Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence? A Dramione through and through.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but my thoughts, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

This little snippet was bothering me, and hindering my imagination, which were supposed to be focused largely on a rather large tale, I am trying to tell. Therefore, sharing it here, so that it leaves the confines of my bothered head. If you wish me to continue, say so, and I will.

Chapter 1

She Is Mute

Hogwarts,
Months after war

Hermione never felt this lonely. Sitting here. At the dead of the night. Resting her body on the cold stone wall of an aclove, in a deserted corridor, cold, only thin worn out pajamas below her school robes. Her head touching the cold windowpane, the iron bar, digging an indentation on her forehead. Cold.

Yes, the first year, the first few months, the taunts, the urge to prove herself, the girls' gossips, the lessons, the professors, the castle and mostly the Library- everything was overwhelming. Then the two dolts, Harry and Ron, she smiled at the word dolt, friends, who lived through war, and killed a Snake faced evil wizard- have come and altered everything in her sorted out and ordered life. That was for the last seven years.

Now, things were back to being quiet, settled and scheduled. No Harry and no Ron, to disturb her lessons, her school life. Her specially granted 8th year. She was not the only one returning. There were other heroes and heroines of war. And there were other shamefaced, defeated legions from the other side, returning as well. And there was him.

MUDBLOOD

She traced those words once again, over, and over, her index finger. repeating the motion. These days she wore long sleeves. These days, she plastered a smile on her face, these days, she preferred the silence of the library, to the rest of the celebrating castle. These days she was fascinated with the potion knife she carried in her standard potion kit. These days, she would desperately find a hiding place to get away from jovial faces when the convulsions threatened to crack open her happy mask.

But how did that happen? How did she, a Muggleborn, remain untouched by a multitude of those devious spells and curses? While many of those capable purebloods and half-bloods, wizards and witches died. Their blood was still keeping the Hogwarts grounds moist, just a few layers below those springtime grass blades.

MUDBLOOD

The lone index finger tracing over the raised scar tissue, jagged and malicious, evil, repulsive. She had told Harry and Ron, when they have apologized for that mark. "That is a battle scar I will proudly wear." They don't know, and she will never tell them about the one that runs from the left underside of her breast down to the edge of her right hip. She knew, she was told again and again, she was not beautiful. And she knows, she will never be, never at least to the eyes of a man. What happened between Ron and her? A series of unrequited emotional exchanges- crush, infatuation and affection, mistaken attraction. And the kiss? That cleared any and every residual doubt. A Weasley and A Granger was surely not going to date, not going to get married and have a dozen babies.

MUDBLOOD

The index finger was now aching a bit, the palm was getting a bit stiff, with the odd way the other fingers were bunched up within it. He was the first person to mention that word to her. With that little alabaster face and those silver blonde strands of hair back swiped, perfectly gelled. Not one strand out of place. Whereas, every single strand of her bushy, uncooperating mane, was a walking and perhaps, even talking (when her brain was overrunning at times) disaster. So many hairbrushes had died battling through them!

MUDBLOOD

Her wrist had started aching now. She had used that wrist too easily, learning spells, inventing spells, stirring potions and supporting the spine of heavy tomes while she lost herself scanning them for references. She had used it took fight, to climb and to kill. She had used it to form a hard fist and punch him.

MUDBLOOD

That word had echoed in her head, danced on her ear shells, mocked her wisdom and her birth. That single word had pushed her, even beyond her capacities, to become the brightest witch of the age. But the word only echoed in the tone of one voice. His voice.

MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD…

Then why?

Why did things have to change today?