The Crescent

Whisps of cloud drifted across the ceiling, azure sky and a beaming sun as their backdrop. Professor McGonagall had taught her the enchantment as a parting graduation gift. It was the only consistent thing in Hermione’s work life. She would enchant the ceiling of every department – every office – every cupboard she found herself assigned to – so that a little drop of Hogwarts would always be with her.

Not that she could appreciate the ceiling of a sunny September afternoon with her head and arms on the desk, face covered by her mane, dry mouth blowing strands with every rasping snore.

Forgoing lunch for an hour’s kip had become a daily necessity. On a good day, she would sleep from sunrise until quarter to nine, allowing herself ten minutes to shower, change and fix her glamour. The lunchtime nap was then usually enough to see her through to home.

Usually.

The door opened with a thud. Hermione’s head jumped up and her eyes shot open to find a shaggy haired man with round glasses glaring at the state of her.

‘I’ve just finished my shift – sorry – were you sleeping?’ Harry closed the door considerably more quietly than he had opened it and dropped into the vacant chair opposite. ‘How very un-Hermione of you! Didn't you go to bed when we did?’

‘I stayed up late,’ Hermione said. ‘Reading.’

Harry tittered and rolled his eyes. ‘To be honest, as soon as I saw those libraries, I assumed you’d move your mattress in.’

‘A fair assumption,’ Hermione said. ‘Am I truly that easy to read?’

Harry’s smile fell into something softer. Sadder. ‘Not at all, really,’ he said. ‘You might be the most mysterious of us all.’

‘Me? Mysterious?’ Hermione tried not to laugh. ‘Have you been Confunded?’

‘When I left for work at five, you weren’t in the house,’ Harry said, halting Hermione’s forced giggle. ‘Your light was on, so I popped my head in to see if you were okay. Gin owled me saying you traipsed in at six o’clock looking all…out of sorts.’

‘Harry –’

‘Like I said. Mysterious.’

‘I paid someone a visit,’ Hermione said. Lying was not overly difficult but acting the part considerably more so. Blinking rapidly, trying to make herself blush, pretending to be embarrassed about something that never happened. That was where she really sold it. ‘Please don’t go blabbing about it, Harry. We’re just – we’re not even – we just – sort of – have fun...’

Harry’s brows vanished beneath his fringe. ‘Fun?’

‘Fun,’ Hermione said with a short nod. ‘It’s casual.’

‘Who is he?’

‘You don’t know them,’ Hermione said. ‘A MACUSA diplomats’ aide. Stuffy and arrogant, but…fun.’

Harry sighed and slumped back into the chair. ‘Well, thank fuck for that! Gin was considering an intervention.’

Hermione feigned surprise as she flattened a scroll that had creased beneath her slumber.  ‘Whatever for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said with a shrug. ‘Alcohol, maybe. Or drugs. Merlin, Hermione, we thought you’d disappeared into the night alone.’

‘Well, you’re being ridiculous,’ Hermione said, satisfied with a lie well told. ‘And even if I had done the latter – we live in muggle Bath now. It’s hardly Knocturne Alley.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Harry murmured. He picked a quill off of Hermione’s desk and twiddled it between his fingers. ‘Kingsley visited our office this morning to explain himself. Has he come by here yet?’

Hermione shook her head.

‘Well, I put a brave face on it for Ron, but the whole thing is not sitting right with me.’ Harry twisted the quill around his thumb until the tip snapped. ‘I don’t want this division. Evens and Odds. Narcissa was right – it’s humiliating for them. How can we ever expect them to want to be better, if we continue to demean them in front of the world? Sometimes I think we’re just as bad as them –’

‘We are not just as bad,’ Hermione said flatly. ‘Actions have consequences. Things don’t always have to be so grey, Harry. Sometimes it really is black and white. Light versus dark.’

‘The war is over, Hermione. There is no versus. War does not have to be unending. Not this one, at least.’

Hermione rocked back in her chair. Harry’s optimism was palpable. And quietly irritating. It was strange how the tables had turned so much. She often found herself agreeing with Ron’s opinions more than Harry’s nowadays, though not with the way he voiced them. Where Ron declared his views in hideous tantrums, Hermione preferred to stew in her beliefs. To let them fester.   

‘Kingsley’s wrong about this,’ Harry stated. ‘If we keep up this continuous othering of them – poking the bear – stoking the fire – then it won’t take long for that fire to catch and start raging once again. And I can’t handle that, Hermione.’

She wasn’t sure he had ever spoken so eloquently. Hermione was glad that being with Ginny had not rubbed off on him too much.

‘We will have to wait and see what happens,’ Hermione said. ‘If, like you say, they want to be better, then we have nothing to worry about.’

From there, they descended into normal chatter. Harry did most of the talking. Hermione offered the occasional reply, but it was mostly Harry, discussing work, or Ginny, or Ron. Hermione loved them all dearly, but something had disconnected. Snapped. They weren’t eleven anymore, fighting trolls, forming friendships due to unfortunate necessity. She couldn’t find the energy to care about quidditch or Daily Prophet gossip or the crazy Leaky Cauldron karaoke nights, however fun Harry insisted they were.

Hermione conjured a glass and – despite her urge for something stronger – poured from a jug of water. She doused her dry mouth and swallowed away the thought that maybe – just maybe – she had grown in an entirely different direction to the friends she made twelve years ago.

‘Gin’s got a game tonight, hasn’t she?’ she offered when Harry went quiet.

‘Away to the Bigonville Bombers,’ said Harry. ‘Luxembourg! I got a load of us tickets and we all chipped in for a portkey.’ Something dawned on him, eyes widening, and he was quick to rally some stammering excuses. ‘It was a-a last-minute thing – not planned as such – just sort of spontaneous. When we last went out – I assumed you wouldn’t want to go, but if you do I-I’m sure I can get you a ticket –’

Hermione held up her hand. Harry Potter was an atrocious liar. ‘I’m busy,’ she lied. ‘Thanks, though.’

Harry blushed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he nodded at the wooden clock over Hermione’s head. ‘Right, well, lunch is over. I’ll let you get back to work. I’m finishing early today. Going to try and squeeze in a nap before the game.’

‘Wish Gin good luck from me,’ Hermione called as Harry shuffled out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Hermione’s body collapsed onto the desk. It had taken every ounce of strength to stay upright – to keep her eyelids from closing. But she couldn’t surrender yet. She had an afternoon of work to tackle before she could even think about sleep.

Of all the offices Kingsley had assigned her, the Floo Network Authority was by far the most mundane. Percy had put her in charge of organising any and all complaints that the department had received in the last year. A mind-numbing, pointless chore. As Floo was such a reliable mode of transportation, Hermione had foolishly assumed that it would be an easy job. But alas, it only made the complaints more ridiculous – more bizarre – more downright idiotic.   

URGENT HELP NEEDED!

I need an Auror here immediately. My Floo is creating dark magic. Tiny particles are coating my floor and belongings. It is causing me to sneeze and cough and ruining my furniture. I think it is spreading. Like an evil, darkening everything it touches.

Send help!

Irma Findus 

Hermione screwed up the scroll and tossed it into the grate of her own fireplace.

A chimney sweep. That’s what Miss Findus needed. A bloody chimney sweep.

The afternoon wore on in much of the same way. She sorted the occasional genuine complaint into a pile for the engineers to rectify, while the rest became kindling. It was a cathartic exercise, despite being an utter waste of time. Though, with her sleep schedule, she supposed she should be thankful to not be in a more strenuous job.

The close of summer brought an end to her handle on the day. She could survive in the long days. She could sleep after work until sunset, and that was enough to sustain her. A solid four or five hours. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. She could function.

The clock gonged for the end of her workday. The ceiling had darkened, but only slightly. She probably had just enough time to make up for her lost lunch hour. Hermione gathered up her cardigan and satchel and grabbed a handful of Floo powder.

‘Miss Granger!’ Kingsley’s head popped around her door, bearing an enthusiastic smile. ‘I’m so glad I caught you before you left!’

Hermione fixed her face, dispelling the groaning disappointment within. ‘What can I do for you, Minister?’

Kingsley glanced over his shoulder and dove his hand into his cerise robes. He pulled out a bottle and waved it at her with a cheeky grin. ‘I hear you’re a fellow Blishen’s fan?’

Hermione stepped back towards her desk and dropped her satchel. ‘I’ll never say no to a glass of Blishen’s, sir,’ she said with the enthusiasm of witch whose greatest ambition was to stay late to drink with her boss. Another easy act. ‘What’s the occasion?’

Kingsley withdrew two glasses from his robes and started pouring. ‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Just checking in.’

Liar.

Hermione clinked her glass with Kingsley’s and took a sip. Heat rolled down her throat and settled in her sternum. The taste lingered. Spicy. Scorching. Delicious.

‘And an apology, I suppose,’ Kingsley added to the silence. ‘For not telling you about the other motive behind our housing project.’

‘That is your prerogative as Minister for Magic, sir,’ said Hermione. ‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’

‘But I do,’ he said solemnly. ‘You have put a lot of trust in me, allowing me to utilise you around the Ministry. I believe you to be our greatest asset, Hermione. Your mind and your will – it will lead this place into the future. Of that, I am sure.’

Hermione swallowed another mouthful, fighting the urge to finish the whole thing. The day Hermione graduated, Kingsley had offered to take her under his wing – to train her personally in politics and history and the way of the Ministry of Magic. To uphold its traditions while paving a way for future progression. Well, that’s what he promised. She had been moved from floor to floor ever since, lasting no longer than a month in any given department. The second she started to settle, or build friendships, she was whisked off to the next office, to start again from the bottom.

And the one thing Kingsley Shacklebolt had actually taught her, was that he only visited in person when he wanted something from her.

‘You were saying, sir?’ Hermione prompted, ignoring his revolting attempt at flattery. ‘About the housing project?

‘Right,’ he said. ‘The Odds. That’s what we’ll be calling the sympathisers and fraternisers from now on. Feel free to do the same.’

Hermione remained quiet but nodded curtly. She was no supporter of the wives. But she also knew how damaging words could be.

Kingsley topped up both glasses. ‘The Wizengamot does not trust the Odds, but with no lawful reason to imprison them or keep them under house arrest, they had no choice but to release them. But one thing they did manage to do, was push through the Malfoy Reparation Act. As penance for his crimes, Draco Malfoy donated his fathers’ money and estate to the Ministry, to filter into various charities.’

‘How generous of him,’ Hermione said. She had read about it in the Prophet. Skeeter had done her best to skewer Draco – insisting he had an ulterior motive, or ill-intentions – but even she couldn’t work her miserable magic. The consensus in the wizarding community was that he was a silly boy following his parents’ orders and was now doing his best to make amends. The blame lay squarely with Lucius and Narcissa. As it should.

‘The latest amendment to the Malfoy Reparation Act forced the Odds to make their own donations, whether they wanted to or not. Their manors and houses were sold, and half of their fortunes taken.’

Hermione blanched. That was not something she had read in the paper. Not even in the Quibbler.

‘Well, I’m sure Malfoy appreciates having his name on the title,’ Hermione said.

‘A way to stick it to him after his early release, I believe,’ Kingsley said. ‘Anyway, we couldn’t just leave them homeless. So, we bought the Royal Crescent. A way to house the Odds while still rewarding the Evens.’ He offered her a grateful smile. ‘No child should have to fight in a war, Hermione. The Ministry will never forget the sacrifices the three of you made.’

‘It wasn’t just us…’

‘I was there, dear,’ he said kindly. ‘I know exactly whose shoulders the war fell on.’

Hermione squeezed the crystal glass between her two palms, staring at the blood-red drink. ‘What are you asking of me, Minister?’

Kingsley’s head dipped as he realised, he was not as shrewd as he believed himself to be. ‘I need information. The other Evens have agreed to keep their ears open and report anything suspicious. But I need you to do more for me. I want you to watch a specific target.’

With that, Hermione did finish her drink, knocking it back in one quick motion. ‘Narcissa Black.’

‘How did you –’

‘You wouldn’t be so cruel as to put her next-door to me without what you think is a valid reason,’ Hermione explained, moving her scarred arm against her side. ‘Harry respects her too much and Ron, too little. The others have families. Responsibilities. Distractions. You know I think her sentencing was too lenient and you think I’ll do whatever it takes to see her back in Azkaban.’

Kingsley tilted his head up, face beaming with pride. ‘Remarkable.’

‘You must have a plan. You always…’ Hermione’s eyes fell to the scrolls of complaints piled on her desk as the last weeks of monotony clicked into place. ‘I assume her Floo is broken?’

The Minister smirked and nodded. ‘A translation error. The grate was made in Germany and doesn’t understand her commands. I’ll have a spare for you to install when she complains.’

‘I’m not an engineer. I file paperwork.’

‘You are certainly able to swap out a grate, Miss Granger,’ he said. ‘And once she allows you in her home, the wards will accept that as an invitation, and you will have access whenever needed.’

‘I saw those wards,’ Hermione said. ‘They’re on our houses too. Only people who are invited are allowed inside. Not just spoken words, but thoughts and intentions as well. It’s a simple idea in theory but some seriously complex magic.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment, coming from such a bright witch,’ Kingsley said with a pleased grin. ‘A ward of my own design.’

Hermione raised her glass, acknowledging the feat. ‘Anything else?’

‘The walls between your houses are charmed,’ Kingsley continued. ‘If you put your ear against it, you will be able to hear into Black’s house as if you were in the room with her. It only works one way. She can’t hear you.’

‘Is there anything in particular I need to listen out for?’

Kingsley gathered the two empty glasses and rose from his chair. ‘We know nothing. The Odds are noisy with their opinions but deafly quiet with their schemes. But something is stirring in Scotland. With Azkaban being so close, we cannot take any chances. The Odds are still allowed to visit Azkaban for now, and as the only connection the Death Eaters have to the outside world, my galleons on them having something to do with it. Pulling the strings from behind bars. Narcissa’s in charge of their wicked little coven. If one of them knows anything, then she will too. I want everything you have on her.’

Hermione offered Kingsley the bottle of Blishen’s, but he shook his head and swept back towards the door. ‘Keep it, Miss Granger. You, of all people, have earned it.’

*

Kingsley had stalled her so much that by the time she returned home, showered and changed, the sun had already set, and her window for a nap had closed for the night. Hermione tried to busy herself. She cleaned the entire house by hand from top to bottom. She ate half a sandwich, unable to stomach the rest. She found a tome on Alchemy from the twelfth century in the library that held her interest for an hour or so, but it didn’t take long for the words to swim and blur and become completely unreadable. Her hands were shaking, her head was thumping, and her mind was whirling with a relentless demon.

Your friends forgot about you. Actually no, they didn’t forget, they just made the decision that their evening would be better without your presence. Why does that make you miserable? You don’t even like them anyway...

Hermione ascended to her bedroom. In the corner of her room, disguised as a wardrobe, she opened her potion cabinet. Inside were three large decanters filled with purple liquid and two flasks – one clean, and one still to be washed from yesterday. She carefully poured enough Sleeping Draught to fill the clean flask and sucked a stray drop off her finger, before taking her first dose of the night.  

It was enough to stop the shakes, but not enough to quell the venomous voice. She needed a drink for that, and the kitchen was dry. She was regretting leaving the bottle of Blishen’s in her office.  

Hermione grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. She must have gone out last night. Found some corner of Bath to rot away in. With hopes of finding it again, she escaped the house and walked to the end of the Crescent. From there, her feet took the lead, apparently knowing just where to take her. They crossed roads and weaved pedestrians and cars until they brought her to an old, beautifully lit pub. The Red Chariot.

Warmth and noise enveloped her and the tall man behind the bar flashed an overly familiar grin. He stepped back towards the shelf of liquor and hovered his hand over a well-depleted bottle of sambuca.

‘Two glasses?’

Hermione frowned as she climbed onto a stool. ‘Sure, but not sambuca. Vodka. Thanks.’

‘Changing it up a bit tonight?’ He placed two shot glasses in front of her and filled them, ignoring other waiting customers. ‘I have to say, I’ve never seen someone your size handle that amount of drink. It was…impressive. I was about to call you a taxi, but you vanished.’

Hermione gulped down her first shot and looked for something in her surroundings. In the dark, cosy décor. In the brown leather furniture. Anything to drum up a memory.

You apparated in front of muggles? Hopefully next time you’ll splinch yourself…

‘I was here last night?’

The barman laughed but stopped almost as fast when he realised that Hermione was not, in fact, joking. ‘Er…yeah, you were here ‘til last orders,’ he said quietly. He looked down at the empty shot glasses and faltered. ‘You don’t remember?’

‘Short-term memory loss,’ Hermione said. ‘Side-effects of a prescription I take. My life can get a bit…gappy…’

The barman’s face fell, trapped somewhere between suspicion and worry. ‘I’ll open a tab,’ he eventually said, before taking the orders of a pair of boys to her right.

Hermione placed her satchel on the bar, using it as a shield to take two large mouthfuls of purple potion. Then she inhaled the second shot and rested. Peace in her mind, at last.

Once the bar had cleared, and the crowds of noisy muggles had returned to their tables, the barman once again approached her, filling her glasses without needing to be asked. Hermione liked him. Very much.

‘So, you really don’t remember anything?’ he asked, as she knocked them back in quick succession. ‘No offence, but that’s…that’s bizarre. Like something in a movie!’

‘Why don’t you fill me in on what I missed,’ Hermione said, tapping her empty glasses. ‘And two more please…?’

‘Stuart,’ the barman answered. He grabbed the bottle and set to pouring. ‘There’s not much to tell really. You came in, drank near enough a whole bottle of sambuca, and kept yourself to yourself. It was busy – especially for a Monday – and there were some right twats in. No, wait – I-I didn’t mean you. Sorry…?’

‘Hermione.’

‘Hermione,’ he said. ‘Great name! Didn't catch it last night.’ He set the bottle down on the bar beside her and leaned in closer, eyes darting to his right. ‘Anyway, you ended the night talking to her. She paid for all your drinks. Do you remember that?’

Hermione craned her neck and saw the last person she expected to see sandwiched between two groups of muggles. Her hair was down, shoulders swept with blonde and black, and her blue eyes were glazed over, staring at either a puddle of spilt lager or a bottlecap, both of which had been discarded at Stuart’s feet. Two delicate fingers lay on top of the base of the glass, mindlessly swirling the red liquid inside.

‘You know her, right?’

Hermione nodded. It was in those moments she appreciated the side-effects. Calm ebbed over her nerves. Narcissa Black was a privileged pure-blood bigot, heavily associated with Death Eaters, but under the numbing blend of draught and vodka, she was merely a woman in a bar drinking alone. No different to Hermione. No worse. Certainly, no better.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘because she’s already offered to pay your tab again tonight.’

With Stuart’s back turned, Hermione gulped another dose and allowed the fog to smother her.

‘How are you still standing?’

Hermione wiped her mouth and glanced down at herself. ‘I’m sure I’m sitting.’

Narcissa shook her head in Hermione’s periphery. ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.’

‘If only it were that easy…’

Narcissa tutted, so loud Stuart thought she was calling for him. Once he had returned to the till and a few lovely, peaceful seconds passed, the older witch spoke again. ‘You truly don’t remember last night?’

Hermione gasped and clutched her invisible pearls. ‘Were you listening to our private conversation?’ She sniggered to herself and crossed her arms on top the bar. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t remember last night.’ She rested her head on her arms and twisted to face Narcissa. ‘I don’t remember any night.’

‘Repeated consumption of Sleeping Draught can cause memory loss,’ Narcissa said after a long sip of her wine. ‘The extent of the memory loss corresponds directly with the number of continuous days of consumption.’

‘Wow, did you read that on the bottle?’

‘A few weeks, and a person might lose half an hour a night. An hour, at most,’ Narcissa continued, ignoring Hermione’s jab. ‘To lose entire nights? You must have taken Sleeping Draught every night for what? Two, maybe three –’

‘Five years and four months,’ Hermione stated, spinning her empty glass. ‘I have forgotten two and a half years of my life. I did the maths a very long time ago.’

Before Narcissa could reply, her gaze was stolen by a cheer from a nearby table and Hermione returned her focus back to her arms, nuzzling her nose into the nook of her elbow. She allowed herself to fade away, staring blankly at a Specials chalk board that hung behind Narcissa’s head, tracing the scratches on her wrist with a lazy finger. She didn't know where she’d got them or why she hadn’t healed them. Perhaps she didn't care enough to.

A voice stirred her from her trance hours later – three, at least – judging by the smaller crowd trickling out of the pub. She tried to straighten up, but her aching muscles and joints had seized in her stasis. Her neck and back and elbows clicked as she raised her head from the comfort of her arms.

What if it’s her?

Hermione blinked slowly and looked from left to right. Narcissa was staring deeply at the contents of her glass, while Stuart was propped against the bar, waiting for her to answer.

‘What’s that? Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘I’m calling last orders soon,’ Stuart said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you with the bell.’

Hermione smiled and thanked him. Not that he could have woken up regardless. It was nighttime. She couldn’t be asleep. Impossible.

‘And, I was thinking, you should keep a journal,’ he said. ‘You know, jot down what happened while you can. Then in the morning you can read it and remember.’ He smiled kindly, and added, ‘Plus, it saves me having to introduce myself when you come back.’

Yes, listen to the muggle man. What a thrill that will be to read. Might be the thing that pushes you over the edge, at last.

The bell came and went. Hermione drained her flask to settle her overly fraying nerves and drank her last four shots.

Across the bar, Narcissa handed Stuart a wad of so much muggle money that his mouth fell open. He handed back well over half of it and took the rest to the till. She refused the change, tucked her handbag under her arm and left without another word.

‘Seems silly carrying that much cash around,’ said Stuart. ‘It only takes one idiot to follow her out of here.’

Hermione rose from her stool. ‘Well, call me an idiot.’

‘Night, Hermione. See you tomorrow?’

Hermione shrugged. ‘I’m sure a version of me will.’

Stuart didn’t seem to know how to reply to that. He simply waved and watched Hermione leave the pub safely.

Hermione turned up the collar of her jacket. Though lovely and warm in the day, the temperature at night was dropping swiftly as autumn crept in. Crispy leaves climbed over her shoes and mist swirled around her. Except mist shouldn’t cling to her clothes and burn her throat. And it certainly shouldn’t smell like putrid smoke. 

She looked up, and found Narcissa illuminated by a streetlight, sucking on a short cigarette holder. White smoke seeped from her mouth and glided up into her nose.

‘Those things will kill you,’ Hermione declared, swatting the cloud of smoke Narcissa had blown directly into her face.

‘And a cauldron and a half of Sleeping Draught won’t?’ Narcissa quipped. ‘Merlin, girl, your insides are probably dissolving as we speak.’

Hermione crossed her fingers and flashed an excited grin. ‘Here’s hoping,’ she said, and went to walk past.

Narcissa hooked her hand under Hermione’s upper arm, halting her, eyes ice as she glowered down into hers. ‘Do you want to die, Miss Granger? Do you really? Because I can think of countless, painless ways of doing so, if that’s what you truly want. I’ll even provide you a list to tick off your attempts, if you so wish.’

Hermione stepped out of Narcissa’s hold and brushed her arm. ‘Goodnight, Ms Black.’

She crossed the road and hoped her feet would remember the way home, if her mind couldn’t be bothered to. Bath was decidedly quiet. Its residents were inside, sleeping, if they were lucky enough, or drinking or dancing or playing. Not out in the cold like Hermione. Or Narcissa, who was marching in time with her on the opposite side of the road.

‘You don’t have to walk me home.’

‘I am walking myself home, Miss Granger,’ said Narcissa. ‘We are neighbours now, or had you forgotten that as well?’

Hermione bit her lip and kept walking on, picking up the pace. She rubbed her fingers into her palm, feeling the clammy residue already forming. Sweat. Stress. The draught was wearing off.

Fucking idiot.

Across the way, Narcissa was matching Hermione’s footsteps, vanishing in and out of the streetlights glow.

‘Stop following me!’ Hermione yelled, lacking the ferocity she had intended. ‘Just…stay away from me. Stay back!’

‘I am not following you,’ Narcissa stated. ‘I am going home.’

Home. Next door to you. Wand out. Now!

Hermione fumbled with her satchel as she kept walking, eyes flitting between the pavement ahead and the inside of her bag. She had too much stuff. Reading glasses and money and spare quills and scrolls and keys and –

A wand. She grasped it tightly and dropped it down to her side. Narcissa was still on the opposite side of the road, but a few steps ahead of her now. Hermione paused, allowing the older witch to power on without her.

A bit of distance. That’s all she needed.

She huffed in a long, deep breath, but couldn’t catch the end of it. Everything was either a fraction of what she needed, or far too much. Her mind was making a colossal racket, yet when she most needed help, all it offered was sickening silence. Her shivering body refused to contain itself. Nausea ghosted through her throat straight to her gut.

Thankfully Hermione could rely on one part of her body. Her feet did know the way home, despite her belligerent mind and the fact she could no longer follow Narcissa. Only when she turned directly onto the Royal Crescent did she recognise where she was. She rushed past seven houses and turned onto her path. Her pulse and headache clattered in her ears as she tried desperately to keep the key in her grip. Her hands were shaking, her fingers tense and fumbling. The care she had happily lost was suddenly everywhere. Everything was wrong. Her hands, her eyes, the moon, the night, the key, the lock –

A lock has defeated you. Fucking useless witch. Stop panicking, you hopeless, pathetic –  

An arm reached over her shoulder and held her hand still long enough to guide the key into the lock. The latch clunked, and the door juddered open.

‘Goodnight, Miss Granger.’

By the time Hermione whipped her head around, Narcissa had already turned her back. She didn’t waste another second. Panic was rising, rotting into her bones. She locked the door and sprinted to her bedroom to glug Sleeping Draught straight from the decanter. She sunk against the cabinet, waiting for it to take effect. And when it did, nothing mattered. Nothing except that next moment ahead.

She took a leather-bound book from her side table and started afresh, tearing out the last of her Potions notes from final year. She wrote the date at the top of the page, followed by the evening as she remembered it. 

The Red Chariot. Stuart the barman. Smiley. Vodka. Narcissa was there. She followed you home.                       

Hermione gnawed the inside of her cheek and cursed herself. She then scribbled out the last four words and rewrote the memory.

You followed her home.