Vexing Visitors
She’d been escorted to a room on the upper-most floor of the old Black house, which she had a sneaking suspicion was an attic up until quite recently, judging by the layers of dust that had settled onto most of the surfaces.
Despite the barren feeling in the room, Hermione couldn’t help but allow herself a small, private smile as she looked around her new home. There was a bed, with a real mattress and pillows and blankets, she’d been given a wardrobe -despite not having any clothes to fill it with- as well as a small vanity with a mirror.
“I thought they were screwing with me when they said you were back.” A voice came from behind her. Growling internally at how many times she’d been startled today, Hermione spun around to come face to face with another ghost from her past.
Ron Weasley stood leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest and a smarmy smirk on his face. He looked different too, just like everybody else.
He was taller than he had been at sixteen, to the point where she knew he would tower over her. His height, coupled with the way his already broad frame had filled out in the last few years, made for an intimidating presence. As much as he’d changed physically, there was something about his expression that suggested he’d changed in other ways just as drastically; his once warm blue eyes were harder now, like he too had a little bit of the same kind of darkness she did.
It was almost comforting.
“So,” he continued, derision flashing in those frosty blue eyes despite the easy grin he still wore. “How much of the rumours are true?” He cocked his head as his gaze roamed over her from head to toe and back. “Are you really evil and crazy now? Are you even still Hermione?”
Unlike her reunion with Harry, being around Ron didn’t feel nearly as much like a sucker punch to the gut. She could still remember their friendship; how much she’d cared about him, and enjoyed spending time at the burrow. She even remembered the fleeting crush she’d developed back in third year. The difference was that all those memories failed to elicit any emotional response within her now, and when she looked at the red-head, she simply felt apathy.
“Crazy and evil are both rather hurtful terms.” She drawled, settling herself on the stool of her vanity, back to the mirror so she could continue to watch him. “I prefer to think of myself as ‘morally unencumbered’.” He snorted in amusement, dropping his gaze from her to his sock-clad feet briefly, before it was drawn to the shackles still secured around her wrists.
“It would seem that you’re not as physically unencumbered as you are ethically.” He raised a single eyebrow when his eyes met hers again, in a sort of challenge.
“Yes, well I expect they’ll have to take them off of me eventually, what with needing my help to save the world and all that rot.”
Bored with their conversation, she sniffed disdainfully and turned her attention to the small window where the sun was setting on the other side of it. She’d forgotten what sunsets looked like, the reds and purples bleeding together reminded her of the colours painted across her body.
“I suspect you could hold a wand just fine with them on, maybe I’ll suggest we leave them. You know, to keep you in line.” It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, her patience was utterly gone. Her head snapped back towards him at his words and she fixed him with a venomous glare.
“They’re magic dampeners, you absolute moron, do you really think I’m behaving myself simply because I’m without a wand? I started teaching myself wandless magic back when you were still trying to figure out which end of yours spells came out of.”
Ron physically recoiled at the sudden vitriol in her tone, his mouth opening and closing silently like a fish as he searched for a response. She didn’t give him the chance to find one.
“Unless you came here for a purpose other than to find out if your idiocy was contagious, I suggest you leave before I decide that I don’t like my freedom enough to continue letting you breathe .”
Nobody else disturbed her that night, though Hermione didn’t sleep anyways. She’d lain in her new bed under the blankets for hours, tossing and turning. It was too comfortable; the warmth of the fabrics and the pillows felt like they were trying to suffocate her. After giving up on the bed entirely, she spent the rest of the night in a corner of the room, back against the hard wall and knees tucked into her chest as she watched the stars outside the small window wink at her mockingly.
She was like that when a knock sounded outside her door shortly after sunrise. Hermione didn’t bother to acknowledge it, she figured they would let themselves in no matter what her answer was.
Her predictions were proven to be correct when moments later the door swung open gently, revealing a young wizard standing in the threshold. Hermione didn’t recognize him, though she figured once upon a time she must’ve known who he was by the look on his face.
He just stood there, staring down at her where she was still seated on the floor, with an expression that bordered somewhere between awe and relief.
“Well come in already,” she broke the tense silence, gesturing towards the bed “sit down so I can properly figure out who you’re supposed to be without hurting my neck.”
The poor man must have been in shock, because he followed her directions silently as he crossed the room and sat on the foot of her bed. He didn’t stop staring at her, Hermione wasn’t even sure if he’d blinked since he opened the door. With an uncomfortable shrug to release some of the tension building in her shoulders, she returned his attention as she assessed his appearance. Looking for a hint of his identity.
He had sandy blonde hair that just brushed his shoulders and hazel eyes. His face was angular with a sharp jawline and a straight nose, though his lips were full, softening his appearance a bit.
Her eyes travelled away from his face and down his body appreciatively. He had broad shoulders that tapered into a trim waist and Hermione could see the definition of his muscular thighs through his cargo trousers. As her leering gaze travelled back up towards his face, she felt a glimmer of recognition, knocking at her memory somewhere in the back of her head.
He’d flushed under the attention, clearly picking up that her thoughts had been less than appropriate. It wasn’t until he brought hand up to awkwardly rub the back of his neck that the lightbulb went off.
“Well, well, well. It seems you’ve grown up quite nicely, Neville Longbottom.”
Her use of his name seemed to snap him out of the stupor her presence had put him into.
“Its um- its nice to see you again Hermione.” He stammered a bit as he collected himself, blinking hard as though to reorient himself.
“May I ask what brings you to my room so early in the morning?” She prompted, it seemed to her that Neville had only outgrown his awkward stage physically.
“I’m meant to fetch you, Mrs. Weasley made breakfast and Dumbledore has asked for you to see him in the kitchen. ”
“ Fetching me are you? And if I don’t want to go to breakfast?” She tilted her head to one side as she looked over at him through her eyelashes. Not that it was true, she was starving, but she wanted to test him. Wanted to see just how much soft little Neville Longbottom had changed. “I mean, you’ve already asked so nicely. What will you do if I refuse? Will you let me get away with my disobedience? Or will you force me to go anyway? Maybe stun me, tie me up and drag me down there whether I like it or not?”
He blushed all the way down his neck at the insinuation in her words, his eyes widened comically as she pushed her lower lip out into a pout.
“I mean,” she continued, “I am magic-less and completely at your mercy. Would you show me mercy Neville? I dare say that I might like it, if you didn’t.”
He flushed even brighter red then, to the point where Hermione was almost worried for the wizard’s health. He stuttered out a few incomprehensible syllables that she guessed were supposed to be a response, before she took pity on the poor lad.
“Relax, I’m just screwing with you Nev, you might actually be my favourite person in this house so far.” He looked taken aback by her statement, like he wasn’t used to being anybody’s first choice. Maybe he wasn’t.
“Why?” Any other time, any other person, she thinks she might’ve ignored the question, might’ve mocked him for seeking gratification from her. But maybe it was the need and pain in his voice when he asked it, or some lingering nostalgia for the first friend she’d ever made at Hogwarts, maybe it was both. But Hermione shocked herself with her next actions, even as she did it.
She rose to her feet stiffly -underused muscles groaning in protest- and approached the still seated wizard until their knees were practically touching, and she could feel the heat radiating from where their socked feet almost bumped together.
Extending a hand, Hermione cupped Neville’s cheek with her palm and grinned in surprise when he didn’t flinch at her touch like she expected him to.
“You are the first person in over three years who has been in the same room as me, and not felt the need to draw their wand. That means a surprising amount to me.” It was true; Tonks, Harry, Ron, even Dumbledore had felt the need to be on the defensive in her presence, despite the fact that she was relatively harmless with the cuffs on.
“I dunno,” Neville shrugged casually, giving her a small shy smile. “I don’t see why I should be afraid of you, I guess. You’re still the same old Hermione, aren’t you?” Ron had asked her the same thing the night before. It seemed to be the billion-galleon question around here.
“Am I?”
She hurried out of the room then, leaving Neville to catch up as she sped down the stairs towards the kitchen. Frankly, she didn’t properly answer the question because she didn’t know the answer. She had all the memories of the old Hermione but that was it, they didn’t even share a name anymore. How could they still be the same person?
--
In her hurry to escape Neville and his innocent yet rattling inquisition, Hermione forgot that she was rushing towards a room full of people. In fact, she didn’t remember this until the door to the kitchen latched shut behind her with a dull click , and several sets of eyes landed on her.
Molly Weasley was there, predictably positioned by the stove as skillets and pots worked away on the elements, she only gave Hermione a glance before her attention was drawn back to the food she was preparing. Dumbledore was seated at the head of the worn rectangular table, cup of tea in one hand while the other was hidden out of sight below the table.
Seated beside, and looking like he’d moments before been conversing with the aged wizard, was none other than Harry. Harry with his messy hair and emerald eyes that bore into her. She’d almost managed to convince herself that the hatred that had been shining in those eyes yesterday was her imagination. Seeing that spite and fire aimed at her all over again made something deep within her chest burn so badly she was forced to look away.
Arthur Weasley sat directly across the table from Harry, his copy of The Daily Prophet forgotten on the tabletop while he stared disbelievingly at her. Ron was leaning up against a counter, mug held in both of his white-knuckled hands as he shot her a poisonous glare before storming out of the room.
Closest to her, at the other head of the table and practically turned around in the high back chair to stare directly into her eyes was none other than Sirius Black, looking much changed from the last time she’d seen him.
Granted, the last time she’d looked at the shaggy-haired Animagus, he’d been quite literally holding her abdomen together. They’d both missed the showdown in the death room, as the mediwitch from St Mungos had required Sirius’ assistance to prevent Hermione’s intestines from falling out of her split-open body while it was sewn up the muggle way.
Pushing away painful memories and ignoring the flashes of brilliant violet that encroached on her vision, Hermione turned her full attention and a not-so-forced smile to the man who might’ve been solely responsible for saving her life.
“Sirius,” she broke the silence in the room. “So good to see you’ve not yet spiraled completely into that classic Black madness. How’re the fleas?”
Sirius smiled back at her, his grin looking just as manic as hers felt. He shared some of that flinty hardness in his eyes with her, a bit of darkness lurking just under the surface. Maybe it was a souvenir of their time in prison, or maybe it was something everyone who’d gone a little batty had.
“They are just swell Kitten. I imagine they’ll get along quite nicely with yours.” She laughed at his words, but the sound that came out was that same mad giggle as before. Molly flinched at the sound in her peripheral vision, but otherwise nobody reacted.
Dumbledore and Harry had resumed their conversation, though Harry’s back was pointedly turned completely away from her. Arthur had returned to his paper but kept casting hesitant glances in her direction every ten or so seconds. Molly kept her attention solely on the stove.
“Don’t you flirt with me Sirius Black, you’re old enough to be my father” she bantered back, relishing in how the other occupants of the room -save for Dumbledore- collectively tensed every time she spoke.
“If only you’d give an old dog like me the time-of-day, kitten” he winked at her playfully and she blew him a kiss in response. He pretended to catch it and tuck it into his pocket before he summoned a teacup from the cupboard and placed it in front of the chair beside him, gesturing for her to sit.
Once she’d settled into the hard chair, plates magically appeared in front of all of them as Molly settled into a seat as far as physically possible from Hermione, and all their plates filled magically with a swish of the elder woman’s wand.
They ate in silence for a tense five minutes before a much more collected Neville shouldered into the room. He took the seat directly across from Hermione without hesitation, and a full plate appeared in front of him immediately.
It wasn’t until the dishes had been set to magically wash and Molly, Arthur, Neville, and Sirius vacated the room, that Dumbledore finally addressed her.
“I believe, Miss. Wilkins, that our first order of business should be to acquire you a wand.” A strangled sound escaped Harry’s throat at this, but he remained otherwise silent as he stared resolutely at his hands in his lap. His wand was clasped in them, and had been since she entered the room.
Clearly, Harry did not trust her one bit. That fact stung more than Hermione cared to admit, even to herself.
“Does that mean you’ll finally be getting around to removing these blasted things?” she said, shaking the manacles that were constricting her wrists and magic. Although they didn’t exactly impinge on her mobility given that they magically lengthened and shortened in favour of her motions, they had rubbed the thin skin of her wrists raw. It was incredibly annoying, if nothing else.
“That is exactly what I mean.” The older man responded serenely, completely unfazed by her actions. With an infuriatingly simple wave of his wand, the manacles that had adorned her person for so long clattered to the floor without fanfare before they vanished completely.
The change was instantaneous, her magic rushing through her veins faster than she could properly process. It spread from deep behind her navel out towards her extremities as though water was washing over her. It was like a crucial part of her had been returned, filling a void that she hadn’t even noticed was empty until it no longer was.
Hermione shivered violently at the sensation, before holding her hand up and snapping her fingers together so that a tiny bluebell flame sparked to life. She felt a grin tugging at the side of her lips as she watched raptly while the little flame grew until the light and heat coming off it forced her to end the spell.
When she moved her gaze away from the spot the flame had been, her eyes immediately gravitated to Harry, who was staring at her almost apathetically. The lack of emotion in his eyes hurt more than the hate that had been there previously, and it took concentrated effort for Hermione to maintain her unruffled façade.
“You and Mister Potter will be travelling to Russia via portkey for your wand, my acquaintance Milla Sayre runs a shop in wizarding Moscow and is expecting your presence at the earliest instance.” Albus was all business as he relayed these instructions and slid a folded handkerchief towards the centre of the table. The fabric fell away to reveal a nondescript hair comb with a few jewels missing. “Best you both be off now, tell Milla I said hi if you please.”
With that the wizard rose and left the room without a backward glance, leaving the two once-best-friends in terse silence as they stared at each other across the table. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, though she hadn’t decided what quite yet, when Harry effectively silenced her by reaching out and laying a single finger against the comb, waiting for her to do the same before he tapped his wand to it and muttered a quiet portus .
The world pulled away as her body collapsed in on itself and a moment later she was spinning back into corporeality on a chilled cobblestone street, the comb clattering onto the ground between herself and a stoically silent Harry.
The second both of their feet were planted firmly on the ground, Harry picked up then pocketed the fallen portkey before he turned abruptly and walked away from her.
He marched off without bothering to look and see if she was following, rather opting to head determinedly into a dingy alley where he transfigured his appearance enough to go unrecognised.
Harry charmed his hair to a sandy brown, and his eyes amber until he resembled how she imagined a young Remus Lupin might’ve looked. His scar unfortunately, was unable to be concealed due to it being a product of dark magic, so he instead conjured a black toque which managed to cover most of the garish mark.
“Let’s go” he grumbled, the first words he’d uttered in her direction since the previous evening. Despite the cold treatment, his direct addressing of Hermione gave her the tiniest sliver of hope. What she was hoping for though, she couldn’t have articulated just then if her life depended on it.
Walking through an unlabelled brick wall reminiscent of the entrance to platform 9 ¾, the two soon found themselves walking down the Russian equivalent of Diagon Alley. It was freezing, and Hermione wished silently that she’d been given a chance to grab an extra jumper or a jacket before they left, but settled for casting a weak wandless heating charm on her hands and hoping the walk was short.
--
Milla –‘call me Milly, only that old cook Dumbledore calls me Milla’- Sayre, as it turns out, was an elderly wisp of a witch who looked like a strong breeze could knock her over, yet her personality certainly made up for what she lacked physically. The woman was fiery and quick witted. Hermione found she quite liked the old witch as she scolded the two of them for their lack of appropriate fall attire.
Right to business, the old woman went about appraising Hermione for a wand.
Unlike her experience at Ollivander’s all those years ago, there were no magical measuring tapes this time around. Milly simply told Hermione to hold out her hands, glanced at the lifelines creasing the palm of her wand-hand -without having to ask which one it was- and summoned a teetering pile of boxes to land beside her with a wave of her own wand.
Milly was a breath of fresh air as she prattled incessantly about anything and everything whilst handing Hermione wand after wand to try. It felt like a weight off Hermione’s shoulders, the way the woman didn’t give her more than an appraising once over, before starting into idle chit chat about the weather.
She didn’t eye Hermione warily or follow her movements distrustfully, despite knowing the crimes of her past that led to her needing a new wand in the first place.
Nine incompatible wands later, golden sparks shot out of a 10 ¾ willow wand with a thestral heartstring core. ‘My grandfather crafted that wand before I was even born.Unyielding and loyal, the preferred core of practisers of necromancy and other dark magics, not very common nowadays but an impressive wand, nonetheless’, had been Milly’s comment on the match. An exchange of galleons and the two were out of the store no more than ten minutes later.
“That’s a vile wand” Harry spat the moment the shop doors had closed behind them. He hadn’t looked even remotely in her direction, but who his words were directed at was clear. Hermione didn’t understand how he possessed so much animosity towards her. She’d never done anything to him, in fact, everything she’d done in as long as she could remember had been for him.
“What’s the matter with my wand?”
“Thestrals don’t die , they’re a manifestation of death, the carriers of passed souls if they don't work at Hogwarts. That core could only be harvested if someone went out of their way to cut the heart out of a thestral. Which by the way wouldn’t kill it, just force the creature to live without a heart forever . Thus, your wand is vile!”
How he possessed so much knowledge of thestrals, Hermione didn’t have the foggiest guess, and the shock of that almost distracted her from the hateful things he shouted at her.
Almost.
His implications acted as kindling to a righteous anger that had been smouldering inside of her for the last 12 hours, or maybe the last three years.
“And that’s my fault how?!” she snapped at him, allowing some of the hurt she’d been accumulating to bleed through. “I didn’t choose it! Nor did I go and rip the heart out of some unsuspecting thestral! It chose me not the other way around, you absolute tosser!”
Later, Hermione would reflect on their actions and realise it was probably unwise to be shouting in the middle of a busy wizarding street during a war.
Their volume attracted attention. As Harry opened his mouth to fire a retort back at her, Hermione saw it in the corner of her eye. A swirl of black, a flash of sunlight on something silver. Without time to properly warn him, she opted to throw herself bodily into Harry, knocking them both to the ground at the exact same time a sickly green spell shot through the space where they both had been moments before.
“We need to get out of here, now.” She told him as she threw up a hasty shield around the pair. Hermione then began rifling through his pockets for the portkey that had been stashed there earlier while she waited for him to catch up to the present.
“You- you saved my life.” Harry was staring dumbly at her, still propped up on his elbows, passively letting her search his person for the comb instead of helping.
“Not the time Harry. Help me find the portkey, your robes have a million pockets, and we need to leave.”
She risked a glance behind her at the three death eaters rapidly advancing on them as curses bounced off the shield she’d erected. It wouldn’t hold forever, especially not once their opponents went back to throwing unforgivables
She looked up then, meeting his still amber eyes. Their faces were only a few inches away from each other and their legs were tangled ridiculously as she kneeled over him.
Their eye contact seemed to bring Harry back into it, and with nimble fingers he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew the comb. Hermione sighed audibly with relief as she reached out to touch it.
She felt the beginnings of them spinning into nothingness just as her shield cracked and fell around them. She also felt the pressure of a hand wrapping itself around her ankle, before her body was sucked into momentary nothingness.
Fuck .