author's notes:
This story is not and will never be abandoned, so no need to worry. Life got crazy. Thanks for your patience.
This chapter is short; the ending needed to be savored.
The next chapter is longer. Check back over this week or subscribe to the story because said chapter is going up soon. Review replies will continue with this chapter.
Posting without a beta for now because I just got home and wanted to get it up as promised.
Happy Valentine's Day, friends. I've missed you.
ToT fans, I think you'll enjoy this.
Thanks go to my beta, [ pornflakes! ]
fair fortune
by
sweetasylums
"Hello, my old heart,
how have you been?
Are you still there inside my chest?"
- The Oh Hellos
"Relax."
It's a command, not a request.
The man that's speaking has his wand raised. It's pointed at her father's chest.
In the man's defense, her father has already swung the heavy broom at the man's head. Twice.
"Sir, it's alright. I know this is startling to you, but we're not here to hurt you."
Robert swings the broom again; the handle nearly makes contact with one of the intruders' faces.
"Just stun him!" another man shouts. "He's too stubborn to hear reason!"
"Lower your wands," Hermione interjects. "Dad, put the broom down."
Everyone in the room turns to her, confused for their own reasons. One of the men, tall with dark eyes, regards her with increasing interest. Robert's knuckles are white from clutching his makeshift weapon.
"It's okay, Dad. They're not dangerous."
And they aren't - not now, at least.
"They're the A.M.R.S."
"Accidental Magic Reversal Squad?" her father murmurs, watching the scene on the street unfold from their shattered bay window. "I guess that's… just how it sounds?"
"Yes," she says, shifting her gaze to glance up at her father. He looks down at her in turn. "Wizards aren't very subtle."
"Squad, though? They couldn't think of a better name?" he jokes.
"They probably thought it sounded cool," she tells him with a smile.
Exhaustion is pulsing through her. She hasn't felt this spent since Malfoy Manor. Her knees are shaking from the strain of standing.
Footsteps wander back and forth upstairs; her mother is putting Petunia and Lily to sleep in the master bedroom. Both girls could barely keep their eyes open when they followed Ivy up the stairs. Their own beds were too littered with glass to lay in - Hermione feels a pang of guilt at the thought.
"Look," Robert tells her, and she does. The A.M.R.S. line the streets. They wave their wands in unison and a loud scraping sound follows, then a tinkering - like glass breaking, but not quite. The shards lift up off of the ground and find their mates. Windows piece themselves back together in midair, hurtling towards the frames they belong to. A thick wall of glass rebuilds itself inches from their faces. Robert inhales sharply and steps back in awe.
Panic overwhelms the crowd. The neighbors in the street gasp, shout. They cry witchcraft, devilry. Some even run.
"They're handling this very poorly," Hermione berates, barely noticing the window that just righted itself a few centimeters from her nose. She chalks it up to the squad's training - but when do they ever have an accidental magic case of this size? They're used to changing hair color and deflating aunts.
Neighbors run back to their houses, slam their doors - as if that plank of wood will keep the devils out.
Popping sounds echo throughout the street and the strangers disappear into thin air.
"Where've they gone? They can't just leave," Robert says, aghast.
"They haven't," she tells him. "They're in the houses."
On cue, there are distant screams and glowing lights through windows. One by one, each house falls calm.
"What d'you reckon they're doing?" her father asks.
Obliviation, she thinks. But that's a word she shouldn't know. "They're modifying their memories."
"What?" he asks, confusedly.
She moves from the window, sits back down on the sofa, weary.
"They're making them forget."
It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
There's a knock on the door.
"Hello, Mr. Evans," a female voice says from the entryway. "I'm a doctor from St. Mungo's Hospital. I'm here to see your daughter, Hermione, to make sure she's alright."
"St. Mungo's, you say?"
"Yes, sir. It's a hospital for wizards and witches."
Robert sighs, shuts the door. Footsteps follow. "She's just through here."
Her father looks worn down. It had been hard for Hermione to adjust to a magic world in the beginning, even with constant exposure, but there is so much unknown to Muggle parents. She never stopped to think about how alienating it must feel to have a magical child but have no resources to research the magical world.
"Hello, Hermione," greets a witch in lime green robes. Her hair is a dark, curly brown, pinned up in a bun.
"Hello," she responds, staring up at the medi-witch. Her eyes are blue; kind. There is something so familiar about them.
"Don't get up," she instructs when Hermione makes to stand. "You just relax." There's a black bag in her hand that she props up on the table, reaches down into it until she's shoulder-deep. "I'm a doctor," she says again. "Well, a healer, as they call it in our world." Our world. Robert raises a brow at that. But the witch doesn't understand. Purebloods never do. "You can call me Healer Pomfrey."
Hermione stares up in shock. "What's your first name?"
"Poppy," the healer answers with a smile. "I believe you and I are both named after flowers."
"My sisters are too," Hermione tells her, trying to keep the woman speaking. It's nice to hear her voice again. There are no lines on her face, no grey in her hair. She's younger now, they have that in common, too.
"The best tend to be," Poppy Pomfrey says with a wink, and then she's off to work. She sits still as the healer checks her vitals with various pokes and prods of the shining silver instrument she pulled out of her bag.
"Hermione," she says, checking her pulse point. Her eyes peer down at her, not unkind. "Can you tell me what happened tonight?"
"I…" she begins, trying to figure it out herself. "I don't know. I had a bad dream."
"Does this type of thing often happen when you have bad dreams?"
She's about to say 'no' when her father interjects. "Never like this."
It surprises her.
"Does she often do magic in her sleep?" Poppy asks.
"Yes," says Robert, "but it's minor. You know, vases flying. She floats over her bed. Sometimes we get knocked back when we try to wake her up. That sort of thing. I'm sure you see it all the time."
Either Madam Pomfrey's face isn't as unreadable as it used to be or Hermione is more perceptive now, but she can see it clearly. No, she doesn't see this sort of thing all the time.
"What about while you're awake, dear? Does this happen?"
She thinks of light bulbs bursting overhead, Lily crying. "Sometimes."
Poppy places her hand on Hermione's shoulder and squeezes it gently, comfortingly.
"I apologize, Mr. Evans," the former (future?) matron says in a sympathetic way, looking to Hermione's father. "But it's my professional opinion that your daughter be brought to St. Mungo's for further evaluation."
The children's ward is dim and quiet during this late hour.
Robert sits in a squishy beige armchair beside her bed. He's hugging a bucket to his chest, his face pointed downward into it.
"That was bloody horrible," he says, and his voice echoes from within the pail. "Why would they subject themselves to that?"
"I think they get used to it after a while," Hermione lends, patting him on the knee. He has had his first experience with Apparition and it hasn't sat well with his stomach. It never does, in the beginning. "Want another anti-nausea mint?"
"Yes," he says, miserably, lifting his head. There's a red ring around his face, an impression from the rim of the bucket. She tries to hide her smile as he plucks away the silver candy from between her fingers.
"Thanks, Dad," she says, softly.
"For what?"
"For not getting mad at me."
"Why the hell would I be mad at you?"
"For all this," she motions around them. "For the trouble I'm causing all of you."
"Darling," he says, as seriously as he can with a red ring around his face. "You are no trouble at all. You're my daughter and you're perfect just the way you are."
Something settles deep within her chest at that. Something warm. Something safe.
"Besides," he says with a wink, "my life would be very boring if I didn't have two witches for daughters. Fear nothing in life but dullness and banality, Hermione."
At that, he shoves his head back in the bucket and retches.
It almost drowns out the sounds of her laughter.
The lilac privacy curtain is pulled aside as her father recovers. Poppy Pomfrey is back, and beside her is a tall, regal-looking wizard in deep purple robes. She can tell from the colour of the fabric that he's the Healer in charge of this ward.
"Good evening, Mr. Evans," says the man. "I'm the overseeing healer here. I'll be your daughter's primary care healer henceforth."
Robert blinks, surprised. "Does the chief physician normally deal with accidental magic cases directly?"
Hermione feels a swell of pride when she hears it. Her father is learning quickly, already asking the right questions.
"This case is special," the man replies, looking as impressed as she feels.
A squeaking sound echoes across the floor - a chair wheels up behind the Healer of its own accord and he sits, folding his hands over his abdomen. He's very good-looking, she notices. A strong jaw and perfect nose - like an aged Stubby Boardman, she thinks - his hair grey with a patch of off-centre black.
"Hello, Hermione," he greets with a charming smile. "I'm here to help you." His eyes are a startling shade of silver-blue. Her stomach jolts - she doesn't know why. She's sure she has seen those eyes before. In a dream? A memory?
"My name," he says, "is Alphard Black."