"She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward

into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes,

the slow dance of the infinite stars."

— Neil Gaiman

A searing streak of lightning pierced through the grey sky followed by a deep rumbling that reverberated through Hermione's bones. Despite the clouds heavy with rain, not a drop had fallen. The wind picked up, licking the base of her neck, her overheated body welcoming the breeze. Sweat dripped down her nose, but she ignored it, keeping her guard up and her focus on her opponent circling her. Draco's face was a calm emotionless mask but she refused to let it unsettle her.

Early in the mornings, before she began her research, Hermione practiced what Draco had taught her on her own. She had found that turning off her mind and putting her focus on combat exercises was a good distraction, a good outlet for her anger and frustration.

There, Hermione thought, catching the slight bend in Draco's right knee and immediately anticipated his fist coming straight for her face. With her left palm she deflected the jab away from her person and took his opening as an opportunity to knee his stomach. He anticipated her, however, dodging her attack smoothly then retaliated with a high roundhouse kick to throw off her balance. Hermione ducked just in time and went on the defensive as he continued an onslaught of attacks.

"Come on, Granger, that all you got?" he called out mockingly. Hermione kept her face impassive, fluidly dodging and deflecting his attacks as he closed in on her.

Draco showed no mercy, attacking every weak point and tell until she started backing up against the wall of the house. She was getting tired and sloppy, her movements no longer fluid and quick. Once he had her cornered, he lunged at her. All he felt was air. Draco spun around but in the next moment, his back slammed harshly against the wall by a small but strong body pinning him with a forearm pressed to his throat.

His eyes widened in surprise at the witch who looked back at him with quiet triumph. She tiptoed upward, her ragged warm breath caressed his neck. "Come on, Malfoy, that all you got?"

Hermione pulled back a fraction and expected to find him angry or irritated. Instead, his eyes were heavy-lidded as he watched her intently with an expression she couldn't identify.

"Well done, Granger." The corners of his lips lifted, a proud expression ghosting over his features as Hermione released him. Even with the distance, she couldn't help but feel impossibly close. She could still feel the brush of his cheek against her own and the heavy imprint of his hand gripping her hip when she whispered in his ear.

She cleared her throat. Thankfully she was saved from a response when heavy droplets of rain began to fall from the skies. She looked up, letting the rain cool her flushed skin.

"Let's get inside," Draco murmured as he watched the quickly darkening clouds. Hermione nodded and followed after him.

***

Hermione startled from her sleep, her hands frantically searching for her wand as the darkness surrounded her, choked her. There was no light here, no escape — the eyes of those she had hurt, those she had loved, those she had loved and hurt stared back at her.

You were supposed to help me, Mione...

Could you not save us? What child would do this to their own parents?

You were supposed to figure it out! It's all your fucking fault!

"Stop," Hermione whimpered. "I'm sorry."

Hermione blinked, finding herself moments later haunched over the toilet bowl. She tried to concentrate on the cool tiles kissing her shins while she shook and retched into the toilet. She was in the safehouse, no one was watching her, no one was here, they were all gone, all gone. When the hundreds of voices finally settled, she opened her lids and flushed the toilet.

Lately, her nightmares had been plaguing her with more vividness. No matter how far she thought she had come, there was always something to remind her that she could not run away, could not be free of her terrors. Because how could you run away from yourself? How could you keep pretending that everything you've done was justified and convince yourself that it would all work out in the end?

Her head thudded lightly against the bathroom wall. The storm continued to rage into the night, the wind billowing and blowing as rain pelted the roof. She thought of going back to bed but couldn't stomach the thought of losing herself to another round of nightmares. Instead, she decided to give up on sleep and get dressed.

For the rest of the day, Hermione spent her time at the library continuing her research on the venom and the vessels. She read and annotated, keeping everything organized, keeping everything controlled. Hermione used to find solace in this — reducing her tasks into lists and schedules and plans. It had easily gotten her through Hogwarts with high marks and praises from her professors. She had thought that she had everything figured out — that the real world worked the same, that as long as she could break problems down into manageable tasks, this along with her intellect would be enough to gain a measure of success in the real world. She had prided herself on how her discipline and method of operating gave her some control over her life. But if there was anything this war taught her, it was that there was no such thing as control.

"Miss Granger, Watson has come to deliver the weekly report," Watson said as he popped in, handing her the parchment.

"Thanks, Watson," Hermione said, plastering on a smile. The elf paused, tilting his head and looked at her with his watery purple eyes. After a moment, he blinked and simply nodded before Disapparating. Hermione had always appreciated the silent understanding between her and the elf. There were just some things she couldn't speak of — not yet — because she was afraid that if she did, everything she kept buried in her would never stop pouring out until she was empty, emptier than she had already felt.

Hermione spent a couple of minutes reading the report. Despite the fact that there were no casualties in the latest missions she couldn't help but still feel heavy, a vague sadness weighing on her. Simultaneously, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. There was no reason to feel so melancholic — everything was fine. It was fine and yet an empty chasm opened up in her chest. Was this living? Was this what she had fought for? Sacrificed for? Exhaustion weighed upon her, every breath feeling like an effort to survive.

Her eyes skimmed line after line on magical cores and souls. Endless theories and experiments with no definite answer. She felt overwhelmed, she felt tired, she felt like she was not making any progress. She shut her eyes for a moment, then took a sip of tea. It was all she had consumed that day — she couldn't stomach eating and so she had simply cooked lunch and left the meal in the kitchen. From her seat in the library, she heard little steps and giggles in the hallway followed by long strides. Thankfully, Draco and Scorpius seemed to sense her mood and her need for space.

The rain simmered into a light drizzle as the candle in the library crackled softly. For a moment, it reminded her of cozy rainy nights studying in the Gryffindor common room, of a different time and a different Hermione Granger. The world had excited her then — so much awaited her and life was full, all her efforts and struggles worth it in the pursuit of some dream and vision of the world and herself in it. There was once a time where adventure excited her. When the opportunity to prove herself and be a part of something larger gave her a sense of purpose, of meaning.

But the real world was not what she thought it would be.

War was not glamorous — there was no glory here. She had thought that having a significant part in a cause, playing a large role in it, would be wonderful. But it was not. If anything, she wanted to feel insignificant. Because if you were insignificant, you were free. She thought of Harry and Ron and herself. If they had just been ordinary, would it have been easier? What would life have been like without the weight of the entire world on your shoulders? Without having been 'chosen' or expected to give more and more of yourself to the world until nothing was left of you?

With a sudden jolt, Hermione woke to the library room cast in dying light. The rain had receded into a rhythmic patter but the air was chilly. Confused, Hermione looked around and at the blanket around her shoulders. She felt as if she was losing control — she didn't even remember grabbing a blanket nor falling asleep.

With her head in her hands, she tried to occlude. She had barely gotten anything done that day. All her plans, schedules, reports were now delayed because she couldn't get herself together. She laughed humorously — the Hermione Granger back at Hogwarts would have stuck to her plans and held some semblance of her life together. She had always believed that progress was a line that went in a singular upward sloping direction. Surely one couldn't do worse than what they've already proven capable of doing? Now she felt like she was slipping, regressing, and, if possible, getting worse, becoming more incompetent. Her past success only mocked her, made her feel pressured and frustrated with herself for being unable to be who she once was. Because at the end of the day who was Hermione Granger without her tenacity, her intellect, and her control. That's all she was valued for wasn't it?

Still feeling exhausted, Hermione walked back to her room. The hall was eerily silent except for the soft rustle of branches against the windows. Her mind was loud however, a wild cacophony of voices from her past, her own voice lost and unsure.

Hermione's thoughts were cut off when she abruptly halted upon reaching her room. Outside her door was a piece of chocolate on a tissue paper and a stuffed toy dragon. The voices were quiet now, the world fading away except for the two objects before her. In the next moment, she dropped to her knees, running her fingers over the items. She took a shaky breath, her eyes watering as she finally let herself feel.

***

"Daddy, what Mini doing?" Scorpius asked curiously from his perch on his arms. The two Malfoys looked from the window at the witch standing in the rain. Her back was turned towards them, curls dripping, her head tipped up to the heavens.

"I have no idea," he murmured. Before he could process what he was doing, he put Scorpius down with his toys. Without protest, his son agreed to stay put. Seconds later, Draco found himself walking under the pouring rain, immediately drenched and his locks matted to his skull. When he finally reached her, he simply stood beside her and didn't speak as the rain seeped through his clothes.

"I find it difficult sometimes to remember them, you know," she finally spoke, her voice hollow but soft. "Harry and Ron. I am able to recall their faces and memories perfectly. But I — I don't remember what it feels like — being with them."

Draco silently watched her profile, watched the way raindrops sat heavily on her dark lashes and the way white mist formed from her lips with every breath.

"I don't remember what it feels like having best friends. I don't remember what being Hermione Granger feels like." Her voice was still empty, a deep seated hollowness of one who had seen too much, lost too much. "Some days I'm grateful that I don't remember — it hurts less when you don't remember. But at the same time you feel like a stranger in your own skin. And it terrifies me the more the war eats away at me."

"It's all fucked up, Granger," he murmured after a pause. "Sometimes I wonder if the war truly changed me or if it simply brought out a part of me that was already there. Ironically, it seems like a punishment sometimes that I survived. But here I am, while the true victims of this war are dead like all those muggleborns and wizards who were not afraid to fight back. Like my mother."

He stopped then, a clear hesitancy in his face.

"Like Astoria."

Hermione froze. This was the first time he spoke of his dead wife.

"I don't have any Gryffindor speeches for you, Hermione," he chuckled humorlessly, "but saying a big fuck you to everyone and everything?" Hermione glanced at him. He kept his gaze forward, a rueful and defiant smile on his face. After a moment, her lips quirked upwards as she tipped her face upwards again and shut her eyes.

The raindrops continued its cold descent, trailing down her neck and spine. She was unbothered however as warmth seeped from the large hand that was entwined with her own.

A/N: Ahh I know it's short!! I actually had another part for this chapter but I moved it like a couple chapters down cause I really wanted this chapter to end with this moment. And no it's not a filler chapter - I really drafted this one because I thought it was important to just have this moment where things are just not great mentally. It was very personal of me to write this - I get a lot of days where things are just not great even if physically in the "real world" everything is fine and should be fine but it's just not. Everything's just wrong for no reason. So I guess writing this was a way of letting it all out and reminding myself that feeling this way is valid... and it's ok to feel angry and upset and frustrated even when people tell you to be happy or grateful. It's ok to feel all that and not feel guilty of your own thoughts and feelings because at the end of the day it is you who has to deal with it and face it and bear the burden of it, no one else.