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Hermione sighed and readjusted her backpack. It was entirely mundane; not a hint of magic about it. A precaution that many witches and wizards would have laughed at – even some of her friends might have shaken their heads and chalked it up to her fastidious planning.
But she was not just being thorough in her muggle travels. She was being cautious.
For although the wizarding world’s war was now over, the muggle world had their own troubles.
Not that those troubles were currently very apparent, the station was as busy as it always was. It was filled with the pervasive sounds of muggle life: next to her a puckish teenager was trying to wheedle money for a game from his mother while a voluble salesman let out a constant stream of praise for his wares.
It was all so… normal. As if nothing had ever happened.
No nefarious plots, no serpentine mass-murderer, no obtuse and feckless politicians.
Her world once more appeared to be the same beautiful chaos that it had been in her childhood, when fear could only exist in the darkness or with the absence of her mum and dad.
But appearances could be deceiving.
Because she was no longer the wide-eyed, guileless child holding onto her parents’ hands with an effulgent smile on her face, drinking in the wonders of the world. Nowadays she was all too aware of the undercurrents – of the things that were hidden in the shadows.
And her parents were not here to hold her hand. They didn’t even remember her, but were hopefully living out an Arcadian life in Australia.
It was a pity she hadn’t taken the rest of her family into account. She had not even given them a second thought because they were safely oversees, far from the war that might have come to a far more calamitous end.
But her uncle, despite being the busy man that he was, had been worried. He hadn’t heard from his sister in over two years. And when Hermione finally visited her home again she found the letters, the tone in each of them more worried than the last. One of them was left on the table, showing that her uncle had actually come here. Had tried to find out what had happened to the closest family he had.
And he hadn’t been able to find them. Or her.
In his line of work he would have been all too aware of every horrifying possibility of what this might mean.
And Hermione had never felt more guilty. Because, due to her efficacious spell, Monica Wilkins didn’t have a daughter.
And she didn’t have a brother either.
The witch shook her head and consciously let go of the thought and the guilt. Hermione was not the type to sit and brood about these issues. No, if there was a problem she would zealously search for a way to fix it.
And right now, boarding the train, she was readily taking the first step.