Normal In a Different Way
Days slip by like beads on a string, and May flips to June. As winter burgeons in the southern hemisphere, Hermione feels as though her mind plays tricks on her. The cooling days and widening nights feel like a British autumn to her, and she wakes one morning in a panic that she has missed her birthday, only to remember September is still three months away.
She sighs as she falls back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling of her hotel room. Her nineteenth birthday is three months away, and while the birthday itself does not hold great importance, the realization still flattens her. She has held a small, secret fantasy of spending the day with her parents, back home in England, like they used to when she was small. For the first time since she was eleven, she had thought she would pass her birthday with her family, going to shops and out to dinner, her parents sitting beside her.
As the days click by, the dream crumbles.
The prospect of spending her birthday in Australia isn’t so very bad, Hermione tells herself as she turns on her side. It can’t be worse than her birthdays at Hogwarts. She will have George with her, at least.
That is, of course, assuming he still wants to accompany her come September.
They have spent the past two weeks visiting every public library in greater Sydney they can find, searching for patron records for a Monica or Wendell Wilkins. Two weeks of distractions and trickery and poring over printed lists, and they haven’t found a trace of her parents.
Hermione is exhausted. George must be too.
Despite the weariness sitting heavy on her head, Hermione’s body is unwilling to slip into sleep. With a sigh, she peels the blankets from her and sits up, running a hand through her hair. The curls spring back from her fingers, falling heavily against her cheek as she pulls herself from the bed.
She showers and dresses quickly before making her bed with a flick of her wand. When the duvet has settled into the corners of the mattress, and the bathroom towels have folded themselves under the sink, Hermione takes a moment and surveys the tiny room.
She chews her cheek as her eyes flick over the scratched walls with their heavy curtains and unobtrusive artwork that have contained her for the last month. If she didn’t know that this was the room where she spent her evenings and attempted to sleep, Hermione would think it sat empty. All her clothes and possessions are packed neatly in the knapsack she swings over her shoulder, ready to leave at a moment's notice if necessary.
Hermione wonders what it would be like to settle somewhere, to leave a book or a jacket sitting out on a chair all day without the gnawing fear that she will never get it back. She wonders what it would feel like to not always pack her existence into the smallest possible container.
Even at Hogwarts she had kept her things stowed carefully in her trunk or within the confines of her four poster bed. Parvati and Lavender had laughed over this, their own robes and makeup spilling into every available corner of the dormitory. Hermione didn’t know how to tell them that for those first two years, part of her was still waiting for someone to come tell her it had all been a mistake, that she wasn’t a witch at all and really wasn’t supposed to be there. She kept her things tidy so that when the event came to pass she would be able to pack quickly, to not draw out the embarrassment any longer than necessary. After those first few years the habit had stuck. And last year, while they were on the run, it had seemed critical that she always be ready to move, ready to pack up and leave in an instant.
Maybe that is why she cannot sleep now, she thinks. All that constant movement, all that worry has burrowed into her bones with nowhere to go.
George waits for her in the lobby, just as he does every morning. Hermione suspects he is one of the few people in the world who sleeps less than she does. They used to startle her, the lines carved into his forehead and shadows along his cheeks thrown into sharp relief by the lobby’s overhead lights. But now she barely looks twice as she drops into the seat beside him and takes out the map of Sydney.
She knows as the day progresses, as they leave the confines of the hotel and emerge into the city, the gaunt mask covering George Weasley’s face will slip away, and she will find the cheerful, laughing boy she remembers. She knows that by the time breakfast is laid out the shadows will have receded and the lines smoothed, kissed away by the hidden ray of light that seems to follow George wherever he goes.
She envies him for the way the horrors of the night seem to melt off him in the daytime. She does not know what terrors sit with him when he returns alone to his room each night, but she thinks that she would rather endure a deeper darkness if it meant she did not carry the remnants of it in her face all day.
“Where are we heading today?” George interrupts her thoughts, leaning over the arm of his chair to peer at the map spread out in front of her.
Hermione runs her hand over the web of streets and villages, blinking as her mind comes back to focus on the task at hand. “I think we’ll start moving west,” she says. “We’ve covered most of the towns to the north and northwest. I’m just looking to see which of these will be the best place to start.”
George nods and shifts in his seat, adjusting the large book sitting open in his lap. “Just let me know how many libraries we’re planning to visit.” He gestures towards the bag at his feet. “I want to make sure I have enough supplies easily available so we’re not caught without a detonator again.”
Hermione feels her mouth break into a small smile at the memory of George earlier that week, realizing he didn’t have another decoy detonator on him to cause a distraction and so exuberantly pretending to be a lost tourist. “We wouldn’t want that.”
George slants a glance at her. “We really wouldn’t. That was a harrowing fifteen minutes for me, Granger.”
“Mhm,” Hermione snorts. “Yes, Linda the librarian was so horrid when she fawned over you.”
“I didn’t have any rehearsal time, and you were too busy sneaking into the desk to be a reliable scene partner.”
“You have my deepest sympathies, truly.”
Hermione leans forward to study the map further, the ends of her hair tickling the paper. “I think we can visit seven branches today, if we’re quick about it. Some of these towns look fairly small, so it shouldn’t take as long to find the library.”
“Alright.” George takes his bag from the floor and swings it onto his lap, opening the top and rummaging inside. “I think I have three detonators in here,” he says. “I took the anti-duplication security charms off, so I can just make a few copies of each, and we’ll be ready to go.”
“You have anti-duplication spells on them?” Hermione asks, raising her eyebrows.
“Of course.” George frowns at her. “Did you think we’d just let people buy something from the shop and go home and duplicate it?”
Hermione blinks, sitting back in her seat. “I suppose I never really thought about it,” she says. “That’s quite smart of you.”
“It’s just business,” George shrugs, setting the bag on the ground and settling back into his chair. “Everyone has to earn a living, even those of us who just own a silly joke shop. And it’s hard to do that if you let customers copy your products whenever they want.”
Hermione nods, still watching him for a moment. George turns his attention back to the book in his lap, forehead crinkling.
They sit in silence for a quarter hour, Hermione studying the map and scratching notes into a notebook, George flipping through pages of his book.
“Hermione,” George says, straightening in his seat. “Look at this.”
She turns and looks over her shoulder to see him holding the book out towards her, thumb between the pages.
“What is it?” she asks as she takes it, sliding her finger in the gap between the pages and flipping it open. “Did you find a counterspell?”
George makes a noncommittal noise, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly, but it’s something. Just read it, it starts—” he leans over the side of the chair and jabs a finger at a block of text halfway down the page, “right here.”
Hermione huffs and turns her eyes to the words in front of her.
Soul bonds: a relationship or bond of such depth that it leaves traces on the soul of the witch or wizard who experiences it.
Soul bonds are some of the most ancient and least understood areas of magic, and are exceedingly difficult to create, destroy, or alter. No spell is used to create them, but they are forged by time, thought, and feeling, all of which can be manipulated and eroded by magical means. While some areas of magic can replicate the symptoms of a bond that imprints on the subject’s soul, no known magical practice can generate or permanently erase a bond that is formed, even when the subjects of such a bond are forcibly separated by magical or natural means. Such bonds can be made stronger by repeated or spectacular shows of perceived love, sacrifice, or servitude.
See also: magical family bonds, blood bonds, blood debts.
Hermione gets to the end of the page and looks up, her eyebrows drawing together. “There’s nothing in here about memory charms.”
“I know.” George leans forward, gesturing towards the book. “But it doesn’t matter. This is saying that most magical people have some sort of deep bond with someone else. You probably have one with each of your parents, something that goes bone deep, that has intrinsically marked you.” He pauses and shakes his head slightly. “These bonds—soul bonds—you can’t completely destroy them, but can generate or erase the symptoms or markers of them. That would include altering a person’s memory to forget you.”
“I know what the writing on magical bonds says,” Hermione rolls her eyes and frowns down at the book. “It’s all very—very imprecise. Old magic, saying that bonds are formed that cannot be broken. Magical blood debts and all of that.”
“It could mean that we’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle, though,” George says. “We’ll still need to remove the memories you implanted, of course, but we might not need to concern ourselves with also recovering your parents’ memories of you. The whole point is that you’ve just removed symptoms of the bond—their memory of what you look like, what your name is, all that. But the bond is still there, and it’s deeper than all of that. This says they’ll recognize you, even if they don’t immediately know why. You’re their daughter. The magic of the bond—”
“George, my parents are muggles,” Hermione whispers, biting her lip as she looks again at the book. “This is all—this notion of magical bonds is lovely if it’s true but I don’t—I don’t know if it applies to them.”
George squints at her, the lines on his forehead deepening as he again runs a hand through his hair. “But you’re magical,” he says. “And I haven’t seen anything that says the bonds don’t exist or aren’t created just because one person involved isn’t magic.”
“They’re called magical bonds,” Hermione grits out. She closes her eyes and puts a hand to her head. “Nobody who has done this research knows or cares if they apply to muggles. Those bonds may still exist between non-magical people, and the magic may still be there, but nobody knows for sure because no wizard who has ever written one of these bloody books has given a moment’s thought to how these things impact muggles.”
She tilts her head back and opens her eyes, staring at the fluorescent lights in the lobby ceiling. She can feel George watching her, can hear him shift in his seat. She does not meet his gaze, but scrapes a hand over her face and swallows the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to gamble my future with my parents on a fuzzy understanding of magic so old and so uncertain that we don’t even know if or how it would work.”
Silence. Hermione can hear the buzz of the overhead lights and the rapid thrumming of her heart in her chest. She closes her eyes again.
“Alright,” George says after a beat.
Hermione opens her eyes and turns to look at him.
George’s face is set, and he reaches over to take the book from her lap, settling it once again on his knees. “I’ll keep looking.”
His head ducks down and she can see his finger running along the text. Hermione bites her lip again, holding in a sigh. He is trying to help. She knows this. She knows she ought to be grateful. She knows she ought to have more faith in magic and in the power that comes with family bonds. How could she not have faith in such things, after all she has seen with Harry?
But the thought nags her. Her parents are muggles. While she knows they love her, they do not have magic sparking the blood in their veins. They do not carry any ancient power that can protect her or themselves.
No, she will have to find a way to undo the magic she has put upon them. And she will have to do it herself. As much as she appreciates George’s help, Hermione knows in the end this is a task that she will not entrust to anyone else. She simply will not risk it.
***
They spend the day apparating to towns west of Sydney, settling into their now well-rehearsed roles to distract library staff and find a list of patrons at each place.
As they walk out the door of the seventh library, Hermione feels like she has swallowed a devil’s snare. The nausea is not new, and she knows it is not cause for concern. The constant apparition, days of takeaway meals, and lack of sleep have tied her stomach in knots. The weight that settles over her chest with the knowledge that another day has passed, and they have found nothing but seven new dead ends, only makes things worse.
They walk silently to the deserted side street they apparated into just under an hour earlier, and Hermione wordlessly holds out her hand.
“Hold on,” George says, turning to fully face her and cocking his head to the side. “I had a thought that I wanted to run by you.”
Hermione drops her hand and raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“What if we went into wizarding Sydney tonight? Just for a few hours. We can find somewhere to eat and see what the Australian wizards have to offer by way of entertainment.”
Hermione bites her lip as she considers this. “I don’t know,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “It could slow us down. What if we’re recognized and something happens? Or we stay too late and can’t start at the same time tomorrow—we’d lose time—”
“We need a break, Hermione,” George says. His gaze flicks over her face, and she can see the fatigue settling behind his eyes. “You’re tired. I know you are, even though you won’t say it. And I know you’re frustrated we haven’t found anything yet—”
Hermione scowls. “I’m not frustrated. I knew this could take a while—”
“I know,” George puts his hands up. “But you don’t need to—”
“There’s a deadline. I told you. I only have—”
“A year. I know. But you’re not going to do your parents any favors by running yourself into the ground trying to find them. I’m not suggesting we stop looking altogether, or that we take a whole day off. I’m saying that we could let ourselves take a few hours tonight and have some fun in a foreign city and take our minds off of everything for a little bit.”
Hermione swallows, twisting the ends of her hair around her fingers. The weight in her stomach moves up to her chest, pressing on her lungs from all sides as she thinks about the number of towns in greater Sydney that they have not yet seen, the number of towns in all of Australia they will have to identify and visit and search to find her parents.
She squeezes her eyes shut as the weight crushes the inside of her chest, compressing her ribs and jamming her breath. There is so much still to do, so many places they have not yet looked.
She feels George’s hand come to rest on her shoulder, his thumb pressing gentle circles into the base of her neck. She takes a breath in, the air scraping down her throat.
“You don’t have to be moving forward all the time,” he says, still kneading the top of her shoulder. “Everyone needs to rest and have some fun sometimes so they don’t lose their minds. Even you.”
Hermione swallows and lets her head fall forward, her chin tucking into her chest. She brings a hand up to wipe at her face. “If I stop then everything stops,” she says thickly.
“It doesn’t have to. That’s why I’m here, to help you and to keep you sane.”
Hermione takes another breath in and slowly raises her head, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she mumbles.
George releases her shoulder and steps away. “Need a minute?”
She shakes her head, running a hand over her hair and trying not to think about how blotchy her face must be. “No, that’s alright. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods. “I’ll be fine.” She pauses, breathes. “And you’re probably right.”
George raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Hermione squares her shoulders and adjusts her bag, shaking away the horrible pressure subsiding in her chest. “We need a break.”
George gives a short nod, still watching her.
“So let’s go into wizarding Sydney tonight. We can relax a little bit, and continue on tomorrow.”
“Alright.” George holds out his hand, and Hermione takes it. “I can apparate us there.”
She nods wordlessly, catching her bottom lip with her teeth.
“And Hermione?” George asks, the corner of his mouth quirking as he glances down at her.
“Yeah?”
“I want you to know I will never forget this day as being the day you told me I was right about something.”
Hermione pauses, then rolls her eyes, a laugh sneaking between her lips. “It was bound to happen one of these days,” she says. “I hope you’ve enjoyed it.”
“It was a truly thrilling experience. An even bigger rush than eating a whole box of fizzing whizbees.”
George catches her eye, his face split into a smile. Hermione feels her own face respond with the same. Before she can say another word, George squeezes her hand and turns on the spot so the world around them vanishes.
***
Wizarding Sydney, to Hermione’s disappointment, is not all that different from Wizarding London. On further thought, she feels rather embarrassed by her disappointment, realizing that in her ignorance she had thought each new wizarding city would provide the same jaw-dropping awe and spectacle she had felt the first time she saw Diagon Alley.
To be sure, Wizarding Sydney has its own places of interest and the shops carry slightly different merchandise. But on the whole it feels to Hermione just like a variation of Diagon Alley. Which, she supposes, it is.
They spend an hour walking along the street, peering into shops and stopping to examine products and advertisements that could not be found in Britain. The sun beats down on them, and as it sinks behind the buildings, George suggests they find somewhere to eat.
They make their way into a small, sparsely populated pub that reminds Hermione of a cleaner, sunnier version of The Leaky Cauldron. George finds a table near the front windows, the evening sunlight casting a glow over the scratched wooden chairs, and they take their seats.
“I haven’t been in a proper pub in ages,” George says after they order their drinks and food, looking around the space. “This one isn’t bad.”
Their waiter returns with their drinks, and Hermione settles into her seat as she takes a sip. It feels nice, sitting here in Wizarding Sydney, not having to worry about looking odd or out of place. She could take out her wand right here, in the middle of the pub, if she wanted to and nobody would bat an eye.
“It is nice being in a magical place again,” she muses, looking around the pub with its moving posters and magical lights strung on the ceiling. “I always forget how nice it is, not having to hide the fact I’m a witch. It’s easier to just—enjoy everything.”
“What was it like, learning you were a witch?” George asks, watching her with an appraising gaze over the rim of his glass. “I’ve always been curious.”
Hermione pauses, so surprised by the question it takes her several seconds to think of a reply. “It was—a relief.”
George takes a drink and frowns. “That’s—not what I expected you to say.”
“What did you expect me to say?”
George shrugs. “Dunno. I guess I just thought it might be some great, happy moment. In most families when a kid first does magic, everyone gets all excited about it. I wondered if it was like that.”
Hermione shakes her head, taking another sip of her drink. “No, it’s not like that for muggle-borns.” She pauses and tucks a piece of hair behind her ears. “At least, it wasn’t like that for me.”
George cocks his head to the side, and Hermione takes this as an invitation to continue.
“Most muggles don’t believe witches and wizards are real. They’re treated just as myths or legends that only exist in stories. When I was young and things would happen—things that were odd, that nobody could possibly explain—”
She trails off and looks down at the table, her cheeks growing warm. The memories invade: the neighbor’s dog’s teeth disappearing from its mouth after biting her when she was five; Jacqueline Holmstead’s frilly pink jumper catching on fire as she screamed on the playground that Hermione Granger was a mutant; her father telling her they would be getting her a private tutor rather than finishing at the local primary school after the third teacher in a row requested the strange Granger girl be moved from their class.
“I spent nearly my entire childhood being afraid that something was horribly wrong with me,” she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
George leans on the tabletop, his chin propped in his hand as he watches her, eyebrows knitted together.
“And my parents—they loved me, and they tried to keep their chins up, but so many things were happening they didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. They were afraid I was some sort of changeling or government experiment they had unknowingly fallen into.” She takes a breath. “So when Professor McGonagall showed up and told them—told me—what I was, it was just this moment of realizing there wasn’t anything wrong with me. There had never been anything wrong with me. I was completely normal, just normal in a different way.”
George brushes a piece of hair from his eyes and looks about to say something when the waiter appears with their food. Hermione adjusts her seat, rather grateful for the interruption. She takes another breath and steels herself, imagines the unhappy memories being locked away in a trunk in the corner of her brain. She twists the key, shoves the box to the side.
“What did your parents think about all the business with you-know-who then?” George asks as their waiter leaves. He unrolls his silverware and pulls his plate towards him. “Were they worried?”
Hermione fidgets in her seat, taking a bite of her sandwich to avoid immediately answering.
“They didn’t really know much about that, to tell you the truth,” she says at last. “They were already worried enough as it was, sending me off to an unknown school to learn things that didn’t make any sense to them. I didn’t—I didn’t want them to have to worry more.”
George nods, eyes still trained on her. “Were you worried?”
Hermione chews the inside of her cheek. She thinks back to the taunts at school, the posters and pamphlets she had seen in the ministry warning against the dangers of allowing muggle-borns to be allowed in wizarding society.
“I was angry.” She stops, frowns down at her sandwich. “I’m still angry.”
George chews, still looking at her across the table. He swallows and leans forward, planting his elbows on the table top. “I don’t blame you.”
“It’s completely unfair,” Hermione says, shaking her head. “All of it is so bloody unfair. You know,” she looks up at him, eyes bright. “Muggle-borns don’t ask to be part of the wizarding world. Most of us grew up feeling odd, and like we didn’t fit in. And then we learn about magic and we go to Hogwarts—and we still don’t fit in because we didn’t grow up with the same stories and clothes and music as everyone. And then people appear saying that we actually don’t deserve to be part of that world at all, and we’re a poison ruining it.”
She stops and takes a bite, the old rage burning in her blood. She catches George’s eye, finds him leaning towards her, expression soft. She purses her lip and shakes her head, sinking slightly in her seat.
“I just wish—just for once—I got to really feel like I belonged somewhere. Like I’m not some imposter who’s trying to fit into a world that’s not made for me.”
George gives a small smile. “You belonged pretty well with Ron and Harry. I can’t imagine those two without you.”
Hermione chews her lip, eyes falling down to look at her knees. “And even that has to come to an end,” she mutters.
George rolls his eyes. “Well, you and Ronnie still have each other. There’s always that.”
Hermione grimaces, feeling like she swallowed a slug. “No.”
George’s eyebrows rise towards his hairline. He sips his drink and watches her, the question silently hanging between them.
Hermione feels her face flame. “It’s not—I really do—”
She stops and takes a breath, looking down at the table as she steels herself. “I love him as a friend. He is one of my best friends. But I don’t—I don’t care for him the way he thinks he cares about me and it was a mistake to kiss him.”
George’s eyebrows rise even higher, nearly disappearing under his hair. Hermione keeps going, feeling like a dam has burst in her chest as feelings she has so carefully tucked away come rushing to the surface.
“I do care about him. I care about him so much and want him to be happy, but I just know I wouldn’t make him happy. And—and he wouldn’t make me happy.” She swallows, looking up to find George still watching her, his face unreadable. She drops her eyes and keeps going.
“We would be miserable, and would wish we hadn’t done it. But I don’t think he sees that right now and so he hates me and I’ve completely ruined one of the only friendships I’ve ever had—”
She stops and tries to swallow the tears that have suddenly welled up, the horrible pulsing in her chest returning. Across the table, George shifts and then holds something out to her.
Hermione takes the handkerchief from his hand and dabs at her eyes.
“I know it seems cruel,” she says somewhat defensively as she hands back the handkerchief. “But it would be crueler to let him think there is a hope when there’s not.”
“Nobody thinks you’re cruel, Granger,” George says, giving Hermione an odd quizzical look and setting his chin in his hand. “But are you—you’re quite sure you don’t—?”
“Positive.” Hermione nods. “I love him ever so much as a friend, but not at all in that way. He and Harry — they’re some of the most important people in my life. I won’t risk that.”
A ghost of a smile flashes across George’s face. “I’m sure Ronnie-kins would be thrilled to hear how important he is to you.”
Hermione flushes. “Don’t make fun,” she snaps.
George puts his hands up. “I’m not making fun. I’m actually quite relieved to hear you don’t intend to start snogging him and that you’ve told him so. Fred and I always thought you could do better, but we didn’t think Ron had fully grasped that.”
Hermione stares at him, unsure how to respond to that.
“Of course,” George continues conversationally, picking up his drink and taking a quick sip. “We both thought you and Harry would make a go of it at some point.”
At this, Hermione actually has to laugh. “Harry? No, absolutely not. If either of them, it would have been Ron. But it never—”
She flushes again and snaps her mouth closed, forcing herself to look down and take another bite of her sandwich. She has already said entirely too much.
George brings his fork to his mouth and gives her a penetrating, assessing look.
“So that’s why you agreed to let me come here with you? Why you wouldn’t wait for the ministry project to finish first?” he asks. “You didn’t want to be alone with Ron in Australia for Merlin knows how long?”
Hermione bites her lip and gives a short nod. “More or less,” she admits. “I thought—I thought some space would be the best way for us to try and stay friends.”
George quirks an eyebrow. “And how are you feeling about that now?”
Hermione shrugs, picking up her fork and nudging the chips on her plate. “I don’t know.” She glances up, catching George’s eye. She bites down on her lip hard enough she tastes blood, and decides to throw caution to the wind.
“Can I tell you a secret? Something I haven’t told anyone that will just show you how horrible and selfish I am?”
George nods, his forehead wrinkling again as he frowns at her.
The words pour out of her like lava, burning her tongue as they rush from the smallest locked box in her chest out into the air. “Part of me—a very small part but a part nonetheless—is sad all of this is over. When we were fighting—when we were on the run—I knew my role. I knew what we needed to do, and I knew the part I had to play in it. But now it’s over, and Harry is with Ginny, and I’ve ruined everything with Ron—”
She trails off and lifts her eyes to look at George, the thought crystallizing in her mouth as the words rise. “I don’t know where I belong now that everything is over.”
George leans back in his chair, elbows dropping from the table as he absorbs her words. For a moment Hermione thinks he is going to agree that she is horrible and selfish, that he never would have joined her here if he had known how awful she truly was.
His face twists into a small, sad smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling. He leans forward, eyes again flickering across her face.
“I don’t think that makes you horrible, Granger.”
Hermione runs a hand over her hair, leaning forward slightly to rest an elbow against the table. “You don’t?”
“No.” George shakes his head. “Or at least, if it makes you horrible, then I’m horrible too.” His eyes flick up, latching onto hers with such sudden force that Hermione leans back. He pauses, grimacing, and picks up his glass, draining it with one last gulp.
“And if it makes you feel better, I don’t know where I belong now either.”