:::Safe at Hogwarts:::
England rain drizzled down outside, the light pitter-patter of it hitting the roof, the sound soothing Hermione. The morning sky was dim and grey, making the heavens seem like a gloomy place. The people walking along the sidewalks wore heavy raincoats and boots, their umbrellas reflecting the raindrops as they lazily fell to the ground. Those people blended so well into the colorless scheme that she could almost see the beauty in it.
Almost.
She turned away from the window, resumed her silent packing. She folded her clothes by hand, not bothering to use the wand that sat an arm's reach away on the mattress. She preferred the unrushed pace, and though she was running late for the train, she didn't have enough energy to hurry.
Closing the trunk, she moved to the mirror, staring blankly at the girl she saw there. Light scarring cascaded down the right side of her neck, ruining the smooth alabaster from the top of her spine to the scale of bones along her shoulder. She couldn't recall what exactly she'd done, but she could remember her father's familiar reaction to whatever it was: the impatient way his eyes rolled when he perceived her disobedience; the way his affectionate smile turned grim and hot as he watched her move about the room; the way his voice raised, the way he spoke through his teeth as he harassed her. "Why must you always tempt me, sweeting? Why do you always make me hurt you?"
She had recognized the tone in his voice just before he'd snapped, just before the scalding water had poured over her skin. She had known something was coming. But she hadn't screamed or gasped, hadn't run or cowered away or even stepped aside. There was no need—she couldn't feel it. She was numb to the pain. Only the gentle slide of water and the warm rush of heat had lingered…
She was grateful that she'd at least been left with that much. She cherished whatever pain did happen to penetrate through. It was the only proof she had that she was still alive. And even then, she wasn't always convinced...
She sighed, watching the girl in the mirror sigh with her.
Hermione had always been awkward, both in personality and in appearance. Her bushy hair and shapeless form had failed to leave lasting impressions. The fact that she was intelligent tended to scare the opposite sex away—and the boys who were smart enough to not be intimidated by her didn't appreciate her either, because to them, she was nothing more than competition.
And she was comfortable with it that way. Being competition suited her. It made her faster, sharper, stronger. It gave her the chance to focus on her work, on being the best that she could be—an ambition that, over time, evolved into just wanting to be the best, period.
But as the years passed, her appearance had begun to soften. Her frizzy hair had begun to smooth, until finally all that was left of the bushy mess had been long, luxurious curls. A woman's body had begun to form without any effort at all, thinning out in some places, rounding out in others. She suddenly found herself in the disconcerting position of being desired. She started to notice her classmates scrambling to be her assigned partner, boys with A-averages "needing" her to tutor them after lessons. They began to cater to her need for approval by agreeing with her interpretations of books, by letting her answer all the teachers' questions, praising her when she was right and consoling her when she was wrong.
Hermione never adapted to this new perception they all seemed to have of her. The pressure to be more weighed even heavier on her now—the pressure to be perfect, or, at least, to appear to be. So she continued to go through the motions as this newer, thinner Hermione Granger—and it was only the two men closest to her who sensed the cracks splintering underneath.
