Hermione came in from the cold and set her baskets in the kitchen. She rubbed her hands together to warm her chilled skin. When that didn't work, she cupped them over her mouth and exhaled deeply into the little cave they made. She turned the corner and saw that a fire licked against the grate in the study.

Hermione's heart raced as she followed the rise and fall of her father's chest. Wendell slept in a chair pulled a little too close to the fireplace. With a tartan thrown across his lap and his glasses askew, he looked the picture of an ageing parent. However, it was too soon for him to look this old — he was only in his fifties. Overuse of magic on the Muggle body left it weak, muscles wasting and the immune system near defenceless. Sleep came to Wendell less and less. She crept into the room so as not to disturb him.

A sickly-sweet voice beckoned from the direction of the fireplace. Come closer, lay yourself on my pyre. She shook away the intrusive thought. It was as if the floodgates of her psyche had opened with those simple tears a few days ago. Everything inside her mind clamoured for attention, rattling her brain and pressing against the top of her skull. They piled on top of one another like bodies climbing up a muddy pit, desperate to see the light of day.

While her brain banished the terrifying images, Hermione's foot caught on the edge of the rug. She tripped and Wendell woke in an instant.

"Who's there?" he rasped, eyes narrowed as he watched Hermione walk towards him.

"It's me," Hermione assured him, resting her hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own.

"Oh, Hermione! Yes, yes. I remember you now. I was having such an awful nightmare."

"Really?" She moved towards the desk and withdrew her journal and a pen. In Hermione's mind, the humble ballpoint pen would always be superior to any quill.

"I was home. In Sydney. Monica and I were walking on the beach, down by the waterline. A little girl in a red and white polka dot bathing suit came up to me. Monica ran back to get our kite — I think the girl wanted to see it. She was young, bright. Wanted to know everything about me, but no matter what I said she got angrier and angrier. I looked around for Monica. She'd been gone for so long. How long does it take to get a kite? I didn't see her, but I saw the kite — it was floating away. And it was getting dark. I turned back to the girl, to tell her maybe she should run along and get back to her parents. And she smiled at me with all these teeth — there were so many teeth, Hermione — and then she bashed my head in."

Hermione heard her pen clatter to the floor.

"Isn't that terrifying? Fortunately, children aren't capable of that kind of violence in real life."

"Naturally. That's how you know it's a dream," she croaked.

"How was your day? Monica made me take all my medicine, in case you were wondering. Do you know what it does? I haven't the foggiest. It keeps me up at night, but I think that's a side effect."

"Maybe insomnia runs in your family. I'll consult your medical records."

Wendell touched his index finger to the side of his nose. "Don't think I missed that you didn't answer the question. You're a wily one, Hermione."

Hermione gave him a weary smile. "Aren't I though?"

"How's your husband?"

So he was going into this line of questioning. First her husband, and then how were her friends, how were her parents getting on? This was a common conversation with Wendell on days where he remembered her name, so much so that she had the script memorised. But his recounting of the dream unnerved her and made her lose her footing.

"I don't know. It's been a while since I've seen him. Years, in fact." She pressed her palm to her mouth, wishing she could swallow those words back. Hermione never discussed her marriage with her parents.

"You haven't seen your own husband in years? I hope you don't mind me saying this, but that's frightfully odd. Are you separated?"

"In a sense, yes." In for a penny, in for a pound. Or a galleon.

Wendell's eyes roamed her face with a mix of pity and kindness. "Take it from me, and try to mend it. Monica and I, we've had our ups and downs. Still do, and we've been married for over thirty years now. We've gone to bed angry, even woken up the next day still angry, but we've always made up. And making up can be quite explosive, you know. Sometimes after waiting for a while — well, you know, you're a married woman."

What could she say to that? It's been nearly ten years. Sometimes I can smell his skin on my skin. When I step into a steamy shower, I'm reminded of his breaths, urgent and hot against my neck. He tasted like spearmint. The likelihood of making up with him is slim to none. Slimmer than slim to none impossible. For both of us.

"Any man would be lucky to have you, pet."

There it was again. Pet. But he focused on the dying fire.

"I do have a friend I'd like to make things right with — not in the way you mentioned. My oldest friend, actually, Harry. I recently heard he misses me, and that he isn't angry anymore, if he ever was."

"That's excellent. Are you going to reconnect? Maybe you could meet for tea. There's a cute little bakery right across from the pub. Biscuits are rubbish, but the tea is top hole."

"I'd love that. But his wife recently had a baby. Their second — another boy. I don't think he'll be straying too far from home for a while."

"Why don't you go to him then? Bring something for the little chap."

Why don't I go to them? Oh, I might have made a promise not to return to Wizarding London. Ever.

"Seems a bit rude to drop in unannounced after all this time."

"Begging your pardon, but your excuses are a load of bollocks. Life is so short, Hermione. If he's a real friend, this Harry, it wouldn't matter how you came back into his life, if you were sincere about staying in it."

Hermione's voice ventured into shrill territory. "I am sincere about staying, but I can't make that kind of commitment right now. You know my priority is you and Monica. Your well-being is of the utmost importance to me. I've always wanted the best for you, and I always will."

"You're like the daughter I never had, Hermione. But please, don't miss out because of me. I made my choices in life."

No, you didn't Wendell. I did. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"Wendell, are there ever parts of yourself you don't recognize?"

"My memories change over time. Right when I think they've crystallised, they're molten again, ready to take another shape. I've read some of your books here — and while I don't understand all of it, I know that so much of what we remember as a species is false. Only the actual experience before it's a memory is real. We're just remembering the last time we remembered it. Every time you remember something, you're getting further and further away from what actually happened. My heart breaks thinking about it — maybe I didn't score the winning goal in my first ever football game, or my Monica's loose curls on our wedding day were really up in a bun — but I don't enjoy those memories any less. It's the truth now, even if it's also false. It can be both."

All the tears welling at her waterline began to fall. The room shimmered through the wetness as if viewed from the bottom of a pool.

"I think I know what I need to do. Thank you, Wendell. This has been unexpectedly helpful." Hermione picked up a small phial from the desk and held it up to the light.

"I trust you, Hermione. You'll know the answer when you see it. And you will see it."

Hermione climbed the hill in the darkness, the tip of her wand lighting the way. With her other hand, she held the opening of her oversized knit cardigan together. The wind committed unspeakable acts to her curls, whipping them in every direction. The damp night settled in every bone, every shallow breath.

It was steepest before the crest. She kept her eye on the moon.

The howl of the wind reached its full potential at the top of the hill. No one would hear her scream, cry, or beg the skies for forgiveness. The moon had seen it all before, her silent judge, jury, and executioner.

Three graves gaped up at her. Parallel, perfect rectangles, made on a night just like this one.

Hermione believed death could not be predicted. It could not be divined. It could not even be beckoned. And there were many things worse than death. But she'd toyed with the entire spectrum of magic now, from light to dark. There was a middle ground, even if Harry and the others refused to believe it. Hermione would never take the position that complete darkness is the absence of light. Even Voldemort, she could see now, was salvageable as Tom Riddle, before the eclipse of his soul.

The eclipse crept up so slowly, the descent sweeping but long. She'd felt the same shadow pass over her, and the icy shudder gave way to perfidious warmth. Whatever power you sought, the darkness pulled from your hands and drank itself. It would seduce anyone. She thought back to a whisper of black ink on the tip of a white peacock feather quill and dismissed it with a roll of her shoulders.

Too much darkness destroys you. Too much light blinds. Hermione found the middle survivable. In the penumbra of her magic, she could become someone new. Unlike Tom, she didn't want to gain anything. She wanted to unburden herself.

It was more of a plunge into the third grave than she'd planned. Dirt drove itself under her fingernails and into the coils of her hair. Even this deep down, the keening of the wind's sorrows did not lessen. She drew a weatherbeaten book and three phials from her beaded bag with steady hands.

She pried open the book from the Riddle House she'd returned to time and time again, which had tried valiantly to sink its fangs into her, and turned to the bookmarked page.

For Regeneration

Bone of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the foe, forcibly taken

Now, for her modifications. She recited them as loud as her voice would carry:

For Rehabilitation

Blessing of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the beloved, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the self, forcibly taken

The first phial held her father's words from earlier that evening. I trust you, Hermione. He trusted her to act for all of them. For him, for Judy, for herself. She'd lost that trust before. But Hermione resolved to earn it back. She would do this and she would take care of them. She'd promised it when she'd entered the Granger home that July night. She'd promised them again when she searched in vain for answers in Sydney. And now, for the third time, she would promise, here in a grave she once thought would be her own.

Each time she had meant it. After tonight, she would finally deliver.

The second phial contained a single orange paw. The last bit of her familiar, the one being in this world who had known the real Hermione. Crookshanks had given all for her, even when she didn't know to ask.

Lastly, channelling all her strength, she used a slicing hex to cut her wrist and poured her blood into the final, empty phial.

Hermione gently tipped the contents of each phial onto the earth beneath her. She did not need to wait long.

Her stomach lurched as the hill formed its own swale of space-time, rending her spirit in half as it sucked her into orbit, unable to resist. The cyclone lived inside her now, swirling in search of a still point. Hermione bit her lip and drew more blood, offering up the salt and iron. The seismic waves of her long-held grief melted through the rich soil, filling its coffers with more and more of her pain. Her wandtip grazed her forearm and melted flesh from muscle. She did not cry. She did not scream. She surrendered.

All at once, the wind ceased. There was no light, no sound. She rose from the pit to meet the void. But the moon hung low, in its proper phase, and reaffirmed what she already knew.

Hermione Granger is dead, she thought, cradling her wounded arm. Long live Hermione Malfoy.