Disclaimer: I don't Harry Potter or Twilight
Hermione is 18 (I've warped time). Imagine that the events of 5, 6 and 7 year were mashed into two years instead of three (cut out unnecessary moments and whatnot). OotP, HBP and DH compliant to a point.
The house was a modest two-story structure with blue painting and white shutters. It was so unlike the house she'd grown up in, in the UK. But it would be home for the next year or so, so she wasn't complaining. Though the heavy rain and constant cloud coverage would be a source of irritation. What had compelled her parents to move from one dreary place to another? Hermione had half expected somewhere tropical and relaxing.
"I know it's not what your room at home, but… I think this will be good for you."
Amelia Granger whispered making sure Hermione was aware of the placement of her mother's hands before they landed on Hermione's shoulders.
"We just want you to get well."
Jonathan Granger placed a small kiss to his daughter's cheek. They didn't just want their daughter better, they needed her to be better and Hermione knew it. She had tried in the UK but everything around her reminded her of something horrible and pushed her further and further away from her family and friends. They were all worried about her, and she couldn't blame them.
Shooing away their hidden worries, her lips tugged into a small, soft smile.
"I love it, I really do."
It was all she could say. The room was nothing special as it stood, with its all white walls, plush white carpet and lone bed. But Hermione would try her best to make it her own. A few photos, and maybe a shelf for her books would make this room feel more like a room and less like an infirmary.
Hermione watched as her parents attempted to exit the room at the same time. They're shoulders squished together painfully as they fought to keep an eye on their daughter as they left the room. The girl in questioned sighed heavily as they finally disappeared beyond the threshold of her room.
Flopping down on the bare mattress Hermione wondered exactly how she got to this point, alienated and alone. Pushed away from all the things she once thought defined her as a person. Away from Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and the only thing that made actual sense in her life, being a witch.
It was all Bellatrix Lestrange's fault. Just the sound of her name running through Hermione's mind caused the girl to curl over her knees and push her palms flat against the side of her head to shield her ears from Lestrange's demented laughter and harsh words.
MUDBLOOD FILTH! Lestrange's voice screamed in Hermione's mind. Realizing her hands were providing her no protection Hermione grasped her hand over her mouth to muffle her terrified screams.
"It's not real. It's not happening. I'm ok."
The mantra her therapist told her to say when she felt herself behind pulled back to that night in Malfoy manor. It wasn't real, not at this moment in time. Bellatrix was dead and couldn't hurt her any longer. Gasping for breath she attempted to control her fear as not to alert her parents, she put them through enough in the UK. They moved to America to get away from this, but how could you escape something that was in your mind?
Dropping back onto the mattress Hermione waited, eyes clenched so tight her head started to burn with pain, until the fear slipped from her body. A light sheen of sweat coated her forehead.
Once it was over Hermione curled up and cried.
Death prevented Bellatrix from harming her physically, but the impression Bellatrix left upon her mind would continue to haunt her.