Interwoven

Theodore’s payment did come at the end of the week. Along with three apology letters, two rare books over the history of cursebreaking, and a bag of McDonald’s assorted goods. His owl was less than pleased to deliver the greasy sack, though the little snowy owl perked up when she offered him a hot chip.

Hermione ate the McDonald’s, spitefully, and did not reply to any of his missives.

Malfoy, to no surprise, sent no such gifts or letters. Not that she wanted any— Hermione likely would’ve burnt anything his owl dropped off, priceless heirloom or not. He wasn’t the type to give apologies, she didn’t think. Though she hadn’t expected Theo to be so vulnerable in his plea for her to reconsider their budding friendship either. Snakes were supposed to bite, so Hermione wasn’t sure what to do with one that lacked fangs.

She had spent the three days after her departure from Nott Manor staring at the wall. She felt unmoored. Like the tethers she had leashed around herself had finally snapped. Hermione wasn’t sure what about the encounter had cracked her foundation— more so, it seemed, than the initial bonding confirmation. She had begun to trust Theo. Stupidly. And his maneuvering— for her own good, he thought— had reminded her too much of the other broken friendships left adrift when she’d fled. Everyone always seemed to know her mind better than she did. Especially after the war. And maybe they did. Her mind had been cleaved into shards— each piece a calamity. Fractals of memory and nightmare and lost knowledge that mattered little anymore. War had held her together. She had to be strong— be present— be more. It was her duty. To save everyone.

To save Harry.

Not herself. Never herself. She hadn’t been the lynchpin, after all. Even Ron had his role— the best friend— the loadstone. She was necessary, of course, but even the best chess pieces are expendable.

And when the adrenaline finally stopped— when the need for her mind and her wand finally ended— she fell apart. Imploded— decayed like a neutron star into a black hole.

It was common in the muggle world. Soldiers came back from battle, unable to reintegrate into society. How does one care about mowing the lawn when they had spent years launching shrapnel into their enemies? How does someone not scream and cower when they mistake an Easter egg for a grenade?

She hadn’t dealt with grenades or shrapnel, but she had struggled all the same.

And how was Hermione supposed to explain her fractured state? That she hated the press and the crowds and the celebrations for her patriotism— that she wasn’t what they all thought she was. How was she supposed to explain it to the public— to her friends—

No, she didn’t want to think about her friends and how she’d lost them. The displacement of it all.

And who was Hermione Granger if not the know-it-all? The bookworm— the planner and puzzle solver? Who was she without her war? Her role? There had been an inescapable valley between who she had been before and who she was after, and there was no jumping the gulf in between.

She had left. Run from it. From herself. She’d been running since the war. Except during the battles and missions, she’d been running towards something. An end. The end. Now she was just running away. She didn’t know how to stop it, how to be different than what she was. What she had become. But it had felt good at the time. Had felt like the first selfish decision she’d made in a decade, to leave. And then things felt better for a time. The adrenaline of her work matched that of running from snatchers. Unravelling deadly curses was no different than hunting horcruxes. Fucking strangers was no different than reading a damn good book.

Slowing down had meant drowning.

She’d found a new bandaid. One that hadn’t felt like gauze simply dressing up the wound. Every thought— every plaguing dream— had been pushed into a corner in her mind. It wasn’t really occlumency; she didn’t think herself capable of the non-thinking required for the skill. The thoughts and dreams were helped by dreamless sleep and alcohol. And her timers and alarms for when it all was too much and the dam she’d built needed a spillway.

Eventually she kicked the potion and liquor habit, though it had taken far longer than it should’ve— and had truly convinced herself that she was all better. Fixed. Like an artifact she had found on a job— polished and shiny once the curse was removed. Malfoy had reminded her that she had never stopped being cursed. Not really. And Theo— Theo had reminded her that no matter where she went, she was alone.

Time had passed in a crawl. Hermione was only vaguely aware of the celestial movement beyond her window— the rising and falling of the moon and sun. A dance that seemed to go on forever. One never touching the other but always coming decadently close. She felt like imploding all over again. Her skin itched, days of dried filth and sweat caked into her pores. Each brush of her tangled hair over the exposed skin of her neck made her want to claw out her eyes or rip her fingernails out.

She did neither. Instead she sat swaddled in her cotton sheets, like a caterpillar stubbornly awaiting metamorphosis. Except there would be no transmutation— no great awakening where she spread her wings and left the wretched stench of her room. She was stuck pupated, cocooned in memories that left her gasping and clawing at her seams.

She didn’t have time for a breakdown. For an evaluation of her existence or non-existence. It was a waste of time, precious time that could be used to wrench the golden cord from around her throat and free herself from the fate caused by her own stupidity. So on the third day, the day that God was said to have created the land and sea, Hermione had her own genesis of sorts. She unmelted herself from the sheets, forced herself into the shower, and emerged in a pretend fashion of a normal functioning human being.

She wasn’t. Hadn’t been for some time. But Hermione was good at shoving away the bad thoughts for another time. They had simply slipped their leash at a most inconvenient moment. So Hermione pushed it all away, back into that damp and twisted corner of her mind, covering the ugliness with another bandage. She set an alarm, allowing herself five minutes after her shower to stare at the wall once more, and then she left the hotel.

The ministry was bustling when she arrived. Not surprising, considering it was a Monday afternoon. Not that Hermione had realised the time when she’d peeled herself out of the hole in her mattress. She had forced herself into a blouse and skirt, remembering her mother’s advice that dressing for the day is the first step towards productivity. Men took her more seriously when she wore business attire, so Hermione donned the age-old womanly office ensemble with as much spite as she had when she’d scarfed Theo’s McDonald’s down her gullet.

Anthony Rubbelle‘s office looked exactly the same as it had the first time she’d seen it— though that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Her first trip was roughly two months ago, despite feeling like an entire lifetime had passed since then.

It wasn’t the manor, even though that had been the motivation to finally remove herself from the confines of her bed-shroud. When Hermione had gone to apparate, she couldn’t bring herself to call out the manor. Not when her mind felt so precariously balanced on a knife’s edge.

She held her chin as high as she had the last time, despite the fact that the foundations of herself were much more rattled than they had been that day. She’d been fuelled by vindictive anger, and now she felt a hollowness that she hadn’t patched over yet. She would again, just as she’d done before. But maybe not today.

Mr Rubelle was standing behind his desk when she briefly knocked and then entered his office. His auburn hair was tied in the same fashion as before, tightly at the base of his neck. He was facing away from her, towards the map pinned to the back wall. He didn’t turn when she arrived. She stared for a moment at the overly clean office, wishing that she maintained the same sense of order in her own life. Maybe it would help. She should keep herself tidier, and maybe her mind would follow—

“Miss Granger. You requested to meet?”

His no-nonsense voice snapped her from her reverie. She stared at the thick scar that travelled from the back of her ear down under the collar of his navy suit jacket. The tissue was mottled. Likely caused by some sort of claw instead of a spell. Werewolf, perhaps. Or hag.

“Yes. I’m interested in another expedition. I haven’t heard anything through my channels, but I figured you might have a case.”

He turned, green eyes penetrating. He gave an attempt at a polite smile, his scar causing an uneven upturn, though the smile would have looked forced regardless. “Another ministry case? I could add you to the payroll if that’s what you wish.”

A flash of irritation washed through her, but she attempted to keep it from showing. She wasn’t sure she was successful. “No, thank you. I prefer freelance work. If there isn’t a case, then I’ll find something else—“

“No need.” He sat in his chair, hands clasped on the desk. Nicks and abrasions gave his knuckles a marbled appearance. Hermione didn’t sit. Rubelle glanced over his shoulder at the map, flicking his hand. A pin flickered between blue and red in what she recognised as Russia. “I have a partnered retrieval for a Khodynka Cup of Sorrows in Staritsa. Curses unknown, though the wizard that contacted us said that many in his town, both wizarding and muggle, had attempted to take the cup for profit and fell into a deep sleep. Mr Baladin attempted to contact the Magical Duma of the Russian Federation, but the backlog meant that retrieval would’ve taken months. He said he is worried that his children will be tempted to touch it if it is not removed.”

“Where is it stored? His house?” Hermione did sit then, her interest piqued.

“No, there is a church. It’s kept in a glass encasement by the muggles who run the place. It’s been stolen twice but always finds its way back.”

Hermione nodded, brain whirring. It felt good, the distraction. Something to dissect and pull apart that wasn’t her own life.

“I’ll take it. Partnerless.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. ”I’m afraid the partner is nonnegotiable. Our trainees must see the field, and this is likely a level one SAG. I’m sure—“ He flipped through a file on his immaculately neat desk. “—Mr Vinnel will be ecstatic to work under your tutelage.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. She hadn’t worked with a partner since her training in New York. She didn’t work well with others— or at least that’s what her advisors reported. Demanding. Controlling. Unwilling to compromise. The other Gryffindor's back in her school days, called it ‘Grangering it’ when she would go into one of her passion-fuelled rants over an asinine topic no one else cared about. She didn’t like working with others anyway— they never did things correctly. In Hogwarts, working with others meant doing it herself while explaining everything that had been done wrong. In her work it meant saving both herself and her partner’s ass when they inevitably mucked things up.

“Fine.” She bit out. She made to stand, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, when her eyes caught on the eggshell-coloured envelope revealed on his desk when he had moved the file folder. She looked away quickly, but it didn’t matter. Slipping something past the chief cursebreaker would be more difficult than robbing Gringotts. Which was very difficult. She would know.

His eyes were penetrating as he glanced between her and the invitation. His lip twitched. “Have you received an invitation to the gala, Miss Granger? I’m sure I could bend the minister’s ear to ensure a spot for you.”

She levelled him with a cool look, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend.”

He clicked his tongue, “Shame. It’s going to be a big to-do, I’ve heard. Not that I care much for fancy parties.” He plucked the invitation up, glancing it over before sticking it in the top drawer. “But the minister has invited some bigwigs in our field, or so he said. Evangeline Liu, Alessandro Marino. Even your old teacher from your mastership studies will be in attendance.”

Her heart rate increased. Professor Walestrom. A genius of a woman who had taught Hermione everything she knows. And the others? Masters in cursebreaking. Beyond the man sitting in front of her, those he had listed were renowned for their discoveries and techniques. She had read Liu’s memoir, which detailed her usage of muggle medicinal remedies to treat cursed patients, five times.

To have all of those brilliant minds in the same place—

Hermione could ask about the house-elf binding ceremony. Or, if she felt bold enough, about the soul-bond itself. They would have answers; she knew it. Sure, Hermione thought herself capable of eventually solving the problem, but this could shave off months of work. She could be free. The cord in her chest thrummed, as if it could sense her train of thought. She ignored it, keeping her hands at her sides despite the urge to rub her sternum.

Attending would mean playing pretend— pretend that she was whole and happy. She would have to shake hands and take pictures. People would ask invasive questions about the war— her role, how she survived, how she must feel now that it’s over. They would give their sympathies for her suffering— would ask if she was still close to the other counterparts of the golden trio. She would have to pretend she wasn’t suffocating under the weight of it all— vacillating between hating what the fighting had done to her and not knowing who she was without it.

Hermione attempted to not look torn— starved with a morsel of food now hanging above her head and an axe hanging beside it. She cleared her throat, “How wonderful. I’m sure the gala will be… wonderful.”

Rubelle’s gaze strayed to her twitching fingers. He said nothing. He pushed himself from his chair, pushing his quill back into the neat row of feathers, before turning to face the map once more. “I’ll owl you the details of the mission. You’ll be back before the gala. In case you change your mind, Miss Granger.”

She didn’t bother responding. He wasn’t the type who seemed to need a goodbye or a thank you. She left, keeping her head down as she weaved her way through the halls, unwilling to see a certain brunette that worked a few floors below.

She made it to the Floo network, calling out a once-familiar set of cobbled streets and shops before she could change her mind.

___•___

Hermione slipped from Flourish and Blotts, tugging the collar of her pea coat higher until only her eyes remained visible.

She wasn’t sure why she had come to Diagon Alley. Wasn’t sure if she needed to see if somewhere still felt pure. To see if she was the same little girl who found nothing but joy in these streets or if she needed the confirmation that the girl she had been was long dead. Or maybe she wanted to see how the world had gone on without her— how despite the atrocities that had occurred along the same paths, people had rebuilt and moved on.

Or maybe she just wanted a new book— one that had nothing to do with curses or blood bonds or runes.

Hermione clutched the paper sack closer to her chest, the weight grounding her. Wind whipped at her hair, tugging curls free from the updo she had attempted for her ministry visit. Cold attempted to sink into her bones, aided by the cloudy overcast sky; a reminder that despite November’s assurances that it was an autumn month, it was very much winter at its core. She missed the warmth of the sun, but it had kissed goodbye to the Earth after the first frost, promising to return in full only once the ice-coated landscape gave way to spring.

Only a few pedestrians lined the streets: two witches walking hand in hand, a father and daughter duo, and a gaggle of students— likely fifth years— giggling as they left Fortescue’s. Hermione watched them for a heartbeat. There was a boy, wild brown hair, clutching the arms of two others— a blonde girl, face as bright as the sun despite the cold— and another boy, olive-skinned with hair as dark as coal. The middle boy laughed, head thrown back to the wind as something the girl whispered. They all grinned and passed Hermione without notice. She watched— watched and remembered—

Hermione swung the other direction, breaking the line of sight, and slammed into a warm body—

She recoiled, muttering an apology as she ducked her head and made to move around them.

“Hermione?”

At the sound of her name, Hermione froze. She hadn’t glamoured herself after the ministry— stupid. Such a stupid mistake. Her mind has been too absent, running over her meeting with Rubelle, amongst everything else that already filled her brain to the brim. She had come straight into the heart of wizarding London and didn’t think to straighten her hair or tweak her nose. Stupid.

She recognised the husky lit, like the sound of crackling fire. That was how the girl had always been described— a living flame. Hermione had thought it apt, with the auburn waves that cascaded down her shoulders. But Hermione knew the real reason she was considered a wildfire was not for her hair, but for what lay beneath her pale skin.

Hermione bit her tongue so hard that a copper tang filled her mouth, and then she turned around. “Ginny.” She didn’t attempt to sound excited and only hoped her face didn’t reflect the dread she felt building in her gut.

Ginny Weasley looked almost exactly as Hermione remembered—tall, broad shoulders, with the same untamed red hair cascading down her back. Shorter, maybe by an inch or two. Freckles still dusted the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were the same—sharp and assessing, brown with flecks of gold, pinning Hermione in place just as they had years ago.

Hermione’s eyes tracked downwards automatically. Ginny’s figure, once lean with muscle from years of Quidditch, had softened slightly, her usual sharp edges rounded by the unmistakable curve of pregnancy. Her hands rested protectively over her stomach, fingers idly smoothing over the fabric of her jumper as if the motion had become second nature. There was a ring on her left hand, a single golden band. Simple yet beautiful all the same. There had been a wedding. A ceremony, likely at the Burrow. Ginny looked healthy, radiant even, though there was a slight tension around her mouth and apprehension in her eyes.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.

Then Ginny tilted her head, a strained smile on her lips. “You look well.”

Hermione swallowed, the words feeling oddly foreign coming from her. Ginny had never been one for empty pleasantries. And empty it certainly was. Hermione knew she looked like shit despite her attempt at business professional; the bags under her eyes were unmistakable. “So do you,” she answered, before her gaze inevitably flickered downward once more. “Congratulations.”

Ginny followed her eyes and let out a breath, one hand absently smoothing over her stomach again. “Thanks.”

Silence settled between them, thick and weighted.

Hermione clenched her fingers around the sack in her hands, wishing for all the world that she had just Floo’d to her hotel. Any semblance of control she had garnered by pulling herself out of bed this morning had shattered the second she heard her name.

“We didn’t think The Prophet was telling the truth. About you being here.” Ginny shifted on her feet, looking away.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. We. They had spoken about her. Just Ginny and Harry? Had Ron? Had it been a whole Weasley affair? Who had sat around picking her arrival apart? What else had they spoken about?

Hermione picked the skin around her thumb, relishing in the frigid air cooling her now burning skin. “It’s temporary.” Her voice sounded far away, like she was underwater.

Ginny nodded, looking anything but comfortable. She looked back at Hermione, face tight. “Well, if you want to come over and see—“

“You don’t have to do that.” Hermione whispered, throat sticking. She was rubble, nothing but detritus standing here, in a place she no longer belonged. She considered herself strong, unafraid— how many monsters had she slayed? How many demons of the night had she fought? And yet, the moment she was reminded of who she was, what lay beneath the facade she had all but fallen for herself, she was reduced to ruins.

“Right.” Ginny said, mouth pinching. Did she know she looked so much like her mother this way? Ginny had always separated herself entirely from a maternal nature, aligning much more fluidly with the schemes of her older brothers to Molly’s chagrin. But she had grown, no longer just the tomboy chasing after the chosen one. Now she was carrying Harry’s child. What would they name the babe? Perhaps Lily or James if Harry had any say. Hermione shook the thoughts away; she couldn’t claim to know Harry’s mind anymore. Not now. Not then either, when she had expected him of all people to understand her plight.

“Right.” Hermione echoed.

There was no animosity in Ginny’s eyes. No anger at what had happened. Perhaps time had diluted any fiery choler. Or perhaps they hadn’t thought enough of Hermione over the years to feel anything short of apathy. No, the only emotion that was clear in Ginny’s brown eyes was pity. Hermione clenched her jaw, staring resolutely at Olivander’s sign dangling in the distance behind Ginny’s head.

“I should go. I’m very busy.” Hermione said, though the pitch sounded off— too high, too fast.

Ginny let out a huff of air through her nose. It could’ve been a laugh, something spiteful. It could’ve been a sigh of relief, now that this painful conversation was coming to a close. Hermione wasn’t sure, was too far in the recesses of her mind to accurately guess.

“Right… Bye then.”

Hermione gave a jerky nod, glancing one more time Ginny’s way as the redhead passed her. She didn’t look back, not as Hermione stood there feeling adrift in a sea that she had once called home.

But had it really been a home, even then? Hermione had spent her youth begging others to be her friend, moulding herself into a companion that was tolerable at the least. The school years that were supposed to be peaceful, where she was meant to discover herself, were instead filled with peril from the very beginning.

Home was nothing but another name for war, and Hermione was a soldier without a cause.

Ginny turned the corner, and Hermione wondered if it was the last she’d see of the Weasley girl. Was it wrong of her to hope so? To pray to a silent god that the life she had left behind stayed behind? Hermione didn’t know. And her last thought as she apparated away from Diagon Alley— so violently that the nearby windows shuttered with the force of it— was that Malfoy was the only person who seemed to know her anymore.