Chapter One
"Ms. Granger, please have those papers on my desk in half an hour. I want to double check the applicants first thing Monday morning."
The words were spoken casually by Hermione's boss, Ms. Singh and as she walked towards her office. Hermione nodded, and then realized the woman's back was to her.
"Already on the last dozen," she called out instead. She then rolled back her shoulders, and prepared to tackle the last of her stack before the weekend.
Computers had been the hardest part, she decided and she took on the listings in hardcopy format rather than on the hosted server page. When all was said and done, it was really quite incredible what one could remember from ten years of primary school – advanced arithmetic, scientific principals, some politics even, but computers?
She'd had to start from scratch in Internet cafés, and it was weeks before she felt she could trust herself with a laptop. The mechanics of it all were simple enough. It was the computers themselves didn't make it easy. Honestly, it was as though the boxes of complex wiring could sense the utterly 'non-muggleness of her. It was as though magic crackled around her skin in a low-level field that interfered with anything and everything electrical in her daily life.
Her trials were hardly limited to the one beast of technology. The photocopier was another perfect example. Hermione could approach a photocopier with a full paper supply, full toner supply and all the correct instructions and commands entered, and still, miraculously, the bloody hulking piece of technology would refuse to operate. Sometimes it gave an error code that no manual or even the manufacturers would recognize. Other times it just didn't acknowledge Hermione's presence. She could press 'print' ten times and nothing would happen!
It had gotten to be such a hindrance to her work that Hermione'd gotten in the habit of slipping her paperwork in with her coworkers' stacks. That was how she'd met her coworker and close friend Lucy.
Hermione gave a sidelong glance at the desktop that she would have to start pulling data from shortly. Yes, computers were particularly special. With the Internet, email, spreadsheets, tables, and word processors, they were an unavoidable staple of office life, and were supposed to be incredibly useful. However sudden computer crashes, lost work, miscommunications between computer and printer and internet crashes had become an accepted part of Hermione's existence.
Sometimes they felt normal, as though she was just any other office worker having a bad day, which she had to admit, was exactly what she wanted.
As though her gaze had willed it into existence, an instant message popped up on her computer's screen.
L: Knock off early?
Hermione smiled to herself and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at its sender. Her fingers found purchase on the keyboard.
H: God, yes!
L: The Usual?
H: It's Friday, let's kick it up a notch.
L: Okay, meet you outside in 10.
It was these little rushes that made it all worthwhile: the utterly normal feeling of being excited for the weekend, of planning dinners and shopping trips. It was all so normal that it was special. Picking out new shoes felt like making an important life decision. Finishing that last book in a series felt like a marker of success as Hermione added all 12 tomes to her bursting bookshelf. What more could she want?
She found herself whizzing through the final rounds of paperwork, only half glancing at the spelling of names, places of birth, intent etc. etc. Ten minutes was, ten minutes!
She'd picked work in the immigration offices because they were important and necessary. She would always know that what she was doing, in someway and to some person, mattered, and yes, there were some days where she took it almost too seriously, double and triple checking applicants backgrounds like the detective of a some 1940s paperback mystery. Sometimes (and recently, more often than she'd care to admit) Hermione found herself simply going through the paces. She found herself living for the rest of her life – the part that was fun, full of coffee dates and traipsing around England.
Sure, immigration would always be important to document, but more often than not, she simply came across American university students who'd fallen in love and wanted extended work permits. Nothing major. Nothing sinister.
Not to mention July was something of 'rush' month with visas coming up for renewal. Really, she'd earned this weekend. She could afford to be a little lax as she poured over the names of applicants.
Harriet Winston. Print, Hernione thought to herself as she fiddled with the mouse to try and cajole the computer to do her bidding.
Louise Delaney. Print, she thought merrily.
Thomas Strange.
Strange…
Her right hand hovered the curser, hesitating to add Thomas to the print pile. She could feel it - her hands clenching involuntarily, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, and worst of all, a high pitched shriek breaking free from the locked chambers of her mind.
It was cruel and wrong that ten years later she couldn't anticipate the triggers. Around her the office whirred on in a haze of click-clacking keyboards, slamming file drawers and oiled swiveling of chairs. Friday night was almost upon them all. But everything from the drone of cars outside to the brightest of mobile ringtones had reduced to a dull echo, as though Hermion had suddenly been plunged underwater.
You're having a panic attack. She thought the words like an incantation. You are having a panic attack and in a moment, you will feel fine. You are safe.
She forced air into her lungs.
You are safe and there is nothing to worry about.
She forced herself to read over the full paperwork of Thomas Strange, to confirm for herself that he was not somehow Bellatrix with a pseudonym.
Last: Strange, Middle: Mortimer, First: Thomas
Age: 26
Country of Birth: Alsace
See? What could this boy have to do with Bellatrix, or the war? He was practically Hermione's own age. If anything, this Thomas would have been attending Durmstrang when the war was going – if he was even magical. The paperwork even stated that he was looking for a permanent residency. What sort of a pure blood wizard even knew what that meant? In this little office Hermione had quickly learned that where paperwork was concerned, the wizarding world was estranged from Britain and its government. She highly suspected that not a one of the professors she'd grown up respecting and admiring had so much as voted during any national elections.
She had nothing to fear from this Mr. Strange.
Print.
Besides, her ten minutes were almost up. She had to get these entered forms on Ms. Singh's desk for approval and she had to meet Lucy. The war was ten years ago.
"Thank God its Friday!" Lucy cheered, bringing the cocktails to her and Hermione's little table. They were in the centre of the din at HEX. Part swanky restaurant on one floor, part dance club on the other, HEX had 'end of the week' written all over. The magic of sex and release seemed to simply sizzle in the air.
"Cheers," Hermione clinked her glass and took a grateful swallow of gin and vermouth.
"Indeed!" Lucy took of sip of her own drink, flashing her dimples. She had a blunt, blond fringe that hung just atop her brow line, while the rest of her blond mane was swept into a casual ponytail, and (not that she could get any more sweet), but she had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that reminded Hermione of a character in a book.
She was the sort of girl Hermione had spent most of her life secretly trying to be.
"Thank you for suggesting an upgrade. Pints were simply not going to cut it. I have put in way too much data for a lifetime. Why does everyone want to live in jolly old England?"
"I know! God, my hands are killing me."
"Cheers, to that. So let's leave the office where it belongs. I don't know about you, but I need a life. I'm spending another weekend looking forward to Sunday dinner with my mum. Ugh. I need to get laid. Weekends are supposed to be for mini-breaks!"
Sunday dinner with mum… the very words were tangle inside her. No, Hermione had accepted what could not be changed, but it didn't make the holidays, the weekends or the lack of contact hurt any less.
Not that dwelling would help.
"What happened to Marcus? I thought you two had plans this weekend," Hermione asked with a determined brightness.
"He said he wants to keep things casual for now. See other people." Lucy took another swig, and half of her cocktail with it. "Last weekend it was all dinner dates and feelings and now its 'let's not jump in so quickly'."
"Ass."
"I know! And, I'm pretty sure it has to do with his new roommate. Remember I told you he was letting a family friend camp out? Well now the guy is moving in."
Hermione waited for the rest of the story to present itself.
"Okay," she said at last.
"You don't see it? Sounds to me like Marcus is suddenly 'finding himself'. I swear, if one more guy I'm sleeping with comes out of the closet… ugh!" Lucy downed the second half of her drink.
She shook herself all over, as if to wake up the nerve endings and then popped to her feet, pulling on Hermione's hand.
"We haven't even ordered," Hermione laughed, knowing where this was leading.
"Finish your drink. I want some fresh blood to buy me dinner."
Hermione took a quick glance down at her work clothes; a somewhat fitted grey skirt and a black blouse. Sure she was wearing heels, but she didn't exactly look ready to party. Still, what could it hurt to dance a little? She un-buttoned her blouse just enough to look as though her outfit was intentional (that's what all the magazines said to do), and then she followed Lucy's lead.
Maybe it was the blond hair, but Lucy had no trouble finding some willing men (Ivan and Perry) to buy them drinks, a fact of being a twenty-something woman that Hermione felt she would never tire of. She let Perry ply her with cocktails and compliments and let that tingling sensation of feeling beautiful and desired wash over her – a magic she would never master.
The music was loud and the beat was insistent, calling them all to the dance floor. Regardless of her ensemble, Hermione found herself twirling and twisting to the groove while Perry smiled at her adoringly. Her school dances had never been anything like this.
She still cringed to think of her first time in a proper nightclub in her first year of university. That was the moment she'd truly stepped into the 21st C from whatever medieval realm she'd been living in at Hogwarts; and with a G&T in one hand and longing look of a beautiful man ready to buy her another, she knew that she would never go back.
Maybe she'd let him buy her dinner. Maybe she'd let him drive her home.
"Hermione?"
She twisted around at the sound of her name and promptly dropped her drink.
It couldn't be.
Perry moved to retrieve the fallen cup.
"I'll get you another," he smiled, unintentionally brushing against her as he moved towards the bar, and causing her to stumble.
A firm and familiar hand found her elbow and steadied her.
"I'm fine," she said, brushing the rest of her drink off her chest and realizing that her blouse was going to smell of gin for the rest of the night.
"Sorry," shouted an all too familiar voice over the thud of the music. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She realized his hand was still on her elbow, his long, slender fingers still brushing against her skin. They were more calloused than she'd remembered, sending unwanted shivers along her whole body.
She almost couldn't bring herself to look into his face, but she had to. Those blue eyes were just as piercing as she'd remembered, as though cutting through all her pretenses with a gaze. He still had that one dimple in the corner of his mouth. He still had a smattering of freckles and that tussled red hair. Although now it looked as though the tussling was more intentional.
But it was him.
"Ron."
"Hi!" He smiled, and she could see it in his eyes. "I can't believe its you!"
He was still holding her arm and she hadn't thought to brush him off. Damn. After all these years…
"What are you doing here?" she managed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"Same as you probably," he shrugged.
She was suddenly all too aware of how her shirt was clinging to her bra and that her head was swimming in gin. Her cheeks flushed
"Have you eaten?" Ron took a step closer so that he could be heard over the music, and Hermione felt something like electricity ignite all along her skin. "Can I buy you dinner?"
Whatever her rational answer might have been, Hermione found herself nodding instantly.
Ron Weasley was in a muggle club looking at ease with the menu, comfortable and charming with the waitress, and confident in his gaze towards Hermione, as though she were a long lost treasure. What sort of dream had she stumbled into?
"You've changed," she smiled, shaking her head, not sure if she should keep staring at him or if she would wake up at any moment. Had all his roughness really been smoothed? Was he still the utter procrastinator and lazy lay-about that she'd known? Did he still have a temper?
And what was this inner calmness that seemed to be so cool and settled within him? Where was the restless hunger for life, the uncontrollable tempest of emotions that seemed to fly off the handle?
He seemed to take in the way she was starting at him and almost huffed.
"Okay, am I that different? We were seventeen, you know? My hormones were everywhere." The tips of his ears turned the softest shade of pink.
"Oh, of course." Why was she blushing?
Thankfully the trill of her mobile interrupted.
Lucy: Perry's looking for you with your drink. What should I say?
Herm: Sorry! Got a better offer. Old boarding school friend.
Lucy: No way?! Can I meet him, or you tapping out for the night?
"Um, my friend wants to know if she can meet you?"
"Sure. If you'd like her to -"
"I don't…" oh God, was she blushing again? Was she sixteen? Just hand him the keys to your apartment Hermione! You've practically got a neon sign pointing between your legs.
Herm: Sorry Luce. Tapping out. We were really close – it's complicated.
Lucy: the best kind of old friend ;)
Two steaks and two glasses of wine later, everything felt a little easier, and little blurrier.
"You really made it as an auror. That is just so – so fantastic! I'm so pleased for you."
"Yeah? I honestly thought I was going to fail my final tests. I was so nervous the night before that I stared at the ceiling for hours, and when I finally nodded off I slept through my alarm."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Hey," he said with mock-offense. "Well what about you? You practically vanished. Ginny thought you'd been scooped by the Department of Mysteries."
"How is Ginny? I haven't seen her since the wedding."
"You should ask her yourself. She'd love to hear from you. Her and Harry."
"The other brother you never needed but so desperately wanted."
"Something like that. Now he's got more family than he can handle. He's still teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts if you're curious. He and Gin have a place in Hogsmeade so he can walk up to work everyday."
"That sounds perfect for them."
The twinge of longing was a little unexpected. She hadn't missed that world, not in a long time, but they'd all been such good friends…
"Now, really, what have you been up to?"
"I'm just here in London."
The look on his face was hard to read.
"Are you with the Ministry? I feel like I would have run into you by now."
"I'm with the British Government."
There was a long beat, while the words seemed to click into place.
"Oh."
"I like it."
"Would I understand any of it, or is it all muggle talk?" He smiled at her, letting her off the hook, but she could feel the confusion stirring underneath his skin.
"Its pretty heavy stuff," she teased. "Maybe I'll tell you about it over breakfast." The words were out of her mouth before she could second-guess them, and before Ron could over think her and reject her. So what if all that wine and gin had made her bold? Hadn't she always wondered? Hadn't she always wanted this?
Hadn't he?
She certainly wasn't the innocent schoolgirl she'd once been, back when he'd consumed her daydreams and even some of her late night fantasies. Gone were those days, but still… when she'd been a while between partners or when she thought about her old life, he seemed to just surface in her thoughts like an unanswered question.
She let her hand brush over his knee under the table, and watched his ears turn red. His hand found hers and gave it a squeeze.
"Let me grab the bill. I'll ring us a cab."
"I'm just around the corner, we can walk."
"Good, I could use a walk."
The night air was cool on her skin after the body heat and haze of HEX. She had to focus not to stumble. She had to keep glancing at Ron to see that he was still interested. It was as though her offer had flipped an invisible switch. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans. Why hadn't he put a hand on the small of her back, or offered her his arm?
She could feel that unsettled questioning churning in him, where not minutes ago there'd been calm and flirtation. Was he nervous?
"I'm this one."
"Right."
It took minute to dig out her keys.
"Um, Hermione."
She turned to him, and stumbled so that he had to lunge to catch her, so that she could feel that strength in his arms as he steadied her.
"Yeah?" Who was she kidding? This was Ron. This was right. Who cared if she let her voice go soft and dewy? Who cared, if she let him take her home? Who –
"Hermione, I'm not coming up stairs."
Suddenly she could stand just fine on her own.
"I'm sorry," he said, driving the point home.
"Is it because of my job? Is because I'm living like a muggle?"
"What? No. Look, Hermione I didn't mean to…" He wore a pained look, like he knew he was going to regret his next words. "And you're drunk."
"I see."
"I can't believe I'm being the responsible one here. Fuck!" He ran a hand through his hair, and it killed her that she wanted that hand on her body even as the smack of rejection burned on her skin.
"You just wanted to make sure I got home – I get it."
"I do want to see you again. I want to talk some more."
"Bully for you."
A flash of a dimple as he grinned at her.
"I've missed our fights."
That's when she felt the butterflies. She needed to get out this now, before she said or did something else that she would be regretting for the rest of her life.
"Well you know where I live now. Try your luck."
All in all, if she hadn't dropped the key, it would have been a smooth exit.
She kicked her shoes into the corner of her little front hall while Crookshanks deigned to open an eye. His disdainful glance seemed say: you're back I see.
"I want to talk more?" she said aloud. What did that even mean? Why did he want to talk more? What could he want to know about her?
"Maybe he's gay," she said to the room. Crookshanks simply looked on sagely. "Maybe he's gay and he was just being polite, but he still wants to be friends."
Well that would make sense.
Hermione stared long and hard at the curly haired girl in the mirror, wondering over that last thought.
Ron Weasley, the boy she almost couldn't say goodbye to. The way he'd looked at her tonight– like he didn't want to hurt her… As if he had the power to! Well just who did he think he was? What right did he have to look at her as though she'd failed or fallen short? The ass!
What did he know? It was all fine and well to talk about getting back in touch with Ginny, but he'd never had to live through the war the way Hermione had. He'd had family to go back to, and a hero's welcome as a pure blood that fought the tyranny.
It would never be the same for them.
She turned to her bed and stumbled to her knees, feeling around underneath for a slender box she almost never touched. She'd tried to wean herself. To only use it for the truly necessary or the truly fun, like apparating to Venice, or fixing a broken water pipe. She'd managed for so long without, but now? Why not? She was still a witch wasn't she?
A long thin box labeled Olivanders rested in her hands.
At sight of the box Crookshanks began to purr, acting more alert than he'd been in days
The wand felt smooth and right in her grasp, as though the wood had been carved for her and her alone. How long had it been? Months? No, almost a year. She'd gone a whole year without magic. She could feel the energy rushing down her arm to meet its conduit, ready and eager to play.
She pointed the tip of the wand at her left arm, knowing there was only one spell she needed tonight. There, just atop the skin, everyday of the year, lay an illusion charm so fine and delicate that she often forgot it was there.
"Finite Incantatem"
The illusion drifted away, revealing ghostly white scars of gashed text that would never leave her: Mudblood.