The War. Everyone has heard about it. There are books and tales about it, and many were even there to witness the destruction. I don’t understand how people stay sane; hell I’m already going mad. But it seems as though I’m the only one. Everyone’s experiences differ, however, and maybe that’s why their lives seem to have gone back to normal. Not mine. My life will never be that way it was. Not with all that happened…
You see, there are things those books and tales do not show, and things those people were not there to witness. There are things people don’t know, and they probably wouldn’t want to. Who would be bothered with the destruction of who they knew as Hermione Granger. No one at all. They’re too busy with Harry Potter. Understandable, of course, but I was there too- I also suffered, I also witnessed the events. As much as I wish I hadn’t, I did. I was there.
It wasn’t only the battlefield that did me in, it was also the aftermath. The whispers, the taunts and jeers from Death Eaters as I passed them in their trials. It was the newfound information too. My parents had died. Apparently there already was a ‘Wendell Wilkins’ living in Australia. What are the odds? The real Wendell had a spat with a man in a pub one night. That man was angry. So he hunted down Wendell Wilkins and came across the house of my father, who had been posing as a different ‘Wendell Wilkins’. He killed him, saw my mother, and killed her too. It was my fault. And they didn’t even know me! They didn’t even know that they had a daughter that should have been grieving! A daughter to remember with their last breath, a daughter who got them killed…
I didn’t have any money either. The Muggle bank refused to give it to me, as there wasn’t anyone to verify that I was the rightful owner. So I had to work; missing out on rebuilding Hogwarts, to work as a waitress. They all made fun of me, those Muggles. They insulted my scars, and ridiculed the way I would space out or drop things. I got pushed around by my boss, but I was too desperate to care. I was happy to quit.
The whispers never ended though. They stayed in my head, in my nightmares. I frightened the neighbors, screaming in the middle of the night awoken by torments. So they talked about me too. Everyone knew I was the poor looney lady that lived on the third floor. Even the doorman caught wind of this and stopped saying hello to me every morning. Not that I ever responded, my voice was always hoarse from the night. I never wanted to fall asleep, fearing what my mind would concoct for me during my sleep. But when I didn’t sleep, memories would come, I would reminisce. I couldn’t win.
Then it was time for Hogwarts again, I only chose to go to revisit the battle site. I thought it would help me. I was wrong. I kept to myself, never raising me hand in class, hardly speaking at meals. I had a reason for the last one though. The great Hall stored too many memories. How could I eat on the place where countless amounts of people were destroyed? I hardly did eat, I lost too much weight. I settled for eating in the kitchens after hours a few times, but it wasn’t enough. The Common Room was too much for me. Everyone was talking and laughing as if nothing had changed. How could they have forgotten? I opted for a small corner in the library most nights. I just did my homework then stared at the fireplace remembering for a while, Madame Pince seemed to understand.
Where are my friends during all this, you may ask? Ginny gave up on me. So much for being best friends. Ron followed her lead, treating me as just another student in Gryffindor. Neville too, which surprised me. He said if I couldn’t even bother to help myself, he wouldn’t either. But I did try. Harry stayed with me, as well as Luna. They still tried to coax me into eating, or talking. They tried finding solutions to my nightmares. But they couldn’t put an end to the whispers. They followed me to Hogwarts. Everywhere. In class when I didn’t answer a question, in the Great Hall when I didn’t eat, in the halls when I got pushed around, and in the Common Room when I just sat. I couldn’t hide my scars, so they all stared, and whispered. Rumor floated around the school that a spell went badly wrong and they had to stich me back together and that’s why I had so many scars. Of course it wasn’t true, but why should I be bothered to tell them that?
Everybody talked about me, thinking I couldn’t hear them, or that’s how it seemed. Was I truly the only one who didn’t forget about the tragedies that had recently occurred? Was I the only one they could single out as being different? Apparently so. It got so bad, one day, even the professor didn’t know what to do. All the Slytherins in class taunting and insulting, even some Gryffindors, as I just sat there. No one did a thing. Except, to everyone’s surprise, Draco Malfoy; he stood up and reminded everyone, even the professor, that we were in the middle of a lesson. I forgot to thank him. But what is done cannot be undone and their voices still stay with me. Comment after comment, insults spewing my way, all replaying in my head. They won’t stop, I can’t get rid of them. That’s a downfall to being intelligent; you tend to have a good memory. I wish I didn’t. Most people say I’ve gone mad.
I think they’re right, I have gone mad.