[Harry Potter] Broken
Title: Broken Author: Trio Maxwell-Chang Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing or POV: Hermione Written for: bibliotheca Special Note: Background to phoenix_tears
Broken calls to broken. Hermione didn't understand that when she went to Dumbledore and asked to stay at Hogwarts. Her parents newly dead, their funeral over that self-same day, Hermione just wanted it all to end. But the war was heating up, and she needed a safe haven to heal. So she went to Dumbledore and asked if she could do anything at all - from the warm confines of Hogwarts.
Amazing enough that he'd agreed to let her stay, but he'd gone a step further, offering her a job as a researcher for the Order of the Phoenix. She'd been given a set of rooms at the end of an almost-hidden hallway next to the library upon graduation. She'd also been given a small room directly off of the library, where she could go to do the research she had to do. For one long year, she buried herself in work.
It was tedious work at best, but she'd always been rather good at searching through boring details for the one tiny spark of knowledge needed. She occasionally wondered if perhaps the Sorting Hat hadn't made some sort of mistake, after all. Bravery was the Gryffindor trait, and here she was, hiding from the war. Perhaps she should have been in Hufflepuff, where the hard workers found their reward in success. Those thoughts were often driven home when she saw Snape, who usually benefited the most directly from her research. Constant castigation from him for jobs half-done, when she thought she'd completed them. How was it a few words could strip away sixteen years of life, leaving her a shaking two-year-old in search of his approval?
The first time she'd seen a list of the dead, it had taken every ounce of self-control not to slip to her knees and sob. It was a short list, but it drove home what she'd shied away from thinking. They were vulnerable, and Voldemort was winning. Hard on the heels of that realization came the understanding that Harry and Ron, both fighting from the front lines, were particularly vulnerable. Estranged from them as she was, that thought was the final blow, sending her already cracked soul shattering into a million pieces.
Broken calls to broken. She'd gone out to the gardens to be among living things. Summer at Hogwarts was an incredibly beautiful thing, but her eyes caught the bright green leaves that just matched the smoke of Avada Kedavra, and the blood red of roses, and she'd turned to go back in, only to hit a black wall of a chest. Looking up, for even now he was taller than her by a good head, she saw the spy, the Potions Master, the man who'd chipped away at her defenses in the name of good research. His face wavered in her view, and she realized, horror of horrors, that she was crying.
He looked bewildered at the sight of tears on her cheeks, belatedly tugging a handkerchief from his right sleeve and offering it to her. And she'd mumbled a rejection and hurried off, desperate for the safety of her rooms, where no one would see her sob.
With renewed vigor, she threw herself into her work, keeping her mind occupied until late into the night, long past exhaustion so that when she finally dragged herself to bed, there was only a quiet hint of incoherent longing for her innocence. No thinking, no understanding, no contemplations late at night that kept her shaking and shivering and needing something she would never have again. Silent recriminations for wanting her parents to come and fix everything, when they were dead and it was thanks to the Dark Lord who was even now destroying her soul without ever touching her.
Broken calls to broken. He'd found her one night, ensconced in her research rooms, too busy to look up and notice that she'd missed dinner once again. She knew she was growing pale and gaunt, missing half her meals and ignoring the outdoors for some research she thought could potentially save Harry and Ron. They'd had to close the school, so that was out of the way, and they could all concentrate on Order business.
Nerves coloring his voice irritated, he'd commanded her to follow him, explained briefly that he needed to talk to her. She'd followed, of course. Between her perception of him as a professor still and the subtle, dark charisma of his presence, she'd had no choice. Throughout the long walk to the dungeons, she'd fretted inwardly, wondering what she'd missed. He led her to his office. It wasn't until the scent of food hit her that she'd realized she'd missed lunch and supper both, among other things.
He'd commanded her to sit, and fed her well while discussing trivialities. There was no talk of the war, for which she was intensely grateful. At the end of the evening, he'd handed her a weak mug of medi-cocoa, drinking another himself. The warmth had curled into the pit of her stomach before stretching outward, soothing her. She'd gone to her bed that night, and fallen asleep while thinking of how soft those black eyes could look. And she hadn't cried.
Broken calls to broken. Another year passed, and she didn't set foot beyond the bounds of Hogwarts. One meal became two became several became every other night. Discussion passed slowly into a comfortable silence that wrapped around the two of them like a soft quilt. She could read most of his expressions, and liked doing so. Without the students around, the lank hair had grown soft once more, not at all as greasy as she'd once thought of him. The nose shifted from too-big to aristocratic, an appendage well-suited to identifying potions on scent. His hands had always been graceful, but now she realized that his entire body moved with the deliberate elegance. The observations were stored away in the recesses of her mind as she ate opposite him.
They did not always share the medi-cocoa. That was saved for the days she could not cope. Instead, he often brewed her tea, a tea whose perfection called to her. They would settle in his large leather chairs, for the meals had long since shifted from his office to his personal rooms, and they would stare into the fire as they soaked in each other's company. Occasionally, she would fall asleep in his chair, awaking wrapped in a warm green blanket. She liked that, and liked, too, the way his rooms had slowly become as much a haven as her own were.
He was still the snarky, sarcastic bastard she'd gotten to know in school, but more and more, she found herself falling back on that self-same sarcasm. At first, the words had fit strangely in her mouth, and those around her were more amused and worried than hurt and upset. But as the words became more and more familiar, those around her were pushed farther and farther away.
When Albus died, she shattered a little further, mentally comparing herself to Humpty-Dumpty. She made her way to the dungeons on unsteady feet, knocking on Snape's door. She looked at him, as he opened the door, and realized suddenly that they were kindred souls on an instinctive level. That night was the first night she cared for him, brewing the medi-cocoa per his directions, covering him with the green blanket when he'd fallen asleep staring at the fire. Broken calls to broken.