Hi Everyone! This is a story I've had rolling around in my head for a few months.
On the Harry Potter front, it will be completely AU after the Graveyard scene in Book 4. However, I will be incorporating a few things from Book 5.
As for X-Men, well this will definitely be pretty AU for that one.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not the owner of either Harry Potter or the X-Men series. Both belong to J. and Stan Lee respectively. I'm just thankful they let me play with their brilliant characters.
Chapter 1
Thick fog caused by excessive use and an abundance of latent magic rolled around the five foot five frame of a young, curly haired witch. Her expressionless face, flashing amber streaked eyes, and lithe body shrouded in her black, dragon-hide battle robes (save for the crimson armband on her left sleeve) strikes an impressive image in the minds of many-a-Death Eater as her team moves in on the final wave of enemy reinforcements. The young witch, twenty-five year old Hermione Granger, was fighting for her very right to exist in Little Hangelton, England.
As she attempts to navigate through the melee, the breath Hermione's body desperately needs is greedily, defiantly being sucked into her lungs and then expelled in harsh pants. It's a bodily function she performs without ever consciously thinking to do so. It's one voluntary action she savors like the finest chocolate even if it is only to remind herself that she is still there to breathe if she so chooses.
Breathing reminds her that she's still alive.
She's forced sideways to dodge the sickly, yellow bludgeoning curse aimed for her wand arm. The curse crashes into the overly large marble angel masquerading as a grave marker to her right. Stone explodes in various directions and as she stumbles backwards, she feels the bones of someone long since dead crush beneath the heel of her reinforced dragon-hide boot.
She doesn't even pause to check whether the body she has just desecrated is friend or foe. She doesn't think about the body. She can't think about it or any of the others.
There are more enemies to battle, more lives to take.
When it's all over, when this pointless war is finished, if she's still here, then she will weep for them. She will weep for the parents who will never see their children again. She will weep for the parents whom will bury their children and the children whom will bury their parents. She will weep for the innocence lost. She will weep for the many lives touched by the horrors of war. She will weep for the lives they will never have.
She will weep for them all.
But not yet.
Instead she turns to meet her attacker, a woman with a cruel tinge to her Russian accented voice, blow for blow. Out of habit she licks her lips between her barrage of offensive and defensive spells. The metallic and tangy taste of someone else's blood coats her tongue. It belongs to the woman, or perhaps the man Hermione killed before her. The absolute wrongness of tasting anothers life force doesn't stop the young witch or gross her out. It just causes Hermione's full top lip to curl into a sneer of annoyance as she rushes her attacker and delivers a well placed punch to the solar plexus. While the Death Eater attempts to catch her breath, Hermione unsheathes Sadalbari- a beautifully crafted scimitar- and impales the Russian in one fell, unexpected swoop.
A distinctive squelch rings through the air as Hermione pulls the curved short sword from between the Death Eaters ribs. The warm, fresh blood coating the blade and dripping from its sharp tip steams in the chilly pre-dawn air. Hermione does not check to confirm a death. She knows that the venoms and poisons she personally imbued in her Goblin wrought blade will finish the job if her blow was not fatal. She does not even wait for the Russians body to hit the ground before she moves on, expertly twirling her scimitar in arches around her body to form an impromptu shield for the curses she has no time to dodge.
Another Death Eater attacks in close range. Another body falls. New blood mingles with that of thousands of others and she turns. She's looking for another fight. Another kill. She doesn't have to look far.
'It will be over soon,' Hermione tells herself. It has to be over soon because she's not quite sure how much longer she can go on this way. She's been fighting for hours now. It's been a never ending onslaught of enemy after enemy. At this point she's using everything she's got, every ounce of strength left in her body just stay upright, just to stay alive.
As her short sword clashes with the soft flesh of the opponent on her right and she sends a bone exploding hex to the one on her left, she sees Harry for the first time since he killed Lord Voldemort.
He's standing in the middle of the battlefield with his wand in one hand and the Sword of Gryffindor in the other. He is still breathing. He is still alive. Like an angel of death he's surrounded by bodies; the field is littered with them, enemies and allies alike. But the ones surrounding him are most definitely of those whom have tried and failed to avenge their master.
He is drenched in blood. Some his own. Some his enemies. But most of it belongs to Professor McGonagall. The shirt beneath his battle robes is covered with her dried crimson life-force. It seeped straight through the cotton, clinging to his skin from when he tried desperately, unsuccessfully to save her life early on in the fight. Hermione knows that the matronly woman's body lies cold and motionless a few yards away where he hid it to prevent desecration.
Their eyes meet despite the numerous yards between them. He lifts an eyebrow in silent question while nodding to the fights still occurring all across the battlefield. He's asking her if he should end it all before anyone else they love dies.
Hermione shakes her bloody halo of curls vehemently in disagreement. They are winning. Just a few more hours and it will be over. There is no need for him to use his signature elemental spell in such magnitude. The sheer power it requires could kill him.
He clearly disagrees. He looks so weary. She knows he is tired of fighting. She knows he is tired of this war. She knows he just wants it to be over.
He ignores her obvious protest. Instead he offers up an adoring smile. His lips clearly form the words, "I love you, sister."
His eyes flash a blinding shade of emerald and in that split second hundreds of bolts of lightning flash, slamming into bodies around the battlefield. The molten energy kills all intended targets.
The beautiful eyes of the man responsible close. Her best friend, her comrade, her brother, falls to join the pile of bodies at his feet.
Hermione jerked awake, silent tears streaming down her heart-shaped face. Despite having spent nearly a week as a prisoner of war at the mercy of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, that's one of her more unforgettable memories of the war. Not just because it happens to be the most intense battle fought, but because it's the day she thought she lost Harry forever. It's the day she thought she watched her brother die.
Unfortunately, the memory always seems to play out until the point where she watches him fall. It lets her live with that abject horror and huge sense of loss for several moments after she awakes.
It's not until her mind clears that she remembers that she ran to his body and found a pulse. It's not until she calms down that she recalls that his sheer, dumb luck seemed to be out in abundance on that night because the spell that should have drained all of his magic and killed him merely put him into a magical coma.
Slightly bloodshot eyes stare unseeingly at the seat in front of her. As Hermione traces the patterns in the fabric she can't help but think about how Harry is the reason she's now on a flight from London, England to America.
He's the one who encouraged her to seek out her Grandfather now that its relatively safe for her to approach what remains of her tattered family. He's also the one whom pulled strings with the government to obtain her not only dual citizenship in America, but a contract to work with the American Auror Corps to track down the rogue Death Eaters that all traces show slipped from Europe and into their countries after Voldemort fell.
Hermione's thankful for everything Harry has done for her since the end of the War.
Really.
She is.
It's just that, personally, the young witch doesn't think she's stable enough to take up residence with her Grandfather after spending a good portion of her mere twenty-five years of life fighting in Europe's Second Blood War. But, alas, everyone who matters seems to believe she's the best person for the job and that she'll be capable of adjusting to the new life.
Naturally, she wanted to cling to what bit of familiarity she had in England. It wasn't that she didn't desire to see all Death Eaters persecuted for their crimes against humanity, it's just that all of her friends were in Europe. So she tried to change their decision by telling them how she'd likely be a danger to everyone around her when she was not on assignment.
Harry shot that excuse down immediately, easily recognizing it for what it was. He promptly refuted Hermione's lame argument by informing her that being out of Europe where so many battles were fought would mean far less a chance of her losing it than if she were to remain. Furthermore he guilt tripped her by reminding her that many people, including himself, have no family to reconnect with so she should be taking advantage of such an opportunity while working for the Americans.
So after another month in England packing up her meager personal effects and having a final Hurrah! with her mates that survived the War, Hermione's now thousands of feet over the Atlantic in a flying contraption of death worrying about her future.
This was her Grandfather, Professor Charles Xavier of the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning, she'd be just showing up out of nowhere to live with. Not only has she not seen him since the summer before her fourth year when she visited New York with her parents, but he's also what's known as a mutant. That means he's a muggle whom carries the X-Gene- an anomaly in the human genome which affords the carriers certain gifts.
Her Grandfathers gift is telepathy.
And that scared Hermione more than she'd ever admit.
What if her occlumency shields aren't strong enough to keep him out of her head? What if he learns of all the atrocious acts she has committed 'for the greater good' during the war he knew so little about. What if he decides he doesn't want a woman whom is nothing like the young bookworm he last interacted with?
Because that innocent little girl will never be coming back. Unfortunately, Hermione the Clueless Bookworm had to leave the building at the tender age of fifteen when war threatened her very existence. Hermione the Soldier took her place and life hadn't exactly been beer and skittles since.
She shrugged her petite shoulders as a sigh fell from her lips. She hopes that maybe she'll just get lucky and easily adapt to a relatively normal life with her Grandfather at his school for mutants when she isn't off chasing down rogues.
Unfortunately, Hermione knows that's just an unlikely fancy. It has been five months since the fall of Voldemort and she has yet to adapt to a life where she no longer has to constantly fight for the right to live in a society dominated by pure-blooded aristocrats. After five months she still catches herself living like every minute may be her last. Be it letting her friends know how much they mean to her every time they part or enjoying a few pints and a good joke; It doesn't matter. Hermione still clings to those moments as if she'll never get another chance. Hell, it's been five months with very little Death Eater activity and she still scans rooms for those trying to kill her, scopes out all possible exits, and flinches away from unfamiliar touch.
After nearly ten years in the melee of the conflict, she knows that these things are involuntary actions she performs because they were ingrained into her psych by all of her combat instructors. However, Hermione has a sneaking suspicion that they are habits she'll never fully be rid of, even when there is no longer a threat, because being rid of them would mean letting down her guard. It would mean allowing herself to be vulnerable both physically and emotionally.
Vulnerability is something she fears with every fibre of her being. But she figures she doesn't need to worry about that now. She doubts she will ever be able to open up to any of the mutants at her Grandfathers estate because they will never be capable of understanding the hell she survived in her war ravaged country.
And she definitely knows that she will not be letting her Grandfather or any of the others treat her as if she is some weak, vulnerable fragile doll because of any memories she shares with them. Hermione knows that she may be war hardened and a bit… loose in the head at times, but she'll always be stronger than anyone will ever know despite her many faults because the Death Eaters tried to break her and failed. As Hemingway once put it "The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places."
Well that's Hermione Granger. Strong at the broken places.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts as we prepare to land. It is just past three in the afternoon here in New York City. It is roughly seventy degrees Fahrenheit with a slight breeze. I hope you enjoy your stay and, as always, thank you for flying British Airways."
The captains voice shook Hermione out of her musings. The brunettes eyes squeezed shut tightly of their own accord and her jaw clenched in preparation for descent. In Hermione's opinion the feeling of ones stomach attempting to take up residence in ones throat is the worst part of flying. Well, other than the whole possibility of crashing…but they say the odds of that happening are slim to none right?
Right.
'Good thing I didn't bring Harry along,' she decided. 'The impossible usually happens when he's involved. Yes. It's a very good thing. He can fly in one of these metal contraptions of death on his own, thank you very much.'
Finally the plane landed and Hermione took a few moments to compose herself less she do something completely undignified, like sick-up in the aisle, before grabbing her trusty rucksack from the overhead and following her fellow first class passengers towards customs. She got cleared nearly an hour later and effortlessly navigated through the overly crowded John F. Kennedy airport to a shadowed and well hidden alleyway outside.
She quickly checked to ensure no passersby were paying attention to her actions before unshrinking her most beloved possession. The Ducati Street-fighter S was a congratulations present from Sirius for passing the test to get her motorbike license. Not only does her bike have a liquid cooled V-Twin that emits a burly rumble through its stacked mufflers, but Sirius performed several magical enhancements as well. Now instead of only putting out 155 hp, it pulls upwards of 200 with magical safety features to minimize the risk of injury in the event of crashing at such high speeds. He even performed a powerful charm on the identification plates so that they will always read as being up to date in whatever country it is being ridden in.
And that doesn't even account for the black and electric blue paint job on hers and the black and emerald green of Harry's. Sirius' prankster side came out a bit when he worked on them because their respective bikes each have a quote that they can totally imagine him popping out at them some time or another on written inside the flames on the left side.
Hers actually reads, "I wish we could do something really sinful," of all things.
She's still in a state of disbelief about how suggestive that sounds.
Sadly, no matter how skeptical she is of the quote on her bike, it happens to be the material thing she treasures the most in the world since Sirius got killed in action not a month after he gave it to her.
The curly haired witch quickly mounted the bike as she locked those particularly depressing thoughts away behind one of her Occulmency barriers to sort out when she took a shower or went to bed. They weren't the sort one should have while maneuvering a very heavy motorbike through the chaos that is New York City.
She donned her helmet, fingerless dragon-hide riding gloves, and form fitting dragon-hide riding jacket before starting her baby up. The engine practically purred as she revved it a few times. Once she had adequately warmed the motor, she left the alleyway and navigated her way through the mid afternoon traffic.
At just past five o'clock Hermione passed the Westchester county line. Even though her Grandfather had received a letter last month telling him to expect her arrival, she decided it would be prudent to alert of him of her approach anyway.
She carefully lowered her Occulumency shields just enough to ensure he would hear her think, "Grandfather, expect my arrival in the next thirty minutes."
As if he were waiting for her call, he promptly replied, "I'll meet you at the front entrance. The code for the gate is X129563MJ."
Hermione didn't respond further. Her shields went back to full capacity and she concentrated on the beautiful New York countryside to quell her nerves.
She had once more managed to reach a neutral and calm state by the time she approached the black gates of the large mansion masquerading as a school. But her nerves returned full force as she looked upon her Grandfathers estate. She reached out with shaking fingers to punch in the code.
The imposing gates slowly began opening. Hermione closed her amber streaked brown eyes while she took a few deep breaths. She needed a moment to gather all of her supposed Gryffindor courage and bravery because, like it or not, she was here. Once she felt her cool, detached confidence reign supreme once more, she revved her Ducati and took off towards the sprawling mansion.
Review and let me know whether I should continue or not!