Blurb
Three months have passed since the final battle at Hogwarts. In an event known to the Wizarding public as "The Miracle at the Veil", four of Harry, Ron, and Hermione's dearly departed comrades have been returned to the world of the living. All should be well – or, at least, returning to normalcy – but with Minister for Magic Delores Umbridge in charge, Hermione isn't convinced. With so many believing the troubled times have passed, the Order of the Phoenix has been reduced to fewer than thirty members. It's them against the entire Ministry of Magic and a population sick and tired of war. Hermione can't stop fighting, nothing can go back to the way it used to be, and with a new, unexpected, and, at first, unwanted partner in crime, she has to grow up fast.
As an Irish bookseller also by the name of Black once disdainfully asserted: "you'll laugh, you'll cry, it'll change your life". This story mixes romance, drama, humour, and action.
Scroll down for Chapter 1
Foreword
I present to you here something that can be described as my misbegotten baby. It's taken up massive amounts of my time through starting and finishing a degree, finding a job; hasn't let me have alone time, even in the bathroom, and will trail after me, throwing flowers at my wedding – the scamp!
What I did set out to write was a 3-month fanfic to see if I liked writing. Well, it's now 8 years later, and this story has taken on a life of its own. While it's not complete, it is very nearly finished in its first draft, and written as a well-edited story up to chapter 164 (at the time of updating this).
Fair warning:
1. This story is very long. Absurdly long.
2. R, MA, NA17+ - or whatever your local designation is, this story is for mature audiences. It's hardly a hotbed orgy rolling in heroin, but I'd rather make it clear this is not for minors.
3. Knowing I was writing something that would never see a publisher, I had fun. An abridged version of this story that preserved the plot would be muuuuuch shorter. If an idea made me chuckle or wonder even upon second pass, I kept it in. Considering, as well, that I was enjoying a world and characters I loved, it dwells a lot in that.
But, while this story will give you no award-winning plot, it has been my guilty little pleasure for many years, and I hope it will be yours. And, if they bother you, be somewhat reassured the sillier plot points will have better explanations revealed later in the story – though, for some, it might take a while. I have put thought and effort into taking those things you have to suspend your disbelief for and setting them up for more believable explanations later.
Some clarifications:
The Wizarding World of JK Rowling has become what I see as something of a pick-your-own canon. When I saw them, I liked the movies. I just don't remember them well (and this story was begun before the Fantastic Beasts saga and the Cursed Child). Ergo, in almost all cases where the movies/play and the books differ, I've used the books as reference. For example, Hermione in this story is notably un-sporty. The other salient example is of Sirius. Gary Oldman is fantastic, but he, nor the wardrobe they suited him up in, is Sirius. The daring, motorbike-riding, once truly sexy, tall, dark, and well-built man JK wrote and intended… is not a man who wears waistcoats. His Azkaban tattoos and the "Mudblood" scar on Hermione's arm, though, are ideas I've used that came from the movies.
While I've deviated little from the above described cannon, there are a few exceptions. That nothing can raise the dead is an obvious one, but I did enjoy using an exception to that as part of explaining away what I see as the biggest plot hole in the Harry Potter books. Diligent readers of the books may also notice I've changed the layout of Number 12 a bit. Nothing I could see as unarguably inconsistent with how the house is in the books, though.
Requisite disclaimer: this story has incurred high opportunity costs, and I am neither financially compensated for that, nor profiting from it.
Disclaimer number 2: This is a story of messed-up people trying to make the best decisions they can. And it is intended, very much, for adults.
Chapter 1: An Entrée of Miracles with a Side of Owl Poo
Music suggestion: My Silver Lining, First Aid Kit
Granger Slams Wandless Rehabilitation Initiative
During a visit to Diagon Alley yesterday, war hero Hermione Granger claimed Minister Umbridge's attempts to aid the Wandless are a front to hide continued Muggle-born persecution.
"Was a tirade, really," said Willy Widdershins of Granger's criticisms. "Took great issue with one of them posters, she did."
"Said Umbridge was never under the Imperious Curse," Monica Abernathy, who also observed the event, told reporters. "That it was The Muggle-born Registration Commission all over again."
Minister for Magic Delores Umbridge has made great strides toward the rejuvenation of the magical shopping high street. The posters in question (see pictured below) are an initiative started by the Minister herself to provide aid to the homeless and hungry (commonly called "Wandless") of Diagon Alley.
In an interview given last week (DP 19/7/98) Umbridge referred to the Wandless as "a lasting scar from the grievous injury He-Who-Was-Defeated inflicted on this great nation". One Umbridge says she feels personally responsible for, even though her actions as Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission were directed by another's hand. A scar, Umbridge declared, she was "committed to erasing".
Witnesses report that upon seeing one of these posters, Granger retaliated by suggesting Umbridge would "erase" the wandless by sending them to the Wizarding prison Azkaban.
The first column of the article ended here. The second began with a photograph of Hermione. Not a recent one, the image of Hermione was from an editorial published by the paper nearly three months previously. In it, her bushy brown hair in a long plait and her brown eyes narrowed under a frown of irritation, she was attempting to escape the invasive force of, Hermione remembered, at least ten dogged reporters that had accosted her, Harry, Ron, and Ginny in Hogsmeade. Disinterested in reliving that moment, Hermione's eyes skipped on to the next paragraph.
"Granger said we was blind if we couldn't see it was just Umbridge putting another sugary coat over more persecution," reports witness Barney Oberfeller. "That Umbridge hadn't changed one whit, and that nobody actually knows what's happening to them Wandless. And I don't know about that. I mean, we haven't heard from them, have we?"
Investigating the matter, reporters spoke to Maryanne and Colin, Muggle parents of Muggle-born wizard Toby Tuffnell. They were pleased to report their son was returned to them safe and sound.
"We didn't know what had happened to him," said Maryanne. "We were in Diagon Alley for months trying to find out with no word. Not until the magical Minister herself turned up on our doorstep, bringing Toby back to us. We can't thank Ms Umbridge enough!"
This is not the first indictment Granger has voiced against the Minister for Magic since Umbridge beat Kingsley Shacklebolt to the top spot a month ago. Shortly after the results of the election were announced Granger was heard to remark the Wizarding public had just "signed themselves up for a power-hungry Voldemort sycophant disguised in a pink cardigan."
They are allegations the Wizarding public have come to expect from Harry Potter. Though Potter accompanied Granger in Diagon Alley yesterday, he is reported to have remained silent.
Many may question why Granger feels the need to cast the Umbridge Ministry's Strategy for a Revitalised Wizarding Society in such a poor light. Said Thorfinn Rowle, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, "She's just sorry Shacklebolt lost. She wants one of her own in charge. Doesn't realise Shacklebolt has no idea how to run a country in this difficult climate."
Lucinda Cray, a Healer from St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, provides a different perspective: "We must realise, Miss Granger has lived through a very difficult time as a Muggle-born fighting You-Know-Who. She is used to seeing danger and threat around every corner. It is not easy for people with experiences like that to accept the danger has passed."
Hermione stopped reading there. The next paragraph was partially obscured by Pigwidgeon's droppings, but she'd read the article several times before and didn't need to read it now to know that the last paragraph neatly hemmed off the article's dismissal of her very real concerns not only for the Wandless, but for everyone subject to the tyrannical tenure of Minister for Magic Delores Jane Umbridge. The printed replication of the poster she had taken significant issue with was directly under Pigwidgeon's favourite sleeping place on his perch. The clever little owl had, thus, completely obliterated the farcical sentiment with an apt deluge of poo.
That one, too, Hermione didn't need to read. She could recite, verbatim, the poster's message:
Have you found yourself out of work and out of place?
Are you missing loved ones and don't know what has happened to them?
Minister for Magic Delores Jane Umbridge invites you to join us at 212 Diagon Alley Friday mornings at 9am!
Safe, all-inclusive support for those hardest hit by He-Who-Was-Defeated's reign of terror!
Her left foot, Hermione thought irritably. If Umbridge was genuinely a sweet and cuddly person who had been forced to do Voldemort's bidding by an Imperious Curse, she'd eat that newspaper, complete with Pigwidgeon's owl pellets.
How people were so blind, Hermione had no idea. And not two weeks after Umbridge had been elected (rigged was the popular opinion among the more jaded of the Order) she'd gone and made Rowle – a Death Eater – head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – and no one but members of the Order of the Pheonix had even blinked.
Pigwidgeon's head cocked to the side. He watched Hermione curiously as her eyes, drawn by a force of powerful irritation, ran through the article again.
Of course Umbridge had made sure some of the Wandless were reunited with their families. She'd want at least one family out there who could say she had helped. Hermione had even said so in Diagon Alley. A few families able to corroborate Umbridge's story would stop people from asking too many questions. Help them ignore that this Wandless Rehabilitation Initiative was sketchy at best, and make it all the harder for the Order to dissuade people from seeking Umbridge's assistance. All the Order and the public knew was that the moment a Wandless accepted Umbridge's help they disappeared down a rabbit hole. There had been no mention of exactly how or where this help was being provided.
And Harry hadn't said anything because he agreed with Hermione, she was saying it all for him, and, well, Hermione had told him to keep his mouth shut.
It was the Order's stance on the matter: be quiet and see what you can find out without causing a ruckus. With so many believing it was all over, their force had been whittled down to less than thirty people. Currently, Umbridge was law, with the full might of its enforcement behind her. The odds against the Minister were slim to none.
The situation was frustrating. The newspaper article was infuriating. Hermione decided against giving Pigwidgeon's cage a clean. The article could use a bit more owl poo.
Ginny, red haired and freckled, as was her entire family, was sat in shorts and a t-shirt on the counter in the Burrow's kitchen. She glanced over and followed Hermione's glaring eyeline.
'Utter bollocks,' she remarked sotto voce to Hermione. Ginny too left the yellowing article to Pigwidgeon, looking away and greeting her returning mother with a louder, 'So you were saying you don't need a hand mum?'
'No, no, dears, you go on,' said Mrs Weasley, sparing them a glance as several new overflowing baskets of cherries swept in to join the rest on the floor. She wiped her hands on her flower-print apron and checked one of the four bubbling cauldrons before beginning a fluttering gesture of dismissal. 'It's such a nice day, don't stay here cooped up with me!'
Mrs Weasley's shooing of them was more directed at Ginny than Hermione. In heed of her mother's forceful pats, Ginny slid off the counter. Within seconds, her vacated spot was filled with half a crate's worth of empty jam jars, all skidding themselves into place under the direction of a swish from Mrs Weasley's wand.
'If I need a hand,' Mrs Weasley went on as she set cauldrons of preserves to cooling, 'I'll ask Ron. Get him out of his room, at least. I feel like I have Percy back home, all the time he spends in there!'
A couple months ago Ginny would've had a comment to mutter at Hermione about this. That she kept it to herself made Hermione suddenly very aware of how hot and stuffy the kitchen at the Burrow was.
'Get yourselves something to drink,' Mrs Weasley continued. 'Or an ice cream – you're both so thin. Here.' Bustling over to a chest of drawers, Mrs Weasley pulled out a slim wad of Muggle money. 'Or if you're going to Diagon Alley…'
'It's okay, Mrs Weasley,' Hermione said over the sounds of the Weasley matriarch scooping together several spare knuts. 'I have money.'
Not much. By now Hermione had run through almost all of the savings she'd withdrawn a year ago before they went on the run. But Mr Weasley had only just gone back to work, and Hermione wasn't the one who had a family to support.
'Oh.' Mrs Weasley hesitated for a moment, then swiftly stuffed the currency back in the drawer. 'Well, if you do go to Diagon Alley, don't make a stir. I don't want you making a target of yourselves. People like to think the war is over, and, frankly, I'm not so sure they're altogether wrong.'
It was a sentiment Hermione was sure was meant for her, but Mrs Weasley gave them both a look of close-lipped significance before going back to her bubbling preserves.
'I'm sure they're altogether wrong,' stated Ginny as they let themselves out of the Burrow's front door. 'I get the more sure of it every time I see Minister Umbridge's face in The Prophet.'
The topic had been well-worn already that summer and their frustrations entertained them long enough for their feet to make the decision for them between Diagon Alley and Ottery St Catchpole: carrying them down the lane toward the small village not far from the Burrow.
Though the sun was bright and baking down on them, the morning's rains had yet to be dried from the quiet and narrow road. It snaked ahead, glistening in the light falling between copses of trees like a dark creek bordered by unruly rises of brush. Beyond the road's banks were open fields. Up a hill to one side Hermione could see the bones of what was starting to look quite a lot like the Lovegood's old house.
Where the Burrow had been searched and trampled in the war, Mrs Weasley having spent the first week back in her home deciding which items could be repaired and which to toss dejectedly out the window for disposal, the Lovegood's house had been turned into a wrecked shell. Luna Lovegood and her father were rebuilding it. It seemed, from this distance, that the adjustments to the house Luna had talked to Hermione about at the last Order meeting were ones not visible on the outside of the tall rook-shaped building.
That the war couldn't possibly be over, Hermione believed without doubt. All the same, on days like today, the sun shining down on a Burrow not dissimilar from the one Hermione had spent summer holidays at… further signs of the return to normalcy in both the Lovegood's rebuild and the fact that Hermione was outside, wandering freely… It wasn't unthinkable to just forget the war and enjoy peace. And it made Hermione very tempted indeed to move into the Weasley's cosy home. Doing that, though, would be leaving her (admittedly fruitless) post as, well, as simply a not-depressed person living in Number 12 Girmmauld Place.
White cottages with thatched rooves marked their entrance into Ottery St Catchpole. Hermione and Ginny took a left, beginning the wind down into the valley toward the village's only café.
'We need to work out where we're going to hold practice for our NEWT studies,' said Hermione, filling the lapse in the conversion. 'Harry's said we have Sirius's permission to do it at Number 12 but, I don't know… Do you think your mum would be happy for us to be casting spells in her living room?'
Ginny gave an unenthused silence. Hermione gave her a look.
'You may not need NEWT qualifications to play Quidditch,' Hermione told her frankly, 'but that might not be the only thing you want to do. What'll happen if, down the line, you change your mind and find you need qualifications for a career?'
'I'll get them then?' Ginny suggested flatly.
'Or just do them now,' Hermione countered, 'while the rest of us are. You said yourself no team is looking for new players right now –'
'Morale is low. If Umbridge would get her arse moving on putting the World Cup back on –'
'Umbridge isn't going to get her backside moving on anything you'd be happy to see reported in the papers any time soon.' Hermione huffed. 'Just do them! You like charms, and potions are useful! Add Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Transfiguration, and that's a solid 5 NEWTs.'
Ginny eyed her shrewdly.
'Give you some red hair,' she muttered. 'Pop a few greys in, a flowery apron… Did I pull you away from making cherry preserves too early?'
'Which takes me back to my original question,' said Hermione loftily. 'Where should we hold practice?'
It was an additional area of irritation for, particularly, the younger members of the Order who had missed out on their studies the previous school year. According to official reports, Hogwarts, having been severely damaged by the battle, wouldn't be repaired in time for the start of term. According to Remus and Professor McGonagall, Hogwarts could well be ready in time for a new year of classes were the Ministry bureaucrats in charge of Wizarding education (and under Umbridge's thumb) actually getting the ball rolling on decisions about the syllabus. Umbridge couldn't state outright she wanted Voldemort's Dark Arts-heavy schooling to continue without ruining her "I was under the Imperious Curse" cover, coming up with her own coursework was too labour-intensive, and giving in to what Professor McGonagall wanted students to learn would injure her tyrannical pride. So she'd taken the passive-aggressive stance of just not making a decision on anything Hogwarts-related.
There were only a few weeks left before term was supposed to start. Considering how every time Professor McGonnigal had gained an audience with the Office for the Regulation of Wizarding Education she was stonewalled by the reminder she was still only acting Headmaster of the school, the Order members with designs on a completed education had little hope of a seventh year back in the castle.
So, they'd reverted to the answer they'd come up with every other time the institution was failing to give them the education they needed: do it themselves. And, hopefully, by the time the exam season of the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests was upon them, a competent head of the Ministry would have taken over Umbridge's lofty seat.
'I donno,' Ginny answered unhelpfully, having mulled it over. 'We'd get in mum's way if we do it at mine, but I think she rather misses us getting in her way, so that's not an issue.' She grimaced and gave Hermione a look Hermione supposed invited common sympathy. 'If I could have mum not involved in my studies I'd be happier. She's just… you know, the way she explains things and… her expectations… Well, it worked better with Perce and the older two than it did with the rest of us when she was teaching us our education fundamentals as kids. She explains a thing: I don't get it. She sets us work to do when she goes to put clothes on the line: I don't do it. It's a non-functioning system. I still don't know my times tables.'
Hermione couldn't sympathise. She knew her times tables. Everyone should know their times tables. And she had never had trouble understanding what her parents explained to her. Her father, in particular, was a dab hand at very clever analogies.
'And Number 12…' Ginny continued, musing. 'It's a big place, for one, and I can't see Sirius being bothered by it if we blew up any portraits with missed spells. But I'm more comfortable getting in mum's way than I am Sirius's. Then again, he used to cheer up when we were around, so maybe he'd like the place being full of bangs and chatter? What do you think?'
What Hermione thought was that she really wanted to know what other people thought because she had no idea how to navigate Sirius and his moods, and she was secretly hoping someone would suggest it was a better idea to hold their study group in a place that wasn't Number 12.
'I'm not sure,' said Hermione, leaving the decision for the time being. 'Well, I've been drawing up schedules for us based on the original NEWT standards. We're all quite competent with most of what we need to know for Defence Against the Dark Arts, but we'll have a lot of work to do to get on track with Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. Especially seeing as how we've been out of practice for a year – well, not Neville as much. Some will be review for him. Hopefully... You, though, Ginny, you only got about halfway through your sixth year, so… And as we'll be doing it ourselves, well…' Hermione took a breath. 'Well, when we need help I'm sure we can ask Remus or Professor McGonnigal. It's Herbology I'm more concerned about. We can't just learn that from books and hope to pass the NEWTs –'
'You were trying to convince me to do this, remember, Hermione?'
Hermione sighed. She'd work out all the details herself, then.
It was a pretty effective conversation-ender. They crossed the bridge into the centre of the village in silence.
Ottery St Catchpole's only café was celebrating summer and sunshine with a scattering of tables set out on the cobbled path. Hermione and Ginny ordered their ice creams and stepped back outside to take an empty table next to a young attempt at a gentleman with a sandy flop of hair and a paisley cravat.
Hermione eyed him as she sat, wondering whether he was one of the wizarding inhabitants of the village. Peculiar attempts at Muggle dress were a staple among older witches and wizards. The younger were usually quite familiar with jeans and t-shirts.
A ringing interrupted Hermione's attempt to recall whether she'd ever seen him at Hogwarts. The man unclasped his black leather briefcase and pulled out a mobile telephone. He fumbled it, either clumsy or unfamiliar with the device, and answered it with a pompously Oxbridge, 'Hello, you're speaking to Newton Poppleford. How may I help you?'
Hermione turned her face to hide an amused smile, then had to whisper an explanation to Ginny about mobile phones. It wasn't just that Newton Poppleford was comical; it was Hermione's perception that amused her. She'd spent far too long among wizards, she decided. She'd forgotten Muggles were just as capable of eccentricities.
Mr Poppleford's conversation had broken off mid-sentence. 'Hello!' he said again, this time with surprise. 'What's that?'
Hermione and Ginny looked. Doing loop-the-loops around the chimneys of the row of terrace houses opposite was what looked like a Catherine wheel firework, just of the very long-lasting, heavily charmed, Wildfire Whiz-bang variety.
Ginny sniggered.
'Must let Fred and George know their fireworks are still showering the countryside with celebrations,' she said quietly to Hermione. 'They've made an absolute killing off those – off of everything they sell, really – since Mouldyshorts went down.'
The success of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes range of joke merchandise meant little to Hermione.
'Ooh, dear!' She whispered back to Ginny. 'Do you think we should give some explanation for it? The Statute of Secrecy!'
'How're you planning on explaining that away to Muggles?' Ginny asked. 'Just let them scratch their heads and decide it was some natural phenomenon. They've been doing it a lot lately.'
'And if they find the person who let it off?' Hermione shot back worriedly.
'They won't. If they could trace that people wouldn't still be setting them off. They'd be scared straight by people being charged left, right, and centre.'
Ginny had a point. All the same, Hermione watched Newton Poppleford from the corner of her eye. Gaze still focused on the firework, he babbled profuse apologies to the person on the other end of the telephone, stopped apologising abruptly, then apologised again and agreed to a meeting in half an hour. He was distractedly attempting to stuff his mobile phone back into his briefcase when the server came out of the shop with Hermione and Ginny's ice creams.
'Poppy!' The server greeted Poppleford jovially as he set their order down. 'How's it going mate? Sold any houses yet?'
'Well that's done it,' Ginny murmured conspiratorially to Hermione, indicating with a hitch of her eyebrows how effectively the server's greeting had pulled Poppleford's focus from the firework.
The eccentric man clasped his unlatched briefcase to his chest and held it shut with both arms crossed over it.
'Yes,' he said defensively. 'Now, Christopher, I must be off. Nice to run into you.'
Chris the waiter chuckled as Poppleford scuttled away clutching his briefcase. He wished Hermione and Ginny enjoyment, and headed back inside.
In their wake, Hermione felt Ginny's sharpening gaze. She figured she knew what was coming. Casually, she reached over and took Poppleford's discarded paper. Muggle news couldn't possibly be anywhere near as displeasing to read as the Wizarding variety.
'Leonora will be back from Paris next week,' said Ginny. 'Ron reckons she wants to join the Order. Spoke to Bill about it already and had him talk to Remus and Kingsley for her.'
'That's generous of her,' said Hermione, gazing unseeingly at the front page of the newspaper for somewhere to direct her eyes. 'I'm assuming she has been made aware it's no fun social club?'
'Fleur's been in contact with her for months. She knows exactly what the Order's been up to and what it's about.' Ginny paused for a second, then prompted expectedly, 'Bit strange, do you think, that she wants to join?'
'Frankly,' said Hermione, unable to help herself, 'for someone to decide they want to be intimately involved with the worst baggage a country they have only just moved to has to offer, well, you have to wonder what kind of hero complex they're suffering.'
'France wasn't unaffected by V-Voldemort,' Ginny said after a moment, Voldemort's name still uneasy on her tongue. 'And she's Fleur's best friend. And…'
'And she and Ron have a whirlwind flirtation,' Hermione finished impatiently. She met Ginny's eyes: what she had to say was more convincing if she didn't appear to be avoiding them. 'We're better off as friends, Ginny. We both decided that. The only thing that makes it uncomfortable is everyone expecting there to be tensions between us. It's fine. Honestly.'
Hermione looked back down at the paper. It had been amicable. She and Ron had become a thing on the day of the final battle at Hogwarts, when fears and desperations were racing sky-high. The month and a half after that had been the complete saga of a relationship condensed down into six weeks: a need to be constantly in the others' space, a growing irritation with the other being in their space, then the desire to have their own space back. They'd decided they'd leapt too quickly from an attraction based on youthful emotions and put through the wringer of fear, danger, and war, into a relationship on steroids, and really needed a break to get their heads back on straight. From there, things had just fizzled. That was that. They were better as friends, Hermione believed. And, anyway, she needed time to finish her studies. Relationships could wait.
'You know,' said Ginny lightly, 'with chat among girls, what usually happens is the one, suspecting the other's feelings, invites them to share their deepest thoughts and concerns, and the other takes them up on it. The first can then relate, and share their own deepest thoughts and concerns, and a confide-in-each-other session is begun, where both air the things on their chests, and go on to gush about stuff, if appropriate.'
A slight smile tugged at Hermione's lip.
'Thanks for the reminder, Gin–'
Hermione didn't finish her sentence. Among the paper's front page articles on Muggle politics and the cost of houses in the Costswolds were just a few words that had Hermione flicking hurriedly through grey pages of recycled paper in search of the full story.
Sydney Water Crisis: Many Still Boiling Water
'What is it?' Ginny asked, leaning forward to see the paper.
Hermione didn't answer. Words in the brief article were leaping out at her: "cryptosporidium", "giardia", "city-wide alerts", "long-lasting health consequences"…
'Oh, no!' Hermione moaned. 'Why didn't I send them to Brisbane? Or Melbourne? Why Sydney?'
'Your parents?' Ginny asked slowly, watching Hermione with concern.
Miserably, Hermione nodded.
'What…' Ginny hesitated. 'Is it drought?'
'No.' Hermione dropped her head into her hands. 'Water supply containing high levels of pathogens.'
'Oh…'
'They make people sick,' Hermione clarified. She took a breath, feeling the growing constriction in her throat. 'Ginny,' she whispered, 'there is something I want to get off my chest.'
Modifying her parents' memories to make them think they were Wendell and Monica Wilkins, a childless couple with a dream to move to Australia, had seemed a good way to get her Muggle parents out of danger when the war broke out. In the aftermath of the defeat of Voldemort there had been too much going on, too many people Hermione felt needed her here, for her to organise travel to Sydney, locate where her parents under their false names had set themselves up, and return their real identities to them. She hadn't even worked out how to find them yet. And, just when she was running out of good excuses to put off locating her parents and confronting what she had done to them, Umbridge had been elected, and the grim cloud of a country headed for trouble again was once more upon them. So they were still in Sydney, and Hermione felt guiltier than ever.
