Chapter Two

Beauty

"Everyone knows her father is a lunatic. He was in here tonight raving."

- Beauty and the Beast, Disney Animated Movie

With her a stack of books and parchment in her arms, Hermione apparated to Diagon Alley. The day was too pretty to be wasted indoors.

A few women by Madame Malkin's robe shop whispered and stared in her direction. One of their voices carried across the cobblestone street. "I know she's a war heroine, but you have to admit she is rather odd. Look at the state of her hair."

Another replied, "And she's always reading."

Hermione snorted. As if reading were so strange. Perhaps, if these women read more, they'd have something more interesting to discuss than her hair. Even still, she ran a self-conscious hand through her bushy mane. It had been a while since she had run out of her last bottle of Sleek-EZ's hair potion. Maybe, she should pick up another one.

She shook the thoughts from her mind. Absolutely not. She had much more important matters at hand. Besides, she should be used to this by now. Her part in the "golden trio" and at the Battle of Hogwarts had brought her lots of attention—good and bad.

She lowered her head back to her book. She didn't owe these ladies a knut.

Instead, she found a nice spot on the patio at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. She ordered a double scoop of strawberry ice cream with whipped cream and sprinkles. She didn't care if it was unhealthy. She needed some comfort food.

Mr. Fortescue, a grandfatherly man with a kind smile, took her order and asked if she'd read the paper today.

"No." She frowned. "I'm not in it, am I?"

He chuckled. "Nothing like that. But," he lowered his voice, "half of the inmates in Azkaban were killed in their cells last night. A curse of some sort."

Hermione was taken aback. "That would have to be very powerful dark magic."

"You bet. They hit the old pureblood homes too."

Her mind immediately went to the Burrow. "Not the Weasleys?" she said, her breath catching in her throat.

Mr. Fortescue put a gentle hand on her arm. "Not that sort of pureblood family. I'm sorry to have scared you." He returned with her ice cream. "On the house today," he added.

She accepted with gratitude and summoned a copy of The Daily Prophet.

NIGHT OF TERROR

Last night, while the wizarding world was asleep, a powerful enchantment swept through Britain. It appears to have been targeting supporters and alleged supporters of He Who Must Not Be Named.

Amongst the targeted properties were the Carrows, McNairs, Crabbes, Rookwoods, Lestranges, and Notts. Remarkably, each residence seems to have been destroyed in a unique way. The Carrows' home was reduced to rubble. The McNair's penthouse was engulfed in flame.

Perhaps most shocking of all, the curse was able to penetrate the walls of Azkaban itself. Death tolls are still being confirmed. "We was all sleeping," said an anonymous Azkaban guard. "There was this beautiful snow fallin' everywhere and then we was all just sleepin'. When we woke, they was dead. Nearly half of 'em."

So far, confirmed deaths include Altima Carrow, the matriarch of the Carrow line. She was found in her ancestral home this morning, crushed by a fallen marble post. Albert Travers was also found dead in his home, apparently the victim of a drowning spell. Even the rugs were waterlogged.

This story is still breaking. Turn on your witch wireless for up to the minute updates.

Based on this article, it seemed the Weasleys were indeed safe. These were Death Eater families. "Alleged" or not. Just in case, she penned a quick letter to Ron. It had been several weeks since they had last spoken. Since their second breakup.

Dear Ron,

I just saw the news in The Daily Prophet about pureblood families being attacked. It rather seems like a certain sort, but I wanted to make sure everyone was okay.

Love,

(She looked at that word on the page for a long moment. What else could she say? Yours? That was even worse. No, it'd be weird to sign anything else. She did love Ron, after all. He was one of her oldest friends. They just didn't work as a couple.)

Hermione

She tucked the note into one of her books. Then, after shoveling a few more bites of ice cream, she apparated to the Ministry. She dropped her letter for Ron off with a Ministry owl in the lobby. Then, made her way down the elevator to her office in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

It was a hectic department. Paper airplane memos soared through the air. Men and women often running toward the nearest apparition point to chase down the latest catastrophe. There were a lot of witches and wizards in Britain, and at any given time, a great number of them were doing something stupid.

She walked around the cubicles toward the corner office. A shiny gold plaque read, "Akira Spinnet, Head Obliviator." Hermione rapped on the door.

"Oh, good afternoon, Hermione," her boss greeted pleasantly. "Would you like to come in?"

Hermione dropped the Daily Prophet on her desk. "I was just at lunch when I heard. Do you need me in the field?"

"Accio muggle newspapers," Ms. Spinnet said, holding her wand aloft.

From behind her on a well-organized shelf flew two muggle newspapers, Evening Standard and The Guardian. She uncrumpled the first and handed it to Hermione.

SNOW IN MAY: THE FIRST IN 43 YEARS

Children of London rejoiced as they woke early this morning. London had been turned into a Winter Wonderland.

[There was a photograph of royal children making snow angels outside of Buckingham Palace.]

Working adults weren't as pleased with bus schedules altered, and plows called out to clear the roads. "Twenty years I've been doing this job, and I've never seen a snow in June," said a lorry driver. "It's going to put me off all my routes."

As quickly as it came, however, the snow seems to have melted away. Meteorologists explain that what we've experienced is a result of climate change and a rare polar vortex passing over England.

Hermione stopped reading and smiled. "I see."

"Yes, we sent out an early morning squad to Knightsbridge. There were a few overturned cars in the neighborhood, but the local muggle population seemed to think things were normal. So, as soon as you finish the logs for the day, you can head home a bit early."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll have them on your desk shortly."

When Hermione had joined the Obliviator Squad, it had been a surprise to many people. In fact, Ms. Spinnet, Alicia Spinnet's formidable great aunt, had been delighted to have her.

Because of her status from the war, they'd accepted her with no interview, given her a small office instead of a cubicle, and offered to allow her to move straight to more advanced field work. But Hermione had drawn the line at surpassing grunt work.

"It's part of the job, isn't it?" she'd asked.

Her boss had agreed that, yes, traditionally, it had been.

"Then, I'll do it," she said simply. "I want to learn everything there is to know about this job."

So, Hermione finished off her late afternoons by filling in the day's logs and triple checking them for errors. She rather found the process relaxing. It reminded her of days in the Gryffindor Common Room with Harry and Ron, pouring over her homework while they played Exploding Snap.

With her penchant for organization and reading, she was done half an hour early. She left the logs with Ms. Spinnet for review and apparated home.

Hermione lived in a small cottage in the countryside. It had a thatched roof and was surrounded by a big field of wildflowers and tall, swaying grass. She couldn't be bothered to learn the enchantments to cut it, preferring it this way. Besides, it helped keep unwelcome visitors at bay. The nearest home was half a mile to the west, as her property bordered a magical preserve.

After the war, she, Harry, and Ron were awarded a great sum of gold from the Ministry. Ordinarily, she would have turned it down, but in truth, she needed the money. With no NEWTs, no job, and no family, she was in a tough spot. The money had bought her this modest home with a little extra in savings.

Hermione waved her wand and dropped the wards. No one could apparate in but her. The doors were thoroughly locked. The windows sealed. It was a beautiful, picturesque prison.

She opened the door and called, "I'm home."

Her father, a heavyset man nearing fifty years of age, bounded up to the door, "Mione!" he shouted, flailing his arms in excitement.

She gave him a heartbroken smile. "Hello, Dad."

After the war, Hermione had searched for two months straight, looking for her parents in Australia. She had followed lead after lead, until finally she had found Wendell and Monica Wilkins—the alias she had given her parents when she had altered their memories.

They were doing quite well for themselves, actually. They had setup a small accounting practice and were living above it in town. It had been unusual to hear them speaking with Australian accents.

Even more unusual was the moment when they didn't shout her name and sweep her into a hug. But, of course they wouldn't. They didn't know her at all. Monica and Wendell Wilkins had no daughter.

It had taken all of her strength not to break down in tears at their doorstep. It had taken her an additional month to convince them both to come to England. She had masqueraded as a distant relation with a booming accounting business. When asked, she said she had no parents. They'd taken pity on her and welcomed her into their lives.

After some time, they had even grown fond of her. During these dinners and work meetings, she had tried to gently peel back the layers of the memory charm. But the truth was it was very tough going. Her work hadn't been clean. She had been scared and desperate and her spellwork showed it.

At the time, her greatest fear had been their memories being unlocked by a Death Eater. Maybe even Voldemort himself. Now, she was afraid of the complete opposite. She was afraid they'd never know her again.

She continued to try and try. And that's when things went from bad to worse. As Hermione lifted the most recent layer, something had broken in her father. He knew his name. Maurice Granger. But his brains were, there was no nice word for it, addled.

Mr. Granger tugged on her sleeve. "Come see! Come see my invention."

She followed him to the kitchen where a stern, middle-aged woman was picking up a triangle made of spoons that had been glued together and dumping it into the sink. "Scourgify," she hissed.

Hermione gave her a sharp look. "I've told you. No magic in the house. Mum, I mean Monica, isn't aware of it."

Meanwhile, her dad was having a full-on tantrum. "No! No!" he wailed, covering his eyes. "My invention. My invention."

"It's okay, shh, shh," she soothed him. "We'll make another one."

"Not while I'm here," the hardnosed woman replied. "This is the fourth I've dismantled today. He's destroying the house. And I'm lucky it wasn't me as well. He turned the gas stove on."

"He doesn't mean any harm," Hermione explained patiently. She'd like to fire this woman and find someone better, but the hiring pool was limited. How many wizards would accept a job out in the countryside taking care of two muggles—one with severe spell damage and the other who needed to be lied to constantly? Not many.

Elsy was stern and grumpy, but she was a halfblood. Her own mother had been muggle. Hermione knew she would never use her magic against the Grangers. Many wizards and witches might try to spell them into compliance. It was a fear that never left her. The war was not that long over. Many thought muggleborns should never be allowed in, and her current situation was one of the reasons why.

Into the kitchen walked the spitting image of Hermione Granger. "Hello, Hermione," she said with a smile. "How's the business? You know, I'm happy to consult on any cases you're having trouble with."

Hermione smiled back, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you. Monica. Things are going quite well. I've got one tricky case. If you have the time, I'd love you to look it over."

Occasionally, Hermione brought home fake accounting cases for her mother. Something for her to work on to keep her mind busy. She pulled a manilla envelope from her pursed and handed it to Monica. "Fascinating case. A serial tax dodger, but he wants to set his house in order this time."

Her mom accepted the file and thumbed through it with interest.

Hermione sighed in relief. What if Monica Wilkins grew bored of watching her husband and taking these consulting cases? What if she decided to move them back to Australia? Hermione couldn't allow it to happen. Not until she figured out how to put her father's mind back together properly.

Her mom looked back up at Hermione with a twinge of guilt. "I'm afraid he's been at it again. He's destroyed your drapery."

Indeed, they had been cut at the bottom and the pieces tied into a jump rope.

"It's no matter," she assured her.

Their conversation was polite and cordial, but it left a burning pit in Hermione's stomach. She wanted her mom and dad back. More than anything.

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews. I hope you enjoyed chapter two. I especially enjoyed writing Mr. Granger. I was excited when I found out he had no canon first name, and I could call him Maurice. In the next chapter, Draco and Hermione will meet (again). Btw, sorry about the lack of section breaks. I guess doesn't allow them? They keep getting removed.

Just for fun, a little trivia. How many eggs does Gaston eat per day?