A Path Forged
Hermione’s feet found a familiar path, one etched deep in her childhood memories, though it had been years since she last tread this ground. The Forest of Dean stretched around her, its towering trees forming a natural cathedral of intertwined branches. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor, but the peaceful serenity of her surroundings only contrasted with the storm raging in her mind.
She remembered walking this trail as a child, her small hand clasped in her father’s, her mother’s cheerful voice guiding them forward. They would laugh and marvel at the wonders of nature, collecting smooth pebbles from the stream or searching for birds in the treetops. Back then, the forest had been a place of exploration and safety, an escape from the world’s complications.
Now, it felt different—haunted, almost. The same trees stood watch over her, but they seemed older, more solemn, their gnarled trunks whispering of time gone by. Her chest tightened with the weight of her thoughts, memories of Harry’s smile and his final words playing over and over in her mind. “I trust you. You won’t get it wrong.”
But what if he was wrong? What if she was wrong?
Her logical mind warred with her emotions, each thought vying for dominance. Fear clawed at her resolve, whispering of failure and unintended consequences. Could she really change the course of history? Would her actions create a future even darker than the one she sought to leave behind?
And yet, through the cacophony of doubt, a thread of determination began to weave its way through. She remembered the nights spent in this forest during the Horcrux hunt, the cold seeping into her bones and the constant threat of discovery hanging over them. But there had been moments of light, too—moments of quiet solace with Harry. She could almost hear the echo of their laughter as they danced under the stars, the weight of their burdens momentarily lifted.
Hermione stopped for a moment, placing a trembling hand on the rough bark of a tree. She took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves, letting it ground her. This forest wasn’t just a place of fear or uncertainty—it was a symbol of hope. It was where she had once made a silent vow to Harry, a promise to stand by his side no matter what.
Now, the promise felt heavier, more binding. He wasn’t here to lead the way this time, but his voice lingered in her mind, a steady beacon guiding her forward. “I trust you.”
She squared her shoulders and continued down the path, each step becoming firmer, her heartbeat steadier. The weight of Harry’s faith in her was immense, but it also carried an unshakable truth: he believed in her. And maybe, just maybe, she could start to believe in herself, too.
With that newfound belief simmering within her, Hermione finally took stock of herself and the few belongings she had brought with her into this new reality. Her trusty beaded bag, its enchantments holding a myriad of essential items, was slung over her shoulder, hanging dutifully at her side. She ran her fingers over its familiar fabric, a strange mixture of comfort and melancholy filling her chest as she thought of the countless times it had carried her through their journey.
A pang of sadness struck as she opened the bag, the first item catching her eye stopping her breath. Right at the top, crumpled but unmistakable, were the dress robes Harry had worn to Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Hermione gently lifted the soft fabric, her fingers brushing over the folds. The memory of that day flashed vividly in her mind—Harry grinning as he adjusted the robes, a rare moment of levity amidst the darkness that surrounded them. Her throat tightened, and she pressed the robes to her chest for a moment, drawing comfort from the reminder of simpler, happier times.
Her gaze fell to the bag again, and she began sifting through its contents. Books with dog-eared pages and scribbled notes peeked out alongside an assortment of empty and full potion bottles. Each item told a story, a testament to the desperate fight they had waged. But it wasn’t until she noticed a glimmer of silvery fabric that her breath caught. Trembling, she reached in and carefully pulled out the corner of Harry’s invisibility cloak.
The cloak spilled out into her hands, its slippery, fluid-like material cascading over her palms like water. Hermione’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She brought the cloak to her face, pressing the cool, silken fabric against her cheek. It was as if Harry had left her one final gift, a piece of himself to guide and protect her in this new, uncertain path. Tears dripped onto the cloak, each one carrying the weight of her grief, her gratitude, and her love for the friend who had entrusted her with so much.
“I’ll take care of this,” she whispered into the quiet of the forest, her voice trembling with emotion. “I promise, Harry. I’ll take care of it for you.”
With great care, she folded the cloak and tucked it back into the bag, a silent vow settling in her heart.
Her hand brushed against something solid and unfamiliar as she reached deeper into the bag. Her fingers curled around it instinctively, and as she withdrew the object, a wave of revulsion hit her. In her hands was Bellatrix Lestrange’s walnut wand.
Hermione’s stomach churned at the sight of it. The wand felt wrong—its twisted, malevolent energy a stark reminder of its previous owner. Memories of Malfoy Manor rushed back to her: Bellatrix’s taunting voice, her cruel laughter, and the sharp, searing pain of the curse she had inflicted. Hermione’s jaw tightened, her grief morphing into something sharper and angrier.
Without hesitation, she gripped each end of the wand, her knuckles whitening as she summoned her strength. With a crack that echoed through the forest, the wand snapped cleanly in two. She stared at the broken pieces for a moment, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her.
“This doesn’t belong here,” she said aloud, her voice steadier now, the venom of Bellatrix’s cruelty having no place in the world she intended to build. Hermione threw the fragments to the forest floor, watching as they fell among the leaves.
Breathing deeply, she wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand and looked back into her bag. There was still so much to do, so much to prepare for. But for the first time since Harry’s death, a tiny ember of purpose flickered within her.
With the last of the darkness melting away, Hermione reached back into the bag one final time, her fingers brushing against something cool and metallic. A smile broke across her face as she withdrew a handful of golden Galleons, their familiar weight reassuring her in this unfamiliar time. Relief washed over her. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to withdraw her funds before she and the boys set off on their Horcrux hunt. This simple act of preparation was now her lifeline.
With a satisfied nod, Hermione tucked the coins back into her bag. A new sense of determination filled her, and her steps quickened, carrying her toward the exit of the Forest of Dean. The woods, once a place of solace and reflection, had served as the backdrop for her most emotional moments with Harry. Now, it had given her the clarity to move forward into the unknown.
Her thoughts began to race again, each step bringing her closer to the reality of what lay ahead. Who should she be in this time? Hermione Granger was a name that carried weight in her own world, but here, it might present a problem. Being Muggle-born would likely make it harder to gain the trust of Harry’s parents, especially in a time of growing tension and fear within the wizarding world.
Her mind flickered with ideas. She could attempt to present herself as she truly was, but what would James and Lily think of her? Would they see her as an ally or a threat? The logical side of her argued that honesty was the best path forward, but Harry’s warning loomed large in her thoughts. “You need to keep an eye on Dumbledore.” The idea of seeking him out crossed her mind—after all, who better to navigate the intricacies of this time? Yet, Harry’s caution against trusting the headmaster made her hesitate.
Hermione pushed the thought aside for now, focusing instead on what she knew about James and Lily Potter. They were both Gryffindors, chosen for their bravery and strong hearts. Lily, she remembered, had been exceptionally intelligent, excelling in her studies and earning the admiration of her peers. There was also a fierce kindness in her—something Hermione admired deeply.
James, on the other hand, was bold and headstrong. He had matured greatly by the time he and Lily married, but Hermione couldn’t forget the stories of his earlier arrogance, tempered only by Lily’s influence. He was loyal to his friends to the end, a trait Hermione respected deeply.
But how could she approach them? What would make them trust her? The simplest way might be to pose as someone familiar with their struggles, someone aligned with their values. Yet, the thought of weaving such a deception left a sour taste in her mouth.
As she neared the edge of the forest, Hermione stopped for a moment, her heart pounding. This wasn’t just a question of survival—it was a question of identity. She needed to be someone who could gain their trust without compromising her morals, someone they would welcome into their circle. Her mind churned with ideas, but for now, she had to rely on her instincts and the knowledge she had gathered about this time.
So that posed a new question for Hermione to contemplate: Who would Lily and James trust in the darkest of times?
The answer hit her like a ton of bricks.
She remembered it vividly—one of the rare times Harry had opened up about his family history. It had been in their second year at Hogwarts, during a quiet moment in the library. Hermione had always been persistent when it came to Harry’s home life, asking questions he often avoided. It was clear to her even then that the Dursleys were terrible guardians, though Harry hated discussing the details.
But that day, Harry had shared something unusual. He’d been researching his mother’s family—driven, he said, by a conversation with Dumbledore, who had explained that his mother’s blood offered him protection against Voldemort. His research had uncovered a branch of the Evans family that intrigued him.
Harry told her that his maternal grandmother, Rose Evans, had a sister who’d had a daughter of her own. This cousin of his—someone Harry had never met—was a part of the family he didn’t even know existed until he stumbled across old records. When Harry asked Aunt Petunia about them, her response had been brisk and dismissive. She’d told him that Rose’s sister and her family had moved to the United States after her husband died.
“They lost touch,” Harry had explained bitterly. “Apparently, my great-aunt and grandmother had some falling-out before I was born. Petunia made it sound like they didn’t care enough to stay in touch, but... who knows? It’s not like she’s the most reliable source.”
Hermione had asked why he hadn’t looked further into it. Harry had shrugged, brushing it off as irrelevant at the time. But now, standing on the precipice of a new life, that long-forgotten conversation came rushing back to Hermione. What if she became that distant cousin?
It was perfect. The story would provide her with a plausible connection to Lily’s family—one that would naturally grant her a reason to seek out the Potters without raising suspicion. More importantly, it would explain her knowledge of their world while allowing her to conceal her true identity.
Her mind raced as she considered the details. She could pose as the daughter of Rose Evans’ estranged sister, having returned to England after years of living abroad. It would explain any gaps in her knowledge of recent wizarding politics and her American-sounding cover story would also account for minor inconsistencies in her behavior or mannerisms.
The more Hermione thought about it, the more it felt right. She could craft a believable backstory rooted in truth, which would make her deception all the more seamless. This could be her way into their lives—a way to fulfill Harry’s trust in her while staying true to her mission.
Her thoughts settled as she began piecing together her new identity. For Harry, for Lily, for James—for the future—they would have to believe in her. And Hermione would do whatever it took to make them trust her.
With a plan solidifying in her mind, Hermione found herself standing at the forest’s edge. The towering trees thinned, revealing an open sky tinged with the warm hues of twilight. She paused, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. The Forest of Dean had offered her a strange kind of solace—its quiet serenity had given her space to grieve, to hope, and to forge a path forward.
Her fingers brushed against the strap of her bag, and her resolve deepened. This was the start of something new—a chance to rewrite a story that had ended in heartbreak.
She closed her eyes, letting the soft murmur of the forest settle around her one final time. The rustling leaves and faint chirps of birds gave her a moment of calm before the storm she was about to step into. She inhaled deeply, drawing in that sense of peace and allowing it to anchor her.
When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was sharp, determined. The plan she had formed, tentative though it was, gave her purpose. It was time.
She pictured her destination with vivid clarity, every detail etched into her mind. With one final glance at the forest that had cradled her during one of the most pivotal moments of her life, Hermione whispered, "Here we go."
With a spin on her heel, the familiar pull of Apparition wrapped around her, and she vanished from the forest, her heart pounding with determination.