Chapter Two: Australia

Hermione looked out over the endless ocean, navy blue, dark beneath her airplane window. She felt a rock of anxiety settle in her stomach as thoughts of not finding her parents flew through her mind for the hundredth time. The plan was simple. Plane, hotel, phone book. The same unease she'd felt all those months ago came back like an unwanted old friend.

She felt alone and isolated. Such an abrupt return to the Muggle world made her feel vulnerable and exposed. Yet at the same time it was as if she were returning to the easy normalcy of her childhood, vacationing from her stressful life as a witch. She fidgeted with the Muggle book in her lap, too nervous even to read.

Though Harry had withdrawn a substantial amount of funds from his vault in Gringotts for her, it was Ron who kindly bought her a new wand. She would pay them all back, of course, when her parents were back in England (it certainly didn't please her to borrow off her two friends) but she was touched by the gesture. The wand was now sitting in her luggage, tucked away where she'd sent it on a sort of hiatus. Birch, twelve inches exactly, dragon heartstring, banished until needed for the fated counter to the memory charms. For some reason she felt her endeavor to find Wendell and Monica Wilkins must remain as much a Muggle matter as possible. Magic felt like overkill.

She pulled her legs up to her chest, resting her head on them as she closed her eyes. Muggle flying felt much safer anyway, she thought to herself. Safer than half-blind dragons, than invisible thestrals, than flimsy broomsticks...Images of Ron and Harry and Ginny back at the Burrow playing Quidditch popped into her head and she wished silently that one of them had been able to accompany her on this lonesome trip. At least, to keep her more company than the old man snoring beside her.

Sleep claimed her and she did not wake for many hours. She dreamt she was flying on the blind dragon. She, Ron, and Harry jumped into the icy lake, which turned into the ocean below. The current carried her away until she was completely lost, completely alone. She called for her parents…Only when she woke sharply to the landing in Sydney did she break free of the ocean's waves. Hermione shuffled through the gate, through the baggage check, through customs and currency exchange, before she finally stood, as alone as ever, on a busy, bustling street full of people.

Her stomach felt as if it had evaporated and the enormity of the task ahead felt like a crushing weight on her shoulders. But, she reminded herself, she had been through much worse. She tried to imagine Ron beside her, tried to hear his voice. It was just like finding a Horcrux. Only, she was looking for people. Nice people. And they weren't hidden by layers upon layers of dark magic. And there were no Death Eaters following her every step. Confidence poured back into her like a warm tonic, and with a bit more self-assurance, she hailed a taxi and asked for the nearest budget hotel.

The driver had an easy, friendly manner about him. He kindly pointed out the harbor, the bridge, and the opera house to her. The bright sun glared off the surface of the enormous white crests of the peculiarly shaped building. The harbor glistened with the sails of countless boats, and as the taxi took Hermione over the bridge, she looked off into the distance where she saw nothing but blue waves and seagulls flying capriciously in the strong ocean breezes.

The taxi stopped in front of a two-story building, hidden in the middle of the heavy hum of downtown Sydney. Hermione thanked and paid the driver before entering the lobby, luggage tightly in hand. It wasn't particularly spacious; a single wilted plant sat in the corner next to a pair of overstuffed chairs and a coffee table scattered with tatty magazines.

"How can I help you?" the woman at the front desk asked with a brilliantly white smile so fixed it must have been fake.

Hermione booked a room for the night, and gripped the keys tightly in her hand as she ascended in an elevator that smelled of burning plastic. Her room was small, the bed covered in a cheesy floral comforter. The single light in the bathroom flickered when she turned it on. She set her luggage in the corner and began searching the room for a phonebook. It was the only thing she could really think of that would aid her in her search. There weren't even any spells she knew of that could help. She found one in the drawer of the end table beside the bed and weighed it within her hands, as if trying to sense if it held the information she desired.

The well worn book fell open on the bed when she set it down and she paged slowly through to the Ws, a page at a time, as if the editors might have messed up their alphabetizing and put 'Wilkins' between 'Watson' and 'Wesley' instead. Preparing for the worst, she skimmed her finger down a series of 'Wiggins' and 'Wilcox' until…

Wilson.

It simply skipped to Wilson.

Disappointed but not surprised, she shut the book and cast it back into the drawer. So, they weren't in Sydney. Perhaps she would have some dinner and then head to a library or somewhere with a complete listing of every inhabitant in all of Australia. She pressed the pillow to her face and let out a frustrated groan. The emptiness of the room and the vastness of the job ahead made her wish all the more her parents could just be there with her. She was sick of being strong, brave, and in charge. The solitude of the tacky wallpapered room pressed in around her, suffocating her…or perhaps it was the pillow over her face.

Sitting there wallowing wasn't going to fix anything. She grabbed her room key and purse and wandered back to the lobby. The one woman was still sitting at the desk, doodling on a pad of paper.

"Excuse me," Hermione said politely. "Would you happen to have phonebooks for the surrounding areas?"

"There should be one in your room, in the drawer beside your bed," she said, turning to Hermione with her white smile.

"I looked at that one," she sighed. "I need to see any other ones there are, for the whole country if I could…"

The woman stared at her, one eyebrow rising with interest.

"That's all we've got, sorry," she said, struggling to maintain her smile.

"Well, could you tell me where those would be available?" Hermione pressed, tapping her palm on the counter impatiently.

"Library, I expect."

"Where?"

"Five minute drive south, thereabouts?" the woman offered. "Twenty minute stroll."

"Do you have a map?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

She gave hurried thanks when the rectangular pamphlet was handed to her, rushing out the front door into the city. The sun had drifted beneath the buildings now and the evening crowds were arriving, pouring into bars and restaurants, while the afternoon hordes were exiting the high flying towers for their drive home. Brightly illuminated street advertisements lined the sidewalks, and dotted the wide pavilions, intermixed with well-tended, decorative foliage. Her steps were so quick she managed to get to the library within fifteen minutes. It was a large, ornate building, as elegant on the inside as the outside. With determination she approached the front desk where a kindly looking middle-aged woman sat.

"Excuse me," Hermione began, fidgeting. "I need to take a look at your phonebooks, if you please."

The woman looked her over. "Which one?"

"All of them, actually, if I may…"

She gave Hermione a bemused expression before pointing off toward a distant bookcase. Rows of thick, blue books were lined up near a row of public telephones. Hermione smiled in thanks and took off for the other side of the building. With practiced hands, she balanced a stack of nine of these fat directories (all but the Sydney area) and staggered over to the nearest table. Queensland and Tasmania turned up empty. She retrieved another stack. The Melbourne area had a Wilkins, but it was Gary, not Wendell or Monica. Perth and the rest of the west coast returned nothing. Panic began to fill her as she reached the bottom of the shelves and still had no possibilities. When not even the whole of Victoria offered up a Wilkins, Hermione slammed her head dully on the table before her.

Resisting the urge to cry, berating herself for not thinking things through, she stacked up and replaced the books. She left the library hurriedly and stopped in a deli across the street for a bit of dinner. The turkey sandwich was only half eaten by the time she threw it away. Hermione's appetite had vanished entirely as she thought desperately of what to do next. Nothing came to mind and jet lag was overtaking her, so she wandered back to the hotel and her room, defeated.

She'd spent so many meticulous hours planning her parents' disappearances, but had given so little thought to ensure finding them again. Just as before, her future had been shorted its fair share of consideration.

\\*//

Hermione awoke the next morning to a loud tapping at her hotel window. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw a flurry of feathers through the foliage. She walked drowsily to the glass pane and cranked it open. A ball of brown plumage somersaulted into the room and landed headfirst on Hermione's mussed bed.

Pigwidgeon straightened and shook the letter from his leg before chirping angrily.

"Pig!" Hermione cried, running over to him. She picked up his small form, but he turned his tail feathers to her and flew off to perch on the headboard. The letter was lying on her bed. Her heart skipped as she picked it up, for she saw her name was written on the front in Ron's rough scrawl. Hermione tore it open at once and read voraciously. There were many scratched out parts and rewrites and she wondered how many drafts he'd gone through.

Hermione,

Hopefully Pig managed to get this to you. When I told him to go to Sydney a week early and wait for you there, he looked sort of confused. I figured he'd get it when it took him a week to get there. I sent him early so you'd get this letter when you first arrived. I said I'd write to you, didn't I?

Knowing you, I bet you found your mum and dad already. I don't remember much about them, because I think the last time I saw them was back in our third year, and I never really got a good conversation in with them, and you don't talk about your family much.

By the time you get this I reckon Mum'll be driving me up the wall. She'll be just about as happy as you were when I tell her I won't be going back to school. I'm not happy about being away from you, though. School, sure, but it's going to be really strange without you around all the time whenever I need information from A History of Magic. Do you know they have a new edition out? In memory of Bathilda Bagshot's death. Real collector's item, I bet. Be a right bit of irony if you had that copy, since you were there when she died. But anyway, I meant it when I said I'd write you all the time whenever you wanted. It's a good habit, right? Builds character or something like that?

I hope you're enjoying your new wand. Don't worry about paying me back—it's my treat. —Hermione creased her eyebrows and pursed her lips—Don't argue either, because we'll just get angry with each other and you still won't get to pay me back.—She laughed to herself and continued—

Since nothing new has happened because I sent this letter while you were still here, I'm going to use my impressive Divination skills to guess what'll happen while you're thousands of miles away. My first prediction, I'm going to miss you the most when Harry and Ginny are off snogging and I'm stuck helping Mum with the dishes. My second prediction—death. I sense death in your future. By brutally choking on owl feathers. In the shape of a Grim. That's a nice touch, right? The Grim? Always a classic.

So I'm running out of things to write about. I figured I'd send this in case you were lonely or something out there in the Muggle world.

--Ron

She smiled to herself and read the letter a second time, and then a third. It was touching. He hardly ever thought ahead about anything, but he'd planned this letter for her. She didn't even know he knew what irony was, much less how to use it to describe something. His voice rang in her ears at that thought,

'Always the tone of surprise…'

Hermione suddenly felt a bit guilty. He wasn't stupid or insensitive. Like anyone else he would say stupid and insensitive things, but it didn't define him. Ron truly had good intentions at heart. The letter bore witness to this fact. He really was trying his hardest, given the numerous scratched out parts. Jokes were minimal until the end as if he was concerned she wouldn't appreciate the humor. He must have felt uncomfortable writing her a letter and had to warm up to being himself. She could just see him in his room at the Burrow, pile of crumpled parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration…

Pigwidgeon was preening his heavily ruffled feathers and was the grumpiest she'd ever seen him. He likely didn't appreciate flying for days on end when he knew the person he was supposed to be delivering to was down the hall. Hermione folded the letter and set it on the end table, crossing to Pigwidgeon.

"Are you hungry, Pig?"

He didn't seem to be very good at holding a grudge. Pig flew into the air immediately and began buzzing around the room. Hermione grinned, and left the owl to his fervor. There was a continental breakfast being served downstairs, to the right of the lobby. The woman from the night before was not at the desk, replaced instead with a wizened old man who appeared to be falling asleep.

Hermione had a bowl of spaghetti and some buttered toast for breakfast after vegemite proved not to her taste. She took a couple extra pieces of bacon (for lack of anything proper) for Pig and meandered back to her room where she slumped on the bed. The owl ate happily as Hermione watched with her chin in her cupped hands. When Pig finished, he flew off to sit atop the dresser where he put his tiny head under his tiny wing and went to sleep.

Sighing, Hermione sat up and glanced over at Ron's letter. She grabbed the message pad and pen from beside the phone and began to write.

Dear Ron,

Though Pig doesn't seem particularly happy, he did make it. I just fed him some bacon and he's resting now. I wouldn't be surprised if he seems upset with you upon his return.

You'll be surprised to hear, though, that I have not yet found Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They aren't in the phone books (remember? The books with the numbers in them that lets you talk to anyone with a telephone), so I don't have a clue where I'm going to go next. But it can't be any harder than finding a you-know-what, so I'm trying to stay positive. When I do find them, though, you'll be welcome to talk to them as long as you like. I've told them a lot about you, and they've always seemed interested in getting to know you for themselves.

The wand is working perfectly, and I can't thank you enough. I won't argue, but when I get back I owe you a trip to Fortescue's.

A new edition of A History of Magic in memory of Bathilda Bagshot's death? Yes, that would be rather ironic, wouldn't it? I'll take a look at it the next time we're in Diagon Alley.

Be patient with your mother. And I hope you don't miss me just because you wish we were off snogging too. I'm sure what you mean is you wish I was doing the dishes with you so you didn't feel like the third wheel. As for your other prediction, I don't think I'm going to have any problems with owl feathers any time soon. Pigwidgeon doesn't hold a grudge well, and he's quite partial to bacon.

I really appreciate your letter. Oddly enough, I was missing you all already. Hope to see you soon!

She paused before signing her name. Now she understood Ron's dilemma. She could write 'love' as she had all those years, but it had a different ring to it now and she was not sure if it was something she felt comfortable conveying yet. What did it matter, though, really? If anything it would make Ron happy, wouldn't it? That was supposing he noticed at all. She wrote the word and decided it looked satisfactory on the paper. With a flourish of her pen, she signed her name, folded up the note and set it beside Ron's letter.

Pigwidgeon was still asleep. The room was quiet. She had no leads to finding her parents. Perhaps a walk would clear things up. As she strode out of the lobby, she noticed the woman from the night before had returned. She was chatting to the uninterested old man about the latest edition of some magazine.

The sun was bright yet again that morning, shining teasingly at her back as she walked. She took a very long stroll past several brick-paved pavilions and innumerable skyscrapers, only stopping when she arrived at a wooded park beside the water's edge. The harbor was straight ahead, a perfect tableau of the opera house and the bridge. As she sat down on a bench, the ocean breeze blowing her hair from her face, rustling the greenery around her, she thought peacefully that at least she'd sent her parents somewhere beautiful.

She couldn't lose herself, however. Dragging herself back to the here and now, Hermione thought about her options. She could stare for hours at stacks of phone books. She could try looking up dentist offices in the area. There was the computer option, but the very few times she'd tried to use it to look up something, it had only given back garbage. Unsure where to start, but afraid of stagnation, she decided to retire to her room and send Ron that letter.

\\*//

Upon reentrance to the lobby, Hermione only glanced at the receptionist's bright smile before sprinting up to her room, swapping the precarious elevator for the staircase, and taking two steps at a time. A sudden thought had just occurred to her and she could not believe her uncharacteristic stupidity. Had it been the jet lag? Had it been her worrying?

Pigwidgeon broke into a frenzy when Hermione thrust open the door. Ignoring him, she dove across the bed and removed the phone book, searching the front cover for the information she sought. And there it was, plainly written in white numbers…

With a gentle thud, Hermione set her forehead on the cover of the book. She'd been looking in the wrong edition. The phone book within her fingers was from three years ago. A huge wave of indignation and relief swept through her. She grabbed the folded letter to Ron from the bedside table and scribbled a postscript telling him she'd likely find her parents soon enough. Pigwidgeon was still hooting about the room and she only managed to calm him down when she held up the piece of paper. He was calmed, certainly, but also grumpy once again.

"Take this to Ron," Hermione commanded. With a broad smile, she added, "I might be back when you get there."

With a resigned twitter, the bird flew out the window she'd cracked open for him. As soon as it was shut again, she delved into her suitcase and removed her new wand, holding it gingerly in her palm. It was a poignant moment of realization. Finally it felt real. It felt as if she were really going to see them again.

Grabbing her bag from the bed, she scampered back downstairs, past the bemused receptionist, past the pavilion, past rows of skyscrapers, until she reached the imposing stance of the library. The same librarian greeted her but Hermione did not remain for small talk. She headed straight to the row of phone books, straight to the glossy Sydney directory, straight to the W's, and then…

W. & M. Wilkins

451 Cook Avenue

(02) 9690 0870

She choked back a whimper of excitement with the back of her hand. There was no need for her to grab a pen and paper; the words and numbers were permanently engrained in her mind already. Hermione snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf, hurrying back down the stairs with double the anticipation of before. The map was stowed in her bag and she ripped it out, viciously scanning the page for Cook Avenue…

\\*//

Hermione forgot to breathe as she stepped out of the taxi, peering with unsettled quietude at the quaint little house. The small front yard was encased by a short, decorative brick wall. The house was one story, beige stucco walls nestled beneath a rust-colored slate roof. A gnarled tree with red leaves sat beside its only companion, a tall, stout, green shrub. The front door was hidden at the end of a decorative cove, accented with the same rust color of the roof to offset the otherwise plain exterior of the house. The numbers '451' were emblazoned in gold on the black, tin mailbox sitting on the brick wall.

Her wand pressed pointedly against her from her back pocket, as if urging her to step forward. With legs like lead, she forced herself onward, crossing the cement stoop with its unassuming potted plants and coolly swaying wind chimes. With a deep breath that nearly made her pass out, Hermione reached out and with a frightening sense of climax, pressed the doorbell.

The gentle trill of the bell felt as sonorous as large church bells, echoing in her ears. She felt suspended in time as the seconds passed. The doorknob turned and her mouth went completely dry, her tongue stuck, incapacitated at the roof of her mouth as she looked up to the lined face of her father.

"Can I help you?" he asked with a slight Australian lilt.

For a few moments she could not breathe. A few moments after recovering from that lapse, she still could not think. When thoughts finally emerged, she could not bring herself to speak.

"Do I know you?" He looked rather puzzled.

And Hermione burst into tears.

His look of bemusement was replaced by alarm. He broke into a splutter of apologies and with the civility of a host, not a father, he guided her into the house.

"Monica!" he shouted down the hall, leading Hermione to the sofa in the sitting room. "Monica, come here please!"

He set a box of tissues in Hermione's lap and continued staring at her wildly, standing back where he was well removed from her, unsure what to do with this strange girl who had suddenly appeared at his doorstep.

"What is it, Wendell?" A woman with bushy brown hair streaked with gray jogged into the room from two doors down. When she saw Hermione, she looked frantically at her husband. Hermione heard them whispering harshly amongst themselves as she tried to calm herself. She'd messed it up. She'd forgotten to follow the plan. She'd let the chaos gain control. It was not difficult to imagine what her parents must be thinking now.

"Would you like to use a telephone?" her mother asked kindly, coming and sitting gingerly beside her on the sofa, as if afraid she would snap into a flying rage.

Hermione shook her head calmly with a sniff. Wiping her eyes, biting her lip, Hermione stood and slid one of her hands into her pocket. Her mother stood as well, backing towards her husband, both of them eyeing Hermione with great concern.

"Right," her mother began, clutching the man's fingers as they closed around her shoulder. "Well, my husband here is going to go call the police so we can get you some help, alright, dear? Would you like a cup of tea, see if you can finish calming down before they get here and take you home?"

Hermione shook her head and at once brandished her wand. She could hear the spell replaying itself, over and over in her mind, just as she'd practiced…

The two of them jumped at first, as if worried she had a gun or knife, but when they saw what she was holding, looks of confusion crossed their faces once again. The looks of fright they wore were just as painful to see as all those months ago when she'd first altered their memory bank.

"Redextus mentiris!" Hermione shouted with a final purge of these thoughts, attempting to focus.

A billow of pale blue smoke emitted from the end of her wand, engulfing the two figures on the other side of the room. Hermione coughed as the smoke dispersed, her eyes searching the haze for recognizable faces. Her parents emerged from the mist, dazed as they looked around the room they were familiar with, but for which they had no context.

"Hermione?" came her mother's voice as they glimpsed each other through the smoke. "What happened?"

Hermione dove across the room, practically throwing herself against her mother's form. She savored the tight arms around her, clutched desperately to the pale cardigan as she let loose. For the first time in over a year she at least felt free of responsibility for her own existence, free from being independent, free from having a plan, from being in charge. She did not even realize the tears were pouring again until she felt her mother shaking with sobs above her.

"Honey, what's wrong? What's happened? Please," Her mother sniffed and trembled with the fear of seeing her daughter so distraught, knowing something was terribly wrong. She pushed Hermione away so they could make eye contact. "What has happened to you?"

Hermione looked away shamefully, catching her father's stern gaze only momentarily before feeling yet another wave of disgrace wash over her. Her mother's grip on her shoulders tightened.

"Did you use magic on us? Why?" her mother demanded, giving Hermione a small shake.

"I had to," Hermione squeaked through a sob. "I had to, to protect you."

"You have a lot of explaining to do," her father said in the low voice that screamed disappointment, the quiet voice that made her wish he would yell instead. "Cecilia, why don't you two sit down. I'll get some tea and we'll have a talk."

Her mother looked as if she were debating between giving Hermione another tight embrace and having a screaming fit.

"What do you remember?" Hermione asked, wiping her face with her sleeve, taking shuddering breaths as they sat on the sofa. "What do you know? Do you know where you are? What day it is?"

"We're in Sydney, Australia," Cecilia replied calmly, shaking her head from side to side, incredulous. "I know I have not seen you in over a year. I know where I am. But I don't know why I'm here. It's as if I had a dream, where all the facts were different from reality but I believed them in the dream…Oh God, Hermione what did you do to us?" she pleaded.

Her father came back in with his stern gaze and handing her a cup of tea without so much as a flicker of a smile. Hermione considered vaguely what to include, what to exclude. She did not feel she could bear to lie outright to her parents even more, or even lie by omission. She had to tell them everything, so they could understand.

And so for the better part of that afternoon, Hermione Granger spilled out her soul over tea. Her mother went pale when she told them about being tortured. Her father went pale when she told them about kissing Ron. By the end, her voice was hoarse from explaining. Her eyes ached from crying so much and her cheeks stung from all the salty tears. Her mother and father looked entirely drained. They hung in silence for several minutes. It was dark, but their eyes had grown accustomed to the obscurity and they had forgotten to turn on the lights.

"Do you understand? Do you understand why I had to? To keep you safe?" Hermione said in a hoarse, hushed whisper. "Please understand, it killed me to do that to you, it really did…If there had been any other way…"

Something in her parents' looks told her they were still unhappy, but that they did comprehend her reasoning. It was the most she could ask for.