AN: Stating yet again, JK et al. own all rights, considerations, etc. My godsons, however, deserve full credit for oh-so-much right now…
AN: To Guest from chapter three reviews: Since Hermione's mother always knew about magic, there'd be no violation of the Statute of Secrecy, and so she didn't need to be obliviated. In fact, she'd act as a safeguard against magic happening after the binding, since she did know.
Chapter Four
The Days of Future Passed…
Harry Potter never returned to talk to Hermione Granger.
It was exactly as she expected.
Sirius and Lupin had other students, other staff, a school, and Harry. A former witch was not on their agenda. They no longer shared a world, despite habitation on the same planet in the solar system.
The strange woman in the outdated tweed suit did not reappear at Haysmith.
Hermione slipped into a routine.
Train to London.
Bus to a spot near the school.
Walk to school.
Attend classes.
Walk to bus stop.
Train.
Eat.
Work on school things.
Go to bed.
Twice a week, her routine was disrupted by her participation in two school clubs. The first was field hockey, a sport she didn't love, but didn't hate, and at least gave her a fair chance keeping a safe distance from others. The flat end of the stick had to touch the ball. That was it. Just the flat end. It was like putting a wand tip in the right place. She took to using her stick to bounce the ball on the face, marveling at how like a golf ball it looked. She did not play well, but she did not need to. She needed to exercise, and running up and down and sideways for field hockey served the purpose. The stick kept people at bay. She was quite fond of it, really.
The second club was computers. The wave of the future, which had already arrived, full of potential and possibility, computers fascinated her in the way the programming language reminded her of Runes.
She studied maths, so as to take calculus the next year; literature, for relaxation; chemistry and biology as part of her possible future in medicine (although she thought of it as healing). The rest were simply things to be done, to be conquered, and Hermione did that.
A few boys tried to flirt, and she had casual chat with other girls on the team, but she made no true friends. She didn't want to bother. In a few years, she would be leaving them, as she had left Harry. Friends were temporary, but the pain felt permanent, and she was determined to minimize it.
If not for Crookshanks, she would have thought she imagined it all.
Sometimes, late at night, when sleep fled from her grasp, she sat by her window petting Crooks, and wondered.
The trunk in the other room says it was and is real.
My life does not.
My memories say yes.
My life does not.
On other nights, she thought about Harry Potter, and the tangled mess of her life.
Why did it have to rest on Harry? Prophecies are open to interpretation, and there must be hundreds that never come to fruition.
What if Dumbledore cannot defeat Voldemort? Who will save them?
Will it matter?
It's a stupid babbling mess made by a soused fraud, to a fraud, who is not the greatest wizard of our age. He's simply the one with the greatest reputation.
But Harry is only fifteen…
And it is not my business. Not my world. Not mine.
Or is it?
Who was that creepy woman in tweed?
Why was a dementor after me?
Nothing else has happened.
Was it… A warning? No one can hold that significant a grudge against me other than, perhaps, Draco Malfoy, but would his father go to such effort to end me when I'm already banished from their world, my magic taken?
Crookshanks, at this point, always put his paws on her collarbone and butted his head hard into her chin, rubbing, to let her know he would never be taken from her.
"Thank you, Crooks," she whispered every time.
In that way, weeks passed.
Halloween loomed.
A year ago, an enchanted goblet spat Harry's name into a lethal competition.
They left Hogwarts for Sirius's family island at the end of that term. They built up great expectations and larger dreams.
Dumbledore kept forcing their return.
Until he forced her exit.
I did attack him.
I am not ashamed.
He intended horrible things for Harry.
Telling him that dreadfully silly prophecy.
Not explaining the gap in time.
Crookshanks meowed softly at her, leapt to the floor, and nipped at her pajamas.
"You're right. I have to sleep. You're very wise, Crooks."
She swore the cat grinned before taking his place next to her on the bed, stretched out like a furry barrier between her and the rest of the world.
HP HP HP
Perhaps the most difficult part for Hermione was not her memories, but what she saw.
She still had magic in her, like a squib. She could not use it, but it meant she could…see.
The imperius-blank stare of a man walking erratically along Goldhawk Road, near her bus stop.
The odd nasal flicker of a smell that she knew from Herbology, as she went through the market with her mum, looking for the best apples.
A chatter of voices where no people could be seen in an alley along her walk to the bus stop.
Barn owls in broad daylight.
On Halloween (All Hallows Eve, she corrected herself), she sat with her mother and poked listlessly at her supper. It was the usual fare. Lean, grilled protein; steamed vegetables; a slice of whole-grain seed-stuffed bread. She had no objections to it. She simply had no desire for it.
"Mum?"
"Yes?"
"Did Grandma lose her mind because she was a squib?"
Her mother's fork fell from her fingers, clanking on the plate, and bouncing to the floor. Crookshanks, under Hermione's chair, hissed at the offending object as if to say How dare you!
"Thank goodness your father isn't here."
"Yes, thank goodness," said Hermione dully. Mr. Granger had volunteered at a dental clinic that night, for people who could not afford treatment or feared registering with National Health.
"Why would you ask that?"
"No reason," sighed Hermione, and stood. "I'll leave Daddy a plate."
"Sit down."
Hermione sat down. She stared at her slice of bread, identifying the seeds in it. Pumpkin. Sunflower. Sesame.
"My mother did not lose her mind, as you so ineloquently phrased it. My mother suffered what we now call post-traumatic stress."
"Oh," said Hermione. "May I be excused?"
"No."
Hermione lifted her dead-feeling stare from the bread, to her mother's face.
Mrs. Granger, flushed, tight-mouthed, raised her eyebrows.
"Having an emotional distress after severe trauma is not insanity, nor is it a form of psychopathology!"
"No, Mum. Yes, Mum."
"You sit there until you finish that plate, young lady. No dessert."
I'm sixteen, not six!
And dessert is a few walnuts.
Hermione chewed. She swallowed. She ignored the salt added to her cold food by her tears.
How did Grandma ever possibly maintain her sanity? She saw these. Heard these. Knew. And wasn't able to speak of it.
The silence is murdering me.
Once her plate was clear of food, Hermione wiped it, and her mother's plate, and the tableware, before placing it all in the dishwasher. She shook debris from the rag, rinsed it, and hung it to dry on a little rack by the kitchen sink. Outside, she heard a cackling scream that her mother did not, and clenched her hands. She knew it was a hag. Crookshanks had fluffed his fur and was growling in the same direction as she had looked.
She sat down with her textbooks. There was no allure in studying carbon bonds. Knowledge was not power. It was mere information, recorded in a hundred places, if not a thousand, accessible to anyone. Her life and this knowledge held no connection. Learning the properties of a benzene ring helped her do well on an exam and in laboratory practicals. When, in her life, would breaking or forming that bond, matter more than the ones taken from her?
You did it yourself.
Attacking Dumbledore.
Sirius can do that. He's a lord in that world.
Also, he lives thousands of miles away and doesn't care. That helps.
Hermione heard a peculiar noise outside. She and Crooks both turned their heads. It sounded distinctive, to her ears.
Apparating?
"I do wish they'd wait until Guy Fawkes Night for the firecrackers," said her mother complacently, not taking her eyes from a journal about new dental implants, and how to install them.
"Mum, that wasn't a firecracker," said Hermione, unease prickling down her back and along her scalp. Her hair fluffed out. She looked down, to see that the tail of Crookshanks had doubled in diameter, and was lashing. She scooped him up. "Mum. Please. We need to leave the house. Please, Mum."
"Don't be silly, it's simply a few kids tossing bangers*."
Hermione backed away from their front door, for the little good it would do her, and said sharply, "Mother, I am asking you to remember I can see and hear things you cannot, and that I think it is a very good idea to get out of the house now."
"Your father has the car, dear. Sit down, calm down. It was only a few firecrackers."
You're a witch, aren't you?
No. Not anymore. But something is very bad. The last year has been chaos in my life, but this is not chaos. This is badness.
A smell crept into the pleasant room.
"Hermione, did you clean the cat's box?"
"That's not Crooks, Mum," whispered Hermione, holding the cat-kneazle very tightly to her chest. "Something is here."
Fear filled her head and ears with fluff.
She heard laughter, and saw strangely colored lights.
Spells. Like at the Quidditch World Cup.
She put down Crooks, gently, then grabbed her mother, ungently, and said, "Mum, we're going to hide. Now. Do you understand me?"
Her mother's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Hermione ignored that, and all else, to force her mother into the coat closet near the front door. She knelt, found the metal ring, and pulled it up, and pointed.
Mrs. Granger understandably said, "You must be joking."
The laughter and lights grew nearer.
Hermione said, "Sorry, Mum, I'm not," and grabbed her mother's wrist, and yanked hard. She sent her mother headlong down the stairs into the cellar, shut the closet door, and half-fell down the steps herself. Once down, and feeling Crookshanks against her legs, she reached up, closed the trap door by feel and fumble, and bit back all her cries of pain as she more or less tumbled down the stairs (again) on her bum.
She landed (if one could call it such) by her mother, near the old coal furnace and the scuttle.
Her mind butchered some Shakespeare: My kingdom for a torch!
A tiny spark of light came from her fingers, flew to a splinter of old wood, and created a flame perhaps the size of a tea candle's. She pointed her furious mother to the coal chute. It still came up into the little front area, though it was currently masked by the boxwoods. Their roots clogged the chute, in fact, but that did not matter much to Hermione.
"Go, Crooks," she whispered urgently. "I don't know what to do, but go!"
The cat-kneazle stared deep into her eyes, most uncommon for a feline, then leapt, and was gone up the chute, into the terrifying night.
A noise of shattering glass stopped the angry rant of Mrs. Granger.
Hermione slapped out the tiny sputtering flame, not caring that it burnt her, and huddled close to her mother as footsteps thudded and thumped above their heads. There were more noises, of objects crashing to the floor, or into walls, and raucous laughter.
A voice called, "Here, little mudblood!"
That's her! The woman in tweed!
Another voice, male, said with great amusement, "How often can we please so many at once, eh? The old fool at Hogwarts, the minister, and our own…"
Hermione blocked out the rest. She didn't want to hear it, know it, think of it.
Her mother's arms came around her, and held her snug.
Please, magic, please! I know you're inside me! Break free! Break free! If ever I needed a good big bout of accidental bookcase moving, it's now!
A little blue light, like static electricity, danced along her fingertips, and faded.
I did this. I got my mother into this. My father. If I hadn't been such a fool! Oh, why did I lose my temper at Dumbledore?
Stupid hormones.
A strangely thick voice barked, "I can smell them near! I told you! Stealth!"
"There's no fun in that," drawled a voice that Hermione knew very well had to be Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco, Death Eater. "We like to see our prey, Fen."
Fen?
Cold sweat exploded from Hermione's pores.
Fenrir… Greyback… The werewolf! A lunatic werewolf! Pardon the expression, of course. No puns intended. A raving lunatic werewolf is in our house!
And he's here because they want me…
Want me what?
Dead. What else?
I'm useless to them except as entertainment.
Her stomach flopped queasily. She remembered from the Quidditch World Cup what a Death Eater considered to be entertainment.
Her panicked breathing, in an old coal cellar, sounded far too loud.
A voice said something, but Hermione hardly heard it; her head ducked under her arms as the entire cellar shook.
Oh no.
Coal dust. Dusty dust. Moldy dust.
No no no.
Do not sneeze!
The problem with sneezes, as Hermione rapidly learned, lay in their refusal to obey one's will.
Her mother's hand covered her face. She heard her mum breathe into her ear, "Don't you dare."
Now her sneeze was triply insistent. Her eyes watered. Her eardrums felt ready to explode.
Here lies Hermione Granger, idiot, ex-witch, killed because she sneezed!
"Gah!" shouted someone. "Nobody here! That little wretch must have run for it!"
The voice of the werewolf literally growled out the words, "I smell them!"
The tweed woman's voice poured like syrup. "Now, now, let's not be hasty, the clever little thing must…Go! Now! I hear them!"
Hermione and her mother stiffened.
A thunder from above sounded.
After a too-long period of years, although technically the time measured itself in minutes, Hermione heard a voice calling gently, "Miss Granger? Mrs. Granger?"
Hermione refused to move, and found that her sneeze had, mercifully, died of fright.
"You can trust us."
Right now, I only trust Crookshanks!
"We can't obliviate what we can't find," commented a second person, with a yawn. "I hate All Hallows. Everyone with a wand thinks they can summon up dead Auntie Gertrude."
"Yes, we know, Robeson, we'll sleep tomorrow. Don't scare the muggles."
"They ain't here. Guess they missed the party."
"Well, that's a few less to obliviate. Let their pleasemen deal with it. We've another callout. Apparate to Croydon."
Three loud cracking pops later, Hermione felt free to breathe, albeit carefully.
A meow from above sent relief through her.
She scrabbled up the stairs by feel, knocked her head into the trap door, then smacked into the closet door, before she was free of the cellar, and had her face full of an anxiously mewing Crookshanks.
At that exact moment, which was quite possibly the worst possible one, Mr. Granger strode through the front door, saw his house in ruins, his wife and daughter covered in dirt, and a fresh new hell broke loose.
HP HP HP
Hermione sat shivering on a chair in the hotel room, pushed into a corner as far as possible from her father, who had not stopped cursing since he entered their home.
Mrs. Granger sat under a blanket on the nearer of the two beds. A takeaway cup of tea sat on the bedside table, next to a muffin from which one bite had been taken.
"Hiding!" seethed Mr. Granger. "In the coal cellar! We have a door to the garden! You ought have done better than hide."
Hermione and her mother shared a commiserating look.
"It's ludicrous! Ruffians and hoodlums invading our home, and you two!"
For an allegedly mild-mannered dentist fond of cable-knit jumpers, Mr. Granger had certain standards. Hermione knew this by the fact she had been named Hermione and not Diana or Elizabeth or Sarah or any similar name. One was meant to prove one's cleverness whenever possible, according to Mr. Granger, and that was done by naming the child for a character in Shakespeare. It was lovely, yes, and literate. In the same way did he conduct his practice, his choice of rugby team, and their vehicle. Volvo made a good, solid, reliable car; it displayed that one was not prone to succumb to flash.
In short, Mr. Granger embodied all he thought of as properly English, and that included never running away.
As he continued his lecture on that subject, Hermione pulled her knees to her chest and hoped Crookshanks was safe and well. Her father did not think strange cats were appropriate. A British shorthair, perhaps, but not that odd ginger monster (his words). A spaniel, perhaps.
English run.
Dunkirk. Some battle in America. Kabul, I think that was in the 1840s. Battle of Mons in 1915, wasn't it? Well, really anything in Afghanistan, it's never been much luck to anyone. I do wonder sometimes if my father passed his history exams.
"To abandon our home, fleeing into a coal cellar!"
And, of course, Mum was meant to vanquish Lucius Malfoy while in a twinset and pearls.
"I am ashamed of you! Both of you! Where is your spirit!"
Hermione made herself smaller.
Tone tarter than a lemon, Mrs. Granger said, "Still attached to our flesh, thank you for inquiring, dear, yes, we were terrified, in case you hadn't noticed. They destroyed anything they could touch. Why would we have fared better than the china cabinet?"
"A firm stand and hooligans will…"
Hermione shrilled out, spitefully, "Hooligans will kick you until you bleed but you can't tell your father because he'll yell at you for being beaten by five bullies at once!"
Drat. That was not supposed to be admitted ever in life.
Fortunately, her father assumed this to be a hypothetical. Hermione saw her mother exhale in relief, too, and felt a touch less lonely.
"First that ridiculous prank, then this! I have had enough!"
So have we, Daddy, but you won't notice, will you?
That uncharitable thought was followed up by shame, then a sick sense of futility.
"Come here, Hermione," said her mother, and patted the bed, pulled back the blanket.
Hermione snuggled in tight.
"She is too old for that," snapped Mr. Granger, and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it more than was usually possible.
"My dear, we were frightened for our lives, and you have not yet been helpful in alleviating our fear," stated Mrs. Granger with dignity. "I want to know my little girl is safe, even if she is a big girl. If you find fault with that, then do so in silence. I am quite done with being scolded for not allowing myself to be harmed!"
I love you, Mum!
Hermione pressed tight to her mother. Her mother knew. Her mother had heard words that made it impossible not to understand. With her mother, she could be afraid and not be ashamed.
Mr. Granger let loose with a long stream of words not listed in polite dictionaries. "Very well, then! I will keep my disgust to myself!"
Oh, Daddy! Is your pride worth your life? Ours? Are you disgusted that we were unharmed, covered in coal dust? You sound like Harry's misery-guts aunt!
Her mother stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head. "Let's try to sleep. Tomorrow will be difficult."
Mr. Granger glared, remained silent, and turned off the light.
Hermione wondered what Harry and Sirius and the others were doing.
She mournfully concluded they were doing things she no longer could.
Oh, I miss them!
Then, as sleep slid comfortingly over her, Hermione suddenly wondered, Wait, why would they want me? What exactly is going on in the magical world?!
HP HP HP
"Psst!"
Hermione cuddled tighter against her mother.
"Psst!"
She mumbled something about Crookshanks waiting for his breakfast.
A few muffled noises later, a loud BANG by her ear sent her screaming across the hotel room, where the door to her bedroom would be, if she were in her bedroom.
She bounced gently off the wall.
She lay blinking stupidly into the bright light, rubbed her arm over her eyes, hard, and yawned enormously. Well, this is another nightmare.
I even hear people laughing at me. At least I have on pajamas. The last time they laughed, I wore a vest and knickers with little ducks on them.
Wait.
I'm not asleep!
She managed to focus.
Sirius Black was slapping his leg as he laughed, although the noise of it was muffled.
How would he find me?
Why?
A whisper came to her. "We have a muffling charm on things, but he…"
She spun, mussed hair bouncing, and squeaked, "Harry! But why are you here? What did you do to Mum and Dad? Oh! I'm in my pajamas!"
"Hermione!" said Harry in a grunt, because she'd subjected him to one of her bone-cracking hugs. "Lupin had wards on your house, they fell, it was a pretty simple ward set-up, can I breathe now?"
She released him, and wished she hadn't chosen the pajamas with little pink and purple flowers all over them. Of all things to be seen in! By Harry!
He spat out a strand of her hair.
She turned wine-red and crossed her arms over her chest. "What wards? Why?"
Harry took a turn at resembling a glass of a nice cabernet sauvignon. "Uh. Well. I kinda asked him to. Because. We, I, that is, y'know… Worry. And then the wards were tripped and fell, and Lupin made them to only do that if it was malicious intent from magical people, and it turns out we have a way to get here a lot faster than we thought, so here we are. Oh, and I figured out where you were because you said your parents liked this hotel when you stayed here that time your house had no plumbing and…"
Hermione didn't care what anyone saw or heard. She threw herself at Harry and kissed him, without precision, but some passion, before remembering she had brushed her teeth hours ago.
Oh yuck!
"Uh," said Harry, grinning stupidly.
"How did you find our room?" demanded Hermione, hands on hips. "And break in? Don't say magic!"
"It was magic," said Sirius with a delighted smirk. "Sorry about that, in a completely never going to be sorry way."
Hermione nodded tiredly. She knew. Three or four wand waves, and there they all were. "But why…"
"First that school thing, now Death Eaters," said Harry somberly, and put an arm around her, in a sidelong hug. "We got word…"
"We, pup? No, no, no! Sorry, pup, I received word from Arthur Weasley about the identity of your woman in tweed, Hermione. She works for the Ministry. Last name is Umbridge, usually wears pink, maybe she thought green was a disguise." Sirius showed his teeth in a not-smile, before embracing her lightly. "Between that, then tonight? We're here to take you home."
"Our house is…"
"Home," said Harry with surprising sternness. His grip on her tightened. "The island. With us. You. Me. Lupin. Sirius. Nev and the rest. That home."
Blood draining from her face, Hermione tried to speak, found no words, and turned to stare at her sleeping parents.
Home…
"I… I can't."
"Can't? Hermione!" The break in Harry's voice inspired Sirius to a snigger.
"I'm not magic anymore," whispered Hermione.
"You are magic!" protested Harry hotly, and tightened his jaw and spine. "You belong with us!"
"What the pup isn't telling you," said Sirius, as he idly examined an alarm clock, levitating it in order to see the underside.
"Don't call me pup."
"As you like, pup. What he isn't saying, Hermione, is that you're a target, and nobody knows why, but since you are, Harry here won't shut up about playing hero to your damsel in distress…"
"I am not a damsel in distress!" snapped Hermione furiously, narrowing her eyes at both. "Female, and inconvenienced!"
"We saw your house," retorted Harry, in a surprisingly low growl. "We found the traces of their spells. They weren't there to create an inconvenience!"
"I know! But this is my world now! Out here!" Hermione flung wide her arms, forgetting about her pajama top gapping when she did that, and stamped her foot. "Those monsters hunt people like us for fun! All we have to do is exist!"
"Then exist on the island!" yelled Harry. "With us!" He grabbed one of her hands and tried to force it into his. "You are magic!"
"I'm a squib!"
"You're a witch!"
Sirius, now lounging in the armchair in the corner, sang out, "They say for every boy and girl, there's just one love in this whole world, oh love! Young love! True love!"**
In concert, Hermione and Harry wheeled on him and shouted, "Shut it!"
"Aw. They're having a spat," crooned Sirius, and made kissing noises via large conjured lips. "Aren't they sweet?"
"Will you be an adult for once in your life?" cried Harry, raking his wand-holding hand through his hair, and nearly impaling himself on it. "I spent the worst day of my life thinking even worse things happened! Again! Mock me later, but can we get Hermione safe now? Please!"
"What about my parents!"
Sirius shrugged. "Eh. Bring 'em along. They can teach muggle studies or something."
"Yes, we'll simply vanish, that's not a problem, out of a locked hotel room, no less!" Hermione tried to run her fingers through her hair, a la Harry Potter, but the knots stopped her, and she winced. "I'm very grateful, I am, but Harry, I haven't even heard from you since the last time someone attacked, and, well, not to be the rain on your parade, Sirius, my parents have lives here."
"What, poking teeth? That's macabre," replied Sirius, frowning at her, and for once with complete seriousness. "What life is that, sticking metal in teeth? It sounds very Death Eater."
"Ignore him," implored Harry, taking her hand again. "Please. Hermione. With Dumbledore, we didn't think it was safe to even send something like a postcard, I'm sorry, I am, but…"
"But nothing," hissed Hermione, channeling Crookshanks. "Do you truly believe Dumbledore would bother with non-magical post? I doubt he knows it exists, and if he did, how would he tamper with it?"
"I don't know! But you have to come home with us! With me! Please!"
Her heart told her Go! Idiot, go now!
Her head told her Wait, what if this is… What it always is…
Her hands flew up, covering her mouth. "Oh no. No! Harry, go, you have to go! You have to go! Please! Both times I'm in trouble, you come to me! I'm bait! They're using me as bait! To get you! Go! You have to!"
"Why? The stupid prophecy?"
"Does it matter?" shrieked Hermione in high dudgeon, and mentally noted to ask what low dudgeon meant, if it existed. "I'm grateful, I am, I'm happy to see you, I am, but I'm not a witch anymore! All I have is books! It's not enough!"
She fell to her knees, sobbing, and heard angry, hurtful words flow from Harry Potter, wash over her, poison her, sicken her, more than anything her father had said. He hated her now, hated her for abandoning him like everyone else, hated her cowardice, hated her.
She did not notice when they left, although Sirius managed it without creating a scene. He popped them away, turning off the lights politely as he did, and muffling the rest of Harry's tirade.
She didn't notice that she was curled up on the floor.
She noticed very little until arms came around her, and lifted her up. "Oh, my poor girl," said her father roughly. "My poor little girl. Was it a nightmare?"
Hermione nodded. It wasn't a lie. It was a nightmare. Every nightmare, rolled into one short period of time, and no hope of waking to find it unreal.
HP HP HP
*Not to be confused with the bangers of "bangers and mash" fame. These are small fireworks. Just in case I confused anyone. Because the first time I heard it, I was confused.
**Sonny James, all rights reserved, etc. "Young Love", lyrics slightly misquoted.
Low dudgeon may refer to an old type of dagger, but how it got high or low is beyond me.