[Fic] HP, There Are No Platforms (Hermione Granger)
Hermione was prepared. It was, all things considered, much like revising for the O.W.L.s, or teaching herself the Protean Charm. She had gathered all the right documentation, that now lay haphazardly about her room - her parents would be so surprised if they knew, Hermione never let anything disorganised for long, or perhaps they would not, perhaps they would not remember the way the room used to look, back when Hermione had lived in it last.
She picked up the passports. She'd thought to buy some illegally, but she had no idea where one would procure oneself a new passport by Muggle means, and the information (Hermione almost hadn't believed it) wasn't in any book, and she wasn't that great with computers. Her saving grace had come in the form of Voldemort himself, when he'd killed two Muggleborns of about the right age. As wizards, they were blank slates; as Muggleborn wizards, they had valid identities. There was, Hermione thought, something right about her parents' cover being provided by Voldemort's cruelty, by his thoughtlessness, by the very things he overlooked, just like he'd overlooked Harry's parents, Harry himself.
And it will be his end, she thought. This is why I must do it, now.
But something caught Hermione's attention, right by the passports. It was a Muggle book; for a time she had tried to keep reading Muggle books, but it had been before what had happened to Cedric... to Harry... before she had had all too many things to occupy her time with. She made then and there the promise that when the war ended, she would go back to her childhood library and read the books she had set away for her summers. After the war. If there was an after.
Hermione put away the book. Her tendency to excessive neatness hadn't changed, even now. Beside the passports were a brochure she'd got, decorated with lavish photographs of Australia. On all of them the sun shone brightly over lush forests and sandy beaches, and all Hermione could think about was that the Dementors must not have made it there. Yet.
It was nearly six. She had timed her evening carefully. She had even made a timetable, like the one for her lessons, except it was covered in her precise writing with annotations such as “fetch passports”, or “place tickets on counter” and even “arrange for proper documentation”. Using the Imperius on some obstructive bureaucrat had been a dilemma for Hermione, but she had to do it. It wasn't so great an infringement, and what did rules mean when they were Voldemort's ? Not to mention Harry. Harry would have to commit murder, and everything she, Hermione, did was something he wouldn't have on his conscience. Harry deserved a free conscience, with the life he'd led, with the life he would - assuming he didn't - at the end of --
Hermione was now running late, because she had not included any bathroom breaks in her timetable, and now here she was, smearing fresh water on her eyes to clean them of tears. The passports weren't even set on her parent's bed, with the suitcase she had packed. Her wand was shaking. It was a very precise charm, she had to point, wave, maintain a precise angle, wave once more, and of course the patient (the victim, had said the textbook, but Hermione told herself it was just like when her parents removed some potentially dangerous tooth, and then put another pristine one, as though the infection had never been there, it was for the better) had to be immobile and perfectly relaxed.
Just as her mother opened the door, Hermione finished packing. She did her bed (was it still hers ? She had slept so little in it), tried to restore the room to the austere, empty atmosphere it had had before she used it to plan her operation.
In the living room, her mother sat on the sofa, her cup of tea in hand.
“Hermione !” she said, and she sounded genuinely happy to see her. “Did you have a good time at school ? How are your friends, Ron and Harry, was it ? I'm sure you are still the best in your year. You must have had your GCSE results by now, haven't you ?”
Hermione sat down next to her.
“O.W.L.s,” she said too stiffly. Now is not the time to nitpick about Wizarding nomenclature ! Six thirty, you must do it before he comes back. “I got O's in everything except Defence.. there I had only an E... it was too bad,” Hermione found herself saying. “Really, I knew everything ! But I might have panicked at the practical. I should have practised more.” Maybe Sirius would be with them, with Harry, if she had. Now he had no one to teach him, especially with what had happened in June, no one to give him the information he needed, no one to support him. No one but her and Ron, and Ron was already doing so much. Thinking about Ron caused the tears Hermione had felt welling up in her eyes and drying her throat to recede.
“Ron's well. I'm sure he would love to meet you, in the future, when we're done with --” The war. “School.” Hermione was babbling. Would Ron truly want to meet her parents ? They were so foreign to him and everything his world stood for. Even Mr Weasley couldn't operate a telephone. But when Hermione pictured Ron sitting with them and telling her to “stop worrying, Hermione, it'll be all right,” she felt slightly better, so she did.
“Harry's --” But she couldn't continue.
“Hermione !” said her mother in concern. “Did something happen to Harry ?” What didn't happen to him ? Poor Harry. Poor Sirius. Poor Professor Dumbledore. “You said his uncle and aunt treated him horribly. Are they still - is it something they did ?” Even the Dursleys, Hermione thought, didn't deserve to die just because they existed in the same general circle as Harry. Her parents, infinitely better than them, were at risk. She had heard that the Order would take precautions for Harry's uncle and aunt, but she wouldn't burden them with protecting her parents. She could do it.
“No, no, Mum, they don't do anything too bad to him now. He's - did I tell you he's found a girlfriend ? It's Ginny, she's Ron's sister, she's really nice. Funny, too. She would love to meet you, as well. I'm... I was so happy for him. He does deserve to be happy, doesn't he ? After all that's happened.” If it could be true ! The end of the war, Harry, Ron, even Ginny, her parents, all of them still - that they could all --
Hermione was crying again. Her mother bent slightly towards her, repeating “oh, Hermione,” but not quite knowing what to do, simply looking on - and it was six-twenty-nine, and her wand didn't shake too much. The look of concern on her mother's face faded to one of fright, then to the blank look people had when they were - Stunned. Calm down, Hermione, she thought. This is for them. For you. For Harry. For the Order. For good. It's only a short time, and then they wake up and you're not there. Harry will have to kill. Now that's difficult. It will rip his soul. But he's so brave, so he will do it, because he has to. For years you've helped him with books and cleverness, but now more is needed.
She murmured the incantation. The words, the movements. Point, wave. The intent. A new life. A life, quite simply.
And her mother's mind was laid bare to Hermione, whose own head was filled with images she'd never been there to see. Her mother, right after she was born, holding her in the hospital. “Hermione,” she was saying, “Hermione, isn't that a nice name ?” A girl from a book. A girl lost. Hermione forced the memory out of both their minds, and instead copied a slightly later memory, where her mother slept. Hermione, lost.
There were a lot more memories of her childhood. Hermione was thankful she had always been prone to playing by herself; it made erasing the traces of her existence much easier. She was thankful also that her parents weren't the sort to take family photos, which they found terribly pretentious.
“The best memories,” said Hermione's mother, “are those in our minds.”
Diagon Alley. Her parents discovering the wizarding world.
“It's hard to believe all this really exists, don't you think, Hermione ?” Yes. You never believed in it. She was thankful.
Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. Her parents behind the barrier while Hermione had crossed, staring at the numbers of Platforms Nine and Ten - Hermione reaching back, taking her mother's hand, dragging her with her. A mistake. You belong here - you belong in a world where there are no platforms between nine and ten. Her mother watching the train leave, waving amongst all the other parents in robes and pointed hats. To her utter disgust Hermione even noticed Malfoy's parents waving alongside her mother.
The only thing Malfoy senior and my mother ever had in common.
The later years were easier, for Hermione featured much less in them. She erased the silly excuses that had been too easily believed. She erased all the times she talked or cried.
“Harry lost his parents when he was very young, you know. Because of You-Know-Who--”
“I don't know who,” said Hermione's mother. “But that is truly awful. No one should have to lose their parents.” Poor Harry.
At last Hermione erased the past few minutes. “Ron would love to meet you.”
Hermione was surprised at how little time had passed when it stopped. Hermione lost, so quickly. Many people were lost too quickly. Like Cedric. Poor Cedric.
It reassured Hermione that it had worked, that she still heard her mother's breath in her chest. Carefully, she started to create Monica Wilkins. Human transfiguration was much easier, almost distracting. Longer eyebrows here... straight hair there... it was almost like when Hermione had prepared herself for the Yule Ball, except these alterations had to last forever, if necessary. When she was done, she admired her work: there was no more Hermione even in her mother's traits, and she softly, solemnly laid her down on her bed, with Monica's passport on her nightstand.
Hermione did not talk to her father when he arrived. She was prepared - all set - she couldn't afford to be distracted again. While she talked, Voldemort and his minions were loose, like foxes in a chicken coop - loose on people like the original Wendell and Monica Wilkins.
She'd thought it would be easier the second time, but the memories were different. Her father calling family.
“I can't wait for Hermione,” he said. Well, you will have to.
“And you, Hermione, what do you want to be when you grow up ?”
“Dentist ! Like you. I'll work very hard ! I'll make people teeth all nice and clean.”
I'll take them out, when necessary, and replace them, and they won't know any difference.
Flourish and Blotts.
“Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them ? Forgive me, Hermione, but your school's curriculum doesn't seem very serious.” It was all too serious.
Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters again.
“You know, Jean, it's great that Hermione's a witch... she was so excited... but do you think she'd prefer if next year I wore a pointy hat ?”
A little later, Hermione and her father sitting in her parents' kitchen, Hermione neck deep in Advanced Transfigurations, her father neck deep in the Guardian.
“So, what are you reading ?”
“Oh, it's a schoolbook. I need to be very good, next year. It's challenging work.”
“And your friend, Harry, does he revise over the holidays, too ?”
“Harry ! No, Harry has so much - Harry is so - he has a lot of responsibilities !”
“With You-Know-Who.”
“With Voldemort ! You need to say his name, otherwise you give him power over you.”
“But he does have power over me, doesn't he ?” said her father, momentarily folding his paper. “He's a wizard.”
When Hermione first saw her father, his new, fresh mind inked and left to dry like one of Hermione's famously long essays, she thought of Mr Weasley. Specifically, she thought of Mr Weasley lying in the hospital, Mr Weasley hurt and almost dying, looking as helpless as her father did. Ron couldn't have hid his parents, but she could. Wendell Wilkins would be safe. Poor Arthur Weasley. Poor Ron.
She laid him beside her mother, and standing at the edge of their room, contemplated both of them. They were so very still - too still, like in the nightmares she sometimes had these days - but peaceful, and they would wake up and live, live new, full lives. Almost full. They would not know grief or loss. She had left them behind the barrier, and the train was leaving, and neither her nor her world they could see. Hermione, lost. Poor Hermione.
She turned away from the door, grabbed all her supplies, and Disapparated from her cleaned, empty room. She appeared at the Burrow, and loudly knocked.
“What's my favourite Quidditch team ?” said Ron's voice inside.
“The Chudley Cannons. What's my favourite book ?”
“Hogwarts, a History.”
Ron let her in, and she was greeted by Mrs Weasley, who immediately offered her some of her freshly-baked cake. “Your bed is all prepared, Hermione, it's good to have you here so early.”
Ginny was here too, wearing a Harpies tee-shirt and exchanging jokes with Fred and George.
“Harry's coming in time for his birthday,” said Ron. “There's going to be some fighting, but we'll get him out. I've already prepared my alibi for when we're out there.”
Hermione, found.
She picked up the passports. She'd thought to buy some illegally, but she had no idea where one would procure oneself a new passport by Muggle means, and the information (Hermione almost hadn't believed it) wasn't in any book, and she wasn't that great with computers. Her saving grace had come in the form of Voldemort himself, when he'd killed two Muggleborns of about the right age. As wizards, they were blank slates; as Muggleborn wizards, they had valid identities. There was, Hermione thought, something right about her parents' cover being provided by Voldemort's cruelty, by his thoughtlessness, by the very things he overlooked, just like he'd overlooked Harry's parents, Harry himself.
And it will be his end, she thought. This is why I must do it, now.
But something caught Hermione's attention, right by the passports. It was a Muggle book; for a time she had tried to keep reading Muggle books, but it had been before what had happened to Cedric... to Harry... before she had had all too many things to occupy her time with. She made then and there the promise that when the war ended, she would go back to her childhood library and read the books she had set away for her summers. After the war. If there was an after.
Hermione put away the book. Her tendency to excessive neatness hadn't changed, even now. Beside the passports were a brochure she'd got, decorated with lavish photographs of Australia. On all of them the sun shone brightly over lush forests and sandy beaches, and all Hermione could think about was that the Dementors must not have made it there. Yet.
It was nearly six. She had timed her evening carefully. She had even made a timetable, like the one for her lessons, except it was covered in her precise writing with annotations such as “fetch passports”, or “place tickets on counter” and even “arrange for proper documentation”. Using the Imperius on some obstructive bureaucrat had been a dilemma for Hermione, but she had to do it. It wasn't so great an infringement, and what did rules mean when they were Voldemort's ? Not to mention Harry. Harry would have to commit murder, and everything she, Hermione, did was something he wouldn't have on his conscience. Harry deserved a free conscience, with the life he'd led, with the life he would - assuming he didn't - at the end of --
Hermione was now running late, because she had not included any bathroom breaks in her timetable, and now here she was, smearing fresh water on her eyes to clean them of tears. The passports weren't even set on her parent's bed, with the suitcase she had packed. Her wand was shaking. It was a very precise charm, she had to point, wave, maintain a precise angle, wave once more, and of course the patient (the victim, had said the textbook, but Hermione told herself it was just like when her parents removed some potentially dangerous tooth, and then put another pristine one, as though the infection had never been there, it was for the better) had to be immobile and perfectly relaxed.
Just as her mother opened the door, Hermione finished packing. She did her bed (was it still hers ? She had slept so little in it), tried to restore the room to the austere, empty atmosphere it had had before she used it to plan her operation.
In the living room, her mother sat on the sofa, her cup of tea in hand.
“Hermione !” she said, and she sounded genuinely happy to see her. “Did you have a good time at school ? How are your friends, Ron and Harry, was it ? I'm sure you are still the best in your year. You must have had your GCSE results by now, haven't you ?”
Hermione sat down next to her.
“O.W.L.s,” she said too stiffly. Now is not the time to nitpick about Wizarding nomenclature ! Six thirty, you must do it before he comes back. “I got O's in everything except Defence.. there I had only an E... it was too bad,” Hermione found herself saying. “Really, I knew everything ! But I might have panicked at the practical. I should have practised more.” Maybe Sirius would be with them, with Harry, if she had. Now he had no one to teach him, especially with what had happened in June, no one to give him the information he needed, no one to support him. No one but her and Ron, and Ron was already doing so much. Thinking about Ron caused the tears Hermione had felt welling up in her eyes and drying her throat to recede.
“Ron's well. I'm sure he would love to meet you, in the future, when we're done with --” The war. “School.” Hermione was babbling. Would Ron truly want to meet her parents ? They were so foreign to him and everything his world stood for. Even Mr Weasley couldn't operate a telephone. But when Hermione pictured Ron sitting with them and telling her to “stop worrying, Hermione, it'll be all right,” she felt slightly better, so she did.
“Harry's --” But she couldn't continue.
“Hermione !” said her mother in concern. “Did something happen to Harry ?” What didn't happen to him ? Poor Harry. Poor Sirius. Poor Professor Dumbledore. “You said his uncle and aunt treated him horribly. Are they still - is it something they did ?” Even the Dursleys, Hermione thought, didn't deserve to die just because they existed in the same general circle as Harry. Her parents, infinitely better than them, were at risk. She had heard that the Order would take precautions for Harry's uncle and aunt, but she wouldn't burden them with protecting her parents. She could do it.
“No, no, Mum, they don't do anything too bad to him now. He's - did I tell you he's found a girlfriend ? It's Ginny, she's Ron's sister, she's really nice. Funny, too. She would love to meet you, as well. I'm... I was so happy for him. He does deserve to be happy, doesn't he ? After all that's happened.” If it could be true ! The end of the war, Harry, Ron, even Ginny, her parents, all of them still - that they could all --
Hermione was crying again. Her mother bent slightly towards her, repeating “oh, Hermione,” but not quite knowing what to do, simply looking on - and it was six-twenty-nine, and her wand didn't shake too much. The look of concern on her mother's face faded to one of fright, then to the blank look people had when they were - Stunned. Calm down, Hermione, she thought. This is for them. For you. For Harry. For the Order. For good. It's only a short time, and then they wake up and you're not there. Harry will have to kill. Now that's difficult. It will rip his soul. But he's so brave, so he will do it, because he has to. For years you've helped him with books and cleverness, but now more is needed.
She murmured the incantation. The words, the movements. Point, wave. The intent. A new life. A life, quite simply.
And her mother's mind was laid bare to Hermione, whose own head was filled with images she'd never been there to see. Her mother, right after she was born, holding her in the hospital. “Hermione,” she was saying, “Hermione, isn't that a nice name ?” A girl from a book. A girl lost. Hermione forced the memory out of both their minds, and instead copied a slightly later memory, where her mother slept. Hermione, lost.
There were a lot more memories of her childhood. Hermione was thankful she had always been prone to playing by herself; it made erasing the traces of her existence much easier. She was thankful also that her parents weren't the sort to take family photos, which they found terribly pretentious.
“The best memories,” said Hermione's mother, “are those in our minds.”
Diagon Alley. Her parents discovering the wizarding world.
“It's hard to believe all this really exists, don't you think, Hermione ?” Yes. You never believed in it. She was thankful.
Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. Her parents behind the barrier while Hermione had crossed, staring at the numbers of Platforms Nine and Ten - Hermione reaching back, taking her mother's hand, dragging her with her. A mistake. You belong here - you belong in a world where there are no platforms between nine and ten. Her mother watching the train leave, waving amongst all the other parents in robes and pointed hats. To her utter disgust Hermione even noticed Malfoy's parents waving alongside her mother.
The only thing Malfoy senior and my mother ever had in common.
The later years were easier, for Hermione featured much less in them. She erased the silly excuses that had been too easily believed. She erased all the times she talked or cried.
“Harry lost his parents when he was very young, you know. Because of You-Know-Who--”
“I don't know who,” said Hermione's mother. “But that is truly awful. No one should have to lose their parents.” Poor Harry.
At last Hermione erased the past few minutes. “Ron would love to meet you.”
Hermione was surprised at how little time had passed when it stopped. Hermione lost, so quickly. Many people were lost too quickly. Like Cedric. Poor Cedric.
It reassured Hermione that it had worked, that she still heard her mother's breath in her chest. Carefully, she started to create Monica Wilkins. Human transfiguration was much easier, almost distracting. Longer eyebrows here... straight hair there... it was almost like when Hermione had prepared herself for the Yule Ball, except these alterations had to last forever, if necessary. When she was done, she admired her work: there was no more Hermione even in her mother's traits, and she softly, solemnly laid her down on her bed, with Monica's passport on her nightstand.
Hermione did not talk to her father when he arrived. She was prepared - all set - she couldn't afford to be distracted again. While she talked, Voldemort and his minions were loose, like foxes in a chicken coop - loose on people like the original Wendell and Monica Wilkins.
She'd thought it would be easier the second time, but the memories were different. Her father calling family.
“I can't wait for Hermione,” he said. Well, you will have to.
“And you, Hermione, what do you want to be when you grow up ?”
“Dentist ! Like you. I'll work very hard ! I'll make people teeth all nice and clean.”
I'll take them out, when necessary, and replace them, and they won't know any difference.
Flourish and Blotts.
“Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them ? Forgive me, Hermione, but your school's curriculum doesn't seem very serious.” It was all too serious.
Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters again.
“You know, Jean, it's great that Hermione's a witch... she was so excited... but do you think she'd prefer if next year I wore a pointy hat ?”
A little later, Hermione and her father sitting in her parents' kitchen, Hermione neck deep in Advanced Transfigurations, her father neck deep in the Guardian.
“So, what are you reading ?”
“Oh, it's a schoolbook. I need to be very good, next year. It's challenging work.”
“And your friend, Harry, does he revise over the holidays, too ?”
“Harry ! No, Harry has so much - Harry is so - he has a lot of responsibilities !”
“With You-Know-Who.”
“With Voldemort ! You need to say his name, otherwise you give him power over you.”
“But he does have power over me, doesn't he ?” said her father, momentarily folding his paper. “He's a wizard.”
When Hermione first saw her father, his new, fresh mind inked and left to dry like one of Hermione's famously long essays, she thought of Mr Weasley. Specifically, she thought of Mr Weasley lying in the hospital, Mr Weasley hurt and almost dying, looking as helpless as her father did. Ron couldn't have hid his parents, but she could. Wendell Wilkins would be safe. Poor Arthur Weasley. Poor Ron.
She laid him beside her mother, and standing at the edge of their room, contemplated both of them. They were so very still - too still, like in the nightmares she sometimes had these days - but peaceful, and they would wake up and live, live new, full lives. Almost full. They would not know grief or loss. She had left them behind the barrier, and the train was leaving, and neither her nor her world they could see. Hermione, lost. Poor Hermione.
She turned away from the door, grabbed all her supplies, and Disapparated from her cleaned, empty room. She appeared at the Burrow, and loudly knocked.
“What's my favourite Quidditch team ?” said Ron's voice inside.
“The Chudley Cannons. What's my favourite book ?”
“Hogwarts, a History.”
Ron let her in, and she was greeted by Mrs Weasley, who immediately offered her some of her freshly-baked cake. “Your bed is all prepared, Hermione, it's good to have you here so early.”
Ginny was here too, wearing a Harpies tee-shirt and exchanging jokes with Fred and George.
“Harry's coming in time for his birthday,” said Ron. “There's going to be some fighting, but we'll get him out. I've already prepared my alibi for when we're out there.”
Hermione, found.