In Fair Verona
August 29th, 1977
Life at Longbottom Hall was disorienting at first. Augusta was often gone for long periods of time for Wizengamot meetings and Frank was either with his plants or sneaking off to visit Alice (not that he was exactly subtle about it). This left Hermione to explore the house by herself.
She’d spent her first two days in a strange sort of fugue state where she felt more like a ghost roaming through Longbottom Hall than a real flesh and blood person. The brief moments just after she woke were her favorites, the precious seconds where she forgot where and when she was and everything felt normal.
The tears came easily and frequently, of course. One moment she’d be sitting in the library, lost in a book, and then out of nowhere something would remind her of Harry or Ron and she’d be reduced to a weeping mess.
Hermione hated that she was unable to push down the hopelessness that so often snuck up on her, dragging her into the dark waters of sorrow where she feared she might drown in her own tears. So she did the logical thing, always the logical thing, and began practicing occlumency.
She’d gained enough second hand knowledge of how the skill worked from Harry and her own research that it wasn’t difficult to start learning. Hours and hours she spent in the library, or in her room when thoughts of the Department of Mysteries pulled her from sleep, clearing her mind and sorting her thoughts and emotions into neat little boxes.
Her mind wasn’t a library shelf filled with alphabetized books. Nor was it a filing cabinet, neatly organized and categorized. Instead, it was a fridge filled with thoughts and feelings stored in neatly labeled tupperware containers. A practical method of organizing her mind. She was always practical.
The volatile emotions and memories she placed in the freezer, compartmentalizing and cleaning her mind until after hours of practice she could cool her emotions with relative ease; clearing her mind and tucking the thoughts back into the fridge where they belonged.
Calming and compartmentalizing her mind were only the first steps in truly learning and mastering the skill. But despite her rudimentary skills they made life bearable after only a few days of practice; allowing her to pull a thin wall of ice between herself and the rest of the world when needed.
It was a lovely Wednesday morning and Hermione was practicing her occlumency once again. Inhaling calmness and exhaling her anxieties, a book on time turners open in her lap. She’d been researching in the library when a snowy owl had soared past the window and almost sent her into a panic attack.
Hermione carefully compartmentalized the events of her day so far. Augusta had kicked her and Frank out of the main rooms earlier (although it wasn’t very difficult to get Frank to leave to go play with his plants), saying that she was having visitors over. Hermione had taken this to mean that there was an Order meeting occurring and hadn’t even tried eavesdropping after Augusta cast a privacy spell on the living room.
“Sorry, dearie.” An unfamiliar voice pulled her from her concentration. “Fleamont and I are just borrowing some books from Augusta.”
The woman was at least in her sixties, although being a witch she could have easily been much older, with dark skin and hair that was pulled into a neat braid. The man beside her shared a similar shade of rich brown skin and a shock of black hair that was sticking in every conceivable direction.
Harry’s grandparents, she realized half-heartedly, he’d never get to meet them.
“It’s no problem,” she smiled, trying desperately to keep her occlumency shields up. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Hermione.”
Two large containers had been shoved to the back of her mind. It required a lot of magic to keep the emotions associated with meeting Harry’s family at bay and it left her filled with nothing but cold numbness and an exhaustion that was becoming more and more common the longer she spent in 1977.
“Ah yes, Augusta’s niece,” Fleamont said with an over-exaggerated wink as Euphemia began perusing the shelves for books. “You’re a year younger than our James, yes? He’s head boy this year, you know.” He seemed to radiate nothing but pride for his son and Hermione’s heart ached for Harry.
Good Godric, she was going to be in Gryffindor with James Potter. “Yes I am. You must be very proud of him,” was all she managed as she fought desperately against the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm the flimsy barriers of her occlumency.
“Oh we are,” he replied with a beaming grin. “Quidditch Captain, Head Boy, and he’s going to start at the Auror Academy after he graduates. We couldn’t be more proud.” Fleamont seemed to have forgotten his original mission in coming to the library, leaving his wife to pick through the shelves as he sat across from Hermione. “Do you know what house you want to end up in? I know the sorting is rather intimidating, and I imagine it’ll be even more so since you’re the only sixth year doing it, but don’t let that scare you.”
Merlin, she hadn’t even thought about the fact that she was going to have to be sorted again. “Gryffindor,” she said, because obviously she was going to be in Gryffindor. She’d already been sorted five years ago, or sixteen years in the future. Her mind stuck on something Fleamont had said though. “James is going into the Auror Academy?” She hadn’t known he was an auror.
“Oh yes, quite a few of the Gyrffindors in his year are because of, well you know. Our other boy, Sirius, is as well.” It was sweet to see the way he smiled with pride for Sirius as well, his adopted son.
“Don’t forget about Alice and Frank,” Euphemia said as she reappeared with a stack of books on what appeared to be both healing spells and dark magic. “I reckon they’ll be married before they finish the Academy, the pair of them are very sweet.”
“What about Lily Evans?” Hermione asked without thinking. Upon Fleamont and Euphemia’s slightly confused faces, she added, “Frank’s been telling me about all of the people in his year and he said she’s Head Girl.”
Flemont laughed, “Oh yes, poor girl is stuck with James.” Euphemia slapped him lightly in the shoulder and he added, “She’s pursuing a potions apprenticeship, although not for James’s lack of trying to get her to join the aurors with him.”
She’d never known Lily had done a potions apprenticeship. Another thing to add to the list of things she’d tell Harry if she ever managed to get back. If, being the important part.
“That’s lovely.” She smiled as Fleamont and Euphemia stood to leave. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Oh it was lovely to meet you too dear.” Euphemia handed half of her books to her husband as he opened the library doors. “I’m glad the Order could take you in, it’s always hard for muggleborns but it’s gotten even worse with the war. I’m happy we could provide sanctuary to at least one person.”
☆★☆
Diagon Alley looked almost exactly the same as it had in the 90s. Hermione attributed this to the slower change of culture that happened in the wizarding world as opposed to the muggle one.
She wasn’t quite sure whether it was refreshing or upsetting that it looked the same, but she didn’t have much time to dwell on her thoughts as Augusta dragged her and Frank from shop to shop.
The textbook list was similar to the one she’d had in 1996, with the only differences being the books for Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts. It seemed as if educational standards hadn’t changed in seventeen odd years which horrified her.
Hermione had half listened to Augusta’s rampage in Madame Malkin’s about how she needed school robes, casual robes, dress robes, and a variety of other types; but truly she felt disconnected. Pureblood fashion wasn’t something she’d ever attempted to understand, dismissing it as frivolous and unnecessary to her academic pursuits. The fact that she should have been at Diagon Alley with Harry and Ron, not Frank and Augusta made her care even less about the superficiality of it all.
“Hermione, Frank,” Augusta said, checking her pocket watch, “Will you two be alright on your own for a bit? I need to stop by Gringotts.” She didn’t wait for a response, merely turned on her heel and began marching towards the Bank.
Frank sent Hermione a sheepish smile, running a hand through his hair. “I told Alice I’d meet her at Florian’s if I could get away from Mum.”
.Hermione waved him on. “Go on then, I’ll be in Flourish and Blotts.”
The wide grin he flashed her reminded her wholeheartedly of Neville as he began racing through the street towards the ice cream parlour. Frank was leagues more confident than Neville was, sure, but there was something about his unhindered enthusiasm that was heartbreakingly identical to his son.
The scent of old parchment and leather bound books called to her like a siren and soon enough she was in Flourish and Blotts once more, picking through the shelves. There was something comforting about the shop, the way the smell of the ink seemed to permeate the entirety of the building. The quiet chattering of students and families looking through the books.
If she only closed her eyes she could pretend, just for the briefest moment, that Harry and Ron were on the other side of the shelf. Any moment now the pair might come barreling around the corner to tell her they’d forgotten their supply lists at Grimmauld and needed to borrow hers.
“You’re in the way,” a cool voice remarked from behind her.
Hermione opened her eyes, frowning at the shelf in front of her. She was in the quietest corner of the shop, amid the stacks of books that weren’t necessarily dark but certainly toed the line on ethicality.
The quiet tapping of a shoe against the wooden floor seemed to drown out the rest of the noise. “It’s rather gauche to stand and stare when you’re not intending to buy anything.” His voice was low and drawling, as if he could barely be bothered to have this conversation, and yet it was still marked with the obnoxious posh accent characteristic of purebloods.
She turned, setting her book aside. “It’s rather rude to accost strangers in public.” The rest of her retort died on her lips.
A boy about her age stood in front of her. He was dressed in neat black robes with silver detailing that looked far more expensive than what was necessary for a trip to Diagon Alley, but it was his face that caught her attention.
His face was slim and angular, as if his features had been meant for a marble statue but had ended up on a teenage boy instead. Wavy locks of pitch black hair framed his face in a way that looked too elegantly disheveled to not have been purposeful.
The part of him that stood out the most, however, were the piercing grey eyes that were identical to Harry’s godfather. But no, this wasn’t Sirius. She’d seen pictures of him from when he was at Hogwarts and the boy in front of her lacked the shaggy haircut and the air of mischief generally associated with the older Black brother.
“I don’t know you.” The boy frowned at her, as if this fact was personally annoying to him. “You don’t go to Hogwarts.”
Regulus Black then. It had to be. She was looking at a future death eater.
“I haven’t gone,” she answered, edging out of the way. “And no, you don’t know me.”
“You’re obviously not French.” He copied her movements, trapping her against the shelves. Regulus didn’t look at her, so much as he looked through her; analyzing everything about her. “And I’d know you if you were a pureblood.”
Talking to a death eater in this secluded part of the shop was a bad idea. Sirius had never spoken much about Regulus, but she knew enough. Leave, she needed to leave before he kept interrogating her or worse, one of his friends came along.
“I am actually,” she replied with her best imitation of Pansy Parkinson’s glare. “Now move, I’m supposed to be meeting my cousin.”
He did not move, instead just raised an eyebrow at her new tone. “And your cousin is?”
Force then. Hermione put one hand on his shoulder, pushing him out of the way. “Frank Longbottom.”
Regulus said something to her back, but she didn’t stick around long enough to hear it. Books forgotten, she hurried out of the shop and slipped into the crowd of Diagon Alley.