Chapter Text
Hermione was in the backyard, harvesting Dittany, when she felt it – a tingling sensation on her skin, called fourth by the low hum of magic emanating from the wards. Someone had entered the gardens.
“Finally! That was about time”, she breathed and scrambled to her feet, unceremoniously dropping the knife she used for cutting herbs. She had been anxiously awaiting her Minerva’s return for more than three weeks now. Her mentor’s magical expertise and counsel were in great demand and thus frequently required her to travel, but never before had she been away for so long at a time. Nor had she sent an owl like she usually did, which worried Hermione greatly.
Carried away by her relief and excitement about her mentor’s return and eager to welcome her home, she almost stumbled over the hem of her skirt as she broke into a run. But when she turned around the corner of their little cottage, it was not Minerva who awaited her on the doorsteps.
“Oh!”, Hermione gasped and jerked to a halt. “Oh, Goodness! Are you… I mean – Good morning?”
Recalling her manners, she flushed and quickly dropped a curtsy. Having little interest in company other than her mentor and her books, she always felt a little awkward around people, especially strangers. In her defense, this particular stranger cut a rather intimidating figure.
He was one of the tallest men she had ever met and his white beard was even longer than Aberforth’s, the grumpy innkeeper who owned the tavern on the other side of the village. And like Aberforth, he was very old, but not in a way that made him appear frail and weak. While his weathered hand was curled around a staff, he was certainly not in need of it; his back was so straight that she thought it must be held up by an iron rod instead of a spine.
“What do you mean by that?”, the stranger asked, eyes alight with amusement. “Do you wish me a good morning? Or do you simply mean that is a good morning, whether I want it or not? Or that you feel good this morning?”
“All of them.” Hermione couldn’t tell whether he wanted to make fun of her or if he was being serious. She regarded him suspiciously. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
The man smiled a secret smile. “An old friend.”
Of Minerva, he left unsaid, though it was fairly obvious. Hermione was the only other inhabitant of this cottage and she, for her part, had never seen this man in her life before; in fact, she could have well done without making his acquaintance. Respectable people didn’t just turn up on someone’s doorstep without prior notice or – at the very least – properly introducing themselves first.
“And does this old friend have a name?”, she asked pointedly. The man didn’t seem to mind her brashness. He gave her another one of those unreadable smiles.
“I think you already know my name, though you may not yet realize that it belongs to me”, he said and casually knocked the slightly gnarled top of his staff against the door. Then he bent down, and before Hermione could shrink back, he had plucked something green out of her wild mop of curls.
“I see you’ve been harvesting dittany”, he commented off-handedly while inspecting the stray leaf with expert eyes. “An exceptionally powerful herb, very rare. And extremely useful for healing salves. You will need a lot of this, I fear. It is going to be a long and arduous journey. But quite an adventure as well, I dare say. It will do you a lot of good.”
She blinked at him, equally bewildered and annoyed by his sudden change of subject. A journey? Adventures? Preposterous! She had no intentions of leaving the comforts of her home, her garden – or, gods forbid, her books! The Dark Lord himself couldn’t pry her away from her personal library.
Putting on her best imitation of Minerva’s disapproving frown, she stared back at the stranger.
“Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about. If you need healing salves or potions, I will gladly provide you with some; if you are lost, I can give you directions, and if you are hungry, I am happy enough to prepare you a meal, though I must admit that my cooking skills are not the best. Otherwise, I cannot help you. Of course, I would offer you to pass on a message to Minerva as soon as she returns, but seeing as you still refuse to tell me your name, this is sadly not possible. Perhaps you should come back another time.”
Or not at all, she thought hopefully. He gave her a knowing look, as if he had been reading her mind.
“Rest assured, Miss Granger, I will return, and soon. We have a lot to discuss.” Although he kept his tone light, his words sounded ominous. And how on earth did he know her name?
Before she could ask him, he had already turned to leave, his long, purposeful strides carrying him down the small path towards the gate. The rhythmic tap tap tap of his staff grew fainter and fainter, until eventually, it ceased altogether. And just like that, he was gone. Like a dream, fleeting as the morning mist.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. What a bizarre old man! Perhaps she had been too rude, but she was truly glad to be rid of him. Yet, much to her dismay, remorse started to creep in. What if he suffered from the same ailment as Lavender’s great-grandfather, who often aimlessly wandered around the village in search of his long-dead wife? After all, he had been talking quite a lot of nonsense. Maybe she should run after him, just to make sure that he wouldn’t get lost in the woods?
She had just made up her mind and turned around to lock up the cottage, when she saw it.
The rune.
It was unlike any other she had seen before, which was quite remarkable, given that Hermione had once spent a whole summer obsessively researching all sorts of ancient languages and runic alphabets. None of her books and scrolls, however, mentioned a symbol like this.
Which was much more disconcerting, was the fact that it had been carved right into her front door. It was only last week that this door had gotten a shining new coat of paint. Mr Ollivander, that greedy old codger, charged her twenty sickles for his work, but he had done it well – and now it was all for nothing!
Furious, Hermione stormed up the steps and pressed her palm against the wood. Nothing happened. She uttered another incantation and lifted her hand. The rune was still there. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. She spent the rest of the day running in and out of the cottage like a madwoman, carrying boxes of magical devices and stacks of books while muttering curses and spells alike, until her lips were dry and her magic nearly depleted. The result was always the same.
When she finally collapsed into her favourite armchair, utterly exhausted and with a much-needed cup of chamomile tea in her hands, Hermione knew two things for certain:
Firstly, the rune was going nowhere, at least not for the time being.
Secondly, her strange visitor was a wizard. And a damn powerful one at that.
This didn’t bode well at all.