Down Under

Once Hermione makes up her mind about what she will do, things become markedly easier. She moves with her old stealth and efficiency, and it feels like slipping into a long-forgotten costume. 

She travels into the village of Ottery St. Catchpole when Ron is at the ministry with his father and Harry is occupied somewhere with Ginny. Nobody knows her there, and the combination of fresh air and anonymity makes her want to sing. When the kind-eyed clerk at the bookshop asks how he can help her, she inquires as to whether they have any travel guides on Australia, exchanging the crisp muggle money for a heavy stack of books. 

The other preparations come together almost without effort. The beaded bag she had used before had been lost in the battle, so she buys a cheap knapsack in the village and casts an undetectable extension charm on it. She packs her clothes carefully within it, sends an owl order for a renewed stock of medical supplies, and pores over the travel guides. She consults a peeling copy of The Standard Book of Spells Grade 6 to recall every detail about memory charms and how to reverse them, taking careful notes in a shining muggle notebook.

The evenings bring news, some of it good, much of it terrible. Every day there is more, it seems. The horror and sickening details of reality did not end with the battle, and Hermione grits her teeth every time she hears the front door swing open. 

“They’ve lost Yaxley,” Ron greets her one evening as the door slams shut behind him. Hermione can only stare, her mouth working furiously without producing any sound. 

“I know,” Ron nods in response to her silence. He reaches out, catches her hand in his, and Hermione recoils. 

Ron, to her relief, seems to take her reaction as a symptom of shock. He sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and grimaces. “The bloody Office of International Magical Cooperation is a disaster. They were supposed to be keeping an eye on him, but apparently he slipped away last night. They think he took an international portkey.” 

“Do they know where he’s gone?” Hermione croaks, her mind shuffling through various images of the man’s twisted smile. She feels herself shiver. 

“No.” Ron shakes his head, looks down at the table. “Dad says they’re rounding up as many death eaters as they can, but…” he trails off, and Hermione is grateful. He doesn’t say what they both know to be true: that for every death eater captured two more slip away into the night. She thinks of Greyback’s leer, of Bellatrix Lestrange’s cackle as she wrapped Hermione in pain so acute it felt like it cut through her very bones. 

“They’ve scheduled the Malfoys’ trial.” 

Hermione looks up at this, and sees Ron’s face has regained some color. She nods and picks at a hangnail on her thumb. “When is it?” 

“Two months from now,” Ron says. “They’ve charged both Draco and his father.” 

Again, Hermione nods, though the words don’t revitalize her as they do Ron. 

She had heard from Mr. Weasley that Draco and his father would both stand trial for war crimes in the highest degree, and the news had only filled her with a crushing sadness. More concerning, and something which she would not reveal even to Ron and Harry, the news had left her with the slightest bit of envy. 

When she had heard the news her first thought had not been of joy that Lucius Malfoy would have to answer for his crimes, nor of compassion for Draco and the obvious fear she had seen in his face as they escaped the Room of Requirement. Her first thought had been a longing for her own father to stand as close to her as Lucius stood to Draco at the end. 

It is silly, and she does her best to push the thought away, but it remains. 

Hermione exhales and thinks of the travel guides sitting under her bed in the attic. 

Soon. She will have her parents back soon. 

***

The next evening she asks Mr. Weasley, in what she hopes passes for a casual voice, what it looks like to organize a portkey now. 

Mr. Weasley shrugs. “I really couldn’t say,” he sighs. “Everything is such a mess right now.” 

“If someone were hoping to get an international portkey…” she ventures. 

Mr. Weasley furrows his brow and turns to fully face her. Hermione holds her breath, and hopes he doesn’t begin asking questions. 

He doesn’t. He merely sighs again, looking so tired that Hermione regrets asking him anything at all. 

“I don’t know any details,” he says. “But I know that the ministry is keeping a very tight hold on international travel, what with the number of death eaters attempting to escape. Apparition and portkeys out of the UK are very difficult to come by these days.” 

Hermione nods, schooling her face into a neutral expression. She thanks him for his answer, hoping he doesn’t see how the disappointment feels like a weight on her chest. 

When darkness falls she sends a letter to the Department of Magical Transportation. The owl returns a few hours later, and Hermione sighs as she reads it. 

Before she slips too far into sadness, though, she draws a breath. Standing straight, she looks at the clock by her bed, and gives a small, steeling nod. She is muggle-born, and if she cannot carry out her plans with the help of magic then she will simply do without. 

***

The next morning she creeps down the rickety staircase, praying nobody will come upon her. She leaves a quick note in the kitchen saying she has gone to run a few errands and will be back in time for lunch. With a furtive look over her shoulder, she scurries into the yard and disapparates. 

She lands on a side street in North London, wobbling slightly as she looks around. Her throat tightens as she takes in her surroundings; the green gardens, the bustling streets and rows of shops. Every corner, every square centimeter of grass and concrete, seems to hold some memory of her parents, and they all barrel into her at once. Her dad carrying her on his shoulders as they visited the shops, her mother on her knees in her own garden, brandishing a trowel, the two of them walking quickly through the crowded streets to try and catch an incoming bus. Tears prick her eyes, and Hermione swallows hard. She takes one step, then another, until she joins the strangers hurrying along the sidewalk. 

The local bank sits on a familiar corner, and Hermione holds her breath as she walks through the heavy wooden doors. She shoves a hand in her jacket pocket, feeling the crumpled paper within as she approaches the desk. 

“Hello, Miss,” a balding man says from behind the desk. “What can we help you with today?” 

“I’d like to make a withdrawal, please.” She hands him the paper from her pocket, watches as he squints at the numbers. 

“Very well.” He hands the crumpled paper back to Hermione and looks down to scratch something into the logbook in front of him. “Could I just see some identification?” 

With a deep breath, Hermione holds out the crumpled paper again. The man takes it from her as he had before, eyebrows furrowing as he scans it. 

“Excellent, Miss Granger,” he says at last, sliding the paper back to her. 

Hermione exhales and shoves the charmed paper back into her pocket. She has had the paper detailing the account information for nearly eight years, ever since her parents had opened it to set aside money for her school expenses. But as she has lived in the wizarding world since she was eleven, she possesses no proper muggle identification. 

“How much would you like to withdraw today?” the balding man asks, peering up at her. 

“All of it.” 

His eyebrows rise. “Do you wish to close the account?” 

Hermione hesitates, her fingers gliding again over the crumpled surface of the paper in her pocket. The money in this bank is all that David and Miranda Granger have saved over the years for their daughter. They never said it, but Hermione knows they had continued to add to the account even after she left for Hogwarts, just in case she decided to join their world once more. 

Across the desk, the balding man clears his throat. 

Hermione looks up at him and feels a flush spread across her cheeks. “Yes,” she nods, doing her best to keep her voice level. “Please withdraw everything and then close the account.” 

The man gives a curt nod. “Very well. We thank you for your business, Miss Granger. And if you find yourself in need of our services again, we would be very happy to reopen any sort of account for you.” 

The words hit Hermione like stones, but she forces herself to nod. “Thank you.” 

***

She finds Harry in the kitchen, and almost smiles when she thinks about the way he approached her and Ron after Dumbledore’s funeral a year prior. 

“I’m leaving,” she says simply as she drops into the seat beside him. 

He raises his eyebrows, brings the cup of tea to his mouth. “Are you going to the ministry?” 

Hermione shakes her head. “No. I’m going to find my mum and dad.” 

Harry sets the mug of tea down and runs a hand through his hair as he stares at her, green eyes wide. “You’re—you’re going to Australia?” 

She nods. “Yes.” 

The green eyes widen even further behind their spectacles. “You know where they are, then?” 

Here, Hermione bites her lip, regretting her lack of preparation. She hadn’t anticipated so many questions. 

If she had only allowed herself to hope—but then, hope had seemed foolish until this week. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, I don’t know where they are, exactly.” 

Harry nods, slowly, as he rises from the table. Without a word he wraps an arm around her shoulder, bringing her in for a hug which she returns gratefully. Hermione rests her head on his shoulder as tears once again form a traitorous wall against her eyelids. 

“I didn’t think I would be here after it all,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I would be able to find them.” 

“I know.” 

He hugs her lightly, as a brother would, and she is grateful. If he can feel her tears soaking into his t-shirt he doesn’t say anything. In a tight voice he says, “I don’t know if I can leave here again, Hermione.” 

She pauses, her throat tight. 

She hadn’t expected this. She had thought wherever she went, the boys would go with her. Ron would go with her of course, but could they do this without Harry? 

“I mean, obviously, if it’s important to you I will, of course,” Harry quickly amends, clearly reading her silence as anger. He steps away from her and runs a hand through his hair, the ends sticking up as a flush creeps up his neck. “I know you have to find your parents. I know that. I just—” he trails off, his eyes wandering to the stairway, to the little room at the end of the hallway he has been sharing with Ginny. 

Understanding floods Hermione, and she wishes she had never found him in the kitchen, had never posed the question. 

“You deserve some peace,” she says, taking a deep breath and willing the tears back into her eyes. He should be happy. He should take his rest. She knows this. He has done enough. 

Harry gives her a small smile and steps closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder again. “I want to help you,” he says softly. 

“I know.” Hermione nods and gives a weak smile. “But you should stay here. Enjoy—enjoy just living for a change.” 

When Harry leaves the kitchen, his t-shirt full of splotchy tear stains, Hermione sits back in her seat. It will be just fine for her and Ron to take this trip alone, to search for her parents alone. Never mind the foolish kiss in the chamber, and never mind the undeniable regret which has been eating away at her ever since. They can do it. 

Will it be uncomfortable? Maybe at first. But they have been friends for years and Merlin knows they have gotten through worse things and still come out okay. She smiles slightly remembering how angry she had been with him in third year over his rat who turned out not to be a rat, or in sixth year when he had been snogging Lavender Brown everywhere. 

Her smile falters at this. Has she asked anyone what happened to Lavender? If Greyback had—? 

She shakes the thought away, makes a mental note to ask someone that night. 

She tells Ron of her plans, or lack thereof, after dinner that evening, and holds her breath as his face falls. 

“Hermione—” He rakes a hand down his face, his eyes squeezing shut. “I just—I just told Bill today that I would do the ministry project for the next six weeks.” 

A dam breaks in her chest, and she isn’t sure if the rushing feeling is dread or relief. “Oh.” 

Ron reaches out and squeezes her shoulder, his eyes landing on her face. “I can go with you once it’s done, though. It’s just six weeks. We’ll have plenty of time then to plan and to pack—” 

She waves him off, shrugging his hand from her shoulder. 

“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head as she steps away. “Really, don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have even—” 

“I can—” 

“No.” She softens her tone, pretends she doesn’t see the worry and confusion clouding his face. “Ron, you’re needed here,” she says gently. “Stay. Help with the ministry work. That’s much more important than me finding my parents right away.” 

“But—” 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Hermione says again. 

Ron watches her, his brow furrowed and mouth twisting in a frown. Bilious guilt rushes up Hermione’s throat and into her mouth, and she curses herself again for the foolish kiss. No doubt she’s confused poor Ron more than she ever meant to, and more than he deserves. She pushes those thoughts away, trying to reset her mind. Compartmentalize, that’s what she must do. 

Ron lets her go with another frown and a promise to try and carry out the project as fast as possible. Hermione merely nods, hiding away to the attic as soon as he turns his back. 

***

She returns to her plans with a vengeance. The next morning she walks into the village again, steps into a payphone, and dials a travel agency. She asks the chirping woman on the other end about rates for flights to Sydney, for a hotel. She nods as the woman spits out a quick sequence of numbers and names of airlines and package deals, rapidly calculating the numbers in her head. 

She has enough money to cover the airfare easily. With the rest of her money, if she’s careful, she can be in Australia for well over a year. Surely it won’t take that long to find her parents; surely, she will be able to reverse the charm and bring them home with enough pocket change to buy all three of them a nice dinner. She thanks the travel agent, says she has to take some time to consider, and hangs up the phone.

*** 

That night she wakes up in a cold sweat, a scream curdling in her lungs. It is not a nightmare that wakes her but simply sounds, lights, images which burrow into her brain and refuse to leave. Tonight she sees Lavender Brown twitching feebly beneath the werewolf Greyback, her long hair splayed out on the stone floor, a pool of scarlet dripping down the steps. 

Hermione shivers and gets out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown in preparation for another nighttime stroll about the house. She pads down the stairs, past Ginny’s room where the light still burns and from which she can hear hurried whispers, past the sitting room where she sees Ron and Mr. Weasley deep in conversation. She moves to the kitchen, thinking a cup of tea might settle her nerves for a few minutes. 

A figure stands in the kitchen, and Hermione jumps slightly as he comes into view. George Weasley leans against the counter, but if Hermione hadn’t known it were him she would hardly have recognized him. His hair has grown long and a smattering of stubble covers his jaw. Through the darkness of the kitchen, he watches Hermione with dull, empty eyes. 

“I didn’t see you,” she says quietly as she levitates a teacup down from the shelf. 

“That’s fine,” he shrugs. He looks down at the counter, and Hermione feels her chest tighten at his expression. He looks as lost as she imagines she feels, though she sharply reminds herself it does not compare. 

She turns wordlessly to the kettle sitting on the counter and flicks her wand to fill it with water, then flicks it again so the kettle whistles into the night. 

This time George jumps. “Couldn’t have given me a warning, hm?” he asks, a shadow of a sparkle in his eyes as he tries and fails to smile at her. 

“Sorry,” Hermione says. “I always forget how much faster water boils with magic.” 

“Yeah,” George nods, falls silent for a moment before looking back at her. “D’you ever get used to it?” 

She eyes him over her shoulder, pushing her thick hair away from her face as she considers the question. “Not entirely.” She shakes her head. 

They fall quiet as she picks up the kettle and fills her teacup, letting the tea steep as she stares at the counter. 

“So you’re going to Australia to find your parents?” George asks quietly. When Hermione looks up he is already watching her, hands flat on the counter, shoulders slumped forward. 

She nods, stirring the tea with her wand. “Yeah,” she chokes out. 

“Ron said you asked him to go.” 

Again, she nods. “I understand he already has commitments, though,” she says, a touch waspishly. “And Harry deserves some peace.” 

“That he does.” George looks up at her again. Hermione stops stirring her tea and walks over to the table, dropping into the nearest seat. George follows, sliding into the chair across from her. 

“Why are you asking about my plans?” she asks when they’ve both settled. 

George cracks his knuckles, his eyes on the tabletop. “How’d you like some company?” 

Hermione frowns at him.

“Come on, Granger.” George leans forward, his eyes lifting up to meet hers. “I know you’re brilliant. Everybody knows that, but from what Ron said you have no idea where your parents are—” 

“I didn’t think—” she begins angrily. 

George puts his hands up. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just saying. It could take you a while to find them, and I don’t know how much you or anyone would enjoy being in Australia by yourself for months.” 

She pauses and swallows. Months. “So you’d be there to keep me company?” she asks, taking a sip of tea. 

George shrugs. “Keep you company, keep you on a tight schedule, make sure you don’t go mad by yourself and fall into a sea of depression and grief and go completely mental.” He says this all casually but the brief lines which cross his face lead Hermione to believe he has some experience with the last bit. Before she can think of a reply, he continues. “And I’m not completely thick, you know, no matter what my mum says. I could actually help you in some places. You wouldn’t have to do everything alone.” 

Hermione takes another sip of tea and considers. Merlin, but she is tired. Her eyes ache from lack of sleep, her head throbs from constant night terrors and the many nights spent reading in dim light; her very soul feels exhausted from it all. Having someone else there with her, even if it is George instead of Harry or Ron, does sound nice. 

George must take her silence as uncertainty because he suddenly sits forward, face turned up at her in a pleading expression. “Please,” he says hoarsely, the word seeming to grate against his throat. “Please, Hermione, I can’t—I can’t stay here. Please, just let me go with you.” 

The tea cup falls to the table with a soft clink and Hermione openly stares at the haggard man across from her. 

“Why?” she asks, her eyes narrowing as she appraises him. Having another person with her would cut her responsibilities. She could have another person to keep watch at night, to help her make plans, carry the knapsack, find food. But if George is unstable—if losing Fred has left him, in his own words, in a pool of depression and grief that will drive him mad—he will be a liability. While Hermione does not relish the idea of going to Australia by herself, she absolutely despises the idea of taking someone who will slow her down. 

“Why do you want to go?” 

George exhales so deeply she thinks he might deflate altogether. “I can’t stay here,” he says simply, his eyes meeting hers again. “I’ll go mad—completely fucking mad—if I stay here. Everything—this house—the shop—it all just reminds me of him so much.”

He swallows audibly and his eyes fall back to the table. “It hurts,” he whispers, almost to himself. “It hurts so much and I—I just need to be somewhere else. With someone who won’t let me do anything stupid.” 

Without meaning to, Hermione snorts. “As if anyone could ever stop either of you from doing something stupid once you put your mind to it.” 

George exhales again, letting out a ghost of a laugh. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” He looks up at her again, the pleading gone. “Just—please, Hermione. Your parents are out there and I’d like to help you find them.” 

His eyes, blue like Ron’s but a more complicated shade, meet hers once more, and he looks neither pleading nor mad. He simply looks tired. Exhausted. Like the weight of the world has just been lifted from his shoulders but he can’t remember how to move without it. 

Hermione sighs, pushes her teacup aside, and nods. “Okay.”