The paris street swarmed around her and the cool summer air did nothing to stem the smell of side streets, awash with dumpsters and the amber lights of traffic swirling through the updrafts of the heaving metro below. In the streets old men sat at cafes while gypsys hawked out the bright nylon coats of tourists, jangling their wares and calling out into the night air. This was a foreign city.
Hermione was used to foreign places. Try emerging from your typical suburban childhood to a castle in Scotland. Try camping through the country under the threat of death. Try living as a mudblood.
And yet while the street hummed jarringly around her the same thud in her chest was inescapable. Her heart. Thudding. Beating its way out of her chest with every step she took through the darkening streets. Drumming to the nylon shopfronts, the older arching, brickwork, terraces, the city a jumble of ages and progress and people. Every sort of person imaginable.
All muggles.
She was safe.
And yet as she descending down the pock marked pavement into the mouth of the metro, Hermione held on just that little bit tighter to her bag; it stored everything she had left in the world- surely it was justified if she traced a path through the tiled tunnels with a hypersensitive awareness of those around her.
They were all muggles.
She was safe.
She stood with her back to the wall and pulled her coat around her.
She was safe.
A rush of hot air whistled through the platform and the masses, eager to get home or out or away, or tired and looking longingly to the doors in hope of a free seat to carry them mindlessly into the evening; or shiftily, hunched over, hands in pockets, eyes darting, winding through the crowd.
She didn't move.
In front of her, a familiar profile shone off the trains' scratched surface, distorted by the neon lighting perhaps, but still, the reflection before her was unmistakable.
There before her stood Hermione Granger.
The hair, the worried stance, the dishevelled clothing she'd hastily pulled from her bag that morning, so long ago, at Fleur's parents.
Except she was not Hermione Granger.
As the train's doors drew to a close and the air of the station pulled from around her, seemingly pushing the train through into the darkness of the tunnel, the reflection was gone. The platform around her started to fill again, and still she stood, staring down at the empty tracks, bag clutched tightly and coat drawn. She stood until the people around her jostled once more and another wave of warmth proceeded the whistling of signals. She looked out into the reflection once more and now saw the fear in those bagged and bleary eyes.
She was no longer Hermione Granger
Hermione Granger was a witch
Hermione Granger had befriended and helped the chosen one end the reign of the dark lord.
Hermione Granger was significant in the wizarding world.
Hermione Granger had a host of talented witches and wizards behind her as friends, colleagues, family.
She was alone
She was a wandless 19-year-old woman, traipsing about the muggle underground with no-where to go and a measly 20 euro to her name.
She was in crumpled muggle clothing, idealistically and naively attempting to reform the wizarding world while her mass of unmistakable hair signaled her out to anyone wandering about with a wand.
She was not safe.
The barber seemed bemused when she'd asked him to cut it all off. But the bright room was empty and the small barbers nestled between a backpackers and an internet café survived off the whims of travellers darting in and out through the day and night. He merely raised a bushy eyebrow and set the tanned experienced hands to work combing through the young English woman's mane of hair.
He thrust an aged magazine at her, asking in impatient broken English to point out what she wanted. Then with nothing more than a grunt he set upon her with little other thought than the remaining hour of his day, and whether the night outside would still lilt with warmth as he made his way home.
Hermione felt nothing as he finished, merely reaching for her single crumpled 20 Euro bill, looking at the fallen strands strewn about her.
After an age she looked up to the stranger before her.
She was no longer Hermione Granger.
She was safe.
She was still in the street, walking aimlessly when her phone rang. The voice of Ginny carried over the traffic, the throng of tourists, the homeless man mumbling, the street vendors barking out their wares.
"Hermione?"
Ginny's voice, raised in the doubtful shout of a pureblood using muggle technology, seemed far away.
She supposed it was far away.
"Ginny, I'm glad to hear your voice. How's everything"
"Ron's out of hospital and back with mum. Dennis has just come over to Grimauld, and Bill's sorted out some euros. Are you somewhere I can owl?"
Hermione started for a moment, looking at the street about her. An old church sat on the corner of a wide shaded boulevard, the street light dappling across the ancient stone work. To her left what looked remarkably like a brothel flashed it's ambigious 'open' sign in a spill of neon. Further ahead, a convenience store parked itself behind a set of traffic lights. She had no idea where exactly she was and there was nowhere she could stay to wait for an owl.
"Can you put Dennis on?"
If Ginny seemed affronted as she handed the small plastic square over, only the staticy silence betrayed it.
"Hermione? Are you okay?"
Hermione faltered for a moment, before determinedly setting her pace for the church ahead.
"I'm fine. Dennis, have you apparated long distance before?"
"Uh… no. Not really."
Opening the creaking church gate, she made her way up the shadowed path and listened intently for the sounds of life within, her eye peeled for any source of light as she made her way around the building, coming to a small parsonage hedge by a wild, tiny courtyard.
"Hermione?"
She hated to ask the boy on the other line but as she tucked herself into the stairwell leading to the chapels locked door, she weighed her options up against her guilt.
"I'm sorry Dennis, I just had to find somewhere private to talk. I've found somewhere to stay and I just need you to send over the galleons, but I need you to exchange them first. You wouldn't raise any suspicion."
"Bill thought of that already. We've got euro's. It's just a matter of getting them to you. We've been talking about it all afternoon, Ginny thought an owl would be the best bet. A fast tracked owl from dover could get to you in a few hours."
"Is there anyone there who could apparate here without raising suspicion?"
"Just me. Where exactly are you? Do I take a couple of jumps? How does it work?"
Hermione drew in a shuttered breath, huddling further into the cold stone at her back. She was no longer Hermione Granger. Bringing her knees up to her chest, and bringing a hand to run through the few inches of hair left, she scraped together her reserves of strength.
Hermione Granger was who Dennis needed. Hermione Granger was who muggleborns throughout Britain needed.
With deep breaths, and a lowered tone, Hermione reached within and let the memorised theory of apparition spring to mind. Over a cheap burner phone, she let her naive school girls voice raise Dennis' confidence.
It was only when the phone finally emitted it's pulsing dial tone that she sunk into the dark stone around her. She hoped Dennis didn't splinch himself, but as she stared out at the empty courtyard, she felt nothing.
