Chapter Text
January 8th, 1999
“And your letters?”
She didn't respond.
“Hermione. The letters, doll. Have you been writing them?”
A breath. “It’s gotten harder.”
Her hand reached across the table and she grabbed onto her wrist. “I understand, but it’s important. There is no way you can get better.”
“I don't think I want to anymore.”
Standing up from the couch, she placed the pillow back on the arm of the loveseat and stepped out of the light brown office. The dimly lit hallway light flickered as Hermione walked down the corridor leading out of the therapist's office. She grasped a new door handle and pulled it open.
“I’m done.”
“Mione, hi- uh, I’m about to see another patient, I’ll be ready to leave in 20 minutes.”
Hermione said nothing but closed the door and slid her back down the wall, her knees now up by her chin. Her thin arms wrapped around her bony legs and she rested the side of her cheek on her knee. She finds comfort in staring at the green carpet, her eyes fixating on food crumbs and dust nestled in between the threads.
“Excuse me Miss, can I help you?” Her eyes motioned up to find a pair of glossy black heels sitting in front of her. “If you're waiting for Dr. Granger, you need to wait in the waiting room.”
“He’s my dad, I'm waiting for him to take me home.” She spoke without ever glancing up at the women with the heels.
“Henri er- Dr. Granger is your father? Merlin that must make you Hermione Granger.”
“Arnt you clever.” Hermione spoke, a hint of annoyance and sarcasm in her voice.
“I've heard so much about you! I’m Alyson Delacour, your father’s assistant.” She reached her hand out to shake Hermione’s but she refused. The name Delacour rang in her ears and she tried desperately to rack her memory of how she knew that name.
Alyson picked her glasses up that had hung around her neck by a chain. “I must be going now, good day Hermione.”
Hermione spoke no more to the women. She spoke no more in general really.
She never expected it to get this bad, never saw her previous golden girl mentality morphing into someone new who was suicidal and hated every minute of her life. It wasn’t a progressive transformation if you're wondering; no it happened overnight. One morning she woke up and decided it was time for her to die.
If it wasn't for the people she loved; Harry, Ron, her parents, Ginny, the Weasleys, Luna, if it wasn't for them, Hermione would have killed herself a while ago. It was like the only reason she stuck around was to please the people she grew up with. The people she spent her childhood with, the people who laced her upbringing with memories of smiles and times when life was simple.
Those same people endured one of the most fucked up circumstances anyone should ever have to experience alongside her. A war. They surivided a fucking war.
Alas Hermione doesn't remember a bloody thing from that war. She doesn't even know it happened. Shortly following the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione suffered Post Traumatic Memory Loss, a form of PTSD that caused the brain to purposely block out memories for the well being of the body. It gave her amnesia, which the doctors claimed wouldn't be permanent, as the brain will eventually allow access to the memories lost as the body heals. But it’s been six months, and Hermione doesn't remember anything.
Six months of racking her brain. Six months of pure agony, trying to remember anything she can. Six months of hurting herself everyday in anger as another day of trying, failed.
Hermione was tired however. She was done with living, done with being done, done with hating her life. Hermione was fucking exhausted and the only thing holding her together was the idea of her friends faces.
After all they went through, together. After the struggles, the tourtue- what was she just gonna give up? Surrender to her drowning and suffocating thoughts of wanting to end everything.
Giving up was for pussys. And as much as she wanted too, Hermione Granger wasn't a pussy.
☽༓･*˚⁺‧
Dear Hermione,
Hi, a letter to myself from me.
Also hi Dr. Wells, i know you read these im not dumb
I'm writing to address the fact that I want to die.
Death- such a peculiar topic. I crave it really; the depths of infinite darkness and internal happiness. The feeling of amounting to no one is pleasurable, attractive really.
I don't wanna kill myself really. I just wanna see how close I can get. You know, loose just enough blood till my head feels woozy and my knees buckle from underneath me. Submerging myself in the pond and holding my breath for a little too long. Waiting for my lungs to cramp and my eyes to pulse, synching with my slowing heart rate. That sounds fun right about now.
One day I will eventually drown in my pain. Whether it's physically or mentally, it will happen. Who knows if I will do it to myself or not but one day I'm bound to die. No one lives forever, we know that. Which is why I've never understood why killing oneself is such a big idea. If we all are gonna die eventually, why care if someone wants to speed up their own process.
Lastly, this isn't a bloody sucide note. Im tired, no thats not right, Im fucking exhausted, but Im not gonna give up yet. The perfectionist in me won't let me die until it's absolutely perfect. So again, this isn't a sucide note, please don't have me committed again. Please Dr. Wells.
I promise to write my letters, I promise to do my exercises. I promise, I want to get better. I want to remember. Just please, Dr. Wells, please don't send me back to that place.
Until next time,
Hermione motherfucking Granger
-Me.
☽༓･*˚⁺‧
She poured the hot wax upon the lip of the envelope, pressing a stamp into it, the design imprinting itself onto the page and adhering the envelope closed. Sliding the letter between her fingers she trudged back to the waiting room where she plopped down upon a pleather couch.
Her eyes glared up at the TV, the hum of the cable box was close to sending her into a full psychotic break but she remained calm and focused back on the green carpet.
“Is that a love note?”
She looked up. “Nope, sucide note.”
She could sense the immediate tension she had created. The boy who framed the question shifted his wait on the couch, uncomfortably cracking his knuckles.
“Same.” He held up a small white envelope as well. A mysterious grin spread across his lips. “Well not really. It’s for my therapist. It’s more of the opposite of a suicide note, its a why ‘I dont wanna die’ note.” He smiled again.
Hermione seemed to find baby amounts of comfort in the wholesomeness of his smile. “Mine too.”
She glanced down at her lap, found comfort in the green carpet once more and started to fixate on the threadings.
“I’ve never seen you here before.” She had lost her gaze at the floor and found herself angry as to why she was engaging in conversation.
“I’ve seen you.” The blonde replied, the familiar grin returning.
“My father works here, I spend more time here than my own house, I would have remembered you.”
“I remember you. Granger.”
“How’d you know my last name.”
“It’s on your envelope.” He ushered at the white rectangle sitting between her things. “Also, your dad, Dr. Granger, he’s who this letter is for. He’s my therapist. He’s talked about having a daughter.”
“Oh.” Finding herself a bit annoyed at her new acquaintance, Hermione’s eyes returned to the carpet. After a moment she spoke up again,“My dad is seeing his last patient right now, why are you still here?”
The blonde hesitated to answer. “I had my session earlier, I just came to drop this off in his mailbox but I got distracted by you instead.” He held the envelope up.
Hermione smiled softly. “It was nice meeting you but I have to go.” She stood up and picked up her letter. “Oh, I didn't catch your name.”
“Draco. Draco Malfoy, and your name?”
“I’m Hermione. Nice to meet you Draco.”