Chapter Text
PART ONE
She must have made a mistake. Life had been normal and boring and the best she could hope for, all things considered. Then one day, this particular day - an email. When she had seen it appear in her mailbox the sense of dread that instantly overwhelmed every other automation of her body was jarring. She tried to keep her Occlumency intact, perfected through five years of constant use, but she could feel it failing. She stood up suddenly, forcing her chair to fly backwards with unintended force. The noise of it slamming against the desk behind her cracked through the small, quiet office like thunder. She felt her coworkers jump, their questioning gazes focusing on her with blatant annoyance. This was more attention than she had ever warranted from them and they took offense at the extra exertion.
She moved, nearly running to the women’s restroom that was thankfully empty. The stall she chose seemed impossibly small for all this emotion and she clawed at the buttons of her oxford for relief. She desperately wanted cold air but was too shaky to make it down three floors to the parking lot without attracting unneeded attention.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Somewhere down the line she had made a misstep; there couldn't be another reason. Her hands shaking, she retrieved her Blackberry from the front pocket of her khakis. Every cell in her body screamed to stop as she entered the passcode and opened her mailbox. There wasn’t a subject - of course there wasn’t - but a subject line was unnecessary. The identity of the sender alone eradicated her world just by appearing in her mailbox today. He would only contact her to disrupt everything.
We must meet ASAP. Expect me this evening.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. Whatever panic she had initially felt doubled and she chanted a series of obscenities as her grip on the phone intensified. Her mind was racing through the past five years, desperate to find where she went wrong.
“Mercy? Are you ok?” A quiet voice whispered, but the echo off the tile caught her ear enough to jerk her back into the present. It was her coworker Nancy, the self-appointed mother figure of her department. An overbearing, nosy bore whom she struggled to stay civil with under normal circumstances. She collected herself as fast as she could.
“Fine,” she croaked, her voice betraying the fact that she was not in fact, fine. “It’s um, my grandmother. She died.” Fuck, terrible. The lilt of her voice posed the statement like a question.
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Mercy.” The door to the restroom clanked shut as Nancy walked further into the room. “Can I do anything for you? Tea?” She could see a strip of the older woman where the stall walls gapped at the door. Merlin, she was earnest.
“Thanks, Nancy. I’m fine. I just need a moment.” Her voice was stronger, more believable.
“Of course. Feel free to take the rest of the day, dear. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Sure. Thanks,” she responded quickly, willing the woman to just leave her to her misery.
“If you need a couple days... you’ll probably want some time for the funeral? Probably next week, I imagine. It will be back in England, I assume?” Nancy was earnest, but not especially intuitive.
“I haven’t quite gotten there yet, Nancy.” Annoyance was edging into her voice. Definitely believable.
“Oh, of course. I mean, yeah, of course. Let me know if you need anything at all.” There she goes, finally taking a hint. The restroom door closed quietly behind her, leaving her once again alone with her inner monologue of panic.
He was coming. She had no idea why, and not an exact when, but what exactly would be the point? More information wouldn't grant her anymore control over the situation. It might even make her trepidation worse. All she could do now was grab her purse without catching anyone's curious gaze and slink out of here to await her fate. Running, despite its appeal, would be pointless. She barely had a life as it was, and it honestly would take too much energy to take the steps required to successfully disappear. And with what resources, exactly? And to where? She was fucked, thoroughly fucked.
Despite near-obsessive care, she had indeed made many mistakes. She had tried to fit in, but was cursed to do the exact opposite. Her ultra ordinary life reeked of someone trying too hard to not be noticed. She had made a path for herself in this world like one makes up the stage for a play, the suspension of disbelief only taking her so far. She played at Muggle, but she wasn’t. Her coworkers made quiet comments about her strangeness, one especially perceptive supervisor once likening her to the bug in the first Men In Black movie when he didn’t know she was listening. She was wearing a Muggle suit, and the ill-tailored fitting was plain for all to see. She took medication to smother her abilities, but they only went so far despite her intense dosage. She had to be exceedingly careful when she spoke to Muggles - direct and without flourish. She received some leeway from being British in America, but not nearly enough to feel comfortably disguised. Especially during the rare occasions she had encountered fellow wizards and witches.
For five years Hermione Granger had lived a bland, yet tenuous existence, hidden by allies of the Order of the Phoenix in the United States following their resounding defeat at the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry’s body had barely been cold when she was secreted away by the remaining members of the Order, her blood status and proximity to The Chosen One making her a prime target that put all of them at greater risk. They’d stripped her of everything that made her her in the desperate attempt to preserve her life. Although it could be argued that what she was left with wasn’t truly worth living. All they had given her was a cold and empty apartment, this awful job, and the somewhat ironic pseudonym of Mercy Davis. Mercy Davis. Someone had retained a sense of humor, it seemed. And for five long, lonely, regret-filled years Hermione had waited. Waited for the Order to come for her - waited for a Death Eater to show up at her door and put her out of her misery - waited for the end of the war - waited to die in obscurity - waited. Her life was a holding pattern clogged with memories, featuring a hollowness that would not leave her, and a hefty dose of shame.
She did not know the current status of the Order. who was alive or dead, or the status of the war or British wizardry as a whole. Her ignorance had been a condition of her protection and she had made an Unbreakable Vow to remain secluded amongst the American Muggle population, not seeking out information and taking a daily pill to pacify her magic. She remembered scoffing when her American handler had gone through the conditions. Hermione Granger - the Hermione Granger - agreeing to purposeful ignorance? It had taken Ron days to persuade her, but ultimately he was successful at playing to her logical nature. But she had never imagined she would be standing in the same place five years later. She would never have agreed to it if she had known it would be indefinite. Then today, a seemingly milquetoast Monday, this curt email from her handler. Dread thickened her blood, making every beat of her heart feel impossibly loud and fast. The old Hermione’s would have cradled a precious sliver of hope alongside the impending sense of doom, but Hermione Granger was for all intents and purposes long dead. Mercy Davis, on the other hand, did not hang her hat on the promises of her name.
Within five minutes of walking into her apartment Hermione had a generous glass of red wine in her hand. She had stopped for wine and cigarettes. Hermione had never been a serious smoker, but something about her waiting with wine and cigarettes seemed appropriate. It certainly was a mood and she liked the imagery. She had thrown her keys and purse on the floor, unburdened by the usual instinct to keep her home neat. It was an odd sort of freedom, she supposed. Free to break her own rules because her life was coming to an unnatural halt. Her handler would only bring about change with his arrival.
Every set of headlights that briefly sent light ricocheting across her dim living room made her catch her breath. Yet the hours ticked by, the wine was steadily consumed, and the pile of cigarette butts in an empty bottle grew with no interference. She broke the seal then popped another bottle, committed to dulling the tension. It seemed to help a bit, but occasionally she’d stumble upon stockpiles of anxiety hidden between thoughts and memories. She tried to avoid obvious stressors, but they were like landmines and cleverly disguised.
Normally, she had a place in her mind she liked to go, always the small cabin from the summers of her childhood, and she would retrace it in great detail. The musty, warm smell of the place; how the stereotypically-cabin furniture was arranged; the array of flannel and checkered fabrics; the distinct, cool feel of the stone mantelpiece. Normally, that would let her escape and lend her control of her thoughts. But normal didn’t cover this situation.
The slamming of a car door jerked Hermione from the past. Her senses heightened despite the blur of alcohol and she could hear footsteps drawing closer over the white noise of her neighbor’s tv. The knock was curt and to the point, no musicality or flourish. This meeting was strictly business. She made to stand, but a squat man entered the room before she could even put her empty glass on the coffee table. She could make out the glint of a key as he swept into the small room. Of course he had a key, her apartment was so thickly warded it dragged at her skin, the gravity of the place never something she could completely get used to.
“Stay outside,” Bob said quietly to someone on her stoop as he closed the door behind him.
Bob was her handler, a man she had laid eyes on a total of three times as of today. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left her here five years ago with only a name and a packet of financial and identity paperwork. He now assessed her closely, or seemingly so - between the wards and the alcohol her vision was wobbly and unreliable.
“You’re drunk,” he stated, scorn carved into his brow.
“You’re here.” Hermione snickered loudly at her drunken rebuttal, but her hand shot to her mouth to try and smother the noise so as to not prove his point. Bob did not find her funny or charming, she now recalled. He wore the burden of his role as her handler so physically it always seemed to age him once his eyes caught on her.
“Brightest Witch of Her Age,” he sneered.
Hermione blanched at the old title, her good friend shame surging forward heavily in her gut.
“I’m Mercy,” Hermione parroted, like a good little asset.
“So you have been.” Bob released a grating sigh, rounding her coffee table to plop unceremoniously in a weathered Lazy Boy she had found on the side of the road. He sniffed as he sat, a note of his displeasure, and Hermione took some small gratification from the fact he was sitting in a trash chair. Minutes ticked by, but Bob didn’t elaborate on why he was gracing her with his presence. A thousand questions rolled sloppily through her mind, but she met Bob’s silence with her own, a - possibly - misplaced sense of pride stilling her tongue. She wasn’t going to beg for information. After five years she had the practiced patience to wait him out.
“Should I crack another bottle or….” Hermione asked absently. Bob met her eyes briefly, almost as if he couldn’t stand it.
“We’re waiting on someone,” he murmured, removing smudged glasses from the bridge of his nose to rub at his temples.
“So, that’s a yes.”
Hermione grabbed her third bottle of red wine from the paper bag at her feet, opening the screw top and taking a straight pull as she eyed her guest warily. The sharp edges of the cap cut against the palm of her hand as she squeezed her fist around it, the pain strangely soothing. Coming up for a breath, she used the back of her arm to clean the residual wine off her lips. In a timely manner, her sleeve slid up to reveal the M of her cursed scar. Bob’s eyes caught on the angry expanse of skin, and he flinched. Hermione experienced a strange ripple of satisfaction at his reaction. She may have been sidelined in this conflict for the past five years, and yes, maybe she was inappropriately drunk at this moment in time, but she had once given everything. Her peace of mind, her entire heart, even her flesh.
Hermione blinked, and suddenly there was a third person in the room. Her body jerked backward on the couch, out of practice with magical methods of transportation, and her heart stopped as the figure turned towards her, sliding the hood from where it shadowed their face. A deep ache permeated Hermione’s chest and she coughed on the wine in her mouth as recognition dawned.
“Hermione,” Ginny Weasley whispered, brown eyes impossibly wide in the dim light of the living room. Hermione shivered at the use of her name, the sound strange to her ears after five years of Mercy. Did the name feel as weird on Ginny’s tongue as it did to Hermione’s ear? Ginny made to walk towards her, but then stopped, throwing Bob a look of uncertainty that he didn’t react to. “Hermione,” she repeated with more confidence, voice clear with a practiced authority. “It’s been—”
“Five years,” Hermione stuttered, the back of her throat burning from choking on cheap wine. She glanced at Bob for a hint as to the context of this visit, but the man was thoroughly Occluded.
“I was going to say ‘too long,’” The younger woman amended with a tight smile. Ginny looked tired, her stance weary, and she did not make a second attempt to come towards Hermione.
“I— I don’t know anything,” Hermione admitted shamefully. It may well have been her first time uttering that particular sequence of words.
“I know, Hermione.” Another tight smile. “May I sit?” She gestured towards the opposite side of the couch, awaiting a response before she attempted a second approach. Hermione shuffled closer to her own side of the couch, inclining her head in permission. Ginny moved with an unfamiliar grace towards her approved seat, perching on the lip of the couch cushion. Her body language was condensed - a spring ready to let loose at the slightest provocation. Hermione’s drunken mind observed these movements, this tension, with a sense of foreboding. The war could not be going well, as the Ginny that sat beside her moved like a fighter.
“Ron is alive,” Ginny stated flatly, and Hermione was instantly grateful to whatever higher being that had preserved her remaining best friend’s life. “He sends his love.”
“He couldn’t come?” She instantly hated the insecurity in her voice. Ginny’s hard-edged presence made her feel ill at ease, inadequate. But she didn’t want the other woman to know that. The Order had made her flee. It was their problem if they now found Hermione lacking.
“You know how emotional Ron is, Hermione. He wasn’t up to the task.” A warmish smile crossed Ginny’s lips, but nothing touched the distance in her eyes. Hermione might as well be speaking with a stranger, for all she resembled the girl she had once known.
“I suppose it’s good to have constants in—”
“I have a son, Hermione,” Ginny interrupted. The words shot out of her mouth with force, causing Hermione to briefly wonder why she wielded that statement like a weapon. “He’s Harry’s.”
“Oh, Ginny,” she groaned, a new pang of loss reawakening settled emotions. Hermione wanted to grasp Ginny, but made no outward moves to do so. She couldn’t read the younger woman well enough to know how her touch would be received and she was out of practice administering her affections outside of the occasional one night stand.
“I named him Harry, after his father.”
Hermione grimaced. Though she was logical to a fault, it seemed a temptation of fate to name the son after his doomed father. Ginny fumbled with the side of her cloak, shaking hands struggling to remove a piece of paper from an interior pocket. Unfolding it, she pushed a creased picture of a chubby toddler into Hermione’s hands. The resemblance was striking, and she was unprepared for the swell of emotion that stormed against her alcohol-feebled sense of control.
“I can’t do this,” Hermione accidentally admitted out loud, causing Ginny’s mouth to snap shut angrily.
“You can’t do this?” The question was whispered with barely contained rage, and Hermione had to look at the ceiling. Her eyes burned as she blinked away tears. A tense silence engulfed the room before Hermione felt Ginny drop the photo in her lap. “I know we made you leave, Hermione. I know this was a forced asylum, but you have no idea how damn lucky you are. You were spared so much.”
“I—” Hermione started, but Ginny charged through.
“I know you would have rather stayed and fought right alongside us.” Ginny grasped one of Hermione’s hands, their fingers sliding together easily with sweat. “Look at me, Hermione.”
It took all her resolve to do so, but she met Ginny’s wet gaze with a forced calm. “I would have died right alongside you.” The words were barely a breath, but she knew Ginny was already aware of the fact.
“I know. I know,” she hushed.
“I didn’t know it would be this long, I never—”
Suddenly Hermione was being tugged against Ginny’s bosom, a strange positioning that she nevertheless welcomed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had received physical comfort, or any comfort at all. It had to have been in the hours leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, a murky string of memories that her Occluding skills had always struggled to contain. She had the instinct to weep, but she breathed deeply through her nose and tried to clear her mind of any heaviness. Ginny’s hands rubbed up and down her spine, a soothing sensation that simultaneously aided and setback the endeavor.
“Hermione, my son… Harry, he needs your help now.”
With a sniffle she looked up at Ginny’s strained face. A lone tear trailed down the younger witch’s cheek, meandering its way around freckles to finally drop off the gentle slope of her jawline. Impossibly, selfishly, a flash of anger struck Hermione’s heart, but she worked to quickly smother it. She would do anything, she repeated to herself. The mantra was familiar, an old friend from her school days that she dusted off and recycled.
“Anything,” Hermione whispered, drawing herself back to give the moment her full attention. She was already resigned to it, no matter the request. Self-sacrifice was a persuasive drug, martyrdom the perfect balm for the mountains of guilt and the self-loathing that plagued her.
Ginny looked over at Bob, chewing on her lip. Hermione was sitting at a poor angle to decipher their glance, but the dim light of the room caught on the pearly sheen of scar tissue that streaked across Ginny’s throat. She felt no repugnance or fear, simply the determination to do what was needed to avenge her friends.
“Hermione. They have him. Voldemort has my son.” Ginny took a deep breath before continuing, the back of her hand dragging across her face to collect stray tears. Hermione nodded her head. They needed her help to recover the boy. Ginny’s son - Harry’s son. She could feel her mind ramping up, the building blocks of a plan organizing. It had been so long since she had been of use, but she could do this. She would do this.
“I want to help, Ginny,” she said soothingly. It was now her turn to grasp the other woman’s clammy hands.
“I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry.” A restrained sob escaped Ginny’s lips, her eyes pushed closed as she flipped her hands to grasp Hermione’s with an almost uncomfortable amount of force. Dread once again trickled down her spine, but she still couldn’t place it.
“We need to leave.” Bob’s gruff voice broke through the tension of the room, and Hermione once again felt a misplaced spike of anger. She couldn’t smother it, her instincts wouldn’t allow it, but why did this feel like a trap? This shouldn’t feel like a trap. She was willing to give her life, and Ginny was her friend.
“What’s happening Ginny?” Hermione’s voice sounded strange to her ears - laced with growing anger and the unsteadiness of fear. Ginny released a contained breath, blowing warm air across her face. When she would finally meet Hermione’s eyes there was a foreign hardness to her gaze that hadn’t been there before.
“I'm sorry, Hermione, but I have to do this for my son. I hope you can understand.” Ginny’s voice was cold and determined, and she moved quickly to grasp Hermione’s wrist as her other hand reached backward towards Bob. The older wizard reached out in turn before unfurling a handkerchief from his pocket, revealing a brass key that clattered on Hermione’s glass coffee table before coming to rest with an echoing ring. Every instinct within Hermione screamed, and she attempted to wrench herself away from Ginny’s grasp. The younger witch simply gritted her teeth and dug her nails further into the soft flesh of Hermione’s wrist. Eyeing the two women quickly to make sure they were connected, Bob grabbed the key. She instantly felt the unmistakable tug from behind her navel that indicated Portkey travel, a mournful groan escaping her lips as the trio blipped momentarily out of space and time.