Because of Reasons

Saturday morning began quietly, with a dream Hermione could remember little of. It was an omen, perhaps.

She recalled a boy who looked remarkably like Ron lying in a hospital bed. He wasn’t conscious, but she knew he would be alright. There was a boy who looked remarkably like Harry in a different bed, convulsing intermittently, the inflamed scar on his head bleeding whenever he did.

For the seventh time, his pillow had to be charmed clean after dark rivers of red ran down his head and stained it.

“Harry is still recovering from his skirmish with Professor Quirrell. I assure you, dear girl, he will make a full recovery,” and there was something about the old voice and twinkling eyes, or perhaps the word skirmish, that left Hermione feeling decidedly wrong.

But the night wasn’t filled with dreams—memories, was hissed at her indignantly—of blood and viscera she had yet to witness. Of those she knows, knew, and would one day know, begging for the only way out left to them. She hated that it felt better.

She didn’t prod at the voice, their presence already so tightly coiled within her mind. They, their magic, felt tainted, sluggish in a way as if they were a person unable to draw in enough air. It left her sluggish too.

Instead, she settled on pulling a trunk out from her closet, and neatly packed it with all the things she planned to take with her to headquarters. Her school robes, though she’ll likely need to order new ones over the summer. The personal robes she ordered over term—charmed to grow with her. Summer attire she was sure she would need from the blurry memories of a sweltering hot drawing room. The stack of books she had been using to review for fifth year material—assigned reading and otherwise—as well as the ones she purchased in third year on the Wizengamot and the Ministry's policies. Assuming headquarters was the house she struggled to remember, the library would be priceless in preparing for the upcoming legal efforts to clear Sirius’ name. A trip to Diagon Alley, or perhaps some time spent pouring over owl orders, might also be necessary.

By the time she finished, Hermione was quite thankful her trunk had a featherlight charm on it. She doubted she would manage to drag it across her room, let alone carry it down the staircase, without it.

She received no further correspondence from Sirius or any of her friends.

Having already finished her porridge, Hermione sat at the breakfast table rereading one of the books she purchased prior to third year, Navigating Through Time by Raynald Otto Rookwood. She could hear the telly coming from the living room, her father having tuned in to the local news station—it mentioned a heatwave predicted to begin late next week, and general safety precautions the public should practice. Remain hydrated, avoid exposure to the sun for prolonged periods of time at once, and apply regular sunscreen.

Access to air conditioning would also be quite useful, the voice mourned, and Hermione was reminded of the shared memories of the blazing heat within an old, dusty drawing room. One which she would be spending a great many hours in if those memories were anything to go by.

“At least there are cooling charms?” Hermione tried bleakly. If cooling charms were an option, why weren’t they used when the voice lived through those smouldering summer days?

We won’t be allowed to practice magic during the summer, the voice told her snidely. Even if magic no longer recognises us as underage, the Order won’t tolerate it.

“Fred and George?” She asked miserably, and she wanted to sink to the floor and enjoy the cool of the tiles while she could.

Mrs. Weasley will often have us separated. You’re welcome to ask them, though I would advise against willingly putting yourself at the end of their wands when they are so interested in experimenting.

“Was everything alright, Hermione? At school?” her mother asked hesitantly from where she leaned against the counter, tea in hand.

Hermione, rather abruptly torn from her thoughts, hummed questioningly in response. No, things at Hogwarts often weren’t alright, however, her parents weren’t exactly aware of the extent of it. They weren’t aware of the nature of much of what took place at the boarding school, they most certainly weren’t supposed to be, so what was it they suspected?

“Well, I know you met a boy during term,” they had written back and forth about it quite extensively.

“I did,” Hermione responded slowly.

“You know that can tell me anything, right?” Her mother told her. “If something happened, you can tell me, even if someone tries to convince you it would be best not to tell anyone.”

Oh, the voice breathed.

“What?”

They didn’t reply.

“I know,” and Hermione knew with certainty there were many things she would never tell either of her parents.

Her mother smoothed a hand down her hair, a tired smile bestowed with the gesture. “We would believe you, honey, your father and I. Whatever you told us.”

The voice continued their void-like silence as Hermione was left floundering, mouth agape.

“No,” she finally managed to articulate, “I wasn’t–”

How did she convince her mother that nothing of the sort took place? What could she say when she hadn’t been raped, she only continued to see herself being raped, a future version of herself, or an alternate version, but one there was a high chance she would someday become. How could she look her mother in the face and manage to convince her that she was okay in that regard because no, Hermione, herself, hadn’t been raped yet.

When it became clear she wouldn’t be adding anything else, her mother’s smile weakened. “Right, but when you want to talk, when you feel like you can, we’re here, alright?”

Hermione nodded mutely, eerily still when her mother ran a hand through her frizzy curls once more. Even after she left the room to join her father, the voice kept quiet. She could still sense them there, distinctly a part of her, but they felt empty too.

It was the ringing of the bell that finally snapped her out of the daze she had found herself wrapped in.

Because no, Hermione didn’t receive any letters or calls from Sirius or her friends that morning. Instead, the Order turned up at her doorstep in what the voice would later tell her was a common Order practice—inconveniencing as many as they possibly could.

“Headmaster Dumbledore.” Hermione blinked from her spot in the kitchen entryway, staring at the four wizards who her mother let into the house. “Mr. Weasley.”

The other two she had seen, not firsthand, though couldn’t recall the names of.

Dedalus Diggle is the one standing on Mr. Weasley’s left. Say nothing to him which you wouldn’t want repeated to Dumbledore verbatim, the voice warned her, and Hermione made a quick study of the old wizard and his rather large top hat. Kingsley Shacklebolt is on his right, he fought You-Know-Who on more than one occasion, never sustaining serious injuries.

Hermione heard the warning for what it was, he wasn’t to be underestimated.

“Ah, Hermione, lovely to see you.” Mr. Weasley smiled kindly and offered her a small wave. “Things have gotten…rather complicated. We thought it best to stop by.”

They ran out of patience, supplied the voice.

Hermione had a fairly good guess as to who, specifically, had run out of it.

“It’s nice to see you again,” her mother told Mr. Weasley with a strained voice and an even more strained smile. “It’s been quiet this summer, without your children calling. Or visiting.”

“We were hoping to speak to you about that very thing, Madam,” Diggle confessed. He had taken his hat off and was fiddling with the brim. Her mother looked less impressed with the sight of him.

“I suppose we don’t have anywhere to be,” her father’s voice piped up from the hallway, and Hermione realised the telly had been shut off. She wondered when he had done so and made his way over. He wore the same annoyed expression as her mother, which he directed at Mr. Weasley.

The man in question gave an awkward chuckle.

“If I could impose,” Headmaster Dumbledore butted in with an apologetic look, “might I have a moment to speak with the young Miss Granger while Dedalus brings you up to speed, as they say nowadays?”

With a cautious look in Hermione’s direction, her mother gave a slow nod. “You can use the kitchen, the rest of us will head to the living room.”

He clasped his hands together and shot her a grateful and embarrassed smile. “My thanks.”

Don’t look him in the eyes, the voice hissed in warning.

With special attention to her breathing, Hermione led the way through the kitchen and to the breakfast table, offering her headmaster a cup of tea along the way. He turned it down gracefully, swiftly moving to the topic she assumed he visited for.

“As you are aware, Lord Voldemort has returned,” he began, giving a long pause for her to collect her thoughts, or perhaps to collect his. The voice seethed at his use of the name. “For fourteen years, the wizarding world was given a reprieve from the horrors he inflicted. That time has come to an end.”

She could feel a swirling impatience coming from the voice—from herself too. It added an unpleasant rigidity to the anger already sharpening the voice’s magic. “Which means nothing good for the wizarding world, let alone Muggleborns like myself.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the sympathetic look he gave her.

Sympathy will never be enough on its own, the voice warned her. It won’t erase the choices made, or fill in the empty spaces from the ones not.

“Before his banishment, there was an organization of brave witches and wizards who joined together to oppose Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. They were known as the Order of the Phoenix. We have once again united for that very purpose.”

“Are you asking me to join?” Hermione questioned after another pause. She knew he wouldn’t be, but he awaited a response. A reaction.

“Dear girl, no. I assure you, you are far too young to be involved in such a thing.”

The voice laughed bitterly. War has never discriminated against its victims over something as inconsequential as age.

He drew in a long breath. “No, we believe it is too dangerous for you to remain here, Miss Granger. That is the purpose of our visit today. As one of Harry’s closest friends, your association with him was written about quite extensively in the past few months. The Order has received insider information that you may soon be targeted for that very reason—it would be safest for you at headquarters.”

“Would my parents be staying there as well?”

“Unfortunately, the Fidelius charm works against Muggles. However, Voldemort has shown no interest in your family. If you no longer live here, we believe his attention will shift elsewhere. He would have no reason to harm your family.”

Lack of reason has rarely stopped him before, the voice sneered. Have care, Hermione, Dumbledore has a tendency of aligning things so others have proper encouragement to work with him.

“I’m not comfortable leaving my family defenseless,” she told him firmly. It was not a point she was willing to back down on, she would die on this hill if need be, regardless of whether or not it was seen of as ‘out of character’ from the girl who had not hesitated to go on a trip through time involving convicts, werewolves, Dementors, Hippogriffs and a high risk of madness when told to by her headmaster.

“I will personally erect wards around your home, and an Order member will be stationed to guard them,” and while his tone was reassuring, his attention had become more focused on her, too focused to enjoy that reassurance very much.

“Would you be able to do so at their clinic too? Aside from when they’re home, the clinic is where my parents spend the majority of their time. It would mean a great deal if I knew there were safeguards in the two places they frequent most.”

“Of course, Miss Granger. Their safety, like yours, is of great importance to the Order,” and with the kind smile aimed at her, Hermione wondered why it left her feeling so rotten inside. If only kindness equated to trustworthiness.

Her expression must have been more pitiful than she thought, as he let out a long sigh. “You are braver than most, Miss Granger. Braver than I would be in your position.”

The voice didn’t add anything, but the cold disappointment and utter agreement Hermione felt coming from it was enough to have her force out the expected reply.

“Thank you, sir. I hope to do my house proud.”

“In that, you continue to succeed, Miss Granger,” Professor Dumbledore told her.

She pushed to her feet, staring in the direction of the doorway. “I’ll have to tell my parents.”

“Ah,” he smiled genially, “Arthur is currently speaking with them about this. It’s best if this all were to be resolved today.”

“Right,” she said hoarsely, “of course.”

Sirius had said it would be by the end of the weekend, and she knew things couldn’t remain the way they were. Only, she figured she would have more than a single breakfast left with her parents.

“Perhaps I will pop in and answer any other question they may have,” Professor Dumbledore considered. “Might you be packed by the end of the hour?”

“Of course,” she repeated once more, the words charcoal on her tongue. “I’ll go take care of that right away.”

With a cheery nod to her, the headmaster rose from his seat and headed back out towards the living room. Hermione sat still for another minute and stared forward. When she followed his lead it was to head up to her room instead.

Wards only offer so much protection, especially ones he will choose to put up, the voice said once her door was closed. I know that without a doubt, Hermione. And you’ve seen it.

“Flimsi wards constructed in less than a half hour are preferable to no wards at all. It’s an improvement, that’s what matters.”

It will give them a few more minutes to panic as You-Know-Who rains down hell upon them, the voice said harshly. They so rarely bothered to mince their words when it came to him.

“It’s an improvement,” Hermione repeated once more. “I know it isn’t much, but like you said, I’ve seen it. It’s all I can do right now, and if there’s an Order member stationed as guard, even if it’s only part-time, there’s a chance for reinforcements. I’m making the best with what I have.”

It won’t be enough.

“Then we add it to the list,” the ever growing list of all she needed to accomplish. She could not, would not, settle for the alternative. “Until we have a better option.”

There was a long silence, the voice’s magic difficult to discern.

There’s a difference between working with a Death Eater, and working with him.

Hermione felt little opposition from the voice.

“You’ve mentioned priorities more than once. Mine are to help Harry, and ensure your future doesn’t become mine. I, we, can’t prevent a war if we’re too busy fighting a different one,” it wasn’t feasible. “I was always going to have to meet him, or at least come to some sort of understanding with him. Enstating a new Lord Black won’t go unnoticed. Not when the position has been vacant for over fifteen years, and he has a history with the family.”

Tom Riddle was one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts had ever seen. However much of him was left in You-Know-Who, he was bound to become curious about her, and he wouldn’t settle with remaining ignorant about her intentions.

Her efforts to free Sirius would aid his cause. It wouldn’t be enough to keep her parents safe, but there was an increased likelihood he would hold off on harming them when he learned the identity of who agreed to Dolohov’s freedom.

Hermione shuffled through her trunk, checking to make sure everything she needed was there. There was little chance she would return home that summer.

The voice sighed. It’s worse after they die, far, far worse. But you can’t afford to forget that just because after the Battle of Hogwarts was worse doesn’t mean before, with You-Know-Who, wasn’t bad.

“I know,” Hermione whispered out loud. If things worked out the way she wanted them to, the world wouldn’t become the same one she dreamed of, in regards to Muggles as well as You-Know-Who.

Our parents’ immunity from him and his forces, then, the voice clarified wearily.

She stood in the lobby, trunk already shrunk and in Kingsley’s—“Titles are too formal when we’ll likely be having dinner at the same table more often than not this summer,”—pocket, Hermione stared at the parents she might never see again. The parents she wasn’t originally supposed to see as much as she had that summer. And she was grateful and miserable for it all at once.

“If you want to stay, you can,” her father told her.

“The same applies if you change your mind at any point,” her mother added. “This will always be your home Hermione, even when you have others.”

Hermione gave a shaky nod. They had already spent the past few minutes hugging, and if she did so again, if she let them hug her even once more, breaking down was guaranteed. She took a step back. Unable to muster up a smile, and settled for meeting their eyes.

“I love you more than I could possibly explain–” she inhaled a sharp breath, her hands clasped tightly to hide their shaking, “–and I’m so grateful I can tell you that.”

This time, when Hermione walked away from Monica and Wendell Granger, her parents remembered their daughter not looking back.

Hermione was side-apparated by Mr. Weasley to a street lined with townhouses, and Kingsley landed just to her left.

Professor Dumbledore and Lord Diggle returned to Hogwarts instead. It was past noon by the time Mr. Weasley and Professor Dumbledore had finished assuring her parents she would be well taken care of and out of harm's way. The goodbyes took almost half an hour themselves.

But now she was here, under the shade of a tree and staring at the row of houses across from her.

A paper with an address scrawled over it was shown to her.

The Headquarters of The Order of the Phoenix

may be found at number twelve Grimmauld Place, London.

She gasped at the bombardment of memories that slammed into her, images and sounds of the house which had begun to slide free in front of her. Some memories were missing pieces, things she had seen and heard before, things the voice had shown her, while others were entirely new. It took a moment for the world to come into focus once more.

“It’s an extraordinary piece of magic,” Mr. Weasley said with a smile, ignorant of her inner struggle.

That’s extraordinary too, the voice said solemnly.