Summary: After the War, riddled by personal problems, Hermione Granger chose to remain outside of Britain for the time being. However, a chance encounter made her question much of her present and future. Will Hermione do what others expected her to, or will she do what she wanted?
A/N: Inspired by Her Number One Fan on AO3 written by Peanutbuttertoast, especially the idea of Hermione being rich and/or having noble titles in the Muggle world! Sure, it doesn't change much about her character, just something to think about. Since this fic uses both English and French, French dialogue will be written in italic with the English translation (in parentheses) to show the different languages.
As this is my first fanfic, please give me feedback! Thank you!
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Prologue: Emprisonnée (Imprisoned)
Dark. Cold. Pain. Black teeth. Rotten smell. Shrill screams. Fear. Despair. Terror. They were the constant of her dreams, though the scenario always changed. Once, You-Know-Who came. Once, limbs broke. Once, Greyback had her. Once, red enveloped her. Once, she watched Bellatrix dealing with her friends. Once, Dobby didn't get her. It wasn't anything new, Hermione had them since the Manor. However, instead of happening every few days, she had them every day. Her mind was her traitor, replaying moments and creating scenarios when all she wanted was some peace and quiet.
Screams echoed in the bedroom as Hermione shot up from her nightmare. Cold sweat beaded on her face and arms, pooling on her bed. Her eyes flew from one corner to another, searching for the black hair and cackle that plagued her mind for months. She quickly looked down at her hands.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Five fingers on my right hand. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Five fingers on my left hand. I have ten fingers. I am not dreaming. I am not dreaming. She's dead. She's not real. She's gone. You're alive.
Hermione's ragged breath slowed down, settling to a comfortable rhythm. Just as the mental clouds were clearing up, frantic footsteps rushed outside the doors. She stood, eyes bulging, wand raised. Her lips moved before her mind acted.
'Expel—'
'Mademoiselle? Vous allez bien? (Miss? Are you okay?)' A female voice called out.
Recognising the voice, the scarlet light emanating from her wand fizzled out. She stood up, pocketed her wand, and sprinted to the door. A person a few years older than her stood outside, her hands prim in front of her. Though the woman's face was neutral, her wide pupils revealed her worry.
Giving a smile, Hermione responded, 'Oui, je vais bien, Emmanuelle. Je suis désolée, j'ai dû m'endormir. Pars-tu? (Yes, I'm fine, Emmanuelle. I'm sorry, must've fallen asleep. Are you leaving?)'
'Oui, mademoiselle, il est tard. Oh, euh, le garde-manger n'a plus de viande ni de légumes, je peux aller au marché demain si vous le souhaitez (Yes, Miss, it's late. Oh, erm, the pantry's out of meat and vegetables, I can go to the market tomorrow if you wish).'
'Non, Emmanuelle, demain c'est samedi, il faut se reposer. Je vais aller au marché; juste donne-moi une liste et je vais le faire (No, Emmanuelle, it is Saturday tomorrow, you should rest. I'll go to the market; just give me a list and I'll do it).'
She frowned. 'Êtes-vous sûr? (Are you sure?)'
'Ouais, je dois sortir de toute façon. La liste, s'il vous plaît (Yeah, I have to get out sooner or later. The list, if you please).'
She nodded, a blush forming on her cheeks, and rushed off downstairs to take notes. Ever since Hermione arrived in Bordeaux over two weeks ago, Emmanuelle had been a much-needed presence. It made the house seem less empty, and she didn't have to get out much. As Hermione walked to the pantry, she took in much of her grandfather's house. She remembered running through the halls when she was a child, amazed at its infinity. Here, in France, she was just Hermione; not the Brightest Witch of Her Age, not one-third of the Golden Trio, not the Muggleborn best friend of Harry Potter, just Hermione.
As she neared the kitchen, she remembered the corner where she hid when she and her father played hide and seek. When the kitchen door opened, she could see eight-year-old Hermione being tempted to take an apple when no one was looking. She looked out of the window to see the small yard where she would stargaze with her mother. Soon, her memories faded and the nostalgia morphed into melancholia. Instead of her smiling grandmother, she saw her pallid face in the casket. Instead of her mother washing her hands, she only saw her glazed eyes when Obliviate was uttered.
She snapped out of it when Emmanuelle returned with a list. Pork, beef, garlic, leeks, lettuce, spices... Saturday would be a heavy day then. Whatever, she needed the exercise regardless, and she couldn't stay indoors forever.
With a nod, she said, 'Okay, je vais partir maintenant (Okay, I'll be going now)', and turned away.
Hermione replied, 'À semaine prochaine, alors. Au revoir, Emmanuelle (I see. Until next week, then. See you, Emmanuelle).'
'Au revoir, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce (See you, Miss de Bonnegrâce).'
The door slammed shut and she was alone again. Though it was still bright outside, sunset would soon come and the dark would surround her. Shadows would start popping up, teasing their way out of corners and underneath doors. Cackling would crash into the bedroom. Footsteps would materialise out of nowhere. Hermione could've asked Emmanuelle to stay with her, but Emmanuelle had a life of her own and she didn't want to rob that from her. Even then, Hermione didn't want to explain accidental bursts of magic to a Muggle, it was too risky. She took the dinner made by Emmanuelle and went back up to her bedroom.
After months of being on the run, sleeping on grass, rocks, and such, sleeping on a mattress felt wrong. She was constantly on the verge of falling, dreading the moment she would sink through to the floor. Thinking of the tent, the faces of Harry and Ron materialised in front of her. She could even see what it would be like in The Burrow at the moment. Everyone would be around the table, waiting for dinner. Ginny and Harry would be stealing subtle looks at each other, holding their smiles in. Arthur would be sat at the head, looking at his children with love and sadness. Percy would be a little detached trying not to become jealous of Bill sliding his hand on his newly-wed's thigh. George... George would try and make some jokes about Bill, only to falter when no one was beside him. And Ron... Well...
Ron and Molly were still sore in her mind and the mere mention of their names were enough to transform the entirety of her fantasy. Gone were the family by the table, replaced by Molly opposite her and Ron making googly eyes at them. Her eyes held so much hope for Hermione and pride for Ron. She even remembered the date: May 23rd 1998. It had been Hermione's dream since Second Year, and fantasy after Third Year. After all, what girl wouldn't want to have her boyfriend drop on one knee, open a velvet box, and see a ring with shimmering diamonds? Even if the ring was a plain one, she would love him until her death, and she knew he would do the same. Yet, at that moment, it didn't feel right. Two weeks had just elapsed after Voldemort's death. Bodies were still on her mind when she closed her eyes. Her parents were still Obliviated. Gringotts was still a problem. It wasn't the time. Not yet. No.
His hurt expression still stung even after five months of not seeing him. Just the mere mention of it was enough to revive her memories. Christ, she was only 18, soon to be 19. She wasn't ready for matrimony. She wanted to have a career first. She even had a five-step plan.
First, go to Australia and reverse the Memory Charm. Second, finish school with Harry and Ron. Third, move closer with Ron. Fourth, graduate with honours and work at the DRCMC. Fourth, marry Ron (hopefully). Fifth, have a happy life.
Of course, life was rarely—if ever—fair. Ron proposed before school even started, if it ever would. She still remembered the loud screams between her and Ron, Molly's pleas, and Ron's red-tempered face. She stormed off after that, hoping to talk to him the day after when things calmed down, only to find Ron gone; he had gone to Auror Training with Harry and several other D.A. members with Kingsley. She had nowhere to go, so she went to Australia by the end of May, hoping to find her parents and return their memories.
After months of work, attempts to reverse the memory charm failed, and the Australian Ministry cautioned against further work, claiming that any further attempts could injure her parents' minds. So, with a heavy heart, she let go of her parents as Monica and Wendell Wilkins instead of Helen and Robert Granger. Of course, all of this was done under the omnipresence of the media, clawing their way into every inch of Hermione Jean Granger, hoping to earn a little piece of the Brightest Witch of Her Age. It was one thing to fail, but to have them constantly aired for others' consumption?
Following her parents' untimely demise, her grandparents' estate now fell to her. With the Granger house burnt to the ground by Death Eaters, she moved there instead. She assumed her mother's maiden name—her grandfather's last name—for anonymity. Though she had every intention to return to England, she couldn't stop imagining Ron's hurt face. The tears from his eyes. Molly's disappointed face. In time she would confront them, but not now.
As she laid on bed, her plate finished and sleeping pills already consumed, her consciousness slowly faded away. She didn't want to return to the dreams, but the synthetic fatigue already consumed her. With one final breath, she relented, and the void consumed her.
/ / / / /
The monochrome walls of the Manor surrounded her. Despite the pain coursing through her body, Hermione's attention was fixed on the chandelier, the only thing not coloured in grey. Everything was a blur, a cloud descended around her. However, a shrill voice quickly broke through the illusion.
'Bring the blood-traitor!'
No. No! Not Ron, please not Ron!
One of the Snatchers came, grabbing Ron by the scruff of his neck. She shut her eyes, shielding herself from the terror. Though her eyes were closed, her ears were open. Ron's mind exploded, coating every inch of the walls in his screams. His screams went through her like shockwaves, pummelling her into submission.
Stop. Stop. Stop! STOP! STOP!
Hermione woke up with a jolt. The monochrome of Malfoy Manor disappeared, replaced by the pastels of the Château de la Fierté, and the cold air turned warm and welcoming. Though sunlight had pierced through the curtains, Hermione's eyes swerved from corner to corner trying to find the mad woman hunting her.
She quickly rushed to the bathroom, ripped her clothes apart, and jumped into the shower. Hot water washed over her as she desperately tried to keep the tears from falling. She slowly slid down the wall and sat on the floor. The hot water was still running, falling down her curled-up body. Her eyes were trained on the floor, watching the water flow around her.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not—
Rust. Rust was staining the floor. She followed the trail, from the floor, to her legs, and finally to her forearm. Her Mudblood scar was bleeding again. She had clenched her fist so hard to the point where it reopened again. She slowly got up, putting her forearm under the hot water. As the water turned red and quickly cleared up, her mind returned to the real world. She finished her shower, wrapped some bandage around the scar, and stepped outside. An hour later, she was clean and ready to go out of the house for the first time in weeks.
Bordeaux was only waking up, the city lights slowly dwindling as the sun rose from its slumber. People were walking, using trams, riding bicycles, roaming the early morning, tending to the vineyards, etcetera. Taking a deep breath of the warm air, Hermione quickly got on her bicycle and went to the open produce market several minutes away. Armed with several hundred francs and a hefty shopping list, she strode out to the stalls, conversing with the owners and sellers. Though her French was native-level, people could still tell she was English by her expressions and so-called 'Anglicisms'. Regardless, she purchased the products on the list and took the long way back to enjoy the sights. Just as she was cycling, she sighted a small cafe by the side. She stopped her bicycle, ordered some breakfast and a cup of coffee, and sat outside.
She sipped her coffee calmly, taking her time before going back. She needed the sun anyway. As she took a sip of coffee, a certain fragrance filled the air. Hermione froze. This perfume was familiar but she could not place it. As her mind raked her memories to place it, a brown coat filled her vision. The fragrance intensified. She looked up to see a middle-aged blonde woman in front of her.
'M-Miss Granger. I'm surprised to meet you here, of all places.'
That voice. Those eyes. Those hands. She would know them anywhere; she was there with Bellatrix. Hermione stood, gathered all of her Gryffindor courage, and extended her hand to the witch.