She was hiding, crouched behind a tree, holding her breath. The fog was thick, but the air was quiet. So quiet that she was certain that he would hear her heartbeat through her chest if he walked past. The sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, more urgent. She wondered briefly if he was tracking her. If he could sense her somehow. When she heard him venture off in another direction, her thoughts were somewhat at ease. His footsteps died off and she allowed herself to breathe again. She rose from her place in the wet earthy leaves and took off at a run in the direction opposite to where she heard him go. It was a few miles to the nearest road, she remembered from the trip in, but she had no way of knowing which direction it was in. Her bare feet were carrying her as fast as she could go and every now and then she would stop and listen. Listen for him. For his heavy footsteps, for his brash mannerisms, for his rough breath. This man was anything but quiet and subtle, so when the silence was deafening, she continued on.
Hermione woke on what was the first full day of her stay at the beach Inn. She had slept in for the first time in years, much to her surprise. Her body had become so adept at getting up, having to get up, having to be ready, be on time, be what she needed to be on any given day. She shook herself out of her thoughts, knowing that that part of her life was over. She was done being that woman.
The kitchen was empty, once again. The man who lived there must have been and gone, because the dishes she left drying on the rack the night before were gone, replaced by breakfast dishes and a note letting her know that there were bacon and eggs in the microwave.
The writing was neat, almost too neat for a man, she briefly thought. Every man she knew, especially Harry, had atrocious handwriting.
She didn't think anything more of it, instead, heated up the bacon and eggs in the microwave and put the dishes away while she waited. She hadn't used muggle technology in years, and it felt so foreign to her to have to wait for things such as heating food and stacking away dishes. She had been forced to use her wand to do everything. Everything just the way that his mother had always done. She had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect.
The bacon and eggs were delicious. She ate in silence as she looked out the window at the water washing over the sand. The morning was beautiful, not too warm but not cold. After her breakfast, she wrote a hasty thank you on the back of the note that had been waiting for her that morning and left. She didn't sign it; she wouldn't add her name just in case the man was somehow part of her world. Afterall, the magic she felt when she first stepped foot in the house was still strong. She couldn't risk exposing herself. Not after how hard she fought to disappear – or make it look like she had.
She selected a book from the shelf and headed for the beach, deciding to take a closer look at the crisp white sand. The water was blue and in places, it appeared to sparkle. It washed into shore, claimed the sand, then left again, leaving the behind bubbles of whitewash as it went.
Hermione felt as though, in her recent past life, she may have been just like the sand. Being washed over, almost drowned, crushed under the weight of all of the water, then released just in time, having nothing left behind but small bubbles of air, reminding her what had happened. Then not too long later, just as things start to dry, as the bubbles disappear, the water returns, crushing her, drowning her, leaving behind the bubbles in its wake. There is never a reprieve. The tide comes and goes, the waves grow smaller, but they always come back. They are always fierce. Always crushing. Always chaotic.
"So much for getting away" she said to herself out loud. The beach was against her too, just as everything else had been since she ran out into the forest that night. Everything reminded her of that life. Of those experiences. Of that trauma. She couldn't get away. She now realised that she could run as far as her feet could take her, she could change her name, change her hair, change her looks, her location, but the memories would remain.
Hermione was halfway through her book when she heard a crash downstairs. She had been sitting in the bay window in her room, having spent far too long in the sun.
She stood abruptly and pulled her wand from her hair, aiming it at the door. She thought that someone must have found her. That she was done for. At least the Inn didn't have wards. At least she had her wand. At least… this time… she could get away.
She opened her door, relieved when it didn't creak. Tip toeing down the hall and towards the stairs, she inhaled the scent of food cooking. She tried to see if she could decipher other smells among it, his smell, but there was not a single trace of anything other than delicious food that made her mouth water.
She took her chances and made her way quietly, slowly to the kitchen. She wasn't sure how long had past since the crash but when she got there, the place was empty. There was not a sign of anything being broken or having fallen. She cast a silent Homenum reveilo and not a single person could be detected. She wondered if the crash had been all in her head?
On the bench sat a rather large bowl that contained a chicken Caesar salad, which was accompanied by a note.
Dear houseguest,
I'm glad you liked my food. I will keep it up shall I? Afterall, I am using your supplies. Hope you don't mind. Such a pitty we keep missing each other. I dare not to interrupt your solitude, as the realtor advised you are keen to be left alone.
This is rather an odd place to come alone, however, the appeal is there. I mostly see families with young children who tear up the books and harass the wildlife.
I do hope you're enjoying yourself. I understand you're here for a month. I'd be happy to show you the local sights if you like. No pressure.
Happy to take requests for meals.
Kindest wishes, Houseguest number 1.
Hermione read the letter and chuckled to herself. She had realised he had been using her supplies but hadn't given it much thought. She was a terrible cook and appreciated having someone cook for her.
She doodled on the page as she ate her salad and contemplated what she would say in response.
Dear Houseguest 1,
I am very thankful for your cooking expertise. I am a terrible cook so it will ensure I avoid starvation or potential food poisoning. I appreciate your understanding of my solitude and respect yours also. Solitude is absolutely what I need right now. I couldn't imagine anyone destroying these perfect books. I intend to read every single one. I am enjoying myself so far, although it has been one day, and I am yet to see the gremlins emerge from the cracks. Meal requests are very rare, I appreciate all cuisines.
Best regards Houseguest number 2
She smiled to herself as she folded the letter in half and left it on the bench beside the clean dishes. If life continued this way while she was here, it could be perfect.
She could see the road ahead, random dull streetlights shone in the distance. She had no idea where he had gone, whether he was silently following her or whether he had gone the opposite direction. Although her bare feet hurt and her flimsy pyjama night gown was torn in places, she ran on, petrified that if she stopped, he would catch her.
When her feet hit the pavement, she didn't stop running. Instead, she crossed and ran a few metres into the forest on the other side. Once she felt like she may be unseen, she started running parallel to the roadway, making sure every now and then that she was on track. After what felt like forever, the trees began to thin out and she could hear what sounded like water. She slowed her pace a little, but never too much, to make sure that what she was hearing was correct. She followed the sound and after climbing over a very large, ancient fallen tree, she came to a river. As far as she could tell, it was impenetrable. There was no way she'd be able to cross it, so she continued alongside it until her feet could no longer carry her.
It felt like it had been hours since she ran from the cottage. She had gone several kilometres, at least, so she found herself a large boulder and sat beneath it, desperate to rest her tired broken body.
She used the time to take stock of herself. Her lip was swollen and split, her eye puffy. Everywhere hurt but in the shadow of the boulder, she could hardly see the hand in front of her face to make out whether or not she was seriously injured.
She leant her head back against the rock and closed her eyes, hoping for a moments rest. When she opened them again, the sun was shining brightly in her face.
She shielded her face from the sun that she now realised was shining through the window. She stretched and shook herself out of the nightmare she had been having. She wasn't sure whether the dreams she was having could be considered nightmares if they were real. If they were memories of real events.
She emerged slowly, hoping that by the time she got to the kitchen, the man would be gone.
She was right, after her shower, washing her hair, dressing for the day and slowly making her way downstairs, she heard the back door swing shut and exhaled, grateful that she was alone.
The breakfast meal was too tempting to wait for, so she dug in, savouring every mouthful. Whoever was staying here, was an excellent cook. Surely someone with a muggle chef background.
As she ate breakfast, she realised then that she hadn't summoned Milly since she arrived and hoped that she was ok. Above all else, Milly had been her closest friend, her loyal confidant and her greatest cheerleader. She made a decision that she would call her later that night and check in.
As she finished the last of her meal, she read the note left by the person she now deemed 'chef' and smiled to herself. Despite solitude being the sole reason for her being here, she was happy to communicate with someone. There was not a single person in the entire world who knew where she was, or bothered to know, so having one person consider her, was nice for a change. Even if he didn't know who she was.
She wrote a hasty note back, thanking him once again, asking advice about the best places to go for beautiful scenery and cleaned up the kitchen.
The days passed by in much the same fashion. She would wait till she was sure he was gone, she'd eat whatever he cooked, they'd communicate via paper and pen, she would clean up and then she would leave. At first, she was hesitant to reveal too much about herself. She couldn't risk anyone knowing too much about her, but at the same time, he was the only other human she had conversed with, in weeks.
In time, she started to look forward to his notes. To the idea of someone wanting to know about her, to be concerned for her welfare. To be bothered enough to ask how she is, what she was up to, without prying.
She had gotten him to tell her things about himself, like how he had recently lost all remaining members of his family, how he was feeling pressured to take over the family business, how he was rich beyond belief, yet chose to rent a wing of this summer beach inn rather than buy a luxurious mansion of his own. In turn, she told him that she too had no remaining family due to an unfortunate accident overseas, that she was also quite well off (she didn't tell him that it was a payout for her actions during the greatest wizarding war in history), and that she was here to get away from the hustle and bustle of life.
The truth, she didn't dare tell him. She hadn't told anyone. She doubted whether anyone would believe her if she did. The whole story was almost too insane for her to believe it herself. As it stood, she was better off here, with everyone making up their own minds about where she was or having them believe whatever it was that he told them regarding her whereabouts.
At the end of the month, Hermione called the real estate agent and extended her stay for another month. The time had flown, yet she knew that she wasn't ready to leave. She was loving life in complete solitude, with company only via the mysterious man who she was sharing a house with, but was yet to meet.
She had been able to spend time working on her memoirs, writing several thousand words a day. She wasn't sure whether anyone would want to read about her life, but she needed to get it out there, she needed everyone to know the life of Hermione Granger, not just as part of what the public had deemed them "The Golden Trio", but as an individual. There were parts to her life that no one knew about; that no one had heard of, that she needed to get out.
She had written about the intense love story that had existed behind the scenes of shy 15-year-old Hermione and secretly romantic Victor Krum, 17-year-old Triwizard contestant from Bulgaria. The memoir, once published, would show prude Hermione in a completely different light to the one she had always been viewed in. Even after the war. After she had been photographed with various suiters following her very public on and off again relationship with Ron, she had always been seen as closed off, unsexual, prudish Hermione Granger. Book smart but not one to send a wild night with, is what she had once been written as.
She had spent the day writing about the summer after 4th year, when she had convinced her parents to travel with her to Bulgaria. They had spent two amazing weeks in his home, which was more like as castle. It was then that she had lost her virginity to the international quidditch seeker. It wasn't something that she had planned, and it only happened a handful of times, but with the outcome of the previous school year, she wasn't sure whether Voldemort's return would mean that her life was on the line as a muggle born.
Hermione didn't write about the pregnancy that she lost that summer. She couldn't. It was probably a blessing in disguise really. A 15-year-old girl being pregnant to an international quidditch star. She had no idea how to share that with the wizarding world, but in the weeks leading up to the return to school, it took care of itself. Fate, her mother had called it. It was both a tremendous gift and a horrific loss at the same time.
When she wrote to her Inn partner and told him she was writing her memoirs, he didn't laugh as she expected someone would. Afterall, how many people under 30 had lived enough of a life worthy of writing about? He did ask to read some, which she politely declined. There was no way to explain to a 27-year-old muggle that everything you've ever heard about magic is real and witches and wizards are also a thing. Plus, yes, they ride on broomsticks, but not her because she is terrified of flying.