Landing in the spacious fireplace of her townhouse, Hermione barely had time to dust some ash from the cuff of her sleeve and the front of her blouse before she was ambushed by Crookshanks, demanding his supper.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," she told him, taking off her shoes by the hearthstone before heading through the open space over to her kitchen. "I'm not even that late!"
But the cat remained unappeased until he had been fed. After this task was completed, Hermione finally sank down onto the couch in the adjacent sitting area. Without the generous stipend awarded with her Order of Merlin, she would have never been able to afford this home in London. So when she glanced around at the rounded door frames, the built-in bookshelves, and the little garden out front of the neat little townhouse on a quiet street, she did so with a tinge of pride.
Then, she allowed a moment to feel sorry for herself.
There's got to be someone out there for you, Molly Weasley's voice rang in her ear. Are you looking?
But worse was what she had overheard Percy's wife, Audrey, saying: I just don't get it. She's got to be one of the most sought-after witches in Britain. Why is she still alone? Do you think she's in a secret relationship?
Though Audrey's remark had been an attempt at gossiping with Fleur, Molly's had been intended kindly, and that had been far worse. Hermione had known today would be rife with those kinds of comments; she had just returned home from a welcoming party for newborn Melody Weasley. Hermione had been delighted for Ron and Susan, who were deeply in love and new parents now. Just like she was also happy for Harry and Ginny, who had been married nearly six years and had their second child only just last March. As she absentmindedly scratched at an itch on her left shoulder, her eyes went to the wedding invitation on the coffee table. In a few months, George was marrying Angelina—Hermione was very happy for them, too.
It was just hard to feel happy for everyone all the time without also feeling that she was just a few months shy of twenty-seven, and more alone than ever.
So really, who can blame them for talking? wafted melancholy through her brain.
Suddenly, Crookshanks jumped on her lap and snapped her from her train of thought. With a laugh, she stroked his back. Crooks was an old cat now, with a more prominent spine and grayish fur that had grown in amongst his orange. "Finished your dinner, so on to your second order of business?"
The cat blinked at her, then headbutted her hand.
Some time later, after Hermione had changed into her night clothes and tied a silk scarf around her hair for the night, she decided, I'll work on some reports until bed. She stuck a chamomile tea bag into a mug, filled it with water from the tap, and cast a spell to heat the water. She cleared a small square of space at the kitchen table—loaded down with twelve different books often consulted for legal and historical research, along with a few older issues of the Daily Prophet and some other catalogues—and set to work. She had just settled in and was rummaging through a coffee mug full of pens, pencils, and well-worn quills… when it happened.
It started as a tickle in the back of her throat. She took a long draught of her tea—now oversteeped, as she had forgotten to take out the bag—but it did not seem to help.
In fact, it only got worse.
The feeling was building rapidly, like many tiny spiders crawling down her throat. Running to the kitchen sink, she briefly considered grabbing a glass to fill at the faucet, but decided that would take too long as she swiftly became overwhelmed with a sudden and intense heat. She turned on the tap and shoved her head under it to drink directly.
Something was very, very wrong. But it had come out of nowhere, and now it was no longer just her throat, but her face and her entire head. She tried to think what could have caused this, but was at a loss. In part because her main focus was on the fire which had now spread from her head and throat to engulf her whole chest.
Could it be poison?
Wrenching her head out from under the tap, she scrambled for her wand where she had left it on the kitchen table. A gasped-out poison detection spell came up with no results. Still, the spell was not infallible, and there was still definitely something happening to her.
She was beginning to feel nauseated. Tears streamed freely from her eyes, but she could not tell if it was from the terror of the situation, or because of the heat which now felt as if it had spread into every molecule of her being.
Lurching toward the cupboard beside the refrigerator where she kept her potions, she nearly tripped over Crookshanks, who was reacting to her distress by getting underfoot. Vision blurred, she searched in earnest for a general antidote, which she knew she had on hand. In her haste, she knocked over one of the small ceramic jugs she kept her potion ingredients in. It shattered when it hit the floor and splattered preserved fish eyes all over the kitchen.
Hissing with both annoyance and pain, she finally gave up trying to see anything through her tears and used the small amount of spare energy she was not currently employing on trying not to die, to wandlessly cast, "Accio General Antidote to Common Poisons."
The jar was only about as large as her thumb, and zoomed neatly into her hand. Her fingers shook as she unstoppered the vial. But even after she had managed to swallow the tansy-flavored potion, Hermione's breathing continued to come in heaving gulps. She had sunk into her kitchen chair to clutch at her chest, because the burning did not appear to be lessening—in fact, it almost seemed as if it were continuing to build.
Tears still streaming from her eyes, she grasped at the frayed ends of her present sanity, and reminded herself, Mundane, THEN magical.
She stood from the kitchen chair and staggered toward the refrigerator, but stumbled again because of Crookshanks.
"You're not helping," she snapped at the circling cat, scratching at her left shoulder while her other hand fanned her burning face. "In fact, you're about to be an orphan."
Catching her tone, Crookshanks flicked his tail before sauntering away.
Well there's no need to get sentimental, she thought dryly.
Wrenching open the freezer door, Hermione grabbed two ice cubes and pushed them into her mouth. It brought about some small relief, but not enough. As she tried to think of what else she could try, she realized her fingers were wet—with blood! She had been scratching so hard at her shoulder blade that she had—
Oh!
That was when it clicked.
Maybe she had not been poisoned, after all. She needed to get to the bathroom to use the mirror… she had to be sure.
Navigating her exit from the kitchen was tricky, given that the floor was covered in gelatinous fish eyes and broken ceramic besides. By the time she did finally reach the bathroom, she thought that maybe the heat had started abating somewhat; she could at least feel her extremities again, instead of the pinprick-tingling feeling she had felt a quarter of an hour ago.
She stopped in horror when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was leaking. Nevertheless, she yanked off her nightshirt, reached for a hand mirror, and propped her back end on the bathroom counter so she could examine her Fatemark up close.
Hermione had not paid any attention to the spookily white patch of skin on her shoulder in years, but as she squinted at it now, she thought she could detect the faintest hint of a pattern emerging. It was difficult to tell what the shape might turn out to be, especially since her scratching had raised red, raw welts all over the area. But it had definitely changed. Scooting closer to the mirror, she squinted through her tear-filled eyes and thought that perhaps—perhaps—it might also be more of a gray color than white now.
It wasn't poison, it's my Sense, she realized. If this was Sense-related, that ruled out sight, hearing, smell, and touch. Taste. It has to be.
But then she frowned, because if her Sense was taste, she had to wonder if her soulmate had been the one poisoned instead of her. Based on the pain currently still radiating through her upper torso, throat and head, she had to accept it was a possibility. A feeling of dread added to the burning sensation of recent dragonfire all along her esophagus and settled into her roiling stomach.
Seeking the numerous volumes that lined her bookshelves back in the living room, she went for Soul Marks: Their Origin and Characteristics. It was a Muggle text from 1955 that Hermione's mother had given her, but was still one of the best published resources on the subject. Reading was difficult due to her still-leaking eyes, but somehow Hermione managed to check the index and flip to the appropriate page for what she was looking for:
A Fatemark presents itself at birth, and begins as a white space. They are often shapeless, sometimes round, and can be located anywhere on a person's body. Once the time grows closer for two Fatemarked individuals to meet, the mark will begin to take its true form (see Chapter 4). Once fully formed, a Fatemark will retain its shape and color until one half of a bonded pair dies, at which time both Fatemarks will undergo their final transformation, by turning black.
Which was good, because Hermione had just checked hers and it was still a white-gray. But then she frowned again, because if her soulmate had not been poisoned, it meant there was also a possibility that he had eaten something that awful on purpose.
"Are you kidding me?" she demanded out loud.
Mercifully, the heat of the Sense attack had at last receded into something Hermione deemed tolerable, but only just. She returned to the kitchen in order to fetch herself some more ice cubes, only to find Crookshanks licking at the fish eyes she had accidentally left spattered all over the kitchen.
"Bad Crookshanks, no!" she exclaimed, swatting him away.
The cat scampered off, but the damage had been done, and nearly half of the mess had already been licked up. A second later, she heard him puking it back up in the sitting room.
With a deep sigh and some handy spellwork, she cleaned up her kitchen and fetched herself an entire glass of ice cubes. After the cat-sick had also been vanished, she settled onto her couch and consulted Soul Marks: Their Origin and Characteristics again. This time, she focused on the Sense of taste, but found there was very little information of value there.
As she lay in bed that night, disappointed from the lack of data, and still suffering from the attack itself, she reflected on how unfair it all really was.
As a nineteen-year-old who had just been through a war and a devastating break-up, she had traveled to Australia to spend a hellish few months there. For the second time, she had to walk away from the only living relatives she knew, for their own good, and again she had to do it alone.
She had become a highly successful witch, working her way up through the ranks of the Ministry and making real change. There had already been some talk that she would become Minister for Magic someday. She had done all that alone, too.
Dammit, she had built something for herself from the ashes of a crumbling world and had turned herself into a powerful, successful witch… and she had done it alone.
So, what? Now that I've done all the heavy lifting, he just gets to show up and be a part of it all? That did not seem very fair to her.
She decided that at least for now, she was going to ignore her Sense entirely.
.
.
At first, simply ignoring her soulmate and his questionable grasp of what was okay to put in his mouth, had seemed like a good idea. Hermione continued to eat her daily Nutri-Wafers, salads, and sparse dinners as if nothing had happened. On that first day, she had been on edge, jittery and waiting for another attack—but it never came.
She relaxed somewhat on the second and third days. By the time the fourth day had rolled around, she was feeling more confident that the incident had been a one-off. Hopeful, even.
So of course, that was when the cheeky bugger chose to strike again.
It was just after two in the morning when Hermione was roused from her sleep by… well, she was not exactly sure what.
Crookshanks was sprawled across the foot of her bed, taking up most of the space there, but he looked up when she sat up. For a moment, Hermione thought her tongue had swollen up in her mouth. Frowning, she opened it and touched her tongue with her fingers. It felt normal.
What on earth?
A second later, she was hit with the same sensation that had roused her in the first place—except now that she was awake to experience it fully, it was far, far worse. She had been hit with the slimiest, thickest sensation on her tongue, and along with it came the taste of something cold, salty, and gross—like a sea mucus.
Her throat convulsed. Flinging the covers off, Hermione leapt out of bed and raced to the bathroom. She dry heaved for a little while, but did not actually vomit.
Once the sensations had stopped and she decided she was not going to be sick, she brushed her teeth thoroughly and trudged back to bed. She was exhausted and on edge, her Fatemark was itching like crazy, and she was still silently panicking because of this new attack.
As she lay there in bed, trying to decide if she should rest or use this unexpected time to catch up on work, it occurred to her how lucky it was that this had happened in the middle of the night. It could have happened later that morning, during her presentation to the Wizengamot.
That would have been a disaster. It was a sobering thought.
Oblivious, Crookshanks had crawled further up the bed to get comfortable right beside his mistress. Reaching out a hand to scratch at his shoulders, Hermione tried to make sense of it all. As she wracked her memory, she realized she'd had other instances of Sense beyond just this and the dragonfire incident.
About a week and a half ago, Imelda had been briefing her on some upcoming deadlines. Picking a crouton off the top of the salad she had been grazing on, Hermione had popped it in her mouth, only to pause and wonder why it tasted like citrus.
At the time she had dismissed it as, The salad dressing must have gone off.
She had vanished the remaining collection of sad lettuce leaves and uninspiring dressing without much regret. Except then the burping had begun, which had embarrassed her in front of her assistant. The old witch had scrutinized her through her monocle, attached to a golden chain that hooked onto a waistcoat inside of her robes. "All right, there?"
"Yes," Hermione tried to reassure her, except she had to pause to burp again. "I'm fine." She stifled another as best she could.
But part of why Hermione liked Imelda so much was that she was efficient and did not pry. She simply went on telling her about the upcoming deadlines while both of them pretended Hermione was not trying to stifle several more embarrassing burps.
Now, a week and a half later, as she scratched at her shoulder, she wondered, How did I miss that? It seemed her Sense had been going on for longer than she realized.
The language of food was not one Hermione was well-versed in, and she knew it. She subsisted on what was simple. Breakfast was always the same magical meal substitute that delivered a perfect balance of nutrition based on the body's needs of the person ingesting it; Nutri-Wafers were convenient for her busy life, but they did not taste like, well... anything really. Prepackaged salads from a Muggle shop were a simple option to bring to work for lunch. Dinner was often rice and beans, pasta, or takeaway. Occasions where she went to the Burrow, usually once a fortnight, were considered a real treat because she got to indulge in Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking.
Her lack of interest in food had never been an issue before. Except now it is.
But more importantly, it appeared that between the embarrassing burping incident and the Fiendfyre from before, plus the oceanic slime she had just swallowed, Hermione's soulmate was not the kind, loving partner she had always hoped for.
Haven't I suffered enough?
Begrudgingly, she thought it fitting with the legacy of her troublesome Fatemark, that even this part would be difficult.
.
.
Fourteen Years Prior ~
Of all the students at Hogwarts, it was just her luck that it was Lavender Brown who first discovered Hermione's Fatemark. It happened in the dormitory on the very first night of second year. Parvati was still in the shower, but as the girls were getting ready for bed, Lavender happened to look over as Hermione was changing into her pyjamas. The too-white amorphous mark on her left shoulder blade shone like a beacon on her dark skin, impossible to miss.
"Is that a Fatemark?" Lavender immediately demanded.
Like everyone else, Hermione had grown up hearing the songs sung about soulmates, reading the novels written, and seeing the movies—but even more importantly, her own parents were Fatemarked and they were sometimes embarrassingly in love. But she had no idea how much of that translated into the wizarding world.
She did not know Lavender very well. Of the three Gryffindor girls that shared the dormitory, Hermione was definitely the outsider. "Yes. But please don't tell anyone."
The other girl made a zipping motion across her lips. "My lips are sealed."
A week later, Hermione tried asking Professor McGonagall about it after Transfiguration. The professor had looked her in the eye and warned, "Most witches and wizards who have them consider them very private, the same as Muggles."
"Perhaps you could direct me toward some books?" Hermione asked hopefully.
She might have sworn that McGonagall had smiled, though a second later she decided it had been her imagination. Nevertheless, she was given the title of a book to start with and she set to work. Unfortunately, none of her research provided her with many answers. She learned that amongst the magic users of Britain, only one in every 2000 people on average were born with them.
Most people who have them consider them very private.
She suddenly hated that Lavender knew she had one.
Ten Years Ago ~
Just when Hermione had finally begun to hope that perhaps the other witch had forgotten about the Fatemark entirely, sixth year happened and Lavender began to pursue Ron.
The girls had argued bitterly one night, and Lavender had pulled the secret out of her back pocket and slapped Hermione in the face with it: "Just back off, Granger. Ron doesn't have a Fatemark—I asked him—so he's not meant for you, anyway."
For a moment, she warred with herself over how she felt about this statement, now that it was out there. Did she trust Lavender to tell the truth about something this important? When she stared back into her rival's blue eyes, Hermione saw only genuine triumph. It's true, Ron's not Fatemarked.
So she let Lavender have him.
After The War ~
In the end, Ron had finally come to care for her all on his own. Yet even as Hermione enjoyed his clumsy but sincere courting of her, in the back of her mind, she knew.
He's not meant for you, anyway. She could not bear to tell him about her Fatemark.
It was two months into summer when he found it on his own. In defiance of the sticky July heat, things had grown hot between them. They had just progressed past kissing and Hermione's blouse had come off.
She knew exactly when he saw it, because he became very still and quiet. Slowly, one of Ron's hands reached out to touch her shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me you're Fatemarked?"
Feeling as though she had been suddenly drenched in ice water, she told him honestly, "I don't like to think about it."
The incident had brought about the immediate end of their relationship. Ron had retreated to a careful emotional distance, while Hermione's heart had broken in two. Then and there, she made a pact with herself that she would never pursue any serious relationship until her Fatemark let her know that it was time...
.
.
Present Day ~
Foolishly, she believed they had reached an impasse.
That hope was obliterated the following morning during an unscheduled conference Hermione was having with the Head of the Department of International Cooperation. His name was Isaias Griffiths and he had recently stormed into her office—somewhat justifiably, since two of the Aurors that reported to her had apparently caused issues for Griffths' department while they had been undercover in Austria.
"Look, I understand why you're upset," she was telling Griffiths. "I assure you, Chowdhury and Featherstone will be receiving disciplinary action—"
"It's not enough, Granger," Griffiths interrupted, banging his fist on her desk for emphasis. "They damaged a historical site and Muggle property, none of which they had clearance for—"
"They accidentally backed into a sign in front of a historical site, which was fixed within five minutes, and the damage to that rental car has already been taken care of with the company in the normal Muggle way."
"It doesn't take much," he insisted darkly. "Not much to have an Incident. Capital I."
"While I appreciate your vigilance, Griffiths, considering that there has not been an Incident, capital I or otherwise, I suggest—"
But Hermione could not finish the sentence, because at that moment, she was bludgeoned with the acrid bite of the sourest thing she had ever tasted. It was so brutal, it froze her in her tracks and caused not just her lips, but her entire face to pucker.
Embarrassment flushed like a heat wave though her body. Once she had regained some semblance of control over her face again, she said, "Er, excuse me just a moment."
Though still simmering with anger, Griffiths was now also looking at her in confusion as she hustled from her office, leaving the door ajar and hastening toward the bathrooms. Why had this needed to happen in front of Griffiths of all people?
In the back of her mind, she mentally repeated, Kill me, just kill me now.
The attack lasted for nearly ten minutes.
She returned to find Griffiths had gone. Imelda slid into the office a moment later to inform her that the impossible man had actually left to go above her head and yell at Robards—and now, not just about Chowdhury and Featherstone, but about Hermione, too.
That was too far. Clearly, her soulmate was going to continue making poor food choices. Not only that, but as he had just demonstrated, he could strike at any time, and even affect her work. It was unacceptable.
She sent Imelda down to the Honeydukes stall that had popped up in the Ministry lobby, instructing her to buy a box of whichever breath mints were the strongest. Meanwhile, she quickly gathered a couple of incident reports and raced over to Robards' office to defend herself while Griffiths was still there.
She had to apologize to Griffiths in the end, trying to explain it by saying she thought she had been experiencing an allergic reaction to something she had eaten. It was mortifying.
An entire large tin of Ice Pips were already waiting at her desk when she returned. Opening the lid, Hermione crunched down on three of the breath mints at once, determined to send her soulmate a message of her own. She was assaulted with a cooling mint that chilled even her teeth for a few seconds, and made them chatter. Mentally, she considered herself to be issuing a polite, but firm request that her soulmate immediately cease and desist.
There was no response through her Sense for the rest of the day, which was just as well, because she dealt with the fallout from her botched meeting with Griffiths until she finally left for home, exhausted.
Not feeling very charitable toward her soulmate—who she felt had been almost entirely to blame for the heinous day she'd had—she ordered the worst curry she could find in London for dinner as a form of punishment. As she ate it, she realized, "I have a problem."
"Mrrt," Crookshanks answered from the couch.
.
.
But as if the burping, burning, sourness, and mystery sea substance had not been enough, another attack came, almost as if scheduled, on the stroke of 8:00 the next morning. She was just about to open a Nutri-Wafer to eat as she got ready for the day, when she was hit by what could only be described as vomit and expired milk… and it was going down instead of coming up.
Whatever it actually was, it was the most vile thing Hermione had ever tasted: sour, salty, and a little bit like it was trying to be milk and failing. She wanted to cut her tongue off—and she had left the box of Ice Pips at work.
She made the mistake of letting a burp surface, and as bad as it was the first time, it was a million times worse coming back up. This time, she knew she was not going to be as lucky as before. She barely made it to the bathroom in time to vomit.
A short time later, once her stomach had stopped thrashing as if she had swallowed live eels, Hermione was finally able to stand again. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she had not realized she was crying. Swiping at her eyes, she then groaned in frustration when she realized she had now made it worse by smudging her make-up.
That was when she saw red. She did not know what she had done to deserve these attacks. She knew for a fact that she had enemies, especially after her part in the war and her subsequent years with the DMLE. Briefly, she entertained the idea that her soulmate was a dissenter out to get her, except that would imply they knew who she was. Given that she had zero clue who they might be, she hoped that was not the case.
She called out of work, and owled instructions to Imelda so she would not fall too far behind. Besides, laying low for a day was not a horrible idea. On the off chance that someone was out to get her (besides Griffiths, who would be furious she had stayed home, or worse, consider it a victory), it was practically playing it safe.
Besides, her stomach was still churning from being sick...
Along with the lingering unease in her gut, disappointment was swirling there as well. Her Fatemarked parents had a beautiful love story to accompany their experience. Now that it was Hermione's turn, it was not a romantic discovery like all the stories. It was painful and humiliating.
All the remarks she had ever been subjected to came rushing back with stunning clarity:
I just don't get it. Why is she still alone?
Just back off, Granger… he's not meant for you, anyway.
There's got to be someone out there for you. Are you looking?
Why didn't you tell me you're Fatemarked?
This was supposed to be a blessing, a rare and beautiful thing. But somehow, she had got stuck with some arsehole who was determined to make her life hell.
Hermione had never been one to back down from a challenge. If the cad on the other end of her Fatemark thought she was going to go down without a fight, he had another thing coming.
Calmly, she ate a Nutri-Wafer to replenish her body from being sick, then took a shower. She went through the process of oiling her hair and combing through it, but then tying it up as if she were getting ready for bed.
This accomplished, she returned to her kitchen and rooted around in her refrigerator for a moment before pulling out a red onion. She sat at the table and set it down in front of her, reaching for her wand to begin meticulously removing the outer skin of it.
"So that's how you want to play this, hmm?" she muttered murderously under her breath.
She did not deserve to be attacked. Since it was happening anyway, no matter what she did, Hermione had finally decided she did not have to take it lying down.
Peeled now to reveal bright purple skin, the onion sat on top of her stack of reports, waiting. She snatched it up, gave herself a brief mental pep talk, and then took a huge bite out of it as if it were an apple. It's on.
A/N: I don't own the characters, the plot, or really any of this stuff. Ice Pips are a kind of fish in the video game Stardew Valley, but I also thought it was a cool name for a magical breath mint. Cold sea mucus courtesy of Kyonomiko.
I'm so grateful for my friends who have agreed to take this new journey with me. For Witches-Britches, a cheeky bugger with a bushel of onions. For sarenia, a pile of so many tiny Voids (and they all want to play). For iwasbotwp, your usual water tower filled with glitter.
Thank you also to all of the incredibly kind people that dropped by to let me know they were reading along. I love hearing your thoughts and reactions—they even shape the story sometimes. You never know!