The Crescent

The suspense was eating her up, goading Hermione’s stomach in endless irritation. The sun hung high, preferring to beat down on her bare neck than light up her face. And Ginny, to add to her short list of minor annoyances, bopped beside her, practically bouncing off the railings that funnelled up to the tall, white wooden door, adorned with a golden number 8 at the centre.

Ginny blew rapidly in and out. ‘If he doesn’t hurry up with those keys, I am going to piss my pants!’

‘Oh, is that what this is?’ Hermione waved her hand over Ginny’s peculiarly jittery body. ‘Silly me, I thought you were just excited about the move.’

‘That too, of course I am,’ said Ginny as she bopped from toe to toe. ‘But, also – you know – desperate for the loo!’

Hermione smirked and watched Kingsley hand Hannah Abbott three keys and gesture to her door. ‘Did you know that Bath has a Roman thermae spa in the centre of the city?’ she said casually. ‘We must visit. Can you imagine – surrounded by water, natural springs gushing all around, hot liquid, pressure building –’

Ginny squeezed her legs together and rocked onto her toes. ‘I will throttle you!’

Kingsley moved along the crescent towards the door where Bill, Fleur and little baby Victoire were waiting in a huddle. He handed them both keys and Fleur rushed Victoire inside like a superhero, whooshing over her head. They were two terraced townhouses away and, though Hermione couldn’t hear what was being discussed, Kingsley and Bill were clearly engaged in a very serious conversation. Brows furrowed, arms tensed, fists clenched. Even Bills scars seemed to darken as his face flushed.

‘Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking,’ Ginny murmured to herself as she shot her big brother a deathly glare. She repeated the words over and over, in sync with each tiptoed bounce, until she suddenly erupted with a roaring, ‘STOP TALKING!’ that made Kingsley’s jaw drop and Bill’s already flustered face darken to maroon.

‘GIN!’

‘Sorry!’ Ginny lied. She wasn’t sorry at all. ‘Just, you know, eager to get a move on. Shake a leg, William!’

Kingsley patted Bill’s arm and walked back down his path, bypassing the house between them, to head straight for the two waiting witches. At a thoroughly languid pace. Hermione noticed a pull at the corner of Kingsley’s mouth as he paused to pluck lint from his trouser leg. He also stopped to sneeze twice, tie his boot lace and pick a muggle penny from the pavement.

Ginny’s nostrils flared as she spoke through gritted teeth. ‘If he doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I am going to take that gold earring of his and give him a brand-new piercing, right through his –’

‘Minister, hello!’ Hermione chimed. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘It is, indeed. A wonderfully warm September day,’ said Kingsley, turning his face to the sun. ‘Good afternoon, Ginevra. You seem lively today.’

‘Oh, you know me, sir,’ said Ginny, fixing an awful, fake smile. ‘Always ready and raring to go.’

‘Well, let me find your key.’ Kingsley rifled through his pocket and withdrew a large iron ring laced with what looked like twenty keys, each one black and identical. ‘This may take a while. Why don’t you go on in while I settle up with Miss Granger.’

Ginny froze. Her eyes revolved toward the door and then she was rushing for the handle. It twisted freely in her hand and gave way, opening into a glorious, tiled floor that Ginny didn’t stop to take in on her screaming, cursing route to the toilet.

Kingsley opened his eyes wide in Ginny’s wake. ‘Curious choice of housemate, Miss Granger. I assume your level-head will be required to balance out Miss Weasley’s – how should I say – uniqueness.’

‘Made it!’ Ginny hollered from the depths of the house. ‘Just in time!’

Kingsley’s face lightened with a hearty laugh. ‘And what about dear Miss Lovegood?’

‘On a research trip in the Atacama Desert,’ Hermione answered. ‘She’ll come and go as she pleases. She didn’t want to risk losing the room.’

‘It really is an exceptional opportunity,’ he said as he flicked through the ring of keys. ‘The Ministry is investing a lot of faith and money into you all and it expects results. Afterall, you are our greatest resource. Our world is expanding from the careful, closed villages we are used to. We want to establish dedicated magical hubs in every city. A finger in every pie, so to speak.’

Hermione simply smiled and waited for Kingsley to find the elusive key. She was well aware of the Ministry’s plans; she had read through enough of her friends’ contracts to commit the wording to memory. The Ministry had purchased the entire Royal Crescent in Bath – a curve of thirty opulent townhouses overlooking a beautiful green lawn – and offered them to the heroes of the war at a very generously reduced rent. A substantial reward for the part they played in defending the realm. Conditional generosity, she was sure, and a gift Hermione had been slightly more hesitant to accept, compared to her friends.

Further along the Royal Crescent she found a sea of familiar faces, waiting at their respective doors. The rest of the Weasley children and their partners, Dumbledore’s Army, Order of the Phoenix members and allies, and of course, her oldest friends. She smiled and tossed Harry and Ron a quick wave. They were stuck at the far end, stacking chests of belongings along their path, and the sight reminded Hermione of the trunks piled high on Platform 9 ¾.

‘I take it the train departed without a hitch?’ Hermione asked, as she lifted Crookshank’s cat carrier under her arm.

‘On its way to Hogwarts as we speak,’ said Kingsley, a fond grin spreading from cheek to cheek. ‘Oh, to be young and exploring that castle for the first time. I do envy them, don’t you? Growing up in peacetime.’

Hermione stifled a yawn and hummed in agreement. She was a few weeks short of twenty-four years old, and the world was slowly adjusting to the quiet. Peace had been strained, but a constant since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Kingsley, as Minister for Magic, was doing an excellent job ensuring that it remained.

His hand flicked up in front of her nose, a key pinched between finger and thumb. ‘There we go. How many?’

‘Three, please.’

Kingsley cast two swift Geminio charms. The key hopped in his hand, duplicating twice over. He dropped them onto Hermione’s palm and strolled back down the path. ‘Give my regards to Miss Weasley,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I am so glad she found the facilities in time.’

Hermione waved Kingsley off as he headed for Charlie Weasley and Oliver Wood two houses along. Oliver looked like he’d fallen asleep standing up with his head on Charlie’s shoulder. A quick nudge startled him upright, and he cursed some bludger or another before greeting Kingsley.

Ginny’s clatters shuddered through the front door as Hermione returned her attention back to her new home.

Her new home.

It seemed so strange to even think it. After the war, Hermione had spent months tracking down her parents and restoring what she could of their memories. Then she returned to Hogwarts for her final year of study and exams with Ginny and Luna, while Harry and Ron fell into jobs in the Auror office. The girls had been a lifeline Hermione never knew she needed. Her seventh year in Hogwarts were some of the most challenging, but beloved months of her life.

But only when it came to depart for home for the final time, did Hermione realise that she had no home to go to.

She had bounced from place to place ever since. Summers with her parents in Australia. Christmas at the Weasley’s. Long weekends at Hogsmeade visiting Neville and Professor McGonagall. Weeks studying abroad. Trips with friends. Work conferences and courses and field trips.

It had been four years since Hermione had a home. A true home. Security and consistency and a stable routine. Conditional generosity be damned, she desperately needed it to work. For her own sanity, if nothing else.

She rubbed her eyes, grasped Crookshanks tightly, and stepped over the threshold.

Lavish chandeliers hung from high, ornate ceiling roses. The hall led to a drawing room drowning in afternoon light, finished with the most beautiful pieces of furniture Hermione had ever seen. Leather wingback armchairs and mahogany writing bureaus and sofas upholstered in gorgeous green pinstripes. The kitchen had an enormous aga, two fireplaces, and a chunky, carved wooden table at its heart, large enough to seat twelve.

She floated back out into the hallway, to the wide staircase, flanked by hand-carved balustrades, as Ginny’s voice burst from the floor above.

‘SHOTBUM THIS ROOM!’

Hermione shook her head, tracking the voice up the stairs. ‘It’s shotgun, not shotbum!’ she said. ‘I thought you said we were flipping a knut for bedrooms! I don’t mind really, but I’d like – holy shit.’

Ginny beckoned Hermione towards her with a mischievous grin. ‘Oh, I have no interest in this one. This one’s all yours.’

Hermione’s mouth hung slack, and Ginny nudged her softly in the side as they stepped through the grand arch into a library. Thousands of books. Twelve shelves high, at least one hundred books along, across four stacked walls.

‘There’s another room on this floor, exactly the same.’

‘Fuck me,’ Hermione said in little more than a breath.

‘I’d rather not.’

Hermione twirled to take in each and every tome. She twirled to catch up with the already spinning room. Actually, no. She twirled because she had seen people do it in movies and imagined it to be a cathartic experience. It wasn’t. It was actually terribly embarrassing.

‘Bedrooms are upstairs,’ Ginny said, choosing to ignore Hermione’s little moment. ‘Two bigger, one slightly smaller, but all a good size.’

‘I’ll take the small room,’ Hermione said, unable to tear her eyes away.

‘Nonsense. Luna already shotbummed it –’

‘Shotgunned.’

‘Whatever.’ Ginny shrugged dismissively. ‘She said she wants the smallest, darkest room. Something about space for an Occamy in the future – I don’t know – I don’t care – I don’t ask questions about her bizarre beasty things. If she wants the shit room, let her have the shit room.’

It took them several hours to unpack one holdall filled with ten handbags, each charmed with enough space to hold a wardrobes-worth of clothes, as well as their personal belongings, Ginny’s quidditch equipment and Hermione’s collection of books. So many books. She took her time embedding them into the library, first by genre, then alphabetically, trying to ignore the grievous pull of fatigue on her eyelids. She probably should have left the library for later, but her stupid, selfish side refused to give it up. She wanted to remember that afternoon spent in her very own, very first library.

As the sun dropped lower, casting an orange glaze over the library, Hermione stepped down onto the bottom rung of the ladder and flinched at the cacophony of noise exploding downstairs. Loud, brash voices, overlapping one another. The boys’ low drones against the girls’ melodic excitement. It sounded just like a Friday night in the Gryffindor common room, except for the clink of bottles landing on the dining table. Those had arrived with age. Two bottles of wine. An unopened bottle of firewhiskey, and a crate of twenty-four bottles of mead.

That Hermione could tell what her friends had brought by the sound of bottles hitting wood should probably have worried her more, but she found herself slightly more concerned by just how many guests Ginny had invited to wreck their pristine new home.

She pulled down her sleeves, brushed the dust off her skirt and descended into the party. Ginny’s gramophone was blaring in the drawing room where Harry, Ron, George and Seamus were all squeezed onto one sofa, knocking knees and necking mead. Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and Romilda Vane were surveying the portraits above the fireplace, particularly the one of a young blonde girl in a white, laced dress, dropping into a curtsey at will.

‘Who’s this one, Gin?’ Hannah asked.

‘No idea,’ she said, falling onto Harry’s lap. ‘Nothing to do with us. The house was already furnished and decorated.’

‘Ours too,’ said Cho, who was on the other sofa, sandwiched between her fellow Ravenclaws, Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein.

‘Same,’ Ron grumbled, shifting away from Harry and Ginny’s kiss. ‘Ours is nowhere near as nice as this one. You’ve lucked out.’

‘I’d say so,’ said Seamus as he lifted his drink in agreement. ‘It even has colour! Our house is all black. Everything. Sofas, beds, curtains, rugs. I’ve tried to charm the fabric, but it won’t hold.’

‘Mione will help. She’s brilliant at all that crap,’ said Ron. ‘You’ll help, won’t you?’

Hermione bristled but forced a nod. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow.’

Are you Weasley’s property? Are you a toolbox he happily lends to his friends?

Seamus thanked Ron as Hermione moved on through to the kitchen, where Lavender, Leanne, Parvati and Padma were rolling gobstones across the table. Lavender huffed when hers came up short, and the girls cheered for her to finish off her glass of wine.

Cormac McLaggen groaned as he too downed his glass and flicked a coin to Ernie MacMillan.

Beyond them, the sashed windows darkened. The sun had finally set out of sight and a dense weight landed in Hermione’s chest, making it impossible to suck in a full breath.

You'll need a drink. To start, at least.

She filled a short tumbler with firewhiskey. Ogden’s. She preferred the spicy aftertaste of Blishen’s, but she wasn’t one to be fussy. It fogged her mind well enough either way.

With her back to the group, she glugged the whole glass. Heat burst into her chest and burned away the pressure that had been building. She rolled the empty glass along the countertop before refilling it, far lower than before, to what might be considered an acceptable level.

Cormac strode across the kitchen as she turned back to the group and clinked her glass with his. Hermione hadn’t seen him in years. He had thinned out, particularly in the face. He also wore glasses now, and fine, maroon robes. She supposed he was handsome. But any attraction evaporated behind his pompous, lecherous sneer.

‘Looking lovely tonight, Granger.’

‘Cormac,’ Hermione greeted flatly. ‘I didn’t know you were offered a place here as well.’

‘Why wouldn’t I – I fought too – I guarded the Hospital Wing, remember!’ he said, feathers truly ruffled. ‘I could have afforded the house alone, of course, but Dean and Seamus practically begged me to join them. It’s just like old times, don’t you think?’ He stepped towards her and lifted her glass to her lips. ‘You know, we should make this a real party. Really like old times…’

Parvati giggled. ‘Back off, Cormac. She’s not interested in the old times. Merlin, you had a quick fumble in the Slug Club. It’s been six years. Move on!’

Lavender cackled, creasing the silver scar near her eye like an accordion. Hermione admired the way she wore it, leaving it bare for the world to see. Like a beautiful memento. A reminder of the courage she fought with.

‘Nostalgia is a dangerous thing,’ said Lavender. ‘Can we all agree that what happened in Hogwarts, stays in Hogwarts. And, Merlin, promise me you’ll hex me if I start going after Ron again. Whatever was I thinking…’

Hermione sniffed a snigger. She too held the same remorse about Ron, but not because he wasn’t a lovely, or considerate, doting boyfriend, but because he was too much so. He was too full on, wanting marriage and children before Hermione had barely hit twenty. It was a life he expected, following in his parents and brothers’ footsteps, but it was the last thing on Hermione’s mind. He fought hard for them – for her – once Hermione’s interest gradually waned, but she didn’t want him to. Her body and mind had grown so weary from fighting. It wanted peace. Or at least, some semblance of it.

She often thought Harry and Ron had suited the war. They thrived in the thick of it as well as the aftermath. In the strategy and adventure. There were hard moments of course; learning to cope with the devastating losses they suffered – Fred, Lupin, Tonks – and the endless hours hunting down deserted Death Eaters. But, after that, the boys’ lives didn’t seem to change from the war much at all.

In fact, an argument could be made that, in some ways, it had made their lives decidedly better. It gave Ron the recognition he had been yearning for all his life. Fame. Fortune. Even now, he still couldn’t walk through the Ministry without receiving cheerful smiles and a pat on the back. And for Harry, the end of the war brought security. The knowledge that the world was a better place for him, his friends and his family to grow in. From the ashes of the war, blossomed careers and relationships and happiness.

Hermione envied them that. Their smiles were genuine. Their laughter real. Their happiness was utter and unequivocal. They had the ability to forget. The past didn’t constantly niggle in the back of their minds. They could go months without talking about it. Without dredging up demons long in the dirt.

Hermione swigged her glass, reaching for the bottom, hoping to find a fraction of that utter, unequivocal happiness.

‘What are you feeding us then?’ Lee Jordan asked, as he and Roger Davies rounded into the kitchen. ‘Ginny said dinner and drinks. We’re half-sorted. I hear you make a mean spag bol, Hermione.’

She poured another glass. ‘You’re not wrong there,’ Hermione said. ‘Spag bol so mean, it’ll eat your face off.’

‘Ah, so one of Hagrid’s recipes then!’ said Padma. ‘As long as the spaghetti doesn’t sprout legs or grow tentacles, then I’m in.’

‘Me too.’

‘Me three.’

‘Next week,’ Hermione promised, before the spontaneous gathering could run away and spiral into a full-blown dinner party. ‘Sorry. We have no food in. How about a takeaway?’

Ron’s red head appeared at the door. ‘Takeaway? What are we having? Chinese? Indian? Italian? Has anything been agreed yet? What’s the consensus? Are we getting our own meal, or sharing lots between us? Mione, have you thought this through? We need menus, muggle money – and what about –’

‘Breathe, man, breathe!’ Lee thwacked him on the back, making Ron’s cheeks burst with scarlet and the kitchen fold into laughter.

Hermione finished her drink and tittered. It really was like old times. She only wished the old Hermione could enjoy it with them all.

Egotistical prat.

‘I’ve got some muggle money upstairs,’ she said. ‘Don’t die from hunger before I come back.’

‘I don’t know how long I’ll last,’ Ron said, face plastered with a fat grin. ‘Hurry!’

Hermione laughed all the way to the bathroom, making sure the ghosts of her giggles lingered, echoing down the swathing staircase. She laughed until the door closed. Once the latch was locked, her shoulders slumped, her grin fell, and her lids closed heavily over her aching eyes.

The night has barely begun. You’re pathetic.

It felt like a thestrals hooves were stamping down on her chest. Like she was stumbling through the evening. Or rather, being dragged through it. Happiness was a slog. A meandering, miserable slog.

Her head was a racket, brain thwacking against her skull in an incessant drumbeat; low, rhythmic, thudding that hadn’t ceased since the sun set. Her fingers trembled as she flexed them out of her fist and moved to the sink to wash away the sweat of her palms.

The daytime she could handle. The sunlight was safe. It brought a surge of energy. It had work and purpose. Places were open. There were things to do. Distractions to immerse herself in. But the night…the night was another challenge entirely. It was black. It was suffocating. It was coming whether she wanted it to or not. And that’s what Hermione found so hard.

The inevitability of the darkness.

Hermione splashed her face and gripped the rim of the sink. It took another minute for her Gryffindor courage to rear, forcing her eyes to meet the mirror. She wiped her hands down her face, rubbing away the glamour she had cast earlier that morning. Her lightly bronzed skin paled instantly. Her cheeks hollowed, skin stretching tightly over her bones. Black circles cratered beneath bloodshot eyes, and the shine of her brown iris’ dulled into a glazed, dead stare.

She lifted her chin, extending her neck until a thin, silver scar sliced across her throat. With a tug of her jumper collar, she revealed her biggest scar. The mark of Dolohov’s curse. It crawled over Hermione’s chest in purple welts. Deep, ugly lashings, spreading like the roots of a tree.

Hermione seldom saw her true self. It had become second nature to cast her glamour before she left her bed in the morning. So adept as she was, the charm could last a day or even more if need be. For there was an expectation to uphold. The brains of the golden trio would never be so foolish as to lose her mind to plaguing nightmares. The brightest witch of her age could not be seen to sully herself with silly addictions.

And as long as the pedestal still held her aloft, Hermione would never be seen to wobble. Not even for a second.

Light flashed into the bathroom through the windowpane, hitting her reflection. Tyres slowly rolled along cobblestones and a squeak of brakes lured Hermione over to the window. A convoy of black cars rolled to a stop and parked up between the crescent of houses and the green lawn. Twelve of them. One by one, the drivers of the cars exited the vehicle and opened the back doors, allowing their passengers to step out.

Women. Mostly. Ranging in age but with faces familiar enough. Hermione immediately withdrew her wand as the wives stepped out of their cars, faces twisted in disgust.

Yaxley. Rowle. Carrow. Zabini. Scabior. Selwyn. Macnair. Crabbe. Travers. Dolohov. Women she had seen pouting in The Daily Prophet. The poor, mistreated wives of cruelly convincing, imprisoned Death Eaters. That was what they would have the world believe. But Hermione knew what they really were. Craven. Callous. Complicit.

The back door of the car parked directly in front of Hermione’s house remained open. Waiting. Until a spark of blonde flickered from the darkness of the back seat. A long, bare leg stretched out first, led by a deadly pointed heel, then the rest of her uncoiled, hoisting upright in a forest green trench coat, cinched at the waist by a black belt. Blonde and black hair weaved together in a loose, plaited bun.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione’s grip on her wand shivered as her mind screamed at her. She wasn’t real. The night was playing tricks on her, as it always did.

She is real.

Narcissa glowed beneath a streetlight. Her sharp features roved up and down the crescent, nose wrinkled, lips pressed into a flat line as she took in her surroundings. She glared at the house ahead of her and then in a blink, the pair of ice blue eyes flicked up to the window where Hermione stood staring, frozen to the spot.

She is very real.

Only when Narcissa’s focus eased, stolen by Mrs Dolohov’s ardent complaints, was Hermione able to move. She ducked beneath the window and slumped into a shuddering heap. She scrunched her eyes shut and rubbed her temples, trying to rid her hapless mind of the last real memory she had of Narcissa Malfoy. Of Malfoy Manor. Of her.

Hermione withdrew a flask from her back pocket and took a shaky swig, calming her nerves enough to dry her face, replace her glamour, and follow the aggravated sounds of her friends as they finally spotted the new arrivals outside.