Chapter Text
Hermione was 11.
A boy at school had called her ugly. A group of them were playing a game of kiss marry kill, her excluded, and she overheard herself being “killed” more times than she cared to remember.
“Kiss the slug, marry the alien, kill Hermione. She’s the ugliest of the lot” the boy said, the disgust obvious in his voice as the unanimous agreement echoed from his classmates through their laughter.
Hermione got home that day, and fiddled with a pair of scissors on her desk about to forget all about it and do her maths homework. In her distraction, she suddenly realised she’d been pressing the blade into the palm of her hand.
She gasped, and dropped them. Her parents had always taught her to be careful with sharp scissors.
However, her first thought was that the painful sensation had cured her anxiety completely. She slowly touched the spot on her hand, now slightly marked, and thought about the relief she was feeling.
Hermione was 12.
“No wonder she hasn’t got any friends.”
She barged past Ron and Harry, not caring whether she made them drop the stack of books they were each cradling, and headed straight for the girls dormitory.
She’d moved on from scissors since her first term at Hogwarts, and found that no one here would notice if her pencil sharpener was missing a blade since, well, no one used pencils.
She dug her old friend out of her bedside table, and let the familiar relief wash over her again as spots of blood appeared on her forearm.
Hermione was 14.
September rolled around again. It had been a few months since her last cut, she always had to stop as summer got nearer due to the looming necessity of tank tops and bikinis. There was nowhere to hide something like this while on a family holiday to the south of France.
The pattern was familiar to her by now, every September she’d reconnect with her roots, like an old school friend someone in their 30s still sees for coffee once or twice a year. She could rely on this release until April began to roll around, the days got hotter, and suddenly she couldn’t excuse the constant hoodies and long sleeves.
Hermione was 16.
It was the start of sixth year. She knew it was coming, she was practically looking forward to it. The moment she could lock herself in the bathrooms, source of comfort in hand, and make it all feel better.
It had happened in first year.
Second year, after everything with the muggle-born hunting basilisk.
Third, when the stress of maintaining her overwhelming schedule finally caught up to her.
Fourth, while seeing Harry and Ron neglect each other and deciding her problems weren’t worth bothering anyone else with.
Fifth, when Voldemort’s return was clearly much more important than her teenage angst, and yet she had to put this constant voice in her head, telling her she was letting everybody down, to bed.
She got to the dormitories, after a sorting ceremony that seems to only get longer every year, and repeated the process. Find the razor blade she’d taken from her parents bathroom that summer, get somewhere safe, and let it all go.
She’d been quiet at dinner. Harry and Ron tried to make conversation, but everybody could tell something had shifted at Hogwarts this year.
Hermione had even glanced over at the Slytherin table - most of them had looked as conniving as always, but one person stood out. Malfoy was sat, completely still, his grey eyes glazed over as everyone seemed to talk at him, not to him, while he was deep in thought about something that was clearly much bigger than who was or wasn’t taking ancient runes this year.
She noticed Malfoy looked rougher than in previous years, but put it down to the stress of the ever increasing responsibility that getting older brought for everyone. She could relate to that much, at least.
Besides, what did she care that Malfoy was feeling grumpy? She had her own problems to contend with, namely how quickly she could escape to her sanctuary without suspicion arising from the two boys who were, admittedly, a little distracted and had moved on to talks of upcoming Quidditch tryouts and which first years looked like they “had potential.”
The next morning, Hermione ran her fingertips over last nights handywork, and once dressed double checked that her robes were long enough to shield it from public view. She thought about her classes for the day, and with a deep breath welcomed the distraction that schoolwork always gave her. It was reliable in that way, something she could always fully give herself to, without fear of rejection or failure.
She patted her pockets, making sure she’d remembered her one other source of comfort - her diary. About two years ago she started writing in one, just as another thing she could have that was fully hers. No one else was allowed to see its contents, meaning no one else could dissect or ridicule the things she confessed within its pages. She breathed a sigh of relief when she felt it tucked away. As if she could ever forget it after years of obsessively carrying around this small, black leather bound book. It was probably the most precious thing in her possession.
Hermione didn’t eat much at breakfast, she’d never had much of an appetite in the mornings plus Ron was practically slurping down his bacon and eggs, which had put her off food entirely. She simply sipped her coffee, enough to keep her full for the morning, and started her day.
Her first class was potions, with the new Professor Slughorn, and she decided she was looking forward to her potions teacher for once not taking every opportunity to call her an insufferable know-it-all now that Snape had achieved his dream of the defence against the dark arts position.