A/N: I've been reading SS/HG for years and recently decided to try to write the story I would most want to read. This is cross-posted at ao3.
EDIT: I've reposted the first three chapters of this story with some edits and a tense change that I felt fit the story better.
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Chapter 1: Disillusioned
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The man down the row is Disillusioned. She realizes this after the third time she attempts to look directly at his face only to have her eyes somehow slide away in disinterest.
He is tall, and his hair is an unremarkable brown. Beyond that, she can't be certain of any of his features. The Disillusionment Charm is too masterfully cast; it would be more than enough to deter the wandering eye of any curious Muggle.
But Hermione Granger is not a Muggle.
She shelves the book she has been holding and glances his way for the fourth time. The man has turned around.
Hermione studies the back of his head. Curiously, the charm doesn't object. She watches as he chooses a thick book from high on the shelf, tries to catch the title printed on the spine. Perhaps this will give her some clue as to who he is.
She already has a few ideas. The only witches and wizards who need to use Disillusionment Charms in public are the one who could be recognized. Like her. Everyday witches don't need to take Polyjuice Potion every time they leave the safety of their home.
Today, Hermione is wearing the face of the woman who sat next to her on the bus last Tuesday. The hair the woman left behind was sleek and blonde; the antithesis of Hermione Granger.
The man closes the book with a snap and replaces it on the shelf. He turns and looks suddenly, directly into her eyes.
Hermione can't tell if it's nerves or the effects of the charm which causes her to immediately look away. An echo of Legilimency probes at the border of her mind.
She feels his eyes on her as she turns the corner to the next row.
It is almost unfathomable that there is another wizard or witch in the tiny village of Dunkeld. Hermione has lived here for almost a year now without a whisper of anyone magical. Her blood sings with the prospect of another so close.
But she must tread carefully; she has heard rumors of witches and wizards being turned in to the Muggle authorities by their fellows.
Perhaps it's safer just to leave.
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Hermione realizes after about two blocks that he is following her. Her hands shove themselves deeper into the pockets of her tweed jacket, feet careful as she increases her pace.
Red leaves whip into a tornado on the pavement ahead of her. She has two options: evasion or confrontation. A twisting, unfamiliar path home might do the trick, but confrontation could lead to answers, an ally. Or an enemy.
She bites her lip, dry skin cracking.
In the end curiosity wins out.
She halts in the middle of the bridge across the River Tay, turns into the cold wind that pulls at the long, pale hair that is not hers.
He stops at the end of the bridge, 100 meters from her, and watches her warily. She struggles to keep her eyes on his face; it is like looking through a particularly warped glass window. It hurts her head.
Still the man doesn't move. He watches silently, clearly gathering information. Dry leaves blow across the road between them.
Abruptly, he seems to make up his mind, and starts towards her, each step measured and careful as he nears where she stands in the middle of the bridge. He stops an arm's length away. Hermione's eyes ache with the effort of keeping them on his face.
A stab of pain arches through her temples as his Legilimency strikes her mind. She submits willingly, bravely, curiosity surging through her veins.
"Granger," he says simply, after a startlingly short amount of time in her head. He's only skimmed the surface of her mind.
The River Tay courses beneath them. The wind whips her hair in her face as she calculates, staring resolutely at his intangible, elusive face.
Then she asks, "What was the name of the house elf at Number 12 Grimmauld Place?"
He huffs in annoyance.
"I'll show you who I am, Granger. But not here."
The man strides past her in the direction they had been walking. After a beat, he turns, "Kreacher."
But Hermione is already following.
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The man leads her to the cathedral ruin along the banks of the river; the trees still filled with rustling gold leaves, the gravestones jutting up from springy green grass.
In the lengthening shadows of the nave he murmurs, "Finite Incantatem."
She already knows what his true face would be. Perhaps she has known since she felt that first hint of Legilimency in the bookshop.
It is still a shock to see the black brows drawn over hooded eyes; the pale, narrow face.
The face of a dead man who is very much alive.
"Professor." Her voice echoes strangely in the space.
"Granger," he returns.
She drinks in the sight of his face. A face that belongs to another world, another life, long forgotten.
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