Chapter 1
Hermione had always had terrible insomnia. When she was a girl she would ask for bedtime story after bedtime story as a way to avoid being left alone in the dark. When she was, her overactive brain would make her aware of every crease in her pillowcase, every thought she hadn’t finished thinking yet, and every dark shape that her mother tried tirelessly to convince her wasn’t a monster.
Except she couldn’t be tricked anymore. These days there were monsters hiding in her bedroom. Except they waited until she had fallen asleep to attack.
Most of them had faces she knew. Bellatrix Lestrange holding her down, carving a slur into her arm. A dead Bathilda Bagshot growing scales and lunging at her with venom-dipped fangs. Even Voldemort, pale and larger than he’d been in life, laughing maniacally as he raised his wand at her immobile form.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the monster had been herself. In the nightmare she was standing above her parents, wand smoking, power running through her veins. Their eyes were blank and glassy. Dead.
She had woken up at that moment, tears in her eyes, feeling like something had been torn out of her. She couldn’t bear to stay in bed.
Which is what had led her to Grimmauld Place’s small, cluttered kitchen at four in the morning, sipping on earl grey. And not for the first time. She’d gotten very used to functioning on less sleep than was healthy.
Harry and Ron finally rose at around nine.
The conversation was easy as they dug into Kreacher’s scrambled eggs. At least until it turned to the topic of Hermione’s parents.
“They’ll be owling us any day now, ‘Mione. Don’t you worry,” said Ron with a mouthful of bacon.
They’d had this conversation several times before. Immediately after the war had ended, Hermione’s search for her parents had begun. She had walked into what was left of the ministry and told a very stressed, balding secretary that she needed to find some muggles in Australia. And then she had waited. And waited.
Today marked exactly a month she’d been waiting.
In true Hermione fashion, she had spent a significant amount of this time rereading her books on memory magic. At this point she could recite the whole page detailing the countercharm from memory. She could see the ink on the faded parchment, the schematic of the wand movement. She had practiced it more often than felt healthy at this point.
But with every passing day she felt more anxious about her parents’ fate. Why was it taking so long to find them? She felt more panic building with every day that went by without an owl. She was scared it would come out in some uncontrollable way if she didn’t act.
“Don’t worry Hermione. They’re safe, you made sure of that.” Harry said as if reading her mind. “Should we head over to the Burrow early? I’m sure Molly’ll have something to take our minds off the waiting game,” Harry suggested.
Ron groaned. “Of course you’d prefer peeling potatoes to relaxing, Harry. We’ve got a perfectly good Wizard’s chess set right here.”
“The ‘perfectly good’ wizard’s chess set won’t take orders from Hermione because of her blood, Ron.”
“Well it’s fine now we’ve frozen all the pieces.”
“I think the Burrow’s a great idea,” Hermione interjected. She still didn’t like touching that chess set after the things the pieces had said to her the first time. And she couldn’t just sit with her thoughts. They would consume her.
***
Ron’s prediction had been uncannily accurate. Hermione had, in fact, ended up peeling potatoes. Her consolation was that it was with Ginny, who she hadn’t spoken to in what felt like weeks.
“So what do you think it’s going to be like going back?” Ginny asked.
Hermione hadn’t given much thought to that. McGonagall had informed them last week that everyone who was supposed to complete their studies last year would be given a chance to redo them. Hermione had jumped at the chance. Harry and Ron had not, and would be going straight on to Auror training.
The thought of going back without Harry and Ron felt strange to her. They’d been well… almost inseparable since first year. But this time wouldn’t be like those first few horrible months. She did have friends this time. She’d have Ginny and Luna. And Neville if he was going back. She wouldn’t be such an outcast this time.
“I think it’ll be strange without Harry and Ron.”
“The rest of us not good enough for you, hey?” Ginny joked, bumping her hip into Hermione’s. More seriously she added, “I think everything will be strange. It’s not like we can pretend last year didn’t happen. The second years don’t even know what a Hogwarts without the Carrows is like… and there are places that… that I won’t be able to look at the same way again…”
Hermione glanced over at Ginny, whose eyes looked a bit moist. She wondered which place in particular she was thinking about. A classroom where a child had been tortured? The stairs where Lavender had been maimed? The corridor where Fred had died?
Hermione looked away. She mourned Fred, but she knew her grief was so much smaller, less raw than Ginny’s. It felt wrong to intrude.
“I guess I’m lucky… I don’t have as many of those memories to taint it. I don’t know if it will ever feel… how it did before, but it’s still home in a way. And we’ll have each other.”
“So, we’ll be in the same year this year?” Hermione asked.
“I’ve got no clue how they’re going to do it. It might depend on how many of your year come back. They might split us into seventh and eight years. I hope not though. Would be nice to have your notes at my disposal, not gonna lie,” Ginny teased, smirking.
“Pfft… You’re your brother’s sister alright,” Hermione joked.
It was at that moment that a massive grey owl flew neatly through the open kitchen window, over their heads, and landed with a quiet thud on the dining table. Instantly, Hermione knew.
She dropped her half-peeled potato and rushed to the table. The owl held out its foot patiently as she tried to undo the unusually tight knot with shaking hands. The return address was inked in blue as 32 McLaren St, Sydney, Australia.
“Hermione, let me.” Ginny gently pried her hands away from the knot and undid it with a swish of her wand.
Hermione didn’t even have time to be embarrassed about her lack of wizarding instincts as she tore open the letter and scanned it for the important bits. As soon as the word ‘safe’ caught her eye a wave of relief wash over her. She took a deep breath and read the letter from start to finish.
30/5/1998
Dear Miss Hermione Granger,
I apologise for the delay in getting back to you. The Ministry has limited experience tracking muggles, especially muggles whose connection to the wizarding world has been so well concealed (brilliant work, by the way).
However, I am pleased to ensure you that the muggles currently known as Wendall and Monica Wilkins – previously Michael and Helen Granger – are staying at 3 Downs Rd, Sydney. As far as we can ascertain, they are safe and healthy. They are both working at Clifford Family Dental Clinic, located at 15 Hymn St, Sydney. There is no trace of magical signature around their home or their workplace, leading us to believe that they have not had any contact with the magical community.
As we understand it, your parents’ memories of you were erased for their own safety, and now that the war is over you would like to undo this process as soon as possible. We have contacted the British Ministry of Magic to arrange transport for you, Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter to our office at 32 McLaren St, Sydney, Australia. Ask for Beryl Goldhorn from the Department of Magical Travel and Immigration. We look forward to seeing you soon.
Kind regards,
Clyde Reynolds,
Minister for Magic
Hermione’s brain whirred as she processed the information. Safe. They were safe. The ministry was arranging transport. But when? She had to speak to someone. She’d been coiled up and ready to act for so long that now she had a direction she felt like she was ready to explode.
“I need to go, now,” she announced.
About eight very antsy hours later, Harry, Ron and Hermione stood in front of a much larger than usual floo grate within the Department of Immigration and Travel. Hermione barely breathed as she walked into it, clutching her purse for dear life.
***
The Grangers’, or rather the Wilkins’ house was a small but tidy white building in the suburbs. There was blue trim on the veranda, a silver car parked under a tree in the yard and when the wind blew the air was filled with the sound of the wind chimes Hermione knew her mother loved. She tried desperately not to get choked up. Her mind was whirring at a million miles a minute and she couldn’t keep up with herself. She couldn’t tell if what she was feeling was relief they were safe, anticipation of seeing them again or anxiety that the countercharm wouldn’t work. She wanted desperately to be hugged by her mother, for her father to ruffle her hair, and to tell them both absolutely everything that had happened.
But that would come later. If it comes at all, said a small traitorous voice in her head. She needed to do the spell first. And do it right. With Ron’s steady hand on her shoulder she closed her eyes and breathed, resurfacing the memories.
Her first day at school, unshed tears in her mother’s eyes as she waved her off.
Her eighth birthday, where Mum had made her a rainbow cake and Dad had bought her a model of the solar system.
An overseas trip for Christmas break, where her dad had taught her how to ski.
McGonagall in their living room, explaining that Hermione was more gifted than her parents could have ever believed.
Confusing conversations about her schoolwork.
Hugs after a long semester of only letters to keep them in touch.
That last day… Her mother had been making carbonara for dinner. She had tearfully told both of them she loved them. They had been concerned by her odd behaviour until she had disappeared from their sight and their minds completely.
“Hello, can I help you?”
She opened her eyes with jolt. She hadn’t heard the door opening. Her mother stood before her in her work clothes. She fought the wave of emotion that threatened to capsize her and raised her shaking wand. Ignoring the confused look on her face, Hermione concentrated as hard as she could on the memories of her life with her parents.
“Nota restituet.”
Nothing happened.
“Nota restituet!” she said again and to her horror, did not feel the sucking sensation her book had promised.
“Erm… Are you alright? You look quite pale.” Her mother said, with no trace of recognition in her eyes.
Hermione’s own filled with tears as she stared in horror at the woman who’d raised her. It hadn’t worked. Why hadn’t it worked?
She tried again, jerking her wand aggressively. Nothing.
Her mother stared at her, seeming more concerned by the minute.
“Is she alright?” She mouthed to Harry, who was standing on Hermione’s other side.
“Yeah… errr… she’s under a lot of stress right now…”
“Does she have somewhere to go? Do you need me to call you a cab?”
Tears were dripping down Hermione’s face in earnest now, though her body was too frozen to even sob. This couldn’t be real. She’d done exactly what she was supposed to do. She was Hermione Granger. Brightest witch of her age. She’d done it right, she was sure. Why hadn’t it worked.
“Yeah… errm… no, sorry. We’re ok. We’ll get her home.” Ron gave Hermione’s very confused mother a grimace before grabbing her shoulder and steering her away. Harry followed suit when he’d gathered his wits, and Hermione felt like she was floating somewhere outside of her body as her feet moved in front of her.
Why…
It didn’t make sense…
Why didn’t it work?
Her parents didn’t know her. Wouldn’t know her ever again. She’d waited too long. Taken too much memory. No no no no no.
Hermione caved in on herself at some point near the end of the street. Her mind imploded and became a buzzing, indecipherable mess. She was breaking into pieces and there were hands on her back and the whole world was too much and she needed it to stop. She needed everything to stop. She needed her brain to stop. It hurt it hurt it hurt. She wanted to pull her spine out of her body and throw it away.
It took a few minutes before she was conscious of Ron’s voice trying to sooth her. She hadn’t realised she’d been rocking back and forth. Ron was rubbing her back. It made her feel sick.
“Hermione, it’s ok. You’re ok. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Why was he so loud? Why was he touching her? Her brain hurt. Her bones hurt. Her skin hurt.
Eventually she regained enough sense to sit up and jerk away from the offending hand. It felt like bugs crawling along her back.
After several minutes of deep breathing where Hermione resisted the urge to rock back and forth like a madwoman, she was able to speak again.
“S… sorry…” was the first thing that came out.
A tidal wave of shame flooded over her as she saw the dirt on her jeans and the scrapes on her hands. What did her friends think of her?
She decided she didn’t care. Her parents were gone. And it was her own fault. They would never know her again because she had refused to just ask them to hide, had refused to even tell them there was a war coming. And that it might take her away from them.
“It’s ok, Hermione. Let’s get you home, ok?” Harry pulled her up and put his arm around her as silent tears ran down her ruined face. Dully, she let herself be led back to the bus-stop.
Only one blurry hour later she was back in her bed in Grimmauld Place, sobbing herself to sleep.