1 Work in Granger's Unhinged Writing Department
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A shoulder bumps into hers. It should mean nothing, not worth a second thought. The touch should not even register to her.
But it reverberates through her, rippling through her entire body until the aftershock is transferred to the ground beneath. Hermione’s teeth sink into her lower lip—lateral incisors scraping against flesh, molars pinching the sides of her tongue, sharp and pointy—holding back the pained gasp that threatens to loosen from her at the slight contact.
“Fuck,” a voice seethes, and she instantly places him.
Her eyes open and he’s there—tall, blonde, brooding and looming in her space.
Or: Not everyone comes back from the war. Those who do return are changed.