Chapter Five
May, 1916.
"Silas, love, you have to see another physician. You can't self-diagnose, it's dangerous." Hermione pleaded.
He cast her a dark look from where he sat at the kitchen table on the morning after having learnt a small truth about his wife. He pulled the thin cloth drenched in blood away from his mouth. "Sweetheart, I'm telling you, it's bronchitis."
Hermione huffed and set their breakfast on the table. "And I'm telling you it's clearly more than that. And you don't seem to be too shocked by your hemoptysis, which leads me to believe this has been going on for some time. Love," she looked at him imploringly, "at least talk to William. Get his opinion, I'll go with you if you like."
Silas slumped back in his chair and looked utterly resigned. "Alright, Addie... Hermione, if it means so much to you then I will call William."
She swooped down to place a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, darling," she said as she turned around and sat down opposite him at the table. "There's no need to start calling me Hermione. I'm Mrs. Adeline Moore. I know that our talk trailed off last night and we decided to give it a rest."
"There's nothing to talk about," Silas began, shining blue orbs glancing across the table, "you have nothing to apologize for, I knew you'd come to me with the truth as you trusted me more. I know that you gave me a vague rundown last night, and I have faith that one day you'll trust me enough to tell me the truth in its entirety."
She reached over the table and placed her hand on top of his left, her whiskey-colored eyes red with the makings of tears as pain tightened her throat. "Thank you, Silas."
He smiled softly, before being wracked by another coughing fit.
June, 1916.
There had been a series of tests over the past few weeks that Silas had endured with minimal argument. Hermione was proud of him, as she watched him go through every test at William's request and her own insistence. No proverbial rock was left unturned, William and Hermione teamed up as the invincible duo of medical professionals intent on discovering just what was wrong with Silas, and how to treat whatever it was. The results were left for William alone to gather and report to the married couple, as he had believed it best to tell them together.
This was what found Silas and Hermione sitting in William's office, staring at the familiar plaster walls decorated with the man's hunting trophies. Taxidermy and sport hunting were one of William's favorite indulgences, Hermione had always been uneasy being in here. It wasn't just animals native to North America that were mounted on these walls, but some native to Africa, and South America as well. It was troubling how many there were, and she'd never stayed long enough to count them all but had estimated at least twenty five. His study at his home was worse, as was the den. She'd once had a conversation with Izzy about it, to learn her opinion, but Izzy couldn't have been more proud of her husband's accomplishments.
Hermione and Silas were both rather disgusted by it, but otherwise kept their opinions on the matter to themselves. The doctor and his wife were dear friends, both together and separately. The two families were close, and the Moore's were certain that there were aspects of their lives that Izzy and William didn't particularly care for either.
Now, however, Hermione was only partially grateful to be staring into the glass eyes of a beaver while she attempted to avoid looking at William as he entered the room. Solemn silence followed him. When she finally did meet his eyes, she could see the deep sadness that nestled into his gaze as he looked over at his colleague and friend. Her heart sank and she began to fidget in her seat.
"Silas, Addie, there's no easy way..." William began, tears forming in his dark eyes. Hermione and Silas stared right back at him, holding hands tightly.
Dread filled Hermione as she realized what William was gearing up to say. They'd spent so much time helping those in need, even those with maladies that were airborne, and Silas hadn't always taken the best of precautionary measures; especially because he'd spent most of his career teaching rather than practicing medicine. He forgot his mask often.
She'd known, intellectually, that there was a chance. But she hadn't prepared herself for it emotionally. She held Silas' hand tightly in hers as William swallowed and began again.
"It's consumption," William said softly, a tear sliding out of his eye as he watched Hermione and Silas stiffen.
Tuberculosis. Hermione knew of it, of course, even without her medical knowledge she'd known of the respiratory disease from her own past studies and time spent in France with muggles. The vaccine wouldn't be produced for a few years yet, if she remembered correctly, but there were other options. Less preferable options, yes, but options nonetheless. Silas released her hand and went still, seemingly in shock. She tensed, and looked him over before biting her lip and looking to William for support.
"There are treatments..." she began, voice unwavering as she tried to be the pillar of strength for Silas.
". . . all of which require going under the knife, and you both know that you are in late-stage Tuberculosis, Silas." William affirmed tightly, addressing Silas directly.
Yes, that was a problem. Silas was terrified of surgery. Performing it was no problem, but being the one subjected to it? Unlikely. That wasn't even taking into consideration the fact that Silas was late-stage and the surgery would likely fail, regardless.
She looked over to her husband and laid her hand over the one her other hand was gripping tightly, reassuringly. His face had been becoming more pale as the weeks wore on but right now he looked almost deathly white. She tried to convey all her love for him in the way her hand squeezed his but he wasn't responding. He shocked her when he brushed her hand off, dropped her other one, and stood abruptly, turning to walk out of the door.
Hermione didn't follow him, only looked helplessly at William, grappling for any possibility that Silas could be saved. "There has to be something that can be done."
William shook his head and looked at her empathetically, "You know that there's nothing that can be done, Adeline."
"He said Gambino before he died, Mr. Morello, that's all." Hermione reported, blood and body matter still drying on what had once been a pristine nurses uniform.
Despite William's harrowing prognosis that morning, and Silas' disappearance thereafter, Hermione was still required at the clinic even if the surgeon was not in attendance. It had become custom, over the past couple of weeks, to watch men die from this turf war in the Mafia-Camorra War. In confidence, one of the Genovese family had told her they came to the clinic instead of the hospitals because another family had control over them and therefore their guys couldn't get proper medical attention.
As if she hadn't had seen enough war in the nineties.
This wasn't the first time Morello had been back in the clinic since that first day, either. Morello came whenever one of his guys died, and like today Hermione would report whatever his man had said before that happened; anything at all she heard that seemed consequential, and sometimes things that might have looked inconsequential to the unlearned eye. Morello was there for the report, every time. It was strange, at first, to be around another magical being. She was so unaccustomed to the slight hum of magic that the tingle of it sometimes caught her off guard. He seemed to enjoy doing that to her, and she actually relished the feel of another so near.
Despite hating what she was doing, aiding and embedding organized crime could get her put away for life or sentenced to death, it wasn't healthy for her to spend all of her time around No-Maj's and forget her magical background completely. Hermione had been allowing her magic to build up, without any form of release for quite some time now. It was damaging, and before she had married Silas she often expelled her magic, apparating away into New Jersey.
Nick Morello inclined his head to show he'd heard and turned to one of his guys, breaking Hermione's drifting thoughts. "Masseria, walk Mrs. Moore home safely."
Joe Masseria was a towering man, well over six foot and he looked like he could lift twice her weight without flinching. She knew he could easily kill a man, and the look in his eyes said that he probably had killed more than once. He held his arm out for her to take, which she took instantly, so as not to offend him.
"Mrs. Moore," Morello said from her left and she turned her face to face him, "you've done well."
"Thank you, Mr. Morello."
Masseria tugged Hermione gently, prompting her silently to turn away from the boss and take his lead. She went willingly, knowing it was best not to argue. He lead her out of the clinic and into the streets of Harlem, making their way towards Manhattan where her apartment was. They walked slowly, as if they were simply two friends strolling through New York City, enjoying the early summer breeze.
They weren't, and Hermione was on edge, thinking he might have been sent to kill her. Usually when Morello said something he would mean the opposite. Instructing his right hand guy to walk her home safely could have been code for 'take her home and kill her there - make it look like an accident.' His telling her she'd done well could have meant 'you've wronged us.' She couldn't be sure; and that was terrifying.
"Relax, Mrs. Moore." Masseria stated, deep baritone practically growling the words. "If I was meant to kill you I wouldn't have bothered being seen with you."
She nodded once, and tried to ease her tension.
"Anyway, the boss wasn't lyin', you've done well for us."
Hermione wasn't sure if that should be taken as a good or a bad thing, but was thankful enough that she hadn't been considered an associate to the mob, that was a tree she had no interest of climbing.
Silas didn't come home until early the next morning. Hermione had made herself sick with worry, pacing their apartment in hopes she would hear his light steps and the jingling of keys. It wasn't until a quarter to five in the morning that those noises finally permeated the silence and Silas stepped inside the room, looking haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, the left sporting a bruise, lip busted.
Instead of saying anything, he looked at her in the light from the lamp she'd left on in the corner of the room.
And then he crossed the carpeted floor, standing right in front of her. She stood to meet him, hoping to wrap her arms around him in comfort. Instead, Silas fell to his knees and buried his face in her abdomen, sobbing.
No words were needed that night.
August, 1916.
By late July Silas was beginning to have more bad days than good days. There were still days where he could get outside and walk down the sidewalk, go to a restaurant, or see his mother if he was careful to keep his mouth covered. Those days, however, would leave him haggard for the next three, sometimes five, days thereafter. It was those times when Hermione would see Silas' spirit drain from his eyes. He'd resigned himself to death early on, but it had become no less painful in the time since his diagnosis.
She recalled the day clearly. She'd come home from work after having dealt with a particularly brutal patient she'd shockingly been able to save. When she opened the door she met chaos reminiscent of Diagon Alley after the Death Eater's had attacked. The living room was trashed, a few glass vases that had held recently purchased flowers lay shattered on the floor with books scattered among them, and the couch looked as though someone had kicked it. Setting her purse down on the table, she went looking for Silas.
Her wand held at the ready, in case someone had burglarized, she turned a corner into the kitchen and hid the wand immediately when she noticed Silas, sitting on the tile floor with his back to the cupboards. There was blood down the front of his shirt and a half empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His eyes were closed, but tears were pouring down his cheeks.
"Silas, love?" she said softly, stepping around a pan that had made it to the floor in his rage.
His eyes popped open and she'd seen bitter resignation. "I'm going to die, Addie." He lifted the whiskey to his lips and gulped down enough for her to be drunk in minutes. "I'm going to die, it won't be long now."
"I know," she responded gently, kneeling down in front of him between his outstretched legs. She moved forward so she could easily wrap her arms around his torso and bury her face in his neck. "I love you."
He buried his face in her hair. "If only love was the currency in which life was traded for - we would live forever."
September, 1916.
Silas' condition worsened as the temperatures began to drop. He had refused treatment in every manner possible, knowing it would do them no good to waste the money on his condition. He'd decided that he had been exposed long before the clinic was formed, as it often took time for tuberculosis to enter into late stages, and couldn't pinpoint where he'd picked it up, but assumed it must have been when he visited his mother at some point. He'd given up that day, when he'd trashed the living room of the apartment.
It was nights like these that Hermione found especially difficult now. She spent them with Silas' head, drenched in sweat from his fever, resting on her abdomen and his arms wrapped around her from his position.
"I love you, Addie," he murmured.
Smiling softly, Hermione ran her hand through his blond locks. "I love you too, Silas."
He'd begun to wheeze recently, and had been bedridden for the last several weeks when his condition worsened. Hermione hadn't needed William to tell her so, but he had anyways, confirming that Silas had little time left in this world. Silas had called his solicitor, making arrangements and completing his will. He'd had a few meetings with William while she was off in the clinic, training someone to take over for her for the last couple weeks of Silas' life.
She'd taken time away now, and had been home for two weeks straight, leaving only to purchase necessities. There was no place she'd rather be then where she was in this moment, curled up with Silas and rubbing his back softly when he began coughing. He would turn his head away from her long enough to keep the blood from staining her clothing, she didn't tell him that he'd stained many of her outfits already and simply took care of it with magic when he was asleep.
Placing her hand on his damp forehead, Hermione frowned. He was sleeping now, his breathing shallow, and wheezing. She discreetly pulled her wand from the place she kept it when she was in bed, tucked away in a small incision she'd made in the side of the mattress, and whispered a cooling charm. The temperature of the room dropped considerably while she placed the wand back in its place. She gave it several minutes before she checked Silas' fever again.
It was as though his body wasn't registering the cooler air.
A few nights later Hermione found herself in the same position. Silas had become delirious over the past couple of days, addressing her as his mother. She knew it was the fever, and it broke her heart to see him this way.
"I grew up the farthest from normal as one could get," she began one night while Silas lay there, eyes closed and breathing shallow once again. She let her fabricated French accent fall away so she could speak in her native one. "I could do things, you see, things others couldn't. My Mum told me I was special."
She'd been contemplating telling him the full truth for a while now, and realized she'd never get the chance to confess if she didn't tell him now.
"I wasn't special, not really." She laughed softly, running her hand through Silas' sandy blond hair. "I was Hermione Granger; book smart, insufferable know it all. But one day, when I was eleven, a woman came to see my family. She wore funny clothes and a pointed hat like a witch of legend. I was in awe of her. She informed me that I was a witch, and that she was there to invite me to join her and others like me at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Silas moved slightly, she lifted her hand momentarily to give him room to situate before she returned to her ministrations. "I accepted, of course, how could I not? I would finally meet people like me, I'd fit in somewhere. Perhaps I would even finally make friends." Hermione's voice quivered and tears formed in her eyes, but she pushed them back. "I had been wrong, I was as much of an outsider there as I had been back home. Mudblood, they called me. The term is particularly derogatory - it's taken literally. I had non-magical parents, which made me a pariah to some."
"I did, however, make two friends." Now she was crying, her voice thick with emotion. "Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, they saved me from a Troll on Halloween. I would have died if it hadn't been for them. It was the start of everything that swallowed my life thereafter. I was nothing special, but Harry was. He was Harry Potter - the boy who lived. The only known survivor of the killing curse. We went through hell and somehow made it back together, Harry and I. Ron too, for the majority of it. But it was always consistently Harry and I."
She tried to push down the lump in her throat. "I haven't spoken about them in years. We went through so much together. Battling creatures of myth, dark magic, fighting the epitome of evil himself - a dark wizard that had it out for Harry. We fought a war, Silas, and we were children when we did."
"We survived, though sometimes I wonder how." She laughed. "We fought a giant snake, and broke into a major government hub. We broke into what was supposed to be the most secure bank in our world and rode out on the back of a dragon. We weren't even adults by muggle standards then, still seventeen years old."
She could feel her lip quiver. "I miss them so much," she whispered. "It's like there's the giant hole in my chest where they belong and all I have is memories to fill it. Their lack of presence in my life now is an everlasting pain that's only dulled minimally over the years. I fell back in time - a hundred years. I'm not entirely sure how. I came to America to assimilate…"
Hermione trailed off as she tried to calm herself. She was getting worked up, her monologue was laced with the emotions of her past, the topic heavy with the thickness of her burden. After a few minutes she felt she'd composed herself enough to continue. "I came to America to assimilate. I've lived outside of my world since coming here. I learned amazing things about the muggle medicine of this era, I've seen history before it was written. But none of that can compare to falling in love with you. You filled a spot of that gaping hole inside of me, and it began to heal."
"I'll never forget it, Silas, I'll never forget you. You changed my life, you brought happiness back to me where I was robotically going through the motions and trying to do some good in the world while I was at it. You showed me love, and passion, and life. You reminded me that I can't fall into a grey zone of monotony. Most of all, you had the courage to love me, and gave me the courage to love you back."
He began to cough, his eyes shooting open and covering his mouth with the cloth that was always clenched in his hands. She rubbed his back, only moving her hand off him long enough for him to situate himself against her in a new position. He was definitely awake now, though his wheezing had returned.
"I'm sorry," he spoke out some minutes later, Hermione had yet to speak again once he'd woken. She was unsure of if he'd heard her or not. She had moved his position so that he was laying back against her instead of face down, to help his breathing.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, love." The pain of what was to come settled in her heart. Tears pricked her eyes.
"I do, Addie, so many things I don't have strength to speak them." He paused and began coughing violently, she held him tightly against her, her dress drenched with his sweat. After a few minutes his coughing died down and he began again. "I'm sorry for leaving you, now."
She dropped her face to the top of his head and continued to hold him, whispering of the times they spent together and how she fell in love with him. How much she loved him now, and always would.
It was in that position, not too long after his last words, that Silas Moore slipped from the world with a final, ragged breath.
Hermione had called for the coroner a few hours after Silas had died. She'd spent the hours waiting for them to arrive, holding onto her husband's body as she wept for the loss of him, knowing she couldn't keep him forever. Flashes of their times together ran through her mind like a film, and she knew she'd have to collect them for the pensieve, lest she forget the tender moments she'd spent with him.
When they'd shown up, she'd followed them out as they carried Silas away in the stretcher.
Hermione didn't cry until she was back in their apartment.
It was with hot tears rolling down her face that Hermione withdrew her wand and cast a strong silencing charm on her apartment.
Then she proceeded to trash the place. She punched the mirror on the wall near the radio, shattering it, tossed every dish she had to the floor, overturned furniture, kicked the walls. It felt good to cause pain to her person and wreak destruction on the possessions of her life. It distracted her from the underlying issue; the pain of losing Silas.
Finally, she slumped to the tiles in the kitchen, where she'd found Silas not long ago. She pulled the whisky out of the cupboard behind her and took a hefty swing before throwing it against the wall across from her.
Regret and loss gripped her insides. She shouldn't have thought she was allowed to be happy, she scolded herself.
"I never should have given up the ley lines research," she whispered to herself, pulling her wand from its spot in her sleeve and summoning a bottle of wine from the icebox. She magically removed the cork and took a drink. "Fuck it," she stated bitterly.
October, 1916.
"You're planning on leaving the country?" Nick Morello's eyebrows rose delicately from where he sat, leaned backwards with his left hand running over his chin. "We were sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs. Moore. I can understand and sympathize with your position."
"Thank you, sir."
He was silent for some time, staring at her. She met his eyes in quiet defiance. "You've served us well, without becoming one of our associates, Mrs. Moore. I appreciate your honesty with us, and your dedication to your practice. Coming here to inform us that you will be leaving shows me your respect. In consideration of this, I'm inclined to concede."
Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. She'd been hard at work with the funeral preparations, burying Silas, and wrapping up his affairs. Her will to remain in New York City had waned over the passing months when Silas' death became imminent. She decided after his death, while drinking her sorrow away in the kitchen, that it would be best to move on. There was, however, the small concerning factor of Marello and what he could do to her if she didn't tell him of her plan to leave the States.
If they didn't want her to leave, she wouldn't have much of a choice but to stay.
"Conditions?" she asked, knowing there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that they'd just allow her to walk away. She wasn't family, and despite having gained favor with them she wasn't even an associate of theirs. By all means, that should have made it possible for her to split without permission, but respect was crucial when dealing with the Mob.
A faint smile played on Morello's lips as he leaned forward in his chair. "I would obliviate you, Mrs. Moore, but I'll take an unbreakable vow instead."
Isobel and William weren't overly surprised that Hermione was leaving, but they were incredibly mournful that she would. They'd expressed their concern over her, and how she was doing. They, too, had lost Silas and she could see the pain in their eyes every time she saw them; a crippling sorrow that matched hers. Hermione found herself unable to breathe in their presence. They were living reminders of Silas, and his unwavering affection.
They enveloped her in a hug, one by one, as she sat with them the night before her boat left for France.
"Write to us, please. Don't forget about us, Adeline." Izzy looked at her sternly from where she sat across from her at their traditional diner. "I will hunt you to the ends of the earth if you don't write."
Hermione believed her. "Of course I'll write, Izzy."
They'd had breakfast that morning before her boat was supposed to leave, reminiscing about days past and the conversations they'd shared. The accomplishments and all of the good Hermione had done in the city while she was here. For an orphaned French girl in America, she'd surely made use of this land of opportunity.
As they stood outside of the restaurant hugging for the last time, Isobel's eyes filled with tears. "I love you, girl. You know that?"
Hermione nodded. "I do, and I love you. I just..."
Izzy smiled. "I know, darling, I know." Isobel placed a hand on Hermione's face. "You're going to do such amazing things, you know that? Your life's going to be a long adventure, and you'll be happy again one day. Just, darling, please remember what I'm about to say."
Hermione nodded, tears welling in her eyes as Izzy continued. "In my short time knowing you, Adeline, you've never walked in the same direction as society." Izzy took a breath and smiled. "In fact, I feel confident in my assumption that you've been that way your whole life. You're not a conventional person, you see the world differently from its reality. You have a vision of what this world could become, and I think that you have the best chance of anyone I've ever met (and I've met quite a few politicians, doctors, and scholars) to make a real difference in this world. So, what I'm trying to say is; Adeline, it's been an absolute pleasure having you in my life. I greatly admire your courage, strength, and fervor."
Hermione was crying softly, Izzy wrapped her arms around her for the last time. Hermione was struck silent, and Isobel whispered into her ear, "Now go change the world."