FF SAS3

Hermione finds herself in the same bathroom she used to hide in during her first year at Hogwarts. She is emotionally and mentally battered from the war and breaks down in tears after a confrontation with Malfoy. She decides to face the situation and retrieve her belongings from the library. She runs into Theo Nott, who apologizes for goading her and explains that he wanted her to air her grievances. Hermione realizes that everyone has some form of PTSD and they discuss the importance of addressing and healing from emotional wounds. Theo reveals that Malfoy has no grievances towards Hermione and they all head back to the library to continue working on a group assignment. The assignment requires frequent meetings, leading to exposure therapy for Hermione. They agree to meet again the following evening, hoping to avoid any more drama. It was poetic, truly, that the bathroom she found herself in was the very same she'd hold up in during first year. There were no trolls this time around—small favors—but the shame for all the impetus was different, felt very much the same. No one had come out of the war unscathed. Everyone had PTSD, some worse than others. It wasn't her intention to bury her head in the sand and pretend she wasn't emotionally and mentally battered, but she didn't exactly relish the fact that her nerves and emotions were so shot that one terse confrontation with Malfoy—who hadn't even said anything except that bit about his chin—sent her to tears. Troll or no troll and embarrassment aside, she couldn't remain hidden in the ladies forever. She'd left her bag and belongings behind in the library, which meant heading back to retrieve them and face Malfoy and Knot once more. Hopefully they'd be willing to sweep her outbursts under the rug, like Knot had yesterday when she'd been a little too quick on the draw with her wand. Blotting her eyes with the tissue, she then vanished. She left the laboratory and ran smack-dab into the human equivalent of a brick wall. A little oomph slipped from between her lips as she staggered back a step. Two arms rapidly reached out to keep her from falling on her bum. The scent of clove assaulted her senses. Cio. Writing herself, Hermione took a step back, placing enough distance between their bodies that his arms dropped back to his sides. She met his eyes—eyes that, unlike hers, weren't red-rimmed and glassy, but instead dark and sharp. Thank you, I was just on my way back to the library. For the first time, a fraught silence passed between them. He reached up, scratching the back of his neck before sighing. I came to apologize. She crossed her arms. For what? I guess I deserved that. He laughed briefly before sobering and staring directly into her eyes in a way that left her feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. I'm sorry for goading you, which was what I was doing in case you weren't sure. I was needling you until you burst. He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug that somehow didn't make him look like a slouch, but like he had more worthwhile things to do than pour his whole self into such a simple gesture. All he needed was a muggled leather jacket and a cigarette, and he'd give James Dean a run for his money. A total wizardly rebel without a cause. Or maybe it was just plain aristocratic nonchalance. I really did mean it, the part about you airing your grievances. I thought it'd be better to get it out of the way now in a predictable, controlled setting than wait for it to happen under less desirable circumstances. She chewed on that, worrying her lip. You're acting as if it were inevitable, the airing of my grievances. He graced her with another arch of his brow. What's that saying? The truth will out? Not that she was particularly fond of his methods, but her grievances, as he called them, had been simmering for so long that maybe her outburst was long overdue. It was third year, probably, when she'd actually punched Malfoy. So what? You decided to face it head on? That's practically Gryffindor of you not. And I suppose I should take that as a compliment from you. Doesn't Rhaeri get your lot, I don't know, hot? Her eyes widened, making him laugh. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger. Besides, it was rather self-serving of me, lest you worry your pretty little head about my true colors. It was her turn to lift a brow in question. What? Listening to me berate you and your boyfriend was self-serving? I didn't realize you Slytherins got off on that sort of thing. She stumbled over the word, the context of it new. His eyes flitted over her flushed face. It was unsettling, the way he studied her as if he could see everything she wasn't letting on, wasn't meaning to let on. It's like that muggle treatment, bloodletting, he said finally. She rolled her eyes. Bloodletting is an archaic pseudoscience seldom practiced in this day and age. I'm making an analogy, Granger. Do try to keep up. He smirked. My point is, doctors would bleed patients, right? Right. Slowly, she nodded. So if a patient was infected or poisoned with... That wasn't why they did it. Nott stared. Bloodletting was practiced to rebalance the humors. The ancient Greeks believed the bodily fluids or humors had to be in balance for proper health. So they would bleed patients in order to prevent or cure just about any ailment, thinking the root cause was an imbalance of too much blood. Any ailment other than poisoning? he asked. Yes. She could see it in his eyes, the word hanging between them unspoken. Muggles. She glared, just daring him to say it. He didn't. He shook his head and sighed, but kept the derision from his words as he continued. Fine. Scratch the bloodletting analogy. Consider an infection. The first thing you have to do is clean the wound and drain it of pus. And honestly, I was aiming for poeticism, and it's quite difficult to make pus poetic. Best stop while you're ahead. Not that your plan was that great. What was all that talk of draining poison from blood? Really, did you forget with whom you were speaking? Ha ha, he glared, albeit weakly. I wasn't speaking about the cleanliness of your blood, the notion of which is a load of rubbish, and I swear on that whatever honor you believe I possess, I meant in order for a person or wound to heal, you have to remove what ails it, or else it festers and spreads. She turned that over. In the library, that was you draining the wound? He nodded. Maybe she wasn't the only one who'd come to the conclusion that everyone had at least a touch of PTSD. Not that anyone in the magical community would call it that, but what Theo was alluding to was basically talk therapy. Why didn't you ask Malfoy to air his grievances? Not frowned. He doesn't have any. Now that was funny. She laughed. He doesn't, not repeated. Just like me, his only concern was when you were finally going to explode, whereas I was concerned an unmitigated explosion might entail you hexing his bollocks off. Draco would have stepped in front of your wand and taken the castigation gladly. So no, Granger, he doesn't have any grievances, at least none toward you. His stance was casual, but the set of his jaw just dared her to say something. It was obviously not truly, deeply cared about Malfoy. Keeping her mouth shut, she stepped around him and set off for the library, pausing only to look over her shoulder. Are you coming, or would you rather linger outside the ladies? Not kept a step back, his stride much longer than hers. They walked down the corridors in silence, save for the sound of their shoes against the stone. Upon reaching the entrance to the library, Nott reached out, pausing her steps with a gentle touch of his fingers to her elbow that still made her jolt. If it's all the same to you, might I air a grievance? She shifted on her feet and looked at him askance. I suppose that depends on what your grievance is. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Quit imagining if my boyfriend tastes like apples, Granger. Oh Merlin, he wasn't a Legilimens, was he? That's just what she needed. He smiled another one of those rare, full-fledged grins that made his cheek dimple and her stomach scoop stupidly. Despite calling me Nott, call me Theo or Theodore if you must, but Nott, Nott, it reminds me of my father, and honestly, I'd rather not be reminded of my parentage if it can be helped. Unlike Malfoy's father, who had gotten off with a rather light sentencing of one year in Azkaban, followed by three years of house arrest, Theo's father had been sentenced to fifty years in Azkaban for a slew of crimes, including but not limited to use of unforgivables against muggles. He could rot for all she cared. Apparently Theo didn't care either, because it didn't appear to be grief that twisted his features, but rather something akin to disgust. If she correctly remembered the court documents, she'd sneak a peek at, and she did. Nott Sr. had also been charged for use of the Cruciatus Curse against his son. His disgust was warranted, as was his request. Theo it is. With that, they re-entered the library and followed the snaking path around the shelves to their table, where Malfoy was slumped over in his seat, looking wan and fraught. Despite herself, something panged inside her chest at his dejected, torn expression. It was the same he'd worn for most of sixth year. What did that mean? When he caught sight of their approach, Malfoy straightened, his face carefully blanking. Theo returned to his seat, but not before brushing his fingers along the back of Malfoy's hand as he passed. Malfoy sat, spine ramrod straight, and eyed Malfoy warily across the table. For all Theo swore Malfoy had no grievances, she'd believe it when she saw it, or didn't see it, as the case may be. Rather than pick up where they left off and continue with the awkward and rather painful airing of grievances, Theo cracked open his book and actually got down to business. Thankfully, he filled her in on the parts of the group assignment she'd missed when her attention had flagged during class, without her even needing to ask, a small mercy. Only the longer he spoke, the more her stomach was filled with a heavy sense of dread. This project was going to be involved. Their babbling certainly wasn't going easy on them just because they'd survived to see another year, no. Not that she wanted it easy, Merlin, no, but even divvying up portions of the workload, it was going to be absolutely necessary they meet a minimum of three times a week, if not more. Talk about exposure therapy. It was decided they would adjourn until the following evening, same time, same place, preferably without the same drama, the last bit going unsaid. She didn't have it in her to cry two days in a row. It was exhausting. Poised to make a quick getaway, her plan was thwarted when Malfoy cleared his throat. Granger, if I could have a moment. She and Theo both stared, first at Malfoy, and then at each other. She couldn't say no, could she? Well, she could, but that would pretty effectively undo much of Theo's wound-draining, wouldn't it? With a nod, she let her bag slip from her shoulder. No need to carry it when her shoulder was already aching from heaving it to and fro all day, and she didn't know how long this would take. Malfoy shot Theo a look she wasn't about to begin to interpret. She'd had enough puzzles in the last two days to last a lifetime. I'll meet you in the common room, Theo sent Malfoy an equally weighty look before leaning in and brushing his lips against Malfoy's in a chaste kiss. She should have looked away, should have given them a shred of privacy, but she couldn't. Her eyes were locked on the practiced, no, instinctive tilt of their heads to keep their noses from bumping, and the way they simply fit. She should have looked away, and because she hadn't, because she couldn't, now her stomach was burning, worse than all the times she'd stumbled on Ron and Lavender snogging. Her flush intensified when Theo drew back just a hair and flicked his gaze over to hers as if he knew she was watching. The corner of his mouth tipped up as he stepped away. Night, Granger. Hermione, she blurted. If I'm to call you Theo, you should probably call me Hermione. The floor could go ahead and swallow her at any moment, thanks. If Theo found her request strange, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded and sauntered off through the stacks, leaving her alone with Draco and her mortification. A moment passed with only her heartbeat in her ears. You and Theo are on a first-name basis now. Malfoy's voice was quieter, softer than she'd anticipated it being, and lacked the malice he'd spoken to her with for years when he deigned to speak to her. He sounded as tired as she felt. She shrugged. Yes, he requested it. Careful, he's the sort to take a mile when given an inch. Again he said it with a certain fondness that negated the warning, except, that's a Muggle phrase. An American Muggle phrase. Malfoy lifted his brows, a condition of my sentencing. I'm required to take remedial Muggle studies. My lessons began this summer. She let that sink in. Oh. To grin and bear the lessons as a means of satisfying a ministry requirement was one thing. To incorporate Muggle phrases into his vernacular was something else entirely. She held her tongue. About that, at least. Did you want to discuss Theo's predilection for pushiness, or was there something else you wanted to talk about? He means well. Malfoy raked his fingers through his hair, leading the strands amass that a younger, poncier Malfoy, with his penchant for using too much gel, would have been aghast at. But no, that's not what I wanted to discuss. His jaw shifted forward and back before clenching. I wanted to apologize. They were three-for-three. If she never heard another apology, it would be too soon, but her earlier rant had bestowed her with equal parts shame and relief, so who was she to deny him his due? Okay. She expected he might give her a blanket apology for his misdeeds, maybe rattle off a few of his more grievous actions, the memorable ones. What she hadn't anticipated was Malfoy withdrawing a thick, folded square of parchment from the pocket of his trousers that he then proceeded to unfold and smooth with his thumbs, thumbs that were trembling slightly. Her breath caught in her throat as he started to read. First year, I'm sorry for laughing when you asked me to help you search for Longbottom's toad on the train. I apologize for calling you an annoying swat when I referred to it as a frog and you corrected me. He remembered that? Merlin, she barely remembered it and she was the one who- No, not going there. I'm sorry for saying I wished the basilisk had gotten to you in second year. I'm sorry for the time I tried to jinx Potter and enlarged your teeth instead. I'm sorry for saying your hair resembled a bush and a nest. I'm sorry for trying to get that hippogriff killed. He kept going, apologies pouring out from his lips with an increasing speed until he tripped over his words. I apologize for the many times I referred to you as- The breath whistled from between his lips as if someone had socked him in the stomach. You know. Her hand dropped to her left forearm where the word was carved, grizzled lines forever marring her flesh in a reminder that to some people it didn't matter how bright she was, how many classes she performed outstandingly in, how brave she acted, how bold, she'd never be good enough, simply because she hadn't been born good enough, a mudblood. His whole body winced, jerking. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the times I sneered and told you not to touch me because you were dirty. It was cruel. It was a lie. I lied and it was so wrong. I was wrong. I'm sorry. Stop, she croaked. Please just stop. This trip down memory lane was too much. Maybe before her hunt for Horcruxes and all that had entailed, she'd have relished in his apologies, but not now. The stupid war and all its losses had left her raw and weary and so fucking tired of the pain, be that her own or a pain inflicted upon others, and it was too much for him too, clearly. His face was entirely drained of color and his hands were outright shaking as he gripped the parchment like a lifeline, and yet he rolled his shoulders back and shook his head. I'd like to finish. I get it. Her voice warbled pathetically and her nose was bloody stuffy. You're sorry you've made your point, Malfoy. You don't, he hissed, voice rising, making her jump at the sudden volume and inflection that made him sound far too much like he used to. Every awful thing I've done and said I remember, and it's eating me alive, and that was his cross to bear, not hers. Only Theo's words about Malfoy's willingness to step in front of her wand and gladly take a hex floated through her mind. She didn't need to hear it, but maybe he needed to say it, say all of it, draining the wound. She dipped her chin in acquiescence. He was nearly through, it seemed, because before long he came to the apologies that made her hands shake, and she didn't have a bloody piece of parchment to grip for a dear life. I'm sorry I didn't stop her. I'm sorry I just, I just stood there. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, and I'm sorry that's not enough. She was sorry too, not about that, but that the world had been cruel enough to put two teenagers in a position where such apologies needed to be made. Malfoy let the paper flutter to the table and dropped his hands to his sides. His eyes were still locked on hers, red-rimmed and haunted, but thankfully dry. I dream about it, you know, that day. I hear Aunt Bellatrix cackling, and all I can see is you bleeding on the carpet, screaming, and each time it happens I swear I'll do something, something different, stop her or light the whole bloody place on fire, but I never do. I just stand there, like a coward, and waking up is no reprieve because nothing changes. I'm still a coward. Hermione wiped under her eyes. She'd had her fair share of nightmares, and no doubt this night would be plagued with terrible dreams too. After a day like today, how couldn't it? She took a deep breath. I don't know, I'd say that this was rather brave. His lips curled in a sneer reminiscent of an earlier time, an earlier version of himself. I don't need you to patronize me. I'm not, she snapped, I wouldn't waste my breath if I didn't mean it. He shook his head, disbelieving. You could have swept it under the rug, or sent me an owl or a bloody fruit basket if you were so inclined, but you didn't. Malfoy was quiet, staring down at the parchment on the table. The sheet had gone slightly transparent around the edges from where his hands, damp with sweat, had gripped. I hated you, Granger. I hated everything about you, your hair, your friends, your health, the fact that you got better marks than me, how our professors liked you better than me, that you weren't born into this world and yet somehow everything came so easy to you. I hated you for all of it, but I never wanted you dead. Believe me that, and there's nothing brave about letting someone corrupt you until you're willing to do unspeakable things, or stand by and watch as others do them, just to save your own arse. Her mouth was dry, but still she licked her lips as if she could wet them. You said, hated. He stared. As in, past tense? You're asking if I hate you still? He laughed, the sound broken and wrong. No. I don't know when I stopped, but I certainly didn't hate you when you were writhing on my drawing room floor. She nodded. He'd been a bully, and yes, a coward, but war was different. It was easy to hate someone as a child, but as an adult, who knew what it meant to hate, who had seen death, torture? She wasn't sure when she stopped hating him, either, but it was so long ago that it felt like a distant memory she'd give anything to never relive. Mostly now, I just hate myself. Her stomach ached, heavy and hard, and yet somehow churning riotously all the same. She swallowed down the acid burning in her throat and took a deep breath. For what it's worth, I forgive you. She really did. God knows when that had happened, but it wasn't brand new, wasn't born from his apology. It had probably happened at the same time she stopped hating him, whenever that was. Her forgiveness really had nothing to do with this, had more to do with the look in his eyes as she'd squirmed and bled on his floor. There'd been no malice, none towards her, as his aunt had carved her up and crucioed her until it felt like her innards were outside her body and she'd wet herself from the pain. The look in his eyes hadn't been hatred or disgust, hadn't been that of the boy who'd tormented her. It was shame and remorse and fear and something that looked a hell of a lot like he knew what it felt like, the fire surging through her veins and the desire for it to just stop, even if it meant dying. Like he'd spent a time or two writhing under, if not his aunt's, someone's wand. He wasn't a hero, but Malfoy was braver than he was willing to believe. Even if she hadn't forgiven him by then, she'd certainly forgiven him by the time she'd given her written testimony proclaiming his innocence, that if it hadn't been for him failing to identify Harry, the war would've gone very differently. Did he know she'd testified? Most likely. Well, now he knew why. Which of why, at least? I don't know how you can say that. She shrugged. What was she supposed to say? Forgiveness was another one of those feelings not rooted in her head, but in her heart, and she'd had just about as much success with matters of her heart as she'd had with divining tea leaves. I just do, Malfoy. There was a heavy weariness weighing down her bones. She was exhausted, tired from the war, tired from the pain, physical and otherwise, tired of the apologies given and received. She was just tired. She didn't have it in her to drudge up more bad memories, in hopes that she could turn her feelings into quantifiable reasons strong enough to persuade Malfoy of the veracity of her forgiveness. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself, he confessed. They were at an impasse. She'd forgiven him, but she couldn't make him believe it, nor could she make him forgive himself, and if he wanted her to do something awful—retaliate, punish him to make him feel better—he was out of luck. She was no sadist, even if punching him in third year had felt good. He must have known it, too, because he shook his head, a sardonic little smile twisting his mouth. Not really your problem, though, is it? No, but that didn't mean she wanted him to torture himself over it. They'd all had enough torture to last several lifetimes. The war is over, Malfoy. We should probably start acting like it.