Author's Note: So, the idea of this story just sort of...happened? I took it and ran with it. The entire story has been outlined and updates will come as quickly as I can write them. For now, I'll just say weekly but could be longer, could be sooner depending on muse and inspiration. You all know how that goes *wink*
This is AU. Hardly anything in this story follows canon. No Wizarding War, no Voldemort, no Horcruxes. While Hermione did attend Hogwarts, she wasn't friends with Harry and Ron. Personality wise however, I'm staying as in-character as possible giving the setting.
Feedback would be most appreciated. Happy Reading!
Disclaimer: I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe or its many beautiful and unique characters, I merely borrow them for whatever craziness my mind concocts.
Playing With Fire
I. Tinder
Had it really been three years? It felt like three decades while at the same time it felt like three hours. Not much had changed that Hermione could see. Witches and wizards still strode around the cobblestone streets of the alley decked out in robes and cloaks, decorative pointy hats, chatting idly about articles in the Prophet, the prices of cauldrons, whose child was starting Hogwarts in the fall. Children still ran around squabbling over which model broomstick was the fastest and whose Quidditch team was the best. It might take some getting used to, she supposed, the lack of cars, parked or zooming along, or evidence of other Muggle transportation. Though to be perfectly honest, if she ever saw or even sat behind the wheel of a car again, it would be too soon. Which was lucky for her as here people popped in and out where they stood by means of Apparation, from inside the shops she could hear the swelling rush of flames where others chose to use the Floo Network. The squealing, screeching breaks of the Knight Bus could be heard if one knew what to listen for. On the Muggle side of things where rats and pigeons occupied the same space as their human counterparts, stray Kneazles and Crups hissed and barked in the shadows between the buildings and structures, out of sight, out from underfoot. Shoppers rushed about, some carrying parcels others using simple charm work to levitate their purchases, trying to take advantage of the latest sales and bargain deals before closing time.
Diagon Alley was the same as it always had been. From the fancy, expensive town homes and gardens in the alley's northern district to the hustle and bustle of its famed shopping square in the center. Gringotts, with its austere marble facade towered over the area, a proud reminder of the wealth that generations upon generations of magical folk had accumulated over the centuries the bank had been in operation. Funny, the brunette witch couldn't help but snort derisively, not everyone was made of galleons.
She certainly wasn't. She had lived a happy childhood in a beautiful little house in a rather nice neighborhood. Her parents had been dentist, owning between themselves a respectable business. But the life of two family dentists had been far from the lap of luxury. There had been a roof of their heads, hot home cooked meals every night, a vacation every summer, yes. But when her Hogwarts letter had arrived, hand delivered by Professor McGonagall herself, it had brought along with it the stunning revelation that she was more than just a bushy haired bookworm in braces, but a witch to boot.
The tuition under the guise of a Muggle boarding school had certainly put a dent into the family's finances. Times had gotten rather hard. The summer holidays had stopped, her parents' hours of working had gotten longer, all to scrape up every penny to fund her magical education. It was one of the many things that had motivated her to earn the highest marks she could. She made hardly any friends save for one or two who to this day she was sure cared more about the state of their own grades and assignments by associating with her than her as an actual person with feelings. She was labeled a goody-two-shoes, a know-it-all. Some of her professors praised her, while others, particularly the hook nosed, greasy haired Potions Master regarded her as an insufferable overachiever. It had been a difficult seven years and yet, she managed to pull through, earning the moniker the 'brightest witch of her age'.
She literally could have had any career she wanted in the Wizarding World at the time. She had been sent offers from most of the departments of the Ministry of Magic, from several wards in St. Mungo's Hospital. But in the end, Hermione decided she wanted to take a break from it all and so, she returned home to her parents, hell bent on paying them back for the near decade of generosity, love and support they had bestowed on her. And things had been looking up as they tended to do whenever disaster was sneakily lurking around the corner.
The morning of the accident had started off relatively normal. There had been eggs and toast for breakfast, tea. The news broadcasting from the television set in the living room. Polite conversation had been made, the itineraries of the day shared. Her father had three appointments lined up - a retainer needed to be refitted, an extraction, a routine root canal. Her mother had some errands to run before heading to the office for her own appointments. Hermione would be working a six hour shift as a clerk at a bookshop in London, a job she managed to secure shortly after returning home. After the dishes were tidied her father asked if she'd wanted a ride to the shop. She had declined, content with taking the bus. Hugs and kisses, well wishes for a good day, and then her parents were out the door. Had she known it would be last time she'd ever see them alive, well, Hermione had all her life to go over what she would have, could have done differently. But that morning there had been no sign, no warning, no anticlimactic series of events that were usually present in drama films or series. Until of course a police officer had showed up at her job some hours later to inform her that her parents' car had ended up totaled, wrapped around a telephone pole, engulfed in flames. Neither had survived.
And in one fell swoop, she had been orphaned at nineteen years of age. Many people in both the Muggle and Wizarding world have words to describe the feeling of one's world changing, stopping on its axis. Shock, disbelief, heartbreaking, sickening, tragic. A whole horde of others that barely managed to scratch the surface. There was no word in her extensive vocabulary to begin to describe the depth of her anguish or despair, nothing she had ever experienced in life could compare to it. For the first time, she felt and was well and truly alone.
She continued on in the Muggle world for the next two years, struggling to pay off her parents accumulated debts with the meager bookshop salary she earned but in the end it hadn't been enough. The house she had grown up in, had spent many loving years taking it all for granted had to be sold. She rented a flat in London close to the shop where she worked, had given up all things having to do with the Wizarding World. Part of her, she supposed, irrationally blamed it for taking away so much precious time she could have had with her parents. How much simpler would things have been had she not been accepted or even attended Hogwarts? Would they still be alive if she had lived a Muggle existence, if she had never been born with magic? Could she have saved them had she accepted the ride in the car that morning? As soon as disaster became evident could she have side along Apparated the three of them to safety in time?
Hermione had nearly driven herself to insanity with these questions that had no answers. There was no chapter in any book, no spell, no amount of parchment, quill, ink and cramped hands from essay writing that could give them to her. She was sick of trying. Sick of lying to herself. When the bookshop closed down, she knew it was time to go back. There was nothing left for her in the Muggle world. She had been an only child of two only children. She had no family, nothing tying her to this side of herself anymore. But she still had her magic. It had been a long while since she had cast a spell, used her wand, or even touched an issue of the Daily Prophet The classified section left little to be desired. Menial jobs and tasks that would only bore her, that wouldn't provide enough distraction from her pain. And that was when she saw the ad that eventually did bring her plans of returning to solid reality.
She had no real experience with goblins but from her studies knew them to be notorious in their customs and ways. There was something sinister to them and Belouck had certainly embodied that. Beady eyes, a sharp toothed, lecherous grin, low raspy voice, a habit of stroking his face with pointed dirty nails in an attempt to cover up the way his attention remained fixated on her body. But he had offered her both the job and a place to live in the night club and apartment building he owned. People who knew her, whether in passing or from school, certainly her parents had they still been breathing, would surely be shocked to learn she had been reduced to stripping for a living. All those smarts, so much untapped potential. But so was the irony of life.
Hermione knew the very moment she exited Diagon Alley and stepped into Knockturn Alley. The air was different. The aura was different. The sun seemed to have already set, spreading shadows and gloom with every step she took. There were cracks in the cobblestone, the road uneven. The windows of the shops that weren't boarded up with planks of wood were grimy. No bright colors here, crumbling bricks, gusts of cold, stale wind. Crooked stone stairs that led her deeper into an abyss that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Every internal instinct within her screamed for her to run, to get away from this place. But she ignored it and pressed onward.
Like in Diagon, there were people about. That was where the similarity ended, however. There was no hustle and bustle, no milling about, no leisurely shopping. Hjere people skulked, they slithered. It felt as though hundreds of eyes were following her, silently, watching, waiting to make a move. Hermione barely suppressed a shudder as she entered the residential area. Run down, shabby looking buildings. Somewhere a baby was crying loudly and she couldn't figure out if it was a human infant screeching out its needs for the world to hear, or the young of another species. Knockturn was home to witches, wizards, as well as beings and sentient creatures most shunned from 'normal' Wizarding society. It certainly was unnerving. She could hear what sounded like a fight breaking out, a glass shattering, angry voices rising in volume. The wind howling, discarded papers rustling, caught up in the draft. Water dripped from an unknown source.
Hermione slowed her steps, cringing at the way everything seemed to echo off of the high walls. Her hand trembled as she pulled the sheet of parchment from the pocket of her worn cloak and squinted down at the address that had been written down. She had to be getting close. But then a terrifying thought entered her mind. What if Belouck had given her the wrong address? Suppose this was some sort of plot to lure her deep into Knockturn, unable to escape? What if at that very moment she was being surrounded, without even realizing it, by a group of those beady eyed creatures to be dragged off to some abandoned building for them have their own sort of goblin fun? Where no one would hear her pleas for help, or worse yet, ignore them? Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, her mouth suddenly dry. Too quickly to be casual, she looked over her shoulder. Could she make a run for Diagon Alley? Would she be chased? Why didn't she have her wand in her hand? Where was the bloody thing?
"You look lost."
She nearly jumped out of her skin, startled by the sound of a voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. Releasing a shaky breath, her eyes focused on a witch, approaching her from across the street. Behind her, a darkly clothed wizard slipped away into the shadows. Hermione watched the witch pocket something, never breaking her stride. Her hair was wild, a sea of black curls that appeared to blend in with the dark settled heavily around them. But her complexion was pale, unblemished, a stark contrast to those curls that framed it. Eyes the color of pitch, heavily lidded, a slightly upturned nose, and full lips painted red that parted to reveal glistening white teeth.
"Are you?"
The words shook Hermione out of her stupor. The tone of the witch's voice was more amused than ominous, teasing rather than threatening. The timbre low and throaty with a hint of breathiness. She sucked in a gulp of air and nodded once, showing the dark witch the address on the parchment praying to a deity that more than likely didn't exist that she wasn't making a potentially lethal mistake. She flinched when the witch unexpectedly began to laugh, a high pitched sound that reverberated discordantly around the alley.
"That old goblin has one nasty fetish for fresh meat, doesn't he. Dirty little bastard."
The shock and relief in combination was so staggering Hermione very nearly went weak in the knees. "Y-you know Belouck? So, this isn't fake, then." Of course, had she not been suddenly dizzy from the effects of the now displaced adrenaline running through her veins, she might have cringed at the term 'fresh meat'. Goblins generally weren't well liked in the Wizarding community so it wasn't as if she hadn't heard the same note of scorn in the voice of another before.
The witch's response was a mere eye roll as she turned on her heels and began walking further along the cobblestone. Moments later when she realized Hermione hadn't moved from the spot on which she was standing, she jerked her head in a silent invitation to follow. It was here Hermione found herself faced with a choice. Follow a complete stranger to Merlin only knew where or stay where she was and perhaps fall victim to any number of the crimes regularly committed by Knockturn's inhabitants.
She jogged over to where the witch tapped her foot with an impatient air, wrapping a lock of her hair indolently around the tip of a thick curved wand, appearing perfectly at ease surrounded by the darkness. The witch's walk was brisk with a sway to it, as if the ground below her feet was liquid rather than solid, crooked but graceful. They turned a corner abruptly and then another. Hermione's head was still spinning, her heart rate slowing but still noticeably fast. No words were exchanged until they came to a sudden stop before a brick building about four stories tall, old and crumbling as everything else in the alley. But there was more noise here, more people, sounds of boisterous revelry, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering, loud music playing, more lights charmed it seemed to represent every carnal color known. They were in the middle of Knockturn's entertainment district, well known for its particular flavor of danger and debauchery.
"Home sweet home and Toxic is just a ways up there." The witch pointed lazily northward toward the source of the noise from the bars and pubs, nightclubs, gambling halls, and dueling arena. Before Hermione could express her confusion as to how the stranger had known where she would be working, a pair of narrow shoulders shrugged, "Belouck likes to keep his witches as close to the rabble as possible. Never you worry though, the wards will keep some of the monsters at bay. Can't say the same for the rest of this shit hole."
The weight of it all finally started to sink in. Her parents were gone. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and whatever keepsakes she could fit in her charmed bag. This was her life now. Emotionally, physically, mentally, she was utterly exhausted. Awkwardly she shuffled her beaded bag to her left hand and offered her right hand to the witch for a shake, "I'm Hermione Granger. Thanks, I mean, thank you for -"
Her words slowly tapered off as she realized her hand had been left hanging untouched. Manners probably weren't big in Knockturn. Fine by her. She let her arm drop and turned to enter the building without another word. As her foot hit the first creaking stair that would lead her up to the third floor, Hermione could hear the witch's heels clicking against the cobblestone, going back in the direction from where they had come. Hermione paused as she heard an airily teasing parting remark,
"Hope you know a good warming charm, pet, it gets awfully cold at night."