Most of the time, if Hermione Granger was upset, she would throw herself into her work. Ensure that the coat of a Transfigured animal shone to no end, or felt distinct pleasure at adding an extra scroll beyond what was required for an essay. To a certain degree, she was still capable of this on the island, always more paperwork to be done, especially after such a huge change in setting. But that day, right in the middle of another stack of forms, Hermione paused.

Laid her hands on the tall pile of sheets, stared outside.

And decided that she couldn't do it anymore.

It wasn't that she wouldn't be able to find the mental space to begin that work again. No matter what, she had obligations as a teacher, and as a Council member, and Hermione knew that she wouldn't have forgiven herself if she began to fall back on those entirely. But in that moment, she just couldn't, because it all felt quite futile, really. Everything remained in a sort of stasis on the island, in a way that she would have appreciated, had she arrived during a time of peace back home. Unfortunately, not having witnessed the war's end, Hermione felt much like she was holding her breath at the end of the day, waiting to again enter the fray.

Ginny Weasley was gone, and Hermione wasn't quite sad about that. She worried, instead. Until any of them went home, after all, there was no real way to know what happened. So she made her way over to the kitchen, allowing her hands to carry out that worry as she pulled a large bag of cherries out of the icebox and a knife, slitting them down the center and tugging the pit out of each. She had no idea if there was anything that she could manage to make with them, but the regular motion helped ease the tension away from her fingers, even as she longed for the use of her magic.

When Hermione first noticed her name once more on the bulletin board as a nominee for Council, she stopped to ask herself a few questions. Wondering, first, if she was prepared to once more give up a good portion of every day to the work that being on such a committee required. Asking, second, if she had ideas that made her the right person for the job, ideas that she would push in the following term, no longer sitting in the background. With both of those being an immediate and resounding yes, she asked herself the last question as she turned away from the sign, a small and nervous smile on her lips, that of who she wanted to talk the matter over with. Who she would run her ideas by, making sure that she didn't miss any glaring flaws before taking them to the podium. Assuming that she'd find enough signatures to make it on.

Harry and Ron might have been the first thought that came to her mind, but it was one that she quickly discarded; the boys had lost themselves in recent weeks to the formation of Quidditch teams, to the excitement over each new hoverbroom that Hermione turned out after class. While she had no doubt that either of them certainly cared for the welfare of the island, knowing how best to protect its interests was another matter entirely. She, too, considered running to Ginny, or Bill, or even Luna, but found herself wondering if it wouldn't be best to first run her thoughts against someone who would be inclined to criticize, to poke holes in her logic, to find reasons to set her back.

With a small smirk, she shook her head, thinking the answer pretty clear.

Not half an hour later, she stood outside Draco Malfoy's hut, breathing a soft sigh as she raised her hand to rap smartly on the door.

Maybe Rapture was a mistake.

Hermione Granger was a girl who often looked back on the past for any number of reasons. Although the saying was certainly trite and quite possibly overused, there was truth in the claim that history always repeated itself. While humans had made impossible amounts of progress in the past couple of millennia, human nature sometimes seemed incapable of changing much at all. And it was that same nature of Hermione's own that had her reflecting upon the foolishness of heading down the Rapture. That had her realizing, more than ever, how much more helpless all of them were, not only in deciding where they walked or where they stayed on the island, but even defending one another against threats that wouldn't have been much at all, just months ago. With Rapture still teeming with activity, Hermione practically swearing that she could feel it rumbling still beneath her feet, her heart raced as she and Ron stepped back inside their hut. Her hand tightly gripped his own.

"Harry?" she called out as soon as they entered, never letting go of Ron's grip as the pad of her thumb ran lightly against his hand. After a couple seconds of silence, she turned to Ron with an anxious look, brow furrowed as she leaned in to rest her forehead against his shoulder, feeling her hair drip water down the small of her back. "He hasn't returned yet. Merlin, what if something happens to him?"

Glass shattered in every which way as Hermione felt her legs give out from under her, knees colliding unpleasantly with the ground while she managed to instinctively cover the back of her neck. Even as the pain shot through her body, some remaining with a dull ache that dug too deep in her bones, her immediate thought was that she was free to breathe at last, gasping for air even as the tepid air stung against the slight slit across her neck. Perhaps it was a cursed blade. In the end, that wasn't what really mattered; even with her bones feeling very much like jelly and heavy wrought iron weighing her down, Hermione pushed her palms against the floor, willing herself to look up and watch. To see if her friends were safe.

All of them had known what they were signing up for, putting their own lives on the line in the hopes of securing a better future for generations to come, but a lofty goal could never outweigh looming threats and blades held so close to one's throat. Far more terrifying to Hermione than finding herself at odds had always been the thought of either of her best friends getting hurt. Sometimes, at the worst of moments much like that evening at Malfoy Manor, it was hard to suppress the feeling that maybe they shouldn't have been so ambitious after all, that they should have spent more time preparing themselves or potentially even enjoying what little peace they had, more than many others in the war while tucked away in the shadows of unknown forests. Hermione caught a glimpse of red hair and heard Harry shouting incantations, noticed the whiz of Stunning Spells passing by as her hand groped over the floor, despite knowing she'd find no wand there. Her hair fell in front of her eyes to obscure her view, but it didn't stop the scattered shards of glass from glittering like green and red stars spread across the dark marble floor.

Hermione froze when a pair of hands reached out to grasp her, rather than pushing them away, heart racing until it thudded against her ears. Hearing Ron's terse, quiet voice helped stifle the whimper of pain as she nodded. Just nodded, even as she found it difficult to process what he was saying at all. She heard the rending of metal scraping against stone and the light clatter of Gryffindor's sword before a wand was tossed through the relative darkness. With Ron's hand tightly wrapped around her shoulder, Hermione did nothing more than grasp onto his jumper, watching with wide and apprehensive eyes as Harry slung Griphook over a shoulder and grabbed for Dobby's spindly little hand. She tried to reach into her coat, making sure that everything was there— the beaded purse, but still no wand.

And then she hit damp earth with a slap of her cheek against sand, salty air playing with her nose and foam washing by her lips; she coughed in an effort to rid herself of the taste, wincing as the ocean washed over the scrawl of 'Mudblood' over her arm and the minute cuts from the fallen chandelier.

"Ron?" she called out, voice hoarse. "Harry?"

Pushing her palms against the sand and pulling herself up to her knees, Hermione frowned as she looked out over crashing waves and felt the sun beating down on her from above. In spite of how idyllic the scene was, Hermione's fingers only dug deeper into the grains, finding the beaded bag in her immediate line of sight. Gritting her teeth, Hermione got to her feet and wrapped both arms tightly around her waist. As she stood, it soon became clear that all of the items that had been in the bag— clothes, quills, books— were scattered over the sand. Had her charm worn off?

"Oh my God," she murmured to herself, covering her mouth with a hand. The three of them were meant to anticipate everything, to be ready for any eventuality, but she wasn't sure anything could have prepared her for this.