A/N: I own nothing, all characters belong to JKR.
She never meant to destroy everything.
And yet, there she stood, with ash on her fingers and smoke in her lungs, watching her childhood home go up in flames. She looked down at her shaking, soot-covered hands before clenching them into fists. She had more power than she thought. More than she wanted.
In a violent rhapsody, the roof caved in. She took a step back, helpless, unable to undo her destruction. Unable to do anything but watch her infernal creation destroy the only home she'd ever known.
She closed her eyes in her final act of autonomy. Not that it did her much good. Through her paper-thin eyelids, she could still see the shadows of the flames. She could still feel the hellish warmth, singeing her cheeks. She could still hear the beams crashing to the ground. Her only source of protection crumbled to ash before her.
Creation and destruction had always gone hand in hand.
Over the sound of her home collapsing, the screams of her neighbors, and the echoing sirens that were closing in on her, she could barely hear the small voice of reason that somehow still resided in the corner of her mind: run. Her body obeyed what her mind couldn't quite comprehend. She supposed she should have been used to the feeling by now: it had been happening for years. She couldn't control it. She didn't understand it. She would never escape it.
Though the fire was an accident, it had become her last hope. Perhaps her parents would assume she'd perished. Maybe her memory would die with the last fading glow of the embers.
It's for the best, she thought, nearly tripping over her feet as she accelerated. Whatever was happening to her, she didn't want her parents involved.
She never meant to destroy everything. She'd only meant to destroy herself.
This was just as well. There might have been a way to make her parents forget— that would have saved them any heartache. But as easily as math and science and languages came to her, Hermione did not understand how her abilities worked. She couldn't bring herself to call it magic. Magic implied a certain kind of whimsy. It evoked images of faeries and wands and pumpkins turning into carriages. Hermione only knew chaos.
As she ran down the street and into town, the soft yellow light from her neighborhood faded, replaced by blinding white streetlights and neon pub signs. The sirens and the screams abated, and Hermione slipped into the crowd and into anonymity.
She knew it was a mistake, fleeing. Cowardly, at best. Stupid, at she were truly brave, or even a little bit intelligent, she would have let herself be taken by the flames. Despite her best intentions, she still had a shred of self-protective impulse.
"Hermione!"
Instinctively, she turned toward the sound of her name, immediately regretting it. A group of old friends from school sat huddled beneath a heat lamp. Friends she hadn't seen in years; friends she wasn't sure she'd ever see again.
She ducked her head and continued walking. Drops of sweat beaded her forehead and pooled in her underarms—even in the winter chill— like the fire had come from within her. She gritted her teeth and walked faster. When she reached the bus stop, she stepped into the shadow of the shelter. Drumming her fingers on her thighs, she paced the pavement, never straying from the darkness, like a lion trapped in a cage.
A black cab drove past her, rustling a pile of spare newspapers that had collected at the curb. Dust and debris flew into the air, collecting in the corners of Hermione's eyes. She coughed, doubling over the waist, choking on the dust, on the smoke, on her own pride and ambition.
The bus rolled up.
She stood. Forcing herself to swallow her coughs, Hermione patted her pockets. She'd forgotten change. She squeezed her eyes and clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh on the heels of her hands. She'd set her bloody home on fire, but she couldn't conjure 60 pence.
When the bus driver opened the door, she flashed an apologetic smile, coughing one last time. She took a step forward, grateful that the bus was empty, save for an elderly woman clutching a bag of groceries. "I'm afraid I don't have enough for the fare," she said, she hoped loud enough that the woman would hear her and perhaps offer to pay.
The man turned back to the road. "No fare, no ride," he replied gruffly. He reached for the handle to pull the door closed. Hermione pressed both hands against the doorway, propping it open.
"I promise, I have a travelcard, I just left it at home," she said. There was no reason for the driver to believe her, but she really did have an unlimited pass. Until it was lost to the flames, that is. If she ever returned to London, she was sure she'd make up for it.
The man shrugged, bleary-eyed, but adamant. "I have a route, kid."
Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears. She angrily swiped them away. How was this the straw that broke the camel's back? She looked at the old lady, who stared out the window, unbothered by Hermione's strife. "Please," she turned back to the driver. "You have to let me on."
The bus driver blinked. "Okay," he said with a shrug. Without another word, he looked away and shut the door. The bus pulled away from the curb.
As Hermione gripped the nearest pole to secure her balance, the tension in her shoulders released. Okay? She stumbled to the nearest chair, before running her fingers through her knotted hair. She had gotten what she wanted, yet her stomach churned. Had the bus driver really had a change of heart? Or was the same sinister magic that had sent sparks flying from her fingers compelling him to obey her?
She sat silently, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap as she perched on the edge of her seat, watching the outskirts of London pass by through the window. Her fingers trembled. Her knee bounced. The taste of smoke still lingered behind her teeth.
She squinted at the twinkling lights, trying to decipher her location from the brief flashes of the skyline through the trees. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this far south; she barely left her home anymore, except to go to work. The city was dangerous. Too many people. Too many buildings. Too many chances for everything to go horribly wrong.
"Camden Town," the driver announced. Hermione smiled at the elderly woman as she gripped the railing. The old woman gripped her grocery bag tighter as she scanned Hermione's scorched jeans and tattered jacket.
Hermione cleared her throat and tightened the strings on her hoodie. "Thank you," she whispered to the bus driver as she exited. Her power pulsed beneath her fingertips, threatening to expose her. That was the worst part of this sorcery: its unpredictability. She had no idea how it would manifest. Sometimes, it was as innocuous as a flickering light switch or freezing a glass of boiling water.
Other times, she set her house alight.
She couldn't risk it. Camden was crawling with tourists and students. There were too many people to whom Hermione could cause irreparable damage.
She needed to find him.
She burrowed her hands in her pockets and hung her head, speeding as briskly as she could without drawing any undue attention to herself. He'd asked her to only call on him if it was an emergency. Surely this qualified. She had nowhere else to go if it didn't.
The tips of her fingers heated up against her palms. She ran, her feet pounding against the cobblestone in time with her racing heart. Pushing through the throngs of people, she jogged in what she hoped was the direction of the address he'd given her, so many months ago.
As she ran, fear weighed down on, soaking her right through to the bone, like heavy rainfall. What if he'd moved? What if he didn't remember her? What if he couldn't really help?
She pushed forward, her lungs still burning from the smoke.
She turned onto the street, surprised at how easily her mental map of London had returned to her. The buildings all looked the same: monotonous brown bricks, beaten-up doors, piles of trash lining the curb. But there it was. 28. The small, wooden number hung above the doorframe. Here he was.
She rapped on the door, hoping more than she had any right to hope that he was home, that he would be the one to answer. She licked her lips. She hadn't even considered the fact that he might have housemates, people who didn't know anything about their abilities.
A few more seconds of agonizing waiting passed. Hermione's resolve weakened with each moment. Already preparing her next move, she took a step back, ready to slink back into the shadows. Her shoulders curled in on themselves. She'd beg for money on the street corner until she saved up for a bus ticket south, then squat in a remote, empty house until she learned to control this power, or until she wasted away.
There would be no stability in that lifestyle, but perhaps stability was more than she deserved.
She took another step back, turning away from the flat. And then, he appeared, opening the door just enough to poke his head out. His blank expression soon morphed into one of pale recognition. His eyes widened, just a fraction of an inch. "Hermione, right?" His voice was sharper than she remembered, his eyes darker. The sound of his voice awakened something in her. Her lungs cleared, the power rushed through her veins.
She threw herself forward. "I didn't know where else to go," she panted. She had to clutch the doorframe to keep herself from throwing herself on her knees before him; from submitting herself entirely to the mercy of someone who might as well be a stranger.
But Hermione Granger always stood back up again, no matter how many times her knees grazed the pavement.
The boy cast a nervous glance behind him before extending a tentative hand. "Come on in."
The wooden doorframe splintered under her grip. For better or for worse, she'd made it out alive. God help the fool who tried to change that.