If It Had Happened Otherwise
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CHAPTER THREE
"Even when I wake, I cannot tell what is real, and what I am dreaming as I move and speak and eat my dinner. I remember what cannot have happened, and forget something that is happening to me now. People look at me as though I should know them, and I do know them in the dream, and always the fire draws me nearer, though I am awake—"
-Peter S. Beagle
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The dorm belonging to the seventh year Gryffindor girls was quiet on the morning of September 2, 1977. Three of the four occupants were fast asleep in their beds, as it was still early, before five o'clock. The fourth and newest addition to the room, however, was wide awake.
Hermione Granger, Dagworth-Granger, had woken from a restless sleep. She had pushed most of last night's dreams into the recesses of her mind, but she couldn't seem to block the green eyes which stared back every time she closed her own. Sometimes they belonged to Lily, but other times they belonged to Harry. Much of her nightmare had revolved around Lily Evans being captured and taken to Azkaban, but Hermione could recall Harry's presence too, at one point or another. He had been desperate, that much she could remember, and not much else.
How she desperately wished to be back home, in her own time. She should have been waking up in the proper Gryffindor dormitories, her bed likely next to Ginny's. They would have gone to breakfast together, taken classes together, spent their weekends in Hogsmeade with Harry and Ron visiting. Certainly it would have been arduous to return to the school where so many people died, where many of her friends gave their lives fighting Voldemort and his supporters. But it was still her Hogwarts, and the returning students and teachers would have banded together and mourned together and healed together. It would not have been easy, but it would have been home.
Instead, her bed was next to Marlene McKinnon's, in the wrong dormitory of a different Gryffindor Tower located in the wrong Hogwarts, belonging to a parallel world set in a divergent timeline.
Hermione scolded herself for wallowing in bed when she had plenty of things she needed to get done. There were books that needed reading, libraries that needed exploring, history that needed researching... A story that needed detailing, and by that, she meant her own story, the fake one Dumbledore had managed to deduce. She needed to have her backstory sorted out before the Ministry arrived, no doubt they would question her on it ruthlessly. Such a thing might require further knowledge on the magical world of the United States of America, however.
Hermione canceled the silencing charms and pulled back her curtains, pleased to see that none of her roommates were awake yet. She got up and stretched, before stepping lightly over to her trunk. After removing the necessary robes, Hermione collected her beaded bag, which she had slept with under her pillow, and carefully folded away all of the Gryffindor uniforms she had previously hidden. She also removed her school bag and the required textbooks, putting them on the empty desk she assumed was hers. Underneath the uniforms in her trunk lay more books, ones she didn't feel the need to hide in her bag, but ones that she had charmed anyway to look boring to anyone else; these included old Hogwarts texts, Muggle novels, and others. While she doubted any of her roommates would go snooping (even if Penny had been suspicious last night, she had respected Hermione's privacy), she wasn't taking any chances, and so she placed a locking spell upon her trunk that could only be opened by her magical signature.
Such a spell had already been placed on the beaded bag, along with many other charms, so that it could be fastened to her hip or tucked inside a pocket without notice. There were many things still inside that she would have preferred to remove and store in her trunk, but Hermione felt that it wouldn't be a smart idea to do that now. Such things were safest on her person at all times.
Unfortunately, her Prefect's Badge also had to remain hidden, as that title belonged to Penny Haywood here. She frowned at the little empty spot on her robes where the emblem would have been pinned. A voice inside her head was laughing, how pathetic are you to be trapped in a place where the Ministry would kill you and yet you're upset because you aren't a Prefect it mocked, rather sounding like Ron Weasley.
Of course she knew it was silly, but Hermione could not help feel miffed.
Reassured that no one could find anything of offense on her bed or trunk, she turned to her desk. Although several of her original seventh year books had been similar to Severus Snape's, Hermione had duplicated all of his to eliminate any disparities. She examined the new covers with interest. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7. Quintessence: A Further Study. Confronting Dark Magique. A Continued Guide to Magical Herbs and Fungi. Transfiguration: The Next Step. Advanced Potion Making, a book she wondered if Snape had scrawled notes into this time; he was unfamiliar with his own Muffliato, so Hermione supposed his other inventions might not exist either.
While Snape did have textbooks for Arithmancy, Hermione had not duplicated those. She figured as a new, home-schooled student, she would not be qualified to enroll in NEWT level electives. This saddened her, as Arithmancy had been her favorite subject. For the same reason, she would be unable to take Ancient Runes as well, though Snape had no books concerning runes, nor had she asked.
To her interest, The Secrets of Alchemy had also been among Snape's schoolbooks, and he had informed her that it was an elective starting from third year. She had duplicated it anyway, knowing she could not pursue the subject even if she wished it, as no such thing had been available at her Hogwarts. Even if she couldn't attend the class, the book was bound to be a good read.
She crammed all of these texts into her school bag, charming it to weigh next to nothing like her beaded purse. Hermione then grabbed her clothes and went into the adjoining bathroom to freshen up and change.
Her school robes offered a sense of familiarity and comfort, and the girl staring back at her from the mirror looked as if she could waltz off to the Great Hall with Ginny Weasley at any moment. But Hermione couldn't fool herself into thinking everything would be all right, as much as she wished. Stop wishing things were different, because they're not, she told herself. Nothing will change unless you go out there and find a way home, something you won't be able to do if you don't keep a straight head on your shoulders!
Nodding at her resolve, Hermione ran a hand through her brushed curls, sighing when they refused to be anything but bushy. She triple-checked that her scar was still glamoured, then she turned from the mirror and stalked back into her dorm. She grabbed her bookbag and headed for the stairs, thankful again that the other girls were still sleeping. Hermione paused at the door, next to Penny's desk. The calendar that hung above a magazine collection had caught her eye.
Today was September 2nd, 1977... a Friday. In 1998, it would have been Wednesday. At least she had gotten that detail sorted before she'd made a mistake in front of someone.
She had spent an hour tidying up her trunk, and it was almost six now. The common room was empty, with students either still asleep or perhaps down at breakfast, though if these Gryffindors were anything like her own, this was unlikely. Hermione did not linger either, making her way to the portrait hole rather quickly.
Only a handful of students were already in the Great Hall, most of them Ravenclaws. There were a few Slytherins as well, but Hermione did not see Severus Snape among them. The Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables were practically empty; she supposed even in a different universe some things could never change.
Scanning the breakfast table, Hermione chose her food carefully. She did not know who here was aware of American eating habits, but she was not taking any risks. Miraculously, Hermione actually had been to America, specifically New York and Massachusetts, for a family vacation years ago. The Grangers had spent two weeks there during the summer before Hermione turned eight, and while she had just been a child, she'd always had a good memory.
She passed over the plates of kippers and beans, things she definitely did not recall being served at the American hotels. She did however load her plate with sausages, eggs, toast, and hashbrowns. It wouldn't do to face the day on an empty stomach.
"You really should try the baked beans."
Hermione almost dropped her fork in shock. She hadn't realized someone had sat down across from her. She glanced up, only to properly drop her fork this time; it clanged against the floor and disappeared, only to be replaced by a clean one next to her plate.
Peter Pettigrew was watching her with interest from across the table.
There were so many thoughts racing through her brain upon recognizing him, though he wasn't nearly as ugly as the balding man from the Shrieking Shack; he was small, with wide eyes and a hint of remaining baby fat in his cheeks. Hermione wanted to hex him. She wanted to scream, she wanted to run, she wanted to cry. Yet she couldn't do any of this because the teenager sitting before her had yet to commit the heinous crimes of the future, her past... and Hermione knew perfectly well that Lily was dead and would never marry James, and Voldemort would never try to kill Harry Potter who didn't exist, and Peter Pettigrew would never be involved in any of that.
The entire situation was becoming a headache.
"The beans," Peter indicated, nodding at the plate he had seen her bypass. He had taken her silent turmoil for confusion.
Her mouth opened and closed several times before Hermione was able to wrestle control of her emotions. "Oh, erm, right."
The boy grinned. "I prefer mine on toast."
And so did Hermione, and it disgusted her to know she and Peter Pettigrew shared their liking of beans on toast. She swallowed the bile and clenched her teeth, forcing the tiniest smile she could manage, and then Hermione scooped some beans onto her toast because she couldn't think of a reason not to, at least not one she could offer up vocally.
It tasted terribly delicious.
"Good, right?" Peter asked, sensing her enjoyment. "You're the new girl, right? Just transferred from America or something?"
She choked and coughed. "People know about that!?"
He shrugged. "News travels fast here. Hogwarts isn't a huge school, and we've never had a transfer student, so everyone's eager to get answers."
"But how do you know I'm from America?" She had only told her roommates just last night.
Peter began nibbling on his own beanned toast. "Heard it from Remus who heard it from Jill who heard it from Penny. They may be Prefects but they are probably the worst gossips, the girls I mean. Plus Dumbledore mentioned it at the feast, remember? Though Penny had a lot more to share than he did."
Hermione gaped at him. Of course it would be Penny's fault, though she couldn't exactly blame the girl... yet. Others were likely hounding the blonde for details during the Prefect patrols, and people had likely seen Hermione and Penny together at dinner. Not to mention Hermione had completely forgotten that the headmaster had outed her before the feast last night.
"Oh right, you probably don't know any of those people," Peter apologized, again mistaking her long silence. "Well, I guess you'd know Penny, your roommate. Jill Jorkins is the sixth year Prefect, and Remus Lupin is Headboy."
Remus was Headboy!? Remus Lupin? Not James Potter? Then again, without his love for Lily to curb his mischievous behavior, James would have no reason to get his act together. She kept forgetting that she hadn't been merely tossed back in time, Hermione had been thrown back twenty one years into a different, yet strangely parallel, dimension.
She had been quiet again for a long while, and she cast about for something to say. "What's a Prefect?" she blurted. At Peter's incredulous look, she added, "I was home-schooled."
More students were trickling into the Hall, but Hermione tried not to pay attention, though she felt the weight of several stares on her occasionally. She focused her attention on Peter and his rather lengthy explanation of Prefects. She didn't bother correcting him when he said Prefects were older, model witches and wizards, like it were something special to the wizarding world, as she didn't want to bring her Muggle background into play, besides which she was supposed to have been home-schooled and would know absolutely nothing about such things.
"Chatting up the new bird already, Pete? Didn't think you had it in ya," came a new, familiar, and unwanted voice.
Remus Lupin sat down on Peter's left and flashed a dazzling smile in Hermione's direction, the Headboy badge pinned to his robes shining proudly. He was strikingly handsome, much more so than the Professor Lupin she had known. His face was lively, eyebrows arched in a playful manner, his green eyes sparkling. His sandy blond hair fell across his face gently, a face Hermione noticed bore no scars. She choked back a sob. No scars. He wasn't a werewolf. Lycanthropy didn't exist here. Lupin wasn't a werewolf! Hermione wanted to cry; she wanted to cry with joy for this man who would never know such horrors. She wanted to cry with sorrow for her Lupin, the dead man who had endured said horrors before his murder. It was only a few months ago she had seen his older body, lifeless on a table in the Great Hall. And now here she was, in the Great Hall again, sitting across from a teenager who would never know how blessed he was, how much worse his life could have been, what he could have suffered had he been born in her world.
She was barely aware that Peter was stumbling to explain he hadn't, in fact, been hitting on the new student. Remus was not buying it; he was smirking and saying things to make his friend blush. This Remus seemed much more confident than hers, even more so than what she had heard from Harry of her Lupin during his own youth. But being a werewolf was a heavy burden, one likely to have turned Lupin into an overly cautious and self-deprecating person. This Remus carried no such baggage.
"Already started the interrogations, have we boys?"
Another wave of nausea hit her when James Potter joined the table, sitting directly next to Hermione. He peered at her. "Hermininy Dogworth-something, wasn't it?" he asked, uncouthly shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth.
James Potter looked so similar to his son. They had the same messy hair, same ears, same cheekbones. However, there were noticeable differences. His eyes, of course, were not green, but hazel; that alone seemed to make a world of difference up close. James had a stronger jawline and a more pointed nose. His hair was indeed messy, but in a purposeful sort of way. He looked more muscular and better built than Harry had been, having not spent most of his childhood in a cupboard under the stairs. All of which Hermione decided was not attractive, no matter how much a tiny voice said otherwise. It was bizarre enough looking at Not-Harry-Potter without finding him handsome, too.
Hermione didn't even bother to correct his horribly butchered pronunciation of her name. It was all she could do to stare openly at his features which reminded her painfully of his son-from-a-different-future. Remus and James joked a bit more at Peter's expense, until the bespectacled man caught her unwavering gaze.
"Would you like me to take a picture?" he teased good-naturedly, laying an elbow on the table and propping his head in his hand with a practiced, flirtatious ease. "I expect it will last longer."
She blushed and turned away from his smirk, her thoughts still in a knot, words seemingly unmanageable. She looked away towards the Hall entrance. She sobered up upon seeing Alice, Marlene, and Penny walk through the doors, waving and heading straight for her. Marlene noticed the boys and giggled, highly amused by something.
Merlin help her once the three girls joined them. Whatever happened, it wouldn't bode well for Hermione, that much she was sure. She noted Sirius's absence from the group again, though she supposed he was sleeping in, it suited his personality. She was grateful for it, as it would have been even worse in his presence, since he was the rowdiest of the Marauders.
Thankfully, Hermione was spared further teasing from the boys and the gossip of the girls with the arrival of Professor McGonagall. She had a stack of papers in her hands, ready to pass out the timetables and class assignments.
"Miss Dagworth-Granger," she addressed, startling Hermione. "You are to report to the Headmaster at once." Her lips formed a thin line. "He and several... Ministry personnel await your arrival."
Propelled by her eagerness to escape the other teenagers, as well as the adrenaline caused by the professor's mention of the Ministry, Hermione launched herself away from the bench at once, snatching up her bookbag and making a hasty retreat, not bothering to look back at their reactions.
This was happening incredibly fast; Professor Dumbledore had said they would come to call sometime within the week! This was not good, not good at all. They had to be extremely suspicious of her; they wanted to capture this Mudblood as soon as possible it seemed. Dumbledore had probably owled them last night about her arrival, not to mention there were students who would have written home about the odd transfer from America. All of this must have made its way back to the Ministry, who wanted to nip such a problem in the bud. Couldn't they at least have waited until tomorrow?
Bloody hell, she hadn't even read up on North America yet! So much for a well-crafted fake background.
Hermione dashed up the Grand Staircase, not stopping to apologize when she barreled into someone, a Gryffindor she realized from the uniform. She only swore and then was back on her feet, running up the stairs again.
Arriving at the foot of Professor's Dumbledore's office several minutes later, Hermione stopped to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. She had a family story half-formed already, though she was not sure the Ministry would buy it. A large part of her was upset at missing her first class of the new year, but she reminded herself that this wasn't really her school and she shouldn't waste energy worrying over classes she didn't really attend.
One step at a time. Deep breaths.
Staring up at the gargoyle statue, Hermione realized she did not know the password. "Erm... sherbert lemon?" she guessed. When nothing happened, she began firing off a list of sweets. "Cockroach clusters? Fizzing Whizzbees? Pepper Imps? Ice Mice?"
The gargoyle spoke suddenly, and Hermione jumped almost a foot into the air. "State your name and purpose," it declared in a gravelly tone.
Blinking at the unexpected demand, Hermione figured this must be yet another variation from her own time. "Hermione Dagworth-Granger," she announced, "here to see Albus Dumbledore, as instructed by Professor McGonagall."
The gargoyle hopped aside, revealing a circular stairwell. "Please proceed."
Hermione breathed in deeply before ascending the staircase. Each step was measured, her hands grabbing fistfuls of her robes before letting go, repeating this every so often. Her fake background played out in her mind over and over, as if she were trying to drill it into reality. She needed it to feel real, needed the information to fall from her mouth easily. They might not have Veritaserum, but Aurors were sharp and clever; they had other ways of detecting lies. And in this world, they could have any variety of unknown tricks up their sleeves. She drew out her magical patent and placed it within her school bag, knowing they would ask to see it, and then she took care to make sure her beaded bag was hidden and secure beneath her robes and skirt. She had to protect it at all costs.
Steeling herself for the worst, she gripped her school bag tightly in one hand, and then grasped the headmaster's doorknob with the other. One last deep breath, then she opened the door and stepped inside.
Professor Dumbledore's office looked much the same as it had before, though a few portraits were noticeably, and rightly, absent. He stood near his claw-footed desk as if there was no other place he'd rather be, chatting politely with a Ministry wizard who clearly didn't share his pleasant mood. Hermione restrained her gasp of surprise just in time for it to remain internal; Dumbledore was talking with none other than Rufus Scrimgeour. She did not have fond memories of the man from her time, though she did respect Scrimgeour for defying Voldemort, ultimately killed for protecting Harry Potter. This man before her, however, she had no reason to trust at all.
Three other people from the Ministry were present, two other wizards and a witch. Hermione did not recognize the larger man, though there was something about him she wanted to remember, she just couldn't discern what. He was the oldest of the Ministry wizards, and thus Hermione deduced he was likely in charge of this little interrogation, though she could not guess his exact title. He had receding blond hair that had mostly gone grey, and while his Ministry robes were faded, his black shoes were freshly polished.
The shorter, thin wizard at his side was completely unfamiliar to Hermione. He glanced around the headmaster's office frequently, giving away his anxiety and unease, suggesting perhaps he was not used to such outings. His reddish brown hair was quite stringy; he ran a hand through it several times before pushing his thick black glasses up his nose with a sniff.
The final Ministry member and only witch of the group stood closest to Hermione, examining the objects on one of Dumbledore's many end tables. She wore elegant Ministry robes of deep pink, black tights, and tall black heels. Her black hair was pulled back into an immaculate French twist. Even from the side, Hermione could see that she was extremely beautiful. Rufus Scrimgeour must have agreed, as his eyes kept straying to her while Dumbledore rambled on. Upon the teenager's entrance, the adults dropped their current actions and all turned to stare at her. But Hermione's eyes were drawn to the witch, whose professional makeup could not hide her high cheekbones and sharp jaw, nor the haughty look that all members of the Black family seemed to possess.
Bellatrix Lestrange could be no older than thirty, perhaps even closer to her mid-twenties. She lacked the haggard appearance of her Azkaban-sentenced counterpart, but Hermione would recognize that face anywhere, in any time. The Mudblood cuts etched into her left arm stung, though she resisted rubbing at them. She only had eyes for Bellatrix, even though she was aware the other wizards had stepped forward. The woman who had tortured her looked back with curiosity, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the child before her.
"Are you going to answer the question or stare at me all day?" Bellatrix announced, finally breaking Hermione's trance.
This is not the same witch who tortured you. She didn't make Neville's parents suffer or murder Tonks. She didn't kill Sirius Black. Focus, Hermione, focus!
She decided to play dumb, lowering her eyes to the floor with a blush. "I'm sorry... you're just so..."
The woman raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Yes?" she demanded, sounding as if she had already judged the girl and found her to be the dirt beneath her heels.
"Pretty," responded Hermione meekly. And it was true; she never would have guessed the deranged witch could look so lovely.
The small nervous wizard snorted, then seemed to take it back when Bellatrix turned her intimidating gaze on him. "Perhaps if the government wasn't filled with such chauvinistic pigs, more witches would fill the Auror ranks, and this girl wouldn't be surprised at such a pretty face." Her arms were crossed, manicured nails tapping on her sleeves.
"Perhaps a few introductions are in order?" Professor Dumbledore suggested, rescuing Hermione from further awkwardness. "This is Davin Avery," he started, gesturing to the large, blond wizard. "He's head of the Auror Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Avery, as in Voldemort's Death Eater Avery!? Surely not the one she had fought against in the Department of Mysteries; Hermione was positive that man had been younger. Though there was a resemblance... perhaps this was his father? Also a probable Death Eater from her own time, though perhaps he had died before the Second Wizarding War.
Dumbledore nodded to the other wizards in turn. "Rufus Scrimgeour, notable Auror, and Nathaniel Snyde, from Hogwarts Enrollment within the Department of Administrative Records." Snyde gave a hesitant wave, but Scrimgeour regarded Hermione, who was still eyeing Bellatrix, with cold indifference. Not that she cared what Scrimgeour thought of her, as she hadn't liked the man she had known before. Respected yes, liked no. Hermione was unfamiliar with the name Nathaniel Snyde, but judging from this lot, there was a good chance he had been a Voldemort supporter as well. Here, he appeared to be around thirty, similar in age to Bellatrix. He had a young, unblemished face though, as if he hadn't left the office much. Dumbledore had said he worked for the Department of Administrative Records; so not an Auror then. He had probably never left the office... period.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the witch, and he gave a little bow. "And last but never least, the enchanting Auror Bellatrix Black."
The woman's lips curled. "You honor me."
Black, Bellatrix Black. Not yet married to Rodolphus Lestrange. She looked beautiful and youthful and as dangerous and deadly as ever. Hermione wouldn't have underestimated the witch for one minute, even if she hadn't before been on the receiving end of her destructive wand. This calm and collected Bellatrix was almost more frightening than the deranged one. Crazy, mad people lost their tempers and made mistakes. Bellatrix Black seemed unlikely to do either of those. She was more formidable than the other three wizards combined.
The large man, Avery, cleared his throat. "Well let's not waste any more time. Miss, er, Dagworth-Granger, was it?" He sounded irritated and impatient. "Please take a seat," he motioned to the stiff chair in front of the headmaster's desk. "We have some questions for you."
Without asking, Avery sat in Professor Dumbledore's large chair behind the desk. Three other chairs had been conjured for Snyde, Scrimgeour, and Bellatrix respectfully: a plain wooden one with a small cushion, a dark seat with a high back, and a fancy stool Hermione rather thought belonged in Madam Puddifoot's. Snyde sat uncomfortably, rearranging himself every so often, perhaps because his chair was hard, or, more probable, because he simply could not sit still. Scrimgeour sat ramrod-straight, his hands gripping both armrests. Bellatrix was poised on her chair so perfectly that one would think she was attending a formal soiree; she had even procured a cream-colored teacup to sip from.
With a final flick of his wand, Dumbledore had his own squishy armchair, set to the left the Aurors, and, if Hermione was hopeful, slightly closer to her side of the desk than theirs.
Avery held up a long scroll and began reading from it. "We are to understand that you are Hermione Dagworth-Granger, daughter of Patrick Dagworth-Granger of Britain, last of the direct male line of Hector Dagworth-Granger. Born September 19, 1959, seventeen years of age. Home-schooled in the New York City, New York, in the United States of America until last year when your father died."
He paused and gave Hermione a critical look. She nodded, keeping her hands folded in her lap and her feet pressed together on the floor. Her bag rested against the chair on the left, closest to Dumbledore. She kept Bellatrix in her peripheral vision at all times.
"Do you have your patent?" Avery questioned. She nodded, hurriedly removing it from her bookbag and handing it over to the man, who spread it across the desk and began to examine it.
"Tell me, Miss Dagworth-Granger," Rufus Scrimgeour inserted with a sneer, "if your father married a Muggle woman, why would he leave Britain and return with her to America... when Rappaport's Law clearly banned any wizard-Muggle–" He must have recalled her American upbringing, for he cleared his throat, "Excuse me, I believe they call them No-Majs there," he spat the word as if it were barbaric. "Why would your parents return to a country which forbids them to have contact with each other?"
She thanked Merlin for Severus Snape's textbook collection and her time spent reading them on the train. Magic in North America had an entire chapter devoted to Rappaport's Law. After a witch had breached the Statute of Secrecy, Emily Rappaport, the then President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America (or MACUSA as they were better known), had passed a strong law in 1790 with the intent to protect the wizarding community. Rappaport's Law segregated wizards and No-Majs completely, banning everyday wizards from all contact with their non-magical neighbors, including friendships and marriages. It went so far as to restrict underage wizards and witches to leaving their wands at school over the holidays. The strict rules were only dissolved in 1965, which was a little over twelve years before this time. Rappaport's Law had been a tough obstacle in Hermione's fake backstory, but she had eventually devised a way around it.
She bit her lip in concentration, hoping to appear thoughtful. Hermione knew the story of how her real parents had met of course, but she would have needed a moment to remember it all. And besides which, Hermione Dagworth-Granger didn't know her entire family history and would have needed a handful of moments to recall what she did know.
"Well, sir," she began in a polite voice, mostly strong with just a hint of expected timidness in the face of authority, "my father didn't tell me much about the family history–"
Scrimgeour scowled, interrupting her. "I believe I asked about your parents, not about the history of the Dagworth-Granger–"
It was Bellatrix Black who held a hand up, silencing the older man. She did not offer words of apology or appear sympathetic but nodded for the girl to continue her story.
"He talked a bit about my great-great grandfather Hector's work in potions," Hermione said, after collecting her breath. Everything she did was measured, every breath, every glance, every word. She only hoped she could pull it all off. "Dad always hoped I'd be brilliant at them, though I am not sure it still runs in the family. I'm decent enough, but Dad was even worse than I am." She smiled, recalling when her own father had tried to deep-fry a turkey and had almost set the house on fire. "He didn't talk about his family much though; I have no idea what sort of people my grandparents were, or if he had any siblings. He was always very quiet about it... I asked a few times, but he always managed to divert the topic to something else."
Scrimgeour was livid at Hermione's long explanation, but the others were listening patiently. Well, Snyde looked bored, still twitching in his seat, but Bellatrix was drinking in every word Hermione said, sipping her tea with a dainty finger in the air.
"Although Dad didn't go into many details, I do know a little of how he and Mum met," Hermione explained, staring mostly at Scrimgeour who had inquired, but occasionally glancing at the others. "She worked as a nurse during the Muggle war, and she was part of a group of volunteers who came to Bristol after the raids, to help the overcrowded hospitals. After the war ended, Mum decided to stay here a bit longer since they still needed help. She and her coworkers went out for a drink one night, and she met Dad at a pub."
That part was true, at least, Mr. and Mrs. Granger had met at the Rose and Crown Pub in 1978, just a few months from now, actually, as Hermione recalled it. On New Year's Eve. But she would think on that later.
"They were married in 1956 in a small ceremony in a friend's backyard, I think. I'm not sure where, likely in Bristol somewhere. Dad was incredibly happy, but Mum missed her family in New York. I know they visited her parents a few times." Hermione cleared her throat before continuing. "She really missed New York, but..."
"They couldn't move to America because of Rappaport's Law," Avery concluded, nodding sagely. "Your father would have likely been thrown in prison and your mother's memories modified."
Scrimgeour was bristling with fury at the lengthy conversation that had yet to directly answer his question. "Exactly my point," he seethed victoriously, finding a flaw in Hermione's story. "So, pray tell, why did they return to America?"
"Nana, my Muggle grandmother, was ill," Hermione answered, trying not to be annoyed with the man, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. "Mum's parents were quite old, and her mother in particular grew very sick. So they went back to America, in 1958 I think."
Scrimgeour sneered. "Surely the Congress would have records of this, of a British wizard entering the country, even if he hadn't been married to a No-Maj." He glared at Hermione. "That's what they're called in America, as you very well should know, having supposedly been raised there!"
Hermione raised a dubious brow. "My father was British... so I was raised to call them Muggles. We may have lived overseas but my father kept his thick accent and fondness for chips, something my mother called 'French fries' although I have no idea why." Albus Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and she smiled in response. "But back to your question," she addressed Rufus Scrimgeour, before he could interrupt again. "My father knew of the deep segregation in America, and of what would happen should the MACUSA discover that he had married my Mum. So they simply went to America by Muggle means. They took a plane and moved in with my grandparents."
Avery appeared doubtful. "And they lived there undetected all those years?"
Shaking her head, Hermione glanced at Bellatrix again. The woman had finished her tea and had taken to jotting down notes in a purple book with a long, fluffy quill. She was still listening with undivided attention.
"They only stayed there for a year," she replied grimly, "until 1959. Until Mum became pregnant." Avery nodded in understanding, but Scrimgeour remained suspicious. "She didn't want to leave her parents, but Dad convinced her they had to leave the country or risk being exposed. He didn't want to chance my birth being detected by the MACUSA. So they returned to Bristol, where I was born."
She swallowed. "To be honest, I don't remember much of my time here. I think we lived in a flat, but I couldn't tell you where. Mum was paranoid of anyone magical at that point, having been instilled with fear in America. And Dad was perfectly fine not venturing too far into the wizarding community. I don't remember ever having people over; I think they just wanted to continue hiding. I do remember Mum getting hysterical sometimes. She'd yell at me for looking out the window, or for crying loudly." Hermione dwelled on memories of her own mother scolding her, for being too swotty or too loud, or those few bouts of accidental magic that her parents hadn't understood at the time, instead believing their daughter to be causing a fuss.
"She was always yelling at Dad about things, especially about her parents. She wanted to move back so badly, and letters from my grandfather weren't coming as often. Mum was desperately worried about Nana. They talked about separating a few times... and I'd hide in the closet of my room because I didn't want to hear them screaming at each other..."
"And then Rappaport's Law was lifted," Dumbledore supplied, speaking for the first time since Hermione had begun her story.
She nodded, noticing that Avery and Snyde seemed more relaxed. Scrimgeour and Bellatrix appeared the same as they had before. She continued with her story. Now that she had started, the words flowed easier than she had expected.
"With the segregation lifted, Dad agreed to move us back to New York in 1966. However, he and Mum were still pretty distrustful of American wizards. Dad feared their prejudice, so we didn't go out much. Mum spent all of her time looking after Nana and Papa, but Nana died just after I turned eight, and Papa followed soon after. Mum... I'm not sure she ever completely recovered," Hermione said in a small voice. "She sort of had this routine she followed, and anything outside of that threw her off. She cried a lot, too... Jumped at noises outside and forbid Dad from teaching me magic at first.
"But Dad was adamant I learn to control my magic; he explained that my accidents were more likely to attract unwanted attention than anything else, so Mum finally relented, but only after he promised to make the house undetectable."
"Undetectable?" Scrimgeour snorted.
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at the man before looking to Hermione. "I suspect Miss Dagworth-Granger means the house was Unplottable. It would prevent the Magical Congress from detecting any magic that she or her father performed within the property's perimeters."
"Yes, that sounds familiar," she agreed, knowing Bellatrix was probably familiar with the concealment charm cast on Grimmauld Placed. "Dad wasn't great at potions, but I think he was quite good at charms. He's the only teacher I've ever had, but I certainly learned a lot from him. I don't think he was following any sort of regulated course, so I have no idea how I compare to others my age, but he tried to follow what he had learned from his own school years. He was home-schooled by his own parents, too, and I always liked that we shared that in common."
Hermione knew she had just opened up the doors for her own learning to be questioned. But she couldn't have said her father had been educated at Hogwarts, or he would have known other witches and wizards who'd gone there, and they in turn would have known him.
Scrimgeour scoffed. "Home-schooled and never left the house? How convenient."
Yes, Hermione had wondered if her story wasn't a bit too obvious. But she had to cover herself; if they found people who supposedly should have known her parents, and if they began questioning those people, everything she had fabricated would fall to pieces.
It was Bellatrix, finding a lull in the conversation after Scrimgeour could offer no further complaint that Hermione had not answered his question (as in fact she very much had), who asked the next question. "How did your father die?"
It was a very simple, and yet very complicated too, answer. Hermione had needed something to 'clean up' the mess left behind by her years spent in America. Something that rid her of the house she had lived in with her Muggle grandparents, of all her belongings, of anything magical belonging to her father... of her father himself. She had needed something destructive to wipe away these problems so that they could not linger and crop up when she least expected. And she had the perfect experience from her own life to borrow for such an occasion, thanks to that oaf Vincent Crabbe.
However, such an answer would unquestionably raise eyebrows, and Hermione feared she would have trouble convincing them of her story, namely Scrimgeour.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the very real memory of such magical and disastrous heat fresh in her mind. Lies were told best when rooted in truth.
"There was a fire," she began, fingering the hems of her sleeves distractedly. "Mum was out, one of her rare trips to the grocer's; she only went when we were completely out of food. Even now... then... she was still scared of strangers. Well, Dad loved to use these outings to his advantage. Mum may have allowed me to learn magic, but if she knew the sorts of things Dad talked about while she was gone... well I fear we may have all starved." Snyde tittered, his chuckles only subsiding after a swift glare from Scrimgeour.
Hermione gave the reedy wizard a grim smile before continuing. "I know that my home-schooling is quite different from the education offered at magical schools like Hogwarts, so it may be lacking in a few places," she said carefully, noticing Scrimgeour's narrowed eyes. "But I have done quite a bit of reading, and my father had a fairly extensive library he'd inherited from his parents that he had managed to keep intact. And based on my readings, I'm certain a few of the things Dad taught me are... questionable... dangerous spells that no seventeen year old should be learning, but... Well, he was my Dad so while I was concerned, I didn't overly worry about it."
Avery was frowning, too. "What are you referring to, Miss Dagworth-Granger?"
"Well, the fire... Dad was teaching me about it, said I should know just in case. I got a bit nervous when he started telling me how dangerous the fire is, but I just thought it was something he wanted me to know for precaution. I never actually thought he would attempt to perform Fiendfyre."
Avery and Scrimgeour both gasped, and Snyde looked horrified. Professor Dumbledore continued to lounge in his chair, though he was watching Hermione astutely. Bellatrix's eyebrows had risen, but Hermione could not read her expression otherwise.
"Your father cast Fiendfyre in your own home?" Avery inquired incredulously. "Was he insane!? Even for the most talented of wizards, Fiendfyre is extremely hard to control. How he could think, even if he was good at charms, that he had the skills to managed it in such confined quarters..."
Scrimgeour snorted. "Well he clearly didn't!" he sneered. "He set the entire place on fire and died with it!"
"And with only moments to spare, your father told you to run far away, is that right?" asked Bellatrix. She had gone back to taking notes.
Hermione nodded. "He told me to run and find Mum. I..." She choked back a sob, thinking of how Crabbe's body had been swallowed by the deadly flames, and Harry's valiant efforts to save Goyle and Draco from the same fate. "I wanted to help him, I really did. I should have done something–"
Dumbledore cleared his throat gently, gazing at her with sympathy. "You could not have saved him. The Fiendfyre was likely still connected to his wand, and he had only a matter of seconds before it spiraled out of control. You're lucky to have made it out alive."
"That's some very dark magic," Avery commented, still disturbed by her story. "I wonder where he picked that up. From his own parents, possibly?" He squinted at Hermione's patent. "His father was Ducard Dagworth-Granger... doesn't ring a bell, but we'll run a check. Your grandmother's name isn't listed here?"
"None of the women are," Hermione replied tartly, pretending to be miffed at the gender inequality. "We only kept track of the men, apparently, and only the direct line at that. I couldn't even use my patent to find out the names of potential relatives. I don't even know my grandmother's name, although I do have her wand," she offered, knowing they were going to question her ownership of it later anyway.
She pulled it out and handed it over to Bellatrix when the woman asked. "Hmm, vinewood... ten and three-quarters inch with... dragon heartstring? Interesting. And your grandparents would have been British, yes? I'll have someone contact Ollivander and see if we can't determine to whom this wand belonged." Her eyes danced with a challenge, and Hermione controlled herself in time to stop from swallowing nervously. She only relaxed when the woman handed her back the wand.
"All right, so your idiot father burned himself alive and left you and your mother homeless," Scrimgeour summed up, rather nastily. "So you returned to Britain in search of your father's relatives, since your Muggle mother is paranoid of anything magical? Seems a bit counterproductive if you ask me."
Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. Instead, she tried to sound like a caring but slightly bitter daughter. "I suspect she was hoping Dad's relatives would take me under their wing... and she could live a normal life. She never said this aloud," she explained when Scrimgeour opened his mouth to rant about what a terrible mother she had. "However, I think Mum would have preferred me to have guardians who were prepared to deal with magic, and she could live in a separate house somewhere. I don't think she wanted to abandon me... but she had already been afraid of magic, and then Dad went and 'burned himself alive' as you said." Scrimgeour sneered again but Hermione plowed on. "It took a few months for Mum to gather some funds, since we'd kept most of our money in the house... but eventually we made it here in March. Mum was afraid of contacting wizards, so we mostly stuck to the Muggle world, staying in hotels and keeping low profiles, even though I felt it would have been faster to use magic. We went to places where Muggles talked of odd occurrences. We didn't find much, until..." She cast about for a town with wizards that wasn't too familiar to her. "...until Upper Flagley."
"Ah yes," Dumbledore chimed in sadly, and Hermione had no idea where he was going, but her guilt over yesterday remained, and she let him speak without holdup. The old man shook his head slowly. "Terrible what happened to that poor woman, your mother, I presume? I heard about it from Dorcas Meadows," he said to the others, when Avery and Scrimgeour both looked confused (and also irate, in Scrimgeour's case). Hermione marveled at Dumbledore's story, especially as he'd said he would not offer any further help. "Three wizards attacked a Muggle woman on the last night of July, just outside a pub in Upper Flagley. It wasn't in the Prophet, of course, since the perpetrators were not caught, but the remains of the victim that were found... bore effects of the Cruciatus Curse."
Bellatrix focused all of her attention on Hermione then, who bit her lip anxiously. The three Ministry wizards instead stared at Dumbledore, shocked by the information he had shared.
"Muggles reported hearing screams before they found the remains... and although only one victim was discovered, the Muggles reported hearing two different females screaming that night," Dumbledore continued. He was not looking towards Hermione, but she knew the words were directed at her. Why would he suggest...?
Of course. Albus Dumbledore was a brilliant wizard. He must have sensed the curse's dark effects on Hermione herself, as faded as they might be. It made sense he would have analyzed her during their talk yesterday, or perhaps he had even figured it out while she had been sitting in his office now. Only a trained Healer could usually detect such residue, but Dumbledore was no ordinary wizard. He probably even knew she had a cursed scar on her arm.
"What do you mean, they found remains?" demanded Avery. "That Unforgivable doesn't sever the body, merely tortures it into insanity."
Hermione twitched involuntarily. She hadn't meant to get lost in her own mind but... Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her for minutes... hours... Hermione wasn't sure how long it had really been, but to her it could have lasted for several days. Her memories of it and the time that followed were still slightly fuzzy. She couldn't remember escaping Malfoy Manor, or when she had woken up at Shell Cottage. But she had very clear recollections of certain things. Of Draco Malfoy's white face at he watched his aunt carve into her arm the slur he'd spat her for years. Of the sound of Ron's voice screaming for her from below. Of how many times she had repeatedly told Bellatrix the Sword of Gryffindor was a fake. Of how she spent the rest of her time screaming aloud and internally praying for Harry Potter's safety, that even if Hermione Granger had died that day... Harry Potter must be kept safe. And for every second Bellatrix had wasted torturing her, for it had been a complete waste since Hermione would never ever, ever betray Harry, it was another second for the others to escape.
"Hermione."
Professor Dumbledore was kneeing in front of her chair, gazing into her eyes with concern. Hermione noticed that he was holding her hands, or rather, she was gripping his so tightly that her nails were digging into the wrinkled skin. Her entire body was rigid, save for her left arm; it was twitching.
"I... I'm sorry," she croaked, letting go of his hands quickly.
Dumbledore smiled kindly. "It's quite alright, my dear. Although we were beginning to worry after calling your name a few times with no response."
And then she recalled that there were other people in the room with them, one of them Bellatrix Lestrange–no, Bellatrix Black. Merlin, Hermione was losing herself and she couldn't afford to now. Not after she had made it this far. I've got to get home.
"The remains were my fault," Hermione explained with a well-placed sob, answering their question. "I tried to grab Mum and Apparate away, but I've never really done it, only once with Dad when he taught me. And well, I've never done it alone properly and certainly not with two people, so... I splinched her!" She allowed the tears to flow freely. She choked over the further explanation that upon discovering only pieces of her mother, she had been so distraught that all she could think to do was burn them the Muggle way, eventually scattering the woman's ashes over a nearby lake. Hermione was almost impressed by the magnitude of her own lies and how well she was pulling them off, but suddenly the entire thing felt very Slytherin and manipulative, and that made her feel sick. But Hermione had decided she would do anything to get home, and now she was dealing with the consequences of her actions.
"We will of course be checking into these details, Albus," Avery was saying, referring to the attack in Upper Flagley. "We will also see if we can hunt down anyone who has heard of the Dagworth-Granger men listed on this patent; Snyde, copy these names down, won't you?" he barked at the red-haired man who'd been idly picking at his seat cushion. "How you could have missed a transfer request from a seventh-year..." He grumbled a bit about Synde's incompetence, and Hermione realized he was referring to the oversight in the Hogwarts enrollment that Dumbledore had mentioned yesterday.
Scrimgeour grilled her over a few more technicalities. How she had acquired school books without notice. Why she hadn't asked the Ministry for help from the start. Whether she was even at the same level as the other seventh years. Hermione sighed but answered his many questions. The others seemed satisfied with her simple answers of mail service and a fear of being labeled as a Mudblood like her attackers had suggested. As for her magical knowledge...
"I think her performance in class will speak for itself," Professor Dumbledore offered.
"That may be," Scrimgeour glowered, "but I for one would like to make sure she has some level of skill. A small test, if you will."
Hermione couldn't say she hadn't been expecting something like this. Dumbledore waved his wand and the extra chairs vanished, and the remaining furniture moved out of the way, leaving an empty space in the middle of the room.
"Fine then," Avery rolled his eyes, ready for this meeting to be over and irked by Scrimgeour's refusal to let things go, "Miss Dagworth-Granger, you will submit yourself to a test? Okay then, Snyde you're clearly not capable, so Scrimgeour, Black, the two of you will do it."
Scrimgeour practically leered at Hermione, but Bellatrix's face was impassive, though she dutifully stood next to her fellow Auror.
"Two on one is hardly fair," Dumbledore pointed out.
Scrimgeour snickered. "Well, if Miss Dagworth-Granger can't handle it, I'm sure–"
Bellatrix's wand silently flew out of her hand, across the room, and into Hermione's outstretched one. Scrimgeour was furious, but the witch studied Hermione with new, appraising eyes.
.
Curious heads ducked back behind their desks or over their paperwork as Bellatrix Black strolled leisurely down the hallways of Level One. Her heels clacked upon the shiny black marble of the floor as she passed each office, none of their occupants worth even a shred of her attention. She bypassed her own office, the largest on the floor to everyone else's envy. And she didn't even work directly under the Minister, she shouldn't even have an office on this level; she had her own, Auror office on Level Two! But Bellatrix paid the gossip no mind. The Minister liked having her close...
"What have I told you about knocking?" the man snapped the moment Bellatrix set foot into his office unannounced.
She inspected her nails with care. "That there are more important things?"
Minister of Magic Tom Riddle glared at her before returning to his paperwork. She knew he trusted her to close the door and get straight to business. It was one of the things he liked most about her, among other... assets. Closing the door, she sat down and crossed her legs, before pulling out her purple notebook and passing it over.
"Today's notes."
Riddle flipped through the book with hardly any interest. "Well, is the Mudblood in Azkaban yet? I need an excuse to get out of this accursed office."
The witch smiled. "Nop-pe." She deliberately popped the p to annoy him. She'd get straight to business all right, after she'd had a bit of fun first.
"And why the hell not?" growled the Minister, seething from his ornate chair.
Bellatrix was enjoying seeing him all riled up, for she hardly ever had any control over the man. Of course, she could only dangle the information in front of him for so long before he lost control, but she would take the small victories where she could.
"Well, for starters, if you would read my notes," she simpered, pleased at his growing frustration. "You'd see that the girl isn't a Mudblood at all, but rather the descendant of Hector Dagworth-Granger."
The Minister scanned her notes further. "And you believe this?"
Bellatrix shrugged unconcernedly. "Avery and Snyde do. Scrimgeour hates being wrong, but he can't go against his superior. I'm sure he would have hexed the girl near the end there, if the rest of us hadn't been in the room."
"If there is any doubt of her patent, why is she being allowed to remain at Hogwarts?" Riddle inquired, still pouring over her notes irritably. "I notice you withheld your own opinion."
"Her patent is of no concern to me," Bellatrix admitted, watching with glee as Riddle's brow ticked. "She obviously possesses a great magical knowledge far beyond the typical Mudblood, so logically she must be a witch."
Riddle glared. "Stop talking in circles and make your damn point."
"Oh fine," she said, disappointed her fun was at an end. "I think it would be in our best interest to keep up with Miss Hermione Dagworth-Granger. Her story sounds like a fat lie, but the emotions on her face were certainly real. There is something she is not telling us. I definitely picked up on traces of dark magic on her, left there by a curse. But most of all... I think she is very clever."
The Minister's lips drew into a sharp line. "You want me to spare her from Azkaban because she's clever?"
Narrowing her eyes, Bellatrix stared him down, something no one else in the Ministry would dare to do. "Scrimgeour could have sliced her pretty face to pieces with his eyes alone. However, the girl was mindful of me at all times." Hermione Dagworth-Granger may have thought she was being subtle, but Bellatrix had felt the girl's eyes on her almost the entire meeting. "Out of all of the powerful wizards in that room, she feared me most. Disarmed me as soon as she was given the chance."
Tom Riddle had stopped glaring and was gazing at the notebook with deep interest, his eyes roaming over the name Hermione Dagworth-Granger. "Well. Now that is something."
Bellatrix grinned wickedly. "I already spoke to her after the interrogation, over tea. She seemed relaxed upon first glance, but I could feel the nerves underneath. She told me I'm pretty," she said cheekily, to which Riddle scoffed. "But really, I think she may have been admiring my magical talent. She obviously knew who was the most powerful person in the room."
Here, the Minister laughed. "Perhaps your head has levitated to a new height of arrogance."
"Please," the witch mocked. "We both know I'm the best Auror you have, or do you plan on giving Scrimgeour the office right outside this door? Now, over tea, I laid the foundations of trust. I do not think it is there yet, but I do think we should keep an eye out and try to get her on our side as quickly as possible. Merlin knows what Dumbledore will be telling her."
Riddle was still looking through the notes. "Your cousins are still at school, yes? Have them report to you every so often. Tell them to get to close to her. Perhaps she will feel more at ease around people of her own age. Besides..." Riddle's gaze wandered over Bellatrix's figure. "Your family has always possessed devilish good looks, I am sure gaining Miss Dagworth-Granger's interest will be of no challenge for the sons of the House of Black."
Bellatrix hissed. "I have only one cousin!" she spat venomously. "We do not speak of that... that traitor!"
"Well, whomever you are going to owl, get to it already," Tom Riddle commanded, shooing her from his office. His eyes watched her backside as she strode away to her desk next door, before his attention was drawn to the notes once again.
"Hermione Dagworth-Granger..." His lip curled. "Oh, how I cannot wait until we meet..."
.
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The full title of this chapter is 'The Life and Lies of Hermione Dagworth-Granger' but it has been shortened by ffnet's limitations.
This chapter was much longer and included the examination between Hermione and Scrimgeour, but it was dragging on and needed to be wrapped up. It's already 3,000 words longer than the first two chapters, and here I had wanted them all to remain the same length. Don't worry, any loose ends of the interrogation will be tied up in the next chapter.
Finally, we will get back to Hogwarts and classes! As much as I dislike backstory chapters in time travel fanfics, I felt this chapter had to be done, or else Hermione would lack credibility in the story. These things had to be explained, as dull as this chapter may have been. Though at least Bellatrix made it somewhat exciting, yes? And Tom Riddle? What could he be planning, ohoho...
I'm really hoping Hermione meets Regulus next chapter, but we'll see what happens. I'm also working on a Hermione/Sirius Christmas story; it will be much shorter than this, and I hope to have the first chapter up this weekend. Thank you to my readers, as always!