Coping Mechanisms

7. Hermione

Draco didn't show up to St. Mungo's at all the next day, at least from what Hermione could tell. A different blonde had appeared on the fourth floor instead, Luna's moonlit waves recognizable anywhere. She sat nestled against Neville's shoulder, their hands entwined. He'd met Hermione's eyes with the first genuine smile she'd seen in weeks, and she'd given them their privacy. She wasn't sure what had convinced Neville to finally tell Lovegood, but she had a small suspicion Draco had had something to do with it. Whatever the case, Hermione was happy to see them close again.

She'd been even happier to head home that night; her school trunk had been sitting empty for far too long. Not a single item had been packed though, before a familiar scops owl pecked its beak against her window.

"Hello, Pidwidgeon," she greeted, opening the window for the erratic bird. It dropped a letter into her open palms, and immediately flew off. Hermione recognized Harry's messy scribble instantly.

Burrow tonight. 7 o' clock.

An audible groan escaped her lips. She couldn't avoid them forever, especially with school starting in just a few days. Molly had probably cooked up a nice dinner for one last get together, and she'd especially hate to disappoint Mrs. Weasley. She eyed the open trunk mocking her from the foot of her bed. She'd fill it sooner or later.

Hermione peeled off her clothes and hopped in the shower, washing away the sweat and grime from the hospital. She eyed herself in the mirror afterwards, noting how dull her eyes seemed, how tired her skin looked. She'd never cared much for her mousy brown mane, and the long waves were as unruly as ever, even while wet. She plaited them lazily at the back of her head, and decided it was good enough. She threw on a yellow, knitted sweater, and a casual pair of blue jeans. The august weather was still slightly warm, but Hermione's closet didn't consist of much that wasn't long sleeved. She said a silent, sarcastic thank you to Bellatrix for that, the derogatory scars taunting her along with the empty trunk.

---------------------------------------------

The Weasleys' home was just as Hermione remembered it as she apparated into the cozy yard. The house stood several stories tall and sat so crooked, Hermione wondered if magic was the only thing keeping it aloft. Its cluttered appearance didn't tarnish its charm though; Hermione had yet to find a warmer, more welcoming house. A balmy gust of air hit her as she passed through the front door, and she was immediately overwhelmed by the sweet smell of something baking in the oven.

"Is that you dear?" Molly's silvery voice rang from the other side of the kitchen, her arms elbow deep in the soapy sink. Hermione came up behind her and left a kiss on her cheek.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Mrs. Weasley smiled at her. "I wasn't sure if we'd see you again before Tuesday."

"I wouldn't have missed it," Hermione said. "Can I help with anything?"

"Absolutely not. I'm almost done anyways. The boys should all be upstairs. Ginny too. Go on up, and bring them down, would you?"

Hermione nodded and made her way through the jumbled house to the stairs, nearly colliding with George. He'd lost a few pounds since she'd last seen him, and his red hair was in desperate need of a trim. She could see the sadness etched clearly in his features, even as he pasted on his usual goofy grin. It made him look so much older than he was.

"Hey Mione," he said, pulling her into a hug. He was a good head taller than Hermione, her face just meeting his chest. She returned his hug sincerely, her arms wrapping tightly around his lean torso. He smelled like laundry detergent and cinnamon.

"It's good to see you, George," she spoke into his shirt.

"You too," he pulled back to an arm's length. She offered him a weak smile.