Pallid eyelids curtain autumn hues, focus transferring to her sense of smell—
the scent of ink and page as alluring as ever, a strong source of comfort for
the distraught woman, Hermione allows several minutes for the needed
effects; muscles ease substantially, head tilts to the left as though she’s
succumbed to rest, and whispered words drift forward—“Books are to be
cherished. You have my respect for giving these a home.”
A bullet to glass, she recalls exactly where
she stands—in what setting she is admiring
a collector’s assortment, to whom she is
speaking, and the reason for her presence
at all.
Loosening her sensory grasp on the aroma,
she straightens herself, bloodshot eyes
revealed once more as she takes the seat
opposite him.
“Alternative methods of expressing
my gratitude seem…inadequate, so I
will only aim to not waste your time.”
»”Did something specific occur?”«
Her promise perches at the front of her mind, a steady reminder that each second she hesitates, glances thrown about the room, split fingers twisting amongst themselves as a diversion, she is breaking that promise.
“I—”
Horrid memories of just hours before stall her
response, freezing her thoughts almost entirely.
‘I won’t even attempt to lie—he seems the type
to detect it immediately…and then he’d probably
turn me away for falsifying events…’
Eyes flicker to the door, a brief consideration given that there’s still time to run.
Turn tail and flee, just as she had earlier; tears blinding her,
jagged realisation of what she’d done cutting deep before she’d felt
utterly numb, and then…she’d landed in muggle London.
Instantly on the phone, violent tremors seizing her as she begged the woman to patch her through to the nearest available psychologist, therapist, someone—
“It’s urgent…”
Not even a second spared for introductions,
she’d begged him to see her proximately with
the murmur, unsure, even now, how he’d heard her.
And now, sitting before him, avoiding his gaze
as though a frightened child, the only thing she
wants to do is run—
run as fast as she can until she collapses
and fades from existence.
‘Talking…
what good will come from it?
I shouldn’t be here;
I’m wasting his time and mine.
I should’ve kept running.’
Gaze decisively meeting his,
her body slumps slightly in the seat.
—The day has finally caught up with her;
she feels it crash around her,
a dense fatigue taking hold.
“My best friend…was murdered…”
A definite truth; it barely skims the surface, but—
‘Perhaps he’ll grant me the leverage…’