Notes of Melancholy: A Dramione Fanfic

Part Three: rêverie

There was a note waiting for her when she woke up. Dove grey parchment on the pine floor in front of her door. She summoned it to the kitchen where she was making a cup of tea, half asleep. It surprised her in more ways than one — there was the obvious worry about the night before, of course, but she usually wrote the first note. She replied and flicked her own notes back while nibbling on biscuits. The replies slid under her door almost as soon as she'd sent hers under his.

Do you think everyone who was there that day can see the thestrals now?

D

~

I would imagine so. There was a lot of death. Hard to have avoided it.

Do you think they're frightening?

H

~

They're not exactly the abraxans my ancestors raised but I oddly like them.

I wonder why Hogwarts uses thestrals instead.

If you want a flying horse you'd think more robust ones would be preferred.

D

~

Maybe it's because they'll eat kitchen scraps and carrion. Less costly for the school.

H

~

Granger, did you just make a joke?

D

On Sunday she went to the corner shop for tea and a few basic groceries like she always did. She purchased the Muggle newspapers and did the crossword puzzles. Tried to take a nap with Crookshanks smothering her chest, his ginger fur tickling her nose.

The work week started as normal and routine. Her bus was on time. There were three responses from her fundraising pleas for wolfsbane to be made free for children who had been bitten by werewolves during the war. She would need to continue to write letters to see the project funded. Several potioneers had expressed interest in brewing the wolfsbane if they received the ingredients. And of course, the ingredients cost a gilded galleon. Funds were limited in her department.

On Wednesday she saw Dr. Walker. The water trickled from the fountain in the corner. Hermione fidgeted in her seat for the first fifteen minutes, preferring to tell Dr. Walker about work and how much progress she'd made with responding to unanswered letters from friends than to bring up what had happened five days before. But her therapist was worth the money — she knew when to push.

"I'm proud of you for writing to Luna, that took a lot of emotional bandwidth," she said. Hermione nodded, casting her eyes about the room. The potted plant by the window had gone into a sort of hibernation from the lack of sunlight. It had been days of endless rain in London.

"How's your pen pal?"

"Who?" The question caught Hermione off guard.

"Are you still exchanging notes with your neighbor?"

Yes, as if everything was normal and they hadn't kissed. Instead of saying that she simply nodded.

"Would you like to tell me about them? Last we spoke you seemed quite keen on your new friend."

She wondered how to explain to Dr. Walker that her neighbor, her new friend, was actually an old acquaintance. That she'd once landed a right hook against his pale cheek. Her knuckles were bruised for days. The purple and yellow had been a small source of pride, as had his own bruises. When Dr. Walker called her name, she realized she must have zoned out for longer than she'd thought.