrating to her chest the last time she was at Hogwarts. They usually fester in cracks the soul makes when performing the darkest of magic, and I have seen them before on Death Eaters. But they are all over Hermione, so I fear something dreadful must have happened.”
The door must have been pushed open further, because Hermione could make out, “Luna, what are slupnotts?” quite clearly. She unwrapped a container of biscuits and poured them onto a tray.
“Slupnotts? They look like maggots, and they have a tendency to eat the edges of a broken soul. Daddy says they cleanse the break and allow for the edges to heal, but if there are too many they can actually eat away at the soul. I think that is what is happening to Hermione. I’ve never seen so many- except on Voldemort, of course, but I supposed that was a given.”
There was a moment of silence as Harry was evidently processing this information, but Luna didn't give him an opportunity to respond. “In any case, I need to figure out what is going on. You’ll have to come back later.” She closed the door on Harry as he recovered and attempted to ask another question. The door shut with some noise, and Hermione could hear Luna resettle on the couch before she carried the tea tray out of the kitchen. There was a juggle on the doorknob and a couple of bangs that let Hermione know Luna had locked the door, before the foray and attached sitting room settled into silence.
“Slupnotts?” Hermione asked, watching Harry leave through the window of her parent's sitting room.
She didn’t know how to feel- she was caught between relief that she wouldn’t have to argue with Harry, familiar dread and anxiety that pulled at her recently acquired pessimistic nature, and the skepticism that typically followed Luna’s outlandish claims.
Luna hummed in affirmation, before taking a long, ascertain look at Hermione. Her stare was penetrating, as if attempting to ferret out her concerns with her gaze alone. “And they seem to be getting worse,” she stated, her tone weighed down by something heavier than melancholy. A thought that made her brow crease, and premature stress lines become visible on her forehead.
Hermione frowned as she sat opposite of Luna in a paisley, upholstered chair. It suddenly struck her that Luna was not behaving like Luna- that dreamy, slightly disconnected manner and voice that had become quintessential Luna was missing. That, more than anything, encouraged her concern to fester. “Where did you hear about this, again?”
Luna paused and tilted her head. Then she ignored the question and asked, “How do you feel?”
Hermione felt taken aback. When was the last time that someone had asked her that question? She tried to be honest without sounding melodramatic. “Tired. Anxious. Unsettled. Depressed.”
Luna nodded sympathetically as she got herself a cup of tea, and peered at Hermione over the edge of the lip. “What does your anxiety feel like?”
Hermione let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Like every muscle in my body is tensing for something that has yet to happen. Like my chest is in knots, and I’m somehow trapped in my skin, until I want release so badly I’m tempted to scratch my way out with my fingernails. It feels like drowning, because you know nothing is going to go right, and I am somehow not right, and suddenly I can’t breathe….” Hermione had to take a moment to force herself not to hyperventilate.
Luna regarded her with a frown. “Tea?” she suggested, and Hermione robotically bent over to get herself a teacup. “And Ron?” she asked, watching intently as Hermione froze and seemed to force herself to pour a glass.
“He decided that we should no longer be together,” Hermione stated with a bland face, resting the tea cup on her knee so that her hand would stop shaking. Luna just tilted her head again, before giving her own soft sigh.
“When did these feelings start?” she asked, taking a sip.
“The Final Battle,” Hermione stated, somewhat glad to get away from thinking about Ron. She wasn’t ready to properly digest the implications of that interaction, so her immediate concern was finding something else to think about. Although considering the ruined state of her soul did little to assuage her of worry.
“Did you perform any of the Unforgiveables during the battle?” Luna asked without any inflection, and Hermione got the feeling that if she had, she wouldn’t face any judgment from the girl sitting across from her.
“No,” Hermione stated, shaking her head before tightening the hold she had on her teacup. Almost, she admitted to herself, but something had always stopped her. Although truthfully she couldn’t state whether or not that was because of moral principles, an instilled sense of self-righteousness, or because she didn’t want to risk Azkaban.
“What other exposures did you have to dark magic during the battle?” Luna asked as she picked up and started nibbling on a biscuit.
Hermione did not need to spend any time thinking about it. “I destroyed a horcrux with basilisk venom,” she stated, looking at her wrist where drips of the venom had burned into her skin as she had attempted to shove it into the cup. The scars appeared as splotches of white that spread out and blotted in the shape of tiny stars.
Luna frowned again. “But that wasn’t the only horcrux you were in contact with, right?”
Hermione shook her head. “No, I wore Riddle’s locket for a few months last fall.”
“But that exposure didn’t make you feel this way?”
Hermione automatically clenched her teeth as she recalled how she felt wearing the locket. It made her feel warm and... secure, actually, which was unsettling. She had to convince herself that the ease and comfort she felt from the cursed jewelry was Riddle’s attempt to put her in a false sense of security. Luckily he opened up his mouth, and her irritation with his arrogant, belligerent, confrontational attitude and creepy, suggestive whispers overrode any pleasant feelings the piece of soul generated. Which was for the best.
But wearing it- and its destruction- did not bring this hollowed emptiness or anxious nervousness. She shook her head.
Luna’s mouth puckered inquisitively. “Any other instances of exposure?” she asked, taking a moment to refill her teacup and cater her tea.
Hermione absentmindedly noted that her blonde friend took her tea with a lot of cream, but no sugar as she stated a despondent, “No. I was subject to Bellatrix's torture at Easter, I'm sure you remember. And while the Cruciatus and the cursed knife both left their mark on my body, it was just pain that lingered. Not- not this feeling of wrongness.” She grabbed a biscuit, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth. It was too dry, and Hermione didn’t wait to gulp down a mouthful of tea.
Luna’s face was still pursed. “We should go to Hogwarts. One of the professors might know more about it.”
“About soul magic?” Hermione was doubtful that any of the professors still living could tell them very much. Other than Professor Dumbledore, and possibly Professor Snape, she couldn’t think of any other previous professors that might be half as well informed. In her research on Horcruxes she had discovered that Soul Magic was a rather obscure branch of magic, and that it was very often connected to Dark magic. “Not unless we can talk to the portraits.”
Luna immediately brightened. “The portraits! Of course! Let’s go now,” she stated as she jumped up, her earrings jingling as she threw a biscuit back on the tray with abandon. She started heading towards the door, before she noticed that Hermione had remained perched at the edge of her seat. “Hermione?” Luna asked.
Hermione did not want to get up. This entire enterprise sounded like a waste of time. She did not feel well, but that did not mean that the cause of her illness was something so unusual. This was normal right? She remembered reading about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a child in her parent’s house, and she knew depression and anxiety were typical responses in the face of trauma. And she definitely felt that getting tortured, watching her home of the last few years go up in flames, and losing her parents and friends counted as trauma. So wouldn’t going to Hogwarts be an over-reaction? And she was just so tired. She really did not want to do anything right now.
“I don’t see why I need to,” she told Luna with a defiant frown, a stubborn set in her chin.
Luna tilted her head again, considering something. There were a few moments of silence before she acquiesced with a nod. “Alright. Well, I hope you feel better Hermione.” She was out of the door in moments, and Hermione took an uncomfortable breath trying to remember if Luna had sounded upset or disappointed.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her- not necessarily. But that didn't mean she should go all the way to Hogwarts. And who was to say that this was because of her soul? Hermione frowned, looking at the closed door, and the abandoned biscuits on the coffee table.
Well, maybe she could take the time to look through her notes about Horcruxes again before she skipped dinner and went to bed. Hopefully tomorrow she would feel motivated enough to crack open her 7th year Arithmancy textbook. And perhaps a few texts about Soul Magic that she had thought to keep in her bag during last year’s escapades.
Just in case.
The next few months passed rather quickly. According to the Daily Prophet, there were several senior Death Eaters still at large, and more than a couple articles detailed hypothetical scenarios in which they had banded together to form some kind of resistant alliance in the Underground. Hermione openly scoffed at these conspiracy theories, sure that if there was some kind of organized resistance being formed, the death of innocents would have followed in its wake. Still, reading the imaginative, nefarious (and need she add, melodramatic) schemes while sipping on tea in the morning had become a welcome diversion from her otherwise busy study schedule.
Every time she thought about Ron tendrils of anxiety wound their way into her chest, so she did her best not to think of him. Harry had come back to visit at some point, but their conversation was unproductive. He did not feel comfortable ousting his relationship with his soon to be brother-in-law, so their conversation consisted of skeptical speculation about Luna’s claims, and empty platitudes regarding their continued friendship. Both of them wanted to remain in contact, but they knew that it would be difficult to do. In the midst of her depression Hermione considered this the end- she had never really been a priority to Harry, so why would that change now? Why would she expect him to take her side, especially when he didn’t fully understand what was wrong with her? The hopelessness and sorrow she felt at losing Harry, when she had fought so hard for him, tore at her already hollowed chest. But who was she to make this decision for him?
And she found that as time progressed, her symptoms were getting worse. The initial fatigue was now a bone-weary kind of exhaustion that made it a struggle to move. Nausea made it difficult to eat. Night terrors made it difficult to sleep. She was so tense that the slightest noise in the quiet of her parent’s house made her startle and whip out her wand. The pain had intensified and collected in certain areas of her body, including her head, chest, and joints.
She spent quite some time considering the strangely inevitable descent her body and mind were making, consciously preparing for the crash, but frustrated at her inability to prevent its passing. Mind over matter was practically a principle in magic. Shouldn’t she be able to duplicate the affects in regards to her anxiety and depression?
According to an objective part of her brain that somehow seemed removed from her fluctuating hormonal state, she could intellectually understand that she spent an inordinate amount of time wallowing, and she tried to offset the habit as best as she could by keeping to her study schedule. Regardless of her lack of motivation, she still loved to learn new things, and that same objective part of her brain marveled at the perseverance of her obsessive need to collect and store information. It also helped that she had kept in contact with many of her old professors and sent owls asking questions about likely topics on the exam. Their correspondence gave her a sense of obligation and expectation that helped to push past atypical bouts of laziness.
Her attempts to practice the practical portions of her exams became increasingly derisory as time went on as the strength behind her spells waned, but she attributed that to the depression and reasoned that she could find a way around it. She poured over Potion and Charm texts looking for temporary solutions to alleviate her symptoms that would allow her to adequately cast spells for the practicals. After a couple of weeks, she had an arsenal set up in preparation, although she didn’t take anything prior for fear that tachyphylaxis would occur and prevent them from being effective during the exam. She didn’t bother looking into long-term solutions. After all, this was temporary right? She simply needed to get these negative emotions through her system, and then she would be fine. She considered finding a therapist after the exams in order to obtain a more permanent method of treatment.
Soon enough the N.E.W.T. tests were due to be given, and Hermione made her way to Hogwarts in a frantic rush wrapped in four layers of clothing. She was still somehow unprepared for the chill that accompanied Scotland winters, and made her track to the castle through snow at a pained, carefully measured pace. The new Headmistress was kind enough to meet her at the doors.
“Miss Granger!” she exclaimed with a smile, ushering her through the doors and leading her to the Great Hall. This part of the castle had been fully remodeled and refurnished by this time, and Hermione had to keep from moaning in pleasure as the warmth of the castle settled into her bones. The Headmistress continued to speak as she pushed Hermione towards a round table in the center of the room with a hand behind her shoulder-blades.
“You have come just in time for dinner. It’s the Christmas Hols right now, and a majority of the students who returned for this year are home with their families. We have a few who elected to stay here, however, and a few other individuals like yourself who are set to take their N.E.W.T. exams next week.”
The Headmistress nudged her to an open seat, which Hermione observed dispassionately was situated between Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. She had spoken at both of their trials in their defense; she may not have cared for their frequent verbal assertions demonstrating their obvious bigotry and blind prejudice when she was a child, but she didn’t think it was enough to warrant a lifetime in Azkaban. While they had both been branded, they had not participated in murder, and their obvious terror and fear surrounding their roles was enough to convince her of their lack of culpability.
And Ron’s ardent dismissal of her attempts and irritation at her participation made it increasingly obvious how Dumbledore and the attitude of other Gryffindors had perpetuated House bias, and how those stereotypes could have contributed to Slytherin’s ongoing resentment. It was no excuse for the War, but Hermione could put their behavior in perspective to some extent.
So she shrugged almost subconsciously, and took a seat with little aplomb. The weariness had settled back into her joints, and she couldn’t manage grace if she tried, even to keep what little self-respect she had left.
Both boys gave her a side-ways glance, one with a frown and a furrowed brow, the other with practiced apathy, before they continued to eat their food. She halfheartedly shoveled some mashed potatoes and broiled chicken onto her plate, grateful for the fact that she didn’t have to prepare anything. The familiar wave of nausea erupted as the smell of food wafted towards her face, and she fought through a gag reflex as she took a first bite. The second was easier.
Silence was maintained between the trio throughout dinner, but she barely noticed. There were a few whispered conversations about the latest news article, which detailed “Ground-breaking, up-to-date information about the killers at large and their plot to avenge the death of their tragic leader and their lost cause!”. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff, and rolled her eyes.
She saw several professors frowning and whispering to each other out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t seem to make herself care. And when the Headmistress invited her up to her office, she had to fight the urge to sigh in obvious displeasure. She just wanted to lie down. She already felt as if she had expended an excessive amount of energy. Was that too much to ask?
But not wanting to disappoint her favorite instructor, she followed Professor McGonagall up the spiral staircase leading into the Headmistress’s office, wearily trudging up the final steps. Only to start violently when she saw two familiar faces blinking down at her from within their portraits. Looking into the eyes of Severus Snape, Hermione had to fight against sinking into the memory of his death, of the gushing blood and drowning helplessness she had felt in the Shrieking Shack. Breathing a little too quickly for comfort, she all but fell into a chair that was facing the portraits. With a concentrated effort she looked down at a neatly organized desk made of cherry wood, staged behind thick tartan curtains. She purposely took several long, deep breaths.
“She was right to worry,” she heard Professor Dumbledore state. Glancing up she saw him observing her with perplexity while stroking the long, white hairs on his chin.
“Who knew the impertinent chit was this weak?” Professor Snape drawled behind a sneer, which slowly became a concerned frown as her only response was to swing her head to look at the black gleam of his buttons with obvious indifference. “What is wrong with her?” he asked the Headmistress, who was standing to the side of her chair.
“Miss Lovegood seems to think that there was a disruption to her soul. She contacted me about it months ago, but none of the staff managed to convince Miss Granger to visit the castle before this point. And she was responding to all of our letters, so we didn’t think the situation was dire enough to visit her current residence,” Professor McGonagall stated with obvious concern, and Hermione could feel herself frown obstinately. She was fine. Well, no she wasn’t fine, but there was nothing anyone in this room could do to help her. And it is not like they really cared anyways. She was hardly their favorite person, or someone worth consideration while they were still alive; why would that change following their deaths?
Grasping that bit of self-righteousness, she made to get up so she could leave and find a place to sleep, but the Headmistress firmly pushed down on her shoulders, keeping her in the seat. Hermione looked up and glared, but Professor McGonagall did not move. “We are not done here, Miss Granger,” she stated imperviously from behind her spectacles. She waited to make sure Hermione wouldn't retreat again, before moving around to sit at her desk.
There were several moments of quiet as Hermione stared resentfully into the space in front of her.
Professor Snape broke the silence in measured cadences. “The quickest way to verify whether or not this is soul damage would be to investigate the state of her magic. Her ability to cast certain spells, and the proficiency behind them would be affected if her soul was truly in a state of disruption.”
Professor McGonagall considered that for a few moments, before turning to look her in the eye. “Well, Miss Granger? Would you care to give us a performance?”
Hermione’s frown deepened. Why? Why should she have to do any of this? Her magic was fine. Or if it was less than fine, it was a result of her mental state. Other witches and wizards who have gone through acute periods of depression have had issues with their magic. In that case, how would this be an indicator?
She hadn’t realized she had spoken her objections out loud until Professor Snape retorted with, “That is because, Miss Granger, serious cases of mental disturbances have been known to destabilize the soul. So first we need to evaluate how serious the disruption before we can inquire as to its origin. A levitating charm, if you please.”
Hermione glared, before retrieving her wand from her pocket and waving it at a box of utensils on the Headmistress’s desk. It barely levitated two inches off the desk for a few seconds, before gravity took hold and it dropped back down with a clang.
“Perhaps if you cast the spell verbally?” Professor Snape suggested sarcastically, his facial features set somewhere between a smirk and a sneer as he crossed his painted arms in front of chest. Hermione returned the look and resisted the urge to physically gesture her malcontent.
Professors’ Dumbledore and McGonagall frowned at them both, before looking at each other. “This is much worse than we thought,” the Headmistress stated, before looking back at Hermione.
“What else did Miss Lovegood report?” Professor Dumbledore asked.
“Miss Granger disclosed that this started after the Battle at Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall stated.
"Did you cast any Unforgiveables?" Professor Snape asked through pursed lips. They tightened as she shook her head.
"Did someone curse you with dark magic during the battle?" Professor McGonagall inquired.
Hermione frowned and shook her head again. "No, nothing like that."
"Did you cast anything remotely Dark?" Professor Snape asked. Like Luna, the look on his face wasn't judgmental, merely curious and perturbed, although Hermione was curious about how fixated he seemed on the connection between her own actions and the state of her soul. She wondered, her thoughts tired and meandering, if his preoccupation was the result of personal experience.
"Not particularly. To be honest, we spent most of our time during the battle trying to destroy the horcruxes. We didn't duel nearly as much as everyone else, and when I did... no, nothing particularly Dark."
Professor Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, before suggesting, “Perhaps a soulmate was lost on the battlefield?”
Professor Snape snorted in response. “Oh, Albus. You and your need to romanticize the most mundane of events…” he snarked. “Of course it is impossible that this could simply be an emotional response to the battle. Death, horror, and bloodshed would be enough to disturb the hearts of most men, particularly for those that actively participated. Don’t you agree?” he continued. Hermione noted, quietly impressed, that his final question managed to sound both rhetorical and sarcastic.
“Everyone else seems to be adjusting adequately enough,” Professor Dumbledore suggested with a shrug. The flippancy of that remark disturbed Hermione enough to stare at him with no small amount of horror. Adequately enough? What about the missing family members? Orphaned children? Physical disabilities? The individuals that turned? Lavender Brown would spend the rest of her days as a werewolf. Lost inheritances, lost property, lost jobs, lost lives? And everyone had nightmares. She had been afforded glimpses of Professor Dumbledore’s tendencies to act dismissively towards casualties during the war, but she really had to wonder if they were all really just calculated collateral damage.
And how wasn’t she adjusting? Wasn’t she doing the best that she could? Wasn’t she here trying to forward her education?
The Headmistress seemed to share her train of thought. “I am going to pretend you did not say that, Albus,” she stated tiredly. “We could try to ascertain her soulmate, if she has one, so we can at least rule it out as a possibility.”
Professor Snape’s sneer grew more pronounced. “I didn’t realize you knew any spells that might locate a soulmate. How maudlin of you.”
The headmistress scoffed in his direction. “This could only be the work of a soulmate if they had somehow acknowledged the bond. In which case they had to have come in contact in order to establish one. And I’m sure you, in your infinite wisdom, can agree that simply making present bonds visible to the viewer greatly simplifies the process,” she sniped at him, before picking up her wand and turning towards Hermione. “Scoot your chair closer to me, my dear."
Hermione tried to ignore the familiar rush of nerves as she sat up and pushed the chair closer to the desk. She sat back down with no small amount of trepidation, clenching the wood armrests tightly in her hands.
“Singillatim Vinculum Aperire,” Professor McGonagall stated solemnly as her wand moved in an intricate fashion. Immediately a rush of light was produced and several ribbons of various colors became visible, leading from her chest in various directions through the floor and ceiling. Several were broken, including two, thin, orange ribbons, and looking closer Hermione could see the names of her parents printed in her small cursive. There was another ribbon that demanded her attention, however, obvious for its much larger size and lack of color. This one was also broken, the ends frayed and unraveling, and above the silky, silvery grey Hermione read a name. Surprised, she could only still, blink, and then frown in consternation.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Hermione looked up at Professor McGonagall. She pointed at the ribbon and asked, “What does this mean?” She had an idea, but she was desperate for some other explanation.
The Headmistress saw the broken ribbon, but didn’t elect to say anything. She leaned back in her chair for a moment, before frowning in confusion down at the tip of her wand. “What did it say?” Professor Dumbledore asked from behind her, but she merely shook her head in response. “I must not have cast the spell correctly,” she muttered to herself, before turning back towards Hermione and casting a quick “Finite.” She then repeated, “Singillatim Vinculum Aperire.”
Again a stream of light burst from her chest, but the colors and names on the ribbons remained the same. Professor McGonagall again frowned.
“Please do away with these unnecessary theatrics, Minerva. A name, if you will,” Professor Snape stated, attempting to peer out of his portrait to see the names on the ribbons coming from Hermione’s chest.
As the Headmistress continued to sit in distressed silence, Hermione answered in her place. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Although I have no idea why he and I would be bonded. Professor, what do these colors mean?”
Both men ignored her question, their faces displaying obvious surprise and unease. Professor Snape even muttered an aghast, “What?” as Professor McGonagall leaned closer and poked various ribbons with the end of her wand. When she touched the ribbon with Tom’s name, hurt shot across her chest and through her limbs, and she couldn’t contain an exclamation of pain. Through a wince Hermione saw McGonagall’s frown deepen as her face grew disturbed. She finally clarified, “These colors represent the different kinds of bonds. Familial, feudal, obligatory. In order to appear they need to be realized, to some extent. For them to have color, they need to be actualized.”
Hermione looked down at her chest and took a deep breath, her hands white and shaking. “So I had the potential of a bond with Riddle? But neither of us ever committed to it?”
Professor McGonagall nodded her head, and Hermione could see the tension emulated in her frame as her face tightened. “If you had, you would not be alive at the moment.”
Hermione let out a frustrated puff of air. “Why is it there to begin with? I’ve never even spoken to the man. Not really.”
Professor Dumbledore felt the need to interrupt. “Miss Granger, you carried his soul around your neck for weeks.”
Hermione had to resist the urge to glare at him for stating the obvious. It was just a piece of his soul, though, right? Did that even count? Obviously, she corrected herself as she looked back down at the broken ribbon. “So is this why I feel the way I do?”
Professor Snape seemed to have recovered from his disquieted incredulity, and he spoke uncertainly, “No, that shouldn’t have been enough. Not by itself. The state of your soul is much worse than I would have suspected considering your bond was never actually established.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she looked back at the recently defeated Dark Lord’s name written in her handwriting. And she wondered how in the world fate felt it possible that she could be a soulmate to someone like Tom Riddle. Where was the connection? She certainly had no ambition to become some racist, megalomaniacal dictator.
Her musings were cut short as Professor Dumbledore asked a question. “You wouldn’t happen to have been personally responsible for the destruction of any of Tom’s horcruxes?”
Hermione could only nod, and all three professors blanched. Professor Snape started nodding. “This would be why,” he stated, before giving her a look that Hermione could almost attribute as pity.
Suddenly overcome with apprehension, Hermione looked questionably at the Headmistress, who sighed and stated, “Actualized or not, knowingly or not, you destroyed a piece of a shared soul. This is why soulmates typically cannot harm one another; it is interpreted as a kind of suicide, a rejection of the self, which rebounds unpleasantly on the individual. If Riddle’s soul had been whole, you would not be alive. As it is now, your magic has turned against you and is eating you alive.”
Hermione felt her eyes widen, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her hands dug into her jeans, where she clawed into the rough material with her fingernails. What? She had never heard of any such thing before. What was she to do? Was there anything she could do? She looked desperately at the three individuals giving her council, but no one offered up a solution. The feeling of dread that had flooded her body on occasion in the past few months took hold, and she desperately tried not to cry. She had not cried once throughout this entire process. For fuck’s sake, she would keep it together and not cry now. She nodded slowly, thanked her professors, and stumbled out of the room in a rush before anyone there could stop her.
She wandered down the stone hallways in an agitated daze, still failing in her attempt to breath normally, when she ran into someone with long, pale hair. She stepped back and recognized Luna. She couldn’t bear to say anything, and numbly heard Luna chase another girl away after looking at the state of the ribbons still streaming from her chest. Luna then grabbed the front of her robes and led her into the Prefect’s Bath. Hermione couldn’t be bothered to ask how she knew it was there. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She barely noticed that Luna had sat her down on a bench and grasped her fingers in her small, pale hands.
“Hermione?” Luna asked softly, her head tilted to the left. Hermione took a staggering breath as she took note of the musical tilt in Luna’s voice. She really was a lovely creature, if a bit odd.
Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her mind. And then words fell like water from her lips. “It’s all over for me. Apparently my magic is eating me alive. They didn’t give me a prognosis, but I suspect I do not have much time left.” She looked down at the hands grasping hers, and was surprised to see that they were about the same shade of pale. Hermione's skin had always been a shade darker, slightly tanned from her active summer vacations, but now she was practically translucent.
Luna squeezed them in attempts to get her attention back to her face. “All is not lost, Hermione. You simply need to change your fate.”
Hermione could not resist the frown, although she stopped the sneer. Just barely. “Isn’t that a paradox, Luna? If you can control it, can it really be called fate?”
Luna laughed a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Hermione. You would not be the one in control.”
To be continued…