Chapter 1
“Thomas!” She screamed, “Thomas, you get in here right this second, put down that godforsaken newspaper and get in here!”
“Oh, for the love of all that is holy, will you- What is that?” Thomas Granger stopped dead, refusing to take another step into the kitchen. Unable to, more accurately, “I don’t- what- that isn’t-” He stammered, voice shaking and his eyes locked on the scene in front of him. His young daughter stood in front of him, freshly 11 years of age, with a bewildered grin spreading across her face as she watched the stack of books in her hands lean at an impossible angle without toppling. His wife, frozen in place as if anchored there, attempting to calm her breathing with her face inches from an old, dog-eared copy of 1984.
“Daddy, isn’t it wonderful?” Hermione gasped, “I was trying to move all of your old books from the dining table so I could help mummy set the table. I think I picked up a few too many, but when they started to fall they just… well, they just stopped!” Thomas Granger could almost see in his mind how it would’ve happened. Jennifer would’ve rushed over to Hermione to try and take the heavy stack away from the small girl, but only would’ve succeeded in breaking her own nose had the stack completed its tumbling journey out of his daughter’s hands, “Daddy?” Hermione repeated, her smile fading as her father did not reply.
“Wonderful?” He echoed, with an empty tone and an empty face, “Hermione, how on earth could this be wonderful? Have you no brain? You’re a freak. You’re a freak and you have destroyed our lives. Your poor mother! She so desperately wanted a child, wanted a daughter, and you tore that away from her! You are nothing. You are no daughter of mine – you made sure of that!” Thomas yelled, voice edging louder and louder as poor 11-year old Hermione started to cry.
“Daddy, please. I didn’t have a choice. He would have killed you. I had to send you away. Please don’t be angry,”
“Angry? Angry! Hermione, I am nothing anymore. I am a stranger to you, so don’t you dare tell me a thing about your choices. You murdered us! You are a murderer!”
“No… no, I didn’t kill you… please, you have to understand!"
“We are dead! Thomas and Jennifer Granger are dead! We are no more! You erased us! You sent us away! You killed your parents!”
And on and on he went. Screaming, shouting, voice cracking and bleeding as he berated his 11-year old daughter for crimes she would not commit for 6 more years.
Hermione closed her journal with a rather heavy thud, sighing as she did so. The battered old thing had been enlarged probably a dozen times over the years, since she was too stubborn to get a new one. The brown leather cover was cracked and beginning to peel, and the spine was split in a few places. Muggles would say it’s held together by a prayer, but Hermione knew it was held together with a binding spell. She never meant to take so long at therapy, and the whole journaling thing should’ve helped at this point. She should’ve been able to stop writing everything down. A long time ago. At least, that’s how Hermione felt. Her Healer disagreed, always reminding her that this was never going to be easy.
“Healing is not linear, Hermione,” he would always repeat, “You will fall back and start again. You will have good days and bad days. Healing is not linear,” Well, healing can suck Merlin’s saggy bollock for all Hermione cared. It’s been years she’d been having these nightmares and they still hurt. Still terrify her. Still leave her sweating and shaking and paralysed with fear. It’s-
No. Not now. It was half past 7 and therefore time for breakfast. She had a 9am class, then research time before lunch with Harry and her 1pm class. Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder at her timetable (colour-coded, strict and split up into 30-minute segments for each day. Harry called it psychotic once. Hermione did not agree) and memorised it.
Tuesday
7am – Alarm and journaling time
7.30am – Breakfast
8am – Morning yoga
8.30am – Set up classroom
9am – Teach 7th year
9.30am – Teach 7th year
10am – Research time (library)
10.30am – Research time (library)
11am – Research time (practical)
11.30am – Research time (write-up)
12pm – Research time (reflection)
12.30pm – Lunch with Harry
1pm – Teach 6th year
1.30pm – Teach 6th year
2pm – Teach 6th year
2.30pm – Marking
3pm – Marking
3.30pm – Office hours
4pm – Office hours
4.30pm – Advanced Charms class
5pm – Advanced Charms class
5.30pm – Advanced Charms class
6pm – Advanced Charms class
6.30pm – Dinner
7pm – Meeting with McGonagall
7.30pm – Planning time
8pm – Evening yoga
8.30pm – Jogging
9pm – Jogging
9.30pm – Shower
10pm – Bed
Okay, perhaps it was a little psychotic. But after everything that over the last 7 years, things were hard. Life was hard. Directionless. But structure made it better. If Hermione could just control every little aspect of her life and everything that happened during every second of it, she would be fine! That wasn’t too much to ask. It was normal. It was. It’s how things would have to be if Hermione wanted to stay healthy. According to Hermione, and contrary to popular belief, healing is in fact, linear. And if Hermione could continue to power forward in a straight line, never allowing herself to look back, to remember, she could ensure it.
She packed her satchel with her books, parchment, quills, lesson plans and a number of other things she would need before grabbing her wand and leaving her room. The door shut behind her and she felt her charms click into place, protecting the private space she left behind.
The corridors were still relatively quiet at that time of morning. A few students were dotted around. A handful smiled at her and wished her a good morning. Some of them she taught, some of them simply knew her by her legacy. But she responded to each in kind, with a smile and a nod. Her brisk pace didn’t slow as she entered the Great Hall.
When Hermione was a young witch, not much older than in her nightm- no, don’t go there. When she first started at Hogwarts, she would always stare up at the ceiling on her way in. The beautiful enchantment that she knew so much about always amazed her. A wonderful display of the beauties of magic. But now, she would simply walk up towards the head table where the other professors dined without so much as a second glance.
The table was maybe half full. Professors Slughorn and Sprout usually dined together, and Hermione could see them finishing up now. Professor Luna Lovegood, who was apprenticing under Hagrid to become the next Care of Magical Creatures professor when the aging half-giant retired, sent Hermione a distracted wave, which Hermione returned. She took her usual seat next to Luna and, as usual, did not start a conversation. Luna had a letter from her sweetheart – Rolf Scamander – just a few inches from her nose and she did not seem like she wanted to be disturbed. That was absolutely fine by Hermione. She served herself some breakfast and cast her eyes around the hall.
Things looked different inside the Great Hall in comparison to her own school days. Inter-house rivalry has become mild at this point, with students able to sit at any house table they please, able to visit any dormitory they like, able to take classes based on ability rather than the qualities they valued at 11 years old. To the youngest students, those just starting their Hogwarts journey, they had almost no concept of the way the houses used to interact. House pride could never be done away with completely, but the idea of bullying someone based on their house? Laughable! Of course, it wasn’t always like that. It used to be different. But everything changed after Vol-
Breakfast was over! Hermione snapped herself out of her thoughts again and finished her breakfast with fervour. She mumbled well wishes to Luna, who was still so absorbed in her love letter that she only hummed in response, that wistful look she used to be bullied for still plastered across her face. Hermione had a busy day planned. Although, every day was a busy day for Hermione. She ensured it. Class at 9. Yoga after eating. The schedule. The schedule must be adhered to. Disaster if not. Must stick to the schedule.
“Thank you, everyone. Great discussion. Now, remember your essays, which are due tomorrow – I have office hours from 3.30 until 4.30 today, so no excuses if you don’t know what to do!” She smiled, before waving her hand and dismissing her seventh years who grumble good-naturedly on their way out. Professor Granger assigned a huge amount of essays, but they were never meaningless. They were always relevant or related to the exams in some way. Not all professors were like that.
“Professor Granger – I should like to reschedule our meeting. Instead of 7pm, I will need to move it to 2.30pm. I shall ensure you are given extra marking time next week to accommodate. Thank you,” The message came from a silvery tabby cat who spoke with Headmistress McGonagall’s voice before vanishing into thin air. Hermione whispered thanks to the vanished patronus, despite the bubbling feeling of anxiety in her stomach. Her schedule! Her schedule is meant to be everything. Can’t be changed. Shouldn’t be changed. It’s not right.
But, who was Hermione to say no to McGonagall? A kind woman, but fiercely stubborn. 2.30pm it is. Hermione wrote her agreement on a piece of parchment and charmed it into a butterfly before sending it to its destination. It fluttered daintily out of one of the open windows and Hermione watched its delicate path until it vanished from view. A patronus would be quicker. Easier. But, Hermione-
“Research time,” Hermione interrupted herself and she set off in the direction of the research library. Part of the allure of being Professor of Charms at Hogwarts was the funded research opportunity. McGonagall encouraged all her teaching staff to remain active and current academics in their field, which suited some members of staff perfectly. While Hermione only taught NEWTs and Advanced classes, it was a full teaching schedule, but she got her research time most days, and (ever the academic) Hermione had set her sights on solving some of the more pressing magical maladies.
Many professors used their research time to perfect their craft – Pomona had taken to experimenting with different plants, attempting to cultivate crossbreeds that suit their purpose better. Last Hermione heard, she had found a way to combine Mandrakes with a self-fertilising shrub as a way to ensure the longevity of the plants. It meant that, once grown, the crossbreed would never need to be replanted. Professor Sprout would never be caught without a strong supply of adult Mandrakes again. Not after what happened in the Chamber of Secrets.
Professor Mary Cattermole, who had recently been persuaded to take a post teaching Muggle Studies, used her research time to run outreach classes in magical communities. She taught wizards all about what muggle life was like, how to fully integrate into muggle settings and tried to help banish remaining prejudices. She had a rather full teaching schedule anyway, with 5 years of Muggle Studies being mandatory for all students who were raised outside of muggle Britain, but she was passionate about her outreach project. She could not allow old prejudices to grow again as they did in the past.
Other professors chose to use their research time to improve their practice. Not long after Harry joined the staff, he restarted Dumbledore’s Army as an extra-curricular club available to any student who wished to learn how to defend themselves. He used his research time to hold meetings twice a week, and plan out a robust curriculum that suited students of any age or magical ability. He would always say it kept him sharp, and humble too. Nothing could make him smile more than a talented student who could catch him off guard with a hex. Hermione would join him twice a month to impart her knowledge of the more challenging defensive charms.
Luna already had plans to use her research time to start a breeding programme when she moved into a full-time professor role. The Forbidden Forest was home to some of the last families of unicorns, and there were even rumours of a nest of Snidgets hidden away somewhere in there. Apparently, her and Rolf met a family who lived in the Hogwarts Valley that had an old family tale about finding them with the help of a centaur. Hermione didn’t buy it for one second, but Luna was desperate to find out and help grow the species again. So many magical creatures were in danger of extinction, and half of the Forbidden Forest was destroyed in the-
Hermione coughed to draw herself out of her mind as she sank into her seat in the library, conjuring her research notes and summoning the book she had recently managed to procure. One of a kind. Nearly older than Hogwarts.
“Let’s do this,” She whispered as she opened Healing of the Mind – Memory and Memory Charms.
“She moved it to half 2? That’s weird. She isn’t a lets-move-a-random-meeting-up-5-hours kind of woman, you know?” Harry commented, voice garbled by the food in his mouth. Hermione rolled her eyes and elbowed him before pointing at his mouth,
“You know we are in public right? Your students can see you. Eat properly or you’ll get sick,” Hermione lectured. Harry rolled his eyes right back in response before swallowing his food and leaning back against the tree, “Besides, it’s not that weird. Maybe something came up. You know what the Ministry is like. They want her the way they wanted Dumbledore, and it won’t happen. But if the Minister wants to meet with her, perhaps that could be why she has moved me,” Hermione rationalised, trying to keep the desperately scared tone from tainting her lunch with her best friend.
When Harry accepted the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, nobody was surprised. The Auror department was frustrated that after investing in 2 years of training (and hanging their hopes of making themselves seem trustworthy again on the Golden Boy) Harry simply left them, but anyone could see Hogwarts was where Harry needed to be. It was his home as a child, and it was still his home as an early-twenties man child.
“I still don’t know why Kingsley stepped down. Stupid decision, if you ask me,” Harry huffed as he closed his eyes, basking in the early spring sun. Hermione snorted, remembering that the Daily Prophet did, in fact, ask him and that was almost a direct quote for how he answered. It was front page news for weeks, everyone up in arms demanding Kingsley back and calling for the former Minister to comment. He didn’t, of course. While not common knowledge, the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix happened to know that Kingsley retired as Minister to spend more time with his wife and new baby boy. Nearly 3 years old now, young Alistair Shacklebolt was quite the handful! A private man at heart, Kingsley didn’t feel the need to make this public knowledge.
“You do know why, Harry. And you also know that Cadogan isn’t doing a bad job at all. She’s no Kingsley, but she’s doing right by the Wizarding World. Is she not?” Hermione commented. Harry smiled cheekily, as he always did when he recalled the connection between their Minister for Magic and that mouthy portrait in the Divination corridor. Minister Cadogan was nothing like her ancestor, but it didn’t change the humour of the situation in Harry’s opinion.
“Anyway, what is this meeting with McGonagall about? You never told me,” Harry abruptly switched the subject, as he often did when he didn’t want to admit that he was wrong about something. Hermione grimaced, knowing she would not tell Harry because she did not know herself. She only knew that a few days ago, McGonagall’s patronus came bounding up to her during her research time (frightening the life out of her in the process) and informed Hermione that her presence would be needed at a meeting the following Tuesday at 7pm for matters of a ‘private and urgent nature’. Hermione’s anxiety struggled with that one, but she put it on her schedule and got on with it. Moved forward. Very linear of her, in her opinion.
“Just about my research. Checking in, seeing how far I’ve gotten over the last few months,” Hermione lied easily. Some things she confided immediately in Harry about - her research, her need for control, sure, but not everything. Some things… some things she couldn't bring herself to think about, let alone talk about. Harry sighed in response and held one arm out for Hermione to tuck herself under.
To some, the sight of them might have raised eyebrows. Two young adults tucked around each other under a tree looking out over the Black Lake, the remnants of a picnic lunch packed carefully by Kreacher that morning strewn around them. But there was not, nor had there ever been, any kind of romance between Hermione and Harry. Those long nights out camping made them comfortable cuddling with one another, and especially in the early days of their healing, they spent a lot of time reassuring each other. Hermione always felt calm tucked under Harry’s strong arms like that, as close to safe as she could get nowadays, and she closed her eyes at the feeling of a brotherly kiss being placed atop her mess of hair.
“It will happen, Hermione. It will. You’ll find something. You truly are the brightest witch of our age, and I have no doubt that if anyone can bring them-”
“Oh, is that the time already?” Hermione suddenly exclaimed, gently pulling back from Harry’s embrace. “I have my sixth years in less than 10 minutes. Thanks for lunch, Harry. Pass that on to Kreacher, as well. Those tarts are just wonderful. I’ll see you at dinner!” The words fell out without thought as Hermione grabbed her things and waved goodbye to her best friend. She raced back up towards the castle, not looking back as she ran through the rest of her schedule to distract herself. Harry shook his head as her retreating form grew smaller and smaller. She’ll open up one day, he promised himself. She can’t avoid the conversation forever. Certainly not as her research became more and more advanced, and more and more practical.
Hermione vanished the writing on her blackboard with a single flick of her wand and huffed in a deep breath. The clock edged ever closer to 2.30pm, and her mystery meeting with McGonagall drew nearer. She decided to leave her things in her classroom, since she’d be coming back for her office hours anyway. That awful, cramping feeling of anxiety started to stir in her stomach despite her best efforts to stifle it. A strong sense of dread settled into Hermione’s bones even as she assured herself that this couldn't be anything too huge. Important meetings happened at night. After dinner. Important meetings did not happen at half past 2 on a random Tuesday with beautiful sun outside. That just wasn't how it should be done.
Of course, Hermione knew better than most that important things can happen at any time. After all, wasn’t it a random Wednesday morning, at the very beginning of summer that she took her wand and-
“Sporran,” Hermione said to the gargoyle, sufficiently distracting her as the hidden staircase to the headmistress’s office revealed itself to her. Hermione focussed resolutely on her breathing as the staircase led her smoothly to McGonagall’s office. Knocking twice on the plain wooden door, Hermione waited to be called in. Even though she was now a member of the faculty, every time she came here she couldn’t help but feel like a school girl again, about to be reprimanded for something she knows she shouldn’t have done. At least this time Hermione was almost entirely sure she hadn’t put a foot out of line. Her schedule kept her on track, and she didn't schedule mischief or breaking and entering like when she was a student. No mischief for Professor Granger. Just order, scheduling and research, “Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione greeted warmly as the door opened before her.
McGonagall’s office was different compared to the eclectic gathering of machines and equipment that cluttered every surface when it belonged to Albus Dumbledore. It was warmer and more inviting than when it belonged to Severus Snape. Both great headmasters for their own reasons, and Minerva McGonagall was forging her own path of brilliance as she went on. The furniture looked plush and welcoming; the colours were Gryffindor red and gold; a fire blazed a comfortable warmth that relaxed Hermione as she entered. Paintings covered every inch of wall space – the traditional portraits of all past Hogwarts headmasters and mistresses, as well as more. Hermione supposed some of the new additions must be of McGonagall’s family, and she even spotted a framed photograph of McGonagall as a young woman stood next to an equally young man. A muggle photograph, since it didn’t move. Hermione ensured she smiled and bowed her head slightly to Albus as she passed, and gave a polite nod to Severus as well. While she struggled to reconcile the odious bully that terrorised her as a student with the brave man who risked his life to protect Hogwarts students when it came down to it, she knew the sacrifices he made. The pain he suffered. Selfish or selfless, deserving or undeserving, it was not for Hermione to decide.
“It’s lovely to see you, Hermione,” McGonagall smiled tightly as she rose from her desk to bring Hermione in for a short hug, “I do apologise for not making the purpose of this meeting known to you, but felt it prudent to speak in person,” The headmistress gestured to the set of couches sat in front of the fireplace, and Hermione took her seat graciously. McGonagall conjured tea and biscuits and set them between the pair as she continued, “How is your research coming along? I understand you were able to retrieve the old book you had been searching for. Was it useful?” Hermione responded with vague answers, not much more comfortable to talk about it with McGonagall than she was with Harry. She knew McGonagall could be trusted, but that simply wasn’t the point for Hermione.
Of course, the book had been helpful. Endlessly so. It had taken months to track down, and months more to have it retrieved.
“I must be honest, dear,” McGonagall warned Hermione, voice dripping with a grave tone, “You will not be happy with what I tell you during this meeting, but you must understand that action was not taken lightly. I have your best interests at heart, and the wider school’s safety to think of as well. You will be displeased, but these things will happen and it is not a negotiation,”
“Please, headmistress, just tell me. I’m getting a little anxious over here and I’m scared you’re about to tell me there will be another war,” Hermione breathed, her words shaking and the tips of her fingers going cold even with the fire blazing.
“I have told you enough times to call me Minerva. I am not your teacher any longer, Hermione. I do not feel there’s much else I could teach you, at this point,” She smiled fondly, setting her tea down, “Now, I can respect you do not wish to disclose your research to many people. It is hard for you to do so, and with fair reason. However, you have sent many owls about what you need and what you need it for,”
“Oh, professor-“
“Minerva,”
“Minerva,” Hermione huffed, “If it’s an issue of budget, I can cover the excess. I’ll use my own owl, or contact the Ministry for extra galleons? I know it’s costly research, and I’m reaching the limit of my funding, but I am getting so close to something big here. This book is- well it’s-”
“It’s not a matter of funds, Hermione,” McGonagall sighed, shifting uncomfortably in her place, “There is no easy way to put this,” A deep breath followed for the both of them, “Your work has not gone unnoticed by unsavoury characters. After Voldemort-” Hermione felt an instinctual jerk in her gut, “fell, you know the Death Eaters were largely dismantled. But many claimed, as before, that they were acting under threat, or under the control of the Imperius curse. Impossible to prove, especially when memory alteration comes into it. You know that’s a tool he and his followers used in abundance. Created false memories, wiped others, created confusion and disagreement among their ranks and our own. Witnesses became unreliable, and many walked free.”
Hermione knew all too well those who had walked free of Azkaban, unpunished due to claims of unreliable memory or action under duress.
“Please, I can’t stop now. I’m so close to getting them- to a breakthrough. I’m so close,” Hermione pleads, tears welling in her eyes as she sees her research begin to slip away from her, “Even if people don’t like it, I have to try,”
“There have been threats, Hermione. Serious ones. Credible ones. There was a breach in the castle’s wards not 5 days ago. Our students are at risk now. As are you,” McGonagall sighed as she waved her hand and conjured a note to hover between them.
Hermione’s eyes darted across the scrawled writing on the page, until a scream ripped from her throat,
“No! No, they can’t. I made sure nobody would ever know, I left no trace-”
“My dear girl,” McGonagall whispered, hand on her heart as she watched Hermione fall to pieces in front of her. Her carefully built walls crumbled and cracked under the stress of seeing her parents’ fake names on the paper, alongside precise, detailed threats – no, precise, detailed promises – to have them murdered in awful, disgusting ways if Hermione did not cease her research or die.
Tears flowed freely down the young professor’s face, hot and fast as sobs wracked her chest and her hands shook. Her hair caught in her eyes, in her mouth, stuck to her cheeks as she rose on wobbly legs and tried to go… somewhere. She got no more than 5 paces before falling to her knees, one hand supporting her on the ground and the other covering her mouth.
Her ears rang with screams and yells of “freak” and “murderer” in her father’s voice as her breathing quickened. She saw her mother’s blank face in her mind’s eyes, watched as her mother smiled pleasantly before asking who she was. Hermione’s chest heaved and ached yet still it felt like her lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen. Her hand dropped to her chest, felt her heart fight her ribs to escape. It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t breathe, she could not breathe, she was going to die right there on the floor-
“Hermione!” A voice shouted from somewhere far away. She couldn’t hear properly. She was under water and the voice was so very far. It was meaningless, “Hermione, you are in Professor McGonagall’s office. It’s 2003 and you are not in a war. You are at Hogwarts. You are safe. You are protected. I’m going to move you to the couch,” Movement happened, but not to Hermione. It was someone else. Someone real. She was nothing but pain and a lack of oxygen, “That’s it, lay down. You are safe. You are protected,” She was not. She was in danger. There was a war and she must fight. Hermione reached out blindly for her wand. She must have it! She must defend herself! “Hermione, your wand is here. It’s on the table. When you’re calm, you will have it. You must breathe. I’m going to hold your hands and we are going to breathe together. We will be calm. We will get there. Together, we will breathe.”