This has been the worst year of my life, hands down, no exaggerations. I wish I could turn back time (oh, the irony). But I'm trying my best, and hopefully I can get back to writing a bit more. I also hope my writing is up to scratch, and apologise in advance if it isn't.
The title of this chapter was decided long ago, and yet it holds massive significance to my life right now. So. Love that I somehow predicted 2020 for me.
For clarification, I haven't read anything HP-related past book seven, and for the sake of my sanity will not be including Pottermore information in this fic. With that said, off we go!
CHAPTER TWO – UNEARTHINGS
As Hermione's chest burned like she was suspended over an open flame, Harry's wand – the beautiful holly with its phoenix feather core, repaired by the now-banished Elder Wand – pointed menacingly at her daughter.
"Who are you?" Its owner demanded, walking over to them almost without a sound, as if the darkness of his expression had influenced his stride. Hermione was suddenly and irrevocably reminded of a Severus Snape from long ago, cape billowing behind him through the corridors of a divided Hogwarts.
The absurdity of the thought did not move her, nor did it have her snorting like it might have even a day prior.
"Very funny," Lottie remarked, rolling her eyes as she wiped at her right cheek, smearing the blood across her face and making it look like she'd been too enthusiastic with her last meal. All the thoughts they'd had when Hermione had been pregnant, about too-hard kicks to her uterine walls and searing pain in her abdomen with each full moon that passed… they all suddenly hit Hermione then and there, like her imagination's werewolf-Lottie was superimposing itself over her real, true daughter. Human. Hermione reminded herself. Witch. "Did Fred and George put you up to this?"
"How d'you know George?" Ron asked from behind Harry, and there was a hostility in his tone that Hermione had long forgotten – something that, she now recalled, appeared at any mention of his fallen brother.
Lottie opened her mouth to say something in reply, but Remus groaned at just the right time, all of their heads snapping to him at once. In her shock and horror, Hermione had almost forgotten he had travelled with their daughter, to this old but new world – to the place Hermione had been trying to hide from him since 1977.
Forget that, she thought as her head shook, curls falling into her eyes.
"Remus," she murmured, crawling closer to him to rest a dark hand on his shoulder, which was clad with the faded Tornadoes shirt she'd bought him years ago when Harry had made the team. There had been some kind of gleam in his eye then, and although Hermione hadn't been able to name it, she'd felt the inexplicable desire to capture that moment as best she could. Ergo, the Tornadoes shirt was born, with its now threadbare stitching, faded logo, and pulled collar. The charm to make the design animate had worn off a few months back. It'd been rather cheap, all things considered, and yet Remus cherished it much more than any of the expensive robes he'd bought with his galleons from the award of his Order of Merlin.
"Mia?" Remus croaked, his eyes squinting up at the moon in the sky, not yet full. Soon.
"Shut up with that ridiculous nickname," Hermione snapped, though it held no bite as her hand moved from her husband's shoulder to his pale face, cradling it as the pricks of his stubble rubbed against the meat of her palm.
"My, my," he breathed, the slightest quirk to his lips at the memory, "How can I resist you?"
This is absurd, Hermione thought, her mind screeching at her for ignoring the metaphorical hippogriff in the back garden of the House of Black. Choking down a laugh, another tear fell down her face as she leant forward, resting her forehead against Remus's scratchy chin in relief. His left arm came up to gently cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her ringlets to land, warm and soft, against her tight scalp.
"That was the stupidest thing you've ever done." Hermione said, trying to sound angry and unforgiving. It only seemed to come out tired as she lifted her head, looking into Remus's soft green eyes.
"I don't think it is." He responded, wiping her tears away with a calloused thumb. They looked at each other a moment, their history laid out between them. Remus trying to kiss her when she was a professor, the Marauders playing their stupid glitter prank, Remus following her into a war, Remus making a bet on the birth of their own daughter; Remus, the world at his disposal, just wanting to teach, Remus almost getting the two of them caught when he'd shown up at her office on Hermione's 37th birthday with a blindfold and no underwear; Remus loving her, marrying her, never leaving–
Inhaling sharply, Hermione turned to look at their daughter, whose expression was torn between disbelief and anger, like she couldn't quite believe her mother had decided to be nice, of all things.
"What is going on?" Lottie demanded, eyes narrowing between Hermione and Harry, who still had his wand pointed at her. "Why isn't Ron blushing at the sight of you? And why is Harry using a glamour charm?" She addressed him solely now, raising an eyebrow, "The scar's some pretty neat spell-work, but Ginny likes you just the way you are, you know."
The only hint of surprise in Harry was the tiniest twitch of his wand.
"Lottie," Hermione started sternly, jaw tight with something unnameable, niceness gone as she repeated her earlier words, "You've no idea what you've done."
"I think I've followed you into some kind of Muggle mad house," Her daughter snarked, eyebrow still raised.
"This isn't a joke," reprimanded Hermione, swallowing thickly at the thought, tears now dry on her cheeks. If it were a joke, only the most foolish of witch or wizard would think to try it. For all of his daring and risk-seeking behaviour, the most likely culprit in a prank these days – Sirius – was no fool. Not even he, still not calmed by a steady girlfriend and his own nieces and nephews to shape and mould, would dare to pretend that Hermione's old friends had come to take her away from her life.
Perhaps it would not seem as cruel to everyone else, considering Hermione's worried musings lately. They would not see this as a one-way trip, if it were a prank. They would not see it as the possible end of Lottie's young life.
Her lungs ached as if a clamp had encircled them, tightening ever so slowly. All Hermione wanted to do was wake up from this nightmare and buy a month's worth of Dreamless Sleep potion from the apothecary to avoid any repeats. However, the truth was dawning on her by the second, and Hermione fought through a new set of unshed tears to deliver it to her daughter.
"Not only did you disrupt a ritual, but you disrupted a ritual you knew nothing about, and followed us to a place that is not only unforgiving, but unknown to you." Anger swept through Hermione's mind like spilt milk, fanning out in all directions, lazily glugging out of its confines. She glared at Lottie, ignoring the heat of Remus against her hip and his words of the evening prior that echoed in her mind, "You know better than to do anything of the sort, but you've been so desperate to grow up that you've forgotten everything your father and I have ever taught you!" A resentment for their current situation bubbled up inside Hermione. "This is not some adventure you're old enough to go on. This is life or death, and much bigger than you." Than me, than any of us, Hermione thought, fear splicing through her anger so keenly that she started to tremble.
Lottie's face showed the beginnings of a storm and her lips parted to deliver what was sure to be a piercing blow to Hermione's self-esteem when Harry spoke up.
"Hermione," he warned, and Lottie snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of her teeth, glaring at the ground as if Harry didn't exist, contrary to the fact she'd just gone quiet for him.
Hermione's heart gave a sharp pang. Lottie, with all of her stubbornness and derision for her mother, still had some politeness in her. It reminded her of Remus, still clutching her quivering hand, and the way in which he had become so adept at hiding his dislike for people that she and her two best friends had never imagined him to possess the ire Sirius spoke of when it came to Dolores Umbridge.
At least, they had never assumed it of the Remus who had died on May second in this world, at the hand of a wizard who had long been locked up in Azkaban the last she'd heard of him. Dolohov had seemed inconsequential for so long, it was hard to remember a time when he had instilled her greatest fear in her: losing Remus.
Now – though Flitwick had disarmed him on that night – he was likely at large. Azkaban hadn't been secure for long, and their news was outdated. At least, as far as Hermione could remember. It had been twenty-one years, after all.
"This–" Ron interrupted, mouth open and eyes wide, "This is your…"
"Daughter." Harry finished quietly, jaw clenched. The back garden was silent, as though someone had placed a rather strong Silencing Charm on it, which was entirely possible now that they were back in a world where the Order of the Phoenix was but a memory.
The silence stretched on until Hermione looked up into Harry's eyes. The emerald green was burning like the bright flames of Floo powder as Harry quietly finished his thought, "A daughter you were going to leave."
They stared at each other, gazes unforgiving in their intensity. Harry, who had been unwillingly abandoned by his own parents, then left to neglect at the Dursley's by a man who would later consider himself some sort of grandfather to him, despite doing so; there was no possible universe in which Harry could understand why she'd chosen her path – although part of her wanted to snap at her best friend that it was him that had made the decision for her, when he had stunned Remus and dragged her to Grimmauld Place.
Though it was all moot, in the end. Hermione knew, deep down in her heart of hearts, that the most curious part of her would never have remained seated at her kitchen table. But trying to articulate the why of that, even to herself, was too frightening to consider.
Harry seemed to have no problem pulling on that awful thread, though. His wand arm fell from its accusatory point at Lottie as he turned fully to Hermione, jaw tensed and nostrils flaring.
"What, coming with us on some mission was more important than keeping your daughter safe?" His glare focused on Remus, "And you… for this to happen again is–" Harry scoffed, though Hermione's keen eyes noticed that when he turned his head away, wiping a weary hand across his face, it was a hand that came away damp with unshed tears. "You heard me the first time, Hermione," Harry said, slightly choked, "Parents should never leave their kids, unless… unless they've got to."
It was no time for her to get into the intricacies of parenthood with her best friend who'd had no shining examples of it in his life, though Hermione felt a need to defend herself. She would tell her two best friends the truth; she would have to explain that the fighting wasn't just going to be against former Death Eaters, but an entity much more powerful than any of them had ever faced. One that Hermione had no book to explain.
"We don't have time for this," Ron interrupted, shooting Hermione a frown as she stood, his eyes drifting past her to her family sprawled ungainly on the patchy grass of Sirius's neglected garden, "We can't stay here."
Though all Hermione wanted to do was rush forward and explain, she knew that Harry's closed expression did not spell forgiveness in her near future. A spark of annoyance began to brew inside her – Harry would never understand what she had gone through to get back to them. Then when that had become impossible, what she had done to make their lives better. Would Harry forgive her when he found out he was happy here? That Hermione's nephew had no scar, no PTSD, and parents who loved him? That he had never felt hunger pains so strong, he almost couldn't get out of bed?
Hermione's throat felt thick with everything left unsaid, the lump there feeling all too settled. Then Ron's words sunk in, and though it irked her to admit it just to herself, Hermione agreed with him.
Harry and Ron coming to Grimmauld Place in the first instance had been dangerous, but now with five of them in this world it was almost a certainty they'd be discovered. If Hermione remembered correctly, most people had been travelling in pairs, only briefly meeting in clusters to share information. Too many people in one place for too long spelt resistance in their enemy's eyes. No one was yet in the mood to play hero again so soon after the Final Battle. Besides, Hermione needed to get her bearings; remember.
"How about that forest?" Ron suggested after a long silence, looking between the two of them, "Y'know, where I found the two of you?"
"No," Hermione discarded the idea immediately, even if Ron got a slightly offended look on his face at her hastiness, "No, we can't. There are too many work camps there. They're probably using them again."
"Work camps?" Lottie spoke up, standing now. She lent her father a hand, and he rose as well. Her expression was hesitantly curious. "Like from the second Muggle war?"
"Something like that," Harry muttered darkly, throwing Remus a look. Hermione's heart began a nervous fluttering in her chest as Remus's eyes darted between them, calculating.
"Werewolves," He guessed, exhaling long and low. Suddenly, a dry chuckle escaped him. "You never did tell me what it was like for us here."
"Dad?" Lottie asked, frowning as she looked between her parents, "What are you talking about?"
"Later," Hermione stressed, "There is so much to tell the both of you but we need to find somewhere safe, first."
"Nowhere's safe, Hermione," Ron said, shaking his head like she should know this by now.
"Oh, you know what I mean!" she snapped, her anger rearing its ugly head, "Somewhere that I don't have to worry another illegal ritual might take place!"
"There's no legal or illegal these days, so I don't know what she's on about." Ron muttered under his breath to Harry, whose lips seemed to twitch of their own accord despite his stormy expression.
"Look," Ron said, now at his regular volume, "Let's grab our stuff, yeah? We left in such a hurry the last time you were here, there's bound to be some useful things lying around."
"Don't suppose you've still got that brilliant bag of yours, Hermione?" Harry asked, but his raised eyebrows and pursed lips indicated he knew exactly where that bag was – either lost during her escape from Greyback and his goons or back in the other world, sitting useless and pretty somewhere in the Lupins' attic space.
The three of them started toward the back door, Remus and Lottie trailing behind. Though Harry and Ron were mutedly discussing what they thought they could snag from Sirius's room without too much suspicion from future visitors, Hermione's ears were tuned directly into her daughter's quiet conversation with Remus.
"Dad, what in Merlin's name is going on?" Lottie whispered waspishly.
"It's best your mother tell you, I think," Remus said, though his tone let on that he would wish nothing but to tell Lottie himself, if only he also knew the ins and outs of what was happening. "There's a lot you don't know about her. Things that would surprise you."
Lottie snorted quietly. "Yeah? Like to this Harry and Ron, she's still their bossy aunt? Keeping things from them, too? Just like she is from me."
Hermione breath hitched. When they reached the top of the staircase, she gave a mumbled excuse about needing the loo and turned on her heel towards the second floor bathroom. Closing the door sharply behind her, Hermione paused with her hand on the door knob before suddenly a silent sob escaped her. She leant her sweaty forehead against the aged wood and tried to ignore the pain in her chest, the burning in her throat, as she heard the other four knock about in the room next door – which had always belonged to Harry and Ron during their stays throughout Hogwarts.
"Harry–"
"Shove it, Ron." Harry snapped, and there was a loud thump as something was knocked to the floor.
Shaking her head and covering her ears with her palms, Hermione turned and leant against the door, tears trickling down her cheeks and her lips trembling.
Wrong, she thought, wrong, wrong, wrong. It was all wrong. There was no jubilant reunion, no sense of fulfilment or peace or even relief. Not anymore. All Hermione could feel was the grit under her nails and the pounding of her old, tired heart. She was better than this – than hiding away in the bathroom like it was first year again, too scared to fight back but too stubborn to change.
You thought you were, a calm sort of voice told her, and Hermione realised detachedly it sounded an awful lot like her mother – the one who knew the real her, and whom she hadn't spoken to in decades. But this isn't something you can control, Hermione. For once, you can't fix this.
No, she thought stubbornly, ignoring the raised voices from the other room and scrubbing at her worn out eyes, I can. I will.
The voice, in her imagination as it was, said nothing.
Unlocking the door, Hermione cast a quick Scourgify to hide the evidence of her tears and let her blankest expression settle onto her face.
Harry and Ron were arguing heatedly, but quietly, in the furthest corner of the bedroom when she entered, with Remus and Lottie standing beside the desks near the door. They were silent, and when Hermione and her daughter locked eyes for the briefest moment, Lottie simply turned away as if her mother didn't exist at all.
Ignoring the lump in her throat's renewed ache, Hermione swept her eyes around the room for something to latch onto. Lying, battered and dog-eared on the bedside of the unmade single bed, sat a book.
"Is that it?" Hermione asked, staring.
Her two friends ceased their conversation, Ron peering around Harry to take a look at the object that had captured her so.
"Yeah," He said, eyeing her warily, "But now's not the time to study, Hermione."
She shot him a hard glare, ignoring his wince and mutter of "Didn't miss that," to walk over. She reached out her right hand to hover over the book's binding, shifting until her palm was mere centimetres from the thick leather cover. It didn't feel evil, necessarily; not like some of the books Hermione had stumbled across in the Black Library during their stay back when she was in her teens. But it didn't feel safe, either. It felt friendly, of all things, which was the worry. It wasn't in a book's nature to be friendly, no matter how many times mean children throughout her childhood had told Hermione that they were her only companions. Books were impartial. They were neither waiting to be read nor feeling any particular way when sat on a shelf for years. They weren't sentient.
So for the pages to whisper to her, to feel warm and inviting, was a danger in and of itself.
"Remus," Hermione called out quietly, turning to look at her husband, "Would you?"
His faded green eyes looked between her and the book. A small crease in his brow, he walked over, thumbs rubbing into his palms worriedly.
He leant into her to retrieve the tome once he had settled by her side, notes of fresh linen and the slightest hint of mulled wine reaching her nose before they were gone, Remus with them. He closed his eyes, hands gripping the book firmly and nostrils flaring.
"No spell," He muttered, frowning more deeply, "No enchantments. No hostility."
"No," Hermione agreed, searching his face, "But there's something."
"Yes," said Remus after a moment, opening his eyes to look at her, "Something, indeed."
"Dad," Lottie began, and they both turned to her, "What are you talking about?"
"You think someone put some sort of, I don't know, compulsion charm on the book?" Harry asked, anger replaced by confusion, "But how would anyone know what had happened?"
"They're all," Ron glanced at Harry from the corner of his eyes, swallowing nervously, "y'know, dead."
"It's not a compulsion charm," Remus explained, frowning again, "It's not anything."
"But you just said it was something." Harry argued, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"Stop it," snapped Hermione, ripping the book from Remus's hands and shoving it under her arm, "Just stop it. He's real. I'm real. My daughter over there, she's real."
Her best friend scrunched up his face, eyes widening and silver scar glinting as if in commiseration.
"The Hermione I know wouldn't leave behind her own child for– for…" He looked around wildly, hands gesturing nonsense, "Well, for this!"
"THE HERMIONE YOU KNOW," She thundered, her anger catapulting out of her like Harry had just locked the gates to their friendship, swinging the key as-you-please, "ISN'T EVEN A MOTHER!"
Breathing heavily, tears falling freely once more, Hermione dropped the book on the floor with a thud. "I find it unbelievable that you don't trust me."
"That's rich," Harry said, expression mutinous, "Considering all our lives, you've never trusted me."
Hermione's mouth dropped open like one of the clowns at those Muggle fairs, waiting for water to be sprayed in. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. She wanted to turn her back on the man before her, who knew nothing and yet spoke as if he knew everything.
"I almost died for you," Hermione said darkly, feeling her hands clench at her sides, "Multiple times. Times you don't even know about."
"I did die for you," Harry said through a clenched jaw, glaring into her, hair so messy it almost looked as if he'd just been freshly electrocuted, "And this is the thanks I get?"
"That's enough!" exclaimed Ron, stepping between them with hard eyes, "Harry, lay off. Hermione, just–" The heat left him then, shoulders dropping.
"Look," He said anew, eyes flitting between them, "This is not the time – or place–" he added as Harry opened his mouth to retort, "– to get into this. We need somewhere safe to settle, and we need it now. Fights about trust and sodding sacrificial behaviour can bloody well wait, alright? Let's grab some clothes, some food, and get the hell out of here." He shot Remus a meaningful glance, "Books, too, if they'll be helpful."
"Where are we going to go?" Lottie spoke up quietly, gaze fixed on Harry with something akin to wonder. Hermione's stomach squirmed uncomfortably.
"The Forest of Dean is out," Ron announced, frowning, "Hogwarts still isn't safe, neither are any of the Order's safe houses. Harry?"
Harry shrugged moodily, and Hermione felt like they were thirteen again and fighting over a stupid broomstick, of all things. And she'd been right, hadn't she? Sirius had sent it. Just that… Sirius had been good, and kind, and loving. That part she'd gotten wrong.
However, Harry wasn't perfect either, Hermione thought viciously. He'd loved Dumbledore and look how that had turned out – he'd been offered up like food in the Weasley household, gorged upon within minutes, never to be seen again. Roasted for hours, though; thought about for days, too. Prepared by the best.
But the best were rotten, Hermione knew. Dumbledore was fallible, just like Harry. Just like Sirius. Just like they all were. Dumbledore's greatest weakness had been himself, guilt over his sister eating him alive so much so that he had been tempted by the Resurrection Stone.
So were you, a little voice piped up. Hermione shoved it back down to where it'd come from, those deep recesses of her mind rustling like leaves in the wind, disturbed by the brief commotion.
Out of those recesses came an idea, however.
"There is a clearing, some sort of field," Hermione mused, trying to picture it exactly as it had been in 1978, "Dumbledore and I destroyed the diadem there."
"The diadem?" Remus echoed, quirking a brow. Harry and Ron shared a look.
"One of Voldemort's–…" She shot a look to her daughter, whose eyes narrowed at Hermione's pause. They had agreed, all seven of them, that talk of how Voldemort had been planning immortality would die with them. Her daughter was not one of those seven. "The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw," Hermione explained quickly, trying to stay afloat amidst her own guilt. Despite the pact between them all, she hadn't shared with anyone else the other horcruxes, had left so much out about the world she'd come from as well. It was a wonder Remus trusted her at all.
His pinched expression only exacerbated Hermione's growing panic.
"This clearing, you think it's safe?" asked Harry.
"Dumbledore gave me a story about accidentally apparating there when he was younger, but I didn't believe him then and I still don't."
"That was like twenty years ago now, though, right?" Lottie questioned, raising her eyebrows, "It's probably not safe anymore."
"There was something about it," Hermione continued, frowning now, "It just seemed odd that he needed to justify it. I had other, more important things in mind that day so I didn't really bother to question him."
Ron twisted his mouth in thought before turning abruptly to Harry.
"Mate? At this rate, I can't see why not. It's more to go on than a lot of our other plans."
"Hermione," Remus said, turning to her and ignoring Harry's considering expression, "You and I both know that Dumbledore does what he thinks is best, which isn't always in line with what you and I think is best."
"Yes," she replied, watching Harry come to his decision, "Harry and Ron know that, too. There was a much more public exposé of Dumbledore here."
"We'll go. You'll have to apparate us. Maybe one at a time, to secure the area and avoid being caught as a group if something goes wrong." Harry nodded, extracting his wand from his trousers and jerking his head at Hermione as if to signal departure, his ire temporarily paused. "You and I will go first, and you can come back for the others."
Trying not to bristle at being ordered around by a nineteen year old, Hermione pulled out her wand, took a moment to scoop up the forgotten book at her feet, and held out her arm for Harry before she could start to doubt this haphazardly put together plan. Taking it, grip painful on her bicep, he steeled himself as Hermione disappeared them with a faint pop.
Landing in the clearing was a little disorienting – namely, because Hermione hadn't quite recovered from the ritual, it seemed, and stumbled forward as her sternum started up a fierce stinging. The book cushioned her fall some, and then Harry yanked her up by the arm just in time to apparate them across the field.
"Who goes there?" A voice called out, deep and hostile.
"Fuck." Harry muttered, casting a silent Disillusionment charm over the both of them. As a telltale slimy feeling spread over Hermione's skin, she watched – from the shrubbery Harry had transported them to – what, at first glance, seemed to be snatchers.
"I thought the last of them abandoned their posts?" Hermione murmured so quietly that Harry inched closer to hear her.
"After Greyback began boasting about your capture, they started getting rowdy again. They're not as dangerous as they used to be, but they're no fun either."
Not as dangerous as they used to be? Hermione thought, eyes narrowing, Well, alright then.
"Wait, Hermione–!"
Forgoing subtlety, Hermione broke free from the shadows and shot a wide Incarcerous around the two burly figures, strengthening the spell with one of her favourite personal additions.
Instead of thick ropes, steel bands burst from her wand, bending around the snatchers until they were locked into position and the two of them forced to kneel on the ground with the weight of their restraints.
"Oi!" The shorter one cried, whipping their head to and fro to find their attacker.
Satisfied that they were confined and unlikely to break free without assistance, Hermione removed the charm from her person and strode forward. The shorter snatcher had dark hair and dark eyes, and was entirely unfamiliar to her. The second, taller and – upon closer inspection – a woman, was not.
"Millicent Bulstrode." Hermione said, staring.
Still trying to wriggle from her binds, Hermione's former classmate glared up at her. After a moment, she frowned.
"Granger?"
"No," Hermione reacted instinctively, though the hastiness with which she replied seemed to be all the confirmation that Millicent needed.
"Hermione Granger, in the flesh." She rose her eyebrows, and then let out a rather high-pitched laugh, completely incongruous with her somewhat masculine physique. "Thought you were dead."
"She is dead." Hermione said, silently begging Harry not to appear beside her and give everything away. "Heard Greyback got to her."
Millicent laughed again. "Greyback is a liar." She stopped suddenly, looking Hermione over appraisingly. "There's something different about you, though. You don't look yourself."
Figuring the more she spoke, the more she'd give Millicent to run back to her friends with, Hermione simply stunned her and her companion. Their heads dropped, Millicent even falling onto her side on the dirty, washed out ground.
"We could've done that from afar."
"Yes, well," Hermione said, unable to answer as Harry stopped beside her, the two of them looking at the limp bodies of the snatchers.
"Ron and I have been having fun with where we leave these lot," Harry said, removing her conjured metal in segments with a look of severe concentration. Hermione tried not to feel too smug at that, especially when he only continued minutes later, a little out of breath, "We've been apparating them to different areas in the Scottish Highlands. So I'll do that with her–" He jerked his head at Millicent, "And you do away with this bloke. Let's meet back here and then get the others."
He knelt down beside the snatcher thug and they were gone instantly, Hermione blinking the echo of them away before she turned to her unconscious former classmate. Millicent hadn't changed too much – she was still burly, still had a resting expression that spelled distaste; as if the pureblood teachings instilled in her from a young age were so subconscious by now, even her face couldn't relax enough to look anything other than vaguely disgusted by its surroundings. She was exactly how Hermione remembered her, really – the only worrying thing being that Millicent had realised something was off about Hermione herself. It wasn't all that surprising given she was decades older, but it still made her breath catch a little.
They were well out of their depths here; the past had been a cakewalk in comparison considering no one had known her there and all she'd had to do was create a new identity. Hermione snorted; the thought of that being easy reminded her how incredibly odd her life was. Every other forty-something was more concerned with the newest in Diagon Alley gossip, or perhaps if they were academically inclined, the latest findings when it came to complex wandlore.
Shaking herself of her thoughts and ignoring the trembling of her legs, Hermione knelt down, grasped Millicent's shoulder with her right hand and took a deep breath.
Destination, determination and deliberation.
The mantra evened her breathing enough that, though loud, the apparation was successful.
Best to get on with it, Hermione thought absently, shoving Millicent away from her and taking a slightly guilty pleasure in the Scottish mud that splattered the Slytherin's mean face. What else is there to do?
Setting up the tent with Harry and Ron was a cruel flashback, as if someone had pushed her face-first into an unknown pensieve without warning, and all Hermione could do was watch it all unfold. The routine didn't seem to have changed much, with the tent itself only looking slightly worse for wear; though as she entered Hermione remembered its insides were a little different. This was the tent Bill had given them after the Malfoy Manor debacle, not the tent they'd gone horcrux hunting in. It was larger, with another four bunk beds, a slightly longer kitchen that included a small dining table fit for six, and a living area in the centre of the tent; a beaten up two-seater sofa with two mismatched armchairs anchored around an empty fireplace. The lamps were out, so it was cold and dark. The kitchen looked like it hadn't been cleaned since Hermione's last scrub down months ago, and Harry and Ron's bunk was as untidy as she expected it to be.
Biting her lip, Hermione walked softly over to her own bottom bunk, where her things were neatly piled on top of the lumpy, patchwork quilt she'd once declared her own. There were the clothes she'd left behind; underwear, a few long-sleeved tops, and a pair of jeans; as well as a couple of battered looking books, which definitely didn't hold the answers her teenage self had been so desperate for; and lastly the hand-held mirror her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday, the vines engraved on the frame feeling worn down against the pads of Hermione's aged fingers, the silver cold but harmless against her lycanthropic skin.
Oh, Dad, she thought, her throat feeling thick and her body aching with a sudden exhaustion, if you could see me now.
"We'll have to go into town for some supplies," Ron announced. Hermione turned, clearing her throat of its stickiness as quietly as she could. Her best friend was frowning down into his own duffle. "I'm running low on socks."
Hermione laughed wetly – she couldn't help it, not when Ron looked so concerned about socks, of all things. "Getting blisters, are you?" She asked, feeling her cheeks ache from the rare smile.
"You clearly haven't gone without socks, Hermione. I'd rather face Voldemort again than have to walk another day just me and my trainers." He raised his eyebrows, turning to her. His own bunk was perpendicular to hers. "I don't reckon you'd fancy the smell of them, either."
"Perhaps," Hermione admitted, still smiling, "Aside from your socks, we do need some other things." Picking up the ratty henley that was resting on top of her belongings, she frowned, "I haven't got much, and Remus and Lottie will need some clothes."
"Food, too," Remus said softly, staring at her with an unidentifiable expression on his face. Hermione swallowed heavily, smile leaving her face quicker than she'd like.
"We'll go in the morning," said Harry, shuffling around his bed. He cast a silent Scourgify on himself, his sweaty face suddenly dry, hair nowhere near as greasy. The spells would do in a tough spot but there was a reason they had elaborate bathrooms at Hogwarts; it had always been funny to Hermione, who'd come from a Muggle home, to see the way magic helped, but it didn't fix. Magical folk still needed bathrooms, and the Wizarding Wireless Network, and owls… magic didn't fix anything, much to a young Hermione's dismay.
There was a relief to that, however. Hermione had spent much of her childhood wanting to make a difference, to have an impact on the world. Maybe it was selfish, but in hindsight it would've been awful to enter the Wizarding World and discover that it was all well and truly perfect.
There were some things, though, like showers and brushing your teeth… well, Hermione could've done with the extra twenty minutes in the morning, even if it was to go over her court notes before flooing into the Ministry. Or, in the case of now, to simply flop onto her bed and not wake up for a day.
Her night time rituals were important to her though, so she cast her cleaning spells with a sigh, swallowing down the bitter taste of soap in her mouth that came with them, and changed into the clean henley. Her pyjamas from the night previous were sweaty and dirty and already starting to smell, so she left them on the floor at the foot of her bed to deal with tomorrow, before she hopped in. Shooting off a quick Tempus, Hermione's heart sank when it told her they only had just over two hours until sunrise. Thought late summer and much warmer than the dreaded winter winds, she recalled that the daylight hours were their biggest hindrance. It was hard to go about unseen, but the enemy expected movement during the night; travelling randomly and at unexpected times was best.
Hermione sighed, turning so her back was to the rest of the tent, wand tight in hand. It seemed the rest of the group were equally as tired as she was, as they all began the process of cleaning and getting into their bunks.
"Get in the top bunk, Charlie," Remus said quietly, loud in the almost silent tent.
"I prefer the bottom bunk, Dad," she grumbled, though there was hardly any heat to her proclamation. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tightly, shapes forming behind the blacks of her eyelids.
"Yes, well," he hesitated, and Hermione imagined he wondered how much he should tell his teenage daughter about the reality of the situation, "It's safer this way."
Upon waking a few hours later, Hermione was grateful that Remus hadn't had to prove that statement. He was lying on his stomach, wand loose in his left hand, and mouth open. Lottie was almost in the exact same position, though no wand could be seen and her hair was such a riot that Hermione couldn't figure out whether her mouth was also ajar, or whether locks of curly hair had simply tangled together to obscure any discernible shape at all.
Harry was up already, pottering around the kitchen silently. Hermione padded over to the dining table, settling into what seemed to be the creakiest chair of the lot. Her hair, luckily, had been braided for some time and only required the quickest of spells to tighten them – unluckily, this meant she had full unobstructed view of her best friend's mulish face.
Trying not to remember so suddenly the silence that had plagued them during Ron's absence eons ago, Hermione simply accepted the water he handed her and fiddled with the mug's handle whilst the crunch of stale bread echoed around the tent in tandem with Ron's soft snores.
By the time Harry had sat down opposite her, his stubborn expression had turned sour and the dark circles that clung so desperately under his eyes were even deeper than yesterday's. Harry hadn't slept.
"Two of us will have to scout the area," He said quietly, biting into the hard bread with a grimace, "Ron and I will do it, and no–" He looked up at her, her with her mouth open to object, "It's not a good idea for you to come."
"I'm sorry," Hermione blurted out, exhaling shakily, "About yesterday."
"This hasn't got anything to do with yesterday, Hermione," said Harry, "It's got to do with the fact that they–" He jerked a thumb at the bunk where her husband and daughter slept, "–clearly know nothing about what it's like to live through what we've lived through." He looked troubled, as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "You need to tell them."
Hermione swallowed thickly, twisting her mouth about in worry. Harry sat and waited, but she didn't have anything for him. He was right, she did need to tell them. By following her here, they'd opened a can of worms that not even Hermione could put a lid on, and she felt she was pretty well-versed in controlling out of control situations. Worms of this magnitude were unprecedented, though, and Hermione's metaphorical lids weren't sturdy enough to keep them all in.
Harry sighed heavily, breaking Hermione out of her thoughts. "I don't know what any of this means, and I don't know if I can do that again." They locked eyes, Lily's green piercing through Hermione's chest like the talons of a particularly vengeful hippogriff, "Running around the English countryside with no plan, no answers, with the wild hope that we'll figure it all out. I'm tired, Hermione," He frowned, shoulders slumping just a little, "I know we have to keep going, but I thought–" He rubbed at his eyes under his old and worn glasses, clenching his jaw as he did so, "–I thought the horcruxes were it. No one ever told me this would keep going. Dumbledore never–"
The tent was still except for the chirping of the morning's birds and Ron's hypnotic heavy breathing.
"He's still alive, back there?" Harry asked quietly, "What would he say, if he knew?"
Hermione didn't have the strength to tell him that Dumbledore did know. This was a teenager with an idolatry for the wizard who'd first told him about his magical parents; and the exhausted hope that perhaps Dumbledore's deceptions had indeed been the only way the end of Harry's life could have played out, no matter that he survived the killing curse again. No matter that he's still trying to fight for what he thinks is right.
A wave of love came over Hermione then, and all she wanted to do was jump across that table and squeeze Harry in the biggest hug she could muster, squeeze him until he asked her to please get off of him, because his ribs were starting to ache.
"I don't know what Dumbledore would say, Harry," Hermione said, ignoring the twinge of guilt at Harry's now shuttered expression, "But I do know your parents would be right beside you now, if they could. I know that Sirius, if he was here, would die twelve times over if it meant you could have the life here that you had… well, that I've known you to have for the past eighteen years."
She stretched her legs out, capturing one of Harry's ankles between her own and begging him to understand that she was on his side, always.
"I'm scared too," Hermione huffed out a laugh at Harry's sceptical expression, "I know, it's been a long time since I admitted it, but I am. I've brought my family here, and this world is likely worse than I remember. There's no book for this, there's no logical explanation." Her words caught in her chest, and Hermione exhaled long and low, fighting for something unknown – something that would guide her, maybe.
Harry was waiting – endlessly waiting, it seemed, for her to spout some book passage about fighting against guerrilla warfare, or remember some cure-all spell for the end of the world – but as Hermione's lips began to form an answer even she didn't have, Ron's snores cut off abruptly and he sat up, chest heaving with his gasps for air. Upon seeing the two of them seated at the table, a horrid half-eaten breakfast between them and likely twin looks of shock, he fell back into his meagre covers with a relieved sigh.
"I'm telling you," he said breathlessly to the room, staring at nothing, "If we make it out of this, I'll be chaining the two of you to me with a bonding spell or something."
"Please don't," Harry said wryly, getting up from his chair, "I've had enough weird bonds to last me a lifetime."
Ron grunted in agreement, pushing back his bedsheets and swinging his legs out of bed.
"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but let's skip breakfast." He said, tugging on a threadbare pair of grey socks, though Hermione surmised they were likely white to start with.
"Please be careful." Hermione begged them barely ten minutes later as they shouldered on their tattered jackets, the denim barely holding on to the stitching.
"We will," Harry said, shooting her a some sort of look from underneath his now greasy bangs, "We'll be back in a few hours."
With their departure, Hermione could only put off the inevitable for so long. Thoughts racing, she skimmed through the books she'd left behind years ago, remembering them with every word she devoured and recalling the frustrations of her nineteen year old self. After that, she took inventory of everything they had: her things, Harry's clothes, Ron's clothes, some old, creased Quidditch magazines likely from Hogwarts, the Deluminator, Harry and Ron's wristwatches from Mrs Weasley, and the tent with all of its accessories. It wasn't much, and Hermione wasn't even sure what else they would need aside from more clothes and some better food, but at least they knew now what they had.
It was by this point, perhaps when just over an hour had passed, that she figured it was high time that the rest of their group wake. She made her way over to her husband, still lying on his stomach.
"Remus," Hermione murmured once she was close enough, rubbing his shoulder slowly, "Remus…"
"I'm awake," He said, voice clear and most definitely not sleepy. His eyes opened, alert, as he turned. His gaze landed on her face, indecipherable, "They've gone?"
"To grab a few things, yes," Hermione confirmed, shifting back far enough so Remus could sit up. Tentatively, she settled herself next to him, the covers between them.
The words would not come, no matter how many times Hermione tried to formulate them in her mind, practise them silently before parting her lips and– nothing. It was like Remus had cast a Silencio upon her, and the humiliation that came with all of that lingered like a dark shadow in the night, ready to strike at a moment's weakness. Her cheeks burned suddenly, and Remus was doing nothing to quell her embarrassment, which felt most unlike him.
"I'm trying to work out why you wanted to come back here." He said speculatively, breaking the silence. He ducked his head in an attempt to catch her eyes, "Because we've not yet been here a day, and I think you already want to leave."
The air escaped her lungs in one fell swoop, a punch to the gut like no other.
There were times, early on in their marriage, that Hermione had sat by herself and wondered what Remus saw in her; not in an insecure sort of way, because Hermione was confident enough in herself to know she wasn't entirely undesirable, but because he saw right through Hermione Huxley, with all of the silly misnomers. He saw through Hermione Granger, quick to grab a book to hide behind whilst her wand did the talking. He saw through Wizen Huxley, whose face wasn't anything but stormy. Remus knew Hermione at her core, and he still stayed.
Hermione, who could be impulsive when it came to her friends but who valued logic and hard work and wanted to earn things. A day did not go by that Hermione could sit idle, letting the world turn around her.
Remus knew, somehow, what Hermione was always too scared to let herself know: that she would never fit in again. The Harry and Ron she knew were gone, and this new world – now her world – would always see her as someone fearless and absolute. What would they say, if she didn't fight on and on and on? If she didn't stand before them and demand change?
Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes and feeling her lungs expand and release, Hermione cherished this one moment; where she was laid bare before Remus and where he loved her still. Then, she began. "This is bigger than returning to the world I was born in." Opening her eyes, Hermione stared at the scars on Remus's face; faded and old, his stubble hiding the worst of her own viciousness. "I don't have answers, not anymore. I don't know what we have to do, or where we have to go, and I don't know if you and Lottie are going to be alright." Hermione tugged on her braids, feeling the stretch on her scalp and relishing in the slight pull, the controlled sting. "And I don't know whether staying here or going back is the thing I'm supposed to do."
"Supposed?" Remus repeated, frowning, arms going up to pull her hands from twisting her braids, "Is someone telling you what to do?"
"No, no," Hermione rushed to clarify, squeezing Remus's hands in her own, "No, that's the problem. I don't have anyone to tell me what I should do."
His eyes searched her face for something she couldn't name, roving across the crow's feet by her eyes and the faintest frown lines on her forehead.
"What aren't you saying, Hermione?" Remus asked her quietly, now staring at her in a way that had Hermione shifting nervously. He never looked at her like this unless it was something too important to faff around about. He liked to humour her; for the most part he found her huffing and puffing endearing.
However, it dawned on her that the nature of this particular kind of stare meant that Remus had been silently observing her for some time, and had deduced that something very big and very bad was afoot.
It was one thing to suspect, though, and another to actually know. Remus knew, Hermione thought, but perhaps he had forgotten, or maybe it hadn't seemed significant.
The two of them hadn't realised what they'd done, following Hermione here. This time there was no 'right thing to do', no 'greater good' to follow. Harry didn't know, Dumbledore was dead, and the Marauders were in a world that knew nothing of this one's devastation. Hermione was stuck, which wasn't altogether that unusual, except this time she was stuck with two other people who would suffer the consequences of her actions, however unintentional. So no, she didn't know what to do but to go on – to keep hiding, to keep fighting against an insurmountable number of foe even if it did nothing.
Yet, just like staying, going back would solve nothing. She would go on, and for what? To remember her friends, fighting until a timely Avada Kedavra left them in the dirt? It had been different in the 70s, when Hermione had been able to live in ignorance. Just like in Remus's case, it was one thing to suspect but another entirely to actually know. She'd suspected that Harry and Ron and all of their allies had won, lived full lives without her. Now she knew that nothing had changed, that the fight was leaving them even if the war was endless. It had only been a matter of time, she now realised, before they truly would have been dead to her.
That's not acceptable, she thought, chest tight, thinking of the eventuality but also remembering her friends and family back home. None of this is acceptable. This isn't a choice I can make.
That's why it's being forced on you, some part of her realised, that's why you're here, and they're here, and everything feels like it's ending.
"Do you remember," she began, chewing at the inside of her cheek to stop the errant running of her mind, eyes doggedly focusing on Remus's left ear, "back in 1978, when I told the lot of you about the prophecy?"
Her husband frowned at the seemingly odd change of subject, eyes darting around the tent as if to search for the memory. "I remember… I remember you telling me about my son."
Hermione stopped short of her jumbled explanation, pulse pounding in her ears, whooshes of blood rushing through her veins; of course that's what Remus would remember from that conversation, particularly after Voldemort's defeat. How could she expect him to follow her train of thought, to even recall the prophecy in detail? He hadn't had it hanging over his head for years, like her and the boys had; like she had, when she'd realised she had essentially taken Harry's place and thought herself likely to die; like she'd been reminded of, when Remus and Lottie had burst into the Black's backyard and disrupted the ritual.
It made what she was about to say so much harder, knowing that the son – Teddy – was here for his father to meet and yet, it could all be snatched away so quickly.
"Right. Of course." Pausing to take a breath, she continued on, "I never really said much about this, because… well, it was behind us. But," Hermione exhaled long and low, her eyes now fixing on Remus's own, umber against moss, "Marlene knew about this world before any of you, because her mother had worked in the Department of Mysteries at the time."
"Yes," Remus said slowly, brows furrowing barely a centimetre, "They'd told you about the Diverter."
"Exactly," she confirmed, skin prickling with nonexistent goosebumps, "And I mentioned it, once, when I told the six of you about the prophecy. Please," she added, shaking Remus's clasped hands beseechingly, "Please try to remember."
"Hermione…" Remus said slowly, frowning more deeply, "I don't know what you're getting at."
"I've been trying to prove," Hermione said, feeling her chin tremble, desperately trying not to let the tears fall, "To prove to something, to someone, that I can stay with you."
"Of course you can stay with us," consoled Remus, eyes narrowing in concern, his hands moving to rub her shoulders, "Hermione, of course you can."
"You don't understand," She whispered, feeling her heart begin to race, her fingers numb, her lips uncontrollable, "I was never meant to travel to the past– to the dimension I found myself in. I was never meant to! Marlene said it, she said 'If you don't kill Voldemort, you might face expulsion', she said it, Remus!"
"Marlene doesn't know everything–"
"Expulsion, or death," Hermione emphasised, eyes wide, "The diverter was previously untested magic, it's not meant to exist; it doesn't exist in our world, not now that Marlene works for the Department of Mysteries."
"Listen to me," Remus demanded firmly, forgoing comfort to grip her arms tightly, fingers likely to form bruises, "It has been twenty-one years and nothing. No expulsions, no deaths, no signs of anything. We're only in this now because Harry and Ron did what they did."
"We don't know that," Hermione insisted, "I can't risk you and Lottie on some kind of coincidence."
Remus's head jerked back, his hands squeezing her even more tightly. "Lottie?"
"Remus," Hermione said, voice hard, pins and needles in her fingers now that the blood was rushing to them again so quickly, jaw clenched in preparation of the fallout, "She is here, in this world. You're here, in a world that you don't belong. What do you have to do to prove you can stay?" She shook her head, braids falling behind her shoulders now, "I don't want to find out, and we can't wait another twenty-one years for someone to find that book and perform that ritual so that the both of you can go back to the Cheldon Farm you know."
He stared at her.
"Is this what you've been thinking about, all these years?"
"Remus–"
"Is this why you can't talk to Charlie? Why you're working all day every day, stressed beyond belief?"
"This… this isn't about me," Hermione said weakly, pushing back from her husband, moving to stand a few feet away. Her eyes darted up to her daughter, who still remained turned away, her breathing even. Still; Hermione realised that perhaps this conversation had not taken place where it should have, despite the urgency that still ran through her veins, the panic that would not leave her now that she knew what to call it. "And this isn't the place to discuss that right now. I'm trying to tell you that I don't know what to do, but I do know that I can't see the two of you die because I used the Diverter decades ago."
They both paused, looking at each other.
"Alright." Remus said after another long moment, rising from the bed himself to stand. His naked feet looked vulnerable in the lamp light of the tent. Hermione just wanted to crawl into bed with him and forget that any of this had happened, her abused heart thumping tirelessly at the prospect, "So we go back."
"Yes," said Hermione resolutely, "Dying is not an option."
Remus nodded, running a hand through his thick hair, "Agreed."
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione strode forward quickly and barrelled into Remus, wrapping her arms around his waist and digging her forehead into his chest. His chin came to rest upon her crown, his arms converging behind her until she was fully encased in him, their embrace all-consuming, her senses coming to life with the inhalation of his heady scent and the brush of his clothes against her palms.
"I love you." Hermione mumbled into Remus's cotton shirt, feeling the vibration of his chest as he returned the sentiment.
"And I, you."
His arms tightened around her, and they stayed like that until Lottie awoke, rolling her eyes as if in disapproval.
Hermione thought the slight quirk to her lips said otherwise.
A reminder: everything is not all that it seems. Hopefully this was alright, I feel rusty as hell. Doing my best, friends.