HP Canon Note: As per the books, Hermione does not have a scar on her forearm that reads Mudblood from the time Bellatrix tortured her at Malfoy Manor (this was a creation solely for the films). She does have a scar from the incident, but it's on her neck from Bellatrix threatening to cut her throat with a silver dagger.
Chapter Seven
She was quiet, reserved, as they made their way back into the forest. Quiet as he carefully picked her wolf out of the foliage to lay him on the open earth. Quiet, barely mumbling the words under her breath, as she dispelled the sleep charm she'd placed upon the creature, as it still would've been a little while before the magic had worn off by itself, she explained in a subdued voice.
That meager clarification was the only audible thing to escape her lips since they'd left the village.
Romi the wolf trotted alongside their horse as they crossed the narrow shallows in the bow of the Dyfne. By the time they made it across, the sun had set, just as he had suspected would be their timeframe.
Hermione's silence was beginning to unnerve him—especially when she was still silent as they dismounted and set camp—but he suspected it was more because he was already gaining a sense that such reticence was not in her nature. She had shooed him away from the tent for a moment as she popped inside, but then she just as quickly ducked back out of it and gestured for him to enter.
He arched a brow, his mouth tugging to one side in question. It wasn't a large tent to start—he'd imagined at first that she had intended to take the shelter for herself whilst he was outside by the fire he was about to build—and he was starting to wonder what she could possibly be doing in there, never mind why she was so insistent he come inside.
Geralt frowned as he exhaled a sigh, shaking his head. Approaching the tent, he saw something that didn't quite make sense. As he lowered his head toward the opening, he glimpsed Romi's white fur inside. He hadn't noticed the wolf missing whilst she'd been doing . . . whatever in there.
And then he stepped into the tent.
His heart fell into his stomach as he found himself looking about a meager and sparsely furnished, but comfortable, room. This was yet more of her magic? He turned his head, watching her cautiously over his shoulder as she entered the tent. Just how powerful a creature was she? Was this common where she was from?
Her chestnut eyes dull and troublingly lifeless, she nodded to a bed at the far end of the room. "I'm there, you're there," she mumbled the words, pointing to a second bed against the opposite wall.
Without another word, she started toward her bed. As she passed the middle of the room, she gave her wand a distracted tap, setting a small, controlled blaze in the firepit she'd fashioned there. Romi wandered as near to that flickering warmth as he dared before curling into a ball on the floor and putting his head down.
Rolling his eyes, more in exasperation at being unable to help her than at her morose behavior, Geralt found the words tumbling from his lips, "Do you wish to talk . . . about what's bothering you?"
She paused, still a few steps away from her bed. Pivoting on her heel to face him, she shrugged. "What's there to talk about? I had time to think, and that made everything worse—just as it always seems to."
He didn't respond, merely watching her across the room as he waited for her to go on.
Swallowing hard, she exhaled slow and quiet before she could get herself to elaborate. "It sunk in that . . . ." She shook her head, her gaze on the floor. "That even if I manage to reverse the magic that sent me here, I'll still never really make it home."
Silver brows pinched together in a questioning look. "Why not?"
With a sigh, she backpedaled until her legs bumped her bed and lowered herself to sit. "It's more than the fact that I won't be born for another six-hundred years," she said, her voice thick—though, that did seem maddening enough. "It was that I realized this? Your life, your world? It's not the past of my world."
Geralt darted his gaze about the room before crossing to stand before her and taking a seat on the floor. "What?" was all he said.
Hermione pressed her hands to her face, uttering a muffled groan. Letting her arms drop to her sides, she explained as carefully as she could—it wasn't that she doubted his ability to keep up, it was that she didn't trust herself not to garble any part of what she meant to say and confuse him further—about there being no witchers, or lands that matched what existed here in the history of her world. About what things were similar. About . . . the bizarre notion of alternate realities.
Much like when she'd broken down the time she was from by the important events in her life, those golden eyes widened by increments as she talked. The sheer improbability of her not simply coming from another time, but from another world to end up in that forest precisely when Yennifer had told him to be there . . . .
He stared up at her in silence for handful of strained, painfully silent heartbeats before he could answer. "So, you mean to say even if you can return whence you came, you cannot return to your proper time?"
Her shoulders slumped and a look of relief settled over her features at his grasp of her words. "Exactly."
"Then . . . ." He exhaled through his nostrils, his lips pursed as he considered her predicament. "Why bother attempting to return there, at all?"
"I—" She cut herself off, forcing a gulp down his throat as she met his gaze. She couldn't tell him about the book, or the Malfoy family tree, or any of that. It all sounded like madness on the face of it. How was she supposed to tell this man that it was beginning to seem unavoidably possible they were somehow the start of a family line that would eventually learn to hate anyone like her, when here they were stuck in another blinking reality and, oh, yes, he was sterile!
"I don't know," she offered with a shrug, getting her internal screaming over the utter absurdity of her situation under control. "But clearly I do find a way of returning to my world. Otherwise, the wolf medallion would not end up there for me to someday come into possession of, and . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she was hit with yet another unsettling realization about her circumstances.
"What is it?" Geralt asked.
He seemed utterly unsurprised, but a little vexed at her non-answer, when she breathed out a soft, but evidently irate, "Fuck."
Lucius Malfoy. This was all his fault. He'd deliberately withheld the records of his lineage. He'd sent her to look at the book that had somehow come from Geralt. He'd left the enchanted medallion for her to stumble upon.
It seemed utterly ridiculous that the Malfoy patriarch could think she was his ancestor! Not simply because wizards didn't play well with time mechanics—bit of an Americans vs the Metric System dynamic, that—but because she could not imagine any scenario in which Lucius Malfoy not only accepted this possibility, but that he went out of his way to ensure it happened, rather than fighting tooth and nail to find some way around it.
He had to know, or at least believe, she was ML. But how? And how long had he been planning this, simply waiting for the opportunity to present itself? How long had he been aware of his family's murky beginnings?
"I wish I could explain it. I just have to," she said, her tone both miserable and decisive. What little light had been in her eyes since her realizations as they'd left the village had drained away, her fair cheeks paled.
There was so much about this situation that felt so . . . hopeless. And she had no answers. It was all so depressingly confusing.
Her face closed down, expression unreadable, and she shifted about, curling herself onto her bed, her back to him. "I really just want to sleep, please."
For a quiet few moments, he merely watched her. Something about the way her voice had caught as she'd politely dismissed him dug at him. He supposed it was because he couldn't understand—no one could if he was getting everything she'd said. They had only just met, it was not for him to say what decision she should make for herself.
Choosing to leave any further thoughts on any of this until they'd both gotten some sleep, he finally stood and retreated to his own bed.
She missed her friends, she missed Harry. Her heart was breaking for the thought of never seeing her parents again. Dear God, she could do with a hug right now, but there was only one person here and she was not about to ask him.
He had no idea the witch had waited until he had put some distance between them to unleash a torrent of mute sobs.
Hermione jerked awake a handful of hours later. Disoriented for a moment by the intermittent, flickering illumination in the otherwise darkened space, she reached for her wand automatically as she sat up and looked about.
The plain walls, the wood beams . . . the sad little firepit in the center with the white wolf sleeping soundly not far from it. She looked across the room to the other bed, with the . . . 'other' white wolf. Rolling her eyes at herself, she shook her head. Of bloody course he was sleeping above the covers in naught but his trousers.
It couldn't have been dark enough for her to simply not be able to tell?
Shaking her head, she pried her gaze from him before she could really try to focus her vision and discern more details about the image presented her.
What had woken her? Closing her eyes and concentrating, she searched backward in her mind for the last thing she recalled before snapping into wakefulness.
She'd dreamed of screaming.
She opened her eyes, swallowing soundlessly in the dark of the tent. Not just any screaming. The scream she'd heard wrenched from her own throat when Dolohov's spell had struck her, just before it had knocked her out. Madame Pomfrey had asked her if the spell had caused pain on impact, what it had felt like for notation in her medical records, but Harry had been there. And so, Hermione had insisted she didn't feel any pain until she'd woken up after-the-fact. But that wasn't true.
Her free hand lifted, the movement unconscious as she touched her scar through the fabric of her dress. She could still recall that torturous searing. Could still recall wishing it had killed her. Could still recall nothing but agony rocking through her from the moment of impact to when she'd awoken sometime later and the pain had subsided a little by then.
But Harry had convinced her they'd needed to go to the Department of Mysteries that night. He'd just lost Sirius. She couldn't say in front of him how much she was suffering.
To this day, he had no idea that it still hurt. She'd learned to manage the pain most of the time, could ignore it on good days. Sometimes, she didn't even notice it anymore until a sudden turn to pick up something, or an unexpected dash of cold air against her skin sent fire lacing through her.
Her hand fell back to the bed. She wondered now, if she'd had any idea she'd never see him again, would she have told him the truth?
A sad smirk curved her lips. Of course not.
How would Lucius Malfoy explain her sudden absence to Wizarding Britain, anyway? she wondered. Was he planning on telling Harry she'd never actually shown up, so it would seem she'd left her house but never arrived at the manor? Probably.
She held back a sniffle and laughed softly at herself. She missed Harry so much already, her entire chest ached and her lungs threatened to close down on her, and it had only been two days. Well, perhaps if she stopped thinking about how she'd never see him again. It was true, but still, thinking it was clearly a painful avenue.
She needed some fresh air. Or, as fresh as one could hope for with no vegetation for miles.
Climbing out of bed, she made her away across the floor to the tent's opening. The horse stood out there, dozing peacefully—she still hadn't thought up a name for him, yet. She ducked through, her gaze immediately drawn to the stars overhead.
"Dear Lord," she said in a reverent whisper. There were millions. The very sight of it filled her with wonder.
As fiercely as her heart ached for all she'd been forced to leave behind, she couldn't deny there were some fortunate things she'd found here. Romi, for starters. She'd always felt a kinship to wolves—part of the reason she'd been so quick to believe Remus Lupin wasn't a monster, only misunderstood, when she'd covered for him upon realizing what he was.
And then, of course, there was Geralt. She ignored the feel of a blush warming her cheeks. How very schoolgirl of her. But yes, finding him—or his finding her, as was the case—was also fortunate. What would she even be doing had he not happened upon her? Still planning? Still hiding out? Still not having any idea as to the reality of her situation?
He also could've chosen to not help her. To leave her to the wilds.
She held herself from glancing back through the tent's opening to where he slept. No. She had a feeling he wasn't the sort to do that, but she could've have just as easily been found by someone who was, like those fools who'd tried to kidnap her.
Yes, her situation was pretty terrible, she decided with a sigh as she lowered her head to look out across the ashlands beneath the light of the moon and stars. But it could always be worse.
The landscape before her was nothing but dry earth. Dry, but not flat. Hills and depressions marked the land, just as they had before it'd been razed.
And behind one such hill in the distance . . . . She narrowed her eyes and took a step, trying to be sure what she was seeing. Trying to assure herself her eyes were not playing tricks on her.
Illumination. Wavering and flickering, like a campfire.
Gasping, she tore back into the tent. Rushing to Geralt's bedside, she fell to her knees, clamping her hands over his arm.
"Geralt, wake up! I think I just saw—"
There was a flurry of motion. She scrambled to keep her grip on her wand as she was propelled backward, colliding with the wall.
Sooner than she could pull herself to stand, she was forced upright. Her back pressed to the wall and his forearm pinned her wand arm in place, as if she held a blade.
Romi was on his feet in a blink, shaking off sleep as he loosed a vicious growl. But he was still wary of the witcher and kept his distance even as he sounded ready to tear out the man's throat.
She was very aware of how Geralt held the tip of his sword against her throat. She met his gaze only to realize . . . .
He was sleepwalking. There was no recognition in his face whatsoever. No anger, no emotion at all. The pit of her stomach crawled with ice as she stared into sightless golden eyes.
He could kill her this instant and not even realize until he awoke hours from now.
And here she thought they'd been connecting. She kept in a nervous laugh, uncertain how long they stood there like that as she waited for him to kill her or pull away—she was desperately hoping for the latter. She would love to simply hit him with a spell to force him away, but the way he pinned her arm kept her from being able to get a good angle.
Then it struck her. They . . . they had been connecting. Her revelations to him, his insistence on keeping her close, keeping her safe. She didn't want to grow attached to him, but she felt like fate, bitch that it was, might be giving her little choice in the matter.
Reaching out with her free hand, she pressed her palm over his heart. "Geralt, please! Please wake up."
Nothing. The tip of the sword pressed into her flesh.
She bit back a yelp at the quick zing of pain. "Geralt stop! You're hurting me!"
Somehow that did it. He blinked, hard, and gave his head a shake.
Seeing what he was doing, he lowered his swordarm and relinquished his hold on her. Backpedaling a step, he could only gape at her in disbelief.
"I . . . I don't know what came over me."
Hermione let herself relax as much as she could given what just occurred. Crossing the floor to Romi, she knelt beside the wolf and shushed him, running her hands over his fur in delicate strokes.
"I'm okay," she told the wolf before standing again and repeating to the man before them, "I'm okay."
He didn't seem to be listening, his gaze on her throat. Frowning, he stalked across the room until he stood within arm's reach of her. Geralt ignored another series of grumbles from Romi as he cupped her chin and tilted back her head.
"I did this to you," he said, his low voice a regretful murmur.
"You weren't in your right mind; you were acting out in your sleep. It—it happens more than you'd think."
His gaze flicked from the wound on her throat to her eyes for the briefest second. "Do you always forgive people who harm you so easily?"
"I do make exceptions for those who do it on purpose," she said, trying to bring some levity to the tense moment.
Geralt was not having it as he noticed another mark on her throat. A bit higher up, but also obviously the work of a blade. "Not the first time someone's tried to slit your throat."
He wasn't asking. The comment was an observation and it reminded Hermione of how easily and how often she forgot about the mark from Bellatrix's silver blade.
He had yet to relinquish his hold on her chin. She had yet to make him. But she did lower her head against his hand, meeting his gaze.
Reaching out, she grasped his wolf medallion, lifting it from his chest. The back was warm from the contact with his bare skin. She wasn't sure what was happening, anymore, but she was starting to believe nothing about her circumstances—their circumstances—could be coincidence.
But they were out in this godforsaken place for a reason, and standing this close to him while he touched her face, with her hand so dangerously close to that warm bare skin, was bound to lead to things that would sidetrack from their true purpose.
"I, um," she started, clearing her throat as she let the medallion slip through her fingers and dropped her arm back to her side—he seemed to take the hint, following suit as he released her chin. "I came to wake you because I thought I saw a campfire out there. It . . . it could be them."
"Right." He backpedaled toward his bed. "I'll go have a look. You stay here."
Her brow furrowing, she shook her head. "But—"
His sudden approach cut short her protest. "You. Stay. Here," he repeated, a determined finger pointed in her face.
Holding back a noise that she was perfectly aware would sound just a bit like a growl, she answered through clenched teeth. "Fine!"
Taking a seat on the floor beside Romi, she soothed her angry pride by watching a half-naked Geralt of Rivia stomp back across the floor and ready himself for possible combat.
