.\|The Shadow Man|/.
...
Just Another Day
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When they say history rewrites itself, they're certainly not wrong.
Lies are printed onto the pages of articles, accompanied by the fake smiles of war criminals moving in their silent loop. All mainstream Wizarding media, in fact, has plastered paper over the gaping crack of their very recent history — when ludicrous sources such as the Quibbler become the most reliable form of printed news, then there's no doubt that Wizarding Britain is trying to rewrite its past.
The Ministry is a joke. Which is funny, really, because Hermione had admired it for a great chunk of her adolescence; had dreamed about fighting for the rights of magical creatures with a fancy office and a decent amount of campaign funding to back up her cause. To finally become a part of something.
But she is no longer a child. In fact, even though she is still very young, she feels like she's lived on this Earth for decades without ever learning enough. Scarred from battles of wit, of body, and of mind. Perhaps her only consolation in the aftermath was that she wasn't the only one.
Different people found different ways of coping.
Cho Chang founded an industry of Wizarding visual entertainment — essentially televisions, except the channels would exit the screen and play for naked eyes — and she's now a billionaire notorious for her commitment issues. Her business opened new professions, and several Hogwarts students went into acting.
Everytime Hermione is flicking through channels, she'll catch a glimpse of Justin Finch-Fletchley charging at a dragon in her living room for that stupid series Ron won't shut up about; or she'll nearly spill her tea onto her ragged jumper because Parvati Patil has just zipped in to squeal about shopping in France (not that the character she portrays is much different to her real self). Each time she has the misfortune of landing on a soap opera, she rolls her eyes painfully when Cormac McLaggen starts flexing his muscles.
Unlike Muggles, magical folk like to make everything as complicated as possible.
So when Hermione is scouring for a news channel, she's come to learn they never stay the same number. There's some reasoning behind it that involves networking in a way that works globally, but she's too low on rent and too invested in the fictional news to care.
Susan Bones used to report for the Daily Prophet, but she's a terrible liar. That's why Hermione is no longer surprised when she comes across Pansy Parkinson's pug-like face as she jabbers on about how there was never any blood purity ideals, that the Death Eaters like the Malfoys, the Crabbes, the Notts, were tricked, threatened or put under the imperius curse. This morning's article had a conspiracy written by Astoria Greengrass questioning the existence of Voldemort himself, and Hermione has no doubt that the pug bitch will be ready to exploit that story to its full amount by her afternoon report.
She's convinced herself to go out before Parkinson's newest rubbish…Crookshanks has been pawing at her feet and she knows he wants those kneazle treats she sometimes gets him.
As she ambles through London's streets, blending in perfectly with the oblivious Muggle crowds, she wonders what her life would've been like if she wasn't a witch. At eleven years old, she couldn't imagine it ever being the way it was before. That naivety is like money for her.
Harry, bless him, has offered her more Galleons than she could hope to earn in an independent S.P.E.W fundraiser; of course, she always gives him a smile and says no.
Despite the controversy from the Ministry, he's still pursuing his dream, now training to be an auror. Both Ron and Ginny have become international Quidditch players. Neville is doing research in the properties of all kinds of plants. Luna, of course, has carried on the Quibbler from her Father and his ailing health.
Well, it had been a consolation, before.
Now, it's a joke.
Everyone's got something. Even the people who lost those they were dearly close to. Hermione is the only one who appears to be lost.
She makes her trip in Diagon Alley as brief as possible, allowing her irritation at the wizarding crowds (with little eleven-year-olds zipping about, pestering their parents for broomsticks or telescopes) to distract her from her thoughts.
When she passes back through the Leaky Cauldron with Crookshanks' treats clutched in her fist, however, she gets dragged into a social greeting she has no wish to be in. Harry, Ron, and Harry's latest girlfriend. Some chick he met at a training session in Japan. It's been a few months, but Hermione still doesn't remember her name. To be fair, she hadn't remembered that Ron would be back in the country for the next couple of weeks, and he's one of her best friends.
They beam up at her, glasses of frothy butterbeer and piles of chips laying on the table between them. She's thrown Killing Curses at Death Eaters before but she's never learned how to say no to Harry and Ron. So the hours plough on, and on Hermione's fifth pint of firewhiskey she decides she's going to call his girlfriend 'Sarah'.
They simply laugh. Of course brilliant, bookish Hermione Granger would remember the name of her best friend's girlfriend. It shouldn't be that hard, if she can memorize pointless passages out of massive textbooks that haven't benefited her future in the slightest.
Someone says 'Sakura', her mind is too foggy to distinguish who. Not like she'll remember it in the morning anyway. Time kind of just slips out of her grasp. In fact, she's stripped of everything that makes logical sense except an odd urgency to get to her television. Her Grandma had had the same urges, she remembers. Whatever. It's probably too late, now.
She broods down at her empty glass, barely registering how the chatter in the Leaky Cauldron has lowered considerably. She supposes it's a Sunday night thing. Ron's already left; no doubt he has some girl waiting for him, too. Harry and Sakura carry the weight of the conversation on their backs, until the latter finally mentions something about it getting late.
"No, s'fine," Hermione grumbles, waving her hand as Harry offers to apparate her to her home. "It's only a fifteen minute walk."
"Even so," he says sternly, as Sakura wraps a scarf around herself. "It's dark outside."
Hermione scoffs. "You and I both know I can take care of myself."
It takes a few gentle tugs from his girlfriend to convince Harry to leave her be, bidding her goodbye. Even though she knows she can't afford it, Hermione orders one more firewhiskey. She can worry about her Muggle landlord's angry letters later.
Finally, she staggers out of the stuffy warmth of the Leaky Cauldron and spills out onto the icy Muggle streets. Her hand is too shaky, and her mind too sluggish, to cast a warming charm. So she relies on her body's shivering mechanism to not freeze to death. She wishes her jumper, as ugly as it is, would at least function for the purpose it was designed for.
Stupid jumper. Stupid guilt-tripping friends. Stupid cat that wants some treats.
Shit.
Her trainers skid to a halt, nearly slipping on the pavement. Of course she had to go and leave the treats in that stupid pub. As she stomps back the familiar route of meandering roads, she watches her breath billow out like a dragon that's blown smoke. Hah. More like a half-arsed teapot that screeches when it gets too hot. Stupid teapots. Stupid Chang and her television theft from the Muggles. Stupid reporters.
Stupid. Pansy. Parkinson.
She thinks she's an influencer; really, she's just a puppet. Just like she would've been under Voldemort's command.
The most loyal Death Eaters are now living in their villas in Italy or Barbados or New Zealand. Not a care in the world about all the blood they spilled. Dirty blood, they called it. They undoubtedly still do.
"What's a pretty little thing like you doing here on your own?" Even though she's no stranger to this kind of talk, her blood still boils. Mrs Weasley always says that young women shouldn't be out alone at night, but why can young men be completely fine strolling through midnight streets? Perhaps it's universally accepted that women are easier targets, both in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Gritting her teeth, Hermione keeps her pace steady. "Hey!" the voice slurs out, clearly a fellow drunkard. "I'm talkin' to you, luv!"
Slipping her numb hand into her pocket, where her wand rests, Hermione swivels around. He's a large bloke, bulky, would be the best way to put it. With a straining hoodie and jogging bottoms that are in danger of falling off, she knows a Muggle Londoner when she sees one. From behind poorly tamed scruff, he's leering at her. There's an earring glinting from underneath his hood. His tongue flicks over his lips; she tightens her grip on her wand.
"I could ask you what you're doing here on your own, too," she replies haughtily.
Merely grinning, the man brings his hand to his crotch region and scratches. Wrinkling her nose, she raises her eyes swiftly back to his face, where she catches a look that makes her consider just stunning him on the spot. "You look cold, you should come over to my place." It takes a lot of effort to not roll her eyes.
"I'm fine, thanks," she replies stiffly, turning back on her heel. She quickens her pace towards the Leaky Cauldron, turning through a few roads before looking over her shoulder. Well, he's nowhere in sight. She's not sure if that's a good sign or not, so she keeps her fingers curled over her wand.
If she wasn't so bloody drunk she could apparate into the pub, and then into her tiny apartment. Avoiding some drunk, perverted Muggle isn't worth a splinching, though, so her shoes scrape more roughly against the pavement as her breaths billow more rapidly into the air. Her thighs are starting to burn, something she's sure that Harry, Ron and Ginny never have trouble with. There's even a bloody stitch in between her ribs.
Hermione Granger, a failure in mind, body and soul.
Bloody hell. Is there a dementor here or something?
Maybe it's because she's too drunk, or maybe it's because she really is a failure, but she abruptly finds a blade is digging into her throat as she inhales putrid beer breath. "I think you need to be taught some manners, luv," he croons into her ear, making her skin crawl.
Hermione conjures a list of the most painful spells that she can think of in her mind.
Her mind is whirring as her heart beats with the spirit of an athlete. First, she needs to get rid of the knife. Transfiguring it into a scarf, is the safest option. Is she sobre enough to do wandless magic? Nope. Alright, she'll have to discreetly point her wand. It's not like he knows what it can do, but he might mistake it for a knife and slit her throat in this cold little corner of London.
After all, they are both drunk. And stupid.
The man gasps into her hair. A fraction of a second later, the pressure of cool steel against her skin has vanished. The time that it takes her to turn around, there's a scuffle, a scream and a heavy thwock.
Now lying face-down on the icy ground is the same man who had his hand fisted into her hair.
Above him, something stands tall and proud. Or, at least, that's how Hermione perceives it.
The figure almost bleeds into the inky blacks and blues of the dim street and half-clouded skies, shrouded in billowing robes and watching her from behind a mask. In one gloved hand, is an unmistakable length of wood much like the one sitting uselessly in her pocket. The other has flecks of scarlet against it, balled up into a fist.
For a few moments she wonders if she has had more firewhiskey than she can handle.
Her eyes flicker back to the pervert. Shuffling slightly closer, she pokes him with the tip of her shoe. "Is he dead?"
When the figure doesn't answer, Hermione looks back up. She blinks at the empty street.
After casting a charm to confirm a pulse, Hermione left the man to the mercy of Britain's winter. Returning home empty-handed, she sighed at Crookshanks and his imploring stare before he sauntered out of the window to go God knows where for Merlin knows how long. After a few minutes flicking through her television and feeling pity for herself at the announcement of Viktor Krum's proposal to some famous Australian Quidditch player, Hermione decided she didn't care enough to watch a catch-up of Parkinson's report for today. Or, technically, yesterday.
Now she lays alone, on her rickety bed, her eyelids blanketing the stinging but doing nothing for shielding her mind. When she finally manages to sleep, she dreams of a masked figure flying a Quidditch broom under a sickly night sky, swooping down to a faceless woman in a wedding dress. The pair of them fly over London until a voice barks into lightning about no Voldemort. Then it all seeps, blurry blacks and greys until she's sprawled against an icy floor, with a knife against her skin. Except, it's not pressing into her throat — it's piercing into her arm.
It's etching a word. A horrible, horrible word. Someone is cackling maniacally. It might be the knife wielder. It might be her.
She cracks her eyes open in the pain; she meets a silver pair that look perhaps more afraid than she feels. His fist is clenching, and opening, methodically, while his jaw is ticking.
They both know she is alone with the knife and the madwoman.
Hermione shoots upright on her bed, breathing heavily. She's not in a drawing room, she's in her ugly little apartment in some forgotten region of London. Her room's a mess. The whole place smells like Crookshanks' wet fur. As her breathing slows, her hand drifts to her forearm, where the scar is hidden under the sleeve of her moth-eaten jumper.
There's a pounding headache dawning behind her eyes.
She washes away the dream underneath a steaming shower, wondering how much firewhiskey she'd had last night, and trying to figure out if she'd imagined buying Crookshanks his treats.
It's just another day for Hermione Granger.