A/N: Here is the first half of the next chapter; like the last one, I had to split it up into two. Thank you, thank you, thank you! to everyone who has reviewed (especially to those that have reviewed multiple times) and to everyone who keeps coming back for more of my odd story (whose characters belong to JKR of course). Enjoy! (No copyright infringment is intended by the use of the name "Wired.")
The halls of Hogwarts seem empty and lifeless, its walls cracked and crumbling. A lone woman walks the narrow corridors searching; searching for what, she is not sure. As she rounds a corner she is nearly blinded by a bright light shining at the end of the passage, and at the end of the passage stands a figure partially obscured by the surrounding brightness.
The woman calls to the figure, but her voice is lost in her surroundings as she begins to move towards the light. She is not sure who the figure is, but knows this is what she has been searching for and breaks into a run. She calls out again, but even the woman does not hear her own voice; the figure is beginning to disappear into the light.
The woman is desperate now, sprinting as fast as she can; she needs to reach the figure before it's too late, before the light engulfs the figure completely. Tearing down the decaying tunnel faster than she imagined possible, the woman attempts again to shout, but this too is a futile effort.
The brightness in the corridor increases ten-fold moments before swallowing the figure; the woman is too late. Ignoring logic, she again screams to the figure in last ditch effort and again no sound is heard. The woman collapses to the ground mid-stride, but feels no pain, only crushing grief and exhaustion. She has failed . . .
Beep, Beep . . . Beep, Beep . . . Hermione opened her eyes with a snap only to shut them just as quickly. The morning sun was shining brightly through her uncovered window and straight into the sleepy brunette's eyes. She quickly rolled over and turned off her alarm and cursed her own carelessness. Put every locking spell imaginable on the door and window and anti-Apparation wards around the perimeter only to forget to shut the blinds . . .
Groggy and discomforted by her dream, Hermione sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as yesterday's adventure replayed in her mind. That had certainly not been a dream, as the soreness in her lower back and left arm attested to.
Clad in only simple cotton panties and her bullet-torn shirt from her adventure, Hermione padded across the coarse carpet to the cool tile of the small bathroom. The scrapes along her arm had scabbed over during the night and required a fair bit of self-control not to pick at.
She pulled off her shirt and was surprised to still be wearing her bra, I literally just fell right into bed last night, didn't I? Slowly and carefully, she un-bandaged her shoulder. Like her arm, it too had scabbed and no longer required a reapplication of gauze.
Her back was a different matter. Over the course of the night, the already large bruise had grown and morphed into sickening shades of green, yellow, and brown. With an annoyed sigh, Hermione padded back to the bed and retrieved her wand from under the pillow and healed her wound.
Though magic was indeed magic, it didn't always work like magic. It had its limits, especially when it came to healing charms. The bruise shrank significantly, but didn't disappear completely. Satisfied with the result, Hermione headed back to the bathroom and showered.
***
Two hours later, Hermione was midway through inhaling a fast-food breakfast, praying she wouldn't regret it later, and nearly over whelmed by a fairly uncommon state of mind: indecisiveness. Hermione smiled, Well that's not entirely true. I can never make up my mind when it comes to Ron: should I hex him or snog him senseless . . . Though admittedly, I have been leaning towards snogging lately.
While sipping the last of her coffee, Hermione went over her options again. I'd be the most comfortable just going to all of the offices and interviewing the staff in person, but I can't realistically search every dental office in Sydney - let alone all of Australia. I could call the offices, but I'd have to use a payphone and that too would be very time-consuming and tedious. What I really need is a search engine and some luck.
Though a novice web user, Hermione was familiar with it enough to find her way around thanks to her dad. My dad, the technology junky. I just hope he has a website for their new office up and running by now. John Granger's hobby was a boarder-line obsession in Hermione's opinion, He's a dentist not a computer programmer after all. And yet, he would spend a few hours every weekend looking into the newest gadgets for his and her mum's office and programs for her family's home computer, the computer that he built himself. Dad and Mr. Weasley would get along very well. . . .
Regardless of which option she chose, Hermione needed to locate another phone book. The air outside was cooler and drier than the day before, allowing Hermione to don enough clothing to adequately hide her injuries and avoid any unwanted attention.
Nervous energy coursed through her sore body as she located a phone booth just up the block and waited for the current user to vacate it. She looked around and took in her surroundings. Only a few blocks from her motel, the area felt safer more lively than the diner near the airport. The shops looked clean and well cared for, some even undergoing exterior construction. It almost seemed odd how clean and neat things were until she noticed a flier on the side of the phone booth promoting a protest against next summer's Olympic games.
One store in particular had flagged her interest, Wired. The windows were slightly tinted, but she could just make out a number of people crowding around several circular tables staring at glowing boxes . . .
Narrowly avoiding being flattened by an oncoming BMW, Hermione darted across the busy street and into the internet café. Two minutes later, she was seated in front of a glowing screen reserved for her for fifteen minutes. Hopefully I won't need more than five . . . From her father's favorite search engine, she typed in her parents' pseudo-names and "dentistry" and hit search. The results list boasted several hundred, but Hermione knew she wouldn't need to look past the first hit on the list, "Wilkins Dentistry: Established 1998 by Dr. M. Wilkins and Dr. W. Wilkins . . ."
The room, though pleasantly cool when she arrived, now seemed uncomfortably warm and constricting. The website was achingly similar to the one her father had made for their practice back home. With a trembling hand, Hermione jotted down the address and phone number for the office without absorbing it, and needed to read through it three more times before realizing it wasn't in Sydney. She had never heard of the city and started a new search. Hermione felt her jaw drop and a hysterical laugh try to fight its way out her throat; their practice was on the other side of the continent. So much for swearing off flying.
***
A young woman walks down an empty hall, mindful of her last failure. This part of the castle is less like a corridor and more like an ancient ruin; the walls around here seem willing to fall at the slightest of breezes. Climbing over piles of rubble, she sees the shadowy figure moving away from her through the passage. Hope grips her heart; she hasn't failed just yet after all. She begins to quicken her pace. The woman's heart races as she gains ground on the figure; she is almost able to discern the shadow's identity.
The woman loses sight of the figure for a moment just as she feels the ground below her shake; panic sets in as the shaking becomes a continuous, violent tremor. The remaining walls around the woman begin to collapse and box her in; she is soon trapped. Terrified and disoriented, the woman looks up in time to watch the last section of wall topple and rush toward her . . .
Barely holding in a startled yelp, Hermione woke with a sharp intake of breath.
"Are you alright?" Hermione looked over and saw a middle-aged man sitting next to her staring at her with concern.
Hermione took a calming breath, "I'm-" The plane hit another patch of turbulence, causing the young woman to clutch at the armrests. With shallow, shaky breaths, she gave a feeble nod.
The man smiled sympathetically, "Close your eyes and take deep breaths. . . . Picture yourself anywhere, but here. I've flown this route dozens of times - you're safe. These guys know what they're doing."
Hermione nodded, closed her eyes and breathed; it didn't take long for her grip on the armrests to loosen. "Thank you. I'm, um - not much of a fan of flying, I guess," she said in a voice of uncertainty.
The man laughed, "No, I guessed as much. The name's Bill." He offered his hand.
After a split second hesitation, "Mia."
"So what brings you onto a plane that you obviously don't want to be on?" Bill asked after the introductions.
"I have family in the area I haven't seen in a while," Pseudo-Mia said carefully. "What about you?"
"I do some consulting for the railroad out here. They're working on expanding north. You wouldn't by chance know how to play Cribbage, would you?"
Hermione paused for a moment, "I think so, but I might need a refresher."
"Not a problem."
***
Hermione walked out of the airport feeling a bit guilty. She and Bill had enjoy two rounds of cards and conversed like friends. He told her about his job, about his family, he even suggested a good place to rent a car near the airport. What had she shared? She told him about her fictional family, her fictional classes at her parent's alma mater, she even told him about her fictional dental-majoring boyfriend. Nearly everything she told him was a lie and he bought every word of it, and why not? Any normal person would have been able to tell a kind stranger a few facts about their life, but not her. She couldn't tell him she just spent the last ten months trying to take down an organization bent on killing her and her friends and enslaving normal people like him, that she was on board that godforsaken plane to find her parents whom she honestly didn't think she'd ever see again. It made Hermione realize just how difficult it was to belong to two different worlds, but not to truly fit into either.
A stop at the rent-a-car and a mom-and-pop grocery store later, Hermione was heading north towards her destination; the cold deli sandwich and juice settling much more agreeably in her stomach than her greasy breakfast. Though it would be long past closing time for her parent's practice by the time she'd get there, Hermione had a plan and drove feeling at ease and freer than she'd felt in days thanks to the wide open terrain and the lack of posted speed limits. Indecisiveness was a thing of the past.
***
"You'll be wise to carry a torch with you, Miss. Street lights don't always cut it, especially in residential parts," the manager of the small inn said.
Hermione gave him a confused look.
"Snakes, they're not a huge problem, but the little buggers are out there."
Hermione suppressed the shuddered threatening to chill its way down her spine, "I thought they preferred daylight since they're cold blooded."
"Oh - they do, but the ground is still plenty warm and it's only just after dusk. They won't bother you if you don't bother them. Just watch your step."
"You wouldn't by chance have one I could borrow for the evening, would you?" Hermione asked uneasily. This definitely hadn't been accounted for when she formed her plan.
"Sure thing. If you use the batteries dead, change 'um and bring it back in the morning."
Hermione made her way out of the office into the cooling evening air and looked westward towards the remnants of the setting sun, now just a faint strip of lilac surrounded by the deep darkness of the night sky. Praying the manager's warnings would be unneeded, Hermione set off towards her destination.
As Hermione passed a tavern emitting the sickeningly delicious scent of fried food, she ran through her plan of attack. She had gone to the manager complaining of a toothache and inquired about a dentist; he, as predicted, referred her to Wilkins Dentistry. Intending to use the manager's directions and find it that night, the manager stopped her because it was closed and warned her about snakes; she'd countered that she needed to stretch her legs after the four hours on the plane and four more in the rental and took his flashlight, promising not to get bit and require him to drive her to the nearest hospital in the middle of the night.
Now she was heading to the office even though she knew no one would be there; there wasn't really a reason to check out the building, but she needed to see it. It was the part of the plan she couldn't skip; she needed to be mentally prepared to meet her parents as complete strangers. She couldn't allow her emotions to betray the lie she was about to tell them; failure wasn't an option.
Under the glow of the streetlights, just up the dusty sidewalk, stood a whitewashed building baring the name Wilkins Dentistry proudly on its street-facing wall. Hermione felt the first of what would likely be many tremors of unease in her chest; they were so close, but she wasn't ready . . . not yet.
Hermione stood motionless staring at the one-story building and let memories seemingly from another life overwhelm her senses. Though most were happy, the ones that intruded to the forefront of her mind were unpleasant and the most recent, the ones where she told her parents about the war and her plans and her plans for them . . . minus the part about altering their memories. Guilt coursed through her veins like ice, leaving her body and soul chilled in the cool night air.
Physically shaking her head in an effort to refocus, Hermione breathed deeply and searched through memories of holidays and lazy days to find one she could cling to, one to restore her waning confidence.
A calming warmth pushed out the guilt and Hermione continued past the building toward her new target. She veered off the main street and switched on the torch. Though there were streetlights, the manager had been right; the extra light was needed to closely watch the dusty ground.
The memory Hermione summoned was from the summer after her third year; a terrible storm had struck the area, killing the power to her neighborhood. By candlelight, Hermione and her parents played cards and board games while the storm raged just outside. They played for hours, eating junk food and drinking (sugar-free) soda until Hermione finally passed out on the sofa while her father played tunes from the '70s on his old acoustic and her mother sang vocals. It was a bittersweet memory; four years later, she still held onto that memory as one of the last times she had been truly comfortable in the muggle world, that she had felt completely at home in her parents' house.
Walking briskly for nearly fifteen minutes, she slowed to a saunter as her parents' home came into sight; it couldn't have been more different from their one in the UK. While the old one had been large and multi-level complete with a large green lawn, the new was single-leveled maybe with a basement and complete with a spotty dirt/shrub lawn. But the two did have one thing in common, both blended right in with the rest of their respective neighbors.
Though the tremors returned, Hermione still felt in control of the situation. She ignored the familiar and embraced the foreign elements of the outside décor as she walked slowly to the front door and knocked, half hoping no one was home. She subconsciously held her breath and waited anxiously.
***
"Don't get that," Wendell said as Monica put down her newspaper.
"Oh - I highly doubt it's Rudy wanting to renegotiate his bill again," she said, lightly hitting her husband's shoulder with the rolled up daily as she walked to the door.
"You never know."
"No, I suppose not." She opened the door and was met with a surprise. A young woman, worn around the edges and pale, stood on their front stoop. Though slightly sickly looking, staring at the woman was like staring into a mirror at a younger self.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'm staying with some friends in town and I took a walk, but now I can't seem to find my way back," the young woman rambled in a forced calm. "I was wondering if you had a phone book I could use."
Monica gave the woman a once over. She looked tired as if she'd been wandering around the streets for a while. "Sure. Wendell, could you get it?"
Wendell rose from his computer with a sigh, "Who are we looking for?"
"Neal and Lynda Porter," the woman said as his wife showed her inside to prevent moths from entering.
"Humm, didn't we see Neal last month for a crown replacement?" Wendell asked Monica as he extracted the thick volume. When she didn't immediately answer, Wendell turned back in time to see his wife's blank face before she dropped to her knees. The young woman rushed forward and caught Monica before she was injured further. Wendell rushed to the women, the Porters long forgotten.
The woman was checking his wife's pulse when he finally made it to her side. "Monica, Love? Monica, talk to me. Shit -" He looked wildly to the woman, but no words came.
"She'll be fine," she said softly.
"How do you -" he began until he saw the long, ornate stick she pulled out of her sleeve. Something far in the back of his mind flashed, but what he wasn't sure.
"You both will be," she said before pointing the stick at his chest.
Wendell stared at the woman in confusion as a flash of colored light emitted from the tip of the stick traveled to his chest. Wendell felt his mind and body relax instantly and fell peacefully into a comfortable darkness.
***
Hermione carefully laid her father beside her mother and allowed herself to be overwhelmed by her emotions. Great painful sobs tore through her throat as an urge to vomit nearly overtook her body. It was several minutes before she could calm down enough to get up off the floor and lock the door and apply the appropriate security charms.
Holding onto herself tightly, Hermione looked down at her parents. These are the people that raised me, that cared for me, that loved me and I just turned my wand on them. Her body shook with fresh guilt-fueled sobs as she sunk to her knees, unable to come to terms with what she had just done. Closing her eyes tightly, Hermione searched for the memory she had used so much mental effort to find and clung to it like a lifeline. Her sobs quieted to gentle weeping and finally to silent tears.
There was no other way, she thought tiredly as the levitated her parents down a hallway to her right. They needed to be unconscious for the spell to work and that was the most humane way to do it. She lowered them gently on top of the bed in the master suite and left immediately.
Hermione headed straight for the kitchen and fixed herself a sandwich even though food was the last thing on her mind. She was about to pour herself a cup of what had to be day-old coffee when she spotted a Diet Dew and grabbed it. The counter-charm she was about to attempt was difficult and required not only a thorough knowledge of the original spell, but also a fair amount of physical and magical energy. She had never attempted such a difficult spell.
She brought her hastily made meal to the breakfast nook and ate mechanically. Her thoughts drifted freely until they fell on the one person she had wanted to see just as badly as her parents, Ron. She felt an ache in her chest as she thought about they're parting. Hadn't he tried to reason with her, hadn't he said that going alone was a bad idea, that he should go with her to protect her - to support her? What had she said? I can protect myself, I'll be fine, I can't take you away from your family after all that's happened. Had she actually believed those reasons then?
Hermione shook her head sadly. In all honesty, she hadn't. She needed to do this alone; she needed to right her wrongs on her own; it was her penance. That's not right. My wrong kept my parents safe and alive. Why do I feel so bloody guilty then? Because I lied to my parents . . . because I lied to Ron as well?
Hermione stared at her empty plate and felt her heart break a little, I don't completely trust him anymore, do I? The last time I leaned emotionally on him was the morning after the battle and even then I didn't really tell him anything he didn't already know. I took more comfort in his embrace than his words. . . . I trust him with my life, but not with my heart.
Hermione downed the rest of her Dew in an attempt to wash the despair from her body. She had always known the problem, but hadn't at the same time.
She carried her dishes to the sink and took a calming breath. She didn't have time to contemplate her revelation about her fledgling relationship with Ron; she needed to restore her parents' memories. Hermione rolled up her sleeves and walked determinedly down the hallway.
They looked peaceful, as if they were merely sleeping and not in a state of charm-induced unconsciousness. Hermione extracted a battered notebook from her beaded bag and opened it in to the middle where she had written the final draft of the counter-spell (and the original spell a few pages earlier).
The spell she had used allowed for customization to ensure the strength and protection of the charm; those same customizations were also needed to reverse the charm. By design, the original memories were (nearly) irreversibly modified without knowing the original charm exactly. Hermione, being overly cautious, had drafted the original spell to be as infallible as possible knowing full well how difficult it would be to reverse.
Wand in hand, Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply focusing on the subtle energy flowing from her tired body to her wand. Though it circulated through her body like blood through veins, she followed the energy from her wand to her hand, to her shoulder, and finally to a place deep in her chest. Another cleansing breath, she pulled a bit of the energy from its source and began the counter-charm.
She would need to cast a separate counter-charm on both of her parents, but wouldn't be able to cast them in secession due to the physical demands of the spell; she could already feel exhaustion creeping into her body. She spoke the words like a mantra and moved her hand with the practiced grace of an orchestra conductor. She knew the spell forward and back; messing up the charm wasn't her fear, not being able to finish it was.
Half-way through, Hermione could feel beads of sweat trickling slowly down her back, her focus never wavering. She chose her mother to wake first for one simple reason: she was less likely to freak-out when she woke. As a child, Hermione was never able to understand how her mother could remain so calm in times of great stress or aggravation, whether she was arguing with unpleasant patients or dealing with Hermione's confused teachers after she had accidentally caused her least favorite bully's chair to collapse several times in one day without touching it. But now, after all that Hermione had been through, she thought she was beginning to understand.
With a shaking wand, Hermione began the final part of the spell, all too aware of her body's desperate plea for rest. As she uttered the last syllables, Hermione could have sworn she felt a bit of her own essence of being leave through her wand as she sank to the knees. Fighting off light-headedness, she used the edge of the bed to hoist herself back to her feet to look for any sign of waking from her mother. The sudden change in altitude, however, was too much for her already weakened state and caused her vision to blacken as she took a step back to regain her balance. She was falling to the floor before she knew what was happening.
Too tired to move, Hermione began to drift into the welcoming darkness, until she heard words she thought she'd never hear her mother say again: "Hermione? Oh my -"
There you go, the second half will come soon (hopefully). Let me know what you think: too in-depth, too tedious, too little actual R/Hr . . . never mind I know the answer to that already. As always, thanks for reading!
