Here's another because it's my birthday!

Chapter Four

December, 1914.

"The trick is not to fall, Addie," Silas teased in a matter of fact tone, skating circles around her, his face alight with mischief. He laughed unabashedly at her glare, throwing his arm out to catch her as she slipped once again.

"Really? What other excellent advice might I receive from you, Doctor Moore?"

"Use your center of gravity and glide, stop trying to walk on the ice." He ceased his joking after a few more laps and wrapped his arm around Hermione, keeping her upright by the waist. Children whirled past them, laughing and chasing each other across the ice. In Hermione's opinion, this activity was unsafe, but looking at the parents, both on the ice and off, it didn't seem as though they shared her worry at all so she told herself to relax.

Seconds later, Hermione was caught off guard; three exuberant children came close to her, making her panic, which caused her to slip and fall. Since Silas was unfortunate enough to be close enough for her to grab, she brought him down with her and they collapsed into a tangled heap on the frozen floor.

"I am so sorry, Silas!" she apologized, wide-eyed, as she scrambled to stand again. Looking over at the man's face, covered by his arm, she noticed him shaking and wondered if he was hurt. Hermione tried to regain her balance enough to pull herself to her feet but slipped again and fell on her stomach.

Silas burst with laughter, his arm falling away to reveal his mirth. The sound was contagious and she soon found herself laughing alongside him, neither attempting to stand while the cold from the ice penetrated their clothing.

Tears sprang to her eyes while she struggled to collect herself. It had been some time since Hermione had laughed so heartily.

She'd been doing that often since September. Silas' presence in her life was like a healing balm that gently smoothed over her broken and aching heart. Hermione found herself thinking less about the life she'd lost and focusing more on the present; her reality. They'd maintained a sexual relationship since that first night, opting deeper into the sexual spectrum.

She looked over him; eyes glinting as she recalled the position they had been in that morning.

Once they had calmed their laughter to a fit of giggles, Silas had easily gotten back to his feet and helped her stand with him. He pulled her close and began to brush snowflakes that had stuck to her clothing from her shoulders and arms. It was empowering to know this man intimately, to know that later when they fell into bed she would be at his complete mercy. Izzy would be scandalized to know what her two friends got up to in their spare time.

"Miss Adeline, I was wondering if you might accompany me to a ball on Christmas Eve?"

She grinned up at him. "Only if we can go find us some hot chocolate somewhere and then make our way to my apartment."

His eyes sparked with lust and he quickly helped her off the ice.

Christmas Eve came fast that year. Silas had promised to pick her up from her place in a carriage at seven that evening. She hadn't expected he would have rented the most beautiful white carriage and horses. The romantic gesture was stunning, and Hermione found herself almost in tears at the sight of him standing there when she stepped outside. His black tuxedo, fashionable in this era, was tailored to him, creating a look of regality that most men couldn't dream of pulling off.

"My lady," he said softly, bowing to her with white roses in hand.

She nearly swooned.

The ball was quite lavishly decorated. Izzy was there and she swung by to excitedly regale her with details of the family that owned the upscale home they were all twirling in. William and Silas found themselves slinking away from the ladies and accompanying each other to the appetizer table. Hermione and Izzy acted like they hadn't noticed, but laughed together once the men were out of earshot.

When the men came back, smelling of cigar smoke and brandy, they brought champagne and engaged in conversation about current politics and the war in Europe.

Keeping quiet because she didn't want to reveal anything about the war, Hermione answered only when she felt her input was required. It was out of character, and Silas seemed to realize she was uncomfortable with the conversation, but it wasn't possible to pull away from these people. For the most part she contemplated her relationship with Silas. She had grown to care for him, love him even, if she was completely honest with herself. It was a difficult revelation, one she wasn't sure what she could do to remedy. They could not be together much longer, perhaps a couple years if she were so lucky.

After a few more topics had been breached, the gathered began to join new groups, or enter the dance floor. Hermione relaxed, and tried to banish her thoughts about leaving Silas while he led her out to the balcony. It was a beautiful night, though frigid, and she found herself delighted that she'd thought to bring a jacket. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when Silas smiled shyly at her and dropped to one knee.

Hermione's hands automatically went to cover her mouth, eyes widened in complete shock as Silas began his speech.

"Adeline, in this world there are few that have had the capacity to capture my mind, and even rarer still has it been to find someone who captivates my soul –" he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement," ever since we became acquainted during your time in the school, I have been unable to banish you from my mind. When you graduated, I drank myself into a stupor at the thought of never seeing you again and tried to move on with my life."

"I didn't know what I was getting myself into that night at the opera house. I told myself not to get too attached; a woman like Adeline Dubois comes through one's life like a hurricane and leaves your heart shattered, body worn, and mind lost. This past year, I fell in love with you. I don't care what worries I had previously harbored. I love you, and I would like to ask if you would do me the honor of your hand in marriage."

Hermione Granger, staring into Silas' sapphire orbs so full of hope and the light slowly dying each moment she waited to answer, made the most spontaneous, asinine, brash decision she had in her life.

"Yes."

March, 1915.

Hermione sat in the kitchen, three months after having agreed to marry Silas Moore and two weeks after having gone through with it, staring at the glittering amethyst and silver ring that adorned her left had. She smiled into her cup of coffee, observing the way the light illuminated the stone. Her whole body deliciously sore from the night before.

They'd tested limits last night, each time they delved deeper into their sexuality. Silas had particular tastes in the bedroom. Hermione had never expected she'd like relinquishing control in any aspect of her life, but this was one reprieve she couldn't get enough of. After gently working up to darker appetites, she realized she wasn't averse to a bit of pain in manageable doses; it heightened her senses and elicited the most exquisite feelings in her.

Arms wrapping around her from behind, and a face burying itself into her neck interrupted her thoughts as a rough voice whispered into her neck, "Good morning, Mrs. Moore." Her head fell back on his shoulder as he scraped his teeth down her throat before biting down on her exposed collarbone; not hard per se, but definitely far from gentle, causing Hermione to hiss in pleasure.

"Good morning," she moaned in response as she felt his arousal brushing her back while he pulled her even closer to him.

"Sorry if I bit too hard, sweetheart." He softly kissed the area his teeth had made impressions in. She spun around and draped her arms around his neck, meeting his eyes.

"It wasn't too hard, love, as long as it didn't break the skin." She pressed her lips to his and pulled away. "I have a shift at the hospital in two hours, Izzy asked me to meet her for breakfast this morning."

For a man of the early twentieth century, Silas had been unbelievably supportive of Hermione's career. In this generation, once married, women were meant to stay home with their husbands and have a plethora of children; spending the rest of their lives raising them. Silas had never once asked her to leave the hospital, he'd only asked her if working in the hospital was still something she'd wanted to do. When she had answered that she loved her career, he said no more of it. Hermione's heart had swelled. He understood, and she loved him even more for it, especially after the pressure he endured from his colleagues over his 'deviant' wife.

They weren't the most conventional of couples. Often they deviated from social norms, and Silas had always treated her as an equal. They split the bills, house chores, groceries, everything. If one of them couldn't get to the chores that day, the other would pick up the slack. It was uncomplicated, and completely unheard of in this age where the woman stayed home to care for the estate. Hermione wholeheartedly believed that Silas was born in the wrong time and wondered how he would have been had he been born in her time.

Silas smacked her arse as she began walking towards their bedroom. "Tell Mrs. Malcolm I said hello."

Their life had thus far been wonderful. Of course, they hadn't been married long. The 'honeymoon stage' would surely end sometime soon and knock their blissful happiness from orbit. For now, Hermione was happy.

But there was still the gut-wrenching truth. She was not who he thought she was, and she hated lying to him. Lying by omission, granted, but it was still lying. She loved him, and he loved the carefully crafted persona she projected. It was cruel for both parties involved. At times she found herself unable to sleep with the disgust her nightmares brought her. Lately it was less about the war, of course those nightmares still came but they were few these days, and more about staring at herself in the mirror.

When she woke she'd feel the bitter reality of her life for what it was; a farce.

And even colder still; one day she would have to abandon Silas. Would it have been better to tell him no, to walk away and decide against marrying him for the sake of her honesty? Marrying him had been selfish, she'd known it at the time. But did she not deserve to be happy, or selfish, every now and then?

The answer was no, she did not deserve to be happy or selfish. Hermione was putting her feelings above Silas' right to know the truth about her. Her thoughts drifted into dangerous territory as she walked down the street towards her regular diner, her meeting with Izzy the farthest from her mind as she operated on auto-pilot.

She wondered if she could tell him some truth. Not everything, because telling him she was a thirty-five year old time-traveling British witch from 1999 would surely get her placed in Blackwell alongside his mother. But perhaps she could ease her mind, and his, with the truth hidden in a lie? Expose the truth of her battle scars.

She perished the dangerous thoughts as she walked into the diner.

"Darling, what's the matter?" Izzy questioned the moment Hermione came into view, eyes narrowed and worry etched across her pristine features.

Izzy, of course, could spot Hermione's mood from a mile away. It was something the woman had been able to do from the start of their friendship, an inherent and uncanny ability that didn't only benefit the woman when Hermione was her focus. Izzy seemed to be able to pick up on people and immediately assess their moods correctly with only a look.

Hermione guessed Izzy might have some latent magic.

"It's nothing. I just feel like I've been staring myself in the mirror all day and the sight enhanced every imperfection I have." Hermione said, gliding into the seat across from her friend.

Izzy's kind eyes descended upon Hermione, her face contorting into disbelief so obvious, so pronounced, that Hermione flinched at the sight. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, Addie?"

Hermione shook her head, eyes wide as Izzy continued to speak, "I see a beautiful young woman who's dedicated her life to others. Who judges little, and uses tender disposition to calm patients who are dying or children who are in pain from broken bones or disease. Underneath even that, I see someone who is afraid—of what it took time to decipher, but I suppose that your past has burdened you heavily despite not knowing what you have been through. I've seen dark circles around your eyes from sleepless nights, watched you limp in here from legs still stiff after a twenty-hour shift, and the smile on your face when you tell me of patients from that shift."

Izzy's hand came across the table to take hers, "I've watched you begin to heal from whatever trauma you've been through. Silas, he brings out parts of you I'd never seen until you were together and the same with him. If something is bothering you, darling, put your faith in him, trust him. He's your husband after all."

Tears fell from Hermione's eyes that she quickly wiped away. Izzy's encouraging words reminded her of her mum's speeches and it made her chest constrict in gratitude and melancholia. She'd never be able to properly thank her friend for this gift she'd unknowingly given her. She dabbed her napkin at her eyes but Izzy was not deterred. "We love you, William and I. You know that, don't you?"

Hermione nodded, responding, "I know, and I love you both too." Hermione gently squeezed Izzy's hand in assurance and with a smile the red-haired woman withdrew her hand.

Izzy smiled heartily at Hermione and sighed, "Well that was a bit heavy for breakfast—perhaps we shouldn't order the waffles this morning. Waiter, fruit bowls please!"

August, 1915.

To keep their minds off the increasingly devastating conflicts brought on by the declaration of WWI and the spreading of gang violence in New York, Hermione and Silas had begun offering free medical attention to those in need after hours. Within a month, Hermione and Silas had set up an after-hours clinic, comprising of a collection of licensed colleagues with time to spare. Three days a week they would set up in a corner of the soup kitchen that was situated in the outskirts of Harlem.

Segregation, racism, and persecution were still highly prominent in the South and African American's were continuously migrating to the 'tolerant north' in hopes of creating a safe life where they could freely exercise civil liberties in peace. Hermione's heart ached for those that were still living as glorified slaves or being murdered by the Klan, knowing that the civil rights movement was several decades away. Many were inhabiting New York City, and thus there were areas were less economically enriched than others, because, although the north was more tolerant, it didn't mean they weren't racist. In short, many people went without medical attention.

They had been reading the paper together one morning and Hermione had gone on a sputtering rampage, reminiscent of her S.P.E.W. days, about equality. When a stunned Silas had echoed her sentiment, they decided to do something about it.

It was a tentative business; the soup kitchen had already rented the building and all that was needed were a few permits and extra rent paid. Silas and Hermione couldn't think of anything more prudent to invest in, so they did so happily.

They quickly became neighborhood heroes.

A typical night consisted of the couple trying to help as many people lined up outside the door as they could. Hermione would help those with less fatal issues and direct anyone who needed more attention toward Silas, which turned out to be an effective system. Local hospitals had donated older equipment they could spare when they'd heard about the project and volunteers had been sent to help them out.

"Someone's been shot!" A cry came from the crowd of sniffling and moaning people and Hermione's head shot up. It wasn't the first time she'd seen a patient with a bullet wound, not with the gang violence running rampant, but this would be the first time someone with a bullet wound had come to them. They were hardly prepared for it, they were just a small clinic for Merlin's sake.

Silas came running out of his cubicle where he'd been tending to a young boy with a sprained wrist.

"Stay there, Mr. Isaacs, and don't move your wrist. I'll have someone return to mend it."

Another nurse rushed into the small, sectioned off area to watch the boy while Silas made his way to the front entrance where Hermione screaming man's cries got louder, an entourage of men that looked nearly identical to him in all but facial structure was carrying him inside. He was large, not overweight but muscular. He wore a finely tailored suit, the undershirt tainted red.

"You better get this fuckin' thing outta me!" he bellowed, nearly black eyes meeting her's and she felt her magic stir in recognition of another magical being. His skin was a flushed olive color and his earthy brown hair was slicked back. She'd been here long enough to stereotype that he might be with the Italian-American gangs; Mobsters.

The man was a wizard. Despite his trauma, he seemed to realize that she was a witch and he looked her dead in the eye as he said in a deceptively calm tone, "Don't let me fuckin' die amongst the No-Maj's, witch."

Hermione had little time to process his words, and even less time to comprehend the chill of fear that raced down her spine before the man was glaring at Silas. As Silas directed the man to a bed and began to shred the remains of the man's suit, Hermione saw the flash of metal and a gun pointed at the face of her husband. She didn't think. Her wand was never far from her, even when she was around Silas. She rarely used it, hoping to keep the MCUSA ignorant to her existence, however, the presence of other magical people made the MCUSA unable to trace the magic back to her. Realizing this, she dove her hand into her belt and turned her body so the wand would point at the man and sent a quick confundus charm.

"There's no need to threaten us, gentlemen, we're here to help," Hermione huffed darkly, eyes on the wizard that had been shot. He was clearly the leader.

The wizard on the table was doing his best to conceal his pain, she supposed a potion or two prior to entering the clinic were administered to help alleviate it. Silas began to work without bothering to think about what had just transpired, if he'd even seen it. Hermione was unsure. She stood on the other side of the man, passing tools to her husband as he asked for them and eyeing the men that stood off to the side, watching her closely.

One began to saunter their way as Silas stitched the man up after having removed the bullet and stopping the bleeding. The man, largest of them all, stopped and stood directly behind her with his warm breath sending chills down her spine; completely unlike the chills she felt when Silas did the same thing. "Obliviate the good doctor later, if you know what's good for you."

"There, you're patched up. You're lucky the bullet didn't puncture anything, sir. Keep it clean, an infection will make it worse. I've given you a small dose of morphine to help with the pain for now. You'll no doubt feel drowsy soon, I suggest you don't rely on pain relievers too heavily in the upcoming days. I also advise you to keep away from alcohol or drugs," Silas informed him, stepping away from the wizard that was now starting to push himself off the table.

"Thanks, doc," the man said sarcastically.

Silas' face visibly darkened and he took a brazen step towards the man. "And if you plan on coming here again; I suggest your men not point guns at me or anyone else in or around this clinic, sir."

The wizard looked positively amused, going so far as to chuckle before hissing as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and planted them on the floor. He struggled to stand, but did so without the help of his men and turned to face Silas, towering over him. "Doc, I own this fucking clinic. If I'd like to walk in here and shoot every damned person in this building—I would. Now, run along and offer your services to the good people of this fine neighborhood, would ya?"

Hermione could see Silas gearing up to fight, and she placed a gentle hand on his forearm to stop him. He looked down into her eyes, the tension slowly leaving him. "Run along, Doc," the man stated again, giving Silas a condescending smile. Silas wrapped his hand gently around Hermione's upper arm and began to walk off when the man's voice cut him off again. "Leave the lady. I'd like to have a conversation with her, if you don't mind, ma'am."

Silas froze.

"It's alright, I'll talk to him," she assured him soothingly, removing her arm from his grasp. His eyes were slightly widened, asking without verbalizing. "It's alright."

Hermione watched Silas go back to work, positioning himself so he could easily see her and the men. She turned and glared at the wizard, casting a notice-me-not charm to confuse her husband and healing the man's stitched wound without a second thought. She didn't know much about magical healing, but she knew enough to get by in a pinch. "Can I help you?"

His smirk widened. "Haven't seen you around before. I make it a business to know local magic folk. We aren't meant to be consorting with No-Maj's." His dark eyes roved over her. "I detect an accent."

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't believe you'd waste your time here if you worked for the MCUSA, so instead of tip-toeing around the subject why not get to the point? What is it you want?"

The men laughed, the sound a symphony of baritone before the leader responded, "The MCUSA, not quite. As for what we want— nothing. Well, aside from letting you know you might see more of us around here."

Hermione feigned indifference. "We treat everyone, if you're respectful while you're here then I can't see a problem."

The man before her threw her a threatening smile. "Then we have no problems, witch. I'm Nicholas Marello," he held out his hand for her to shake, "and it will be a pleasure doing business with you."

April, 1916.

Despite having worried ceaselessly over her impromptu decision, Hermione hadn't grown to regret it. Though, if she were being honest, she had been increasingly challenged by the men who had come into her clinic. Instead of treating diseases, colds, broken bones, and things of that nature, the men came in off the streets with stab wounds, bullet wounds, and lacerations for them to treat. Once she even treated a man with third degree burns.

It shouldn't have been so rewarding, helping members of the Genovese crime family, but it was. She rarely had direct contact with Marello, as he only came in when he felt he needed to check in on one of his wounded guys. Instead, she went through one of his runners.

Hermione had been walking a very fine, balanced line with Silas. She said as little as possible, to avoid his questions, and he seemed to take the Mob moving in on their small clinic at face value— they did help fund them, and even had brought in better equipment under the express command to treat their men first and foremost. Ethically, it was a horrifying idea, but the longer this went on, the less Silas argued the case. He knew well enough not to fuck with the Mob.

"They did it, Addie!" Silas exclaimed, throwing the apartment door open and grinning broadly at her from the doorway.

He let the door shut behind him and raced to where she sat in the living room, eyeing him curiously. Sila's picked her up and she lost her grip on the book she'd been reading. It fell to the floor and Hermione briefly wondered how long it would take to find her place again.

Silas seemed to be euphoric; he spun her around and kissed her hard with passion to rival that first night they had been together. Hermione pulled away to question what was happening.

"Who did what, darling?"

"The activists," he grinned, "they've shut down Blackwell!"

Hermione's jaw dropped and she hugged him around the neck. He squatted slightly, releasing her legs one at a time so she could walk again. "That's fantastic, love! Is your mother going to be staying with us?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure, there are going to be a slew of hearings that will determine the fate of each patient. Hopefully my lawyers can have her released to a private care facility nearby where she'll be in better hands."

Hermione didn't like that, but didn't know what to say. Silas' eyes were shining so brightly she didn't have the heart to begin discussing the specifics of what could go wrong and so she just wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.

May, 1916.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Silas asked, closing his book and pulling a frowning Hermione onto his lap.

She'd been thinking about telling him some truth about herself for a while. For weeks she'd been in this position, opening and closing her mouth repeatedly like a fish, trying to work up the courage to spit out the 'truth within a lie' that she'd carefully constructed. Now, as she attempted to gather her courage because this time she would really tell him, she was finding herself about to chicken out once more.

"Adeline, it's been weeks of this." His left hand gently brushed down her wild curls as his kind eyes met hers. "Tell me. I love you. Whatever you have to tell me won't change that."

Hermione took a deep breath and released it, repeating the process once… twice more before finally pushing the words past her lips, in her original British accent, "My name is Hermione, and I'm not from France."

Silas' hand stopped brushing down her hair. His eyes lost their kindness as his face portrayed a look of confusion. He didn't bother to verbalize the question.

"I- I went through terrible things, unspeakable... I was tortured," tears welled in her eyes as the crafted truth fell from her lips, "that's where the scars are from."

His hand resumed it's ministrations though he kept silent. She was happy he didn't, because the more words fell from her lips, the more the pressure that had weighed so heavily on her chest began to ease, and soon she was outlining her story for him.

"Things were bad. I was hunted because my people were heavily persecuted. On the run I was captured, tortured, eventually I was fortunate enough to get rescued. Soon after that I fled and was able to live in peace. Things were alright for a time, but the pain was still nestled deeply within everyone I knew, so I left. I went to France for a year and then came here to explore new opportunities. I hid who I really was, because I wanted no one to find me."

His eyes were still on her, roaming over her face as she spoke, periodically meeting her gaze. He still said nothing. "I love you so much, Silas. I almost said no to marrying you because you didn't know the truth about me." She was crying now, the tears falling freely from her face as she realized, not for the first time, the magnitude of what she was saying. "I'm burdened with unbelievable sorrow that I've taken your choice from you, plagued with regret that I've married you without giving you the chance to understand who it was you were truly marrying. I've lied to you, I stole your choice, and it's not fair to beg for your forgiveness."

Silas merely pulled back the sleeve of her nightgown, lowered his head to her arm, and gently kissed the cursed scar that resided there, then leaning his forehead against the ruined flesh. Hermione continued to sob, and Silas didn't raise his head from its position for quite some time. Not until she felt hot tears on her arm and saw his body begin to shake without making a sound. She tentatively ran her hand across his hair until he stilled, minutes later.

When he straightened up, he looked her squarely in the eyes. "Sweetheart," he began, "I knew from the moment I met you something was different about you. There was such deep sadness in your eyes, it was unmistakable. I knew that something awful had taken place in your past, I was aware there were things you weren't telling me from the start. As I grew to know you, I fell in love with your character. With who you are today. You cannot convince me that you're not the caring, sometimes controlling, ambitious nurse that I've gotten to know." Silas' hands cradled her face. "I love you. Scars, past, and all. Adeline. Hermione. It makes no difference to me."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off when Silas began to cough rather violently. Her brows furrowed slightly, grabbing his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to him. He quickly replaced the hand that was covering his mouth with the piece of fabric, and closed his palm.

It was too late. Hermione had already seen the blood.