Trussed

Hermione woke in a room at St. Mungo’s, and burst into tears upon seeing Harry and Ron at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, Hermione…” Harry pulled her into his arms and she sobbed into his chest, letting her pain flow out of her. Relief settled in like a comfortable blanket and she clutched at his shirt.

Ron awkwardly patted her back, not sure if he should say anything. He'd long felt like the third wheel in Hermione and Harry’s friendship, and this moment of reunion was no different. But he'd missed her and worried about her as much as anyone else.

She pulled back and took Ron’s hand, giving it a squeeze. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she took in the comforting sight of her two best friends.

“We’re at St. Mungo’s,” she said simply, and Harry nodded. “Did we…”

“We won, Hermione,” he replied. “Voldemort is gone.”

She broke down again, this time with relief.

When she composed herself, she took a deep ragged breath.

“What's happening now?” She asked.

“We’re rebuilding.”

***

The weeks that followed were a flurry of activity in wizarding Britain. The Ministry rose quickly, with Kingsley Shacklebolt at it’s head, and ran through Death Eater trials and sentences. People returned to their homes, and Diagon Alley became a hub for trading and helping one another rebuild their lives.

Harry was at the center of it all, delegating and getting to know each and every last survivor of the war. The Weasleys opened the Burrow to war orphans and Molly lovingly took care of the children as if they were her own.

It seemed as though everyone had a job to keep them busy.

Except for Hermione.

She knew she should be out there, the third point of the golden trio, a beacon of hope in this new world. But she didn't feel like a beacon of hope.

She felt like a black hole. A dementor sucking out all the happiness from those around her.

Her friends were understanding; they'd seen first hand what she'd been through. But they didn't know what was really going on underneath.

She spent her days holed up in a flat in muggle London, trying to read or cook or knit or anything that would help her heal. But she felt empty. She couldn't even cry anymore.

“What happened to Draco?” She finally asked Harry, one of the evenings that he had come over for tea. Wanting tea was an excuse to check on her, but she didn't begrudge him for it. Having to look alive for him was a distraction from her nothingness.

She hadn't wanted to ask, even though she wanted to know whether he'd survived or not. She was very confused about her feelings for him.

“He was pardoned on all crimes for his work with the Order,” Harry said, though his eyes darkened. “Then he admitted Narcissa to St. Mungo’s and disappeared.”

Hermione froze. “Disappeared?”

“He’s gone,” Harry assured her, gaze softening. He assumed she'd be comforted by this news. “He seemed broken up about everything he's had to do in this war.” For both sides, he mentally added.

“He saved my life,” Hermione whispered, more to herself. “So many times.”

Harry let out a deep breath. “Ron saw you take that crucio for him,” he said quietly. “I imagine things got complicated for you, being there for so long.”

“I can’t…” She clenched her fists. “I can't talk about this right now. Can you please go, Harry?” He sighed in defeat and stood.

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” he said sincerely. “I won't push you. But I'm here when you're ready.”