Hey you guys! This is a story I started about... a decade ago and then dropped. I've almost finished writing it at the time of this A/N - just a couple of chapters to go, I think. There will be about 70 chapters in all, so I hope you're here for the long haul!
This story picks up toward the end of Hermione's 6th year. She knows about Horcruxes, but the Battle of the Tower hasn't happened yet.
I want to offer some blanket trigger warnings here, so you know what you're getting into. (I will also offer chapter-specific trigger warnings on relevant chapters.) This fic isn't super dark, but it's a war, and things will definitely go down.
As such, please know that this fic will include: violence, character death, mention of character death, torture scenes, attempted suicide. I completely honour you wherever you are in your journey, and will do my best to give you a heads up. If I do miss a trigger warning somewhere, please do let me know and I'll fix it ASAP for future readers.
(Please know that this is war, and as such, the topic of various specific deaths comes up a lot. For those of you mildly triggered by this, but still comfortable with reading, I will still put chapter warnings up - but I want to be sure you're going into it with clear expectations.)
Chapter 1 TWs: mention of death
Somewhere between pages 132 and 133 of her extra credit Ancient Runes translation, Hermione's subconscious picked up on a tapping sound breaking the silence of Professor Babbling's classroom. By the bottom of page 134 the tapping had registered as a background irritant, and upon reaching page 136 Hermione finally allowed herself to lift her head in search of the distraction's source. It only took her a moment to attribute it to the owl rapping impatiently at the window. She glanced around the class hopefully, but Professor Babbling had apparently stepped out, and her sixth year classmates (all five from Ravenclaw) seemed much more inclined to remain at their desks working diligently.
With a resigned sigh, Hermione crossed the room to let the poor thing in. To her surprise, instead of flying to the professor's desk, the owl lit upon the windowsill and stared at her expectantly.
"I'm sorry," she told it sincerely, "but I don't have anything for you—I'm in class, you see." She gestured toward her desk. The bird shot her a look that Hermione thought was meant to express exasperation, and extended its leg towards her.
"Oh!" she said softly in surprise, her voice tinged with a characteristic curiosity, before removing its burden. "Thank you." The owl gave her a look that was completely indiscernible (probably due to the fact that it was an owl), then flew back out the window.
Hermione stood for a moment, breathing in the warm afternoon air, her mind easing into the peace that came through on the breeze. But the scratching of quills quickly reminded her that she had other things to be doing. She looked at the letter pensively for a second, and immediately noticed its seal. The Ministry?, she thought worriedly. What could they—She internally cut herself off. I'd best just open it and see.
Returning to her desk, she carefully slid the envelope open with a spare quill.
Miss Hermione Jean Granger,
The door to the classroom opened and then shut behind her. Professor Babbling, she concluded, and continued reading.
We deeply regret to inform you that—
Footsteps were moving toward her desk. Her fingers began to shake.
—your parents, Susan & Michael Granger—
A sharp intake of breath sounded behind her. "Oh, Miss Granger! I'm so very sorry, dear… Professor Dumbledore just informed me—I was coming to send you to see Minerva—"
The words continued to flow in the same sympathetic and stumbling fashion, but Hermione found that, for the first time since coming to Hogwarts almost six years ago (excepting, of course, the incident that was Divination), she really didn't care just what profound insights her teacher was trying to impart upon her. Her hands were still shaking, and the words on the page were reverberating in her mind, effectively blocking out all others.
We deeply regret to inform you… Regret to inform… To inform…
Hermione stood abruptly, slid her things into her bag, and walked swiftly out of the room—oblivious to the stares of her classmates and the look of concern on her professor's face. She continued on steadily down the hall, though with no particular destination in mind. They can't be gone…, she thought, desperately searching for another explanation. She paused and looked intently at the note still clutched tightly in her grasp, as though mentally weighing its contents for truth.
Regret to inform… Susan & Michael Granger… Found early this morning… Dark Mark implies Death Eater involvement… Condolences…
Dark Mark… Death Eaters…
"Voldemort," she breathed, almost triumphantly. She quickly exchanged her course for a more purposeful one, and followed it to the 7th floor. Arriving at her destination Hermione knocked on the door sharply, her mind a rushing blur of worry and calculated thought.
"Enter," came her Head of House's sensible, yet reassuring voice. Hermione entered the office, shutting the door firmly. Professor McGonagall opened her mouth—possibly to enquire at the intrusion—but Hermione was already speaking urgently.
"I have reason to believe that Voldemort is playing games with me, Professor," she announced dramatically, dropping the crinkled letter onto the desk.
Her professor scanned the letter briefly, already dreadfully well-aware of the information contained therein, then looked at her star pupil piercingly. McGonagall's stomach plummeted as she came to realise the nature of the situation. Sympathy, which had already flooded the typically stern professor now constricted her heart painfully.
"It pains me to say, Miss Granger," she began gently. As though talking to a mental patient, Hermione thought in annoyance. "But this letter is no trick." Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "Members of the Order confirmed its contents less than an hour ago." Minerva paused and cast around for words that would help her to say the thing properly, but, as each time before, she came up woefully empty. Swallowing a regretful sigh, she continued. "I'm so very sorry, Miss Granger, but last night your parents' lives were indeed taken by Voldemort's supporters." There was a pause. "If there's anything I or any of the staff can do…" she trailed off, knowing there was absolutely nothing they could do to for the girl just now.
Hermione stared at her unblinkingly, but Minerva soon saw the stubborn defiance waver, then crumble. "No," Hermione whispered. "No—they can't be… be…" her voice turned pleading. "I had a plan… They… Australia…" She shook her head as though to dispel the notion from her mind. "No," her voice was somehow soft and harsh simultaneously. "No, they won't—they can't… can't be…" She felt as though someone had punched her in wholeheartedly in the stomach. Her voice broke and tears welled up in her eyes.
"Miss Granger," Minerva began, feeling helpless, "perhaps Misters Potter and Weasley could—"
"No!" Hermione interrupted hurriedly, only the slightest waver in her voice. "Thank you, but no. I think…" she took a steadying breath. "I think I'd much rather be alone just now."
Minerva hesitated. "Of course," she said reluctantly. "Take as much time as you need."
Hermione nodded, relieved. She would need her friends soon, but right now what she desperately needed was solitude. "Thank you, Professor." She turned and opened the door, then paused. "If the boys ask, please let them know I'll meet them in the common room this evening?"
Receiving an affirmative response, she left the office, forcing back the wave of emotions battling for attention, and forcing her stride into quick, but measured steps. She maintained this calm façade for all of two corridors before breaking into a desperate dash for the one place she knew she could find herself completely alone. Her heart pounded in her chest – not from the exertion, but as if it simply didn't know what else to do. You're alive! You're okay! Everything is okay because I'm still beating! it seemed to say. Hermione didn't believe it. Not for an instant.
Reaching a blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor, she paced back and forth, unable to focus on anything in particular as emotion crashed through her hastily erected barriers. A door appeared before her and she swept inside, flinging it shut behind her.
And there she fell to the floor and shattered.
This had been her nightmare. Had haunted her, awake and asleep, for months now. But she'd had a plan. And terms was almost over. As soon as she got off the train, she was going to protect them. Protect them as no one else seemed to think to. And she was too late.
In her mind, her parents were consumed in green light. Over and over. Fell over and over. As sobs wrenched themselves from her throat, and tears poured over her cheeks.
She was supposed to save them.
She was supposed to save everyone.
Some time—minutes? hours? days?—later, Hermione's tears slowly abated and she pulled herself from the floor. Her heart seemed to tremble in her chest now, as if it wasn't quite so certain that everything was okay after all. She finally looked around at her surroundings. She wasn't sure if it had shifted, but certainly the Room now seemed to be perfectly equipped to accommodate both of her current, conflicting needs—to escape this intangible and impossible reality, and to wallow in it, clinging desperately and sorrowfully to memory.
The far wall held a stone fireplace, flames flickering and snapping in the hearth, and giving off a warm, comforting glow. All around the fireplace, covering the swirling gold paint, were hundreds of photos, muggle and magic: pictures of her as a baby, cradled gently in her parents' arms; pictures of her as a small girl, listening to her father's deep and familiar voice as he read her a bedtime story; pictures of hugs and kisses, smiles and laughter. Hermione held back another tide of sobs, tears streaming silently down her face, as she carefully cherished each image the Room had created in representation of her life with her loving parents.
Looking at the photographs, she was almost able to imagine that the memories weren't all there was—that there would be more to make when she returned home, in just a few weeks, for her last summer as a Hogwarts student. But that hadn't even been her reality this morning; Harry would need her this summer, she knew, and after sending her obliviated parents to Australia for "safe-keeping," Hermione had planned to be waiting dutifully at the Burrow—the comfort and sensibility to Ron's happy distraction; together the yin and yang of Harry's sanity.
Not now. I can't save them now… I was too late… A sob rose swiftly in her throat, followed by another and another, as Hermione allowed the devastating truth deeper into her heart. But the tears did little to ease the pain in her chest, and she soon brushed them brusquely away. She couldn't feel it all. She just couldn't. She walked to the adjacent wall, which was lined with shelves of books, and examined their titles intently, yearning to lose herself in their contents. Many of the books, however perplexingly, seemed to fall under one category.
"Time," she said softly, curiosity flaring inside of her. She gave the Room in general an enquiring look. Why time? She felt as though the Room was trying to send her some sort of message, but perhaps she'd just been thinking about time an exceptional amount, and the Room had been confused. More time with my parents. How yesterday they were still alive. "As much time as you need"… However much that is... Either way, there was more literature on the subject here than could be found in the library (which she knew from her voracious perusal in third year), and she was eager to drown out her thoughts with the accumulation of knowledge.
She dug eagerly into the shelves: muggle philosophy, magical speculation, alleged time travel accounts, even conspiracy books – muggle and magical – about the government's top-secret studies and experimentations. She drank up the information with a desperate thirst, and shut out everything else.
