28Hi again! Wow, it's been over three years but I'm back!
Yes, yes, this is a sequel! Crazy stuff! I do love Divergence so much, and I haven't written in a while. Part of me wanted to write a different sort of ending originally, so I guess in a way this is that ending... but like, a novel-length version (maybe! we'll see). Almost like fanfiction of my own fanfiction, which sounds horrendously full of myself when I think about it.
The good news is I'm much healthier now and all that jazz (long story, but it involves five surgeries and pills that help me get out of bed every morning). Unfortunately updates won't be nearly as frequent as last time, as I'm some sort of adult now and work full-time? Trust me, I don't get it, either. Let's hope the quality is slightly better as a result, but who knows!
It's probably handy to note that I've made Harry and Hermione people of colour in this story... it wasn't really pointed out whether or not they were in Divergence, but I wanted to make the distinction this time around. I think it's important.
I hope you all enjoy this continuation! The title of this chapter comes from the song Overture by Patrick Wolf.
CHAPTER ONE – OVERTURE
Charlie Lupin slammed her bedroom door, its frame rattling with the force of her anger; the trinkets she kept in no particular order on her bookshelf trembled slightly as if in commiseration. She threw them a dark look, and one particular toy – a miniature Bowtruckle – shied away, cowed.
"I'm nearly of age," the young girl muttered, tugging on her chocolate brown ponytail in irritation. She sat down heavily on her bed, its shimmering covers glinting in the light of the late afternoon sun pouring in through the open windows. "I don't understand–"
Her door burst open and Lottie whipped around, standing abruptly and feeling as if she had something to hide. I don't, I don't, I'm as trustworthy as they come, why can't she see that?
Charlie's mother was a fierce woman, and so it was with a deep breath that Charlie glared at her, pushing and pulling on this frail thread between them just for something to think of, some memory of her mother that meant she was hers, Charlie's and Charlie's only.
"How dare you walk away from me?" Hermione Lupin exclaimed, and if Charlie didn't know better she might almost think there was some kind of hurt in her tone – but no. Charlie's words were nothing but a thorn in her mother's side; a nuisance, a distraction from everyone and everything else. Besides, Charlie had never heard her mum hurt in her entire life. It just didn't happen, did it? Not to Hermione Huxley, to whom the Wizarding World owed a great debt. Hurting her would probably send you straight to Azkaban. Charlie almost snorted out loud at the thought.
Instead, she turned her back on her mother, picking up one of the books on her bedside and plonking herself down onto her bed as if she were alone, picking a page at random and pretending to read in the hopes that she would be left alone.
There was a moment of silence and Charlie held her breath in hope, fear – some kind of amalgamation of the two – before the book disappeared from her hands. She looked up to see her mother's wand aloft, and a stern look on her older face.
"I don't understand," Her mother began, slipping her wand into the waistband of her jeans, pale yellow t-shirt crinkled with the stress of the day, "What has gotten into you?"
A fire that Charlie hadn't known existed within her bubbled over. She sat up, hands gripping her covers so tightly they might've ripped if they weren't so strongly magically enchanted. "Into me?" she seethed, glaring harder than she ever had at her mother, "What's gotten into you?"
Hermione frowned, lips parted in apparent confusion.
"Since when am I five years old again?" snapped Charlie. She stood, fists clenched by her sides. If only she weren't wearing her neon orange swimmers, she'd probably look as formidable as she ever could – she hadn't exactly inherited that trait from her mother, whose frown had now cleared, face had turned stony. "I'll be seventeen in June–"
"Which is ten months away, Lottie!"
"-and I've been to Ollie's loads of times when his parents aren't there. I don't get the fuss, I really don't–"
"Lottie–"
"It's like… it's like you don't trust me or something!" Charlie blurted out, inhaling sharply when her mother's eyes hardened. But instead of her voice rising, her wand spitting sparks and likely lighting her jeans on fire, Hermione suddenly sagged, the fight gone out of her without cause.
Well, Charlie wasn't finished – just because Mum was old and tired and over it, didn't mean that Charlie was going to lie down and let herself be walked over. She wasn't Dad.
A voice somewhere deep inside of her swore at her for that, but Charlie was too angry to justify her own thoughts.
"Lottie, will you please just listen to me?" Hermione sighed, exasperated, looking as if her hair was expanding sideways by the second with the tension in the messy room.
"Why?" Charlie demanded, crossing her arms, arching up one of her thick eyebrows in question, "So you can keep me captive again? Cast your fancy spells and lock me away like I'm something to be ashamed of?"
Her mother looked like she'd bitten into an unfortunate Every Flavoured Bean, for all that she swallowed thickly, parting her lips as if unsure whether she needed to spit out the offending lolly or not.
"Little Lottie Lupin, nowhere near as good enough as her dear old Mum – the Dark Conqueror, the Werewolf Who Could–"
"That's enough." Hermione said darkly, striding forward until Charlie was but two feet from her. Her tone was deathly calm, and the fatigue from before had vanished. Charlie often wondered how her mother, shrill and nagging and without an ounce of understanding in her bones could have defeated Lord Voldemort. This was the first time she'd seen, perhaps, what he had seen – someone who would not back down. A warrior.
Charlie dug her fingernails into her palms, nerves flying through her at a rate of knots. Her mother continued, tone steady. "I've asked you not to use those names in this house."
She had, and Charlie had never used them before – not to her parents, not to her friends… there was something unreal about your mother having titles, and it wasn't simply the spoken rule that had stopped her from uttering what Mum's sycophants stumbled over eagerly when in her presence. But the rule was there all the same, and there was a reason Charlie had never been sorted into Gryffindor.
She stepped away, uncrossing her arms and looking at her toes, feeling the closeness of her mother and yet also the deepening chasm between them. Another fight, another loss, and another moment in which Charlie counted down to the day when she could leave this house.
Her heart panged painfully. Dad didn't deserve that, but what else was Charlie to do? Stay in a prison of her own making? Change her name to Lottie Huxley, the boring and spineless Hufflepuff daughter of the Lightbringer? That's how everyone saw her, anyway. Everyone except Ollie.
Merlin, the names are bloody stupid, aren't they? Charlie mused miserably. She thought Ollie would have laughed – but how was she to know, when her mother wouldn't let her see him for the rest of the summer break?
"You're to stay at Cheldon Farm until term starts," Hermione announced, pursing her lips, "It's three days. I'm sure Oliver can survive without you for at least that long." She looked like she might say something else but simply nodded and turned from Charlie, leaving the room in a bounce of frizzy curls and a waft of perfume – soft bergamot, a lingering aroma of thyme on the nose in its wake. The familiarity of it brought tears to her eyes and as the door closed behind Hermione, Charlie collapsed onto her bed and began crying silently into her pillow, the constellations on its case jumping away from the growing damp. The bull belonging to Taurus huffed, causing a few stars to shift out of place.
As she turned onto her back and gazed up at the enchanted ceiling of her bedroom – an eternally twinkling night sky – she wondered whether this would ever change. Her, alone in her room and wishing for anything but this; and her mother, already onto the next great thing, her daughter packaged up in a neat little box labelled 'for another day'.
The worry was, Charlie wasn't entirely sure that the day would ever come.
Then, like the final nail in the coffin, she heard the faint pop of Apparition sound from her window. Mum was gone.
"Wizen Huxley," began Fowley, his thin face gaunt in the light of the court room's iron candelabra, which hung large and imposing from the centre of the ceiling, "Despite what others might believe, you are not the head of your department and as such do not have the authority to propose this reform until Wizen Bones has given her revisionary signature."
The Wizengamot members on either side of Fowley gave her wary looks – it was not in Hermione's nature to be patient in the courts, and it was also not in her nature to suffer fools lightly. And everyone knew that Fowley was a fool, who felt the Wizengamot was more for show and status than for actual law reform.
"Have I not just explained, Wizen Fowley, that due to Bones being on long term service leave for the next six months, I therefore am acting on her behalf as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? That her signature is not needed, and I may propose the reform without it?" Hermione arched an eyebrow, gaze cold.
The dark stone of the room's walls glinted in the candlelight, and as Fowley grumbled something inconsequential, she quickly looked down at her battered leather watch.
Remus won't be happy, she thought tiredly, noting that it was hours past when she'd told him to expect her home. She could just picture Lottie staring into her roast chicken mulishly, her husband trying to cheer her up but not doing much good – after all, he would be cross with her as well.
Hesitating – because this was almost the last thing that Hermione wanted to do – she spoke with reluctance, "If you so wish to delay further, I am sure that Wizen Bones will acquiesce to a signature upon my asking despite her leave, after which we can proceed with all formalities in check and hopefully to the conclusion of your filibustering." There was a murmur throughout the high-ceilinged room – it was most unlike her to relent, but it was just after nine o'clock on a Saturday night and the rest of the Wizengamot members were sure to forget about this unique show of submission with a few night caps and the warm summer's night. At least, Hermione hoped.
The triumphant look on Fowley's face would have had Hermione's cheeks burning with rage years ago – now she simply waved her wand and waited for the click of her suitcase's locks, standing once everything was in order and waiting for the members to quiet so as to say, "Court is now in recess. Go home, everyone."
Turning on her heel, Hermione strode down her aisle of the room's amphitheatre-like rows of seats and flew down the stairs before the other members had even begun to stand. Departing the court room, she smiled hurriedly at Nishioka manning the front desk of the department – "I rather think you ought to call it a day!" she threw over her shoulder with a short laugh – and came to a stop before the lift. Like it had known she was coming – and perhaps it had – she had stood still for less than a handful of seconds when the doors clanged open. Pressing the button for level eight and arriving in under a minute, Hermione barely heard "Level Eight: Ministry of Magic Atrium." from the woman overhead as she hastily, nearly at a run, made her way to the fireplaces adorning the right side of the empty room.
Her low-heeled loafers clacked softly on the polished wooden floors, and then with a cry of "Cheldon Farm!" she was whisked away in a burst of familiar emerald green flames.
Stepping out into her living room, she felt the warmth of Remus's wards settle into her clammy skin, though it was not an altogether unpleasant feeling; tonight, it felt a tad overwhelming however, for she knew what awaited her.
Pulling out her wand and waving it wearily over her person, Hermione watched as her brown suitcase – engraved with HJL under the handle – zoomed through the doorway and up the stairs in the hall, followed closely by her Wizengamot robes, the silver 'W' emblazoned on purple a blur as it flew by. She waved her wand again; her pleated trousers and cream silk button-down transfigured into her comfortable jeans and t-shirt. She would not ordinarily transfigure her clothing like this, but it had been a last-minute call to the Ministry with the attempted escape of an Azkaban prisoner. Once Hermione had spoken with James and Gerdie at the Auror office, the Wizengamot had been called to session and Hermione had figured she would bring up her Magical Minor Protection Law reform proposal, considering she had previously been pushed to the following Thursday.
Fowley had stalled again so it hadn't been worth much, much to Hermione's disappointment and growing apprehension.
The house was quiet, which wasn't at all unheard of, but it was the last Saturday before term began and if there was no full moon – thank Merlin it's on the 6th, Hermione thought – usually Remus was embarrassing Lottie with ABBA, or burning off his own eyebrows with their games of Exploding Snap. Harry would sometimes join them if James wasn't harbouring him away on some lads' trip somewhere, already feeling the separation anxiety. Unfortunately for her, Hermione felt keenly in the moment she entered the kitchen to see Remus at the tidy dinner table, tumbler in hand – James and Harry were on said trip, somewhere in Ireland.
Her husband's eyes were sharp, unaffected by the alcohol he'd been consuming. Right, Hermione surmised, this is going to be brutal.
Mustering up her courage and the remains of her lucidity, Hermione walked further into the kitchen and took the glass from Remus's lax grip, sculling the last sip of firewhisky in silence. Remus's right hand came up to grasp at her waist, as if to remind her he was there. She bit her lip as she set the glass back down unceremoniously, shifting to face Remus's stare head on.
"That's the fourth night this week," He murmured, and the fact that there was no accusation in his tone is what made Hermione crack. Bending at the knees suddenly as if someone had sliced cleanly through her tendons, Hermione leant forward and rested her forehead in Remus's thick sandy brown hair, inhaling sharply and trying not to cry.
"I know," Hermione croaked, hoping that Remus would be blaming it on the firewhisky, "I–"
But she didn't quite know what to say. There was no excuse. She had her reasons, of course – and Remus knew all of these by heart – and yet the calm recitation of fact, the burning of her daughter's eyes this afternoon… it all hit her in one fell swoop and Hermione was worried her head might burst open trying to balance everything, a pros and cons list gone completely out of control.
"Hermione," Remus said softly, gently taking a hold of her shoulders and standing. "Hermione," he repeated as she pushed her head even further into where it had fallen onto his collarbones. Pausing in her quest to remain hidden in her husband, Hermione lifted her head slowly, gazing up into his mossy green eyes in askance – a "how do I fix this?" on her lips.
A hand came up to push her unruly hair out of her face and stayed there, Remus's thumb caressing the shell of her ear as he spoke, "Did you go for your morning run today?"
"Yes," Hermione whispered, eyes closing as she let her shoulders fall from their tensed hunching, "When you were out feeding the chickens."
It went unsaid that despite her attempt to combat her restlessness before the full moon, Hermione still could not get rid of the spell in her veins – the need for action, for pushing, for doing. Work only made it worse, and yet work was the only thing that sated the call.
"Then perhaps this is simply a matter of priority," Remus said, and when he pulled away from her, she felt his absence like bare feet on a cold winter's night – icy, through to the bone, a warmth that would be difficult to accomplish once more. Not without help.
"You've forbidden our daughter to visit her friends until school starts up again," Remus reminded her as he scooped up the tumbler and deposited it in the sink. "And yet you refuse to spend time with her." He turned around, leaning back against the polished wood of the kitchen counter. His professor's stare was perturbing, and he knew it. "With me." He added after a pause, and the sharp retort came up out of her throat before she could process what was happening.
"I don't 'refuse'," she snapped, "She hates me."
"She's your daughter," His tone was one of bafflement, like that fact alone should belie her declaration.
"Daughters aren't bound to love their mothers, Remus," scowled Hermione, ignoring the pang in her chest at the thought, the words leaving her as easily as her pointed barbs at her friends in their Hogwarts years – uncharacteristically cruel, honest to the point of painful. It was a weapon she rarely used and that bore no physical scars, its only injury the guarded look in one's eyes when they looked at her after that.
"Yes," Remus said loudly, as if she were completely missing the point. He pushed off from the counter to stand tall, frowning, "but she's your daughter. Ours. She couldn't possibly hate you."
Hermione's heart gave an odd sort of twitch, and she sat down heavily to mask it from her countenance. Lottie was Hermione's daughter in all the ways one might think; dark-skinned, unruly-haired, stubborn, clever, discerning – but Hermione remembered how people used to view her when she was at Hogwarts. Annoying, arrogant, waspish… Lottie had Remus' kindness, his loyalty, but those could not unburden her of her less desirable traits – and Hermione had been the one to give them to her, along with the unwanted attention of having famous parents. She knew why Lottie hated her, and what made it all the worse was that a small part of Hermione agreed with her daughter. So wasn't it the kindest act, the most suitable thing, to leave her alone?
Despite all of that, all of the confusion and burdens and history, Hermione loved her daughter. Loved her more than anything, so much that it didn't quite matter if Lottie hated her. But somehow she couldn't leave her alone, despite its advantages; and so, the present.
"You work too hard," Remus said, nudging her out of her thoughts, frowning more deeply, "You know it, and yet you keep working late, taking on more responsibilities."
"There's always something to be done!" Hermione rushed to explain, flinging her hands about like she was playing charades, trying to articulate 'something'. "I'm the Deputy Head, Remus, a lot of things fall to me when Amelia's not here."
"Then you delegate," Remus said sharply, eyes narrowing, "That's what happens when you get promoted. The lesser tasks fall to those beneath you."
"No task is lesser!" Hermione exclaimed, standing, glaring at Remus, "These are laws! People's lives!"
"And this is your daughter's life!" Remus shouted, and Hermione reared back in shock – raised voices were not common in their fights; even their fights were not common. Lily, who shouted herself hoarse at James, always sounded good-naturedly jealous when Hermione would relay their easy conflict resolution. But tonight…
"I understand it," said Remus, calmer now and running a scarred hand over his face. Hermione's eyes roved over it hungrily, desperately wishing for this whole thing to end. It was close, she could sense it. "I understand you. But Charlie is sixteen – sixteen, Hermione – and she can't possibly understand. She doesn't know what you've gone through, what you've done for the world–"
"For her!" Hermione cried, abruptly holding back tears, her verbal victory stolen from her just as suddenly, "All for her!"
"Then show it," Remus replied, tone level, "Show her that Hermione Granger does everything for her daughter."
It was quiet but for the cicadas on the farm, the acres of land not large enough to lessen their persistent croaks. Hermione wondered, as if from outside of her own body, whether Lottie could hear every word spoken between them. Hermione's past, laid out on a silver platter; the ruins of her failures, the façade of Hermione Huxley, ready and waiting to be split open at the seams beyond repair.
"Don't," Hermione said shakily, horrified at her thoughts and turning away from Remus, tears falling now, "Not tonight, please, I–"
He strode across the room, around the table. She tensed for only a moment before his arms enveloped her, squeezing tightly. "I love you," He whispered into her ear. Hermione pulled back to look into his concerned eyes, seeing nothing else but knowing there was more to this than a declaration of well established love. "And I'm sorry, I am. I love you more than I can possibly articulate."
He swallowed, and Hermione shut her eyes tightly, preparing for it.
"But this world doesn't need saving, not anymore. You can let go," he whispered, Hermione's heart a battering ram against her ribs. "Voldemort is dead. You made sure of that."
But Harry and Ron didn't. A familiar voice piped up from the back of her rushing flow of thoughts. Like a seed, it had planted itself deep, echoing. Harry and Ron didn't.
Harry and Ron, who were eighteen years old, both of them graduated from Hogwarts. Harry, unburdened of fame and war wounds, who played reserve for the Tutshill Tornadoes, who was dating Ginny Weasley – something that made Hermione's throat constrict painfully. Ron, who was training in the Strategy team in the Aurors and still couldn't look Hermione in the eyes without flushing scarlet.
Harry, who called her his 'scary Aunt Hermione'. Ron, who still said Mrs Lupin whenever she dropped by The Burrow for recipe or two off of Molly, even if Remus was more of the cook.
The two of them, like nephews… but also strangers.
"Every time I glimpse Harry using a quill, or a fork, I think I'm going to see 'I must not tell lies' on the back of his hand," Hermione said, opening her eyes, Remus looking blurry through her tears, "I don't know when it got this bad. I was fine, it was all fine, and then–"
"Then Charlie started Hogwarts," Remus finished for her, his mouth twisting a little like she perhaps should have known this already, "And Harry and Ron grew older, seemed different to you. And we don't see our friends as much, because we're all incredibly busy and tired and old."
He pushed her hair away from her face, a favourite gesture of his, and continued on, "It's easy to forget what we won that day in 1978, when all you see are reminders of what you lost. Hermione," he added after a pause, "I think it's time to tell Charlie. Maybe even Harry and Ron."
"No," Hermione said quickly, sobering, thinking of Ron's disbelieving laugh, Harry's awkward, wide-eyed stare. Lottie… Hermione could not even imagine it. Didn't want to. "Already too many people know."
"They've all been sworn to secrecy," countered Remus, raising his eyebrows sceptically, "I think if they'd blabbed about it, we'd be seeing the evidence on the front page of The Daily Prophet."
The mention of the accursed newspaper ("More like tabloid, honestly," Hermione had once scoffed after seeing a piece on her supposed love affair with Fowley sprawled across the second page news, Remus laughing into his morning hot chocolate) seemed to deflate the both of them. It was late and though Hermione – with a sudden vengeance – refused to go into the Ministry tomorrow, she was still exhausted. It had been an awfully long day, and the thought of the next did not instil any more energy into her. It would be another long day, filled with stony silences from Lottie and exasperated sighs from Remus, even if they were on alright terms.
There was only so much, Hermione mused as they both got dressed for bed – Remus in plaid boxers and an old Tornadoes t-shirt, and Hermione in her softest top and shorts – that an endlessly patient man like her husband could withstand.
"I love you," Hermione murmured once they'd been settled for a while, lifting their joined hands to her lips and kissing the back of Remus's. His half-lidded eyes crinkled softly at the sides, the flecks of grey at his temples signs of a life well-lived and not the stress of suffering endless full moons alone with no best friends for company. Regardless of what happened between the two of them – and the thought made Hermione's gut churn painfully – he would always have that. A happiness no one else could touch.
Somehow, between one soft kiss and the next, Hermione fell asleep. Her dreams were of old friends and new, with flashes of purple in between, Lottie's face swirling in the darkness.
When she awoke, it still felt like she was in a dream. She stared into the receding black of her bedroom for her daughter, even though she now registered a cool draught drift over her, like someone had left a window open–
Hermione shifted up onto her elbows, bleary-eyed, to see that the window was not open, but that what had caused her to wake was the presence of a familiar figure just by the foot of her warm, comfortable bed.
"Harry?" Hermione mumbled, squinting through the darkness. Her nephew's glasses glinted in the light of the night's three-quarter moon shining through the gap in Hermione's curtains. "What are you doing here?" A sudden thought struck her then and she sat up fully, worried. "Are your parents alright?"
"My parents?" Harry asked as Hermione fumbled for the wand on her bedside. He huffed quietly, toeing around the bed and moving closer to her side. "Forget it. We don't have time for this, we've got to go."
"Hang on," She frowned, quite alert now. "Lumos."
She could see only sunken cheeks – a paleness beneath the brown – and the silver of her best friend's lightning bolt scar before his calloused palm covered her fingers, his softly spoken "Nox." seeming to echo in Hermione's ears as her now extinguished wand was gently pried from her grip, loose with shock.
Both of them were quiet. Hermione couldn't imagine what Harry saw, what he might be thinking. What even prompted him to try and wake her, when he must've seen–?
"Ron's got him downstairs," explained Harry at the sharp turn of Hermione's head. Her eyes fell on the empty space beside her in bed, "At wandpoint, if you want to get technical. Think he went down for a midnight snack. Still," He added hastily at Hermione's parted lips, squeezing her fingers. There was no comfort there, not like there might have been had it been her nephew Harry, a little too cocky for his own good but well-meaning. "Better to be careful."
Hermione stared at Harry in the dark, trying to find the green eyes she knew so well. It'd been so long since they looked so tired. Not in this world. She didn't ever think she'd see this again, and while she'd been struggling to keep it together more recently, a larger part of her had been glad. She'd done so much just to erase this look from her friend's face. Now her nephew, she could smooth back the hair from his forehead and his brown skin was clear. He might've scrunched up his face, blush a little… but this Harry just cradled her wrist, swallowing loudly.
"Harry," Hermione said thickly, because there was nothing else to be said. She couldn't believe it – she wasn't sure she wanted to, because surely this meant she'd completely lost it – but she was helpless to let him pull at her elbow anyway, the two of them shuffling hastily through the house and down the stairs until they reached the kitchen.
"Hermione," Ron greeted her from across the room, the oak dinner table between them. His dirt-smudged face made his grin look whiter than she could remember it being, though her memory was decades old now. "It really is you. Blimey."
"Hermione," Remus interrupted, eyeing the wand that was still pointed at him, Ron's aim true despite his apparent happiness to see her. "What's going on?" He stared at her, and it took her a few seconds – long, torturous, humiliating, and shameful seconds – to remember that they had a child, and that she was sleeping, hopefully soundly, upstairs. Despite their grievances, Hermione had enough faith in her sixteen year old daughter to know that she could take care of herself; nevertheless, the situation was an unknown. Perhaps if she could convince her two friends to lower their wands, she could send an inconspicuous Patronus to her daughter, urging her to sneak downstairs and use the Floo to get to Oliver's. No matter that Hermione had denied her that exact thing only the day previous, desperate to spend more time with her growing daughter but unable to follow-through.
"Do we need the wands?" Hermione asked as politely as she could, hoping that they couldn't detect the slight tremble in her voice. Gently pulling her elbow from Harry's grasp and ignoring his furrowed brows, she continued, "I'll fix us some tea, if you give me a moment."
"We don't really have time for that," Ron told her, but he lowered his wand anyway, "As brilliant as that sounds, actually."
"Ron–"
"Right, yeah," Ron nodded, waving Harry off, "I'm getting there. Anyway, Hermione, it's time to come back, yeah? You've got to wake up."
"Wake up?" Hermione echoed, and her heart started to beat double time, like a couple of bongo drums in the night, eerie but pulse-quickening.
"From this dream, or whatever it is." He extrapolated. Remus looked at him incredulously. "Merlin knows how we got into your head, but we've got to go."
"Don't really know how we're going to get out," Harry continued, and Hermione turned to look at him. He smiled wryly, giving a little shrug, "But that's sort of a habit with us now."
There were a few seconds where Hermione's overworked brain couldn't quite seem to grasp what it was witnessing – but only a few, and then it started whirring, thoughts toppling over one another faster than she could possibly voice them.
Harry and Ron are dead. Came the first. Are they Death Eaters? Came the second. Something worse? Why would this be happening now? What could they want? They don't know Lottie's in the house, thank Merlin, but Remus-
Hermione's eyes caught her husband's, up against the kitchen counter, both hands white knuckling its edge.
But her mind continued to race, the possibilities of the evening endless. Was it a dream, perhaps, after the night she'd had? Some conjuring of her innermost thoughts, desperate daydreams gone mad? A prank? Her nephew would never – could never. Like Remus had confirmed the night before, the only people who were aware of Harry and Ron as she first knew them were the Marauders, Marlene McKinnon, and Harry's very own mother. Everyone else thought she'd been orphaned, tutored at home before the death of her non-existent parents. Bitten by a werewolf in the aftermath. Listless, until she'd become an assistant teacher at Hogwarts. Defeated Voldemort. Married Remus Lupin.
But it was Hermione Huxley who had done all of those things.
Hermione Granger was no more, and this stark reminder of the woman's existence left Hermione speechless, just like Remus's proclamation last night. Not tonight, she'd said. Hermione wanted to laugh, something incredulous and unhinged.
"I think this might be a bit of a misunderstanding," Remus began courteously, lifting his hands as if to show he had no weapon. Harry and Ron knew, though, that his reflexes were quicker than most, his strength greater. The element of surprise he might be going for would be fruitless, though he was not to know. Not now, she thought as tears sprung to her eyes.
"Yeah, you might say that," Ron said roughly, his pleasant smile fading away as he eyed Remus, wand rising to point at him again, "Personally, I think it's a bit wrong to be wearing the face of a dead man, but somehow it seems just fine with you. Big, fat misunderstanding, if you ask me."
Remus heaved a sigh not unlike those he gave Lottie at her most troublesome, his frown small but imposing. She supposed, to him, that this was his nephew and his nephew's best mate. He surely wasn't thinking that her dead friends had returned to her decades after she'd left them in another dimension, right after they'd discussed them. No. Remus was too logical for that – and so was she. "I'm not dead."
"No," Harry announced, and he sounded angry instead of the tired resignation that Hermione remembered him to hold when she was nineteen. Twenty-one years ago now. Merlin. "You're not. But Remus Lupin is, and we don't take kindly to disguises."
"Harry," Hermione interrupted, not knowing how else to stop whatever was about to happen. She touched his left forearm gently, inhaling sharply at the release of tension that came with it. She'd forgotten how much they'd all relied on each other, the trust that came so easily to the three of them. Her heart throbbed suddenly, missing them ardently even though they were right in front of her.
Are they?
"Harry, please," Hermione started again, licking her lips as if it would relieve her of her dry mouth. It only served to make her voice come out a little scratchy and strained. "This is… it's just not what you think. Please."
His green eyes searched hers for a moment, the lightning bolt scar intersecting his right eyelid and giving the impression to anyone who did not know him that he was war-weary and hardened. Those things might have been true, but Hermione knew her best friend – and this was her best friend, as she remembered him all those years go. How could it not be? Hermione rarely took stock in unexplainable things; there was always a reason for something. There had to be a reason for this.
She found, however, that in that moment she could not seem to muster up the appropriate level of suspicion, nor the right kind of wariness. Instead, as Harry looked at her and as she gazed upon him, there was only a feeling of rightness. This was Harry, with all of his inexplicable softness, his awkward hunch of shoulders. And if it surely was, then that was her other best friend, messy red hair and pale skin, across the room. The two of them, returned to her like a rather miraculous sort of gift.
The tears fell of their own volition, it seemed, and in her next breath Harry had wrapped his slim arms around her, his sharp and stubbled jaw pushing into her temple as she wracked with uncontrollable sobs.
"I- I-"
"It's alright," he whispered softly, and she thought for a second that the dampness of his own tears were falling into her knotty curls, even though he didn't sound choked up and his body showed no signs of a tremble or shake, not like hers. But it was hard to tell, embracing so closely. "We're here."
Another pair of arms – more muscular but also longer – came around the two of them, and Ron rested his chin softly on the top of Hermione's head, his broad palm rubbing comfortingly up and down her left arm, the other on Harry's right.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione hiccoughed, inhaling sharply as she shook her head, forehead buried into Harry's Adam's apple, "I didn't mean to go, I didn't-"
"We know you would never leave us, not intentionally," Ron reasoned softly. He snorted suddenly, jarring the three of them, "Not like me, the biggest prat of them all."
"Shut up," Harry laughed, and they all pulled apart at once. Hermione gave them both what she was sure was a watery smile, dragging her knuckles across the underside of her eyes and trying not to let the lump in her throat stop her from speaking, explaining everything–
"Expelliarmus!" A voice rang out, and Hermione snapped her head in time to see Remus's outstretched fingers close firmly over three wands, his right arm held aloft with his own. The expression on his face was fierce, and Hermione couldn't believe she had momentarily forgotten he was there at all. In the face of her old friends, everything else sort of fell away.
"Remus–" began Hermione, but he shot her a displeased frown, and her heart sank a little.
"Who are you?" He demanded, lowering the hand with the three wands and taking a commanding step forward. "What do you want?"
"Remus," Hermione pleaded and, knowing that he would not curse her – not even if he thought she wasn't her – she walked over to her husband, ignoring his slight flinch when her tired fingers encased his wrist tenderly and brought his wand arm down to their sides. Her left hand moved to caress his cheek and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, a kind of relief flooding through the both of them at the contact. "Trust me. It's alright. They're real." She exhaled on a soft laugh, "They're real."
"Of course we're bloody real," she heard Ron gripe, "You think I'd be in these clothes if we weren't?"
A muffled thwap sounded, like the slap of skin on skin.
"Harry," Hermione started, "Ron," Turning around and gripping Remus's hand tightly over their wands, she smiled as she led her husband over to them, squeezing his knuckles when his feet dragged a little, likely in nervous caution. "Remus. It's Remus, you know him."
A worried indent buried itself into Harry's brow, and Ron looked between him and his old Defence Against The Dark Arts professor as if waiting for someone to throw a punch.
"Remus," Hermione tilted her neck back slightly to catch his eye, "These are my friends. The ones we spoke about." She was begging him, almost, to understand. Please, she plead in silence, let me have this.
"Been saying much?" Harry quipped, and Ron snorted.
Hermione grinned, and it felt wholly unnatural on her older face – like she had gone back in time; but no, she knew exactly what that felt like.
No, it was as if her younger self was somehow possessing her older body, the heightened emotions of her teen years infiltrating her dying cells and refusing to let a silly thing like age diminish her ability to talk with her young friends again.
"Only how awful you both are," countered Hermione, and somehow that seemed to set Harry's shoulders at ease. He strode forward, ignoring Remus's now rigid stance, and engulfed his older friend in a hug not unlike the one he had given Hermione.
"It's good to see you," He said, muffled against Remus's shoulder. Pulling back, he kept his arms on Remus's, eyes flitting over his lightly scarred face appraisingly. "You look… well."
"He's not dead, that's a big plus," Ron said, and clapped Remus heavily on the shoulder, smiling, "Great to see, that."
Hermione moved closer to her best friend, squeezing his hip in thanks as Remus pulled his mouth into what he supposed was a smile, but was more of a deranged, wide-eyed grimace.
"Let's sit down," said Hermione, taking the wands from Remus and giving them back to their owners before tugging on Remus's hand and pulling him to the side of the table closest to the door. The kitchen was a little small, but with only two of them most of the year they didn't feel its tight corners and battered table edges.
With four, however, it was a tight fit; Hermione's left arm was almost on top of Remus's, and her own legs were entangled with Harry's, who sat across from her. Ron, who no doubt was thankful to be sitting in a relatively safe place, was leaning back in his chair with his arm around the back of Harry's, the perfect picture of relaxation. There was a gleam in his eye, though, that Hermione glimpsed as she turned her head to gauge Remus. Something akin to calculation – like he was trying to figure out the next move in a chess game. Like Remus was a piece he'd forgotten was on the board.
"Hermione," Remus said lowly, bending his head in a manner that made it clear his words were only for her. In the muted hum of late night, however, it was rather pointless. "Everything we have ever experienced tells me this isn't right."
Hermione chewed at the inside of her left cheek with uncertainty, but then something flooded into her, like she'd been suddenly possessed. Or perhaps, instead, this foreign thing that had taken over her was a new-found sense of purpose, a call of 'you're needed, you matter to more than just the little bubble you've created'.
Hermione's eyes flitted between the men across from her, assessing. Harry was gazing intently at her, his lips quirking into a small smile when he saw her looking. His scar encompassed a large portion of his face. Its growth had stopped with the final death of Voldemort, but it would always be the first thing people noticed about him. She focused in on the most jagged branch, which crooked sharply right on the slight bump in his nose – just as she remembered, now that it was right in front of her. A detail so small and easily forgotten over twenty years that someone would have to have dived right into the deep recesses of her mind to extract it.
Her head angled to look at Ron, his freckles stark against his pale skin. He didn't smile or change his expression in any way when their eyes caught. Instead, Ron simply looked back, his gaze moving over her face as if he was cataloguing the differences, not her. He probably is, Hermione thought, and a rush of affection swelled in her chest, like the pride of a teacher but inexplicably more intimate.
She dropped her stare to his forearms. Partly obscured, the criss-cross of silver-white lines were there, the evidence of a night not so easily forgotten in the Department of Mysteries.
"Was it right," Hermione whispered back, turning her eyes back to Remus, "when I turned up in 1977?"
There was a beat before he answered. "We solved that mystery, Hermione," he reasoned, and he placed his left hand on her thigh comfortingly, squeezing as if to emphasise the importance of this difference. "That was a magic explained. Can you tell me that you're able to do the same with this?" His head gestured minutely to Harry and Ron, but it seemed her friends had had enough of playing dumb.
"We've got an explanation," Harry said calmly, though there was an impatient look on his face, "But we're running out of time. The spell," he added, turning so that it was clear he was addressing her and only her, "it has a time limit. We've got seventeen hours to bring you back to where we performed it, or you'll be lost forever."
"Think it means we can't use the spell again, but there's no way we're taking that chance," said Ron, shifting forward so that both of his elbows rested on the tabletop. He and Harry were almost mirrored. He hesitated for a split second before reaching forward to cover her hand with his own. Hermione saw Remus look down at it impassively and placed her free hand over the one resting on her thigh, as if to say that it was alright. This was how they did things.
It was easy to forget that the three of them had had their own little language. Probably why it hurt so much to lose them, Hermione thought; though it was a rather inane one. Losing your two best friends, the only two people you would have died for, would have been the worst pain imaginable regardless of any kind of secret handshake the three of them might have concocted.
It was more than that, she told herself, and you know it.
"Losing you to Greyback was hell, Hermione," Ron admitted, his tone subdued. The air between them felt as if they'd elevated thousands of feet, like the trembling breaths Hermione was aching for were a result of altitude sickness. "Neither of us can do that again. We couldn't even do it the first time."
Harry placed his own hand on top of their two, all of their fingers interlocking like Borromean rings. Something in his eyes was wrong, though. He shifted, his mouth twisting in discomfort.
"What did you do?" Hermione asked darkly, squeezing their joined hands tightly. Her two friends winced, though Harry did a better job of hiding it. "What have you done?"
"Nothing you wouldn't have," answered Harry, abandoning his guilt and instead glaring stubbornly at her, like her dawning horror was completely undeserved, "We're not bloody stupid."
"Hermione," Remus interrupted, and the spell was broken. She whipped her head to him, shaking her unkempt hair out of her mouth after the motion. "You're the most brilliant witch I know, but this is neither of our specialties. Let's Floo-call Marlene." His eyes brightened. "Or even J-"
"Ron," Hermione cut through him, willing Remus to be quiet. James. James is here. Harry's father. Lily, his mother. Sirius, the closest thing he had to a father. Dumbledore. Snape! Oh, Merlin.
It was these realisations that finally gifted Hermione her resolve. How could she say no, when her best friend would be faced with all those who were important to him? And yet they didn't know him, not as he knew them. Sirius, who would have no idea what Harry had gone through, could not imagine the pain he'd felt at his loss.
She had not divulged the realities of her friends' deaths to them, particularly in Peter's case. Oh, Peter, Hermione bemoaned silently. How could Harry ever understand? How could Ron? She knew, she knew, that it would be a mistake to mention Harry's parents, their – her – friends. Remus was shock enough, but all of them? Dumbledore, who had destroyed the horcruxes with her in the 70's and would not fathom the choices he had made to raise Harry only to know he would lead him to his death? Or perhaps he would – which would be the most terrible realisation of them all, that Dumbledore would send Harry to the Forbidden Forest to die not only once, but twice. Three times, even. Endlessly, if it meant that Voldemort would be vanquished.
No, Hermione decided, she could not reveal this life to them. She could not expose them to this, only to rip it all away when she returned with them. And she would, she really would – because everything she did, she did for Lottie. Lottie wanted to be rid of her, and here was a solution, ready-made. Hermione would go back to the running and the fighting, and Lottie would be free of her. Remus would have his friends, so much more than he'd ever had. He'd be alive.
She could not pretend it was an entirely selfless decision, but Hermione was nothing if not practical. She would lose so much, but–
Hermione looked between Ron, wide-eyed with expectance, and Harry, the darkest circles she could ever remember hanging dutifully under his green eyes. Lily's eyes.
"Ron," Hermione managed to say past the lump in her throat, "Let's go."
"Hermione!" Remus exclaimed.
"Brilliant," Ron announced almost simultaneously, standing with a victorious smile.
Harry eyed her, but Hermione was staring at her redheaded friend vehemently, wishing he'd hurry things along.
"Hang on," Harry started, removing his hand from hers. Hermione clenched her jaw, wishing and wishing and wishing– "You would never agree so easily. Ron and I were prepared to spend near seventeen hours convincing you, then rushing to the spell point at the last second. In fact," Harry continued, speculative tone becoming a little angry, "Considering what we stumbled across," He jerked his head toward Remus, "I was beginning to wonder whether we'd be able to convince you at all."
"Hermione," Remus choked out, and Hermione bit her trembling lip, refusing to look at him.
"Mate," Ron said incredulously, "She's saying yes, let's bloody well go! You said it yourself, we don't have much time. The longer it takes, the harder the return trip is. You know what the book said."
"Book?" Remus queried hoarsely, desperate, "What book?"
Harry didn't say a word. Something came across his face too quickly for Hermione to recognise, but it seemed to have great effect for he rubbed at his left eye under his glasses – a movement that was identical to the one James made when his thoughts were coming at him from all angles. The fact that something like that was hereditary… well, Hermione so desperately wanted to tell him, tell the both of them. Her nephew Harry wasn't under the kind of stress to warrant such a gesture; perhaps if his quidditch career got more serious. Against her role as aunt, Hermione almost wished it wouldn't, gazing upon her best friend just now.
"You've been gone for seven weeks, Hermione." Harry said, removing his hand from his face and looking straight at her, giving off waves of exhaustion with every word uttered as Ron resumed his seat at the table, "We were desperate. We knew you weren't dead. Greyback would have delivered your body to us personally if you had been," Remus, unfortunately all too familiar with the man who had turned him as a child, went pale. Greyback was one of the few Voldemort supporters who remained at large, even twenty years later.
Remus clenched his jaw, hand on Hermione gripping so tightly she'd almost certainly have bruises.
"We managed to kill Yaxley," Ron said, taking over from Harry, who seemed to have difficulty continuing, staring at her with sad eyes, "It's why we went back to Grimmauld Place at all – he was the last of them that knew about it. And before you rip into us," Ron added at Hermione's open mouth, her irritable frown, holding up a freckled hand to halt her retort, "We know that he could've told other Death Eaters, but most of his lot – the ones he worked with, I mean – were dead or in Azkaban. It was a risk we had to take."
"And it paid off, didn't it?" He continued, crossing his arms, "The books in that bloody house, I swear to Merlin that some of them are made from human skin–"
"Point is," Harry interrupted, shooting Ron a look that felt exasperated. It had been so long since she'd had to read their expressions, her nephews so different, that she couldn't be quite sure. After all, Harry hadn't lived with Vernon Dursley for years, self-taught in reining in his true feelings; and Ron hadn't been eclipsed by extreme jealousy, he and Harry inseparable since they were toddlers. "That we searched the Black library for a tracking spell, maybe even a potion that would show us the way to you – but everything we tried came up empty until the Inflictor's Envy."
"Inflictor's Envy?" Remus echoed, and Hermione started at the sound of his voice, so unexpected in this conversation. A rush of guilt shot through her – how easily she fell back into old habits, so caught up in herself and her two boys that everyone and everything else fell by the wayside.
"Yeah," said Ron, looking like he'd just eaten some of Petunia's rabbit stew. That had been a memorable evening. "Rotten spell, if you ask me. Needed us to replicate an 'instrumental injury' to find our intended subject. Harry – you know I'm rubbish at the trickier stuff – had to cast that curse at me that Dolohov hit you with at the Ministry, Hermione," Ron shuddered, eyes drifting down to Hermione's sternum, "Don't fancy feeling that one again."
"Ron," Hermione whispered, touched. He waved her off.
"Then I sort of just knew where to look," Ron said, shrugging, "Like the Deluminator, I just followed where I needed to go. It led us to this place; just on the outskirts, actually. We had to wait until dusk to 'cross over the threshold' – figured that meant your fence, which is where your ward perimeters end – and then, well. By the time we walked all the way to the house, it was bang in the middle of the night, wasn't it?"
"I don't think," Remus began softly, tone weary, "that it was the wards you crossed over into."
"How do you mean?" Harry asked, sitting up straighter, "What other threshold was there?"
"The one between worlds, I imagine," Remus answered, almost blandly. Hermione figured it was the shock, perhaps some horror mixed in – what had they done? What had Hermione forced them to do, going through the Black library, stumbling across all manner of Dark Arts books? Performing a ritual – and there was no doubt in Hermione's mind that it was a ritual, requiring a sacrifice like the imitation of an 'instrumental injury' – to find her?
"I think I might die," Hermione stated tonelessly, staring at Remus, "if I don't go with them." She turned back to her friends. "'Lost forever' – were those the exact words?"
"Hermione," Remus said, and something in his voice cracked, like he'd been pushed too far.
"Yes," replied Harry, frowning, "But what's this about worlds? I mean–" He sort of flapped his hand at her, sticking his thumb, pointer and middle fingers out as he did so.
"This your dream, or what?" Ron asked for him, frowning, "Don't think we haven't noticed that you look ancient, Hermione."
"What?" Hermione replied, stunned, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, her shoulders tense up. "'Ancient'?! Ron–"
"You're in another dimension." Remus stated plainly, "One in which we defeated Voldemort in 1978."
"Remus!" Hermione scolded, because that truth led to others, which led to even more; truths that Hermione could not share for fear of her best friends not wanting to leave, for the destruction of her world as she knew it. Is it my world anymore? She thought brokenly, How could it be, now that I have to go back?
"1978…" Harry muttered, "But," he continued more loudly, "that's before any of us were born."
"Yes," admitted Hermione, and her palms began to sweat as she fidgeted with her own fingers nervously, "Yes, we tracked down his horcruxes earlier on, managed to defeat him two years before your birthday, Harry."
Harry's frowned. "But then–"
"Yes." Hermione said simply, shooting him a shaky smile, "Yes, they're alive."
"I–" But he could not continue, eyes flitting about the room in thought, not really seeing anything.
"Harry," Ron murmured after a minute of silence, placing a wide palm on his friend's shoulder.
"Right," Harry coughed out, shaken, coming back to them. His hands were trembling, and he sounded wrecked. "Right, okay."
Hermione looked to Remus, whose eyes had taken on a quality she couldn't describe, not in all her years of knowing him. She might almost have called it pity, but it felt fuzzy when she tried it on her tongue, not right.
"How many hours do we have?" Hermione asked, trying to stay on track.
"At this rate I think we've got maybe ten left," Ron estimated, not bothering to cast the Tempus charm, "Plenty of time, really."
Hermione snorted, Ron smirking at her good-naturedly. His hand remained on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it intermittently.
"You're not going back alone," Remus said, turning completely to his wife, hand leaving Hermione's thigh, "After all that we've been through – after everything – I can't stand by whilst you walk away."
"She'll have us," Harry croaked out, looking up from his hands to catch Remus's eye, "Hermione's always had us."
"I know," Remus said patiently, pausing before he went on, "You're not aware of it, but Hermione and I have been married for nineteen years. She's one of the most important people in my life. I'm sure you understand," Remus added at the intrigued looks on their faces, "You spent seven weeks without her and performed dark magic to get her back." Looking at Hermione, he seemed to plead with her, "How could you ever think I wouldn't do the same?"
"Remus," whispered Hermione, hoping he understood everything that was in the name; our daughter is upstairs, and I love you so much, and I have to do this, and I've been away for too long,and my world needs me, and most staggering of all: I need my world.
"It won't be forever," he said, looking at all three of them, "It can't be. The circumstances of your arrival in 1977 won't allow that, Hermione, and you know it."
"What does he mean?" Ron asked, frowning again, "Hermione?"
"It's complicated," she said, exhausted at the thought of explaining, "But I forged a place for myself here when I arrived, and the dimension might become unstable if I leave for too long a time."
"Merlin's baggy Y-fronts!" Ron exclaimed, and Hermione cringed at the volume – Lottie was still sleeping it seemed, but not for much longer with Ron yelling about, "You've got to be joking! Nothing is ever easy, is it?" He rubbed his hands over his face roughly, as if trying to wake up.
"It wasn't exactly 'easy' getting here, Ron," Harry pointed out, still shaken. He seemed to collect himself a little more in the face of what he was about to say, "Nothing is ever easy for us, or did you forget that we won a war only to fight another battle straight after?"
"Of course I bloody well didn't!" Ron said incredulously, "But I thought it might be a nice change to have things run smoothly. Sorry for hoping. Merlin!"
"Yeah, well," Harry said jerkily, "I'd love to stay here, I really would, Hermione. But people are dying back in our 'world', and I'm not about to sit around whilst that happens. So, are you coming?" He stood, staring her down. Ron joined him, jaw shifting with words unsaid – he'd officially reined in his temper, it seemed. Maybe her absence really had irrevocably changed things. She had always thought they'd carry on without her; weaker, maybe, but still strong.
And perhaps they had at first, like she did – carried on, made her life work for her. The attrition became too much, she knew, and maybe it had been the same for them. Perhaps they were all just as bad as each other, just as hopeless. A triangle without one of its sides was, after all, no longer a triangle. It wasn't even a shape.
"Harry," Hermione pleaded, looking between him and her husband. Her choice had felt so easy before, when imminent death had not been on the table, when Remus had not offered to join her; when she had been caught up in the moment of reunion.
Well, don't they say that moments define you? she thought. Hermione used to abide by that philosophy much more when she was younger, when things felt black and white; when a moment could change the course of history. Moments had changed the course of history; but there would always be parts of people that betrayed those moments, when the easier way out showed itself and the tired, downtrodden soul inside crumbled under the pressure.
In that precise moment, Hermione wasn't sure what she would have done – whether she would have stayed and faced death that night or gone with them and knowingly abandoned the life she'd made for herself forever – but Harry took the choice out of her hands. Seeing her hesitation, seeing the stubborn expression on Remus's face, Harry sent a silent stunner her husband's way.
Remus fell face-first onto the dinner table with a thunk, Hermione slack-jawed in surprise.
Ron wasted no time, moving around the table to grab Hermione's upper arm and tug her onto her feet.
"Remus–!" she cried, but Ron pulled her away. There was a part of Hermione that felt relieved; her questions had been answered for her – for once in her life – but at what cost?
"Harry!" cried Hermione as they left the house. She looked behind her and saw the soft lights of the kitchen glow in the dark of the summer night. The cicadas carried on, screaming like they'd witnessed everything that had happened at Cheldon Farm and wanted the world to know it.
"I did what had to be done, Hermione!" Harry shouted from far in front. Ron was lagging, still dragging her along. She felt helpless to run with them, but she couldn't help but stare back at her home in distress. "I'm sorry!"
Hermione knew she was distracted and crying – my Lottie, my Remus, I'll never see them again, she wailed silently – but they still reached the edge of the farm's acreage much more quickly than she would have expected. Her best friends may have been panting but it was Hermione who was gasping for air; it had been a long time since she'd run like this, at such short notice and such distance.
They Apparated onto the steps of Grimmauld Place, and Hermione couldn't find her breath enough to mention that Sirius lived here, he was sleeping upstairs, and he'd surely hear them scramble through the door, heaving great lungfuls of air.
"Ron," Hermione gasped, trying to tell him, pulling at his long-sleeved shirt. She only just realised it was one she remembered, fuzzy in her twenty year old memory; the dark purple t-shirt he'd put on over it clashed horribly with the long, army green sleeves.
She was unheard, however, as Ron pulled her out to the back of the house, down the still-mossy steps into the small backyard. Harry frowned at the black motorcycle in the corner, its metal gleaming in the moonlight.
Shaking himself out of it, he grabbed for her hand as well as Ron's, and the three of them stood in the centre of the unkempt grass – Sirius had never been much of a gardener – waiting.
"What's supposed to happen?" Hermione panted, still trying to regain her breath.
"Just wait," Harry said, a determined expression on his face, "Wait a minute."
And then, like Merlin himself had been pulling some kind of universal strings to time it perfectly, a few things happened at once: Remus and Lottie burst through the back door, faces aghast as Harry, Ron and Hermione lifted off of the grass, hovering a few inches in the air. Hermione felt a piercing pain in her sternum. Unable to help her cry of pain, she looked down to see her chest glowing a bright purple, throbbing in time to a loud, deafening heartbeat that was suddenly resounding in her ears. She looked to her left to see Ron grimacing, his chest also glowing purple. Harry's grip on her hand was so hard her fingers were going numb.
"Mum!" Lottie shouted, as wind started to pick up, that heartbeat growing ever louder.
Hermione whipped her head to her daughter, eyes searching her young face, trying to commit it to memory. She would never see it again. The pain in her chest increased tenfold, and Hermione screamed as the light grew so bright that she had to close her eyes. There was a great yank to her left arm, her and Ron's hands slipping before suddenly the three of them dropped from their levitation, landing on the hard ground, grit lodging itself under her fingernails and ears ringing from the sudden stop of that omniscient heartbeat.
Hermione groaned, pushing herself up slowly from her sprawl in the dirt, raising her head to look for the others. Harry was nearly on his feet, wand in hand, and Ron was right behind him – but beside her, Lottie coughed roughly. Remus was now unconscious, likely a side-effect of the stunner Harry had sent his way earlier.
"What," Hermione began, whimpering at the continued burn of her curse scar, "what did you do, Lottie?"
Her daughter looked at her, fury on her face. She twisted her pleasant features into a snarl and spat, "What Dad was too scared to do, evidently."
Hermione shook her head, feeling her tears fall down her cheeks. She watched as one dropped to the ground, splattering in the dirt beneath them. "You don't know what you've done."
Lottie didn't know – couldn't possibly – but Hermione knew; there was a reason Harry and Ron had come back to her, a reason that she had, for all intents and purposes, returned with them so easily. A reason she had tried to forget for twenty one years.
"My mother mentioned places in time and history: everyone has their place." Marlene's voice echoed in her head, "By arriving in our world, you forged your own. These things have a price, though." Hermione stared at her daughter's defiant expression, the set of her jaw identical to Hermione's own. "I suspect if you don't kill Voldemort, you might be facing expulsion. You might return to your own world."
"Or I might die."
"Yes," Marlene's young smile looked cruel in Hermione's memory, like she knew something Hermione didn't, "Or that."
"Lottie, no..." sobbed Hermione, overwhelmed. When she'd thought she wouldn't see her daughter again, death had never been a part of that. Hermione's death, maybe, but never Lottie's. Not her, Hermione whimpered, anyone but her.
But as had been the case when returning to a world where Death Eaters roamed free, that choice had been taken away from her. No, she willed forcefully, I refuse. I won't let that happen.
"Yes," Lottie gritted out, and blood slowly dripped down from the cut on her cheek, making her expression darker than Hermione had ever seen it, "I'm not going to let you go because of some stupid ritual."
Hermione was reminded, very fiercely in that moment, that it would never be up to her what happened. Like when she had run from Greyback when she was nineteen, like when she had fallen in love with Remus, like when Regulus Black had overheard Sybil Trelawney's prophecy; Hermione was helpless to the workings of the universe, a puppet in its very own Shakespearean tragedy.
Now it seemed her daughter had joined her. Hermione's heart sank pitifully into her stomach at the realisation.
Whew, that was a ride! Please let me know what you think, I love reading your reviews. They kept me going through Divergence and after, even if I never replied. Hopefully this was alright.