Chapter Text
Blood seeped from the gash and onto the piles of paper. Hermione Granger had had enough. Enough of the pictures. Enough of the questions. The stares. The Prophet. Her hand hovered over the pile of papers long enough for the seeping to turn to occasional drips. Thoughts whirled around in her naturally busy brain. A million what ifs turning on a wheel of doubt but around those million what ifs a billion cogs sat turning over the reasons why this was a good idea. A freeing idea. She was the brightest witch of her age. This particular set of spells and runes and potions and many many other things had been studied to a point of exhaustion. She was ready. She was willing. What the hell was she doing?
Blood pooled in the obsidian basin borrowed from Luna. Red blossomed on the faded and yellowed paper. Faded yellow. If she played her cards right she’d never see a black and white version of herself smiling awkwardly up from faded yellow paper again. Unless, of course, this went sideways then there’d be a nice mugshot, or the wizarding world equivalent, in the paper.
Focus, Granger…
A heavy silence filled the little studio apartment that Hermione had begun to rent from a horrible muggle landlord. Although, all muggle landlords seemed to take her for a fool. At least this one didn’t talk down to her. Just overcharged her up the arse and really-
Focus, Granger.
Alright. Time for the incantation and then Hermione was free. Free of the public eye, free of autographs. Damnit, she knew she was lucky. She knew her life turned out much better than most. Merlin’s beard, she had more money than any other damned witch in the country, leaving out, maybe, some purebloods with assets in enough uncharted waters to fill a pool. Multiple pools. Why didn’t more purebloods have pools? Or any wizards, for that matter. Merlin knows wizards of all beings could heat them year round so why the hell didn’t purebloods have pools?
Focus, Granger!
“ Diu memoria et cito oblitus est, a catena ad me nihil, ita multo post meam mortem, ” Hermione chanted as she did the proper wand movements. Ten times more and finally the paper began to ignite.
Ten days. She had ten days to make the front page of the Daily Prophet. Merlin, how she was going to manage that was beyond her but the hard part was over. Even after war, Hermione Granger hated the sight of blood. If this went bad, she might just have to see a little bit more.
“Chin up, Granger,” Hermione said as she examined herself in the mirror next to her bed. Face illuminated by the growing flames in front of her. Black robes that she wasn’t sure were hers hung from her shoulders. She looked almost as bad as she had in the middle of the Forest of Dean. “This’ll be over soon. By Godric’s toenails, if it’s not I owe you a galleon.”
It was then that Hermione remembered a portrait telling Harry that the first sign of madness was talking to yourself. If that was the first sign, where did “ancient and forbidden ritual” place?
The Burrow was so different at night. Still full of a warmth that could swallow a person whole if they weren’t careful. Brains worked differently in the glow of the fire. Slower yet never ending. Or maybe that was the bottle of elven wine Hermione and Ginny had downed after everyone else had gone to bed. Which led to them lying on the floor next to the fire, pinkies linked and faces red.
“Gin, you know I love you, right?” Hermione said on the eighth day. Two more days.
“No I don’t, actually. Maybe say it again and it’ll stick,” Ginny said with her shit-eating grin.
“Oh shut up!” Hermione said with a drunken giggle. Then a hiccup. She was a mess.
“Make me!” Ginny said, laughing as well but a new kind of silence fell on the room. One the pair had faced many times, away from prying eyes. Charged static sat between them. Their pinkies being linked suddenly felt like too much contact. Eye contact that felt far too dangerous.
“Well,” Hermione started, clearing her throat. “I have a favor to ask of you, bit of a big one if I’m honest, but you can’t ask any questions,” Hermione could see Ginny already nodding her head but Hermione continued. “And you can’t tell Harry.”
Day nine. She had one day to make the front of the Daily Prophet. So she sat in the middle of the extremely crowded Three Broomsticks. A wise man once said that a crowded place is one where you’re less likely to get caught. A nosy reporter once said she owed Hermione and was going to be in the very crowded place, whether or not anyone else noticed.
“Hermione, are you absolutely sure about this?” Ginny asked, pulling out a seat next to her, plopping herself down.
“Unless you’ve got Acid Pop breath, I don’t think I’m going to be any more sure than I am now.”
And then Hermione kissed her best friend’s girlfriend in the middle of the Three Broomsticks. Short, sweet, a little more enthusiastic than she had expected, but it was a kiss. It was wrong. It was fine, not like anyone would remember it come tomorrow.
It was interrupted by a familiar flash of a camera.
“Hermione-” Ginny started but what was there to say? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not even a fiery redhead’s hand on her knee. Not even the way her lips still tingled as though they’d fallen asleep when Hermione felt impossibly awake. Not even the bloody bright eyes that looked so hurt when Hermione walked away.
Brown curls flew back into her face as the door to the pub opened and Hermione missed a taller woman with a walk of purpose. Of power. Of confidence. A walk that would have had Hermione’s eyes following her all the way to the back where the booths were.
Hermione, however, was oblivious to the woman. Pushing her hair back, she walked into the street and made her way home. Waiting would be awful but it was a small sacrifice the Gryffindor was willing to make. All sacrifices will be worth it. They had to be.
While the Golden Girl made her way to her apartment a redhead with red rimmed eyes frantically grabbed her cloak- why the hell she’d taken it off- and made to go after Hermione. Before promptly running into an unsuspecting woman who was walking to the back of the pub with purpose in each step.
“Merlin’s beard, would you watch-” Ginny’s eyes widened as she looked up into familiar but very angry dark eyes.
“What was that, Ginerva?” An older woman with a smooth and sharp voice laced with don’t-fuck-with-me said with a smile.
“An-” Ginny cleared her throat. “Andy. Fancy seeing you here, yeah? Well I’d better be-” and she took off.
Andromeda Black glared after the girl but shook it off and continued walking. There was no time for little girls and their shitty tempers. No time at all.
She had run out of days.
In just a few hours Hermione would leave her apartment and be free. Absolutely free.
The only resemblance of a memory anyone would have of her would be the feeling of a word on the tip of their tongue. A niggling feeling in the back of their brain before thinking of anything else that may have been at the back of their mind. People with bigger memories of her would fill in the blanks naturally. Any space that was left in the spell’s wake was filled with another face from their memories or with Hermione’s face but off . As if she, as a person, were nothing but a faded and blurred painting. A distant memory of a memory. This way, all minds were left untarnished and nothing really changed. A nameless face helped the Golden Duo occasionally but they did most things except for their homework on their own. All that was needed to activate the spell was seeing her face on the cover of the Daily Prophet. By the time a person went to show the scandalous picture to the person next to them, they’d forget why it was important at all. The catch? There was no going back. Once it was done, it was done. No cashing in fame later on.
It was happening as she sat on a horrible chair with an arm curled around a book. Arithmancy And Why It’s Obsolete was the book of the week and she was almost done. One more chapter and she’d go to sleep. One more chapter.
One more chapter.
Hermione woke up with a crick in her neck and a desperate need for some tea.
The fact that no one knew her name sat at the back of her mind as she flicked her hand in the direction of her kettle, setting it to boil immediately. She sat and listened to the whistle. It filled the room with something other than the weight of what she’d done. Who she’d done it to. Friends close enough to be family. Ron and Harry. Her brothers. Ginny. Merlin. Ginny Weasley. At least her friend wouldn’t have time to be angry. Either of them, really. By the time the argument would start, it’d end with a “wow, Gin, can’t believe you made the front page”.
Hermione Granger sank to the floor as her kettle screamed.