He could point her out easily amidst the throng of New Yorkers. She had her long hair—way past her shoulders—down and free. She had wide, intelligent eyes, darting wildly as she drank her surroundings. She had no feathers on her, no pearls, no funny hat. Only jewellery she had on her was her long necklace with an hourglass pendant.
She was plain among the fancy women around her.
When her eyes finally landed on his, he tilted his hat in greeting and made his way to her. Her eyes looked so much brighter closer.
“I saw what you did to the poor gentleman there, ma’am,” he said, smiling when her cheeks flushed at being caught.
“I promise I didn’t do it for fun, robbing him, that is,” she said in a rush. She was English. “You see, I just arrived today and I don’t know anyone or anything about…” she looked around, her hand clasped around her pendant, “about… here.”
“Well then, I guess an introduction is in order.” He took off his glove and offered his hand. “Percival Graves, head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement of MACUSA.”
“Oh!” She seemed surprised. She stared at him, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched, as if she was trying to remember something. “Huh. I’m fairly certain I've never heard of you in my ti—back home, I mean!” She took his hand. “I’m Hermione Granger.”
He avoided another spell, clutching his bleeding side as he watched another auror caught it and burnt to crisp.
“We don’t need these kids, do we, Mr. Graves?” Grindelwald’s voice reverberated the night.
He laid on his stomach, leveling his breathing as he tried to figure out his location under the fog and smoke. He would die. He was dying, he knew. He could feel it in the way he could barely exhale, in the way he had to fight his shutting eyelids, in the way his feet blanketed with some sort of cool air.
But all the while, his mind drifted only to her.
Did she knew he was going to die tonight? Did she really had to leave? Did she left because she wanted this to happen?
He closed his eyes and all he saw was her. The way her rosy lips pulled up as she smiled, the creases it created as the smile turned into laughter. Also the very same creases smoothed over when she closed her eyes in bliss as he pleased her, worshipping the curves and scars and her.
He shook his head. He was duelling against the most vicious wizard of all time. He needed to focus. Focus. Focus.
“Focus!” He heard Hermione said to herself then followed by a smacking sound, most likely slapping her cheeks in frustration.
“Hermione?” Percival called, hearing the sound of papers and clinking metals before he reached her study. “What are you doing?”
She pulled her hair down, freeing the curls from the tight chignon. He liked it. The ladies been styling bob haircut these days. Seeing hers long, curly and untamed, was refreshing. Special. Her.
“Research, per usual,” she answered simply before she jumped in excitement. “A revolutionary piece!” Pride was obvious on her face. “How was your day?”
He walked toward her, wrapping his arm around her waist and caressing her red cheek, positively from a slap. “Not as life changing.”
She laughed, leaning into his touch and said, “Such a talker.”
Percival kissed her forehead. He appreciated the fact he could be his quiet self with her. She understood. It felt intimate, like they were bound by more than words. He eyed her study room from on top of her head.
Her table was messy with papers but he saw no sign of anything metal. The only metal thing was her hourglass necklace, glinting under the bluebell fire of hers.
“You’d do,” Grindelwald said, crouching down and pulling his head up by his hair. “Yeah, I could get used to this face.”
“Swell,” Percival spat sarcastically, “Do we elope or should I send our wedding invitations to my colleagues?”
Grindelwald’s face lit with humor. Percival pulled his head down, freeing his hair from his grip. He tried to roll over but Grindelwald had bind his body still. He cursed himself, a sense of panic prickled his skin.
“It’s only you and me left, Mr. Graves,” the wizard sang.
Percival didn’t want to believe that. He strained his ears to listen for any movement but all he could hear was her voice. The clear enunciation of every syllabus as if she was talking to a child—clear and firm and loud, demanding the attention from everyone in the room. The moan, the whispers, the barely audible voice when she woke him up. “Percival,” she had said. Always Percival. Never Perce, nor Percy, nor any other funny nicknames. Percival. Clear and firm and her. Percival.
“Percival,” she called.
He turned to see her standing right at the front door. Her shoulders sagged, seemingly unsure and small yet her eyes were as brilliant, as resolved as he knew they were.
“Percival,” she said again. This time she sounded more sure. “I have to go.”
He put the letter from Madam President down. “What?”
The reflection of the beautiful sunset against her gold necklace caught his attention. He watched as she rolled the hourglass pendant in her small hand until it emitted a golden glow and blended together with the sunray.
“I have to go, Percival. I got it fixed. I’ve stayed here far longer than I should’ve!” Her voice rose, as if the volume would help him understood whatever her reasoning was.
“What are you talking about? What’s fixed? Why can’t you stay longer?” He pushed himself up, walking toward her to wrap his arm around her waist, to caress her cheek, to hold her so she wouldn’t be able to leave.
But she stepped back.
“Hermione?”
“I’m so sorry, Percival.”
In a blink, she was gone. Second blink, third, fourth, fifth… the space where she had stood was still empty.
He ran his fingers through his hair, clearing his throat before he picked the letter up and reread his given mission again, trying to make out the words over his glassy eyes.
In a blink, he, too, was gone, leaving the house alone with their memories to capture the Dark Wizard.
He gave up on his senses and was sure he has gone insane. He didn’t want to think of her. Not now. Not ever. He hated her.
But he hated himself more; for still wanting and hoping, for falling. And the weight of the small jewellery box in his pocket suddenly felt heavier.
“Now,” Grindelwald said as he twirled his wand above his head. Percival watched in horror as he slowly took up his appearance and pointing his wand at him as a perfect carbon copy of Percival Grave. “Shall we begin”—his voice gradually gone deeper—”our revolution?”
“A revolutionary piece!”
“Avada Kedavra.”
There was a brief moment before the killing curse reached him when he actually saw her, smiling under their blanket after the first time they had spent the night together. And he heard her, whispering his name—barely audible and groggy from sleep, perfect and her.
But when the curse hit him, all he could see was the sunset behind her: her hand around her pendant, backing away from his touch. From him.
“I’m so sorry, Percival.”
He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive her.