Chapter 77: Fui Quod Es, Eris Quod Sum*

2 September 1979

The Shelter

It was Sunday again, and tonight, the Shelter hosted in honor of Sirius' 20th birthday. It was a day early but he'd insisted on opening the doors of the little cottage to his small circle of friends. He wanted everyone to be there. The rooms were dotted with the Marauders and Lily, taking up space like the open set of a stage play. It was open and intimate and mature and calm, and Sirius Black fucking loved it. His eyes darted about from room to room like a ray of light, not even the constant center of attention, but just soaking up all the laughter and fun and life. His eyes were bright, and his smile never faltered, and his drink was always full.

He'd taken Lily's camera, slinging it around his neck to pick up and capture picture after picture of his friends. James and Peter were in the kitchen, slaving over a roast that had all of them salivating as the smells permeated the air around them. Lily and Remus sat on the stairs in the midst of a heavy conversation of Lily's time at St. Mungo's. Remus stroked the hand he held, and though her shoulders had fallen, Lily smiled with bright eyes at her friend.

The house was alive, and Sirius was happy. These were his people, the people he loved. The feeling that hit him then was loud and overwhelming, buzzing in his ears as he savored the moment. These were his people. He craned his neck into the little library to check for Hermione before quickly joining her side. She had stationed herself at the record player, picking out all his favorite albums to play one after the other.

He snuck up beside her, Hermione turning to face him with eyes wide. Sirius looked back at her, a smirk sliding into place on his face.

"Are you guarding the music?" he asked, taking the needle from her hand to start the next album.

Hermione let him pull her away, guiding her toward the couch. "Have to avoid the shitty songs," she smiled up at him.

"It's my music, Pup. I don't collect shitty music." Sirius plopped down on the couch, shifting to make room for her beside him. When she joined him, he laced their fingers together as a new song started up. He squeezed her hand. "This's my favorite song, you know."

"I know."

With a flick of his wand, the volume increased, gently so as not to jar the sensitive senses of the canines in residence. A collective moment of silence and then a cheer rang out from the different rooms as everyone recognized the familiar notes of Run with the Pack.

"So…"

"So…"

"Twenty years old. Do you feel any different?" Hermione moved to burrow into Sirius' side, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Somehow his presence always seemed to be able to calm her.

"Not so different from yesterday, but different all the same." Sirius turned his head into Hermione's hair, breathing her scent in deep. "But today, I've got cake and my brothers and the women we all love."

"So not so bad, all things considered?"

"No, it's not so bad at all, Pup."

They sat there as the music carried on, lifting the moment to float above their worries and fears for just a little longer. But the song ended and took with it some of the airiness of the room, and Hermione and Sirius remembered everything they'd been trying to forget. And for a moment, they both wanted to pull away, to hide within themselves, to hide their struggle. But as they sat there in the library, they surrounded each other and held each other back from falling, both drawing strength from the other.

"It's just a lot, isn't it?" Hermione whispered, turning into Sirius' chest.

"Yeah." Sirius took a deep breath.

"But we've got each other."

"We'll always have each other, Pup."

3 September 1979

Filey Bay, North Yorkshire

"You sure you can take the day off, Moony?" Sirius said, taking a bag from Hermione to throw over his shoulder.

"At this point? Fuck it." Remus clapped a hand on Sirius' shoulder. "I've got that feeling this one's coming to an end. Why would I spend a day at a job I hate when I could be here at the beach with you two?"

They'd made their way to Filey Bay Beach after a leisurely morning at home. They'd packed away sandwiches and towels before apparating to the coast. The sky was white and grey, hiding the sun behind layers of clouds, and the air was cool. All in all, not the best day for an afternoon at the beach, but they didn't care. With sweaters and trousers, they frolicked by the water, sand working its way in between toes despite the barrier of socks and shoes until the trio gave in to the sea breeze to dip their feet in the cold water. They walked up the beach toward Filey Brigg and the long ridge of rocks jutting from the mainland. Remus told them the local story of how the rocks were really the bones of an old dragon. Sirius handed Hermione his jumper as the temperature dropped again.

It wasn't a perfect day, but Sirius reckoned it was one of his best birthdays yet.

12 September 1979

The Shelter

"—go back for Pup's birthday or something."

Hermione picked up her head from where she'd fallen asleep on the couch after dinner. "What?"

"Birthday, Pup. You know, yours?" Sirius smirked over at her as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. "We've got a week or so, right?"

"Yeah," Hermione mumbled. She sat up and immediately fell against Remus' shoulder where he sat beside her.

"So?" Remus shuffled beneath her, pulling out his arm to lay across her shoulders. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"We could do the Leaky?" Sirius offered. "Back to that muggle bar? Or take another day trip?"

Hermione's eyes had fluttered closed again. "Hmm."

"Or back to the Shack." Remus pulled on a curl. Hermione just shook her head against his chest before it rumbled with a light chuckle. "Okay, okay, I get it. Time for bed. We'll ask you tomorrow, Pup, but you know we're going to do something special to mark the day of your birth."

He'd pulled her to her feet then and set her off toward the stairs. She'd paused, one hand on the railing to smile back at her boys before climbing the steps one by one to her room, sleep begging to steal her back. When she finally climbed under the covers, Remus' words came back to her, bringing a slight curve to her lips.

"…something special to mark the day of your birth."

The day of your birth.

Any fatigue Hermione felt evaporated as she broke out in a cold sweat. In a week, she would turn twenty. In a week, she would celebrate her birthday. But she wouldn't be the only one. No, because on the 18th of September, Hermione Granger would be born.

17 September 1979

Muggle London

Hermione allowed herself one time, just to check, just to see. Just to make sure she would still be there, that everything was still as it was. A part of her held firm to the belief that she would find her punishment for saving Regulus, that the cost of his life would be her own.

She waited outside the house with the freshly painted blue door. It was a vibrant robin's egg blue, but she knew it would fade over time until only the slightest suggestion of blue remained. She waited patiently across the street, hidden under the weightless cover of an invisibility spell. The air around her rippled as her concentration wavered, but here in this muggle neighborhood, no one would notice. Their minds would explain away the unexplainable, their own little mental magic.

Just before the second hour mark passed, the front door opened to reveal first a little white pram and then the woman pushing it.

Hermione stopped breathing.

Helena Granger wore pregnancy like Demeter walking amongst mortals. Four days past her due date, she waddled down the front steps out to the street, pausing to stare down at her feet strapped into sandals. Hermione's breath released in a laugh. She knew this day. She knew this story. She knew her mother was currently cursing shoes for merely existing. She waited, smiling with misty eyes, for the next bit of story.

Helena Granger pushed the pram to the side and put her hands on her hips. She considered her shoes for a moment longer before nodding resolutely. She bent at the hips, hands outstretched to reach the strappings, but her belly wouldn't relent despite Helena twisting and turning, desperately trying to release her feet.

Hermione canceled her spell and started walking before she'd even realized she'd started to breathe again. Before she could stop herself, she'd opened her mouth.

"Can I help you?" Merlin, but she was not prepared to look her mother in her eyes, her face, her hair, her smile.

"Oh, you're my savior." Helena straightened and frowned at her feet before smiling again at Hermione. "I'm days overdue and all I want is to be barefoot, but John, my husband—" She pointed back to the little blue door. "—is such a mother hen sometimes. I love him to death, but if I have these stupid shoes on any longer, I'm going to lose my mind."

Hermione laughed. She couldn't help it. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and she dropped to her knees to hide the sheen. "Well, then lucky I was here," she started as she began removing the sandals from her mother's swollen feet. She glanced at the pram, smile teasing her lips. "Is this your second?"

"Oh god, no!" Helena laughed. She rubbed her bump. "Not for lack of trying, but this little hellion will be our first. She's taking her sweet time, so I brought out the pram to show her what she's missing."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"No idea, but I hope so," Helena smiled again, eyes still cast down. "Hear that, baby? Mummy wants to meet you and show you the world."

"Have you decided on a name yet?" Hermione continued in her false ignorance.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Especially since she's already late, but no." Helena reached for the pram, taking her shoes from Hermione and tossing them inside before starting off on a slow pace with Hermione at her shoulder. "We've got the nursery ready, a mountain of casseroles, an even bigger mountain of diapers, too. And of course my hospital bag's been sat by the door for a month now, but no name."

"Well, I'm sure you'll know her better when she's here, and you can pick the perfect name then." Hermione spoke the words to set up Helena's response.

"Oh no," she breathed and grasped Hermione's arm. "I know her already, inside and out. I think I know her better than I know myself. She's just not ready to be named yet. It has to be special, unique, just like my little girl. That's why it's taking us so long. It has to be like her, you know? Special, unique, magical."

"Tell me about her." Hermione eyes the end of the next block. Just one more block, then she'd leave. Just one more block.

"Well, that's not fair!" Helena laughed. "I can't put her into words."

"But if you had to?"

"If I had to?" Helena stroked her bump and Hermione swore she could feel the weight of her mother's hand on her cheek. "She's—God, how do I—She's just—" She closed her eyes. "She's small. Has been from the start, but she's strong. She's very much a runt in everything but truth. She's a-a hurricane, a hurricane dipped in fire wrapped in lace."

"I—" They'd reached the end of the block. "I have to go. I'm sorry, I have to go, but it was so nice meeting you." Hermione started to step away, fighting against the pull to stay with her mum. "And for what it's worth, Helena, I think you're going to be the best mum ever."

Helena Granger gave a smile and a wave to the stranger who'd helped her with her shoes. "Hear that, baby? Can't be the best mum if you're still in there. Come out and see the world, baby. I've got so much to show you."

Hermione turned her back then, just as the tears started to fall.

18 September 1979

Twenty-four hours later, Helena Granger went into labor and headed to the hospital with her husband. As John fiddled nervously with the radio, Helena thought back to the conversation she'd had the day before. In the years to come, she'd recall how she felt, how she spoke to her little unborn baby, and what she'd thought of her. But she wouldn't remember the stranger who'd helped her or the fact that she'd someone known her name.

Miles away, as John and Helena hurdled toward the hospital, Hermione turned on the radio. It took her a moment to find the right station, and when she did, she almost turned it off again. But her fingers hesitated on the dial and instead shifted over a few inches to turn up the volume at the first notes of David Bowie's Letter to Hermione.

Five hours to go.

The Shelter

She managed to convince them to keep it small, just dinner at the Shelter. She wanted to be home in case…

Two hours to go.

James and Peter cooked. Lily poured the wine. Sirius and Remus thrust presents under her nose at random intervals. A sweater from Remus. A pair of earrings from Lily. A book and a letter from Ben. He was supposed to join, but some personal emergency had come up. Hermione couldn't focus on the words, her mind was pulled to the past—no, the present—wait…

One hour to go.

She thought about grabbing the whiskey bottle from James, thought about diving to the bottom and hiding away as the world spun. Maybe it would be kinder? But no, fear gripped too tightly on her heart.

She should have prepared for this, should have researched or planned or—something. Anything. But planning meant confronting her feelings, weeding them out and unraveling them. It wasn't that she didn't know. She knew. She'd known for a while, longer than she would ever admit.

She wasn't ready to leave this place.

Thirty minutes to go.

They sat down to eat. Food was passed around. Silverware clinked against plates. Hermione reached for James' arm beside her. Anchor me. Anchor me. Don't let me slip away.

James just looked at her, smiled and patted her arm before turning back to his conversation with Peter. Hermione pried her fingers from his sleeve.

Twenty minutes to go.

She finished the rest of the wine that sat in her glass.

It was fine. Everything was fine. She was fine.

She'd done this before after all. Overlapped in time with herself. She'd lived to tell the tale.

Everything would be fine.

But what if…

Ten minutes to go.

She looked out at her friends around the table.

"I love you all." Have I ever told them before? "I just—I love you all so much." Fuck, was she crying?

"Hermione," Lily said her name so sweetly. "We love you, too."

The sentiment was echoed around the table, but Hermione was caught in Lily's eyes, soft and—Lily's eyes. Not Harry's, but Lily's eyes. Hermione smiled around the lump in her throat.

Her boys.

Lily's eyes.

Pack.

Regulus.

She'd never meant to get this close to them, to entwine herself with them. She never thought she'd get this attached.

But was it enough?

Five minutes to go.

She hadn't considered the magic that had brought her here in so long. Not even when she'd first met with Lycoris. The unknowns were too large and her focus had been on Regulus, but now…

She'd overlapped with herself with the time turner, but she still had no idea what magic had sent her back in time.

Four minutes to go.

Would she disappear? Slowly? All at once? Perhaps on the first cry of the little baby girl? Would she fall faint, slip into sleep or even…

Three minutes to go.

James. Lily. Remus. Peter. Sirius. Merlin, they had no idea. What if something did happen? Right here in front of them. What if…

What would they think? What would they do?

Two minutes to go.

"Are you okay?"

Hermione looked down to see Remus' hand on her arm. She'd been gripping the edges of her chair, her skin of her knuckles pressed white against the bone. She looked up to meet his face, concern clear. The air shifted around them, not much but enough for her to feel the slight change, the warm weight of protective energy he projected toward her.

"I—"

112 seconds.

Remus turned his whole body to face her.

"Remus, I—" A flash of silver pain at her wrist.

108 seconds.

She glanced in the direction of the stairs. She still had time to run, to hide. She pulled her fingers from the chair and plastered on the most convincing smile she could manage. Her eyes fell to Remus' nose. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"I think I just need a moment." She pushed back from the table. "The wine and just—birthdays, you know? I think I'm just getting emotional. I, er, I'm just going to freshen up a bit."

Remus nodded though his gaze tracked her as she forced her legs not to sprint from the room. She took the stairs two at a time, her breath coming out fast and hard as her heart shook the bones in her chest. She burst into her room, pushing the door closed as she fell back against it.

72 seconds.

She pushed away from the door, her wrist flicking out wildly to silence the room. Her eyes darted around for something she couldn't name. A quill, perhaps? To write? A letter? A confession? An explanat—her wrist twinged again.

Fuck. Dumbledore.

60 seconds.

Her skin felt like it was vibrating. Was this it? Was it happening? Hermione wanted to vomit. She fell toward her bed, a hand reaching for her rabbit before she reached the ground. She clenched her teeth together tight.

She was scared.

She was irrational.

She was terrified.

She was unmoored.

She was alone.

She held her little black rabbit to her chest like she could push it inside to fill the hole. Her lip trembled and her body shook like a leaf in the wind.

She didn't want to go, didn't want to leave, and that scared her most of all.

As the seconds ticked by, she turned her thoughts to Harry, to Ron, to the Remus and Sirius she'd left behind. To the Weasleys. To her parents. To the state of her world. Because it was her world. Guilt crept in to fill the rivers of space carved out by the talons of fear that gripped at her heart. She struggled to breathe, to ground herself, to—

She reached under her mattress to pull out Regulus' letter. Maybe if she… If they found it…

She felt foolish, but she couldn't help it.

She was alone.

"Pup?" A soft knock at her door. Sirius.

Hermione shuddered out a breath, careful not to make a noise despite the silencing charm hanging around her. She breathed again.

"You in there?"

"I—" She started to speak before remembering the charm. She reached for her wand, her eyes catching on her alarm clock.

19:51

She blinked.

19:51

Hermione Granger had been born at 19:49. She'd remembered. She'd always remember. Her mother had told her for years how perfect it had been that the time her baby had been born was the same year she'd been born. 1949. 19:49. But now—now, it was 19:51.

"Pup?"

She slashed her wand through the air, the charm dissipating. She stood, depositing Regulus' letter and the little black rabbit on her bed before turning toward the door. She stopped before her mirror and stared at her reflection. Her wild hair. Her straightened teeth. Her scar.

"I'm here," she whispered first to herself before calling out to Sirius. "I'm here."

As the night drew on, she'd begged them all to stay. One more song. One more drink. One more story. The muscles in her cheeks felt frozen in her smile. She couldn't keep her hands off of them. She just kept hugging, nudging, ruffling hair, squeezing hands. She would remember the guilt tomorrow, but for tonight, she would revel in this moment.

But of course, it couldn't last forever. She'd had to let them go, let them return home, let them head up to bed. She'd had to turn the lights off and return to the space of her bedroom.

Walking back into the room, her heart felt so lifted that she didn't notice anything amiss until her nose crinkled. She paused in the doorway. She sniffed again and her eye twitched. She couldn't help but sneeze as dark magic wafted over her like a noxious cologne.

She closed the door behind her, closing her eyes before facing her room again. She knew what she'd find, knew it was from him.

He didn't bother to wrap it this time, the present he'd left for her. A little porcelain box, painted black. It was elegant in its delicateness, but it was simple, plain even. The most intriguing thing about the box was the dark magic sloppily applied to it. There was an intent to harm there, but it was a false flag. Hermione knew what he really intended, the attempt, the message. It was the threat. That he'd once more been able to infiltrate her house, her home, her room. That he'd layered dark magic, a curse, over her gift and not even bothered to hide.

Hermione thought she knew Antonin Dolohov, but it would seem he knew her just as well, enough at least to know she wasn't telling anyone about these gifts.

She dispelled the curse easily. It wasn't hard, but then again it wasn't supposed to be. And then she placed it on her dresser. She didn't vanish it or break it or hide it, and she didn't quite know why. No, instead she made a place for it, carefully pulling off the lid to prop against the side. She moved to her bedside table to pull out his first note. It fit perfectly in the little black box, fit perfectly with the one he'd left with this gift.

"С днем рождения."

Chapter Title Translation: *I Once Was What You Are, You Will Be What I Am

С днем рождения: Happy Birthday