Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 20: XX

November 30th, 1998

McGonagall assures her that it's just a formality.

Still, her hands are cold and shaking, crusted with dried blood - every inch of her arms beneath the elbows is stained red. The front of her blouse, too.

She doesn't know what possessed her in that moment. What absurd, cautionless, lawless entity took control of her and pushed the Imperius Curse off her tongue. What was she thinking?

The truth of it is she wasn't thinking. She'd been looking - at him. Watching him grow paler with each second and imagining him with one less limb. Imagining him losing one more thing as a result of this war.

And then everything Madam Pomfrey was saying about Dark Magic just took root in her head and grew like a weed. Dark for dark, light for light.

It was only logical.

But it'd taken the Ministry no time at all to trace the Unforgiveable, and now, despite McGonagall's avid defense of her actions - despite Madam Pomfrey's and Zabini's and even bloody Parkinson's witness accounts - she's being led through the Ministry atrium, with Theodore Nott, of all people, as her companion.

"You'll be required to make a statement," the Ministry escort is explaining, "and then a twenty-four hour stay of magic will be placed on your wand."

She's numb to it. To all of it.

She can't take her mind off of that gruesome wound.

"No use lying on my account," Malfoy had said. Which meant it hadn't been an accident.

Another attempt at suicide.

It sends her into a tailspin. Of guilt and confusion and rigorous overthinking. Was it the boathouse? Was it what she'd said and hadn't meant?

Was it her fault? Again? Again? Again?

"Oi, Granger," Nott snaps and yanks her out of the way before she can walk into one of the black-tiled walls. "Pay some bloody attention."

Nott has been enlisted to serve as a neutral party - someone who won't defend her blindly, like McGonagall, but also who doesn't openly despise her, like Parkinson, although Hermione has some doubts about that. He's been fairly open in his distaste regarding her and Malfoy.

Still, he's there to speak in her defense, and for this she allows him to treat her like an imbecile at every given opportunity as they make their way to the hearing.

A small part of her brain unhelpfully floats the possibility that she's just obliterated any chance of working for the Ministry. Of becoming an Auror or a Healer.

For Malfoy.

News travels too quickly at Hogwarts. Again, she has Parkinson to thank for that.

Still, she's been blindly hoping during the entire journey back from the Ministry that she'll be able to slip into bed undetected. To deal with yet another round of heavy scrutiny in the morning, when this headache has subsided.

Luck is not with her. Hasn't been and never will be.

And when she steps through the portrait hole and into the common room, at least half a dozen pairs of eyes are waiting for her.

"Hermione?"

"'Mione?"

"What happened?"

"'Mione, bloody hell..."

Her shoulders slump. She heaves out a breath and collapses into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Parvati...every Gryffindor she can possibly imagine at this point. They're all gathered around her like children expecting a bedtime story.