The witch and the wasteland

"Ron, I assure you: I have no wish to celebrate my birthday."

"Come on Hermione, everyone likes their birthday, and everyone likes fairs."

Hermione rolls her eyes, wondering if Ron learned something about her in the last twenty-something years.

"You should know that I don't."

Under different circumstances, Hermione would have ignored him for the rest of the day, or until Harry brought him to his senses. Ron would have complained dramatically about his misunderstood efforts. But they were in a foreign place and she was his escort. It brings some solace to know she'll spend most of the birthday far, faraway. Though she has to get through this night first.

So Hermione, her uniform and her frown make their way through the few customers at a rather low-key muggle fair. She's covering the rear, most likely site of an attack. An outing like this is insane, Ron needs to grow up ASAP if he hasn't yet realized that his whimsical birthday present may end up killing the honouree.

An ice cream beard on his upper lip, Ron pulls her towards the Ferris wheel, where the redhead sways happily as his wife turns green –her fear of heights is not limited to brooms-. Hermione may seem like the most skeptical customer the Tunnel of Terror has ever had but she would love to be able to close her eyes or leave this task to the apprentice. Back against the kiosk, the auror watches the clouds as Ron makes his third attempt to win for her the ugliest stuffed animal either of them have ever seen.

The worst is, of course, the fortune teller. Hermione raises an eyebrow as Hunter cracks up, his extendable ear disappearing into the tent. Apparently, Ron will find his first love in a girl with a reprehensible past, like his own. Hermione can't count how many things are wrong on that statement alone. Anyway, she has allowed him so much in these few hours that she puts up a very weak resistance as he pushes her towards the tent. "Let this be over before the're killed" she mentally prays to whoever is listening.

The psychic, with her turban and crystal ball, looks as if drawn by Miyasaki in that incense-laden atmosphere.

"It'd be good for you to believe, yes," the words come out with fumes, a tobacco between her fingers, as she scrutinizes her new costumer.

"That's hard, having heard what you said to my husband."

"Oh, he's not your husband, no, no."

So this woman pretends to know her life better than she does.

"It's ten, my dear. Yes, ten. "

She refrains from commenting that she doesn't believe too much in those who deal with prophecies. At least the one concerning Harry was free. There's the fleeting wish to arrange ten galleons neatly on the table, but it would be a serious breach of the statute and she's not a child. She puts it in euros instead, and pleads:

"Let's end this quickly. I'm going to find prince charming and all that."

"No, no, no, you are already bonded to someone."

That earns you a speculative look. Hermione leans back and crosses her arms. The woman puts out her cigar, twisting it against the ashtray.

"Who's that girl, bonded to the both of you? There's something dark about her, yeah yeah"

'Leave my sister alone' she wants to say but doesn't. The woman is just fishing.

Probably.

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His apprentice stops on the edge of the circuit to tie her hair into a sporty ponytail, then runs to catch up with him. It's easily four o'clock in the morning –in London, anyway-. Both of them should be in bed -six full hours of sleep, a true luxury-, they have to relieve Hermione and Hunter who are to take the same portkey back so they can give their own report. But they're both here instead. Such a waste… She sighs. But training is better than tossing and turning, or just playing with her cell phone which is what she has been doing to stay in bed. Her mentor had given up already. Merlin knows for how long he has been here.

It's September 19, 2019. It has been 40 years since Hermione was born.

Not that it means much, with the amount of time manipulation she has performed or suffered. She's biologically younger than him –which is amusing enough-, the healer said so back when… But still… Even if her exact age is hard to calculate…

It's her birthday, and they're not even in the same country.

Harry is not-thinking about it. He isn't thinking, period. He counts instead. His heart beats hard in his chest, and a single drop runs down his already sweat-soaked neck. An old song keeps their running in sync. "The wall, the gray wall, the grayish red wall…" Nothing elaborate, just something to keep the pace during long workouts, something he uses on his trainees just as it was once used on himself. Ancient and useful. "Five aurors, five aurors, five dead aurors," he hums. "My partner, the sixth. The Beast, the Beast ..."

He could be thinking about her previous birthdays. Ron, coming to him, calling on the old mate code when Hermione sent him away for forgetting the date or for half-joking about gifting her with a domestic elf –"I was just kidding!"- "And don't call her Herms" the auror would remind him, patiently, only to see him fail at it as well. Ron never understood, and Harry feels in his gut but never possessed the linguistic skills to explain to him the muggle magic of names, how they represent the person's essence, nor does he have literary references to illustrate how they change when taking on a new mission. It's not as if he ever needed his partner to explain any of it to him. It's not that hard to pronounce her name, full and perfect: "Hermione". A name that tastes of treacle tart somehow.

But he doesn't think, he doesn't think at all.

He certainly can't be reflecting on how his heart skipped a beat when he saw her out of the corner of his eye, so beautiful that for a second he thought…

And of course, he has no idea of how she's watching the muscles and sinews work under his skin, her mouth dry.

The rhythm of the exercise calms down the both of them until it resembles sleep. "Wands, sky light, cyclone wings. Six aurors, six aurors, six dead aurors. My mentor, the seventh".

At half past five, the others were yet to arrive. Mentor and apprentice stretch out on the training mat, staring at the piece of sky someone managed to spell on the ceiling. Real time, but nothing as spectacular as the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

He turns his head to the girl, who just a moment before was leaning on one elbow, her head on that hand, looking at him, but is now lying on her back, cell phone in hand. She's a puppy: constantly changing position; eyes bright, tongue sharp. She hasn't tried to establish conversation, and the comment she made, he didn't hear. He's too sleepy to be coherent, in understanding as in words. That also helps him not to think about he might clearly be thinking. And his trainee distracts him, which is helpful as well. None of them have spoken of why they're both here before dawn.

"... seven dead aurors. My apprentice, the eight" the girl hums, as she dials.

Where did they get that song from? Harry thinks, closing his eyes and letting go.

"She's awake," the girl lets slip. "I already texted her at midnight. Should I call?" she proposes.

Harry doesn't respond.

On the other side of the world, Hermione lies on the grass, facing the stars that the surrounding lights prevent her from seeing, and thinks of Hogwarts. It was all so easy back then. True, millennial monsters whispered from the castle walls, at least one troll used the girls' bathroom, and a three-headed dog could end up ripping yours. But no politics to complicate everything.

How much easier it would be to find the culprit for this crisis, if they were teenagers, than it is for them as public figures. How much less bureaucracy.

Her mind is buzzing with hidden messages from so many smirking politicians she'd swear at least some of them have clandestine treaties with the wrong part of England. And even so, her gut tells her they're mere puppets, ignoring the most important part. Ron, on the other end of the spectrum, knows more than he wants to admit even to her. He's a politician as well; she cannot blame him for keeping certain professional secrets. She hopes it's not the info others are missing. That'd imply a too intimate knowledge of the dark side.

Then there are the distractions.

Closing her eyes, she feels her throat closing. It's hard, so hard, not to think about her little sister, back in Britain, with her partner. It's so hard not to envy her.

Perhaps it would be less complex if she had a case of hers to work on. Since the Lefayes, there has been nothing worth mentioning. Paperwork and trainings, scheduled rounds, a role to play in the odd raid that closed someone else's case, but nothing to fill her time and mind, to distract her from the visions of the tortured baby she can't even ask about.

Or from the cataclysmic change in their… partnership?

But she must not pry, and can't concentrate on the loose ties she must be tying. She can only miss.

Hogwarts: the smell of parchment, McGonagall's warm voice, gold from the student's wand to the mouse, and that crease in the corner of the teacher's eyes that said: "I'm proud of you." Hogwarts: thousands and thousands of volumes neatly arranged on shelves; her favourite table in the library (facing the window, from where she could see all the green that went from the gray of the castle to the changing brown of the forest). Hagrid's cabin on the way, with its pumpkin patch, behind which she had taken refuge with Harry, in times long gone. Hogwarts: lying on the couch in the common room, listening to the crackling fire. Living the novel while reading something else; the boys playing Exploding Snap under her somewhat protective gaze. Slipping through the corridors under Harry's cloak. The Room of Requirement, and Harry's warmth behind her as the silver otter slid from her wand. Looking up from the Great Hall or the Astronomy Tower, to see the stars.

Harry is under the same stars… sort of.

Hogwarts: friends, freedom.

The past, a page, and the future, a whole blank book.

Hogwarts...

She is in the Astronomy Tower, with Harry. Just like she was after Dumbledore's funeral. It's daytime, just the same. Yet the stars are visible. Dreams don't have to be coherent. Harry has his hand against the wall, and she places hers beside his, curious. There's a vibrant sensation, like grabbing a hose as water, or blood, passes through.

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It's very brief, the time the five of them have, together. Very brief. It's dawn, and the portkey shines blue, and suddenly Harry's there; but in another few minutes it'll blink once again, taking her away. Really, it's barely enough time to see dark rings under his eyes, she certainly can't fuss over him –or over her sister, who's showing the same signs, and if they looked the slightest bit happier Hermione would be more than worried for whatever kept the both of them awake.

She can't fuss over them, and she mustn't hug them.

Well, maybe her sister.

But as hair so much like hers fills her vision, as she hears the whispered: 'Happy birthday' near her ears, she's considering doing what she must not do, her mind duplicating into a sort of urgent dialogue:

'It's my birthday…'

'And I guess the world should stop turning around to congratulate you? '

'It's my birthday, and he's my partner.'

'Honestly, Hermione… Your husband is right there…'

'So what? I already hugged him good-bye. It's just a hug. Ron'll understand, we've been friends –the three of us- for… what, almost thirty years? It's not as if I was about to kiss him.'

'You absolutely cannot imagine that one!'

'I'm not! Just saying!'

'You are! And you're remembering! And Ron will get jealous and you absolutely don't have the time to put off that fire!'

That's absolutely right, so she has to utterly ignore it as she goes from the girl to Harry. And as he holds her in his arms, his shaking, their connection snaps open, and she can feel how full of awe and gratitude and something else he is, as if this was his birthday gift instead of hers. He's so warm and smells so wonderfully, and even behind her closed eyelids everything is so bright and colourful and sweet, as if her mouth was filled with rich, aged wine.

The portkey shines its warning as she's still in his arms.

"Happy birthday" he whispers, his breath caressing her ear as his hand finds hers and leaves something there –her gift, she presumes; something Ron absolutely can't know of, she knows as well, or he would have been more open with it. She won't open it either until they're together again. But now she's clinging to him with an urgency she shouldn't feel.

"Madam" Hunter calls nervously, his eyes on the portkey.

Hermione refuses to look at Ron as she reaches for the portkey just as it gives its final warning, Harry's hand a millimetre from her skin.

When Harry looks up, Ron isn't there.

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Instead of following Ron, Harry leaves him to Duham and goes on patrol. It's part of his morning duties, to verify the situation outside, to look for security issues; he certainly can't send Duham, she simply does not have enough field experience.

The residence is one of those places that change location each day, always seeming, from outside, a house like any other. The amount of magic need to spell a place like that is in itself a display of money and power. But it does offer extra security.

Today they are in a quiet place. His steps echo as if in an empty room. It smells of dew, and it's cold enough outside that the transition from England isn't too harsh. It seems a muggle neighbourhood, decent and small, with family businesses, the kind that open and close early. A bakery opens as he walks by, welcoming buyers with the smell of fresh bread, and from the inside a girl smiles at him while drying her hands on a pretty if practical apron.

Hands in the muggle jeans' pockets, Harry turns to the hut from where he emerged, which is in fact one of the richest places in the country.

"Amulet?"

It's a broken voice, coming from what would be generous to call tent: a piece of cloth precariously covering two sticks to provide a low ceiling, barely enough to protect someone from the heat. It wouldn't be out of place in an Arabian market, but here? Harry blinks at the old lady sitting cross legged inside; she has bulking eyes and an enormous pipe between the creased lips, and Harry sees the smoke spiralling out. A cartoon character.

"I have pretty ones. Yeah, yeah. Girls love jewelry, yeah?"

He's about to decline, but as he turns the light reflects on one of the jewels. Amber. He crouches beside the old lady, eyeing the corresponding neckless. The abstract shape could represent a grapevine as well as pretty much anything else. Reflection might be part of the intended effect. Despite having already given Hermione a birthday gift, he can't but think of how pretty this would look on a chestnut-haired witch, especially if her eyes are the colour of treacle.

"The Saba relic. Yeah, yeah" the astute hag responds.

Harry knows he should be asking about magical effects, but they're in a muggle neighbourhood…

He still returns with the amulet in his pocket, in a humble leather pouch, though he has no idea of whether he'll dare to offer it.

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"Noah, they don't even look good together, she's so short."

"Hardly more than her sister."

Hermione stops short, her heart pounding. Hunter takes three more awkward steps, but the girls don't hear him even though just the think wall of a cubicle seem to be between them. Awful aurors, those ones will be, but the lioness is almost happy that they seem so prone to be killed.

"But she's so… amazon…"

"I tell you they left hand in hand."

"Besides, did you see her hair? What else would they be doing so early in the training room, all alone?"

It tastes bitter –oh, so bitter-. Did she read him well? The Bond now closed, and Harry so far away, it's so very easy to doubt…

She forces herself to take the next step, and the next, and soon rage's pushing her. At the sound of her footsteps, the three apprentices look terrified. She blasts through the rest of the auror department and straight to Luna's office, not knocking not asking, then turn the handle and... closed. The trainee sitting at the desk to her right freezes before her gaze.

"Where is Luna?"

He stands in firm. Behind him, the charmed window; it's raining, again. The feline in the painting next to him (Sekhmet?) glances at him as if ready to take a snack. It smells of prey. Hermione notices his gnawed nails

"How is she not here?!"

The boy stutters, offers apologies. Hermione stops herself –barely-, pursing her lips, then taking a deep breath. It's not him who she's mad with.

"At Hogwarts?"–she gathers from confused babble.

Vigorous assent.

"Stay," she orders Hunter, not looking at him.

Her cloak billowing, Hermione kneels in front of one of the department's several unengraved, unpretentious fireplaces, the chill from the floor through her pants and the heat of the fire in front of her giving her anticipatory nausea. She doesn't like it when her head spins by itself, even when she knows where she's going. Breathing deeply, she stops the visceral response both to the news and to the expectation of having part of her body miles apart. She won't allow her mood to interfere. Closing her eyes, she sticks her head into the fireplace.

The office is more like Dumbledore's than she remembered. The directors still nap on their paintings; some kittens once in Umbridge's office, having escaped back then -not even her own kittens could stand her- now doze on some directors' laps, an absent-minded witch caresses hers while pretending to sleep, not that she expects to be called on it. The living are notoriously absent. Dumbledore is not in sight. She could always call him in an emergency, but she won't wake him from his simulated sleep because her boss is not at work.

Just as he is about to withdraw, he hears the voices.

"We'll have to call the parents." It's McGonagall's voice; it startles her to realize how broken it sounds.

"But what are we to tell them?" It's Professor Flitwick's anxious voice.

"What happened. Between all of us maybe we can understand..."

"Professor?" Hermione calls. A moment's hesitation, and finally the tall and perhaps somewhat bent figure of the Headmistress looms in front of the fireplace.

"Mrs. Granger," she replies.

Hermione is too far below her eye level to read her expression. Formal treatment doesn't mean much: McGonagall clings to formality all the more with those she's fond of. If there is more reserve than usual in her voice, it may be because of what she heard. Professor Flitwick greets her, perhaps a little too cheerfully, before disappearing.

"Any problem with the kids?" Hermione checks anyway.

"No Weasley or Potter have had a problem so far this semester" McGonagall adds studiously, and the specificity is not lost. The auror hesitates. After all, she must not inquire into other students' problems.

"It was my understanding that you were on the other side of the world. Is everyone all right? Arthur, Molly? Harry?"

"They're all well" she ignores the coup of guilt as she realizes how little she has thought of her in-laws since the kids left for Hogwarts. "It's just... Luna... I had a report for her, but she's not in the office. They told me he was here."

Another moment of hesitation. The auror sees the mask fall as, with a sigh, the headmistress confesses:

"She's in the infirmary."

Her heart skips a beat.

"What happened to her?"

"We are not sure."

"When?"

"This morning."

Hermione calculates: plus five hours of time difference, it makes... too long."

"May I be of help?"

Hermione's heart sinks as she sees the worn lips tighten into a firm line.

"I'm an auror" she insists.

Another heartbeat, and the teacher pulls away. Seconds later, they both stand on the same side of the floo.

"What happened?" She asks, as the teacher heads for the door, visibly guiding her to the infirmary.

"We found her in the forest."

"Forest?"

"It's common for her to go to Forest, or its surroundings. Firenze brought her," the teacher continues, as they go past the gargoyle. "There was some fuss when he carried her up the stairs on his back. Poppy thinks she was bewitched."

Her heart this time beats with a very different kind of emotion.

"Dark wizards."

Two heartbeats.

"Unfortunately, I don't think that's quite the case."

The auror stops, and the teacher trudges three steps ahead before turning, eyes dull under the pointy hat. Across the hall a tapestry of Gryffindor hangs, the lion indifferent to the concerns of its former protégés.

"You must understand that I am not at liberty to discuss certain..."

"Hogwarts, is it safe?" The mother interrupts.

"As safe as it has always been."

A troll flashes in Hermione's mind.

"It would be appreciated if the Minister doesn't hear of this conversation," the teacher is saying.

"Ron?" the auror asks, stunned, as she reaches her.

"I'm afraid politics aren't always good influence."

Hermione's head is spinning, connecting the dots. She dares not ask if the reference is to something –someone- in particular, or if the headmistress simply has bad experience with politicians. She always trusted the Weasleys. Except for Percy, of course. But he wasn't known for fighting alongside with her.

"Don't worry, professor. This stays between you and me."

The old sorceress's shoulders slump in relief.

"So what are you at liberty to discuss?"

"I'm afraid some kind of influence weighs on the boys."

"On every one of them?"

"On some more than on others."

"Why?"

Silence.

"Has the Minister mentioned the club?"

"Club."

"I suppose not."

The teacher sighs, reaching the infirmary door. They trespass slowly. Hermione notices the loneliness of the wing. One bed is curtained. Indeed: Luna sleeps on it. She looks as pale as ever. Hermione finds it weird to see her old friend sleeping, bulging eyes placidly covered by lashes.

"Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey interjects, and then, obviously surprised: "Ms Granger."

"How is Luna?" Hermione asks, skipping the pleasantries.

"Her condition is good in general." The nurse walks over and takes the blonde's wrist, pauses for fifteen seconds, then continues. "She might wake up this afternoon. There were several stunners. Hopefully, no messy obliviation."

"Are there reasons to suspect...?"

"It's not a medical conclusion," the nurse reassures her, "it's just that I can't think of another reason why they would attack her, except if she had seen something improper, and even then..."

Hermione grabs one of the bed posts. Beside her thumb, in small, the Hogwarts crest. She traces the motto absently.

"She is chief auror."

"He's not exactly on guard, on the grounds," McGonagall amends.

'Or she trusted the attacker.'

"If it was an organized attack... What's that club you were talking about? Might they be involved?"

"Unfortunately, I have no idea," the director replies, "the club is sheltered by secret and the Ministry prevents me from investigating further. Or close it."

"Ron has to stop this," Hermione thinks out loud; the headmistress eyes her sadly. "Have the forest dwellers been ruled out?"

"Firenze is looking into it," the nurse says, "but Miss Lovegood doesn't have a bite in her whole anatomy."

"And strangers?"

"Hogwarts protection is formidable, especially after the war. We would know."

Suddenly, Hermione finds herself in the same position, twenty years earlier. Then, it was the teachers who discussed possible situations, and the trio who eavesdropped to investigate on their own. It feels strange, to be on the other side.

This time they are not giving her all the answers either.

Still, there are still students with snooping ears at Hogwarts. It doesn't give her peace of mind, exactly, but if she wants to keep them safe, it'd be foolish to overlook it. Though it must not be obvious why she wants to ask them.

"Only Firenze knows where she was?"

"I'm afraid so." It's McGonagall, her voice warm and deep, her thin hand on the back of the chair.

Hermione calculates quickly. She could technically wait, but part of her is very aware that she left Harry virtually alone –no other experienced auror- in a foreign, hostile country… even if nothing has happened this far and there has been no sign of alarm… yet she'd much prefer to portkey sooner rather than later, and it could take Firenze days to come back, if he's thorough.

"I don't think she'll wake up soon," the nurse interrupts, a hand on her shoulder.

Long shadows under Luna's still eyes. Hermione's torn between protecting Harry and seeing if she can make Hogwarts safer for the kids.

"I should see the kids," she whispers.

"Miss Granger-Weasley had Potions," the Headmistress offers.

Hermione pats her forearm before heading for the door. It's not as if she could assure her that it'll all go well. It tempts her to think that this is an isolated event, but judging by her own experience at school…

"Ah, Ms. Granger"

She turns questioningly.

"Happy birthday."

Her ancient former, thin and bending slightly, fades amidst the relative darkness and coolness of the deserted infirmary. Next to her, the nurse, younger, all in white, severe as a mother. And in the middle, a lying Luna, her face hidden. That's the image she takes to the dungeons. At some point it represented security. It still has an effect. How she'd like to go sleep in her old House, by the firelight.

She waits for Rose by the door of her current class, her gaze following the intricate columns that today look like coiled snakes to her.

"Mom?"

The girl saw her first. She approaches, holding a pile of leather-bound books, torchlight reflecting on their metallic letters; her eyes also look strangely unreal.

"Rose"

"Weren't you in America?"

"I had a report to provide. How's your brother? the auror asks, as she make the books levitate. "James? Al? Lily?"

"They're all alright. Something happened?"

The adult shakes her head, then stops, realizing she's doing what her elders used to do, years ago. Well, she concludes, maybe if Dumbledore had kept his secrets for longer, the wizarding world would have perished without the help of three teenagers, but they are no longer under Voldemort's threat and as a mentor and mother she must protect the kids for as long as possible. That leaves her to get information without telling why, and they –the trio's children, after all- do tend to be perceptive.

"And here?"

Fortunately, Rose hesitates for a second, which prompts her to ask.

"What's going on?"

Looking around, the girl suggests:

"Let's find an empty room."

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Willing to exchange reviews for updates/read&reviews of your things/a pretty sugar feather/a crooked frog or a moody black cat. Your choosing.