A/N: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT
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PART II
Colourful little buildings lined the road, and Hermione watched them blur by from the backseat of her dad's old Bentley as it zipped across Kentish Town. Tendrils of Ian Curtis' warbling baritone escaped from the stereo:
I've seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain,
And the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained...
"Alright, out with it," said dad, shooting her a look through the rear view mirror. "What's wrong? You've barely said a word since you got off the train."
She knew there was no use in telling outright lies – her parents would know them for what they were immediately. Half-truths and prevarication were the way to go.
So she replied, "Professor Dumbledore died. His funeral was just this morning."
Mum gasped, "What happened?"
"He was a hundred and fifteen years old."
"Ah, that'll do it," said dad, not unkindly, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Hmm," she said, hoping that that was the end of the conversation.
"Had he been ill?" mum asked.
"Er, a little. Then he... took a dreadful – fatal – tumble two nights ago."
"Oh god," mum sighed sadly, "Poor Harry must be devastated."
"He is."
Mum made a small sympathetic noise, and for a short spell they sat in silence, save for the humming of the motor, and Joy Division.
This is the car at the edge of the road,
There's nothing disturbed, all the windows are closed.
I guess you were right, when we talked in the heat,
There's no room for the weak, no room for the weak.
"I know I tell you this every year and it never ends up happening, but you should call Harry over for dinner sometime. Ron, too. Actually, you might as well ask all the Weasleys –"
"Robert, please, no!" mum interrupted with something akin to panic.
Dad chuckled, "You really, really don't like Arthur and Molly, do you?"
"They treat us like we're remarkably clever and amusing circus animals," mum sniffed, "Arthur is unbearable with his ridiculous enthusiasm."
"Come now, Evie," dad chided, "He means well. Our... um... 'muggle', Hermione?"
"Yes," Hermione affirmed.
"Right. Our muggle bits and bobs are all new to him."
"And magic isn't to us?" mum demanded, "Actually, we ought be behaving like him, considering we were, out of the blue, thrown into a bloody fantasy novel. Is a little bit of decorum too much to ask for? And his wife. Heavens, all she wants to do is exchange recipes."
Hermione and dad both laughed at that. Even if mum wasn't utterly hopeless in the kitchen, her unreserved contempt for conventional gender roles would've put her at odds with the homely Mrs. Weasley.
"Honestly, Hermione," mum continued, "If you end up marrying Ron I will be most disappointed."
Hermione's face burned with mortification as she remembered all the times last summer when her parents had caught her dancing like a madwoman on receiving terse, barely legible letters from Ron.
"I have absolutely no desire to do that," she muttered, and on catching dad's raised eyebrows in the rear view mirror added, "anymore."
"Good girl," mum cheered.
"Ron's oldest brother Bill is getting married in two weeks," Hermione said quickly before her dad could speak, "We've all been invited."
"In two weeks? We'll be strolling around Aussie beaches," said dad.
"What a pity," mum deadpanned.
They stopped at a traffic light, and dad turned around to grin at Hermione.
"We have a fantastic itinerary ready for our trip," he said cheerily, "just waiting for the Hermione stamp of approval."
Bile shot up her oesophagus, but she somehow managed to smile back.
"I can't wait to see it," she mumbled, staring at dad's charming open smile, the crow's-feet around his chestnut brown eyes, and the salt-and-pepper curls springing out of his scalp.
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Where will it end? Where will it end?
Home looked like home – exactly as it always had. The garden was overflowing with sweet peas, peonies, and giant dahlias as big as her head. The faded brick house with its brown tile roof and spotlessly white casement windows was a quaint suburban dream.
As dad busied himself with unloading her trunk, Hermione drank in the image before her.
"Garden looks beautiful, mum," she said admiringly.
"Oh, thank you, love," mum cooed, wrapping her arms around Hermione from behind and resting her chin on her shoulder. "I missed you so much."
"Me too," Hermione replied unsteadily.
"Really wish you had come home for Christmas. Not seeing or speaking to you for eight whole months is agony."
"I know, mum," Hermione sighed, "Sixth year has been... mad. I'm so glad to be home."
"Move it along, ladies," dad panted, dragging her trunk down the paved path leading to their front door, "The second innings is about to start."
"Speaking of," Hermione began, amused, "Why did you choose to go to Australia the year the Ashes are being hosted in England?"
"It's what happens when I let your mother make decisions."
"Don't start, Robert."
Dad threw a faux-exasperated look at mum, and winked when Hermione giggled. Then suddenly, his face contorted.
"Oh, Jesus. Hun," he whispered hotly, "Mrs. Henley's back!"
Mum gripped Hermione's arm, "Do not look at her. Move faster, Robert! Go, go!"
"Let me," Hermione said to dad, and wandlessly levitated her trunk a scant inch above the ground.
"Thanks," he huffed, "Damn it, hurry. She's hobbling over!"
Mum fumbled with the keys before finally unlocking the door, and the three panic-stricken Grangers leapt into their house, shutting out the husky cries of,
"Where's me cat?! They took her 'gain, devil worshippin' scum! Witches! Me cat! Where's me cat! They killed and et me cat!"
Late at night, Hermione closed all the curtains in her room and switched off all lights save for one table lamp. Sitting at her desk in her most comfortable pajamas, she rolled her neck, took a deep breath, and with a motion suggesting grim ceremony, cracked open Secrets of the Darkest Art.
Four hours later, she turned the final page. Her skin was crawling with revulsion. Standing up with a suddenness that made her head swim, she hurled the book into her open trunk and slammed it shut, wanting it to be as far away from her as possible. Climbing into bed, she felt the remnants of the many shudders she had suffered while reading the horrible book.
But at least she knew – in theory – how a Horcrux could be destroyed. It had to be wrecked into a state beyond magical repair. Ah, but to find something capable of inflicting such damage was going to be a problem. Hermione groaned into her pillow; it was just one thing after the other.
Hermione sat with her rapt mum on the living room settee, telling her about Arithmancy. They were deaf to the sound of cricket spilling from the telly. Yet, in spite of the noise and absorbing conversation, she was fully aware of the pointed tick of every passing second – had the clock on the mantelpiece always been so loud?
Dad stalked into the room from the kitchen looking terribly tetchy. "Bloody dishwasher's conked off again," he groused, "That's the last time I call that galling, smug old scouser to fix it." Putting on a fantastically convincing accent, he continued, "C'mon Robbie, giz a couple o quid for this here. Bleurgh."
"He's your brother-in-law, Robbie," mum reminded him with a smile.
"Not for much longer... Oh! Headley's bowling up a storm today!"
Dad settled down on the armchair in front of the telly, and it was clear that he was lost to them for the next few hours.
Hermione turned to mum, "Aunt Vicky's getting a divorce?"
"Yes. And your father's never been prouder of his little sister," mum smirked.
"For god's sake, YOU COULD'VE CAUGHT THAT YOU DUNDERING BUFFOON!"
After sharing an indulgent laugh, mother and daughter returned to their discussion. The tick-tick-ticking clock never relented.
Hermione stepped into the house (with her purse full of money) sometime around noon, after a quick trip to the local Building Society branch. The few thousand pounds didn't feel like much when uncertainty stretched on endlessly in front of her.
Her parents were at work, and she had the place to herself for the next six hours; she was determined to make the most of it. First order of business: organising luggage. Digging deep into her wardrobe, she pulled out a tiny amethyst-coloured pouch, covered in intricate beadwork. It had been a gift from her Aunt Malorie on her fifteenth birthday. She sat cross-legged on the floor with a book on advanced charms open before her, and closely read the instructions for casting an undetectable extension charm.
"Capacious extremis," she intoned, waving her wand in spiral over the bag. Then she stuck her finger into the opening... followed by her hand... her wrist... her arm... her shoulder...
What if she were to just dive inside and live in there forever?
Shaking ludicrous ideas out of her head, she moved on to filling the bag with every magical book in her trunk, followed by every potion ingredient, dittany, murtlap essence, pepper-up potion...
She sifted through her clothes, picking out the most practical and comfortable items to take with her. As she went to close the wardrobe doors, her eye fell on lightly shimmering lilac fabric, and wistfully, she took out the dress it was attached to. Tea-length, strapless, and made of silk and organza – it was really very, very pretty. Well, she was going to attend a wedding, wasn't she?
After dropping the dress inside, Hermione took the bag up to the attic. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the skylight high up on the slanted roof, touching every corner of the cluttered, dusty space. She walked over to a towering stack of large cardboard boxes, wandlessly summoning the ones labelled, 'photographs', and 'Hermione's documents'. She put every paper contained in the latter into her bag, and vanished the empty box after.
Turning to the other one, Hermione swallowed and precariously pulled the covering flaps aside. It was so like her mum to classify the photos by year and store them in neat piles. It certainly made her life easier. She went through the piles one by one, starting at 1979, erasing herself from every picture that included her. Nearly all of them did. She tried to be matter of fact about it; clinical, like. Her hands may have been shaking, her breathing may have been laboured, but she did not cry.
No, Hermione did not cry.
She slipped a few photographs into her bag from time to time: one when she was just born, swaddled up in her mother's arms, one when she was a toddler sitting between dad's legs on top of a slide, one from each birthday, each family vacation, each Christmas.
She laughed out loud at a picture from Halloween, 1985, when dad had insisted they dress up like the band Cream. In sensational shirts and tight bell-bottoms, dad was looking absolutely thrilled, Hermione was grinning with her giant childhood teeth gleaming, and mum seemed embarrassed to be alive.
By the time she finished, she was sitting in near-blackness. Her final move was to comb through the 1974 pile to find a photo from her parents' wedding. How happy they looked! They were radiant, blissful, and so fucking gorgeous, holding hands under a large yew tree. She brought the photo to her lips and lightly kissed it.
But she did not cry.
"Hermione!"
The call came from downstairs – evidently her parents had returned. She found them in the kitchen, laughing over something or the other. Dad saw her and grinned, waving a paper bag in her direction.
"Mongolian beef stew and rice for dinner," he said, "How's that sound?"
"Excellent," Hermione beamed with forced enthusiasm.
Momentarily shelving her anxiety, Hermione let herself pretend that it was just a regular Sunday morning with her parents. Dad stood by the stove, expertly rolling crepes. Mum sat at the table, perusing the paper. She was wrapped up in a fluffy, cobalt robe, and her smooth honey blonde hair was coiled at the back of her head, elegantly messy. For the ten-millionth time in her life, Hermione mourned the fact that she had inherited her father's explosive curls.
Mum yawned, blindly reaching out for her coffee without looking away from the paper. Hermione admired the delicacy of her neck, the cut of her jaw, the straight but gentle line of her nose, her thick and dark eyelashes... well gosh, she truly was a beautiful woman. Despite being utterly dishevelled, she radiated poise and grace. But even when overwhelmed by all that dainty loveliness, Hermione didn't forget how forceful mum was; frighteningly intelligent, fiercely opinionated, brazen, talented, unconventional, and brave. If she could be even half the woman her mother was, she would be content.
Dad set a plate in front of each of them.
"Dig in!" he proclaimed, "Anything good in the papers, Evie?"
"No," mum replied curtly, "Eight more unexplainable deaths."
Anxiety soared off the shelf and speared its way back into her heart.
But she did not cry.
And there it was – the final evening. They were meant to catch a late night flight the next day, and their tickets (that, unknown to her parents, were two in number and not three,) were stuck on the fridge door with a magnet.
Hermione stood in her room, purportedly packing a suitcase. In reality, she was putting away every single one of her processions – shutting away all the little pieces of her life thus far – effectively turning the place into a bland and innocuous guest room.
Her books took up five large cartons. Her music collection took one, her clothes took two. It was a bleak undertaking, so she forced some fun into it. Skipping around and snapping her fingers, she made her things fly and dance around. It was a silly game, really... A lark! A spree!
"A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, the medicine go down, the medicine go down..."
She sang, pranced, and twirled – but she did not cry. And when finally, all her things had been packed up, she put the cartons together and transfigured them into a large comfy sofa. The walls were bare, the shelves and dresser were empty, and her starry bedcover was now plain white linen.
No, Hermione did not cry.
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
In a most delightful way.
When she got downstairs, Hermione went into the kitchen and prepared three cups of mint tea. In two of those cups, she added a splash of sleeping draught.
Her parents were sitting side by side on the couch – Dad with his arm around mum – and chortling while watching The Vicar of Dibley.
"Tea," Hermione announced, steadily levitating the cups onto the coffee table.
"Just the thing," dad approved, "Thanks, sweetheart."
"Done packing?" mum asked.
"Yes."
It took no more than two sips each; then they were slumped against each other, deep in slumber. She switched off the telly and stood before them, her wand clenched tightly in her hand. Her body was wracked with tremors; she wanted to bolt, and she wanted to shake them awake... but of course, she did neither. And nor did she cry.
The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking loudly again. She closed her eyes and gathered all her courage. She amputated the soft, scared, aching part of her being and remembered the sound of Theo's voice in her head: "It's the right thing to do, Hermione."
Okay.
It took her well over three hours to completely alter first dad's, and then mum's memories. She gazed at their peaceful faces after, feeling drained and empty – but she did not cry. Keeping her eyes on them, she walked backwards towards the telephone, and dialled a number with quivering fingers.
"Hello?" said a husky voice after a few rings.
"Hello. It's me," she whispered, "Hermione. Could I come over?"
There was a short spell of silence, and then, "Now? Er... yeah. Of course. Don't ring the doorbell, though... the old 'uns are asleep."
"Sure. See you."
She walked timidly back to her parents, touched her mother's hand, her father's hair, and pressed a kiss on each of their cheeks. Still, she did not cry. With her beaded bag in hand, she absorbed the sights around her one last time, and then walked out the front door drenched in hopeless finality. And no, Hermione did not cry.
The moment she stepped into the plot next door she saw his silhouette. Framed by the doorjamb, it was bold and stark against the dim light pooling around from behind. He waved as she approached – the same breezy, casual gesture with which he had always greeted her.
"Hey there, lovely," he whispered.
"Hi, Pete."
"Come on in."
His hair was longer than before, almost brushing his shoulders, but he looked just as she remembered: handsome, scruffy, and well... cool. He led her up to his room, (the place where she'd spent many tantalising hours the year before,) and when there, hastily cleared an immense pile of clothes off his bed to make room for her to sit.
"Drink?" he enquired.
"Please," Hermione rasped. Her tremors were worse, and she felt oh so empty empty empty empty.
"Scotch alright?"
"Anything."
While he fixed her drink, Hermione studied the posters on his walls – The Manic Street Preachers, Pearl Jam, The Clash... Over his desk hung a large woodcut portrait of Voltaire, accompanied by a quote: Everything's fine today, that is our illusion.
"Here you go," he said, handing her a glass of golden liquid.
"Thanks."
It wasn't firewhiskey, she mused as she took a sip, but the burning bitterness was still somewhat soothing.
"Soooo," he broached, "What brings you here at this unholy hour?"
"I'm sorry about that," she muttered, and he waved her apology away, "I just wanted to see you. We're leaving tomorrow, my parents and I."
"Holiday?"
"Um, no. We're moving. To... California," she lied in the hope that he would tell his gossipy mum, who'd ensure that that falsity would spread all around the neighbourhood.
"Seriously?!" he asked with some shock.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"My parents got a really good job offer..."
"But..." he sputtered, "California, Hermione?! They're all fucking sunny and happy over there. It'll be intolerable."
"Perhaps," she said with half a laugh.
"When will you come back?"
"I don't know."
"Oh."
After a few moments of silent drinking, Hermione asked, "How have you been?" and he told her all about his term at Oxford. They were three drinks down, and in the middle of a conversation about the siege of Leningrad, when Hermione surged forward and pressed her mouth against his. She felt EMPTY, and like a dementer, she wanted to steal substance straight out of him.
He kissed her back eagerly, after a muted moan of surprise, and gripped her by the waist. She opened her mouth to taste him – that vaguely familiar blend of heat and smokiness was somewhat subdued by the prominent flavour of scotch – and fell back on his bed, pulling him down with her. They kissed for a long time, deeply and desperately, barely breaking away to shed their respective shirts, and her bra. His hands travelled all over her skin; and hers over his... Oh, but she was still seeking... seeking... something that continued to be elusive.
Letting her hands travel down his body, she murmured, "I want you."
He jerked back and stared at her. "You mean...?"
"Yes," she replied firmly.
"Have you done it before?"
"...No."
"Look, Hermione," he hedged, "I'm not sure –"
"But I am! I'm sure. I want you. Please."
He considered her thoughtfully for a few second, and then... "Alright,"... and he kissed her again.
A breathless haze followed. His touches were much more motivated, his kisses more purposeful. Hermione took all he gave greedily, wanting and wanting and wanting. When they were both naked and panting, he momentarily moved away to put on a condom, before positioning himself on top of her.
"This will hurt," he warned.
"I know. Do it."
Bloody hell, did it hurt. It was a sharp, radiating pain that had her squeezing her eyes shut and digging her nails into his shoulder blades.
"You okay, baby?"
She just whimpered, biting her lip.
"Shit, Hermione, baby, I'm sorry! I'll just –"
"I'm okay," she gasped.
And bit by bit, she found that she truly was. She felt full. Painfully, uncomfortably full... and it was glorious.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, but... I can't hold still anymore..."
She smiled, arched her back, and whispered, "Then don't."
The sun was just bursting out of the horizon when she woke up. Blinking as she reoriented herself, Hermione sat up and stretched. Pete was sprawled beside her, lying on his stomach with his face entirely obscured by his hair. She brushed the strands aside gently, and placed a parting buss at the corner of his mouth. She winced at the throbbing soreness between her legs as she stood up and dressed.
She didn't look at him again before creeping out of his house. She didn't allow herself to look at the building that was no longer her home as she walked down the street. She stared instead at her feet, and shook her hair down to work like blinkers and obscure her peripheral vision.
At the end of the road, behind a dense grove of beech trees, Hermione spun on the spot and disapparated.
There was a hillock not too far from the burrow that provided quite a spectacular view of the area. Upon it sat Hermione watching the morning break. She was urgently convincing herself that the wonky house in front of her was where she was to go, and not to another invisible house nearby, where Theo currently resided. She wanted so badly to see him. So badly, that it winded her. But no – Hermione did not cry.
The door to the Burrow opened, and Mrs. Weasley waddled out, wrapped up in a ratty tartan gown. She was, without a doubt, the most ostentatiously maternal woman Hermione had ever known; a mother to seven – eight if you counted Harry, and she knew Mrs. Weasley certainly did. However, Hermione recoiled at the thought of joining those ranks, even though she was effectively an orphan now. She had grown up under the care of the most perfect of mothers... there was no replacing that.
As she watched Mrs. Weasley feed the chickens strutting about in the yard, she pictured her mum and dad... no, Monica and Wendell Wilkins, a childless couple, waking up. They'd shake their heads at themselves for falling asleep on the sofa. They'd share laughs and banter over breakfast. They'd spend the day finalising their big move down under. And at night, they'd board an airplane.
Would it really be so bad if she went to see Theo?
Yes. Yes it would. She was in no state to have another argument about her plans to go with Harry. So she stood up, dusted her trousers, and descended down the hillock. She did not cry.
"Hermione dear!" Mrs Weasley called on spotting her, "You're here early!"
"Erm, yes. I hope it isn't a problem..."
"Not at all. Come here, you."
Hermione was pulled into a warm trademark Molly Weasley hug; it was brief, but she savoured it.
"You'll be rooming with Ginny, of course," Mrs. Weasley said as they walked into the house, "Would you like to go and freshen up? She's still asleep, but not even a herd of feral hippogriffs could wake her."
Hermione smiled, "Yes, thank you."
"Where are your things, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked with a puzzled glance at Hermione's tiny bag.
"All in here," Hermione answered awkwardly.
Though it earned her a suspicious look, Mrs. Weasley didn't pursue that line of questioning,
"Go along then. I'll get started on breakfast. Now that this is the new headquarters, there are so many more mouths to feed."
She bustled away, and Hermione saw herself up the stairs and into Ginny's room.
Dark times change a lot of things, and that included Ginny's sleeping habits. It turned out that it didn't take a herd of hippogriffs... it took no more than the sound of a door closing to wake her.
"Wha – Hermione?" Ginny mumbled as she rubbed her eyes and wearily sat up, "What time is it?"
"Six-thirty. Sorry for waking you... go back to sleep."
"Nah, 'sfine." Ginny shoved her hair back from her face and huffed.
She scooted a bit to the side and patted the space next to her, wordlessly telling Hermione to sit.
Hermione complied and asked, "How're things?"
"Insane," Ginny responded promptly, "Between Order meetings and wedding planning there isn't a moment of peace around here."
"Hmm."
"What about you? How're your parents?"
Hermione knew immediately that that was the moment she was to break. Maybe it was the fact that she had finally slowed down, maybe it was Ginny's straight question, or maybe it was the genuine concern in her eyes.
"I... I... I had to do the most awful thing..." was all she managed to say before bursting into tears.
Yes – Hermione cried.
"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed in alarm, "What is it?"
But she was too far gone to be able to speak. Ginny pulled her close and wrapped her arms tightly around her. "What...? What?" she demanded frantically.
When Hermione merely shook her head and sobbed into her nightshirt, Ginny sighed. She gently rocked her – back and forth and back and forth – and stroked her hair.