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As soon as Remus stepped into the Great Hall, collar stuck up, hair messy, nimble fingers finishing his tie, his panic melted.

Ten minutes previously had seen him jolting into consciousness, aware only of the heavy weight on his legs when he tried to stand up, and Sirius had toppled to the floor.

His tiredness had been ripped from him once he'd seen the time. He'd overslept.

After that, it was all a blur of preparing themselves for the day ahead in mere minutes. He'd all but ran to breakfast.

Now, Remus hastily made his way over to the group at the end of the Gryffindor table, hesitating when he saw who the other two of his friends were sat with.

Lily Evans was, by no means, an ordinary girl. In fact, Remus believed she was one of the loveliest people he had ever had the pleasure to meet. She was constantly pleasant and polite and held a certain degree of intellect to everything she said and did. Although she wasn’t the smartest in the year, she was undeniably bright, and Remus had developed a civil friendship with her other the years. Her honesty was a refreshing source of relief to his life.

She was laughing at something James had said, and Remus noticed his friend’s dark blush. Next to her was Mary MacDonald, grinning away, and Peter besides her. Her other side saw Marlene Mckinnon, playing with her fork and casually flipping cereal at some random third years. Her thick blonde hair hadn’t been brushed, and yet she had somehow managed to perfect her eyeliner and dark lips. On the other side of the table, sat Hermione.

Remus swallowed.

He walked over, sliding into the bench so that James was positioned between them. He didn’t want to talk to her just yet.

Sirius bounded over a few seconds after him, tussling Remus’ hair up. He seemed to hesitate, glancing at Hermione, before squeezing his way into the gap between him and James, plopping down and immediately helping himself to food.

James beamed at him. “Hey, Padfoot!”

Remus leaned backwards to punch him in the arm.

“What was that for?” He asked indignantly, voice high, rubbing his injury.

“For not waking us up.”

James paused, the excuse dying on his lips. He glanced at Lily, who was stifling her laughter at Marlene. Mary was watching him suspiciously. Eventually, he just shrugged. It wasn’t like he had to tell them that he knew they didn’t sleep, that he knew they never slept, and he felt like they deserved the extra few hours, so in the end, he shrugged, because it wasn’t a big deal. With James, it never was. He bled compassion like other people bled red blood, and he never thought anything of it.

They didn’t really join in with the conversation that Marlene, Lily, Mary and Peter dictated, steering the topic from the Astronomy homework, to Professor Meryl to the Christmas Ball.

Hermione’s interest piqued at this.

“Christmas Ball?” She asked, frowning.

Marlene grinned at her, leaning over so her face was close to hers. Her breath smelt like the type of drinks that made your throat burn. “It’s a festive party with lots of alcohol disguised as Pumpkin Juice and lot of nerds disguised as hotties.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “I reject that, Mckinnon.”

She blinked at him and he elaborated, “I’m always hot.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep herself from laughing and said, “You do know, Sirius, that the meaning of life does not, in anyway, revolve around your hotness.”

He looked at her and it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. He smiled charmingly and said, “I’m sure you’re right, Kitten, and I’m searching for that other meaning of life, I am. I just have yet to find it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, unable to keep the smile from spreading across her face. She ducked her head, hair shielding her laughter, and looked away. Sirius’ lips curled. Marlene raised an eyebrow.

“We should probably get going now,” Lily suggested, rising from her seat. James quickly stood up as well, hitting a still soft-looking Sirius in the face, sending him flying off of the bench and onto the floor.

Peter broke into wild laughter. Remus sighed. Marlene doubled over, clutching her stomach. The amusement didn’t just start and end with the group and other students who had witnessed the scene guffawed and stared. Some had the audacity to tip their heads back, letting their mirth pour from their lips.

His hand appeared first, clutching the table. Then his head popped up, his face wearing a disgruntled but pleasantly dazed expression. Sirius’ eyes narrowed on James.

The latter’s mouth twisted and he sucked in a long breath, before smiling brightly.

Hermione, her lips tilted at the edges, had stood up and she offered her hand to Sirius. He looked up at her, and there was no evidence of his suspicion, for he locked his fingers in hers, allowing her to help him up. When he got to his feet, although he let go of her hand, he remained close to her, so that their shoulders and chests were touching.

Brushing himself off, Sirius raised his eyes. He was so close to her, he hadn’t even realised. Hermione didn’t seem to mind though. Her lips were parted and she stared into him.

Sirius swallowed. “Thanks Kitten.”

Remus cleared his throat loudly. “We should get to class.”

Marlene led the way, skipping ahead of them, looping her arm through Lily’s. The redheaded girl laughed, beaming and let her friend drag her along.

Mary trailed behind them, rolling her eyes. The others followed.

Hermione’s breath left her when she saw Remus. He looked windswept, smudged slightly, but all his edges were crisp. She quickened her pace to walk beside him.

“Remus,” Hermione began. “I’m-”

“You were right,” he said. He didn’t even look at her. “We don’t know each other. It was impolite of me to assume anything other than that.”

“No, I…”

“It’s okay,” Remus said, smiling. But the smile was small, and she noticed.

Her chest felt heavy. She wanted to reach for him, to explain why this was so difficult, but he didn’t deserve that. He had his own weight to deal with, and piling hers on him to excuse her withdrawal from him was something she couldn’t do.

“Remus.” Hermione’s voice was almost a plea, and he looked at her, surprised. She could see, in the corner of her eye, his mouth moving, but his words were lost on her ears, absorbed in a bubble of numb silence. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All Hermione could do was stop and stand and stare.

They’d just stepped out of the building and into the courtyard. The stone pillars framed either side of them, and the fountain in the middle was intact, with decorative moss and ivy flourishing as additional adornments. But she just stopped. The cool autumn air whipped her cheeks, but she felt immune to the cold. Her entire body was already cold.

It was sudden; the view in front of her, white and chilly, morphed into one of fire and darkness. The stone was a dark grey, swathed in shadows that cackled and clawed and veiled the villains that lurked. An acromantula body was to her right, legs crippled, begging the sky for release. Hermione could faintly hear the yells and screams of the ongoing battle, somewhere in the distance, but it was all behind her.

She felt something hot and runny on her foot, and when she looked down, her head spun. She was stood in a puddle of blood. It didn’t seem to derive from anywhere in particular; it was just there, seeping, as if from her. But as her hands flitted to her torso, numbly, she registered that she wasn’t so much bleeding, as bloodied.

Hermione heard her name shouted, desperation and despair overtaking her from the sheer brokenness of the voice. She lifted her head.

And he was stood there, his hair dirtied so that only strands of his natural flames were visible. But his eyes were still that bright blue, staring into her. His freckles were indiscernible from the mud that smeared his skin.

It hit her abruptly, like someone had stunned her with a spell, but she was somehow still standing, when she should be falling… falling. Her heart stopped beating; in the simplest sense of the phrase. She ceased to live in this moment. This was the moment her life ended, right here.

This was where Ron had died.

Hermione wanted to move. She needed to do something, to run forward. Her mouth frantically tried to scream his name.

His face seemed to change. His lips stretched wide, wonky and grinning. They mouthed her name. Ron’s eyes lit up, wide and relieved at the sight of her, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there, unscathed, alive for him.

And maybe that was why he didn’t notice the hulking figure of blackness emerging from the shadows. Maybe that was why she didn’t see it either.

But when Fenrir Greyback twisted his claws through the back of Ron Weasley, those same eyes that had creased every time she made him laugh, and narrowed when they argued; those same eyes that closed when she kissed him and softened every time they landed on her, those same eyes widened one last time, life and hope draining from them, before they fell like the rest of his body, crumpling to the floor like a sack of bones too heavy to hold the galaxy within.

Hermione screamed.

“Hermione!”

She blinked. Her eyes were wet. Her mouth was open. She was gasping, breathless.

Sirius stood in front of her, his hands cupping her face. His touch was the only thing that kept her grounded. She focused on his face; the stubble clinging to his jaw, the length of his eyelashes, the darkness of his eyes. He was dark, so dark, and Hermione could see every shade of light behind him.

“Hermione,” he said again. Her name on his tongue sounded like she imagined velvet would sound. Her hand reached up to squeeze his fingers on her face. She closed her eyes. The pad of his thumb gently wiped away another tear; the gentleness of a self-destroyer. “Hermione, let me take you to Madam Pomfrey-”

“No.” Although her voice was weak, the word was final.

Peter’s timid opinion cut through the silence and said, “Hermione, Sirius is right. You need to go to the Hospital Wing.”

Hermione shook her head adamantly. The action made her dizzy. “I’ve already missed school because of that blasted place. I don’t want to go back there.”

“Then go back to the Common Room,” James suggested. His hazel eyes were trained on her. His mouth was a tight line.

Shaking her head again, she pulled Sirius’ hands off of her face, looking away from him. Her eyes snagged on Remus.

Remus was staring at her, stunned and ashen. Guilt was clear on his face; he was blaming himself, but Hermione couldn’t understand why.

“Come on,” she murmured. “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

No one else seemed to argue with her. Without looking back, Hermione started walking. She didn’t once glance at the courtyard, afraid she’d see the ghost of a body of a boy with an entire universe of explosions and passion inside him, and it wasn’t until she was encompassed by brickwork again, that she realised she had been holding her breath.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

James slowed down, walking besides her. He got his cloak, which had previously been carelessly tossed over one shoulder, and wrapped it around her body. His hands were light and precarious, as if she was going to break. Hermione despised this fragility, but was grateful for his care and the extra warmth he supplied her with. She smiled bleakly.

He just sucked in his lips, letting his hands linger on her arms and shoulders, flitting and fretting as though she might crumble if he let go, or even held her too tightly.

They made it to Transfiguration (a class they were all thankfully in together) just as the first period started.

Professor McGonagall, despite first impressions that drew attention to her strict grey bun, and stern face, was a rather lenient woman, with a formidable presence yet wicked sense of humour. Her sense of compassion was, too, a thing to be marvelled, and it seemed she had some impressive way of reading people, for as soon as she saw Hermione, she faltered.

The girl had made a particularly explosive entrance and there were many stories speculating her arrival and, indeed, herself. But one should be cautious when listening to rumours, for one can never be sure of their truth. The information that was widely known to be true was that her name was Hermione Granger, she had been sorted into Gryffindor and she fell from the ceiling onto a certain Sirius Black.

Luckily, McGonagall was a trusted teacher and long-time colleague of Albus Dumbledore, and she had been entrusted with the truth surrounding this mysterious new student.

And so, when Hermione entered the classroom, with eyes that were red-rimmed and a look that indicated she was unendingly tired of everything, the Transfiguration professor made it her duty to take this tortured girl under her wing. It wouldn’t be the first case; call it a pastime of hers.

Hermione sat beside Lily, towards the front of the room. The girls were quick to engage her in some thought-provoking conversation that poked the academically active side of her brain. She knew it was mainly for her benefit; their way of distracting her from what had just happened, and she was grateful.





oOoOo





Remus stared at the back of her head, worry gnawing at his insides. Sitting next to Peter, who was trying to fix his textbook (which he had somehow managed to rip in the time they had sat down), he noticed Sirius and James deep in conversation.

He read their lips first, and recognised the same words Sirius had been telling him early that morning. She’s hiding something.

So he was confiding about what he overheard in the Hospital Wing.

The conversation seemed to change swiftly after that, as James countered whatever his friend had said.

Remus raised an eyebrow, pricking his ears. Their words became audible within seconds.

“But then what the fuck just happened?”

That was Sirius. His voice was low but concerned.

“I don’t know,” James replied. He was biting his finger compulsively. “That’s the second time it’s happened.”

“It’s like she sees flashes of something. Maybe she’s a Seer? Maybe that’s what she’s hiding?”

Remus scoffed, and the two boys shot to look at him. James threw his arms up in the air.

He exclaimed, “I swear! Is there nowhere our conversations won’t be picked up on by a werewolf and his super-sixth-sense hearing!”

Remus quirked his lips. Sirius leaned in front of James, across the desk, to say, “Well? What do you think, brainbox?”

He considered it, ignoring the… he wasn’t sure what it was. Insult? Somehow, he wasn’t entirely certain it was a compliment.

James was right. That had happened before; Hermione just being snatched from the present, as though taken by something. But what? She always returned looking shaken and despaired, like something had forced her to watch a scene that obliterated her completely. The answer came to him, and he wanted to dismiss it, for the reality was just too sad to bear.

It was one he was far too familiar with. Something that had haunted him; he prayed, begged whoever was listening, that Hermione wasn’t suffering from what he thought it was.

James’ eyes lit up. He wiggled a finger, and said, “I know that look.” Then turned to Sirius and repeated, “I know that look! It’s his ‘I’ve-got-it-you-dumb-sons-of-guns’ look.”

Remus cocked his head. “I do not have a- that look.”

Sirius bared his teeth. “Yeah, you do.”

“Yeah, you do,” Peter added, finally choosing to make himself heard in this conversation. His head was at Remus’ shoulder, nodding seriously.

James frowned. “Okay, this is a tangent. What were you thinking, Remus?”

He rubbed the knuckle of his index finger along his lip, considering how to word it. Eventually, he sighed and looked at them all.

“I think she’s got PTSD.”

As soon as he said it, he knew it to be true.

Peter’s normally neutral expression turned incredulous. James’ face scrunched up. The shadows on Sirius seemed to get darker.

“What?”

“Posttraumatic Stress Disorder,” Remus explained. “It’s- It’s like the psychological aftermath of experiencing or witnessing something terrifying something that shouldn’t be experienced or witnessed… It’s a mental illness.”

“You think Hermione’s got a mental illness?” Peter asked dubiously. “Our Hermione?”

All four pairs of eyes rested on her. They could only see one side of her face, and although she was laughing (albeit not as rapaciously as the others), with this thought planted in their minds, they could clearly distinguish the tension in her veins, the constant unhappiness in every muscle.

James licked his lips and he asked, almost childlike, “What does it mean?”

Remus thought about this.

It was a few minutes later, that he replied, in a solemn voice, feeling nothing but sadness for the girl in front of him, “It means that whatever she witnessed, or experienced, whatever war she was in, fucked her up so bad that even though she’s safe, she can’t escape what happened to her. She can’t outrun it; it just keeps chasing her.”

Flashes of a monster leaping from the darkness. Of the agony rippling through his arm. Of the moonlight that shone down on him, watching with rapt yet melancholic eyes.

He added, “It means that when she wakes up… The nightmare doesn’t end.”