The morning held no frostiness, but whispers of cold air fell on her ears. Green leaves gave way long ago to orange, gold, and brown, curling in on themselves. One twirled in the wind and lodged itself in her hair as Hermione crunched upon its brethren, walking the well-worn path to the greenhouse.

Cyclamen Cottage was a rather misleading name for the estate Hermione chose as her home. Of all the Malfoy properties in Britain, the vast tract nestled in the Cotswolds was both idyllic and practical. Every season delighted her with new treasures to behold. Spring offered a smattering of pastels. Winter, her favourite, left blankets of shimmering snow. The property provided good earth for growing all manner of food, flowers, and herbs, and a modern greenhouse. It sprawled, acres and acres of garden behind the main cottage where Hermione and her parents lived. While it looked small from the exterior, much like her beaded bag, the cottage boasted ample space for every purpose. The self-restocking kitchen was large and bright; the study boasted a never-ending supply of bookshelves. Only their ledgers knew when the Malfoy family acquired Cyclamen Cottage, but whoever lived in it previously, in her opinion, had thought of nearly everything. She could live without the air conditioning.

A smaller cottage lay hidden behind the greenhouse beside a small pond. Hermione used the space to brew, bottle, and store all her potions. She kept a cache of all the most useful, everyday potions, as well as a growing number of rarer concoctions. And on summer nights, when she wasn't too exhausted from the day's work, she opened up the thatched roof to give her telescope an unobstructed view of the stars twinkling in the unpolluted countryside sky.

Hermione didn't become a recluse overnight. (She married overnight, which is a different matter entirely.) Her isolation came on slowly but hung around like a bad cough. It began in the summer of 1998, when as soon as the fog of war had lifted and the rebuilding efforts began in earnest, she left for Australia to restore her parents' memories.

She expected to succeed within weeks. Having spent the last few years in close proximity to Harry Potter, it never occurred to her that raw talent, passion, and skill might not be enough. Every night, in a little tent in an unplottable location, she waited until the boys were asleep and read. She read and read and read. She practised new spells, following faded illustrations and descriptions of delicate wand movements. She became more familiar with herbs and rare potion ingredients. She allowed her other skills to atrophy, a worthy sacrifice for the mastery she hoped to gain.

She'd planned to come clean, and reorient them to the present day. To their real name. To their magical daughter, who loved them so much she did the unthinkable to protect them. But to her horror, a few weeks using typical memory retrieval and restoration methods turned into two years of dark magical experimentation.

No one should be forced to experiment on their loved ones for their own good. Each new spell, each new concoction in her cauldron held untold risk, and she wasn't experienced enough to know if the risks were compounded. Using a spell from the old black book from the Riddle House, so worn it didn't even have a title, she managed to restore her mum's memories. But it came at a terrible price for both of them.

Those two years in Sydney would haunt her for the rest of her life. Two years of struggle, of denial, of tears. Two years of letters to Harry and Ron filled with lies. Lies upon lies upon lies because how could she ever tell them what she did? And how could she live with herself if she couldn't reverse it? Why did nothing happen the way it should, the way it would if her name was Harry Potter?

Nearly every night she experienced intense night terrors. They were all the same: someone uncovered her dark secret and splashed it across the pages of the entire Wizarding press. She hadn't used an Unforgivable, but the way everyone turned on her, she may as well have.

In the most common nightmare, she woke to the screeching of owls and the flash of bulbs outside her window. "Miss Granger, what did you do to your parents? Why are you dabbling in magic beyond even Merlin himself? Did you Avada and reanimate them? What does this mean for your friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley? They've disavowed you…." By then she'd be awake, grasping the twisted sheets in her hands. Sweat coated her body, and she fought back screams until she descended into another pit of horrors.

In the vast, timeless expanse between night and dawn, she permitted herself to be angry at the injustice of it all. Everyone forgot she'd been a young girl when she helped take down the greatest evil the magical world had ever known. A Muggleborn girl, who'd scrabbled her way to the top of her class despite the perceived inferiority of her birth, and the many years she'd spent ignorant of magic altogether. How nice it would be, to finish up her studies at Hogwarts, to pass her NEWTS. It hadn't lasted with Ron, but they were still close, and maybe he would've set her up with one of his brothers. Maybe it would have been her on the cover of the Daily Prophet, announcing a promotion within the Ministry. The more she ruminated on it, the angrier she became.

On the day Hermione heard from Minister Podmore with the offer for her to live with her parents in Wizarding London (he'd pulled a few strings) and start a new career as an Unspeakable, she took it to mean there would be a future for her in the realm of normal. She found it almost funny that as a girl she'd dreamt of more and found herself capable of magic — real, actual magic — but now she just wanted normalcy. Her magic was part of her, and she'd never wish it away. But there was no denying the pull of the ordinary after living through war and the fallout from it.

Of course, the job hadn't worked out. After only two days, she'd been stressed beyond belief at the prospect of working while continuing to research her parents' conditions, manage their care, and keep them hidden. When Draco Malfoy turned up on the doorstep of her shabby little flat, snowflakes melting seamlessly into his white-blond hair, it felt like a fever dream.

As Hermione closed the door to the greenhouse, she took a deep breath in preparation for her work. She washed her hands in the porcelain farmhouse sink, which she meticulously cleaned each night, and held them up to the light to examine them. Calloused and worn, they blistered in places from a recent battle to draw venom from her Venomous Tantacula. She kept it not only for its valuable leaves but also because its poisonous properties made it a formidable weapon. A single drop of venom from the shoots and spikes promised a slow, painful death, and once the plant got its vines around someone, it was kinder to Avada the poor soul.

In her first year at the cottage, she cultivated many such plants, fearing that despite the Vow, Malfoy might appear at any moment with demands to alter their agreement. If he dismantled her wards, she'd need a few tricks up her sleeve. Although a quick Septumsepra might also work a real treat, she mused darkly. But he'd kept up his end, and she'd kept up hers. But that didn't mean she trusted him, and so it comforted her to know she could resort to violence if needed.

Hermione pulled a weathered wooden stool up to her workstation and settled in. She cherished this time of day, when she could luxuriate in the way the world around her fell silent. She set the pace and rhythm of her work — no one else. It was predictable, and the plants responded to her careful touch. First, she gathered clippings from the fast-growing herbs, culling each stem or leaf to allow for regrowth. Next, she made her rounds, plucking berries from bushes, fruit from vines, and nuts from trees, sorting which were fit to eat, use as ingredients, or return to the earth via compost. Finally, she ascertained which plants required more or less water, light, food — the task made all the more delicate by the mixing of both magical and non-magical flora.

When she completed her initial journey around the greenhouse, she turned to planting, repotting, and encouraging any young saplings or sprouts towards upward growth. As the year came to a close, there would be fewer and fewer flowering and fruiting plants to tend to in this way. But Hermione took special care of her winter garden, as experience taught her that the best springs blossomed from winters spent preparing for rebirth. Each season for a reason, Professor Sprout always said.

As she donned earmuffs and set to repotting a stubborn family of Mandrakes, Hermione's inner thoughts bubbled to the surface.

First, although she had no proof anything had changed with Mum and Dad since their last round of new potions, Wendell had called her by her old nickname — pet. It was the first change she'd seen in quite some time, and it lit a small spark in her ever-curious brain. Second, she'd been thinking about going to Wizarding London for the first time since she'd been married. And Merlin help her, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

Hermione closed her eyes and conjured up an image of the city. Clouds drizzled cold rain, sending wizarding folk under black brollies scurrying across the cobblestones like ants. Inside the Ministry, the dings of the elevators punctuated post-weekend recaps. She let the swish of robes and the gentle tinkling of spoons against china wash over her. The archives were empty, their leather chairs and ever-glowing lamps beckoning to her. Come, read under our light. Stay awhile.

She would never return there. Not to London, and certainly not to the Ministry. The normal life she'd dreamed of was no longer possible. An image of her name in black ink on creamy parchment fluttered to the forefront of her mind, beating its wings for only a moment before she banished the memory, a glittering Hermione Malfoy tumbling into the dark recesses below. She was no Occlumens, but she'd done a good job of burying her ordinary desires on her wedding day. Now Hermione battled a nefarious voice urging her towards more sinister magic, and she struggled to cope with the onslaught of intrusive thoughts.

She returned to the sink and cleansed her hands from the past few hours of work. As the water washed away soil and clay, it revealed what Hermione had been unable to uproot; a network of dark rivulets underneath her skin. It brought to mind the differential growth response of gravitropism, in which plant roots elongate and sink deeper into the earth. After years of exposure and bending it to her will, the takeover persisted despite her magic's opposition. Dark magic had anchored itself in her veins like a parasitic fungi. She'd relied too much on forbidden potions lately, seeking higher potency and better results. It didn't work every time. But when it did, even though she chastised herself, she returned to the well for more.

Light magic wasn't enough. Upping the amount of Dittany in her last round of modified Oblivious Unction did not deliver any observable effect, positive or negative. Amortentia made both her parents feel less depressed, but otherwise had no impact. She'd begun looking beyond her well-loved copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi because Hermione had a hunch the plants weren't limited to the functions described within.

She developed new theories constantly in her search to reverse Obliviation, but her main theory persisted: the potency and efficacy of herbs, flowers, and even fruit in certain situations could be manipulated and amplified by soil acidity, exposure to light, temperature, and more. All the environmental conditions that exist or occur, sometimes beyond our control, before magical folk even thought of including them as potion ingredients. But despite reading hundreds of applicable texts, Hermione discovered frighteningly little about healing herbs specifically, unless it revolved around the optimal planting and harvesting seasons themselves.

She checked the time. She'd been so absorbed in her work she'd missed lunch, and her parents were in need of their second round of potions. Her stomach gurgled its disappointment as she Scourgified her clothes and boots, but she lacked time for even a quick snack.

Clutching the necessary phials, Hermione pressed her back to the door and opened it into the cold.

"What, you have to open doors manually like the rest of us mortals?"

Judy Granger stood in her daughter's path, wearing nothing but slippers and her weathered housecoat. Her wild curls, which she'd passed down to Hermione, lay limp and grey against her temples. It had been less than forty-eight hours since their last confrontation.

Hermione sighed, searching her mother's eyes for answers. What had her up in arms so early in the day?

"Mum, I'm a witch, not a goddess. I won't live forever. And I could use my magic for little things, but I'm channelling everything I've got into healing you and Dad."

"Healing us? That's what you think you're doing?"

This fight again? Hermione's entire body withered under her mother's unrelenting stare. This argument never ended well. She tried a new tact.

"I know I've failed you, Mum," she said, her constant inadequacies roiling her stomach. They mocked her even now as they travelled up her throat and pried open her teeth to taste the air. "You don't have to tell me. The last round of potions was a bust. I'm back to the drawing board. But these have been working to keep your conditions stable." She pushed two of the phials towards her mother.

Judy's arms remained crossed, her hands fisted against her ribs. Her next words flew out in a gust of effort. "You were born late at night. When the nurse handed you to me, I saw a shooting star flash against the glass of my hospital room window. In that moment, I made a wish that I would have a kind, loving, intelligent daughter. And for a long time, I thought my wish came true," she paused, and Hermione brought the phials back to her chest. "But everything changed when that letter came. Suddenly you didn't need us. My only child left for boarding school on some enchanted train and when you returned — you weren't you."

"Mum, there was so much I couldn't tell you, there are rules —"

"Couldn't tell me? I know all about your rules for dealing with people like me. I've seen those books in your study, Hermione. You've bent plenty of those rules. I'm not daft. You could have told me. I'm your mother, for God's sake." Her hand came up to clutch at her housecoat.

"It's so much more than what you've read."

"Oh, so because I'm a Muggle, I wouldn't get it?"

"There was a war going on, Mum!" Hermione forgot the phials in her arms and let them shatter on the pathway as she shouted. "I brought down a wizard so evil and corrupt that he would have tortured you, enslaved you, and when he could get no further twisted pleasure from you, only then would he have killed you!"

"So you wiped our memories and sent us away. I know, you've told me a thousand times. You had to make a choice!" She waved her hands to the side, mocking Hermione. "Your friends needed you! The world needed you! Tell me, how many other Muggle parents had their memories altered? How many of them got them back?"

"I don't know," Hermione whispered.

"You don't know. Convenient. You have answers for everything else. 'Drink this, it'll help. Hold still, let me wave my magic wand over you so I can see your insides. You're both getting stronger by the day. We're so close now to getting Dad back,'" Judy raged. "You're such a liar."

She couldn't refute it. She had been lying. The old Hermione, the proud tattletale who longed to be Head Girl, hated lying. But the more she tried to stop, the more falsehoods she had to invent. It wasn't enough to hide her inadequacies and embarrassment — she lied to erase them. It was easy when nothing else came easily; the lies offered her their warm bed.

"You aren't getting worse, but I haven't seen the progress I'd like to see. But where we are now — it's still manageable. Your conditions are stable," she emphasised.

"Oh, yeah, I feel real stable, Hermione. On the days I wake up as myself, I have no recollection of the past twenty-four hours. I have no idea what that other woman has done with, or worse, to my body. And no idea what you've done in the meantime, either. Sometimes I'm not sure which is worse."

The words were as good as a slap to the face. Her mother knew about Monica. She'd assumed her mother's brain smoothed over the gaps between the two women. Yet more evidence Hermione herself slipped from scientific rigour into blind optimism.

"You'll never know how sorry I am, and I won't stop trying to make it right," Hermione vowed. "The spellwork that separated you from Monica in Australia — I can't perform it again, and I haven't used any spells on you or Dad since, I want you to know that. Dad doesn't remember me at all, and he has trouble navigating the magical world because it never existed for Wendell Wilkins, but isn't it better to have something of him than none at all?"

They talked about Australia once, right after the move to Cyclamen Cottage. It was the only time Hermione had told another living soul what had happened when she first tried to reverse their Obliviation. Harry and Ron knew about the original sin, but as far as they were concerned, Wendell and Monica were no more. Hugh and Judy Granger were reunited with their daughter and themselves — they merely preferred the warm weather of Sydney to the constant clamminess of Britain. And who could argue with that?

She'd thought she was doing everything right. There was a plan. She'd knock on the door, Confundus. Sit them down. Start with the simplest methods of reversal, up the difficulty level as needed. And she was sure she wouldn't even go halfway down her list. Yes, it would take serious magic. But she'd come so far, and faced down much worse than this. She was a heroine now, whether or not she'd asked for the mantle, and what kind of heroic tale would this be without the happy ending?

Judy's cracking voice brought her back to the present. "You're not listening, Hermione. You're still making this all about you. You never ask me what I want."

Hermione looked at her mother. Judy's once sharp, bright brown eyes now hid behind milky clouds. Her sallow skin sagged, creating crinkly crevices. The hands betrayed her condition most of all, and they trembled under any duress, as they did now. Magic, both light and dark, prematurely aged all Muggles, but this level of continuous exposure was practically unheard of.

And Hermione's responsibilities to her mother increased all the time. The part of her that housed Monica, in particular, was in the initial stages of failing to thrive. Her behavioural decline had been gradual, but her recent weight loss and forgetfulness accelerated at a rate that age could not explain. All the usual screenings and scans showed dark lesions on the brain. Each week they'd gobbled up territory, planting black flags on white tissue.

"Mum," Hermione said softly. "I don't know what I'm doing, and I haven't for a long time. Still, I have to do everything just so, you know? I've got a routine. It's supposed to be good for you, and your memories. And it's all on me. I've got to know if it's a 'Judy' day or a 'Monica' day. I've got to keep track of everything you do and everything I do as well. What potion I administered and when — if it was even successfully taken. What happened afterward. I'm constantly searching for signs of change. Regression, progression, personalities bleeding into each other, any sign of Dad… and then I've got all the upkeep for the cottage. Plus, I've got to find time to brew, research, and document, usually after you've gone to bed."

Hermione desperately wanted her mother to see how hard she'd worked to find a solution — how many nights she'd gone without sleep, all the meals she'd skipped, the dark magic she'd steeped herself in. She craved affection, touch, safety. She longed for her mother.

But Judy's cold, remote demeanour persisted. "That isn't a long-term solution."

"I know. I'm sorry," she wiped the tears streaming from her eyes.

"Ask me what I want."

A lengthy silence unfurled between the two women. Hermione knew she had to ask, but she feared the answer. Finally, she gave in.

"What do you want?"

"I want to die."

"Mum, you can't mean that —"

Judy rounded on her daughter. "I suggest you stop telling me what I do and do not mean. I know you think about it, too," she turned her head, her crepey skin almost translucent, and tilted it towards the south end of the estate. "You can't fool me. Those three graves up there didn't dig themselves."

"I need more time," Hermione begged.

"It's been over a decade," Judy said in a defeated voice.

"Just a little more time, Mum. Please."

"I'm a God-fearing woman, so I won't do it myself. But the next time I ask you, Hermione, set me free. Kill me. I'm sure you can figure out that much."

Judy glanced down at the shattered phials and, without meeting her daughter's eyes again, trudged off towards the main cottage.

Hermione's mind rattled with rage, helplessness, and grief. She fell to her knees, not caring if she cut herself. Intrusive thoughts surfaced like bubbles of toxic sludge. You're hopeless, Hermione Granger. Give up. Give up. Give up.